Ferguson probed the younger man's eyes. "You seem to be implying that I am holding something back."
"I imply nothing of the kind." He smiled enigmatically. "I am only asking for your help."
The limousine pulled into the snow-banked drive of John Ferguson's house, a trim white colonial on perhaps an acre of land. Redding engaged the intercom. "Mr. Nunes, " he said, "our business has been concluded.
Kindly assist our guest to his home."
The men shook hands and Redding watched as Nunes aided an obviously exhausted John Ferguson up the walk to the front door. The old man was many things, Redding acknowledged, a brilliant physician and administrator, an exceptional judge of human nature and predictor of human behavior, a gifted philosopher. What he was not, Redding had known since the early days of their association, was John Ferguson. Redding's investigators had been able to learn that much, but no more. There had been a John Ferguson with an educational background identical to this man's, but that John Ferguson had died in the bombing of a field hospital in Bataan. Originally, Redding's instincts had argued against a confrontation with his new associate over what, exactly, the man was hiding from. That decision had proved prudent-at least until now.
Ferguson bid a final good-bye with a weak wave and entered his home.
Behind the smoked glass of the limousine, Cyrus Redding was placing a phone call through the mobile operator. "Dr. Stein, please," Redding said. "Hello, Doctor, this is your friend from Darlington. The man, John Ferguson, of whom I spoke last night, I should like the reinvestigation and close observation instituted at once. Keep me informed personally of your progress. He seems to have materialized shortly after World War Two, so perhaps that is a period to reinvestigate first.
Thank you."
All right, my friend, he thought. For fifteen years, I have allowed you your deception. Let us hope that courtesy was not misplaced. + i Kate Bennett set her dictaphone headpiece in its cradle and stared across the street at the darkened Omnicenter. Reflections from the headlights of passing cars sparkling off its six-foot windows lent an eerie animation to the structure, which stood out against its dark brick surroundings like a spaceship. Kate knew it was her never-timid imagination at work, knew it was the phone call she was expecting, but she still could not rationalize away her sense of the building as something ominous, something virulent. The message had been on her desk when she returned from the Friday meeting of the hospital Infection Control Committee, which she had chaired for almost a year. The department secretary handed her a note: sent normal, one spec contaminated. Please await phone call with details between six and seven tonight."
Contaminated. "It's you. I know it is." Her mind spoke the words to the gleaming five stories. "Something inside you, inside your precious Monkeys, has gone haywire. Something inside you is killing people, and you don't even know it."
The ringing of the telephone startled her. "Kate Bennett, " she answered excitedly. "Kate Bennett's husband, " Jared said flatly. "Oh, hi. You surprised me. I was expecting a call from Ian Toole in the toxicology lab and… never mind that. Where are you?
Is everything all right?"
"At home, where you're supposed to be, and no."
Kate glanced at the clock on her desk and groaned. "Oh, damn. Jared, I forgot about the Carlisles. I'm sorry."
"Apology not accepted, " he said with no hint of humor. Kate sank in her chair, resigned to the outburst she knew was about to ensue, and knowing that it was justified. "I'm sorry anyhow, " she said softly. "You're always sorry, aren't you? " Jared said. "You're so wrapped up in Kate's job and Kate's world and Kate's problems that you seem to forget that there are any other jobs or worlds or problems around. My father and several big-money people are going to be at that party tonight. What kind of an impression is it going to make when I show up without my wife?"
"Jared, you don't understand. Something is going on here. People are dying."
"People like Bobby Geary?"
Kate glanced at the clock. It was five minutes to seven. "Look, " she said, "I'm waiting for a call that could help solve this mystery. I can call you back or I can get home as soon as possible, change, and make it over to the Carlisles by eight-thirty or nine."
"Don't bother."
"Jared, what do you want me to do?"
Jared's sigh was audible over the phone. "I want you to do whatever it is YOU feel you have to do, " he said. "I'll go to the Carlisles and make do. We can talk later tonight or tomorrow. Okay?"
"All right, " she said, taken somewhat aback by his reasonableness.
"How's Ellen?"
"Pardon? " It was one minute to seven. "Ellen. You remember, our friend Ellen. How is she?"
"She's in the hospital, Jared. Listen, I really am sorry, and I really am in the middle, or at least on the fringes of something strange.
Ellen's life may be at stake in what I'm doing."
"Sounds pretty melodramatic to me, " Jared said, "but then again, I'm just a poor ol' country lawyer. We'll talk later."
"Thank you, Jared. I love you."
"See you later, Kate."
Ian Toole's call came at precisely seven-fifteen. "These are some little pills you sent me here, Dr. Bennett, " he said. "My assistant, Millicent, and I have been running them most of the afternoon, and we still don't have a final word for you."
"But you said Ellen's pills were contaminated."
"Ellen Sandler's? Hardly. I think your secretary mixed up my message.
Probably went to the same school as ours."
"What do you mean?"
"Ellen Sandler's vitamins are a pretty run-of-the-mill, low-potency preparation. B complex, a little C, a little iron, a splash of zinc.
It's yours that are weird."
"Mine? " Kate's throat grew dry and tight. "Uh-huh. You're not only taking the same vitamins as Ellen Sandler, but you're also taking a fairly sizable jolt every day of some kind of anthranilic acid."
"Anthranilic acid?"
"Millicent and I are trying to work out the side chains, but that's the basic molecule."
Kate felt sick. "Mr. Toole, what is it?"
"I'm a chemist, not a doctor, but as far as I've been able to determine, you're taking a painkiller of some sort. Nonnarcotic. Some kind of nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drug. The basic molecule is listed in our manuals, but I don't think we're going to find the exact side chains.
Whatever it is, it's not a commercially available drug in this country.
If it were, we'd have it in the book. I'll check out the European manuals as soon as we know the full structure."
"Let me know? " Kate had written out the word "anthranilic" and begun a calligraphic version.
"Of course. Probably won't be until next week, though. I had to promise Millicent a bottle of wine to get her to put off her date with her boyfriend even this long."
"Mr. Toole, is it dangerous?"
"What?"
"Anthranilic acid."
"Like I said, I'm not a doctor. It's not poisonous, if that's what you mean, but it's not vitamins either. Any drug can do you dirt if you're unusually sensitive or allergic to it."
"Thanks, " Kate said numbly. "And thanks to Millicent, too."
"No problem, " Ian Toole said. It was a hot, sultry day at Fenway Park when Kate, seated in a box next to Jared, began to bleed to death.
Silently, painlessly, thick drops of crimson fell from her nose, landing like tiny artillery bursts on the surface of the beer she was holding, turning the gold to pink.
She squeezed her nose with a napkin, but almost instantly tasted the sticky sweetness flowing down the back of her throat. Jared, unaware of what was happening, sipped at his beer, his attention riveted on the field. Help me. Please, Jared, help me, I'm dying. The words were in her mind, but somehow inaccessible to her voice. Help me, please. Suddenly she felt a warm moistness inside her jeans, and knew that she was bleeding there as well. Help me.