The first few photos had been close-ups limited to his father’s face and neck. The next one was taken farther back so it included the shoulders and upper part of the chest. Until now, Carl’s brain had been flooded with so much raw emotion there was room for nothing else. Now, with a little distance between him and the appalling damage the blast had done to his father’s face, the emotions ebbed a bit. As they receded, they left behind a question.
He looked at Tillman. “Those pockmarks on my father’s chest . . . that’s from the wadding in the shell, right?”
“Let me see the picture.”
Carl handed it over.
Tillman examined it briefly and said, “Wadding . . . exactly. I see you’re familiar with gunshot wounds.”
“A little. According to what I know of the details, my father was in some high brush with his gun over his head, he stumbled and dropped the stock end, which caught on a branch.”
Tillman held up his hand. “Wait a minute. Let me locate the account.” He shuffled through the papers in the file then, finding what he was looking for, scanned the page. “Okay. Continue.”
“When he tried to pull the gun free, it twisted, and somehow a branch caught on the trigger.”
“That’s what it says here.”
“Which means the barrel couldn’t have been more than a foot from his face.”
“More or less.”
“Don’t you think that’s a pretty wide spread for the wadding to have hit his chest from such a short distance?”
Tillman didn’t reply right away but seemed to mull over his answer. Then he said, “Seeing the picture again, I do remember considering that at the time.”
“Did that make you think maybe things hadn’t happened as described?”
“I try to be skeptical about everything.”
“Yet you apparently accepted the account as written into the record.”
“I’m remembering this case more clearly now. The detective who handled the investigation was satisfied it was an accident. So with nothing more to go on than these marks on the victim’s . . . I mean your father’s chest, I had no real reason to hold things up.”
“Does it say in there who the detective was?”
Tillman looked again at the document. “Joe Oliver. He’s one of the best.”
“Who told the detective what happened?”
It took Tillman a little longer to find that name. “A man named Jan Echols.”
Echols. The name meant nothing to Carl. But of course, Arkansas Pharmaceuticals employed several thousand people. There were lots of them he didn’t know. Carl returned the pictures to the envelope and handed them back to Tillman. “Thanks for letting me see the pictures and for the other information.”
“I hope it helps you,” Tillman replied.
Out in the hall, Carl put the wig and the cap back on, checking his reflection in a glass-covered reproduction of the famous Rembrandt painting, The Anatomy Lesson. Heading for the elevator, he tried to picture how a branch that penetrated the trigger guard on a shotgun with the barrel pointing upward could depress the trigger when the gun was pulled in that direction. At first it seemed unlikely, then, as he considered the situation further, it became clear that it could happen.
But there were still those marks on his father’s chest, suggesting that the muzzle of the gun had been farther away from him than could be accounted for in the written description of what occurred.
While waiting for the elevator, Carl checked his watch. Still not time for the cremains results to be in. He went back upstairs and again stepped up to one of the courtesy phones, where he punched in the general number for Arkansas Pharm.
“Hi, this is Dr. Martin. I’m out of the building and don’t have access to a plant directory. Could you connect me with Jan Echols please?”
“Certainly Doctor,” the pleasant female voice replied.
There was a short wait, then the voice said, “I’m sorry, Doctor, but we have no listing for that name.”
Puzzled, Carl thanked her and hung up.
No listing? That was odd. The hunt on which his father had died was only for employees of Arkansas Pharm. Who the hell then was Jan Echols?
Carl left the phones and went into the break room, where he picked up the copy of Good Housekeeping and tried not to think about what might have really happened to his father. But there was nothing in the old magazine that could keep him from wondering if there was more to his father’s death than everyone thought.
Suppose it hadn’t been an accident. Why would someone want to kill him? Did it have anything to do with those hidden notes Carl had found? Was his father’s death somehow related to Meggs and Artisan?
Carl became lost in thought, trying to find a connection between Artisan and his father. When Sato appeared in the doorway with his cardboard box retied with the same string, he was shocked that he had been there long enough for her to finish her analysis.
“What did you find?” he asked, standing quickly.
“There’s nothing human in these urns,” Sato said. “Most likely it’s a mixture of wood ash and Portland cement.”
Chapter 28
ERNST MAHLER watched the man in the baseball cap come out of the crime lab and walk to his car. He noted that the man was still carrying the cardboard box. If he was delivering something, why did he still have it?
Could that be Carl Martin wearing a disguise? This Martin was no fool. If he had been one, they would have caught him on the road to Artisan.
Mahler was trapped in a dilemma. If he followed the man, and the real Martin appeared later, he’d have missed the perfect opportunity to end this threat. But if that was Martin and he didn’t follow . . .
Mein Gott. What to do?
Needing to make a decision right now, he reached for the ignition.
AS CARL LEFT the crime lab parking lot, his mind had more to think about than he could handle.
Not human.
So where were the remains of Beth’s parents? Had Meggs taken them away for some reason? Or were James and Muriel still alive? That would explain why they weren’t in the Arkansas death records.
With all the questions Sato’s results raised, Carl was eager to tell Beth what he’d learned. But at the end of Natural Resource Drive, the street where the crime lab was located, he didn’t turn in the direction of Daniel’s rental house. Instead, he headed for Arkansas Pharmaceuticals to find Frank Irby, the company CEO, and ask him who Jan Echols was.
BACK IN THE crime lab parking lot, Ernst Mahler hoped he had made the right decision to remain there and wait for the real Carl Martin.
CONSIDERING THE situation Carl and Beth were now in, it didn’t seem wise to be walking around without some way to make a phone call. On the way to find Irby, Carl stopped at a Radio Shack and bought a prepaid cell phone.
Twenty minutes later, sans disguise, he ran into Irby coming out of Irby’s office suite into the hall.
“Carl,” Irby said, obviously pleased to see him. “I’ve been meaning to call you and see how those animals are doing. Everything still okay?”
“Still looks good. Frank . . . I’ve been thinking about my father’s accident. The guy who was with him when it happened, Jan Echols . . . Who is he? He’s not an employee here. I thought everyone on that hunt worked for the firm.”
“Actually, there were two other people along . . . visiting firemen who were there as a special request from some German company Senator Mayhugh’s been wooing to build a plant in the state. We need all the friends in high places we can get, so I couldn’t very well say no when he asked if they could join us. Echols was one of them.”
“Do you know how I could contact him?”
“Not off hand. But I could find out.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
“No problem.”
“You all right, Carl?”
“Yeah, sure. I just want to talk to this guy Echols directly and hear from him how the accident occurred.”
“When my father died, I could go for weeks at a time and not think about it, then all of a sudden it would just overwhelm me for no apparent reason. As time passed, episodes like that occurred less and less frequently. I haven’t had one now for years. Guess you’re in the midst of one of those time warps yourself.”
“I am.”
Irby put his hand on Carl’s shoulder. “It’ll get easier.”
The scientists in the research and development arm of the company kept their own hours, so Carl didn’t have any obligation to tell Irby he was taking some personal time away from the lab. And he certainly didn’t want to involve him in the problems the trip to Artisan had created. So before departing, Carl simply said, “Let me know when you get some information on Echols. I’ve got a new cell number . . .”
Irby took a small notepad and a pen out of his inside jacket pocket. “Shoot.”
Carl gave him the new number and Irby wrote it down.
MEGGS ANSWERED the phone and identified himself.
“Have you found them yet?” Hanson asked on the other end of the line, the stress he was under evident in his voice.
“Yeah, we did,” Meggs said. “And I just didn’t tell you.”
“So you haven’t succeeded.”
“We will. Don’t worry.”
“Have you told them upstream what’s happening?”
“I don’t want to do that until the problem is solved. They’d likely want to shut us down and move into erase mode.”
Chapter 29
“WOOD ASH AND cement?” Beth said. “I’m speechless.”
“It’s very weird. Could they still be alive?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“I’m just trying to find an explanation for what we’ve learned about the urns. That’s all I meant.”
“I’m sorry. I know. It’s just . . . so confusing. They died in the hospital . . . both of them within hours of each other. I wasn’t allowed to see them after they were admitted. The doctor who was in charge at the time said they were too infectious.”
“What kind of funeral did they have?”
“It was a memorial service after they were cremated.”
“So you never saw them again after they were taken to the hospital?”
“No.”
“What about your husband?”
“I did see him.”
“In a casket?”
“Yes.”
“Is that the way it was with all the people who died of the flu . . . admitted to the hospital and then never seen again?”
Beth nodded. “All of them.”
“So maybe none of them are really dead.”
Beth’s eyes widened. “You really think so?”
Seeing how he’d raised her hopes, Carl backtracked. “I’m sorry, I was just thinking out loud. At this point there’s no evidence one way or the other for that.”
“If all those people are still alive, where are they?”
“Maybe working as forced labor somewhere.”
“Even the children?”
“There are plenty of places in the world that use kids as a cheap workforce.”
“I don’t mean to be argumentative, but that just seems like a highly unlikely explanation.”
“No need to apologize. We’re just brainstorming. I don’t know where they are. It’s also possible your parents’ remains are the only ones missing. We didn’t examine any other urns, so we could be wrong in thinking those are suspect as well.”
“I can’t think why my parents would be singled out.”
“We obviously need more information on the whole situation.”
“I don’t know anything else to do.”
“There is one lead we could follow. Six months ago, a Little Rock resident named Arnold Hollenbeck and his wife died in a carbon monoxide accident.”
“Hollenbeck. That was the name beside the list we found on the hospital computer.”
Carl then explained how he’d encountered the same name on the note found in his father’s book.
“That’s intriguing,” Beth said.
“Let’s go over to the medical school where Hollenbeck worked and see what we can learn about him.”
Before leaving the house, Beth tucked her hair under a blue baseball cap and put on a pair of sunglasses. Carl wore the same disguise as when he’d gone to the crime lab. Despite these precautions and the fact they were no longer driving the black SUV, both felt that traveling together significantly increased their chances of being spotted by Meggs or whoever might be working for him. So as they drove, they kept their eyes moving, tensely alert for any sign their situation was about to deteriorate.
Having no idea what department Hollenbeck had worked for, Carl stopped at a FedEx office and rented some computer time, hoping the medical school hadn’t deleted Hollenbeck’s name from their website.
They hadn’t.
Armed with the knowledge that Hollenbeck had been in the department of reproductive medicine, Carl noted the department’s number and called them on his new cell phone. “This is Dr. Stan West from the Journal of Fertility. We’d like to run a memoriam to Dr. Arnold Hollenbeck in a future issue, and we need some background information from someone there who knew him better than anyone else. Who would you suggest we speak to?”
“That would have to be Jeff Wells,” the nasal female voice on the other end said. “He was Dr. Hollenbeck’s lab assistant for many years. You should definitely talk with him. I believe he’s now working for Dr. Nat Green in the Neurobiology Department. It was terrible what happened to Dr. Hollenbeck. Did you know him at all?”
“Only by reputation. You’ve been a big help. I’m sure wherever Dr. Hollenbeck is, he’s grateful.”
“You lied about who you were,” Beth observed as Carl hung up.
“And your point is?”
“Good idea.”
“WHERE COULD we find Jeff Wells?” Carl asked.
The recipient of his question, a dark-skinned woman wearing a crisp white lab coat and a painted dot in the center of her forehead, pointed at a room in the rear of the lab. “He’s back there.”
Carl and Beth crossed the lab and paused at the slightly open door to the indicated room. Carl knocked and pushed the door open farther. “Mr. Wells?”
They found a man with stringy gray hair sitting with his back to them at a tissue culture hood, his hands inside the protected work area.
“Just one second,” he said, continuing to fill the test tubes in front of him with pink liquid from the long glass pipette in his hand. When the pipette was empty, he put it into a big bottle of the same fluid to his right and turned his rolling chair to see who wanted him. The guy’s complexion was the color of week-old veal, and he’d apparently lost so much weight recently he looked like a human shar-pei.
Carl didn’t think the lie he’d told the secretary over the phone would fit the kinds of questions they might be asking about Hollenbeck, so he decided to go with their real names and hope it wouldn’t come back to hurt them. Before speaking, he turned and shut the door. “I’m Dr. Carl Martin and this is Beth Corbin. Do you have a few minutes to talk about Arnold Hollenbeck?”
“That wasn’t a very good introduction,” Wells said. “You didn’t even place yourselves in context. Try again.”
Carl hesitated, wondering if Wells liked or disliked Hollenbeck. That could make a difference in his willingness to talk. Deciding once again to opt for the truth, but use it sparingly, he said, “We’re two people who are wondering if Hollenbeck had anything to do with some important events tha
t are impacting our lives.”
Wells sat straighter in his chair. “Much better. Now I’m interested.” He waited for more. When Carl balked, he spun his finger in a rolling motion. “And . . .”
“And that’s all.”
“You’re close. Give me a taste more.”
Carl didn’t know what to say next. So he just grabbed at a thought. “Some people are missing. Hollenbeck may be the key to finding them.”
Wells nodded and pursed his lips in a gesture of approval. “Not bad. Payment accepted. What do you want to know?”
“Did he ever mention my father, Robert Martin, or did you know him?”
Wells sucked his teeth and looked for the answer on the ceiling. Then he said, “That’s not a name I’ve ever heard before. Is that who’s missing?”
“No. He’s dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Did Hollenbeck ever talk about Artisan, Arkansas?” Beth asked.
“Not to me.”
“What kind of work did he do?” Carl asked.
“He was a practicing fertility doc and a research scientist. He had an office downtown where he saw patients. He did his research here.”
“What kind of research?” Carl asked.
“Lots of different projects over the years I was with him. Early on—in the late sixties and early seventies—we worked on a couple of things. Most of our efforts back then went into in vitro fertilization of cow eggs and implantation of frozen embryos into host cows injected with reproductive hormones to make them pseudo pregnant so they’d accept the transplanted embryo. We were the leading lab in the world in developing those techniques. It was our research that laid the groundwork for the procedures used today for treating infertility in humans.” His eyes were shining now with pride.
“Where was the farm that housed the animals he used for that work?” Carl asked.
“Not anywhere around here. We’d make the embryos and freeze them. Then he’d take them to the farm and implant them. He’d usually be gone for a couple days.
“In the eighties, we worked on developing techniques for freezing and thawing cow eggs. That’s a whole different question than freezing embryos. We got pretty good at it in cows, but it’s still not very reliable for humans.
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