fingers was cracked, oozing blood-tinged fluid. His hands were so swollen and stiff he could barely hold a pencil- and this seemed to frustrate Dumenco more than the pain.
Craig was astonished at how quickly the physicist had begun failing, his body crashing out, everything compounded as one bodily function collapsed, then another, like an avalanche. It had been three days since his massive exposure. Trish had said in a quiet voice that Dumenco probably wouldn’t last three more.
Dumenco reluctantly pushed aside the data-output sheets and computer printouts he had been studying and focused his attention on the two FBI agents. He tried to set down his pencil, but it fell awkwardly and rolled off the bedside table to land on the floor.
Jackson bent over to pick it up. Seeing that the lead had broken off, he reached inside his suit jacket and pulled out a silver-plated mechanical pencil. “Here, you can have this,” he said. The physicist nodded in gratitude.
“Have you found anything in your experimental data that might help us?” Craig asked. “Any ideas?”
Dumenco didn’t mind talking about his work. “Only that something is very wrong with my experiment. The p- bar production rate is nine orders of magnitude lower than I had calculated.” He coughed. “Nine orders! This makes no sense. I must talk to Bretti, but he is away on vacation. He hasn’t even called.”
“Then we should find him on vacation,” Jackson said. “Maybe he can give us some leads.”
Dumenco shook his head disparagingly. “My grad student works well, but has no initiative. After seven years, he is no closer to completing his doctorate than when he started. I wouldn’t expect him to come to any conclusions on his own.” He sighed. “Perhaps I can talk to Nels Piter…”
Then Dumenco looked up, suddenly alert. “I understand Agent Goldfarb was shot yesterday. Another ‘accident,’ I suppose, or do they believe me now?”
Craig nodded. “Oh, they believe you,” he said. “I’ve managed to get this classified as a major case with the Bureau. Things will happen faster, with more resources.”
Now that he himself was the agent in charge, the case had grown more extensive, with tangents and connections sprawling ever wider. Agent Schultz was continuing his focused study of the crater explosion, but kept running into dead-ends. No known explosive could have caused the damage pattern exhibited, and no chemical residue had been found. Craig and Jackson would investigate from the other end, trying to determine how Dumenco was the focal point of these events.
Jackson stepped forward, all business. “As part of this investigation, we’d like to go into your apartment, sir. Agent Kreident has already been to the accelerator site, the beam-sampling substation, and your offices, but we need more background. Perhaps something in your personal life might open another door for us. We’ll start by having a team of agents check on Bretti.”
The Ukrainian toyed with the mechanical pencil Jackson had given him. “By all means, you may search my apartment-but I rarely spend time at home. I have some work there, some files, but nothing important. In fact, if you see anything you like, just let me know. I haven’t quite had the time to make out a will.” With a wistful look back at his data, he glanced over at Craig. “You’ll have to get my keys from Dr. LeCroix. She confiscated them last time I went to my office at Fermilab.”
He frowned, then looked up again as a thought occurred to him. “You may have to watch out for news reporters. They came to the hospital yesterday, but dear Dr. LeCroix got rid of them. It seems she is at odds with her partners at the Physicians for Responsible Radiation Research. They want to use me as a martyr to gain attention for their cause.” His laugh turned into a phlegmy cough. “I wouldn’t want to cross Dr. LeCroix. She’s a dynamo when she gets angry.”
“You’re telling me,” Craig muttered. Jackson looked sidelong at him.
Dumenco blinked his red, gummy eyes, trying to focus. “I fear that media reports could put me in… extreme danger. When your enemy is aware that your death is fast approaching, he has many things to fear. Someone may still try to kill me before I can reveal anything that should remain a secret.”
“And what would that be?” Craig asked. “And who is your enemy?‘’
Dumenco feigned a smile. “Come now, Agent Kreident, that would be tempting fate. Others may suffer retribution for my indiscretions. Innocents. I would rather die without having to atone for that guilt.”
Craig drew a breath, frustrated. Was the man hiding something, and who was he protecting? “Do you want us to solve this case, Dr. Dumenco?”
“Indeed, I do. But I also want to understand why my final experiment seems critically flawed. And I don’t wish for anyone else to get hurt. Perhaps these goals are mutually incompatible.”
He turned back to his papers, finished with the agents. “I am finding it difficult to think straight. What if the Nobel committee hears about the flaws in these results? It calls into question my previous work.”
In frustration he pounded his fist against his forehead and left an astonishingly clear bruise. He seemed to be battling a growing terror and helplessness as moments slipped away from him. “I need every minute remaining, Agent Kreident. Just make sure no one steals any more hours from me. The person who did this may be too impatient to let me die on my own time… though I am doing it as fast as I can.”
Dumenco spat into a hospital cup. “Let me know what you find in my apartment,” he said, “but please, I have to think. So little time… so little time.”
Batavia was one of numerous suburbs that spread out from Chicago like ripples in a pond. The sprawling suburbs exhibited the Midwestern elbow room so different from the crackerbox California houses with their micro-yards. Even the low-rent districts had grassy yards and long driveways.
With his Fermilab salary, Dumenco could easily have afforded one of the spacious ranch homes complete with a lush green lawn and a brick pedestal around the mailbox out by the road-but for some reason the physicist had chosen to live near the center of town in an apartment building four stories high, faced with red brick.
Perhaps, Craig thought, the older structure reminded Dumenco of community barracks housing he had lived in back in Kiev under Soviet rule.
“Repeat after me,” Craig said. “No comment. No comment. No comment. Good, now we’re ready for any reporters.”
“None standing outside at least,” Jackson said as they climbed out of the gold rental Taurus. Jackson had driven, pushing the seat back as far as it would go. Goldfarb, much shorter, had been the previous driver.
“By now they must have realized nobody’s home,” Craig said. “Dumenco lived alone-who would be there to talk to? He was a workaholic, so the neighbors wouldn’t know him well.” Craig withdrew the key from his pocket. “Third floor,” he said. “ Apartment 316.”
They hadn’t been able to find Trish again that morning, but Craig supposed she needed to sleep occasionally, too, especially after her long vigil with Dumenco. He had retrieved the keys himself from the hospital’s personal possessions lockers.
They climbed the stairs rather than taking the elevator and emerged onto the landing, looking down a carpeted hall of closed identical doors. As they walked along, Craig heard the reverberations of televisions behind some doors, children crying or playing, mothers yelling.
When they reached 316, Craig was relieved to find no reporters there either, although the business card of someone from the
Jackson bent down to scrutinize the lock in the door. “Have a look at this,” he said, keeping his voice low. Small wiry scratches made a faint starburst around the keyhole. “Looks like not everyone uses a key to get in.”
Craig frowned. “That might not be fresh, but watch it.” He slid the key into the lock, and the door swung easily inward to a large apartment suite. Craig stepped inside, feeling dust motes stir around him. He could always tell when a place had been sealed and abandoned, as if time had stopped.
Soft sunlight drifted through drawn ivory blinds onto dark green carpeting. Shelves full of knick-knacks, painted Russian eggs, and gilt-edged religious icon paintings adorned the walls next to framed photos of onion-domed Ukrainian cathedrals. A gilded cross stood atop a small old-model color TV set. The extended rabbit-ear antennas were canted at an odd angle.
He drew in a breath and called out, “FBI-don’t move.” Silence answered him. Nothing stirred inside. Maybe he was being overly cautious.
Craig smelled an odd, exotic, cinnamony smell, cuisine he’d never before tasted. But deeper and sharper,
