Snakehead (38 page)

The meadow in which the two mares still grazed was washed in the colourless light of the moon. Beyond that, a path led around the side of a pond, a deep, dark pool of water choked by lilies. And beyond that, in a black stand of trees, a light shone in an outbuilding she had only vaguely been aware of in the daytime. It was an old wooden barn with an empty hayloft, and a tractor glinting darkly beyond a half-open door. She could not tell exactly where the light was coming from, or what was its source. She was uncertain if there was a window there. She hesitated to make the walk in the dark. It was, perhaps, four or five hundred yards. But the path shone pale in the moonlight. She could hardly lose her footing or her way.

It took her several minutes to cross the meadow, watched with interest by the horses, which seemed frozen in their dark-eyed curiosity. They returned to their grazing as she skirted the perimeter of the pond. The air smelled damp here, and was filled with the gentle screech of cicadas. As she got closer to the barn, sheltering in the shadow of its small clutch of trees, she saw that the light was coming from an unglazed window at the far end of it. But it was a feeble, reflected light, that appeared to be shining into the barn rather than out of it.

She slipped in the open door, squeezing past the tractor, with its smells of diesel and dried cattle dung, and saw that the light was coming up through a large trap door lying open at the rear of the barn, its wooden lid propped against the back wall. She crossed the dusty stretch of floor, compacted earth and dry, brittle straw, and saw a wide, wooden ladder leading down into a square pit lined with stout wooden planking. An electric light was screwed to the wall on one side. On the other, a deep, studded metal door set in a thick frame was not fully shut. From beyond it she heard the faint sound of music. She recognised the Intermezzo from
Cavalleria Rusticana
, a sad, bittersweet melody that raised goosebumps on the back of her neck and along her arms. She climbed carefully down the steps and stood on the concrete floor of the pit. Mascagni’s Intermezzo died into stillness, and a sweet, plaintive soprano sang Puccini,
O mio bambino caro
from
Gianni Schicchi
. A haunting piece of infinite sadness. She reached out and pushed the door with the tips of her fingers. Although it was heavy, it swung open easily, and she blinked in the bright fluorescent light of a small underground chamber, concrete walls and low, slabbed roof, painted white. There was a wooden-topped bench in the centre of the room cluttered with all kinds of equipment; a couple of gel electrophoresis machines, a digital camera with UV light for scanning gels, an iMac and flatbed scanner. Two walls were lined with worktops set with stainless steel sinks, a small electric oven for doing blots, a couple more iMacs, a scanning electron microscope, a rack of test tubes, jars and bottles, piles of papers, books, a coffee maker, an ashtray overflowing with cigar butts. Against the third wall stood a couple of incubators, a home refrigerator and an ultracold freezer. A portable stereo next to a small centrifuge was playing the Puccini. Louder now.

Mendez had his back to her. He was wearing a stained white lab coat, and as he moved away from the sink she saw half-moon spectacles perched on the end of his nose, attached to him by a cord around his neck. He was wearing latex gloves and swirling a small quantity of blue fluid in the bottom of a test tube. He reached up and took something down from the shelf above his head, and then slipped the tube into a rack and wrote in a large notebook open on the worktop in front of him. The voice of the soprano fell away into quiet melancholy and Margaret said, ‘Felipe?’

He was so startled, turning quickly, that he knocked the test tube from its holder and the glass smashed on the counter, spilling its blue liquid content across the top of it. Wide-eyed, barely able to believe what he was seeing, he took in the vision of Margaret standing in the doorway. And then, ‘Shit!’ he said, spinning around to pull paper from a roll and mop up the spillage. He looked back at Margaret, consternation in his face now, and a tenor began singing an aria from
La Bohème
. He crossed to the stereo and turned it off, and its sweetness was replaced by the deep hum of electrical equipment. He frowned. ‘Margaret,’ he said, as if waiting for her to speak and confirm that she was not some figment of his imagination.

‘I didn’t know you had your own lab out here,’ she said.

He shrugged and looked around, as if trying to see it through her eyes. ‘The previous owner was convinced there would be a nuclear holocaust. He intended to survive it in here. I had it fitted out as a lab when we first bought the place. It’s pretty limited. Just for my own personal research. Any serious work has to be done at Baylor.’ He paused, turning his eyes on her again, drinking her in. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’

‘I’m sorry about last night,’ she said.

He shook his head vigorously. ‘No, no, my dear. Please don’t be sorry. It was entirely my fault. My behaviour was unforgivable.’ He hesitated. ‘Have you come to collect your things?’

‘I was going to stay over, if that’s all right. Tonight anyway.’

‘Of course, of course,’ he said quickly. ‘Margaret, you have no idea how miserable I have been these past twenty-four hours. I can’t apologise enough.’

‘You’ve apologised more than enough,’ Margaret said. She raised the flats of her hands toward him. ‘No more. Please.’

He nodded, beaming, almost unable to contain his delight. ‘Of course.’ He snapped off his latex gloves. ‘I hear the ringleader of the snakeheads has been arrested. Your Chinese friend has done well.’

Even the mention of Li clouded Margaret’s thoughts. ‘Yes,’ she said.

‘We should eat, and you can tell me all about it.’ Mendez slipped out of his lab coat. As he hung it on the back of the door, the tail of it swept a pack of cigars off a gurney pushed against the wall. Margaret stooped to pick it up. She looked at the brand. It was unfamiliar to her.

‘Mexican,’ she said.

‘Yes, I have them sent to me.’ He took them from her and slipped the pack in his pocket. ‘I prefer Cuban, of course, but they are still illegal here. American cigars are too sweet, so I have these sent up from Mexico.’

She said, ‘I don’t think you ever told me whereabouts in Mexico you were from, originally.’

‘No, I probably didn’t,’ he said. ‘You would never have heard of it. A small town called Hermosillo, in the northwest, near the border with Arizona.’ He laughed. ‘But, of course, I was a perfectly legal immigrant. I didn’t cross the border in the back of a truck. I came on a bus, with a scholarship to Cal Tech.’

‘A long bus trip.’

‘It certainly was.’ He ushered her out, turning off the lights behind them. ‘Come, my dear, I’m sure I have some pizza in the freezer that we can put in the microwave, and some good Chilean wine to wash it down with.’

‘I’ve given up alcohol, Felipe,’ she said.

He followed her up the steps into the barn and looked at her in astonishment. ‘But the consumption of fine wine is one of life’s great pleasures, my dear.’ He dropped the trap door, raising a cloud of dust.

‘Yeah, well, I think maybe I liked it just a little too much,’ she said. She was not about to tell him that she did not want to damage her unborn child.

As they walked past the pond and across the meadow, he told her about his progress, or lack of it, in identifying the proteins that triggered the flu virus. ‘The list of things that do not do it is growing by the day, but compared to those that might, it is still just a drop in the ocean. Currently, I am looking at fruits. In particular, those indigenous to North America.’

She let him talk, let the words float over her. She was tired, and although she would probably not admit it, even to herself, she was almost beyond caring. The chestnut mares broke from their grazing to stare at them. One of them whinnied, an apparent signal for them both to go skittering off into the darkness, shaking their heads and snorting their derision.

In the kitchen, Mendez surveyed the mess as if seeing it for the first time. ‘Every so often I have a blitz,’ he said. ‘I spend a weekend clearing the dishes, cleaning the place. Then I turn around, and it’s like this again.’

‘You need a maid,’ Margaret said.

‘I have tried, believe me,’ Mendez said. ‘You have no idea how difficult it is to get someone to come all the way out here.’ He cleared a space on a worktop and dug a frozen pizza out of the freezer and got it out of its wrapping. ‘Ham and pineapple. Is that okay for you?’ he asked. She nodded and he said, ‘Go through and relax. I’ll feed the dog and bring this in when it’s ready. If you’re not having wine, what’ll you drink? I’ve got some apple juice in the refrigerator.’

‘That’ll be fine,’ Margaret said. She left him to it, and heard Clara barking excitedly as he filled her food bowl. She sank into the recliner in the living room and watched the shadow of the fan circling the ceiling. She daren’t close her eyes, or she knew she would simply drift away. It was only twenty-four hours since Mendez had made his clumsy pass at her. Only twenty hours since she had last made love to Li Yan. The events of the previous night at Minute Maid Park seemed like a lifetime away — someone else’s lifetime. She could remember running along the track above the baseball field, the huge replica locomotive looming over her in the dark, the roof shutting out the stars, the vision of the blood-crusted Li staggering down between the rows of seating. But it was as if they were not her memories, as if she had perhaps borrowed them from someone else, or seen them in some movie. She folded her hands over her belly. The only thing that felt real now was her baby, the life she carried inside her. Strangely it seemed to give her, almost for the first time in her life, a sense of purpose. And then she remembered the passport, and something else, something she had seen in the lab, and she came back down to earth with a jolt.

‘Here we are, my dear,’ Mendez said. He was carrying a tray with the pizza cut into wedges on a big round plate. There was a tall glass of apple juice and a bottle of Chilean wine and a crystal goblet. He placed it on a coffee table which he dragged to sit between the recliner and the settee so they could both reach it. The hot smell of the pizza was savoury and enticing. Margaret lifted a wedge, pulling it free of its trailing strands of cheese and took a large bite.

‘It’s good,’ she said, and she reached for her glass and washed it down with a mouthful of apple juice. She looked up to find Mendez sitting on the settee watching her, his face slightly flushed. He was smiling oddly.

* * *

Margaret woke to moonlight flooding through her bedroom window. It was inordinately bright, and she had no recollection of coming to bed. She had a sense of breathing in slow motion, her chest rising and falling in slow, gentle undulations. She knew from the feel of the cotton sheet on her skin that she was naked, but could not remember undressing. But there was no alarm in it. She felt relaxed, her limbs heavy. So heavy she could barely move them. She fought hard to grasp conscious thoughts that seemed to slip through her fingers like the fluttering feathers of a bird in panic. She was scared to squeeze too tightly in case she damaged it. She frowned in confusion. There
was
no bird. Start again. She remembered eating pizza with Mendez in the sitting room. He had turned on the television and was chatting to her brightly, endlessly. Words following words. Words she couldn’t recall. When had she come to bed? With great difficulty she turned her head and saw figures burning red lines in the dark. She blinked, eyelids like camera shutters set for long exposure, trying to make sense of what she saw. Two. One. Six. Revelation. It was two-sixteen in the morning. Hours since she had sat eating pizza with Mendez. There was something she had meant to do. What was it? Something important. When Mendez was sleeping. She had wanted to go back out to the lab. Why?

A shadow fell across her, and with a great effort she turned her eyes up to see what it was. Felipe was smiling. He was fully dressed, and she wondered, stupidly, why he had gone to bed in his clothes. And then, from somewhere deep in her subconscious, a tiny bubble of fear came fizzing to the surface, and she knew that somehow she had not undressed herself and come to bed, that Mendez was fully dressed because he had not yet been to bed. And that if she had not undressed herself, then he must have done it. More bubbles broke the surface. Something of it must have shown in her eyes, because his smile widened and he said softly, ‘My dear, don’t fight the Rohypnol. You know you won’t win.’

Rohypnol. Rohypnol? The word meant something to her. There was a bird in her hands again, wings flapping, heart fluttering. This time she clenched her fists. Rohypnol. Clear. Tasteless. The classic date rape drug. Apple juice. Her mouth felt dry now, very dry, a strange bitterness in it. She wanted to touch herself. Down there. To know what he had done to her, but it was as if she had no arms, no hands. She could not move them, could not feel them. Instead, she heard his voice again, soft and hypnotic.

‘I knew when I went into my study that you had been there,’ he said. She forced her head around so that she could see him more clearly. She tried to focus on his lips. Important that she could understand what he was saying. He smiled. ‘You saw my feeble attempts at writing you an apology. The trouble is, that to make an apology convincing it has to come from the heart.’ He shrugged. ‘Then I saw the passport, and knew it was not where I had left it. And I remembered you asking me in the lab where in Mexico I came from.’ He shook his head. ‘Not very subtle, Margaret.’

He moved around the foot of the bed to her left side, and the moonlight lay over her, unbroken, like a shroud. She tilted her head with difficulty so that she could follow him. He sat down on the edge of the bed and ran his fingers lightly over her forehead, and then with his forefinger traced the line of her nose and lips and chin. ‘When I first came to the States, I had no reason to conceal the fact that I was a Colombian. I never have. But people always made assumptions. My Latin looks, my accent, my name. A spic. A Mexican. Only when all this blew up did it become convenient for me to go along with it. To put as much distance between myself and my roots as possible. I am, after all, a naturalised American citizen now. So no one who did not know that I still retain my Colombian citizenship would be any the wiser. No one would have any reason to make the connection.’