Always Kiss the Corpse (37 page)

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Noel breathed deeply, and pressed 1 on his phone.

“Yes?”

“Police just came by. They check here regularly.”

“You okay?”

“Just barely.”

“Hang in, I'm nearly done. Out in a minute.”

He closed his phone, stuffed it into his pocket and grabbed the steering wheel tightly.

≈  ≈  ≈

A quick thought: take a copy of the paper. She grabbed one from the most cluttered desk. She stared again at the title. In fact she did know the meaning of most of those words. Except hipophrine and percuprone. Hipophrine. Percuprone. Hormones? Hipo— Perc—Holy shit!

Okay, outa here. Electricity back on. Would the alarm scream at her again when she threw the switch back? Had to be done. She checked her escape route. Both inner and outer doors open, ready for her to stampede away. Her cellphone rang. Shit. Noel's voice: “Kyra, can you hear me?”

“Yes. What?”

“Come on out. The cop'll be back. We've got to get out of here.”

“I'm coming. Two minutes.” She shoved the phone into her purse, glanced about once more, and ran her eyes across the fish tanks. Where had she seen fish tanks recently? She pulled the switch. Lights on. No screaming wail. Get out before it comes on. She heard the generator's whine die. All lights out. Picks into lock, inner door closed. Outer door, out, picks, locked. Down the walk, the fence, chain open, gate, chain on, lock in place. Click. Only Noel's rental over there. She heard the engine start. She walked quickly, did not run, to the passenger door. In. “Let's go!” Kyra gave Noel a brilliant smile. He caught the gleam of her teeth in dim light. “Drive! I found something, maybe research results.”

He pulled out, one eye on the rear-view mirror. God he felt drained. And she was hyped. She flicked on her flashlight and read him the title. “Those pills in Sandro's medicine cabinet, weren't they called hipoperc?”

“I don't remember. Didn't you give the name to Jerome?”

“Yeah. Maybe he's heard something from his friend.” She glanced back at the paper. “Let's drop by. He may understand the report.” She flipped through it. Way too complicated. She switched off the flash.

“What was in there?”

“Tanks of fish. Shrimp. White mice and rabbits in cages. Computers. Three offices and two labs.”

“How about security?”

“I had to flip the breaker. Did you hear an alarm go off?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Noel drove in silence. His fear, turned to relief, left him with nothing to say. Ten minutes later he pulled up beside the Tracker in front of Samson's.

“I'll call Jerome, make sure he's there.” She pressed numbers, and explained. “We have a document we need translated out of scientific-ese. Great, within the hour, we won't stay— Thanks.”

They drove in tandem up-island, off-island, to, and up, the I-5.

TWENTY-ONE

Not yet time for bed but she could get ready. Lorna Albright flicked off the sit-com halfway through. A long day coming tomorrow and something would go wrong, she felt it. Something worse than Richard's desire for confession. Terry had confirmed Richard's change of mind; he too wanted only for the work to go on. Richard had stopped being an issue.

She headed upstairs. Clothes off, pajamas on. No report reading tonight, a novel to take her mind off— The doorbell rang. She glanced at her watch. 9:12. Who? She could pretend to be in the bathroom, shower running. It rang again, longer, more insistent. Hell, she wasn't at the beck and call of any doorbell. If the phone rang now, she'd be damned if she'd answer. Another blast on the bell. She pulled on a bathrobe and walked down the stairs. Make damn sure you know who's out there before opening. A thin curtain covered the face-high window, hard to see in, easier looking out. She slowly glanced through. Gary. What the hell? The bell razzed again, right by her ear. She opened the door. “Enough, Gary!”

“Oh, thank god.” He brushed past her. He walked down the hall, turned. “Lorna—” He stared into the living room, strode over to the liquor cabinet, found a bottle of Scotch, a glass, poured it half-full and drank a quarter of it.

Lorna followed. Gary had gone questing after the bottle as if it were a grail. “What's up?”

He set the glass down and put his hands in his pockets. “Richard's dead.”

“What!”

“Take my word for it. Dead.”

She tried to say, How? But her throat had gone so tight she couldn't speak. Oh, poor Terry! She forced her voice to whisper, “How? What?”

“Listen carefully.” Gary's voice was steady. “This evening we had supper together. Here. I was with you from seven o'clock on.”

“What? Why? You—?”

“He attacked me. We fought. The pistol went off, he fell. I checked him. He was dead. I grabbed his wallet. Nobody saw me. It's okay.”

Okay? What did that mean? “But—you fought? Why?”

“He was going to open up all that Vasiliadis shit.” On Gary's lips, a half smile. “I think Richard knew.”

“No. Not possible.”

“Quite possible. But it doesn't matter. He's not going to tell anybody. That episode is over.” Gary drank more Scotch. “So okay, I was here with you, right? Seven o'clock, you cooked—?”

“I was at the lab till about six-thirty. Then I went to Stockman's place. Bonnie's away, visiting one of the kids. I had dinner with Stockman tonight.”

Gary stared at her. “Shit,” he said.

“You've got to go to the police, you have to tell them—”

“Don't be stupid! Not the police!”

“You tell them what you just said to me, it was an accident.”

“Get this through your head. We have to keep this as far from the clinic as possible.”

“As far? For god's sake! Richard
is
a quarter of the clinic. Was. Oh, goddamn it!” The first real sense of his death hit her, her throat trembled, she sat. “You-have-to-explain-to-the—”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“Then I'll tell them.”

“Will you try to understand what I'm saying? You're involved in this as much as I am.”

“I didn't kill Richard.”

He smiled at her, a cold, flat smile. “No. Not Richard.”

She shivered. “I didn't kill anybody.”

Gary's smile stayed in place. “No. Not in that sense.”

“I wasn't even there.”

Gary took another tumbler and poured more Scotch. He studied the liquid, then poured again as much. “You agreed.” He handed her the glass.

She took it with two hands, brought it to her lips, sipped. Her eyes filled with tears, and her nose ran. She sniffed. “I wasn't there.”

“We all understood what had to be done.”

She blotted her eyes with her bathrobe tie. “Richard wouldn't have thought so.”

“Exactly. We were right not to include him. You must see that.”

In her mind's eye all she saw was Richard and Terry, the lab, the clinic, their patients, Stockman, Gary, Dawn, everything she knew and cared about, falling from the heavens, so much dissolving sleet. Flat, still puddles. She set the glass on the shelf and hugged herself, as if she were the only thing still possible to hold on to. “Oh god oh god oh god—”

“So.” Gary sounded filled with cheer. “What did Stockman cook for you and me this evening?”

“What?”

“Let's go for a drive.”

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Noel pulled in behind the Tracker. In the streetlight he saw Jerome's house. Yes, it needed more than paint. The days renovating an old Nanaimo house with Brendan were gone, but his eye hadn't changed. He followed Kyra to the door. Jerome opened, his hand on Nelson's collar. The dog bellowed ferociously.

“He sure doesn't like me.” Kyra glared at Nelson.

“How's your leg?”

“Tender but not throbbing. No infection. I'll survive.”

Jerome leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Hello,” he said to Noel. He transferred Nelson's collar to his left hand and stuck out his right. Noel shook it.

They entered. Jerome shut the door and let go the collar. Nelson sent a low growl in Kyra's direction, bounded to the living room and returned with a ball. He dropped it at Noel's feet, looked up and panted in anticipation.

“Better you than me.” Kyra said.

“No ball games in the house,” Jerome told Nelson, but in a non-authoritarian tone. “Let me take your coats. Some coffee? A drink?”

If no games in the house how come a ball was lying around? Kyra shrugged out of her jacket, tossed it on the newel post— Jerome hung both coats in the closet.

They entered the living room. “A drink would be great,” Noel said.

“Me too,” added Kyra.

“Scotch? Gin? Drambuie?”

Kyra said, “I could handle a Scotch.”

“Fine.” Noel sat in the leatherette chair.

Jerome disappeared. Nelson picked up his ball, padded across the carpet, again dropped it in front of Noel. The dog crouched, looking from Noel to the ball.

“I get the idea Nelson does not like girls.” Kyra sat on the sofa.

Jerome returned with a tray and three glasses. He passed them around, took his, and sat beside Kyra.

She handed him the paper. “Here it is.”

Noel took two good sips and put his feet on the hassock. Nelson lay down, head between paws, still checking out Noel. Jerome speed-read the paper. Noel tried to imagine Kyra living here with Jerome. Something out of whack there. Which part, Kyra living here, or living with Jerome? If Jerome knocked out that wall, combined the space here with the dining room he saw through the door, and modernized the kitchen, he'd have a presentable downstairs. Space under the stairs would likely accommodate a powder room.

Jerome said, “I don't know the biochemistry here. But it deals with enzymes derived from hermaphroditic fish and crustaceans. From what I understand the researchers have injected them into mice, and the mice have changed from males to females.” He got up and fetched a green tome, a pharmacopeia, from the bookshelf and searched the index.

Noel considered the living room for several minutes. Yes, he'd replace that old cracked fireplace with a wood stove. Were wood stoves legal in urban Bellingham?

Jerome said, “Neither of these has been approved. The two in the title are likely the active agents in this hipoperc. I emailed my friend but I haven't heard. I'll phone him in the morning.”

“Thanks.” Kyra took back the paper. “What do you make of it?”

“Looks like early research. Not stuff I'd invest in yet. Still your transgendered guy?”

“Yeah.”

“I'd guess at a process where the biochemistry is central to the changes.”

“That's what we were getting to,” Kyra said. Noel nodded.

Nelson picked up his ball, dropped it closer to Noel's feet, let out a yowl and wagged his tail. “Be a good dog,” Jerome said. “Noel isn't going to play.”

Kyra finished her drink. “We better be heading off.” She stood.

Noel drained his glass and stood. “Sorry, Nelson.”

“It's okay, I'll take him out before bed. And I'll phone you when I hear something.”

“Thanks,” said Kyra.

Jerome squeezed her hand, then brought their jackets.

Noel glanced into the dining room. Maybe wainscoting. “Kyra said you want to redecorate. The place has neat possibilities.”

“You think so?”

“My partner and I renovated a house like this in Nanaimo. You need an architect who specializes in renos. Ask around. That's what we did.”

Jerome looked surprised, and grateful. “Okay. Thanks.”

“Thanks for your help with the paper. And the drink.”

Jerome kissed Kyra's cheek. “I'll be in touch.”

Nelson, carrying his ball, gave Noel a look of betrayal. The door closed.

Noel got in the Tracker beside Kyra. Jerome had taken her hand, Jerome had kissed her cheek. No response from Kyra. Hmm.

“Going to leave your car here?”

“Kyra,” he took her forearm, “they're using drugs on people that haven't been approved yet for animals.”

“On one person we know of.”

“One is plenty.” Noel squeezed, let go. “They could all lose the right to practice medicine.”

“Yeah.”

“Something went wrong with that one person. If he complained about his condition beyond the clinic, they could all lose their licenses. Someone had to make sure Sandro never spoke about their work.”

“And maybe killed him.”

Noel opened the Tracker door, “Meet you back at your place,” and got into his rental.

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Stockman Jones opened his door wearing a red silk smoking jacket, a glare dominating his face. “What?”

Gary said, “Aren't you going to ask us in?”

Stockman swung the door open wider. Lorna followed Gary through the entryway. Stockman swung the door shut. “You could at least have called.”

“Always better not to leave a phone record, right?”

“What're you talking about?”

Gary took off his jacket. “We need to talk.”

“What can't wait till tomorrow?”

“Lots. We should sit down.”

Stockman shrugged, and led them to the living room.

“Yes thanks,” said Gary, “I'll have a Scotch.”

Stockman glanced at him. “Lorna? You too?”

“No thank you.”

“No ice,” said Gary.

Stockman opened a cabinet, took out a bottle and a crystal goblet, and poured. He handed Gary the glass. They all sat. “What's this all about?”

Gary told him. The color faded from Stockman's face. When Gary finished, Stockman said nothing. He stared at neither of his colleagues but between them, as if a third person sat there. So it ends, he thought. So it ends.

“Lorna thinks the honey chicken with rice and asparagus you made for us was delicious,” Gary said. “I agree.”