Double Helix Page 2

  “You’ve been making yourself scarce. Not returning calls.”

  “I’m tired of it.” Darby’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “Ends don’t justify the means.”

  “Cut the philosophical crap. You’re in too deep. And you know it.”

  “I want out.”

  “With a guarantee of silence?”

  “Of course.”

  “Impossible to guarantee.” It seemed the man was straining to speak. “Especially with what you did, Darby. We know it was you. Who else would have done it? Air vents, right?”

  “I want out. I can’t sleep. When I close my eyes, all I see is that room with the jars and...”

  “You get paid, what, a half-million a year?”

  “That’s for time and expertise. Not my conscience.”

  “Spare me, Darby. You had a good idea of what this was about when you set it up.”

  There was a long pause. Breathing. Paige wanted to hang up.

  This explained enough. She still had her husband. But was it a husband she knew? She pressed the phone harder against her ear and strained to listen.

  “Darby, you don’t actually believe we would let this go unpunished.”

  “You will. You won’t get to me. Nobody will.”

  “Anywhere in the world, we’ll get you.”

  “Not where I’m going.”

  “If not you, how about your wife? She is beautiful, isn’t she? Your wife?”

  “She’s protected. From the beginning 1 set that up,” Darby said.

  “You won’t dare touch her. I’ve got computer disks that show all the numbers. All the corporations. Names, too, right into D.C. Anything happens to her, everything is released to the media.”

  “Redhead, right?” the raspy voice continued. “Long legs that reach at least to her neck and –”

  Paige winced at the slamming of the phone.

  Silence. No dial tone.

  “Darby?” The male voice laughed cruelly, “Darby?”

  Paige realized the disconnection had not happened because she still held the extension to her ear. She set the handset back into place.

  Five minutes later, she heard Darby’s office door shut. She listened to his progress as he padded down the hallway. She already knew what she would do once he got into bed. Ease his strain, hold him close, comfort him, not ask questions, just let him know she cared about him, loved him even through his periods of silence and noncommunication.

  The bedroom door did not open as expected.

  Instead, his footsteps continued down the hall to the guest bed-room.

  That had been another habit that until tonight had bothered her. He often readied himself in the guest bathroom. Taking a shower to rid himself of perfume, she’d always thought without letting herself think it. Well, she no longer needed to worry about that. Whatever was distracting him, it wasn’t another woman.

  She relaxed in her world of darkness. It did not upset her now to be staring at the ceiling. Whatever was bothering Darby could be fixed. It wasn’t the nightmare of infidelity. Whatever it was, she could deal with it.

  The sharp, sudden loudness echoed for several heartbeats before she recognized what she had heard.

  A gunshot. From down the hallway. From the guest bathroom.

  A single gunshot. With the horror of silence after.

  ***

  Behind his smile – a winning, engaging smile he knew and used accordingly – Josef Van Klees enjoyed a set of thoughts that ran parallel to the dinner conversation. With only half the meal Finished, the parallel thoughts were the only way he could contemplate getting through the boredom ahead.

  “Have more vine, please,” he said to Simon Curzio with that winning, engaging smile. But Josef’s thoughts were on that distasteful yet fascinating documentary he’d once seen showing men with spiked clubs killing baby seals on the ice floes off the northern Atlantic Coast.

  To further enjoy the workings of his brain, Josef Van Klees decided to test himself while pouring the red wine for the graduate student in front of him.

  “You see, your work sparkles as does a good wine,” Dr. Van Klees said in the smooth voice. Retrieve data... northern Atlantic Coast. Off Labrador, a section of the Canadian province of Newfoundland, approximate area 285,000 square kilometers. Latitude, then: 54 degrees latitude, 58 degrees longitude.... Aren’t wonderful minds good and good minds wonderful? “Yes, Simon, my friend. I may call you friend? Like a good wine, Simon, your graduate work has been so powerful it is almost intoxicatingly delightful at times.”

  Van Klees chose not to bestow upon Simon another winning, engaging smile and instead leaned forward slightly to set his elbows down on the white linen tablecloth, furrowing his brow to indicate sincere seriousness.

  Van Klees gave Simon a full-voltage intense stare and gauged his subject.

  Simon Curzio. Twenty-seven, no immediate family, no girl-friend, but, as Van Klees already knew from Zwaan’s report, he had a habit of visiting peep shows most Friday nights. Little income, $35,000 in outstanding student loans. Also, as was now obvious, awkward, skinny, with a straggly goatee, smudge of garlic butter on a red polyester tie – polyester! – much too wide and much too short and much too red, faded as it was, for the green-brown of his worn suit jacket.

  Curzio responded as if salivating to a bell. “Well, Dr. Van Klees...”

  Good. No “Josef” in return. The fool at least recognizes his inferiority. It is always so tiring to endure chummy familiarity.

  “...the limitation of the restriction enzymes, it seemed, was that the bacteria are so determined to destroy foreign invading viruses. It started off as intuition, but I thought if I could find a different way to biofacture these genes into becoming more precise scalpels, the recombinant factor –”

  “Simon, Simon.” Van Klees interrupted with a benevolent chuckle. Anything, not to have to listen to a four-year-old explain the ABCs. “Look around us Simon. Chicago’s most elegant restaurant. Surely, we can leave the laboratory behind for a single evening!”

  Curzio dropped his head, actually dropped his head as if reprimanded, and nervously rubbed his goatee with his left hand. Fingernails, naturally, chewed to stubs.

  Now lift him up again.

  “Simon,” Van Klees said gently, “I can only give you such advice because I was just like you. My mind was always on work. It took many difficult years to finally understand I could improve my work by resting on occasion. A pause to sharpen the ax, so to speak. If you realize that, why, you will outshine me as the sun outshines the stars.”

  Curzio looked up again. Grinned. Shyly. Admiration, even adoration in his eyes. And why not? Josef knew the picture he painted as he strode back and forth in the university lecture hall. Tall, with sleek emphasis given to his height by the elegant cut of his European tailored suits, an even-featured face, hair graying at the temples and trimmed twice weekly, the hint of a dimple in the cleft of his chin when he smiled. No, mirrors do not lie. He always checked himself carefully before facing his students. His wonderful appearance reflected his mind, as they all knew. But what they didn’t know – and it was impossible, of course, for any of the sheep to understand – was how inadequately his cultured appearance reflected the supreme greatness of his mind. Who else could juggle what he did in his mind, so superbly continue with business as usual, and not betray a single hint of worry for the escape in New Mexico or the matters in Florida?

  “Dr. Van Klees...”

  Josef waived away any hint at a compliment.

  “Simon, you have probably guessed this is no ordinary evening, Yes, with your brilliance, you probably even realize the purpose of our time together.”

  “I can only hope...”

  Because his brain worked so much faster than those of ordinary humans, Josef knew he could process whatever thoughts he chose to use as a welcome distraction and still return to the conversation before Curzio stammered further.

  Like clubbing the hapless baby seals, he mused.
Deception is so easy. People are so stupid, so transparent. Their transparency allows you to see clearly what they want, and their stupidity causes them to believe your illusions. The more powerful, the easier the deception, for their wants are far grander and the urge to believe accordingly greater. What better proof of this than the laboratory for which he was now successfully wooing this candidates

  At that thought, Dr. Van Klees almost coughed laughter into his red wine. He refrained, however. Common as the wine was, it was still excellent. Van Klees prided himself on not being such a snob that he might refuse excellence simply because it was common. Only someone vastly cruder than he would cough and spew traces of body fluids into the wonders of a fermented cabernet sauvignon grape. Besides, he didn’t want to startle the little fish before him into jumping off the hook.

  “Your hope is, of course, close to the mark, Simon. I know of a corporation that is determined to put you in their employ.”

  Simon’s pocked face brightened more, if that were possible. Then dimmed. “Grunt work, I suppose,” he said softly, muted in disappointment. “For just one more Ph.D. lab assistant in a pharmaceutical company.”

  The fool didn’t even ask why a corporate spokesman was not here to make the pitch. Although there was an answer prepared for that.

  “Tut-tut.” Van Klees swept his arm to indicate the restaurant settings. “Would they be putting all of this on a corporate voucher for ordinary recruitment? They know there are dozens of Ph.D.’s desperate for work in their field. A meal like this is redundant alongside any job offer.”

  Simon went back to rubbing his goatee.

  Remember this, Van Klees told himself, a nervous mannerism to let you look into his mind.

  “No, Simon, you will head designated projects.” Designated by himself, naturally, the one with a brilliant mind capable of the insight to find new directions. After all, Simon Curzio had not been chosen because of his initiative – as the fool was so willing to believe – but rather for his steady lab work and distinct ability to absorb new information instead of questioning it. “Simon, the laboratory is the most modern that money can buy. The taxes alone on your first year’s salary will be more than you’ve earned in the last five years.”

  Simon laughed. “There’s got to be a catch somewhere.”

  “Only if you dislike seventy-hour work weeks and total focus on the pursuit of knowledge.”

  “You don’t get a Ph.D. without either, do you?”

  Van Klees gave the benevolent smile, as if that last statement had actually been profound, then he returned to more serious sincerity. This little fish had the hook deep in his throat. Give him slightly more line to see if he was ready to swallow hard.

  “You’ll have to move from Chicago,” Van Klees said. “Throughout the year, four weeks on-site, five days off. The site has every amenity you could possibly need, including, shall we say... entertainment that is warm and willing.”

  For the first time since sitting opposite Van Klees, Simon Curzio frowned. His fingers worked faster on the goatee. “Site? Sounds like a military base.”

  Had this little fish tasted steel beneath the bait?

  “Military? Not precisely.”

  “My apologies, sir, but even close to military... I would need to know more.”

  Fine then, my little fool, I shall present you the bait of your life Swallow the hook. Or disgorge.

  “The site is private,” Van Klees said, “To maintain privacy, it does have practical aspects copied from the military. The inconvenience is more than compensated for by the luxury of working on projects that certain sectors of the more fanatical public might hinder.”

  Curzio’s frown deepened.

  He is spitting out the hook. I know it already.

  “Unfortunately, Dr. Van Klees, that makes me more nervous.” Greasy fingers through greasy beard. How repugnant. “Genetics is an area that I, well, I don’t want to sound naive, but I’m in it because I want to have influence on the direction it takes. The ethics, that stuff.”

  Van Klees clapped with glee, an action so unexpected that Curzio dropped his hand from his goatee.

  “Well done, Simon!” Van Klees poured more red wine into both of their glasses. “You have successfully passed this corporation’s biggest test!”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Had you agreed to exploring some of the less savory boundaries, young man, I would have smiled and nodded and finished the meal and recommended against you. This corporation, too, realizes that genetics is a two-edged sword. It does not wish to employ scientists who have no scruples.”

  Simon sat back and grinned in triumphant understanding.

  Van Klees permitted his smile to broaden as well, using it to hide seething fury. How could Zwaan have missed this? Bleeding-heart idealism. The illusions of a high moral cause. Zwaan knew, absolutely knew, it was standard procedure to discover whether the candidates put pure science above all.

  Van Klees continued to smile outwardly. Then he let it grow inwardly. Zwaan was arriving tomorrow. Zwaan had caused this problem; Zwaan would fix it.

  “Yes, a toast,” Van Klees said as he raised his glass. Against the light of a chandelier, it shimmered blood red. “Next week, Simon, corporate officials will contact you with more details.”

  Details of your accidental death, you stupid little fish.

  Simon accepted the toast and tossed back half the glass.

  Behind his smile – the winning, engaging smile – Josef Van Klees returned to enjoying his thoughts.

  Deception is so easy.

  Chapter 2

  Wednesday, May 16

  Consciousness was not a pleasant return for Slater Ellis. Not when his first sensation was a tickling along his jawline below his left ear.

  He groaned, wiped at the tickling, stared in disbelief at the tiny ants mired and struggling in the blood that smeared his hand.

  “What the –”

  He pushed to sit upright, sudden movement that brought him to curses at the drums of throbbing pain in his skull.

  Ants! Their tiny shapes, like a moving alphabet barely visible atop the sand at the edge of the road, formed a line of army precision that disappeared in the grass beyond.

  Slater tottered to his feet. He slapped at the skin of his chest and stomach and legs, sending the dust of the sand and the clinging ants in all directions. That’s when it hit him – he was slapping at skin, not clothing.

  All he wore was a pair of boxer shorts. No shirt. No pants. No shoes. Just boxer shorts. Purple-paisley boxer shorts.

  He saw no humor in it.

  Slater wobbled as he started putting it together. He’d been hit on the side of the head. The skin just above his ear must have split wide. His ear felt plugged. Blood of course. He’d have to get to Los Alamos, the closest town with a hospital.

  He wiped again, tentatively. The blood was almost crusty, and there was lots of it. He didn’t need the crustiness of the blood to tell him how long he’d been unconscious. The mountain edges showed clearly against a pale sky of early dawn. But how long had he been ant food?

  At least the truck was still in the center of the road where he’d left it idling. Except now it was silent.

  Another thing to cuss. Unless his attacker had kindly turned off the ignition – and kindness didn’t seem to be a likely characteristic, given his current condition – the last of the tank had burned. Just one more stupid thing; he’d forgotten to 611 the gas tank.

  Slater took a ginger step toward the vehicle, reluctant to leave the sand shoulder and walk barefoot on the gravel between him and the truck. Thin air at this altitude held no heat at night, and the ache of his movement made him realize how chilled he’d become. There was a blanket inside the truck; he’d wrap it around himself before walking the last half-mile home, not for modesty, but for warmth. Traffic was sparse on this road, and he expected no passersby now at the break of dawn.

  Each step brought pain. Not only from his head – he felt
warmth on his neck as fresh blood trickled downward – but also from the soles of his feet as sharp pieces of gravel bit into his unprotected skin.

  He cursed each step. Then cussed more as he swung open the driver’s side door.

  The little brat had been inside.

  The truck’s glove compartment was open, as were the console storage areas. Everything was scattered, as if the kid had been determined to rip the truck apart for anything of value.

  Slater squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, hoping he hadn’t seen right the first time.

  He had. The grocery bags in the backseat were torn, contents dumped everywhere. At the far back of the interior, carpet uplifted, tool kit apart.

  He groaned. Without getting inside, he leaned against the door frame and shivered. It had taken that much out of him to move this far.

  A new thought galvanized him.

  His wallet. Whenever he drove, he placed it in the console between the bucket seats of the 4 x 4 because he didn’t like the pressure of it digging into him as he sat behind the wheel. Slater preferred not to use credit cards; the wallet held at least five hundred in cash.

  Slater leaned across the cold leather of the driver’s seat and pushed through the papers and odd junk that filled the console.

  Incredibly, there it was. Fat, unprotected, and safe. Cash intact.

  Slater frowned, puzzled.

  The radar detector was still attached with suction cups to the inside of the windshield. His cellular phone still on the passenger seat. All of his cassettes still in the box on the floor mat of the same side. And his wallet, too, was still here?

  But the brat had taken the blanket, about half his tools, and his tire jack. Plus the bread, apples, jugs of orange juice, and wrapped meat from his grocery bags. Almost as if the kid had been loading up for survival here in the mountains.

  Why not the electronics? Why not the wallet? Or at least the cash?

  And for that matter, why hadn’t the kid taken more of the groceries? All of the canned goods remained, strewn across the backseat and floor.

  Slater squinted and rubbed his face. Even thinking hurt.