Submerged (6 page)

“Nanometers?” Anna asked.

“It’s a unit of measurement.” Perry said. “A
nanometer is a billionth of a meter, about point four millionths of
an inch.”

“The point is,” the doctor continued, “we
have to identify the virus or substance or whatever it is by
different means. His blood work has been sent to a lab with better
facilities than ours for additional tests. In the meantime, I’ve
notified the Center for Disease Control and requested their
help.”

“You think this might be communicable?” Perry
asked.

“We don’t know. So far there’s been no
indication of it. I’ve brought on the CDC because of their vast
database of diseases.”

“You’re saying you need help.”

Nishizaki nodded. “I’m not too proud to admit
it. If it turns out to be routine, then at worst I’ve been
cautious. I’m willing to risk that. In the meantime, I want a nurse
to take blood samples from both of you. Let’s see if we can’t rule
out any fear of contagion. Let’s start with you, Mrs. Sachs.”

“I don’t want to leave my husband. Can’t the
nurse come in here?”

“Go ahead, Mom. I’ll stay until you get
back.”

It took several more encouraging prompts, but
Anna Sachs, guided by the doctor, at last moved through the door.
She seemed to have aged a decade since the morning.

Perry returned to his father’s side and
stared down at the man who was everything to him. Tears rose again.
Grief was a poison, Perry realized. One disease had felled his
father, and now a different disease threatened to knock Perry to
his knees. He took his father’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “I’m
here, Dad.”

The hand squeezed back, and Perry’s heart
stumbled. He watched as his father’s eyelids fluttered open,
revealing milk-white corneas. His father released his gentle grip
and raised his arm. He was reaching for Perry’s face. Perry bent
over and guided his father’s hand until it touched and ran down
Perry’s stubbled face. Since he had planned to spend the day in the
wood shop with Jack, he had not bothered to shave. Men didn’t shave
for other men. Now he wished he had.

“Perry.” Henry’s voice was just a decibel or
two above a whisper.

“It’s me, Pops. You’re in the hospital.”

“Can’t see. Blind.”

“I know. The doctors are working on
that.”

“Anna?”

“She’s with one of the doctors. I’ll go get
her.”

“No. No.” Henry’s breathing became
labored.

“Okay. Easy, Dad. Don’t exert yourself. You
need to save your strength.”

“Listen. Mem–memorize . . . thirty-six,
forty-two, thirteen.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Repeat.”

Had the disease rendered him demented? Perry
wondered. That might mean the substance in his father’s blood had
reached his brain. Panic began to rise. Were these the last words
of his father?

“Repeat it, boy.”

“Okay, Dad, okay.” Perry tried to settle his
mind and recall the string of numbers. “Thirty-six, forty-two,
thirteen.”

“Good, good.” Henry’s breathing sounded wet.
“Lloyd. Lake. Nevada.”

“Dad, you need to rest—”

“Listen. Important. Lloyd. Lake. Dam. Nevada.
Monte Grant. Cynthia . . . Wagner.” He swallowed, and it looked
painful. Victor Zeisler . . .” He licked his lips. Perry could see
that his tongue was swollen. “Repeat.”

“Lloyd. Lake. Dam. Nevada. Monte Grant.
Cynthia Wagner, Victor . . . Victor . . . ”

“Zeisler.” The last word came in breathy
tones, as if Henry Sachs had just finished the Boston Marathon.
Despite the effort he offered one more word: “1974.” He licked his
lips again. Perry reached for the plastic water pitcher and
searched for a way to moisten his father’s lips. He knew he was too
weak to drink from a cup. Finding nothing, Perry poured a small
amount of water into a cup, then dipped his fingers in it. Then he
touched his father’s lips with his wet fingers.

Henry Sachs licked at the drops on his mouth,
then whispered, “Go. Now.”

“I’m not leaving you, Dad.”

“Go. Go. Don’t disobey . . . Go.”

Henry Sachs closed his eyes.

He didn’t answer Perry’s calls.

“What did your mother say?”

They were in Jack’s Dodge Ram pickup. Perry
had left the keys to his car with his mother and made certain her
cell phone had a full charge.

“I told her what Dad said, but she didn’t
know what most of it meant. She did recognize the number sequence.
Apparently my father has a safe in his house. The numbers are the
combination.”

“You didn’t know about the safe?” Jack was
steering the pickup toward the Sachs’s home. It was raining
again.

“No, but my dad has many secrets. It goes
with his lifetime work, just like it goes with ours.”

“No argument there.”

People wanted to be let in on secrets, and
when refused, some took it personally. Sachs Engineering had long
been a government contractor. Whenever secrecy went with big
equipment and unique buildings, Sachs Engineering got the call. The
company had helped build underground military bases, continuations
of government bases, secure aboveground research centers. Perry and
Jack had worked in almost every U.S.-friendly country in the
Western hemisphere—if not directly, then at least in the planning
stages. Each had secrets they would take to the grave.

The rain shimmered on the street and coursed
down the passenger window. The weather matched Perry’s mood. “I
can’t tell you how much I hate leaving him in the hospital.”

“You don’t have to, pal. I can feel it. He’s
still alive. Focus on that.”

“Yes, he is, but he slipped back into
unconsciousness. The doctors aren’t using the word
coma
yet, but I expect to hear it soon.”

“We proceed in faith,” Jack said. “Always
forward in faith.” Jack went through life with a quip on his lips
and a joke at the ready. Perry had seen him face death with a
smile. But from time to time, the deep waters of the man rose to
the surface.

“I know. I appreciate your help. You are a
true friend.”

“We’ll see if you’re still saying that when
you get my bill for cab fare.” The old Jack was back. “How can I
help?”

“You can help me think this through. Do any
of the words my father said mean anything to you? They seem
random.”

“I doubt they are. From what you told me,
your dad’s mind seemed engaged. He even made you repeat everything.
Lloyd. Lake. Nevada and some names.”

“Monte Grant, Cynthia Wagner, Victor Zeisler.
Do those names mean anything to you?”

“Not a one,” Jack admitted. “And what does
1974 have to do with it? You were just a troublemaking kid in
1974.”

“I was the perfect child. Just ask my
mother.”

“I did, and I stand by my statement.” Perry
forced a smile, but it felt insincere. “Maybe they all live in
Nevada.”

“Maybe. Whatever the names mean, they’re
important to Dad. So important he wouldn’t let me go find Mom so
she could talk to him. That’s not like him.”

“Well, if it’s important to him, then it’s
important to us.” Jack steered down one more street and turned into
the drive of a large colonial home. It was the home Perry had grown
up in. A few moments later, Perry and Jack were inside, walking
through the living room. Perry paid no attention to the
furnishings, the art, or anything else. He had one goal in mind—the
kitchen.

Thick pile carpeting gave way to the tile
floor of the kitchen. Perry crossed the room, rounding the island
cooktop, and marched to the pantry.

“You can’t be hungry,” Jack said.

“I’m not, but Mom told me that Dad hid the
safe in the pantry floor.”

“Whatever happened to hiding such things
behind framed paintings?”

“It’s the first place a crook would look.”
Perry opened the oak-paneled door, removed a wastebasket, and set
it to the side. He knelt on the tile and ran his hands along the
floor of the food closet. The floor was composed of three panels of
medium-density fiberboard. He found a plastic plug in the middle of
the second panel. With a fingernail, he popped the plug free. A
hole large enough to admit two fingers had been bored into the
panel.

“I have a pantry at home,” Jack quipped, “but
I don’t think you’d want to stick your fingers in any holes you
found.”

“I’ve been to your house, and you’re right.”
Perry pulled, and the board came free. He handed it to Jack.

“Maybe there are Twinkies in there.”

“If there are, they’re all yours.” Perry knew
that Jack was trying to keep things light. He appreciated that.
There was too much darkness swirling in his mind as it was.

With the board removed, Perry could see a
metal safe with an old-fashioned dial combination disk on its face.
“Dad always had an affinity for old things.” Perry leaned over the
opening and dialed in the combination. He got it the first time.
With a crank of the stainless steel handle, the safe opened. Perry
began removing items and handing them to Jack, who set them on the
counter. There was a strongbox, a photo album, and a notebook in a
large plastic bag.

“I was expecting the Sachs crown jewels.”

“A jewel thief would be disappointed if he
robbed this place. The only jewels my parents wear are wedding
rings.” Perry lifted the metal box. It had a roller-combination
lock on the front. He was looking at six zeros in a row. He tried
to open it, but the top didn’t move.

“Try your birthday.”

“My birthday? Why?” Perry dialed in the
numbers. It opened. “How did you figure that out?”

“You’re the apple of your daddy’s eye. It’s
obvious to everyone. Being the only son, he could use your birthday
without feeling like he was playing favorites.”

“I’ll have to talk to him about that. Using
birthdays for security codes is not wise.” Perry thought of his
father lying unconscious in the hospital. He prayed he would have
the opportunity to talk to his father about anything.

Inside the metal box were papers and
envelopes: the deed to the house, pink slips on the cars, life
insurance policies, and the like. Nothing appeared unusual. He
closed the box and set it aside.

“May I?” Jack pointed at the photo album.

“Go ahead. I’m going to take a look at this.”
Perry picked up the notebook in the plastic bag. The bag opened,
and he removed a three-ring binder, the kind kids took to school.
Inside was narrow-rule-lined paper. It had aged yellow but was
still in good shape. Perry assumed he could thank the plastic bag
for that.

“I’ve got nothing here but pictures of you on
a pony, Little League pictures, and birthday parties. There are a
few of people I don’t know. Aunts and uncles maybe. What about
you?”

“There’s not much here—just a few pages of
names, numbers, and some pencil drawings. I’m not sure what to make
of it. None of the names have last names, just first and an
initial.”

“Sounds like your dad wanted the secret kept
a secret,” Jack said.

“Why would he send me looking for this? He
was coherent. I wondered if the medication was affecting his mind,
but I had the impression he knew exactly what he was saying but was
too weak to say it all.”

“What about the names? Do any of the names he
gave you match what’s on the list?”

“This list is cryptic, but it does have first
names.” Perry scanned down the column of names. Soon he found Monte
G—CE; Cynthia W—BE; and Victor Z—EE.

“What are the initials?”

“Don’t know. Dad abbreviates everything.”

“CE could be civil engineering,” Jack
suggested.

“Possible. If that is true, then EE could be
electrical engineering.”

“Is your dad’s name there?”

“Good question.” Perry searched the list
again. “Sure enough, Henry S—SE. In his case, SE could stand for
structural engineer. But what is BE? Let’s go into Dad’s office. I
have some computer work to do.” Perry carried the notebook as he
and Jack crossed the spacious house. Henry Sachs’s home office was
wide and paneled in dark wood. A table served as a desk. On it was
a computer and several rolls of plans. At the right edge of the
table was a phone and answering machine. A red light blinked with
demanding regularity. Perry decided to retrieve the message. It was
one more thing he could do for his mother. He pressed the Play
button. An elderly-sounding voice wafted up from the speaker.

“Henry? Henry, it’s Cynthia Wagner. We need
to talk. It’s—it’s about Monte. He’s dead. It’s horrible. Call me.
Please call.” She gave a number.

Perry picked up the phone and began to
dial.

Chapter5

Her hips hurt,
but they had been hurting since she was in her early fifties. Now,
at seventy, she had learned to ignore the pain. Arthritis plundered
her movement and comfort, but she had grown accustomed to morning
aches and the extra time necessary to rise from a chair. Seventy
was a good number, she thought. Seventy years was long life—longer
than she could have expected if fate had placed her in a
third-world country but not as long as she knew the human body was
designed to live. Aging always baffled her, and often she wished
she had focused her training in that area instead of
bioengineering. What was, however, was, and it was far too late to
change things now.

She had much to be thankful for. She had
planned her retirement well and had no money problems. She wasn’t
rich, but she didn’t need to be. Money was a means to food,
housing, and books and magazines. Very little else was needed.

The garden stretched before her. Zinnias,
calendulas, celosia, and other flowers splashed color along the
stretch of dirt that ran in front of her home. Other flowering
plants made their homes in terra-cotta pots and wood planters.