Intuition

  Someone was coming up as she descended; someone puffing, a little out of breath. “Robin,” said Nanette. “I was looking for you. I have something for you.”

  Robin stood still. She had lasted to the end of the day; she would endure this.

  “Here's the phone number,” Nanette said, “of someone who found out some things about this institute he shouldn't have. It's a guy who uncovered a lot of crap and suffered for it. He knows what's gone on here—and he's had to deal with people trying to silence him. I want you to have this.” She held out a little sheet of notepaper—pink paper, Robin noticed, bordered with purple hearts. There was a phone number and address printed in black pen, below the name Akira.

  Part V

  Inquiry

  1

  THE WORLD outside was wet. The morning's rain had stopped, and bright autumn leaves lay in tatters on the ground, shellacked to streets and sidewalks. Cliff and Prithwish were spearheading the effort with R-7 and everyone was pitching in, except for Feng. He had taken up a small project on the side, just a little thing, modest in scope, but entirely his. The project was Robin's bone tumor study. With her blessing, Feng had taken over the work and was trying to complete it.

  “I don't want you to spread yourself too thin,” Marion had warned him.

  “It's okay,” he said.

  She frowned. “I don't want this to be a boondoggle for you.” She couldn't help feeling superstitious about the unfinished work Robin had left behind. She knew it was irrational, but everything Robin had touched seemed unlucky to Marion. Doomed to disappointment.

  Feng looked at Marion searchingly. She wondered if he understood how she had tried with Robin; how she'd argued with her, urging her not to give up, not to succumb to bitterness and isolation. She saw now she should have given Robin more guidance; she should have tended to Robin's wounded pride. She had been too caught up in the work and managed her academic children badly. She judged herself for this, and as usual, she judged harshly. She had tried for a better ending. She deplored the way Robin had left so suddenly, her work undone; it was a kind of suicide—at least professionally—a destructive, vindictive, frightening act. Marion saw the troubled look in Feng's eyes, a silent reproach.

  But she misread Feng's expression. He was not thinking about Robin, but about the language Marion had used. His English was superb. He scarcely ever came across a term he didn't know, but for once she'd stumped him. He had never heard the word boondoggle before.

  The lab was different now, the atmosphere so much lighter. Cliff hadn't realized until Robin left just how tense he'd been. He'd felt her staring at him, her look so penetrating, he'd thought at times she wanted to pry him open, the way he'd seen jewelers pry off the back of a watch. Then there were his papers, his notes and lab book. He had no longer felt safe leaving his notes strewn about, but gathered them up at the end of the day and locked them in the file drawer under his bench top. He'd never even thought to use the key to that drawer before Robin began prying. He'd had to ask Marion for it.

  He'd come to think Robin had suffered a breakdown. People did crack in the sterile, claustrophobic quarters of the lab. The researchers were like miners or submariners, and inevitably some foundered. It was a confining life. He'd known someone in grad school who'd had a nervous breakdown and been hospitalized. He'd known others whose marriages broke apart—one friend in particular had had a disastrous affair with a professor. It was hard to tell how much trouble came into the lab with people and how much was caused by the work. In Robin's case, all he knew was that something had snapped, and she'd transferred all the frustration from her own failures onto him. It had been a horrifying transformation. She, who had always been so self-possessed, abandoned herself to accusations and conspiracy theories. What could she possibly have gained from it? Absolutely nothing. She seemed to have lost any hope of professional advancement. Furiously, irrationally, she'd simply tried to bring him down, and so he had begun to think that she was sick. The others thought so too.

  Prithwish said, “I think something was wrong with her.”

  Billie overheard his remark as she came into the lab. “I could see she was out of balance; the environment was poisonous to her. That was why she fell apart in the animal facility.”

  “Fell apart?” Cliff turned to Billie.

  “She went to pieces,” Billie said.

  “When was this?”

  “Two, three weeks ago.”

  Cliff and Feng looked at each other. That would have been just before Uppington's meeting.

  “She didn't get help,” Billie said. “It makes me very sad.”

  “Of course it's sad,” said Prithwish.

  “I wish I could have done something for her,” said Billie. “I had a book I was going to lend her, but now she's gone.”

  “She's not dead, you know,” Aidan broke in. “She just left the lab.”

  “Well, I miss her,” Billie said.

  “You didn't know her,” Natalya retorted, and Billie shrank back, rebuffed. She couldn't help it; the others didn't like her. And she was new in the lab. She would always be new.

  “It's for the best,” Aidan said of Robin. “She was in a bad way.”

  “She changed,” said Prithwish simply.

  “Now she can move on,” Aidan declared.

  “But where?” Natalya asked.

  Nobody knew. Billie had heard she'd gone up to New Hampshire for a few days, and there was a rumor she was going to move back there. Prithwish had it on good authority from Nanette that she was tech-ing for Uppington at BU, at least for the short term, just to make ends meet.

  In fact, Robin was just a few blocks away, across Mass Ave. Under scant gold leaves she made her way up Avon Street until she came to a house on the corner surrounded by a pale green fence. The fence was six feet tall, and she had to walk all around the periphery until she found the gate.

  Stepping inside, she found herself in the autumn ruins of a rose garden. Thorny canes and withered leaves surrounded a Victorian house with a great barnlike gambrel roof and peeling brown paint.

  A gardener was raking leaves from under some hydrangea bushes, and she marveled at the deep pink blossoms still clinging to the stems.

  “Excuse me,” Robin said. “I'm looking for Akira O'Keefe.”

  “You're looking at him,” the gardener shot back. He seemed pleased at her surprise.

  She hadn't expected him to have reddish brown hair. He was not what she'd imagined. Ignorantly she'd assumed he would look much more Japanese. He was extremely tall and slender. His nose was freckled, his eyes quick and black behind gold-rimmed aviator glasses. He seemed to have trouble with his sight; he blinked continually, eyes darting everywhere, from her to his growing leaf pile to his stack of folded leaf bags.

  “Nanette suggested I come see you.” She stood at a little distance, trying not to step in the mud.

  “I've already read a copy of Cliff's paper,” Akira said.

  “I guess Nanette's told you all about me,” Robin said, feeling a bit exposed.

  “I know everything.” His rake was metal, with quivering bent prongs. “I hope before you left the lab you made copies of all the materials you found there. Have you been keeping a journal?”

  “Well . . .” Robin began.

  “You'll need all that.”

  “I wasn't exactly sure . . .”

  “Mendelssohn and Glass are very good at instilling self-doubt,” said Akira, “because they have none. They transfer it into their postdocs.”

  Robin flinched. She had tasted bitterness, but never in such strong concentration.

  “You'll have noticed by now,” Akira said, “that people at the institute have a tendency to lie.”

  “People in general? No,” Robin said.

  “Yes, people in general.”

  “And who would they be lying to?”

  “To themselves,” Akira said. “Marion killed my work because she didn't like where it was going. She saw where I was heading, a
nd she sacrificed my mice.”

  Robin stuck her hands in her jacket pockets unhappily. He was a kook. “You're talking about the outbreak in the colony.”

  “They say there was an outbreak in the colony,” Akira told her. “The truth is they didn't like my results. I had negative results.”

  She shook her head, indignant. Marion would never have sacrificed an entire colony of mice without evidence of contamination.

  “They hate me,” he told her. “Marion had me barred from the institute. Did you know that?”

  “No.”

  “Yeah, she didn't like me coming around after I'd officially left.” He flipped his rake over and cleaned out the prongs. “She didn't want me talking to people and that kind of thing, so at one point she called security and got my name listed as Do Not Allow Upstairs. I think I may be the only person officially barred from the Philpott. There may be others, but I believe I'm the only one. She hates me. They both do. My last year, the two of them turned against me big-time. They didn't like me; they didn't like my work; they wanted me gone, and they killed my mice for it. They almost killed me, but Nanette came over and took me to the hospital. Unfortunately,” he said, “people get sacrificed quite often in science. Could you hold that bag for me? You can't see it so clearly when you're inside,” he told her. “You always think it's you, but it's not. The system favors them. It's feudal, actually. There are the lords and ladies like Glass and Mendelssohn, and then the postdocs are the vassals paying tribute every year in the form of publications, blood, sweat, tears, et cetera. If there's a conflict, they call the shots, and there's really nothing you can do about it. Lord Glass and Lady Mendelssohn know the truth. If you cry foul, they break you.”

  “We had a seminar about my concerns,” said Robin.

  “Yeah, you had your little show trial. That's just cronyism. You've got evidence of foul play—”

  “Well . . .” Robin hedged.

  “Either you're making the claim or not.” He took the heavy leaf bag from her and crimped the top. “You're dealing with investigators who believe what they want to believe. Look, lying is a human trait, and it works well in religions and philosophies, but in science it's a recipe for disaster. There's just too much money involved. Drug money—and I don't mean the guys in Harvard Square. I'm talking about the pharmaceutical companies. Don't you think academics are all tangled up with corporations? Don't you think Sandy Glass is in the pocket of a drug company—or would be, if he could? There's big bucks out there, and where there's money like that there is no such thing as academic freedom, or independent inquiry.”

  “The Philpott is independent,” Robin said.

  “Yeah, right. It's a principality of Harvard. The Philpott is like Vichy France. Let me ask you a question.”

  He was too tight, his motions quick with pent-up energy. He spoke too fast, as if he were afraid she'd interrupt or leave too soon. He sounded as though he hadn't talked to anyone in weeks.

  “Do you want justice?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  “Are you willing to suffer for it?”

  She wished she could just turn away and laugh, make a joke—anything to break the tension. But he was not joking; he was looking her over with his darting eyes.

  “Are you?” he asked.

  “Maybe,” she said.

  He snorted, unimpressed. “Wrong answer.”

  “Look, I didn't come here to be interrogated,” Robin said. “I just wanted to talk to you about your experience and maybe discuss . . .” She trailed off. There didn't seem to be much she could discuss with Akira. He might be good at delivering manifestos, or rallying troops for guerrilla warfare, but he was clearly not the sort of person who talked things over. “I came here for advice,” she said.

  “All right,” he said. “Here it is. I've read everything Nanette gave me; I've looked at the data and I think your case is exactly what we've been looking for. I've spoken to Hackett and Schneiderman at ORIS and they're willing to meet with you.”

  “What? ORIS?”

  “Yes, the ORIS, at the NIH. The Office for Research Integrity in Science.”

  Robin spluttered, “I—I never gave anyone permission to . . .”

  “I've worked closely with Alan Hackett and Jonathan Schneiderman in the past. I didn't mention your name to them—only the outlines of your case. I made no promises; I did not reveal your identity; I'm only conveying their interest. Whether you meet with them is up to you.”

  “I'm not meeting anybody,” Robin protested furiously. “I don't know them. I don't even know you—and I never authorized you to be my spokesman to the NIH!”

  “Well, that was my mistake, then,” said Akira, “because I thought your allegations of fraud were a serious matter. . . .”

  “There are no allegations of fraud,” said Robin. “My only claims were about possible error.”

  A slight smile played about Akira's lips. “Either you're making a charge or you're not,” he said again. “If you're going to pursue this, you'll have to decide what exactly you are pursuing.”

  “I'm pursuing the truth,” said Robin.

  “And would that be a gentle, conciliatory truth, or the real deal?” Akira asked her. “Because there's no point working on this if you don't know where you stand. Naturally, you aren't used to making judgments,” he allowed. “In the lab it wasn't your place to think about what was right and what was wrong.”

  She was amazed. Where he should have been apologizing to her for presenting her case to ORIS—albeit anonymously—he was apologizing for her instead, excusing her ignorance and timidity. He spoke with such a strange mixture of intelligence and paranoia that she scarcely knew how to listen.

  “You were just a servant,” he told her. “It takes a while to stop thinking like one. Grab that, will you?”

  She gave him such a look, he picked up the folded leaf bag himself.

  “I've got to get going,” she told him.

  “I want to show you something,” he said.

  “I really have to go.”

  “No, wait,” he said. “Look at these first.”

  They were the biggest dahlias she had ever seen. They bloomed high above her head, each blossom honeycombed in deepest purple.

  “They're gorgeous,” she said.

  “They're Art's favorite.”

  “This is Art Ginsburg's house?” She glanced with new respect at the massive brown building.

  “He was on my committee at Harvard, and he took me in. He hired me a couple of years ago.”

  She was shocked. She had never imagined Marion's nemesis capable of helping anybody. He of the reptilian smiles at the seminar table.

  “He's a good guy,” said Akira. “He got me working here as horticultural therapy. He was the one who turned me on to dahlias. I didn't know anything about plants when I was inside. They were too busy killing me.”

  How quickly, Robin thought, she'd moved from dedicated research to the muddy land of malcontents. Just weeks before, she'd been a scholar, and now she was listening to a vindictive gardener. If science was cruel and feudal, still she had enjoyed the privileges of the court, the instruments and time there, the great storerooms of materials, the labyrinthine passageways of discovery leading mostly to dead ends, but always promising more, a glimpse of greatness from far off, the glow of success just around the corner. She was still new enough to the outside world to see those who had cast science off as the impoverished ones, and to hope that she would not remain among them. She felt for Akira, but he also frightened her. She did not want to be used by him, or become like him. She did not want to curse the kingdom from afar, but to vindicate herself and find her way back.

  2

  THE RUMORS about her weren't unfounded. She'd cobbled together some part-time tech work in Uppington's lab during the week, and on weekends she took the bus to Portsmouth and helped her father with odd jobs around the house. Her dad didn't climb ladders anymore, so she did a bit of roof work. She cleaned the g
utters, although she wasn't quite as dexterous as she had been when she was a little girl. Her arms had been so thin then and her hands so small that she could snake in and out, cleaning debris from the tightest places. She patched slate, as well. She knew how to angle a hatchet to cut the edge accurately, and how to bore a hole in the stone with a punch and hammer. She liked it on the roof, even as the days grew colder. She liked balancing there, close to the November sky. She had worked too long with the animals underground. The views from the roof surprised and delighted her. How colorful and crisp the world looked from above, the gnarled crab apples with their shriveled fruit, the overgrown rhododendrons, the crumpled rivers of dead leaves. On top of the house she allowed herself to think Nanette was right. How little science seemed outside. How paltry the future looked next to the here and now.

  “How's it going up there?” her father called from the ground.

  “It's great,” she called back. “I've found my true calling. I'm going to be a roofer.”

  She thought her father would laugh, but he surprised her with his strong words when she came down. “You aren't going to give up your research after all this time! Not after all the years that you've put in.”

  She stood before him in her jeans and dirty sweater, and she shrugged. Her face was windburned and her lips were chapped. “I didn't know you cared so much about my work,” she said.

  “All that time,” he reproached her, “all your training. You don't just throw all that away.” His admonition reminded her of the night she and Cliff, Feng and Mei, and Aidan and Aidan's old boyfriend Russell had gone to the Brattle Theater to see Gone With the Wind. They sat in the dark theater, nibbling malted milk balls and passing tubs of popcorn between them. She and Cliff had been a little irreverent and snickered at some of the melodramatic parts while Aidan and Feng hushed them. At the moment Scarlett cried to Ashley, “Take me away—there's nothing to keep us here!” Cliff and Robin shook with laughter.

  “Shh!” Feng told them.

  “Nothing?” Ashley chided Scarlett, up on screen. “Nothing except honor.”