by Robin Lamont
“Mmmn,” demurred Lucas.
“Don’t be so quick to dismiss the idea. I get the feeling that Heather was his princess.” Not that Jude knew anything about being a father’s princess, not in any of the foster homes she had lived. But she did know something about domestic violence and what an angry, drunken man was capable of. “Kurt Buck is convinced that Tim is the evil boyfriend who’s despoiled his daughter and turned her into a junkie.”
Lucas still wasn’t buying. “I can guarantee you that if she’s telling her folks she never tried it before Tim came along, she’s lying. Like I said, shooting up ain’t a rookie play.”
“Okay. If she is lying, how much money would a habit like that cost?”
“Depends on how much she’s using. Can get very expensive.”
“The girl is in high school,” exclaimed Jude. “How could she afford it?”
“Funny you should bring that up. That’s partly why I’m calling.” There was a you’re-not-going-to-like-this warning in Lucas’s voice. “I talked to Tim’s roommate Chris today. He told me that Tim had gotten behind in his rent payments. And then just before Tim left for Vermont, he paid up in one lump sum, including three months advance. Six thousand dollars.”
For a moment Jude couldn’t speak. Tim had never said a word about debt problems or coming into a considerable sum of money, and they’d been together until the day he left.
“Kind of a red flag, wouldn’t you say? Kinship salary barely pays the rent, much less a hardcore drug habit. So, where did the money come from? And why would he pay up in advance?”
“He was going undercover for twelve weeks,” Jude tried. “He probably felt he should pay Chris up front for the time he was gone.”
“Cash? He could’ve done a money transfer or sent a check when the rent came due. That’s how it’s usually done.”
“Well, maybe he didn’t want to alert Chris to where he was with a postmark or ….” she knew damn well Tim did his banking online.
“Or maybe he paid up front because he knew he wasn’t coming back,” suggested Lucas.
They both let that possibility hang in the air.
“Anyway,” he finally continued, “Gordon wants me to explore the money thing further, see what I can dig up. Unless you have any ideas.”
Unless you have any ideas. An artificial lightness had crept into his voice, which she knew was his way of disguising his feelings. Was he trying to ask if she and Tim were involved?
Ever since the night he’d confided in her about his capture, she’d known that if she let him, Lucas would fall in love with her. Often, she thought that if she was smart and perhaps not as “damaged” as he suspected, she’d feel the same way. But he had never pushed, and Jude left it there, offering what she could: the honesty and fairness he needed from a friend. Only now, she wasn’t giving him either.
“No ideas,” replied Jude, her lips suddenly parched. “Haven’t a clue.”
Before getting undressed, she went over to the window to pull the curtains closed. She stared out and listened to moth wings beating against the light, the leaden weight of betrayal settling into her chest. Hers in withholding the truth from Lucas and Tim’s in withholding the truth from her. He’d been screwing a seventeen-year-old, doing major league drugs, and who knew what else, all the while playing the committed animal activist. All the while telling her how much he missed her and how he wanted to do such a great job. Screw him. And now this thing with the money. Who the hell was Tim Mains?
Jude looked down at the pathway, hoping to see the sparkle of fairy dust on the wet lawn, but all she could see was artificial light shining on barren patches of grass.
CHAPTER 10
“Thanks for the quick turnaround. Send them over and I’ll take a closer look,” said Dr. Harbolt.
He hung up the phone, leaned back in his chair, and stared out his office window while he reviewed the information he’d just heard. Tori Lacey’s platelet count was very low, which could explain the young woman’s excessive bruising, although the word “bruise” didn’t accurately describe the bottoms of her feet. They showed classic signs of thrombocytopenia – leaking capillaries under the skin’s surface. Why? He knew her history; she wasn’t a hemophiliac. What with her weight loss, his first worry was leukemia. But she had no fever and her heart sounded fine. There were other possibilities: Cushing’s syndrome, liver disease, HIV. But each of these would present additional symptoms which she did not exhibit.
His assistant poked her head through the door and announced, “Your wife is on two.”
The receiver was barely to his ear when he was accused. “John Harbolt, did you put out rat poison around the barn?”
“Hello, dear.”
“I found two dead rats in back of the barn.”
“Oh, my.” With his free hand, the doctor pulled up his email to see if the specifics on Tori’s lab results had come through. They had.
“And I think a few of the hens might be sick. They’ve stopped laying.”
“Darling, you know I wouldn’t put out poison anywhere near the hens. Maybe there’s a fox in the neighborhood and they’re edgy.”
“Mmmn. I think I’ll bring them in early tonight.”
“That’s a good idea, dear.” He clicked on the attachment to see the full CBC on Tori.
“What do you want for dinner?”
He mumbled a vague response while he enlarged the document.
“Well, I can hear you’re busy,” said his wife.
Dr. Harbolt leaned in to read the numbers. Looking for an answer. He didn’t find one, but he did see enough to prompt a call to Tori and let her know that she had to stop running and forego all other track activities until they figured out what was wrong. It would only take one bad fall to precipitate internal bleeding that might well be fatal.
* * *
Stuart Ostrovsky picked up a lab rat by its tail and peered at the number tattooed on a shaved patch of skin. He read it aloud, then weighed his test subject, while Lester made notes. After depositing the animal back in its cage, Ostrovsky swiftly moved on to another. This one was harder to grab. Several were showing signs of increased agitation. It wouldn’t be long before they stopped eating regularly. Not surprising, but it meant that his team might have to begin oral gavage. The scientist felt a surge of irritation; force feeding took time, restraining the animal and inserting the feeding tube. And it was no easy procedure with rats. It meant liquifying the nutrients and making sure you got it into the esophagus and not the trachea – a sure way to drown the animal.
The lab door swung open and Dillon Byer poked his head in. “Hi Lester,” he said to the tech. “How’re you doing today?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I need a couple of minutes with Stu, okay?”
Ostrovsky looked up, displeased. “We’re in the middle of something.”
“It’ll only take a minute.”
Byer waited until Lester left the room before stepping in cautiously. Ostrovsky continued with his task, making one last grab at the rodent, this time successful. Dangling the animal by the tail, he brushed past Byer, who instantly recoiled as the rodent came within inches of his face. This was only the second time he’d been in room B19, the rodent housing and procedure room, and it was two times too many. At one end, the bleached walls were lined with white counters and stainless-steel cabinets much like the other procedure rooms. But this one was different. The opposite end was also stocked with tall moveable racks holding up to fifty clear storage bins, each the size of a large shoebox. They pulled out like drawers and easily opened with a quick flip of the latch on the cover. Too easily, in Byer’s opinion. Each bin held one or two rats. The sight of them was uncomfortable enough, but the sound of hundreds of tiny feet scrabbling in the paper shavings made him want to scream.
“What is it?” asked Ostrovsky with a general wave at the cages. “I h
ave a lot of work to do.”
“That tech you hired? Jeffries? He’s an animal rights investigator.”
Ostrovsky froze. “What? How do you know?”
“Sylvia Hoerenburg just told me.”
“How did she find out?”
“Jeffries’ sister … the alleged sister. The one who came around with a sob story about their father dying? Apparently, she works for the same organization. She told Sylvia at a bar last night.”
“So, her father didn’t die?”
“Bullshit. All a lie. Supposedly, Jeffries has gone missing – only that isn’t his real name.”
“Goddammit!” Ostrovsky exploded. “Who’s he working for? PETA? Animal Liberation? Why can’t they leave us alone?” He marched back over to one of the bins and tossed the rat inside. “We’re on the brink of something major, something that will benefit all of society. But do these crazy people care? No. They’d like to see science shut down for good.”
“Don’t take it personally, Stu.”
“How can I not? He stole one of my animals.” He turned in a frustrated circle, pulling at his mustache. “Now it all makes sense. All his damn questions about what drug we’re testing and how it works. I knew he’d gotten too emotionally involved, but I never saw this.”
“Take it easy. It doesn’t affect the protocol.”
“Like hell it doesn’t affect the protocol! We bought twenty-four dogs, I have to account for twenty-four dogs.”
“You said yourself it wouldn’t survive. So, we stick to the story: you found it and did the necropsy. You can extrapolate the data based on the others. It’s just one small piece of data, it doesn’t change the overall study.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Here’s what I understand, Stuart. We’re close to the finish line. I talked with Bob Harrington again yesterday. He’s very interested, after the Monsanto merger. Thirty-five million dollars worth of interested.”
“What if Jeffries goes to the USDA?”
“Did he see any animal cruelty in your lab?”
Ostrovsky chewed on his lip. Finally, he said, “I can’t be watching my techs every minute, but they know the rules.”
“Has anybody reported abuse to you?” Byer clarified impatiently.
“No. God, no.”
“Then as far as the USDA is concerned, if one of the techs did something wrong and Jeffries got video, the worst they can do is slap a fine on us. That happens, we’ll pay it and move on, like before. But it probably won’t even go that far. The government is as sick of these animal watchdogs as we are, especially with this administration. Besides, by the time it goes through all the red tape, we’ll have our deal with Harrington and you’ll be the lead article in the Molecular Cell Journal. You keep doing what you’re doing. I just thought you should know about Jeffries.”
Ostrovksy pulled at his mustache hard enough to remove a few hairs. Then he straightened his lab coat and moved toward the cages.
“One last thing,” said Byer. “Probably best if we keep this information about Jeffries to ourselves. I mentioned that to Sylvia, and I think she understands.”
The Chief Scientific Officer of Amaethon had already switched gears. He pulled out a white rat to weigh and said, “Send Lester back in.”
Keeping his eyes on the rodent, Byer backed into a tray of instruments. The clatter of metal on metal caused increased activity in the cages. He couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
CHAPTER 11
Through the classroom window, Heather watched the wavy lines rising from the hot asphalt parking lot, her forehead creased with an involuntary glower. This morning, she’d sounded off about the government abrogating its environmental responsibilities, and she heard that punk Lonnie McGrath whistle softly from the back and mimic her use of “abrogating.” She wanted to smack him.
And then, as they were leaving class, Kevin Fleuette walked up behind her and said slyly, “Impressive vocabulary, Buck.”
She gave him the finger. “Look this up, asshole.”
He just grinned. “You coming to the game Wednesday?”
“Not if you’re playing.”
He seemed oddly flattered and said, “Stick around afterwards. We’ll grab some pizza.” Then he touched her lightly on the arm before sauntering off with a sing-song, “See ya later, abrogator.”
Heather wondered if Kevin really meant the invitation. Sounded like he did, and it might have been fun. But it was way too late for that. Last year, she’d had an all-consuming crush on him, but back then she was a different person. Summer happened. A friend from Burlington got hold of some heroin. Bored out of her mind and feeling Half Moon closing in on her, Heather smoked some. The rush was so intense, so freeing, that she tried it again the next week. Twice turned into three, four times, and then she met Bobby, who gave her the needle. The summer turned into a time of wild exploration, going after what she wanted, when she wanted it: Tyler, Bobby, the ultimate high.
And here she was, breathing in the diesel fumes that spewed from the long, yellow school bus growling past the window. If she knew anything, it was this: going to Kevin’s basketball games, hanging out at parties, sleepovers with friends, those things were long gone. She pretended to her parents that she was still their sunshine girl, and they wanted to believe it so much, it was easy. But underneath the clean hair and the Cover Girl face, she knew that she’d become someone else – someone uglier, more twisted. The heavenly sting of the needle had dulled and dirtied her, and she couldn’t see any way back. Recently, she’d been having the same nightmare in which she was in a field with her dad and she was trying to call out for him. He’d get close, but then he’d walk right by her like she was a rotting husk of corn.
Heather tugged the cuffs of her long-sleeved shirt to cover her hands and shivered with cold.
* * *
The final period bell echoed through the halls of Half Moon Union High School, resonating with freedom. A moment later, the front doors opened and there was a mass exodus of back-packed teens in clusters. Only the boys showed a sense of individual style. The girls went with one look: short, flouncy skirts and sleeveless tops, with long, straight hair as part of the uniform. All but Heather Buck, who finally emerged wearing jeans and a ribbed-knit shirt. She made a bee-line through the lot. Jude sprung from her parked car and trotted after her, calling her name.
When Heather turned and saw who it was, she quickened her pace. “What do you want from me?” she groaned.
“The truth, for starters,” answered Jude.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Heather re-slung her backpack and continued walking.
“Come on, your parents may be clueless, but I’m not. Rookie heroin users don’t start with the needle.”
“What are you, my social worker?”
“Maybe you need one.”
They had reached Heather’s car and she dug around in her backpack for keys.
“Tim didn’t use drugs,” Jude insisted.
Heather snorted, “Oh my God, you must be his mother. For your information, your little boy did use drugs.” Unable to find her keys, she dropped the backpack on the ground and began to open one zippered pocket after another.
“I think you turned Tim on to heroin, not the other way around.”
“Yeah, right.” Heather drew up her sleeves to rifle through her backpack, revealing what looked to be a large rash on her inner arm.
“What’s that?” asked Jude.
The girl jumped up and self-consciously pulled her sleeves back down. “It’s nothing,” she snapped. “Why don’t you just leave me alone.”
Jude made a time-out sign with her hands. “Let’s start over, okay? Much as I believe drugs – even experimenting with them – is really dangerous, what you do with your body is your business. My concern is Tim. He’s disappeared,
and I need to find him.”
“I told you, I haven’t seen him, and he hasn’t called or texted.”
“Tell me about the last time you saw him.”
“Get lost.”
“I will. But then I’d have to tell your folks how worried I am about your continuing drug use.”
“Fuck.” Heather rolled her eyes. “It was last Monday. He came over around seven and said he had something to show me.”
“What was it?”
“A heroin kit, duh.”
“Come on, Heather. Tell me something that has the remotest chance of being true.”
A pack of laughing teens raced past them and Heather turned her head away. When they were out of earshot, she said quietly, “We drove out to a place on our farm.”
“What place?”
“Behind the barn. There’s a dirt road that goes out into the orchard.”
“And that’s where you shot up?”
“Yes. Can I go now?”
“How long had you been dating?”
As soon as the words left her mouth, Jude wanted to kick herself. The question was a dead giveaway, and Heather jumped on it. Her eyes flicked across Jude’s face and down her body, assessing the competition before replying, “Uh, nobody dates anymore, but yeah, about a month, I guess.”
A month? He had told Jude he loved her just two weeks ago. He pressured her to come up to Vermont, and they’d argued on the phone when she refused. And all that time, he was screwing the farmer’s daughter, and for all Jude knew, he was telling Heather he loved her, too.
For a moment, Jude felt like slinking back to her car and having a good cry. Lucas and Haydon were right – Tim wasn’t who she thought he was. She should just go back to Washington and put the whole sordid affair behind her. But retreat was not in Jude’s DNA. She thrust her feelings aside and crowded in on Heather. “Did he seem upset about anything recently?” she asked, letting the teenager know she was going to keep asking questions until she got the answers she needed.