The Atlantis Gene: A Thriller (33 page)

She’s there when I wake, knitting in the corner. On the table beside me, three small shot glasses hold the dark brown liquid — the day’s ration of the opium-infused concoction that delivers the morphine and codeine I desperately need. Thank God. The sweats are back and the pain has come with it.

“I’ll be home before sundown.”

I nod and take the first shot.

Two shot glasses each day.

She reads to me every night, after work and dinner.

I lie there, adding clever comments and witty remarks from time to time. She laughs, and when I’ve been a little too crude, chastises me playfully.

The pain is almost bearable.

One shot per day. Freedom.

Almost. But the pain persists.

I still can’t walk.

I’ve spent my life in mines, in dark confined spaces. But I can’t take it. Maybe it’s the light, or the fresh air, or lying in bed, day after day, night after night. A month gone by.

Every day, as three o’clock draws near, I count down the minutes until she gets home. A man, waiting for a woman to get home. It calls into question the premise of the sentence.

I’ve insisted she stop working in the hospital. Germs. Bombs. Chauvinists. I’ve tried it all. She won’t hear it. I can’t win. I don’t have a leg to stand on. I simply can’t put my foot down. And on top of that, I’m losing it, making lame jokes about myself, to myself.

Out the window, I see her coming down the path. What time is it? 2:30. She’s early. And— there’s a man with her. In the month I’ve been here, she’s never brought a suitor home. The thought’s never occurred to me, and now, it strikes me in all the wrong ways. I strain to get a better look out the window, but I can’t see them. They’re already in the house.

I frantically straighten my bed and push myself up, through the dull pain, so I can sit up in bed and appear stronger than I am. I pick up a book and begin reading it, upside down. I glance up, then flip the book right-side-up just before Helena enters. The mustached, monocle-wearing poser in a three-piece suit is close on her heels like a greedy dog at the hunt.

“Ah, you’ve gotten into some of the books. What did you choose?” she tips it toward me slightly, reads the title, and cocks her head slightly. “Hmm, Pride and Prejudice. One of my favorites.”

I close the book and toss it on the table as though she’d just told me it was infected with plague. “Yes, well, a man’s got to stay up on such things. And, appreciate the… Classics.”

The monocled man looks over at her impatiently. Ready to get on with the visiting — away from the cripple in the spare bedroom?

“Patrick, this is Damien Webster. He’s come from America to see you. He won’t tell me what about.” She raises her eyebrows conspiratorially.

“Pleasure, Mr. Pierce. I knew your father.”

He’s not courting her. Wait,
knew
my father.

Webster seems to realize my confusion. “We sent a telegraph to the hospital. Have you not received it?”

My father is dead, but he didn’t come here about that. What then?

Helena speaks before I can. “Major Pierce has been here for a month. The hospital receives a great many cables each day. What’s your business, Mr. Webster?” Her tone has grown serious.

Webster glares at her. He’s probably not used to a woman talking to him in such a tone. He could probably do with more of it. “Several matters. The first being your father’s estate—”

Outside the window, a bird lands on the fountain. It fidgets, dunks it’s head, rises and shakes the water off.

“How did he die?” I say, still focused on the bird.

Webster speaks quickly, like it’s something to get out of the way, an annoyance. “Automobile accident. He and your mother both perished instantly. Dangerous machines, I say. It was quick. They didn’t suffer, I assure you. Now…”

I feel hurt of a different kind, a crushing feeling of loneliness, emptiness, like there’s a pit inside me that I can’t fill. Like I’ll never be happy again. My mother, gone. Buried by now. I’ll never see her again.

“Will that be acceptable, Mr. Pierce?”

“What?”

“The account at First National Bank in Charleston. Your father was a very frugal man. There’s almost 200,000 dollars in the account.”

Frugal to a fault.

Webster is clearly frustrated and plows on hoping for a response. “The account’s in your name. There was no will, but as you’ve no siblings, there’s no problem.” He waits another moment. “We can transfer the money to a bank here on the continent.” He glances at Helena. “Or England if you prefer—”

“The West Virginia Children’s Home. It’s in Elkins. See that they get the balance of the account. And that they know that it came from my father.”

“Uh, yes, that’s… possible. May I ask why?”

A truthful response would be “because he wouldn’t want me to have it” or more exactly, “because he didn’t like the man I’ve become.” But I don’t say either, maybe because Helena is in the room or maybe because I don’t think this shyster deserves an honest response. Instead, I mumble something approximating, “It’s what he would have wanted.”

He looks at my leg, searching for the right words. “That’s all well and good, but the army pensions are… rather sparse, even for a Major. I would think you’d be keen to keep a bit of the money, say 100,000 dollars?”

I stare at him full on now. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re here about. I doubt it’s my father’s 200,000 estate.”

He’s taken aback. “Of course, Mr. Pierce. I was only trying to advise… for your best interests. Indeed, that’s what I’m here about. I bring a message from Henry Drury Hatfield, Governor of the Great State of West Virginia. His Excellency wishes you to, well first off, he sends his deepest condolences for your loss, indeed the State’s and our Great Nation’s. Additionally, he would like for you to know that he is prepared to appoint you to your father’s seat in the US Senate, as this authority has just been vested in him by the state legislature.”

I’m beginning to realize how the McCoys could hate these snakes so much. Henry Hatfield is the nephew of Devil Hatfield, the leader of the infamous Hatfield Clan. The governor can’t run for a second term. He had himself set up for that US Senate seat two years ago, but the states ratified the Seventeenth Amendment the year before, allowing for direct election of US Senators, yanking the power away from the corrupt state legislatures and manipulators like Hatfield. My father was in the first class of US Senators elected by the people. His death, and the talk of the money now make more sense. But not the appointment.

Webster doesn’t let the mystery linger long. He leans against the foot of the bed, speaking like we’re old pals now. “Of course your status as a war hero will make you a popular choice. There will be a special election. As you know, Senators are now elected by the people,” he nods, “as they should be. The governor is ready to appoint you to serve in your father’s seat on the condition that you will endorse him in the special election and campaign for him. In return, he is willing to further support your career. Perhaps as a congressional candidate. Congressman Patrick Pierce has a nice ring to it, I think.” He pushes off the bed and smiles at me. “So, can I give the governor the good news then?”

I glower at him. I’ve never wanted to stand so much in my whole life, to be able to walk this demon to the front door and toss him out.

“I know the circumstances aren’t ideal, but we must all rise to the occasion.” Webster nods toward the leg. “And with your… limitations, it could be a good fit. You’re not likely to find better work—”

“Get out.”

“Now, Mr. Pierce, I know—”

“You heard me. And don’t come back. You’ve got the only answer you’re ever going to get. Tell that thug Hatfield to do his own dirty work, or maybe one of his cousins. I hear they’re good at it.”

He steps toward me, but Helena catches him by the arm. “This way, Mr. Webster.”

When he’s gone, she returns. “I’m very sorry about your parents.”

“As am I. My mother was very kind, and very loving.” I know she can see how sad I am now, but I can’t hold it any more.

“Can I bring you anything?” I can tell she didn’t mean to, but her eyes dart to where the bottle would sit beside the bed.

“Yes. A doctor. For my leg.”

CHAPTER 74

Situation Room
Clocktower HQ
New Delhi, India

Dorian lingered by the door, surveying the situation room. It looked almost like mission control for a NASA launch. Several rows of analysts were speaking into headsets and working computers that controlled the drones. On the long wall, a patchwork of screens showed telemetry from the drones: scenes of mountains and forests.

Dmitry had been coordinating the search. The burly Russian looked as though he hadn’t slept since the explosions in China. He pushed his way through the throngs of analysts and joined Dorian at the back of the room. “We’ve got nothing so far. There’s just too much area to search.”

“What about satellite surveillance?”

“Still waiting on it.”

“Why? What’s taking so long?”

“Repositioning takes time, and there’s so much area to cover.”

Dorian watched the screens for a moment. “Start shaking the bushes.”

“Shaking?”

“Burning,” Dorian said as he turned and led Dmitry to the door, out of earshot of the analysts. “See what falls out. My guess is Warner is in one of those monasteries. Where are we on Toba?”

“The bodies are on planes bound for Europe, North America, Australia, and China. The live ones are in local hospitals in India and—” he checked his watch, “Bangladesh within the hour.”

“Reports?”

“Nothing so far.”

At least there was some good news.

CHAPTER 75

The next morning, Milo was waiting on Kate, just as he had the previous morning. How long did he sit there, waiting for her to wake up?

Kate rose and found the bowl of breakfast waiting in the same place. She and Milo exchanged their morning pleasantries, and he again led her to David’s room.

The journal lay on the table beside the bed, but Kate ignored it, moving first to David. She administered the antibiotics and inspected the chest wound. The ring of red had expanded in the night, spreading out across his chest. Kate chewed on the inside of her mouth and gazed absently out the window.

“Milo, I need you to help me with something. It’s very important.”

“As I said when first we met, Madam,” he bowed again, “Milo is at your service.”

“Are you squeamish around blood, Milo?”