Prophet of Bones (27 page)

“Divergence will be easy enough to test for, but where the species line falls isn’t my area. After decompression, a simple comparison analysis will tell you the percentage difference. Will that work?”

Paul nodded. “That’ll tell me what I need to know. If the samples are close enough, can you calculate time to most recent common ancestor?”

“The percentage difference is all I can promise, but there might be existing programs I can run to get you the other result. I’ll have to do some research on it. This isn’t something I do every day, you see, but it shouldn’t be that complicated. The main problem will be the size of the data set being compared. Even with compression, these files are huge.”

“That computer can handle it?”

“What, this one? Shit, no. This is just my gaming rig. I have access to a computer at work that’ll have the balls for this, though.”

“Work.”

“Don’t sweat it. It’s at a private company, and I know how to delete project history. Nobody will know.”

“How long will it take?”

“Ah, well, that depends. How long do you want it to take?”

“As soon as possible.”

“Then maybe a week.”

Paul opened his wallet and pulled out five crisp hundred-dollar bills.

The guy took the money. “Two days, maybe three.”

“I need it faster.”

Alan shook his head. “It’ll be two days no matter how many hundreds you’ve got in that wallet. It’ll take me a day to track down the right programs, then another day to run the analysis, double-check, and generate the report.”

“Okay, then that will have to do.” Paul stood.

“Pleasure doing business with you.”

“I’ll see you in a few days,” Paul said and took the stairs back down to his car.

31

Paul was in the lab when they came for him.

A security guard knocked on the door.

“Paul Carlsson?”

Paul looked up from his work. “Yeah.”

“If you’ll come with me.” It was a guard Paul hadn’t ever seen before. And Paul had seen all the guards.

“Why do you want him?” Janus asked. Janus was standing on the other side of the lab counter, mixing fixative.

“We have some questions we need to ask,” the guard said.

Paul looked at Janus. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Okay,” Janus said, though the look on his face said that he wasn’t particularly hopeful.

Paul followed the security guard down the hall to the elevator. A thick finger stabbed the button for the sixth floor. This explained why he hadn’t seen the guard before. Paul had never been to the sixth floor. Except for the little round number in the elevator, he might not have known there
was
a sixth floor. What could be above heaven?

The door dinged open and they stepped onto matte black tile. There was no grand, beautiful entrance here. No glass wall. This floor had no pretenses to keep up. At a steel door, the guard swiped a security pass and led Paul down a narrow hall. At the end of the hall was another door.

“What’s this about?” Paul asked.

“You’ll have to take it up with them.”

The guard opened the door and motioned Paul inside.

Three men sat at a table waiting for him. Two of them were strangers, but the third had a face he remembered well. A face etched in his memory. The guard closed the door and stood next to the wall.

“Please sit,” the first man said.

He was middle-aged and bland, wearing a suit that probably cost as much as Paul made in a month. The man next to him was older, round-faced, unsmiling. At the other end sat the face he remembered. The lawyer from the island.

Paul pulled the chair out and took a seat.

He felt an involuntary response to the lawyer’s presence. He resisted the urge to reach up and scratch at his eye patch. He made a point not to look at him and instead looked at the man sitting directly across from him. As if to prevent this, the lawyer spoke.

“Hello, Paul.”

“Hello.”

“It’s nice to see you in circumstances better than when we last met.”

“Yeah.”

“Though, actually, when you think about it”—here the lawyer made a point to look at his two colleagues—“maybe these circumstances aren’t any better, after all.”

The other two men didn’t so much as blink. They just stared across the table at Paul.

“In fact,” the lawyer continued, “maybe it’s worse.”

On the table was a large file. The lawyer opened it.

“These are your log-in times for the duration of your employment at Westing.”

Paul was careful not to let his face show anything.

“You’re usually here by eight-thirty, though the time does fluctuate a little. Less than most; you’re fairly consistent. Would you consider yourself a consistent person, Paul?”

“About normal, I suppose.”

“No, I wouldn’t say that.”

The lawyer pulled out another sheet. “SAT scores in the ninety-ninth percentile. You’re a smart guy, Paul.”

Paul’s mouth dropped open. “How did you get my SATs?”

“They’re part of your school records. Your school records were made available to your employer upon conditions of your initial interview process. Don’t you remember?”

“No, I don’t.”

“That’s the thing about fine print. Nobody really reads it, do they? As I was saying, you’re a smart guy.”

“Smart enough.”

“Before here, where did you work?”

“A college lab.”

“Doing what, exactly?”

“Cleaning up shit, mostly.”

The lawyer pulled out another sheet of paper. “Says here you were an animal tech.”

“Like I said.”

“Father deceased. Mother lives out of state. No sibs. No extended family.”

“That’s right.”

“You see, Paul, I’m just trying to get a feel for who you are. I’m trying to understand you.”

“That’s flattering.”

“Would you have any idea why I’m so interested in you?”

“I don’t have a clue.”

“There is a problem, Paul.”

“What kind of problem?”

“A security problem.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“We’ve had a breach, you see, which is why they called me. I’m the guy they call when a potentially complicated situation arises, and this is potentially very complicated.”

“That’s awful.”

“We have reason to believe that someone broke into the lab during off-hours.”

“I hope you catch him,” Paul said, then added, “or her.”

“Oh, I don’t think there’s any doubt we’ll catch him.”

“I like your confidence.”

“You don’t mind if we ask you a few questions, do you, Paul?”

“Is that a question?”

“Have you ever entered the lab at hours other than working hours?”

“No.”

“Have you ever broken into the lab?”

“No.”

“Have you ever knowingly or unknowingly unlocked any doors or windows that could allow another individual or yourself to access the facility during off-hours?”

“How could I tell you if it was unknowingly?”

“‘Unknowingly’ gives you an out. You could say, ‘You know, I do think I left the door unlocked, but I had nothing to do with the three guys who broke in later.’ That kind of thing. Have you ever unknowingly disabled the security of the lab?”

“No,” Paul said. “Not that I know of.”

“Have you ever worked on any unsanctioned projects?”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you ever preformed any testing without the express consent of a supervisor or persons in charge of testing protocols?”

“No.”

“Done any testing that was not directly supervised?”

“No.”

“How’s your eye, Paul?”

Paul looked straight at him. “Fuck you.”

The man in the expensive suit turned to the lawyer. “Are we done here?”

“We’re done,” the lawyer responded.

“No.” It was the round-faced man, sitting in the middle. He folded his hands in front of him, his expression very serious. “You can help yourself here, Paul.”

Good cop, bad cop. Paul knew the formula, as did any watcher of American television. They weren’t cops, but the principle was the same. And it was actually a bit reassuring.

“We have reason to believe you’re involved in this somehow,” the man went on.

It was reassuring because it told Paul that he wasn’t totally fucked yet. Power only bothered with good cop when they still had something they needed. But still, the noose was tightening. It was just a matter of time. He had a few days maybe, if he was lucky.

“You’ve been through a lot in the past months,” the good cop went on. “That’s something we understand, and we can work things out. We just need you to talk to us.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re making a bad choice, Paul.”

“No, he’s not,” the lawyer said. He smiled. He knew that Paul saw the charade for what it was. “It’s not going to matter one way or the other.”

“I wish I could help you,” Paul said.

“Are we done here?” the third man said again.

“Yeah, we’re done.”

“We’re done,” the lawyer said.

The third man spoke again: “You’ll need to turn over your laptop for security reasons, Paul.”

“I understand,” Paul said. “The sooner we get this done, the better.”

The lawyer chimed in: “I’d agree with that, Paul. It’s just to eliminate you from suspicion, of course.”

“Of course.”

“It’s up in my office,” Paul offered.

“What is?”

“My laptop.”

“Oh, we know where it is,” the lawyer said. “We already have it.”

32

Paul never even went home.

The highway. The rolling dark.

For a long time, he wasn’t sure where he was going.

When he knew, he placed a phone call.

“Sure,” she said. “I know a place.”

They talked for a minute, and he hung up the phone. The hours rolled by. He stopped for gas in Ohio.

He pulled into the lot on Dearborn ten minutes later than he’d expected to. The clock on his dash read 10:45.

“Shit,” he said.

He slid into a parking spot, cut the engine, and checked the GPS on his phone one last time. The blue dot and the red dot were on top of each other, so he was in the right place. She’d said the place was dark and quiet, but from where he sat it looked anything but.

He checked his face in the rearview mirror. A bloodshot eye stared back at him. After an evening of driving, he’d made the mistake of grabbing a quick nap—twenty minutes’ sleep at a rest stop on the side of Highway 94. Waking up had been harder than just going without sleep.

Paul ran a hand over his wild hair. He was exhausted. The rain was coming down again, a slow drizzle that puddled the streets. He pulled his hood over his head and ran out into the rain. The moisture felt good on his face; it made him feel more awake.

“Dining alone?” The maître d’ asked. She was short and thin and pierced. From inside, music was thumping.

“I’m meeting someone,” Paul said. “She’s probably already here. Is it okay if…”

The maître d’ waved him through.

Lilli, it turned out, had gotten the dark part right. The restaurant was so dimly lit that he had trouble seeing the faces of people more than a few tables in front of him. He did his best, scanning the room, looking for something familiar. The crowd was young and hip and moneyed. Mid- to late twenties, mostly. City people in city styles. Paul waded into the room, dodging an oncoming waiter with a steaming plate of Italian.

A raised hand caught his attention. He lifted his chin, and Lilli waved him over to her table in the corner.

“So you came after all,” she said. Her pixie cut was gelled into a complication of short, flowing spikes. Like fire, if fire were black. Large hoop earrings accentuated the curve of her delicate neck.

Paul sank into the leather booth, squeezing his bulk behind the table. “Sorry I’m late.”

“I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show up.”

“Traffic,” he said, the start of some excuse. Then he simply told the truth: “I ended up catching a quick nap. It’s been a bad day.”

“So it would seem,” she said, raising a glass of pink liquid to her lips.

*   *   *

“Thanks for meeting with me.”

“I didn’t think I’d hear from you again. You look like shit, by the way.”

He smiled. “Thanks.”

“It must be something pretty important that has you out here again. Something tells me it’s not my good looks.”

“Don’t underestimate yourself.”

“But?”

“But no,” he said. “There have been some recent developments.”

“More of your photographs?” she said, then sipped.

“A drink,” Paul said. “A drink first.” He waved down their waitress, who came to their table carrying a glass carafe of clear liquid.

“Sparkling water?” she asked.

“I’d like my water to sparkle, yes,” Paul said. “And I’ll have a Coors.” He turned to Lilli. “You want another?”

“I’m good,” she said, holding up her tall glass. “This is my second.”

When the waitress had left, Paul pulled a small plastic bag from inside the pocket of his hoody. “I brought something for you.”

“You shouldn’t have.”

He set the baggie on the table. “You might be more right than you know.”

“Is that what I think it is?”

Paul nodded. “That depends. Do you think it’s a bone sample?”

“The way to a girl’s heart. Where did you get it?”

“The shipping department at Westing. It’s a sample that was on its way to that address you gave me.”

“Why bring it to me?”

“This is what you said you needed, right? Bone collagen, to tell more about the bones in the photo.”

“There are certain tests, yes, in regard to ecological niche. So this is a sample from those bones?”

“Maybe not those bones exactly, but I suspect it’s from the same dig.”

“You suspect? Something tells me that you came by this sample by less than legitimate means.”

“If you want to back out, I understand.”

“Back out? Nobody ever said I was in.”

“Is that a no?”

“It’s a maybe.”

Paul looked at her closely. “If you want to walk away from this, I wouldn’t blame you at all. I’m probably crazy to bring it to you. You don’t owe me anything.”