Mariposa (8 page)

Chapter Fifteen

Boise, Idaho

William Griffin stood in the middle of the wet street and turned full circle, surrounded by fire trucks, canvas hoses, water streaming into the gutters, backing up behind dams of slushy ash, scraps of black shingle, sopping pink insulation—

And the blackened skeletons of twelve suburban homes.

Everything smelled of deadly sweet smoke. His gray suit would reek on the flight back to Washington.

He walked around the hulk of a compact electric Toyota, formerly cherry red, one side now scorched and melted, the rear end twisted and blown out by exploding batteries. The car was still hooked up by a big yellow cable to the driveway plug stand.

The flames had begun in one house—this one, the residence of Maddy and Howard Plumber, now a low black pile and still smoking. High winds from the west had ignited ten other houses. Then the winds had reversed and thrown burning debris over the rest of the neighborhood on the cul-de-sac, skipping only two homes, which now poked from the ashes like healthy molars in a sick jaw.

In the first house, the firemen had found a charred body—female, identified by the coroner through DNA as Madeline Paris, formerly of Bethesda, Maryland. William knew a little about her: a doctor specializing in hormonal and astrocyte disorders.

Her husband, Dr. Terence Plover, aka Howard Plumber, was missing. He might be buried deeper in the smoldering debris, or he might not have been in the house at all. None of the neighbors seemed to know much about them. They had moved in just a couple of weeks ago and weren't very social.

An unmarked Boise police cruiser drew up beside William. A large, square head with a stub of mustache and short bristly brown hair poked out of the driver's window. One hand flipped open a silver badge. "Boise CID. They told me Griff's pup was out here sniffing around. You don't look like your dad, except maybe the eyes."

William turned to squint through his spex at the driver, a detective old enough to have known William Griffin Sr.—known to his friends and colleagues as Griff—an agent who had always been more popular and more accomplished than his son, back in the FBI's better days.

"I take after my mother's side," William said.

"Sorry to hear about your old man," the detective said. He stopped the car in the middle of the street and got out, then leaned on the car door—a bulky, muscular man with a craggy, critical face.

Sharp eyes, sees everything.

"Back in the day, we'd have welcomed Griff's attention. Can't say we feel the same now. Times change, Agent Griffin. Which is it—FBI, or just the Bureau?"

"Bureau," William said.

"That's right. FBI kaput. Draw the blinds, turn out the lights—make sure to flush before you leave." He turned to take in the destruction. "Fire Department has already ruled out arson. Electrical in origin—bad install for a solar power unit. We've got Ada County Crime Analysis, and of course, my people . . . I suppose we'd call ATF if we thought we needed federal help, but we don't. What interests the Bureau? Going after ecoterrorists again?"

William pointed at the white-flagged debris. "I came to interview Howard Plumber."

"What about?"

"Not at liberty."

"Well, either flash your sparks downtown and get a hall pass or move on, Agent Griffin. Feds don't pay their bills. Idaho is happy to take care of its own. Obviously you won't be talking to Plumber today."

William grimaced, half in amusement. "The Ada County coroner's office and fire department have expressed a willingness to share what they know."

"At whose sufferance?"

"Governor Kinchley," William said.

"Fucking dyke," the CID detective said. "Her term's about up. You can tell her I said so."

"I will. Your name, detective?"

"Johnny Carson, Jonathan Bitch-hater Carson. Boise CID. She knows me."

"I'll bet she does."

"I'll be on this street watching until you move along, Agent Griffin." Carson climbed back into the cruiser. "Your dad would have sniffed the wind and left it to the locals."

"I'll tell him you paid your respects," William said.

That dropped Carson's smug grin into blank uncertainty.

"Next time I visit him in Arlington," William added. "He died for his country. A great big country. All you have is Boise—and maybe Green Idaho."

"Fuck you," Carson said.

William stood his ground, shoulders hunched, hands in pockets.

Carson shook his head in disgust and drove down the street a hundred feet or so, then swerved left and parked diagonally, gifting William with a glare.

William ignored him.

The Green Idaho secessionist movement was growing in political power in Ada County and Boise, as well as the rural counties. It freighted a weird mix of ecology, high-tech savvy, rural bigotry, and rugged libertarian individualism. As far as they were concerned, feds, big lumber, big oil and gas, industrialists, and all rich out-of-state landowners could fuck off and vacate, pronto.

Like most secessionists, Green Idaho was comprised mostly of white guys: anti-tax, failed geeks, anarchists—and a fine crop of bigots.

If this was a Green Idaho reprisal, blown out of control by an unexpected wind storm, then it stood to reason that Detective Johnny Carson would stand guard over the ashes and make excuses until the coast was clear.

A light blinked in the corner of William's spex. He took out his phone and answered the call.

"What's new in Idaho?" Deputy Director Kunsler asked.

Carson watched like a hawk hovering over a mouse.

William turned his back. "Dr. Plover has gone missing. His wife is dead. Looks as if his place was professionally torched—with her in it. But they haven't found his body—so they say."

"Staged?" Kunsler asked.

"Completely," William said. "Green Idaho is all over the scene. They want me out of here—tar and feathers would be too good for me."

"Nabokov sent a short message. He has the goods. But we haven't heard anything more. Get back to the Q."

"I'm on a plane out of Boise at midnight."

"No need. There'll be a jet waiting for you. Something big is in the air, so we're getting an extra drip of cash. Sounds like none of us is going to be getting much sleep. What do you know about Little Jamey?"

"Enough," William said. Everyone in law enforcement knew about Little Jamey. It had been injury on top of insult for the Bureau—and one of several events that had focused attention on Talos. "Is that a leading question?"

"Very. You'll get a full briefing at the Q."

William took a deep breath.

"Ah—my little bitty inbox is filling up with messages," Kunsler said. "Complaints from the locals. Pull out gracefully. Don't ruffle any feathers."

"Too late," William said. "There's one old buzzard I'd love to strangle."

"Tsk. See you bright and early tomorrow—I'll bring coffee. Come home safe, Agent Griffin."

Chapter Sixteen

Los Angeles, California

Nathaniel strolled along the indoor length of train track, then stopped and rose up on tiptoes to peer through the windows of a dining car. If he closed his eyes and listened to the recorded sounds, he could almost complete the illusion of a 1930s train station.

Steam puffed from under the sleek silvery locomotive, cut in half and butted up against a mural on the far wall.

He hadn't felt so much pure delight since childhood.

Everything
was delightful and vivid. He made it more so, savoring the surreal illusion of a streamliner waiting for passengers, complete with red-capped conductors, leading guests through the waiting area—a Pullman lounge—to three dining cars.

At any moment, Nathaniel could play back something he had just experienced with complete fidelity. His memory was an open book through which he could page at will—making himself his own toy, his own diversion.

At the same time, he heard all the real sounds—people talking, dressed out of character, he thought—cell phones, restaurant pagers dinging, boisterous children talking about the latest games.

Nathaniel was caught between fascination with the children—so like him, unfettered, bold—and the illusion he was finding almost dangerously fascinating.

The colors around the train intensified until he rubbed his eyes and blinked them back. Bee vision, he called that—but he was pretty sure he couldn't actually see UV or infrared. Just a trick of the optical processors, like an LSD trip without the drug. Neon intensity, etched detail, a vibrant fringing around objects of particular interest; followed by sharp disappointment and an acute awareness, almost painful, of the inaccuracies in the restaurant's design.

Gas lanterns, for example. Not at all right.

For a moment, Nathaniel subdued the urge to count everything: people (too late), boards, beams, wheels on the dining car, windows, people again . . . Pushed it back as if swallowing a lump in his brain.

A hand tapped his shoulder. "Hey, Trace."

Pleasant tenor, sweet North Carolina accent—Nathaniel swung around with a toothy smile, looking up to the red, puffy, bristle-beard features of Humphrey Camp. Camp was taller than Nathaniel by four inches and heavier by more than fifty pounds, broad-shouldered and pepper-bearded. He did not look happy or healthy.

Camp coughed into his fist. "This shit seems to be agreeing with you. Not so much for me. Where's Plover?"

"Not here yet," Nathaniel said.

"This place seems a little obvious." Camp scuffed his feet. "Did you look inside? Maybe he's already seated."

"Plover told me to meet him here. That's all I know."

Camp squeezed his nose, then sneezed. "Maybe he can tell me why I feel like shit."

"Do you? I feel excellent." The downturn of the morning seemed less than a dream. Nathaniel didn't actually care how Camp felt, though they had once been good friends—had met at Stanford. He studied the big man closely, as he would an animal in a zoo.

"Fucking hurray," Camp said, then glanced over Nathaniel's shoulder. "Here's Lee."

Jerry Lee was the youngest of the Turing Seven, a dapper-looking man of thirty-one, dressed in his signature black coat, black T-shirt, black jeans. To the other members Lee had always been an enigma. He had come out of the Arabia Deserta attack with the worst physical scars—a divot down the side of his head and his cheek, burns and shrapnel marks down his left torso and rear shoulder.

He had never said much and said even less during their two weeks of treatment in Baltimore.

Lee nodded at Nathaniel but ignored Camp. His coolness and poise contrasted sharply with Camp's bulky fidgets. Lee had been the first to finish his work in Dubai and return to Los Angeles. He was also the only member of the Turing group—besides Nathaniel—who had actually visited the inner recesses of Mind Design in La Jolla and met the Quiet Man in person.

Lee pointed. "Here's our savior," he said.

Carrying a small box, the old head poker himself stepped delicately down the entrance ramp to the siding—Dr. Terence Plover, architect of their exodus from the psychological wounds of war, designer of the Mariposa treatment and now, apparently, a man who did not want to be recognized. He had dyed his hair to silver-gray and looked more like a sixty-something retiree than a well-to-do middle-aged researcher and entrepreneur.

At the sight of three of his former patients—rather than just Nathaniel—Plover looked as if he might turn and flee. But he squared his shoulders, nervously approached, and exchanged quick, formal greetings, looking each in the face with a curt nod, but did not shake—kept his free hand in his pocket.

"Only three?" he asked ironically. He looked up and down the mock station. "Where's Bork? Where's Nick Elder?"

He seemed to assume, as always, that he was in charge, and now behaved as if Nathaniel had violated both his authority and his trust.

Mariposa had been run with a firm hand, Dr. Plover always the sad, gentle tyrant awaiting their arrival to his island of calm and freedom from fear.

"Nick's in Texas," Camp said.

"We don't know that," Lee said.

Plover stroked his chin like a would-be wise man. All he lacked was a goatee and a pipe. Nathaniel subdued an urge to laugh, but a small chuckle escaped.

Plover frowned. "I think we should avoid attracting attention," he said. "Can we
please
do that, gentlemen?"

"This place was your choice," Nathaniel reminded him.

Plover gave him a pained look. "I did not ask
all
of you to come."

"And now we are four," Camp said.

Harry Bork strode onto the platform and joined them, tipping his hand to his forehead. Bork's role in the Turing Seven had always been mediation and negotiation. He had close-set blue eyes and a monkish fringe of blond hair embracing a noble, Nordic square skull, darker brows hovering over a squib of nose and a belligerent jaw.

"Great restaurant," he said. "Best prime rib in LA. Food tastes wonderful, Doc. Better than ever."

"Let's get on with it," Plover said. "We shouldn't be together any longer than necessary."

He unexpectedly leaned into Camp, who held up his arms in support. Plover's eyes fluttered. Catching himself, he straightened and waved them away.

"Apologies. Sleepless for two days," he murmured.

"Let's find our table and order drinks," Bork suggested. "I'm famished."

The waiter—a tall, slouched man with a thick hood of black hair and a long nose, more concerned about their appearance and demeanor than their number—escorted them away from the windows to a room in the back, paneled with dark wood.

A sparkling white cloth lay over a long, narrow table, set with stamped silver and peacock-fold napkins. Above the table hung two antique gas lamps, orange flames surrounded by hot pink auras—at least, in Nathaniel's bee vision.

"We all look daft," Bork said when they had settled in. It was apparent they could feel the awkwardness. They had worked together for months at a time in luxury but also in primitive conditions, had survived hell together—subcontractors for Axel Price and Talos Corporation for six years—yet none of them knew how to react to a reunion, and this caused Camp distress.

"Fuck this shit," he growled.

The four took up their menus and studied them.

Plover sat silent.

"How about the rest of you?" Bork asked. "Don't you feel it? Isn't food terrific?"

"My stomach's killing me," Camp said. "I'm losing weight and I pee purple." He thumped down his menu, winced, and blinked at the lanterns. "Ugly light," he said. "Hurts my eyes."

"Please!" Plover shouted.

Lee scowled.

Camp leaned in. "Quiet, Doc. Like you said, no cops. And no security guards, for Christ's sake."

Plover seemed to shrink in his chair, then rose again to a level of assertion—but kept his voice down. "I invited Mr. Trace to meet with me, exclusively, but now that we're here, I owe all of you an apology. Can you bring yourselves to some place of . . . cooperation, of agreement, so that we can talk sensibly?"

They nodded, all but Camp, and he continued.

"I've canceled my talk at the convention. I'll be leaving Los Angeles this afternoon. Things could hardly get any worse. I've been traveling . . ." He covered his mouth with one hand, cheeks working behind his fingers, as if trying to refit loose dentures.

Then he started to sob.

After a moment, Camp was the first to speak up. "All right. We're your bright boys, Doc, and we've gone wrong," he said. "Why is that?"

Plover managed to recover and straighten as the waiter brought in a tray with their drinks, then took their food orders. That went surprisingly well.

Plover's distress had had an impact. All of them made their choices like properly trained children. Then Bork told the waiter what the final tab would be, to the penny, with a stingy tip.

The waiter gave him a tight look, thanked them all, slouched out, and closed the sliding panel door.

The anachronistic gas lamps flickered and threw long shadows.

"We look like poker playing dogs," Lee said, and touched his forehead as if to adjust a green eyeshade.

"To Mariposa." Nathaniel lifted his red wine in toast. "How many did you cure, Doc? How many are we?" The colors even in this subdued room—even in the flickering, totally wrong gaslight—were amazing.

Plover looked around the table. He dabbed his eyes with his napkin and fixed his gaze on Lee. "You seem the best adapted," he murmured.

Lee lifted the corners of his lips. "I doubt it," he said. "That would be Bork, I think."

"Don't put that load on me," Bork said. "We're all pretty spooky. I hardly recognize some of you. We all
move
different now, did you notice that?"

"I see it," Lee said.

"Finish your drink and tell us something useful, Doc," Camp said.

"None of you should drink," Plover said, his voice shaky.

"Well hell, then, cheers," Camp said, hoisting his mug of Budweiser and swallowing half. He slammed the heavy glass on the table. "I'm a mess. You're a mess. We're all freaks. What the fuck have you done to us, Doc?"

Plover's hand shook as he drank his water. "I've had a terrible week. I left Maryland . . . moved my wife to a secret location. Now I can't reach her. I'm very worried about her."

"Let's be honest," Bork said. "We were a mess when you took us in. We couldn't get our work done. Two weeks later, we went back to work. You cured us."

"Too good to be true," Camp said.

Plover steeled himself. "I would like to know what you gentlemen were doing, to cause me and my wife so many difficulties."

They all sat quiet. Camp fidgeted with a knife, tapping the tablecloth.

"You don't want to know," Bork said.

"I knew you were important," Plover persisted dryly. "I'm just now beginning to understand
how
important."

"What about the Quiet Man?" Camp asked. "What does he know?"

They all looked at Lee.

"A secret international project with a huge bankroll," Lee said. "The Turing Seven were crucial. Then—we were injured. Our wounds healed. Our heads did not. Dr. Plover came to Price with interesting research. He gave you full financing, plus a large bonus, and promised that all his soldiers and personnel who suffered from post-traumatic stress would be funneled through Mariposa. You could have become a rich man."

"What changed that?" Bork asked. "What changed
us
?"

"Not boozing, I'm going to bet," Camp said, and finished his beer.

"You're all reacting differently," Plover said. "There may be similarities . . . I can't know for sure. I could do blood work, but I no longer have a clinic." He swallowed and shook his head, getting the words out with difficulty. "Harvey Belton called my private line last week. I don't know how he got the number . . . it's new. He was hysterical. I heard a shot. The call ended. Stanley Parker called the same number and said he was flying to Fiji, so that he could be in a place where it was quiet. The world was too loud and too bright. Nick Elder . . . I do not know what happened to Nick."

"He's in Texas," Bork said. "At least, he was a few days ago."

The waiter and a busboy brought their food: plates clacking, maneuvering in the narrow space, the waiter's nervous reappraisal of who ordered what.

He backed out and closed the door.

Camp thumped the table once more. "Question not answered!" he said in a harsh voice. "What did you do to us? What the hell is Mariposa?"

Lee frowned and put his hands over his ears.

Plover touched the rim of his water glass with a finger. "I was working with my wife at the National Cancer Institute in Atlanta," he said. "We had what looked like an effective treatment for astrocytomas. Brain tumors. We were in clinical trials—very promising—when I noticed that our test patients often experienced a significant change in affect. In mood.

"One was a veteran from the first Gulf War. He had suffered from PTSD since his late twenties. That suffering stopped. Crime victims, those who had survived rape or domestic abuse—even patients with unrelated psychological disorders—responded positively as well. I altered the focus and expanded the program."

"So you fix cancer and make people happy, at the same time. How?" Bork asked.

"The body—the brain—relies on the genome not only for form but for broad patterns of behavior. But genes are not expressed continually. They are controlled by a marvelous system of checks and balances—including overlays to the actual genetic sequences, epigenetic tags or stops that regulate and even prevent certain genes from being expressed. As in a music box, an activated gene sticks up and plays a note, an inactivated gene falls into a gap and is silent.

"In our childhood and adolescence, tunes emerge and become more or less fixed—the working versions of you and me, better prepared for our environment. However, throughout our lives, our bodies still make changes. As we live, we acquire a few more notes. Our tunes become richer. Little pathways—personality, habits—are worn into our behaviors."