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.