The Adamas Blueprint (4 page)

CHAPTER 4

Kevin Hamilton’s eyes fluttered, and the pounding in his head left no doubt that he was conscious. The sun was up; no other source of light could be as excruciatingly painful. He made a half-hearted attempt to turn over, but his stomach argued and won. Besides, it didn’t feel like his muscles would respond.

He lay in the same position for an hour, awake the entire time, his brain seemingly three sizes too big for his skull. Suddenly, a chainsaw started in the next room and he sat bolt upright. He pried his eyes open enough to see Nigel in the kitchen standing over a coffee grinder.

Looking around, he realized that he had slept on Nigel’s couch the entire night. He wondered how he’d squeezed his six foot two length into the tiny area between the armrests. He was bare from the waist up and a blanket was balled up at the end of the couch. Various cups and bottles littered the floor around him. He also noticed the stale smell of beer for the first time. The pounding in his head returned to full strength and nausea gripped him. He ran to the bathroom.

After emptying the contents of his stomach and then bladder into the toilet, Kevin turned to the mirror and found just about what he was expecting. His face was unusually pale and his hair looked rather comical. On one side, it stood straight out in all directions, on the other it was MORRISON/THE ADAMAS BLUEPRINT

32

matted from sleep. Thick red lines extended from his hazel irises. He hadn’t bothered to remove his contacts.

He felt slightly better after vomiting and thought some milk might soothe his stomach. He rifled through the cabinet, found some aspirin, and carried the bottle into the kitchen.

The television came on in the living room as he poured the milk into a tall glass. He put two tablets into his hand, thought about it, added another, then popped all three into his mouth and took a small sip of the milk. He held the cool glass to his forehead as he walked back to the living room.

Nigel was sitting on the couch with a cup of coffee, surfing the channels with the remote.

Kevin had never known him to look anything but impeccable, even early in the morning, and today was no exception. He was already showered and fully dressed, as if he hadn’t had a sip of alcohol the previous night.

With a slight grunt, Kevin immersed himself in the Lazy Boy.

“Good morning, beautiful,” Nigel said with a smile.

Kevin turned toward him and gave him a dirty look. “I hate you.”

“I told you the Jello shots were strong, but you didn’t want to listen.”

“You had just as many as I did.”

“I also drink more often than every six months.”

“So do I. But now I’m thinking about quitting all together.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be at the gym at nine?”

“Yeah, that’s the only time I can get into the pool to swim laps.” Kevin sat up. “Why? What time is it?”

MORRISON/THE ADAMAS BLUEPRINT

33

Nigel looked at his watch. “9:01.”

Kevin sank back into the chair. “Damn! This is the first time I’ve missed in two years.”

Nigel shook his head. “Two years? You’re weirder than you look.” He continued clicking the remote.

Kevin watched TV and brooded quietly. Conversation was not generally part of his morning routine, and he had not yet had his requisite Diet Coke. As Kevin sipped his milk, Nigel flipped past a face on the screen that Kevin immediately recognized.

He almost spit out the milk. After swallowing, he sputtered, “Wait! Turn it back!”

“What?” Nigel said, as he reversed directions on the remote.

Four channels down, Kevin saw it. “There! Stop!”

Nigel stopped on what was apparently a local TV news broadcast, and looked over at him with a puzzled expression. “What...”

“Shhh! Turn it up.” Kevin stared incredulously at the screen. To the right of the anchorwoman’s head was a small photo of Dr. Michael Ward. The picture had been taken when Ward still had a beard, but it was definitely him.

Nigel thumbed the remote, and the program became audible.

“...where we take you live to Lisa Hernandez. Lisa, what can you tell us?”

The image shifted to a woman standing in front of the blackened ruins of what used to be a house. Wisps of smoke could still be seen rising in the calm air. The only things left standing were a crumbling chimney and the scorched remains of a large tree. Police and firefighters mingled in the background, and yellow crime tape was visible circling the property.

MORRISON/THE ADAMAS BLUEPRINT

34

“Joan, at two o’clock this morning, residents of this usually quiet north Houston community were awakened by a huge explosion. When firefighters arrived on the scene, they found the home of Michael Ward, a South Texas University chemistry professor, burning out of control. As you can see, the fire is now contained, but not before two firefighters succumbed to heat exhaustion in this morning’s sweltering conditions. When the heat of the fire had subsided enough for a search, the charred remains of two people were found among the rubble.”

The TV cut to a clip of two black plastic bags lying behind a van marked “Harris County Coroner.” Kevin’s grip on the milk glass tightened.

“The police haven’t issued a statement as yet, but sources close to the investigation believe they could only be the bodies of Dr. Ward and his wife, Irene.”

Kevin continued silently watching, shaking his head slowly.

Joan interrupted. “Has the cause of the fire been determined, Lisa?”

“The cause of the fire has not yet been determined, Joan, but arson investigators are on the premises and foul play has not been ruled out. Speculation now is that the fire was started by a cigarette and spread to the gas lines, which then caused the explosion. The house is in a relatively new development and is the first on the block to be occupied, which may explain why the fire was not reported soon enough to prevent this horrible tragedy. This is Lisa Hernandez reporting live from Spring for H News. Joan.”

“Thank you, Lisa. We understand the police are expected to make a statement within the next hour, and when they do, H News, Houston’s only twenty-four-hour news source, will bring it to you live. Turning to other news, police say drugs may be involved in the execution-style shooting MORRISON/THE ADAMAS BLUEPRINT

35

of an attorney whose body was found yesterday morning...” Nigel pressed the mute button on the remote.

“You knew that professor, didn’t you?” he said.

“He was the one who fired me four months ago.”

“Wow, that’s wild.” Nigel didn’t seem know what else to say.

Kevin stared out the window. Dr. Ward, dead. When the accident had happened and he’d been fired, Kevin had wished a lot of bad things on Dr. Ward, but never death. Yet he didn’t feel grief about the loss either. He really didn’t know how he felt.

“Kevin,” Nigel said, “are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just weird.”

“Did you know him well?”

“Well enough. That’s why it’s so strange. Ward was a jerk, but he was also a careful guy, almost anal. I guess I’m just surprised that that kind of accident would happen to him.”

“I hear about these things happening to smokers all the time.”

“So do I. But it’s still strange.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Kevin decided he needed to get back to his apartment and started to search for the rest of his clothes. He found his shirt and shoes under a pizza box and put them on. The hangover was still there, but it was down to a dull throbbing.

“If you need anything, give me a call,” Nigel said.

“Really, I’m okay. Don’t worry about it.”

Kevin walked out into the bright September morning. The newscast was right about the temperature. The heat was already shimmering off the driveway’s pavement.

MORRISON/THE ADAMAS BLUEPRINT

36

He tried starting the Mustang several times before the car turned over. He automatically switched on the radio, which was usually tuned to the local jazz station, and then figured that he needed a little silence this morning and shut the radio off. As he released the parking brake and shifted into first, he looked at the trip odometer, which was how he gauged his gas level. There was enough to make it back to his apartment complex. Nothing was going to stand between him and a nice cool shower.

MORRISON/THE ADAMAS BLUEPRINT

37

CHAPTER 5

The Sycamore apartment complex was nowhere near the South Texas University campus. It was located on the west side of Houston, just outside the Loop, far from the high crime area around the university where the cheapest apartments were, but not quite into the more expensive suburbs. It was relatively safe, with a security gate and fence encircling the complex, and the rent for a one bedroom apartment was affordable. The only drawback was the commute, which could take over forty minutes with the morning rush hour.

Like most complexes in the city, sprawling parking lots surrounded long rows of nondescript three-level buildings, which in turn overlooked courtyards with the
de rigueur
swimming pools that were used practically year-round. Hedges and small strips of grass separated the buildings from the sidewalks. The only thing that made The Sycamore stand out from other complexes, and in defiance of the complex’s name, was the abundance of large oaks shading cars from the relentless heat. In the far corner of the lot, inside a Pontiac parked under one of these oaks sat David Lobec and Richard Bern.

Bern was dozing, taking a break while Lobec read the short dossier they had compiled on Kevin Hamilton in the last few hours, cobbled together from his school files, a quick search of his MORRISON/THE ADAMAS BLUEPRINT

38

apartment, and Texas Department of Public Safety records. Every thirty seconds, as if he had a built-in chronometer, Lobec would look up to observe Kevin’s first-floor apartment, whose front door faced the parking lot.

A truck with the words “Four Seasons Landscaping” emblazoned across its side in large green letters rumbled to a stop twenty yards in front of them. A man with no shirt and a huge gut hanging over a pair of greasy shorts climbed out and proceeded to unload a riding lawn mower out of the trailer hitched to the truck. Lobec, who hadn’t seen snow in the five years he’d been in Houston, wanted to ask the man when the other three seasons would arrive.

The mower belched a plume of smoke and the engine rose to an unmuffled crescendo, drowning out the distant sound of the street traffic and waking Bern. He looked around for the source of noise and through the car’s heavily tinted windows saw the fat man ride onto the grass.

“Damn! And I was having a great dream.” He turned to Lobec, who realized what was coming. He’d heard this kind of thing about fifty times from Bern.

“Oh man, what a dream! In this one I was like Frankenstein, right? You know, making my own person? Except, I wasn’t making a monster. I was making my dream girl from parts of all the girls who’ve ever been in the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, cutting out somebody’s leg from this picture and somebody else’s tits from that picture. She was just hit by lightning, right?

She was alive, buck naked, right on the table in front of me! So she got up and she was just about to...”

“You may save the details for your memoirs, Bern.”

Bern gave him a quizzical look. “Sometimes I don’t know if you’re really human, Lobec.

You got any hormones at all?”

MORRISON/THE ADAMAS BLUEPRINT

39

“I prefer to separate my sexual urges from my professional functions, and I suggest you attempt the same, if at all possible. It may help you better concentrate on your work.”

“What’s there to concentrate on? This guy ain’t even home.” He put a pair of headphones up to his ears and punched a button on a machine sitting on the seat next to him. “The tap’s working fine. What else am I supposed to do?”

Lobec looked around the parking lot. Every few minutes, a person or two would emerge from the building complex and get into one of the cars. “Perhaps we should discuss the new procedure we will follow when Kevin Hamilton returns.”

“New procedure? Too many people around for you?”

“Yes. Instead of approaching him at his apartment, we will monitor his telephone calls and wait. If no particular urgency arises, we will let him leave the apartment and stop his car in a more secluded area. I assume you have your identification with you?”

“Yeah, I got it.” Bern took out his wallet and flipped it open, revealing a Houston Police Department badge and identification. Lobec nodded and Bern returned it to his pocket. “But I’m sick of the name Kaplan. I think I’ll get Sheryl to make me a new ID after this op is over. What do you think of Braddock?”

“No. This is the third identification you’ve had this year. Changing aliases too often can compromise an operation. It may be difficult to remember in times of stress.”

“Afraid you’ll forget it?” Bern smirked.

“I wasn’t speaking of myself. Must I bring up the incident with the OGP?”

Bern’s smirk dissolved and he offered a curt no. The Old Growth Protectorate was a fringe environmental group bent on radical, sometimes militant, protection of primeval forests. Clayton MORRISON/THE ADAMAS BLUEPRINT

40

Tarnwell had never even heard of them until his company announced plans to open a copper strip mine on virgin forest land in Montana. When the OGP threatened to destroy his mining equipment, Tarnwell sent Lobec to persuade the group’s leader to share his knowledge of their plans. Bern and Lobec had been wearing ski masks, but during the interrogation, Bern slipped and used Lobec’s name, requiring a more permanent method of dealing with OGP’s founder.

“What’s all this stuff about Adamas anyway?” Bern said, clumsily changing the subject. “Is that some new chemical Tarnwell’s trying to make?”

“You know as much as I do about Dr. Ward’s process. I am not well-versed in the chemical sciences, and Mr. Tarnwell has not seen fit to brief me on the details. I think for both our sakes it’s better not to talk about it.”

“Was he pissed about Stein?”

“You could say that he was upset.”

“Well, it’s not like it was our fault those kids found the body when they were playing in that dumpster.” Bern pulled a cigarette from the pack of Marlboros in his front pocket and stuck it in his mouth, then pulled a Bic lighter from the same pocket. “Christ, that lot looked so deserted, I thought it would be months before anyone would look in...”

“Mr. Bern,” Lobec said, his voice a dagger’s edge, “what have I asked you not to do in my presence?”

The Bic’s flame flickered two inches in front of the unlit cigarette. Bern’s eyes widened when he realized what he’d done and he sat up straight, releasing the Bic’s lever. “I’m s-sorry, Lobec,”

he said in a rush. “I didn’t mean to, it’s just habit...”

MORRISON/THE ADAMAS BLUEPRINT

41

“You know that smoking offends me, yet you do not respect my wishes. That offends me even more. I sincerely hope further correction won’t be necessary.”

Bern shook his head vigorously, and Lobec was satisfied that his point had been made. Bern had objected to his demands only twice, and he’d learned that Lobec did not take his smoking policy lightly. The burn scar on Bern’s forearm proved that.

Now that Bern was awake, Lobec returned his full attention to the folder in front of him and read from the beginning. He always liked to know as much as he could about the people he dealt with, even if it would be for only a short time.

Nicholas Kevin Hamilton. Age 26. Valedictorian of Sam Houston high school in Dallas, Texas. According to old letters of acceptance he had stored in a file box, he applied to and was accepted by 8 universities, including Stanford and MIT, but he attended Texas A&M on a National Merit scholarship and $5,000 a year in student loans. Graduated in five years with a B.A. in chemistry. Parents Frances May and Murray Hamilton both died of cancer while he was at A&M, most likely accounting for his five-year stay. He began graduate school at South Texas University in chemistry immediately after leaving A&M and was about to begin his third year of studies. He drove a nine-year-old red Ford Mustang GT hatchback, with three moving violations for speeding in the past three years.

“Is this all we have?” Lobec asked.

“Uh, no. I almost forgot,” Bern said. He pulled a notepad out of his pocket and flipped it open. “Mitch called while you were with Tarnwell. After he was done with the DPS records, he decided to access a local credit bureau. Said he finds lots of juicy stuff there. Anyway, it seems Hamilton has had a little trouble paying his bills lately. He’s been late with his rent three times MORRISON/THE ADAMAS BLUEPRINT

42

this year, and he has a Visa and a Mastercard maxed out. Total limit $6000. Mitch says he’s been paying tuition with them.”

“What about the car?”

“That’s the funny thing. There’s no record of a loan on it. Must have been paid for with cash.”

“Life insurance?”

“No payout that Mitch could find. He has one checking account with the university’s credit union, current balance $85.86. We don’t know what his father did yet, but he wasn’t rich.

Probably most of the benefits he did get went to pay for the funerals. Hamilton probably used the rest on the car.”

“Possibly.”

“Why do we got to get all this stuff this time anyway? I thought we were just gonna find out what he knows and take him out.”

“Bern, in my experience I have discerned one unchanging characteristic among all of the operations I’ve conducted. No matter how simple an operation seems, there will always be complications. And when they arise, the more information one has, the more likely one will be to succeed.”

Bern looked past Lobec’s shoulder and nodded as he put the microphone in his ear. “At least we don’t have to wait too long to find out.”

Lobec turned to see a car pull into the parking lot. It was a red Mustang.

MORRISON/THE ADAMAS BLUEPRINT

43