After buying the supplies at the hardware store, they'd driven toward the Leger Retirement Home. Wendell directed Gordon to the rest-stop parking lot, which was fairly empty. He could do everything he needed to do there, and he assured his brother that the assembly wouldn't take more than a few minutes. While Gordon kept an eye out for any overly curious travelers, Wendell built his bombs. He had decided to make shape charges. For one thing, they were subtle, much subtler than something that would just total a car and blow everything around it to smithereens. For another, they required a very small amount of plastic explosives. He had decided to use C-4, a military explosive that looked like a bar of soap and was easily malleable. He could carry it, undetected, in a soap case, lumping it together with his toothbrush, toothpaste, and small bottle of mouthwash. A shape charge, he knew from his Gulf War days, was capable of piercing the armor of a tank, incinerating everything inside that tank, and leaving the shell practically unscathed. Its appeal was that it focused nearly all of an explosive's energy into a very narrow, extraordinarily hot jet. And it was easy as pie to make.
The first thing he did was go into the rest-stop complex and fill the plastic bucket with cold water. He also bought a five-pound bag of ice and a corkscrew. He then walked to the gas station right outside and put two dollars' worth of gasoline into the jug. Before he got in the car, Wendell opened and emptied four of the wine bottles into the bushes that partially hid the rest area from the highway. Inside the car, working in the backseat, he soaked several pieces of string in the gasoline, then tied pieces of the soaked string around the four empty wine bottles, approximately three inches from the dimpled bottoms. He lit a match, set the strings on fire one by one, and watched to make sure that the bottles heated evenly all around where the string had been tied. When the string was burned down, he instantly immersed each bottle into the bucket that was filled with cold water and ice. Within seconds, each bottle broke perfectly at the point where the string had been tied and the bottles burned. Wendell now had four pieces of glass the size of small juice glasses, each with an inverted cone at the bottom.
He packed the explosives tightly into each glass, then inserted one blasting cap per container. He sealed the tops of the glasses with duct tape, allowing the wires of the blasting caps to stick through. After that, he duct-taped a magnet to the bottom of each glass. The magnets were circular with a hole in the middle. This configuration suited his needs perfectly as it would create a standoff for the explosive jet to form.
That's all it took. Wendell encased each of the packages in several feet of bubble wrap, which he'd carried in his overnight bag. He got out of the car, opened the trunk, and placed the bombs in the small niche on the side where the jack would normally be kept. He gently closed the trunk, got back in the car, told Gordon to drive very carefully- even though he knew there was no danger of the things exploding until he attached and set the timer; he just thought he'd have a little fun at his brother's expense-and half an hour later they were at the Leger Retirement Home, where they had plenty of time to break in, smother Lewis Granger, go back to the car, and wait for their next three victims to show up.
Wendell had had a little more work to do in the Leger parking lot. Once they saw Westwood pull up and go inside-"New car," Gordon muttered. "This guy's not bad"-the younger twin took the leg wires from the blasting caps in each of his four bombs and connected them together in a parallel circuit. Half of these wires were then twisted together onto another wire, whose opposite end was glued to the zero point on the kitchen timer. One more wire was glued to the actual timer part of the clock, the dial that moved around and kept track of each passing minute. The other end of this wire was run, in series, to the double-A batteries and remaining blasting-cap leg wires. Wendell was careful not to let the wires on the kitchen timer touch. Since he hadn't bothered to include a safe arming switch, he knew that if the exposed wires came in contact with each other, the device would detonate in his hands. The last thing he did was duct-tape another magnet to the base of the kitchen timer.
As he secured his bombs, via the magnets, to Justin Westwood's car, Wendell had a clear and delicious vision of what was going to happen.
He would set the rooster timer for one hour. Sixty minutes later, the wires attached to it would touch each other, completing the circuit. The batteries would supply enough energy to initiate the blasting caps, and the resulting shock would set off the C-4. Due to the inverted cone at the bottom of each glass, most of the explosive force would meet at the center of the cone and be directed upward, forming a molten jet of glass and energy. This was called the Monroe Effect; it would cause each bomb to drill a tiny hole up into the car, through the frame, through the body of anyone sitting inside over the hole, literally drilling all the way up through the person's head, and melt whatever was in its path. This was why Wendell had decided to use four devices. Two for the front seat, two for the back. The entire inside of the car would incinerate and, except for the windows shattering with enormous force and the possible exception of the roof mushrooming out a bit, the outside would be left relatively untouched. At that point, he would open the fifth bottle of Bordeaux, he and Gordon would toast to their success, and then they would head back home.
A shape charge was a thing of beauty, Wendell knew. And, anticipating the results, he began to drool again at the thought of such beauty.
From the rear of the '97 Buick, Wendell looked up at his brother, who was sitting in their rental car halfway across the lot. He nodded at Gordon, checked his watch, then bent down a final time to twist the timer on the plastic rooster, setting it to the sixty-minute mark. He walked back to the rental car, got inside, leaned back in the passenger seat, closed his eyes, and told Gordon to wake him up when something happened.
Something happened twenty minutes later.
Justin Westwood came out of the Home with Deena and Kendall Harper. They headed toward their car, stopped, the mother and daughter seemed to argue for a moment, then they all got into their car. Sat there for several moments. The engine started up and they pulled out of the parking lot.
Gordon leaned over, gave Wendell a gentle two-finger nudge in his side.
"Are you just going to sit here?" Wendell asked when his eyes opened.
Gordon shrugged. "The job's done, isn't it? We can go home."
"I want to see this one," Wendell said.
"That's not a good idea."
"I want to see it, Gordon. It's going to be magnificent. You get to see your handiwork. I want to see mine."
"It's not a good idea," Gordon said again.
"I want to! And I deserve to!"
Gordon waited another fifteen seconds or so before he started up his own engine, pulled out of the parking lot, and began to follow the Buick.
Wendell looked down at his watch. Thirty-nine minutes until the explosion.
"It's going to be so beautiful," he said. "Wake me up in thirty-eight minutes."
21
When the knock at the door came, Edward Marion couldn't help but flinch.
He'd been sitting in his motel room in near silence, not even turning on the television, for over five hours. Every time he heard any kind of noise outside his room, he'd stiffen, wait for the knock, and envision the conversation he'd have to have.
Who is it?
FBI. Open the door.
I need to see some ID.
Open the door and I'll show it to you.
Slip it under the crack. When I see some valid ID, I'll let you in.
So far, the knock hadn't come. But he'd played the scene over and over in his head while he sat there, maybe two hundred times. He had come up with ten or twelve variations. One time he'd move confidently over to the door, check the ID, and verify it. He saw himself opening the door to someone who would stride inside and assume command, and who, without question, could lead him out of this mess. Another time, he imagined himself picking up the photo and badge, realizing that something was wrong, and then he'd freeze, knowi
ng they'd found him and were going to kill him. After playing out this scenario, he'd nervously scan the room, trying to figure a way out. He'd gone into the bathroom several times, at least five or six, during his five-hour wait, and tried to imagine whether he could squeeze his frame through the small window. Each time he'd decide that it wasn't possible. But then he'd start to sweat at the thought of someone trying to force his way into the room, so he'd go back to the bathroom and try to come up with a more positive scenario. Then he'd return to his corner, reimagine the scene, and this time in his mind he'd pick up a lamp and when the door opened, he'd swing it, crash it against the stranger's skull, and race out of the room to safety.
Now it was for real.
There was the knock.
His eyes went to the bathroom door, picturing the small window. His glance flickered over to the lamp on the desk. Then he looked at the front door.
Ed Marion swallowed, tried to speak, found that he couldn't. He cleared his throat, tried again, cleared his throat one more time. He saw that his hands were shaking and did his best to steady them. No such luck.
"Who is it?"
"Assistant Director Leonard Rollins. FBI."
"I need to s-see s-s-some identification." Shit. He hadn't seen himself stuttering in any of his mental run-throughs.
"I've got a photo ID and badge. You want me to put them under the door?"
"Y-yes. Please."
Marion waited, heard the shuffle of something being shoved along the floor, then something peeked through the crack under the door. Time to move. He gingerly walked across the room, reached for the ID. It looked official. But, of course, he didn't have a clue what a real FBI identification looked like. This one seemed to say all the right things. And wait a second-he remembered the cop, Westwood, on the phone, talking to the FBI. He said that the agent he was talking to was named Rollins.
"I thought you weren't coming yourself," Marion said to the person on the other side of the door. "You said you were going to send someone else."
"That's right," the man outside the door said. "I told Westwood I was going to send someone from a closer bureau. But I couldn't get anyone. At least not today. It was easier for me to come myself. If you're not going to let me in, would you mind slipping me out my ID? The bureau's pretty stingy with things like this and they'll actually charge me if I have to get a replacement."
"What'll you do if I don't open the door?" Marion asked.
"Is Westwood coming back?"
Marion wasn't sure. But he didn't want to admit that. "Yes," he said.
"I'll slip my cell-phone number under the door so you can call me. Then I'll find a place to wait and when he shows up he can verify me. But I'm hoping you don't make me do that. This is kind of a busy time for me. I'm in the middle of a murder investigation."
The guy sounded genuine enough. He knew Westwood and he knew the exact conversation they'd had on the phone. This guy Rollins had the right name, and he didn't seem very anxious. There was no pressure to be let in. He struck Marion as extremely professional.
Wondering how the hell he'd allowed himself to get into this situation, Ed Marion reached for the doorknob and turned it. With his other hand, he simultaneously unlocked the door and pulled it open.
Standing before him was a dark-haired man, a little over six feet tall. Not heavy but muscular. Powerful-looking upper body. He had the aura of an athlete, someone who was very confident of his physical capabilities. Marion glanced down at the photo ID, looked back up at the man. It was a match.
"May I come in?" the FBI agent said.
Marion nodded and stepped farther inside the room. Agent Rollins followed, closing the door behind him. Marion sat down on the corner of the bed. Rollins remained standing by the black Formica desk against the wall opposite the bathroom. There was a phone on it and an oval mirror on the wall over it. Other than the curtains and the loud, matching bedspread, the mirror was the only attempt at decoration in the room.
"Nice place," Agent Rollins said.
"Where are you going to take me?"
"Nowhere yet. This looks like an excellent place for a chat."
"We have to get certain guidelines out of the way first. I need to know exactly what you're willing to do for me."
"What would you like me to do?" Rollins asked.
"I'm going to need immunity from any prosecution. And I'm going to need guaranteed safety for me and my family."
"You'd better have a lot of information for that kind of deal."
"Where do you want to start?" Ed Marion said.
Rollins pulled the one chair out from under the desk and sat facing Marion. "How much did you tell Westwood?" he asked.
"I didn't tell him anything. I said I'd only talk to you guys."
"Why?"
"He didn't exactly make me feel safe. He seemed like a small-timer. He doesn't know the kind of people who are involved."
"He does now. You told him about Newberg and Kransten."
Marion felt his hands go clammy. "I didn't tell him. The names slipped out. I thought he was working for them."
"You told him about Aphrodite."
"He doesn't know what it means."
"Do you?"
"I know some of it. I've pieced together other parts. Nobody knows everything except Douglas Kransten."
"And Louise Marshall."
"You already know about all this?" Marion asked.
"Like you, we know about some of it."
"How? You've been investigating them?"
Rollins nodded.
"Why?"
"How about if you tell me what you know, then I'll decide if there's anything for me to tell you."
"You don't have a cigarette, do you?"
"I don't smoke."
"No, neither do I. I've been pretty tense waiting for you to show up. I don't know why I asked for a cigarette. I haven't eaten. And I could really use a drink. That cop, Westwood, he scared the shit out of me, if you want to know the truth. I thought he was going to kill me."
"Why don't you just relax for a little while and tell me what you know. After you talk, you can eat and drink all you want." When Marion nodded, Rollins said, "You work at Ellis, right? Tell me your job, exactly. Are you a researcher?"
"I have a medical and research background. Stanford. But these guys, the people Kransten has working for him, I was never in their league. These are Nobel-level minds. So now I'm a manager."
"What needs to be managed?"
"We do medical research," Ed Marion said. "And we specialize in three different areas. When you're talking about this level of brilliance, there's an extraordinary amount of competition. And greed. Someone's got to allocate the funds, make decisions about various directions and priorities. That's what I do, up to a certain level. After that, it's in the hands of my superiors."
"What are the priorities now?"
"We're biotech. We're all about genetic engineering. Kransten's been enough of a visionary to move to the forefront in three different areas. He's been there for years. We're the market leader in stem-cell research derived from human embryos. There's only one other U.S. company that's even really functional at the moment. There's no funding for it."
"But you don't have that problem."
"No, of course not. Since the president restricted use to cells that have already been extracted, we're in the driver's seat. We're private. We don't have to worry about those kinds of restrictions."
"And what's the emphasis in this area?"
"The same as everyone else. Stem cells are just a tool. The more we learn about basic biology, the more likely it is that we can take these stem cells, reproduce the steps inside them, and make them behave in a specific way. It's extraordinarily complicated, but the embryo does it naturally. If we can learn how the embryo does it, we can duplicate the process to make something similar to what the body loses when it has certain diseases. Ultimately, the goal is to develop and market treatments for cancer and degenerative diseases."
"You said it's a tool. A tool for whom?"
"For KranMar." He scratched harshly at his chest, as if the conversation was making him itch. "There's nothing illegal about this. It's why I can't understand all the precautions and secrecy. KranMar's the third largest pharmaceutical company in the world. Of course they're going to be developing products for profit. There's nothing wrong with their research program."
"Give me the two other areas you prioritize."
"Recombinant DNA technology…"
"Try to give it to me in English, please."
"Essentially, that's reaching inside the body and directly fiddling with gene patterns, with DNA sequences."
"And the goal?"
"You figure out how to change DNA, you can actually alter the species."
"You mean, like make people stronger or handsomer or… whiter?"
"Agent Rollins, I don't think any of us are in this for those kinds of neo-Nazi purposes. Even if those things were possible, we're talking about altering diseases. Potentially even eliminating some of them. It goes hand in hand with the stem-cell research."
"And the third?"
Marion hesitated, then he said, "Human growth hormones."
"Growth as in make things bigger?"
Ed Marion laughed. "No. Growth hormones affect the aging process."
"Keep going."
"I feel a little strange talking about this. We're in a very odd area here and I only know bits and pieces. The other two areas, that's hard science. I wasn't kidding when I said that there are several people working for us who could easily win the Nobel Prize. Growth hormones…well, it's different. Some people inside Ellis, the other two divisions really, think it's crackpot science. Kransten thinks it's the key to the future."
"What do you think?"
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