Chapter 14 KANE
KANE
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I step out of the front door of the safe house, my breath hitching as I watch the last of the sun’s rays fan their dusky glory above the black peaks of the mountains. Nothing beats the beauty of a sunset.
Knowing I can’t put it off any longer, I push out a hard sigh and call Andries.
“Yes?” he answers.
“I’m contacting the father.”
“Is everything set up?”
“Yes.”
“Any problems so far?”
“No.”
“Is the package all right?” Andries asks.
“As well as can be expected.”
“We’re expecting the package to be intact.”
“The package is all there.” Every last selfish cell of her.
“If this is a success,” Andries continues, “you know what’s promised to you.”
Yes, I know. “It’ll be a success,” I say, and disconnect the call.
I slide into Nolene’s RAV parked in the driveway, remote-open the gate, and reverse out into the street.
After what happened last night, I avoided Amy today, letting Nolene take over the delivery of her meals.
Although Nolene sent me speculative glances throughout the day, I didn’t succumb to the temptation to ask her how Amy is doing.
I don’t want her leaning harder on Amy because of any softening she might sense in me.
And there is no softening, I tell myself harshly.
I only have to remind myself who Amy’s father is.
Shaking my head in an effort to dislodge the bruising thoughts, I accelerate away, the safe house fading from view.
Safe houses are typically the property of animal rights sympathizers and are integral to the survival of any activist cell. I have a network of houses dotted around the country and I use them to foster liberated ex-lab animals until permanent homes can be found for them.
The safe house where I’m keeping Amy belongs to one of my veterinary customers. He’s happy for me to use his house for the month of July while he visits family in Germany.
The five-bedroomed, double-story home perfectly suits my needs. Situated in a rural area forty-five minutes from the city, the house lies sprawled on a large plot, keeping nosy neighbors at a distance. High walls, electrified fencing, and two police-trained German Shepherds help to deter intruders.
I reach Graham’s house and cruise slowly past the mansion. My lips curve in satisfaction when I peer through the wrought-iron gates and glimpse no guest cars in the driveway. Nolene’s surveillance revealed Tuesday evenings are quiet in Amy’s childhood home.
I park a few streets away and walk back to Hutchinson’s house.
The front walls are too high for me to scale.
Hutchinson’s neighbor, however, has not embraced the current security paranoia and the low-walled house stands out in a street of fortified perimeters.
I pull a ski mask over my head and haul my body over the neighbor’s front wall.
The previous week, I borrowed a utilities van and uniform from a friend.
Under the pretext of checking telephone lines, I gained access into the neighbor’s property.
The quick recon confirmed my suspicion that although Hutchinson puts up an impressive facade, the wall bordering his neighbor’s is a weak spot.
I quickly climb the wall separating the two properties and set off across Hutchinson’s lawn. As I circle the house, I spot what I’m looking for, an open patio sliding door. In July’s oppressive temperatures, doors are often left open to let in a draft.
I slip inside and hold myself still, my ears straining to pick up the sounds of a man moving about his home, filling the night hours before sleep. The only noise I can detect is the distant drone of the TV.
The room I’m in appears to be a formal living room cluttered with antiques. Framed photos jostle for space on a yellowwood server. One photo in particular arrests my attention: Amy as a child, all tousled blonde curls, blue eyes squinting in the sunlight. I look away.
I hook an index finger in the collar of my shirt and adjust it so it doesn’t constrict me so much. The unfamiliar fit of the clothes chafes my skin. I’m acutely conscious that the only weapon I carry is in an envelope in my pocket.
A half-open door off the living room shows an empty study, a table lamp highlighting a stack of papers on the mahogany desk.
Directly opposite the living room is the kitchen.
To the left of the kitchen is the TV room, the electric-blue glow of the television the only light in that dark room.
I know there are alarm panels scattered throughout the house.
I can’t allow Hutchinson to activate a panic button.
My nerves strumming, I make my way to the TV room and flip the light switch.
Graham Hutchinson is sprawled on the couch. At my intrusion, his head jerks up. “Officer...” The title stumbles from his lips, but the rest of his sentence trails off.
I watch him struggle to reconcile the uniform of a police officer with the ski mask of a criminal.
“Who are you?” Hutchinson demands, fear lending a quavering pitch to his voice. “What are you doing in my house?”
Although Amy’s father presents a timid and ineffectual figure in his plaid pajamas and bare feet, I remind myself not to underestimate him. This is a man who commands his own research program, who claims the respect of his peers, and who has caused the mutilation and deaths of hundreds of animals.
Ignoring his questions, I reach into my pocket and toss the envelope onto the coffee table. “Look inside.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Look inside!” I repeat, my voice harsh.
Still blinking owlishly, Hutchinson picks up the envelope and pulls out the contents. The photographs fan out in his hand. “Amy!” It’s an anguished cry. “What did you do to my daughter?”
“I paralyzed her. Then I stuck her in a cage for observation. Sound familiar?”
“You paralyzed her?” Horror and disbelief pull at his features. “Permanent paralysis?”
I shake my head. “I just gave her a taste.”
“Why...why would you do that?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
A frown jerks his eyebrows together. “You mean my work? My research?”
“If you want to call what you do research.”
A beat of silence passes. “Is that what this is about? Is that why you’re here? Because of my work?”
At my nod, he whispers, “How could you do this? Do you know how terrified she is of—” His mouth snaps shut, as if aware it’s spilled too much information.
But I’ve already pocketed the ammunition.
“What did you give her?”
“Pancuronium bromide.”
His eyes flash fire. “You could have killed her!”
“Yes, I could have.”
Graham Hutchinson would know that pancuronium bromide is one component of a three-drug cocktail used in some US states for death by lethal injection.
The photographs fall from Hutchinson’s fingers and spill onto the coffee table. His stricken gaze is once again drawn to them, to Amy’s terror-contorted face and the caricatured arrangement of her limbs. I don’t look at them. The images are stamped on my mind, a stain I can’t erase.
“I’m trying to understand,” Hutchinson says shakily. “Are you operating alone? Are you part of some group?”
“We’re an underground animal rights activist group.”
“Which one?”
“You’ll know the name of it only when Amy is released.”
“What do you want from me?”
“I want you to free into my care every animal currently in your lab. I want you to issue a public statement that you will no longer use animals for your research. Instead, you’ll tell the media you’ve decided to explore humane alternatives to animal testing.”
Hutchinson’s eyes widen in incredulity with each demand. “Do you realize what you’re asking?”
“Yes. I’m asking you to save your daughter’s life.”
“You’re asking me to throw away thirty years of research!” he says. “Research that could eventually regenerate nerve cells, that could offer a cure for the thousands of quadriplegics and paraplegics in this country.”
“If you haven’t found a cure in thirty years,” I ask softly, “what makes you think you’ll find it in the next twenty?”
“I’m so close,” he says fiercely, desperately.
“Not close enough. Not for the animals. And not for your daughter.”
“You don’t understand. I don’t have the authority to make that kind of decision.”
“You’re the lead researcher,” I point out. “If you tell everyone an animal model isn’t giving you the results you want, they’ll listen.”
“But I comply with all the animal health care regulations.”
I snort. “The regulations are a joke.”
“What if I allow more transparency in the lab? I’ll open it up to regular inspections by whichever welfare organization you nominate.”
Listening to Hutchinson trip over himself to offer up a list of compromises, I realize I’ve committed a critical error. I assumed, correctly, that Amy is the passionate focus of Hutchinson’s life, but I’ve neglected the insidious influence his work has over him. I have to break that hold.
“Let me make it clear who you’re dealing with,” I tell him. “We’re not reformers, we’re abolitionists. We don’t want bigger cages; we want empty ones. It’s all or nothing. You choose nothing and your daughter suffers the consequences.”
Hutchinson draws in a ragged breath. “If I don’t do as you ask, what will you do to Amy?”
I keep my voice indifferent. “Exactly what you do with your lab animals once you’re finished with them.”
His face pales. “If you touch her, if you harm her—”
I cut him short. “What happens to your daughter is now up to you.”
He closes his eyes, and I watch the man exert tremendous effort to gain control over his emotions. After a moment, he asks, “How much time do I have?”
“I want all our demands met by July twenty-fourth.”
“That’s less than two weeks away!”
“July twenty-fourth,” I repeat firmly. “And don’t even think of going to the police. I’ve been on the force a long time and I have contacts all over. The minute you call them, I’ll know, and your daughter dies.”