He beat his own best time by nearly three-fifths of a second, and the school record by thirty-eight hundredths.
CHAPTER
25
The French doors to the garden outside Rob’s office were wide open, but Katharine felt as if the walls were closing in around her. All day—ever since she’d arrived at the estate’s gate that morning—she’d been unable to rid herself of the feeling of being watched. Indeed, the creepy sense that unseen eyes were following her every movement had grown stronger with each hour that passed, until finally she’d found herself suspecting that even the gardener, who appeared after lunch with a rake and a broom and proceeded to remove every fallen leaf and blossom from every square inch of garden she could see, was there solely to spy on her. That she had never once been able to catch him even looking at her, let alone snapping pictures of her, or aiming something that could be an amplifying microphone in her direction, had done nothing to dissuade her. Not that she had any idea what an amplifying microphone would look like, even if she tripped over one. She had been unable to bring herself to make any more phone calls for fear that the instrument was bugged, and before lunch, she had actually unscrewed the handset of Rob’s phone, examining the inner parts for something that might be a tiny extra microphone, but had given that up, too.
The day had turned into an eternity, and if she hadn’t also convinced herself that leaving early would be considered suspect, she would have fled right after talking to Elaine Reynolds and Keith Shelby.
Instead, she had stayed in Rob’s office, her paranoia in full bloom, attempting to appear to whoever might be watching her as if she were proceeding with her normal work, establishing an identification for the skeleton from the site near the fumarole. But what she had actually been thinking about for the last three hours was what she’d seen in the Serinus Project laboratory.
And what Rob had said yesterday about canaries being lowered into mine shafts. The more she thought about it, the more certain she had become that the animals in the cages were precisely that. They were being used to test the levels of toxins that oxygen-breathing creatures could withstand in the atmosphere.
But there was a question that kept haunting her:
Given what they were breathing, and the levels at which they were breathing it, how were any of the animals surviving at all?
In mid-afternoon she’d gone onto the Internet, where she spent some time hunting for information about the effects on animals of the various chemicals being circulated through the Plexiglas boxes. The conclusions she came to were inescapable: given the levels of poisonous gases she’d seen on the gauges, every one of the animals should have been dead.
But they weren’t.
The only logical conclusion, then, was that the Serinus Project was far more than simply a study of the effects of pollution on various life-forms.
There must be experiments going on, as well. Experiments in which the animals were being treated to make them resistant to pollutants in the atmosphere.
Her thoughts kept returning to the strange object she’d seen in the last room she explored, and the odd thing the technician had said: “I thought maybe a new face might have a new idea.”
It hadn’t taken her long to figure out that the technicians in the lab knew only as much as they needed to know in order to do their jobs, and obviously Yoshihara had decided they did not need to know the precise nature of the spherical object or its contents. Yet he’d made no attempt to conceal the sphere.
Their job was to tend the animals, and, she suspected, administer doses to them of whatever substance was being obtained from the tube protruding from the sphere.
A gas? Possibly. Both the object’s spherical form and its heavy-looking metallic composition seemed designed to withstand tremendous pressures. Such as those that would emanate from a liquefied gas.
Though it seemed almost impossible to her, the logical conclusion appeared to be that whatever was being given to the animals was intended to counteract the effects of the poisonous gases they were breathing. And, since some of them were still living, it must be working, at least to some extent.
But if the gaseous contents of the sphere could change the metabolism of the animals, enabling them to survive in a poisonous atmosphere, what might the side effects be?
She stared at the strange skeleton she’d unearthed. Could it be some kind of anthropoid that had been altered right here in Takeo Yoshihara’s research pavilion, and simply been buried after it died?
But as she gazed at the skeleton, noting yet again that it was far more humanoid than anthropoid, and remembered Mark Reynolds’s body lying in the drawer downstairs, and the protected files on the computer, an insidious idea began to form:
Was it possible that it wasn’t simply animal experiments that were protected in the files of the Serinus directory?
What if the research was being carried out on people as well?
What if Mark Reynolds’s body hadn’t been brought to Maui because he had died from the effects of prolonged inhalation of carbon monoxide?
Her mind raced. More and more of the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place:
If you wanted to administer a gas to someone, how could it be done?
Tanks, of course.
There was certainly no reason that air tanks couldn’t be filled with something other than air, and both Mark Reynolds and Shane Shelby had been scuba diving when they’d been on Maui.
What if Mark Reynolds and Shane Shelby weren’t the only ones?
The files! The damned protected files that she had no way of getting into! But surely she knew someone—
Phil Howell!
He was on the computer all the time!
She reached for the phone to call him, but instantly changed her mind as paranoid thoughts of cameras and hidden microphones rose up, stopping her. Except, she thought, if there was even a scintilla of validity to the horrifying theory that had taken shape in her mind, then there was nothing paranoid about her fears at all.
She glanced at the clock—nearly four.
A perfectly reasonable time to leave, and plenty of time to get to Phil Howell’s office in Kihei. If he weren’t there, surely she’d be able to find him at the Computer Center across the street She prepared to leave Rob’s office, doing her best to appear as if nothing were amiss.
Every move she made seemed self-consciously over-casual, and in her own mind she gave herself away a dozen times When she wrote a carefully worded note to Rob—“Meet me at Phil’s office. I’ve had an idea”—she could almost feel a camera peering over her shoulder, not merely reading the words, but translating their meaning as well. But when she finally passed through the lobby a few moments later, the guard only nodded to her, barely looking up from his magazine.
She kept the car at exactly the speed limit as she started toward Kahului, and was about to pass the shortcut to Makawao when she thought once more of Michael.
For the last hour, since she began to consider the possibility that Mark Reynolds and Shane Shelby had inhaled something other than air from their scuba tanks, she’d been trying not to think about the possibility that the same thing could have happened to Michael.
And one of the boys with whom he’d gone diving was already dead!
She told herself that she was letting her paranoia get out of control, that Kioki Santoya’s death was just a terrible, but meaningless, coincidence. But as she came to the turnoff to Makawao, she knew she had no choice Michael had track practice this afternoon He should still be out on the field. If he was there, she would continue on to Kihei. If he wasn’t ….
Her skin crawled and her heart pounded as she tried to reject even the thought that what might be happening to Michael was what had already struck Mark Reynolds and Shane Shelby.
As the school came into view, she slowed the Explorer, pulling to a stop as close to the track as she could get. There were a dozen boys standing along the track on the opposite side. For a moment Katharine couldn�
��t make out Michael at all. Then she saw him, crouched low, his feet braced against a pair of starting blocks. A man she assumed must be the coach was holding his hand high in the air, and then, as the man’s hand dropped, Michael took off, pushing off the blocks and sprinting down the track, the other boys cheering him on.
As she watched him run the hundred meters, Katharine felt at least part of her fear finally begin to diminish.
No matter what had happened—no matter what might have been done to Mark Reynolds and Shane Shelby and Kioki Santoya, Michael was safe.
In fact, it looked to her as if he was in better condition right now than he’d ever been in his life.
As she pulled away from the curb she barely noticed the dusty sedan that had been parked ahead of her.
She certainly didn’t notice that the man sitting behind its steering wheel had also been watching Michael.
Watching him even more carefully than she.
Michael released the breath he had unconsciously been holding as he watched his mother’s car pull away from the curb and head toward the Haleakala Highway. At least she hadn’t gotten out of the car—that would have been all he needed! It had made him self-conscious enough when the rest of the team stopped practicing and lined up along the track to watch him run, but if his mother had actually gotten out of the car and come over to watch, too
Just the thought of it made him flush with embarrassment.
On the other hand, if she’d stayed around and watched, then at least he’d have had a chance of convincing her he was telling the truth when he told her about the records he’d set today.
Though the times were unofficial, he’d broken the school records in the fifty-, hundred-, and two-hundred-meter sprints, and though he’d had to go inside and breathe a little more ammonia before the last run, he still felt really good. As his mother’s car disappeared around a bend, he turned his full attention back to the track.
Even after having beaten every sprinting record for the school, he still felt totally terrific So terrific, in fact, that maybe he’d just try some of the longer runs.
He set out down the straightaway, pacing himself carefully to make it all the way around the quarter-mile loop of the track. Settling into a comfortable jog, he wasn’t even breathing hard as he turned into the first curve. He held his pace steady until he came into the long straightaway on the opposite side of the field from the bleachers, but then put on some speed as he started down the backstretch.
A month ago—even a week ago—he would be feeling it by now. His breath would be getting shallow, and his legs starting to burn, and by the time he got to the far end, he’d have to slow down to a walk, if he didn’t collapse onto the ground, gasping and panting until his breath finally returned to normal Today, though, there was no pain in his legs and his breathing was still regular, though he was finally starting to feel the effects of the stress he was putting his body under.
Mostly it was just the beginning of a slight heaviness in his chest. It didn’t hurt, really. It was just a feeling that something wasn’t quite right.
Moving into the turn, he stepped up the pace a little more; whatever was going on in his chest would go away if he just ignored it. Shifting from the jog into a fast trot, he came out onto the stretch in front of the empty grandstands. As his gaze swept across the bank of empty seats, Michael imagined them filled with cheering people, and once again he upped his pace, the fast trot giving way to a lope that was easier on his legs but required more work by his lungs.
He made it around the second lap, and finally he was starting to feel a little heat in his legs. And his chest was hurting, too, but it wasn’t the same as the asthmatic agony he’d grown up with.
This felt like the healthy pain of exertion, and he was sure that if he didn’t give in to it—if he just kept his pace steady, or even increased it a little—he might break right through the pain and, for the first time, experience the high he’d heard long-distance runners talk about since he was a little kid, but which he had never felt himself. As he finished the third lap, his coach fell in beside him.
“What’s going on, Sundquist? You said you couldn’t do distances.”
Michael flashed the coach a quick grin. “Just feel like running, that’s all.”
Peters shot him a quizzical look. “You been taking something?”
Michael felt an instant stab of guilt. What should he say? Should he lie? But ammonia wasn’t a drug! It was nothing but cleaning fluid.
All the warnings he’d read on the label flashed through his mind. But if it was really as poisonous as the label had claimed, how come he was still feeling so good?
Except that suddenly he wasn’t feeling so good.
The breakthrough he’d been expecting—the surge of pheromones that he’d been sure would wash the pain from his chest, giving him a second wind that would send him sprinting around the last quarter of the mile run he’d set out to do—hadn’t come.
Instead, the pain in his chest was worse, and now the burning in his legs was starting to feel like fire.
The ammonia! That was it!
It had to be!
The pain was increasing by the second now, and he felt himself falter.
Keep going. If you can just keep going, you can get through it!
The coach, still keeping pace beside him, spoke again. “What’s going on, Sundquist? You don’t look so good.”
So the pain was starting to show in his face now. If he got caught—if the coach found out what he’d been doing in the cleaning closet—he’d get kicked off the team for sure!
Run, he told himself. Just keep on running. It’ll be okay!
But as he turned into the curve leading to the backstretch, his stride was way off and he could feel himself losing the pace.
His breath was getting ragged, too, and now every time he expanded his lungs, it felt as if knives were thrusting into his chest.
Stumbling, he lost his pace completely, regained it for a couple of steps, then stumbled again. This time, knowing he was going to fall, he veered off onto the grass of the football field, and finally collapsed onto the ground.
“Sundquist? Sundquist!” Jack Peters was crouching beside him now. Michael was lying on his back, and as he stared up into the sky, he saw it darken, lights darting around the edges of his vision, as though he was about to black out.
Or die.
No! He couldn’t be dying. Not now! Not after he’d just been feeling so good, and running better than he’d ever run in his life!
He had to get back on his feet, keep going, get through it. He rolled over, tried to pull himself into a crouch, and flopped back onto the ground. Then he felt the coach’s hands on his shoulders, turning him back over.
“Just lie there,” he heard the coach say. “What is it, Sundquist? What happened?”
Darkness was closing in on him now, and no matter how hard he tried to catch his breath, he couldn’t seem to get any air.
Then he felt another pair of hands on him and heard another voice.
Rick Pieper’s voice.
“Michael? Michael, what’s wrong? What is it?”
Feeling the strength ebbing from his body, Michael struggled to form a word. His lips worked, but as the seconds ticked by, no sound came out.
Rick Pieper looked up at the coach, his eyes filled with terror. Kioki Santoya was already dead, and Jeff Kina and Josh Malani had both disappeared. And now Michael looked like he was dying right in front of his eyes. “Do something!” he begged “For God’s sake, can’t you do something?”
The coach leaned down. “What is it?” he demanded, speaking directly into Michael’s ear. “What are you trying to say?”
Michael’s tongue felt thick, but he struggled hard, and in a whisper he managed to stammer out a single word.
“A-Ammonia—”
Exhausted by the effort it took to utter the word, he gave up his struggles and concentrated what little energy he had left on the normally simple task of br
eathing.
A task that was now nearly impossible.
Takeo Yoshihara and Stephen Jameson were in the helicopter when the call came through that Michael Sundquist had collapsed on the field at Bailey High School.
“Where are we?” Yoshihara demanded, speaking into the headset that allowed him to communicate with the pilot despite the thundering racket of the rotor spinning overhead.
“We can make it there in five minutes,” the pilot responded.
“Do it,” Yoshihara ordered. Then he turned his attention to Stephen Jameson “Will he make it?”
“If we get there before the ambulance does,” Jameson replied. “But if they give him the same treatment they gave the boy from Los Angeles, they’ll kill him”
“Then speak to the rescue crew,” Yoshihara ordered. “Tell them you are the boy’s doctor and that they are to do nothing until you arrive.”
The pilot’s voice came over the headsets. “We can’t do that. We don’t have the same frequencies the ambulances use And speak of the devil—take a look!” He was pointing downward and slightly off to the right through the helicopter’s Plexiglas bubble. Speeding along the road below them was an ambulance; even from here they could see its lights flashing.
“Faster,” Takeo Yoshihara ordered. Though he didn’t raise his voice a single decibel, there was a note of total authority in the command that galvanized the pilot.
Tipping the chopper forward, he increased the speed of the rotor, and with a lurch that brought a sickening bile into Stephen Jameson’s throat, though Takeo Yoshihara seemed not to notice the motion, the aircraft shot ahead.
They reached the school thirty seconds before the ambulance. By the time the medics appeared with a stretcher, Stephen Jameson was in full control.
Obeying the doctor’s orders without hesitation, the paramedics strapped Michael onto a stretcher and loaded him into the helicopter.
“Maui Memorial?” the pilot asked, already revving the engine in preparation for lifting off.
John Saul Page 24