“And then what do you do?” Jim asked, sounding as though he already knew.
“That, my friends, is the sixty-thousand-dollar question, and I'm not a good enough detective to predict the answer.”
“This guy is a violence freak,” Boone observed.
I agreed and told them about the survival game.
“Up in New Hampshire, huh?” Jim said. “Sneaking around shooting at people. Did it occur to you that Pleshy's stumping New Hampshire at the moment?”
We just sat there, stunned.
“Time to roll on down that lonesome highway,” Boone said.
Zodiac
27
DOLLMACHER WASN'T THE TYPE to own Tupperware, but he did have a big half-gallon vat of some kind of margarine substitute in his fridge. I scooped all this unknown substance out onto his counter, ran the container under hot water to wash out the remains, sloshed some of his bleach around in there, and rinsed it. Then I dropped my 501s, squatted over the thing and deposited a sample. I put the lid on.
Borrowed a razor blade from Dolmacher's medicine chest, sterilized it, and cut one of my toes. Just a little cut. We got on the highway and followed the first series of HOSPITAL signs we saw, straight to the emergency room. I had Jim and Boone carry me in. We waited half an hour and then they came to look at me.
“Early this morning we were playing soccer down in Cambridge by the Charles River and I waded in after the ball and cut my foot,” I said. “Tried real hard to keep it clean, sterilized it and everything, but now, shit, I'm vomiting, got the shakes, my joints hurt like hell, diarrhea....”
They shut me up by sticking a thermometer in my mouth. The nurse left me alone for a while so I put the thermometer on the electric baseboard heater until it was up into the lethal range, then shook it down to about a hundred and four.
Same as before: they shot me full of killer antibiotics, and gave me some more in pill form. We went out to the car and I ate some. I'd borrowed some of Dolmacher's essential supplies: aquarium charcoal and laxative. I took a lot of both and rode in the back of the truck. Enough said about that. We drove around to Kelvin's house in Belmont, a little suburb just west of Cambridge.
Kelvin is a difficult person to describe. We had gone to college together, sort of. He had this way of drifting in and out of classes. I'm not sure if he even registered or paid tuition. It didn't matter to him because he didn't care to have grades, or credits, or a diploma. He was just interested in this stuff. If one day's lecture was boring, he walked out, wandered up and down the halls and maybe ended up sitting in the back of an astrophysics or medieval French seminar.
Later I found out that he was on a special scholarship program that the administration had set up to lure in the kinds of students who normally went to Harvard or MIT. The university waived all tuition and fees, and set up a special dorm on Bay State Road. It wasn't really an expensive program because they didn't have to pay any money out. They just avoided taking any in from these particular students. That was no loss, because without the program those students wouldn't have showed up anyway.
Kelvin only showed up when he felt like it. He got in on the first year of the program, in the stage where they still had a few bugs to work out of the system. They decided that Kelvin was one of the bugs. So after the first year they started clamping down, insisting that he register for some classes and make decent grades. He registered for freshman gut courses, devoted an hour a week to them and aced them. The rest of the time he was hanging out in the astrophysics seminars.
The next year they insisted that he show steady progress toward a specific degree. That was his last year. Subsequently he went out and started his own company and did pretty well with it. He lived out in this house in Belmont with his wife, his sister and some kids, I could never tell exactly whose, wrote highly conceptual software, mostly for 32-bit personal computers and, every once in a while, helped me out with a problem.
It was past eleven when we got there and the house was mostly dark, but we could see him up on the third floor in his office, a kind of balcony surrounded by windows. He noticed us driving up; I stood there and waved since I didn't want to send the house into a frenzy by ringing the doorbell. He came down and opened the door.
“S.T.,” he said, “what a pleasure.” Completely genuine, as usual. His mutt came out and sniffed my knees. I was about to walk in when I realized that for once in my life I was in a house where children lived.
“I'm not sure if I should come in, Kelvin. I'm contaminated with a form of genetically engineered bacteria.”
Kelvin was the only person in the world I could just say that to straight faced, without giving him prior notice that we were venturing into the realm of the totally bizarre. He found it unremarkable.
“Dolmacher's?” he said.
Of course. Dolmacher would have done the same thing: thought of Kelvin.
“It's E. coli, with PCB-metabolizing plasmids, right?” he continued.
“If you say so.”
“What do I smell?”
“I unloaded some of it in the back of the truck. Into a bucket.”
“Just a sec.” Kelvin went into his garage and came out with a can of gasoline. Taking the shit-filled bucket out of the back of the truck, he poured gasoline into it, walked about ten feet away and threw a match at it. We all stood around and watched it for a few minutes, not saying much. The Fire Department came around; the Alzheimer's victim across the street had called in a chimney fire. We told them it was a chemical experiment and they left.
“I'll let you in the back door. We can talk in the basement,” Kelvin said, after it had burned down to ash.
We went into his basement, which was mostly full of electrical and electronic stuff. We sat around on stools and I put the sealed margarine tub up on his workbench. There was a naked light bulb hanging above it which filled the container with yellow light; the toxic turd cast a blunt shadow against the flower-patterned sides.
“Good. Dolmacher brought me a sample but he'd already weakened it pretty badly with antibiotics.”
“How do you know this one isn't weak?” I asked.
“It's well formed. If you were taking the kind of antibiotics that are effective against E. coli, you'd have diarrhea.”
Boone and Jim exchanged grins. “Looks like we came to the right place,” Boone said.
He was right. When it came to pure science, Boone and Jim had no idea what I was talking about. But Kelvin was as far ahead of me as I was of them.
“I'm sorry to come around at this time of night,” I said, “but ... well, correct me if I'm wrong, but we are talking about the end of the world here, aren't we?”
“That's what I asked Dolmacher. He said he wasn't sure. It may be a little too simple-minded to make the extremist possible assumption - that it'll convert all the salt in the earth's oceans to polychlorinated biphenyls.”
“Does Dolmacher know how to kill this bug?”
Kelvin smiled. “Probably. But he wasn't speaking in complete sentences. Had some undried blood on his pantlegs.”
“Damn, Kelvin, you should have made him sit down and talk.”
“He was armed,” Kelvin said, “and he showed up during Tommy's birthday party.”
“Oh.”
“Anything can be killed. You could dump huge amounts of toxins into the Harbor and poison it. But there's a Catch-22 involved. If you aren't Basco, you don't have the resources necessary for such a big project. And if you are Basco, you don't want to use such obvious methods because ... because of people like you, S.T.”
“Thanks. I feel a lot better.”
“Of course, now that you're dead, maybe they'll loosen up a little.”
“So what did Dolmacher come here for? Just to give you some warning?”
“Yes. And he phoned two days ago, between holding up drugstores. He managed to find some trimethoprim and that seems to kill the bug pretty effectively.”
“So why not dump a shitload of that into the
Harbor?” Jim asked.
“We don't have a sufficient shitload,” Kelvin said. “No, I don't think that antibiotics are the answer. They are large, complex molecules, you know. Totally against Sangamon's Principle.”
“Kelvin, I am honored.”
“It's hard to assemble big complicated molecules in Harbor-sized quantities. The only way to do that is through genetic engineering - turning bacteria into chemical factories. That is exactly what we're competing against, an army of little poison factories - but we don't have an army. There is no rival bug making trimethoprim. So we have to find the equivalent of a nuclear weapon. Something simple and devastating.”
Here, Kelvin seemed to find something interesting in what he'd just said. “That's actually an idea,” he said. “If the infection got totally out of hand, we might have to save the world by detonating some nukes in the Harbor. We'd lose Boston but it would be worth it.”
At this point Jim and Boone had moved back into the shadows and were just watching Kelvin's performance open-mouthed. We heard the soles of someone's Dr. Dentons scraping against the linoleum upstairs, and then light spilled down the steps from the living room.
“Kelvin?” said a five-year-old kid, “can I have some cranraz?”
“Yes, honey. Use your She-Ra mug,” Kelvin said.
“Cranraz?” Boone asked.
“Cranberry-raspberry juice,” Kelvin explained. “I like this house, so let's not think in terms of nuclear weapons right off the bat. That was just supposed to be an analogy. We need to find some chemical susceptibility that these things have. And your sample here should make that a lot easier. I wish I had a better lab, though.”
I told him how to get in touch with Tanya and Debbie. That should get him into the nice labs at the university. Kelvin's kid wandered down the steps holding the She-Ra mug, and Kelvin had him sit on his lap. The kid held the mug to his face like a gas mask and made rhythmic slurping noises, watching us.
“Do those people know you're alive?”
“Probably not. Hey, Kelvin. Did you know that I was? Were you surprised to see me?”
He frowned. “I was kind of wondering when your body was going to wash ashore. I didn't think you were that much of an asshole - to go out on the ocean without an exposure suit.”
“Thanks.”
“But are Tanya and Debbie to be told that you're alive?”
“Sure, as long as you don't do it over the phone, or in one of their cars, in their houses, in the lab....”
“If you're worried about electronic surveillance, just say so.”
“Fine. I am.”
“Okay. I'll hand them a note.”
“Kelvin, you are so-” I was going to say fucking, but the kid was looking at me “-eminently practical.”
“Would you like to assist me in this project?”
“I wouldn't be able to go to the lab. Hell, we were sitting in an alley behind the Pearl and I almost got recognized.”
“You're paranoid, S.T.,” Jim said.
“I'm alive, too,” I said.
Kelvin said, “You've got as much experience with these new species as anyone.”
“You're saying there's more than one?”
“One that binds up oxygen in the water to create an anaerobic environment. Another that makes benzenes and phenyls, eats salt and poops toxic waste. The second one is a parasite on the first.”
“Dolmacher's not such a dick-brain after all. He's the one we really need.”
“Dolmacher is not available to us.”
“We have this crazy idea. We think we can find him. If we can do that, maybe we can calm him down, get him to cooperate on killing the bug.”
“I think he was headed northwards, when I saw him.”
“How did you get that, Sherlock? Was he wearing mukluks?”
“He borrowed my map of New Hampshire.”
Great. Now Kelvin was going to be a coconspirator in an assassination attempt. I didn't mention that to him. He probably knew. Dolmacher had no guile.
“One more thing,” Kelvin said, after he'd ushered us out to the driveway. “Did you blow up that speedboat last week?”
“Yeah, that was me.” .
He smiled. “I thought so.”
“Why?”
“Because it was right next to the Tea Party Ship. The birthplace of the direct-action campaign.”
“Good luck, Kelvin.”
“Happy hunting.” He and his kid stood there on their nice Belmont street, holding hands and waving to us, as we drove away.
Zodiac
28
THIS DOLMACHER GUY had no sense of personal responsibility. We needed him, damn it. Never thought I'd say that about Dolmacher, but we did. He'd invented the fucking bugs, nursed them, grown them, knew all about their life cycles, what they needed in the way of food and temperature and pH. If we made him settle down, if we grilled him, we could find out a simple way to massacre those bacteria. But no. He had to go up to the land of orange hats to seek revenge on Pleshy. And probably get killed in the process.
We headed north. It was 1:00 A.M. on a Friday night. Within a couple of hours we'd found Survival Game headquarters - a fairly new log cabin built up against some private forest. As we were pulling around into a parking space, our headlights swept through the cockpits of several parked cars, mostly beaters from the Seventies, and we caught brief silhouettes of men in baseball caps sitting up to look at us. Jim and I unrolled some sleeping bags on the ground, quietly, and went to sleep. Boone drove out to scavenge some newspapers and see if he could figure out Pleshy's schedule for the next couple of days.
I didn't sleep at all. Jim pretended for half an hour, then went over to a payphone on the wall of the cabin and made a call to Anna.
“How's she doing?” I asked when he got back.
“I didn't think you were asleep,” he said.
“Nah. Boone's sleeping bag smells like Ben-Gay and hydrogen sulfide. So I'm lying here trying to imagine what kind of action he went out on where he got real sore muscles and made contact with that type of gas. And I'm waiting for the next bulletin from my colon.”
“She's fine,” he said. “Went into Rochester today looking for wallpaper.”
“Redoing your house?”
“Bit by bit, you know.”
“That leads me to ask why you're here and not there.”
“Beats me. This is a white man's screw up if ever there was one. But you helped me once and now I gotta help you.”
“I release you from the obligation.”
“You don't have anything to do with it. It's an internal thing, within me, you know. I have to stay with this a while longer or I won't have any self-respect. Besides, shit, it's kind of fun.”
Boone got back a little before dawn, totally wired. He had hit every cafe in a twenty-mile radius, drunk a large coffee, and scooped up loose newspapers off the counter.
“He's at the Lumbermen's Festival,” Boone said, “north of here, less than an hour.”
“Staying there tonight?”
“Who the fuck knows, they don't put that kind of stuff in the newspaper.”
“Going to be there all day?”
“Morning. Then to Nashua later. Looking at high-tech firms. With your pal Laughlin.”
“How fitting.” I was stirring through his damn newspapers with both arms. “You asshole, didn't you bring the comics?”
Boone was all hot to go straight to the Lumberman's Festival, but Jim persuaded him that we couldn't do much when it was still dark. I thought it was interesting that these Survival Game players went to the trouble to drive up here the night before and sleep in the parking lot - they must hit the trail at dawn.
Sure enough, a huge four-wheel-drive pickup pulled into the one RESERVED space at about 5:00 A.M. It was tall and black and equipped with everything you needed to drive through a blizzard or a nuclear war. A guy got out: not the stringy, hollow-eyed Vietnam vet I'd expected but a big solid older guy, more of the Korean
generation. I heard people coming alive in the cars all around us.
Jim and I caught up with him while he was undoing the three deadbolts on the front door. “Morning,” he said, ignoring me and taking a lot of interest in Jim. I knew he'd do that. That's why I'd persuaded Jim to get out of his warm sleeping bag and come up here with me.
“Morning,” we said, and I added, “you guys get an early start up here.”
He pressed his lips together and beamed. There are certain people who are just genetically made to get up at four in the morning and wake everyone else up. They usually become scoutmasters or camp counselors. “Interested in the Survival Game?”
“I've got this friend named Dolmacher who's told me all about it,” I said.
“Dolmacher! Hoo-ee! That guy is a demon! Surprised I didn't see his car out there.” He led us into the cabin, turned on the lights, and fired up a kerosene space heater. Then he hit the switch on his coffee maker. I caught Jim looking at me wryly. This was the kind of guy who put the coffee grounds and water in his Mr. Coffee the night before so all he had to do was switch it on in the morning. A natural leader.
“Is Dolmacher pretty good at this?” Jim said.
The guy laughed. “Listen, sir, if we gave out black belts at this game, he'd be, I don't know, fifth or sixth dan. He's got me completely bamboozled.” The guy sized Jim up and nodded at him. “Course, you might have better luck.”
“Yeah,” Jim said, “my fifteen years as a washing machine repairman have really honed my instincts.”
The guy laughed heartily, taking it as a friendly joke. “You ever done this kind of thing before?”