“Wow!” she whispers.
I roll off and plop onto my back next to her. Now what?
“That’s not what I expected,” she says.
“What did you expect?” After what you’ve been doing, I want to add.
“I thought you would be gentle. I liked it. Don’t get me wrong there. It was . . . Wow! It wasn’t what I thought you would be like, though.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
From the corner of my eye I know she has turned her head toward me. “You’re angry,” she says.
I don’t want to get into it right now. I don’t want to start accusing her yet. Sometimes it’s better if they don’t know you know. I should just let things go as they are and follow through with my plan to leave. As a matter-of-fact, this may help. I’ve added a good reason. “I’m not angry. It’s . . . guilt, I think.”
She turns her head back to facing straight up. “Oh . . . I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault.” This part, I’m beginning to realize, I’ll have no problem doing because the guilt is not faked. It’s rising in me as quickly as my anger did when I discovered it was her sneaking into my apartment in black clothes not a half-hour ago. Will I be able to face Tanya now without her seeing the word, “Cheat” all over my face? Would she understand my reason for lack of control? Of course not.
Cheat!
Aileen takes my hand in hers and says, “It was inevitable. I shouldn’t have come into your bed the first time. I think I thought we could control it. I’m sorry.”
I simply lie still and let her hold my hand. I don’t hold it back, although I should to keep up appearances. The clock reads 2:14. I wish she would leave, but of course she cannot. She needs to keep up her appearances as well. So side by side we remain, each in our own thoughts, each minute an eternity; forty-seven of them before she rises without comment, puts on her nightgown and bathrobe, and departs.
I roll out, dress quickly, grab the laptop, and rush to the boardroom.
Chapter 21
To the belly or to the throat–one has not to worry about a lingering death from a sabre-tooth rip to the gut. A slice through the jugular and the windpipe is much more efficient.
–from the journals of Zechariah Price
I’m sitting on the floor behind the chair, the laptop in front of me. I’ve completed the file transfer and linger for a moment on Christi’s web page. It appears that Christi is more the photographer than her older sister when it comes to balance and composition. Not perfect mind you, but pretty good for a six-year-old. No heads are cut off and everything is clear. I know they were taken by her because one of the rules was that if they put pictures on their pages they had to give credit to the photographer. Photo by Christi Price is at the bottom of every one of them except the one of her and the one of her and her sister. The credit on those read, Photo by Tanya Price.
I go to Rebecca’s page. It hasn’t changed since I placed the icon of the cat in the corner to catch her eye. I click on it. A notice pops up that says “Page cannot be displayed.” I stare at that for a second, hit the “back” button and try it again. Same thing. Did I do something wrong?
The door to the boardroom opens. I pull the laptop closed.
The lights on that end of the room come on.
I turn my back to the chair and pull my legs up as tight as possible. To my right, sitting against the wall is a wide screen television. I can see the other end of the room in the reflection: the boardroom table, the bar, and kitchen beyond that. It’s security who has come in. He goes into the kitchen and opens the refrigerator. Things clink around and then he mumbles. The refrigerator closes and he walks up to the boardroom table. The reflection is not clear enough to see what he is doing. A soda can pops open. I know it’s a soda because all the beer is in bottles. Something white goes to his face and then the can. He is eating a sandwich. Probably one of those made by Ulla while everyone was bailing out. What worries me is if I can see him, he can possibly see me if he looks, if he analyzes the shapes in the reflection of the screen. I’m in the dark end of the room, behind an overstuffed leather chair, so as long as I don’t move. . .
He walks around the table, comes directly toward me and sits in the chair. “Roger,” he says. There is only silence for a few seconds, then, “Hey, Roger.”
His radio responds, garbled and full of static.
“Fuck’n radio . . . Hey, Roger . . . Fuck’n radio . . . I’ll call you on the telephone.”
My mind jumps into overdrive. The telephone sits on the table next to the chair. The cord for it is connected into my laptop. He picks up the handset and I pull the cord from my computer.
“What the hell?”
His hand reaches out and flicks the button in the cradle. I start to push the cord into the back of the unit and he stops flicking the button. I wait. He flicks again. I push until it clicks.
He stops flicking the button and then dials. “Roger, it’s me. I hate these damn radios. . . Yeah, I know what you mean. Hey, I’m up here in the boardroom. There’s a bunch of already made-up sandwiches. Ya want one? . . . Ham . . . Yeah . . . I’ll be down your way in about five. I’ll bring ya a coke too. . . They’ll never miss it. They’re richer than shit anyway. After Lester I could give a shit anyway. . . Yeah, I feel the same way. Think’n about go’n back to Illinois; see if I can get my old job back. People I can predict a little better. Fuck these cats and shit. I don’t much like the shit go’n on down your area either. . . I know we shouldn’t talk about it, but you know, I got a conscience as much as regular people. Make’n good money but don’t know if it’s worth it. . . okay. I’ll grab yeah a ham and coke and be down.”
The handset falls onto the cradle.
He doesn’t get up. I assume he’s finishing his sandwich. The chair moves and the soda can clangs against the table. He burps and sighs. He eats slowly, drinks his coke, burps some more. A long three or four minutes go by.
Finally he stands, burps one more time and farts. In the reflection of the television screen I watch him walk back to the kitchen. The empty can drops noisily into the trash with several others. The refrigerator opens and shuts, he crosses to the door, the lights go out and the door closes.
I count to one-hundred, wait another count of twenty and then ease from behind the chair and slink back to my apartment.
Did I do something wrong with the web page or did Rebecca see it already and tell her mom? And then did Tanya follow my instructions and delete the file, leaving the icon sitting there? I distinctly remember transferring the file to catalog.com. But I never checked it afterwards to make sure it went correctly. Sometimes things don’t happen the way you expect and you have to do it again. I curse at myself for not checking. I can only assume she got it and that she’s now worried sick about me, trying to decide whether to open the file I told her not to open unless something has happened to me. Or, she may have already opened it. Then what? She has my phone number but of course that’s not working.
I should go back to the boardroom and call to let her know I’m fine and that I’ll be home in a day or two. That’s what I should do. She’ll want to know why I’m calling in the middle of the night. She’ll start asking me questions . . . questions which those who may be listening shouldn’t be hearing, questions that may put her in danger. She’ll hear the tension in my voice. Her feminine instincts are just about as strong as my psychic abilities. She’ll read “Cheat!” in my voice in a minute. I need a little more time to bring that under control.
Just go home. Call her from the airport. You don’t need her trying to track you down through whatever Sans Sanssabre phone number she can find through information.
I bring up the laptop and my secret file, enter the one side of the conversation I overheard in the boardroom, store it and shut down. Whoever he was talking to, Roger, was someplace other than the security place where all the monitors are. Aileen said there was only one guard on duty at night. Roger has to be in the subbasement, where top-secre
t things are going on. What other things? The burping, farting security guy doesn’t like it, whatever it is. I got a conscience.
I lay the computer aside, undress and slide under the covers.
I got a conscience. Where was mine an hour and a half ago?
Chapter 22
“Hey! Mister Price!” Ulla’s voice pulls me from a deep sleep. It’s 8:12. She pushes on the edge of the bed. “Zach! You’ve got company. You’d better look alive.”
I roll to edge and sit up. “What?”
“I said that you have company.”
“Huh?” I slept too late. I should have set the alarm. I wanted to be up early to pack and go talk to the pilot. I wanted to get out without anyone knowing.
Ulla walks out. I sit for a second in my boxer shorts trying to push the fuzz from my brain. I go into the bathroom to pee and then walk back into the bedroom. With the aid of the glare of the outdoors, the dark room, and sleep still clouding my eyes, I can see only the silhouette of a woman standing at the window, looking out the window.
Aileen.
I don’t need a confrontation. I wanted to be gone without seeing her at all, because once I get into any kind of conversation with her my reporter way of questioning will take me right to the point. I’ve got to control myself and rely on the fact that she still suspects that my mood shift toward her is a result of guilt, that my anger is not at her, but at myself. That shouldn’t be all that hard. I certainly have plenty to expose; guilt and anger at myself that is.
“At least give me a chance to get dressed.” I turn my back to her and reach down to pick my jeans off the floor. It’s as I try not to stand on the cuffs while attempting to pull them up over my hips that I fall back onto the bed and then hear the voice.
“Zach.”
Soft, like a nightingale calling for its mate. That’s what I used to tell her. I had no idea what a nightingale calling for its mate sounded like, but she liked the simile. I twist around. “Tanya!” I try to stand and nearly fall off the bed.
She comes around and puts her arms around me. I’m still trying to pull up my jeans. “God I missed you!” she says.
I finally give up on the jeans and put my arms around her, kiss her and take in the wonderful smell of her. “I missed you too.” We hug for a long time. “What’re you doing here?”
Without breaking the hug, she says, “You know why I’m here, Zach.”
Am I a fool or what? Of course she’d figure it out. This is Tanya, the woman I married because there was something unique about her. We’d be standing in a park talking and behind her, twenty yards away a good looking woman would pass. I’d take a very, very minor notice–not even move my eyes–and stay focused on my conversation with my wife. Yet she would say, “Don’t even think of looking at her. You’re with me. If you want to look when you’re by yourself, that’s fine.” She not only has eyes in the back of her head, but she can read minds. Even from Texas she would know that I cheated. But damn! How did she get here so fast? It happened only six hours ago.
Apologize now, Zach. Don’t wait for her to demand it, or demand anything else.
I have got to put my pants on first, get myself respectable at least.
“I nearly went nuts for about four hours after reading that note from you. Don’t open the file unless something happens to you? What did you think I was going to do with that?”
She doesn’t know about Aileen . . . yet. All I have to do now is act naturally. I step back and my pants fall to my knees.
“What . . ?”
I hold a finger to my lips. The towel is covering the camera, but that doesn’t turn off the microphone. “Let me get dressed and then let’s go for a walk.” I then whisper in her ear. “There are microphones and cameras in this apartment.” I point to the towel. “Camera.”
She scrunches her eyebrows together and doesn’t say anything except to answer my questions about the girls and the weather in Dallas, and her sister’s latest boyfriend and anything else I can think of to fill the dead space listened to by whomever.
After getting dressed I pack my laptop into its bag; I’m thinking I don’t want to leave it unprotected anymore. With it slung off my shoulder I lead her down to the lobby and outside. Just before I let the door close, I say, “I’m not sure I have the right code to get back in. Why don’t you stay inside for a second and let me try it?”
She agrees. I punch in SABRE96 and open the door. We walk to the end of the sidewalk before I say anything. The morning is chilly. I stuff my hands into my pockets. Tanya does the same. “Are you cold?” I ask.
“I’m fine. Can we talk now?”
“Yes. I shouldn’t have done that, putting the link on Becky’s page. I was probably over-reacting. What about your job?”
“I had to do some juggling and begging. I got Janice to fill in as well. It’ll be fine. You’re much more important. The girls are staying with Suzie.”
“Is her boyfriend living with her?”
“No, and you know she won’t do anything stupid.”
“You’re putting yourself in danger coming here.”
“I thought you just said you over-reacted?”
“I don’t know. I was intending on going home today. I was going to get one of the helo pilots to take me to the airport and then I was going to wait until I could get a seat on anything going south.”
“Oh! Are you through with your job here?”
That question surprises me. The tone of her voice doesn’t feel right either, hadn’t felt right since we hugged on the bed. My psychic feelings are doing flip-flops and I’m beginning to sense a low level rise in my chest indicating another coming tragedy. “No, I’m not through. I never will be because I cannot stay here. There was a third death yesterday. It was one of those that I felt coming and I couldn’t do anything about it. I feel another one right now.”
She looks around.
“No. It’s not imminent. A day or two I figure. That’s the way the last two went.”
“You’ve felt two since you’ve been here?” She’s as surprised as I’ve been. “And you’ve got another now?”
I nod my head. “I know. It’s never been this way. That’s why you shouldn’t be here. That’s why both of us should not be here. Let’s get my things and leave. I can tell you about it all once we’re on a commercial flight out of Kalispell.” I start back up the sidewalk toward the building. She doesn’t follow. I turn and look at her. “Come on.”
“What about her?” Her voice is flat, cold; daggers of ice hang on the edge.
“Huh . . . her?”
“The her you’re wearing all over you, unless you’re going to try convincing me you’re into wearing women’s perfume.”
Some grotesque, self-destructive side of me actually considers making a joke. A lump of clay in my throat and buzz in my head halts the thought. “I’m sorry,” spits out of my mouth of its own accord.
“Humph! At least you didn’t try to deny it.”
“I . . . ah . . .” I have no idea what to say.
She holds up her hand and gives me that low sideways look. “Don’t even go near an explanation. It sounds like we need to get out of here. I want you home. Your daughters want you home. You and I can deal with this issue then, in a civilized manner, when I have access to sharp cutting instruments.”
It sounds funny but there’s no smile on her face. There’s certainly none on mine.
“What’s been going on here . . . the deaths I mean? Why do you think your life may be in danger?”
Victor Vandermill may think that I’m fooling around with the object of his desire. “I’m not,” I would have been able to say until a few hours ago. Now what do I say?
I walk back down the sidewalk and stand next to her and look out across the parking lot and through the fence beyond. “There’s something going on here that’s highly secretive. I haven’t been able to find out what it is. The deaths may or may not be related. I’m fairly sure one of them, the first one, was mur
der, and it may have been motivated by jealousy. The other two appear to be simple animal attacks, but a source on the inside believes they were arranged, and he believes it has to do with whatever secret stuff is going on in the sub-basement.”
“He doesn’t know what’s going on down there?”
“I think he does, but he’s not telling me.”
“What exactly does this company do, anyway?”
“They perform experiments in DNA and cloning to bring the sabre-toothed cat out of extinction.”
“Really!”
“I’ve seen nine of them. Two are pregnant.”
“Wow! A real Jurassic Park.”
“Sort of.”
She says nothing for a few minutes. “What else do you think is going on?”
“I was present when they told the sheriff that they are researching the cloning of human organs for transplant. I think that whatever it is, it’s related to that.”
“Are you thinking people, like a whole person?”
“That’s been my conclusion.”
She considers that for a few seconds. “Are you sure it isn’t just a figment of your imagination?”
“Another source, who’s been here a number of years, hasn’t denied my speculation. I’ve had one person tell me to get out while I can, that there is more to this company than meets the eye.”
She looks East, and then West. “There’s no way out of here except by helicopter, is there?”
“No.”
“What’s out there?” She indicates the area beyond the first fence.
“It’s patrolled by four full-grown sabre-toothed cats.”
She looks East and West again. “Really!”
“They got a cow yesterday so they’re probably in their garden, on the other side of the building, being fat and lazy.”
Sabre-Toothed Cat Trilogy Page 18