by Sean Platt
But no. She wouldn’t surrender to Zen. She was being irrational, and you couldn’t just erase. It was a bad idea to get used to abdicating your emotions. She was being dumb, and needed to re-learn the trick of getting past being stupid. She didn’t used to be this way. She used to be fun. She used to be outrageous and spontaneous.
The next room was Ian’s office.
Maybe she should check his computer.
She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. It would be a violation. Ian wasn’t the paranoid type (Like me, har-har, Bridget thought), so his home, including his office, tended to be an open book. Somehow, snooping where she’d barely have to exert any effort was so much worse than snooping by digging deep and attempting to access hidden records.
Which she’d never do, of course.
The woman on the phone could have been anyone. A colleague with her wires crossed. Maybe someone from the Internet company, informing Ian that his bill was overdue or that he could get a new TV package for 30 percent off this month.
Except that the only way for anyone to ring that phone would be to have … well … Bridget actually had no idea how anyone would ring that phone, but she doubted it could happen by accident.
Had that woman sounded hot? Yes, Bridget thought she had. Her voice was urgent, authoritative in a way that wasn’t off-putting, a little throaty, a little sexy.
Ian’s computer monitor came on. Possibly because Bridget had pushed the power button. Then his search history appeared on the screen. Possibly because Bridget’s finger had dragged across the screen, pulling it front and center.
Stop it.
She closed the window. Turned off the monitor. Mostly because Ian deserved his privacy and her trust, seeing as he’d never once — not even a tiny little bit — given her any reason to doubt him. Ian loved Bridget more than she sometimes thought she deserved. Their marriage was perfect. Ideal. They had sex three times a week, and sometimes more. Never mind that he was keeping secrets and getting calls from attractive women.
Besides, there’d been nothing interesting on that first page of history. Just work stuff. She’d seen a page about protein synthesis. An epidemiology website. A search for Rip Daddy and another for something called BioFuse.
See? He wasn’t hiding anything. Not in here, anyway.
So really, there was no reason not to look through his file history, too.
Bridget had the screen back on a second later and was pushing her finger around the screen when her own phone, in her pocket, began to ring. The sudden noise startled her, and she almost poked Ian’s monitor right off the desk. Her eyes flicked toward the open door to the hallway, sure that she’d see him standing there, holding up his phone, having rushed back after seeing her missed call. Because Bridget meant everything to Ian, whereas he apparently wasn’t even worth her trust.
Heart racing for no reason, Bridget looked at her cell’s screen. It was Gabriella.
“I want lunch,” Gabriella said when Bridget answered, before Bridget could say hello. “Let’s have lunch.”
“Oh, Gabs, I don’t know … ” Bridget said, half her attention still guiltily on Ian’s screen.
“Then let’s have cocktails.” Gabriella gave her a rich young woman’s carefree giggle. “Or at least tell a few of them.”
Bridget swiped the history away, prepared to close the file history. What did it matter what he’d opened and modified lately? What was she expecting to find? Naked pictures?
But instead of swiping, her finger jabbed, and one of the files opened — or at least attempted to. A dialog box came up that read, Volume not connected. Insert drive [x].
“The club,” Gabriella said. “We’ll go together? Give me five minutes to finish getting beautiful, and I’ll walk over. You’re driving.”
Bridget touched another file, barely hearing her neighbor’s voice. And another file, and another. They all had cryptic names, but none were available, all on some sort of a removable drive that wasn’t plugged in. Something Ian had been browsing through — and then had disconnected and hidden.
“I know you’re just plodding around over there with nothing better to do,” Gabriella said. “I can see you through my binoculars.” Another well-bred giggle. “And just wait until I tell you what else I saw with these babies, over at Bella’s staff house, when the pool boys were getting into uniform.”
“Sure,” Bridget said.
After Gabriella hung up, Bridget tried Ian again. She tried his office and got his assistant. Tried his cell and got voicemail. But he always gave her a rundown of his day, and hadn’t mentioned a single scheduled meeting.
Bridget went into the bedroom and exchanged her pants and shirt for a simple blue dress — not because the country club expected it, but because if she didn’t fem it up a bit, she’d feel like a redheaded boy beside Gabriella.
The master bath was right off the master bedroom.
She really needed to calm down, so that she could think straight.
One little pill couldn’t possibly hurt.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THIS IS WHERE WE LEAVE YOU
THE MEN WITH THE GUNS were very polite. Once they had Ian’s attention and made it clear where he’d be going next (i.e., “with them”), they’d practically started offering him hot towels for the ride. One seemed to be named Paul. The other man must have gone by his last name, because the first called him Stonegate. They weren’t cops, Ian didn’t think — maybe private security.
They sat in the limo’s cabin, near the partition. Ian was in back with the wet bar, where he could be shot easily if he tried anything dumb.
Not that anyone was going to shoot him, or had threatened to. But men who carried guns were probably willing to use them, and right now, as keyed up as he was over things these men might not even know, Ian couldn’t get that thought out of his mind.
“Where are we going?” Ian asked.
“As we told you, Mr. Keys,” said Paul. “We’re going to Hemisphere.”
Ian looked through the tinted glass. “This isn’t the way to Hemisphere.”
“To the Apex facility, sir.”
“Why?”
Stonegate answered. His voice was like sandpaper that’s learned to behave. “Would you like something to drink, sir?”
Rather than asking again, Ian simply watched the passing scenery. The less he said, the better — and that included requests to know more about their errand. The two big men in suits who’d grabbed him earlier (“escorted,” they said) refused to say more. Asking would only make him seem weak, and possibly guilty. The men had called him sir, opened doors, asked if he was comfortable. But this wasn’t the way most summonses happened, and Ian didn’t particularly want to rock the boat and find out why things were unfolding as they were — or what he may have done to require it.
Other than steal company data, of course.
Which, really, wasn’t confidential at all. It was … suggestive. Pointing to a link between … well, he didn’t understand what the link was between either.
“Do you work for Hemisphere?” Ian asked the two big men.
“Yes, Mr. Keys,” Paul said.
“It’s a great company.”
Neither of the big men said anything.
Ten minutes later, the limousine pulled up to a glass-and-aluminum structure that Ian had seen a number of times — on the news, on specials like Alice Frank’s, in the photos of company gatherings. Hemisphere’s business happened mostly in the five-building complex Ian called home, but this, as far as the media was concerned, was the heart of the world’s best-known company. The sleek, five-story Apex building was where the magic happened. According to modern legend, Necrophage was formulated, tested, and declared to arrest the progress of Sherman Pope by the FDA here, in a landmark press conference.
It was a beautiful building, mostly utilitarian — labs and think tanks — with a final distinction well known by the media: because Archibald Burgess would always be a scientist at heart, he preferred to
be near his research at all times, sitting atop it in his round-room office with its panoramic view of the valley beyond.
“Shit,” said Paul.
“Shit,” Stonegate echoed, looking out the windows.
Paul rapped the partition with his knuckles. It descended with a whir.
“Shit,” said the driver, who’d apparently already noticed whatever it was.
“You can say that again,” Paul muttered.
“It must be because of the Alice Frank special.”
“What must be?” Ian asked.
“Just sit tight, Mr. Keys. We’re going to take you around to the rear entrance.” He made a circular motion in the air with his finger then traded glances with the black-capped driver to make sure he’d heard and understood.
Halfway across the Apex’s expansive, manicured front lawn, the limo bore to the right on one of the sweeping concrete driveways. When it did, Ian found he could see what the others had been talking about: the building’s front entrance was crawling with crowds of people. The building had always had an open-grounds policy and actively encouraged lab tours to dissuade watchdog suspicions, but right now it was backfiring. Of all the watchdogs who’d caused trouble for Hemisphere, Alice Frank was the most persistent. Her special had been fair, Ian thought, but it definitely broadcast the slant Raymond had mentioned earlier. Ian hadn’t come to Apex in months, but judging by the reactions up front, it wasn’t usually this besieged with press. The lawn, near the doors, was flooded with news vans.
The rear entrance was protected by a gate, and the limo made it through before the people at the building’s front noticed and ran over. But the ease of their escape stopped there because the rear seemed to be meant for deliveries, not luxury cars. There was a sharp decline to a loading dock area filled with detached trailers. The concrete was bumpy enough to warble Stonegate’s voice when he talked.
“Do you have your Hemisphere card, Mr. Keys?”
“Of course.”
The man nodded then spoke into his lapel. Ian hadn’t noticed, but they seemed to be wearing mics like the old Secret Service used to. Ian didn’t hear what was said because the limo rumbled over a ventilation grate and into an empty loading dock slot when he was speaking. When the car came to a stop, Stonegate opened the door for Ian and pointed without leaving the vehicle, his door being held open by a more pedestrian security guard in blue.
“Give him your card,” Stonegate said. “We were supposed to take you through the front, but … well, you saw. You’ll need to pass through an intelligent elevator, so it’s simplest to re-key you for the day rather than taking the long way.”
Ian’s eyes flicked back toward the building’s front, now hidden by walls of concrete and glass.
“Is it always like this?”
“More lately than Mr. Burgess would like. But not like this.”
“Mr. Burgess? Is that why I’m here? To see him?”
The notion made a curious knot in Ian’s throat. Ordinarily, a chance to speak with Archibald Burgess should feel like a ticket to see the Wizard of Oz. The man was one of his idols, and Ian’s mother’s life-extension bestseller was, supposedly, largely inspired by Hemisphere’s pre-Sherman Pope days. But today, he was still dragging guilt like an iron chain, made worse by the strange way he’d been called here and that fact that he, too, had just watched Alice Frank’s skeptical documentary. Fear had mingled with his usual awe. Now, visiting the company’s head brought trepidation, as well.
“Straight ahead there, sir,” said Paul. “Give him your card.”
Ian exited. The limo doors closed and then, while he stood like a statue, pulled away.
And then it was just Ian and the guard, who was half-stooped, his face looking somewhat vacant and hungry, patiently waiting.
The guard breathed too heavily, like a wounded dog. His skin was pale, slack, and losing cohesion below the eyes. Ian tried not to stare, but even a quick glance showed him the man’s brown, half-dead facial muscles around the pits of his eyes. His mouth was similarly slack, giving him the loose-jawed manner of a stroke victim. The whole face looked fake, like a mask. Ian almost wanted to grab his nose and pull.
He held up his card. “The guys who brought me in said I needed to … ”
“THIF WAY,” the guard said, too loudly.
He snatched the card like an animal taking food. Ian sensed a quick glance at his hand and, a bit ashamed, stifled a flinch. If the guard was working — working at Hemisphere, no less — then he was perfectly safe. But Ian had risen through the company quickly and had grown more used to non-necrotics than he’d want to admit. They just didn’t earn that well, equality laws or no. When Ian had been in college, it had looked like white Anglo men would stay on top forever. Those old prejudices had given way to disease-based distinctions. In some parts of town, there were even separate water fountains. When necrotics flew on planes, they always seemed to wind up in the back with their own kind, sometimes jokingly referred to as “the dead end.”
There was no need to be a bigot. But in secret, it seemed like everyone was.
The guard slid Ian’s key card into a machine, pressed some buttons, and handed it back. Ian suppressed doubts that the card would work when it was needed and headed where he was told, toward what looked like a decrepit service elevator at the end of a long basement hallway.
The hallway was lined with doors, each with a wheel-type lock on the front. There were small handwritten designations on dry-erase boards beside the rooms: sequences of numbers and letters, then a large number below. In many cases, the larger, lower number had been crossed out and rewritten one or two numbers lower, like one that went 11-10-8.
“What are these rooms?” Ian asked, not expecting a response. Either the guard would be too dim to explain, or it would be yet something else Ian wasn’t, apparently, supposed to know.
“Tetht animalth.”
“Like lab rats?”
“Other kind,” the guard said.
Ian was about to ask what that meant, but by then they were entering the elevator, which flashed green on entry, meaning the guard must have properly re-keyed his card after all. Before the elevator’s doors opened, one of the wheeled doors began to spin then opened with a hiss. A white-coated scientist emerged wearing a simple paper mask and gloves.
Behind her, Ian saw a line of cages filled with thrashing feral deadheads.
The elevator moved upward. Then it dinged and slid open. Ian found himself facing Paul and Stonegate once again. How they’d entered or why they’d separated, Ian had no idea, but they flanked him and left the guard behind.
The upstairs hallway was significantly nicer than the basement, but the elevator itself seemed dingy enough to have been relegated to rear passages. It took a few turns and another keying-in (still green; good job, dead guard) before Ian found himself in a pristine office hallway with fancy wallpaper and stainless steel light fixtures. They traversed another few turns and finally came to a large, thick-wood door bearing the inscription ARCHIBALD BURGESS. PRESIDENT.
Paul knocked on the door.
“This is where we leave you,” he said when the doorknob began to turn. “Have a good day, Mr. Keys.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
REDEFINING NATURE
ARCHIBALD BURGESS WAS TALL, LEAN, and had what could only be described as a powerful presence. Ian had read all about the man and talked to him once or twice (never intimately, always in a crowd), but it took being with him to appreciate that the rumors seemed to be true: The man was in his seventies, but his movements were as smooth and energetic as someone in his twenties. Archibald Burgess, the press joked, might just live forever.
“Ian! It’s good to see you again.” Burgess extended a large hand. Ian took it and shook, following rather than leading, wondering which “again” the man was referring to.
“Good to see you too, sir.”
“Don’t call me sir, Ian. Even my father wasn’t a sir, and he lived in Britain most of his lif
e. Call me Archibald. Or, if you insist, Archie.”
Ian didn’t want to insist. After all his idolizing — and all the idolizing the world as a whole had bestowed upon the man — there was no way Ian could ever call him Archie. Or even Archibald, for that matter.
“How are things over at headquarters?” Burgess went on.
“They’re fine.”
“Do you have everything you need?”
“Um … sure.”
“You have an open line to me, Ian. I want you to keep that in mind. Anything you need, you just call or send word through Raymond. I try to keep an open-door policy at all times, especially for this company’s key lieutenants. But lately it’s been tricky, what with all the wolves at the door.”
To his right, Ian could just make out the tops of the news vans he’d seen earlier on the front lawn. The Apex was situated so that the only way to look into Burgess’s office was to stake out a place off the grounds. Unless they walked to the edges, they were mostly invisible. And of course, if Burgess wanted, he could lower blinds or tint the windows.
“I noticed the wolves at the door,” Ian said.
Burgess nodded. He was supposedly a meticulous eater, following most of the diet outlined in Ian’s mother’s book. His arms were lean. The old skin hung at his neck, but the look wasn’t a bad one. He didn’t seem old despite his wrinkles and thinning hair. He seemed like an imposing man in sheep’s clothing.
“Raymond talked to you about that, I assume?”
“He asked me to review Alice Frank’s latest special. The one from Yosemite.”
“That’s what I mean. I believe in the free press, Ian. And despite all the blabbing you hear today about civil liberties and rights and how Panacea has too much authority, that’s one thing that hasn’t been stifled. As long as anyone can say whatever they want about those in charge — or in positions of authority — then freedom isn’t threatened. Don’t you agree?”