A Fierce Radiance
Page 50
“Bill,” she protested, her outrage bringing back her confidence, “they’re internees. Entire families, experimented on and put at risk.”
“Oh, Claire, you are so naive. Really, your naivete amazes me.” With him, every disagreement was personal. She didn’t have the strength or the simple energy required to fight back. “Nobody cares about the well-being of a bunch of Japs. Nobody. Aren’t you reading about what they’re doing every day in the Pacific? What they’ve been doing for years? The brutality? Anyway, I’ll be in New York in a few days. Got some interviews set up. Detective Marcus Kreindler, you know him?”
“I’ve heard the name,” she said softly, feeling chastised in spite of her attempt to keep up her defenses.
“Then there’s the tycoon behind the blue stuff. Edward Rutherford. You know him?”
“Yes.” She hesitated. “Yes, I do. I have to tell you, he—”
“Looks like he’s behind the whole thing. Maybe ordered the murder, too. To get his hands on the medication. Can’t prove it yet, but I’m working on that assumption. He’s exactly the type. They’re all the same, these so-called captains of industry.”
“Bill, I need to tell you—”
But Bill wasn’t listening. She could hear Pammy’s voice, and Bill’s responses. They were making plans to leave for a cocktail party and then a formal dinner. He had to change. Now. They were already running late. Simultaneously he was adjusting the radio to the 7:00 PM news reports and commentary. He was everywhere at once, everywhere except with Claire. Finally: “Listen, Claire, you still there? I’ll be in touch.” He hung up without saying good-bye.
She sat at the telephone table for a long time. So long that Lucas came and stretched out beside her on the floor. She might have no choice but to accept her father’s complicity. And yet…mixed with her anger and disappointment in Edward Rutherford was love, and an urge to protect him. Her father. The two warring impulses—to warn him, to denounce him—left her paralyzed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Bill Shipley liked to smoke in the open air and watch the night unfold. That predilection would be the death of him. Literally, thought Andrew Barnett.
They were on the late train from Washington to New York. Shipley hadn’t spotted him. Barnett kept his distance. Barnett also wore the uniform of an army private. Anyone looking closely would see that he was a little old to be a private, but this was the best Barnett could do at short notice. When they boarded the train, Barnett hadn’t had an exact plan. Shipley was making things easy.
He’d watched Shipley go outside onto the back—observation deck? Barnett couldn’t for the life of him remember what that narrow, gated place at the back of a train was called. The place where politicians stood during campaigns to wave to the passing crowds. Barnett didn’t usually have trouble retrieving words from his memory. He must be tired. Well, who wouldn’t be, with his job? Anyway, Barnett hoped, prayed, that Shipley wouldn’t decide to come back inside too soon…no, he stood there at the railing, smoking.
The last car of the train was packed, mostly with military boys, and it was hot. The breeze coming in the open windows only made the train hotter. Early August 1943: boys returning from leave, boys going on leave, new recruits heading toward training, trained soldiers and marines and sailors heading toward the ships in the giant port of New York—the ships that would take them to fight in the Solomon Islands or in Sicily.
Walking down the aisle, Barnett had to make an effort not to trip over the soldiers’ duffel bags. He also made his way around the soldiers’ arms and legs, which seemed strewn all over, as the soldiers fit themselves into whatever space they could find to sleep. With his brother dead, Barnett was more patient with these boys than he used to be. They had an extravagant youthfulness. They were like puppies who played until they were exhausted and then collapsed into sleep wherever they happened to be. Boys, being sent into the maw of hell.
He had his own cigarette going. He’d just be smoking outside, too. That was his plan. His excuse for appearing at the back of the train.
He opened the door. Went out. “Evening,” he said to Shipley. Politely, the way well-brought-up people were expected to behave.
“Evening,” Bill Shipley said in return, not recognizing him, not even looking at him, probably annoyed that someone had interrupted his meditations, especially an enlisted man, at the bottom of the heap. Shipley turned away, leaned against the far railing, indicating that he didn’t want company.
Good. It was after midnight. There was no moon. Darkness was all around them. A minute passed, and two guys, also in military uniform, joined them. Now the platform was crowded, which would discourage others from coming outside. The two newcomers were with Barnett, and they knew what to do. He left the timing to them.
They waited. They smoked. What were they waiting for? Barnett had been assured that they knew their jobs. That they were the best. Still they waited. Of course he couldn’t ask them any questions. He could only wait with them. He positioned himself so that he blocked the door leading into the train.
In the end, the issue of timing took care of itself. A freight train was suddenly storming past next to them in the opposite direction. Shipley was already leaning toward it. Barnett couldn’t see what happened, but it was over in a second. No shouting. No screaming. Nothing. Both trains careened onward in the dark.
The guys continued to smoke and chat. The freight train disappeared into the distance. The track was black and empty. Except for the rumbling of the passenger train, silence filled the night. Barnett smoked another cigarette, too. Out here, at least, the breeze was cool.
Then he made his way back to his seat, three cars from the back. Perfectly calm, that’s what he was. As he walked back, nobody paid attention to him. Almost everybody was asleep, anyway. He found his seat. His seatmate was a sailor, slumbering with his head against the windowpane.
Barnett sat down. He checked his watch. He’d been away from his seat ten, fifteen minutes. Now he started shaking. Sweating. The scene replayed itself in his mind. Over and over, he saw the whole thing play out. The shock of the freight train beside them. The guys making their move.
He lit another cigarette. He steadied his breathing. He calmed himself. In a war there’s no morality, he assured himself.
But maybe that notion wasn’t quite right. Maybe a war made its own morality. Barnett’s brother was dead, and Barnett would damned well do whatever he needed to do, to make certain that nothing and no one interfered with this boy, sleeping soundly in the seat next to him, getting what his brother hadn’t had: penicillin, the weapon of war.
A day later, Detective Marcus Kreindler sat at his desk reading the morning papers. It was 7:45 AM, and the office was still mercifully quiet. He’d made good time on his morning commute. Too good, in fact. He hadn’t meant to get here so early. But he couldn’t sleep. Last night they’d received news about their nephew Greg: Kreindler and Agnes happened to be having dinner at her sister’s. Right before dessert, the Western Union kid arrived on his bicycle. What a job to give a kid, delivering telegrams telling parents that their children were missing in action. On his way to work, Kreindler dropped off Agnes at her sister’s.
Now he had over an hour to drink his coffee and give the papers more than the usual front-page once-over. He had a meeting at 9:00 AM with William Shipley, reporter. Shipley wanted to discuss with him a secret medical project and its link to the death of Lucretia Stanton.
Hearing her name on the phone several days earlier had given Kreindler a jolt. He pictured that beautiful face once more. Evidently Andrew Barnett had done nothing with the information about Nicholas Catalano that Kreindler had so generously provided him. Well, Kreindler couldn’t spend his time worrying about what Barnett might or might not do. Catalano was in the Pacific, doing his extremely important government work. When and if Catalano returned to New York, Kreindler (with the approval of his boss, Barnett be damned) was planning a little welcoming party for him.
But even hardened Detective Kreindler got a shock this morning. On the front page, beneath reports on the Allies fighting their way across Sicily, was the headline: WAR CORRESPONDENT KILLED IN RAIL ACCIDENT. WILLIAM SHIPLEY DEAD AT 39. There was a picture of him, labeled as taken in 1935. Shipley looked handsome enough in a jacket and tie. A little severe. It was a professional studio shot.
The article continued on the inside. It took up a full column. Kreindler read slowly. The truth was, he wasn’t what teachers called a smooth reader. He had to go slowly if he wanted to catch the nuances. Enjoying a brief holiday leave, Shipley was traveling through America with his wife, a star reporter for the British newspaper The Guardian. There was no mention of Claire or Claire’s son. Guess Shipley didn’t list them on his Tribune CV. People were sensitive about divorce, of course. A train accident in Delaware the night before. Body not discovered until the following morning, by which time, multiple fractures, head injuries, loss of blood…the words gave a hint of the gruesome reality that Kreindler could imagine only too well. The death was being treated as an accident. Speculation was that he’d gone out for a smoke and fell asleep on his feet, exhausted from his labors. A tragedy.
Kreindler put down the paper. Yet another accidental death. He wondered what Andrew Barnett would think about the coincidence. Actually, Kreindler figured, Andrew Barnett had probably arranged the coincidence.
In Greenwich Village, Claire sat in her garden with the newspapers. She was still dressed in her nightgown and robe. Later the day would be warm and humid, but now, beneath the trees, the air was cool, weightless, and fresh. The ersatz coffee was hot at least, coaxing her awake. Lucas settled himself under the garden table, rubbing his nose against her bare ankles.
She’d been up late, doing a story at the Stage Door Canteen at Times Square. Actress Dorothy McGuire had been there, dancing with the servicemen. Claire was glad to be back at work full-time, even if the stories Mack gave her were fluff.
By chance the Trib was on top. Fierce fighting in Sicily. Naples bombed. She turned over the paper, for the stories beneath the fold, as newspaper parlance went. And there she saw the picture, and skimmed the report on a man she didn’t exactly recognize. Was it—her husband? This was perplexing. She looked again to verify her first impression. Yes, William Shipley. She felt…nothing. She took another sip of coffee.
Then the reality pushed in on her. She read the inside portion. To her relief, she and Charlie weren’t mentioned.
She cradled her coffee mug, still warm, in both her hands. The sunlight filtered through the trees. Bill Shipley. The father of her children. Barnett had warned her. He’d virtually told her that this would happen. By putting Bill on this story, had she sent him to his death?
Thank God Charlie wasn’t here today, with his scissors and his scrapbook. What was the best way to tell him the news? Should she go to his camp upstate, or could the news wait until he returned home? She’d discuss this with her father. He’d know what to do.
Her father. Your people killed my sister, Jamie’s words rushed through her mind. Was her father responsible for Bill Shipley’s death, too?
No, it wasn’t possible. She wouldn’t believe it. And yet…her father was ever present.
In a war, there’s no morality. Who was it, who’d told her that bit of wisdom? Ah, yes: Andrew Barnett, economist turned philosopher.
Suddenly, sitting there beneath the trees, with the soft morning sunlight filtering around her, Claire wondered if the late Bill Shipley was right, and she was indeed most naive.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Why his thoughts went to Tia Stanton at the end, Nick didn’t have the energy to figure out. He was bleeding to death, slowly, and there wouldn’t be any rescue. The ship was sinking. A clearly marked hospital ship, attacked from the air. For a while, he’d been conducting his clinical trials on the ground, at a field hospital just back from the front lines, hidden in the jungle. That location had quickly proven too dangerous. The ship was supposed to be safer. Probably the pilot of the plane was returning from an island raid, spotted the hospital ship, and, having a few bombs left, just couldn’t resist.
When Nick was a student and a young physician, he often wondered what dying felt like. Now he was finding out. He didn’t feel pain. Instead he felt a pleasant drifting. As though he were floating. He was dimly aware of activity around him, the uninjured fleeing, struggling to escape. Their struggles had nothing to do with him.
Those months after Tia’s death—could he have done something else, made some other decision? He didn’t see how. Nonetheless he played the events through in his mind once more. By chance he was in town, and he was free for lunch. He’d gone to her lab, hoping to persuade her to have lunch with him. The lab was open, but no one was there. Nonetheless, he went in; Tia always made everyone welcome. In the cousins’ room, her work was laid out. He sat at her bench, in her place, and read through her notes. Out of boredom. Out of interest. As a way to fill the time. Nothing more. Nothing less.
He was shocked. Yes, yes, she’d mentioned now and again that she was on to something. Told him she was excited. But he never would have dreamed how far along she was, how spectacular the results were.
So peaceful. He hadn’t envisioned that death would be so peaceful. This type of death, at least. He felt weaker and weaker. He wished he could write down his reactions, for the benefit of those after him. Where was Margot, his nurse? She might be interested. She could write it down for him. Too many women, he’d had. Even Claire Shipley. He couldn’t bring himself to look his best friend in the eye after that rousing episode. After Jamie returned from the dead, he seemed to suspect something. Did Claire confess? Here was the kicker: Jamie came home after all, and he, Nick, would not.
The story of that afternoon, running through his brain like a movie, resumed. He read Tia’s notes. Examined the petri dishes, beakers, and test tubes relating to the substance. Saw the mice receiving the medication and the mice acting as the control group. Number 642, she called it. He recognized what she had done: she had made a remarkable discovery. He would congratulate her when she returned to the lab. He continued reading, following the story lines of other, less successful substances.
He heard footsteps. Someone had come into the lab, walking quickly toward him. “Tia?” he called out, so she wouldn’t be startled to see him.
But instead of Tia, Sergei Oretsky was at the doorway. Oretsky looked shocked to see Nick there, and he paused, as if thinking through what he should do or say. “She’s dead,” Oretsky finally shouted, like a taunt. He was red-faced. Sweating and panting in such a way that his clothes looked too small for him.
“Who’s dead?”
“Mademoiselle Stanton. Mademoiselle Stanton is dead.”
“What? That can’t be right.”
“I am right.”
Nick couldn’t fathom this. “Calm down, Oretsky. You’re not making sense.”
“She’s fallen from the cliff. An accident.”
Nick heard police sirens in the distance.
“Go see for yourself, if you don’t believe me.”
The sirens were louder now. Closer. Oretsky glanced toward the windows, as if he could see the sound of the sirens.
Nick stood. He wondered where to go, to find out what was going on. The sirens were very loud now. And then he realized, the last place he would go, to find out what was going on, was here, to the lab. What was Oretsky doing here? What did Oretsky want? Oretsky was shifting from foot to foot, nervously swaying, as if waiting, desperately, for Nick to leave.
T
he truth was, Nick had never really trusted Oretsky: Oretsky was Russian, after all. So foolish, these prejudices, Nick realized. Often enough, people had mistrusted Nick because his family was Italian. Often enough, he’d felt the sting of that mistrust. Because his family was Italian, and poor, he’d always had to be ten times as smart as the others, work ten times as hard, to be allowed into their schools. To date their daughters. To achieve the pinnacle of his field: a position at the Rockefeller Institute.
But despite the prejudice Nick himself had experienced, there it was: Nick didn’t trust the Russian Oretsky. Besides, Oretsky didn’t really belong at the Institute. He’d come here on a one-year fellowship, and in an act of charity, Dr. Rivers had allowed him to remain when the war broke out. Whereas Nick had been on the staff of the Institute for over a decade now.
Nick wouldn’t leave the Russian interloper Oretsky alone in Tia’s lab.
Oretsky gave Nick a peculiar look, as if he wanted something from Nick but was reluctant to ask. “Go. Go see for yourself,” Oretsky said softly. Nick could barely hear him for the shrieking of the police sirens down below, in front of the hospital and also, presumably, at the bottom of the cliff. Abruptly, the sirens stopped. The police cars had arrived. “She is there. By the cliff. I am right.”
The two men stared at each other.
Nick was determined: he would never leave Oretsky alone here.