Knockout Mouse Page 8

  As we headed for the door, the guy moved so very casually and yet briskly to meet us, reminding me of the time I’d been caught. But instead of the hand on the shoulder, he followed us out the door. That sealed off any chance of getting help from inside the store.

  I picked up my pace. Jenny was right beside me. “Get out your car keys,” I said.

  She dug into her pocket. Her hands were shaking when she brought out the keys. “What’s happening, Bill?”

  “Don’t worry. You’re doing great.”

  The guy pulled even with us when we were still an aisle away from the car. “You’ve got something that’s not yours. Why don’t you give it to me.”

  His voice was smooth and calm. Like there was no question he’d get what he wanted. “Who are you?” I said. I didn’t stop.

  “We represent the rightful owners. Please. Make this easy.”

  The top was down on the Miata. I had thought we’d be able to jump in, until I saw the second guy waiting by Jenny’s car. He was pretty much a replica of the first, but taller and chunkier. The main question in my mind was whether they were willing to get physical. There were enough people in the parking lot, potential witnesses, that I figured not. I hoped not.

  I said to Jenny, “Can I use your phone?”

  Jenny handed me her cell phone. We were at the Miata now. The big one blocked the path to the driver’s side door. I said to him, “Would you please let her by so she can get in the car?”

  He made a little bow and stepped aside. “I’ll do the same for you, sir. Just as soon as you turn over the document.”

  “You’re going to have to tell me who you represent first.” With the bag lazily squeezed between my side and my elbow, I flipped open the phone. I made sure they could see the numbers I dialed. 911.

  The first guy made his lunge. He took the bag from me cleanly. “Got it!” he announced triumphantly. They took off.

  I shook my fist after them. “Hey! Hey! I’m calling the cops!”

  “Tell them hello,” the big guy said over his shoulder.

  I dashed to the Miata’s door. Jenny had turned the ignition. I pushed her over to the passenger seat. “Let me drive.”

  I released the brake and jerked the car into reverse, looking over my shoulder for the maroon sedan. It had already pulled out and was heading for an exit behind us.

  “They should be untaping the bag just about now and finding those blank pages,” I said. I peeled out in the other direction, praying there was an exit from the lot on the far side of the mall. There was. I made a rather reckless left turn and sped away.

  12

  I’d never thought of myself as being subject to the psychology of wanting something just because someone else wants it, too. But I have to admit to a little extra spur when I confirmed that Dugan from LifeScience was burning to get his hands on Sheila’s journal.

  After our escape at the copy shop, we’d decided to get the diary off our hands. We wrangled from Fay the name of the hotel where the Harroses were staying—one of those faceless corporate jobs near the airport. I left the original at the desk with strict instructions to give it to no one but Mr. Harros.

  The message from the LifeScience man was waiting for us back on Jenny’s machine. The caller identified himself as Neil Dugan, chief operating officer. The “notebook” we had contained intellectual property owned by the company, he said, and we were obliged to turn it over.

  Now I really wanted to know what Sheila had on him. Obviously it was enough to make him hire two guys to follow us and commit a felony to get it, and maybe to commit another felony of burgling my flat. How far up the ladder of felonies was he willing to go?

  Dugan probably failed to realize that his threats had the opposite effect of what he intended. I did not like having those guys in our face in the parking lot, nor having the Harros family blame Jenny for her friend’s death. I hated seeing the dread in her eyes when the phone rang, or when we approached the door to her place. Her effervescence was gone.

  But there was more at stake than Jenny’s peace of mind and my itch to get back at Dugan. There was Sheila herself. The moment I opened the door for her at the dinner party, I was drawn to her. I felt that buzz of connection you get so rarely. We shared a kindred feeling of curiosity for its own sake. I admired her willingness to expose a bit of herself, show what she really believed, instead of keeping it superficial. She didn’t stay alive long enough for us to know if there was more to the attraction. But I felt a strange intimacy with her now, having gazed down on her at the morgue, walked through her silent apartment, and read her diary. It was not right for her to be dead.

  Jenny and I ate a quiet, tense dinner at her apartment. Afterward, I settled down with the copy of Sheila’s diary. Reading it backward in pieces, quickly, hadn’t turned up the answers I wanted. I’d seen Dugan’s name once, when he and a new CEO had come in to take charge of the company. She mentioned her family only a few times. I got the feeling they were out of touch with her.

  I started again at the beginning. She didn’t write regularly, so the entries were spread out over a couple of years. At first she sounded optimistic. She had just started at LifeScience. She did, as time went on, have her bad moments. Maybe she even got morose, as Jenny put it. Her voice came across as being crowded by competing forces on all sides, yet alone. Still, she had an honest, penetrating way of examining herself.

  The new job is everything I’d hoped for. The staff is inspired by Dr. McKinnon, and there’s a sense of collegiality. Strange that to find this I had to leave the university. The work there can be more exciting, but you don’t always get the satisfaction of seeing its immediate benefit. So many people are more concerned about where the next grant comes from, whose paper will be published first. Of course, people scare up money here, too, but they’re on the business side, that’s their job. Those of us at the bench are focused on a problem and are provided with the tools we need to solve it. Not that we’re free of hierarchy, but it’s quite clear, set down in the company bible. And yet the staff meetings are very open. Dr. McKinnon wants to hear ideas from everyone. If you go off in the wrong direction, he corrects you right away—not to put you down, but to save everyone time. We’re all on the same team.

  I have to admit there’s also something nice about being compensated well. Payment in academia comes in the form of recognition. You’ll get it, in the long run, if your work is good, but you get it a lot faster if you’re good at the publicity game. Are the ones who thrive the ones most talented at gaining recognition, or the ones gifted at grasping the structure of a molecule, designing an elegant experiment, reading results insightfully? Here, all of us on the team are pulling in the same direction: nailing this target, curing cancer, and, by the way, cashing in on those stock options.

  Found out today that this program is McKinnon’s baby, from back when he first got into the field. Big risk, big payoff. We started off with a fairly specific target, but the candidate seems to work on almost everything we throw at it. It looks like we might have something huge! And here I am right in the middle of it. It’s like a dream come true.

  It would take some studying to decode just what she was working on, but I got the feeling Sheila was quite good in her field. She clearly loved what she did.

  Call from Abe, just back from Sierra Leone. His group was held for three days by teenage soldiers. Abe speaks of it the way anyone else might an airport delay.

  And then look at me. Living in this apartment. Waking up to drink my precious tea in my little den. Following all the other tech rats in our shiny metal shells down the dotted yellow line to another cage. Pressing the right buttons and going down the right corridors to my little station and my little reward. Moaning about the fact that Simon wants me and it’s making my life complicated. Coming home late, alone most of the time, to nibble on my anchovies and greens.

  A waste of time to think too hard about this, Abe would say. When you choose what you are going to do, choose it strongl
y. Yes, this is what I’ve chosen. Yes, the reasons are selfish. I love to find the telltale spots of multiplication in a cell culture. To put that 138th try at gene transfer under the scope and see we’ve hit upon the growth factor. To zoom in on the mass spectrometer peaks and nail the molecular weight of my protein. To be alone at the bench, coaxing a cell line along as the clock ticks a late hour. Even the smell of the acetone and methanol warms my heart. A born lab rat.

  Abe’s work must give him the same pleasure. He was always so directed, so serious about helping humanity. But doing good is also a measure of achievement, a road to recognition, and an unassailable one.

  Who knows if my work will ever make a difference to anyone. It’s nice to imagine a future woman who finds, say, a lump in her breast, being able to go into her doctor and treat it with a simple course of pills or injections. Even still, if that day comes, people will say we were just in it for the money.

  Simon rated only a mention or two as Sheila’s relationship with him heated up. But he got more attention as things started to go wrong.

  Simon is slipping away. I ‘forget” to return his calls. It’s just because I don’t know what to say to him. He thinks I’m sloughing him off. We plan a weekend outing, and I realize I have to be in the lab. My work day goes later and later, and he comes to meet me at night in the lab, only to find us whooping it up, doing a dance around the ELISA plate so it will give us the results we want. A couple of wine bottles waiting to be opened if the assay is a success. Simon must think we’re in some goofy cult. How can I explain to him that he just happened to arrive after hours of mind-numbingly repetitious work and we are punchy from the tedium, the fluorescent lights, Doug’s constant pressure? I don’t want to make excuses, excuses are boring, and I’m sick of all mine. No one outside the lab would understand. So I just smile and hope he’ll join in. Simon can be so passionate, trying so hard to spark my own. He sees I’m holding back. It’s not because of you, I say in various ways. He only tries harder. Men do love a challenge. But that’s not the game I’m playing. There’s no game at all, just my mind folded in on itself.

  I’ve noticed his eyes wandering over in Fay’s direction. She’s certainly been trying to catch them. I can see how Fay would be more appealing. She has those playful black eyes, that beautiful glossy hair, that figure. She’s fun and lively and a guy would be crazy not to find her sexy. Next to her I feel dry and mousy. Simon thinks “curing cancer” is noble and so on, but he can’t follow the labyrinth involved in actually doing it. His eyes glaze over when I try to explain. I don’t blame him. But it’s my life, it’s what makes my neurons snap crackle and pop.

  Maybe I should just come out with my secret. Open the door for him to walk away. But what if he doesn’t? I could see my condition making him feel sorry for me. We’ll fall a little farther into each other’s lives. Then when it starts to get serious it will slowly dawn on him what he’s really getting into, and he’ll begin to back out. Even if he didn’t, I’m not sure I can bring a child into the world, knowing what I know. And I’m sure he’s got kids on his agenda.

  Maybe, for me, my work will be my child. My legacy, my regeneration—whatever it is that makes people crave offspring—will be my research, however small the contribution. Better that than to have my life run by genes nagging REPRODUCE ME, REPRODUCE ME.

  They say childbirth is the essence of being human. Yes and no. It’s the essence of bacteria, yeast, fungi, and every other form of life. But unless you want to say we’re no different than snails, the essence of being human must lie elsewhere. Like in choosing our own destiny.

  The phone rang. We were on Jenny’s bed, pillows behind our heads. Jenny was watching a movie. When she hesitated, I gestured for her to hand the phone across to me.

  It was Marion. She said a few polite words, but didn’t waste time getting to the point. Wes had told her about the diary, and she wanted to see it. I asked her why.

  “Let’s just say that Sheila got herself in some hot water. I assume you’re a friend—were a friend—and you care about her reputation. First of all, don’t mention this diary to anyone else in the company—”

  “Neil Dugan already knows about it.”

  This brought a moment of silence. “That’s not good. He’s the last person who should see it. Please make sure he doesn’t.”

  “He won’t get it from me. We don’t have the diary anymore, anyway. Sheila’s parents do.”

  “Can you help me get a look at it?”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I said noncommittally. “I have a question for you, Marion. Did you go inside Sheila’s apartment?”

  Another silence. “I did. You have to believe me, I’m trying to protect Sheila. These are complicated scientific matters that, really, are internal to our company.”

  “Complicated and scientific, huh? If I’m not bright enough to understand them, then I’m not going to be much help, am I?”

  “Honestly Bill, I wish I could say more. The last thing I want to see right now is a smear on her name. If you help me, I’ll do everything I can to prevent that.”

  “We can get together and compare notes,” I allowed.

  We left it at that, neither of us quite forthcoming or satisfied. I did ask her if there was to be a funeral, and she said it would be Wednesday, in Colma. Apparently Sheila’s mother was from the area.

  I related the conversation to Jenny, but she’d turned her brain off for the evening. She just wanted to watch her movie. I was restless. I got up and went into the living room to call Wes. After chiding him for giving away the existence of the diary, I asked what he thought of Marion.

  “Marion’s a gas. Kept me up most of the night, and drank me under the table besides. First thing in the morning she was back in action. I’m not sure she’s a carbon-based life form.”

  “Sounds like you’ve found your soul mate, Wes.”

  “Are you kidding? I can’t go on like this for more than a week.”

  “A week is a long time. Did she say anything about Sheila? Trouble she was in at work?”

  “Yeah, something about Sheila putting her nose where it shouldn’t have been. That’s all I know.”

  “Wes, do you think I can trust Marion?”

  He snorted. “Trust her? Sure, as long as she’s in short sleeves and you can see both her hands.”

  “Do me a favor, then. Don’t pass any more information to her unless I ask you to.”

  I called Rita next. I was going to be out for the funeral on Wednesday, I said, and might miss some more days after that if the Sheila business continued.

  Rita was not happy. She’d have to bring a new director of photography up to speed on the project. Plus, the look of the film would change from day to day, depending on who was shooting. “I might have to drop you, Bill, if you’re not sure what days you’ll be there. Maybe I should just go with the new DP the rest of the way.”

  “I understand. You know I wouldn’t do this if it wasn’t absolutely, totally, completely necessary.”

  She let out a loud sigh. “I do, Billy. That’s the problem. Now I can’t even be mad at you. Wait a minute.” She paused, as if checking. “It turns out I can be mad, after all. This sucks.”

  “I’m really sorry, Rita. Will you forgive me someday?”

  “What a stupid question.”

  “You’re the best.”

  Next I called the hotel and confirmed that the diary had been given to Mr. Harros. Yes, the clerk was sure.

  That left just one more call to make. Dugan. I punched in the number he’d left. I was and wasn’t looking forward to this.

  He recognized my voice before I finished introducing myself. “I hope you’ve got good news for me.”

  I made myself take a slow breath. “Yes, as a matter of fact. Sheila’s diary is in the proper hands. Her parents have it.”

  “It’s not a diary. It’s a notebook. If you’ve stolen our work product, we’ll prosecute.”

  “This was not a company email ac
count. It was a private diary. Her family owns it. If it was so important, why didn’t you take it while you were removing her hard drive?”

  A slight delay let me know I’d gotten him. “I hope you have a very good lawyer,” he said.

  “You, too. You’ve got a couple of felonies to deal with. One, when your agents stole my personal property in the parking lot. Two, when they broke into my house.”

  There was another hesitation. His answer had some pleasure in it, and I wasn’t sure why. “I’d like to see you file charges. I’d like it very much. In the meantime, I think everyone will be interested in the fact you photocopied the notebook. Twice, if the cashier is correct.”

  He had me there. My first thought, which I kept to myself, was that I needed to make yet another copy in complete secrecy. I told Dugan, “The copies are for the police. They’ll want to look into the circumstances of Sheila’s death.”

  “I’m sure they will. I’m sure they’ll want to take a close look at your girlfriend’s apartment and everyone who was there.”

  “We have no problem with that. I’m sure they’ll also want to look at Sheila’s place of work.”

  “I’ll be assisting them in every way.”

  A drop of sweat trickled down my spine as I hung up the phone. I’d had an answer for everything Dugan had thrown at me. So why did I feel like I’d lost?

  Maybe I was in over my head. If we got into a battle of lawyers, he had me outgunned. So what did I have on my side? Information. The journal. I’d yet to find any keys in it, but maybe that was a matter of correctly understanding the lock. I needed an interpreter, a data miner. Marion came to mind, if only she could be trusted. She did work for Dugan. There was also Karen, the woman Sheila was going to meet before our dinner party.