Ninth Life

by Lauren Wright Douglas

  “It’s always good to help the Revenue Canada folks. They’re among my favorite people.”

  “Oooh, how catty you are. And you know, Mr. McLaughlin might also be fascinated by Living World’s bank account. The business has a very creative tax attorney, so it legally pays no taxes, but its bank account shows a very substantial amount of money being paid monthly to Mr. Maleck.”

  “Money which Maleck doesn’t declare. Tsk, how naughty of him. You’re a genius, Francis.”

  “Yes, I am,” he said without a trace of humility. “But that was so easy I decided to dig around for something else. After all, you have this petty bourgeois desire to get your money’s worth. And this tidbit is even juicier.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Maleck himself—not Living World—is in violation of a federal injunction. In nineteen-eighty, in Quebec, he was brought up on charges of mistreating his lab animals. The case caused quite a stir in the local papers, and the Superior Court found him guilty under federal law. Big deal. He paid a fine and that was the end of that. But because his animals had been obtained with money from a federal granting agency, he was prohibited from using any future funds he might obtain from that federal agency to buy lab animals.”

  “Francis, the suspense is killing me. Are you telling me that he just ignored this injunction?”

  Francis cackled. “Exactly. Living World’s Research and Development wing has been using federal money to buy lab animals for the past three years—as long as they’ve been operating in British Columbia. I have copies of their requisition forms and invoices. Right out of their own computers, I might add.”

  I was flabbergasted. “So he’s been lying to everyone.”

  “So it would appear.”

  “This is terrific, Francis,” I told him. “It’s dynamite. Just what I need. Can I come over and pick up the hard copies?”

  “Any time,” he said airily. “Always happy to please. Bye, dearie.”

  I hung up and began to pace, albeit a trifle limpingly. This information was wonderful. Much too wonderful to use for the petty blackmail I originally had in mind. No, it needed to be used in a much more formal way. I ran a hand through my hair. I knew what I wanted done—in my mind’s eye, I could see the finished product—but who on earth could do it? Would do it? And do it in the next twenty-four hours, too?

  “Let’s go over this one more time,” Lester said. “You want me to do the voice-over on a broadcast-quality videotape.” He prodded the printouts of Maleck’s financial data I had just gotten from Francis. “We’ll include relevant financial information and super-impose it over the videotape of the animals at Living World. And we’ll include stills—of Living World, of lab animals and so on.” He looked at me over the tops of his glasses. “I don’t think that’ll be a problem. When can I have the tape?”

  I crossed my fingers behind my back. “I’ll probably have it later on tonight.”

  He shrugged. “Well, there’s a do-it-yourself editing studio on Government Street. They open up at eight in the morning, so if I start as soon as I see the tape tonight, I can probably have a script written and ready to go by eight. Then, if you’re not too fussy about quality—”

  “I’m not. I just want it to be watchable.”

  “Okay, I could probably have a tape by, say, late afternoon. Is that okay?”

  “Just.” I looked in concern at his broken arm. “Can you do this job one-handed?”

  “Sure,” he said, holding up his left hand. “Fortunately, I broke the right one. I’m a southpaw.”

  “Good boy, Lester,” I said. “I really appreciate this.”

  His eyes slid away from mine, and he straightened the papers on the coffee table, squaring up the edges with his long fingers. “Caitlin,” he said, “I know you’re up to something. Couldn’t you level with me?” His Adam’s apple bobbed once as he swallowed. “Is it that you don’t trust me?” he asked quietly.

  I sighed. “Look at me, Lester.”

  He did so, blue eyes earnest.

  “I do trust you, kiddo. Believe me. But I don’t want to pull you into this even more.” I looked at his arm and felt sick. Hell, he’d already taken licks for me. “I need your help. But you can help without signing in blood. My problems don’t have to be your problems.”

  He swallowed again. “If I knew more about them . . . I mean if you wanted to tell me more about them, maybe I wouldn’t mind. Maybe I could really help. Another time, I mean.” He held up his broken arm. “I’d be useless to you with this.”

  I felt touched. “I’ll think about it,” I told him. “No promises, hear. But I’ll think about it.”

  He smiled uncertainly. “Do you mean that? You’re not just putting me off?”

  “I said I’ll think about it. That’s all I want to say right now.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  I ruffled his hair as I got up to go. “Thanks for your vote of confidence,” I told him. “I’ll bring the tape over as soon as I get it. Why don’t you catch up on your rest in the meantime?”

  He smiled up at me, looking like everyone’s kid brother. “Okay.”

  Lester, Lester, I thought to myself, looking at his trusting blue eyes. I don’t think I can. No matter how much you think you want to help me storm the barricades and carry the banner of truth and justice. Sorry, kiddo.

  Chapter 16

  I parked my car in the deserted lot of the Elk Lake Boardsail Rental establishment, and hefted my duffel bag full of goodies onto one shoulder. Setting out through the woods, I quickly arrived at the fenced-off back lot of the Living World employees’ parking lot. I crouched by the fence in the deepening gloom, dismayed to see that two cars still remained in the lot. One was a dark blue Cadillac, the other a black Camaro. Damn it to hell. Well, what did I expect? My unfortunate encounter with the dog probably had security all atwitter. No doubt they were battening down the hatches for an onslaught by rabid animal activists. Well, I’d just have to be careful.

  I tossed my new tarp over the fence, climbed carefully, negotiated the barbed wire, and dropped to the ground on the other side. Kneeling, I tied a strip of fluorescent ribbon to the bottom of the fence. If I had to make a run for it, I wanted to be able to shine my light and hit the correct spot in the dark. I didn’t intend to leave any more of my flesh at Living World.

  Fishing the tranquilizer gun out of my duffel bag, I scurried across the parking lot, keeping a wary eye out for Fang. At the loading bay, I put my bag onto the dumpster, jumped up beside it, and reached up for the bathroom window. With any luck, no one would have checked. My tape ought to be still in place. It was. The window swung open smoothly. I propped it open, dropped the duffel bag through, then levered myself up with my arms, wriggling through the window to land on the lavatory counter. I reached up and pulled the window closed after me, then jumped down to the floor.

  From the duffel bag I took the things I’d need, and laid them out on the counter. Video camera. Tranquilizer gun and lab coat provided by Emma. Magnetic lab pass, courtesy of Francis. Clipboard. And my .357 Magnum. I put my windbreaker into the duffel bag, and, clipping the .357 to the back of my jeans, slipped into the lab coat. I put the tranquilizer gun into one of the lab coat’s pockets and the magnetic card into another. The video camera I put into a plastic contained labeled LAB CHOW. I kicked the duffel bag over into a corner, then, picking up the clipboard and the container, I realized with a little shiver of fright that I was ready. There were no more preparations to be made.

  And I balked. I choked. Suddenly I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t want to go out there. My feet very sensibly refused to move. This was it—showtime, and I had stage fright. Jesus. I started to sweat. C’mon, c’mon, I urged myself. It’ll be a cakewalk. But my feet, I noted, were still glued to the floor. Oh for heaven’s sake, I told myself, go on. Stop thinking. Just get on out there and do it. So I did.

  At the door just down the hall from the ladies’ room, the one marked RESEARCH—AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL
ONLY, I took the magnetic ID card out of my pocket and fed it into the metal box clamped to the door. With any luck, it would still work. Francis had done some fiddling with the card, and had assured me that the computer would recognize it as valid. When the green light on the top of the box glowed, I removed the card, and pushed the door open, silently thanking the talented little twerp. The door closed behind me with a snack of finality.

  To my surprise, the doors lining this short hallway were all clearly labeled. I guess I had expected Living World to be ashamed of what they were doing and therefore to have the doors labeled with something cryptic. Nope. Halfway down the hall was a door marked TESTING. Bingo. I ignored the erratic cantering of my heart and pushed the door open.

  The merciless fluorescent lighting illuminated a scene I know I’ll never be able to forget. Directly in front of me were about twenty animal cages. They were piled four deep on wheeled carts, so the topmost cage was just about eye level. I swallowed, and walked over to see. The cages were full. An albino rabbit raised its head from its dish of chow and looked at me, twitching its nose. I flinched, expecting the worst, but this rabbit seemed well. Its eyes looked absolutely normal. I checked the rabbit in the next cage and the next and found the same situation. Healthy bunnies. “Hi, guys,” I whispered.

  Belatedly checking for security cameras, I peered into each cage, making my way down the row. But at the last tier of cages, I stopped short. Here, the rabbits were not fine. Not fine at all. There were eight—two to a cage—and they all had wide, plastic cone-shaped collars fastened with snaps around their necks. They lay on their sides, in postures of despair. In places, their fur had been shaved to allow application of the test substance, and the naked, pink skin now bore angry red, suppurating sores. And their eyes. My God.

  After one look, I sat down on the floor, wondering how I was going to do this. The whites of their eyes were crimson, so badly ulcerated that pus had oozed down onto their cheeks, staining their snowy fur green and yellow. Clearly the latest shampoo test had been a terrific success. I felt like throwing up. In one cage both rabbits were clearly dead, and in another they moved so feebly and so erratically that I had no doubt that they were dying. Why the hell hadn’t they been euthanized?

  I put my head down between my knees, took a couple of deep breaths, and got a grip on myself.

  Standing up, I put my LAB CHOW container on a bench behind me, and took out the video camera. Taking another deep breath, I opened one of the cages. The rabbits, unable to see me, nevertheless heard the cage door opening and, scrambling feebly, moved as far away from it as they could. They recognized the sounds that preceded pain.

  “Sorry,” I told them, biting my lip, turning the camera’s built-in light on them. I videotaped the inhabitants of each cage, included shots of the experiment protocol clipped to the cage doors, then turned the camera off.

  I looked at my watch. I had been in here for twenty-three minutes, and it had all been too easy. It was definitely time to go.

  I retraced my steps without incident, and it wasn’t until I stood on the counter in the ladies’ room, preparing to toss my duffel bag back out the window that it hit me. I couldn’t leave the healthy rabbits behind. I just couldn’t do it.

  Closing my eyes, I leaned my head against the cool tile wall and tried to think. How was I going to take twelve lively rabbits to safety? I certainly wasn’t going to be able to stuff them in my duffel bag and toss them over the fence. But speaking of the duffel bag, and the videotape, I had the strongest feeling that I ought to toss them over the fence to safety. As soon as possible. Immediately, in fact.

  Okay, okay, I said to the voice nagging me to take action. I’ll do it. One extra sprint to the fence and back—why not? The parking lot was empty now. With a sigh, I heaved myself out of the ladies’ room window.

  “Okay, guys,” I whispered to the rabbits, back in the TESTING lab. “This is what we’re gonna do. And it’ll be a breeze.” I found some wire, lashed the two tiers of cages together, and wheeled the whole thing toward the door. It would, I saw, just go through. On my way back from flinging the duffel bag to safety, I had ascertained that the roll-up loading bay door could be opened with my magnetic card without disturbing the alarm system. It now stood open six feet, waiting for me and my furry charges to wheel on through. I intended to pack them three to a cage, haul the cages over the fence, retrieve the duffel bag, schlep everything to my car, pack it all in and drive like hell.

  Wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans, I opened the lab door and looked down the hall. No one in sight. Great. Propping the door open with my foot, I wheeled my load into the hall, one squeaky wheel doing a nagging solo.

  “Hold it right there,” a voice called from behind me.

  Okay, Caitlin, this is it, I told myself. On stage. Time to bluff. “I beg your pardon,” I said, turning around.

  A bearded, exquisitely groomed, dark-haired man regarded me. Maleck, I was willing to bet. Shit! Why hadn’t I checked the offices? I could have done that from outside—simply looked to see which lights were burning. Sometimes my lapses in logic amaze even me. Well, it was too late now.

  “Where do you think you’re taking those animals?” he asked. Then, peering at me more closely, he inquired, “And who are you? I haven’t seen you in the lab before.”

  I smiled what I hoped was a disarming smile. “Personnel just hired me on Monday,” I told him. “And the lab supervisor left instructions for me to take these animals to the loading dock tonight.”

  “Oh?” he said, stroking his beard and looking at me doubtfully. “Let’s see your instructions,” he demanded, holding out his hand.

  I sighed. So this wasn’t going to be so easy after all. “Okay,” I said, reaching into the pocket of my lab coat. I brought the tranquilizer gun up and while he watched, eyes wide in surprise, I shot him in the shoulder. He opened and closed his mouth several times, looking distinctly like a fish drowning in air. Then, taking two steps backward, he collapsed bonelessly against the wall. Finally, he oozed down the bricks and just sat there looking up at me glassily. “Sorry,” I said. “But you did ask.”

  I turned him around by his shirt collar, got hold of him under the armpits, and dragged him down the hall to the first unlocked door. STORAGE, it said. I checked his ID, and sure enough, it read Evan Maleck. Then I deposited him there on the floor, loosened his tie, made certain he was breathing all right, and closed the door.

  “Come on, bunnies, let’s make tracks,” I muttered, sprinting back to my little prisoners. I had a bit of trouble negotiating the magnetic door, and a little more trouble maneuvering my way down the three steps leading to Shipping & Receiving, but finally we were there. The loading bay door was just ahead. I permitted myself a tiny bit of optimism. We were going to make it after all.

  Something hit me in the back, with enough force to knock me off my feet. I stumbled forward into the cart, and in another second I was on the ground, cages tumbling around my ears. As I frantically tried to get my feet underneath me, someone grabbed my hair and yanked my head backward. At the same time, I felt a needle being plunged none too gently into my neck.

  “Have some of your own medicine, bitch,” a voice said. Maleck’s voice. “You really ought to have made sure of the dosage before you shot me.”

  “Silly me,” I tried to say, but my tongue wouldn’t form the words. It was just too much trouble. With a sigh, I gave up the struggle, and tumbled into oblivion.

  I awoke behind bars. I was lying on my side in the testing lab, in a cage. I tried to get my hand underneath me to push myself upright, but realized with horror that they were bound securely behind my back. Great. Just great. I raised my head and looked cautiously around. The lab seemed empty, but I noted with a pang of sorrow that someone had transported the rabbits back here. I wriggled around and managed to sit up. Sort of. The cage in which I had been placed was probably meant for a large dog. It was none too roomy.

  “Ah, returned from your chemically induc
ed nap, I see,” a voice said.

  I didn’t have to turn my head and look. I knew it was Maleck. But I looked anyhow. He was behind me, and it always makes me nervous when I can’t see my adversary. As I turned, the unmistakable odor of gasoline filled my nose. Maleck was busy sloshing gas out of a metal container onto walls, counters, cages, filing cabinets, storage bins. He came over to stand in front of me and as I leaned back to look at him, the reassuring bulk of my .357 dug into my spine. He hadn’t found it when he tied my hands! I guess he thought one gun—the tranquilizer gun—was quite enough for a lady to carry.

  “What are you doing?” I asked him, although I knew perfectly well what he was doing. He was preparing to burn the place down. Destroy the evidence. And what—blame it on the Ninth Lifers? I wouldn’t put it past him.

  “Cutting my losses,” he said, looking down at me, smiling a self-satisfied smirk. “You Ninth Lifers have caused me quite enough trouble. So I’ve decided to turn the tables. This little accident will generate so much sympathy for me in the community, and so much animosity for you, that you’ll never recover.” He chuckled. “And, of course, once we re-open for business across town, we’ll announce a tour of our new facilities. There won’t be a testing lab in sight.”

  “I can’t believe you’ve had a change of heart,” I said acerbically. “I’m sure you don’t have one.”

  “Tut, tut,” he said, sloshing a stream of gasoline in my direction. I bent my head and it hit me on the back. “It’s politics, dear girl. One has to change with the times.”

  “Come on, Maleck,” I said, twisting my hands inside my fetters. Plastic handcuffs, I decided. Not too tight, either. If I just didn’t pull on them, maybe I could wriggle free. The gasoline helped. It trickled down the back of my lab coat and dripped onto my hands. I twisted some more. “How will you blame this on Ninth Life?” I asked, wanting to keep him talking. “There’ll be no proof.”

  “Oh, won’t there?” he asked. “What about these?” He reached behind the lab counter and emptied the contents of a sack onto the counter. For one moment, I thought he had my duffel bag, and my heart almost stopped. But no. The bag he held was an old Army-issue knapsack. I looked at the objects on the counter. A can of spray paint, some Ninth Life posters, a roll of tape. “These will be found in your car,” he told me. “I’m sure it’s around here somewhere. Parked in a desolate spot by the highway, presumably. I’ll find it, though. After all, I have all night.”