Dawn of the Planet of the Apes (6 page)

“It just seems to me,” she said, pausing, “your eyes are just like his.”

He poked a stick into the fire and watched the sparks weave upward.

“That’s quite poetic,” he told her.

“How did you get to be like that?” she asked. “What happened to you?”

“I was born,” he said.

“I know there’s been a lot of war where you come from—”

“Look, miss,” he said. “I’m here to do a particular job. I intend to do that, and nothing more. I am not an ethnographic subject for you to study. If you stayed here so that you could interview me, then you’ve made an error.”

“I just thought—”

“Think something else,” he said.

The fire was going pretty well now. He started arranging
the poncho. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Clancy spread hers and lie down. He lay on his back, staring up at the night. The clouds that had covered the heavens for much of the day were gone, and the stars were staring back at him. He remembered lying like this on Mount Virunga, with his uncle—so very long ago, it seemed. The constellations were different here, and Mount Tamalpais was hardly a mountain at all, so the feeling of familiarity was… surprising.

“I didn’t,” Clancy said, her brittle voice breaking the stillness. “Didn’t come up here to interview you. I stayed to keep an eye on you. You know something the others don’t, and you haven’t said anything about it.”

“What’s that?”

“Apes don’t act like this. Chimps—and most certainly orangutans—they just don’t.”

“Well,” he said, “you noticed that, did you? So why didn’t
you
say anything?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do,” he said quietly, making a decision. “You know these people we’re working for—they can’t be trusted.”

“I get that, believe it or not. The whole thing is too hush-hush.” She looked uncomfortable. “I’m not sure I want to know what they’re really up to.”

“Yes, you do,” he told her. “You say you saw me back there, saw something missing in my eyes. But I also saw you. If you did not want to know, you would have already quit. You would be on your way home right now, to your boyfriend, no doubt.”

That actually drew a half-hearted laugh from her.

“You really think you have me pegged, don’t you?” she said.

“Am I wrong?”

She was silent for a long time, long enough that he thought she might be asleep.

“No,” she whispered.

* * *

Some things couldn’t be avoided, and the weekly dinner with her father was one of them. It wasn’t that Talia didn’t love him, but she knew what he was working up to, and she didn’t really want to deal with it at the moment.

But she was here, in a steakhouse where she couldn’t afford the entrees, feeling underdressed and very young. She might be almost thirty, but her father had a way of making Talia feel twelve.

“How’s your fish?” he asked, eying her seared Alaskan char with some suspicion.

“It’s delicious,” she said. “How’s your steak?” she countered, eyeing the massive Porterhouse.

“It’ll do,” he replied. He glanced back at her plate. “Your mother would order the fish, too,” he said. “I never understood that.”

“It’s good,” she said. “And it’s healthy. You’re the heart surgeon. You know this.”

“My heart is fine,” he said. “My heart is perfect. I’ll probably outlive my grandchildren. If I ever have any.”

“Okay, we’re not starting on this,” she cautioned.

“What happened to that fellow, the reporter?” he asked. “I see his articles all of the time.”

“That’s… that’s ancient history, Pop,” she said. “And none of your business anyway.”

“You’re my daughter,” he said. “Everything about you is my business.”

“Well, we’re going to have to disagree there,” she said, studying what was left of her fish.

There were a few moments of uncomfortable silence.

“We‘ve been getting some strange cases in the ER,” she finally said, trying to break the ice, to remind him that she was a doctor, a woman with a profession. “It presents like a hemorrhagic fever of some kind, but it turns out it’s a retrovirus.”

“You’re a surgeon,” he grunted. “Why are you dealing with viruses?”

“God, you sound just like… Uh!” She paused and gathered herself. “I’m an ER doctor. I deal with lots of things. I splint broken fingers. I deal with drug overdoses and alcohol poisoning, with the flu, miscarriages, gunshot wounds—you name it, I’ve probably dealt with it on some level.”

“You trained a surgeon,” he pressed. “I didn’t pay for eight years of college for you to work yourself to death in an emergency room.”

“I’m paying you back—”

“Very slowly, Natalia,” he said. “But that’s not the point.”

“No, it
is
the point, Pop.”

He sighed.

“Look,” he said, “I’ve discussed it with the partners. We’re all agreed that you’d make a fine addition to our practice. It is a good practice, and I like the sound of Kosar, Kosar, Drayton, and Hamilton.”

“I love you, Dad,” she said, looking him straight in the eye. “But no. It’s not what I want to do. I’m doing what I want to do, for now at least.” Then she shrugged. “In the future, who knows? But at the moment this is me.”

He sighed again, then went back to work on his steak.

“The retrovirus,” he said at length. “Is it dangerous?”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes it is. In fact, it’s a nightmare. It appears to be airborne. The incubation period is incredibly rapid. Fever, bleeding from mucus membranes,
especially in the sinuses, followed by rapid multiple-organ dysfunction. The time between onset of symptoms and death is a matter of days.”

“What’s the mortality rate?”

“Ten people have died of it in San Francisco that I know of and about a hundred have been diagnosed with it here. There are cases reported in other cities. So far no one has recovered.”

“No one?” He leaned back in his chair. “Really, Natalia. This sounds dangerous to me. Maybe you should take some time off.”

“By tomorrow, there are some predictions we could see a jump in mortality—a hundred or more. The more healthcare providers have to deal with that, the fewer there will be to deal with things I deal with. If I take off, I’ll leave them even more short-handed. I’m not prepared to do that.”

He shook his head.

“I’m very careful,” she said, heading him off. “Everything washed, everything sterilized.”

“Yes,” he said. “Even when you were a little girl, always washing the spoon and forks twice—once with soap, again with rubbing alcohol.”

“Drove Mom crazy,” she remembered.

“Yes, it did,” he agreed. Then he turned back to his steak.

“I don’t like this business,” he said. “This virus, or you in an emergency room, for that matter. And it really hurts me that you won’t join the old man in his practice.”

“I don’t want to hurt you, Pop.”

“I’m not done,” he said. “All these things, I have some trouble understanding. But know this—I
am
proud of you, Natalia.”

She stared at him, feeling a slow smile grow on her face, even as her eyes threatened to tear up. He couldn’t look
at her, of course. He was cutting his steak with deliberate strokes, as if he were opening up someone’s chest.

“Thanks, Pop,” she said. “That’s nice to hear.”

“Now that’s out of the way,” he said, “if you should change your mind…”

“Just eat, Pop,” she said.

Dreyfus cleared his throat, took a sip of water, and ran a hand over his shock of slightly shaggy, brown hair. Then he faced the reporters who had gathered in the lobby outside of his office. The steady murmur of conversation died down as they waited for him to speak.

“It’s good to see you all here today,” he said. “I appreciate you turning out. I’ll keep this brief, because there’s no big reveal coming, I think. Many of you speculated openly that when I stepped down as chief of police last year, my intention was to run for mayor. Today, I’m just here to confirm that.

“The financial assets and affairs of this city, frankly, have been badly mismanaged, and it’s going to take a steady hand and a lot of hard work to get us back to where we need to be. I’ve served San Francisco proudly for all of my adult life. As chief of police, I made our force leaner and more responsive, more effective than it has ever been. I can do the same for this city and this county. If the citizens of this community see fit to give me the opportunity, I
will
do so.”

He smiled. “That’s it,” he said. “Brief, as I promised.
But I’m more than happy to answer any questions you might have.”

Hands shot up.

“Rick,” he said.

“You’re aware of the so-called ‘Monkeygate’ affair, Chief Dreyfus?”

“It’s just ‘Mr. Dreyfus’ at the moment, Rick. But sure, it’s hard not to be aware of it, given the media—if you’ll forgive me—
circus
surrounding the events that occurred.”

That drew a few chuckles.

“In a statement three days ago,” the reporter continued, “Mayor House cited the incident on the Golden Gate Bridge as a failure of your ‘leaner’ police force, and claimed that the late Chief Hamil of the San Bruno Police Department was a casualty of your policies.”

“We’re all sorry for the loss of Chief Hamil,” Dreyfus said. “My heart goes out to his family. But he died out of his jurisdiction, in a helicopter accident. What he was even doing in San Francisco is entirely unclear. I don’t see how that had anything to do with the relative strength of the police force I put together. And Rick, you were being polite—Mayor House said I ‘crippled’ the SFPD. But if that’s true, why did crime drop in every year of my administration? How was it that we put away three major crime lords?

“And as far as the present state of the force goes, it’s been more than a year since I left the post. Chief Burston is a fine golfer, I know, and he frequently golfs with the mayor. As far as I can tell, however, that’s his only qualification for the post. It seems to me that Mayor House is poisoning the well. He’s trying to make you believe that our force is inadequate in order to justify his use of outside contractors to address the so-called ‘monkey problem’ instead of using local law enforcement.

“I respectfully disagree with him.”

The gathering exploded when he said that, members of the press crowding closer to his podium.

“Sonja,” he said, nodding in the direction of another reporter.

“What contractors would those be?” she asked. “And what is your evidence to support this claim?”

“Well, I may not be chief of police anymore,” he said, “but I’m not totally out of the loop. The name of the contractor is Anvil. My staff has prepared a brief for each of you on this matter, which you will be given as you leave. I think you’ll find more questions are raised about this incident every day. Why contractors, and why has the mayor’s office been so quiet about it? There was ineptitude, that’s true, but I won’t let the brave men and women who protect our streets be the whipping boys in this matter.”

“Mr. Matthews.” He pointed at another reporter. Matthews was a distinctly young man with reddish hair and a serious expression.

“Sir,” he said, “what—if anything—can you tell us about the virus?”

“Well it’s hard to tell yet,” Dreyfus replied, choosing his words carefully. “There’s so much we don’t know about it.”

“The CDC estimates that thousands are infected in San Francisco alone,” Matthews persisted.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t a serious matter,” Dreyfus said. “But it would be irresponsible of me at this point to say or do anything other than what the CDC recommends. Avoid social contact when possible, wash and bathe frequently, and above all let’s not have a panic. Misinformation and fear have killed more people in situations like this than disease itself.”

Before Matthews could continue, he motioned to yet another reporter. But she carried on the topic.

“The mayor has suggested the possibility of quarantines,”
she said. “Do you think this a good idea?”

“So far only a handful of people have died,” Dreyfus replied. “As tragic as any loss is, I must again caution any politician—or the media, and that means you folks—against provoking hysteria. In my view, by calling for military-style quarantines, the mayor runs the danger of doing exactly that.”

“But, sir,” Matthews shouted, “everyone who gets this thing dies. We may be looking at thousands dead in the next few days.”

“Son, I know you’re concerned about this,” Dreyfus said. “We all are. But unlike some, I’m not comfortable commenting on a matter this fraught with peril while speaking from a position of limited facts. There are experts in these matters. I am not one of them. Neither is Mayor House. I’ve really exhausted all I have to say on this for the time being, so please—I’m sure there are other things that interest you. There, Assam?”

“Yes,” Assam replied. “Regarding your position on the SPLOST last year, I wonder if you would maintain that stance if elected, and employ such a tax.”

Dreyfus nodded, happy to be off on another topic.

* * *

“Hey, Daniel,” Dreyfus said. “Glad you could drop by.”

Daniel Ngyun was in his late thirties, but retained a lot of boyish charm. He was physically trim, wore suits with colorful shirts and ties, and had a pleasant voice. He was also one of the youngest presidents ever elected to the San Francisco Board of Supervisors.

Dreyfus rose to shake his hand, then pointed him toward a seat.

“Well,” Ngyun said, “I thought you dropped the bomb about Anvil very nicely.”

“I’m really in your debt for that bit of information, Daniel,” Dreyfus said. “You could have let the press have that yourself. Some say you were considering a run.”

“I might have, if I thought I had a chance to beat you in the primary.” Ngyun smiled. “But we both know I don’t. All we might manage to do is sabotage one another, enabling House to stay in. Anyway, this is my first term as president of the board, and I kind of like the job. In a few years you may be looking over your shoulder at me, but for now, I hope you beat the bastard. Life will be easier for me without him.”

“Just out of curiosity, do you know
why
he’s using these Anvil guys?”

“I wish I did,” Ngyun said. “It makes me nervous. Everybody on that side of the building is barking at flies, and I’m being kept out of the loop as much as possible.”