If she had listened to him, if she hadn’t had such a strong psychological bias against his “paranoid” assertions, he would have told her exactly what it was.
But wait. He could still tell her. She closed her eyes, dropped her head back and groaned. How could she be so obtuse? Vincent’s song wasn’t the product of a demented mind. He was pleading with her to find his notes in the piano and study them. That being the case, he knew he might not be returning. He knew he was being followed.
The collision was a hit and run alright, but it wasn’t an accident.
She stopped in her tracks, stunned by the epiphany. Was it the pirates? Drug runners? Or someone else.
The camera had stopped shortly after the collision. It had been connected to the boat’s electrical system, which could have become submerged. Or had someone come aboard out of camera view, disconnected it and thrown Vincent overboard?
Diane buried her face in her hands. She had to stop torturing herself with those images. She’d probably never know exactly what had happened or why. But there were things she could investigate.
She turned and ran down the stairs, opened the top of the piano and peered inside. The notebooks and flash drives were still there where she had carefully replaced them before her trip to Pittsburgh.
Diane went to the kitchen and brewed a pot of coffee. Then she settled onto a bar stool and opened a notebook—as well as her mind.
By daybreak, Vincent had made her a believer.
μ CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE μ
Fog had formed in low-lying areas on the roadsides and was starting to roll across the pavement—just the beginning according to the weather report. Diane slowed down and switched on her fog lights. She wasn’t about to let a little visibility problem thwart her plan.
Wilbur remained her only concern. What reason would she give for showing up at BRI’s gates at ten p.m.—and without her office keys? It was absurd to worry of course. She was on administrative call. She had every right to be there.
As for the prospect of Wilbur following her around like a bodyguard, she felt confident that wouldn’t happen now. Ever since the chimp roundup, he had been less protective, and maybe even a little intimidated by her. Too bad, really, Wilbur was the only one in the organization Vincent trusted, according to his notes.
A second evening spent poring over her husband’s notebooks had driven her out into the weather. Vincent’s jumbled thoughts were, at times, nearly illegible. But his frenzied attempts to connect all the snippets of information came through clearly.
Calling it “the handwriting on the wall” (Vincent’s prophesy of doom for Bellfort and BRI, she supposed), he had made lists upon lists: technology transfer companies he called “the fences”—TekTranz, Cell Trans, Intel Trans etc. etc; pharmaceutical companies (mostly in Asia); GPS coordinates (oddly enough); and people’s names.
Some names weren’t familiar to her. But Vincent’s comments about the people she did know were startling: Pete is over-friendly. Is he a refugee from Hematec or a spy for them? Or for someone else? Saw Colton Fey loitering around the primate house yet again. And the real shocker: Saw David Crowley leaving our lab. He had no reason to be there. Then later: Crowley is watching me.
But even with Vincent’s myriad suspicions—including the suggestion that Harry Lee’s death was tied to his technology—there wasn’t a hint that his own life might be in jeopardy. Of course, if one considered the basic tenet of scientific research: “Similar things happen under similar circumstances,” a proposition that Harry Lee and Vincent’s deaths were similar, in that they were both connected to their technologies, would not hold up. Vincent’s research had been sold before he disappeared.
For now, Diane pledged to let Vincent take the lead. She’d continue studying his notebooks and investigating his facts and comments. But he had left large gaps; it was going to be a bear of a completion test.
In keeping with all that, she found herself creeping along in the fog tonight because of Vincent’s reminiscences about his grandfather. Throughout his notes, vignettes penned in loving prose, spoke of the man’s influence in Vincent’s life.
Invariably, venomous indictments of unethical business practices in biotechnology followed those sections. It seemed that Vincent mined his childhood memories to fuel his anger regarding the premature sale of Peruvase.
Diane never got to know Vincent’s granddad. He died from Parkinson’s disease shortly after she met him. Even so, how could she have forgotten how much he had meant to Vincent? His death had been the force behind the early development of Peruvase.
Tonight she vowed she’d track down the drug and check on its development. Maybe she could suggest a joint venture with the new owners to move things along, possibly reinvesting some of the money she and Vincent received from the sale. She was about to take the first step in that direction.
She pulled up to the guard booth and greeted Wilbur warmly, offering her mea culpas for forgetting her office keys. After some chit chat about the weather, she pulled through the gates, grinning, master keys in hand. She had little less than an hour until Wilbur would make rounds at shift change. Plenty of time.
Her lights played off small puffs of fog as she curved around toward the main building. But nearing the bay, she was faced with ever diminishing visibility. Her headlights became useless. She switched them off and inched along aided by her fog beams and shrubbery lighting that peered out dimly from either side of the drive. Through her open window she could hear the cacophony of tree frogs permeating the thick night air.
Finally, the lighted Greek Revival columns emerged through the mist. Tonight, in that gothic atmosphere, the building reminded her of a mausoleum. She parked the car in front and headed up the steps. She never locked her car doors at BRI, but tonight her thumb quickly sought the lock button on her key ring. Behind her, the horn beeped and the lights flashed. The frog chorus went silent.
Nothing stirred. A distant foghorn sounded. Diane shuddered.
Creeped out, but curious, she stepped around the side of the building, near Raymond Bellfort’s private entrance, to look at the bay. A wall of fog had risen from the water. It loomed before her, a chilling presence whose hoary fingers inched their way towards her. She turned and ran for the front door.
Diane stood inside Maxine’s office feeling like she did when she mistakenly walked into a restaurant men’s room at age sixteen: She didn’t belong there; she had violated some ancient code of civilization just stepping through the doorway.
But tonight she wouldn’t retreat.
She walked over and studied Maxine’s desk. Everything on top was perfectly parallel or perpendicular to everything else. A crystal monkey weighted down a stack of papers, their edges in exact alignment. A framed picture of a generic cat and dog stood next to the lamp.
Diane wondered why she hadn’t known that Maxine was an animal lover. Then she realized she didn’t know much at all about BRI’s business manager. She shrugged and headed for the closet—on one occasion, she had seen Maxine emerge from there, file cabinet keys in hand. She flipped on the light switch outside the door and entered.
Inside, she was faced with shelves and shelves of boxes, color-coded, labeled and alphabetized in categories and subcategories. Hoping for the obvious, she checked the walls to the right and left of the door for a key hanger. No such luck.
Resigning herself to the task, she began with the yellow box section nearest the door, running her hand along the shelving and reading the “K” labels all the way to the purple section at the back wall, using a small ladder to reach the upper shelves. No keys.
She turned to the other side and worked her way back to the door. She was standing on the ladder when he saw the key ring hanging on an old bent nail near the top of the doorframe.
Diane let out a growl of frustration, snatched the keys off the nail and headed for the file cabinets.
She opened the “Inactive Personnel” files, flipped through to the L’s, and there it was
: Harry Lee PhD. She scanned the file hurriedly. It had the usual stuff. His educational background: University of Michigan, UCLA. He had worked for a small biotech company in Palo Alto before signing on with BRI.
Diane looked at her watch; it was almost 10:40. She flipped quickly through the pages until finally she found what she was looking for: Next of kin.
Jerry Wentzel had mentioned that Harry’s parents had been killed in an auto accident. His next of kin was listed as Hu Lee along with an address and phone number in Hong Kong—the same uncle as the one quoted in the newspaper article. Diane scribbled down the information, replaced the file and locked the drawer. Time to get out of there.
Then, a label marked “Active Personnel A thru L” caught her eye. She hesitated a moment. Would she be invading his privacy? She fought off her conscience, found the corresponding key on the ring and opened the file drawer. She quickly walked her fingers back to the C’s where she found the folder labeled “David Crowley DVM, PhD.”
According to the file, David was divorced and had come to BRI from a veterinary clinic. Before that he was a researcher at Texas A&M in the poultry science department. Diane chuckled. She didn’t know why, but that particular specialty always amused her.
As with Maxine, Diane wondered why she didn’t know much about David. Had she assumed their lives could not possibly have the gravitas of her own and therefore neglected to show an interest in them? Or, were they hiding things from her?
Replacing David’s file, Diane spotted a tab labeled “Leonard Everly.” She didn’t know anyone at BRI by that name, yet it seemed familiar. Snickering, she dismissed the idea that Maxine could have misfiled it. She pulled the folder and opened it just as she heard a noise outside. She glanced at her watch. It was 10:48. Was Wilbur early?
Diane replaced the folder, locked the file, returned the keys to their nail, switched off the closet light and quietly closed the door. All in less than fifteen seconds.
The fog bank had moved ashore. Diane found it waiting outside. She jumped in her car, hit the door lock, checked the backseat for intruders, then sat there feeling silly about her fright. The only creatures ever spotted on BRI grounds at night were possums, deer, raccoons and once, a bobcat. Never werewolves or vampires—not even in dense fog.
Diane returned the master keys to Wilbur and headed home squinting to follow the road’s edge in near-zero visibility.
It wasn’t until she pulled up the driveway to the treehouse that it rushed at her. She saw it clearly, sitting alone on an otherwise crowded notebook page—Leonard Everly. The only things distinguishing it were the three question marks that followed.
μ CHAPTER TWENTY SIX μ
“Mr. Lee?”
“Yes.”
“This is Diane Rose. I’m a scientist at Bayside Research in Texas. I… um…” Deep breath. “First, I want to offer my condolences. I’m told that your nephew Harry was a very special person as well as a… Mr. Lee?”
No response. She’d lost the connection. “Rats”! She’d have to start again. She hit redial.
“Hello.”
“Mr. Lee, this is Diane Rose again. We were disconnected. I was saying that—”
“Dr. Rose. I do not wish to be rude. But I will not speak to you about my nephew. Not now, nor at any time in the future.”
Diane sat at her desk staring at the phone. Hu Lee had hung up on her. Twice.
She tried not to take it personally; Hu Lee didn’t even know her. But he did know Bayside Research. What might Harry Lee have told his uncle that poisoned him against BRI?
She had spent the past few days practicing her lines and building her courage to make that call. She had checked the internet for the time difference with Hong Kong and phoned from home in the morning to be sure and catch him after diner, but before bedtime. All for naught.
But she had no intention of giving up. She had to find a way to get Hu Lee to talk to her. Vincent had written of his strong belief that Harry Lee’s technology and Peruvase had suffered the same fate. Hu Lee could unknowingly hold the key to the whereabouts of Peruvase.
Diane tapped her pen on the desk for several seconds. Then, “Eureka!”
The newspaper article about Harry Lee’s death had stated Hu Lee was an investment banker. She remembered that Tung Chen’s father was also in banking. She reached for her mouse and clicked the email icon on her monitor. Maybe she could get to Mr. Lee through the back door to the vault.
By the time Diane finished composing her note to Tung Chen, two new emails appeared in her in-box.
Jane Galvin, Diane’s old lab mate, now a professor at Texas A&M, had sent the first email. Subject: Re: Request for info on David Crowley. Jane’s message was not a welcome one. She reported that David Crowley had resigned from poultry science in the 90’s after being accused of inventing data in one of his research projects. It was thought that he went to work at a veterinary clinic after leaving the university. Jane added that if she discovered anything more, pro or con, she’d send it on.
Diane exhaled wearily, rested her head against her chair back and closed her eyes. So there it was: Fowl play in his turkey treatise. Okay, not funny. She considered David a friend. And even though evidence against him seemed to be piling up, what did it point to? She’d reserve judgment until all the facts were in.
Diane frowned as she clicked on the next email; the way the morning was stacking up, it was sure to be bad news.
The message came from Olimpia Garza asking Diane to speak at a Conference of International Ethnobotanists in a month. It was being held on Aruba where Olimpia had her vacation cottage. And she invited Diane to stay with her.
But that wasn’t all. Olimpia proposed a jungle trek after the conference. It would be a surprise destination, a place she had never shared with another scientist. Diane’s heart jumped in anticipation.
Olimpia Garza was responsible for Diane’s specializing in ethnobotany. She had been popping into Diane’s life, providing professional opportunities and needed diversions, ever since their first meeting at a National Science Foundation Botany Camp at Pittsburgh’s Phipps Conservatory.
Olimpia, a visiting instructor, was a graduate student at the Universidad de Bogotá in Colombia at the time.
Olimpia was twenty-three years old. Diane was twelve.
Arriving early the first morning of camp, Diane goes exploring and finds a secret cul-de-sac down one of the winding pathways under the glass sky. For several moments she stands transfixed, studying a beautiful, but somehow disturbing green orchid made up of small flower clusters. The sign identifies it as a “Malaxis.”
Just as she succumbs to the urge to touch it, Olimpia Garza appears—like a high-energy field moving in.
“They call it ‘the adder’s mouth’ because of its resemblance to the open mouth of a snake,” Olimpia says.
Diane jerks her hand back from the predator flower and turns to stare in amazement at Olimpia. It’s not Olimpia’s hyper presence, her smooth olive skin or the tempest of dark hair that seems to be wired to her personality; it’s her speech. Other than on television, it’s the first time Diane has ever heard English spoken with a Spanish accent.
Olimpia introduces herself, then explains when and where the Malaxis orchid was first discovered.
Diane listens, fascinated, as syllable after exotic syllable curls elegantly around Olimpia’s tongue and rolls out as English. It occurs to her that if calligraphy could be spoken, it would probably sound like that.
For the duration of the camp, she follows Olimpia around, inhaling her every word. The two of them develop a bond, and on the last day Olimpia gives Diane a rough-cut necklace made from a jungle tree fungus. Olimpia calls it an amulet and says it’s for good luck. Diane vows to treasure it always, and she decides then and there that she will become fluent in Spanish. And she will learn about the people who speak it.
Huck barked at something outside, bringing Diane back to the present. She reread Olimpia’s email and hurriedly composed h
er acceptance for both the conference and the jungle trek.
Diane left the University of Texas medical library at Galveston and drove out Harborside Drive heading home. Having gathered more than enough material for her ethnobotany conference paper, she experienced a sense of accomplishment, the first time in months. She pulled up to a red light at 23rd Street, second car back.
An enormous cruise ship sat at dockside, which probably explained the throng of tourists crossing the street.
The light up ahead turned green, but the car in front waited patiently for the Sunday afternoon crowd to clear the crosswalk.
Suddenly, Diane’s eyes fastened on a War Eagle bumper sticker in the oncoming lane. “War Eagle” was the battle cry of Auburn’s Tigers whose nickname had come from an eighteenth century poem. David Crowley had explained all that to her and even recited part of the poem. He had attended vet school at Auburn.
She watched as David’s red Jeep Grand Cherokee made a right turn onto 23rd Street. Finally the car in front of her moved on.
Diane had every intention of driving straight ahead. But, entering the intersection, she flipped on her turn signal and whipped to the left, in front of oncoming traffic. She found herself traveling up 23rd Street, three cars behind David Crowley. With a start, she realized she was spying on him. So much for her magnanimous gesture of withholding judgment.
David made it through the next intersection before a trolley, moving along The Strand, blocked Diane’s view. By the time the trolley cleared the intersection, the Jeep was out of sight.
Diane crossed The Strand and crawled along checking parked cars. Then, easing through the next intersection, she spotted the bright red jeep off to the right, along Mechanic Street. It sat in front of The Tremont House hotel, apparently waiting to be valet parked. Diane came to a dead stop in mid-intersection, prompting a lot of horn-blowing behind her. She made a tight right.
Lab Notes: a novel Page 14