Out Cold

by William G. Tapply

  Both cops got out. Howard opened the door on Kayla’s side. “Come on,” he said to her. “You’re home now.”

  “This isn’t my home,” she said. “Will you please listen to me?”

  “Let’s go,” said Howard. He gripped Kayla’s upper arm and led her up the steps onto the front porch.

  Harrigan opened my door. “Let’s go,” he said.

  “I thought I was under arrest.”

  He nodded. “You are. Come on.” He reached in, took my arm, and helped me slide out.

  “I don’t have boots or a coat,” I said, “and in case you didn’t notice, it’s winter.”

  “Sorry.” He steered me in the direction of McKibben’s porch.

  “If you don’t listen to me,” I said, “you’re going to be extremely embarrassed.”

  He put his hand on my arm to stop me. Howard and Kayla were several yards ahead of us, heading for McKibben’s front door. “You should’ve listened to me,” Harrigan said quietly. “You should’ve gone home when you had the chance. It would’ve been better for everybody.”

  “These people are conducting medical experiments on human subjects,” I said. “Some of them have died. What they’re doing is illegal. They’ve murdered at least two women who figured out what was going on.”

  Harrigan looked at me. I couldn’t read his expression behind his bushy mustache.

  “They were going to kill me, too,” I said. “Kayla helped me get away. That’s why I don’t have any boots. They took my boots and my coat when they captured me. Not to mention my car keys and my good German binoculars and my brand new digital camera and—”

  Harrigan shook his head. “I’ve known Jud McKibben my whole life,” he said. “He’s no murderer. He’s a doctor. He saves lives.”

  “If McKibben isn’t a killer,” I said, “then Cranston is. He’s a sadist, I can vouch for that. Check my knee or shoulder or shin. You’ll see the bruises his blackjack made. Feel the bump on top of my head.” I tapped where the bump was.

  Harrigan surprised me by touching the bump on my head. “You could’ve got that a million different ways.” Then he narrowed his eyes at me. “What did you mean by experiments? What kind of experiments?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

  He put his hand on my shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  “I thought you arrested me,” I said. “Aren’t you going to take me to your jail?”

  “Not yet,” he said.

  About the time we got to the top of the steps, the front door opened and Dr. Judson McKibben himself was standing there.

  He went to Kayla and embraced her. “I was worried about you, dear girl,” he said. “I’m so relieved that you’re safe.” He looked over her shoulder and nodded to Harrigan. “Excellent work, Chief. Bring your prisoner inside, now, please.”

  Twenty-Five

  McKibben put his arm around Kayla’s shoulders and led her into the house. Harrigan held on to my elbow and steered me along behind them, and Howard followed. We entered a wide hallway and turned into a big square living room in the front corner of the house. A fire was blazing in the fieldstone fireplace, and Albert Cranston was sitting on the sofa holding a wineglass and gazing into the flames. When we entered the room, he looked up, smiled, put his glass on the coffee table, and stood.

  Jeanette came in from a different room and waited there inside the doorway with her hands clasped in front of her and a frown on her face.

  Kayla was hunching her shoulders and darting her eyes around. I guessed she was wondering what kind of punishment awaited her. I stared at her until she caught my eye. I gave my head a small shake and pursed my lips, a silent Shh. I figured, for her sake, the less she said the better.

  She gave me a tiny nod, then looked away.

  McKibben lifted his chin at Jeanette. “Poor Kayla is exhausted,” he said to her. “Take her to her room, give her her medication, and help her get ready for bed, please.”

  Jeanette nodded. “Of course.” She went over to Kayla, put her arm around her shoulders, murmured something into her ear, and herded her toward the doorway.

  “Hang on there a minute,” said Harrigan.

  Jeanette stopped, turned, and arched her eyebrows at McKibben.

  McKibben frowned at Harrigan, then turned and waved the back of his hand at Jeanette. “No, no. Go ahead. It’s all right.”

  Jeanette shrugged and started to lead Kayla away.

  “I asked you to wait, Miss,” said Harrigan.

  She stopped again and looked from Harrigan to McKibben and back to Harrigan.

  “Please sit for a minute,” Harrigan said to Jeanette and Kayla. “I need to ask you both a few questions.”

  Kayla sat on the sofa.

  Jeanette hesitated, then sat beside Kayla.

  McKibben turned and arched his eyebrows at Harrigan. “What are you doing?”

  “I just have a couple questions.”

  “Of course.” McKibben nodded. “You have your job to do. Which reminds me. I need you to fetch Mr. Coyne’s automobile from Don’s.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a set of keys, and tossed them to Harrigan.

  The Chief snatched them out of the air and looked at them. Then he showed them to me. “These yours?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  He turned to McKibben. “Where did you get these keys?”

  McKibben frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I asked you where you got this set of car keys.”

  “I heard what you said,” said McKibben. “I’m just not quite believing the insolence I thought I detected in your tone. Who do you think you’re talking to?”

  Harrigan looked at Jeanette. “Would you get Mr. Coyne’s boots, please?”

  Jeanette turned to McKibben with her eyebrows arched.

  He nodded. “Get the boots. Then the Chief can take his prisoner to jail.”

  “I have a few questions,” said Harrigan.

  “Questions for whom?” said McKibben.

  “For you.”

  “Really?”

  Harrigan looked at me. “A friend of yours called me from Boston this morning.”

  “Horowitz, I hope,” I said.

  He nodded. “We had a long talk.” He reached over and ran his hand over the top of my head. When he touched the bump where Cranston had whacked me with his sap, I winced.

  “That hurt?” said Harrigan.

  “Yes.”

  “There’s a big bump there,” he said. “How did you get it?”

  “Albert Cranston hit me with a blackjack.”

  Harrigan pointed at Cranston. “Him?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  Cranston smiled and shook his head.

  Harrigan turned to Howard. “Take those cuffs off Mr. Coyne.”

  I turned my back to Howard, and he reached down and unlocked my handcuffs.

  Then Harrigan pointed at Albert Cranston and McKibben and said, “Howard, handcuff those men.”

  Howard stepped forward. “Give me your right arm,” he said to Cranston.

  Cranston hesitated, then held out his right arm.

  Howard snapped one cuff on Cranston’s wrist. Then he looked at McKibben. “Give me your right arm.”

  “I beg your pardon?” said McKibben.

  “Do it,” said Harrigan.

  Howard grabbed McKibben’s right arm and snapped the other cuff onto it so that Cranston and McKibben’s right wrists were attached to each other. That way, the two men had to stand beside each other facing in opposite directions. Clever. If one of them tried to run forward, the other would have to run backward to keep up.

  Chief Harrigan smiled. “Judson McKibben and Albert Cranston,” he said, “you are both under arrest for kidnapping, assault, and battery. We’ll come up with some more charges pretty soon, I’m sure, but those will hold you for now.” He recited their Miranda rights to McKibben and Cranston.

  Jeanette came into the room carrying one of my boots in each hand. She stopped at the e
ntryway and frowned.

  Harrigan nodded to her. “Give Mr. Coyne his boots, then come over here.”

  I took my boots, went over to a chair, sat down, and wrestled them on over my wet socks. The effort exhausted me. All the adrenaline had drained out of me, and suddenly all I wanted to do was go to sleep.

  Kayla came over and knelt in front of me. “Let me,” she said. She laced up my boots and tied them for me, while I slumped back in the chair.

  Harrigan was talking with Jeanette. Howard was holding his gun on McKibben and Cranston, who were standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.

  When Kayla finished with my boots, she looked up at me and smiled. “How’s that?”

  “Wonderful,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “Mr. Coyne,” said Chief Harrigan. “I’d like you to come with us.”

  “Where?”

  “Jeanette here has agreed to show us around. I want you to be able to verify that it’s all voluntary.” He turned to Howard. “Give the state cops a call, tell them they better come pick up some prisoners. Young lady,” he said to Kayla, “you stay here, keep Howard company.”

  She shrugged. “Sure. Okay.”

  Harrigan and I followed Jeanette out into another room, through the kitchen, out the back door, across the driveway, and into the stable. Jeanette flicked on the lights and led us down the long packed-dirt aisle past the stalls, including the one where I’d been imprisoned.

  At the far end of the stable, Jeanette stopped and pointed at one of the stalls. “In there,” she said.

  A strange orange flickered against the walls inside.

  “Please open it,” said Harrigan.

  Jeanette unlatched the door and stepped back.

  Harrigan went to the doorway and looked inside. “Have a look at this, Mr. Coyne.”

  I went over and stood beside him.

  The stall glowed in the candlelight. The walls were painted pink. A life-sized oil painting of a girl—it was Ursula, McKibben’s dead daughter, sitting on a horse wearing her formal riding outfit—hung in the center of the wall. The high window was hung with frilly white-and-pink polka-dot curtains. A flowery carpet covered the dirt floor. Against the walls there were little tables and bookcases covered with dozens of candles. Their flames wavered in the air currents, and they gave off a scent that reminded me of funeral parlors.

  And in the center of the room were seven shiny wooden boxes laid out side by side on a lilac-colored cloth. It looked like satin. The boxes were about the size of shoe boxes. Cherry wood, I guessed. They had brass hinges and latches. An ivory cross was inlaid on the top of each box. Under each cross was a brass plate.

  I stepped forward and bent to read the inscription etched on one of the plates.

  “Ursula,” it read.

  All of the other brass plates said “Ursula,” too.

  There were seven Ursula boxes in the stall.

  Caskets.

  I turned to Jeanette. “Fetuses?”

  She nodded. “Dead fetuses, yes.” She turned to Harrigan. “You want to see the other?”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  At the end of the stable was a heavy wooden door. Jeanette took a key from her pocket, unlocked the big padlock, swung the door open, and we stepped outside.

  A tin roof extended over the rear outside wall of the stable like a kind of lean-to. It appeared to be an area where hay bales once had been stacked and kept dry from rain and snow, but now it was bare ground covered with straw.

  Three wooden crosses stuck up through the straw.

  “Graves,” said Harrigan.

  Jeanette nodded. “Surrogates.”

  Harrigan bent over and pulled the straw away from one of the graves. The earth was mounded up a little. Otherwise, it was just bare dirt.

  He straightened up, looked at me, and shook his head. “Jesus,” he said.

  “Amen,” I said.

  We went back inside. McKibben and Cranston, their right wrists cuffed together, now sat side by side on a hassock, McKibben facing one way and Cranston facing the other. Howard and Kayla were sitting on the sofa watching them. Howard was holding his revolver in his lap.

  Harrigan looked at Kayla. “Miss,” he said, “how many other young women are here? Besides yourself, I mean?”

  “Four others,” she said.

  “Would they all be asleep now?”

  “What time is it?” she said.

  He looked at his watch. “Almost midnight.”

  “They’re asleep. All drugged up and out for the night.”

  “Can they be awakened?”

  Kayla nodded. “Sure. They’ll be groggy, but you could talk to them.”

  “Would you mind waking them up and asking them to get some clothes on and come down here, then?”

  “Absolutely,” she said.

  She left the room.

  Harrigan turned to Howard and said, “You doing okay?”

  “All set,” said Howard. “We’re getting along fine. State cops should be here pretty soon.”

  “Good,” said Harrigan. He looked at Jeanette and me. “Let’s go in the other room.”

  We went into an adjacent room. It was the same cozy room where I’d talked with McKibben the previous evening. Jeanette sat in the upholstered chair beside the fireplace. I sat on the sofa. Harrigan picked up a straight-backed wooden chair, took it to where Jeanette was sitting, and sat in front of her.

  She looked up at him.

  He put his hands on his thighs and leaned toward her. “Let’s talk about what’s been going on here. Okay?”

  She nodded.

  “I’m going to record what you have to say.”

  “Are you going to arrest me?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “It depends.”

  “If I talk to you?…”

  “It is to your advantage to talk to me,” he said. “Whether or not I have to arrest you. Okay?”

  She nodded. “I want to tell you.”

  Harrigan took a small tape recorder from his coat pocket. He spoke into it and played it back. It was working. He stated his name and the date, time and place, said he was interviewing Jeanette Perkins, then put the recorder on the coffee table between himself and Jeanette.

  I understood that my job was to witness the process, to verify that Harrigan had not coerced Jeanette’s statement, and to be prepared to testify to that if necessary.

  Harrigan recited her rights to Jeanette. She said she understood them.

  Harrigan blew out a breath. “Okay, then. Let’s start with you. You work here, right?”

  “Against my will,” she said. “I’m not—”

  “Please start at the beginning,” said Harrigan.

  She nodded. “I’m a nurse,” she said. “An RN. I met Judson McKibben when he was in medical school. I knew Greta—that was his wife—and I knew Ursula, their daughter, when she was little. I was married in those days, and we sometimes socialized with the McKibbens. That was in Cambridge. I liked them. Admired him, the work he was doing. He was a pioneer in stem-cell research in those days. Anyway, after I got divorced, I took a job in Chicago and pretty much lost touch with the McKibbens. I heard about Greta’s death, and a while later I heard about what happened to Ursula. I wrote Jud cards each time, sent flowers. When he called me and asked me if I’d join him here, share his work with him, it happened to come at a time when I was looking for something different. I’d worked in big impersonal institutions for too long. I was sick of doing everything by the book, of worrying about getting sued, of measuring a patient’s life by a cost-benefit analysis. I was ready for something new and exciting and important.”

  “What did he say your work would be?” said Harrigan.

  “He was setting up a laboratory,” she said. “He intended to conduct some experiments.” She hesitated. “He was interested in cloning.”

  Harrigan blinked. “Cloning?” He glanced at me. “Human cloning?”

  “Therapeutic cloning,” said Jeanette. She looked at
me, then back at Harrigan. “Therapeutic cloning is a way to get stem cells. You clone an embryo, let its cells multiply for fourteen days, then harvest the stem cells. Dr. McKibben said he was very frustrated with the intrusion of politics and religion and general ignorance into the scientific laboratory, and all the people who wanted to believe that a two-week-old cloned embryo was a human life. Most of the medical people I know have the same frustrations. But Dr. McKibben said he wanted to do something about it. It’s very exciting. You can do amazing things with stem cells. He told me he had private funding, so he didn’t have to worry about all the regulations and restrictions that come with government grants and programs and agencies. There are no federal laws against therapeutic cloning, and no state laws in New Hampshire, either, although there’s plenty of prejudice. Anyway, what he described was perfectly legal. He said he needed me to harvest eggs from volunteers, to collect and measure data, and to help him and Albert Cranston run the laboratory.”

  “Cranston,” said Harrigan. “What was his job?”

  “He’s a biologist,” she said. “He does the science.”

  “The eggs,” said Harrigan, “they have to be fertilized, right?”

  She nodded. “It’s kind of technical. The nucleus is removed from the egg. Without its own genetic materials, it’s called an ovacyte. Then cells from somebody else—they could be regular body cells, like skin or hair, or they could be stem cells, and they could be from a man or a woman, it wouldn’t matter—they’re inserted into the ovacyte. The ovacyte is kept alive for no more than fourteen days, and then its stem cells are harvested.”

  Harrigan was frowning. “Women volunteer to donate their eggs, is that right? That’s all you need them for?”

  “To do therapeutic cloning, yes.”

  “So why did you have these young women living here?”

  Jeanette blew out a breath. “Because,” she said, “it turned out that Dr. McKibben wasn’t really interested in therapeutic cloning.”

  “He wasn’t?”

  She shook her head. “It’s what he told me he wanted to do. It’s how he described his work. It’s what convinced me to come here to work with him. It’s what I was interested in.” She looked at Harrigan, then at me. “But it’s not what he’s doing.”