“Glad to hear it. Question number one: have you ever heard of the Spanish Flu of 1918?”
He looks at me curiously. “Yes, of course.”
“Good. That’s a throwaway question. Here’s number two: has a vaccine been invented that could prevent the Spanish Flu from coming back?”
“No.”
Quentin is relaxing a bit, though I have no idea why.
“Question three: look at me.” He does. “Look directly into my eyes, and do not look away when I ask you this next question. Do you understand?”
He looks into my eyes and holds my stare. Then says, “Yes, sir.”
27.
“Question number three is, what’s your wife’s bra size?”
“Excuse me?”
“That was another throw away question. It’s from a book I read. Question number four: how close is this country, or any country, to developing a vaccine for the Spanish Flu?”
“It can’t be done.”
“And why is that?”
“Such a vaccine would require a human genetic footprint that doesn’t exist.”
“Why not? –And by the way, these ancillary questions aren’t part of the six.”
“Do you know much about synthetic biology?”
“Pretend I don’t.”
“There is no known human genetic code that can re-create the virus that caused the pandemic, though some scientists are working with man-made cells that get genetic instructions from a synthetic DNA.”
I hold up my hand. “Call on me.”
Quentin furrows his brow. “Excuse me?”
“When I was a kid, in class, I’d raise my hand and the teacher would call on me. I’m raising my hand, Quentin.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Call on me.”
“I-I don’t know your name.”
“That’s right, you don’t. Just like I don’t know what the shit you’re talking about.”
“Perhaps if I—”
“Let me make this simple, Quentin. Suppose there was a human who had the proper genetic code. A lady. Where would you hide her?”
“Hide her?”
“It’s a simple question.”
“Why would I hide her?”
“Because you don’t want the bad guys to get her.”
Quentin looks concerned again. “Your questions are making me uncomfortable. I’m concerned you might be unstable.”
“Question number five, rephrased: if the government found this lady, where would they hide her?”
“I don’t know anything about a lady. What lady are you talking about?”
“Rachel Case.”
“I’ve never heard the name. I honestly know nothing about her.”
“Rachel is in her late twenties. She has thick, light brown, shoulder-length hair with blond highlights. Her lips aren’t full, but they aren’t thin, either. But when she smiles…No, strike that. Not when she smiles, but after.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“After Rachel rewards you with a smile, her lips curl up at the edges, turning her mouth into a little bow.”
“A bow?”
“It’s adorable.”
“I’m sure it is, but—”
“Her eyes.”
“Her…eyes?”
“Gold, like tupelo honey. And her breath?
“Yes?”
“I don’t care what she’s eaten, or how long it’s been since she brushed her teeth. Her breath is always fresh. Like the negative ions in the air after a spring storm washes over a field of honeysuckle. Have you ever known a woman to have that type of breath?”
“No.”
“Damn right you haven’t. And her perfect breath dances behind teeth as pure and white as the 3,617 words Melville used in Chapter 42 to describe how white the whale was. And Rachel’s body?”
“Yes?”
“Whippet thin. Willowy. With small, splendid breasts and nipples hard as cherry stones. A belly so firm and flat you could use it to crack walnuts.”
“Walnuts?”
“And legs that go on forever. Impossibly well-proportioned legs. Do you understand what I’m trying to say, Quentin?”
“She has nice legs.”
“No. Super models have nice legs. Rachel’s alabaster thighs will send you howling through the night as you bound across the moors, seeking your very sanity. As for what beckons in the golden-tufted triangle atop those splendid thighs, well, that’s none of your business.”
“Of course not.”
“But I’ll say this much, Quentin: as a mysterious force of nature that will spin your compass, render all navigation useless, and swallow you whole, the Bermuda Triangle has nothing on Rachel’s triangle. Add to that a backside that would make even the most devoted husband in the world curse his wedding vows.”
“She sounds extraordinary.”
“Damn right, she is. And I want her back.”
Quentin’s cell phone buzzes on his desk. I pick it up and look at the caller ID.
“Who’s Ginger?”
“My wife. She’s calling from the restaurant. I’m supposed to join them for dinner.”
I set the phone back on his desk.
“Don’t answer it,” I say.
“If I don’t, she’ll worry.”
“She’ll worry more if you’re dead. And you will be, if you answer it.”
“She’ll keep calling.”
“How would you feel if someone kidnapped Ginger?”
“Sir…”
“Would you miss her?”
“Of course, but—”
“What would you do to get her back?”
“I’d do anything. But—”
I stand. “Where do you keep your tools? In the garage?”
“My tools?”
“Let’s go find them.”
“Wh-Why?”
“Because my last question might require some coaxing.”
28.
I was wrong.
My last question required practically no coaxing.
I’m glad, because the bottom line is Quentin’s a standup guy. A caring husband, good father, the sort of man you want looking after your nation when flu season strikes.
“You’re not going to leave me like this, are you?” he says, as I open the door that leads from his shop to the house proper.
“Ginger will let you out,” I say, as I start to leave. “By the way, where’s your checkbook?”
“I-I thought you weren’t going to rob me.”
“I need a deposit slip.”
“Why?”
“So I can wire you some money.”
“I’d rather you just left us alone.”
I look at Quentin, bent over his workbench, hands tied behind his back, his head stuck in the vice, and smile. “Don’t be a martyr. We all need help. By the way, I’m counting on you not to tell anyone about our visit. Not Ginger, and especially not Maggie Sullivan.”
“How will I explain having my head stuck in a vice?”
“To Ginger and Shelby?”
“Yes.”
“Tell them it was an accident.”
“An accident?”
“I’m really concerned that you’re going to report this to someone. Normally I’d kill you, and that would be that. But you seem a decent man. I’m hoping I can trust you to keep your word.”
“You can.”
“But now you’re making me wonder. If I leave you here, Ginger might demand to know how you got into this position. If I cut you loose, I’ll have to trust you not to call the police, or warn Maggie Sullivan’s office that I’m coming to call.”
“I give you my word.”
I sigh, walk back to Quentin, and untie his hands. “Don’t make me sorry I’m doing this,” I say. “Because the smart move is to kill you.”
“I won’t say a word.”
“I’m going to trust you. Against my better judgment. Knowing that if you tell anyone, I’m going to do something I really don’t want to do.”
“What’s that?”
I take out my cell phone, punch in some numbers, and set it on speaker.
“Yes?”
“Callie, I’ve got you on speaker phone.”
“Okay.”
“I’m with Quentin Palmer. He gave me a name. Maggie Sullivan.”