Snakes and Ladders Page 17

  “No problem.”

  “You okay?”

  There was a dangerous pause. “I said no problem.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Mitchell raised his bottle to Millard again, this time in a toast. “To goals.”

  He took a swig of the beer and, with Millard’s glare boring into his back, left the kitchen, humming.

  41

  The next morning Lizzy was feeling better. Her leg was less swollen and she had an easier time walking. She was also desperate to get out of the hotel room. They managed to find a non-chain restaurant for breakfast and shared a platter of bagels, lox, cream cheese, sliced red onions, and capers.

  When they were done, Owen flagged down the server for their check while Lizzy drained the last of her fresh-squeezed orange juice from her glass.

  “Can we do something other than going back to the hotel?” she asked. “I have cabin fever.”

  Owen patted his mouth with his napkin. “I’ve been thinking about that. I think it would be a good idea to get on the road.”

  She looked resigned. “It’s not really what I had in mind, but—okay. Where are we going to go?”

  “Back to Philly.”

  “Really?” asked Lizzy cautiously.

  “You want to go back to Pennsylvania, right?”

  “Yes, but I’ve been saying that for weeks. I thought you were worried about going back.”

  “Philadelphia’s a big city, and like Philip said, we can likely hide as effectively from Louise Mortensen and George Millard there as anywhere. Easier, because it’s our home turf.”

  “And you can see your mom,” said Lizzy, her voice excited.

  “Yes, that’s another benefit.”

  Lizzy looked at Owen and tried to dial back her enthusiasm. “But that’s not the main reason …?”

  Owen ran his hand over his head. “Pumpkin, I started thinking about where else we could go—places even further away from Philly than we are now—and then I started imagining what it would be like. To show up in San Diego or San Francisco or Seattle and not know anyone. I realized that if it hadn’t been for Philip—if you hadn’t found Philip—we’d have been in a world of trouble. He’s the one who thought to go back to the Needle and found the bucket, the one who found the tracking devices on the cars, the one who kept George Millard from following us. And the chances of finding another Philip in San Diego or San Francisco or Seattle are pretty much nil. We can’t stay in Sedona and let him babysit us. If we were in Philly, we’d have more resources to call on. I’m not talking about getting Andy or Ruby involved again, but there are other resources I could call on if we were home—medical colleagues, university colleagues, even legal resources.” He ran his hand over his head again. “If I’m on my home turf, I’ll feel less helpless than I do here. And I can’t afford to be helpless in our situation.”

  Lizzy nodded. “Neither of us can.”

  Owen smiled. “‘Helpless’ is not a word I would ever think to associate with you.”

  The server dropped the check at the table, and Owen counted out some bills and put them under the salt shaker.

  “What do you think about going back home, Pumpkin?”

  “That’s what I’ve been wanting to do all along. Living out here like we’re on some sort of multimonth vacation while Andy and Ruby are looking over their shoulders doesn’t seem right.”

  “Should we start today?” he asked.

  “Might as well,” she said, her voice excited again.

  Owen pushed himself to his feet and stepped to Lizzy’s chair to give her a hand up. “You know one thing I’m looking forward to?”

  She pulled herself up and tested her weight on her injured leg. “What’s that?”

  “Not having to live out of a suitcase.”

  She nodded. “Yeah, I can agree with that.”

  “What are you looking forward to?” he asked.

  She considered as she slung her knapsack over her shoulder. “Sleeping in my own bed.”

  Owen followed Lizzy out to the car and helped her into the passenger seat. When he got settled in the driver’s seat, he asked, somewhat tentatively, “Where’s your own bed?”

  “What?”

  “If we’re going to sell the Parkesburg house, where would you consider ‘your own bed’?”

  She smiled. “Lansdowne?”

  Lansdowne was where Owen’s home was. He smiled back. “That sounds good to me, Pumpkin.” He was still smiling when they got back to the hotel to pack.

  42

  Mitchell didn’t see Louise again until late the next evening. He had spent the day wandering the house restlessly, too wound up to sit down to a book or a movie in the theater in the basement, too distracted to look for occupation elsewhere.

  They ate dinner together. Mitchell was gratified to realize that Millard had never eaten dinner in the dining room with Louise, at least during the time Mitchell had been staying in Pocopson.

  As they were finishing the meal, Mitchell said, “It would be nice to sit by the fire in the library for a while.”

  Louise opened her mouth to respond, and Mitchell could tell that her first reaction was to decline, but then she seemed to reconsider. “Yes,” she said, “it would be a nice evening for that. But can we sit in my study instead?”

  “Of course.”

  When they reached the room, Louise went to a tray of a few bottles and crystal glasses on a side table. “I’m having a sherry. Would you like something?”

  “I’ll have a sherry also.”

  Louise smiled politely. “You don’t have to have sherry, Mitchell. Would you like something different?”

  “No, I’d like sherry.”

  “All right.” She poured two glasses and gave one to him.

  He raised his glass. “To goals.”

  After an almost imperceptible pause, she raised her own glass. “To goals.”

  Mitchell clicked on the gas fireplace and they each took one of the wing chairs facing it. Louise looked into the flames for a moment, sipping her drink, then said, “Would you mind if I looked through some papers? I have a meeting with some colleagues from Switzerland tomorrow, and I’m hoping to make it an early night tonight.”

  “Certainly.”

  Louise went to the leather bag that sat on her desk and drew out a manila folder. She returned to her chair, took another sip of sherry, and opened the folder in her lap.

  “What’s the meeting about?” asked Mitchell.

  “They have some interesting insights into the genetic basis for infertility, and some really groundbreaking ideas about how that could be reversed in some women.”

  “Is it …” Mitchell’s voice trailed off, and Louise looked up at him expectantly. “Is it about creating more children with … special talents?”

  “No. Just your everyday babies.”

  “And you care about that?”

  Louise looked surprised. “Of course.”

  “Why? When you have done so much more?”

  She considered the question, then said, “Many of the women who come to Vivantem have been to a number of other doctors, have tried a number of other approaches. Often Vivantem succeeds in achieving a successful pregnancy where others have been unable to. I consider that a source of great professional pride.”

  “Do you ever stay in touch with the children?”

  “No. Gerard did sometimes.” She took another sip of sherry and stared into the dancing flames.

  “But you are in touch with some of them,” he said, smiling tentatively.

  “Yes,” she said vaguely, then roused herself as she took his meaning. “Yes, I am.” She smiled at him. “Only the most extraordinary ones.”

  He mentally reached out to probe her thoughts, but they were, as always, inaccessible to him.

  He asked her about the work of her Swiss colleagues, and Louise launched into an explanation, becoming more animated as she spoke. Although it was clear that she was simplifying for his benefit, he lost the thread of the
conversation pretty quickly, but he enjoyed it nonetheless.

  In fact, there was little not to like about the evening. Here he was, sitting in an impressive home in front of a fire, sipping after-dinner drinks with a beautiful woman. The home wasn’t his—that would have made the scene perfect—but the more he was able to help Louise toward her goals, the more he would become a true partner in all those goals entailed.

  And in a way his inability to read Louise’s thoughts was a relief, especially when compared to dealing with the distasteful, low-brow mental gyrations of girls like the one at the whiskey tasting. This evening with Louise was how normal people got to know each other—not by an illicit probing of thoughts, but through conversation, through shared interests and shared efforts.

  “I’m going to have a little more sherry,” said Louise, standing. “Would you like a top-off?”

  “Yes, thank you.” He handed her his glass.

  Louise crossed the room to the side table. Mitchell stood and followed her. He could hear the gurgle of sherry as she poured, the clink of the crystal stopper dropping into the mouth of the decanter.

  As she picked up the glasses, he reached out and lightly laid a hand on each of her hips. She gasped and whirled around, as if he had grabbed her.

  He stepped back. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Some of the sherry had sloshed onto the cuffs of her blouse, a blood-brown stain on the beige silk. She turned to set the glasses down, their bases clattering briefly on the tabletop. “I need to clean this up,” she said, her voice unsteady. She crossed to the door quickly and turned in the direction of the kitchen.

  Mitchell went to the window, his hands stuffed into his pockets, his face red. Perhaps he had underestimated the value of being able to see Louise’s thoughts.

  She was back in a few minutes, a white linen napkin gripped in her hands. She stayed by the door.

  “Mitchell, I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression about my intent,” she said, a little more loudly than the distance required. “Not only am I ridiculously old for you—to say I’m old enough to be your mother would be a gross understatement—but Gerard has only been gone a few months. If I misinterpreted your intent, I apologize,” she continued. “This is a stressful time. My nerves are on a bit of a hair trigger.”

  Mitchell shrugged. “It’s no problem, Louise. I think you’re a beautiful woman, and you look much younger than you are, but of course I understand that you’re still in mourning for Gerard. My mistake.”

  Louise took a step into the room, folded the napkin, and placed it on a table. “I would have thought—” she began, then stopped. “Does your ability to read minds—” She stopped again. “Have you sensed something from me that led you to …” Her voice trailed off.

  “You’re a hard woman to read, Louise,” he replied. “Maybe other people have told you that, but I can confirm that it’s true.” He gave her a strained smile.

  “Yes, I have heard that before.” She paused. “How about George? Can you read George’s thoughts?”

  “I can’t read George because he’s actively blocking me. It’s difficult unless someone wants me to do it, or they’re unaware that I’m trying.”

  “How about Juana?”

  “Yes, I can see her thoughts very plainly.”

  “The fact that she speaks a different language isn’t a problem?”

  “When I perceive her thoughts, I’m picking up images and concepts, not words.”

  “Can you give me an example?”

  “Sure. She’s concerned about her son. He’s been planning to go to DVCC in the fall, but he’s fallen in with a group of guys she thinks are going to get him in trouble. He’s always said he wanted to live in California, and she’s wondering if she should move them there, and wonders what the residency requirements are for going to a state school there. She also really likes her new car. A Ford Taurus. Yesterday she was thinking—”

  Louise held up her hand with a smile that this time was more pleased than polite. “That’s enough. Very impressive, Mitchell.”

  She resumed her seat in front of the fire and gestured him into the other one. She looked into the flames for a moment, then turned to him.

  “Mitchell, I’d like you to go to Sedona. We need to locate Elizabeth Ballard and Owen McNally—George can give you the background. I think it will be difficult for George to find out where they’ve gone, but they made an acquaintance while they were there—a man named Philip Castillo—and perhaps you could find out from him.”

  Mitchell sat forward. “I’d be happy to do that.”

  “I don’t know how much this man knows about Ballard and McNally’s background, but if he does know about the Vivantem connection, he may have seen the video from the news conference. You were on camera so briefly that it would be hard for someone to identify you based on that, but it can’t hurt to change your appearance a bit. But even if he does recognize you and lets them know you’re in Sedona, I can’t see that it will make much difference—they already know, or must suspect, that we’re looking for them.”

  He nodded, “Yes, that all makes sense.” He paused. “Do you care what happens to Castillo?”

  She turned back to the fire. Half a minute ticked by. Then she turned again to Mitchell. “I would much prefer that he not even know that we are trying to get the information from him, but if he does know, and if that knowledge puts us in jeopardy, then you and George can do whatever you need to do to make sure that the situation doesn’t blow up.”

  Mitchell nodded solemnly.

  “In case you do need to use … the crush, I can show you how to inject yourself. I’ll package the syringe and vial so it looks like insulin, in case there are any questions from airport security. I’ll also give you something to give to Castillo to lower his defenses. It would help you get past any mental barriers he puts up if he’s trying to withhold information from you.” She brightened. “We can try it out on George.”

  Mitchell nodded again, trying to suppress a gleeful smile.

  She stood, and he stood as well.

  “I’d like you to go out there as soon as possible. Castillo runs a sort of consulting business, so it should be easy to arrange to talk with him, posing as a client.”

  “I’m glad to finally be doing something useful,” said Mitchell.

  “I’m lucky to have you here to help me,” said Louise.

  The praise sounded a bit awkward, but he flushed with pride.

  She held out her hand. “Thank you, Mitchell.”

  He took her hand. “It’s my pleasure, Louise.”

  43

  The next morning, Millard, Louise, and Mitchell stood in Louise’s study, three points on an equilateral triangle. On a table in the center of the room was a small paper cup containing a white pill.

  “What is it?” Millard asked warily.

  “A variant of flunitrazepam.”

  “Flunitrazepam? Why have I heard of that?”

  “You may have heard it referred to as Rohypnol.”

  “The date rape drug?” asked Millard, his eyebrows arching.

  “Well … yes.”

  Millard shook his head. “Fantastic.”

  “It’s also used as a muscle relaxant and to reduce anxiety.”

  “Well, that will be handy,” said George caustically. He glared at both of them. “You better not make me do anything foolish.”

  “I’m not accustomed to making my test subjects do anything foolish,” replied Louise tartly. She crossed to the liquor bottles on the side table. “What did you say he drank?”

  “Knob Creek bourbon,” said Millard.

  She scanned the bottles. “I don’t have that. Maybe in Gerard’s study—”

  Millard headed for the door. “I doubt he’s going to have Knob Creek, but I’ll check.”

  He was back in a moment with a bottle of Blanton’s. “This is the closest I could find, although it seems like a shame to spoil it.”

  “The dr
ug should be tasteless and odorless, but I want to put it in something as close to what he’s likely to drink as possible so you can confirm that’s the case.” She took the bottle from George and poured some of the bourbon into a heavy crystal tumbler. She held the glass out to him. “Do you want to taste it before I put the drug in, as a point of comparison?”

  “Sure.” He took a sip and handed the glass back to Louise, then pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Let me just turn the ringer off in case I get a call while I’m out … so to speak.”

  Louise dropped the pill from the paper cup into the glass, swirled the liquid for a few moments, then handed the glass to George. “Drink up.”

  An hour later, Millard stood in the pantry-cum-security center, feeling a little lightheaded but otherwise fine. Neither Louise nor Mitchell showed up on any of the monitors, which probably meant that she had gone to her Center City lab and that he was upstairs, where there were no cameras installed.

  He tapped some commands into the computer that controlled the security system, and brought up the video recording he had made of the little test with the date rape drug. He was damned if he was going to let someone drug him without checking on what they did while he was out. The system didn’t record sound, but he had turned on the voice recorder on his cell phone right before he had taken the pill and was able to roughly sync the audio and the video.

  After he had tossed back the glass of bourbon—he had been able to confirm for Louise that the drug didn’t affect the taste—Louise had him sit down. She stood next to him, watching him with interest. Mitchell sat on the corner of the desk, swinging his leg. God, the guy was annoying.

  It was shocking how quickly the drug took effect: one second he was looking understandably irritated and the next his face had cleared of any emotion and his eyes held only a frightening blankness.

  Louise took his pulse, then bent down to look directly into his face.