——
It was 3:56 A.M. when John finally pressed Send, and the read receipt came back instantly.
Three minutes later, Topher called and with no preamble whatsoever said, “Holy shit. Is this real? Or did you make it up?”
“One hundred percent real.”
“It’s not the old ‘sources said’ routine?”
“The sources are real.”
“Can you prove it?”
“Absolutely. But I’m not giving them up.”
“What do you have? I want to see it.”
“Yeah, I’ll forward it, but I’m serious about protecting my sources. I’m not giving them up under any circumstances.”
“Fine. What have you got?”
“Topher?”
“I hear you. We’ll protect them. What do you have?”
“I have corresponding email archives from both Benton and Faulks proving that they were in contact before and after the explosion at the lab, that Benton was demanding more money after the fact, and that Faulks began bouncing his emails before finally rehiring him. And I have at least one expert who saw the bonobo identify one of Faulks’s henchmen on TV as one of the people involved in the initial explosion. Somewhere, somebody has it on DVR, and I’ll put money on Sam being able to pick him out of a lineup.”
“Who is Sam?”
“One of the bonobos.”
Topher whooped, called him a golden boy, told him to get drunk, treat himself, whatever, and hung up.
John called Amanda, who didn’t answer, but then again, it was just after four in the morning, three, her time. “Hey, baby,” he cooed into her voice mail. “I think maybe I’ve just managed to redeem myself as a journalist. This whole thing can’t last much longer—it’s going to blow wide open. I’ll be home soon, and I can’t wait to see you. I hope your writing is going well and the dog is settling in. I love you.”
John undressed, turned off the lights, and crawled under the covers. He thought of Ivanka and her turkey baster. He thought of Makena nursing her new infant, of how tenderly she cradled it, nudging its tiny wrinkled face toward her nipple. He thought of Amanda’s longing to have their own family—to be not just extensions of Fran and Tim, of Paul and Patricia. Suddenly it all made perfect sense. To be able to create life with the woman he loved was a miracle of nature, perhaps the deepest need he’d ever felt.
——
John slept until nearly two in the afternoon and would certainly have continued sleeping if someone weren’t knocking insistently on his door. He opened it a crack and found Victor, the perpetually glistening fat man from the front office.
“A fax came,” he said, thrusting a handful of crinkled papers at John.
“Thanks,” said John, taking them. He closed the door.
The fax was a skewed black-and-white version of today’s newly minted Weekly Times. The cover sheet read, “Didn’t want you to have to wait. Real thing to follow soon. Best, Topher.” Dead smack in the center of the cover was a most unflattering picture of Faulks (probably caught mid-blink). He was set against a mushroom cloud, beneath the headline PORN KING KONGED! Given the nature of the cover, John was a little apprehensive as he turned the pages, but Topher had indeed published his piece word for word. It was all there, from the title, “Language-Proficient Ape Fingers Faulks Associate in Laboratory Bombing,” right down to the “Close sources have provided indisputable evidence that Peter Benton, former head scientist of the Great Ape Language Lab, conspired with Ken Faulks, media mogul turned pornographer, in a New Year’s Day bombing that grievously injured another scientist and turned the six resident bonobo apes into prisoners of America’s insatiable appetite for the phenomenon known as reality television.”
He paused long enough to pull his jeans over his boxers, and then ran all the way to the Mohegan Moon in his undershirt, with no socks beneath his shoes, pages clutched to his chest.
——
“Can you meet me?” Isabel breathed into the phone.
Peter’s response was immediate. “Of course. Where?”
“In the bar of the Mohegan Moon. Come as soon as you can. I can’t believe you pulled it off. Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“My God.” He sounded stunned. “I can’t wait to see you, Izzy.”
“Me either,” she said, staring at the pages of the fax, which were spread neatly on the desk in front of her.
Twenty minutes later, Isabel was sitting at a table near the center of the bar. Tables were easier to get now that Ape House was off the air. There were still a handful of reporters and casino patrons around, but it was no longer standing room only. Cat Douglas was at the corner of the bar, sipping a Campari and soda. She slid off her stool and headed toward Isabel, but when she met Isabel’s gaze, she halted. Isabel stared her back into the corner.
When Peter came in, his eyes flitted about the room before landing on Isabel. He kissed her quickly on the cheek, and then took a seat. The chair screeched against the floor as he pulled it back, and he looked around apologetically.
“You look wonderful,” he said as he settled himself.
“Thank you,” she replied, conscious that the last time he’d seen her she was completely bald and missing five teeth. He seemed very different to her too, although she couldn’t put a finger on it—he was dressed and groomed as he always had been, conservatively, neatly, and still exuded the same easy confidence.
The waiter came by and took his drink order—a double scotch on the rocks.
“So,” he said, when the waiter left. “Here we are.”
“Yes.” She stared into her seltzer water, and stirred the little red straw. She pulled the wedge of lime from the side, squeezed it, and dropped it into the glass. The little burst of juice temporarily clouded the water. In her peripheral vision, she could see Cat Douglas watching closely.
Isabel smiled and held her hands out across the table. Peter took them.
“So now we get the apes back,” she said. “I can hardly believe it.” She blinked rapidly. “Sorry. It’s been such a long road. I can’t believe it’s over.”
Peter continued holding Isabel’s hands, but his grip weakened. The waiter deposited a double scotch on ice in front of him. “Thank you,” he said, glancing up at him.
“It is over, right?” said Isabel. She managed a tearful smile. “What you said the other day, about getting back to where we were, you meant it, right?”
“I love you, Isabel. I have always loved you.”
“I’m talking about the apes, Peter. The apes are coming home with us, right?”
Peter downed his scotch without taking his eyes off her.
“You should order another one,” said Isabel.
He glanced up and laughed. “You know what Shakespeare said about alcohol. It provoketh the desire, but taketh away the performance. And God knows, I’ve been without you for so long, I think—”
“It is not ‘provoketh’ or ‘taketh,’ you idiot.” She stood up and leaned over the table. “When will you learn to shut the hell up!”
He leaned back.
She sat back down and reached into her purse, pulling out the papers, which she’d folded in half. She smoothed them against the table, calmly, folding backward against the original crease so they would lie flat. “I wish I could say I was sad about this, but nothing gives me greater pleasure than to inform you that your sorry ass is going to jail. You’re going to be spending many years in a cell eight by eight by twelve feet. You’re going to experience what it feels like to be kept in a cage by hostile people who don’t care about you or your suffering, just like all those apes you experimented on at PSI.”
Isabel slid the papers across the table. As he took and read them, she felt high. She felt higher still as she watched comprehension dawn on his face. When she stood up and announced, loudly, that this was hitting newsstands all across the country at this very moment, she saw the stricken look in Cat’s eyes as she realized she’d been scooped, and thought sh
e might swoon.
——
As John crossed the parking lot of the Buccaneer, Ivanka leaned over the balcony in a bathrobe and yelled, “Quick! Turn on TV!” John hurried to his room.
Topher McFadden was on the third station he turned to, surrounded by reporters and television cameras. His blond hair was rakishly windblown, his lavender dress shirt open at the top. Flashbulbs reflected off the lenses of his square glasses.
“This is the kind of story the Weekly Times takes pride in bringing to the public,” he was saying. “It’s the information they trust us to provide.”
A buzz of voices rose around him. Topher scanned the faces and microphones and pointed at someone. The other voices dropped off.
“How were you able to get this story ahead of all the major newspapers covering Ape House?”
“Our reporters are trained investigators who know how to dig down and get the facts. I personally selected John Thigpen for this assignment, and I’ve worked closely with him since his first dispatch. He has the background and tenacious investigative spirit needed to bring this story to light. He established relationships with the apes and their caretakers even before the bombing, and he used those contacts to discover what other reporters could not.”
More shouting for attention, more jostling. Topher pointed at someone else. The rest fell silent. “Yes,” he said, inviting a question.
“Stories are swirling about a criminal investigation into the allegations in this story. Can you please comment?”
Once again the voices swelled. Topher held both hands up and closed his eyes, asking for quiet. When the chatter stopped, he said, “The final pieces of this puzzle fell into place just before our publication deadline. Since then, we have been cooperating with the authorities at the City of Lawrence Police Department, as well as with the FBI, and we will make our information available to the extent that we can while protecting our sources. What I can tell you is that the Doña Ana County Department of Animal Control took over the physical care of the bonobos this morning, and that a transport team from the San Diego Zoo is on its way at this very moment.”
As the voices rose once again, shouting competing questions, Topher pointed to another reporter, acting every bit as though he were the President’s press secretary.
“Apparently this story relies heavily on the word,” said the woman, “if that’s even the right term, of an ape who appeared to recognize one of Faulks’s employees as involved in the laboratory bombing. Do you think the courts would consider evidence from an ape?”
Topher composed his tanned face into a look of deep concentration. “Keep in mind that these apes are proficient in human language, and while they might not be permitted to testify in a court of law, they can certainly testify in the court of public opinion. An interview with Katie Couric might prove interesting indeed. But Sam’s opinion is far from the only evidence the Weekly Times uncovered.”
“Faulks is a movie producer—was he responsible for the video statement that was released on the Internet?”
“Everything we’re sure of, we printed. It seems likely that after the bombing the ELL saw an opportunity, took credit, and did what additional damage they could. But I’m sure the FBI will be happy to clarify as the investigation continues.”
Someone in a suit leaned toward Topher and whispered in his ear. Topher nodded.
“Mr. McFadden!”
“Mr. McFadden!”
Topher raised a hand to indicate he was finished. “Thank you very much. You can expect further information in our next issue.” He turned and disappeared into the crowd with his handlers. John stared at the screen, stunned. A news anchor poked her head into the frame and explained that the bonobos would be reunited with two of their former caretakers as soon as possible, and then, pending a veterinary exam, would begin their journey to San Diego.
37
By the next morning, John understood what it was like to be pursued by the media. He did not know how his cell phone number became so widely distributed, but both it and his room phone rang constantly. Other reporters, like Cat Douglas, simply showed up at his door.
“Hi, John,” she said, smiling broadly with her head cocked. Her chestnut hair swung in what he assumed she thought was an appealing manner. “It’s great to see you! I didn’t even know you were—”
And then John shut the door. He gave others, such as Cecil, a few more minutes, but because what they really wanted to know was where and how he got the information, no one left happy. The FBI was interested in exactly the same question, and informed him that he could either give up his sources voluntarily, or else he could wait and be subpoenaed, but either way, give them up he would. John did not argue—nor did he tell them that no matter what they had planned for him, he was taking his sources to the grave.
He didn’t have the option of not answering his phone, because he was expecting the DNA results any second. They were already past the promised twenty-four-hour turnaround.
“Hello?” he said, answering his phone for the forty-eighth time that day. At this point, he was leaving it plugged in all the time.
“Is this John Thigpen?” said a woman with an English accent. Although she was asking a question, her voice dipped down at the end.
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“My name is Hilary Pinegar. It seems I owe you some money. Some girl named Celia was kind enough to call and tell me what was going on.”
“Hilary Pinegar? You’re Nathan’s mother?” John sat on the edge of the bed.
“Yes. I’m very sorry for the trouble he’s caused. He’s a bit out of control at the moment. His father and I are hoping it’s just a phase. Anyway, we’re coming to Lizard to clear everything up, but regardless of that, I’d like to return your money as soon as possible.”
“Hilary Pinegar,” John said yet again.
“Yes,” she said, sounding perplexed at having to confirm it yet again.
“Any relation to Ginette?”
There was a pause. “No. I’m sorry.”
“Never mind,” said John.
“Anyway,” she continued, “if you could just let me know your address, I’ll put a check in the mail straightaway.”
As John hung up, he felt inexplicably hollow. Disappointed, even.
38
Eight policemen surrounded Isabel, creating a pod to help her navigate the crowd, which had grown even larger now that no one knew what was happening inside the house. As an officer unlocked the main door, the crowd fell silent, craning their necks to see what was going on.
Isabel stepped into the anteroom, then turned and nodded to the officer, who backed out and closed the door behind him.
Isabel looked around because this was the one room in the house that didn’t have a camera and so she had never seen it. The room and doors were large enough to accommodate a forklift, and there were track marks and scuffs on the floor, scrapes and dents in the beige walls.
Isabel stared at the interior door and exhaled hard. This was it. She wondered if they already knew she was there.
She knelt on the floor so that she was face-level with the peephole, which was at the height of a squatting or knuckle-walking bonobo. She knocked. She heard loping on the other side of the door, and then silence. She knew she was being scrutinized, and so she smiled. Her hands and lips trembled in anticipation.
A shuffle, a deafening squeal, and the door was yanked open. Bonzi leapt through it and onto Isabel, flinging her arms around her, nearly knocking her backward. Lola jumped onto her head and clung to her face like an octopus claiming a scuba mask. Isabel heard thunderous galloping and joyous squealing and braced herself as the other apes threw themselves at her, on her, hugging her, patting her, pulling her by the arms.
“Lola! I can’t breathe!” Isabel laughed, freeing one of her arms so she could pry Lola’s belly away from her face. Lola arranged herself on the side of Isabel’s head, but even then it was hard for Isabel to keep track of which ape was where, because t
hey were leaping and squeaking and clinging to her.
Bonzi was insistently yanking her arm.
“All right, all right, I’ll come in! But you have to let me,” she said. Not one of them let go. Isabel crawled into the house, dragged by hairy black arms, draped in bonobos. She was nearly breathless with effort and laughter.
When the apes finally calmed down and settled into grooming Isabel and each other, Makena solemnly presented her infant.
It was a little girl. Isabel, who still had Lola clinging to her head, held the baby upright against her shoulder and looked into her black and crinkled face. The baby’s eyes were round and shiny with excitement. She clutched the fabric of Isabel’s shirt in her tiny fists, just as she had her mother’s fur.
“Well hello, baby,” Isabel said, her eyes brimming with tears. She turned to Makena. “You did a good job, Makena. She’s beautiful. We’re going to have to think of a name, aren’t we?”
Sam hung back and watched while Mbongo pulled Isabel’s leg out from under her. He removed her shoe and sock, and began to search between her toes. Bonzi crouched behind her, picking through her short hair and taking a particular interest in the area around her scar. Jelani examined her jaw and nose, then slipped his fingers into her mouth and removed her dental flipper.
“Jelani! Give me back my teeth!” Isabel said, laughing so hard she could barely speak. He responded by putting them in his own mouth and rubbing up against Makena, who then rubbed up against Sam.
Bonzi came around and squatted in front of Isabel. She brought her open hand to her temple and thrust it away, closing her fingers. She touched her fingers and thumb to her lips, and then to her ear.
BONZI GO HOME. HURRY ISABEL GO.
Isabel, who was still juggling babies, said, “We’ll go home soon, Bonzi. It will be a different home, but it will be a good home, and I’m going to be there. I’m never leaving you again.”
Bonzi spun and peeped, signing, KISS KISS, BONZI LOVE.
Sara Gruen Page 29
