Always Kiss the Corpse (25 page)

“See if they deliver.”

Kyra looked at him. “Gourmet places don't deliver.”

“Pick up? We can toss.”

“I've got this far. You call.” She sipped vodka, pulled out and sucked an ice cube.

Noel sighed and lurched up. Damned if he'd use his Alice In Wonderland Drink-Me phone. He thrust out his vodka-less glass. She sighed and took it.

He dialed, talked. She handed him his glass. “With some agony,” Noel said, “they might deign to let us pick up one of their minor dishes but even a fifty-yard dash would do the dish much injustice and it is Friday evening, and so on.”

Kyra smiled. “So we go?”

“If we stay there to eat, Samson's will treat us to a gourmet wonder that will extinguish the pain of traveling the Lewis-Clark Trail through the virulent blizzard.”

“Then, refortified, we will figure out the weirdnesses in this case.”

“At least put them in some order.”

≈  ≈  ≈

Vasily approached the WISDOM clinic. A couple of lights in the parking lot but no cars. The rest of the area lay in darkness. He drove a block down the hill, turned left onto a residential street and parked in front of a pickup. Just another citizen of Washington State, said Vasily's license plate.

He slipped a tool belt from his satchel and clipped it around his waist. He closed the car door quietly and locked it. He walked back to the clinic, hugging the hedges, avoiding streetlights. A car approached from behind and Vasily moved slowly into the shadow till it passed. The worst space lay ahead, the forty feet of empty lawn between sidewalk and the WISDOM building itself. WISDOM, how fuckin' pretentious. Vasily glanced east and west, and behind, and listened. No cars, no people, no dogs. He walked quickly to the front door. Two ways of getting in, he figured, door or window. He pulled on a pair of plastic gloves and tried the front door handle. Course not, that'd be too easy. Though one time it had worked, just been left open. No security sticker. No lights on an alarm panel. Some folks're so sloppy. Or maybe there's no real security here for two reasons: nothing worth stealing, and the cops patrol regularly. Better worry about that. He walked on grass around the east side to the back. A door, then stairs going below ground to another door. He tried the lawn-level door; locked. He checked four floor-to-ceiling sliding windows; all locked. He walked down the stairwell and turned the door handle. Locked too, but the door itself felt loose. A pencil flash from the tool belt, a beam on the door molding. Weatherproofing on the sides and top, except at the hinges on the right. He grinned. Outside hinges. And these people found insurance?

With a padded hammer and round file he tapped at the pins, rusty but he oozed oil into the slits, one by one removed the pins, top hinge, bottom, middle. With a chisel he inched the hinge side of the doorway from the frame, the bottom, the top. Loose, but held in place on the left by a deadbolt. He drew the door to the right. The deadbolt slid from its jamb hollow. He leaned the door against the far side of the well and dropped the hinge pins into his pocket. He played his flash into a hallway, cardboard file boxes stacked on both sides.

No way was he going to look through all these boxes for Sandro's file. Anyway, stuff down here likely wasn't current. Was Sandro still current? He searched for a small light on a box that would tell him a security system existed. He didn't see any, and walked down to a T. On the left an open space, a normal basement with piping, heaters, pumps, a washer and dryer, a freezer, two refrigerators. Three padlocked metal cabinets, floor to ceiling. Drugs? All doctors had drugs. On the wall to his side, more boxes, maybe a couple of hundred.

Left and right, a closed door. He tried the right one, it opened. He played the light around the room. Three large tables, each with a sink and cabinets underneath. Each with a computer, and lab equipment laid out and ready to use. Small high-up windows on the side where the ground sloped down. Just a small lab. He closed the door.

The left side. A fully equipped, least as far as he could tell, operating room. Beyond it, two single hospital bedrooms. Changing your sex must cost a lot.

Between the lab and hospital walls, a staircase. He climbed to a landing, and a door. He opened it. Reception area behind a desk—the secretary's, he guessed. More comfortable chairs to wait in. Ahead, the front door he'd tried from outside. Again he looked for a security device. Nope. Through the window, all lay still and silent.

A hallway to the right, another to the left, likely the doctors' offices. If he knew which doctor was Sandro's—Jones maybe, he'd been at the viewing. He tried the right hallway. A door, Dr. Lorna Albright, Gynecology. Vasily opened it. He flashed his light about. Desk, computer, printer, pictures, bookshelves, couple of file cabinets. Okay, he could come back. Next door, Dr. Richard Trevelyan, Endocrinology. His door too opened. Trusting each other, these people. Inside, the same layout. He closed the door, passed through reception and walked along the far hallway. There: Dr. Stockman Jones, Surgery. Another unlocked door. Similar set-up, except for a dozen photographs on the desk. Vasily checked them out with the flash; a woman and three kids, different ages but they all looked like the same woman and kids. No picture of Miss Sandro. Too bad. The file cabinet. Three drawers. Many files in each. But labeled with weird names, not people's names. Shit. He closed the last drawer.

Wait a minute. Maybe all four doctors dealt with Sandro. So his file would be a general file. Where? Back downstairs? He returned to the reception area. Outside the front door, on the street, lights—He dropped to the floor. A car drove by and disappeared into the dark. He flashed his light to the secretary's desk, and behind it. More file cabinets. The door to the basement divided two ranges of cabinets so he hadn't seen them coming up. And, real neat, the drawers went alphabetically.
V
is for Vasiliadis, right side, middle drawer. He opened it. Thompson, Truman, Underwood, Ursell. And Vasiliadis. Vasily plucked it from its folder. Thick. He opened it— Another car coming by. Not important. Still, he crouched a little. Suddenly a beam of extreme light swept the lawn to the right. Vasily's legs folded as he fell behind the desk a half second before light penetrated the glass facade and for a very long time lit the room as bright as day. If he breathed they'd see the air move. Finally the light swept the lawn to the left. Then darkness. When Vasily allowed himself to look over the top of the desk, the car had disappeared.

No big deal, local cops making their rounds. But if they'd walked around back he'd've been sunk.

He sat in the secretary's chair and looked through the file. Notes and charts. He couldn't figure out what they said. A fat envelope. He opened it. Pictures. Oh god, how gross!

Sandro. At various stages of his transformation. Same transformation as the pictures Vasily had burned, except— He supposed the word was, clinical. Sandro without clothes, not even undershorts, for crapsake. How could he let them?! Poor fuckin' asshole. They must've threatened him. Jeeeesus.

Okay, the file
would
go to Andrei. Vasily got up slowly and glanced out the front. Silence and darkness. He took the file, including the pictures downstairs, out the doorway. Door in place, deadbolt in place. Pins in hinges, a light tap and they dropped into the rounds.

No, the pictures weren't for Andrei. They'd follow the others into a fire.

Back in his car Vasily set the file and tool belt in his satchel, the pictures in his pocket and drove north at two miles above the speed limit toward Deception Pass. He crossed the bridge. He was off Whidbey Island. What a fuckin' weird place.

≈  ≈  ≈

Dr. Lorna Albright needed no intuition to know WISDOM had a big problem. Maybe Terry would have some idea what to do. Terry understood Richard; she should, after all these years. Lorna stopped at the lab gate, got out, unlocked and drove in, parking in her space. She got out again, returned to the gate, locked it. Her legs felt tired. Her sneakers crunched across gravel to the cement pathway. Invest in a remote for the gate? She'd bring that up.

She took the building keys from her shoulder bag, shone the light at the door handle, unlocked and stepped into the foyer, closing the door. The inside motion-detecting light flooded on. And invest in outdoor detecting lights too. She deactivated the alarm.

Another key opened the right-hand side of the double doors to the lab. They should get cards for opening doors. One card for the whole building. Mental note: call a security company. She stepped inside quickly to keep bright light from interrupting the sleep cycles of the fish, no early dawn for them. She stopped as usual, and let her glance range the tanks, each with its muted night lighting. Everything looked normal.

She walked to her office, one of three. Terry worked next to her. The two technicians shared the large office across the hall. Last week she had given them all her revised research paper. She needed their reactions before she sent it back to the editor for renewed peer review.

Lorna's office had enough room for a couch. She flicked on the light and closed the door, the usual pattern even in daytime. Like the rest of the lab, her room had a window only in the door; no daylight allowed in the building, a holdover from its Navy days, essential now. She picked up a couple of newsletters, lay on the couch, tried to read. Words floated in bright light as it reflected off glossy paper. Really tired after the stress of this week.

Bendwell, delighted with WISDOM's work, had responded to last year's third-and fourth-quarter reports with compliments, enthusiasm and the promise of increased funding. WISDOM and Bendwell were on the way to bringing non-surgical reconstruction onto the list of procedures available worldwide, and the hipop and percuprone patents had been applied for. Their own wealth and the well-being of others would grow from past successes, but the excitement of this research was fading; time to move on.

There was also something sadly sexist about the clinic helping to transform men only. Dr. Albright had a plan. Around mid-year, in the quiet days of summer, she would recommend they expand into protogynist transgendering. Research in protogyny was the way to go. Bendwell would provide the funding to help women become men.

Between tonight and then, however, a cauldron of stress was burbling away. Would Richard still want to go to the police on Monday? That'd be a busy day for him, what with his evening consult at the hospice. Had they convinced him yesterday? An investigation of the clinic would tie them up in red tape and they'd lose valuable time. More dangerously, details of their work could leak out, maybe get picked up by one of the several other labs engaged in similar research. WISDOM didn't need that. She closed her eyes. After a while she heard movement at her shoulder and the whisper of her name. She opened her eyes. Terry.

“Hi.” She sat up.

“Hi,” said Terry. “Thanks for coming.”

“What's up with Richard?” Lorna pointed to her desk chair. “Have a seat.”

Terry did. “Still wants to speak with the police. He was talking about going this evening. I think I convinced him to wait, at least.”

Lorna leaned toward her. “We haven't discussed this, but how are you feeling? Sandro's death, Richard's guilt—it must be hard on you, too.”

Terry sighed. “Poor Sandro. I never met him, but I think I know him. All he wanted—and it went awry.”

Lorna waited.

“And Richard. I feel for him. He's been so close to those men, and so pleased with the women they've become, so proud of WISDOM's work. I understand why he thinks he has to do something.” She shrugged. “But going to the police makes no sense at all.”

Lorna nodded. “You sure he's home?”

Terry nodded.

“He didn't leave after you went out?”

“I don't think so. But I don't know.”

Lorna pointed to the phone. “You want to call him? See if he's there?”

Terry stared at Lorna, then went to the phone. She spoke for a couple of minutes, then hung up. “He's watching tennis on TV.”

“So he's okay.”

“I'm not sure. He's taking the boat out Sunday. To get some air, and think.”

“He'll calm himself down.”

“I don't know who Richard means by ‘the police'? The sheriff?”

Lorna shrugged. Good question.

“You know the sheriff?”

“No.”

“He hunts with a friend of ours who says the sheriff's a good shot, but slow upstairs.” Terry leaned forward. “Maybe, if Richard talked to him, he could vent, and be okay.”

Lorna considered this. Slowly she shook her head. “Still not a good idea.”

“Nothing might come of it. Richard could explain how bad he felt and the sheriff could do something official and that'd be it. He doesn't want a mess. Our friend says the sheriff finds his job difficult enough.”

Lorna stayed silent, reflecting.

“He's so upset.”

“For god's sake, I know he's upset! We're all upset. Just get him to sit tight.”

“I said that to him yesterday, ‘Wait a little.' And he turned on me, he said, ‘We should have waited earlier. Now it's too late.'”

Lorna sighed. “You wanted to wait, too.”

Terry shrugged.

Lorna placed her hand on Terry's arm. “If you can rein him in till Monday . . .”

Terry looked at Lorna's hand. Lorna removed it. “I'll try,” Terry said. “I'm going home.”

“I'll read some.” Lorna nodded at her desk.

Terry walked to the door. “See you Monday.”

Lorna forced herself to smile. “I hope not before.” Damn!

≈  ≈  ≈

“Definitely worth a two-block dash,” Noel conceded.

“Four blocks,” corrected Kyra. “We have to go back to the Inn.” She was replete with Seafood Wellington—scallops, shrimp, morsels of salmon in a phenomenal sauce, hint of tarragon?—encased in melt-in-her-mouth pastry. All accompanied by plain rice and a green salad, balsamic vinaigrette.