“What about the patients you’re monitoring in the hospital? Have they been tested?”
“Of course. That goes without saying.”
“Does it?”
The silence again. The staccato pace of this meeting set me on edge, giving me the same tense feeling I had when I tried to sit through Beckett plays in college. The stakes now, of course, were a lot higher than a five-dollar admission fee and two hours of my time.
“Dr. McCormick,” Carrington continued, “we feel your time is finished in California right now. We also know that your superiors feel your time is finished.”
Okay, that surprised me. Though I suspected they had put some pressure on people in the FDA who put pressure on my bosses, I hadn’t realized they’d gotten feedback about my conversation with Tim two hours before. These guys really were connected. I felt myself begin to get angry. Reel it in, McCormick, reel it in.
“We also acknowledge the good work you’ve done for your organization.” Carrington looked at Otto Falk, who nodded slightly. “In light of that, we wish you to be a part of our organization. Now that the role Harriet Tobel occupied is vacant, we would like to offer you the position of consultant.”
It was my turn to be stunned, actually flabbergasted. The men across the table from me must have seen the look on my face. Carrington smiled. “It will be virtually no work for you. You will still go back to Atlanta today. We simply want the opportunity to call on you for advice if we need it. For your troubles, we will give you a retainer. Say, four thousand shares of founders’ stock?”
Otto Falk spoke. “I think that is only fair. In fact, in light of Dr. McCormick’s expertise in microbiology, I would suggest we offer him five thousand shares, Ian. More, if his role expands.”
I leaned back in my chair and laughed. “I can’t accept that. You know that. I signed a contract with CDC—”
Carrington kept up with the smile. “We have very smart lawyers and accountants working for us, Dr. McCormick. No one would be the wiser. In fact, your tenure at the CDC ends in a year, correct?”
I didn’t answer.
“That’s perfect. We’ll be able to make all official communication and transactions active as of the date of your departure. But don’t worry, the contracts will be rock solid, so you will get what’s due—”
“I don’t think you get it. I don’t care about CDC regulations. I’m not going to take the offer.”
Otto Falk pointed his finger at me. “Dr. McCormick, this offer is best for all of us. You get to be a part of something much larger than yourself and much larger than the silly detective work you do for CDC. We gain access to a brain that can provide the necessary criticism—”
“You will not be allowed to involve me in schemes.” I stood. “I cannot believe that you made such an offer to an officer of CDC.”
“And how much longer do you think you’ll be an officer at CDC?”
I stepped toward the door. “Good day, gentlemen.”
“Dr. McCormick!” Falk shouted. “You must understand that our offer to you is your best path. Do not take the consultant position if you choose, but do not interfere.”
“Nate,” Carrington said. I was already furious, and his familiarity made me even more so. “Please. Think of all the kids in that book.” He pointed to the album on the table. “Think of yourself, for God’s sake. Think about your friend Dr. Michaels.”
“You son of a bitch!”
I stood there, looking down at the two men, breathing heavily. High noon in the conference room.
Softly, Otto Falk said, “Do not make this mistake, Dr. McCormick.”
“Watch me,” I said. I walked to the door, then turned back. “Dr. Falk, where’s Kincaid? Where is your son?”
Falk finally looked furious. It was nice to get a rise out of him, so I pushed it. “Did KC make the same mistake I’m about to make?”
“He made different ones, Dr. McCormick.” Falk was struggling to get himself under control.
As I walked down the hall, I heard a fist hit the conference room table and heard a shouted “Goddamn.”
I pushed into the reception room, went to the front door, and turned the dead bolt. The damned door wouldn’t open, so I smacked the keypad lock. It beeped at me, but didn’t open. Figuring I had nothing to lose, and that any delay in my getting out of the place was dangerous, I picked up a chair from the waiting room and hurled it at the door. Nate McCormick and chair–1; door–0.
I broke away fragments of shattered glass to let myself out. As I stepped through the hole in the door frame, I noticed that the Chimeragen logo was still largely intact on the ground, held together by the enamel or whatever it was that comprised the letters. I put my heel on the blue-and-green company name and broke it to pieces.
“Are you at the apartment?”
“Yes. I’m being your Girl Friday and staying where you—”
“Get out.”
“I just got here—”
“Brooke, get out of the apartment now. Go anywhere—get a motel room or something. Go through those files, but don’t do it at home. Get out.”
“Why—?”
Her voice clipped out, then back in.
“Brooke, I’m going to lose you. You have to leave, okay?”
“Nate? What happ—” The signal on the cell phone died. I tossed the phone into the passenger’s seat.
Okay, McCormick, the shit is definitely hitting the fan now, and, like you said to the hospital epidemiologist, you are a shit magnet. I just hoped some of my unique properties didn’t rub off on Brooke Michaels. The gutted dogs were a blessing, in a way. They made Brooke wary.
Think, Doctor.
At that point, I had nothing but a bunch of assumptions about Falk, Carrington, and Chimeragen. I had nothing that would in any way entice the FBI or other law enforcement to tackle gentlemen who were so obviously well connected. To call in the troops now would do nothing more than sink my already listing career. Worse, these guys might be able to slap some slander or harassment suit on me. Then the courts could seize my old Corolla back in Atlanta. I loved that car.
I needed proof. And I thought I knew where to get it. Hadn’t Alaine Chen told me as much? The iron was hot, and that iron was at a Chimeragen facility in Gilroy. I needed to strike.
CHAPTER 81
Gilroy, California. The garlic capital. Cherries. And, it seemed, pigs.
I fired south of San Jose, the Buick cruising along on soft shocks, feeling like a luxury liner on a dead-calm sea. If I had taken my Corolla this fast, the thing would have protested and probably would have killed me.
As per Alaine’s cryptic directions, I peeled off the highway onto Route 56 and marked the distance on the odometer. Thirteen miles. Electronic gate. Shouldn’t be that hard to find.
It had always been a wonder to me that in the most populous state in the nation, one could be in such pristine farmland so close to a population center. California may be the seat of tech and entertainment, but it’s also the agricultural capital of the country, and, therefore, of the world. At that time of year, the hills were covered in a fine grass, dry and gold, the fodder for livestock and poets and those spectacular brush fires. The valleys were irrigated and green, so that the place looked like a watercolorist’s dream: all those vibrant hues drawn next to one another, the lines between them as crisp as the lines on a painting.
It seemed fitting that the organ farm—that’s how I thought of it—would be located there. Just south of the tech hotbed, on the periphery of the agricultural hotbed, if there is such a thing. On this farm, the animals were not being cultivated for something so banal as their muscle tissue: their ribs, their loins, their shanks. They were cultivated for something much more exquisite and precious: their kidneys, their livers.
The odometer ticked twelve and I slowed, causing a backup of traffic behind me that my grandfather called a turtle. He loved to cause a turtle. I didn’t, since it probably drew attention to me at that moment. As it was, I did
n’t really have a choice.
At 13.2 miles, I was already past the gate. I’d caught it out of the corner of my eye—a gunmetal-gray lattice set back from the road about ten yards. Having marked it, I sped up. The turtle crawled a little faster.
I didn’t find a convenient turnout for a few miles. By the time I did, the hills had given way to a large body of water—the reservoir Alaine had mentioned. I pulled off into one of the parking lots and got out of the car to look around. Just a tourist from San Francisco, checking out the man-made natural beauty of San Luis Reservoir. Paranoid, I looked to see if any of the cars that had been backed up behind me pulled off, disgorging a few simian gentlemen with baseball bats and brass knuckles. None did.
After a few minutes, I strolled back to the car and went west on 56. A few miles later, I was stopped outside the nondescript gate. No name to the farm, only a number. A long dirt road ran from the gate, disappearing over a hill. A cattle guard lay like a huge automobile grille across the entrance. A few cattle grazed inside the fence. Just another California farm.
Right. What gave it away was the gate itself, disguised to look like a simple corrugated thing, like the ones that I’d seen from Maryland to Georgia to the West. But this gate wasn’t hinged; it was on rollers. A small call box, camouflaged with morning glories climbing over it, sat off to the left. A tiny camera topped the box.
I was far enough from the entrance that I didn’t think the camera caught me; even so, I wasn’t going to park the car there. I backed out of the small road and drove slowly along the shoulder. After about a half mile, the shoulder flattened just enough that I could get the car off the road if I put most of it into the grass. I parked.
I made sure Dr. Tobel’s ID cards were in my pocket, hoping that with my shirt and jacket and ID, I might actually be able to talk any roving security guard into believing I was Harriet—call me Harry—Tobel. I took my jacket from the car and put it on, took the cell phone. As carefully as I could, I climbed over the barbed wire fence. It wasn’t careful enough, because I got a nice two-inch tear in the seat of my pants. Then I set out over the rise, hoping to God I wouldn’t be picked up by marauding security, wouldn’t get lost, wouldn’t die of dehydration.
Early afternoon in Gilroy was hot, and I’d sweated through my T-shirt and button-down before I was halfway up the hill. Depending on how long I needed to walk in this, dehydration would become a real risk. Once I actually got to the farm, I didn’t imagine anyone would be waiting for me on the porch with a big glass of lemonade.
On the crest of the hill, I had a better view of what lay below. Unfortunately, the view did not include a farm of any sort, but I could see the dirt entrance road to my right and was able to follow it, keeping a good distance between me and it.
Down into a shallow valley, over another rise. I was burning through any excess body water I had and seriously considered calling it a day and heading back to the car. But, I hoped, they would still be moving things into the farm, still causing some sort of distraction. That was kind of a laugh, and I actually laughed out loud: distraction. As if I were a spy. I wasn’t really sure what I would do with a “distraction.”
Twenty minutes later, I saw it. I must have been a good two miles from the main road, and the collection of buildings I saw ahead of me was a half mile or more away. From that distance, I was impressed at how normal everything looked. I don’t know what I was expecting—some glass-and-steel monstrosity, maybe—but what I saw looked like any other farm. A collection of white metal outbuildings, a few farm vehicles. Happily, a big white moving van was ass-end against one of the structures.
I sat, trying to recall every spy or war movie I’d ever seen, trying to figure out how to approach the place. I could wait for dark, but by then the movers would be gone. Hell, they were probably winding up as I watched, feeling my sweat dry, figuring out what to do. So, I stood and walked straight down the hill. There was a corral of sorts below me, and I walked toward it. I had my story ready: car out of gas, needed a phone. If they asked me why I’d walked for three miles instead of flagging a passing car . . . well, I suppose I could always turn on the tears.
I got to the fenced corral without being shot. The area was not the muddied flat you’d expect in a regular hog farm. From growing up in semirural Pennsylvania, I knew that hogs use mud to cool themselves off. But these weren’t regular hogs, and so enjoyed a thickly sodded, well-tended pasture. Clean, if that term was appropriate for a farm. I wondered how the hogs felt about that.
The split-rail fence was cosmetic—a weird nod to aesthetics—and was backed by an electrified grid. The hogs or other animals that frolicked in the area had no chance of escape. Extending into the larger fenced area were smaller pens, each about thirty feet square. For each pen, there was a door. These pigs were not allowed to mingle, after all. The long fence that ran around the whole area was redundant, perhaps to prevent escape.
The first thing I noticed about the building I now approached was its sheen. This wasn’t some structure appropriated from an old working farm; it had been built in the past few years. The white paint was bright enough to have been applied in the past few months, after the winter rains. An air-conditioning unit hummed somewhere ahead of me.
I followed the sound to another building separated from the first by a paved pathway. Doors to both buildings gave out onto the path, each with a black security pad blinking with a red light. I waited for ten minutes and, seeing or hearing no one, walked along the path and around the corner of the second building. From there, I saw the white moving truck backed against yet another building, which looked like it was connected to the second. Unlike most science buildings I’d been to, this place was a jumble of small buildings connected by covered walkways. I guess that’s how you build when efficiency of space isn’t a consideration.
Men in blue coveralls were unloading the last of the boxes from the back of the truck into what had to be a laboratory. Among the burly men, I saw a flash of jet-black hair. Alaine. I pulled back behind the corner of the building.
Retracing my steps, I walked to the second building and fished Dr. Tobel’s Chimeragen card from my pocket.
I should have waited, probably, until nightfall. I should have been dressed in black and armed with any number of high-tech gadgets. In fact, for this job, I should have been someone else, someone who’d done things like this before. As it was, I tucked in my shirt, then held the card to the black box next to the door. The lock beeped and clicked, and I walked inside.
The room was small, blank except for a door set into the opposite wall, a sink, a footbath, and a cart stacked with the usual protective stuff. And—oh, yes—a camera pointing straight at me. I grabbed a mask and gown and skullcap off the cart and quickly put them on—if anyone was watching, I didn’t want to alert them by violating protocol. In the sink, I scrubbed my hands and stepped into the footbath. After that, I put my card next to another automatic lock.
A blast of air rushed out as I passed through the doorway into a much larger room. There was a single stainless steel mesh walkway down the center. Flanking the walkway were about ten pens, five on each side. I could hear grunting and the squeal of pigs. There were cameras everywhere—at either end of the walkway, looking down into the hogs’ pens—but with my mask and gown, they didn’t faze me.
The first pen was separated by a low metal gate. Its hinges were at the base, so it would fall forward—to the steel walkway—when unlocked, creating a ramp from the pen to the walkway; convenient, if you needed to pull Piggy from the pen and transport him to the OR. Speaking of the OR, the pen was as clean as many operating rooms I’d seen. The wood shavings at the bottom looked freshly changed. There was a spout running into the pen for water—no standing bowl of H2O for these fellows—and another tubular device for depositing food. In the middle of the pen sat a medium-sized, impossibly clean and pink pig. He, or she, gazed up at me and grunted. Then, for whatever pig-reason, it jogged to the water tube and began sucking.
I walked between the pens, each identical, each holding a pig that looked exactly like the ones in the pens I’d passed. I pushed through the door at the end of the hallway.
I stood in a small antechamber. There were two computers here, a chair, a few environmental monitors (humidity, temperature), and security television screens that flipped back and forth between shots of the pigs and of the entrances to the buildings. The banks of screens were divided, it looked like, into “Bertha” and “Abby.” As the images flipped, I could see that each of the pens was labeled with a number: Bertha 1, Bertha 2, and so on. Abby, however, showed a bunch of blank pens.
One of the Abby screens flipped to a screen called “Walkway 1”; on it, I saw a gowned individual striding along the stainless steel walkway.
“Shit,” I breathed to myself.
CHAPTER 82
I heard a door open.
“Jesus!” a man’s voice said.
I turned. Gown and mask, I told myself, terrific disguise. “Hi,” I said.
“Hi,” the man said. He wore glasses and I could see his eyes squinting behind them. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m from Dr. Tobel’s lab.” I gave a little wave. You didn’t shake hands in a sterile environment. “Yonnick . . . Gladwell,” I said.
“Oh. You came in with the movers.”
He offered; I took. “Yes. Just showing myself around. You don’t mind?”
“Not at all. You wash up before you walked in?”
“Of course.”
“Good. I’m Bill Dyson, staff veterinarian. I don’t remember your name. You new?”
“Yes. Well, sort of. I worked in Dr. Tobel’s other lab at the university. But came down here when . . . well, you know about Dr. Tobel. . . .”
“Yeah. A shame.”
“Anyway, with the clinical trials about to rev up, they’re reappropriating some of us. Or, actually, I wanted to be reappropriated.”
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