Lasher

Nineteen

THE POSITION WASN’T embarrassing. It was flat-out crazy. He had been on the phone for forty-five minutes to the Keplinger people.

“Look,” said the young doctor on the other end. “It says you came yourself, you took the files, you said that it was top secret.”

“Damn it, I’m in New Orleans, Louisiana, you fool. I was here all day yesterday. I’m at the Pontchartrain Hotel. I’m with the Mayfair and Mayfair people now! I didn’t pick up anything! What you’re saying is, the material is gone.”

“Absolutely, Dr. Larkin. Gone. Unless there’s a copy somewhere filed in such a way that I can’t access it. And I don’t think there is. I can keep…”

“About Mitch. How is he?”

“Oh, he’s not going to make it, Dr. Larkin. If you could see him, you wouldn’t want him to. Don’t pray for that now. Look, his wife’s on the other line. I’ll call you back.”

“No, you won’t. You’ll run for cover. You know what’s happened. Somebody’s walked out of there with all the material Rowan Mayfair entrusted to me, everything Flanagan was working on. You guys slipped up! And Flanagan is critically hurt and unable to communicate.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. Then the same young, brittle voice again:

“Correction. Dr. Flanagan’s dead. Died twenty minutes ago. I’ll have to call you back, Doctor.”

“You better find the records, you better find the complete and entire computer record of every experiment made by Mitch Flanagan on behalf of Dr. Samuel Larkin for Dr. Rowan Mayfair.”

“You have a record of sending us these things?”

“I brought them.”

“And that was you, the real you, who brought the stuff-not somebody apparently pretending to be you? Like this doctor yesterday who wasn’t you. But said that he was? Oh, yeah, OK. Now, I’m looking at a videotape of this man. Yesterday four p.m. Pacific Standard Time. He’s tall, dark-haired, smiling, and he’s holding up to the camera his identification, a California driver’s license: Dr. Samuel Larkin. And you say you are Samuel Larkin and that you are in New Orleans?”

Lark was speechless. He cleared his throat.

He realized he was staring at Ryan Mayfair, who had been watching from the shadows of the office for some time now. The others still waited in the conference room-a distant and solemn ring of faces around the mahogany table.

“OK, Dr. Barry whoever-you-are,” Lark said. “I’m going to have my lawyer send you a full description of me and copies of my passport, driver’s license, and ID card from University. You’ll see I’m not this man on your tape. Please hold on to the tape. Don’t surrender it to somebody who comes in and smiles and tells you he is the reincarnation of J. Edgar Hoover. And indeed, yes, I am Samuel Larkin, and when you speak to Martha Flanagan, please convey my sympathies to her. Don’t bother to call the San Francisco police about this. I will call.”

“You’re wasting your time, Doctor. If there’s been a misunderstanding, there was no way we could know that this man was not who he said he was. Just forget about the police because you know as well as I do…”

“Better find those records, Doctor. There have to be copies!”

He hung up before the young jerk could answer.

He was steaming. But he was also stunned. Flanagan was dead. Flanagan struck by a car crossing California Street. He couldn’t remember if he’d ever heard of anybody being killed downtown on that corner, unless it was an out-of-state driver on a rainy day who tried to race a cable car.

He looked at Ryan, but he volunteered nothing for the moment. Then he punched in the 415 area code again. And a number he knew by heart.

“Darlene,” he said, “this is Samuel Larkin. I need you to send flowers to Martha Flanagan. Right. Right. Nearly instantaneous. Not quite. That would be fine. Just sign it ‘Lark.’ Thank you.”

Ryan moved out of the shadows, turned his back on Larkin and walked into the conference room.

Lark waited for a moment. His face was wet and he was tired, and he could not think what he meant to do. There were so many conflicting thoughts in his head, so much outrage, so much impatience, so much…so much pure astonishment He and Mitch had made that dash together so many times, heading up to Grant Avenue to find their favorite little Gooey Louie’s for egg rolls and cheap fried rice, the kind they’d loved since the New York days and med school.

He stood up. He didn’t know what he was going to say. He didn’t know how to explain all this.

He heard the door behind him open, and he saw with relief that it was Lightner, and Lightner had a manila folder in his hand. He looked drawn and tired, about as out of sorts as he’d been in the car this afternoon on the way down here.

That seemed like centuries ago. Flanagan had died in the interim.

They went into the conference room together. How calm these people looked, how incredibly calm, both men and women red-eyed from crying, and all in their lawyerly tropical wool and oxford cloth.

“Well, this is…this is very disturbing news,” Lark said. He could feel the blood rushing to his face now. He laid his hands on the back of the leather chair. He didn’t want to sit down. He caught a disconcerting reflection of himself in the distant windows. The lights of the city were a smear beyond. What he saw was mainly all this-the floor lamps, the ring of high-backed leather chairs, the figure of Ryan standing in the corner.

“All the material is gone,” said Ryan, quietly and without recrimination.

“I’m afraid so. Dr. Flanagan is…is dead, and they can’t find the records. Also someone…and I can’t for the life of me…”

“We understand,” said Ryan. “The same thing happened in New York yesterday afternoon. All the genetic records were removed. Same thing at the Genetic Institute in Paris.”

“Well, then I am in a very very embarrassing position,” said Lark. “You have only my word that this creature exists, that the blood and tissues sampled revealed this mysterious genome…”

“We understand,” said Ryan.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you told me to get the hell out of this office and never come south of the Mason-Dixon Line again,” said Lark. “I wouldn’t blame you if…”

“We understand,” said Ryan and for the first time he forced an icy smile. He gestured for calm. “The superficial and immediate autopsy results on Edith Mayfair and Alicia Mayfair indicate they miscarried. The tissue is abnormal. There is every indication, even at this early stage, that it corroborates what you’ve told us about the material you received. I thank you for all your help.”

Lark was flabbergasted.

“That’s it?”

“We will of course pay you for your time, and all your expenses…”

“No, I mean, wait a minute, what are you going to do?”

“Well, what would you suggest we do?” Ryan asked. “Should we call a news conference and tell the national media that there is a genetic mutant male with ninety-two chromosomes preying on the women in our family, attempting to impregnate them and apparently killing them?”

“I won’t let this go,” said Lark. “I don’t like people impersonating me! I’m going to find out who this was, who…”

“You won’t find out,” said Aaron.

“You mean it was one of your people?”

“It if was, you will never prove it. And we all know that it had to be one of my people, didn’t it? No one else knew this work was being carried on at Keplinger. No one but you and the deceased Dr. Flanagan. And Mayfair and Mayfair after you told them. There isn’t much more to it. I think we need to see you back safely to your hotel. I think I have to help the family now. This is really a family matter.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“No, I am not, Dr. Larkin,” said Lightner, “and I want you to stay at the hotel, with Gerald and Carl Mayfair. They’re outside waiting to take you back. Don’t leave the hotel, please. Just stay in the suite until you hear from me.”

“Are you implying that someone is going to try to harm me?”

Ryan made a quiet, polite little gesture for attention. He was still standing in the corner of the room.

“Dr. Larkin, we have a lot of work to do. This is a big family. Just reaching everyone is quite a chore. And since five o’clock, we’ve had another death in the Houston area.”

“Who was this?” asked Aaron.

“Clytee Mayfair,” said Ryan. “She didn’t live that far from Lindsay. She died at nearly the same time, as a matter of fact. We suspect that she opened her front door to a visitor probably an hour or so after Lindsay had done the same thing in Sherman Oaks. At least that seems to be the picture. Please, Dr. Larkin, go back to the hotel.”

“In other words, you believe everything I’ve told you! You believe this creature is…”

“We know it is,” said Ryan. “Now please do go. Settle in at the Pontchartrain, and make yourself comfortable, and don’t go out. Gerald and Carl will be with you.”

Aaron had taken Lark’s arm before he could answer. Aaron escorted Lark into the outer office and then into the corridor of the building. Lark saw the two young men, more cookie-cutter Mayfairs in pale wool suits with lemon or pink silk ties.

“Look, I…er…I have to sit down a minute,” he said.

“At the hotel,” said Lightner.

“Your people did this? Your people went into Keplinger and took that information?”

“That’s my guess,” said Lightner. Obviously the man was miserable.

“Then that means they ran down Flanagan? They killed him?”

“No, it doesn’t necessarily mean that No, I can’t say that it means that. I don’t believe it means that I believe that they…took advantage of a sudden opportunity. I can’t believe anything else at this moment But until I can reach the Elders in Amsterdam, until I can find out who sent whom where, I have no real answers.”

“I see,” said Lark.

“Go back to the hotel and rest.”

“But the women-”

“Everyone’s being contacted. There are calls being made to every Mayfair connection known to the family. I’ll call you as soon as I have word. Try to get your mind off it”

“Get my mind off it!”

“What else can you do, Dr. Larkin?”

Lark was about to speak, but there were no words. Nothing came out. He looked up and saw that the young man named Gerald held the door open for him, and that the other man was eager to go, and in the act of turning. This meant something, meant he had to move. He didn’t consciously decide.

Suddenly he was in the corridor, and they were moving towards the elevator together. There were two uniformed policemen by the elevator. The young men passed them without a word.

Once they were inside and on the way down, the younger one spoke.

“It’s all my fault,” he said. This was the one they called Gerald. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. The other, older, thinner, and a little tougher-looking all around, asked:

“Why?”

“I should have burnt the house the way Carlotta wanted.”

“What house?” demanded Lark.

Neither man answered him. He asked the question again, but he realized they were not even listening to him. He said nothing more.

The lobby of the building was lined with uniformed security officers, policemen, other seemingly official personnel, some of whom looked at them impassively. Lark saw the big limo hovering out there in the putrid glare of the mercury lights.

“What about Rowan!” he said. “Is anybody still looking for Rowan!”

He stopped in his tracks. But again, neither man answered. Neither man seemed even to hear. There was nothing to be done but get into the leather-lined car. Icebox pie. The Pontchartrain had just about the best icebox pie he had ever tasted. He didn’t think he wanted anything else. Just coffee and chicory and icebox pie…

“That’s what I want when we get back. Icebox pie and coffee.”

“Sure thing,” said Gerald, as if this were the first time Lark had said anything that made sense.

Lark just laughed to himself. He wondered if Martha had family around to go with her to Flanagan’s funeral.