Michael Palmer - A Heartbeat Away

Griff and Melvin followed her over to the framed picture of Angel Falls—the tallest waterfall in the world.

“Feng is wind, shui is water. It’s a Taoist explanation of nature that stresses the importance of energy flow. The simple idea of the science—and like most things Chinese, it can be examined on any number of levels—is that a clear energy flow improves fortune, health, and happiness.”

“Energy,” Griff said. “Got it.”

“For instance, this room is divided into zones. I can tell without a compass that this is the north wall of the office because of the water elements Chen has placed here.” She gripped the back of a narrow chair positioned directly beneath the framed picture and pulled it a few inches away from the wall. “This chair and the blue throw pillow on it feature the colors that best energize this zone.”

Griff pointed to the adjacent wall, which was also the entrance into the office.

“What zone is that?” he asked.

“That’s the east zone. The inside of the office door is painted green.”

“You know, I actually remember her saying that the color of her door helped her to think better,” Forbush said.

“No surprise. This area is characterized by the wood element. Green colors dominate and improve optimism, contentment, and spiritual growth.”

“I’ll bet you got an A in your course,” Griff said.

“Actually, I almost got kicked out. Dr. Huang, the instructor, said I needed to sit still during class or I couldn’t stay.”

Griff set his gloved hands on Angie’s shoulders and turned her to him.

“All interesting,” he said, “but I don’t see the relevance, and I’ve got a lab to get up and running.”

“We want to know where Sylvia might be, right?”

“If she’s still alive,” Forbush added.

“Well, the office layout and décor tell me that she adheres to at least some traditional Chinese beliefs.”

Angie turned to Chen’s desk and held up a framed five-by-seven photo.

“That’s Sylvia,” Griff said, believing he had answered the question Angie was about to ask. “Although I am sure it was taken some years ago.”

Instead, Angie pointed to the other woman in the photograph, an elderly Chinese woman dressed in a white floral-patterned blouse and black skirt.

“How about her?”

Griff shrugged.

“No idea.”

“It’s her mother,” Angie said. “Facial structure, eyes. I’m virtually sure of it.”

“So?”

Angie pulled the photograph out from the black frame and held it up so that Griff could see the date and time stamp the digital camera automatically applied to the print.

“This was taken four years ago.”

Griff shifted impatiently.

“Listen, Angie, I’m fascinated by all you’re saying, and I don’t want to sound rude, but we’ve got to focus on getting some experiments started. Where are you going with this?”

“If Chen is alive, I would bet dollars to donuts that she’s going to be near her mother.”

“That’s quite a leap from a painting and a chair. How could you conclude that?”

“Traditional values. The mother/daughter bond is strong in most cultures, but it’s especially so between Chinese women and their mothers.”

“Is that it?”

“Actually, no,” Angie said. “Listen, Griff, I know you guys are in a rush, but I think there’s something here.”

“Where?”

Angie summoned them across to the bookcase.

“The dominant element in the west zone is metal. Silver and gold colors and the metals themselves enhance this zone’s energy.”

Griff stooped to examine some of the titles.

“I don’t see how books like Pathogenesis in Clinical Virology would improve anybody’s health,” he said.

“Unless that person had just contracted Marburg,” Forbush quipped, laughing unself-consciously at his own dark humor.

Angie pulled out books from the bookcase, glanced quickly at the covers, and instead of shelving them, tossed them aside one by one.

“Hey, Ange, slow down. There might be something sharp that could puncture your suit. What are you looking for, anyway?”

“This!” Angie exclaimed, holding up a tall, thin volume with a colorful cover.

Griff read the title aloud.

“ The Power of Peach: Recipes Fit for Kings and Emperors. I don’t get it.”

“Me neither,” Forbush added.

“Given the other titles, and the relevance of almost all the books to Chen’s work, this one is out of place. There’s no other one like it here.”

“Go on,” Griff said, suddenly interested.

“The peach is symbolic of long life, and plays a significant role in feng shui.”

One by one, Angie turned the pages of the cookbook, fumbling because of her gloves. As she neared the middle, a trifold brochure slid out and fluttered to the floor. Angie picked it up with some difficulty, unfolded it to its full width, and held it up for Griff and Melvin to read.

“Riverside Nursing Home. And here’s a letter from them written three years ago thanking Dr. Chen for her inquiry.”

“What are you thinking?” Griff asked.

“I’m thinking Sylvia’s mother might well be a resident in this facility. And if Sylvia is still alive, she’s somewhere near this place, or at least she visits there.”

“How do we prove that?” Griff asked. “We don’t have phones or even Internet access unless we’re being monitored.”

“I wouldn’t try that anyway. Too dangerous. Especially if we’re the only ones who suspect this might be where Sylvia is. Until we know who Genesis is, and how they knew to blow up that helicopter, it’s unwise to trust anyone but ourselves. You two have to stay in this lab, but I don’t. Melvin, I need your help in sneaking me out of this place.”

“Your wish is my command,” Forbush replied. “Where to?”

“The nearest decent-sized airport.” She pointed to the address on the back page of the brochure. “I’m going to New York City. Chinatown, to be precise.”

With the bang of her gavel, Ursula Ellis called to order the first meeting of the newly formed United States House Special Committee on the Death Investigation of Senator Harlan Mackey. Ellis possessed profound knowledge of congressional history and could not recall an instance where a special committee resolution had been drafted and voted on in such a compressed timeline. Most unusual too, since President Allaire had endorsed the committee that could ultimately destroy him.

Ellis reflected on the formation of the special committee, and the moment when Allaire, in all his arrogance, agreed to allow it to happen. The president had returned to the House Chamber after a lengthy absence conferring with his cronies, his face drawn and the color of fog. The mood in the hall was bordering on hysteria. Some members of the legislative and judicial branches were demanding to see the video of Mackey’s death again, but as the presiding leader over nonlegislative House activities, Ellis acted within her authority to deny the request. The video had served its purpose, and to rebroadcast it would offer no gain. She had already gotten what she wanted. Jim Allaire was on the ropes.

“What are we going to do about this, Ursula?” Allaire had asked.

They sat facing each other behind the rostrum, Allaire in the vice president’s chair, and Ellis seated across from him in her own.

“Well, Mr. President, you’ll need to be more specific than that.”

“You know damn well what I’m talking about,” Allaire snapped.

On the House floor, a cordon of Secret Service agents, Sean O’Neil among them, blocked access to the rostrum and ensured a private exchange between the two adversaries.