Jeff Buick - Lethal Dose

The CEO of Veritas Pharmaceutical rose from his desk and stood by the bank of windows, looking across downtown Richmond. He stared at the Coliseum a few blocks south. The structure had always reminded him of an alien spacecraft anchored to a matching landing pad. It was the venue where Elvis played to four sellout crowds and the same arena in which Richmond City Council, in all their infinite wisdom, had voted to prohibit the Grateful Dead from performing. Frank Zappa, yes, the Grateful Dead, no. God, life was strange.

It was the small stuff that could hurt you, Andrews thought as he released the Coliseum from his gaze and scanned across the city. Sometimes the best-laid plans were tripped up by the most inconsequential things. Trivial idiosyncrasies that came back to bite you in the ass when you were least expecting it. Albert Rousseau was a prime example. His death had been ruled an accident, the insurance company had agreed to that and

had paid, and the city had released an order to allow reconstruction of the town-house unit destroyed by the explosion. But out of nowhere somebody from Seattle comes sniffing around, asking questions about a murdered man. He didn’t like this. He didn’t like this at all.

Gordon was out in the field working the feller-buncher, a machine designed to topple the timber and strip the branches, when a message from his receptionist came through on his two-way radio. There was a call waiting that could be transferred to his cell phone. He distanced himself from the machine, with its noisy grinders and hydraulics, and found a quiet spot of forest. He used the radio to ask his receptionist to put the call through. Jennifer Pearce’s voice came across the line.

“Thanks again for letting me sleep on your couch the other day,” he said, relaxing back into a Ponderosa pine. The bark tickled his back, and he liked the feeling.

“I hardly let you,” she said. “Two songs and you were out cold. I just covered you up with a blanket. Did anyone ever tell you that you snore?”

“Yeah,” he said sheepishly. “I’ve been told. How are things at work?”

“Difficult to concentrate. Can’t keep my mind on task. I keep wondering what’s really going on around here. And everyone is still depressed over what happened to Kenga. This isn’t a great place to be right now.”

“How’s the research coming along?”

She brightened. “That end of things is good. We’ve found a molecule that will bond to the membrane component. It’s a significant step in the right direction. About half my staff is at a different facility at White Oak Technology Park, and they’re concentrating on the new molecule. It’s a pain in the butt running between the two locations, but right now the progress is worth it. So work in itself is good.” She glanced about her office, the desk piled high with pharmaceutical and medical texts. Science magazines and periodicals filled with dissertations were stacked on the chairs usually reserved for visitors. She was onto something, and the research materials were taking over her office.

“I’m glad,” he said. “I know you take your research work seriously.”

“It saves lives, Gordon,” she said. “Or improves quality of life, all depending.”

“I wish everyone at Veritas had the same ethics you have, Jennifer,” Gordon said, staring at the sky and feeling a warm sensation in his eyes. “Billy would be out here with me, cutting trees and bitching about the beer at the pub being warm.”

“You miss him,” she said. Her voice was soft and understanding. “That’s natural, Gordon.”

“Yeah, I guess.” He lowered his line of vision to the forest and drank in the warmth of green and brown, framed by the brilliant blue sky. Moss clung to the sides of rotting stumps and tiny wildflowers peeked out from cracks in the mulch covering the forest floor. Birds chirped nearby and a squirrel squawked at him, irritated he’d chosen that particular tree to rest against. God, he loved the forest. And then it struck him. Jennifer Pearce didn’t have a reason to call. They had been talking for a couple of minutes about nothing in particular. She had just called to talk.

He closed his eyes and envisioned her face and her body. She was a strikingly beautiful woman, with soft eyes that spoke of a caring and loving nature. Her smile was warm and real, and her passion for the truth unmistakable. For a moment, he was close to her and could smell the faint caress of perfume she wore on her neck. Her hair was soft in his hands, and he slipped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her closer.

“Gordon? Gordon, are you still there?”

“Yeah, I’m here,” Gordon said, suddenly feeling like a schoolboy caught staring at the prettiest girl in class. “I must have missed what you said. Sorry.”

“That’s okay. I was just asking if you were thinking of coming back down to Richmond soon.”

Reality was back. “I guess that depends on what happens with Veritas. Right now I’m just waiting to hear back from Wes Connors. He’s in Carmel, digging up the real estate company that represented Albert Rousseau on his purchase.”

“Why is that important?” she asked.

“Albert would need the cash to close the deal. The possession date on the real estate deal will tell us where Albert was in the process of blackmailing Veritas-if in fact that’s what he was doing.”

“You’re pretty well convinced he was,” she said.

“Yeah, I am. I think someone at Veritas had him killed because he was threatening to go public with damaging information.”

“Well, the Richmond police don’t agree with you. His death has been officially ruled accidental. The city has just issued a permit for the contractors to start work on his town house. Four months with yellow tape around a bombed-out building. If I were his neighbors, I’d be pretty damned upset.”

Gordon was thoughtful. “Albert’s town house is still intact? The same as it was when he died?”

“I think so. There was a lot of talk about who was responsible for what. The insurance company and the gas company weren’t agreeing on things.”

“Go figure,” Gordon said. “Nobody wants to admit fault.”

“Something like that.” There was a voice in the background, and Jennifer said, “Sorry, Gordon, I’ve got to go. Small problem to take care of.”

“Okay. Can I call you at home? Later, maybe?”

“Sure,” she said. She sounded happy at the suggestion. “I’d like that.”

Gordon closed his cell phone and sat in silence. Jennifer Pearce. He had noticed her looks the moment he had pulled himself out from under the planer machine on her visit to the mill, but he hadn’t let his thoughts drift toward her as a woman he may be attracted to, not until today’s phone call. Was she interested in him? She’d asked if he was planning to visit Richmond again soon. And his suggestion that he call her later had met with a very positive response. Then again, maybe someone was in her office and she had to be polite. Who knew?

A wisp of a breeze rustled through the pines and he felt a touch of sadness lift from his heart. For the first time since Billy died all those months ago, he sensed happiness creeping back into his life. It was Jennifer Pearce. In some way, her presence in his life reassured him that things would get better, that laughter and love would return. There was a goodness in her heart that was reaching out to him, drawing him close to her. Yes, that was it. He felt closer to her than any other person in his life. She was physically distant, across the breadth of the continent, and they had never touched other than to shake hands, but he instinctively knew she was drawing him in to her. And he made a decision. He would not push her away, as he had done with so many other women in his life. He would let Jennifer Pearce getto know him. He would let her get close. If that was what she wanted.