wonderful smile. Not long after that came a card with a baby boy. Then one with a girl. But the Shiner remained the star of every mailing, her coal-black eyes sparkling for the camera, her rich, tawny coat glowing, and her mouth open in what had to be a smile.
Griff began what became a tradition. Every year, on the anniversary of Louisa’s death, he would sit with those cards and two glasses of red wine. One glass he would drink. The other he would cast into the sky of wherever he happened to be. With the ritual came the renewal of his vow to respect the connection between man and vertebrates.
Griff looked over lamentably at Melvin.
“I’ve spent my entire career believing I could battle any virus without killing animals in the process,” Griff said.
“Do you think sacrificing primates will help us identify that missing piece?”
Griff hesitated before he answered.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“If it were guaranteed to make a difference?”
Griff cringed at the question and looked away.
“Given the situation, how could I not?” he asked. “It’s tantamount to murder either way. But I’d feel too great a responsibility not to do everything possible to save those people.”
“But at this point there are no guarantees.”
“That’s the problem. So we have to choose where to put our faith. Computers, or innocent animals.”
“I wish I could help with the decision,” Forbush said. “It would be easy if we had unlimited time. As it is, setting up another Hell’s Kitchen animal facility, even a partial one, will take at least three or four days.”
Griff’s insides were knotted. He still desperately wanted to rub at his eyes, and to have his thoughts focus. He stared at his gloved hands, his teeth clenched.
“Do you want me to get the chimpanzee order going?” Forbush asked.
“No,” Griff said with sudden, renewed determination. “I still believe my computer program is the fastest and most accurate way forward.”
“I believe you’re right.”
“So we work,” Griff said, “and we keep at it until we figure out why Orion’s not doing the job I’ve programmed it to do.”
CHAPTER 41
Residents on the sixth floor of the Riverside Nursing Home eased open their doors and shuffled out into the dimly lit hallway. Their collective chatter began as a murmur, but soon escalated into loud, rapid-fire exchanges. More room doors opened in response to the heightening racket. More elderly men and women milled into the corridor. Some carried canes. Some made their way with walkers.
Angie, emotionally and physically spent, sank onto the freight elevator’s unsteady wood floor. Her head was beginning to throb—a pounding bass drum behind her eyes, monitoring each heartbeat. Chen Su braced herself against the car wall opposite her. The older woman’s expression was unrevealing. Her eyes seemed vacant. Angie wondered how far the terrible events of just minutes ago had already slipped from her consciousness.
Mei Wu came racing through the crowd. Two male orderlies followed her into the elevator, carrying flashlights, which they directed down into the shaft. They said something in Chinese, and Mei let out a gasp, which she quickly cut short, her hand over her mouth. The response to death at Riverside, Angie assumed, was seldom louder than a sheet drawn over a face.
“Are you okay?” Mei asked.
Angie managed a nod, although her vision was drifting in and out of focus.
“You’re covered with blood. Are you cut?”
“Just my nose. I think it’s broken.”
“Oh, my. I will check you over, but I think we should get an ambulance. You don’t look well.”
With the orderlies’ help, Angie rose unsteadily to her feet, and used their shoulders for balance.
“We’ve already called the police,” Mei said. “Do you think you can speak to them about what happened here?”
“I’ll try my best.… And Mei, I’ll also do my best to see to it there are no repercussions from that gap in your elevator. After all, it did save my life.”
Before tonight, Angie felt secrecy was her best hope for safety. But Genesis had found her despite all her precautions. She needed to speak with Griff and possibly with the president as well. Would it help in any way to keep Sylvia Chen’s murder a secret? If so, the FBI had to contact the NYPD quickly. Without any notes from the former head of the Veritas project, Angie’s mission to New York had been worse than a failure. How much should the police be told now?
Griff or Allaire would arrange a military escort for her back to Kalvesta. But first, she had to do something that she dreaded.
“Mei, I need a moment with Ms.… Mrs.…”
“Ms. Li? You need to speak to Ms. Li?”
“Yes. Can you join us? I may need you to interpret.”
“Ms. Li speaks perfect English.”
“I will still need you.”
Once back in room 603, blotting blood with a hand towel Mei had brought her, Angie closed the window. Then she took hold of the frail, veined hand of the woman known there as Ms. Li, and motioned her to sit next to her on the bed.
“Thank you for saving our lives,” Angie began, squinting against the now unremitting pounding behind her forehead. “That was a very bad man, who has hurt and killed many people. You acted bravely.”
“A very bad man,” Chen Su echoed.
“I have terrible news,” Angie said.
“Terrible … news.”
Angie studied the woman’s face and could see the transformation more clearly now. There was natural aging of course, where fibers had weakened and skin given way to gravity. But the ravages of late-stage Alzheimer’s were hauntingly evident. There were abrasions on her elbows. The skin of her fine face clung to her bones like translucent paper. The disease was progressing her life the way fast-forward speeds through a DVD. The woman looked ninety, though she was probably twenty years younger than that.
“You have a daughter.”
The woman gave no response.
“Sylvia,” Angie said.
“Are you Sylvia?”
Angie breathed deeply.
“Mrs. Chen, Sylvia, your daughter, is dead.”
Again Mei Wu stifled a gasp.
“You are certain?” she asked.
“I am positive, Mei. I will tell you the details later.”
There was no recognition from Chen Su. Not a twitch or any hint of tears to come.
“The man who died in the elevator is the one who killed her,” Angie went on. “I am very sorry about Sylvia.”
In fact, there was much else Angie was sorry about, starting with the papers Sylvia promised but could now never deliver. Would they have helped find the cure for WRX3883? Would Sylvia’s knowledge of Genesis have been the key to stopping them?
