“What did you tell Dick to do?”
“Cancel the appointment, of course. If she shows up anyway, turn her away. Tell her she can’t see the records.” Berrington shook his head. “Not good enough.”
“Why?”
“It will just make her more curious. She’ll try to find some other way to get at the files.”
“Like how?”
Berrington sighed. Preston could be unimaginative. “Well, if I were her, I’d call Landsmann, get Michael Madigan’s secretary on the phone, and say he ought to look at the Aventine Clinic’s records from twenty-three years ago before he closes the takeover deal. That would get him asking questions, wouldn’t it?”
“Well, what do you suggest?” Preston said tetchily.
“I think we’re going to have to shred all the record cards from the seventies.”
There was a moment of silence. “Berry, those records are unique. Scientifically, they’re priceless—”
“You think I don’t know that?” Berrington snapped.
“There must be another way.”
Berrington sighed. He felt as bad as Preston did about it. He had fondly imagined that one day, many years in the future, someone would write the story of their pioneering experiments, and their boldness and scientific brilliance would be revealed to the world. It broke his heart to see the historical evidence wiped out in this guilty and underhand way. But it was inevitable now. “While the records exist, they’re a threat to us. They have to be destroyed. And it had better be done right away.”
“What’ll we tell the staff?”
“Shit, I don’t know, Preston, make something up, for Christ’s sake. New corporate document management strategy. So long as they start shredding first thing in the morning I don’t care what you tell them.”
“I guess you’re right. Okay, I’ll get back to Dick right away. Will you call Jim and bring him up-to-date?”
“Sure.”
“Bye.”
Berrington dialed Jim Proust’s home number. His wife, a wispy woman with a downtrodden air, answered the phone and put Jim on. “I’m in bed, Berry, what the hell is it now?”
The three of them were getting very snappy with one another.
Berrington told Jim what Preston had reported and the action they had decided on.
“Good move,” Jim said. “But it’s not enough. There are other ways this Ferrami woman could come at us.”
Berrington felt a spasm of irritation. Nothing was ever enough for Jim. No matter what you proposed, Jim would always want tougher action, more extreme measures. Then he suppressed his annoyance. Jim was making sense this time, he reflected. Jeannie had proved to be a real bloodhound, unwavering in her pursuit of the scent. One setback would not make her give up. “I agree,” he said to Jim. “And Steve Logan is out of jail, I heard earlier today, so she’s not entirely alone. We have to deal with her long term.”
“She has to be scared off.”
“Jim, for Christ’s sake—”
“I know this brings out the wimp in you, Berry, but it has to be done.”
“Forget it.”
“Look—”
“I have a better idea, Jim, if you’ll listen for a minute.”
“Okay, I’m listening.”
“I’m going to have her fired.”
Jim thought about it for a while. “I don’t know—will that do it?”
“Sure. Look, she imagines she’s stumbled on a biological anomaly. It’s the kind of thing that could make a young scientist’s career. She has no idea of what’s underneath all this; she believes the university is just afraid of bad publicity. If she loses her job, she’ll have no facilities to pursue her investigation, and no reason to stick to it. Besides, she’ll be too busy looking for another job. I happen to know she needs money.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
Berrington was suspicious. Jim was agreeing too readily. “You’re not planning to do something on your own, are you?” he said.
Jim evaded the question. “Can you do that, can you get her fired?”
“Sure.”
“But you told me Tuesday that it’s a university, not the fucking army.”
“That’s true, you can’t just yell at people and they do what you told them. But I’ve been in the academic world for most of the last forty years. I know how to work the machinery. When it’s really necessary, I can get rid of an assistant professor without breaking a sweat.”
“Okay.”
Berrington frowned. “We’re together on this, right, Jim?”
“Right.”
“Okay. Sleep well.”
“Good night.”
Berrington hung up the phone. His chicken Provençal was cold. He dumped it in the trash and went to bed.
He lay awake for a long time, thinking about Jeannie Ferrami. At two A.M. he got up and took a Dalmane. Then, at last, he went to sleep.
29
IT WAS A HOT NIGHT IN PHILADELPHIA. IN THE TENEMENT building, all the doors and windows were open: none of the rooms had air-conditioning. The sounds of the street floated up to apartment 5A on the top floor: car horns, laughter, snatches of music. On a cheap pine desk, scratched and marked with old cigarette burns, a phone was ringing.
He picked it up.
A voice like a bark said: “This is Jim.”
“Hey, Uncle Jim, how are you?”
“I’m worried about you.”
“How so?”
“I know what happened on Sunday night.”
He hesitated, not sure how to reply. “They’ve arrested someone for that.”
“But his girlfriend thinks he’s innocent.”
“So?”
“She’s coming to Philadelphia tomorrow.”
“What for?”
“I’m not sure. But I think she’s a danger.” “Shit.”
“You may want to do something about her.”
“Such as?”
“It’s up to you.”
“How would I find her?”
“Do you know the Aventine Clinic? It’s in your neighborhood.”
“Sure, it’s on Chestnut, I pass it every day.”
“She’ll be there at two P.M..”
“How will I know her?”
“Tall, dark hair, pierced nostril, about thirty.”
“That could be a lot of women.”
“She’ll probably be driving an old red Mercedes.”
“That narrows it down.”
“Now, bear in mind, the other guy is out on bail.” He frowned. “So what?”
“So, if she should meet with an accident, after she’s been seen with you …”
“I get it. They’ll assume it was him.”
“You always were quick thinking, my boy.”
He laughed. “And you always were mean thinking, Uncle.”
“One more thing.”
“I’m listening.”
“She’s beautiful. So enjoy.”
“Bye, Uncle Jim. And thanks.”
THURSDAY
30
JEANNIE HAD THE THUNDERBIRD DREAM AGAIN.
The first part of the dream was something that really happened, when she was nine and her sister was six, and their father was—briefly—living with them. He was flush with money at the time (and it was not until years later that Jeannie realized he must have got it from a successful’ robbery). He brought home a new Ford Thunderbird with a turquoise paint job and matching turquoise upholstery, the most beautiful car imaginable to a nine-year-old girl. They all went for a ride, Jeannie and Patty sitting in the front on the bench seat between Daddy and Mom. As they were cruising along the George Washington Memorial Parkway, Daddy put Jeannie on his lap and let her take the wheel.
In real life, she had steered the car into the fast lane and got a fright when a car that was trying to pass honked loudly and Daddy jerked the wheel and brought the Thunderbird back on track. But in the dream Daddy was no longer there, she was driving without help, and Mom and Patty sat quite unperturbed beside her even though they knew she couldn’t see over the dashboard, and she just gripped the wheel tighter and tighter and tighter, waiting for the crash, while the other cars honked the doorbell at her louder and louder.