Always Kiss the Corpse (36 page)

Noel swallowed. “You can't be long.”

“Long as it takes.” They sat back. She'd inhaled her meal, no lingering tonight. Most of his remained on the plate. Good food, Kyra realized in retrospect. They paid and left. Six-thirty. Dusk.

TWENTY

Sandman Lodge, half a block from the sea, had been named neither for the sleepiness of the farm compound three miles south of Anacortes nor for the beach down the dirt road where Richard could hear waves lapping, but for Cornelius Sandman, whose family had summered here in the twenties and thirties. For most of the nineties the Lodge had remained abandoned. Then some civic-minded residents applied for and, remarkably, received, federal and state money to turn it into a hospice for nine individuals with AIDS who could live in their own community.

Four years ago Dr. Trevelyan had offered his services. He had since spent most Monday evenings here, 5:00 to 8:00
PM
, seeing three of the nine residents. Today he'd given an hour each to two patients, advising them about things medical, their choices and options, and letting them talk out their states of mind. He felt he was doing them some good. Or at least no harm. His third patient for the evening didn't want to talk. So Richard spent half an hour on paperwork. He could leave early.

He called Terry at the lab, home in twenty minutes. She'd be there in fifteen, she'd get the martinis ready. No question, he felt better. WISDOM's work had to go on. Stock, Lorna, Gary—yes, they had it right, the research and its application were paramount. Taking calculated risks, that's the nature of medicine, and when you see the breakthrough approaching— The greater the risk overcome, the finer the satisfaction.

A risk becomes dangerous only when you don't know you're taking it. Like
Panacea
. Who'd have thought a fuel line could split, an aberrant spark set off a fire, just like that? Richard had explained to the Coast Guard everything had been checked. No, after talking to the guys at the marina Richard could report the hoses weren't replaced, they'd weathered the winter and were in fine shape. The Coast Guard people were unimpressed. Didn't sound right. Tomorrow they'd send a dive team down, take a look, the boat lay in only forty-five feet of water. Did Richard plan to salvage it?

≈  ≈  ≈

The rain had stopped. Gary Haines drove into the Sandman Lodge parking lot. He stopped his beet-red Lexus, shut off the engine and waited for a moment in the dark. Richard's Prius still sat silent near the walkway. Good. The car clock said 7:40. He got out and strolled across the line of grass demarcating the end of the parking lot and the beginning of the beach. Little waves nibbled at wet sand. Richard would be out in twenty minutes. They'd have a long talk. Richard would understand why it was wrong to take the Vasiliadis file to the police. Gary felt lopsided; three extra pounds in his right coat pocket.

≈  ≈  ≈

Richard said goodbye to Alex, combination Sandman guard and house father. He walked out onto the dark veranda, down the steps, and along the path to his car. He got in, started the engine, and drove away.

Gary heard an engine and whirled around. The Prius! Damn! He ran to his car, leapt in, fumbled with the key. He roared after Richard's disappearing tail lights. Heading home? Not so good as here.

≈  ≈  ≈

Richard pulled into his driveway, triggering the motion detector light. He stopped the car and got out. Terry's car not here yet? On the road he heard the squeal of brakes, and turned. Headlights coming toward him. Terry? The car pulled in beside his. Not Terry. A Lexus? Gary's? As if in answer, Gary got out.

“Richard!”

“What're you doing here?”

“We need to talk.” A pause. “It's important.”

Richard sensed worry in Gary's voice. “I'll be in at the clinic tomorrow. We could have lunch.”

“No, no, now.”

“I'm tired, Terry'll be home any minute.”

“Just a few minutes.” Gary took Richard's arm. “It's been a long day for me too, Richard.”

“What's up?”

“You've got to return the Vasiliadis file.”

“What?”

“You want to show it to the cops, right?”

“You mean the file's gone?”

“Of course. You know that!”

Richard squinted at Gary. “How could I know that?”

“Don't be coy.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“The file's gone because you took it.”

“You're crazy.”

“I'm not crazy! I want it. I have to change it.”

“Change it?”

“So anyone who reads it will assume Sandro was being prepared for surgery.”

“But we were doing hipop and percuprone on him—”

“I need that file, Richard.”

“I don't have it. It's at the clinic.”

“Don't lie. Just give it to me.”

“You're nuts.” He shook Gary's hand off his arm and walked toward his front door.

“Richard!”

His name had fear in it, and a threat. He turned. In Gary's hand, an object flashed dull silver in the dim light.

“You will not give that file to the police. You'll give it to me. Or to no one.” He walked toward Richard.

Maybe not crazy. Desperate. And—was that a pistol? No one had ever pointed a pistol at Richard before. “Look. When I was out on
Panacea
I decided not to talk to the cops about Sandro, okay?”

“Really. Not to talk to the cops.” A small laugh. “Did you decide that before the boat exploded, or while it was exploding, or after it exploded?”

Oh, Jesus. Richard felt a deep shudder. That Coast Guard guy had said— “Gary. You fucked up the engine?”

“We don't want you talking to the cops. Not you or Terry. Get it?”

“You killed
Panacea
, you son of a bitch!” He lunged at Gary, grabbing for the pistol. But the pistol fired first.

≈  ≈  ≈

A dark night, thick clouds. A single light illuminated the parking lot behind the wire fence. Noel stopped his rental on the other side of the road. The gate across the drive to the laboratory's lot, closed tight, didn't surprise Kyra. But no car where Lorna Albright had parked. In fact no cars at all. Excellent.

Noel had deep reservations. He'd checked the Internet. Both Bendwell and WISDOM were super-legitimate. The grant was too, and the research had FDA approval. So how could anything illegal be going on? Except Haines had implied another way of transgendering. Chelsea and Ursula were dubious there could be. Diana described Sandro as furious and scared the last week of his life. For the third time since leaving the restaurant Noel said, “I hate this.”

She said only, “Stop it.”

“I'm worried, you in there alone.”

“Come with me.”

“No way.” The lab looked like a bunker, a concrete block of a building, one storey. “You really want to do this?”

“Yes.”

He grabbed her hand, she squeezed. “Be careful, Kyra.”

“Okay.” She would be. She could handle the locks. Mike her B and E teacher had told her, never try to figure an alarm under the pressure of the situation. A cut-off code is easy for the guy who uses it every day, spell out his mother's or his boa constrictor's name, but if you don't know the guy from Eve you'll never figure it. If it doesn't go off soon as you get in there's a delay, thirty seconds, couple of minutes. So go for the jugular—locate the breaker box, cut the system's juices, then get on with your business. Even if there's no alarm, find the box and kill the power. If it goes off while you're inside, get the hell out fast as you can.

≈  ≈  ≈

Terry was late because she'd stopped for olives. She turned into their driveway. The motion detector light came on, illuminating the Prius. Good, Richard was home. She got out clutching her purse and the olives, and headed for the front door. On the path—? She ran—“Richard!” The olives crashed to the gravel as she fumbled for the cellphone and punched in 911. “My husband—blood on his chest—” She gave their address. She knelt. “Richard! Richard! Can you hear me?” No answer. “Oh god!” She knelt, searched for a pulse, fingers trembling. Nothing. She reached into his mouth to assure his airway wasn't blocked, pinched his nose and brought her mouth to his.

When the paramedics found them Terry's mouth was still tight on Richard's.

≈  ≈  ≈

Kyra and Noel waited in the car for minutes, tense inactivity. No traffic this evening. Normal on Monday night on a rural road on a small island. “Okay. I'm going in.”

“Just be careful,” Noel whispered.

She took his wrist. “Anything happens out here, you call. Press 1. I'll be there.”

“Of course.”

She slipped on thin leather gloves, slung her purse over her shoulder. “See you soon.” She got out and crossed the road. Enough light, dim blue at the side of the building, wouldn't need her flash. The padlock was no big deal, a Therrien, two-tumbler model, holding a thick chain tight where the doors met. Like going back to elementary school; a couple of her lessons with Mike had been on Therriens. From her purse came the lock picks; a six-seventeen combination popped the lock open. Chain off, push door, in, close, chain on, set in place but not snapped to, and she waved to Noel.

Noel waved back.

It took Kyra half a minute to the front entry. She played her flash beam across the door. A small sign said, WIRED. Uh-oh. And then she figured it out, or most of it—like WISDOM, Whidbey Island Research and something else. She shone the light on the handle, and the lock. Unbelievable—a Noble double. Like a Crackerjack box. With a two and seven the door sesame'd before her eyes. In, and close.

≈  ≈  ≈

A cold wave of relief swept Noel, chilling his sweat. So far, so good. He couldn't handle thinking about Kyra inside so he looked the other way. A blip of noise? Oh for god's sake, headlights! A car, stopping. What to do? Instinct told him to bolt. No, can't leave Kyra. One of the doctors? A researcher? What the hell? He grabbed his cellphone, turned it on, pressed Kyra's code. Bright flashing blue and red lights now—no, no! A man got out, uniform, hat on his head, hand on his holster.

Doubleshit.

≈  ≈  ≈

A small vestibule, a locked double door beyond. On the wall, a metal box. She opened it. Yep, the alarm system, blipping little red and green lights. The second lock, a single Noble, opened with just the four and seven. In. Take the chance? Yes: lights on. A room full of fish tanks! Mice! Rabbits! And other stuff— Find the breaker box! She went down on her knees, under the tanks and cages, nothing obvious. Offices past the lab? She glanced in each. No. Back to the foyer. There, stupid, side of the door where you come in, the switch handle practically beckoning! Flash still in hand she loped toward it— A screeching wail hit her eardrums.

She reached up, grabbed the handle, pulled it down. Silence, and complete darkness. How long had it blared? Maybe half a second. Was she safe? Hard to know. No call from Noel, nothing happening outside.

She clicked on her flashlight. In the same instant a small whining roar, and new lights. Now what? She stared through the door window to the lab. The fish tanks, all illuminated! Must be a generator, tanks would need water circulating. Stupid, Kyra, you could've killed the fish. She glanced into a tank to the right, labeled
Midshipmen
. Hard to spot them in the bad light. Well, this trip didn't involve watching pretty fish. Better note down the names, fish were clearly central to whatever was going on here. She read labels:
Sixspot gobies. Caridean shrimp
, might be yummy cooked in beer.
Saddleback wrasses. Percula clownfish
, handsome orange and black and white stripes.

≈  ≈  ≈

“Howdy,” the policeman said.

Noel tried to smile. “Good evening.”

“This isn't a good place for parking.”

Noel asked, “Oh, I'm just trying to—to clear a bit of confusion.” A shake to his voice.

“License and registration, please.”

Noel gave him both. The cop went back to the patrol car. Noel waited. He wanted Kyra out of there. But not just yet!

Four minutes and the cop came back, returning Noel's documents. “Please get out of the car, Noel.”

Noel did.

“See that yellow line?” The cop shone his flash beam along the road divider. “I want you to walk it.”

Noel did. Nice and straight, even though he felt mighty shaky. Luckily just a glass of wine.

“Okay, Noel. Get in, move along. Don't want to see you here when I come around again.”

He would drive away slowly. Make the cop pass him. Turn. Get back.

He painstakingly put away his license, his registration. The cop drove off. Noel waited.

≈  ≈  ≈

Enough with fish. She wished she knew what she was searching for. Maybe in those offices? The first held two desks, chairs, a large-screened computer and very little else. On the desks, a few sheets of paper. She picked up the top sheet. A scientific paper, with a note attached: For your input. She flicked through it, four pages. Latin words, some vaguely familiar from her oceanography degree, a series of chemical formulae. She glanced at the title: “
Amphiprion percula
and
Hypoplectrus nigricans
in the Production of Hipophrine and Percuprone as Transform Mechanisms in Sexual Definition Management.” Right.

She checked the offices across the hall, Lorna Albright's, with a sofa. Terry Paquette's. Nothing seemed of significance. But how would she know? Better get out, anyway. The only factor, each desk, except Albright's, had a copy of that paper, each with a note requesting input. Albright's name appeared under the title in large caps, then the names of the other three physicians from the clinic in smaller print.

One more door, another lab. She glanced about. Vials and beakers and tubes, a couple of sinks, computers, paper and more paper. She read headings. The words
hipophrine
and
percuprone
appeared and reappeared, with formulae and lists of other unknown words juxtaposed. None of it made sense. But they were in fact brewing something here.