Vox(71)

“You coming down for the trial?” I say, carrying Thumper’s plastic house closer to the room where I’ll inject our first human subject.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

I open the refrigerated cabinet, the one Lorenzo stored the vials of our anti-aphasia serum in. He’s labeled the second group of vials—the ones that killed the mice—with a bright red X and segregated them on a different shelf. Where the six glass tubes should be, there’s only one.

“Did you take these?” I ask Morgan.

“What?” His eyes move up and to the left as he dodges the question.

He turns to leave, and I have an idea.

“Morgan, how plugged-in are you?”

His eyes narrow and his face hardens, suspicious and fearful at the same time.

“Oh,” I say, forcing a girlish smile, “I was just wondering if you’ve ever been inside—you know—the White House.”

Like a game fish after a chum line, he takes the bait I’ve thrown out, and relaxes.

Go on, little fishie, I think. Go on and grab it. Sink your teeth in.

“As a matter of fact,” Morgan says and puffs himself up, once again trying to fill more space than he possibly can, “I’m an invited guest on Monday. All thanks to you, Jean. You’re a real team player.”

The smile stays plastered on my face, but this time I don’t need to force it. “That’s just wonderful, Morgan. Really wonderful. Listen, we need to get ready, so—”

He cuts me off. “Absolutely, Jean. Whatever you need. We’ll bring Mrs. Ray down when the—when she arrives.” He sticks his index finger into the rabbit’s cage, wiggling it. “Hi there, little bunny.”

“Not a good idea, Morgan,” I say. “They’re territorial.”

“Nah. Just a cute little bunny rabbit.” His hand shoots back as if he’s touched fire. “Fuck! He bit me!” It’s all I can do to stifle a laugh. “Fucking beast.”

“Good for only one thing, right?” I say, watching the blood on Morgan’s finger bubble. “Hang on. You won’t die.”

While I’m bandaging Morgan’s rabbit wound, Lorenzo walks in.

“What happened?” he says.

“Rabbit-inflicted wound,” I tell him, pouring more iodine than necessary over the puncture on Morgan’s finger.

Lorenzo smiles. “Not the Sylvilagus floridanus, Dr. McClellan? Were they tested for rabies?” He leans over and inspects the wound, shaking his head. “Could be bad.”

Morgan’s face moves through the spectrum, from pink to green to the sickly shade of wallpaper paste. He doesn’t see Lorenzo wink at me over his head.

“You’ll be fine,” I say, finishing the bandaging job and ushering him out of the lab. “See you in an hour or so.” Then, turning to Lorenzo: “I wonder who’s bringing Mrs. Ray in.”

It won’t be Del; I know that. Sharon is just as unlikely an escort—by now, she’ll be in custody along with her husband. I picture Poe and his gang of thugs in business suits and black SUVs and dark sunglasses driving up the dirt road to the Rays’ farm, tearing through barns and stables until they find Del’s workshop. It’s an ugly mental image.

“So?” I say to Lorenzo.

He nods. “Biochem lab.” Then, in Italian, he whispers, “I’ll need to work through the night, and all day tomorrow, but I can do it.”

I put Thumper’s plexiglass house into the room where Mrs. Ray will be and consider filling Lorenzo in on my early-morning activities and conversations. The poem. The defeated, but somehow accepting, tiredness in Patrick’s eyes. Instead, as we cross the white tile of the main lab to the locked door at the other side, I switch gears.

“Morgan’s going to the White House on Monday morning,” I say, putting the necessary awe into my voice. “Big meeting. Think we’ll ever see the inside of that place?” Then I add, “Patrick will be there.”

Understanding lights up Lorenzo’s face, but he says nothing.

I’ll tell him the rest once we get inside the biochem lab.

Or not.

He slides his key card into the slot, and this time, instead of the light turning green, instead of the soft ping and click of electronics and mechanics, there’s a sharp buzz and a flashing red light. I try mine, with the same result.

We’re locked out.





SIXTY




I’m on the intercom to Morgan before Lorenzo can stop me.

“We need access to the biochem lab,” I say. Then, hearing the fury in my own voice: “There must be a mistake, Morgan. Can you—”

He cuts me off. “No, you don’t. And no, I can’t.”

“What?” The word comes out as if I’ve just spit, which is exactly what I’d like to do, right in Morgan’s ratlike face.

“Jean, Jean, Jean,” he says, and I prepare myself for his impatient-kindergarten-teacher lecture. “If the Ray woman’s trial is successful, you’re done here. You and Lorenzo have nothing more to work on.”

Oh yes, we do, I think.

“And Lin,” I say, fishing. “Or is Lin not on the team anymore?”

“Of course. I meant you and Lorenzo and Lin. The whole team.”