43
Creepy.
That was the only word Jennifer could think of to describe her lunch with Bruce Andrews. The whole thing had been really creepy. She tried to wipe the memory from her mental chalkboard, but it refused to leave. She gave her RX-8 a bit more gas, pushing the sports car well over the posted limit. Maybe a little adrenaline rush would cure her. She veered off Monument Avenue, leaving the parade of statues and the wide street behind her. She cut onto Strawberry Street and slowed a bit, the road now narrower and bordered by trendy brick town houses.
What had Bruce Andrews wanted? Certainly, she had given him nothing of any value-he couldn’t possibly know about her and Gordon from anything she had said over the meal. But maybe he already knew what she and Gordon were up to before he had insisted she accompany him to the Jefferson. Why that hotel? No, something was up and she didn’t feel safe. She was glad Gordon was flying in tonight.
She turned off Strawberry onto Main Street, going with the flow of the traffic. The streetlamps were just coming on and the first diners of the evening were beginning to fill the myriad of restaurants lining the revitalized strip. It was getting busy for a Tuesday. She liked this part of Richmond-hell, she liked Richmond. The only thing she didn’t like was Bruce Andrews. Then something occurred to her that had not crossed her mind at lunch.
She had spent an hour across the table from a murderer.
A very real shiver shot up her spine and hit her brain stem. She shuddered from the impact. If what she and Gordon suspected was true, that the top brass at Veritas were killing people to keep their secrets intact, then that statement was an absolute truth. Her hands were shaking as she steered the Mazda off Main onto Plum Street. She found a parking spot almost in front of her unit and switched off the ignition.
God, she was a mess.
When she was a child, she had been miserable, but she had never feared for her life. Never. Not until now. She exited the car, locked it, and glanced up and down the street before slipping the key in the lock and opening her front door. She closed the door behind her and locked it.
Safe.
She let out a long, slow breath and turned to drop her purse on the chair next to the door. Something moved, fast, toward her. A figure. A man. His image registered for a split second, then he was on her, spinning her around and clamping his hand over her mouth. She sucked in air, tried to scream, but the hand was like a vise. And there was something else. Something she had smelled a thousand times before. But it wasn’t a smell that should be in her house. What was it? She tried to kick and hit her assailant, but she had no power in her arms and legs. Everything was going black. What was that smell? She felt herself slipping away, then she knew.
Chloroform.
The room went black.
That was the first thought Jennifer Pearce had when she woke. Her second thought was
It was a man, white with a chalky complexion. He had brown hair, just over his ears, and as he came close she could see that his eyes were light blue, almost translucent. He looked surprised to see her staring at him.
“So you’re awake,” Evan Ziegler said. His voice was soft, nonthreatening.
“What are you doing?” she asked. “Why are we here and why am I tied up?”
He moved close to her and stared straight into her eyes. “Please don’t take this personally. I have nothing against you as a person. It’s a matter of survival, that’s all.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked, her senses returning to her. She now saw that she was in the woods, surrounded by mountains and her car perched on the edge of a drop-off. And she was sitting behind the steering wheel.
“My son’s survival,” he said. He was moving his hands about, but she couldn’t see what he was doing. Then the odor of chloroform hit her. He was getting ready to drug her again.
“Wait,” she said. “Before you put that cloth over my face, tell me what this is all about.”
He stopped moving and looked at her. He glanced around then nodded. “Okay,” he said, the smell of the chloroform slowly dissipating. “There’s no rush.” He leaned on the car door, close to her. “My son is in a wheelchair, and will be for the rest of his life if he doesn’t get the technology your company is working on.”
“Are you talking about Veritas Pharmaceutical?”
“Yes.”
“What technology?” she asked.“What technology couldVeritas possibly possess that would get your son out of a wheelchair?”
“Brain chips,” he said. “Veritas is ready to begin Phase I trials on its brain chips.”
“What?” Jennifer said.“Brain chips? Oh God, are you ever out in left field. Veritas isn’t working on brain chips anymore. That department is being phased out.”
His face turned mean. It took on color and his mouth twisted into a sneer. “You’re just trying to save your ass,” he said. “I know otherwise. My son will be included in the first set of Phase I trials. And they’re scheduled to start two months from now.”
Jennifershook her head.“No, no, no, that’s not right. Listen to me. I’m the head of the Alzheimer’s research group at Veritas. Even I know what’s going on, and I’ve got nothing to do with brain chip development.What I’m telling you is common knowledge.” She shook her head a few times to clear the cobwebs. “I’ve seen it with my own eyes-they’re dismantling the department.” Desperation sounded in her voice. “In fact, I’ve got three new staff that came over to my team from brain chips.” Her head was clearing a bit, and the words started coming easier. “When Duke University released their findings that fat cells can be transformed into stem cells which can then be used to regenerate damage on the spinal cord, the whole concept of brain chips went obsolete almost overnight.” She saw the uncertainty in his eyes and said, “You have got to believe me.Veritas is not going to produce anything that will get your son out of his wheelchair.”
“I think you’re just telling me something to keep me from dumping your car over the edge of this cliff.”
She shook her head. “If you kill me, you’ve killed an innocent person. And I won’t be the first one, either.”
“What do you mean?”
“Albert Rousseau. Kenga Bakcsi. Both Veritas employees. Both murdered. And both totally innocent.”
“He told me they were going to derail the brain chip program,” Evan Ziegler said, seething with anger.
“Kenga Bakcsi worked for me. She was in the Alzheimer’s group. The only thing Kenga did wrong was to get information for someone. Information on Triaxcion.”
“What’s Triaxcion?”
“One of Veritas’s big money-producing drugs. The last thing the company wants is for the FDA to recall a drug that’s already approved and is generating them a ton of money. They’ll do anything to keep the information under wraps. By the looks of it, that includes murdering innocent people.”
“What about Albert Rousseau?” Ziegler asked.
“He had damning evidence that Triaxcion could cause people with A-positive blood to become hemophiliacs. And that was what happened to Gordon’s brother. He was taking Triaxcion, and he bled to death when he cut himself.”
“Who is Gordon?”
“He’s the guy that Kenga was getting information for. But it was strictly on Triaxcion. There was no tie-in to the brain chip labs anywhere.” She took a breath and said, “You’re being lied to. You’re killing innocent people.”
The man backed off from the car and slowly walked to the edge of the embankment. He stared out at the night sky, cloudless with little moonlight. The stars seemed intense, bright against a stark black backdrop. Jennifer watched him, all the while wriggling her fingers around, trying to loosen the straps. Nothing was working. Whatever
