Vox(60)

As I weave through morning traffic, I process the morning’s events. Poe must think Del had the envelope all along, that he was about to deliver it, perhaps to some other address.

I don’t have an eidetic memory—not even close. But I do have a head for text. In a previous life, or in a future life if I had access to books, I might make a decent editor. Not that I can write worth a shit, but I can process mistakes. And the ones I’m processing as I wind through traffic on my way to meet Lorenzo and Lin are the twin typos I found in the red and gold packets inside a manila envelope.

The errors aren’t the only things running through my mind like rabid hamsters on a wheel. The very nature of three distinct teams duplicating one another’s work shouldn’t merit classified status. And my team was never classified, or if it was, our president declassified it in a press conference three days ago.

I park the Honda in my designated spot, between Lorenzo’s Mustang and the space where Lin’s Smart car should be but isn’t. Inside the building, a soldier waves me through the checkpoint after taking my purse and laying it on the X-ray machine’s belt.

“What’s this?” I say.

“New security procedures,” the soldier says, watching me. This time, there’s no smile, no cheery Have a nice day!, only a pair of eyes, narrowed into slits, watching me from under the brim of his cap as I collect my bag and walk toward the bank of elevators where Morgan is waiting with crossed arms.

“You’re late,” he says.

“I was working through the night,” I lie, and step into the open elevator.

Morgan follows. “You’re not supposed to take work home, Jean. Or did you forget that one simple rule?”

I spin toward him, wishing I’d worn more than a pair of sandals so I could look down at the bastard. Still, our eyes are even. “No, I didn’t forget, Morgan. I don’t forget things. But I’ve got a working brain, so unless you want me to leave that locked up in your fucking lab, get off my back and let me do what I need to do, you little prick.”

“I won’t stand for that kind of talk,” he says.

“Then sit. Or lie down. Or crawl in a hole. I don’t care. I’m busy.”

“I’m writing this up. I’m sending a report to—”

“To who? To the president? Fine. Tell him I’m taking the rest of the month off for bad behavior.” I punch the Close Doors button on the elevator before slipping out, leaving Morgan to fester.

“What the hell was that all about?” Lorenzo says. He’s in the corridor between the elevator and the lab, dressed casually but smartly in a polo and khakis under his white coat.

“I hate that piece of shit,” I say. “Where’s Lin?”

“Hasn’t come in yet. Guess we have the lab all to ourselves.” Mischief lights up his eyes as he closes the gap between us.

A quickie on one of the epoxy resin counters isn’t part of my schedule today, but we do need to talk. “Show me what you’ve been working on,” I say, inserting my key card into the main door of the laboratory. Mice and rabbits greet us with a cacophony of squeaks and chatter. I wish Lin were here, not only because I don’t want to inject the animals myself.

What I know needs to be shared.

Lorenzo turns on the tap in the biochem lab and starts washing his hands, rubbing soap in between each finger, scrubbing his nails one at a time, inspecting each digit. “Well?”

“The three teams. They’re sort of the same, but different.” I think back to the goals statements, to the way two of the teams seemed identical in one way, and two others in another. All because of one little word: “anti.” At the time, sitting cross-legged on the cool of the bathroom floor, I thought it was a typo.

Lorenzo continues the charade of washing his hands, turning up the water, leaning in closer to the faucet.

“Our team’s goal is development of the anti-Wernicke serum,” I say. “At first, I thought the Gold team’s goal was identical, but then it hit me—there’s nothing top secret about what we’re doing here, I mean what you and Lin and I are working on.”

“You don’t advertise classified shit to a press conference,” Lorenzo says, agreeing.

“Right. So the Gold team’s packet left out one word.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Anti,” I whisper. “That team isn’t developing an anti-Wernicke serum, and the Red team isn’t working on water solubility for an anti-Wernicke serum. The ‘anti’ was missing there, too.”

“Holy shit,” he says, staring at his hands. “You’re sure it wasn’t a typo?”

“No. I’m not sure. I can’t be sure. But it makes sense. It’s the only thing that explains why the materials are classified, and why Morgan has a single binder labeled ‘Project Wernicke.’ We’d always called it Anti-Wernicke, or, later, WernickeX. Just like you wouldn’t be working on a cancer cure and name your study ‘Project Cancer.’”

“Not unless you were developing cancer in a lab,” he says. “It sounds wrong.”

I tell him about Patrick and Del, the locked mailbox, Poe’s men coming to take Del away this morning. “They know,” I say. “Poe or someone knows there’s an underground operation, and they know they’ve found out what’s really going on.”