Lab Notes: a novel

by Nelson, Gerrie

  David slid the folder into his briefcase.

  The waiter brought their iced tea. Then, at the gentlemen’s request, he stood by while they looked over the menu.

  Shifting from one foot to the other, the waiter struggled to avoid gawking at the bare ankles and scruffy boat shoes on one of the men and the bulging pistol beneath the jacket of the other.

  μ CHAPTER TEN μ

  Diane and Vincent jogged single-file along the bluff’s edge toward the orange dome of sun rising out of Galveston Bay. Running along behind her husband, staring intently at the back of his head, Diane tried to divine what was going on in there.

  After the library incident, he seemed content enough on the surface. But behind his perpetual smile, she had detected an irritating smugness.

  Then a few evenings ago, the alien returned. Vincent reverted to his Texas mood—grumpy and non-communicative. She hoped today she’d get an inkling of the problem before she left for Ecuador. Gabriel Carrera was sending a private plane for her and Raymond that afternoon.

  Diane caught up with Vincent at a rest area where he was stretching his legs on a log crosspiece. She swiped her terrycloth wristband across her forehead and gulped some water. Sitting down on a wooden bench, she dropped her head between her knees and stretched her back muscles.

  Vincent plopped down beside her on the seat and said in a chummy tone, “Remember that student of yours from Hong Kong who always hung around the lab? The one with the obvious crush on you.”

  Diane pulled up to a sitting position. Dare she hope that her husband was trying to make small talk? “Tung Chen,” she replied.

  “That’s the guy. What ever happened to him?”

  “He opened a testing lab in Hong Kong. I hear from him every now and then. He teaches a class at a university there also… Why?”

  “Would he know any scientists in Taiwan?”

  Diane snapped her head around to make eye contact. “What’s this about?”

  Vincent bent down and untied a shoelace. “I’ve been doing some checking—looking for the pharmaceutical company that bought Peruvase.”

  “For God’s sake, Vincent, you assigned BRI the rights to Peruvase. They sold it. We were paid handsomely—end of story. I thought we’d gotten past all that.”

  “You may have.” He shook invisible stones from his shoe.

  Speechless, Diane jumped up and began pacing in front of Vincent, arms crossed.

  He continued. “During their investigation, my people—”

  “What people?” Diane was incredulous.

  “Old colleagues who work in Asia now—will you let me finish?”

  Diane bit down on her lip.

  “I had mentioned Harry Lee’s name in an email to an old classmate who’s in Singapore. The other night he wrote back saying that a scientist by that name was murdered in Hong Kong last December.”

  Diane stopped pacing. “Chances are slim that it’s the same man. ‘Harry Lee’ is Hong Kong’s version of ‘John Smith’.”

  Vincent looked up and cocked an eyebrow at her. “You have to consider the timeframe and profession involved here. Weren’t you the professor who always warned your lab students against shrugging off a possible discovery as coincidence?”

  “No one at BRI has mentioned his death.”

  “Precisely.”

  Diane planted her hands on her hips and glared at him. “What are you implying?”

  Vincent shook his head, denying any intent.

  He stood up, shoved his hands in his pockets and looked out at the bay. “I’m thinking of entering Woodwind in that sailboat race to Vera Cruz. I’d like you to come… If not, I’ll single-hand it.”

  Diane couldn’t find her voice at first. Then it squeaked out in a plea. “We have work to do. How could you consider sailing off?”

  Vincent stared silently out at the bay.

  “I don’t know who you are any more, Vincent,” Diane said, then turned and jogged into the woods.

  Her brain in turmoil, she ran along blindly, tripping over roots and tangling with low-hanging branches and beards of Spanish moss.

  She was now certain that Vincent had lost it completely. A spy network in Asia? Murder in Hong Kong? A BRI conspiracy of silence? Solo racing offshore?

  Actually, the solo racing part could be considered within the realm of normalcy, but not for the unadventurous, buttoned-down Vincent she used to know.

  She approached a jogging trail and made a right turn, her internal compass indicating that the primate house should be up ahead on the left. From there she knew that an intersecting path would take her to the main building. As she approached the animal cages, she was startled by a figure emerging from the shadows. Then she realized it was Colton Fey, the boat captain.

  She disliked Colton Fey; the way he looked at her made her feel unclean. Adding to that, she wasn’t in the mood for chit-chat. She considered heading off into the woods again to avoid him. But, handicapped by a genetic inability to be rude, she stayed the course and slowed to say hello.

  As she approached him, Colton looked quizzically at her hair (probably a nest of twigs and Spanish moss). Then he grinned broadly and said, “Well, if it isn’t the silk stocking half of our pair o’ docs. But where’s the mismatched mate?”

  Diane smirked, indicating his comment didn’t merit a reply, and resumed jogging. Once past him she regretted showing any response at all; it wasn’t his first dig at her husband.

  Vincent’s reserved manner made some people believe he was unapproachable. From the beginning it was obvious that Colton Fey felt threatened by him, taking every opportunity to zing him behind his back.

  As Raymond Bellfort’s yacht captain and harbormaster, Colton Fey was given carte blanche at BRI. He roamed the hallways, freezing the genial working environment with his malignant wit. “Loosening up the brainiacs” he called it.

  Jogging away from the primate house, Diane felt Colton Fey’s leer crawling down her back. With the bend in the trail just ahead, she bolted, running for the main building and its promise of a decontaminating shower.

  μ CHAPTER ELEVEN μ

  Diane slammed her phone onto the bed and stepped out on the balcony of her hotel suite. She breathed in the cool, dry air and tried to relax.

  Her west-facing luxury suite overlooking Quito basin was one of the perks of being in the Carrera entourage. Earlier, she had watched the creeping shadows as the sun set behind volcanic peaks. Now it was dusk, and the city in the middle of the world twinkled to life under a deep lapis sky.

  But being out of synch with Vincent—who was not answering his phone—she couldn’t fully enjoy the view, or even savor that day’s business successes.

  Gabriel had arranged the daylong meeting with the Interior Secretary and the head of the Economic Development Council. The government officials listened attentively while Diane presented her plan to visit Ecuadorian tribes to study their native healing.

  Late this afternoon they had signed a contract permitting BRI to collect plant specimens in the country’s jungles. In return, Ecuador would participate in any profits the venture brought in. Both sides felt they had reason to celebrate tonight.

  Diane took a last look at the dimming sky and stepped back inside her suite. She grabbed her jacket, stuffed her phone into her purse and headed for the first-floor restaurant.

  After a sumptuous meal and heavy dessert, the Ecuadorian officials graciously picked up the tab, then excused themselves saying they had an early morning meeting. Diane, Raymond and Gabriel lingered in the opulent dining room sipping coffee.

  Diane regarded the men’s wine-glazed eyes and wondered why she hadn’t slipped under the table by then.

  The evening had begun with numerous champagne toasts before dinner, then proceeded with a different shade of wine for every course thereafter. She should have been comatose. But the long-distance friction with Vincent had kept her edgy and sober. She dreaded another sleepless night.

  Diane said, “Have you
ever heard of the Jivaro ceremony of spiritual healing?”

  Gabriel and Raymond twitched out of their stupors.

  “No,” they murmured.

  “The ritual is part of the culture of an Ecuadorian tribe called the Jivaro. I missed their ceremony the last time I was here. Would you like to attend one with me tonight?”

  Raymond declined, looking annoyed at her liveliness.

  Gabriel suppressed a yawn. “That sounds interesting.”

  Diane, Gabriel and Gabriel’s bodyguard, Michael, took a taxi to the edge of the old city. The driver knew exactly where to drop them off—the foot of a steep, cobbled alleyway with dim intermittent lighting showing the way up.

  They began their ascent—with Michael several discreet steps behind.

  When Diane was first introduced to the diminutive, red-headed Michael a few months earlier, she questioned Gabriel’s choice of a bodyguard who had not only the hair but also the physique of “Carrot Top.”

  Gabriel laughed and told her how he had met Michael a decade before on a trip to Venezuela.

  He and a business associate were leaving a restaurant in Caracas when they were accosted by a man who aimed a pistol at them and demanded their watches and wallets. Michael, a complete stranger, seemed to descend from the sky, wrestling the man to the ground and divesting him of his weapon.

  He refused payment for his trouble. But he gave Gabriel his business card which identified him as a “security consultant” in Miami. Gabriel hired him on the spot, and they’d been together ever since.

  Gabriel explained: “Michael’s size is deceptive. People don’t see him as a threat. But he moves like a monkey; strikes like a snake.” It also helped that he was fluent in Spanish.

  Tonight, Diane found the bodyguard’s presence reassuring.

  Just then, a primal shout erupted from the top of the stairs. Gabriel looked at Diane. “Are you certain about what goes on up there?”

  She gave him an impish grin. “If I were, there’d be little reason to go.”

  Gabriel smirked and kept climbing. Whistles and chants grew louder with every step.

  Gabriel turned to Diane. “You handled the negotiations well, as usual. I have watched you closely. If you can do business in Central and South America, you can do it anywhere.”

  Diane felt grateful for the shadows that hid her blush. “Thank you.”

  They reached the top where they found a round hut surrounded by torches. Peeking inside, they saw a large circle of fire on the dirt floor and an assortment of shrunken heads suspended from the ceiling.

  Diane and Gabriel looked at each other, shrugged and stepped inside. In the center, a robed shaman sipped from a cup, then rolled his head and passed the drink into a small audience sitting on the dirt floor. Someone motioned for Diane and Gabriel to sit. The whistles and chants resumed.

  Diane watched the healer and listened to his songs. She had seen many such rituals on her jungle treks. The cup of natema was passed to her. Without hesitation, she sipped, hoping it wasn’t made with saliva, as many primitive libations were. Gabriel bravely followed suit.

  Almost immediately, the fire blurred, then broke up into small torches that floated about and whistled. Diane turned to Gabriel. He had morphed into a fanged creature with soft eyes. The surroundings became frenzied with rushing forms and circling chants, causing a sort of motion sickness. But, unaccountably, all the strangeness combined to make Diane feel quite happy. Gradually the merry-go-round came to a stop. But the happiness remained.

  Diane and Gabriel looked at each other and laughed, almost hysterically.

  “You were a loveable creature,” she said. “What was I?”

  He looked at her, confused, as if seeing her for the first time. He seemed to grope for words. Then he said, “You had no form. You were a power that effected many outcomes.” Then he shook his head as if clearing it from an unpleasant vision.

  Though most of the audience seemed to be staying for another round of happiness, Gabriel and Diane helped each other to stand up, and they staggered from the hut arm in arm. Giggling, they tripped down the alleyway.

  Inhibitions submerged by the natema, Diane turned to Gabriel and said with a teasing tone, “I heard a rumor that you killed your wife. That can’t be true.”

  Gabriel exploded with laughter. “I have never had a wife. But if I had, I might have killed her.”

  Diane, confused but smiling, said, “But your son—I saw him at the BRI Christmas party.”

  “He is my father’s son,” Gabriel’s voice remained pleasant.

  “He’s your brother?”

  Now Gabriel spoke slowly, as if explaining to a child, “Eduardo is my father’s son.”

  Still not grasping the distinction, but not wanting the hilarity to go away, Diane said, “Oh, I see.”

  Diane and Gabriel burst into the hotel lobby amid the stares of the few night owls still lounging there. Giggling their way to the elevator, they brushed off each other’s dirt-covered clothing.

  Gabriel stepped off the elevator at Diane’s floor, insisting he deliver her safely to her suite only a few steps away. Arriving at her door, he looked down at the key in her hand. Then slowly his glance moved up to her face and remained fixed there. His eyes held an unmistakable question.

  Diane was struck motionless, caught in the white heat of his gaze. For an eternal moment, her heartbeat was the only sound interrupting the silence. Then an elevator chimed its arrival at a lower floor, jolting her back to her senses. She turned away.

  Gabriel leaned in, gave her a brotherly kiss on the cheek and said softly, “Sleep tight, Diana.” Then he walked away.

  Diane slept fitfully. Her dreams were a montage of herself and Olimpia running through mountainous jungles, of Gabriel Carrera’s intense glance and Vincent’s angry one, of Latin America’s marble corridors of power.

  μ CHAPTER TWELVE μ

  Gabriel Carrera’s private jet was on its final approach to Houston’s Hobby Airport. Diane tightened her seat belt and watched through the small window as the ground lights grew larger. They were not a welcome sight. When the wheels touched down, she would be thrust back into the tense reality of her personal life. And the Bellforts weren’t making things any easier.

  To Diane’s dismay, when Charlotte Bellfort discovered Gabriel Carrera was accompanying them back to Houston, she planned a last minute dinner party “for the travelers.” She sent a message to Diane saying that she will be sure to call and invite Vincent also.

  Diane wanted to see her husband alone. They needed to resolve their differences about Peruvase, and discuss his lunatic plan to sail off by himself. But now, with the dinner invitation, she and Vincent will be unhappily reunited at the Bellforts’ home. And their marital discord will loom as large over the diners as Charlotte’s crystal centerpiece, limiting eye contact and stilting the conversation.

  On top of that (judging by the vibes at breakfast in Quito this morning), the dinner atmosphere will be charged with the current crackling between her and Gabriel Carrera, generated by their mutual awareness of his unspoken request last night and her silent rebuff.

  She suspected that she had, quite literally, been saved by the bell. Sometime in the middle of the night (after the Jivaro state of happiness wore off) she had analyzed the situation and concluded that the natema was the culprit, and she was willing to put the incident behind her. But something in Gabriel’s manner told her that, as far as he was concerned, the matter had not yet been settled.

  Returning from the Friday evening sailboat races, Vincent walked into the living room, peeked under the lid of the baby grand, then headed upstairs to his telescope with Huck at his heel. He climbed the spiral stairs to the cupola, flipped on the light and studied the room’s celestial wallpaper.

  Dark blue stick figures, representing the galaxies, covered the light gray background above the windows and tumbled down into the spaces between them. Interspersed among the stars; astrolabes, telescopes and sextants floated
through space.

  Vincent ran his index finger past Perseus, then along the configuration of Andromeda to Pegasus. Down one leg of the winged horse, he found what he was looking for: Hidden in the busy wallpaper pattern was a series of faint numbers recorded by a careful hand.

  Vincent had studied the copious jottings a few nights earlier. Checking them against his star chart, he discovered that some of them were dates and coordinates of right ascension and declination, representing the space addresses of celestial bodies. The numbers had obviously been placed there by Dr. Harry Lee.

  At first, it seemed a bit macabre exploring the universe with a dead man as a guide. But Vincent soon developed a sense of astral kinship with the murdered scientist. After all, he occupied Harry Lee’s office and laboratory and lived in the house originally built for him.

  Until now, Vincent had set his telescope to the hand-written celestial coordinates, but he had not yet tried the single numbers—obvious earth-bound compass headings—listed below them.

  As for the strings of numbers and letters lightly penciled low on the wall, close to the baseboard, he had no clue. But their decoding would have to wait for another day. Tonight was the night for the compass headings.

  Vincent stepped over the dozing dog and peered closely at the wallpaper. “Let’s see here: three hundred twenty degrees.” He swiveled the powerful telescope toward the far shore of the lake, then switched off the light. After giving his pupils time to dilate in the darkness, he looked through the eyepiece.

  Ever-so-slowly he angled the lens downward, all the while reporting his progress to the dog lying at his feet. “Nothing, nothing…nothing…There!” he shouted. He had located the blurry horizon. Then after a series of infinitesimal moves, he picked up a nebulous cluster of ground lights. He reached for the focus knob and moved the lights in closer…closer…

  At the far edge of his consciousness, a telephone rang. But the blurred lights out there commanded his attention.