Fringe 03 - Sins of the Father

by Christa Faust

  The phone rang, causing him to jump.

  Peter’s mother rolled over, but didn’t wake up.

  He sighed and got up. It took him a minute to figure out where his mother had left the cordless handset, but he followed the electronic chirping sound and eventually found it under the dining-room table.

  “Hello,” he said into the phone.

  There was a clipped, official-sounding voice on the other end. Male, and no-nonsense.

  “May I please speak to Elizabeth Bishop?”

  “She’s sleeping,” Peter said. “This is her son.”

  “It’s an emergency,” the voice replied. “You need to wake her up.”

  Peter felt a cold twist in his belly.

  “Is it my father?” he asked. “Did something happen to my dad?”

  “Please, son,” the voice said, a little less officious now. “Go get your mother.”

  Peter held the handset away from his ear and eyed it warily, as if it might bite him. Then he turned and ran into the living room.

  “Mom!” he said, shaking her by the shoulder. “Mom, wake up!”

  “What’s your problem?” Her voice was thick and slurred, and she swatted at his fingers as if they were flies. “God! Can’t you see I’m resting?”

  “Mom, it’s an emergency,” he said, holding out the phone. “Something’s happened to Dad!”

  She opened her bleary, bloodshot eyes and frowned at him as if he wasn’t speaking English, then looked down at the phone as if she had no idea what it was for.

  “What?” she said.

  Aching with frustration, he grabbed her hand and put the phone into it.

  “Phone!” he said. “Emergency!”

  She ran her fingers through her tangled hair, and then slowly raised the handset to her ear.

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, this is she.” She paused, eyes squinting down to narrow slits. “What kind of accident? Fatality? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Peter’s heart was racing. He wanted to rip the phone out of his mother’s grip and demand answers for himself. She was in no shape to handle anything right now, and he was deeply ashamed by the thought that whoever was on the other end would realize she was drunk.

  “I see,” she said, and then she hit the “off” button.

  The handset chirped.

  For a second she just sat there. Her face was blotchy and red, and tears were gathering in her bloodshot eyes.

  “Mom,” Peter said. “What the hell is going on?”

  She let out a little noise that was maybe supposed to be a laugh, but sounded more like the hissing of an angry cat.

  “Well, your father finally had his nervous breakdown,” she said. “There was a fire in the lab, and some woman died. Now I’ve gotta go sign him into the loony bin or something, I don’t know.”

  “Some woman?” Peter grabbed her arm. “A student? Was it Carla?”

  “How should I know?” she asked. “He doesn’t tell me anything anymore.”

  She shook off his grip, lurched up off the couch, and started searching for her purse. She stumbled and swore and finally Peter just went to the table by the door and got the purse, handing it to her.

  She opened it and started pawing through the contents until she found a pack of cigarettes. Peter frowned as she took one out and lit it.

  “I thought you quit smoking,” he said.

  “You know,” she said, taking a deep drag of the cigarette and pointing at him with the glowing end, “I wish I could have a nervous breakdown. But no. I have to deal with everything, all by myself. I have to do everything!”

  That was more than he could handle.

  “You don’t handle anything!” Peter snapped. “All you do is drink and sleep.”

  She paused, cigarette halfway to her mouth, and looked at him. The expression on her face was stricken, as if he’d slapped her. Then she burst into tears.

  “I never wanted this,” she said, dropping her face into her shaking hands. “I told him it was wrong to take you, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  “Mom, you’re not making any sense,” he said, turning away and shutting her out the way he always did when she was like this.

  “Fine,” she said, storming off toward the door and jerking it open. “Fine I’ll just handle it!” She stumbled out, slamming it behind her, and moments later Peter heard the car start in the driveway. He knew she shouldn’t be driving in her condition, and he suddenly had an awful vision of her crashing her car and killing herself. If his father was in a psych ward, and his mother was dead, what would happen to him?

  So he ran to the door and flung it open, just in time to see her peel out of the driveway and take off down the street, away from the house.

  Leaving Peter alone.

  He paused for a moment, there in the doorway, pressing the back of his hand to his lips. She’d left him.

  His father had left him, gone crazy or worse for who knew how long. The fear and anger over this latest in a long string of abandonments flared up bright inside him.

  And then faded.

  Because wasn’t he alone anyway? Hadn’t he always been alone?

  He closed the door and went back into the house.

  NEAR HARTFORD, CT 2008

  It had been touch and go for a while there.

  For one thing, she was working in a small, stripped-down lab without some of the heavier, more expensive equipment she normally relied upon. For another, the mysterious protein coating surrounding Peter’s DNA was much thinner, more delicate than it had been the last time she’d examined a sample of it.

  That degradation was probably due to the passage of time. Most likely, if a person regularly traveled back and forth between the parallel universes, exposing themselves to whatever unknowable forces existed within the wormhole through which they passed, then the residue would remain thick and easy to collect.

  But, like the fingers of a guitar player who is out of practice, which will soften and lose their calluses, the DNA of a person who hadn’t been through a wormhole in many years would no longer need that protective coating. From what she could see, it would become thin and patchy and start to slough away. That looked to be what had happened with Peter.

  She was infinitely grateful that she’d thought ahead, and managed to bring her designer virus to the point where it was ready to be fused with his DNA. And that she had located him before any more time had passed. Because in just another year or two, the organic coating she needed might have degraded to the point of being useless.

  She supposed she owed a debt of gratitude to the Englishman, as well, since she couldn’t have made this happen without his help.

  Too bad for him.

  Collecting everything she needed for her transition and pulling some directions out of the printer, she carefully slipped the newly enhanced virus into a padded inner pocket inside her purse, and crept up the stairs.

  Outside, dawn was breaking and casting a pale watery-blue light through the eastern windows. When she peered in at Peter, she saw that he was still asleep on his back with one arm thrown wide across the bed. Clearly, the action opera she’d composed for him had worn him out. She felt a kind of strange fondness toward him in that moment, knowing that she couldn’t have accomplished any of this without him.

  Then she turned on her heel and headed away from the house.

  Out in the driveway, she was about to get into their stolen car when she heard a distinctive, sardonic voice, bearing an all-too-familiar accent.

  “Clever girl,” McCoy said.

  She spun to face him, tightly gripping her purse.

  He was wearing a brand new plaid shirt and a broke-brim trucker hat over his thinning salt-and-pepper hair in a laughably unsuccessful attempt to look more American.

  At his elbow stood the blond thug who’d participated in the previous day’s orchestrated chase scene. He’d been following orders then, to make sure that she wasn’t really hurt during the charade, but he didn’t look as if h
e had any such instructions this morning.

  “Planning a little trip, are we?” the Englishman asked, snatching the printed directions out of her hand. “Reiden Lake? You have good taste, my dear. I hear it’s lovely this time of year.” He crumpled the printout and dropped it at her feet, glancing toward the thug. “Get the purse.”

  “No!” she cried, clutching it to her chest as the thug’s big hairy fist came down on her like a cartoon anvil.

  * * *

  When Peter woke up, he thought he heard voices out in the driveway, but he felt too lazy to go investigate. Then he heard Julia’s distressed voice yell out, and he scrambled to his feet.

  It took him precious seconds to remember first what had happened to his clothes, and then where the dryer was in this unfamiliar house. Once he remembered, he had to extract his pants from the tangle of other clothes and put them on while half running, half hopping toward the front door.

  When he flung it open, he saw Julia lying in the driveway, groaning softly and struggling to roll onto her side. She was hurt, but not unconscious. Her spilled purse lay about six feet away, its contents scattered down the drive. The car door was open, and by the front left tire was a crumpled piece of paper.

  He ran to her side.

  “Julia?” he said. “Julia, what happened?”

  “Peter?” She looked up at him, eyes swollen and wet with tears. “Peter, they got the virus!”

  McCoy’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He let it ring a few times before thumbing the button on his Bluetooth headset to answer the call. He might be a marionette, but he was damned if he was going to accept being on short strings.

  “You have it?” Jones said on the other end of the phone.

  “You know I do,” McCoy replied. He and the blond thug had parted ways, and McCoy was just now getting to his rented SUV. He had set up a Wi-Fi camera across the street so that Jones could see their little drama play out with Julia. He’d been tempted to flash the camera the finger, but knew that there was no point in antagonizing the man.

  Normally he wouldn’t care. This wasn’t just his job, after all—it was his purpose. This was the sort of thing he was designed for. Not for the first time he wondered if he was beginning to pick up the habits of the people whose forms he had taken. It was an absurd thought, but there it was. He hoped not, though.

  It would be damn inconvenient.

  “And Doctor Lachaux’s lab?”

  “Prepped and waiting for her. It’s a shambles, but we left her notes and enough equipment intact for her to get the job done. Provided she does what you think she’ll do.”

  “She will,” Jones said. “She’s rather predictable that way.”

  “May I ask a question?” McCoy said. Something had been bothering him since he’d left Bangkok.

  “You’re wondering why we had her get the DNA from Peter rather than doing it ourselves,” Jones said.

  “I… Yes.” The man was infuriating—he’d hate to play chess against him. Jones always seemed to be three steps ahead of everyone else. Annoyed, McCoy trudged on anyway.

  “Wouldn’t it have been easier to grab one of his Thai bargirls in Bangkok? His DNA would have been all over her.”

  “Wheels within wheels. On the one hand, it’s akin to eagles stealing fish from falcons after all the work’s been done for them. But more importantly, we need skills only Doctor Lachaux possesses—need her to do certain things in a certain order. Using her to get the DNA from Peter steers her in the proper direction—she’s even more invested now. She’ll go where we need her to go, when we need her to go there.

  “She’s dancing to our tune, and when the time is right, she’ll be our big finale.”

  “Understood,” McCoy said, though he didn’t really believe it. There were games going on here to which he wasn’t privy, and much as it irked him, it was probably best he not know. “Where am I off to now?”

  “New York,” Jones said. “There are some people I need you to make contact with.”

  * * *

  Peter hurried Julia inside, eased her to the couch, and then went to the window to scan the street. Whoever had attacked her was gone. He didn’t think they’d be back, either. What was there left for them to take? So he turned back toward Julia.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m okay,” she said. “A little dizzy.” She touched one finger to a lump forming on her head and winced.

  “And sore.”

  “I’ll get you some ice,” he said, and he stepped toward the kitchen. He called back over his shoulder. “What happened? You were leaving, weren’t you?”

  “No, I was… Dammit. Yes, I was leaving.”

  “Why?” he said from the kitchen. He smoothed out the piece of paper he had found by the car’s tire when he grabbed the contents of her purse. It was a map, printed out, showing the route to a place called Reiden Lake. It took him a second to dredge the name up out of his memory before he had it. His family had a cabin there when he was a kid. He had a flash of memory of the lake, of cold, of his father.

  He pushed it aside. Grabbing a dishtowel, he then went to the freezer and scooped out some ice. He dropped it onto the towel, folding it into an impromptu ice pack.

  Peter could feel this score starting to slip out of his grip. He still needed the money to pay Big Eddie, and he was damned if he was going to see it disappear. He needed to pull things back on track. The best route was honesty. Or at least the appearance of it.

  He returned to the living room, and she looked up.

  “Peter, I like you,” she said. “Obviously. But…”

  “But you don’t entirely trust me.” He placed the ice on the goose egg forming on her scalp. “Hold this here.”

  “Thanks,” she said. She put her hand on his to hold the ice in place. He let it linger there a little too long. “This isn’t just my life’s work, Peter. It’s my cure. It’s important that this goes to the people who are afflicted, but I’ve got a personal stake in this, too. These seizures, they take everything from a person. You don’t know what that’s like.”

  “No, I don’t know what that’s like,” he responded. “But I do understand you not trusting me.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course I do,” he said. “I come out of nowhere, your stolen work in my hands, and offer to sell it to you.

  For all you know, I could have been the one who stole it. Last night’s fiasco could have been an elaborate ruse.”

  “No,” she said, turning away from him. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “I’ve seen stranger cons.”

  “Well, if it helps,” she said, turning back, “I trust you now. Whoever stole it before has it again. And I’m afraid of what they’re going to do with it.”

  “Can you describe the people who took it?”

  “I think one of them was a driver from last night—the blond man. And the other one…” She paused. “It was the Englishman. The one who supplied me with the smallpox samples.”

  A thought occurred to Peter. Considering how much traveling he did, seeing an Englishman abroad was hardly surprising. Still, an Englishman in Bangkok? The one with the vial? It couldn’t be the same guy, of course. The man in Bangkok was dead. Had to be. But there was a connection between the two.

  “What if we tackle this from a different direction?” he suggested. “This is an epilepsy drug, right? Experimental.

  Chances are he’s going to want to sell it. It’s bound to be worth a lot of money to the right people.”

  “What are you suggesting?” she asked.

  “I know a guy who knows a guy…” he began.

  “And what if the Englishman’s not selling it?” she said, cutting him off. “What if he’s going to use it to hurt people?”

  “This guy I know, he might still be able to help. He’s got his ear to the ground for all sorts of things.”

  She looked at him, silently, and he wondered what she was thinking.

  “I can’t think of a better
idea,” Julia said finally.

  “Okay, what do you need from me?”

  * * *

  Peter looked over the email to make sure it had all of the details it needed. He didn’t want to put too much into it, but it needed to include enough to be useful.

  Once he was satisfied with it, he ran it through an encryption algorithm and sent it to the digital equivalent of a dead drop. It was encrypted with a public key system that only the recipient—Bernard Stokes—would be able to read. And if by chance anyone was able to crack the encryption, all they would find was a recipe for apple pie, and not a very good apple pie at that. The real message was encoded through a null cipher he and Bernard had agreed upon years ago, where every fifth letter in the email was a letter from the real message.

  Bernard Stokes was a good man to know if you were very wealthy, and very sick. He dealt in gray-market drugs. Nothing so prosaic as opium or cocaine. Need an experimental drug for your stage IV pancreatic cancer? Trying to stave off HIV and your cocktail’s gone bad? Then Stokes was your man.

  Peter had long ago stopped trying to justify Stokes’s occupation. At one point he had rationalized that the man was doing a service, getting medications to people who needed them. But the more he dealt with Stokes, the more it became apparent that he specialized in the diseases of the rich.

  “Well, that’s that,” Peter said. “Now we wait.”

  “You can’t just call him?” Julia said.

  “He’s not like your average street dealer. The mail I sent will go to a secure server somewhere, and let him know it’s there. If we’re lucky, he reads it. If we’re luckier, he answers me.”

  “All that security, and he’s just going to call you?”

  Peter laughed. “No. I told him we’re somewhere near Hartford. He’ll encode the address of a nearby phone booth into his response, and a number to call him. He’ll have taken steps to secure both lines.”

  “Do you really think someone will be listening in?”

  Peter shrugged. “I don’t, but he does. He’s not doing all this for our benefit. He’s got a lot to lose if he gets caught. This may take some time. But if he does have any information for us, we might have to move fast. You said that if this thing gets into someone without epilepsy, it’s bad. Is there a vaccine for it? Or an antiviral if someone gets infected?”