Blood Test

“Anyone else would have considered it just another sad story and kept it confidential. But for Valcroix the information had larger implications. He’d probably observed Houten and wondered why he was so willing to take orders from you. Now he knew. And he was unethical — confidentiality meant nothing to him. When his future as a doctor began to look shaky, he drove down here and confronted you with his knowledge, demanding a bigger piece of the pie. You feigned concession, doped him up until he fell asleep, had one of your faithful drive him halfway back to L.A., to the Wilmington docks. Another followed in a second car. They set up a fatal accident, watched it happen, and drove off. The technique is simple enough — wedge a board between the seat and the accelerator...”

“Close.” Matthias smiled. “We used a tree branch. Apple tree. Organic. He hit the wall at fifty. Barry said he looked like a tomato omelet afterward.” Licking his mustache, he gave me a hard meaningful look. “He was a grasping, greedy pig.”

“If that’s supposed to scare me off, forget it. A hundred and fifty. Firm.”

The guru sighed.

“By itself the hundred and fifty is a nuisance,” he said. “And a palatable one. But who’s to say it’ll stop there? I’ve looked you up, Delaware. You were a top man in your field but now work only irregularly. Despite your apparent indolence, you like to live well. That worries me. Nothing feeds greed more quickly than a sizable gap between want and have. A new car, couple of fancy vacations, down payment on a condo in Mammoth, and it’s all gone. Next thing I know, you’re back with an outsretched palm.”

“I’m not greedy, Matthews, just resourceful. If your research was thorough you’d know I made a bunch of good investments that are still paying off. I’m thirty-five and stable, have lived comfortably without your money and could do so indefinitely. But I like the idea of ripping off a master rip-off artist. As a one-shot deal. When the one fifty’s safely in my hands you’ll never see or hear from me again.”

He grew thoughtful.

“Would you consider two hundred in coke?”

“Not a chance. Never touch the stuff. Hard cash.”

He pursed his lips and frowned.

“You’re a tough bastard, Doctor. You’ve got the killer instinct — which I admire in the abstract. Barry was wrong about you. He said you were a straight arrow, sickeningly self-righteous. In actuality you’re a jackal.”

“He was a lousy psychologist. Never did understand people.”

“Neither do you, apparently.” He stood suddenly and gestured to the cultists on the hill. They rose in unison and marched forward, a battalion in white.

I bounded up quickly.

“You’re making a mistake, Matthews. I’ve taken precautions for exactly this contingency. If I’m not back in L.A. by eight the files get opened. One by one.”

“You’re an ass,” he snapped. “When I was an attorney I chewed up people like you and spat them out. Shrinks were the easiest to terrorize. I made one wet his pants up on the stand. A full professor, no less. Your bush-league attempt at arm twisting is pathetic. In a matter of minutes I’ll know the location of every single one of those files. Barry wants to handle the interrogation personally. I think it’s an excellent idea — his desire for revenge is quite robust. He’s a nasty little slime, very well suited to the job. It will be excruciating, Delaware. And when the information is in my hands you’ll be dispatched. Another unfortunate accident.”

The cultists marched closer, robotlike and grim.

“Call them off, Matthews. Don’t dig yourself deeper.”

“Excruciating,” he repeated and beckoned them closer.

They formed a circle around us. Blank, middle-aged faces. Tight little mouths. Empty eyes. Empty minds...

Matthias turned his back on me.

“What if there are other copies? Ones I didn’t tell you about?”

“Good-bye, Doctor,” he said, scornfully, and began to exit the circle.

The others stepped aside to let him through and closed ranks immediately after he’d passed. I spotted Graffius. His puny frame quivered with anticipation. An ellipse of drool dotted his lower lip. When our eyes met the lip drew back hatefully.

“Take him,” he ordered.

The black-bearded giant stepped forward and grabbed one of my arms. Another large man, heavyset and gap-toothed, grasped the other. Graffius gave the signal and they dragged me toward the main building, followed by two dozen others chanting a wordless dirge.

Graffius ran alongside and slapped my face teasingly. Cackling with glee, he told me about the party he’d planned in my honor.

“We’ve got a new designer hallucinogen that makes acid seem like baby aspirin, Alex. I’ll shoot it right into your veins with a Methedrine chaser. It’ll be like being dipped in and out of hell.”

He had lots more to say but his oration was cut short by a sudden, brief stutter of gunfire, punctuating the silence like a symphony of giant bullfrogs. The second burst was longer, the unmistakable belch of heavy-duty firearms.