“World Health Organization Maggie Sullivan?”
“The same.”
“He’s going to call her in a few minutes and get me an appointment to see her tomorrow.”
“I’m what?” Quentin says. “I barely know her!”
Callie says, “Will Maggie know where Rachel is?”
“Probably not. But she’ll know the name of the scientist who gave the green light on Rachel’s blood work.”
To Quentin, I say, “I’ll need you to call Maggie before I leave.”
“It’s Sunday.”
“You’d prefer I spend the night with your family?”
“No!”
“Then you’ll have to make the call in a few minutes.”
“I don’t have her home phone number.”
“Try her cell.”
Quentin turns the palms of both hands upward in frustration. “She and I don’t have that type of relationship?”
“What type is that?”
“The type where I can call her on a Sunday evening and ask her to see someone the next day.”
“But that’s the very reason she’ll take it seriously, yes?”
“I’m not sure what I should say.”
“We can rehearse a bit, before you call.”
“You’re not planning to put her head in a vice, are you?”
“Not unless I have to.”
Callie is laughing on her end of the phone. “You put his head in a vice? That’s hilarious!”
“Sounds funnier than it is,” I say. “Callie, I’ve decided not to kill Quentin.”
She pauses before saying, “Loose ends, Donovan.”
“I know. But he’s a good man. God knows, the country needs some.”
“Still...”
“I know. Listen, do me a favor. Tell Quentin something to convince him we’re serious.”
“Shooting him would be more convincing.”
“Humor me,” I say.
“Quentin,” Callie says. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“36-C.”
“Excuse me?”
“Ginger’s bra size. Trust me, we know everything about her. And we know more about Shelby than you do.”
“Can you give him a for instance?” I say.
“Shelby’s dating Brad Ogilve, senior at Mid-Central High, but she’s crushing on Charlie Garber, a freshman at U.V.A. She started taking birth control pills two months ago and has three left, if she’s taken them according to the prescription. She bought two online tickets to the advance showing of Follow the Stone, which premiers next Friday.”
“H-How do you people know these things?” Quentin says.
“It’s our job to know them, Mr. Palmer,” Callie says, adding, “And know this: if you say one word about this to anyone, your life will come to an end. The warning you give tonight or tomorrow might destroy the man standing beside you, but you don’t even know who I am. And I’ll come for you. And when I do, I’m going to cut Ginger and Shelby into cubes of chum, right before your eyes.”
“Jesus,” Quentin says.
“And you know what’s worse?” Callie says.
“Wh-what?”
“I am so fucking depraved at this point, I will actually enjoy it.”
“Jesus,” I say.
29.
“Would you like to see my shillelagh, Mr. Creed?” Maggie Sullivan says.
“Well, I’ve never heard it called that before, but…should I lock the door?”
She laughs heartily. “You’re a bad boy!”
“So you’re not actually going to…”
“Of course not, you nut. A shillelagh is an Irish walking stick.”
It’s Monday afternoon. A week has passed since Rachel’s kidnapping. I’m in Maggie Sullivan’s office in Denver. After not killing Quentin Palmer, I had him contact Maggie to set up an appointment to discuss a possible breakthrough for a flu vaccine, though he was careful not to mention the Spanish Flu. Maggie and I have been having fun talking about her Irish heritage. She’s fifteen years older than me, and mildly flirtatious. She stands and crosses the room and removes a stick from a display on the far wall. She hefts it a couple of times before handing it to me.
“Mighty fine looking shillelagh,” I say.
She laughs again. “You have no idea what you’re looking at, do you?”
“It sort of resembles an Irish walking stick,” I say, handing it back. “What type of wood is that?”
“Like most traditional shillelaghs, this one is made from blackthorn. You smear the wood with butter and put it up the chimney to cure.”
“Are we speaking in code here?”
She laughs again.
I say, “It’s heavy on top.”
“Yes. This is what we call a loaded shillelagh. The top end has been hollowed and filled with molten lead, which turns it into a striking stick.”
“Have you ever hit anyone with it?”
“No, but my grandmother claims to have used it to beat off the men in her neighborhood.”
“My grandmother used her hand,” I say.
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing. It’s a nice walking stick.”
“Yes, well it should be. It’s an antique, after all. A classic, as it were.”
“If I’m not mistaken, a jeweled shillelagh is given each year to the winner of the college football game between Notre Dame and USC.”
She gives me a slow nod, then smiles. “You’ve been having sport with me all this time.”
I return her smile. “Maybe. A little.”
She says, “How can I help you, Mr. Creed?”
“By giving me a name.”
“And which name would that be?”
“The head scientist. The one who has the final word.”
She frowns. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re asking. Mr. Palmer said your visit had something to do with next year’s flu vaccine.”
“Please forgive my lack of scientific credential as I try to formulate my question,” I say, humbly.
“Of course.”
“Suppose I had access to a human gene that was one in a billion.”
Maggie shrugs.
I continue. “And let’s say that the gene I’ve found is the missing link between the swine and avian flu strains that caused the Spanish Flu pandemic of 1918.”
“That would be quite a find,” Maggie says.
“But assume it were true.”
“Done, sir.”
“If I had access to such a gene, who is the scientist that would validate my claim?”
“Roger Asprin.”
“Asprin?”
“Yes, of course.”
“That’s quite a name,” I say.
“Roger is the do-all and be-all of virologists, what we call a true ‘flu man,’ meaning a scientist who has devoted his entire life to influenza research.”
“If a determination needs to be made, he’s the guy?”
“He’s the one.”
“He knows his stuff?”
“In addition to being the world’s most highly-respected virologist, Roger Asprin is a molecular pathologist with extensive experience in recovering genetic information from preserved human tissue.”
I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I call Sam and Lou and have her repeat Roger’s credentials to them.
“Roger sounds like the man,” Sam says.
“Where would I find Mr. Asprin?” I say.
Maggie laughs. “Roger’s a man of the world. He could be anywhere. It would be easier to gain audience with the President.”
I frown.
“However,” she adds, “this week I happen to know he’s in Chicago, heading a symposium on viral pathogens.”
“Where’s his home?”
“Los Angeles,” I think.
I turn off the speaker phone and wait until Lou says, “Got it. Newport Beach.”
When I terminate the call, Maggie says, “Tell me what you’ve found, Mr. Creed.”
I then proceed to give Maggie the complete and utter bullshit story that Sam concocted for me, and as we expected, she quickly came to the conclusion that what I actually had was nothing. To her credit, she listened to the entire spiel before saying, “And you discussed all this with Quentin Palmer?”