Last shot

Chapter 62

Given the VIP handling, the carefully negotiated seating, and the dramatically timed arrivals, Tim would've thought he was attending the Academy Awards. The private security firm Beacon-Kagan had hired was surprisingly competent, constituted of former soldiers, a few of whom Tim knew in passing. They'd put up metal detectors just beyond the revolving doors in the building's lobby and a checkpoint at the entrance to the Vector labs. A sentinel at the auditorium door inspected the laminated IDs; he even politely stopped Tim his first time through to radio-check his creds. Every angle had been covered, down to car-bomb-deterrent trash cans hiding metal posts, positioned on the sidewalk outside the corresponding stretch of building.

Though the various hedge-fund honchos, I-bankers, Wall Street journalists, and mutual-fund managers had been told that the precautions were to discourage information leaks-a ruse bolstered by the guards' insistence that cell phones with built-in cameras be turned off-the current of whispered conversation showed that the attendees knew otherwise. The murders of Ted Sands and Chase Kagan were national news, and as much as the Kagan Machine continued to put out that they were by-products of a private, misguided vendetta, they held enough allure and promise of danger to add another layer of excitement to the afternoon's proceedings.

To augment the rising sun's glare through the two thin, tinted casement windows set high in the east wall, well-positioned recessed lights beamed down, lending a reading glow to the pitch books and prospectuses. On the raised dais behind the draped podium sat an enormous glass sculpture of the Vector logo, the ubiquitous V capped with an arrow. A fine backdrop for the sanctioned press photographs. Draping the east wall was a giant Xedral poster, the same version Tim had seen in Dean's office, and another captioned THE LIVES WE TOUCHED, with Sam ironically featured in the grid of multiracial children.

A partner at Goldman Sachs made the introductory remarks from the floor, walking among the aisles as he talked like a professor who'd seen too many movies about professors. After hemming and hawing about "the Kagans' recent family tragedy," he claimed that "having lost a beloved CEO, it was important for Vector to push forward for the sake of others whose lives can be saved." The strained attempt at emotion caused an awkward halt in the buzz of the audience. The few scripted asides and canned shtick that followed, rather than lightening the mood, struck a bad contrast with the earlier remarks, and to everyone's great relief, Jane Bernard, eleventh-hour appointee as Vector's temporary CEO, formally took the podium. As she launched into an explication of P/E ratios from comparable companies, Tim paced the back of the auditorium, eyes on the entrance, keeping in radio contact with the other task-force members arrayed through the building and outside. After drawing a few glares, Tim settled in a seat. Xedral's twenty-thousand-dollar annual treatment cost drew a gasp, until the CFO revealed that they'd pushed through Medicaid a patient-reimbursement agreement for half of the cost. While Tim got the play-by-play of Bear rousting a homeless guy by the parking garage's gate, she concluded by saying, "This monthly shot-literally a lifesaving shot-that has been in the pipeline for years, will roll out with human trials three days from now. A month and a half later, we go wide with Phase IIIs." Greedy applause.

Bear came through again on the primary channel. "Eyes up, eyes up. White male loitering by the east exit. Baseball cap pulled low so I can't make an ID." The distinguished businessman in front of Tim turned to offer a censorious look at the interruption.

Thomas's reply sounded strained. "Exit is sealed."

Miller came on: "I got Denley and Maybeck in position. You want to move on him?"

Tim lowered his mouth to the radio. "Bear and Thomas can take it. Everyone else keep your posts. What kind of hat?"

"Hang on." Bear prompted, "Turn, motherfucker." And then: "USC."

The hat Walker had worn to Tim's house. "Roust him," Tim said. "Now."

Despite the thunderous applause that accompanied his introduction, Dolan looked terrible when he took the podium, almost sickly. At his side, playing the role of the proud father, Dean waved to the crowd like a vice presidential candidate on autopilot.

Tim turned up the volume, pressing the portable to his ear, but he couldn't hear anything except the applause. He rose, hovering over his seat and drawing an insistent shoulder tap from the reporter behind him.

"Come in. Come in. Someone tell me what happened."

Sounds of a scuffle. Thomas said, "Gimme a sec, Rack."

Up front Dolan cleared his throat. He glanced nervously at the door, then at the back of the room. Finally, off cue, the lights dimmed and a projector screen descended from the ceiling with a whir. Assisted by PowerPoint slides, Dolan began to walk the crowd through the science behind Xedral.

Stepping over people's knees, holding the portable to his ear, Tim tried to keep his voice down. "What's going on?"

"It's not him," Thomas barked. "Repeat: It is not Walker. Hang on. What? What's he saying?"

The radio crackled. "He says…"

Tim was out in the aisle now, heading for the front. "What?"

A number of sharp complaints peppered Tim from all sides.

Tim picked up a Frisbee-size circle of light, phasing into existence like a reverse eclipse on the carpet of the dais, just in front of the podium from which Dolan spoke. But the ceiling lights were uniformly dark for the slide show.

Tim jogged down the aisle to get a better look. Dolan broke midsentence, glancing at Tim, then resumed. Dean glared out from the darkness, his face tight with an implicit threat.

Bear's voice now, jockeying in on the primary channel: "Suspect says a guy gave him the hat and paid him to hang out by the-"

Tim traced the beam to the darkly tinted casement window. A circle had been excised from the pane with a glass cutter. It completed a pivot out of its flush position on a remote-operated hinge the size of a matchbook.

"He's on the line," Tim said into the radio. "Lock down your buildings."

An event coordinator strode across the front of the auditorium, meeting Tim before the dais. "Sir, I'm sorry, but I'm gonna have to ask you to-"

Tim straight-armed him to the side. He was sprinting now, finally getting a good look through the circle cut into the high pane. Outside, contrasted against the dark wood of the apartment building across the street, a strip of red cloth fluttered from an overhead phone line. A strategically placed, makeshift wind sock.

Tim leapt onstage, hurling aside the podium and tackling Dolan. He felt a buffet of air across his back as a round sliced behind him.