Box Nine (15 page)

They pull to the curb slightly in front of Max and in her side-view mirror she can see him raise his bushy eyebrows. She lowers her window, waits a second for him to approach the door, and says, “Maxie, honey, I've missed you like crazy.”

“What a wiseass,” Max mumbles, and climbs in the back.

Chapter Ten

O
n the ride up to the penthouse, the elevator speakers play a scratchy rendition of an old tango. Cortez concentrates, tries to recall its name, gives up when he reaches the top and the doors slide open. What he wants, more than anything, is solitude, to be isolated in his library, to leave word with Jimmy Wyatt that no one is to come upstairs under any circumstances. That when he wants food or tea he'll buzz the kitchen and Max can leave a tray outside the library door.

It's not that he wants a long stretch of time to read. His capacity for reading is diminishing daily. Not long ago, he was a recordbreaking reader. Often, he consumed a book a day, first page to last in one sitting. It's been almost a month since he finished a book, a novel, written in an archaic Uruguayan dialect. It had started off like some kind of occultish mystery story, but changed at some point. There were passages he couldn't completely understand, and he got in the habit of supplying his own action at those junctures. It was the story of an indentured slave and his master, the descendant of European adventurers. They're the last inhabitants of an ancient family castle in some unnamed mountain region. The master is growing decrepit. He's the last of his bloodline and with each passing day it seems his cruelty toward his loyal servant grows geometrically. Cortez had the most difficulty with the last chapter in the book. It appeared to be a dream sequence, but there was no way to be sure. So he assigned his own meaning to the strange words on the last five pages, and turned the book into a revenge tale with the abused servant finally gaining the upper hand, avenging the pain of all his slave forebears, and in a bloody orgy of repressed hate set free, severing the old aristocrat's head and rolling it down the most jagged face of the mountain.

Cortez wishes he were better with languages. He's not bad, but he yearns for a natural facility, an innate talent that would give him foreign tongues with the ease of a reflex. What he really needs is time to concentrate, hours of uninterrupted study.

He lets himself into the library, unbuttons his double-breasted jacket, pushes a hand halfway into his pants pocket. He starts to walk around the outer edge of the room, next to the walls of empty shelves. He pulls an index finger across the length of the waist-level shelf and draws a line in a deep layer of dust. It's not the staff's fault. Everyone, even Max and Mingo and Jimmy Wyatt, has strict orders to stay out of the library. The library is for Cortez alone.

Months ago, the shelves were loaded, crammed with books, mostly fiction, a surprising number of whodunits. Packing all the volumes into those reinforced cartons took days, but Cortez did it by himself, late at night, looking blandly at each novel for just a second before laying it in its box.

He's not sure why, but he has always held the belief that a successful man must own a library. Where did this gauge of status come from? He can find no trace of it in any books and movies he was exposed to as a kid. It's doubtful it came from his mother or any of the dozen aunts who moved in and out of their small homes during his youth. It must be something that sprang, independent, into his still-forming brain. Just some weird, random spasm of development.

The buzzing noise begins to sound. When did phones trade in the ring for the buzz? He takes a deep breath, holds it, and watches the phone, a cordless black science-fiction prop, ring from on top of the mantel. Then he starts to walk toward it in slow motion. He makes foolish, time-distorted, exaggerated motions. He pretends he's an Olympic sprinter, shown on television from a distant country, crossing the finish line in a slowed-down instant replay, all arms and legs pumping.

He lifts the phone off the mantel as he exhales.

“Cortez,” he says, all gasp and wheeze … “Yes, sorry, time got away. I was at the other end, ran the whole way … I'm sorry, could you speak one at a time? The connection … I understand. I thought it might be best to have my driver hand-deliver it … Yes. Yes. I see. Very well, I'll see to it. I'll just mention again that we do have the testing facilities here and we could fax— … Yes, of course. Certainly. The matter has had my utmost concern … Well, he tried to say the sample went light on my end … My feeling is that we're dealing with a first-time middleman, a broker with too much ambition and not enough experience. I would— … Yes, of course, I know. And I have. Very traditional message. He can't mistake our intentions. The first box is a warning. The next step is his … Well, the problem, as I see it, is we have no alternate sources. This is a prototype. There is no competition. I've looked at the most recent reports from all the relevant networks. The Triangle isn't even aware. General Gow in Burma hasn't even heard rumors yet. I think it's safe to say one hundred percent domestic. Hard to believe— … Uh-huh, uh-huh, that's right. An accidental by-product. All the great products arrive this way … Oh, please, must we? Must you insult me this way each time? That's a legitimate expense. My car is the purest sign of my stature in the community. And I wouldn't have those neighborhood monkeys fill the gas tank. They couldn't tell a Jaguar from a Volkswagen … We agreed on this … All right, fine. Fine. I don't wish to argue … Yes, I'll be here … Yes. Yes. Goodbye.”

He looks down at the face of the phone, all the small, rubbery, yet illuminated buttons. He presses down on the Off button as if it were a detonator. As if this simple, solid touch could demolish the whole of the Hotel Penumbra, the walls crumbling inward and down, like an ancient yellowing newsreel of a firestorm in a long-forgotten war.

Chapter Eleven

P
eirce gets dizzy standing in line at the Burger Bonanza. She actually has to step to the side and lean against the stainless-steel shelving where big plastic tanks of mustard and ketchup, molded into the shapes of frontier water towers, sit dripping condiment from their spouts.

She doesn't know what's wrong with her. She makes herself get back in line, then she starts to suspect that this morning's briefing has affected her somehow. Not the photos of the murdered Swanns. And not the prospect of wartime in Bangkok Park. Those are standard elements in her work.

No, it was the unusual event, the presence of Dr. Woo and all his talk, his attempts to be funny and simple when nothing he was talking about was either. Parts of the brain being villages. How we make words. Why we understand them.

She's never really thought about this before and she still doesn't see a need to. But now, in line waiting to order lunch, it's as if just hearing this Woo guy, just being exposed to him, has somehow
affected
her. And so, when she takes in the whole scene here around her, it's suddenly too much.

All these teenage or elderly clerks, dressed in cowboy gear, polyester vests and chaps, and kerchiefs around their necks, lined up before their computerized cash registers that are made to look like covered wagons. Everyone talks at once in the same mechanizedpolite voice. The clerks' hands push buttons on the computers as the customers speak. The fry-persons and assemblers behind the front row all wear mini-headsets with curved wire microphones that twist to the corners of their mouths. Voices issue from hidden speakers somewhere, lists of food and beverage orders coming from drive-through lines outside.

It suddenly strikes Peirce as an immaculate beehive customized for the production of processed circles of beef and moving faster than anything should.

She can barely stand giving her order to the geriatric cowgirl before her, and when it comes she grabs the bag and runs out to her car.

Once inside she locks all her doors and begins to take deep breaths. After a moment, her panic subsides. She punches a straw through the lid of her soft drink and starts to unpack her burger. Once she's set up, she grabs the tape recorder from under the seat and hits the On switch.

Yo, boss, I'm back. It's Charlotte, the light of your life. I hope the chewing noises don't disgust you too much. I'm sitting in the parking lot of a Burger Bonanza over on Turnstein Boulevard. Any chance I might be reimbursed for a Rodeo Cheese Melt, large fries, and a medium Diet Coke? I mean, I'm still working and all. [
Pause
] The Institute was a trip, boss. I realized, walking into the place, that I'd been there once before. Are you ready? Seventh-grade field trip out of Brown Street Public School. Mr. Zamenhof. My science teacher. First crush. They took us on a tour. Some people in white lab coats. They brought us into a room, showed us pond water under a microscope. I was so impressed. We got to keep the slide. [
Pause
] Excuse me. [
Pause
] Oh, I'm going to pay for this thing. I'm getting too old. The body can't handle the grease. I've got indigestion already. Anyway, I flashed my badge to the front desk, this woman with a real attitude. She made a comment about phoning first, but she buzzed a manager and directed me down to his office. A Mr. Weston. First name, Booth, can you believe it? He's about thirty-five. A real smoldering yuppie type. Grey pinstripe, flaming red tie. Hair short but moussed. Body of an eighteen-year-old marathoner, not that I noticed, Victor. The office was small but immaculate. Not a speck of dust. All grey and, what's that color, mauve? You know what I mean. The guy is not a scientist. More like an M.B.A. type. His official title is Director of Communications, but basically I think it's the public relations job. He keeps on top of the Institute's image. Takes all the weird crap they work on in the labs and translates it into nice Sunday newspaper feature stuff. “We're about to crack leukemia” crap. He makes sure we hear about the Nobel Prize winner they've got on the payroll. He coordinates the dinners where the banks give plaques to some guy who cloned a tomato, you know what I'm saying? He invites me into the office, all controlled smile and calculated handshake. I'm doing my best back at him. He starts off in his friendly but professional voice about how he's already spoken to both the police and the FBI and the DEA and even some of my own people. I liked that last part, like the local cops were lepers or something. He's all nods and chuckles about how it's all in their notes already. So I'm smiling and nodding right back, mimicking his whole act, and I say, “Yes, but it's not in my notes.” Just to let him know I can be a bitch if that's what he wants. Which we both know I can, right, Victor? So basically, he runs it down just like I expected from the briefing. Except that he keeps throwing in that the Institute has had no dealings with the Swanns since they left to form their own consulting firm, Synaboost, a good nine months ago. He says he knew the Swanns only slightly. He interviewed them, separately, when they first signed on board, that's how this guy said it, right, “signed on board,” like he's a cruise director. He interviews everyone, makes a file on them for any future press releases, or that kind of thing. I asked to see the files, which were basically just what he said. Black-and-white studio glossies of each, good-looking folks, Victor. Leo, he's like a gracefully maturing surf Nazi, all blond hair and ten-inch teeth and tiny, gold-rimmed round granny glasses. Sort of a cross between William Hurt and Warren Zevon, if that helps. Forget it. I forgot, you wouldn't know either of those names, would you, Victor? Inez is another looker, but just the opposite of her husband. Darker, Old World look, big deep brown eyes, sort of a Spanish look to her. A Natalie Wood type. That's got to be a name we intersect on. I hope. The profiles were basically fill-in-the-blank stuff. They came to the Institute last year. Came as a team. One package, all or nothing. They'd both just finished up a two-year grant at someplace called Teller Labs Limited in Jemez Springs, New Mexico. According to the paperwork, this Teller place is a workshop under the direction of Uncle Sam, and the Swanns' grant was one hundred percent Federal money. Their project down there was listed as—[
pause
]. Hold it. I took notes. Yeah, here, ‘Pinpoint Stimulation of the Anterior Speech Cortex Through Linguavoxide-Two Therapy.' [
Pause
] And you wonder where your tax dollars go, Victor. Anyway, the Swanns left New Mexico halfway through their two-year stay. The P.R. man said it was by mutual consent. Something like they got tired of the Southwest, and the army got tired of their pet project. But our own little Institute back here was all hot for it and made them an offer. Now, most projects at the place are worked on by teams of five to seven researchers. But the Swanns work alone. Just the Mr. and Mrs. Touching, huh? I guess it was one of their requirements before they'd take the position. [
Pause
] Oh, God, I feel awful. Why do I eat food like this? Why do I do this to myself? Jesus, Victor, you know I live on Zantac these days. You feel responsible for that at all? I'm done, that's it. I can't eat the rest of this. [
Pause
] Anyway, another requirement was no progress reports. The Institute has this hierarchy system where each project team has a group leader, just like chem lab in high school, you know. The first of each month the group leader is supposed to file a progress report to the board of directors. How the work is going, any breakthroughs, any setbacks. The Swanns said thumbs down on this. There was a note in the files that quoted Herr Leo as saying that this type of thing wastes his time and inhibits his imagination. I get the feeling this was a cheeky couple, you know? The Institute said okay, I guess they wanted these two. There was a small compromise. Leo and Inez said they'd let the BOD know whenever they “turned a corner.” Those are Mr. P.R.'s words. But whether they turned any corners or not, in the whole time they were at the Institute they never wrote up a report. At least there's nothing in their files. They were very reclusive during their whole stay. They nodded hello in the morning and goodbye at night. They made no friends among the other researchers. No one ever socialized with them, was ever invited out to their home. These bastards even brought their own coffee in this huge thermos so they didn't have to go into the cafeteria. Fun couple, huh? Regular Rob and Laura Petrie. How 'bout that one? Did you get that one, Victor? Weston said that a few months into their work, the Swanns started staying late at the lab, and he's spoken to people who say that there were occasions when they worked all night. I've got to figure something was up. According to him, it was around this time that they made the request for some extra cash for an outside consultant. The boys with the checkbook weren't crazy about this. As a rule the Institute likes to work internally. They've got a farm team at various universities around the country. They like to bring people along, tap the bench. But the Swanns had a very specific request. Dr. Frederick Woo, a language theory expert right across the city at St. Ignatius. I guess there was a little tug-of-war, but as usual the Swanns got their way. Woo came on board in a limited capacity, just for a short period of time. I guess they wanted to bounce some ideas off him. But you know more about this guy than I do, boss. He's on your team now. And I'm not here to look into the technical crap. I could barely cut up a frog as a teenager. I'm just here to find connections and to do you a favor. [
Pause
] I'll be back soon. I feel like I could barf. God.