Greg Bear - Mariposa

"I hope you've had time to read the documents your young man recovered for you."

"Who is this?"

"Someone is coming to visit, Mrs. Rose." The voice repeated her name as it had the first time-exactly as it had the first time. "Please don't get alarmed. He's behaving erratically, which is understandable, under the circumstances. But he means well. Please be careful."

"You can't-"

The connection ended with a swift growl-rising-to musical tone that indicated somewhere along the path, an EPR phone was involved-very expensive, limited to big corporations and just a few government agencies.

She replaced the handset in its charging cradle.

The doorbell rang. She jumped.

Nobody was supposed to be able to do that without warning, either.

She slipped the zip pages into a drawer, then thought for a moment, brow still furrowed. Waited to see how long it took whoever was there to ring for a second time.

Ten seconds.

Drawing herself straight, she went to answer.

A gray-haired man in a tweed coat stood in the hall, stooped from worry and exhaustion. He tried to smile, then twitched a look over his shoulder. Baumann usually kept watch this time of the evening at the end of the hall, near the elevator.

He wasn't there.

The gray-haired man withdrew a 9 mm Luger from an inside pocket and pointed it in her general direction, with his finger on the trigger. The safety catch on the left was off. He wobbled the barrel, uncertain what to do next.

Amateurs with guns scared the hell out of her.

"My name is Dr. Terence Plover," he said.

Rebecca had to reassure him before he fired a round out of panic-or several rounds. She stood back, smiled, and said, "Come on in, Dr. Plover. I've been told to expect you. The place is a bit of a mess."

Plover sat in the corner chair beside the counter of the kitchenette, the single pole lamp behind him and his face in shadow.

The barrel of the Luger poked into the cone of light.

He sounded asthmatic. He might be ill. Or just scared out of his wits. "Thank you for meeting with me," he said. "I've been told you have useful connections."

"Blake set this up?" Rebecca asked.

"Who is that?" Plover asked.

"Quinn's attorney."

"He had nothing to do with this."

The silence lengthened.

"My wife has been murdered," Plover said, eyes wandering. "She was very dear to me, and very important. A brilliant woman, too humble… but brilliant. I hope you understand my precautions." He tapped the Luger with one finger. "This belonged to my grandfather. He took it from a German soldier who no longer needed it. It was the only gun I had access to when I left Bethesda."

"I've read some of your wife's documents," Rebecca said. "Quinn came to your clinic for treatment. Nathaniel Trace was one of your patients after that. And then-me."

"I don't remember your face, but I remember your name. I didn't meet with you personally. Sorry. I hope we were able to give you some relief."

"It was a short visit. But yes, it helped. So far."

"I have since given up my practice, my clinic, my companies. My wife and I moved… After I learned what Quinn was involved in."

"Murder?"

"No, before."

"And that was…?"

Plover looked dismayed. "You were given his confession!"

"The sound file?"

"I thought you'd have delivered it to the president by now."

"It's corrupted. I have someone working to recover it."

Plover looked even more distressed. "This is awful," he said. "I wanted it to be over. He found our home. And he killed my wife, I'm sure of it. He would have killed me… had I been there."

"Who?"

"I made a financial bargain. A devil's bargain," Plover said, and leaned back, pointing the Luger on a wavering line through her chest, her pelvis, her arm. "A bargain with a man who has no mercy, if you cause him trouble-or put his plans in jeopardy."

"I'm listening," Rebecca said.

Plover shook his head, not yet. "As one of my patients, I also came here to warn you. I'd like to warn all my patients, but that isn't going to be possible. Someone arranged this for me. The Quiet Man."

"The voice on the phone."

"Yes."

"Go on."

"Seroprixoline. Madeline first learned about it in JAMA, Journal of the American Medical Association. It was being used in an experimental program to treat cancer. It's a tightly bound complex of small proteins-no need to bore you with the structural details. It helps reprogram targeted cells. Removes defects caused by environmental conditioning." He swallowed. "Crucial for bringing a cancer under control."

"And what was your contribution?"

"I theorized that seroprixoline might be useful to reverse psychological conditions induced by constant or catastrophic stress. Inappropriate response leads a traumatized patient down a rutted path of behaviors. Conditioned traits sum to many varieties of what we call post-traumatic stress disorder. PTSD. But you know that-personally."

"And you thought you could use this drug right away-on patients?"

"No. I searched for corporate sponsors. Hundreds of thousands of our soldiers have returned from combat situations with PTSD. Treating their symptoms effectively would be a godsend to those soldiers and their families."

"So you approached Axel Price."

That wasn't much of a leap at this point, but just mentioning the name gave Rebecca chills.

A list.

No mercy.

Plover lowered the gun and dropped his gaze as if resigned. "He has money, his corporation has divisions around the world. He supplies universal logistics for our troops. He sells his services to nearly every branch of our government, federal and state. Tens of thousands of his employees work not just overseas, but throughout the government-from the White House to the Pentagon… He misses no tricks-leases out a network of funeral facilities that process soldiers when they're shipped home… in boxes, under flags, as heroes. Boot camp to grave.

"In the beginning, I thought it was a perfect match. Not only a humanitarian result, but a gold-plated investment model. Great sums of money to be made. I showed Price the results in our animal studies-very impressive. He saw I was given more than sufficient research funds. The program was accelerated.

"Then… Price brought me the vice president. He told me the animal results were so good that human trials were in order. And this was an emergency. People were willing to pay very well, and as it would be done in complete secrecy, there would be no risk to me, professionally.

"The results for the vice president were excellent, a great relief to both Madeline and to me. Price was pleased. Using Quinn's results, I made adjustments in dosage. We continued animal trials, and I even believed we might begin human trials soon."

He looked at her as if beseeching her understanding.

"But just weeks after that, before I was ready, Price brought in seven more men-computer programmers who worked for him. Subcontractors. They had suffered through a horrible incident in Arabia… Arabia Deserta. He wouldn't take no for an answer, said they were absolutely essential to him.

"I treated them, as well-using the reduced dosage. They all experienced complete elimination of symptoms. Price then suggested that we open our doors to a larger group of clients-mostly rich families whose sons had gone to war. He was eager to start making this project earn money. I could hardly refuse him. We treated dozens. I don't know how, but you became part of that larger group.

"Later, after the vice president killed his wife-when it was obvious Price was going to clean up the mess any way he could-a courier came to me, recommended by the Quiet Man. Somehow, the Quiet Man knew about the president's request for your help."