Lost By The River

by David Moynihan

  Fervent rubbing of the hands sent drops of blood flowing down the end of Irene's wrists. I moved to distract before any of the fluids reached my donut. I'd been saving the peanut.

  “Irene, forget the air for a sec. I'll take that issue under advisement. What's such a big deal in those papers? Deep breath first.” Hand motions slowed. I moved my donut from the playing field to spare it risk of injury.

  “Drake...”

  “Mmph.” I would have my peanut.

  “There are two fascinating drugs here. The one—you've read it, haven't you? They're up for approval in two, three years. That should be a real boon to them. Nice pill. Only—”

  “Glph.” Glorious peanut.

  “—only there's so much competition. That might not—well, it isn't money, of course. And this one seems to be ahead, but there are bigger companies. And you know, a big company can get a drug through based on speculation, a drug that isn't shown to do anything. That's how crazy FDA is. They wouldn't dream—”

  “Grrm?”

  “—well, they don't want to be seen, publicly seen, making people wait to die. You know, word gets out, folks are looking. Suddenly you see and hear people all around. Pointing at you. Killer. Killer—”

  “And the other drug?” I interrupted, nearly choking on the last half of my peanut.

  “The other one—oh, it's special, Drake. So special. Nobody's even close to this. And it looks like they had a big program for it. Only—the company, Drake?”

  “Mmm.”

  “—they're out of money.”

  “Sure.”

  “But their stock held up.”

  “Happens. But Irene, you know they announce cancer drugs every day. Along with the stuff you shouldn't eat. Or should eat. Or whatever.” I considered ordering another donut. Would never match the peanut. And I'd be with her longer than necessary. And she might try following me. I peered through the glass, saw the clock's reflection.

  “No, Drake. I've seen them too. Worked on them. But this company, Agate. Their product, the special one. The one that's—for sale? Not to people, but to companies?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It does the job.”

  “That's what a lot of people think. Stock's not hitting 8,000, though.”

  “It wouldn't, Drake. It wouldn't.”

  “Hmm?”

  “They—” Irene turned aside, checked the doors and exits for strangers, the underside of the table for bugs. “—they short itnaked .”

  “Like, from home in their underwear?”

  “No. It's them—the people, the ones who want to control it all. It wouldn't take so many. Just—a small company, enough to kick 'em down a bit. Hold... their feet to the fire. Take away some resources.”

  “You experienced with this, Irene?”

  She looked me dead in the eye.

  “Somewhat, but my company's product failed. We had ourselves to blame.”

  “Just yourselves?”

  “And the airplane, Drake. Never forget the airplane.”

  “Right. Wouldn't think of it.”

  “It's always out there, Drake.”

  “Got it. So you think a lot of people want this company—this product, to fail.”

  “Yuh-huh.”

  “Who?”

  “The financial types—some of them. It's—they make more money on bad news now.”

  “There has to be good news in the first place.”

  “Of course there's good news, Drake. So millions bid it up. Then, a few... dozen... take it down. Every little bit of bad news drops it down further. So much money—Drake, so MUCH money—gets involved. They'll do anything. I heard. Break the rules. Push you down... not us though. We pushed ourselves down. I was only part-time, though, but—”

  “Yeah. OK. I'll remember that. So, here's a question for you, Irene. You're the scientist who thinks this stuff up—”

  “I'm not that good. He—must be brilliant.”

  “Mm-hmm. Others have agreed. So...”

  “Very, very brilliant, Drake.”

  “Yeah.

  “Super, super—extreme—”

  “OK, Irene. Got it.” She was pouting. “Sorry, sensitive area for me. I didn't finish my own education—”

  “That's OK, Drake...” she was back to the hand-wringing again. There were still peanuts left on the plate. My peanuts that I would protect. By force if need be.

  “So, Irene. Your expertise here. You'd know something about a guy like this, right? Not just what he's working on, but where he'd go, how he'd hang out, things like that?”

  “Maybe. We didn't... socialize much.”

  “What, no special fishing trips among biogeeks?”

  “Fishing? Drake, you don't understand. The water, even in the streams, runoff from everywhere, it gets to you. Did you know, when they do biopsies, just on a regular fish, the amount of metal that can accumulate...”

  “Right. Got ya. No fishing. But, say, a guy like this, he wants to get away. Not from home, and not to some cabin in a remote location too close to radioactive and industrial waste. Right? Just saying, a guy, a doc, who wants to vanish for a time, get back to work, but away from all the noise and cameras at his company—where might he go?”

  Irene thought for a minute, wanted to give me something on the air in the woods and toxic fauna, I was sure. But a quick refocus.

  “Well, Drake, I don't want to tell you your business...”

  “Nah, go ahead.”

  “What I think...”

  “Yeah?”

  “You could try his office.”

  “Been there.”

  “No, Drake. His other office.” Irene shuffled papers around, got fluid on my trusty peanuts.

  “Huh?”

  “He's a Fellow, lifetime, right here in town. Been that way since the early '90s. Young, but then, with this body of work...”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The top scientists, so they can research, earn tenancy, brief, or fellowships, a lifetime award. The stipends dry up, but space that's set aside for you, is yours forever, or until you release it back. I never got an award like this, but I've been there, he's in a good spot, it's a prestige building. I've never been to that part. They only let us into the trailer side. Trailers, Drake. Can you believe, the effect on my skin...

  I was out the door as she continued.

  “Wait, Drake. Wait!”

  “Huh,” I said, looking back, trying to pull a pained expression from my face that might cost me something in the future.

  “Drake. Stay right there. You need to know. There's death around, Drake. It's more serious than you realize, it's—”

  “What?”

  “The scientists are dying, Drake.” And she race-waddled over to me, handed over a fresh sheaf of papers. New copies. Not my crap.

  “They'redying , Drake. You better be careful.”

  ELEVEN

  I sped down to the Science HQ, one of those nameless compounds off the pike but inside the beltway. With all the deadly research about, security was tight. I had to put one hand down when scrambling over the jersey rail that kept espionage agents, terrorists, the homeless and other undesirables from our nation's secrets. Too many donuts had impaired my leaping ability.

  Irene's prize building showed up on the outdoor directory, a spot far from the street. I passed by a dozen more modern glass and steel, of variant ages and construction styles, before hitting the choice locale. It was one of those structures from the '20s or earlier, with a fancy brick exterior, and walls that sweat from the heat in summer.

  No guards inside, and the front door was an ancient wood thing, with duct tape spread next to the door handle to keep from locking folks out. I walked through a dimly-lit entranceway into a grand hall filled with oil paintings of men theoretically gifted, possibly rich and certainly dead. No directory, so I followed my nose to where the stench of formaldehyde was strongest.

  It got darker.

  I moved down the corridor,
footsteps clashing off ancient hardwoods. Near the end of the corridor, emergency lights dulled the way. Bathed in a greenish hue, two feet jutted out into my path, legs angled strange. I slowed, drew the gun.

  “You won't find who killed him with that,” said a voice behind me.

  I turned to see a door open, the lean face of Ansbach standing barefoot in the gloom.

  “Oh?” I asked, turning again to the body.

  “Yeah, he's been dead a century or so. Medical student joke. No good lab is complete without one.”

  “Ahh, then there's no problem.” I reached to put the gun away.

  “Not with him,” said Ansbach slowly. “Unfortunately, this fellow here...” he pointed behind himself into the room, “died a bit more recently.”

  I moved up to the Doc, saw the dead body of Agate's CEO.

  “A problem,” Ansbach repeated.

  “This your office?” I asked.

  “No, I have space downstairs.”

  “Anybody else here?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Want to make a run for it?”

  “I'd been considering the matter. If I might ask, who are you?”

  “Someone who was sent to find you... quietly.”

  “An interesting occupation to be tasked with.”

  “Gotta make a living somehow. But I'm thinking, they find us here... the three of us, won't be quiet.”

  “Yes. Yes that's probably right. However...”

  “What?”

  “If they find our friend here... they'll probably look for me.”

  “Yes. They would.”

  “That could be... quite noisy.”

  “Got me there, Doc.”

  We didn't speak for a minute. I looked at the body. Bruises everywhere, blood clotting. No pools of the dark stuff clotting on the floor though. Big blow was a shot to the chest. Or two. Or three.

  “You didn't do this, did you, Doc?”

  “Uhh, no.”

  “Getting along OK with your boss?”

  “Hardly.”

  “Yeah. That's what I'm figuring. Other people didn't like him much either, right?”

  “Tim, had his problems with people. But... not this kind of difficulty. Nasty emails sent to everyone in the company when layoffs occurred. Tim's car getting scratched. It became a ritual, like report card day or pizza Friday.”

  “Well. You know with him here...”

  “Doesn't look too good for me, does it?”

  “Nope. How long you been hanging around?”

  “I slept in my office for a time. Heard things being moved. You understand, I enjoy terribly the company of men who work with their hands, so I ventured upstairs, thinking I could perhaps test my Spanish. It was not to be. Tim was the only one left.”

  “When was this?”

  “Yesterday sometime.”

  “And?”

  “I've been trying to figure out what to do since.”

  “Well, as long as you've spent the time productively, I'm sure the police will have no problem. Let's get your coat, Doc.”

  While Ansbach puttered in the basement, I checked the scene, thought of wiping for prints, but that was pointless. The doc'd be target number one. Immediately, the excuses came in my hypothetical interviews with the inevitable journalist.

  “Oh, come on, he had to run. Missed his partner terribly. You know, they'd been together for years, decades. Not always great, but there's a closeness there, and it ain't always money. He doesn't know who killed him, why, but figured he'd be next. Had to hide. When the time came, he'd surrender himself or come forward.

  Wouldn't work on a reporter with half a brain. Luckily, they don't make those anymore, but I wasn't eager for a meet-and-greet just then.

  “Move it, Doc!” I shouted down the hall. Ansbach came back with an oversized duffel, laptop case with papers falling out, and a half-eaten back of cheddar and sour cream chips. The good brand, not the knockoff.

  He looked at me expectantly.

  “Well?”

  “You gonna eat all those chips?”

  Outside, the doc lugging his gear, I looked to the grounds and caught sign of an incoming hoard. The pavement talks to you. Drastic measures. I snatched the Doc's duffel out of his grasp, slammed it against my shoulder like I was a sailor at Port Authority, used its girth to shield the Doc's face from anyone behind us, and pushed him forward.

  He stumbled repeatedly. I refrained from kicking the man. Barely. The bag was heavy. We reached my car. I shoved him face down on the seat, duffel overtop. Circling around to the driver's side, I got a glimpse of the area. Maybe we were seen, maybe not.

  We got lost in traffic, which went from zero to 60,000 cars on the road that time of day. Doc had his face down. I wondered where to put him. I wondered if I should call the PR babe who'd interrupted my slumber enough to get me into this mess. I wondered if the Doc, who'd remained silent and unquestioning as an oversized stranger mashed him along, had any chips left.

  Smack dab between the burbs of Moco lies a series of interconnected parks and waterways. The Triadelphia Resevoir, or whatever they call it now, runs all the way into DC. Further south you go, the more fit the jogger and the more full the trail. Up north, it's quiet and empty enough for some off-season deer hunting, if you're into Bambi burgers but don't like your venison flavored with asphalt. Needing time, I took the Doc to one of the less-trafficked entrances, grabbed lunch and another phone at a convenience store on the way.

  “So who should I call with this?” I asked Ansbach as he wolfed down the sandwich.

  No response.

  “What, the view that great? Yeah, spectacular, but the lakes are stocked, and kids today all lose their virginity at home or in motels, the rich bastards. I blame modern society. I'm calling...?”

  Ansbach kept his mouth firmly on crusts of bread. A great mind can focus. Mustard dripped to the side of his mouth. The yellowish trail annoyed me. I wiped it off with the back of my hand. Ansbach fell to the ground, spat out the last of his food, stared at me sullenly.

  Neither of us said anything for a minute. I wiped my hand against a tree branch, heard the crack of a rifle shot, tackled the Doc as he sought to get up again. My elbow keeping him down, Ansbach glanced up at me, started to posit the accidental nature of gunfire, clammed up when another blast sent gravel ricocheting off the tires on my truck.

  I put the shooter at 100 yards away, at least. Out of pistol range. I pointed up the hill, away from the water line and toward a Christmas tree farm that offered some cover. Ansbach nodded, attempted to stand. I kicked his legs out from under him. He got it, began crawling flat.

  Twenty yards on his belly and the Doc dropped the rest of his lunch. I thwacked him on the back to bring over-loud retching to a halt. I listened for footsteps, heard nothing save the cries of angry birds. Ansbach had stopped moving, but his body'd gone into convulsions. I checked his wrist, saw no bracelet for diabetes, pulled him by the arm behind a large oak, gave a “stay” command, drew my gun and peered around the tree.

  A car could be seen fleeing one side of the park. On the other end, Ranger Betty in her state-issued Ford had pulled up. She stood, policing the trash bin, looking for evidence of improper recycling. I pulled Ansbach up, led him to the treestand. The officer gave no indication she'd heard a shot, nor did she pay us any mind. Cold all be an act.

  Doc was shaken, eyes rolling back in his head. Check of his bod showed he hadn't been hit by anyone other than me. I dropped him onto the ground just outside the trees, giving enough room to spill around if he needed to, but not so open anyone else could spot us first.

  Phone in hand, I thought first of dialing up our mutual employer, but the company never knows the good stuff, so my fingers fumbled their way to the gal in Ansbach's life. Eveline answered quick.

  “Hello?” sweet but serious.

  “It's your favorite person.”

  “I don't see what we have to say...”

  “Right. But I got th
e Doc here with me.”

  “I—well, that's competence.”

  “Yeah, but he seems to be on the ground shuddering. We're out in the woods. Never mind why. You've had some experience with him and physical activity. Any suggestions?”

  “Oh, just let him ride it out. Poor thing's been under a great deal of stress, I suppose.”

  “Yeah, and the gunfire hasn't helped.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind, there's a cop or two in the area. He's done this before?”

  “Repeatedly. I never let him wear the rubber mask, for fear he'd be unable to communicate, and then I might suffocate him.”

  “I get the picture. Thanks for the info, but you can keep images like that to yourself.

  “You will have him contact me...”

  “Not the sort to stand in the way of true love.”

  “What was that about gunfire?”

  “I'm sure he'll explain. Later.”

  Quickly, I hung, attending again to my patient, who was slowly coming back to himself, but scratching uncontrollably like a trailer park mutt. Back in the parking lot the police gal had moved past my car and kept going. Feeling secure, I dropped Drake into the back, dumped a can of fix-a-flat into my tire, and drove out toward a service station.

  Three cop cars, lights flashing like a security guard's dream of glory, blocked the exit. Behind, two more could be seen approaching. Nothing in the rearview, but a turn-around would be suspicious.

  “Ansbach,” I said forcefully, “don't say a freaking word.”

  The Doc gurgled a few bits of saliva and curled into a fetal. I considered that a good sign, drove up and rolled down the window.

  “Hello, Officers,” I said to the man approaching. “Anything wrong.”

  “Yes, sir. Yes, there is.”

  “And what's that? Bridge out up ahead? Didn't think there'd be flooding this time of—”

  “No, sir. Not flooding. Could you step out of the car, please.” At my right, two more officers slid to the passenger window.

  “If you'll tell me what this is about. I'm in kind of a hurry.”

  More lights. 10 of them in front. And a pair behind.