by Davis Bunn
He debated a long moment, then decided one issue needed to be out and in the open. “I’m over here looking for Kirra Revell.”
“As in Revell Pharmaceuticals?”
“Yes. She’s gone missing.” He took a breath. “She and I were, well . . .”
“I’ve got the picture, Taylor.”
“It was years ago. But I never got over it.”
“I figured you carried a torch for someone.” A long breath, then, “Let me know if you find yourself ready to move on.”
He tasted several responses. But none of them fit the moment.
She accepted his silence with a brisk lack of surprise. “I’ve done some checking, like you asked.”
“Be careful, Allison.”
“I don’t think it will go any further than our tame lab rats. Besides, these are pretty open secrets, what I found. Revell’s been going through a rough patch. Four new products failed in the last year and a half, one at the stage-three level.”
His mind slipped into the old work grooves with discomforting ease. New product development went through fixed stages. Once a new drug had been identified and tested on animals, testing on humans began. Stage-three trials were the toughest and most expensive, usually conducted at a university teaching hospital. To lose a product at the stage-three level meant that although the product was successful at treating an illness, its side effects proved so severe the FDA refused to authorize it for general release. By this point, research and development costs on a new drug could exceed two hundred million dollars. To lose four new products in eighteen months, and one at stage three, was catastrophic even for a company as large as Revell.
But it did not explain why Amanda was tying Taylor’s finding of Kirra to the acquisition of his company. Unless it was an empty threat. Which did not sound like Amanda to him. Not at all.
Allison continued, “As a result, Amanda went through the Revell Corporation with a wrecking ball. The two senior productdevelopment directors have been axed. Same goes for the heads of two labs. Everybody else is working double overtime and sweating bullets. They are being pushed to bring in results in no time flat. The lawyers are fighting their way through the courts to maintain patents on three products scheduled for generic competition. And ours is not the only acquisition they’re working on.”
The two travelers chose that moment to reenter the shop. Taylor turned his back on the chatter. “What?”
“They’ve made another acquisition. Finalized just three weeks ago. A company called Geneco Labs.”
“The name rings a very vague bell.”
“I checked them out, but my papers are back in the office.”
“Tell me what you remember.”
“Started about six years ago by an anesthesiologist and a nervous system bioclinician. Three products on market, all specialty anesthesia and surgery related. What was interesting was the purchase price. Eight hundred million dollars, a straight cash buyout. Triple the company’s current market valuation.”
Behind him the three men laughed uproariously. Taylor turned far enough to see they were bent over a map spread upon the counter. He hunched further over the phone. “I think this might be what we’re looking for.”
“What does it mean?”
“Geneco Labs must have a silver bullet. A product they’re almost ready to bring to market.” It couldn’t be anything else. Taylor was thinking out loud now, fighting off the noise behind him, keeping his mind focused. “The company has been keeping it quiet in order to maximize the lead time between its release and another company developing a competing product.”
“But we’re in eye products,” Allison complained. “Why would Revell threaten us with dropping the acquisition?”
“I have no idea. Unless they’re just running out of cash and they’re looking for an excuse.”
The men started laughing again. The Scot called over, “Time’s up, Flawda! You’re talking out the tide!”
Allison asked, “Where are you?”
“A surf shop.” He deflected further questions with, “I don’t want you to get into danger.”
“But you need to know what that new Geneco Labs product is.”
“Not if you’re going to be at risk.”
“It’s okay, Taylor. I have my sources too, you know.”
“Just be careful.”
“Are you coming home soon?”
“That I can’t say yet.”
“Things aren’t the same without you in the next office.”
Once more he caught the tone and all that was unsaid. Only this time he felt his heart touched and did not mind. Over the phone he heard a child’s singing. “Is that your daughter?”
“Yes, my little angel has just woken up.” In an instant, Allison switched from business colleague to warm-hearted mother. “Clarissa’s going to be four next month, aren’t you, sweetie? She’s growing up on me.”
“I bet you’re a terrific mom.”
“I try. I try very, very hard.”
“Yank!”
“I have to go, Allison.”
“You take care as well. Gowers is still down most days, asking questions I can’t answer.”
“I’ll call you Monday.” Taylor punched off the phone, turned around, and said, “Let’s move.”
Taylor fought good-naturedly with Red over who would occupy the wobbly rear seat. He pretended to become involved in their excitement over having both money and a new destination. But his last view of the Scottish coastland was of a somber cloud wall pushing hard for land.
chapter 12
THE SIX-HUNDRED-MILE JOURNEY FROM OBAN to Portsmouth took two very long days. The van proved reliable but slow and possessed as strong a personality as any of them. Hammering the gas pedal meant nothing. The van chose its own pace and maintained it no matter what they did or shouted. Kenny and Red treated Taylor’s secrecy as prime entertainment. They spent hours musing over what dire deed Taylor had committed. By the time they finally arrived at the cross-channel ferry, Kenny was certain they carted a bank robber, while Red held to suspicions of serious embezzlement.
The Portsmouth-Cherbourg ferry was eleven stories tall and held three hundred cars. Taylor tried to call Amanda from a phone booth in the ship’s lobby. When an impersonal voice told him to leave a message, he hung up and punched in Allison’s number. It was seven o’clock in the evening, Maryland time, when she answered. Taylor could hear a child crying in the background. “Allison?”
“Oh, Taylor. Are you all right?”
“Fine. What’s the matter with your daughter?”
“The doctor says it’s just a cold.” Allison closed a door, which did not entirely shut out the noise. “Clarissa has a fever. She hates being sick. She gets angry with the entire world. Just like her mother.”
“You sound tired. Exhausted.”
“There are days when it’s hard keeping all the balls in the air. This is one of them.”
“I can call back.”
“No. No. To be honest, it’s nice having an adult to talk to right now. But I don’t have anything for you. I’ve had to take time off to be with her, and my tame techie is on vacation until the day after tomorrow.”
“Did you get the money I sent?”
“I wish you hadn’t done this, Taylor.”
“Why?”
“What am I going to do with ten thousand dollars?”
“You told me yourself you could use it.”
“I haven’t had spare cash lying around since the divorce. Now I’ve got your ten plus the other two stuffed in a grocery bag in the basement.”
He knew he needed to determine whether she could be trusted. But the motive stank of subterfuge. Taylor remained too caught up in the honesty of Iona for half-lies. So he asked what was front and center in his mind. “What happened to your marriage, Allison? You’re beautiful; you’ve got a super mind. You’re funny, affectionate. You’re clearly a great mother.”
“The whole package, right?”
“I’m sorr
y. I shouldn’t pry.”
“I don’t have anybody but myself to blame. Everybody told me I was making a terrible mistake. But I knew better. I did what I wanted. Isn’t that what beautiful girls are supposed to be able to do?”
The phone booth was lined on three sides with red velour. The other was a glass wall opening to the main deck. He cupped the mouthpiece to cover the bedlam of holidaymakers traipsing by.
Allison went on, “I lied to myself as long as I could. But one day I woke up alone. Again. I knew my ex was out catting around town. Again. I couldn’t let my baby girl grow up with such an example to follow. I know I did the right thing. No. I did the only thing.” There was a catch to her voice now, a struggle that turned every word into half a sob. “Some days, though, I feel like such a fool.”
He uncovered the bottom half of the phone. “No, Allison. You were absolutely right. And wise.”
“Where are you?”
“On a ferry.”
Her mind remained locked upon what his question had uncovered. “It’s such a hard thing, looking in the mirror and wondering how I could have felt so right about anything and ended up being so wrong.”
“You didn’t make the mistake, Allison. He did.”
“I wish that were only—”
“Listen to me.” His voice was loud enough to attract the attention of a tourist waiting for the phone. Taylor turned away. “What did you do? You loved a man so much you wanted to give him your life. You wanted to make a family. You gave him a daughter. You loved him, Allison. He was just too much a self-absorbed jerk to recognize what he had. The guy should be taken out and shot.”
“At least we agree on that much.” She paused, then asked a question of her own. “What happened to you?”
Taylor opened his mouth, but no sound emerged. What could he say? That he was the same kind of fool as her ex? That he deserved no better fate than to go through life alone? That he had shattered the heart of a good woman? That Kirra had just managed to suss him out in time?
Allison went on, “You’re carrying a torch for somebody; you said that yourself. Did she burn you?”
He shook his head, defeated by his inability to lie anymore. “I wish.”
“What?”
“I was too big a fool to realize what I had until it was gone.”
“Well, then.” Allison’s voice lowered to a throaty burr. “Maybe you better make sure it never happens to you again.”
THE TRIP FROM THE FERRY PORT OF CHERBOURG TO Biarritz was a 550-mile trek straight south. Late on the first day, they finally left the last of the chill North Sea gray behind. Their entire second day was a journey through increasingly brilliant illumination. Rolling emerald hills basked beneath a cloudless summer sky. The air was scented with a thousand flavors, all of them French.
At Biarritz they pulled off the autoroute, halted at a petrol station, and were greeted by rolling clouds of sea mist. Thunder echoed in a blue Basque sky.
The address Brother Jonah had slipped into Taylor’s pocket was for a Jacques Dupin, whose address was a farm outside Guethary. Taylor expected serious dissent from his companions when he insisted they first go there before checking the surf. But Kenny merely shrugged and said, “Our journey’s been paved by your open wallet, mate. Let’s do the thing fast; that’s all I ask.”
The village of Guethary was framed by rolling green hills and carefully tended farms. One-lane country roads wound tight ribbons around herds of cattle, late-summer crops, bleating sheep, and whitewashed Basque farms. The three of them became so hopelessly lost it took two hours just to find their way back to the highway and the same petrol station.
Beneath a steadily descending sun, Taylor went inside and begged for help. The Frenchman behind the counter did not understand English, but his eyebrows rose at the name on Brother Jonah’s slip of paper. He nodded vigorously, pulled out his cell phone, squinted over Jonah’s writing, and dialed.
He spoke at length, then handed Taylor the phone. A woman’s voice chirped something. Taylor replied, “Do you speak English?”
“Yes, a little. Who is this, please?”
“I’m looking for Mr. Dupin.”
“All the world looks for my Jacques. Who is speaking?”
“My name is Taylor Knox.”
“I am not knowing this name.”
“Brother Jonah sent me.”
“Ah! From the holy island, yes? The man in the, how you say, bibliothèque?”
“Library.”
“Of course, the library. How is the good brother?”
“Grouchy.”
When she laughed, she sounded no more than fifteen. “I see we speak of the same man. You wish to come?”
“I tried, but we got lost.”
“Yes, yes, is impossible to find until you know the way. Like so much of life, yes? Please, you give me back the other man. I will explain.”
The station attendant accepted the phone, nodded vigorously, then hung up and drew Taylor a detailed map.
By the time Taylor left the station, the shadows were as long as the faces of his two companions. “I’m really sorry about all this.”
“Aye, well, we’re all worn out from the travels.” Kenny tried to make light of his disappointment. “No telling what would’ve happened if we went straight from the road to twenty-foot surf.”
“I guess we could get wet and do this after.”
“Too late for that now.” Kenny opened the driver’s door. “You know where we’re headed this time?”
Even with the map it took them until almost dark. The Dupin home was just another Basque farmhouse, white with clay-tiled roof and red shutters. The lane was shaded by a tunnel of ancient trees that changed the day’s final light into ethereal gloaming. An old woman the size of a child opened the door as they chugged to a halt. “Are you a friend of God’s island?”
Taylor stepped forward. “Mrs. Dupin?”
“Come inside, all of you.”
“You go ahead, mate.” Neither Kenny nor Red showed any interest in leaving the van. “We’ll just sit here and enjoy being still for a change.”
Mrs. Dupin did not insist. She held the door open for Taylor, then led him into a brightly lit kitchen. Herbs hung in tight bunches from every conceivable nook. Wildflowers dried in sheaves above both windows. The three central beams were so decked out as to be almost lost behind their loads. “You will have an infusion, yes?”
“I don’t want to be a bother, ma’am.”
“What is bother? Sit, sit, you are too big for me when you stand.” She was an ancient crone, dark and wizened and strong as petrified wood. With eyes of black light, she watched him take in the chamber. “You are liking my kitchen?”
“Very much. It smells like a meadow.”
“My husband, he gathers these.” She pulled down a clay jar from a shelf and extracted a handful of herbs which she tossed into a teapot. She took a bubbling pot from the stove and poured in water. “All the time he is walking and picking plants and talking with God.”
Taylor accepted the news with his cup. “He isn’t here?”
“He is far up now, very high.” She pointed out the window to mountains turned gold by the setting sun. “Searching for his autumn plants in heaven’s valleys.”
“How long will he be gone?”
“Ah, Monsieur.” The woman was scarcely taller than Taylor even when he was seated. She laughed like a young maiden, shyly hiding her smile behind her hand. “What woman knows how long her man is gone when he leaves?”
“Do you know Kirra Revell?”
“So many people come to speak with my Jacques. So many names.”
“A tall American, blond, late twenties. Very beautiful. She too was sent by Brother Jonah.”
“I pay so little attention to my husband’s patients. More tea?”
Taylor accepted the polite turndown because he had no choice. He drank his tea and thanked her and departed. Night was gathering, a peaceful descent into pastoral rest. Crows
cackled in the neighboring trees. Cowbells tinkled in time to his footsteps across the gravel. Somewhere in the distance a child laughed. Kenny called across the dark, “Found what you’re after, then?”
“Almost.” He slid into the backseat. “I’m sorry about holding you guys up.”
“Like I said, mate. We’re just dancing to the piper’s tune.”
“Yeah, well, the least I can do is buy you both a bed, a bath, and a great French meal.”
The van started with a sputter and a roar. Kenny turned to flash him a grand smile. “Sounds like a proper bribe to me.”
Taylor watched the farmhouse disappear behind the first line of trees, then turned back to his companions. After driving four days and arriving to the sound of huge surf, it was great how well the pair were handling their frustration.
Or so he thought at the time.
chapter 13
TAYLOR SWAM IN A BLACKNESS SO THICK HE DID not even need to breathe. Or so it seemed, until the hands gripped his neoprene suit and lifted his face into the sunlight.
Then it came back to him in a rush. The drive down the lengths of both England and France. The arrival in Guethary. The surf. The shooter.
The instant he came fully awake, the burning in his chest became so great he convulsed. He sucked and sucked, his lungs filling with such rapidity he choked and gasped and sprayed all the air out again.
A massive inside wash bore straight down at them. Taylor felt Kenny’s arms tighten around his chest. Kenny’s grip was as bad as the holddown, so tight Taylor could not take a second breath.
To either side of them came a pair of musical eruptions. Bullets drilled into the water. Even in his semi-aware state, Taylor knew the shooter was still there and hunting. But all he could think of was air. He plucked futilely at Kenny’s arms.
The wave smashed them with velvet ease, tearing him effortlessly from Kenny’s grip. He struggled and searched for the surface, his movements turned cottony and slow. He broke through and heaved a breath. Taylor coughed and hacked and felt his lungs seared by the salt spume. He breathed again. He could hear the shooter more clearly now. The rifle’s boom was a echoing thunder.