Blood Test

That had to be remedied. It was more than an academic exercise. There were lives at stake.

I refused to compute the odds on the Swope children being alive. For the time being, it was sufficient that they were greater than zero. I thought, for the hundredth time, of the boy in the plastic room, helpless, dependent, potentially curable but harboring an internal time bomb... He had to be found or he’d die in pain.

Seized with anger at my helplessness, I shifted from altruism to self-preservation. Milo had urged me to be careful but sitting still could be the most dangerous act of all.

Someone had hunted me. The news of my survival would eventually emerge. The hunter would return to claim his prey, taking his time so as to do it right. I wouldn’t, couldn’t play that waiting game, living like a man on death row.

There was work to be done. Exploration. Exhumation.

The compass pointed south.

19

To trust someone is to take the greatest risk of all. Without trust nothing ever happens.

The issue, at this juncture, wasn’t whether or not to take the risk. It was who could be trusted.

There was Del Hardy of course, but I didn’t see him, or the police in general, as being much help. They were professionals who dealt with facts. All I had to offer were vague suspicions and intuitive dread. Hardy would hear me out politely, thank me for my input, tell me not to worry, and that would be it.

The answers I needed had to come from an insider; only someone who had known the Swopes in life could shed light on their deaths.

Sheriff Houten had seemed straight. But like many a large frog in a small pond, he’d overidentified with his role. He was the law in La Vista and crime was a personal affront. I recalled his anger at my suggestion that Woody and Nona might be somewhere in town. Such things simply didn’t happen on his turf.

That kind of paternalism bred a make-nice approach exemplified by the formal coexistence between the town and the Touch. On the positive side it could lead to tolerance, on the negative, tunnel vision.

I couldn’t turn to Houten for help. He wouldn’t welcome inquiries by outsiders under any circumstances and the hassles with Raoul were certain to have firmed his defenses. Neither could I waltz into town and strike up conversations with strangers. For a moment it seemed hopeless, La Vista a locked box.

Then I thought of Ezra Maimon.

There’d been a simple dignity and independence of spirit about the man that had impressed me. He’d walked into a mess and cleaned it up within minutes. Representing an outside trouble-maker’s interests against those of the sheriff could have proved intimidating to a less resolute man. Maimon had taken the job seriously and had done it damn well. He had spine and smarts.

Equally important, he was all I had.

I got his number from information and dialed it.

He answered the phone “Rare Fruit and Seed Company” in the same quiet voice I remembered.

“Mr. Maimon, Alex Delaware. We met at the sheriff’s station.”

“Good afternoon, Dr. Delaware. How is Dr. Melendez-Lynch?”

“I haven’t seen him since that day. He was pretty depressed.”

“Yes. Such a tragic state of affairs.”

“That’s why I called you.”

“Oh?”

I told him of Valcroix’s death, the attempt on my life, and my conviction that the situation would never be resolved without delving into the history of the Swopes, finishing with a straight-out plea for help.

There was silence on the other end and I knew he was deliberating, just as he had after Houten presented his case. I could almost hear the wheels turning.

“You’ve got a personal stake in this,” he said finally.

“That’s a big part of it. But there’s more. Woody Swope’s disease is curable. There’s no reason for him to die. If he’s alive I want him found and treated.”

More silent cerebration.

“I’m not sure I know anything that will help you.”

“Neither am I. But it’s worth a try.”

“Very well.”

I thanked him profusely. We agreed that meeting in La Vista was out of the question. For both our sakes.

“There’s a restaurant in Oceanside named Anita’s where I dine regularly,” he said. “I’m a vegetarian and they serve fine meatless cuisine. Can you meet me there at nine tonight?”

It was five forty. Given even the heaviest traffic, I’d make it with time to spare.

“I’ll be there.”

“All right, then, let me tell you how to find the place.”

The directions he gave were as expected: simple, straight-forward, precise.

I paid for another two nights at the Bel Air, returned to my room and called Mal Worthy. He was out of the office but his secretary volunteered his home number.

He picked up on the first ring, sounding weary and drained.

“Alex, I’ve tried to get you all day.”

“I’m in seclusion.”

“Hiding? Why? He’s dead.”

“It’s a long story. Listen, Mal, I called for a couple of reasons. First, how did the children take it?”