Mirrors (15 page)

“Where do those words appear?”

“In
The Sound and the Fury
. Have you read it?”

“No.”

“Some consider the novel disjointed, but I rather like it. It describes life in the south in the early 1900s: lazy days, shady lawns, white houses, buzzing bees, and sun-sprayed trees leaning over walls.” He chuckled. “Faulkner spoke of the novel as his ‘most splendid failure.’ ”

“Where is the clause in the book?”

“In my version, on page 132 in a scene where the character, Quentin Compson, is walking through the countryside. Faulkner writes:
Like it were put to makeshift for enough green to go around among the trees and even the blue of distance not that rich chimaera.
” He paused. “It’s intriguing that Hesiod should speak of a chimera as well in
Theogony
. Let me read it to you:
But she bore Chimaera, who breathed invincible fire, a terrible great-creature, swift-footed and strong. She had three heads: one of a fierce lion, one of a she-goat, and one of a powerful serpent.
” Another pause. “Listen, gotta run; another call coming in. We need to talk later about the missives in more detail.”

“Call me when you can.”

I hung up and scribbled
Theogony
on the sheet of missives, making a mental note to purchase the book later that day. I then called Flagstaff and left a voice mail informing him about what Squills had told me.

In the UNIT
garage, I found my assigned vehicle and drove it onto the streets of Washington. With GPS guiding me out of the city, I stopped in the parking lot of a fast-food outlet before I reached the freeway to double-check the card Giva Bhanjee had given me the previous night.

Reaching into my satchel, I lifted the envelope made from rice paper upon which she had penned my name. The paper was grainy and pleasing to the touch. Here and there, the trail of ink took jagged turns over clumps of pulp, like the one underlying my middle initial,
E
. As it had done the previous night, the sight of the initial unnerved me because I hadn’t used the initial since childhood. I shunned it because it stood for
Eggbert
, a name I found ungracious even though it traced deep into my lineage. It disturbed me that Giva Bhanjee had come upon it somehow.

I removed the card from the envelope. A drawing of a sari-clad woman feeding a peacock adorned the front, while on the back were directions to Chandrapur’s home in India …

By air, arrive Chennai

Taxi to central rail station

Train to Katpadi Junction (closest stop to Vellore)

In Vellore, check into Hotel Ranga

From hotel, walk:

-> north one block (past post office)

-> east two blocks (to temple)

-> left onto narrow street

-> 5 doors down to brick building with red gate

Ask for Chandrapur apartment

Minal’s parents: Prathiba and Govind Chandrapur

I turned the card over hoping that I had missed a telephone number for Minal Chandrapur on its back, but none was there. Puzzled still by its absence, I dialed the number Bhanjee had penned on the business card she left on the doormat of my house. When a receptionist at
BioVironics
answered, I asked to speak to Bhanjee.

The call transferred, and a woman’s voice came on the line.

“Is Giva there?” I asked.

“No.”

“When will she be back?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who am I speaking with?”

“A colleague of Giva’s.”

“Did I see you yesterday at your lab?”

A muffled sound came forth, as if the receiver had been cupped. “Were you with the group from the CDC?” she whispered.

“Yes, it was a routine visit, no more. Please tell Giva I’ll call later.”

“Wait!” the voice pleaded. “I’m worried about her!”

“Why?”

“Because, she
never
misses work without telling me, and I haven’t heard from her today.”

“Did you call her?”

“Yes, but she didn’t answer.”

“Does she live alone?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Not far … in Germantown.”

“What’s her address?”

“I … don’t …”

“I need to speak to her!”

Silence before an address came forth.

“Thank you,” I said. “Last question: Do you know Minal Chandrapur?”

“Of course, he works here.”

“Who’s his supervisor?”

“A man named Grainger.”

My pulse quickened. “His first name?”

“Frank.”

“
No
!”

“It is.”

I sat bolt-upright. “May I speak to him?”

“He’s out of town.”

“When will he return?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Can I leave him a message? It’s urgent.”

“Yes, of course.”

I trembled as I spoke. “Tell him to call Jason Krispix at his earliest convenience.” I gave her my number.

“I’ll make sure he gets the message,” she replied.

Parked still in
the lot of a fast-food outlet close to the freeway, I felt pins and needles pierce my hands as I dialed the University Medical Center in Las Vegas, a number I knew by heart. When the operator answered, I said, “Who’s on-call for hematology-oncology?”

A pause, then: “Dr. Saxby.”

“Ah, Jeff Saxby,” I said. He had entered the hematology-oncology fellowship at the beginning of my final year of training there, and we worked together often. I informed the operator of our relationship and asked her to page him.

“One moment,” she said.

Seconds passed like hours. Then: “Saxby.”

“Jeff! Jason Krispix calling.”

“I
thought
the operator said it was you, but she said it so quickly I wasn’t sure.” He chuckled, an effusive, belly-deep gurgle that had always impressed me for its sincerity. “How are you doing, buddy?”

“I’m working hard on a manuscript.”

“Krispix, you don’t
need
publications anymore; you left academia.”

“I know but I want to finish this final paper, and you can help me get it done.”

“How?”

“I need a lab value for a patient I evaluated several years ago. I’d like you to check his record.”

“What’s the patient’s name?” he asked.

“Grainger.” I spelled it.

“First name?”

“Frank.”

“Birth date?”

“Give me a break! Just look up
Frank Grainger
. There can’t be too many of them.”

“Hang on.”

Taps on the keyboard before: “Found it. What value do you need?”

“First, verify he was admitted to the hospital about two and a half years ago.”

“That’s right … to the surgical service for a swollen thigh.”

“That’s him! Give me his blood sodium from the emergency department.” A red herring to convince him I was writing the paper.

More key-punching.

“Hey,” Saxby exclaimed. “This is the guy who launched your XK59 career! Says right here:
Patient brought piece of bark that he claims caused bleeding death of a colleague in Madagascar.
I remember the work you did with the bark!”

“Right, got the sodium value?”

“I’m getting there … ah, here it is—136 milligrams per deciliter.”

“Now go to the admission history and physical. I need a couple things there.”

“Hey, this was supposed to be simple!”

“It will be.”

“Fine,” he groused. “Okay, got it …”

“Which leg did he injure—left or right?” I asked.

“Right.”

“Now, read the part of the physical examination about his skin. Does it mention any tattoos?”

“Let’s see.”

My jaw tightened.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “There
is
mention of a tattoo! Damn, you’ve got a good memory!”

“Does it describe the tattoo?”

“Yes, I’ll read it verbatim:
Tattoo of pistol in sternal notch
.”

“
Shit
!”

“What is it?” Saxby asked.

My heart pounded at the base of my skull.

“Krispix, are you still there?”

“Yeah, hang on,” I begged.

“I’ve hung on long enough!”

“Okay, we’re done,” I relented. “I owe you a dinner the next time we meet.”

“A
nice
dinner!”

After hanging up
with Saxby, I called Flagstaff at the UNIT.

“I know who killed Muñoz!” I exclaimed. Even with the engine idling and windows raised, my shout was loud enough to draw the attention of a passerby heading toward the fast-food outlet nearby.

“Easy, Krispix!” Flagstaff replied.

“
Easy
? The guy could be in town coming after me right now!”

“Who are you referring to?”

“A man named Frank Grainger who was the patient I met in Las Vegas two and half years ago that loaned me the bark from which I discovered XK59. He was at the shrimp farm but went by the name ‘Anton Manovic.’ He now works at
BioVironics
in Germantown!”

“You’re saying a former patient of yours killed Muñoz?”

“I’m positive of it.”

“Why would he have done that?”

“I don’t know, but I intend to find out.”

“And you didn’t recognize him as your former patient when you were in Ecuador?”

“No, because he had undergone dramatic changes from when I first met him.” I listed the changes: “The Frank Grainger I met in Las Vegas had normal ears, yet those of the scientist in Ecuador were shriveled and wrinkled. In Nevada, the nose was straight as opposed to crooked, and while Grainger’s lips were full and red in Las Vegas, they were thin and bluish in Ecuador. Even his chin had changed from a protruding one to cleft. And his jaw, square initially, became rounded.”

“What about his eyes?”

“They were odd—raccoon-like, as if he’d had recent sinus surgery.”

“And the eye color?”

“I don’t recall what they were in Nevada, but they were green in Ecuador. Keep in mind, though, that contacts can change eye color.”

“And his voice?” Flagstaff asked.

“The pitch had changed: kind of whiny in Nevada but deep and matter-of-fact in Ecuador. But pitches can be feigned.”

“So why are you convinced Manovic and Grainger are one?”

“Because both had the same distinct tattoo.”

“A
tattoo
? That’s your proof?”

“Yes, an elaborate one of a pistol located in the sternal notch just below the neck; it has multiple colors and intricate details.”

“You remember a tattoo from a patient you evaluated two and a half years ago?”

“Yes!” I replied. “This was no ordinary patient; he loaned me the bark that launched my career.”

“But it doesn’t make sense!” Flagstaff objected. “If Grainger went through all those anatomical changes to assume a different appearance, why would he have left the tattoo intact?”

I had no answer.

“Besides,” Flagstaff added, “what if there’s an artist out there who’s done thousands of those tattoos?”

“It’s not just the tattoo that convinces me Manovic and Grainger are the same person,” I insisted. “I talked to a lab technician at
BioVironics
today after I tried to reach Giva Bhanjee. When I asked the technician who Minal Chandrapur’s boss was, she told me it was a man named Frank Grainger. Curiously, she also said Grainger happened to be out of town when I called. That’s when I called the hospital where I trained in Las Vegas. A former colleague of mine there pulled Grainger’s medical record and verified that Grainger had a tattoo of a pistol in his sternal notch, one identical to the one I saw on Manovic in Ecuador.”