Sector C

by Phoenix Sullivan

  Within a month of their hooking up, he’d asked her to fly to Alaska. She’d gone willingly, eagerly anticipating the grand vistas, the flights of eagles and the singing of whales. What she hadn’t anticipated was a helicopter ride that turned out to be an opportunity for Charles to hunt some polar bear.

  “We’re up here, he’s down there — just this once, sweetie,” he’d pleaded when she protested, shouting the words to be heard above the whock whock of the copter blades.

  Just this once was a mantra she’d come to hate over the years. Sixteen of them, to be exact. There was never any once with Charles. If he got pleasure from it, he pursued it. That abandonment — and, frankly, that stamina — was what kept her enamored of him in the beginning. What 22-year-old wouldn’t get a thrill from a 30-year-old man who lived on the edge and picked up jewelry from Saks as often as other men picked up take-out?

  After awhile, though, the thrill indeed wore off, and Sylvia, to her dismay, realized her husband was one of the most superficial, not to mention selfish, people on the face of the planet. It was her involvement with the local social clubs that pointed out the degree to which her husband fell short of other affluent men in the community. When describing their lives and husbands, other women used words such as cosmopolitan, philanthropic, civic and other charitable terms Sylvia was quite sure Charles didn’t know the meaning of.

  If she admitted it to herself, becoming involved in animal rights organizations was not so much a humanitarian gesture on her part, but backlash for and a way to spite Charles’ avarice for hunting.

  The second straw was the intern: Charlene. Twenty-three-year-old Charlene. Charlene who was in law school, boning up on business law and, apparently, boning her husband, too. Truth be known, Sylvia, now 38, had grown tired of Charles’ attentions and when the frequency of their lovemaking dropped off, she had felt relief rather than anger. Her days of wearing tiny, diaphanous, slit-down-to-there-and-up-to-here dresses around the house just so she could keep a naturally wandering husband from straying were well behind her. Not that she hadn’t dallied once or twice herself, but her affairs had all been short-lived, meaningless and, above all, discreet.

  “A 46-year-old married attorney should have the decency to keep his hard-on pocketed in public,” Sylvia had complained to Charlene’s mother when the two of them had gone for lunch at the Jane Austin Tea Room. It didn’t surprise her when Charlene’s mother politely agreed.

  What really rankled Sylvia, though, and was, for her, the third straw, was Charles’ lies. Over the last few years, lying had become a compulsion for him. Whether he had reason or not to lie, he lied. About the affair, about his vacations, about where he’d been that afternoon and who his clients were. About where he’d eaten lunch and how much he’d lost — or won — while gambling. If there was a way to prevaricate, he did. And not just big, grand lies either, but small, insignificant ones too.

  “Is that Michel Germain?” Sylvia had asked, inhaling the fragrance of him one morning at breakfast.

  “Creed. Black Creek,” he’d answered as he tucked the last of the boysenberries into his mouth.

  Later, in his bathroom, she had found an opened bottle of Michel Germain’s Libido on the counter. A hunt through the cabinets and in the trash, however, had not turned up a whiff of Creed — Black Creek, Green Valley or otherwise.

  Apparently, Charles had been lying about his business trips, too. The invitation from Triple E confirmed that. The only reason she got it first, of course, was that she’d thrown him out two weeks before while the lawyer drew up the divorce papers. He’d told her he hadn’t been hunting. He’d told her a new business venture kept him traveling twice a year.

  The receipts for flights to North Dakota confirmed the trips. He’d gone where he’d said he had. Only Triple E was a hunt club, not some business venture he was looking to make a profit with. In fact, he had to have been spending some high dollars with the good folks at Triple E. The new rifle that came with the invitation confirmed that. Corporations didn’t send you expensive new toys unless you’d spent a lot of money with them, made them a lot of money or otherwise turned tricks for them.

  Well, Sylvia thought, I have one last surprise for you, Charles dearest.

  CHAPTER 16

  “GRIGOR, IT’S REFOLDED!” Srini Bhalerao rushed into the lab where Triple E’s lead geneticist was bent over a series of test tubes. With a practiced hand, Grigor Volkov was pipetting protease into the tubes in an attempt to separate out the suspected prion isomers they contained.

  Dr. Volkov frowned briefly at the young woman’s lack of formality, but the news was much more important right now than a lesson in manners. “What does it look like?” he asked.

  “Not PcPC unfortunately,” Srini said, her enthusiasm evident from the way she bounced as she spoke. “It’s different. But we can’t find anything like it. We think it might be a new prion.”

  “New?”

  Srini nodded. “And it’s consistent, like you predicted.”

  “I predicted a reversal of the old one, not the creation of a new.”

  “Whatever, we’ve tested it three times now, and each time the mutant prion has refolded and taken on the exact same characteristics of this new one. It’s not a slam dunk yet, but it’s refolding and it’s replicable.”

  Replicable. The word all science lived and died by.

  By this time, Srini had earned the privilege to address him however she wanted without repercussion. The news of the research was good, it was tantalizing — still, ultimately, it was only the beginning. He looked from his unfinished pipetting to Srini’s flushed and eager face. His work could wait, he decided. “Let’s see how it reacts in a live host.”

  With a fair amount of skepticism coupled with anticipation, he followed Srini to the recently instated pathology lab to begin testing the best hope they’d yet created.

  Fitting, he thought, if his team were to discover a cure. They were, after all, the ones whose research had inadvertently introduced a new disease into the world. It was, Dr. Volkov reflected, much as Darwin had imagined: To kill an error is as good a service as, and sometimes even better than, the establishing of a new truth or fact.

  Of course, if they didn’t kill their error soon, there might well be no one left to care.

  It was that thought, not the promise of bonuses or promotions, that drove the Russian to work 18-hour days and spend nights sleeping in a cot in the supply room. And it was that thought that made him question the motives of his boss, Walt Thurman. The man had changed in recent months, ever since the decision to take Triple E public. Almost overnight he had turned from scientist/philanthropist into the stereotypical capitalist CEO. And Volkov was not liking the man Thurman had become.

  There were other companies, other opportunities for a talented geneticist instrumental in carrying out one of the biggest scientific coups in history. Once he could go public with his involvement, and once this disease was under control, he had made the decision he would break ties with Triple E and find another company that valued the effort of pure research as much as Thurman and the rest of Triple E had in its early years.

  For now, though, he had months of continued research and testing ahead, even if this new prion was the answer, before he could even consider jumping ship for another opportunity.

  As Srini slid her security badge through the reader to open the pathology lab door, she flashed Dr. Volkov a wide grin. This is really it, that grin assured him. Trying to hold his expectations in check but allowing himself a modicum of hope, Dr. Volkov stepped into the lab, ready to lead his team into the next phase of live testing.

  CHAPTER 17

  SYLVIA LOVED MEETINGS. Not the actual agenda items, which usually bored her silly, but she loved the energy and the camaraderie and, especially, the little finger sandwiches. If there was one temptation to her perfectly maintained body, it was finger sandwiches.

  Today, however, she was the agenda item. And she had soon-to-be-ex-husband Charl
es to thank.

  Dressed in tight-fitting aqua Capri pants paired with a long sleeveless pink sweater jacket over a white camisole, which was this season’s fashion must, Sylvia clutched a long shipping box as she made her way to the pavilion in Fullerton Arboretum. The organizers had set up the snack area and draped a buffet table with the ASTEAM banner that proudly proclaimed this was an official meeting of the Animal Stewardship That’s Ethical and Moral organization, and bore the motto: We’re ASTEAM — Stop Animal Exploitation.

  Already, members were entering the pavilion and greeting each other with hugs and air kisses. Though legally open to everyone to retain their charitable organization status, the ASTEAM membership mainly tended to wives of well-to-do businessmen. Like Sylvia, their goals were more around catching up with old friends and being seen in the latest couture, preferably with someone available from the Society section to snap their photos and mention their presence at a charitable event.

  Fellow members politely told her how much they were looking forward to her talk and wasn’t it nice to have one of their own saying something rather than some stranger as a guest speaker. She reveled in the attention and returned their comments with wit and laughter and just the right touch of practiced humility. More than anything, she loved the social dance.

  Well, almost more than anything. Sylvia dropped her package on the speaker table then hurried to find a triangular bit of sandwich and a sip of wine before the meeting started.

  /////

  A half hour later, Sylvia stood at the podium next to ASTEAM’s president and co-founder, Fiona Boyle. They posed and smiled for photos before Fiona officially opened the meeting with the group’s rallying cry. “We are ASTEAM and we’re here to stop animal exploitation!” She waited for the quick clapping of fingertips to palms to die down before continuing. “For our first agenda item today, I am pleased to present Sylvia Decker, who is here to share breaking news about a canned hunt and her daring plans for an expose. You go, girl!”

  “Thank you, Fiona.” Sylvia looked out at the three dozen or so members to make sure she had their full attention. “My husband recently received an invitation to participate in a canned hunt the company in question is billing as Megahunt: The Last Shot.” Pleased by the murmur from the audience, Sylvia opened the package on the table and lifted out the engraved Sako rifle with its English walnut stock. The murmur around the tables turned into a collective gasp, which pleased Sylvia even more. “They sent this as an enticement.

  “They also sent along three menus of options for hunting.” She pulled out the invitation. “Basically, the company, Triple E Enterprises, offers various big game on a sliding scale. You can choose to hunt in the most economic range, their A Sector, where you pay to kill an elephant, tiger, bear, wolf, or rhino and the company chooses what variety you get for your money, starting at one hundred thousand dollars. Or you could choose to hunt in Sector B, and while you have the same choice in species, the company makes sure you get to kill a rare or endangered animal. Like a Black Rhino or a White Tiger or an Andean Bear. Then there’s Sector C, where the varieties, though it doesn’t name them on the invitation, are apparently exclusive to Triple E. An exclusivity that comes with a very high price tag. Even at 25 percent off, it’s 750 thousand dollars for a single wolf up to a million two for a rhino.”

  “Is that legal?” Fiona asked. “Killing endangered animals, even if you own them? For that matter, can you actually legally own them?”

  A slightly uncomfortable rustling in the audience as the women unconsciously shrugged or frowned and shook their heads confirmed no one had the answer. Not that any of them had actually thought about it before, or had the legal knowledge for any sort of informed opinion anyway.

  “Well,” Sylvia continued, “as most of you know, due to unforeseen circumstances, Charles will not be able to attend the hunt.” She waited through the polite laughter. “I intend to go in his place and at least take some pictures. I’m thinking when I get back we can hire an attorney — or press Alysha’s husband into service if he’ll agree — to investigate further.”

  “We could organize a protest once we have proof,” one woman proposed over her champagne flute.

  “Maybe get some media coverage,” another suggested.

  “Oh my, media. Mr. Spitzer,” Fiona found the society reporter at the edge of the pavilion taking a wide-angle shot of the attendees. “I think you understand this must remain strictly confidential information so we don’t compromise Sylvia’s success. You will only hint at our plans for now, won’t you?”

  The overly lean but quite stylish Mr. Spitzer grinned. “Mystery. Intrigue. What daring plot is ASTEAM hatching to can a company the way the company cans hunts? The game is afoot. We’ll share all the intimate details with you in next week’s edition of Scene at Large.”

  “You are a wizard with words, Mr. Spitzer, and a true gem.”

  “When is the hunt?” he asked.

  “It starts on July 11,” Sylvia said. “I'll be flying out in ten days."

  "And where is it?"

  "North Dakota. I'm not exactly sure where, but in the northwest-ish part of the state.” Sylvia waited for other questions.

  “Do you know what you’ll be ‘hunting’?”

  “I went with one of their exclusive elephants. It’s 1.1 million dollars with 20 percent in advance. But it’s Charles’ money, so why not?” The deep collective chuckle told Sylvia this audience approved.

  “Are you going alone? What if the company finds out what you’re doing?”

  That made Sylvia pause. What started out as a way to possibly destroy something Charles loved had turned into a way to gain prestige and media attention — commodities she would desperately need once she no longer had Charles’ name to give her social props. Any danger she might be placing herself in she had sublimated, refusing to acknowledge it. She didn’t intend to actually hunt, so she didn’t need to fear an animal attack. But she had given little thought to her ruse being discovered and what a company that invited firearms onto their premises might do to someone out to undermine them.

  “I guess,” she said with a naive smile that Mr. Spitzer captured with perfect artistry, “I’d come home a little earlier than expected.”

  CHAPTER 18

  THE SUNDAY NIGHT BEFORE THE Megahunt got officially underway, long tables draped with checkered red-and-white linens had been set up under the stars. Places for about 30 people — clients and employees both — had been readied for dinner. Barbecue was the featured entrée, with choices of ribs, chopped beef, chicken, shrimp or venison. Plain fare for the fourteen clients — thirteen men, one woman — representing over three billion dollars in net worth, but the implied theme was “roughing it.” The food went down readily enough, as did ample quantities of beer, and everyone seemed to be having a good time to Walt Thurman’s great relief as he mingled from table to table playing the genial host.

  A distant trumpeting cut the night air. Forks paused as the guests all listened for an answering call that didn’t come.

  “Sounds like a rather big elephant out there, Walt,” one of the clients called out. “I do hope it’s mine.”

  “I’m sure it is, Tigh,” another patron answered. “It’s hollering because it’s afraid — of mine!”

  The group laughed, a few imported beers each making the retort seem funnier than it was.

  One particularly inebriated man who hadn’t been able to convince his wife to splurge even the sharply discounted prices for the elite hunt site, bemoaned his luck to the table he was sitting with in hopes someone would spill the secret as to what they’d be hunting in Sector C. “It’s albinos, isn’t it? I bet it’s albinos! Or is it those crosses? Those tigons or ligers or tigards. Or Indalayan elephants. Mulatto rhinos? Just a hint, guys. It’s not like I’m gonna be in there stealing your shot. I just wanna know what I’m missing out on. What’s worth a million bucks a pop? Damn, it’s gotta be those crosses.”

  The CEO of a mid-sized re
tailer leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, “Did you ever think maybe it’s albino crosses?”

  “Jeez. Seriously? That’d sure be one in a billion, wouldn’t it? Sweet! Unless the genetics guys are slapping them out like dolls from a mold, you know. Then maybe they wouldn’t be worth anything. Not really. ‘Cause if just anybody can have one, then hell, why have one, huh? I mean, why pay for, like, the reproduction if it’s not the original? But an albino liger — those things can weigh up to ... what? Fifteen, sixteen hundred pounds? Yeah, I’d like to see one of those up close in my scope. So you’d tell me if it’s really albino crosses, wouldn’t you? Because it just hurts knowing I’m missing something good but not knowing what it is. You know?”

  /////

  After dinner, Helen Marsh cornered Walt Thurman outside the research center where starlight competed with the glare from a security light.