Griffin clicked his tongue. “Well, that didn’t work out well for him.”
Kendra gazed at the pudgy face in another photo. It was a kind face, an intelligent face. And amazingly similar to the photographic reconstruction whipped up by Lynch’s ex.
She looked up. “Did he have a family?”
“Yes, a wife, married for over thirty years. No children. He also had a sister. London police will be notifying the wife anytime now.”
“I’d like that contact info,” Lynch said.
“Why?” Griffin said. “Thinking of paying her visit?”
“Not personally, no. But we have a man helping out there.”
“What man?”
Lynch started to reply, but Griffin raised his hand to silence him.
“On second thought, never mind. I don’t want to know. Your circle of acquaintances has the potential to cause me a good deal of trouble with the director. I’ll make sure you get an address and phone number.”
Lynch grinned cheerfully. “Thanks, Griffin. You’re always so understanding.”
*
A JET PLANE.
No traffic.
Coyotes.
Dr. Charles Waldridge lifted his head in the dark room that had become his home for the past few days. He’d been sleeping, and his dreams had once again echoed the only sounds he could hear, that of the jets and coyotes outside.
Coyotes? There were plenty of coyotes in L.A., but this sounded like a pack. Probably a sign he was no longer in Los Angeles. And the sounds of jets were too infrequent to indicate he was anywhere in the vicinity of the airport. Maybe a military base. Not much information, he thought wryly. If Kendra were here, she’d probably have been able to figure out a lot more. There were no windows here, just four walls and a bathroom no larger than one might find in a recreational vehicle.
“Ready to work, Dr. Waldridge?”
That mocking voice again. It was probably what had wakened him, he realized.
“Why don’t you come and face me?” he called out into the darkness. “It’s not as if I don’t know exactly who you are. Come here, and I’ll tell you in person that I’m not going to do it.”
“I hope that’s not really the case. I’ve been trying to be patient with you.”
Waldridge sat up on his cot as fluorescent lights flickered on high above. He was situated at the end of a long room, forty by fifteen feet. Long workbenches lined each side of the room to form a makeshift laboratory, packed with glassware, test tubes, heating elements, and half a dozen centrifuges.
The voice blared again from a small webcam over his cot. “Look around you. See how generous we’re being? Everything you could possibly need. How could you ask for anything else?”
“Very easily. You know what I need,” Waldridge said. “Agree to it, and we might start over. Without that, we’re just wasting our time.”
“And I don’t intend to waste any more time. I will come there to see you, and you won’t find it pleasant.” The voice lowered to menace. “I suggest you start working before I get there.”
CHAPTER
9
London
Nine Years Earlier
KENDRA POSITIONED THE OVERSIZED sport sunglasses over her face as she rounded the corner. It was past 9 P.M., but the sidewalks were still crowded with holiday shoppers. There was a distinct energy at this time of year; the groups were bigger and much more varied in ages. She could hear the voices of children, thirtysomethings, and the elderly walking together in numbers she seldom heard at any other time of year. It was nice …
She tightened the sweep of her cane as the crowd thickened. She was trembling, she realized. Not from the cold, though there was a stiff breeze in the air, but from the realization that her life might be about to change.
Might. Remember that word. In spite of what anyone had told her, she must not let herself fly too high.
Because, in just a few minutes, for the first time in her life, she might be going to see.
She hoped.
Hoping was okay, it was in the same category as that “might” word. It wasn’t taking miracles for granted.
She knew it wasn’t supposed to happen this way. She had an appointment the next morning at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, where Dr. Waldridge, her mother, and dozens of researchers would witness the removal of the bandages she’d worn since her procedure five weeks before.
She’d spent countless hours imagining what that moment would be like; Dr. Waldridge would certainly be calm and reassuring as he removed the bandages and waxed eye patches, and her mother’s voice would be dripping with tension, terrified that a failure might crush her daughter’s spirit.
If it was a success, there would be cheers and champagne; for failure, there would only be apologies and empty words of encouragement. Either way, Kendra would be forced to mask what she felt to give everyone around her what they needed from her.
No thanks.