Chapter 21
WICKMAN MOVED QUIETLY UP the felt-covered steps.
There were a lot of them—the basement of the rambling old building was set deep—and there was a landing halfway up where they took a ninety-degree turn.
This had become useful for him: when he opened the door at the top, the light from the first floor was attenuated by the right angle and did not reach the bottom landing.
In any case, that was not much of a concern today, the afternoon skies having grown overcast, a brief but savage thunderstorm brewing—common in this humid, semitropical region of the United States.
Closing the top door, he paused to sit on a nearby bench, where he removed his felt slippers and hung his night-vision goggles on a hook in a nearby recess built specifically for that purpose.
Next, he rose and went back, back, toward the rear of the dilapidated mansion until he reached what had originally been the servants’ area, now converted to a commercial kitchen.
He took off his rubber gloves and washed them carefully, then did the same with his hands.
Then he spent a moment in an adjoining suite of connected annexes—all retrofitted to manage the resource currently installed below—checking to make sure the apparatus was fully disengaged.
The fact that he’d now perfected his technique was a source of both pride and frustration. Pride, because of the many breakthroughs necessary to come this far; frustration simply because it had taken so long, with so many wrong choices and near-misses.
He checked the array of tanks to make sure there was a sufficient reserve of gases, then stepped back with something close to regret. Such an ingenious design—it seemed almost a shame that, having been perfected, it would be put to use only once more.
But that was the burden he bore, he mused as he walked out of the annex, through the kitchen, down the corridor, and up to the windowless, soundproofed room he used as a command post. He felt more confident than ever that, at last, his time had come.
The escape of the Drakos resource had shown the necessity of hardening the holding area to an even greater degree; he’d never gotten far enough along to test the gas induction on him, but it had worked perfectly with this new and final resource, including the slow offset period that had given him plenty of time—and would once again.
With the holding area now escape-proof, there was no reason to wait any longer.
He picked up his phone, dialed a number.
“Microbiology department, Dr. Telligren’s office.”
“Let me speak to Dr. Telligren, please.”
“He’s in with somebody at the moment, can I—”
“Tell him Dr. Moreau is calling.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line.
“Tell him, please.”
“One moment.” There was a series of clicks; about twenty seconds of silence; and then a familiar voice came on the line. “What is it?”
“It’s time.”
“Time?” The voice had more than a touch of irritation. “That’s what you told me a week ago.”
“Something unexpected came up. I couldn’t avoid that delay. But now it’s time.”
A faint sigh of what might have been exasperation. “After your last call, I rearranged my entire schedule, pushed everything back. Now it’s going to be harder to—”
“Dr. Telligren?” Wickman interrupted.
The voice went silent. Wickman thought about the irritation he’d heard in that voice; the frustrated sigh. “Do we need to have this conversation again?” he asked.
“No.”
“I think we do. Perhaps you’ve forgotten that it’s in your interest, even more than mine, that this… process be brought to fruition. You’ve got so much more to lose—you know all the necessary steps I’ve taken to ruin you should you back out now or try anything—how should I put it?—funny.”
Although Wickman tried to keep his anger confined to dead bodies, he could feel a righteous indignation rising strongly.
“With so much at stake, is it wise to show impatience, Doctor? Don’t forget how all this started.
And don’t forget, either: I can take my business elsewhere.
You can’t. I could crush you like a bug anytime I wanted to. ”
More silence on the other end of the line, and Wickman felt his anger quickly abating. It would not do to beat this dog too hard—best to put the club away and offer a bone.
“I realize this unexpected delay is inconvenient for you,” he said.
“But then again, every day of my life, for the last decade, has felt a lot more than inconvenient. We’re so close now; let’s see it through.
Six hours of work, three days of direct observation, six more via remote monitoring—and it’s done.
You won’t hear from me again… and this chapter in both our lives will be closed.
To the betterment of all. Wouldn’t you agree, Doctor? ”
A brief pause, then: “Yes.”
“Very good. Thank you.”
“When do you want to… that is, what day are we talking about?”
“Night, actually. Two nights from now. That will give you time to finish any critical appointments—and cancel anything scheduled for next week.”
When the voice sounded again, it was tight, carefully controlled. “Will everything be ready on your end? All preparations made, all necessary items at hand?”
“It’s ready now. If I were you, I’d worry about stocking my own bag of tricks. And be sure to bring enough units—four, five—to cover anything unexpected.”
“Friday night…” There was the sound of pages being flipped. “I could meet you at the ramp at six. Six thirty, at the latest.”
“That’s acceptable. You won’t hear from me again unless something unexpected comes up—but I guarantee that will not happen again.”
“I’m relieved to hear that guarantee.”
Wickman noted a faint emphasis on the final word but decided to let it go. The doctor had no choice in the matter; if a little passive-aggressive pushback gave him some satisfaction, however subtle, Wickman had no objection. “In that case,” he said, “I’ll see you Friday—the day after tomorrow.”
“Friday.” There was a click as the connection was broken.
Wickman replaced the handset into its cradle with a slow smile.
It was, he imagined, the kind of smile that might have come over George Washington’s face after Cornwallis’s surrender—a long campaign, carefully planned…
not without setbacks or delays, but nevertheless concluding in complete and utter victory on that long-ago afternoon atop the earthworks, the setting sun gilding the York River.