She frowned at him. “I know what happened, Doctor. I know you know, too.”
“Then why are you here asking me to confirm it?” Irritation crept into his voice.
She hesitated. “Because I think someone’s trying to cover up what really happened.” And who cares if my reputation is destroyed as a result?
“Someone? Like who?”
“Dr. Slattery, for one. You for another, apparently.”
He cocked a brow. “And what exactly are we trying to cover up?”
“Whatever happened in the animal facility last night.”
“I thought you knew what happened.”
Her frown deepened. He was making her feel like a fool.
He sighed deeply. “Even if things happened as you say—there was an intruder and your arm was cut—why would anyone want to cover that up?”
And of course she had no more answer for him than she’ d been able to come up with for herself. Her face started to burn.
His eyes dropped to his computer screen, and he tapped a couple of keys. “They’re not going to fire you over this, Ms. McHenry. So you’d do better to let it go and concentrate on proving your competence with future actions.” He looked up, snagging her gaze, suddenly sober. “If you can’t, you should seek employment elsewhere. Or better yet, return to the U of A for your doctorate.”
She frowned at him, grappling with his words, frustrated that he would so dismiss everything she’d said. But when he turned his attention back to his computer in clear indication the conversation was over, there was nothing for her to do but walk away. As she turned to do so, he said after her, “And, Ms. McHenry . . .”
She glanced over her shoulder.
“I’d appreciate it if you’d refrain from bothering me with this issue again,” he said, his eyes still focused on the screen.
“Yes, sir.” With that she turned and fled, sick to her stomach and so blind with mortification she nearly collided with the white-haired maintenance man coming up the aisle outside Reinhardt’s office. Mumbling an apology, she skirted him and his cart of boxed fluorescent light tubes and hurried down the aisle in a daze of humiliation. She didn’t come back to herself until she was riding downward in one of the zig’s central elevator cars, the atrium’s bright green foliage fluttering past her.
Why had she ever thought talking to Reinhardt would be a good idea? He said everything she’ d thought he’ d say, brought up every argument she’ d brought up with herself. There’d been no sign of sympathy, no sign whatsoever that he remembered anything of what she said had happened.
“They’re not going to fire you over this,” he’ d said. Unless she made a stink about it.
It galled to think of giving up and letting the whole thing pass uncontested. But she had come to Kendall-Jakes with ambition burning in her heart, and that had not changed. After all the pain and heartache and failure she’ d endured in her young life, she remained determined to make something good of herself, and believed her best chance was at the Institute.
It was the dream she’ d had when she’ d graduated high school, fifteen years ago. A dream that had seemed on the verge of being realized when she’ d received a full-ride scholarship to the U of A, everything provided for her that her family never could have. If she’d just stayed the course, she probably would have earned her PhD by now. Instead, she’d squandered it all for love and religion.
Midway through the second semester of her freshman year, she’ d believed in Jesus Christ and started attending church. She’ d met Erik Ellison, five years her senior, in the church’s college group, and married him after a three-week courtship, certain it was God’s will.
At first their lives together had been idyllic. Then things began to change. Erik couldn’t find an “acceptable” position after his graduation and became jealous of Lacey’s mounting scholastic successes, resenting the time she gave to her studies instead of him. His increasing demands and unfair accusations had so distracted her she’d lost her scholarship, and dropped out of the program her junior year.
She’ d stayed with him nine years before divorcing him. Even then he wouldn’t let her go, stalking and threatening her until she’d obtained a restraining order. When he found out she’ d changed her name back to McHenry, wanting nothing to do with him ever again, he’d broken into her house with a baseball bat and smashed everything in it. That had landed him in jail, and for a while she’ d had a bit of peace.
Four years ago he’ d hanged himself in his jail cell. She’d been both shocked and relieved, the latter filling her with a guilt that was only exacerbated by her insistence on trying to hold herself responsible. If she’d been a better wife, more forgiving, if she’d just held on longer, if she’d prayed more, gotten closer to God . . .
She continued to work at Barnes and Noble, and after a year pulled herself together enough to reenter the U of A at the age of thirty. Though, of course, there was no scholarship this time. She’ d poured her life into the effort, sacrificing everything to attain her degrees— first the bachelor’s, then the master’s. She’ d even considered a PhD, but her increasing debt combined with the arrival of the lucrative job offer from Kendall-Jakes had turned her down a new path. One she wasn’t ready to abandon yet.
She blinked in the brightness of the midafternoon sun as she stepped out of the zig, following the same path down to the clinic she’d taken that morning. This time the receptionist had her fill out a form, then sent her to the waiting area until someone called for her.
The exam was a mere formality. The doctor, whom she’ d never seen before, was a psychiatrist and clearly more intent on evaluating her mental state than anything else. He was disturbed to learn she’ d gone immediately back to work and taken none of the Valium she’ d been prescribed, but he didn’t push hard, and she gave him no reason to. Finally he concluded his exam by writing her an official note of recommendation to avoid the animal facility for a few days and get more rest. He also prescribed some sleeping pills, should she need them.
After he left, a girl in a burgundy smock escorted her to an office in the clinic’s administrative wing and instructed her to sit in one of the two chairs on the visitor’s side of a wide desk utterly free of clutter. “Dr. Viascola will be with you shortly,” the girl told her, before taking her leave.
Lacey startled at the name. Dr. Genevieve Viascola? Head of K-J’s Human Resources and CEO of Swain’s Longevity Enterprises? Why would she want to see me? Viascola joined her. Though in her late forties, she had a youthful figure and an unlined face. Her luminous red hair was swept up into a fountain of curls at the back of her head, not a single strand of gray to be seen. She wore bright red lipstick and nail polish, and a tailored gray skirt and white blouse beneath a stylish white lab coat, her formality at odds with the laid-back blue jeans style most of her colleagues preferred. As was the big red straw bag hanging from her shoulder, large yellow flowers flopping off its front.
She greeted Lacey with a warm smile and firm handshake. “We are so pleased you elected to join our team,” she said, a lingering accent betraying her high-class British upbringing. “We have such great hopes for you. Plans for you, truth be told.”
“Plans?”
“Oh, all for your good, my dear. Please. Sit down.” She went around the desk and settled into the big chair there, pulling a folder from her red bag before setting the latter on the floor beside her.
“I understand you’ve had a rough time of things the last day or so,” she said as she opened the file and thumbed through the first few pages. “ ‘Stress-induced hysteria with hallucination.’ ” She grimaced delicately, then looked up at Lacey, her expression full of compassion. “I know it sounds dreadful, dear, but don’t worry—it or something very like it happens to all of us sooner or later. You’ve only been with us, what? Three weeks?”
Lacey nodded.
“It’s always a struggle for newcomers to adjust to the high-octane environment here. They neglect their sleep, work too
hard, don’t exercise or allow themselves any downtime. It’s one of the reasons for our extensive recreation and social program.” She smiled. “And the truth is, we do push our new people hard. Push them till they break, in fact.”
Lacey shook her head in consternation. “Why would you—”
“Because we only want those who are willing to give their lives for this work, my dear. There is no such thing as burnout for those who really want something. . . .”
Lacey recognized her words as one of Swain’s epigrams, or “Swain-speak” as they were affectionately termed.
“You think I don’t want this enough?” she asked.
“Oh, not at all . . .” Viascola assured her. “Your break came a little sooner than we expected, but given your background and temperament, you’ve done very well. Studies show that creative, highly imaginative people have fewer filters in their brains against outside stimuli, and thus are less able to separate reality from imagination.”
Neither the subject matter nor the phraseology could have been a coincidence. “So you see me as highly creative?”
Viascola laughed. “Of course we do. Because you are, my dear! We can’t wait to set you free in a research environment and see what you come up with for us. And I promise you, that’s coming soon. . . . We’re searching for someone to take over the animal facility, and we’ve a couple of applicants who look promising. One from ASU up in Phoenix. We’re trying to get him to come down tonight, in fact. So, you see, things could be changing dramatically for you very soon.”
“Tonight?!” Lacey squeaked in astonishment.
Viascola lifted a cautionary finger. “Don’t get your hopes up. We’ve been disappointed before, and we didn’t give him much notice. Just know that it will happen.” She leaned back in her chair, resting her forearms on its arms. “That is only part of why I’ve called you here, though.” She paused. “I’ve been told you have a different version of the events of last night than I’ve read about, and I want to hear that version. I don’t want to jump to conclusions here, and these are precisely the kinds of situations that breed wild stories.”
Her warm, friendly manner combined with all the high praise and heady promises loosened Lacey’s tongue as nothing else could have. Though she started tentatively, when Viascola continued to listen respectfully and with interest, she gradually warmed up, telling her the entire story in every detail.
When she finished, Viascola relaxed back into her chair, reflecting on all Lacey had told her, and for the first time Lacey felt she might finally have found her ally.
“So,” Viascola said presently, “if I’m understanding you correctly, you believe there is a cover-up going on, and you suspect Doctors Poe, Slattery, and Reinhardt as ringleaders.”
“More Slattery and Poe, I think—though Reinhardt is involved.”
“Yet you have nothing to support these contentions. Reinhardt has not confirmed his role in your story?” Her brown eyes fixed upon Lacey, still kindly in aspect.
“No.” Lacey sighed in disappointment. “But he’s not denied it, either. Two times I’ve asked him, and he keeps evading me. I know I hardly have anything to prove what I’m saying is true. I’m almost convinced myself at times that I must have imagined it all. Except for this.” She held up her arm. “I know I did not have this scar before last night.”
“And you think the cut you got on the glass is now that scar?”
“It has to be.”
Viascola frowned at the cut, then looked down at the open folder on her desk. She flipped a couple of pages and drew a red fingernail down the length of the third. Finally she looked up with a pained expression and said very gently, “Lacey, dear, I’m sure whatever you experienced last night seems very real to you, but . . . by your own admission you have nothing to support your account.”
“Except this scar.”
“Yes.” Viascola paused. “But I think you know that stress has a way of altering perceived reality. Starvation, fatigue, sleep deprivation, anxiety—all can induce hallucinations, foster paranoia, even blot out previous memories. . . .”
Frowning, Lacey clasped her fingers in her lap. Blot out previous memories? For a moment she struggled to take a breath. Then she said, “You’re saying I’ve had this scar all along, I just forgot I had it?”
Viascola grimaced at the distress in Lacey’s voice. “Dear, I’m afraid I don’t just think so—your preadmission records clearly note it.”
“What?” Lacey lurched forward in surprise, straining to see what Viascola was reading.
Dr. Viascola reversed the folder where it lay open on the desk between them and pushed it toward her, pointing out the pertinent line of text. It was as Viascola said—notation of a fine scar on her left inner forearm, one in a list of the many other scars she had on her body.
Viascola looked pained but sympathetic. “Please do not feel that I will think less of you because of this incident. As I said, I do understand. And it’s not unusual, as I’m sure you will soon find out. I want you to know that we consider ourselves one united organism here. A body, if you will. If one member hurts, we all hurt. So it is to our advantage to see that all members are well cared for—physically, mentally, and emotionally. Please know you can come to me with anything troubling you, and I will do my utmost to put it to right. Will you do that?”
After a moment of silence, Lacey nodded.
The smile returned. “Good. Now, you’re no doubt aware that Director Swain will be presenting his vision for our operation in the Institute’s Black Box Theater tomorrow night. I want you to attend. It will go a long way toward giving you the inspiration you need to survive here. It’s ticket-only entrance, so I’ll have one for you at this afternoon’s unity meeting.
“I also strongly urge you attend one of our stress-management workshops. I believe one’s coming up next Wednesday at lunch. We also have group meditation sessions in the Zen Garden every morning before breakfast. No need to sign up, and mats are available on-site. I think you will find both immensely helpful in your efforts to acclimate to the environment here.
“In fact, we’ll be experimenting with some of the techniques at today’s unity meeting, which will be focusing on stress management.” She smiled at Lacey’s surprise. “Yes, I changed it because of what happened to you last night, but only so you will know you are not alone in this. We have all struggled with the pressure here, and many continue to do so. We’d like to share with you some of the coping strategies we’ve discovered. Please, make sure you are present today.”
Lacey felt a twinge. Already she’ d lost so much time away from the autoclave with this appointment, she’ d planned to skip the unity meeting to make up for it. . . . But if Viascola had changed the agenda just for her, she couldn’t very well miss it.
“Of course, ma’am.”
Chapter Eight
Cam watched with chagrin as Lacey McHenry nearly ran over the maintenance man in her haste to escape. As she dodged around the elderly man and his cart and hurried away, Cam was already regretting the things he’d said to her and the inevitable reaction they’d caused. She’d taken him by surprise, barging into his office like that, and while he admired her chutzpah, he was also annoyed by it. And dismayed by how easily subterfuge and evasion had returned to him, despite his declaration in Swain’s ninth-floor office/museum that he would be entirely truthful with her should they meet again.
His reflections were cut short by the sudden intrusion of the maintenance man’s cart trundling through the open doorway of his cluttered office. As the man pulled his cart to a stop, Cam stood and came around his desk.
“Can I help you with something?” he asked.
“I’m here to fix the light, señor,” the man said, a strong accent making his speech difficult to decipher. He pointed upward at the pair of rectangular ceiling fixtures whose steady white glow illuminated Cam’s office.
Cam shook his head. “There must be some mistake. I didn’t call for maintenance. And as you can s
ee, my lights are fine.” He thought the man looked an awful lot like the white-ponytailed night janitor who regularly cleaned his lab space in the animal facility but couldn’t be sure. The name stitched in red on the left breast pocket of the man’s niform said Juan, but he’ d never looked at the night janitor long enough or close enough to note his name.
“It’s right here on my list.” Juan pointed to his clipboard and read, “ ‘Fifth floor, Lab 500, room 501. Intermittent flickering.’ ”
“Well, none of my lights have been flickering.”
“None of them?” The man looked up at the ceiling fixtures. After a moment, Cam followed suit. As if deliberately giving the lie to Cam’s words, the tube closest to the door flickered.
Grimacing, Cam held up both hands. “I stand corrected. Go right ahead.”
“Si, señor.” Juan pulled a stepladder from the shelf on the bottom of his cart and set it up, almost knocking over a stack of binders in the process.
“You didn’t happen to be cleaning floors last night in the animal facility, did you?” Cam asked as he watched.
Juan turned from the stepladder and grinned at him. “Si, señor doctor. They called me in at one. For half day. A lot of things went out last night, so they’re needing many repairmen.”
A lot of things went out last night? Now, that was interesting. “What kind of things?”
“Oh, door locks, video feeds, electrical circuits.” He pulled open a drawer from the cart’s middle portion and withdrew a screwdriver.
“They know what caused it?”
“Some kind of power surge.” He climbed the stepladder and popped loose one end of the plastic cover on the ceiling fixture with the screwdriver, then shoved the latter into his back pants pocket.
Power surge? A shiver zinged up Cam’s back as he recalled the gale-blown look of Poe’s lab. “It must have done a number if they’re having to pull in the janitors to do the electrical work.”