Upon A Pale Horse (4 page)

As head of his department, most of his time was spent in the lab, which was as it should be. His career was punctuated by frequent publication of his abstracts and periodic books, all in his areas of specialty – epidemiology and virology. His latest had been a local hit, tracing the history of malaria and the more interesting story of the companies that had fought to develop anti-malarial drugs, only to see their innovations squashed by larger competitors who didn’t want a cure cutting off their revenue from lucrative treatment patents.

That was another aspect of his work he found redeeming: He wasn’t afraid to tackle controversy, and he was somewhat of a celebrity for his maverick nature and colorful condemnations of the status quo. While it was a headache for the university administration, he was now viewed as iconic, and his cynical barbs and willingness to spout off to the press his opinions on public health policy had endeared him to the citizenry, if not always to his fellow faculty members.

The afternoon flew by as he immersed himself in his work – highly speculative research into a possible cure for liver cancer involving stem cells, pioneered in his lab and now being developed by a mirror team in France and another in Germany. If early results were borne out in more comprehensive clinical trials, it could be a breakthrough that would mean an end to the disease during his lifetime, and a crowning achievement in an already noteworthy career. Unlike many of his peers, he wasn’t consumed by taking credit for advances – he was confident he would be recognized when the time came, as he had been fourteen years earlier when he’d shared the Nobel Prize for his work on antiviral drug development. He was regularly consulted by large pharmaceutical companies because of his open, curious stance. Ironically, he earned five times his academic salary consulting for them, though it occupied only a scant few minutes of his time every month.

Hours drifted by, and when the daylight that streamed through his window was replaced by the soft glimmer of lamps, he put aside the sheaf of reports and rose from behind his desk. The halls were quiet now, classes long since over, and he looked at his watch with a silent curse. He’d lost track of time again, and it was already seven-thirty – later than he would have liked, given the date he’d agreed to with his latest paramour. It was a fifteen-minute walk to his building, but he wanted to shower and deal with a few errands before meeting her, and he’d be hurried now, a state of affairs he’d hoped to avoid.

He threw on his blazer and wrapped a lightweight white wool scarf around his neck, and stepped out into the hall. He paused to re-lock the door, and started when he heard an echo from down the long corridor, near the stairs – the rustle of clothes, perhaps, or maybe just the stiffening wind blowing through the ill-fitted windows, worn by the eons and as leaky as the Roman treasury. He looked up and peered down the dark passageway, but didn’t detect anything troubling – the area was empty, as far as he could tell.

Even with the security provided by the university patrol, it wasn’t wise to venture into dark, empty spaces at night in Rome, so he headed towards the main stairs at the other end, near the elevator, which had been out of service for a month. His footsteps reverberated off the ancient plaster walls as he descended to the main floor, where he could expect a few people to be lounging around, waiting near the security station for their rides to arrive. The sense of foreboding lifted as he rounded the banister on the second floor landing, and was forgotten by the time his feet touched the ground floor, sounds of murmured conversation drifting up to him from the front entrance foyer.

“Good night, professor,” Max, the head of night security, called to him as he pushed through the tall wooden doors, hundreds of years old and burnished, rounded, and scarred by countless generations of students bustling through them.

“Night, Max,” Carvelli replied over his shoulder, hands thrust into his jacket pockets against the spring evening chill.

He traced his way through the streets, past a seemingly endless procession of humanity intent on getting to important destinations as quickly as possible. Garlic and basil drifted in the air, the distinctive pungent perfume like an olfactory advertisement for the small restaurants along the way that were already packed with diners, early birds who had hoped to beat the dinner rush. His mouth flooded at the aroma, the promise of tonight’s date tugging at his imagination, hungry for food and then hours of athletic frolicking with a young lady a third his age. He grinned to himself as he walked, and an old woman carrying two faded cloth shopping bags eyed him distrustfully, as though he was some kind of lunatic, which he supposed some would argue he was. Eight blocks from the university he turned the corner onto his street, the apartment only a few hundred yards further. He dodged the refuse bins that his neighbors had put out for collection the following day, holding his breath as he moved past the containers – an automatic response from his childhood, now almost unconscious from years of conditioning.

At his building, he looked around before unlocking the front door, and then mounted the stairs to his third-story
pied-a-terre
, relieved to finally be home.

On the landing, a man in a sharp business suit descended from the floor above him – a visitor, not one of his neighbors – and Carvelli was raising his keys when the man spun and drove a syringe into the back of his neck. He felt a stab of pain and cried out, but the man’s black-gloved hand had clamped over his mouth, muffling it, even as another man came running up the stairs from the second floor.

The dark passageway blurred as a sensation like floating weightlessly swept through his limbs, and then everything dimmed before it went dark.

When Carvelli came to, he was sitting in his dining room, his arms bound behind him with some sort of soft fabric – maybe a necktie, he thought, as he fought to regain full awareness. His assailant was standing by the table, arms folded across his chest, studying him impassively, his eyes dead as a shark’s.

“My wallet’s in my jacket. I don’t have anything of value other than the cash and credit cards,” Carvelli said, his words sounding slurred to his ear, probably the result of the drug.

“That’s fine. Very good. But we’re not here to rob you, professor,” the man said in a surprisingly feminine voice, the tone soft, his consonants sibilant with a latent lisp. “We’re here to discuss your meeting schedule.”

Carvelli’s eyes darted from the man to his companion by the window, the curtains drawn, the only illumination in the room provided by the overhead lamp. “I…I don’t understand.”

“Perhaps. But I want you to think. Who were you supposed to meet with this week?”

“Meet? What do you mean, meet? Nobody. I don’t know what you’re asking.”

The two men exchanged a glance that chilled Carvelli’s blood, and his pulse quickened as he read the intent in their expressions.

“Really. I don’t understand the question. I’m not trying to be difficult,” he tried again. This was some sort of mistake. It had to be. Why were two thugs mugging him in his own house, talking in riddles?

“Are you quite sure, professor? Or should I say, doctor? That’s right. We know all about you. Now let’s try again. Did you receive any calls over the last week? Maybe from a foreigner asking questions, or wanting to meet?”

“A foreigner? I really have no idea what the hell you’re talking about. Who are you people? What do you want?”

His interrogator shook his head, a humorless smile playing over his face, a cold thing at home in a graveyard or a slaughterhouse, cruel, no amusement in it.

“I’m afraid it’s not quite that easy, professor.”

Carvelli’s body was found two days later. When the police broke into the apartment it had already begun decomposing, aided by the warm water in the bathtub the professor had decided to make his final resting place. Long slashes on each arm had stained the water red, and a hastily scrawled note on the kitchen table explained his inability to go on anymore in the face of the insurmountable depression he’d been battling for months.

The postmortem was perfunctory, no evidence of foul play apparent. The funeral service filled one of the larger cathedrals, the revered man honored by his friends, co-workers and students, as well as a
Who’s Who
of dignitaries from the government and pharmaceutical industries. Everyone agreed that it was a shame such a brilliant mind had decided that the cold embrace of death was preferable to one more day on the planet, but then it was impossible to predict these things, and it was best to remember his notable accomplishments and contributions to the human condition rather than dwell on the manner of his passing.

Two days later an impassioned editorial from the nation’s highest medical authority argued for greater investment in mental health, using the professor’s last act as a cautionary tale about the risks in ignoring a problem that could affect anyone, at any time.

It was, as were all such editorials, routinely ignored by a populace weary of being taxed to death by an administration as profligate in its waste as it was larcenous in its diversion of funds to cronies and pet causes.

A week later, the incident had been forgotten, and another scandal involving a porn starlet and the president occupied the front page, the passing of an academic lacking the necessary weight to warrant a more than transient position in the news.

FOUR

Flight Redux

Jeffrey’s remaining time at the office was a blur of apologies to his coworkers and condolences from the law firm as he scrambled to hand his work off to others in preparation for catching a plane. This was one of the times that his eidetic memory came in handy – he had photographic recall of every document and detail that he had in process, and so was able to delegate the minutiae on the most important projects with digital efficiency. It had been a part of him since birth, and he’d long ago moved from embarrassment over what he viewed as his freakish gift to acceptance. But he still didn’t share the fact that he could recall everything he memorized to the tiniest detail, preferring to avoid calling attention to himself – although he’d won his fair share of bar bets during his college days using it to his advantage.

Becky had told him that a memorial service was planned for the following day, graciously organized by Keith’s employer, the equivalent of a funeral when there was no body to inter. He’d checked flights and could get an afternoon non-stop if he hustled. She’d offered to postpone the service for another day, but Jeffrey, in a state of shock and operating on automatic pilot, had assured her that he could make it.

He ground to a halt after twenty minutes of triage on his open files. Realizing that he’d done all he could, he opened an internet browser and pulled up the news coverage on the crash. The accounts were interchangeable, long on speculation but bereft of facts. What he learned was that the plane had taken off on time, climbed per the flight plan, that the communications with the tower were routine, and that sixteen miles east of Long Island the plane disappeared, with no warning or hint of anything amiss. A big weather front had been pounding the coast, but the jet had been above the clouds by the time it dropped out of the sky. Theories abounded, but they were nothing more than hurried ad hoc rationalizations for a mystery. The plain truth was that nobody knew why the plane exploded – and that it had exploded was now confirmed by the Coast Guard and search boats, which had found the debris.

He shut down his computer and estimated his timing. He’d have to leave the bike there and take a cab home, spend no more than ten minutes packing an overnight bag, and then haul ass to the airport if he was going to make it onboard. With the security screening procedures, it was an easy two-hour delay once at the airport, and he was quite sure that after a plane had gone down for no good reason the mood wouldn’t be relaxed.

Jeffrey threw three fat files into his satchel, usually left in the office on bicycle days, and then pulled on his backpack. With a final glance around his modest space he moved to the door and then stopped, a sudden bout of dizziness throwing him momentarily off-balance. He took several deep breaths and the disequilibrium subsided – probably a combination of shock and a blood sugar crash from the commute; he’d skipped his post-ride breakfast bar, Becky’s call having thrown his morning into disarray.

One of the senior partners met him in the hallway, a somber expression on his wizened face, his polka-dotted red bow tie a jaunty nod at what passed for creativity in the stodgy offices, and stopped in front of Jeffrey, managing to block the way with his small, wiry frame.

“Jeffrey. I’m so sorry. I wanted to tell you in person – you have the full support of the firm. Take as much time as you need,” he said, his eyes revealing the lie as his lips formed the words. Every day Jeffrey wasn’t working, every hour, a client would go unbilled, and money made the legal mare run. It was the lifeblood of all firms. Billable hours. A grieving sibling out of the office for days, or God forbid, a whole week, was cataclysmic. Clients paid through the nose for Jeffrey’s expertise because they expected timely results, not excuses for non-performance laced with personal problems.