Sebastian reached for a tablet PC that was secured to a concrete support post with several strips of Velcro. As he was tapping on the computer’s display, a series of machines instantly thrummed to life. The conveyor belt groaned and shook as the roller mechanisms became engaged. The corn needed to travel fifteen feet before the first batch could be blasted by the gene gun’s massive barrel.
Sebastian put on his protective earphones, anticipating the loud boom to come. The conveyor belt stopped in the expected location.
However, the gun failed to fire.
Seated feet up on his desk, across from his built-in forty-eight-inch television, Edwin Chester watched the informational video, made three months before, for perhaps the twentieth time. Each time, his research assistant behaved as stupidly as the last. Edwin held his thumb on the button of the DVD remote and considered shutting off what he knew was to follow.
Sebastian removed his earphones and rubbed his chin, perplexed. “Hmmmm,” he said as he ruminated on the problem. He sauntered over to the gene gun, where he inspected the barrel in search of the malfunction.
Stop! Edwin urged silently. For God’s sake, you stupid bastard, stop.
The scene moved on with the inexorableness of a glacier.
Sebastian could not discern the nature of the problem from an upright position, so he knelt on the concrete floor. Using a penlight, he peered into the dark aperture.
Power down. Jesus, Sebastian, cut off the fucking helium, and power down.
Sebastian turned toward the camera and smiled. “The contact points in the firing mechanism are off by a millimeter or so,” he said. “I should have it fixed in no time.”
Sebastian pulled down on a lever, which raised the barrel of the gun two feet. The repositioning allowed him access to the gun barrel’s internal mechanics.
Corn seed scattered onto the floor as Sebastian wriggled himself into a supine position on the conveyor belt. Then he reached one hand into the gun barrel and began to fiddle with the connection until there was a satisfying click.
“You stupid bastard,” Edwin said out loud. “You know better than to do this.”
As always, there was nothing he could do.
Sebastian again used his penlight to peer into the muzzle. A thin smile creased the corners of his mouth.
Success.
A second passed.
Edwin cringed and sank farther down in his chair.
His eyes refused to close.
The deafening pop from the huge gene gun seemed louder every time—like the backfiring of an eighteen-wheeler. The sound was followed immediately by a faint discharge of smoke from the barrel.
Sebastian cried out and rolled off the conveyor belt in obvious agony, clutching his face. Blood instantly seeped out from between his fingers and spewed through multiple punctures in his neck. He lay on his back on the corn kernels, his body jerking spasmodically as jets of scarlet sprayed the equipment and soaked the floor beneath him. Then he lowered his hands and pressed futilely against the skin over his carotid arteries as if knowing that was where the wounds were mortal. The thousands of gold pellets embedded in his face were like an obscene Seurat painting.
Shrieking in pain, Sebastian began picking at the pieces of searingly hot gold microshot. The pellets, used for inserting the DNA plasmid into the kernels, were cooking him alive. Blood continued spurting from his neck while his gold-pockmarked face smoked from the embedded metal.
He writhed on the floor, screaming and pleading for help, gurgling on blood that had seeped inside his mouth and down his throat.
The handsome German, an obsessive weight lifter, was already a corpse whose head and neck were virtually the same golden color as the corn surrounding him.
Edwin snapped off the video playback. Sebastian’s gruesome remains, for a moment frozen on the screen, faded into black.
He had seen enough of the scientist’s bizarre death—especially now that he had the first inklings of an explanation for the man’s behavior—an explanation provided unknowingly by Dr. Lou Welcome.
CHAPTER 36
Lou and the others spent an endless day searching for Notso in the cornfields. The dogs Stone had brought in barked excitedly a couple of times, but then quickly fell silent.
“Rabbits,” their handler said.
After three hours, George’s spirit was broken. His plea for a chopper was brushed off as being fruitless with the corn being as dense as it was. He continued going through the motions of a search, scuffing through the tall stalks and grumbling about Frankencorn. But it was clear he was spent, and in great despair about having to report his cousin’s probable death to his aunt.
Not unexpectedly, Cap was a giant, forging ahead tirelessly over ground they knew they had covered before. Lou found himself wondering how different the man’s life would have been had he simply been allowed to live it. Still, over the years, the two of them had been to countless AA and NA meetings together, and not once had he heard Cap complain about his lot. A power of example he was called by most of those who knew him.
“We’re not done looking,” Stone said to the trio when they got back to the dirt road where their vehicles were parked. “But the dogs are beat. We’ll call in the staties and resume searching in the morning.”
“What the fuck for?” George muttered. “Notso’s dead, and you know it.”
“We’re still viewing this as a search-and-rescue mission, son,” Stone said in his soothing drawl. “If your friend is wounded and somewhere out in this cornfield, we’ll find him. I promise you, we’ll find him.”
Cap could no longer hold back his irritation. “And what about the guys who tried to kill us?” he snapped. “You still viewing this as a crime scene for that as well?”
Stone showed no outward signs of losing his cool. “This whole investigation is going to take some time,” he said. “You’ve got to give us a chance to do our jobs.”
None of the three from D.C. bothered to respond. Instead, they climbed into the Prizm and headed east, back to the District.
Cap dropped Lou off at home only after getting assurances that he would call at the first hint of a return engagement from the muscle who had started it all.
Lou trudged up the staircase to his apartment, then fumbled to unlock his door. Between extended shifts on his feet in the ER, and sessions at the gym, he was in better than decent shape. This fatigue, he knew, was something else—a combination of frustration, bewilderment, and anger, mixed with a good-sized dose of fear—fear not so much for himself as for Emily, Renee, and Steve, as well as his father and Graham.
It was hard to believe the thugs who had followed him home and later ambushed the four of them were through with him. It was also hard to believe they would stop at anything to achieve whatever it was they were being paid to do.
One of the most interesting things to come of all that had happened were Lou’s thoughts of his brother. For reasons that were never completely clear, probably Graham’s shame over Lou’s addiction and months in rehab, the two of them had drifted apart over the years since Graham entered college, and Lou’s life began its gradual deterioration. What Graham would never know, Lou hoped, was that the two occurrences were connected.
Soon before Graham was to enter Georgetown, their father buried himself beneath yet another financial avalanche—this one an absolute crusher that left the man virtually penniless and without hope of recovery. Unwilling to deprive his second son of a college education, Dennis had turned to Lou, who was already generating a salary as a resident. Dennis assumed, without blinking, that Lou could and would help him out. After all, he contended, he had been there as much as he could when it was Lou’s college and med school tuition at stake. Surely Graham, the stronger student of the two, deserved nothing less.
In the beginning, Lou managed, and Graham excelled. Then marriage and Emily forced Lou to add more moonlighting shifts until sleep became a major problem. Enter the friendly, neighborhood amphetamine dealer, and still more
hours of work. It was something like the so-called death spiral that figure skating pairs performed—the woman stretched out almost completely supine, being spun faster and faster by her partner, and closer and closer to the unyielding surface of the ice.
By the time the world and the DEA came crashing in around Lou, Graham had his MBA and was excelling as a businessman, and the distance between the two brothers could be measured in light-years.
The first thing Lou did after a walk-through of his apartment, and a glance into his closets, was to check his email, thinking that he might have received something from Filstrup at the PWO. Nothing. Lou leaned back and stared at the ceiling, consumed by a heavy melancholy. He was disconnected from the thing in life outside of his family that meant the most to him—being able to help sick docs who, more often than not, had very few people, if anyone, on their side. Now, for the second time in his life, he was one of them.
Working through the stack of spam and email from clients who had chosen to ignore his status at the PWO further darkened Lou’s mood. In fact, the only thought that appealed in the least was flopping facedown on his pillow and lying there until sleep brought him some relief. It was then he realized that there was another unread email lost in the remaining spam—this one marked URGENT. The subject line read: Regarding Events in Kings Ridge.
Lou’s mouth went dry.
Dr. Lou Welcome:
For reasons that cannot be revealed, I have become aware of your investigation into the peculiar behaviors exhibited by some residents of Kings Ridge, Virginia. Like yourself, I believe these odd incidents may be connected. Your help is required to prevent what may be a looming disaster.
At precisely ten o’clock on the date of this message, your apartment door buzzer will ring. When it does, you are to go downstairs, where you will find a waiting car and driver. You must then do as he asks. Guaranteed, you will not be harmed. But if you want answers to your questions, then you will comply with this request.
Do not try to determine the source of this message. I have taken the necessary precautions to safeguard my anonymity.
If you are willing to do as I request, please respond to this email with the word WILCO in the message body.
Please, you must help.
The message was unsigned. Lou knew that WILCO was a military term meaning, “will comply,” but that did not mean the message sender was government. He looked up the Web site, anonymousspeech.com, from which the email had been sent. According to the site, which Emily would probably understand better than he did, the service provided the message sender with guaranteed anonymity by constantly moving its Web servers, which were located outside the United States, to different countries, while ignoring all government requests for subscriber information.
Lou felt more curious than apprehensive. A trap of some sort seemed possible, but if so, it was a clumsy one.
You will not be harmed.
At least whoever had written him admitted knowing that there had been trouble.
The people who had followed him before the nightmare in Kings Ridge knew his name and where he lived. They were resourceful and violent. If they were set on harming him, warning him to the contrary made little sense.
No, Lou concluded as he sent the WILCO message and then headed off to shower, this was not a trap.
At 9:15 he toweled off and changed into comfortable jeans and a tan canvas L.L. Bean polo shirt. Then he folded some turkey, sliced tomato, and horseradish mustard in a wrap and finished it with a handful of chips, a can of Diet Coke, and a Kosher dill. At 9:40 he called Emily.
He wanted her to hear his voice as much as he needed to hear hers.
Their conversation was nothing out of the ordinary for them—school, weekend plans, and life at home. It pleased him to learn that the tension with Steve had lessened, and that a conversation with him, one on one, had resulted in his agreeing to allow her to use her computer in her room.
“I’m really proud of the way you’re handling this, honey,” he said.
“Thanks. I was a little surprised when he caved in. It turns out he was just trying to help Mom, who was worried about a report from Ms. Sternweiss that I wasn’t checking over my math homework.”
“But you’re doing better at it?”
“Starting to.”
“That’s great, Em. Just great.”
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you okay?”
Lou nearly stumbled on his reply. “Of course I am. Why would you ask?”
“Nothing. Just a weird little chill I had.”
“Well, I’m fine. Everything’s fine. I love you, honey.”
“I know. I love you, too, Daddy.”
“You be good to your mom. Okay?”
“I will.… You sure you’re all right?”
“Tired, but otherwise fine and ready for a Monopoly rematch. I’ll see you Saturday, okay?”
There was another missed beat from Emily’s end, then, “Okay, Daddy. Bye.”
Lou set the phone back in its cradle and braced his arms against the end table. His knees were putty, and the fullness in his chest felt like a balloon.
What in hell have I gotten myself into? he asked once, then again.
He was still leaning against the end table when his apartment buzzer startled him. He glanced at his Timex, a Father’s Day gift from Emily.
Ten o’clock on the nose.
Lou considered grabbing a kitchen knife, but decided against it.
The email made him believe that whoever was waiting for him downstairs wanted his help—for what, exactly, he’d find out soon. Still not completely trusting his knees, Lou held on to the railing on the way downstairs. Breakthrough or danger? Despite having showered, he was starting to sweat. His body was pulsating with a nervous energy.
You’re going to see your daughter on Saturday, he said to himself. You’re going to be fine.
At the foot of the stairs, Lou peered out through the front door’s sidelight window at a large sedan—possibly a town car. A man, graying hair, sharp looking in a dark blazer, tie, and khaki pants, waited beneath the porch bulb. Lou opened the door to accompany him to the car, but the visitor stepped inside the tiny foyer. Lou judged him to be a light-heavyweight, and in shape. Still, his eyes were kind, and Lou felt no threat.
“Dr. Welcome?”
“That’s right.”
“Turn around, please, and put your hands on the wall. I’ve got to frisk you.”
No introduction, and Lou didn’t ask for one. This was a driver—professional muscle. And judging by his not-overwhelming size, a tough one at that.
William Chester, Lou thought. The bodyguard had to be working for the seed magnate.
Lou spread his legs and set his palms on the wall, grateful that he had left the knife in the kitchen. When the driver finished, he escorted Lou down the outside stairs to the town car, idling by the curb. The car’s tinted rear window slid down as they approached. Lou was surprised to see a striking, well-groomed woman sitting alone in the backseat. She looked out at him, smiled thinly, and nodded.
Lou caught his breath as recognition took hold.
He had seen Darlene Mallory on television, in the papers, and in magazines, but this was the first time he had seen her in person. His initial impression was that none of the photos or video footage had done her even remote justice.
CHAPTER 37
Darlene opened the car door and slid over halfway to make room.
Lou stayed where he was, scanning the street.
“Is there a problem?” she asked.
“That depends.”
“On?”
“On whether there are any thick-waisted, bad-tempered, neckless men watching us, and whether your driver can handle himself the way I think he can.”
“Victor is Secret Service and very protective. He shoots anyone who even looks at me cross-eyed, then he asks questions later.”
“Good thing I can’t cross my eyes,” Lou said through
the window. “Nice to meet you, Victor.”
“And you, Doctor. Not to worry about the other thing. I have an agent at the end of the street covering our back. Besides, I hear you’re a decent boxer.”
“Only when the other guy isn’t hitting back.”
Lou climbed in next to the First Lady.
“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Dr. Welcome,” Darlene said.
Lou’s throat went dry as he struggled to find his voice. In the ER, he knew he was sometimes known as Dr. Cool, for the way he kept it together even in the worst emergencies. In fact, over the years, he had treated a number of prominent politicians and even a couple of well-known celebrities without losing his objectivity, except once when he asked for a photo signed to Emily from the previous year’s winner of American Idol. But in the presence of this woman, he felt extremely unsettled.
“Please call me Lou,” he managed. “I’ve found that being called doctor often carries with it heightened expectations.”
“I’ve noticed the same thing,” she said, her grip on his hand warm and confident. “Darlene works fine for me.”
“That’s right, you’re a doc. Do you miss it?”
“Only every day.”
“I’m not surprised. Even after all these years and a gazillion patients, I still love it each time I step into the hospital. It’s the one place in the universe where I actually feel like I know what I’m doing.”
Her smile canceled out his self-consciousness. “Same here,” she said. “My office was my sanctuary. I still think I could tell you something special about every single one of my patients. Pardon me for asking, but are you okay? You look a little pale. Sorry if I’m out of place, but once a doctor, always a doctor.”
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