_Thursday, April 9
8:00 A.M.
_
Stone awoke in his Yorkville apartment nursing a hangover and a lot of
regrets. He'd inhaled a triple scotch after driving Ally's Toyota back
and parking it on the street the night before. He'd needed it.
Yesterday had been a day where, in sequential order, he'd seen a woman
who'd lost her memory get kidnapped (probably); he'd been fired from
his day job; he'd finally gotten inside the Dorian Institute, only to
blow the opportunity completely. But the most important thing that
happened was, he'd rediscovered a woman he'd once been in love with and
he currently didn't have the slightest idea what was happening to her.
Thinking back over their last few moments together, when she was being
checked in by Van de Vliet and his research team and he was being
hastily sent up to the lobby, Stone suspected that Ally was about to be
subjected to something they didn't want anybody to know about.
Now he was determined to get back inside the institute and look out for
her.
As he pulled himself out of bed and shakily made his way
into the kitchen to start the coffee, he was trying to decide where to
begin. As it happened he now had all the time in the world
He didn't mind all that much losing his position at the Sentinel--come
on, that was writ across the sky--but he particularly regretted being
denied the pleasure of quitting on his own terms, complete with a
flamboyant fuck-you- very-much farewell speech to the managing editor,
Jay. He'd actually been rehearsing it for weeks.
The dream of just showing up at the Dorian Institute and walking in was
no longer even a fantasy. There was a special "not welcome" mat out for
him. Even more than the first time, he'd need a calling card.
That had to be Kristen Starr. She clearly held the key to whatever it
was Winston Bartlett and Karl Van de Vliet were trying to cover up. But
how to find her? The only real lead he had was the apartment she'd come
back to, apparently returning like a genetically programmed salmon
going back upstream but not really knowing why.
Okay, why not go back down there and look around again, only do it
thoroughly? He and Ally hadn't had time to do much more than a cursory
look-around. The specter of the knives in the walls still haunted him.
But how to get in?
Then he remembered that Ally had been given the key by Kristen's spacey
subtenant, Cindy, the one who was renting the ground-floor apartment.
Did she leave that key at her CitiSpace office or did she put it on her
key ring?
Her car keys were lying on the table by the door, where he'd tossed
them last night. He walked over and checked them out. There were
several house keys on the ring in addition to her Toyota keys. Could
she have put Kristen's key on the ring too? Or did she stash it in her
desk at CitiSpace?
Swing by the apartment and try these, he decided Maybe I'll get lucky.
As he headed for the shower, a cup of black Jamaican coffee in hand, he
thought again about the last thing Alexa's good-for-nothing brother,
Grant, had said, something about how Alexa was their "best shot."
Whatever that meant, it couldn't be good.
By nine o'clock he had showered, shaved, and was in Ally's Toyota
headed for West Eleventh Street. As he turned right on Fourteenth, he
had a fresh idea.
Kristen's phone was still working, at least as of yesterday. So did she
have speed dial, a memory bank of numbers? That could be a gold mine of
the people closest to her. But if not, there were other tricks, ways of
getting phone information. There might even be information in the phone
itself: who do you get on "redial" and who do you get with *69, the
last number that dialed in?
The last number that dialed in would probably be the Japanese guy who
left a message and then kidnapped her. But the last call out could be
interesting.
He had a nagging feeling that this wasn't the best way to be spending
his morning, but he couldn't immediately think of anything else.
West Eleventh Street was comparatively empty, so he had no trouble
securing a parking space. After he'd turned off the engine, he looked
at Ally's key set again. Well, there were four other keys on it besides
the Toyota keys. Give it a shot.
He got out and locked the car and walked up the steps. It was a perfect
spring morning, cool and crisp, and this part of the Village was quiet
and residential. He found himself envying the owners of these beautiful
nineteenth-century town houses. There was something so dignified and
secure about them.
Then he saw a man emerge from the apartment below the stoop, just a few
feet from where he was standing.
"Hi. How's Cindy?" he called down, hoping the social gesture would let
the guy know he wasn't about to do a second- story number on Kristen's
town house.
The man, who looked to be in his late twenties, was dressed in a black
suit, with long blond hair tied back in a ponytail, and carried a
shoulder bag that appeared to be serving as a briefcase. He stared at
Stone with a puzzled look.
"Who?"
"I was here yesterday and . . . a woman named Cindy, friend of
Kristen's, said she was leasing the garden apartment. I was just
wondering--"
"I'm sorry. Maybe you have the wrong address. I've had this place for
almost a year and a half now." He was moving on down the street as he
called back over his shoulder. "Good luck."
What the hell is going on?
He looked up and checked the number. Yep, it's 217. Cindy had
definitely gone into that apartment yesterday and talked convincingly
about living there and working at the E! station. She even had keys to
Kristen's place.
So who the hell was that guy? He looked back, but now he had
disappeared.
Did I just imagine that? he puzzled.
He moved up the steps to the heavy white wood door and started trying
keys.
The first one wouldn't enter the lock, nor would the second. The third
key entered but would not turn.
Okay, last chance.
He inserted the fourth and it seemed to stick. But he gave it a wiggle
and _voila_, he was in.
Thanks, Ally.
But when he stepped through the door and switched on the light, he
could only stare in disbelief. The apartment had been completely
cleared out. The white walls, which had been covered with knifed photos
of Kristen only yesterday, were now blank. Even the few pieces of
furniture were gone.
"Jesus, I don't believe this." His voice echoed off the empty marble
mantelpiece and bounced across the room.
He looked around. Since late yesterday, somebody had come in and
cleaned out the place. Thoroughly. Any hopes of finding old letters, an
address book, anything personal, were gone. He knew immediately that he
had been outsmarted. Kristen Starr, and now her friend Cindy, had
officially ceased to exist. Cindy might still be at E!, but she was
going to be terrified and subject to massive memory loss on the subject
of Kristen.
But wait a second. They left the phone. The answering machine is gone,
but maybe they didn't realize that phones can have memories and can
sometimes tell tales. That might be worth a try, but check out the
place first.
He walked into the kitchen alcove and gazed around, not entirely sure
what he was looking for. The main thing would be some phone numbers and
addresses.
He opened the refrigerator and peered in. It was still running and
contained two unopened jars of British marmalade and an empty quart jar
with traces of orange juice bordered by mold. The freezer compartment
was entirely bare.
The two kitchen cabinets above the stove had been similarly emptied. He
gave them a cursory look, then came back and followed a hallway to a
bathroom in the back.
When he opened the medicine chest above the sink and peered in, he
initially thought it was empty, with a pile of wadded-up Kleenex on the
bottom shelf. He was pulling that out when he realized that the tissue
had been wadded around an empty prescription drug vial.
Kristen Starr had prescription number 378030. It was for Libinol--
whatever that was, probably some kind of screwed-up diet pill--and it
had been filled five months ago. It had been delivered from Grove
Pharmacy on Seventh Avenue to here, 217 West Eleventh Street. The
address was pasted on a sticker on the back.
Hmmm, he thought. After she left, rather than transferring the
prescription, what if they just had subsequent refills delivered to
some other address? There's a long shot that Grove Pharmacy might have
a new address for the prescription number. Okay, it would be a very
long shot, but still . . .
Unless, of course, her new address had been the Dorian Institute. In
that case, the prescription would undoubtedly have
been discontinued once she became a patient. He reached for his cell
phone to call the drugstore.
Shit, I forgot it! Damn hangover.
He walked back into the living room and stared at Kristen's phone. If
it was still working, he could call Grove Pharmacy and--
No, idiot, that would wipe out any number stored in the redial
function. Without a cell, the best thing to do is just go over there
and check with the pharmacist in person.
He settled yoga-style onto the hardwood floor next to the phone and
stared at it. What if the line is already disconnected? Why did whoever
cleaned this place out leave it here? The phone, of all things. It's--
It rang.
He jumped a foot off the floor, and then stared at it.
A series of reasons flashed through his mind:
1)They know I'm here and they're going to warn me again to back off.
2)They know I'm here and the last incoming call here was from a number
they don't want me to know about. I pick this up and I wipe out any
chance of ever finding out what it was.
Don't answer it. This phone call is not intended to be helpful.
Not picking up the phone was the hardest thing he'd ever done, but he
was determined to be disciplined.
He counted eleven rings and then he couldn't take it anymore and
reached for the receiver.
It stopped.
"Thank God." His hand froze in midair. The timing had been a split-
second salvation.
All right, he thought, time to find out if I just totally screwed up.
Time to dial.
He got his pen and notebook poised and then lifted the black receiver.
He knew from the message on her machine yesterday that somebody had
called her just before he got there. Or maybe whoever came and cleaned
out her apartment had received a phone call while they were here.
Possibly from whoever sent them. A checkup call.
Who knew? But give it a shot. He hit the code.
A mechanical voice came on immediately: "Your last call was from area
code 212, number 555-3935. If you would like for me to connect you,
please push--"
"Go for it," he said aloud, scribbling down the number and then
following the instruction.
At that moment somebody's cell phone began to ring just outside the
front door.
"Oh shit." It was just too big a coincidence.
After two rings it stopped and he heard the voice of Winston Bartlett,
both outside the front door and in his ear.
"Yes."
He was too startled to respond, but he didn't need to, because an
instant later he also heard the sound of a key and then the front door
opened.
A shaft of daylight shot across the room as Bartlett took one look and
exploded.
"Damn, so it's true. How the hell did--"
"Hey, come on in," Stone said, trying to recover some poise and take
marginal control of the situation. "I'm here by permission. The
downstairs tenant, who you just evicted, or kidnapped too, gave me her
key."
"You don't get it, do you? I told you to keep--"
"But we have signs of progress. I know all about Kristen." Well, that
was hardly the case, but it never hurt to start off with a bluff to see
how far you could get. "That's why I'm here. The question is, when are
we going to start talking to each other? Because I'm putting together a
hell of a story."
"I don't fucking believe this." Bartlett slammed the door.
"By the way, a special thanks for getting me sacked at the Sentinel.
Now I'll have the leisure to concentrate full-time on the stem cell
book. And Gerex."
"I warned you, but you wouldn't fucking listen." He was peering around
the living room as though searching for clues to explain why nothing
was going right.
"Like I said, I talked to Kristen yesterday." Stone stood his ground.
"She's not a happy person."
"If you bring her into this . . ." Bartlett glared at him. "I can't
imagine what makes you think you can just run roughshod through my
business and my life."
"Here's how it is. You can abuse me, or you can use me. Keep in mind
I'm accustomed to working for people who buy ink by the barrel. As I
tried to explain before, if you won't let me get at the whole truth, I
may end up spreading half-truths."
Bartlett walked across the room and ran his fingers along the marble
mantelpiece above the fireplace. "You know," he said, turning back, "up
until now you've never asked me for anything. I have to say I've always
admired that, but I'm curious why."
"Maybe I thought it was your place to come to me," Stone said, puzzled
by the left turn the conversation had suddenly taken. "You know, I have
a life of my own. I have an eleven- year-old daughter you've never seen
or--apparently--care to see. I'm wondering what that says about you. Your
granddaughter's name, by the way, is--"
"I know her name. I know quite a bit about our blood ties, or lack of."
"Well, I'd bet she'd be just thrilled by that. Incidentally, she
doesn't know a goddam thing about you and I'd just as soon keep it that
way."
"I knew having this conversation was a fucking mistake. This is why I
never had it. Any real son of mine has got to have some of my
character, my stature. You're a bean counter."
"If you had any character, you wouldn't be hiding behind all this
secrecy. I try to tell the truth, as much and as often as I can. That's
my take on character."
"What we're doing at Gerex is going to change the history of the world.
We're at the brink of things mankind has only dreamed about. And I've
taken all the risks. In fact, I took the biggest risk of all
personally. There's a lot going on that you don't know a damned thing
about. We're on the edge of--"
"All the more reason you should want the whole story told," Stone
interjected. "Yes, stem cell technology is going to change everything,
but you can't just tell half the story. I want it to work, but I'm a
truth seeker. I want to find out what, if anything, can go wrong too.
You've been using people, first Kristen and now--I'm beginning to fear--
Ally, to take your risks for you. I mean, what's going on? Why did you
send somebody down to obliterate all evidence of Kristen? And now
Cindy, that girl downstairs? My God, she's somehow vanished too.
Whatever happened to Kristen to make it come to this?"
"What may or may not have gone wrong is nothing that can't be made
right. No great medical advance ever succeeded in a direct line."
"I don't need the sales pitch," Stone said. "I agree it's going to
revolutionize medicine. But you can't--"
"That's why you'll never be a son of mine. You always think small. This
is about more than mere medicine. It's about doing the one thing
mankind has never been able to do. I am this close. Nothing is going to
be allowed to destroy this chance. Not even you, my own flesh and
blood."
"Am I that?" Stone asked, feeling an unexpected satisfaction. "Your own
'flesh and blood'?"
"That is something," Bartlett said, "we are about to discover. Whether
we are made of the same thing. The best way for you to understand
what's going on here is to do what I've done. Have the Beta procedure.
Show me you've got the balls."
"The 'Beta procedure'? It might help if I knew what it is."
"Why don't I just show you," Bartlett said. "You want to be on the
inside, see everything up close? Fine. I think the time has come. You
seem determined to stick your nose into what I'm doing. You weaseled
your way into the institute, and now you show up here. So I guess it's
time you were an insider all the way."
"Good, maybe then I can start getting some answers. For example, was
changing Kristen's name part of the NIH study?" Stone turned to face
him. "Or is it your way to hide one of your mistakes?"
"Quite frankly, that's none of your goddam business."
"Well, let me tell you what is my business. Ally Hampton is a
particular friend of mine. I damned well want to know whether she's
scheduled to undergo the same procedure as Kristen. I don't know what
you and Van de Vliet did to Kristen, but if you turn Ally into a zombie
too, I'll personally--"
"I think we'll continue this discussion later." He pulled his cell
phone out of a jacket pocket, flipped it open, and punched a memory
number.
"Ken, could you and Jake please come in. We have the problem I was
afraid we had." He flipped the phone shut and turned back to Stone.
"Karl entered Ms. Hampton and her mother into the clinical trials at
the last minute, as a special favor. She's in no danger."
Now Stone saw two men come through the front door. One was the tall
Japanese man who had slugged him the day before.
Shit. I need this? Is he going to work me over again?
The other guy was dressed in white, as though he were an orderly or
nurse. Stone noticed he had a plastic syringe in his right hand.
"Ken, could you and Jake please take care of this. He'll be going with
us."
Stone examined the three of them. Well, he thought, / guess I'm going
to be back inside the Dorian Institute after all.
"Look, there's no need for excessive violence here. We could just set
some ground rules for this situation."
The Japanese man named Ken walked over and seized him around the neck,
while at the same time pulling his right arm around behind him, a
decisive hammerlock.
"You fucker," Stone choked out. "Let--" The man Bartlett had called
Jake, the one in white, shoved a needle into his arm.
"This could be the experience you've been looking for," Bartlett said.
"You've been pursuing me like a dog chasing a car. Now we're about to
see if you're man enough to handle the consequences when you've caught
it."
You're damned right I'll handle it, he tried to say. But he wasn't sure
if he actually got it said, the void was closing in so fast.