Susan Smith - The Timer Game

‘Answers. You knew him personally, didn’t you? Eddie Loud.’

He gave her a long, measured look. ‘I think I’ll have a drink. May I get you something? Perhaps fresh papaya juice?’

‘Sounds wonderful.’

He went to the sideboard, glancing at the photograph of his daughter he kept in a small gilt frame. Taken years ago, it revealed a young woman with a strong jaw and merry eyes. She was lost in a corn maze, laughing, not sure which way led to the exit. It had been shot from above looking down, and the exit was within reach. She just couldn’t find it.

Losing her way seemed to have been a chronic problem. Sara had been a sophomore at Brandeis when she’d fallen in love with a foreign exchange student who police discovered was traveling with false papers and had a criminal record. He was deported and six weeks later, she’d dropped out of school and followed him to Central America. Warren sent a former Green Beret to capture her and drag her home, but she’d run away again, and this time he’d left her alone.

Warren’s gaze left the photo and settled on Grace. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘What do you need to know?’

She told him what Eddie Loud had said right before she killed him.

The color drained from his face. ‘Good God. You’re sure he said “He’s coming for you”? Those exact words?’

‘Yes. I’ll never forget it.’

Warren fixed their drinks, his face troubled. He handed Grace her glass and sat down, taking a long drink of scotch and rolling the heavy glass between his palms, studying the amber liquid. ‘“Run. He’s coming for you. The Spikeman.” Any ideas?’

She shook her head. ‘I was hoping it made sense to you.’ She took a sip of juice. It was sweet and wonderfully pulpy.

He was silent, mulling something over. He looked up.

‘He’s dead. Under the circumstances, I guess I can tell you some things.’

Warren drank some more and the ice clinked. He studied the glass.

‘Eddie Loud was schizophrenic. You know on the research side of the Center, we specialize in immunological disorders and treatment. We do the usual – arthritis, lupus, MS, transplant compatibility, but the last few years, since you left, we’ve added schizophrenia to the list. That’s what we do behind those wire windows on two.’

‘How can schizophrenia be an immunological disorder?’

‘Might not be, jury’s still out, but there’s a possibility that a simple virus in the fourth month in utero could contribute to a wiring problem significant enough to create it. We used magnetic resonance imaging and found structural defects in the temporal lobes, some cell changes. Anyway, we’re exploring whether we can reverse that damage on chromosome six – not just throwing drugs at the problem after the fact. It’s delicate and difficult.’

‘You were experimenting on Eddie Loud?’ It sounded colder than she’d intended, and Warren flinched and drained his glass.

‘Yes, he was enrolled in our experimental program and yes, the combination of gene therapy, drugs, and behavior modification seemed to be helping. I’ve known his dad four years or so. Eddie’s bounced around other treatment centers and Bert – that’s his dad, Senator Loud – heard about the work we were doing here and pleaded with me to take him. Big mistake. Clearly.’

Grace’s glass was empty and she put it down and slid her hands under her legs to warm them. ‘I don’t understand why he fixated on me.’

‘I don’t either.’ He shrugged. ‘There’s a chance he could have made it up. Eddie had a peculiar fascination for video. When he fell off his meds, he believed himself to be a hotshot reporter, going after the big story. In his room at the halfway house, they’d find equipment he’d ordered over the Internet and squirreled away, and once even props from a Hollywood set he’d managed to buy off eBay.’

She could see the headline: ALCOHOLIC CRIME LAB FORENSIC BIOLOGIST KILLS ALMOST DEFENSELESS MENTALLY ILL SON OF SENATOR.

‘That still doesn’t explain how he got my name and matched it to my face. And knew I was going to be at that particular meth house.’

Warren scrubbed his jaw with his knuckles. ‘God, what a mess.’

He put his glass down and moved to a wall of books. Long thin windows had been built into the shelves, revealing sudden views, as surprising as if the views themselves were a work of art. Soft clouds filtered across the narrow stamp of blue sky.

The shelf held a wooden toy of Sara’s that always reminded Grace of a parking garage, a series of small wooden ramps and painted wooden penguins. Warren absently touched the spring and the penguins clicked up a ramp, and the first one began its inexorable slide down the first chute into the turn. He wasn’t watching it. He was looking at her.

‘I have to tell you something in confidence, something that factors into all this. Want anything else to drink? Or a muffin or something?’

‘Thanks. I’m set.’

He made himself a second drink. The last penguin was ratcheting up a ladder to the top. It dipped its head and dove down the chute. He took a chair across from her.

‘Have you any idea how much this company’s worth?’

She shook her head.

‘The Center has developed, won regulatory approval for, and marketed over ten drugs dealing with specific immunology disorders: diabetes, Crohn’s, MS, transplants, cancer, AIDS.’

He paused. ‘It’s worth close to eight billion dollars, Grace. I know that because I just went through an extensive process of determining assets and liabilities. I’m selling.’

‘What?’

‘Just what I said. I built a world, and now I’m tired.’ He smiled dryly. ‘And perhaps a little old. I’ve never publicly traded the Center so it frees me in some ways to do slightly unorthodox things. Of course I have a team of high-priced experts, many of whom are sitting around my conference table right now wondering where the hell I am, but we’ve passed due diligence and it’s in escrow. We close at the end of the week. Everybody’s signed confidentiality agreements and noncompete clauses, and we’ve played it close to the vest. I’ve already signed off at the secretary of state’s office on a release of the name, so the new owners can continue using it.’

There was a quiet knock on the door and Warren’s assistant, a striking black woman named Karen, stuck her head in the door.

‘Sorry to interrupt, sir. The eastern sector pharmaceuticals rep has a plane to catch.’

Warren stood. ‘I’d appreciate it if you could stay. This will only take a minute.’

Grace nodded. Karen smiled neutrally and held the door open for Warren, closing it after him. They both retreated down the hall. Grace heard Warren’s voice in the conference room, muffled and hearty.

Eight billion dollars, Grace thought. To her it was Monopoly money, not real. She wondered what he was going to do with his share. His wife had died years before. All he had was this place. His telling her about it matter-of-factly, his trusting her with such a significant secret, troubled her. It had nothing to do with Eddie Loud and brought her no closer to finding Jazz Studio, and she feared it was his way of trying to hook her back in.

The door opened and Warren reappeared. He closed the door. ‘Sorry about that. I wouldn’t have told you if it wasn’t necessary, and of course this information is confidential and not to be shared.’

‘I understand.’

‘It’s a Swiss company called Belikond. They have their own marketing arm in place to smooth the way. They’ve pledged no personnel changes in the first twenty-four months, which makes it somewhat more palatable.’

‘The Center’s worth close to eight billion dollars?’ She was still on that.