Biowar

95

Dean sat fitfully as the woman at the lectern, the local village historian, recounted how helpful James Kegan had been over the years, donating money, expertise, materials, and sweat equity as the group restored one of the old homesteads for use as a museum. It was a side of Kegan Dean barely knew.

Keys had had a whole life here that Dean really didn’t know. He’d talked at the local elementary school at least once a year, brought the kids down to his lab for a tour, judged the science fair. He’d been on the library board — not with the best attendance, the head librarian had felt compelled to note, but always willing to man the refreshment table at the annual fund-raiser, a thankless task.

The church was filled with people who remembered Keys for dozens of similar thankless tasks. Dean had missed the funeral, which had been held near his research institute; the church had been filled there as well, packed with scientists from across the world. Somehow, this one, with its halting and corny speeches, felt more comforting.

No one at either service knew the exact circumstances of Kegan’s death, let alone what had led to it; Rubens had seen to that. Dean tried to thank him, but the Desk Three Director shook his head.

“It’s a matter of national security, not a favor,” said Rubens. “I don’t do favors.”

Dean smiled at the memory. Something else from the meeting came to him — a question not from Rubens but, from Marie Telach.

“Did you know him well, Charlie?”

“Once,” he’d told her.

Once.

Was it a lie? The James Kegan he knew was a bit — what was the word — patronizing toward the people who lived in the town around him.

These people didn’t really know Keys. They certainly didn’t know Dr. Kegan. But what they did know was important to them.

And the same with Dean. Keys had a hell of a jump shot once. And he was a great guy to talk to late at night, when the summer was just starting to cool down. You could talk about anything — women especially. Keys was the one person whom you could talk about love with and not feel goofy or embarrassed or part of a Hallmark ad.

It must have killed him all along. All along. Yet he’d never admitted it all.

You really didn’t know me at all, did you, Charlie Dean?

No, he thought. But he did know some things. And he’d been right in the end.

So he’d known the most important thing. At least to him.

“And now, for a few words on our friend when he was a young man,” said the minister, taking over, “I’d like to call up Charlie Dean.”

Dean got up and walked slowly to the front. The first words stuck in his throat.

You really didn’t know me, but you were a good friend anyway.

“Jimmy Keys — that’s what we called him,” managed Dean. “He had the sweetest jump shot you ever saw.”