Michael Palmer - The fifth vial

"Do the police know it's arson?"

"Clumsy arson, they're calling it. Apparently they found a gas can."

"That would be just a bit suspicious," Ben said, wondering if the response meant the people in and around the van knew he wasn't just a burglar, or if they were merely taking stringent precautions. Either way, when he found the photo of Lonnie Durkin, he knew he simply should have tiptoed out of the garage and driven off.

Even in the stable cocoon of his Range Rover, there wouldn't have been enough Tylenol and Motrin in the state to enable Ben to drive the sixteen hundred miles from Chicago to Conda, Idaho. The town was just north of Soda Springs, which was fifty-seven miles south and east of Pocatello, which was in the southeast corner of the state, not a hundred miles from both Wyoming and Utah. Instead, he flew into Pocatello via Minneapolis and rented a Blazer.

The money from Organ Guard had already melted like spring snow, and his bills remained virtually unchanged — at least until the mailman's next delivery. Perhaps when he got back to Chicago, he would put some sort of ad in one of the local papers. For the moment, though, he was where he should be, doing something that, in truth, he wanted to do.

Throughout the trip, he continued to wonder why the inventor of the elastic rib belt had never been awarded a Nobel prize. His headache had become manageable, and his nostrils had actually begun to admit some air. But the rib fracture was something else again. Dr. Banks had assured him that only one rib was cracked, and that there was no displacement of either of the two pieces, but after almost six days, Ben still refused to believe it. Even with the miraculous rib belt strapped on, most movements were still broadcast to his pain center in Dolby Surround Sound, but without the elastic splint, even shallow breaths were a challenge.

No matter what the pain, though, it did not measure up to the emotional ache at the prospect of having to sit with a mother and father and tell them that their son was dead. Not wanting to upset Lonnie Durkin's family for too long, but also unwilling simply to show up unannounced at Little Farm, Ben called from the airport in Pocatello. Lonnie's mother, Karen, did not press him to say over the phone that her son was dead, but it was clear to Ben that in her heart, she knew. They set a time when he would meet with her and her husband, and she gave him directions to their farm. Then, after a brief stop in Soda Springs to compose himself, take a few Motrin, register at the Hooper Springs bed-and-breakfast, and pass some time joylessly viewing the impressive geyser at Hooper Springs Park, Ben turned onto Route 34 and drove north to the hamlet of Conda.

Sleepy, peaceful, and very small, Conda reminded him eerily of Curtisville, Florida, home of Schyler Gaines and his gas station. He tried to imagine the massive Adventurer, with Vincent at the wheel and Connie perched on the throne-like passenger seat, gliding through the town like a hungry great white on a reef, searching for Pugsley Hill Road and the man whose cells, they somehow knew, were a near-perfect match for those of a person twenty-five hundred miles away.

Karen Durkin's directions brought Ben onto a long, dry dirt road that knifed through a vast tableland of grain fields. He wondered where, in the flatness, Pugsley Hill could possibly be. After nearly two miles, the fields gave way to corrals, stables, and some horses. Beyond the corrals was a large, rust-red barn, and across from that a prim, white two-story home, perched on a modest rise. A wooden sign arching over the drive announced it to be Little Farm.

Karen Durkin and her husband, Ray, were waiting anxiously on their narrow front porch. Both were in their fifties, but might have been a decade older. Their faces were weathered and honest, and spoke of years of hard work in an often harsh and unpredictable profession. Ray's handshake was firm and his hands callused, but the soft sadness in his eyes was inestimable.

"Lonnie's dead?" he asked before they had even entered the house.

Ben nodded.

"I'm truly sorry," he managed.

Karen led them into a bright, homey kitchen, with print curtains and a worn, round oak table that was almost certainly handmade. He paused by the door to scratch the family dog behind the ear.

"That's Joshua," Karen said.

"A black-and-white pit bull," Ben replied. "He's just beautiful."

"Thanks. He's our second one. Just turned four. Woody, our first one, lived to be sixteen. Lonnie named them both. Totally gentle and totally loyal. Maybe if Joshua had been with Lonnie that day — "

She stopped speaking and dabbed at her tears with a tissue.

Off to one corner of the kitchen was a built-in desk, and on it were several framed photos of a young boy, and one of a young man. All of them, Ben felt fairly certain, were of Lonnie.

"He was always a very good boy," Karen said, after she had placed mugs of coffee and a platter of brownies on the table. "They said the cord was around his neck in the womb, and he didn't get enough oxygen to his brain, so he wasn't much in school. But he loved animals and all the people who work on the farm loved him."

Ben flashed on Madame Sonja's explanation for making two sets of drawings. One was clearly the Lonnie depicted in his photographs. Was the other the man he might have become? He wondered that as he went through the details of Lonnie's death. There seemed no need to expose them to the coroner's photos and Madame Sonja's renderings unless, of course, they asked to see them.

"Here are the numbers of the police in Fort Pierce and Dr. Woyczek, the medical examiner. They'll tell you whether or not you will have to identify him in person, or whether you can send down something with his fingerprints on it and possibly some dental records. The state police here should be able to help you deal with them, and whatever mortician you choose should be able to help you out, too — especially in making arrangements to bring Lonnie's body back."

"I told you, Karen," Ray said stonily. "I told you he was dead."

"I'm just glad he didn't suffer none," his wife replied. "Mr. Callahan, I think we both want to know everything you can tell us about how our son ended up in Florida, and who might have done this to him."

"I think I know why, in a general sense, and even how, but as for who, and why specifically Lonnie, well, believe it or not, you might help me answer that question."

Over the next hour, with very little interruption from the Durkins, Ben recounted his involvement from the first meeting with Alice Gustafson through his decision to visit Conda and personally deliver the sad news of Lonnie's death.

"So that's how you got them black eyes," Ray, clearly impressed, said when he had finished.

"It was kind of you not to ask before. Believe it or not, I still think I got the best of him."

"You haven't told us why these people chose our Lonnie," Karen said.

"That's because I don't know. I can tell you this much — it makes no sense that they would have come all the way up here for Lonnie unless they already knew his tissue type."

"But how would they get that?"

"There's only one way — through a blood test."

"Except he never had that sort of test."

"Has he had any blood test at all?"

The Durkins exchanged inquiring looks. "Two years ago," Karen said suddenly.

"When he had those dizzy spells," Ray added. "Dr. Christiansen ordered them."

"Do you think he would speak with me?" Ben asked.

"She," Karen said. "Dr. Christiansen is a lady doctor. I would think so — especially if I come into Soda Springs with you."

"Can we call her today?"

"I don't see why not. She's a very nice doctor."

"Even I go to her," Ray said proudly.

"Hopefully, after I speak with her, she'll agree to see you without us. I don't mind driving down to Soda Springs if I have to, but with what you've told us today, we have quite a bit to do."