Chapter 6

New York city

I feel myself in motion on the high-speed train from Boston to New York City. It’s deep winter and the northeast is battling subzero temperatures. The landscape streams by my window at a dizzying pace, and I think it looks more like the tundra than New England. Boats, shrink-wrapped in their winter white coats, are nestled in small pockets of the coast, and blocks of ice are heaped on one another at the water’s edge like dominos after a push. I pull together the ends of my dense fox collar on my coat and wrap it tightly around me to keep out the cold. There’s a chill in my bones that I can feel right down to the marrow and I’m craving something, anything at the moment, to warm my core. For me, winter is bittersweet. The cold temperatures are hard to endure, but with it comes joyful solitude, which I treasure. My therapist says that I insulate myself in fur as a way to protect myself from the world’s unforgiving tangible and intangible elements: frigid air, harsh winds, loneliness, and thoughts of an impending assignment. He may be right.

* * *

The train rumbles along, swaying from side to side on the tracks, while the scenery out the window blends in a blur of grays and browns. The man on the seat next to me gets up to walk toward the dining car.

“Excuse me miss,” he says as he tries to squeeze past me. I glance at his face and wonder who he is, what his reasons are for traveling to New York, and does he have a family. I look at people and try to figure out who they are. I once had a family. But that was a long time ago. Peace and sleep do not come easily for me these days. My dreams keep me from true rest as I sometimes relive the assassinations our government demands in order to reset the baseline of good vs. evil. But the line always moves forward and I’m forever running faster just to stay in place.

I shut my eyes to close out the world and despite the cold, I can feel the steam of the jungle around me. Hot air plumes shoot into the sky, and a soft voice calls out to me. I reach out into space as if to caress a shadow, and my eyes well with tears. The train gives a jolt and jostles me. My eyes open.

“Mommy, mommy can’t I get some food, I’m hungry,” whines a small voice two rows up from my seat. “That man has food,” she says pointing her finger in the air.

Discreetly, I wipe away a tear, and turn my head to look out the window. My thoughts trail off when the man who had gotten up to go to the dining car earlier returns carrying a box of food. He slides into the seat next to me and places the box on his tray table. I can smell the hot dog, and the pungent mustard. When he opens the bag of chips, I inhale just a few particles of fried potato. My stomach grumbles, triggered by the mixed messages that food gives me. It’s life sustaining, but in my hands with a little additive, it can take life away.

Traveling on a train gives me too much time to think. Sometimes I use that time to work on a manuscript of an interesting case or toxin, but at other times my mind wanders in and out of all the years of painful losses and challenging cases to fill the empty space. I find my attention drifting to places I’ve been, and to colleagues and friends I’ve worked with in the past. Often, I think about Dr. John Chi Leigh, a superb chemist and toxicologist, unmatched in his ability to extract and identify any toxin known to man. His British father met his Chinese mother while he was in Hong Kong studying chemistry. Chemistry runs in John Chi’s DNA, forming a double helix with a backbone of genius and base pairs of deception and cunning. He had been a formidable foe at one time, but switched to the side of the good to make restitution for his inevitable human frailty. We’ve worked on several cases together since the Agency uses him as a consultant. While working on one case with Leigh, I found a journal he kept hidden in his lab. I was startled by his feelings for me that spilled onto the page like a poetic chromatogram: “I’m drawn to her because of her intense focus, her single-mindedness and her simple beauty. Lily Robinson is a subtle force of nature with captivating emerald eyes and raven hair. She uses her ingenuity to dismantle her victims and make it appear they die of natural causes.”

In reality, I’ve merely mastered the art of secret poisoning. I feel the train give another jolt as the wheels grind to a stop and so I close John’s journal entry in my mind’s eye.

* * *

I’ve reached my destination at Penn Station. When I step out onto the train platform, I feel the chilly morning creep in between my slightly parted coat, which reveals a sleek black leather pencil skirt, topped with a black and white striped tee, and tall leather boots with the feel of butter. I took some time to pick out this outfit to wear to the museum. Professional and fashionable. I put my hand to my head to secure my crystal fox headband while I head up the escalator to face the crush. Bodies move together as a single pod and I feel as if I’m being swept up to Seventh Avenue on a tide of humanity. On the streets above the train tracks are young men, working for little money, handing out flyers to travelers and tourists alike for Broadway shows, restaurant menus, and discount coupons for the stores. One young man hands me the schedule containing upcoming sports and media events at the Garden, another with menus for the surrounding restaurants, and a third young man, clearly college age and hungry, a small card wrapped in cellophane advertising a perfume. I must look like a tourist. No time to look at these, I stuff the advertorials into my bag and head for the stream of yellow taxi cabs waiting patiently to pop their trunks and welcome a visitor to New York City.

“Good afternoon, Miss,” offers a turban-wrapped driver, “where to?”

I tell him to take me to the History of Science Museum, and pull around to the side entrance.

* * *

I love this museum. I loved it while growing up and I still love it. Probably most children love it, as well as the parents who bring them there. Families often sit together in front of dioramas of wild animals and sea creatures taking in the entire scene as if it were real. Sometimes you can overhear mothers soothing their children’s fears when they look at some of the exhibits.

“I know it looks dark and scary in there, but it’s just a make-believe fight between two enormous sea creatures.” Or “No, the lions aren’t alive, so they can’t hurt you.”

I’m going to meet the museum curator so I have the taxi pull up to the midtown side entrance where pink brownstone and granite tower ahead. I walk through the cavernous stone gallery and make my way to the curator’s office, my heart pounding as I quicken my step through the office door. Then it happens. My body slowly relaxes, and my heart rate eases when I see the warm wooden bookcases overfilled with books, jars of worms, snails, and arthropods, and the sparkling strings of lights suspended from the ceiling. The large wooden desk is stacked with more books, and papers. I have to laugh, what is it little boys are made of? Snips and snails, and puppy dog’s tails. It’s welcoming and secure.

The museum curator was already known to the authorities before this assignment came up. The Agency always taps into local talent, particularly for background information. These niche specialists surprisingly store valuable obscure facts in their brains that appeal to different branches of the government.

“Ah, my friend, so good to see you,” says the curator as he wraps his arms around me and gives me a big hug and a kiss. “I see you had no trouble making yourself comfortable.”

I hug him back. Eric Vandermeer is a charming man, middle aged with wispy dark brown hair, graying at the temples. His horn-rimmed glasses give him a learned look and when he dons his brown corduroy jacket with the leather patches, he reminds me of the quintessential caricature of a university professor. I suppose that’s his intent. I first met him several years ago at one of his lectures. I waited patiently in the lecture hall for him to finish his talk. Then after answering multiple questions from the audience, he moved right to me, linked his arm with mine, and walked me to his office, where we talked about all things poison, while sharing a bottle of wine. There was an unstated communication between us, a shared reverence for nature’s miracles, a genuine joy in the appreciation of science and that undefined chemistry between a man and a woman. I could feel it. Our eyes met just at the moment there was a pause in the conversation, and I sensed that the curator felt he had been embraced by the petals of a Venus flytrap from which he could not escape. I can have that effect. But this connection paved the way for collaboration, and a shared sense of purpose.

“Eric, so good to see you again. I guess you’ve been briefed on the situation. I did hear concerns that explosive devices may be hidden within the museum, particularly in the area of the special exhibits. Imagine the economic havoc you could create if you blew up the museum, and half the world’s top bankers.” I tell him this knowing that there’s much more to the story. Eric is a little taken aback by my bluntness. It shows in his body language. He’s tense.

All Eric knows is that Lily Robinson is a pathologist specializing in toxicology. My purpose at the museum is to help him entertain the guests with science and showmanship, and hopefully garner bigger donations. He knows there’s a suspicion of a possible bomb. Both the local and national authorities are taking the threat seriously. Earlier in the week, there was a meeting with museum leadership to discuss whether the dinner should be cancelled. I confirmed as much. He wonders how I know all this and I’m sure he suspects there must be more to my own story. But those are the questions he’s always too afraid to ask. So he makes a little small talk.

“Lily, I’m so glad you’re here. Tell, me, how are things at the medical school, what’s new with your cases, what have you been doing?”

“It’s been very hectic at the medical center, Eric. The toxicology service has been flat out with all the synthetic drugs that have been flooding this country. However, I did take a short leave from the hospital this past summer and worked in Dr. Leigh’s lab. I’m sure I’ve told you about John Chi Leigh. Haven’t I?”

“Yes. What did you two work on? Something exciting I hope.”

“It was pretty exciting for me. We were in his Hong Kong lab synthesizing toxins and extracting venoms to use for medical research. You might say, a little drug discovery. I know you have a lot of interest in these compounds too and are hoping to have an exhibit on poisons in the museum, what, maybe next year? Anyway, working with Leigh is an education. The man’s a genius.”

“Yes, you’ve told me that before. I think I’d like to meet him one day,” Eric says.

“You’ll find John Chi to be complicated, even at times intellectually intimidating, and he’s always testing you,” I tell him. At least he’s always testing me.

“The next time he visits the U.S., I will get you two together. I promise.”

While in Hong Kong, John Chi and I created a nice toxin that I’m going to use for this New York job.

Eric and I review the plans for the gala banquet and I make some special requests for the menu so my poison will fit in without notice.

“Always the cook, Lily,” Eric says. “It’s the chemist in you.”

“Eric. I have to get over to Mercy Hospital to see a colleague of mine. He’s had some unusual cases, and I promised to look at a couple of slides with him. I’ll catch up with you later.”

“Yeah, from what I hear, the docs in this town have been very busy. Apparently, this is the worst flu season ever. I think someone told me they’ve called in the CDC to see if it’s some kind of mutant strain.”

“That’s what they’re thinking,” I say. I’m not about to tell him what the Agency has been throwing around. Visions of mass poisoning.

* * *

When I meet up with Francis Becker he has some preliminary tissue to review with me under the microscope. I haven’t seen Becker in years, yet he’s still a striking man, his hair a little thinner, and he’s got that same warm smile. He had already prepared thin sections of fresh lung tissue that had been frozen, dropped onto a glass slide, stained and protected with a cover slip. The rest of the lung tissue was fixing in formalin to make it firm and suitable for permanent sections. The formalin fixed pieces of tissue would later be embedded with paraffin wax, cut ever so thinly, and then mounted permanently on a glass slide. We sit down at the double-headed microscope.

“Lily, you see this area here?” Becker says, moving the pointer in the microscopic field to a thin pink area on the slide.

“I do, it looks like increased alveolar-capillary permeability.”

“Right, small leaky blood vessels in the lung. I saw the same thing in all the cases I reviewed. This patient also had myocardial hypertrophy. That right ventricular wall was thickened. If you look at these microscopic sections you can also see some focal drop out of the myocardial cells and some contraction band necrosis.” He drives the slide of the heart muscle around on the stage so I can clearly see areas where useless fibrous tissue has replaced necessary cardiac tissue. The pointer lands on fine eosinophilic lines crossing the heart muscle.

“I see it, Francis, but contraction band necrosis can be a non-specific finding found with resuscitation as well as with any stimulant. I often find these in hearts of cocaine users.”

“I know. I know, I’m going out on a limb here, but you don’t think it’s anthrax, do ya Lily? I’m askin’ you first before I say something to the ME and set off city-wide alarms. You know how Marie is. She’ll be on this quicker than flies on sh…..” He stops abruptly when I interrupt him.

“Francis, do you think I could have some blood and urine specimens from a few of your patients? I have a colleague who has a highly sophisticated toxicology laboratory and I’d like to have him analyze some of these specimens in addition to the white powder. I need you to keep this just between the two of us for the time being. Do not call the ME with any specifics. Just tell Marie you’re working on it. That should keep her satisfied for the time being.” I pause for a moment, then quickly add, “Other than the symptoms, is there anything else connecting these cases?”

“Lily, I’m gonna have to check with that EMT fella. He said his colleagues have had other cases in the city, mostly picked them up near Penn Station, I think he said many of them had been traveling. I’ll see what I can find out. As far as the specimens go, let’s go down the hall and I’ll have my staff prepare some for shippin’ anywhere in the country you’d like.”

Anywhere in the country? He doesn’t know I want them shipped to Hong Kong.

* * *

John Chi Leigh lives in a city of seven million people located on China’s south coast, but this time, instead of flying halfway around the world, I’m meeting with my brilliant ally via computer connection. John Chi’s electronic image looks troubled.

“Hi my friend, are you okay?” I say. Sometimes I feel like I’ve known him forever, although this isn’t the case.

“Everything is okay, Lily. I received the specimens you expedited from New York City. I should begin to work on them tomorrow,” Leigh says in a soft voice, shifting his body as he sits in a wide brown leather chair.

Usually when I speak with him, I can gauge his mood. He sounds distant, almost uncomfortable, but I’m not sure I’m such a good judge of body language when looking at a computer screen. I need to feel it.

Then John just pops out with, “I know how you work Lily Robinson. You like to keep it simple and natural. It’s the best way. Little evidence to follow.”

I take in his face with my eyes. His straight black hair is cut short and barely touches his ears, and his black glasses sit distinctly on his small shallow nose framing his brown eyes.

When I look into those eyes, even through the monitor, I know what he means without actually saying it.

So yes, is all I have to say to him.

His eyes hold my gaze. He relishes the fact that he’s much smarter than I. Years ago, he saved my life. I’d been sent by a government consortium to Hong Kong to eliminate one of the world’s demons who also happened to be a diabetic. I didn’t think that anyone would know that I had substituted the diabetic’s vial of insulin with toxin from the box jellyfish, Chironex fleckeri. I’d used one of the most toxic sea creatures on the planet to kill a slave trafficker and murderer. But Leigh figured it all out.

I stopped in Hollywood, California on the way back to Boston to visit a producer friend on the set of his hit show, satisfied that everything had gone well in Hong Kong. But I was wrong. I had been followed by one of the trafficker’s henchman who tried to kill me right there in the studio. Just at that moment, John Chi stepped out on the stage and killed the bastard. This genius that I’d never met, had created a toxin of his own, one with fangs that dropped its victim within a hundred paces of striking distance. A viper from southern China, the Chinese moccasin, had provided all the power he needed. I have forever since been in John Chi Leigh’s debt.

I don’t think John realizes that the Agency investigated him extensively after that incident. I was hoping we could use his skills in some of our operations if his background checked out. There were problems, like for one, we found out he had a history of serious gambling over many years. He’d gone to the equivalent of Gamblers Anonymous, but occasionally he’d relapse, losing large sums of money, and to pay for his losses, did unthinkable things. Originally, he’d been contracted to kill me to pay back a debt. This breach in the armor makes him vulnerable to temptation. We know he’s a risk, and I’m fully aware that desperate men are capable of desperate things. I told the Agency I’d take that risk, just to be able to touch the hem of the lab coat worn by a genius.

“You just seem a little preoccupied, John,” I say to him, maybe sounding a little too critical. He’s sensitive.

He tries to make his voice sound stronger with his next entry into our conversation.

“Nothing is wrong,” he says. “You mentioned earlier that you were working on another case. Anything interesting? Are you going to use one of the toxins we synthesized this summer?

“I can’t really talk about it,” I tell him. It’s now getting a little awkward so I sit quietly and wait. Leigh looks back at me and says nothing.

I can’t share with John that I’m thinking that there’s a real hole in the information on the museum dinner and therefore considering that the poisoning cases from Becker may be related in some way to my original mission. It might be a stretch, but in medicine you look for the common denominator, the single disease to explain all the symptoms rather than multiple diseases. To make that leap, I have to push through my logical-mind, and head toward my feeling-gut. It’s called intuition.

As if he’s reading my mind he says, “Look for the common denominator.”

It spooks me. It’s as if he knows more than he lets on. My mind races. All the cases were from people who had traveled through the railway exchange at some point. That’s what Becker had told me. They were all cases where people had crossed in and out of Penn Station. Except Bajian, the locum tenens pathologist. He hadn’t traveled through Penn Station. He hadn’t been to NJ, or Boston, or anywhere up or down the East coast. But I had, and just recently, yet I haven’t been infected. At least not yet. What then is the connection?

“You’re right, John. When I speak with Becker again, I’ll see what I can find out. Meanwhile, let me know what you discover in the white powder, and the tissue and body fluids.”

“When I find something, I’ll call you.”

I hit the end button on the computer screen hoping John Chi will find something soon.