Mirrors (18 page)

“On the other hand, there were some codes with
GP,
rather than
VP
, before them, namely, 6,039, which appeared twice, and 7,133.”

“Weird,” Brubeck mumbled. “Let me mull this over.”

When gambling, I
seek action, not décor; a casino’s digs mean nothing. It’s the cards that matter, the dice, and spinning wheels. For me, the line between winning and losing is an exhilarating tightrope walk, a life-infusing jaunt.

I lit a cigar and sipped a Martini at a blackjack table in Atlantic City. Neither smoke nor drink brought me luck, however. Within an hour, I burned through my pot of two thousand. All was not lost, though, for I drew comfort from gambling with kindred souls. It was a family reunion of sorts, only without names—a gathering of like-minded.

Broke but content, I left the casino and returned to my car where I checked my phone to find a message waiting from Eve.

“Why aren’t you picking up?” she asked. “I need to reach you.”

I called her to apologize. “My phone slipped from my pocket in the vehicle while I was working in Annapolis.”

“That can’t happen,” she said. “Not now.” Her tone was edgy.

“I’m sorry.”

“Something else: Did you withdraw two thousand dollars today? I was balancing our account and just noticed it.”

My knuckles formed a white arc along the steering wheel.

“Jay … son,” she said. “Our agreement …”

Eve was aware of my gambling history, the debts I had accrued before we met, and how I had paid them off with the sale of XK59 to
Natow Pharmaceuticals
. She insisted I seek help, which I did, but rehabilitation came fitfully. With time, I accepted that I couldn’t gamble without jeopardizing our relationship, but the past few days had pushed me over the edge.

“I bought some things for the baby,” I said, ashamed of myself for lying.

“With cash?”

“Yes.”

“Like what?”

“A stroller, crib, and mobile.”

“A
mobile
? We have one! You saw me hanging it the other day.”

“I know, but that was a used one. I thought we should have a new one.”

“We
did
our buying! Besides, it’s unlike you to shop.”

“These were things I couldn’t pass up.”

“Where did you find them?”

“Here in Annapolis.”

“
Two thousand
dollars?”

“You’ll love the stuff.”

She clucked her tongue. “I don’t like this, Jason …”

“I understand. Gotta run; another call coming. See you tonight.”

She sighed. “Drive safely.”

It was Bird and Flagstaff who called on a speakerphone.

“Where are you?” Bird asked. “Expected you back by now.”

“Got delayed by a storm. A violent cell passed through Annapolis.”

“Heard about it. Funnel cloud reported.”

Flagstaff: “We’ve got more results from Dudley Zot’s autopsy in Ecuador.”

“Oh?”

“They found venom in the guy.”

“Snake venom?”

“No, XK59.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you right,” I said.

“XK59,” he repeated. “At high levels under the bite marks.”

“XK59’s not a venom! Someone must’ve injected the protein as they did with Chandrapur.”

“We have two experts who identified the marks on Zot’s body as spider bites, and XK59 was beneath them.”

“But Zot didn’t bleed! He had muscle breakdown. And what about
Vibrio parahaemolyticus
and
Aeromonas hydrophila
?
Were
they present?”

“No, just XK59.”

“There’s more,” Bird said. “They found some small bones and a rodent’s pelt in Zot’s bed.”

“Bizarre,” I muttered. “What sort of rodent?”

“Something akin to a mouse or vole.”

“
Totally
bizarre!”

It was early
evening when I reached the UNIT laboratory. I found Alistair Brubeck in his white coat, crisp as ever.

“You heard the news about Zot?” he asked.

“I don’t buy it.”

“What part?”

“Spider bites and XK59.”

“Why not?”

“Because XK59 comes from the bark of a tree, not from a spider. Are they sure it was XK59?”

He displayed a print of results from an instrument called a mass spectrometer that identified specific molecules, and it showed the indisputable signature pattern of XK59. “Fresh from Ecuador. Convinced?”

Reluctantly, I nodded. “But, why didn’t Zot bleed?”

“You got me. Perhaps XK59 is a strange case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde—behaving one way in venom and another in the company of
Vi
brio parahaemolyticus
.”

“We need to run some tests,” I said.

“What sort?”

“Feeding studies in guinea pigs. I learned recently the animals serve as an excellent model in which to study the disease-causing mechanisms of
Vibrio parahaemolyticus
.” I took a pen and outlined a plan …

Group 1: controls (chow without
XK59
)

Group 2: chow +
XK59
(1 part per billion)

Group 3: chow +
XK59
(1 part per billion) + Vibrio parahaemolyticus

“What do you think?” I asked Brubeck.

“I see what you’re getting at. It’ll show how the animals fare after eating XK59 at the concentration found in shrimp, and what effect, if any,
Vibrio parahaemolyticus
has in making them sick.”

“Can you get guinea pigs?”

“Not a problem.”

Darkness had fallen
by the time I left the UNIT, and as I walked toward Metro, I joined a steady stream of anti-WAFTA protestors returning home from a massive demonstration that had taken place on the mall earlier in the day. I squeezed into a crowded train and rode to Bethesda with a heavy heart, convinced the time for lies had long passed and that I needed to tell Eve the truth. At home, I found her lying on the sofa with her feet propped on a pillow. I kissed her forehead.

“Do you have a fever?” I asked her.

She nodded. “A hundred point five.”

My mind raced into doctor-mode. A fever late in the third trimester raised the possibility of an infection of the membranes that enclosed the amniotic fluid, a condition that could complicate delivery. But other causes were possible, too. “Sore throat?” I asked her.

“No,” she replied.

“Urinary symptoms?”

She shook her head.

“Bleeding or discharge?”

She raised a hand. “Jason, I’d tell you if I had those things.”

“Let me listen to your lungs and belly.”

She rolled her eyes.

I fetched a stethoscope, meeting her father in the hallway.

“Ah, good,” he whispered, seeing the device. “I told her to call you earlier about the fever, but you know Eve—stoic as ever.”

“Has she had a cough?”

“Not that I’ve heard.”

“Stiff neck or headache?”

“Don’t think so.”

I returned to the living room. Eve’s heart and lungs were clear, and the baby’s heart rate was normal. “I’d like to check a couple of other things,” I said, nodding toward the bedroom.

“Doctors … prod and poke …”

In the bedroom, I felt her breast mass for signs of change but found none. “Did you call the obstetrician about your temperature?”

“I’ll do it in the morning if it remains.” She set her head on the pillow. “There’s lasagna in the refrigerator. Daddy and I ate earlier.”

I kissed her again. “Sorry I was late.”

She nodded forgivingly, but her expression soon changed. I braced myself for the question about the baby items.

“There’s a message out there from Giva Bhanjee,” she said. “You need to call her.”

“Did she say where she was?”

“Yes, in London.”

“What’s she doing there?”

“I didn’t ask. She asked you to call her as soon as possible.”

I started for the door.

“Jason.”

I turned. “Yes?”

“Would you close the door? I’m going to sleep now.”

In the dining
room, I viewed the message on the table from Bhanjee as a tiny window with drapes pulled shut. If I wanted to see beyond the drapes, I had to call the number yet I hesitated to do so for fear of seeing what lay beyond the curtains.

I placed the call. Bhanjee answered after the first ring. “What took you?” she asked.

“I only received the message now.”

“I don’t have long. My flight to India leaves shortly.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?”

“Because I left as fast as I could. It was horrible!”

“What was?”

“What they left in my home!”

“What was it?”

“Oh, God, it’s too awful to talk about!”

“Giva—”

“Listen! Chandrapur is on a respirator. His doctors don’t know how long he has to live. Why didn’t you go see him?”

“You think I can drop what I’m doing to go to India?”

“I did!”

“Then call me when you get there.”

“But you need to know what the codes mean now, and Minal can tell you.”

“Wait! What codes are you referring to?”

“The ones you found on the Congressman’s boat.”

“How do
you
know about that?”

“Chandrapur told me.”

“How does
he
know?”

“He knows everything! That’s why you need to see him!”

“Give me his telephone number! I’ll call him!”

“No, he insists you see him! That’s how secret the codes are!” An announcement in the background competed with her words. “I need to go. My flight’s boarding.”

“Hold on! Let me ask you something: Frank Grainger is your boss at
BioVironics
, isn’t he?”

“How did you find out?”

“Doesn’t matter! What I want to know is whether Frank Grainger has a tattoo of a pistol in his sternal notch, at the top of his chest. Does he?”

“I wouldn’t know; he always wears a tie.”

“But it was Grainger who told you what my middle initial is, right? You used it on the envelope with directions to Chandrapur’s home in India.”

“I need to go!” she wailed. “I’ll call you from India.”