“Falzheim,” mused Logan. “Can you believe it, she got the name from a former neighbor, someone who actually remembered Nakano?” Ruben Perez didn’t even pretend to be impressed. “So you have the name of his in-laws—maybe. So what?”
“It’s a start,” shot back Logan. “A good start. The guy’d been working on this process for twenty years! Supposedly he made real headway.”
“Right. And he wrote it all down and it’s just waiting somewhere for you to find it.” He walked across the room and picked up the local telephone book. “Manhattan. Isn’t this where most of the German-Jewish refugees back then settled?”
Annoyed, Logan took it from him and flipped to the appropriate page; not at all to his surprise, there was no such name. “I didn’t say it was going to be that easy.”
Perez laughed. “Too bad. Next you could’ve found the cure for AIDS. That’s probably about to float up in a bottle at Jones Beach.”
The hardest part was that, for once, his friend’s skepticism only reflected his own. Logan knew how farfetched this possibility was. On the other hand, he also knew—far better than Perez ever could—how extraordinarily difficult this compound was to decipher. At the very least, this was a lead worth pursuing.
“But who knows,” said Logan, snapping the phone book shut, “you could be right in principle. It seems to be a pretty distinctive name.”
He started for the door.
“Where you going?
“Forty-second Street, the main library there.”
“What for?”
“You ought to get out more, Ruben. They’ve got phone books from all over the place there. Could be it’ll turn up in Detroit or Miami.”
Now it was Perez’s turn to flash annoyance. “C’mon, man, I was just pullin’ your chain. You gotta stop it with this shit, we got work to do.”
“What are you gonna do, report me? I’ll be back in a few hours.”
That estimate proved way off. Though there were perhaps seventy directories at the Central Research Library, from large and medium-sized cities throughout America, it took no more than fifteen seconds to locate on each the page where the name Falzheim might have been—but wasn’t. Even including the round trip by subway, he was back at the office in an hour and a half.
“Ah, shit,” he said, marching through the door, “facing you is gonna be even worse than coming up empty. So let’s have the wisecracks now and get it over with.”
But to his surprise, Perez just turned from the bench where he was working and nodded soberly toward the far end of the room.
Logan was stunned. There, atop a stool, sat Allen Atlas.
“Hello, Dan,” said Atlas. He indicated the woeful surroundings. “Nice place.”
“What do you want?”
“Nothing much. Just to talk.”
“Sorry,” he said coldly, “I’ve got work to do.”
“I appreciate that. Actually, that’s what I want to talk to you about—work.”
Though the guy fairly oozed sincerity, Logan couldn’t help but feel he was being mocked. “I’ve got nothing to talk to you about, nothing. Let’s not try to pretend that what’s happened didn’t happen.”
Atlas nodded toward Perez. “Maybe we could have this conversation someplace else?”
“Don’t worry, he already knows all about you.”
“Just ten minutes, that’s all it’ll take. I promise, you won’t be sorry.”
To himself at least, Logan didn’t deny he was intrigued. What was the son of a bitch after? He glanced at his watch. “Ten minutes.”
“All right,” Logan said, as they entered the bar two doors down from HIV-EX, “you’re down to six.”
Atlas smiled. “You should’ve warned me you’ve got the slowest elevator in New York.”
“Your problem.” They sat down in an empty booth. “Now, what do you want?”
“Wait a sec, will you. Won’t you at least let me order us something to drink?”
He returned a minute later with two beers and placed one on the table before Logan. “Drink up, it’s on the ACF.”
“No, thanks.”
“C’mon, Logan, this is no easier for me than it is for you. Let’s just make nice for a few minutes and see what we can do for one another.”
“Screw you, Atlas. I didn’t come looking for you.” Logan took a quick swig of beer and glanced at his watch. “Two minutes.”
Atlas held up both hands, a gesture of surrender. “You’re right, you didn’t.” He paused. “I’m just trying to say that there’ve been some real second thoughts at the ACF about what happened to you guys. Dr. Stillman, for one, recognizes it could’ve been handled a lot better.”
Logan leaned forward, his eyes narrow. “Which part are you talking about, Allen? How they fucked us at the hearing, or how they fucked me when I went looking for another job?”
“That’s your imagination, Logan, we had nothing to do with that.”
“Wait!” Atlas grabbed his arm. “Look, Stillman’s ready to bury the hatchet. You want a better job, the ACF can help you out.”
“Why, Atlas? All of a sudden they’re growing consciences down there instead of tumors?”
“We’re doing what we’ve always done, trying to cure cancer. Dr. Stillman wants you to know he’s had a chance to go over your data a lot more carefully. He thinks your Compound J has some promise. He’d like to talk it over with you.”
“Tell me something I don’t know, Atlas. Tell him I’m always more touched when he asks personally.” He shook his arm free. “And tell him I’m happy where I am.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” snapped Atlas, all pretense of cordiality gone. “You’re gonna lose any talent you’ve got in a dump like that! And any shot at a reputation.”
Logan stood up and came close to saying it: Hey, asshole, don’t worry about my talent. It’s YOU trying to rip ME off. But instead he just walked out the door.
Atlas hurried after him outside. “Hey, Logan!”
Logan wheeled to face him. “That’s final, Atlas. No negotiation.” This was starting to give him the kind of pleasure he thought he’d never again experience in science. “But do tell him how much I love being kissed up to.”
“I will.” Disconcertingly, he was smiling again. “Just one more thing—I’m real sorry about your friend Reston?”
“What about him?”
“Didn’t you hear?” He paused meaningfully. “They found his body in his office the other day. Barbiturates. Apparently he got tired of living.”
Logan just watched as Atlas turned and walked off in the other direction.
* * *
Amy answered the phone on the first ring. As soon as he heard her voice—flat, detatched—he realized she was in bad shape.
“Amy? It’s Dan Logan.”
“Hi. How are you?”
“I’m okay. How are you?” He paused. “I heard about what happened.”
“I’m doing okay, better. It’s been almost a week. I’m going back to work tomorrow.”
“I’m so, so sorry. You know, even after everything that happened he was still—”
“Yeah, I know.”
“—my friend. I don’t think it was ever personal.”
“Well, thanks,” she said. “Look, Dan, it was nice of you to call.”
Logan was caught short. He didn’t want to get off, not yet. There were too many questions demanding answers. Desperately, he plunged ahead, seeking the vital young woman he knew. “Allen Atlas told me.”
“Atlas?”
“He was in New York today, on business. I could hardly believe it. It just seems so completely out of character. Do you have any explanation for it? Did he leave a note?”
“Please, Dan, I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I don’t mean to get so personal, but it’s important.”
“Really, I just don’t.”
“Why not?”
“Good-bye, Dan. Thank you for calling.”
Hanging up the phone, Logan turned to Perez, sweeping up the far corner of the lab. “She wouldn’t tell me a thing.”
“It’s not easy being the girlfriend. She probably feels guilty about not picking up the signals.”
“You think so?”
“I’ve seen it lots of times. It’s sad, ‘cause it’s not really their fault.”
Logan thought it over a moment. “This isn’t one of those cases. Something’s off.” He paused. “She doesn’t think he killed himself.”
Perez stopped his sweeping. “What are you telling me? Did she say that?”
“No. But I know her. I also knew him.” He stopped. “There’s also the way Atlas told me about it.”
“The way he told you about it?”
“Almost like, I don’t know … a threat.”
“Oh, come on, your damn imagination’s working overtime again. Just stop it, man, you’re really starting to worry me big time.”
This gave Logan pause. Perez’s judgment was rock solid. “You think so?”
“Look, the guy did himself in. Period. You know better than anyone how that place crushes people. That other one, the one you found …”
“Barbara Lukas?”
“Was that a fake too? What do they do down there, murder people for being pains-in-the-ass?”
Logan smiled. “I’m going home. This is one time you might actually be right.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, shrugging it away. “C’mon, you’ve had a rough day, I’ll buy you dinner.”
“Another time. What I need now’s some peace and quiet.” He laughed. “Or maybe you think that’s just my imagination too?”
But twenty minutes later, when he arrived at his studio apartment, kidding around was the farthest thing from his mind. Heading home, he’d been seized by so powerful a sense of anxiety that, once inside, he ran to the medicine cabinet for a mild sedative. He was perspiring heavily. He took his pulse: 120. What was going on here? Distractedly, aware he was hungry, he opened a can of baked beans. He was just slitting open a package of hot dogs when he was hit with a sharp pain in the right lower quadrant.
Within a minute the shooting pains were coming regularly, every fifteen or twenty seconds, powerful enough to make him double over in pain. He staggered to the next room and collapsed on the bed.
Now there came a terrific pounding in his head, so intense, it all but crowded out thought. Yet he was so weak he could scarcely even move. Struggling to maintain control, seeking clarity, he managed to bring his hands to his temple and squeeze.
Could this be a flu? But, no, it had just come on too fast, and the symptoms were incongruent.
Appendicitis? Invariably that starts in the midepigastrium, not working its way down to the right lower quadrant for a good twenty-four hours. And this wasn’t tenderness—it was pain.
Food poisoning? What had he eaten today? His mind raced. For breakfast, only a bowl of Rice Krispies and orange juice. For lunch—what?—some chicken noodle soup, a bagel with jelly, tea. He’d just taken the sedative—could that have something to do with it?
Wait a second … the beer with Atlas!
The panic suddenly welling up within was even greater than the pain. Could that have set off the anxiety? Was it possible the further reaction was then triggered by the sedative? Or was that just mad speculation? His head swam, he felt himself losing consciousness. He had to get to a hospital, had to get this shit out of his system! Pushing down on the bed with all his strength, he raised himself to his hands and knees.
But it was too much. He actually saw the blackness coming and felt it begin to wash over him.
When he awoke, the room was still dark. The clock on the bedside table read 3:23 A.M. He was, he realized with a start, still fully dressed, down to his shoes. Tentatively, he lifted an arm, then his head; then he sat up.
Slowly, he got off the bed and started toward the kitchen. But before he’d taken five steps, the terror hit with tidal force. So physically traumatic an experience always leaves aftereffects—at the very least, wooziness and disorientation. But now there was nothing. Except for slight hunger pangs, he felt absolutely wonderful; better, in fact, than he’d felt in months. Like a finely conditioned athlete on a natural high.
This was as frightening as anything yet. He’d always taken his body for granted, but even it seemed beyond his control.
The thought, once it presented itself, was impossible to shake: Atlas!—and he’d meant it only as a warning.