by Hannah Ross
He rubbed his eyes and pulled a fresh sheet of paper toward him for yet another try of the fateful letter he was trying to compose.
Dear Mama and Papa,
I want you to know that I love you both very much, and that you are in no way to blame for what happened. It was entirely my own doing. Nobody has noticed it, but I am collapsing under the strain. I cannot take this anymore. No man of feeling or conscience could go on with the work set before me, work that will ruin thousands of innocents while supporting the megalomaniac whims of a handful of self-chosen ones. I must stop this, even at the price of my life. This is integrity and justice. This is how you raised me. I have no regrets, and I trust this knowledge will comfort you.
Your affectionate son,
Miguel.
He leaned back, eyes closed. They will never get over this. I know they won't. Without me, their lives will be a blank. Do I have the right to sacrifice these two innocent old people, even for a cause as lofty as this? Don't I have a moral obligation to my parents that's superior to everything else?
He knew the thoughts were a cowardly cop-out, designed to give him an excuse to surrender to the great crushing force of the White Tower. It would be so easy to deliver what was expected of him, to rise, to be rich and important and powerful, to a secure a position he scarcely dared to dream of. But it was not to be. He made up his mind, and he was going to do what must be done, what was right, even though it filled him with desperate, bone-chilling dread.
He folded the letter and put it into a plain white envelope, which he placed in the center of his desk, in clear view. They would find it before long. He tried not to imagine their grief and sorrow.
An hour after midnight, he rose and quietly went to the front door without turning on the light, not daring to look behind for fear his resolution would fail him. He walked down the almost-deserted streets of Tampico, down to the harbor and docks. He climbed a jutting black rock and looked down at the surface of the dark sea below. It was a windy night, and the sea was alive with the sound of rushing waves. Miguel took off his clothes, leaving his mobile phone, his ID card, his wallet, and his laboratory pass in his pockets. He would have no need of them anymore.
The unusually chilly wind made him shiver as he stood on the precipice. He was tempted to close his eyes, but he resolved to keep them open, to do what he had to do with as much courage as he could summon. He was about to end it all, irrevocably.
There were footsteps somewhere behind him and an anxious voice he didn't know called out, "Señor, que se piensa que está haciendo!"
So much the better. He had a witness. Now nobody would have a reason to doubt what was about to happen.
Miguel took one last, deep breath of air, and jumped off the cliff into the stormy waves.
He landed with a powerful splash deep into the turbulent water. It was much colder than he thought it would be, and he had to exercise his utmost effort to swim underwater and get as far away from the spot where he jumped. He desperately wanted to surface and take a breath of air, but he stayed below as long as he could, swimming in the direction of the little nook beneath some rocks he knew and frequented since childhood. His father taught him to swim and dive, skills which he mastered with excellence.
When he finally resurfaced and took a gulp of air, the wind rushed strong and noisy into his ears and he didn't hear the call of the frightened man who witnessed his jump. It was dark, and nothing could be seen. Miguel swam with steady strokes and, despite a slight cramp in his calf, which alarmed him for a moment, reached his destination with no trouble.
He climbed onto the wet sand, naked and shivering with cold, and began to dig in the spot he marked. Soon, sand was shaken from a waterproof package containing clothes and shoes, which he gratefully pulled on, before removing IDs, credit cards, money, and a rusty-red wig, fake beard, and mustache. There was also a rolled-up sleeping bag, which he carried up near the rocks, far from the water, before he shook it open and climbed in. Minutes later, he was warm, but sleep eluded him and he spent the hours remaining until dawn with his eyes open, thinking of the future and listening to the rush of waves.
39
________________________
Saturday, May 17
As the sun cleared the horizon, a red-haired man with a beard boarded a ship destined for Brazil. "Esteban Arroyo," he said, flashing his ID card.
"Buenos Dias, SeñorArroyo," the ship's steward said as he checked his passenger list. "You have a first-class cabin. Someone will be here in a moment to show you the way. I wish you a pleasant journey."
By eight-thirty, Tampico harbor was out of sight. Still, Miguel stared back, straining for a last faint look at the home he was leaving forever.
By nine o'clock, he ordered breakfast, procured himself a newspaper, donned a pair of sunglasses, and settled down in a lounge chair on the deck. The ship was a mix between a cargo-holder and a pleasure-boat, and there were a few other people milling around on the deck, chatting and laughing. Miguel tried to assume the easy manner of a traveler with no care in the world as he headed for Rio de Janeiro.
As he sipped his iced tea, a shadow fell upon his newspaper. He looked up and froze.
"Mierda," he said quietly when he saw Barry, now washed, shaved, dressed in fresh clothes, and smiling in an amused manner that formed quite a contrast to the miserable scrap of humanity he saw a mere two days ago.
"Buenos Dias, Esteban."
For a second Miguel was speechless, but then he regained his senses. Of course the bastard knew.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
"Same as you. Getting away from it all. And I expect my reasons are at least as good as yours."
"My reasons are not—"
"Spare me. I'm smarter than you think." He sat down next to him and lowered his voice. "You were sick of being under the thumb of the White Tower. You disagreed with their methods or whatever. Granted, they are the biggest pile of steaming horseshit in the world. And like a good little boy, you stashed away enough money to get by for a while. So did I. I've been in need of a change and you are in need of company."
"No," snapped Miguel, "I'm not."
"The hell you're not. Escaping to Brazil, huh? You won't last a week. Not without me, anyway."
Miguel frowned. "I don't get this. You know what I did. You could have handed me in, but you didn't. I hope to God you don't, because there's not much I can do to stop you. But why did you leave Tampico?"
"There was nothing to hold me there. The job at the lab was well-paid enough, but I was only a drudge, after all. And unlike you, I didn't have folks or anyone else to miss me. I never have. So what was there left for me?"
Miguel shrugged. "I suppose you can get along just as well in Rio. But getting on the same ship as me was a stupid move. We shouldn't even be talking to each other. Esteban Arroyo doesn't know Barry."
"Yes, but I'm not Barry anymore. My name is Silverio Bernardo, and I'm a marine biologist with a degree from the University of La Paz."
Miguel couldn't help snorting. "Marine biologist? How did you come up with that one?"
"Ricardo had a ready-made certificate and was willing to give it away cheaply, so I thought, why the hell not? Being a well-educated fellow adds credibility."
"You're deluded. No one in their right mind will take you for a marine biologist."
"I suggest you be nicer, Miguelito – oops, sorry, Esteban. We have about two weeks at sea before we arrive in Rio, so we'd better not tread on each other's toes in the meantime."
"Alright. It's true you can take care of yourself far better than I can. So why would you need me? I'd only be a liability."
"It's better to travel in twos. Have someone to help in an emergency. Trust me. I've been on my own long enough to know that."
Miguel was uncertain but not altogether displeased, and raised his glass of tea. "Here's bon voyage to us, then."
Barry toasted him with his own glass which, despite the early hour, looked as if it c
ontained an alcoholic beverage. Then he stretched out, opened a map of Brazil, and together the two unlikely companions hazarded a cautious look toward the future.
40
________________________
Monday, May 19
With his elbows resting on his desk, Alexander Dahl placed his hands over his face and tilted his head forward. Damn the man! This uncharacteristic gesture of weakness and despair could only have taken place in complete solitude. If others were in his office at the White Tower, he would have appeared his usual firm, confident, and energetic self, playing the game despite the discouraging results of the recent polls.
The popularity rating of Ted Connor kept rising. Neither the negative propaganda of Dahl's election office, nor the attempts of Frederick Pearson to dig up dirt from Connor's past, had any effect. They were unable to prove Connor had anything to do with accepting a bribe all those years back, and though there was a certain stir and scandal, and a few scathing articles in The Observer, it wasn't anywhere near enough. Ted Connor's rating dipped very slightly for a couple of days, only to resurface without any negative effect whatsoever. He played his cards well, never ceasing to remind the public that Priscilla Dahl was still missing. Alexander felt as though he could strangle the girl if she now appeared before him. And the brat would deserve it, too.
Unless a miracle happens, the elections are as good as lost. I have to face the truth, acknowledge it, and work on a strategy for the day after I step down. It was not in his makeup to give up, not even if Ted Connor succeeded to his office and his chair. He would still have the backing of his influence, connections, money, and – most important – the Van Wullens. I'm an established force. Ted Connor is a nobody. He might win, but it will be a pyrrhic victory for him. Despite defeat, Dahl would not quit the political scene. He would rally and he would rule, if not openly, then behind the scenes by pulling strings the hapless Connor would have no ability to control.
These considerations, and a nice glass of whisky on the rocks, did so much to compose him that, when Frederick Pearson asked to be admitted, Dahl was able to see his assistant without the sinking, apprehensive feeling that accompanied all their meetings of late.
"Spare me, Pearson," he said, seeing the thin, black, official-looking file in his assistant's hands. "I know what the latest report says. Connor is gaining and we are losing. It isn't impossible for us to win yet, but it's growing more and more unlikely by the day."
Pearson hesitated. "Actually, Mr. President…" Dahl noticed the beads of sweat on his forehead. "Actually, this is about something else."
Dahl's eyes narrowed. "Something else?" His heart having skipped a beat, he added, "Priscilla?"
"No, sir. This isn't about Miss Priscilla. It's…" Pearson cautiously advanced and laid the file on the desk in front of Dahl as if it was a time bomb. "There has been news from Mexico."
Mexico. The research laboratories. The formula. "Another peasant riot? I told you, transfer some budget to appease those people. If necessary, spread a leaflet saying that the research is quite safe. You do have people who can compose a leaflet in Spanish, don't you?"
"It's not that, Mr. President, it's… the lead researcher. He is… dead."
"Dead?" Dahl echoed, not understanding. "How? What happened?"
He never met Miguel Hernandez, but he knew the lead researcher was a young man. A young, energetic man, eager to work, eager to succeed and pave his way in the world. All his hopes and ambitions regarding the recovery of NOAGE were pinned on Hernandez, a talented nobody who was content to work day and night, staking all his life and career on the development of a single artificial virus strand.
"A suicide, apparently. There was an eyewitness." Pearson gestured at the file. "It's all in the report."
Dahl pulled it toward him, opened it, and attempted to read, but it was no good. The letters danced before his eyes and he was unable to make out a single phrase.
"A suicide?" He appeared dazed. "Why? Normal, healthy, mentally stable, successful people don't just decide to end their lives out of the blue. Hernandez was subjected to countless medical examinations, physical and mental, before we entrusted him with the secret of the formula and commissioned him to start work in the laboratory. He passed every test. I was told he was a perfect specimen of a young, sound-minded, gifted scientist. Otherwise he wouldn't have been let near the project." His voice rose. "What happened?!"
"There was a note," said Pearson.
Dahl made an effort and tried to focus on the black-and-white pages. Among the pages of typed text, there was a scanned copy of Miguel Hernandez's last letter to his parents, with a translation in English below. Dahl read it three times, refusing to believe his eyes. Such senseless scruples were unbelievable, and yet, there was something familiar in them as well. It was almost like hearing the voice of that old fool, Professor Keller, once more. He, too, thought the formula of endless youth and life should not exist, should not be distributed to the worthy ones. The damn idiot.
"We made a mistake," Dahl said, flinging the report away from him. "We put too much responsibility into one set of hands. There was nobody to control Hernandez, to be there as a restraining presence. Was there anyone else in the laboratory who had access to the core of the research?"
Pearson shook his head. "Unfortunately, no. All the others are minor workers, technicians, and so forth. Hernandez was the only one with true knowledge in his possession. And he destroyed all his materials. He was very meticulous about it."
Dahl balled his right hand into a fist. Two years of careful planning, of hope and work. All gone down the drain. "We start again, then. Any news of the Source?"
Pearson had nothing satisfying to report on that score either. "The Source appears to have gone as well. I have no idea why, given the promise of making so much more money out of the data in his possession."
"You overdid it. Paid him too much. Never mind, though. You will recruit more men to keep looking for him, and you will deliver him into my hands." He paused and as an afterthought added, "And Priscilla as well."
When the door closed behind Pearson, Dah's shoulders slumped the slightest bit. It's been a bad day, and I have the feeling the longer I stay here, the worse it will get. He picked up the phone, summoned his driver, and in ten minutes was in the back seat of his car on his way to Silver Oaks. Some home comforts might be just what I need to rally my spirits.
* * *
He dismissed the driver at the front gates and walked along the broad, neatly kept access driveway. All around him breathed tranquility, repose, well-being. The beauty of spring, with every leaf and blade of grass succulent with new juices, and every bird and insect full of the busy joy of life, was not wasted on him. The solid, established, permanent beauty of Silver Oaks filled him with a sense of security and made him feel a stab of belated gratitude to Eleanor who, with her choice of him, made his ascent possible. I could have become President even without the Van Wullens, but I couldn't have done it so early in my career. And then there's the formula. Their cooperation there was invaluable, too. What would all the power and riches in the world do for me if I were just another pathetic, feeble greybeard? "I will have eternal life," he muttered as he approached the house. "I will!" He sighed. But first, I have to talk to Eleanor. She's been too silent lately, too reserved. I know she's worried about Priscilla, but surely this kind of seclusion isn't good for her.
He entered the lobby and allowed the servant who opened the door to take his coat. He kept forgetting her name. "Is Mrs. Dahl home?"
To his surprise, the girl hesitated, smoothing down her apron. "Mrs. Dahl left this morning. I thought you knew, sir."
Dahl frowned. "What do you mean, she left?"
"She told me, sir, that I don't need to bother putting her dressing-room in order until she gets back, and that she isn't sure when that might be. I guessed she might be planning to stay away for a while, as her suitcases were so large and heavy. I helped put them in the trunk of the car."
> Suitcases? Dahl was becoming more and more nettled by the moment. What kind of nonsense is that? Not sparing so much as another glance at the servant, he mounted the stairs and entered his and Eleanor's bedroom which was, as always, kept in perfect order. But something about the room was different.
Eleanor's dressing table, which was usually full of knick-knacks and make-up and women's silly things, was nearly empty, with just one tube of lipstick glaring in its loneliness. He opened the door that led to her dressing room, an enormous closet with rows upon rows of shelves, hangers, and shoe-racks. Eleanor had so many shoes and clothes Dahl could never keep track of them all or guess which she took with her, but the tall jewelry safe was left open. The sight of its desolate emptiness left him numb. She took her jewelry. What does this mean?
He pressed the buzzer of the inner phone line. The girl picked up immediately. "Sir?"
He hated asking the question, which would reveal how little he knew of his wife's doings, but he didn't seem to have a choice. "Did Mrs. Dahl mention where she was going?"
"I think she said she was going to stay with Miss Van Wullen, sir."
Aunt Daphne. Dahl replaced the phone without a word of thanks or acknowledgment. His dislike of the fat, officious old fool flared with painful intensity. Daphne's number was on the speed-dial of their home phone line, but he never pressed that button if he could help it. He did now.
"Miss Van Wullen's residence," a crisp, well-trained voice said.
"Is Miss Van Wullen home?"
The blasted woman sure took her time answering. Dahl had the time to mutter twenty curses under his breath when he finally heard her voice, leisurely and untroubled.
"Is that you, Alexander?"
"Aunt Daphne." He took a deep breath. "Is Eleanor there?"
Daphne Van Wullen might have been many things, but a liar was not one of them. "Yes, Alexander, she is. She would rather not speak to you at the moment, however."