Mirrors (24 page)

3:06 p.m.

An anvil hung from my neck, or so it felt. I viewed eight hours, fifty-four minutes as far too little time in which to meet Grainger’s demands.

I rushed to Flagstaff’s office and filled him in.

“You
stole
his bark?” he asked.

“I advanced science.”

“Whatever. The point is, he’s punishing society because you failed to return his bark.”

“It appears.”

“Then do as he said: Write that statement and answer his questions!”

“You’re abetting Grainger!”

“I’m trying to protect the public!” He glanced at his watch. “What other choice do we have in the eight hours and forty-nine minutes that remain before he unleashes God-knows-what?”

“Apprehend him!”

“We’re trying!” He rubbed his forehead. “In the meantime, send that statement to the journal.”

3:11 p.m.

I hurried to the lab.

“I was about to call you,” Brubeck announced as I entered.

I joined him at a counter where he pointed to a distilled list of data …

Line 169. Start VP35—3,129

Line 242. Start VP40—4,479

Line 326. Start GP—6,039

Line 326. Start GP—6,039

Line 385. Stop GP—7,133

Line 460. Start VP30—8,509

“You removed the missives, I see,” I observed.

“Didn’t need them; the action’s in the numbers.”

“What do you mean?”

He peered at me. “I think we’re dealing with something far more ominous than
Vibrio parahaemolyticus
or
Aeromonas hydrophila
.”

“Like what?”

“I find it so alarming I’d rather not speculate until you go back to Kosta’s boat to see if you can find more codes in
Theogony
.”

“I recorded them all.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

“Did you go through each page individually?”

“No, I flipped through the text to the stickies.”

“Go back and look at each page.”

“
Back
to Annapolis? That’ll take too much time.” I told him about the deadline Grainger had imposed.

“It’s critical that you go to Annapolis,” he insisted.

“
How
critical?”

He looked away. “Let’s put it this way: If those cryptic codes refer to what I think they do, we’re doomed.”

3:30 p.m.

With the passing of a day—from Saturday to Sunday—the traffic pattern on Route 50 had changed. More cars returned from the beach than went there now that a week of work loomed for most. I slipped into the flow of traffic easily, this time needing no directions to Annapolis. When I reached the city, I pulled to the side of the road to visit the website for the
Journal of Pharmaceutical Metabolism
. Six months had elapsed since my paper on XK59 had published, yet when I came to the journal’s website, it seemed like yesterday that I submitted the work.

My fingers protested the email I composed …

Dear Editor:

With contrition, I write to acknowledge an event that transpired prior to publication of my article on
XK59
. The bark from which I recovered
XK59
belonged to a graduate student hospitalized at the University Medical Center in Las Vegas. He never gave me permission to analyze the bark because he intended to do it himself as part of his doctoral dissertation. Despite repeated requests of me to return the bark, I kept it to advance my own research, ultimately submitting the manuscript you published. In doing so, I committed thievery and violated the Hippocratic Oath by inflicting anguish on a patient.

I put my fate in your hands. Should you insist I acknowledge this occurrence to your readers, I will do so in a venue of your choosing. I await your response.

I copied Grainger and sent the email, feeling my integrity vanish with it. Among those who would learn what I had done were colleagues in the lab in Las Vegas who assumed I had obtained permission to analyze the bark. Anger welled within me.

I resumed my way through Annapolis but parked a block from Kosta’s house in case the Congressman was home. As I crept along the bushes lining the driveway, I saw a figure inside the house sweep past a window toward the front door. I crouched in fear but the only sound I heard was the occasional knock of a car engine cooling nearby. Through the leaves, I saw a red F430 Spider Ferrari.

With the house quiet, I bolted across the garden into the woods and slinked through the trees to the dock. I examined the boat for signs of activity and, seeing none, snuck aboard. An aroma of perfume greeted me in the salon, the same aroma I detected in Kosta’s house when Bjornstad left the library to brew a fresh pot of coffee. I froze and listened for a footstep, a door to open or close, or a voice—anything to suggest I had company. Hearing none, I went to the galley to retrieve the copy of
Theogony
only to find it was no longer there. The small mirror had vanished as well.

Anguished, I searched the cabins but the book was nowhere to be found. With the mission of my trip to Annapolis scuttled, I fled the boat and retraced my steps to the car, but when I reached the bushes along the driveway, I heard the front door open. I dove for cover and watched as a man departed the house. He moved tentatively, taking one halting step after another in a feeble descent toward the Ferrari. When he reached the driveway, he paused for a moment as if to celebrate the achievement. He then opened the passenger-side door and, with great effort, deposited a small suitcase into the car before reaching into his pocket for a paperback book that he left as well.

I held my position as he painstakingly climbed the steps and disappeared into the house. After the door closed, I rose and sprinted to the Ferrari, noticing then the license plate:
TexRep
. With one eye on the house, I opened the passenger door to find the same copy of
Theogony
on the seat that I had perused before. As I grasped it, I heard a woman’s voice through an open window of the house: “Nicolas, we must go.”

I bolted to the bushes again and made a hasty retreat to my car. Eager to keep an eye on Kosta’s driveway, I moved to a woodsy pullover nearby that afforded a surreptitious view. Through low-hanging bows, I kept a watchful eye but allowed myself brief respites to leaf through the book from start to finish in a search for additional cryptic codes. I found none.

Before long, I heard the humming of a boat engine. Peering through the boughs to the Chesapeake Bay at the end of the street, I saw a vessel cutting through the water, its long, sleek hull and flybridge immediately familiar. I reached for a pair of binoculars in the glove compartment and peered through the lenses to make out the name
Down Under
along the bow. On the flybridge, Nick Kosta tended the helm while Sigrid Bjornstad stood beside him.

I started the car to pursue them but stopped short when my mobile showed an incoming call from Giva Bhanjee.

“Jason, I’m in India at Minal’s bedside,” she cried. “He’s bleeding from every orifice.”

I envisioned the scene readily from my mice studies and those Brubeck had conducted on the guinea pigs.

“Can Minal talk?” I asked.

“No, he’s on a ventilator.”

“Is he responsive?”

“Barely,” she sobbed, “but at least he recognizes me.”

“Can he write?”

“No way! He’s too weak.”

“Can he lift a finger?”

A muffled voice, then: “He can, but with difficulty.”

“Good. I want you to ask him some questions that he can answer by lifting one or two fingers: one for ‘yes’ and two for ‘no.’ ”

“Okay.”

“Ask him, ‘Did you know that XK59 comes from a spider?’ ”

A pause, then: “One finger.”

“Good! Next: ‘Do you know how XK59 got into the bark?’ ”

“One finger,” she replied.

“Did it leach there from the spider’s venom?”

“One finger.”

I now had an explanation for why I hadn’t been able to find the DNA for XK59 in the bark: because it resided in the spider’s venom gland.

Still, the series of ‘yes’ responses made me wonder whether Chandrapur was lucid or dutifully raising a finger upon command.

“Ask him if he’s at home now,” I said.

“Don’t be foolish! He’s in the hospital!”

“I need to make sure he’s responding appropriately. Ask him!”

A murmur, followed by: “Two fingers. I told you so!”

“Now this: Did either
Vibrio parahaemolyticus
or
Aeromonas hydrophila
added to the shrimp and
Electric Jolt
serve to increase the amount of XK59 in the victims?”

A pause that seemed to last an eternity. “Yes.”

To be sure, I asked: “One finger?”

“Yes!”

Had I been with Chandrapur, I would have shaken the answers from him. As it was, I felt I was chinking at a treasure chest with a toothpick.

“He’s getting tired,” Bhanjee warned. “We need to let him rest.”

“Not yet! Ask him whether
both
bacteria increased the amount of XK59 in the victims.”

After a moment: “No.”

“Only one bacterium?”

“Yes.”

“Was it
Aeromonas hydrophila
?”

No response.

“Giva?” I called out.

“I’m here!”

“Did he answer the question?”

She delayed before saying, “He raised two fingers.”

“That
can’t
be! Ask him again!”

A moment later, “Two fingers!”

“Is he saying
Vibrio parahaemolyticus
caused the elevated levels of XK59 in the victims?”

A deafening silence, then, “Yes.”

“Oh, my
God
!” I fretted. “Can Brubeck be wrong?”

“Who’s Brubeck?”

“Never mind! Does he know
how
the
Vibrio
contributed to the elevated levels of XK59 in the victims?”

“No.”

“Come
on
! How could he
not
know? Ask him whether he obtained the
Vibrio
used to poison the shrimp and
Electric Jolt
.”

“He did.”

“Did he get it in India?”

“Yes.”

“And he gave it to Grainger?”

“Yes.”

“And did Grainger plant it in the shrimp and
Electric Jolt
?”

“Yes.”

“Can he tell me what the terms
VP35
,
VP40
, and
VP30
mean?”

“Oh, God, he’s having a seizure!” Bhanjee shrieked. “Look what you’ve done to him!”

“Don’t hang up!”

I heard a click, and the line went dead.

“
No
!” I shouted. How could it be that the guinea pig studies implicated
Aeromonas hydrophila
as the cause of elevated XK59 levels in the victims whereas Chandrapur fingered the
Vibrio
?

As for the second question regarding why Zot had died from muscle breakdown after being bitten by spiders, I hadn’t a clue about the answer.

I looked out the window and noticed the sun arching over the tree tops.

4:43 p.m.

With Kosta’s boat long gone, I called Brubeck.