Mirrors (20 page)

“At least come in for some coffee,” Kosta insisted. He beckoned me feebly.

I entered the house.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but do you generally go about in your pajamas?” Kosta asked.

I told him about what had happened. “Do you know the name, ‘Frank Grainger’?” I asked. “He dumped me here.”

Kosta shook his head.

“What about you?” I asked Bjornstad.

She pointed to a library off the foyer. “Let’s get your coffee.” She led the way.

“Yes, please serve Dr. Krispix a fresh cup while I finish dressing,” Kosta said. He departed at a tepid pace, lifting his arms for balance. At the stairway, he gripped the banister, ascended a step, and then rested before taking the next.

In the library, Bjornstad offered me a seat at a table that held two sets of breakfast dishes. “I’ll brew a fresh pot.”

She left a wave of perfume as she departed. In her absence, I glanced at the shelves replete with books, nary a space empty. Again, the theme was Greek, only there were no genre markers. I searched for the title,
Theogony
, but Bjornstad cut me short.

“I’m very concerned about what happened to you last night,” she said. “Just yesterday I learned about this man, Frank Grainger. Chairman McCloskey informed me that Grainger was in Ecuador under an alias. Investigators sent by the UNIT to Ecuador discovered Grainger’s driver’s license at the shrimp farm. A background check verified he holds a PhD in biochemistry from the University of Nevada where he did research on snake venom.”

“Are you aware that he works at
BioVironics
in Germantown?”

“I am, indeed. I encouraged Chairman McCloskey to apprehend Grainger so that he may be questioned in detail. In the meantime, I’d like you to know I identified the source of the missives the victims received. They came from a Greek work by Hesiod called
Theogony
.”

“You must have learned that from Randy Flagstaff because I told him that.” I informed her of the conversations I’d had with my English professor from college, Lawrence P. Squills.

She bristled. “Actually, I discovered it on my own.”

“Really?” I tested her: “Did
all
the missives come from
Theogony
?” It was a detail I hadn’t shared with Flagstaff.

“No, one came from a separate source.”

“Which missive was it?”

“
… not that rich chimaera.
”

“And where did it come from?”

“William Faulkner’s
The Sound and the Fury
.” She recited the passage …

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.

Impressed, I asked her: “Why do you think Grainger left me here?”

“I don’t know; that’s one of the questions we need to ask him.” Looking over her shoulder, she leaned closer and whispered: “And we need to keep an eye on Congressman Kosta, too. He may be working with Grainger.”

Just then, the Congressman appeared. Clean-shaven and wearing a suit, he looked invigorated, as if a shower had revived him. “I’d love to join you, but I cannot because of WAFTA. The vote is approaching quickly.”

“What side are you on?” I asked him.

He cleared his throat in a series of grunts. “I’ve always been pro-WAFTA. Tariffs impede trade, and I want to clean the slate of them.” He reached into his pocket and handed me forty dollars. “Call a taxi.”

Without exception, Eve
meditated each morning in our den, a room set apart where she sat for variable periods before emerging with tranquility to meet the new day. Ours was a contrast in greeting the sun—she a philosopher, peace-seeker, minister; I a pragmatist, warrior, strategist.

“Jason!” she called from the den as I entered the house. “Where
were
you?”

A newspaper crinkled from the living room as her father’s head appeared. “You went out in your
pajamas
?” he asked.

I went to Eve and hugged her, telling her what had happened. I used the opportunity to inform Spud about my work as well since he couldn’t be left in the dark any longer.

Eve cupped my face in her hands. “You think Grainger
injected
you with something?”

I removed my pajama top and ran a finger over the site. “I’m thinking it was a tranquilizer, nothing more.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Sore and tired, but otherwise alright.”

If Grainger had injected me, roughly five hours had passed from the time of the injection. An interlude of that length without the appearance of more serious signs and symptoms gave me hope that it wasn’t XK59 he injected.

“I’m taking you to the emergency ward!” Eve declared.

“Not needed,” I replied. “Let me take a hot shower and see how I feel.”

Eve frowned. “We can’t take any chances, Jason!”

“Believe me, I’ll go to the ER if I deteriorate.”

Her frown deepened. “I found that scary spider you brought back last night in a jar sitting on our kitchen counter,” she said. “Why did you bring it here?”

“Because I found it in Bhanjee’s bed. What did you do with it?”

“I called Randy Flagstaff. He sent someone here to collect it.”

She went to our bedroom and returned with a manila envelope. “Did you leave this in our closet?”

“No,” I replied. “I don’t recognize it.”

I opened the envelope and found a series of photographs. The first was a close-up of the type of spider I found in Bhanjee’s bed. A ruler along the bottom measured the spider’s body, excluding legs, to be four inches in length. A small frame outlining part of the front section, or cephalothorax, was magnified in the next photo. It showed a pair of jaws with protruding fangs that resembled tapered hoses capable of delivering torrents of venom. Continuing the pattern of greater magnification, the photos zeroed in on the poison gland, a venom-producing sac composed of several pouches. Three layers comprised the venom sac: an outermost muscle layer; a middle component labeled “basal lamina”; and an innermost single row of cells labeled, “epithelium—produces venom.” The remaining photos brought the epithelium to life in increasing detail, the last one taken by electron microscopy. It depicted a series of dots budding from the end of the epithelial cells into the venom sac.

A final sheet was not a photo but, rather, a penned message stating,
More details to follow
.

“Grainger,” I murmured. “He must’ve left these when he broke into our house last night. I need to tell Flagstaff about this.”

“Good, because he called this morning. I saw his name flash on your phone.”

I went to the medicine cabinet and gulped down two tablets of acetaminophen. In the mirror, I saw bags under my eyes and wrinkles that looked as if they’d leapt there from a crumpled paper.

Eve offered me my phone.

I took her entire hand. “You’re warm,” I said.

“I still have a temperature: hundred point five.”

I swallowed hard. “Better call the obstetrician.”

“I will this morning.”

I sighed.

“Do you know what day this is?” Eve asked.

In mill-like fashion, my mind ground slowly. “Your due date.”

“Yes.” She kissed me. “Call Flagstaff.”

Wearily, I placed the call.

After answering, Flagstaff put me on speaker with Bird.

“We heard about what happened last night!” Flagstaff said. “How are you?”

“I’ve felt better. Where was your security team?”

“Outside your home!”

“What about in
back
? That’s how Grainger got in.”

“We’ll check on it,” Bird said.

“Why was Bjornstad at Kosta’s house?” I asked.

“Because Kosta offered to put her up while she’s in town.”

“Bit awkward, isn’t it, given that Kosta may have sent the missives?”

“We can’t draw that conclusion yet,” Bird cautioned.

“Back to last night,” Flagstaff said. “In your words, tell us what happened.”

I recounted the events, confirming the Grainger-Manovic connection. “Since you found his driver’s license at the shrimp farm, why didn’t you apprehend him at the border when he returned to the U.S.?”

“We were too late; he’d already entered the country.”

“But we’re looking for him now,” Bird added. “McCloskey is adamant we apprehend him.”

I described Grainger’s van, including the shattered passenger-side window.

“That’s helpful,” Flagstaff said, “In the meantime, McCloskey joined us on a phone call to Charles E. Oxford at
BioVironics
.”

“Did Oxford know Grainger was in Ecuador?”

“Of course, the company sent him there to deal with a venomous snake that’s infiltrated the shrimp pools from the mangroves.”

“Did you tell Oxford that an employee of his named Minal Chandrapur worked with XK59?”

“That’s hearsay at this point,” Bird said. “We need to confirm that.”

“Sounds like you learned little from Oxford,” I said.

“Not entirely. We confirmed the company knew about Grainger’s arrest record before they hired him.”

“What was he arrested for?”

“Breaking and entering.”

“Where?”

“In Nevada while he was a grad student there. He told the police he was trying to reclaim a laptop another student stole from him.”

I thought for a moment. “Sounds like a pattern.”

“What do you mean?”

I told them about how the diaries in which I kept detailed notes had been stolen from my townhouse shortly after moving to Bethesda. A window beside my computer had been broken. At the time, I thought it was odd that only my diaries should disappear when we had art work and cash at home, too.

“That’s how he learned about Danny Rogers,” I surmised.

“Why would he harm Rogers?” Bird asked.

I shook my head. “Don’t know. What about Kosta? Anything new since we last spoke?”

“Yes,” Flagstaff replied. “We learned he earmarked a bill to fund
Starboard’
s campaign to clear the Intracoastal Waterway of seaweed.”

“Congress funded
Starboard
, not individual donors?”

“Correct. Kosta inserted a clause requiring
Starboard
to hire
BioVironics
to undertake the job.”

“Some Congressional pork!” I said. “Kosta earmarked a bill and then embezzled a million from its funds while he motored up the Inland Waterway mailing missives.”

A shower and
a fresh set of clothes made me feel somewhat better. It relieved me tremendously to conclude that the injection I’d received—assuming it
was
an injection, which I was convinced it had been—consisted of something other than XK59.

After downing a stack of French toast for breakfast, I placed a call. Normally, Congress would have been recessed in August but with WAFTA due for a vote, I suspected Paul DeTrigger would be at his desk, even on a Sunday. He answered the phone promptly.

“Got a minute?” I asked.

“Make it fast; WAFTA’s about to explode. Barely got to the office through the protestors out there.”

“On the flight to Ecuador, Muñoz told me you had called him on Kosta’s behalf for updates on victims’ names and addresses. Why did you do that?”

“Because Kosta’s a Task Force member.”

“So are others, but they didn’t request that information.”

“They didn’t have a constituent who was poisoned; Kosta did.”

“Muñoz said Kosta was traveling a lot at the time he requested the updates.”

“We multi-task here.”

“Where did he travel to?” I asked.

“I don’t keep his calendar.”

“Is he a boat enthusiast?”

“Of course, for good reason: Before coming to Congress, he was a Coast Guard officer assigned to the Intracoastal Waterway.”