No One Lives Forever (16 page)

That sounded way too personal.

"You've witnessed an overdose before?"

The doctor stared off into the distance, his mind in another time and place.

"Once." The peaceful setting of the arboretum mocked the memory he relived. "And once is quite enough."

The man cleared his throat and ushered them out of the hothouse and back into the main corridor.

"I'm afraid that's all the time I have today." The director turned for the offices up front, expecting them to follow.

"Wait a minute. What's down here?" Christian pointed to a corridor the man had avoided.

"Oh, that's nothing. A medical clinic we set up to serve the local community." Phillips turned to go, but neither Jasmine nor Christian followed. When the man looked back over his shoulder, he added, "I assure you it's nothing. Minor injuries, immunizations, really basic health care for the locals. It was negotiated . . . recently."

"Such a humanitarian gesture. I would think you'd want to show it off." Christian shrugged and stood his ground.

Jasmine joined him, crossing her arms. "The last time my employer came for a visit, this clinic was not in service. I would also like to see it for myself."

Dr. Phillips sighed. "Very well. Follow me," he conceded, and headed toward the health facility. His jaw was knotted with tension, nudging a nasty cluster of purple veins jutting from his temple.

With a pained grimace, Christian hoisted the tote carrying the dead snake and voodoo artifacts onto his sore shoulder and waved an arm for Jasmine to pass.

"After you, Ms. Lee."

The beautiful woman said nothing. Her sly wink gave him the only
Atta boy
he'd get.

Like a Russian nesting doll, the clinic was burrowed neatly within the much larger genetics facility, only a fraction of the puzzle Charboneau's money had funded. If Christian hadn't paid attention on the tour, he might never have noticed the breezeway link to this section of the compound. The medical clinic had been cordoned off from the rest of the secured research laboratory, with a circular drive and a small parking lot outside. On the taxi ride in, he hadn't noticed any signs directing traffic to a healthcare clinic. Yet it looked like an entrance allowed the public through an open gate without security during the day, giving the community better access.

Being the cordial guide, Dr. Phillips now led them through the main ward. Contrary to what the doctor had led them to believe, the facility mainly catered to expectant mothers, not just general health concerns. Christian might not have given this a second thought since everything appeared in order—except for Jasmine's behavior. Her classic stoic face morphed into edgy apprehension. When the doctor's back was turned, she stepped toward the bed of a pregnant teenage girl, grabbed her chart and scanned the girl's medical history.

"What's wrong?" Christian whispered, turning his back on their host. She kept reading, a troubled look on her face.

Eventually, Dr. Phillips stepped between them and yanked the chart from Jasmine. "In this facility, we respect a patient's right to privacy."

"Yes, of course." Jasmine nodded her apology, a courteous bow of her head. "I was merely curious."

She walked up to the young girl, who couldn't have been more than fifteen years old. Shoulder length black hair, skin the color of caramel, and large hazel eyes brimming with uncertainty. Even with her swollen belly, she looked small and frail in the hospital bed. But the young girl managed a smile. Jasmine reached for her, ran fingers through her bangs and touched her cheek.

Christian had no idea she could muster such affection.
Well, I'll be damned!
When the doctor headed back to see what Jasmine was up to, he waved the man off.

"The girl reminded her of someone. Let it go." He knew Jasmine had something on her mind. To deflect attention away from her, he went on the offensive. "Is this place linked to the research conducted at the lab?"

"No, this clinic is purely humanitarian in nature. What are you implying?"

Christian stepped in, closing the gap with Dr. Phillips, while Jasmine made the rounds.

"Come on, Doc. You mean you're not even tempted to further your research with discarded tissue samples? You do fertility work here?"

From the corner of his eye, Christian saw Jasmine steal a peek at other med charts. No doubt, she had something on her mind. And for his part in the diversion—making a belligerent ass of himself—he expected Jasmine's cooperation when it came time to share her suspicions.

The doctor's skin grew flush, almost purple, to match the veins on his face.

"Mr. Delacorte. Are you suggesting this clinic is involved in stem cell research with unsuspecting donors?"

Christian had no idea where he would go with this line of questioning. He only wanted to stall. From the corner of his eye he caught Jasmine motioning with her hand, a signal for him to keep going.
Well, damn it! Read faster.
As she flipped through another chart, he dug through his memory for something more to say.

"I've heard a lot of embryos are tossed in the fertility process. I bet that seems like a waste for a researcher like you. Too much temptation?"

Before the man blew a gasket, Christian saved the best for last.

"And what about genetic engineering?" He waggled a finger. "A controversial subject. But with the genome for drug addiction identified, wouldn't it be possible to reengineer a junkie, steer him away from his addiction?"

From fertility and pregnant mothers to a point counterpoint on crazed meth heads, Dr. Phillips grappled with the change in topic. But the way Christian figured it, when grasping at straws, sound reasoning only got in the way.

The man took a deep breath and nodded. "Yes, that's our hope."

"Is it, Dr. Phillips? Is that what Nicholas Charboneau had in mind with this privately funded research?" When the director didn't answer, Christian pressed. "Isn't it also possible to engineer a normal person into
becoming
an addict? Or make the dependency that much stronger on someone already addicted?"

Indignation replaced the sudden panic on Phillips's face, but not before Christian got a good look at his initial reaction.
Score one for the visiting team.

"That's ... preposterous. I see you've been reading all the propaganda from people who don't understand the benefits mankind can derive from stem cell research. For your information, adult stem cells have been extracted from bone marrow since the sixties, for crying out loud. Besides, why would someone knowingly subject themselves to be rewired into an addict?"

"Key word being 'knowingly,'" Christian countered.

"I resent the implication, sir."

"Implication? Maybe I haven't made myself clear. How are you getting your test samples, Doc? Before I came here, I did a little light reading on genetics, something about legislation on human tissue."

"I'm well aware of the Human Tissues Act." Phillips crossed his arms over his chest.

"Yeah, well . . ." Christian nodded. "International law puts a tight lid on testing human genetic material without informed consent from the patient. Tell me, are you and this facility in compliance, Dr. Phillips?"

"I assure you, none of the people you've seen here today have had their rights violated."

"Very clever semantics, Doc. What about all the people we haven't seen?"

"That's enough." Jasmine weighed in. She'd made her rounds. Now, in a low voice, she intervened. Christian had crossed a line she would defend. Char-boneau's line.

"You feel the conflict, Jasmine? Maybe your beloved employer put himself in the line of fire without knowing it. Maybe the people behind this so-called research got greedy and took him out. You gotta pick sides. What's it gonna be?"

She looked surprised. He'd caught her off guard, not an easy feat.

Christian knew what the doctor said made sense. Even if someone's genes were manipulated without their knowledge, how would the subterfuge be implemented on a grand scale? With Charboneau out of the picture, he knew he might never know the answer. He had to find his father to uncover the truth behind such a conspiracy. Now there was more at stake than a rescue mission for one man. And Jasmine would have to choose sides.

"I think this tour is ended." Phillips seethed with anger.

"I agree," Jasmine chimed in, with less conviction.

Seeing his chance to evade Christian's questions, the doctor took advantage of his rift with Jasmine and waved over a security guard. "Call a taxi for our guests and see that they are escorted off the property. Don't let them get lost." To Christian, he added, "I hope you understand when I say our meeting is concluded and you're not welcome back."

Bile rose in Christian's belly. He didn't want to think about Charboneau's role in all this. Research of this magnitude took time and money. What was his father's blueprint for implementation? How did he plan to take advantage of genetic engineering? Most of all, he wondered how he could so easily believe Charboneau was guilty.

As they were escorted out, Christian whispered to his questionable comrade, "Thanks for the teamwork back there. You're a real gem."

"And the fragile male ego rears its head once more." Jasmine flashed her best Mona Lisa smile and another wink. "We got what we came for."

Christian did a double take, catching her subtle gesture. "We? Lady, you put a whole new emphasis on the 'me' in the word team. I'm not exactly feeling the love here."

"Oh, but you will."

Jasmine had something to share, but would she? And if she did, how much could he trust? The start of a festering headache took hold, along with a growing soreness to his shoulders. With Duarte waiting, and no likely moment for a private conversation with Jasmine, he'd have to put off getting his answers.

He hated being in the dark, in more ways than one.

Military Police Headquarters,
State of Mato Grasso
Downtown Cuiabá

From his taxi window at a busy intersection, Christian spied police headquarters up ahead, a glass and stone building. Given all the history in this town, the structure was modern and relatively uninspired. Not much to look at, except for the impressive palm trees and fountains in the median of a bustling boulevard.

At the curb, he paid off the cabbie. Getting out of the vehicle took effort. His body ached from head to toe. Jasmine made a beeline for the entrance, but Christian's mind was elsewhere when he caught up to her. Soon he'd be staring into a set of dark eyes— eyes that bristled with a capacity for danger. Captain Duarte would require special handling. Christian believed when negotiating with a hungry, unpredictable beast, it was best not to look like a side of beef.

He'd consider it a moral victory if he walked away with all his original body parts.

"Let me do all the talking," he said to Jasmine, like that was an issue. The Asian beauty made the Terminator look neighborly and downright chatty.

"By all means. I'd rather not be blamed for tightening the noose around your neck." She smiled. Sometimes Jasmine had all the charm of a croc swallowing a baby antelope whole.

At the first floor security kiosk, they showed ID and signed into the building. Directed to the second floor, they wore visitor badges clipped to their collars. Captain Duarte had a corner office to the far right of the detectives' bullpen, off the bank of elevators. Even crossing international borders, some things went without saying—the universal language of police work never changed.

Christian knocked on the man's open door.

"Glad to see you are prompt, Mr. Delacorte." The captain did not extend his hand, only waved them to take a seat.

As usual, Jasmine did not respond well to cordiality. She donned her cloak of invisibility and melded into her surroundings like a slithering chameleon in self-preservation mode. She chose to stay mobile.

"Do I get points for cutting our lab tour short?" He broke the ice with a lame attempt at humor as he sat down, trying to hide his wince of pain. Duarte barely sneered, so he went for round two. "I love what you've done to the place. Real cozy."

Bare bones and no frills, Duarte's office gave no hint of the man he was. No family photos. Nothing personal. The unpretentious room held a fatigue green metal desk with oak veneer, a matching bookshelf and credenza, and a few chairs. The sparse decor made the furniture showroom at Ikea look ostentatious and overdone.

"I prefer things . . . simple," Duarte said. "I don't often get my way."

Christian raised an eyebrow. "I find that hard to believe."

"Just as I find it hard to believe a visitor to my country does not register a formal complaint after he is very nearly killed on the streets of my town. Why did you not report the incident, Mr. Delacorte?"

Playing hard ball already; the man had no patience for idle chitchat.

"It wasn't a big deal." He shrugged.

"All evidence to the contrary. The bruises on your body say otherwise."

Christian considered the man seated behind the desk. Did Duarte exert control to force his cooperation, or did the man have an affinity for interference? What was his agenda?

"I didn't get a good look at the license plate or the car. Filing a report would've been a waste of time. And we don't have much of that."

Duarte stared at him. His black eyes looked like bottomless pits.

"And I suppose you hoped the blood sacrifice of a chicken would bring good fortune in your search?"

How many times would he hear
that
question in a lifetime?
Count 'em, one.

He knew he had to give Duarte something. He broke down and shared what he could about the Macumba house warming on their balcony last night, but he held back a choice tidbit or two. Their next stop, to the voodoo peddler, to see Bianca Salvador, was his lead to keep. And he wouldn't mention the contents of the carryon bag at his feet or the digital photos captured on his cell phone. Until he figured out whose side the man was on, Duarte didn't need to know everything.

"So, Captain, you have any ideas on who might think a poisonous snake makes a good key to the city?"