The Enclave (10 page)

In the end she decided to swallow her embarrassment, and on her way to the clinic for her afternoon appointment took a detour by way of Lab 500.

Like all the labs on the fifth floor, 500 was a maze of rooms, aisles, and work spaces that seemed to have no logical pattern. At the door into the main lab, she hesitated. About thirty people worked in the lab, seated or standing at various stations along the lines of lab benches that marched in ranks before her. The work surfaces were jumbled with test tube racks and boxes of pipettes, prepackaged solutions, and latex gloves. Bottles of reagents stood amidst various pieces of equipment— shakers, chromatographs, a spectrophotometer. Reinhardt’s glass-enclosed office stood at the end of the long aisle down the back of the room, and she saw at once that he was in it.

Reluctance swelled in her again, but knowing how much she’ d regret leaving without pressing for answers, she threw her timidity off and strode boldly forward. Tapping on the open glass door, she stepped into the office and asked, “May I speak with you privately, Doctor?”

He looked up in surprise, and his expression quickly turned to one of displeasure, though he nodded and motioned her in. She closed the glass door behind her and stepped toward him, noting peripherally the stacks of folders and binders and boxes and books that cluttered the tiny office. At his back, a white laminate bookshelf bulged with volumes whose titles reflected his line of work. He’ d managed to prop his plaque for the Black Box Citation up against several on the second shelf.

“I don’t mean to be impertinent, Doctor,” she said, “but you never answered my question this morning when we met on the path outside. And . . . well, it’s very important to me that you do.”

His freckled face grew more guarded than ever. “Your question?”

“About what happened in the animal facility last night?”

He held her gaze for only a moment, then glanced across the room behind her as he settled back in his chair. Above the now-clear lenses of his glasses, his auburn brows drew slightly together. Finally he looked at her again. “Ms. McHenry, whatever you think happened last night, it really would be to your advantage to let it go.”

She frowned at him. “I know what happened, Doctor. I know you know, too.”

“Then why are you here asking me to confirm it?” Irritation crept into his voice.

She hesitated. “Because I think someone’s trying to cover up what really happened.”
And who cares if my reputation is destroyed as
a result?

“Someone? Like who?”

“Dr. Slattery, for one. You for another, apparently.”

He cocked a brow. “And what exactly are we trying to cover up?”

“Whatever happened in the animal facility last night.”

“I thought you knew what happened.”

Her frown deepened. He was making her feel like a fool.

He sighed deeply. “Even if things happened as you say—there
was
an intruder and your arm
was
cut—why would anyone want to cover that up?”

And of course she had no more answer for him than she’ d been able to come up with for herself. Her face started to burn.

His eyes dropped to his computer screen, and he tapped a couple of keys. “They’re not going to fire you over this, Ms. McHenry. So you’d do better to let it go and concentrate on proving your competence with future actions.” He looked up, snagging her gaze, suddenly sober. “If you can’t, you should seek employment elsewhere. Or better yet, return to the U of A for your doctorate.”

She frowned at him, grappling with his words, frustrated that he would so dismiss everything she’d said. But when he turned his attention back to his computer in clear indication the conversation was over, there was nothing for her to do but walk away. As she turned to do so, he said after her, “And, Ms. McHenry . . .”

She glanced over her shoulder.

“I’d appreciate it if you’d refrain from bothering me with this issue again,” he said, his eyes still focused on the screen.

“Yes, sir.” With that she turned and fled, sick to her stomach and so blind with mortification she nearly collided with the white-haired maintenance man coming up the aisle outside Reinhardt’s office. Mumbling an apology, she skirted him and his cart of boxed fluorescent light tubes and hurried down the aisle in a daze of humiliation. She didn’t come back to herself until she was riding downward in one of the zig’s central elevator cars, the atrium’s bright green foliage fluttering past her.

Why had she ever thought talking to Reinhardt would be a good idea? He said everything she’ d thought he’ d say, brought up every argument she’ d brought up with herself. There’d been no sign of sympathy, no sign whatsoever that he remembered anything of what she said had happened.

“They’re not going to fire you over this,”
he’ d said. Unless she made a stink about it.

It galled to think of giving up and letting the whole thing pass uncontested. But she had come to Kendall-Jakes with ambition burning in her heart, and that had not changed. After all the pain and heartache and failure she’ d endured in her young life, she remained determined to make something good of herself, and believed her best chance was at the Institute.

It was the dream she’ d had when she’ d graduated high school, fifteen years ago. A dream that had seemed on the verge of being realized when she’ d received a full-ride scholarship to the U of A, everything provided for her that her family never could have. If she’d just stayed the course, she probably would have earned her PhD by now. Instead, she’d squandered it all for love and religion.

Midway through the second semester of her freshman year, she’ d believed in Jesus Christ and started attending church. She’ d met Erik Ellison, five years her senior, in the church’s college group, and married him after a three-week courtship, certain it was God’s will.

At first their lives together had been idyllic. Then things began to change. Erik couldn’t find an “acceptable” position after his graduation and became jealous of Lacey’s mounting scholastic successes, resenting the time she gave to her studies instead of him. His increasing demands and unfair accusations had so distracted her she’d lost her scholarship, and dropped out of the program her junior year.

She’ d stayed with him nine years before divorcing him. Even then he wouldn’t let her go, stalking and threatening her until she’d obtained a restraining order. When he found out she’ d changed her name back to McHenry, wanting nothing to do with him ever again, he’d broken into her house with a baseball bat and smashed everything in it. That had landed him in jail, and for a while she’ d had a bit of peace.

Four years ago he’ d hanged himself in his jail cell. She’d been both shocked and relieved, the latter filling her with a guilt that was only exacerbated by her insistence on trying to hold herself responsible. If she’d been a better wife, more forgiving, if she’d just held on longer, if she’d prayed more, gotten closer to God . . .

She continued to work at Barnes and Noble, and after a year pulled herself together enough to reenter the U of A at the age of thirty. Though, of course, there was no scholarship this time. She’ d poured her life into the effort, sacrificing everything to attain her degrees— first the bachelor’s, then the master’s. She’ d even considered a PhD, but her increasing debt combined with the arrival of the lucrative job offer from Kendall-Jakes had turned her down a new path. One she wasn’t ready to abandon yet.

She blinked in the brightness of the midafternoon sun as she stepped out of the zig, following the same path down to the clinic she’d taken that morning. This time the receptionist had her fill out a form, then sent her to the waiting area until someone called for her.

The exam was a mere formality. The doctor, whom she’ d never seen before, was a psychiatrist and clearly more intent on evaluating her mental state than anything else. He was disturbed to learn she’ d gone immediately back to work and taken none of the Valium she’ d been prescribed, but he didn’t push hard, and she gave him no reason to. Finally he concluded his exam by writing her an official note of recommendation to avoid the animal facility for a few days and get more rest. He also prescribed some sleeping pills, should she need them.

After he left, a girl in a burgundy smock escorted her to an office in the clinic’s administrative wing and instructed her to sit in one of the two chairs on the visitor’s side of a wide desk utterly free of clutter. “Dr. Viascola will be with you shortly,” the girl told her, before taking her leave.

Lacey startled at the name. Dr. Genevieve Viascola? Head of K-J’s Human Resources and CEO of Swain’s Longevity Enterprises?
Why
would she want to see me?
Viascola joined her. Though in her late forties, she had a youthful figure and an unlined face. Her luminous red hair was swept up into a fountain of curls at the back of her head, not a single strand of gray to be seen. She wore bright red lipstick and nail polish, and a tailored gray skirt and white blouse beneath a stylish white lab coat, her formality at odds with the laid-back blue jeans style most of her colleagues preferred. As was the big red straw bag hanging from her shoulder, large yellow flowers flopping off its front.

She greeted Lacey with a warm smile and firm handshake. “We are so pleased you elected to join our team,” she said, a lingering accent betraying her high-class British upbringing. “We have such great hopes for you. Plans for you, truth be told.”

“Plans?”

“Oh, all for your good, my dear. Please. Sit down.” She went around the desk and settled into the big chair there, pulling a folder from her red bag before setting the latter on the floor beside her.

“I understand you’ve had a rough time of things the last day or so,” she said as she opened the file and thumbed through the first few pages. “ ‘Stress-induced hysteria with hallucination.’ ” She grimaced delicately, then looked up at Lacey, her expression full of compassion. “I know it sounds dreadful, dear, but don’t worry—it or something very like it happens to all of us sooner or later. You’ve only been with us, what? Three weeks?”

Lacey nodded.

“It’s always a struggle for newcomers to adjust to the high-octane environment here. They neglect their sleep, work too hard, don’t exercise or allow themselves any downtime. It’s one of the reasons for our extensive recreation and social program.” She smiled. “And the truth is, we
do
push our new people hard. Push them till they break, in fact.”

Lacey shook her head in consternation. “Why would you—”

“Because we only want those who are willing to give their lives for this work, my dear. There is no such thing as burnout for those who really want something. . . .”

Lacey recognized her words as one of Swain’s epigrams, or “Swain-speak” as they were affectionately termed.

“You think I don’t want this enough?” she asked.

“Oh, not at all . . .” Viascola assured her. “Your break came a little sooner than we expected, but given your background and temperament, you’ve done very well. Studies show that creative, highly imaginative people have fewer filters in their brains against outside stimuli, and thus are less able to separate reality from imagination.”

Neither the subject matter nor the phraseology could have been a coincidence. “So you see me as highly creative?”

Viascola laughed. “Of course we do. Because you are, my dear! We can’t wait to set you free in a research environment and see what you come up with for us. And I promise you, that’s coming soon. . . . We’re searching for someone to take over the animal facility, and we’ve a couple of applicants who look promising. One from ASU up in Phoenix. We’re trying to get him to come down tonight, in fact. So, you see, things could be changing dramatically for you very soon.”

“Tonight?!”
Lacey squeaked in astonishment.

Viascola lifted a cautionary finger. “Don’t get your hopes up. We’ve been disappointed before, and we didn’t give him much notice. Just know that it
will
happen.” She leaned back in her chair, resting her forearms on its arms. “That is only part of why I’ve called you here, though.” She paused. “I’ve been told you have a different version of the events of last night than I’ve read about, and I want to hear that version. I don’t want to jump to conclusions here, and these are precisely the kinds of situations that breed wild stories.”

Her warm, friendly manner combined with all the high praise and heady promises loosened Lacey’s tongue as nothing else could have. Though she started tentatively, when Viascola continued to listen respectfully and with interest, she gradually warmed up, telling her the entire story in every detail.

When she finished, Viascola relaxed back into her chair, reflecting on all Lacey had told her, and for the first time Lacey felt she might finally have found her ally.

“So,” Viascola said presently, “if I’m understanding you correctly, you believe there is a cover-up going on, and you suspect Doctors Poe, Slattery, and Reinhardt as ringleaders.”

“More Slattery and Poe, I think—though Reinhardt
is
involved.”

“Yet you have nothing to support these contentions. Reinhardt has not confirmed his role in your story?” Her brown eyes fixed upon Lacey, still kindly in aspect.

“No.” Lacey sighed in disappointment. “But he’s not denied it, either. Two times I’ve asked him, and he keeps evading me. I know I hardly have anything to prove what I’m saying is true. I’m almost convinced myself at times that I must have imagined it all. Except for this.” She held up her arm. “I
know
I did not have this scar before last night.”

“And you think the cut you got on the glass is now that scar?”

“It has to be.”

Viascola frowned at the cut, then looked down at the open folder on her desk. She flipped a couple of pages and drew a red fingernail down the length of the third. Finally she looked up with a pained expression and said very gently, “Lacey, dear, I’m
sure
whatever you experienced last night seems very real to you, but . . . by your own admission you have nothing to support your account.”

“Except this scar.”