A Desperate Place

by Jennifer Greer

  “Great!” Whit grabbed her phone.

  “Here it is: Stenosky. Dr. Bredevo Stenosky. He’s a scientist at the Oregon National Primate Research Center. There. I sent it to your phone.”

  “Got it. But … primate?” Whit frowned, looking doubtful.

  Yolanda rolled her eyes. “Girl! You’re making this difficult. They research embryonic stem cells to solve things like Parkinson’s disease and MS. Serious shit. Just give them a call.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You need anything else, call me. I’ll help you track down the asshole who killed Isabel. Wish I could stay and watch the drama play out, but you were right. I do have a hot date.” With that, she marched away on her stilettos.

  Sitting down at her desk, Whit called the number Yolanda had given her, surprised when a real person answered instead of a recording. “This is Whitney McKenna with the Medford Daily Chronicle. Can I speak with Dr. Bredevo Stenosky?”

  “He’s not in right now, but I can have him return the call. If it’s urgent he will contact you this evening.”

  Whit assured her that it was more than urgent, left her cell number, and hung up.

  She and George gathered their collective information and presented it to Stu.

  “What the fuck is that?” Stu came around the desk and grabbed the eight-by-ten glossy. Whit had insisted they print the pictures of teratomas on photo paper just for the effect.

  “That, Stu, is the reason we have three dead bodies.”

  “I feel sick.”

  He did, in fact, look green around the gills. Whit very carefully filled him in on all the facts, while George handed him photo after photo. She described her phone conversation with the scientist, explaining the reason that experiments with embryonic stem cells were illegal in the United States.

  “Holy shit!”

  “I know. It’s an insane story. But, if I can collect written statements from Mrs. Delano, Mark Sorenson, and Isabel’s family, that they all three had this teratoma thing, would you be willing to run the story?”

  Stu stood up and paced back and forth in a three-foot square. “If you bring me names. Not sources, names. People willing to go on record. With signatures. Right now, because of Niki Francis, we have the whole world as our audience. If this thing blows up in our faces, it could be catastrophic. You got it? And the more signed documents, the better. Nothing gets written until you run it past me.”

  Whit gave him a curt nod. “I got it.”

  “Go!” He sighed, rubbing his eye brows. “It’s gonna be a hell of a night.”

  Back at their desks, Whit turned to George. “I need Mark Sorenson, and he’s probably three sheets to the wind by now.” Recalling his rather violent fist-slapping moment and that deathly deep voice proclaiming, “I want blood,” she shuddered to think how he might react to her waking him up and finding out she was a reporter. Unfortunately, he was too big a piece of the puzzle to leave out; she had no choice. She needed his signature. “We have to find him tonight and convince him to sign a statement about what the medical examiner said about Niki.” She sat down in her chair, drumming her fingers on the desk. “If only we knew what bungalow he’s staying in.”

  George feigned outrage. “Did you ask moi?”

  Her head snapped up. “Are you kidding me? You have that information and didn’t tell me?”

  He spread his hands wide. “Might I remind you that after you tossed me the car keys and told me to drive, you fell into a drunken slumber for the entire trip back to the Chronicle?”

  “Hey, keep it down.” She nodded toward a few reporters within earshot. “And that wasn’t a drunken slumber—that was an exhausted slumber. There’s a difference.”

  “Right …”

  She stood up, collected her pad, pen and recorder, and tossed them into her purse. “Now cough up that bungalow number before I have you fired.”

  “Oh, that hurts!” George laughed.

  “By the way, how did you discover what bungalow he was in?”

  “After my fabulous massage, a decadent bouquet of flowers—red orchids, by the way—were delivered to Eden Retreat … from the owners, I believe.”

  “And?”

  “I overheard Dr. Heinemann’s wife telling one of her staff members to deliver said flowers to Mark Sorenson.” He flashed a perfect smile. “Bungalow eight.”

  CHAPTER

  21

  “SHIT!” WHIT WIPED perspiration from her brow. “Are you sure it was number eight? Could you have misheard?”

  “Au contraire … I heard right,” George scuffed. “Eight is eight.”

  “Well, we’re batting a big fat zero.” Whit was losing patience with the whole thing. Between the sickening heat and the fast-approaching deadline, her temper was starting to flare.

  Dusk had surrendered swiftly to night as ominous clouds blocked any ray of light from the setting sun. Beneath the inversion layer, the day’s searing heat smothered any chance of a cool breeze. The air, heavy with moisture, clung to their skin, and seemed to afford lower levels of oxygen as they trudged up a softly lit path at Eden Retreat.

  They’d identified eleven bungalows, which were spaced about fifty feet apart, with tall shrubs and trees planted between them for privacy. Unfortunately, motion sensor lights clicked on as they tried to see the number on the front door of each unit. Illuminated like actors on a stage, they scurried away into the darkness across uneven ground. Twice Whit stubbed her toe on rocks and bit back a few choice curses.

  “As obvious as we’ve been, I’m surprised someone hasn’t reported us.” She flexed a painfully throbbing and bloody toe, hoping the nail was still intact. “The occupant of bungalow number four peeked through their mini-blinds. I’ve been waiting for the police to show up and escort us off the property.”

  “I don’t look good in shackles.”

  “Stu is going to roast us alive if we go back empty-handed. I’d rather be arrested.”

  George stopped dead in his tracks. “We’ve traversed every crevice of this retreat.”

  “Well, we can’t give up. We need that signed statement from Mark, and I’m pretty sure he might shed some light on Niki’s involvement here at Eden.” They’d been traipsing up and down the paths for over an hour, losing precious time. “Think! We’ve zigzagged back and forth pretty much laterally, but there was one path we didn’t pursue. It traveled up the hill, away from the main walkways. I thought it led to a shed or to an employee residence, but let’s try it anyway.”

  Without waiting for an answer, she pressed ahead, past the pond and three bungalows, pausing at the base of an uphill path that curved off to the left through a row of shrubs. This path was also softly lit with solar lights, but away from the overhead lights of the main path, darkness encroached on either side. The peaceful theme of the retreat vanished. It looked like a place to tuck a storage shed. Not especially inviting.

  George voiced his misgivings. “I feel the jungle calling. Anything could be lurking out there in the dark.”

  She had to agree, but said, “No worries, George,” and launched up the hill at a fast clip, praying they were on the right track.

  George huffed along behind her. “Oh, merde! It’s like Africa hot! I wouldn’t have taken this internship if I’d known what the weather was like.”

  “It’s usually hot here at the end of August, with the recorded high of a hundred and fourteen degrees back in the early eighties. Our weather guy said that storm this afternoon set a record for lightning strikes. A lot of downed power lines and trees. He’s writing up the story as we speak.”

  “Our high of one oh eight doesn’t seem so bad, then … obviously I’m joking.”

  They crossed over a wooden bridge with a shallow stream, and sure enough found a bungalow hidden in a clearing. A few steps closer to the porch and the light sensor flashed on. There in all its glory was the number eight. “Yes!”

  “What … do you think?” George swatted at a swarm of gnats. “Is he in there? It’s a
wfully dark.”

  “He’s probably asleep.”

  “Or passed out.”

  Years of “bothering” people at all hours of the day and night, and in almost any conceivable situation, should have prepared her, but Whit’s heart began pounding in her chest. Facing a six-foot-three grieving drunk whom she’d earlier deceived required just about every ounce of courage she had to confront him.

  Taking a deep breath, she climbed the stairs and knocked. It seemed loud in the quiet of the night, with only a few crickets marring the tranquil evening.

  No response from within. Whit leaned her ear to the door.

  Rustling in the bushes near the creek startled them.

  George sucked in his breath. “What was that?”

  “An animal of some kind.”

  “What if it’s a mountain lion?”

  Whit peered into the darkness. “Then it’s probably stalking prey.”

  “Hilarious!”

  She cocked her head, listening. George panted beside her. “Shush.”

  “I have to breathe.”

  Something crunched in the bush; then something else darted, rustling through the grass into the water, as if frightened by a predator. The only predator she feared was human. She’d learned a long time ago that asking too many questions was like a direct threat to any criminal element. Usually it put her right in the cross hairs. If she was right, then they were after a murderer who had already killed at least three people, which made him a lethal adversary.

  Whit knocked on the door again, this time using the side of her fist, while keeping one eye on the bushes.

  From inside the bungalow came a thump and a muffled curse.

  Relieved, she said, “He’s awake now.”

  “Thank God.” George inched closer to the door.

  From the dark a twig snapped; more scraping and shuffling followed. This time Whit sensed a presence, like the direct gaze of a person. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end.

  The door opened a crack. Mark’s voice, thick with sleep, greeted them. “Who is it?”

  “My name is Whitney McKenna. We met today at the sushi bar.”

  Confused, he opened the door wider and rubbed sleep from his eyes. “What do you want?”

  The reek of his whiskey-sloshed evening left little doubt that he’d polished off the bottle. “I need to speak with you about your mother.”

  “My mother?” His tone sharpened. “How did you find me? Go away before I call security.”

  He started to shut the door, but Whit thrust her foot against it. “Wait! You don’t understand. I’m a reporter with the Medford Daily Chronicle. I think I know what happened to your mother.”

  Silence stretched into the quiet as his muddled brain processed her words. “You’re with the Chronicle?”

  “Yes. Sorry I didn’t mention it earlier. We need to talk. There may be other lives at stake.”

  He released the door and stepped forward into the porch light. Disheveled, he wore the same clothes from earlier in the evening, as he’d obviously slept in them. His dark hair was tousled; he towered over her, squinting with bloodshot eyes. “Look, I feel like shit. Drank too much. Can’t this wait till morning? I’m raw, man.”

  “No, it can’t.” Whit held her ground. “We may have evidence that your mother’s killer is out there stalking other victims.”

  Mark smacked a dry mouth and swallowed hard. “I don’t feel well. I’ll be back.”

  He shut the door and locked it, leaving them on the doorstep.

  Like bait on a line.

  She pivoted in place, her back to the door facing the porch steps, eyes keen, ears straining. In the still, moisture-laden air came not a sound, not even a cricket’s chirp. The unnatural quiet spoke volumes. Her pulse quickened in her ears.

  The whites of George’s eyes widened as he glanced from her into the darkness and shivered. He whispered, “Something evil?”

  Yes. Evil. She sensed it too, a malevolent presence that meant them harm. The isolation of this bungalow probably suited the rich and famous just fine, but right now it felt like a trap. Despairing of Mark ever coming back, she leaned over a porch rocker and peeked into the window between the drapes. “Come on … come on,” she said under her breath.

  George wiped perspiration from his brow with a monogrammed handkerchief, his gaze darting about. He whispered, “I’m sufficiently petrified.”

  In the silence, the night shadows loomed. This inkling of danger was not a figment of her imagination. She’d experienced too many threatening circumstances in the course of her journalism career not to take heed. Instincts had kept her alive and intact.

  Her ears pricked with the faintest shuffle, like steps bending and sweeping slowly over blades of grass. “I don’t like it.”

  The lighted path curved down the hill to the bridge, the trees and bushes illuminated. But the blank canvas beyond represented a void … no moon, no stars, just blind night.

  The locks on the door clicked sharply, flooding her with relief. The door swung open. She and George exchanged glances and scurried over the doorstep.

  Mark stood wiping his mouth, a hand towel over his shoulder, oblivious to their fright. “Shit, this better be good. If I let you in here and it’s some kind of bullshit, I’m suing that pathetic rag.” He stood in the entry, blocking their entrance to the living room. “I want to see some ID first.”

  They produced their picture identification cards issued by the newspaper.

  She flicked a glance over her shoulder. Lurking beyond the porch light, something or someone was watching them. She was sure of it.

  “Come in.” Mark handed the cards back to them. “I’m going to put on some tea.”

  George shut and locked the door behind him. They passed through a comfortable living room with floral rattan furniture into a smallish kitchen with a round dining table under a palm leaf fan. On the counter sat the red orchids George had mentioned earlier, next to them a nearly empty bottle of Japanese whiskey.

  “Have a seat,” Mark offered. He moved haltingly about the kitchen, putting on hot water to boil, sifting through an array of tea bags, and then placing several into the pan. “Despite my dishevelment, i.e. drunken state, I’m very concerned with my mother’s case or you wouldn’t be sitting in my bungalow.” He glared at them through hooded eyes. “I’ll take information from anyone. Including journalists. My PI stopped by earlier. He’s already working the night. This better be good. What is it?”

  Whit introduced him to George, then shared Mrs. Delano’s story. “Can you confirm that your mother had the same type of tumor? A teratoma?”

  He poured boiling tea into a cup and carefully carried it to the table. “Would you like tea?”

  “No thank you.”

  He sat down with a groan. “Man, I am toast.” After taking a few sips, he leaned back in his chair. “Blessed tea.” He looked haggard. “This is by far the worst time in my life. I don’t usually carry on like this.”

  “It’s understandable,” Whit said.

  Mark sipped his tea, eyeing her, his expression guarded. “Okay. Here’s the deal. The medical examiner stopped by my mother’s house to talk to me this morning. He told me she had a tumor, but that wasn’t what killed her. He basically said they have no clue yet. We’re waiting for lab work. And, yes, he called it a teratoma. I don’t know much beyond that.”

  Whit described what she’d researched about teratomas and their genetic makeup.

  Mark rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “That sounds like absolute lunacy. You’re not convincing me of anything. You sure you don’t work for the National Enquirer?”

  “I’m very serious.” Whit’s voice was strong, but she sympathized, “I’m sorry. I know you’re going through hell right now. But if your mom’s killer is stalking other victims, this story needs to go to print. I suspect a new homicide, Isabel Rodriguez, may be a third victim. She was a defense attorney with a local TV show. Did you know her?”

/>   He blinked and swallowed, nodding his head. “I know Isabel. She and my mother were friends. I hadn’t heard. We have no television or internet in the bungalows here.”

  “The police haven’t released any information anyway.” Whit shared all she knew about it. “The police are focused on catching the killer, but I’m more interested in saving the victims.”

  “How did they get these teratomas?”

  “I believe from stem cell injections.”

  “Why did they have stem cell injections?”

  “I don’t know. I’m still investigating.” Whit could see he was doubtful, and she didn’t have anything more to offer. “It sounds crazy, but I think your mother and the others developed these tumors after the injections. I think they were then killed to silence them.”

  “I’m a very practical man. I deal in stocks and bonds. Hard facts.” He sighed heavily. “It still seems farfetched. You don’t even know if Isabel had a tumor. How did Mrs. Delano find out about her husband?”

  “She’s close friends with the ME. He was just trying to appease some of her confusion and frustration over her husband’s crazy behavior before he died.” She shrugged. “I seriously doubt he thought she’d share that information with a journalist. And if I hadn’t talked to you this afternoon, I would never have put the pieces together.”

  He sat back and closed his eyes, a little gray around the mouth. She hoped he wasn’t getting sick again. “George, show him the file.”

  With a flourish, George produced the file they’d shown Stu. He sat it in front of Mark and began flipping through the photos. He stopped when he came to the teratoma.

  “That’s the tumor? You didn’t photoshop this thing?”

  “No.” Whit shook her head. “Of course not. You can look it up yourself.”

  With a dark frown, he said, “As preposterous as all this sounds, it also makes sense. So, where would they get these injections if it’s illegal?”