"Jeez, Gould! Are you crazy?"
"Possibly." He thought a moment. "Probably."
"You're a cop."
"I was drunk." Out of his mind, that's what he was.
"That should never be an excuse."
She was right. "I know." He looked down. Anywhere but at Elise.
"Isn't this great?" he asked, cupping a ruffled coleus leaf under his fingertips. "It's called a topiary."
"I didn't know you were a master gardener."
"Wouldn't you say it's a little Tim Burtonish?"
"Pre-Sleepy HollowT she asked.
"Goes without saying, doesn't it?"
He wasn't tricking her with the diversion, but she still played along. He liked that about his partner. She knew when to push and when to stop pushing. But then he regarded her more closely and realized she seemed preoccupied with something more than just his relationship with Flora.
"You okay?" he asked.
She pulled in a deep breath. "Just one of those days when I've been given a little too much information."
Chapter 24
James LaRue wormed his hand through the T-shirts and underwear in his top dresser drawer until his fingers made contact with a box the size of a cigarette pack. It was said that the underwear drawer was one of the first places burglars looked when robbing you. If they found James' stash, they would most likely think it cocaine, snort a little, and be dead within a minute.
He carefully extracted the box from its hiding place and carried it down the hallway, through the living room to the kitchen, where he lifted the lid.
Nestled against cotton batting was a small glass vial filled with white crystalline powder. Beside it, a sewing needle. James removed the glass container and held it at eye level.
Tetrodotoxin. TTX. The tiny vial contained enough to kill the inhabitants of a small city.
Carefully, he removed the rubber stopper, then slipped the fine, sharp tip of the sewing needle inside, tapped it free of residue, and lifted it out, recapping the vial. He swirled the needle in a glass of water,wiped the needle clean, and replaced it and the vial inside the box, which he left on the counter.
A dangling chain brushed against his temple. He pulled it, turning on the ceiling fan.
He held the glass high, noting the clarity of the water.
James had never been a big one for extreme sports. Growing up, he'd been a little on the geeky, frail side. No rock climbing or cave diving for him. But he'd found a way to compensate for that lackluster past without leaving the comfort of his own home.
One of the biggest drawbacks of tetrodotoxin was its lack of consistency. No two grains were alike; no two grains held the same amount of poison. But for James and for a handful of other thrill seekers, that was part of the appeal. Nature was the one in control. Not man. And coming up with the right dosage, no matter how careful you were, was always a crapshoot.
James lifted the glass to his mouth. Cool liquid touched his lips. One, two swallows.
He'd taken five once and almost hadn't lived to tell about it. Since then he'd built up a tolerance. Five would probably be a pretty cool experience, but right now he was just looking for a buzz.
Then again, he'd been drinking all day. He wasn't sure what an overload of alcohol would do to the mix.
His lips began to tingle, and a familiar warmth seeped through his veins. With a slow, deliberate movement he put the glass down on the counter. A wave of sweat broke out on his body, and he had a sudden urge to vomit.
This too shall pass, he told himself, physically unable to laugh at his little biblical joke.
His ears rang, and his breathing became quick and shallow. His legs buckled, and he dropped straight down, knees crashing to the floor. He continued to fold and unfold until he was flat on his back, paralyzed.
His tongue filled his mouth. He tested it, trying to speak.
He couldn't produce even a faint vibration in his throat. He lay there, staring up at the ceiling fan that circled slowly above his head. The edge of every blade was coated with a thick layer of dust.
Rotating.
Turning.
Spinning.
If he concentrated hard enough, he could slow the fan down with his mind until he could see the individual blades. Or he could let it go, let it become one blurred but solid object, cutting into the air.
It made him think of aerodynamics and airplane wings, the amazement of flight. He was a scientist, but such things still wowed him.
His research had sparked a controversy within the scientific community that was still going on years later, with over half the scientists he ran into treating him as if he were a joke. He'd once believed tetrodotoxin could save the world. With it, he'd imagined being able to slow down the disease process. He'd hoped to put an end to severe, chronic pain and needless human suffering. He'd even hoped TTX could eventually be used to induce a state of suspended animation in astronauts while they snoozed their way into deep space.
Now he used it to get high.
The dream was over. Finished. The end. His life had been nothing but a waste. A fucking waste.
As he always said, what doesn't kill you makes you bitter.
With one hand on the steering wheel, Elise allowed herself a quick glance at the map on the passenger seat beside her. It was the morning after her visit with Strata Luna and she was following up on the James LaRue lead. It didn't seem that he owned a phone, and the Internet uncovered only a few scientific articles, no address.
Research had finally turned up an acre of land belonging to a J. T. LaRue on Tybee Island, and she was now bumping along a dirt road overgrown with vegetation. Spanish bayonet and cabbage palmetto flared out from beds of holly and wax myrtle. Sprawling live oaks were ensnared by thick muscadine vine, the languidly streaming moss creating pockets of deep darkness.
Inside those pockets, fireflies moved like tiny ghost lights, and confused crickets chirped frantically, thinking day was night. The earthy scent of stagnant water seeped slowly through the car's air-conditioning unit until the interior smelled like a bog.
Much of the South Carolina and Georgia coastland was being overdeveloped. Tybee Island had escaped to some extent when people woke up and realized that all of Chatham County would soon be a golf course if somebody didn't do something about it. But prices of real estate had escalated over the years until Tybee was now inhabited exclusively by the wealthy or by longtime residents like LaRue.
She'd ditched Gould without telling him where she was going. The whole Flora Martinez thing was still freaking her out, and she needed more time to process it-although an infinite number of hours might never be enough. Gould's coming along would have been a waste of manpower anyway. The person she was seeking was a retired scientist who could helpfully supply them with some much-needed information on tetrodotoxin; he was not a criminal.
She came to a Y and followed it to the right, continuing for a half mile. There the road ran into a cabin that wasn't much more than a shack, and ended. The poor souls with a Ph.D. in mathematics or science fields seemed to fall the hardest, but given the sketch-iness of her directions, she leaned toward thinking she'd taken a wrong turn.