“A few days ago when we spoke about Holstein pigmentation patterns, you expressed the opinion that the animals with patterns as similar as those I faxed to you could be clones. Would it be possible to determine with certainty, say from a blood sample, that they are clones?”
“Absolutely.”
“Is that something you can do?”
“My lab does have that capability.”
“Would you be willing to test the blood from three or four animals for me?”
“I’m really not in a position to take on outside work.”
“What if I told you that the health of thousands of people could depend on the results of those tests?”
“Then I suppose I’d have to reconsider. What people are we talking about?”
“I’m sorry. I know this is going to sound odd, but I can’t tell you that. In time, perhaps. But for now, I can’t. And there’s one other complication. The blood I’ll be sending may contain prions capable of causing an aggressive neurologic disease in humans for which there is no cure.”
Holly knew that when she got to this part, it wasn’t going to sound good, but hearing it aloud, it was even more chilling. Partly for Richard’s benefit, as she waited for Weichmann’s response, she closed her eyes and winced as though expecting a painful blow.
“Well . . . that certainly makes this all sound hugely attractive,” Weichmann said. “Actually, that’s not a problem. Our procedures generally include precautions that assume all the blood we handle might have safety risks.”
“Then you’ll do it?”
“Yes.”
“Could you also determine if there’s abnormal prion protein in the blood?”
“That’s way out of my area of expertise.”
“Assuming that the animals are clones, will you be able to tell why they were cloned?”
“That’s a huge question I don’t think any lab in the country could answer.”
“How much blood will you need?”
“We can work with just a drop. But as long as you’re drawing blood, let’s say one cc.”
“Where’s the best place to get it?”
“There’s a big vein under the tail where it attaches to the rump. Or you could use the jugular . . . in the neck. That’d be easier to get to and you’ll be less likely to get knocked unconscious from a flying hoof.”
“How long would it take to get the results?”
“A few days.”
“Where should we send them?”
Holly jotted down the address Weichmann gave her. “I really appreciate this.”
“I’ll just put it on my resume as public service.”
“We’re in business,” Holly said, hanging up. “Or we will be as soon as we figure out how to get the blood samples we need.”
“That question you asked him, about why they were cloned. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“The new herd is producing less milk and they aren’t cheaper to feed. So what makes them worth cloning, especially when, as Susan Morrison told me, the cloning process is very inefficient, and therefore has to be costly?”
“I don’t know,” Richard said. “But if they were being cloned for some desirable trait, wouldn’t all the animals have the same pigmentation pattern? I mean, the simplest way to get the trait into all the animals would be to clone one animal that has it.”
“But then it would be obvious the herd was cloned. This way, with twelve clones, it takes some study to realize that. Even the dairy employees who work with the animals every day aren’t aware they can be grouped into a dozen different patterns. One of the men I talked to at that tavern had a vague feeling that individual cows were hard to recognize but he didn’t know why.”
“I’ll have to give this some thought,” Richard said. “Meanwhile, how are we going to get those blood samples?”
They sat in silence, mulling this over, and then Richard said, “This is a tough one. I could sneak into one of the barns at night and do it, but if we’re going to send four samples, two should be from one pair of animals with similar pigmentation and two from a different pair. Finding the right animals and getting the blood drawn by flashlight could be difficult. And we have no idea what kind of security they have at night.”
“I know a dairy employee who might do it.”
“One of the guys you talked to at the tavern?”
“One that I didn’t. Chester Sorenson’s brother. He was there that night drinking alone. The two guys I was with said he was still very despondent over his brother’s death and didn’t believe it was a suicide. I’ll bet you could get his cooperation by telling him that by helping us, it could ultimately clarify what happened to his brother. Of course, he’ll have to agree to keep quiet about everything.”
“I dislike bringing in someone we don’t know.”
“Sound him out. And proceed only if you get a good feeling about him.”
“And if I don’t like what I hear?”
“We’ll come up with another way.”
“He’s not going to know how to take a blood sample. But I know a vet who could show him. We could just say he’s curious and wanted to tag along on a couple of calls. The health risk could be a problem. I’d have to tell him about that.”
“Agreed.”
“Hope you don’t mind if I get my sister, Jessie, in on this. She’s already involved. And I might have her approach Sorenson’s brother so he doesn’t think I’m investigating the dairy in my capacity as coroner. He might also be more inclined to help a pretty woman than he would me.”
“I think he’ll be very motivated regardless of who approaches him. Call me and tell me what he says as soon as you can. Your idea that we should have him take blood from two pairs of animals with different patterns is a good one. Before you go home, we need to make copies of some of my pictures so he can see what you’re talking about. Then, how about I take you out for dinner? Do you like ribs?”
“How did you know?”
They arrived at Corky’s famous Bar-B-Q just before the equally famous line of people wanting to be fed began spilling out the front door.
Holly gave their names to the hostess and joined Richard at the end of the line, where they queued up next to autographed pictures of Farrah Fawcett, Ryan O’Neal, and Dennis Quaid. Over the next fifteen minutes, entertained by top 40 hits from the fifties and sixties, they slowly moved past signed photographs of an array of movie stars, politicians, and pro athletes, some of whom had scribbled a few words on their pictures about the food. Finally, with Roy Orbison singing “Pretty Woman,” they were seated at a rustic booth with a sleek painting of a white ’57 Cadillac hanging on the wall.
The waiter took their drink orders and left them so they could study the menu.
“What do you recommend?” Richard asked after looking it over.
“The dry ribs are fantastic.”
“So be it.” Richard closed his menu and took a look around. “I like this place, particularly the music. It reminds me of simpler, happier times.”
“You’re not happy now?”
“Before this prion thing, I was relatively happy, considering . . .”
“Considering what?”
Richard held his reply while their waiter set two glasses of iced tea and a basket of hot buttered rolls in front of them. After they’d ordered and the waiter left, Richard said, “I don’t want to burden you.”
“If I were concerned about being burdened, I wouldn’t have asked. But if you feel I’m prying . . .”
“Not at all.” Staring at his iced tea, Richard told Holly what had happened to Diane and why he’d moved to Wisconsin.
“Did you go through a period where you felt as though God or whatever controls things had chosen you to dump on?” Holly asked when he’d finished.
“The why me phase? Sure.”
“Me too. When I got sick, I thought I was the only one in the world with such troubles. But the fact is, life is an obstacle course with all kinds of traps and dangers where we can get hurt. But we have to just get up and push on. It’s not always easy, but what choice do we have?” Holly blushed and covered her face with her hand. “I’m sorry. That was stupid. You didn’t need to hear that.”
“Don’t apologize. Since I lost Diane, I’ve felt isolated from everyone I meet. Like there’s a partition between us. They’re all on one side and I’m on the other. It’s not a good way to live. But with you, I feel like we’re in the same place. I don’t think it’s because of what you went through with your illness. At least I hope it isn’t. Mutual misfortune seems like a poor basis for a friendship.”
“Did you and Diane have any children?”
“One little girl, Katie. Without her, I’d have been totally lost.”
“How old is she?”
“Five and so smart it’s a wonder to see.”
“I’d like to meet her.”
“She’s visiting my parents in Arizona. When she comes home, we’ll have to arrange something.”
Richard and Holly walked out of the restaurant at six-ten. In the McDonald’s parking lot next door, Billy Lynch flicked on the ignition and pulled his rental car out so he’d be in position to follow them whichever way they went. He didn’t understand why Richard Heflin was here, but it couldn’t mean anything good.
After the failed attempts to kill Holly in Midland, it had been decided that it would draw too much attention if they succeeded on a third try while she was still in town. So when Billy had entered her room at the Green and White, he’d merely thrown her clothing around to scare her back to Memphis. When she’d lit out for Madison after discovering what he’d done, he’d tailed her to the Hampton Inn. It wasn’t until the next day, when she’d dropped her rental car off at the airport, that he’d finally returned to Midland. After giving her a little time to settle down, he’d come after her. But why the hell was Heflin here?
He followed their car west on Poplar, then over to Union. From there they went to the riverfront, drove past the stainless steel Pyramid, and circled back to Beale Street, a happening kind of place with lots of blues clubs. Apparently she was giving Heflin a tour.
After Beale, they headed away from the riverfront and took the expressway south. A short while later, they turned into the airport, where Billy hoped Heflin would get his ass back on a plane and let a man do his job.
Billy followed them into the short-term parking area and stayed with his car while they went inside. It was after seven-forty when Holly came back alone. Now, Billy thought, he needed to get serious.
He didn’t have it all worked out yet, but he was sure of one thing. This time there’d be no one to force him into some half-baked scheme that was as likely to fail as succeed. He’d do it his way, without haste and with complete certainty that, as Father Lucius was fond of saying when speaking of the dead, her race would be fully run.
26
“SUSAN, IT’S HOLLY. How’s Walter?”
“He’s doing great. His doctor said if he was going to have another attack, it would probably be within the first two weeks. And we’ve just passed that point.”
“Terrific. I know you’re relieved.”
“I was sure from the start he wouldn’t have any more trouble, but it’s good to have the most dangerous period behind us.”
“I just had a visit from Richard Heflin, the neurologist who treated me in Wisconsin after I was forced off the road.”
“Business or pleasure?” Susan asked.
“Business, mostly. He told me some things that make the question of whether the dairy herd in Midland are clones extremely important.”
Holly relayed everything Richard had told her, and then said, “If we can get blood samples from the animals, the geneticist who thought they were clones has agreed to analyze them so we know for sure. But he won’t be able to tell us why they were cloned.”
“So we won’t know much more than we do now.”
“Establishing that they are clones will mean the health department will have to inspect the herd,” Holly said. “Then we might find out why it was done.”
“I find the involvement of Zane Bruxton extremely interesting.”
“Why?”
“Because it adds a pharmaceutical house to the equation,” Susan replied. “I don’t know what it means, but I believe he’s the key to everything. This Heflin fellow . . . you like him?”
“Yes.”
“Single?”
“Widowed.”
“That can be a problem for future relationships.”
“Come on, Susan. You’re rushing things.”
“And being nosy too. This is all very exciting and important.”
“I wish I knew more,” Holly said. “But that’s all I’ve got to tell you for now. Stay tuned for future developments.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
After Susan hung up, she went into the family room and watched Walter sitting in front of the TV, channel surfing. It was good and right for her to be here, but it was also vexing to hear secondhand how the investigation was going. It made her feel old and useless and irresponsible.
She went into the kitchen, got a handful of potatoes from the pantry, and put them on the chopping block. Armed with a cleaver, she began whacking at the potatoes, sending pieces flying.
Old . . . whack.
Useless . . . whack.
Irresponsible . . . whack
“What are you doing?” Walter asked from the doorway.
“Cutting up potatoes.”
“Why? We already had dinner.”
“Because they deserve it.”
DURING THE FIRST leg of his flight home, Richard tried to read an article in Scientific American detailing how Mars could be converted into a habitable world. But he couldn’t concentrate on it for more than a few seconds at a time, his attention fractured by a collage of thoughts about mad cow disease, his daughter, and Holly.
Holly . . . There was something about her, something more than looks and intelligence. She was strong and capable, but still very feminine. And it felt so good to have a partner again, trading ideas, working toward a common goal.
A wave of remorse for his murdered wife suddenly crested out of nowhere and washed over him, exposing as it receded, a bright feeling of guilt for the thoughts he’d been having about Holly. Chastened, he raised his magazine and gave the red planet another try.
When he got home, instead of using the pricy directory assistance center available on his cell phone, or wasting time with Internet white page listings that never produced anything, Richard simply got out the phone book and flipped to the listings for all the Sorensons. He didn’t remember the name of Chester’s brother, but recalled that during the early days of the investigation into Chester’s death, Otto had mentioned that the two brothers lived together. Hoping the brother hadn’t moved, he ran his finger down the listings until he found Chester’s number.
His hand reached for the phone.
Wait a minute. What time was it?
He checked his watch. Eleven thirty-three. Pretty late to be calling someone.
Finally, worried more over what might be brewing at the dairy than he was about disturbing Chester’s brother at this hour, he made the call.
It rang a couple of times, then someone picked up. “Yeah, I’m here. Who’s this?”
“Richard Heflin. I’m a local doctor. We’ve never met, but I’d like to talk to you about your brother’s death.”
“What do you mean? Talk about what?”
“I’d rather not get into the details over the phone. Could we meet somewhere tomorrow
?”
“What’s wrong with tonight?”
“Nothing. I just thought, since it was so late . . .”
“You know Mecklin’s Trailer Park?”
“Yes.”
“Come in the main entrance and bear to your right until you come to Pitty Pat Lane. I know it’s a shit name, but it ain’t my fault. I’m the fourth trailer on the left down that street. You’ll see two Harleys out front. How long will it take you to get here?”
“About twenty minutes.”
Richard broke the connection with his finger then called his sister. “Jessie, it’s me. Are you dressed?”
“I just got out of the shower.”
“Well, throw on some clothes. We have to meet somebody in twenty minutes.”
“Who?”
“Chester Sorenson’s brother. I’ll explain on the way.”
MECKLIN’S TRAILER PARK had been there about fifteen years. In all that time, no one had thought about planting any trees, so it sat stark and ugly in the cold moonlight. Most of the inhabitants had already gone to bed, but at the Sorenson trailer, the lights were on.
Richard pulled onto the parking pad behind two motorcycles shrouded so fully in green tarps that only a little of the wheels showed.
“You still haven’t said why you need me to do this.” Jessie said.
By making the initial contact himself, Richard had ruined his idea that he might let Jessie take the lead in the negotiations with Sorenson’s brother. But he felt he still needed her. “You’re the bait,” he replied, shutting off the engine. “So don’t act too smart and scare him off. Just sit there and look pretty.”
“Just what I’ve always wanted out of life.”
Richard’s knock on the trailer’s front door summoned a young man in jeans and a University of Wisconsin sweatshirt. Even this late, there was a Packers baseball cap perched on his head.
“I’m Doctor Heflin. This is my sister, Jessie.”
“I’m Buddy Sorenson. Come on in.”
The trailer wasn’t large, so with all three of them inside, it seemed quite crowded.
“There’s a place you can sit,” Buddy said, gesturing to a ratty sofa.
The Lethal Helix Page 22
