by Thomas King
“Not what the doctor said,” says Ada.
“It’s a respiratory infection,” says Roman. “Her lungs sound like a blown transmission.”
“I just got a cough.”
“You probably got pneumonia,” says Ada.
“I’m just hungry,” says Nutty. “They won’t feed me.”
Ada shakes her head. “They don’t want to give you anything until they do all the tests.”
“They already got most of my blood.”
Lala leans into Ada. “They have Grummy’s blood?”
“No, honey,” says Ada. “Grummy’s just being funny.”
“Don’t see me laughing,” says Nutty.
Florence and I search the hospital. We finally find a couple of chairs in an empty room. They’re a sorry-looking pair. One has a bent leg. The other is missing the padding on the seat.
Ada and Roman have evidently spent the time we’ve been gone arguing about what to do with Nutty, because when we get back, they’ve almost come to blows.
“My auntie died of pneumonia,” says Ada.
“She was ninety-four,” says Roman, “and she was diabetic.”
“I’m diabetic,” says Ada. “You trying to tell me something?”
“I know a story about a really big dragon,” says Lala.
“You guys were gone long enough,” says Ada, turning her attention to Florence and me and the chairs. “That the best you could do?”
Florence hands the car keys to Emma. “Why don’t you take everyone home. Ada and me will stick around and look after Nutty.”
“I want to stay, too,” says Lala.
“You have school tomorrow, honey.”
“No, I don’t,” says Lala. “Tomorrow’s Saturday. So there.”
“You’re right. It is Saturday,” says Emma, “but you don’t want to miss going to the bakery.”
This stops Lala in her tracks. “But what if Grummy dies because I’m not here?”
“Not going to die,” says Nutty. “So long as I get something to eat.”
Lala goes to the bed and pats Nutty’s arm. “I’ll bring you a cookie.”
“I’d like that,” says Nutty. “That’ll cure me for sure.”
“What about me?” Roman grabs Lala and dumps her on his lap. “What about me?”
“Grown man,” says Ada. “You can get your own cookie.”
I HADN’T PAID much attention to where we parked in the lot, and finding the car in the dark is not easy.
“I think it was this aisle,” says Emma.
“You guys forgot where you parked?” says Roman.
“I can find it,” says Lala.
“Subaru,” says Emma. “Look for a Subaru.”
In the end, Florence’s car is easy enough to find. First, it has a bumper sticker that says “Black Lives Matter.” Second, standing next to the Forester is Oliver Flood.
Roman tenses. “What the hell.”
“Good evening, Forecaster.” The Tesla is blocking the row. Rover is driving. Spot is shotgun. “Have we caught you at a bad time?”
Roman turns to me. “Who are these guys?”
“Business.” Flood waves a hand in a lazy arc. “Rather pressing, as it turns out.”
Spot gets out and opens the back door. Rover stays behind the wheel.
Roman holds his ground. “You going with these guys?”
“That would be best,” says Flood.
Emma touches my hand. “You go. It sounds important.”
“Yeah, Mr. Important. You go ahead and go.” Roman holds his hand out. “I’ll drive everyone home.”
Emma keeps the keys. “Who made you the designated driver?”
Lala squeezes in against her mother. “Can I drive?”
I’M IN THE BACK with Flood.
“The old woman,” he says, “she a relative?”
Spot’s cellphone goes off. He looks at the screen and then turns to Flood.
Flood nods. “Our ride has arrived,” he says to me.
Rover glides along the edge of town on his way to the open field and the waiting helicopter.
“Did you know,” says Flood, as the car slips through the night, “that those assholes at the hospital charge five dollars for parking?”
24
Ash Locken is waiting for me in the room with the windows and the view of the lake. It’s dark. You can’t really see the water, but you can enjoy the lights of the high-rises along the lakeshore.
If you’re so inclined.
The panorama is of no interest to me, and so far as I can tell, it’s of no interest to Locken either.
“How was the ride in?” she asks. “I hear there was wind.”
The wind had buffeted the helicopter all the way to the city, had blown it sideways on final approach.
“I’ve asked Oliver to monitor Mrs. Moosonee’s situation, so you don’t have to worry about that.”
There’s food on the table. Enough to feed a family of eight, with leftovers. I help myself to a cracker and a piece of cheese that looks as though it’s started to rust.
“As you might guess, the situation has changed since last we talked.”
I normally don’t drink coffee, but a little caffeine might help keep me alert.
“There have been two more deaths.” Locken opens the laptop and turns the screen towards me. “Lady Amahie Zuma.”
The video on the screen is of wreckage scattered over a dry, scrub brush landscape. In the far distance, antelope with long horns are turned towards the camera. Off to one side, an obstinacy of Cape buffalo forages for food.
“Her Gulfstream crashed on a flight from Cape Town to Amsterdam.” Locken leans on the table. “The plane went down in the national park, on the border between Benin and Niger.”
The antelope and the buffalo disappear. They’re replaced by a mansion done up to look like a Mexican hacienda. Adobe. Red roof tiles. A large fountain in the middle of a high-walled courtyard.
“Carlos Boeme. His estate in River Oaks.”
There’s not much to see. People moving back and forth, standing around. Someone being carried out of the house on a gurney. An IV is attached to the metal rails. Medics on either side lift the body into the ambulance.
A Lamborghini Urus waits at the far end of the compound next to a Karlmann King with its tinfoil angles and $2-million price tag.
“Word out of Houston is that Boeme shot himself while cleaning a gun. Accident? Suicide? Maybe even murder. Take your pick.”
Why anyone would bother paying that kind of money for a tricked-out Ford 550 is beyond me. But then, I don’t own a car.
“So, now our list of twelve is down to three.” Locken closes the laptop. “Any thoughts?”
I help myself to a miniature cheeseburger, take a bite. It’s roast beef rather than hamburger.
“Do you like sex, Mr. Camp?”
I take another bite.
“I’ve never understood the appeal it seems to hold for a great many people. I suppose it’s a combination of instinct and hormones.”
I wonder how Nutty and Florence and Ada are going to manage in a hospital room without food or a baseball game to provide some distraction.
“But I’m told that sexual activity can improve cognitive function, that it boosts cell growth in the areas of the brain that control memory.”
Emma and Roman are a different story. And Lala. The three of them? The possibility of a new beginning?
“So, if you think that sex would help you with your forecast, all you have to do is ask.”
Locken puts a hand to her mouth. Tries to look embarrassed.
“I’m not offering, mind you. But if you’re interested, it can certainly be arranged.”
How might Emma explain Roman to Lala? How might Roman explain himself to his daughter?
“You have to allow that I have been more than a little indulgent with your eccentricities.”
How does anyone explain themselves to another person?
“I’m not
a patient person, Forecaster. The rich never are.”
How do we explain ourselves to ourselves?
Locken stifles a yawn. “But it’s late. I’m never at my best when I’m tired and cranky. And, we have the weekend.”
Locken walks to the door and taps the keypad.
“You already know where everything is. Let’s begin fresh in the morning.”
I help myself to some grapes. They’re quite good. Maybe I can get the name of the supplier and pass it on to Dino Kiazzie.
MY ROOM AT THE LIGHTHOUSE is as I left it. Bed, desk, computer, printer, television. I strip the blanket off, wrap it around me, and lie on the floor in the corner. It’s uncomfortably hard. And unnecessary.
But it’s a useful reminder that here, in this world, I am not a guest.
25
Ash Locken doesn’t appear until midday. She finds me in my room at the computer watching a video on crows.
“I just talked with Mr. Flood.” Locken helps herself to the edge of the bed. “Mrs. Moosonee will be going home later this afternoon.”
The guy in the video has stuck a long pole in the ground with a small platform mounted to the top where the crows can land. Every day, he puts out pieces of hot dog, a treat that he swears crows love.
“She has a respiratory infection,” says Locken. “It’s not pneumonia, so that’s good.”
I’m not all that impressed with the video. Crows will eat almost anything. Peanuts, hot dogs, road kill, fast food wrappers, dog shit. They’re the goats of the bird world.
“But the real culprit appears to be malnourishment. Seems she hasn’t been eating all that well.”
I watch as several crows land on the platform and pick their way through the hot dogs, looking for the biggest piece.
“Evidently, this is a problem as you get older.”
I turn off the video. The guy doesn’t understand crows at all. He thinks they want to be friends with humans. He thinks they like him.
LUNCH IS SERVED in the main room with the view of the lake. Today, it’s a catered meal rather than an ostentatious buffet.
Locken nurses a glass of iced tea. “I hope you like chicken.”
Oddly enough, I find I have a yen for hot dogs.
“Did you sleep well?”
With Dijon mustard and a smear of ketchup on a toasted whole-wheat bun. Shredded lettuce and diced tomatoes.
“We’ve had a situation come up overnight.” Locken gestures with one hand and a young Asian man comes out of nowhere and hurries into the room. “I’ll let Dr. Bak bring you up to date.”
Bak looks as though someone has nudged him with a cattle prod. His whole body is buzzing as he comes to attention.
“Dr. Joo-Won Bak. Senior research administrator. Biotech oversight.”
He snaps the introduction off in crisp, military fashion. I half expect him to finish it with a salute.
“Dr. Bak is the head of a team that monitors new developments in the fields of genetics and bioengineering.”
Now that he has dispensed with the formalities, Bak seems unsure of what to do next.
“This is Mr. Jeremiah Camp,” says Locken. “You can tell him everything you’ve told me.”
“It is highly sensitive,” says Bak. “Are you sure this is wise?”
Locken’s nod is barely perceptible.
“Yes, of course. Sorry.” Bak tries to find somewhere to put his hands. “We have been monitoring a number of companies that are doing research and development in the reprogramming of murine skin cells.”
Bak waits to see if I have been able to follow anything he’s just said.
“There are three major stem cell types that comprise early-stage embryos. In the past, we’ve had to extract these from umbilical cords, but in the last five years, we’ve discovered ways to reprogram skin cells, to turn them into stem cells.”
“I don’t understand it either,” says Locken.
“What this means,” says Bak, “is that these PSCs—”
“English,” says Locken. “For the non-geniuses in the room.”
“Yes, yes, of course. Pluripotent stem cells. Think of them as a blank piece of paper on which you can draw any part of the human body. Anything from brain cells to a heart or a pancreas. And these new cells, these new organs, will be identical in every way to the original.”
“Spare parts,” says Locken. “Without the danger of rejection.”
“We have every hope that PSCs will allow us to create entire organisms.”
“Test-tube babies,” says Locken. “Without the need for the sticky reality of copulation.”
“Right now, several of the cutting-edge research facilities are trying to create a mouse from these cells,” says Bak, his body beginning to buzz again. “Larger organisms will come later.”
“Lions and tigers and bears.” Locken smiles at me. “Oh my.”
“We could repopulate extinct species.”
“Golden toads on Bay Street. A troop of dodos strolling Parliament Hill. A flock of pterodactyls soaring above Alberta.” Locken leans forward on the table. “But we can’t do any of this just yet.”
Bak takes a step backwards, as though he’s been hit.
“Yes. No,” he says, “but we are very close.”
“Tell Mr. Camp about last night.” Locken looks at Bak and waits.
“Yes, yes,” says Bak. “Last night, the research facility at R&R Laboratories in Rome was destroyed. It appears to have been a gas explosion. This is a major disaster. R&R has been a leader in PSC research.”
“Giuliana Rocca,” says Locken. “Her father, Roberto Rocca, was the head of R&R until his death eight years ago, when his daughter took over.”
Bak stands still as a statue.
“Thank you, Dr. Bak. Please let me know as soon as there is any additional information.”
Bak can’t move fast enough.
“He’s a brilliant researcher,” says Locken, as Bak disappears through the door. “A bit nervous when it comes to women and authority.”
I take a grape from the fruit plate. It’s as good as the ones from the night before.
“We don’t yet know who was in the R&R facility at the time of the mishap,” says Locken, “but since Rocca’s name is on the list, you can see the concerns this raises. And if she was killed, then the only two individuals on the list who are still alive are Bernard Dassault in Paris and Kommer Heineken in Amsterdam.”
Locken takes a bite of her omelette and pushes the plate away. “What do you know about billionaires?”
I try the balls of cantaloupe.
“In general, there are two kinds. Antediluvian and neoteric. A fancy way of saying old money and new. Antediluvian billionaires did not create their wealth. They inherited it. They come from families who have had wealth down through the ages. The neoteric variety are the ones who make their money themselves. One or two generations. Maybe they invent something or are wizards at investments, or they create companies that create companies and piggyback their way to wealth through acquisitions and takeovers.”
“But you know all this.” Locken helps herself to the coffee. “Here’s a curious thing. The names on the list are all antediluvian billionaires. Including my father.”
The sun coming in through the windows is bright and warm, and my eyes begin to droop.
“And they all seem to have some sort of attachment to Ankh Technologies, as though they were members of a clandestine board of directors or partners in a large enterprise.”
I suppress a yawn. It’s barely noon, and I’m ready for a nap.
“Let’s say that Dr. Brown is correct, that we’re dealing with someone who doesn’t like billionaires. Not that I blame them. We are among the biggest assholes in the world. But why would you bother? What difference would our deaths make? Others will just step in to take our places. The Lernaean Hydra. Cut off one head and more heads appear.
“And the logistics are staggering. How do you go about killing twelve well-protected ind
ividuals and make the deaths appear to be natural or accidental? It’s possible, I suppose, but incredibly difficult.”
Locken goes quiet for a moment.
“Oliver will meet you when you get home tomorrow,” says Locken. “He’s taken care of everything. If you need anything else, just ask him.”
Locken reaches out and touches my hand.
“You’re not a prisoner, you know. Tonight, you might want to sleep in the bed.”
I SPEND THE AFTERNOON and evening in my room, going over all the information that Locken’s research team has compiled. Some of it interesting. Most of it white noise.
Fabrice Gloor took the money from his great-grandfather’s successful watch manufacturing business and moved into robotics and artificial intelligence. Divorced twice. Currently married to a woman younger than his oldest daughter. Numerous citations for insider trading. No convictions, no fines. Rumoured to have a temper and an alcohol problem. A sports-car aficionado.
Overweight, type 2 diabetes, balding, thought that he looked like Jean-Luc Picard.
Jonathan Weston, oldest son of William Weston, inherited S.K.I.N., a cosmetic conglomerate with a focus on anti-aging technologies and therapies. Single, never married, possibly bisexual. Reclusive.
A Georgian townhome in the Mayfair area of London that he seldom left. Regular visits to a plastic surgeon. Fresh-cut flowers delivered to his residence every day. Two of the company’s products, Crème de la Sol and Belle Pelle, took S.K.I.N. to the top of the market. Subject of an investigation by the FDA over the presence of pesticides found in the company’s facial products and hair dyes. Currently embroiled in a chemical-dumping scandal in Thailand.
Also played the piano.
WHAT I HAVE OF MY MOTHER, what I know of my mother, is in her Lone Ranger lunch box. A green stone, two photographs, a letter from Family and Children’s Services, a child’s chain with a St. Christopher medal, and a handful of road maps tied up with a ribbon.
My mother died before I had the chance to ask her the questions I might have asked. I like to imagine that the answers would have made a difference then. I like to imagine that they would make a difference now.
AMANDA CHO SUCCEEDED her father as head of a generic pharmaceutical empire. Widow. Two sons, one daughter. A long-running history of patent infringement along with numerous prosecutions for the sale of out-of-date drugs to Third World markets. An obsession with shoes and designer clothes. Owned several islands in Micronesia. Subject of an FBI investigation into her role in a campaign-financing scheme that funnelled illegal contributions to the Republican Party.