by Greg Iles
Like Andrew Rusk.
There were other sources happy to provide him with funds, of course, but all were foreign—usually foreign governments—and Dr. Tarver would have no truck with them. Not that he wasn’t tempted. The United States had adopted an almost suicidal policy regarding medical research—nearly as bad as the Brits, though not quite. In Britain you couldn’t experiment on chimps at all, which pretty much guaranteed that Britain would not be a player in the pharmaceutical field in future. But it was bad enough in America. Chimpanzees were on the endangered species list, but they had been “split-listed” by the government, which allowed them to be used for medical research. Still, fewer than sixteen hundred chimps were being used for research at any moment in the United States. Most had been bred domestically, at highly regulated breeding centers. One of those centers was only 250 miles away, at New Iberia, Louisiana. But Dr. Tarver couldn’t use those animals, not for what he was doing. Wherever those primates went, government inspectors would follow.
Your Chinese, on the other hand, didn’t give one goddamn how many chimps were left in the wild. They would send an army of biologists to strip every tree in Africa if they decided it was necessary. The animal rights fanatics could go straight to hell, for all they cared. Dr. Tarver shared this view. In his experience, the moral convictions of animal rights activists lasted about as long as it took them to get a fatal disease that could be cured by receiving a valve from a pig’s heart. Suddenly that pig didn’t seem so goddamned sacred after all. Your animal rights fanatics weren’t like Jehovah’s Witnesses, who would lie there and die within ten feet of a bag of blood that could save them. They were liberal arts pussies raised by Summer of Love hippies; they’d never gone without a life-essential since the day they were born. Jehovah’s Witnesses had been some of the toughest resisters to Nazi tyranny, Eldon knew, especially in the death camps. He figured the average animal rights activist would have lasted about three days at Auschwitz.
Animal experimentation had a long and venerable history. Aristotle and Erasistratus had experimented on live animals, and Galen had dissected countless pigs and goats in Rome. Edward Jenner had used cows to develop the smallpox vaccine, and Pasteur had cured anthrax by purposefully infecting sheep. How the hell anyone expected scientists to cure cancer or AIDS without using animals to set up testable models was beyond him. But Dr. Tarver didn’t stop there. Because the truth was, animal models only took you so far. When you got into neurological diseases or viral studies, it wasn’t enough to experiment on a similar metabolism. You had to use the real thing. And the real thing meant Homo sapiens.
Any serious medical researcher could tell you that. Only most of them wouldn’t. Because research dollars were often controlled by foggy-minded liberals who hadn’t a clue to what science really was, and no one wanted to risk his research budget for something so politically dangerous as the truth. The conservatives could be just as bad. Some of them didn’t even believe in evolution! It staggered the mind.
Dr. Tarver walked across the lab and watched Judah bathe a sedated chimp. It gratified him to see his adoptive brother carefully scrubbing the chimp’s snotty cheeks. After patting Judah on the shoulder, he walked over to the metal table he used as a desk in here. On the right side of the big table lay a stack of thick file folders. Each folder held a unique compilation of documents and photographs that added up to a person’s life. Each had been delivered to Eldon by Andrew Rusk, who had ordered them compiled by various clients over the past two years. The files held daily schedules; medical histories; keys labeled for what they opened, which included cars, houses, offices, and even vacation homes; lists of important numbers, such as Social Security numbers, passport numbers, phone numbers, PINs, and credit card numbers; and of course there were photographs. Eldon didn’t spend much time looking at the photos until right before an operation. He spent most of his time poring over the medical records, searching for anything that might negatively affect his research, or something that might make someone a candidate for a particular approach. Dr. Tarver was as meticulous in this work as he was in all things.
Everyone was in such a hurry. Everyone wanted it done yesterday. Everyone believed that his case justified special consideration. But that was the twenty-first-century man for you. No notion of patience or deferred gratification. When Eldon had faced a similar situation, he’d handled it himself. He was uniquely qualified to do so, of course. But he had never let unfamiliarity stop him before. When a mechanic tried to gouge him on the price of repairing an engine, Dr. Tarver had ordered a maintenance manual from the Ford company, studied it for four days, then disassembled the engine, repaired it, and reassembled it himself in perfect working order. This kind of thing was beyond most Americans now. And because of that, the day was coming when conventional war would not be an option against any major power. Only a special weapon would suffice.
Dr. Tarver intended to be ready.
CHAPTER 23
Chris was working late in his studio when he sensed that he was not alone. He’d been running footage on the Apple, using the familiar routine of reviewing and editing video to occupy his conscious mind, while on a deeper level his brain worked out what his next step should be. His first thought upon sensing another human presence was that Ben had awakened. Chris saved the file he was working on, then walked down the hall toward the back room of the converted barn. Any other night, he would have put Ben to bed and then come out to the studio to work alone. But fifty yards of darkness separated the studio from the house, so tonight he’d let the boy fall asleep on the sofa where he and Thora had made love two nights ago. Once Ben was dead to the world, Chris had moved him to an old twin bed in the back room.
“Ben?” he called softly, opening the door.
Ben lay stomach-down on the bed, fast asleep. Chris stared for a second, then rushed back to the front room and switched off the light. After listening carefully for twenty seconds, he edged up to the window and drew back the curtain. The darkness just outside the studio slowly revealed itself to be empty. Beyond that lay the black gulf between the studio and the house. Feeling a little foolish, he switched on the light and went back to his workstation.
He was reaching for the flywheel when a sharp knock sounded at the studio door. He had no firearms out here, but an aluminum baseball bat was propped beside the door, left there after an informal batting practice. He jumped up, grabbed the bat, and went to the door.
“Who’s there?”
“It’s Alex,” said a recognizably female voice. “Alex Morse.”
He yanked open the door. Alex stood there in the same clothes she’d worn in the cemetery that afternoon, and she looked still more drawn and confused, if that was possible. In her hand was a black automatic.
“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded. “If I’d had a gun, I might have shot you!”
“I’m sorry for just showing up like this. I tried to call. I know I said I’d wait, but…Can we go inside?”
“The published number only rings in the main house.”
Alex nodded an exaggerated apology. Her eyes were still ringed with black shadows. “Can we go in?”
“Yeah.”
She pushed him backward and closed the door behind them.
“Have you slept at all since I saw you last?” Chris asked.
“No. I picked up the prescription, but I was afraid to take it. I had to drive back to Jackson to see my mother. She’s going down fast, but she was awake for a little while, and she was asking for me.”
He motioned for Alex to sit on the sofa opposite his workstation. After she did, he rolled his chair across the hardwood floor and sat in front of her.
“Why are you carrying your gun?”
She set the pistol on the sofa beside her. “I’ll tell you in a minute. Has Thora called you tonight?”
“Oh, yeah. She’s having a great time. She and Laura had full-body mud baths this afternoon.”
“How long ago did she call?”
&nb
sp; “I don’t know. A good while ago. Ben was awake.”
“Did she ask if you were in the house or the studio?”
Chris leaned back in his chair. “She wouldn’t have to. My private phone only rings out here. What are you doing here, Alex?”
“I came back from Jackson because I knew that once Thora left town, someone might make a move against you. I’ve been watching your house for the last three hours.”
“Why? And from where?”
“I parked across the road, in the carport of that house that’s for sale.”
“Did you see anything?”
“When I pulled into Elgin, I passed a vehicle coming out. The driver had his brights on, but it looked like a van. A white van. Does anybody who lives back in here own a white van?”
He thought about it. “I don’t think so. But there are about sixty houses out in these woods, even though it looks like wilderness. Also, we get a fair number of strangers out here. Kids parking, or nosy people just trying to check out the houses.”
This didn’t mollify Alex. “About fifteen minutes ago, another vehicle drove slowly down the road. It came around the last curve, but instead of going on toward your house, it nosed into the drive of the house where I was parked. It came far enough up the hill for its lights to illuminate my car, then stopped and backed out.”
That sounded like teenagers looking for a place to make out. “Did they see you?”
“I don’t think so. I took cover pretty quickly.”
“Could you ID the vehicle?”
She shook her head. “When he backed out, he didn’t turn around. He backed all the way around the curve.”
Chris saw genuine fear in her bloodshot eyes. “I know that seems suspicious to you, okay? But I’ve seen exactly that kind of thing happen out here at night. Poachers drive out here to spotlight deer. They’ll shoot right into your yard, and the residents out here will shoot back. The poachers know there’s only the one road in and out, so they’re paranoid as hell.”
Alex was watching him carefully.
“You’re too tired to think straight,” he said gently. “You told me yourself that we have a margin of safety before anybody tries anything. Remember? The first day we met.”
“That was before William Braid and his insulin coma.”
“Alex, if you want me to, I can call the neighborhood watch captain. He’s got a big John Deere that he can pull across the road and block all access in or out.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely.” Chris looked at his watch. “And if it weren’t so late, he’d love to do it for us.”
She looked as if she wanted Chris to make the call, but she said, “I admit, I didn’t see the vehicle that second time. I don’t know if it was a van.”
“You said you weren’t even sure about the first vehicle you passed.”
“I know that was a van. I just wasn’t sure about the color.”
He reached out and squeezed her knee. “You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think that even if some guy drove here to kill me, once he saw you parked across the street, he’d realize the game was up.”
Alex didn’t look convinced.
“I mean, he has to make it look like an accident, right? That’s the deal, according to your theory. Not even an accident, but a disease. There’s no way he can pull that off now.”
She was shaking her head. “Three of the victims didn’t die of cancer, remember? One heart attack, one stroke, one pulmonary embolism.”
“You don’t know those were murders. And they don’t fit in with the other deaths, do they?”
“I think those deaths show that if the fee is high enough, the murderer will take the risk of killing someone quickly.”
Her stubbornness was starting to wear on him. “Even if you’re right, you contacting me—not to mention hanging around and ambushing me for the past three days—has wiped out any chance of someone murdering me for money and making it look like an accident. That’s just not an option anymore. You told me yourself that someone trying to kill me would be watching me, tapping my phones, that kind of thing. If they have any sense at all, they’re lying low and hoping you’ll get tired of chasing them.”
“I won’t.”
He smiled. “I know that. But tonight, you can take a break. A short rest. I’m going to fix up a bed for you in the main house, and—”
“No. I don’t want to upset Ben.”
“Ben will never see you. No argument, Alex. You’re going to take an Ativan and crash for the next twelve hours. All this is going to look different after you wake up, I promise.”
He could tell she was considering it.
“If I do that,” she said, “I want you and Ben in the main house, too. So I can—”
“What?” He laughed. “Watch us? Forget it. You’re going to sleep.”
Alex opened her mouth to keep arguing, but her cell phone preempted her. She checked the LCD, and her face darkened.
“Who is it?” Chris asked.
“My father’s old partner. He’s a private detective.” She opened the phone. “Uncle Will?”
Alex listened, her face growing taut. She put her elbow on her knee and cradled her forehead in her hand. After a short while, she asked some questions about her mother’s prognosis, then hung up.
“What is it?” Chris asked. “It sounded like renal failure.”
She nodded. “The doctors think this is the end. She has two or three hours, barring a miracle. They told me that once before, but this time Will agrees.”
“You can’t drive to Jackson now. Not in this state.”
Alex stood and put the phone in her pocket, then lifted her gun off the sofa. “I don’t have a choice. It’s my mother.”
He stood and took hold of her free hand. “Do you think she would want you to risk your life to be there when she’s not even conscious?”
Alex looked up at him with determined eyes. “She’d do it to be there for me.”
He saw that there was no arguing the point. “If I didn’t have Ben to worry about, I’d drive you myself.”
“You don’t need to do that. But…”
“What?”
Embarrassment made Alex look away for a moment. “Do you have anything that could help me stay awake? I hate to ask, but I’m dead on my feet.”
“I’d be glad to prescribe something, but all the pharmacies are closed.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. The last one shuts down at nine p.m.”
Alex hung her head, obviously dreading the coming ordeal.
“Wait, I think I may have something. Before I became his doctor, Ben had been diagnosed with ADD. He was taking Ritalin, and too much of it. I think we still have some in the house.”
“I thought Ritalin calms you down.”
“It has the opposite effect on adults. I figured you’d know that from handling drug cases.”
“I mostly worked the money side in Miami. Forensic accounting. Although I did go on a few raids.”
Chris walked to the door. “You stay here with Ben, and I’ll get the pills.”
She shook her head. “We all need to go together.”
“Alex, you’re about to leave town. What does a walk to the house matter?”
“You have a gun in the house, don’t you?”
He nodded.
She handed him her automatic. “You know how to use this?”
He hefted the pistol in his hand. It was a Glock, .40 caliber, but smaller than the ones he’d held in the sporting goods shop. “Yes.”
“Take it with you. Bring your gun back with the pills. I’ll watch Ben till you get back.”
“I will. If he wakes up—”
“I can handle it. Go.”
Chris closed his eyes long enough to dilate his pupils, then walked out into the darkness. He felt no fear, but even on normal nights he kept his eyes open during this walk. There were always deer in the yard, not to ment
ion the occasional coyote, and he’d killed a six-foot rattlesnake on the patio only last spring. He covered the distance to the house in thirty seconds, then slipped through the back door and went to the master bedroom.
He had several rifles in his gun cabinet in the study, but his only handgun was a .38 kept locked in a small safe in his closet. He retrieved it, then pulled down an old box from the top shelf of the closet, where he kept old medicines and samples he’d brought home from the office. Sure enough, a bottle of Ritalin lay at the bottom, a drug that Ben should probably never have been taking. Chris slipped the bottle into his pocket, shoved Alex’s gun into his waistband, then left the house and jogged back to the studio with his .38 in his right hand.
“Take one of these,” he told Alex. “Take another later if you start to fade. I’ll get you some water.”
“No need.” She dry-swallowed one of the pills, then put the bottle in her pocket.
“You’re pretty good at that.”
A wry smile. “Birth-control pills.”
“Ah.”
“Not that I’ve needed them lately.” She looked up, suddenly self-conscious. “Too much information?”
“Not at all. You just focus on staying awake.”