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Infertile Grounds

Page 15

by DB Carpenter


  She had defiled the sanctity of their marriage. In his bed, under his roof. What a slap in the face.

  "Good morning," Pell crackled walking into the kitchen

  Chris nodded. He most certainly couldn't say that it was.

  They were quiet while Pell stretched. "How you feeling today, man?" He asked sympathetically.

  "I don't know," Chris shook his head. "I still can't quite believe it. I don't know what I'm going to do. I'm going to have to really think this through."

  "Of course," Pell said. "Meanwhile I'm going to call Carl and then I'm thinking to go over to Harvard and see what we can find out about Sarah Burns. Maybe we can talk to some of her professors or advisors. You never know, maybe there's something there. You want to come with me?"

  "I'm gonna pass," Chris said. He was surprised to hear how sad his own voice sounded. "I've got to get this other stuff ironed out. Good luck though, Pell. I hope you do track her down."

  "I'm the FBI guy, right?"

  "It's so ironic. Almost unbelievable," Chris said.

  "What's that?"

  "If I hadn't seen that plane go down I never would have met you, Pell. And most likely I would not have seen my wife in bed with another man. I would have come home to her relaxed, naive and horny. Never knowing or suspecting anything. Would I have been better off not knowing?"

  "Maybe it was your destiny for you to see the plane go down? To hear David's story"

  "Destiny sucks."

  "I'm going to go now," Pell said after an awkward moment. "I'm really sorry about what happened last night."

  "Don't be. It's not your fault. I'm sure that someday I'll be glad it happened."

  "Maybe so. Is there someplace I can grab some breakfast around here? I'm starving. We haven't eaten since we left Bangor yesterday afternoon. You should eat too - keep your energy up Chris," Pell pointed out.

  Chris shook his head. He was in no mood for eating. He gave Pell directions to a local diner, and handed him the keys to the rental car.

  "Good luck, Pell."

  "Thanks for everything. I'll be in touch," he said as they shook hands.

  Chris went back into his office and sat down. What was he going to do now? His staff would be showing up for work in a couple of hours, and he had little or no desire to see any of them.

  He decided to get on with his life, starting immediately. He had to persevere.

  Day 4 – Wednesday, July 1

  7:53 am Quincy, Massachusetts

  Pell dropped the phone on the seat next to him. The answer had been exactly as he predicted.

  "We'll do some more poking around but from what I've seen so far, there's nothing here. I don't know exactly what you stumbled on but it's not worth a lot of man-time right now. We've got other big cases going on that are for real. Go back up to Bangor," Carl had said. Then the bastard had hung up without giving him a chance to argue.

  Carl Moscovitz was either a complete fool to drop this case, or he had realized Pell was onto something big and would be going after every lead possible, just without Pell. If it were the latter and it proved out, Pell would be willing to bet that if his name were even mentioned, it would only be in passing. Carl was very good at self-promotion but, with all that was at stake, could he be stupid enough to simply drop it?

  Pell climbed back into his car and looked at the clock in the dash. It was a little before 8. He had a hunch his next appointment might throw some light onto the situation. If Carl found out that he was actively working the case, he would have him fired but that was better than languishing in an unsatisfying job, always saying 'what if' or 'if I had only' for the rest of his life. Sometimes moving on was hard to do; change was scary, but stagnation, or in his case slow decay, had proven much worse.

  He navigated the early morning traffic crush as he drove to Cambridge. He felt terrible physically, the alcohol withdrawal was affecting him badly. Yet, somehow everything was clearer, brighter. The skyline of the city was crisp and defined. The color of the sky was a vibrant blue he hadn't seen, or appreciated, in years. Even the sound of the traffic around him had a musical quality. He had a positivity this morning that he hadn't felt in years.

  He left the administrative building with a skip in his step. It never ceased to amaze him at how helpful people wanted to be when he displayed his FBI credentials and informed people quietly that they had been personally selected to help on a very important case that only a select few people had details of.

  In just under an hour, he had managed to get copies of some of Sarah Burns' undergraduate transcripts and, most importantly, he had found that she had a mentor when she was in school, Maurice Andleman. As the head of the biology department back then, and an advisor to the elite students, he had taken Sarah under his wing and nurtured her. In a note in her file, he had written that she could be the smartest student he had ever had the pleasure of teaching, but more importantly, at least to him, was that she had vision. She could see what biotechnology could do, where it could go – beyond the obvious.

  Maurice had retired twelve years ago and moved to New Hampshire. Harvard had an address but no phone number, and a quick call to information confirmed that the guy had no phone. Pell climbed into his car for the drive up to New Hampshire to interview him. Maurice probably hadn't heard from Sarah since she left school, but this was the strongest lead he had.

  He sat for a moment to clear his head. It had been over thirty-six hours since his last drink at the Lo Maine. His body felt tired and achy, his head hurt and his hands trembled. He could really do with a drink right now, just to ease his way up to New Hampshire. But no, he had made a commitment to himself and he wasn't going to fall off the wagon after just thirty-six hours.

  After a moment, he pulled himself together and reached forward to adjust his mirror. As he did, he thought he saw one of Carl's men, Steve Strange, getting out of a car parked on the other side of the college garage.

  He slouched down in his seat. Indeed, it was Agent Strange, and Pell watched him walk into the administrative building entrance. He walked with the cocky confidence that comes with being an up and coming Bureau man. Pell had seen young guys like Strange many times over the years. They had all the right stuff – athletic, smart, educated and ambitious. But most of them just didn't have what it really took to excel in this job. That certain something that could never be taught - call it street smarts, call it morally malleable, call it whatever… Pell had it, Jenkins had it, not many others did.

  "Damn," Pell muttered. Why the hell would one of Carl's men be visiting the University? Surely the only reason could be that Carl was after information on Sarah Burns. Which meant that son of a bitch must be working on the case after all.

  He needed time to get up to New Hampshire, find Maurice Andleman, and talk to him before Carl and his cronies turned up. He climbed out of his car and walked over to Agent Strange's car. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his Leatherman tool and opened the pliers. Taking a quick look around the parking lot, he quickly snipped off the valve stems on each tire. Air whistled as it rushed out, and the car settled slowly down onto its rims.

  He felt much better as he drove away. His head had cleared, he felt in control and he was following a hunch. He had that buzz in his stomach like the old days when things were going well and everything was starting to come together. An hour and a half later he took the highway exit in New Hampshire and drove along a winding rural road. The natural beauty of the soaring, tree covered hills, the blue sky and the sparkling crystal lakes went unappreciated as he churned over the questions he had for Maurice Andleman. After about fifteen more minutes, he came to the lake that Maurice had retired to, Lake Horace. A dirt road led down toward the glistening, mile-long lake. At a junction there was a pole covered with small wooden arrow shaped signs that pointed in different directions down three merging roads. On each sign was the name of a family. Following the arrow for Andleman, Pell maneuvered the car carefully down a winding, deeply rutted, lakeside road. A mi
xture of shacks, mobile homes and beautiful houses that any normal man would be happy to have as a year round residence, not just a summer cottage, lined the dirt road.

  As the road narrowed to the width of one car, he came to Maurice Andleman's. He would have expected a retired Harvard department head to have one of the mansions, but as he pulled into the driveway, he was surprised to see a single-story, somewhat run-down building. It looked like any camp back up in Maine.

  He parked on the side and got out, noticing the empty driveway – not a good sign. A thick carpet of brown pine needles covered the ground to the front of the camp and up onto the stairs leading into a screened-in porch.

  As he knocked on the door, it swung open. "Hello, anyone home?" He called out. "Mr. Andleman, may I speak with you?"

  No response. He walked into the screen porch that had a distinct tilt toward the lake and up the slight grade to the weathered wood door that led in to the camp. A shade blocked the window. He knocked, waited, and when he got no response, knocked again. Still nothing. He reached down and tried the doorknob. This one was locked.

  "Damn," he muttered as he turned around. What to do now? If Andleman wasn't at the camp, he might be gone for an hour or two or for days. He checked his watch. He had some time. Even if they decided to follow this lead, Carl's men were probably still a few hours away. There was no doubt they would have found out that he had been to Harvard too. He decided to sit it out to see if the retiree turned up.

  A table on one side of the porch had a cribbage board on it. The pegs were in the middle of the game. A deck of cards with a large metal bolt on top of it lay next to the board. He sat down and grabbed the cards, and as he started to play solitaire, his cell phone buzzed with an incoming SMS message. He looked at the sender "Carl Moscovitz" and read the brief message 'what the hell do you think you're doing?' That was about what he had expected. He deleted the message and then looked up as the whine of a motorboat drifted across the water. A water-skier was being pulled at a ferocious speed around the relatively small lake. The sun reflected off the water in dizzying flashes as if uncountable diamonds bobbed on the surface. What a picture-perfect spot this was – a vacationer's paradise, a great place to spend some time barefoot with the family for a few weeks in the summer – if he actually had a family, that is.

  He returned to the cards and after a few minutes, was startled by a man's voice.

  "Can I help you?"

  An elderly man with a tattered Red Sox hat and goggle-like green sunglasses stared at him from the side of the porch.

  "Mr. Andleman?" Pell asked.

  The man didn't answer.

  "I'm agent Paul Pelletier, with the FBI. Are you Maurice Andleman?"

  The man nodded slowly and said, "Yes."

  "I'm sorry for making myself at home here, sir. I was waiting for you and saw the table... This is a beautiful spot. I can see why you would pick this place to retire."

  The old man walked around to the door and up the stairs along with an equally as aged Golden Retriever.

  "Do you have some ID?"

  Pell fished out his ID as the dog rammed his nose into his crotch and sniffed up and down his legs.

  Maurice studied the identification before handing it back.

  "When I got here and saw your car wasn't around, I figured that I'd have to wait for a while," Pell said apologetically.

  Maurice took off his sun-glasses, exposing striking gray eyes and said, "It's okay, Paul Pelletier. I don't have a car, and I wasn't expecting company today. Particularly the FBI."

  Pell smiled. People hated surprise visits by the FBI.

  "He's an old boy. What's his name?" He asked as he leaned down and patted the dog.

  "That's Louie," Maurice replied. "He's almost fourteen. He's old like me; isn't that right, Louie, huh?" Maurice rubbed the dog's back.

  "You don't have a car?"

  "No, when I retired, I decided that I'd had enough of all that. I spent too much time in cars, on the phone, and watching TV in my life – too much time that was gone and would never be back. Everything I need is within walking distance from here."

  "You live alone?"

  "My wife, Tracy, died five years ago, and since then, it's just been Louie and myself."

  "I'm sorry about your wife."

  The old man grimaced and nodded as he unlocked the door that led into the house. "Come in," he said and walked inside. Maurice went to the sink and poured himself a glass of water. "Do you want some?"

  "No thanks," Pell replied. The inside of the camp smelt of burnt wood and appeared to have only two rooms. They stood in the larger one which was a kitchen and family room combination. The other looked like a bedroom. The massive stone fireplace that consumed one wall was by far the most noticeable feature.

  "That's quite a fireplace," Pell said.

  "Yep," Maurice nodded. Louie noisily lapped from his water dish as Maurice said, "So what can I do for you, Agent Pelletier?"

  "You can call me Pell for starters."

  "Okay, Pell. What can I do for you?"

  "Well, it's a long story that I won't bore you with, and I'm not at liberty to discuss it in detail anyway, but I'm looking for a former student of yours. It's urgent that I find her," Pell said. When Maurice didn't offer any response, he continued, "Her name's Sarah Burns. Do you remember her?"

  Maurice's expression didn't change. Either he had a hell of a poker face or he wasn't surprised to hear that she was the one he sought.

  "Of course I remember her," Maurice replied. "I'm sure you went to the University and they pointed you in my direction. That's why you're here, isn't it?"

  Pell chuckled – old but still sharp. "It is. I guess that it was kind of a long shot, but I wanted to know if you had heard from her recently."

  Maurice shook his grey head. "I haven't talked to her in –" He paused briefly, silently moving his lips, "Sixteen or seventeen years."

  "So you don't know where she is now?"

  Maurice shook his head again, "Why are you looking for her? What did she do?"

  Pell took a deep breath as he sat down in an old kitchen chair with rusty metal legs.

  "You remember her major? Let's just say that it's rumored she's using her skills in a not-so-positive way. I haven't been able to prove anything yet – because I can't find her. It's like she dropped off the face of the planet eighteen years ago."

  "What do you think she's done?"

  "I can't say. It's all speculation at this point. Can you tell me a little about her?"

  Maurice refilled his water glass and sat down at the table with Pell. "I'm not going to tell you anything until you tell me what you think she's done. You say there's rumor about something and you have no proof. Until I know what it is you are speculating here, I'm not about to start talking to you about a student of mine. So you're either going to tell me everything, or you're going to leave. It's your choice. Frankly, I could care less either way."

  "I could get a judge to compel you to talk," Pell said. "Wouldn't take more than a few hours."

  "Go for it."

  Pell leaned back in his chair. Maurice was a tough old bastard but Pell had nothing to lose.

  "I'm based in the Bangor, Maine office. A couple of days ago, a guy came into the office and told me a story." He proceeded to tell Maurice everything he knew.

  When done, he stood up and helped himself to a glass of water. Maurice sat quietly spinning the Red Sox cap slowly on his right index finger. Pell came back to the table, sat down and waited for him to respond.

  "So she finally did it," Maurice said as he flicked the cap onto the table.

  "Did what?"

  "Sarah was special. We'd get a student like her every few years." He paused, as if to clearly frame his thoughts. "By her junior year all we could do was help her learn to focus. She was already into the realm of the theoretical, the unknown – a truly brilliant girl."

  "So you're telling me that Sarah Burns could actually be creating a virus and it wo
uld be possible to do something like this in the woods of northern Maine."

  "It's not where you are with bioscience. It's who you are."

  "Do you think she'd actually do this?"

  "Absolutely."

  8:04 am PDT Malibu California

  When Sarah awoke, she went out onto the balcony off her bedroom. The sun was rising to the east behind the house. She was an east coast girl so it seemed unnatural, the sun should rise, not set over the ocean. The horizon was a deep purple blue haze making it difficult to distinguish the water from the sky. The crisp air lacked the bite of northern Maine. It was softer more laid back. California air. She placed her hands on the cool, dewy iron railing. Goose flesh crept up her arms and down her body.

  After a few minutes, she went back inside, put on a robe and walked downstairs. As she entered the dining room, the smell of freshly ground coffee greeted her. The table had been set with croissants, fruit and a pitcher of freshly squeezed juice. No one else was in the room, and she assumed that Camilla was not up yet.

  She sat down and poured herself a glass of juice. The morning's LA Times lay on the table, and she skimmed it. What a life Camilla led – staff on hand to cook, to drive her around, to organize her days, to wait on her and attend to her every need.

  A large cut glass vase filled with brilliantly red oriental poppies, roses and tulips stood in the middle of the table and filled the room with a sweet, sensual aroma. She was anxious to see Seth tonight. She was still annoyed about all of the recent near disasters, but that couldn't fully suppress her excitement about the future, near and far.

  Albert came into the room quietly and she jumped as he said, "Good morning, Ms. Burns."

  "Good morning, Albert."

  "I didn't expect you up this early."

  "I'm still on East Coast time," she replied. "This is a wonderful breakfast you've laid out here."

  "Camilla requested that I prepare it for you."

 

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