Yoshihara turned his attention back to Jameson, who now held a manila folder in his hands. “Have you determined the exact cause of death?”
Jameson opened the folder, scanning its contents. He’d had a team of laboratory assistants working all night, analyzing the tissues that Jameson himself had taken from each organ as he’d performed his dissection of the body.
As Jameson had expected, most of the boy’s organs proved to be as healthy as they’d appeared. The lab tests showed no signs of disease or toxic substances.
Or at least there were no signs of any substances that one might have expected would kill a seventeen-year-old boy.
No strychnine, or cyanide, or any other poisons.
No drugs, either. No heroin, no cocaine, no uppers or downers.
Not even any alcohol or marijuana.
Yet the boy had died, and the lab report in Stephen Jameson’s hands clearly showed why.
“The cause of death,” he said, “was a violent allergic reaction to the substance in question.” He gave Yoshihara a smug smile. “When the ambulance arrived, his mother was trying to get him out of his car, which was running in the garage with the door closed.”
Yoshihara nodded. “And so they gave him oxygen.”
“And he died,” Jameson said.
“And the weather in Los Angeles that day?” Yoshihara asked.
Jameson smiled thinly. “Close to perfect. A Santa Ana condition had developed; the weather reports spoke of a crystalline day such as Los Angeles hardly ever experiences anymore.”
“But not good for our subject,” Yoshihara observed. “What would the result have been if they hadn’t applied pure oxygen?”
“It’s hard to say,” Jameson replied. “But it appears that our latest subjects are doing better. So far, four of the five seem to be doing fine. Of course, the air in Mexico City has been particularly bad the last few days, but in Chicago it’s been pretty good.”
“And how long have they been in place?”
“Only two days,” Jameson told him.
“Interesting,” Yoshihara mused. “What about the local boy who died? What was his name?”
“Kioki Santoya,” Jameson replied. “He wasn’t given oxygen, of course — he was already dead when his mother found him. But our lab work shows that his lungs are in very much the same condition as this subject’s.” He nodded toward the cadaver on the table.
Takeo Yoshihara was silent for a moment, thinking. “The other two locals,” he finally said. “I would like to see them. Not on the monitors. I wish to look at them directly.”
Stephen Jameson’s eyes clouded. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” he began. “If either of them recognizes you—”
“It won’t matter if they do,” Takeo Yoshihara cut in. His expression was grim. “After all, it’s unlikely they’ll be leaving here, isn’t it?”
Stephen Jameson tilted his head noncommittally. It would not do to expose his feelings to his employer. “As you wish,” he said, leading Takeo Yoshihara through a door. They passed through a chamber filled with tanks of compressed gas and a large pump, and then into yet another room.
This room was empty, except for a large Plexiglas box.
The box was filled with a brownish fog.
Barely visible through the haze were the figures of two young men. Naked, they lay sleeping on the floor, their heads resting on their arms. But as Takeo Yoshihara stared at them, the eyes of one — the larger of them, and as Yoshihara could now see, a Polynesian by ancestry — suddenly snapped open. In an instant he was crouched low to the floor, as if ready to spring.
Like an animal, Takeo Yoshihara thought. Like a wild animal sensing danger. Yoshihara stepped closer, exactly as he might have to get a closer look at an ape in a cage at the zoo.
The figure sprang at him, his hands extended as if to seize Yoshihara’s neck, until, crashing against the Plexiglas wall, he dropped back to the floor of the cage with a howl of pain.
Now the other, smaller specimen was awake, too, staring through the transparent wall, his eyes burning with fury.
“We still have no idea how they became involved in our experiments?” Yoshihara asked, turning away from the box to gaze once more at Jameson.
“Since I’m sure they don’t know themselves—” he began, but once more Yoshihara cut him off.
“I’m not interested in what they know,” he said. “I wish to understand how they became exposed to our compound. Find out. I want an answer by the end of the day. Is that clear?”
Stephen Jameson swallowed nervously, but nodded his assent, knowing no other response would be acceptable.
“Good,” Yoshihara said softly. Then, without so much as a backward glance at the two boys imprisoned in the Plexiglas box, he made his way back through the series of rooms, rode the elevator up to the main floor, and left the building to stroll for a while in the gardens.
He had an hour before it would be time to leave. Except for the small hitch involving the local boys, things seemed to be progressing nicely. And even the problem with the locals was being contained.
“Contained,” he repeated silently to himself. It would have been better if all the research subjects could have been kept far from Maui, as originally planned, but since the error had occurred — and he would find out precisely how that error had occurred — there was no point in not turning the mistake to his own advantage.
For as long as they lived, the two young males down in the laboratory would make valuable research subjects.
For as long as they lived.
For Takeo Yoshihara, the life spans of Jeff Kina and Josh Malani were of no concern. Far more important — indeed, the only matter of any importance — was the essential scientific data their corpses would provide.
CHAPTER 23
Katharine was just turning off the Hana Highway onto the long dirt road that led to the estate when she heard the unmistakable whup-whup-whup produced by the whirling blades of a helicopter. Though the sound was ominously close, she could see no sign of the aircraft. Instinctively braking the car to a halt, she gazed up into the sky, using her hand to shade her eyes against the brilliance of the morning sun. Like an iridescent dragonfly, the helicopter appeared, skimming low over the trees, seeming almost furtive as it bobbed and wove over the contours of the landscape. As it passed low overhead she thought she recognized Stephen Jameson and Takeo Yoshihara peering out of the Plexiglas shell, and she turned to watch it, expecting it to bank around to the left, toward the airport at Kahului.
Instead it turned right and disappeared behind a rocky parapet that rose nearly two hundred feet from the floor of the rain forest.
Only when the sound of the chopper’s blades had faded away did Katharine put the car in gear again and continue down the narrow road. Anticipating her arrival, as they did every morning, the gates swung open as she approached, and she barely had to slow the car as she rolled through. This morning, though, Katharine felt the tiny hairs on the back of her neck rise as she sensed the camera that she was certain was watching her, and as she drove through the grounds of the estate, she had to consciously force herself not to look around for more cameras. She was nearing the research pavilion that housed Rob’s office when she noticed that most of the parking spaces in the lot behind it were empty this morning.
She surveyed the nearly deserted lot, an idea taking form in her mind. An idea that began to dispel the dark mood that had come over her during the long hours of the night when she’d lain awake, wondering how she might gain access to the laboratory under the north wing. Last night she had come up with nothing. But this morning things had changed.