“I guess, yeah.”
“It’s a small glandular structure at the core of the brain. In the third ventricle, I think. It’s about the size of a pea.”
“What does it do?”
“Until about thirty years ago, nobody thought it did anything. It was considered a vestigial organ, like the appendix. Scientists knew the pineal made melatonin, but no one knew what melatonin did. What does the pineal have to do with anything?”
“The FBI says the killer cut off Karin Wheat’s head to get to her pineal gland.”
“Sick, huh? The other victims might be missing theirs too, or else their whole heads.”
Drewe grimaces.
“Can you think of any reason why someone would want pineal glands? Do they have any medical use?”
“I don’t think so. There were some pineal experiments going on at Tulane when I was there, related to breast cancer, I think. But I don’t remember what the findings were.” She pauses. “You can buy melatonin in health food stores, though. God, this reminds me of those PBS shows where they talk about Oriental medicine. You know, how Japanese men pay poachers hundreds of thousands of dollars for rhinoceros horns and tiger testicles and things. All to cure impotence or restore their lost youth or something.”
My opinion of my wife’s mental acuity has been reaffirmed yet again. She has already broached a theory that seems more logical than that of the police in California, who believe the EROS murders may be the work of a cult.
“So what
“It’s a hormone that regulates your sleep cycle. Your circadian rhythms. You know, what causes jet lag. Some people take it to prevent or relieve jet lag symptoms.”
“Can you remember anything else about it?”
Drewe touches her forefinger to the tip of her nose and fixes her gaze somewhere out in the darkness. I know this posture well: concentration mode. “I think it controls the release of serotonin, maybe some other hormones. I seem to recall something from one of the journals. Neurobiological stuff. Something to do with the pineal and the aging process. Weird how that fits with the Oriental thing, isn’t it? But that doesn’t mean anything. Murderers don’t read
“Why not?”
“Well… I guess it’s possible.” Drewe grimaces and says, “Men are scum.” A routine comic line of hers that doesn’t sound so funny tonight.
“So what’s the plan?” I ask lightly, falling into our usual banter.
“More dictation.” She stretches both arms above her head. “My personal cross to bear.” She begins gathering up the plates. “Which reminds me. Tomorrow you face yours.”
I feel a sudden chill. “What are you talking about?”
“Take it easy,” she says, giving me an odd look. “I meant the biweekly burden. Sunday dinner with your in- laws.”
She turns away and moves through the screen door, but my chill does not dissipate. Over her shoulder she says, “Lately you’ve acted like it’s a trip to the dentist or something.”
If only it were.
I rise from the porch and head for my office. Combined with the stress of the past weeks, the trip to New Orleans has exhausted me. After months of anxiety, I have finally done what I should have done long ago. For months I’ve stayed up far too many hours and slept too few, lurking in Level Three in the hope of recognizing the error-free transmissions of David Strobekker. But tonight I will sleep.
As I strip off my clothes, Drewe’s last comment echoes in my mind.
Tonight I leave David Strobekker to the FBI.
I have my own demon.
CHAPTER 7
Dear Father,
We landed near Virginia Beach at dusk, riding the scent of ocean to the earth.
We misdirected taxis to bring us within range of the patient’s house, then walked.
No EROS dalliances with this one. She’s a Navy girl, young and simple and tough. I was lucky to have Kali with me.
We entered while she showered, and what a specimen she was. Firm pink skin shining in the spray. For a moment I wished we were there for the old protocol.
But-
After her scream died, I tried a little humor. “Hello, Jenny, we’re from DonorNet. I’ll bet you didn’t think we made house calls.”
She tried to fight us in the bedroom, making for a dresser (in which I later found a pistol). Kali brought her down with a knife slash to the thigh. Lots of blood, but essentially a superficial wound. It will have no effect on her role in the procedure.
Kali helped her dress, then forced her to give us her car keys. Jenny didn’t whine or beg, like some. She was trying to think of a way out.
I drove her car to the airstrip, Kali guarding her in the backseat. At the plane I’d planned to inject a mild sedative, but despite my reassurances the patient would not submit. I was forced to shoot her with a Ketamine dart. I also had to leave her car at the runway. Eventually it will be found. But there is no record of our landing. No note. No trace of our passing. Another question mark for the police.
Kali has the controls now. My dark Shakti shepherds me through the stars. We hurtle into history at two hundred miles per hour. The patient lies bound behind us, silent as death, as blissfully unaware of the contribution she will make as the monkey that gave Salk his poliomyelitis vaccine.
I’ve been thinking that I should present an edited version of these letters as an addendum to my official findings, or perhaps they belong with my curriculum vitae. Shocking to the unprepared mind, I suppose, but highly edifying for the medical historian.
But enough of that.
Things are where they are, and, as fate has willed,
So shall they be fulfilled.
CHAPTER 8
“It’s that damned nigger contractor,” says Bob Anderson.
“Robert, not in front of Holly,” scolds Margaret, his wife.
Bob Anderson is my father-in-law. He points across his Mexican tile patio toward a small girl child splashing in the shallow end of the swimming pool.
“She can’t hear me, Marg. And no matter how you cut it, it all comes back to that
