The report described an experiment involving cell regeneration. Richardson had studied the concept many years ago in his undergraduate biology class. He and his lab partner had cut a flatworm into twelve different pieces. A few weeks later, there were twelve identical versions of the original creature. Certain amphibians, such as salamanders, could lose a leg and grow a new one. The Research Project Agency of the United States Defense Department had spent millions of dollars on regeneration experiments with mammals. The Defense Department said it wanted to grow new fingers and arms for injured veterans, but there were rumors of more ambitious attempts at regeneration. One government scientist told a congressional panel that the future American soldier would be able to sustain a major bullet wound, heal himself, and continue fighting.
Apparently the Evergreen Foundation had gone far beyond that initial research in regeneration. The lab report described how a hybrid animal called a “splicer” could stop bleeding from a serious wound in one to two minutes and could regenerate a severed spinal nerve in less than a week. How these scientists had achieved these results was never described. Richardson was reading the report a second time when Lawrence Takawa appeared in the library.
“I just found out that you received some unauthorized information from our genetic research team.”
“I’m glad it happened,” Richardson said. “This data is very promising. Who’s in charge of the program?”
Instead of responding, Lawrence took out his cell phone and dialed a number. “Could you send someone over to the library,” he said. “Thank you.”
“What’s going on?”
“The Evergreen Foundation isn’t ready to publish its discoveries. If you mention the report to anyone, Mr. Boone will see it as a security violation.”
A security guard entered the library and Richardson felt sick to his stomach. Lawrence stood beside the cubicle with a bland expression on his face.
“Dr. Richardson needs to replace his computer,” Lawrence announced as if there had been some kind of equipment failure. The guard immediately disconnected the computer, picked it up, and carried the machine out of the library. Lawrence glanced at his watch. “It’s almost one o’clock, Doctor. Why don’t you go have lunch.”
Richardson ordered a chicken salad sandwich and a cup of barley soup, but he was too tense to finish the meal. When he returned to the library, a new computer had been placed in his cubicle. The lab report wasn’t on the new hard disk, but the foundation’s computer staff had downloaded a sophisticated chess simulator. The neurologist tried not to think of negative consequences, but it was difficult to control his thoughts. He nervously played endgames for the rest of the day.
ONE NIGHT AFTER dinner Richardson remained in the employee cafeteria. He tried to read a New York Times article about something called the New Spirituality while a group of young computer programmers sat at a nearby table and made loud jokes about a pornographic video game.
Someone touched his shoulder and he turned around to find Lawrence Takawa and Nathan Boone. Richardson hadn’t seen the security man for several weeks and had decided that his previous fear was an irrational reaction. Now that Boone was staring at him, the fear returned. There was something about the man that was very intimidating.
“I have some wonderful news,” Lawrence said. “One of our contacts just called about a drug we’ve been investigating called 3B3. We think it might help Michael Corrigan cross over.”
“Who developed the drug?”
Lawrence shrugged his shoulders as if this wasn’t important. “We don’t know.”
“Can I read the lab reports?”
“There aren’t any.”
“When can I get a supply of this drug?”
“You’re coming with me,” Boone said. “We’re going to look for it together. If we find a source, you need to make a quick evaluation.”
THE TWO MEN left immediately, driving down to Manhattan in Boone’s SUV. Boone wore a telephone headset and he answered a series of calls-never saying anything specific or mentioning anybody’s name. Listening to scattered comments, Richardson concluded that Boone’s men were searching for someone in California who had a dangerous female bodyguard.
“If you find her, watch her hands and don’t let her get near you,” Boone told someone. “I would say eight feet is the approximate safety zone.”
There was a long pause and Boone received some more information.
“I don’t think the Irish woman is in America,” he said. “My European sources tell me she’s completely dropped out of sight. If you see her, respond in an extreme manner. She has no restraint whatsoever. Highly dangerous. Do you know what happened in Sicily? Yes? Well, don’t forget.”
Boone switched off his phone and concentrated on the road. Light from the car’s instrument panel was reflected off the lenses of his eyeglasses. “Dr. Richardson, I’ve heard reports that you gained access to unauthorized information from the genetic research team.”
“It was just an accident, Mr. Boone. I wasn’t trying to-”
“But you didn’t see anything.”
“Unfortunately I did, but…”
Boone glared at Richardson as if the neurologist were a stubborn child. “You didn’t see anything,” he repeated.
“No. I guess I didn’t.”
“Good.” Boone glided into the right lane and took the turn for New York City. “Then there isn’t a problem.”
IT WAS ABOUT ten o’clock in the evening when they reached Manhattan. Richardson stared out the window at a homeless man searching through a trash can and a group of young women laughing as they left a restaurant. After the quiet environment of the research center, New York seemed noisy and uncontrolled. Had he really visited this city with his ex-wife, gone to plays and restaurants? Boone drove over to the east side and parked on Twenty-eighth Street. They got out and walked toward the dark towers of Bellevue Hospital.
“What are we doing here?” Richardson asked.
“We’re going to meet a friend of the Evergreen Foundation.” Boone gave Richardson a quick, appraising look. “Tonight you’ll discover how many new friends you have in this world.”
Boone handed a business card to the bored woman at the reception desk and she allowed them to take the elevator up to the psychiatric ward. On the sixth floor, a uniformed hospital guard sat behind a Plexiglas barrier. The guard didn’t look surprised when Boone pulled an automatic pistol out of his shoulder holster and placed the gun in a little gray locker. They entered the ward. A short Hispanic man wearing a white lab coat was waiting for them. He smiled and extended both hands as if they had just arrived for a birthday party.
“Good evening, gentlemen. Which one of you is Dr. Richardson?”
“That’s me.”
“A pleasure to meet you. I’m Dr. Raymond Flores. The Evergreen Foundation said you’d be dropping by tonight.”
Dr. Flores escorted them down the hallway. Even though it was late, a few male patients wearing green cotton pajamas and bathrobes wandered around. All of them were drugged and they moved slowly. Their eyes were dead and their slippers made little hissing sounds as they touched the tile floor.
“So you work for the foundation?” Flores asked.
“Yes. I’m in charge of a special project,” Richardson said.
Dr. Flores passed several patient rooms, then stopped at a locked door. “Someone from the foundation named Takawa asked me to look for admits picked up under the influence of this new street drug, 3B3. No one’s made a chemical analysis yet, but it seems to be a very potent hallucinogen. The people taking it think they’ve been given a vision of different worlds.”