Slattery said, shoving the packaged garment into Cam’s chest as they stopped together on the path. “Thanks to you we now have nothing with which to prove there was no intruder.”
Cam looked at him in surprise. “I would think Ms. McHenry’s alleged wee-hour hysteria and hallucination has removed all need for any such proof. Not to mention the near instantaneous healing of her cut,” he added dryly.
Slattery’s dark bushy brows drew together and he seemed momentarily at a loss for words. Then he harrumphed and leaned forward to pluck Lacey McHenry’s file folder from Cam’s grasp. “The director wants you in his office at your earliest convenience. I’ll take this up to Gen for you.” He continued on toward the ziggurat without further explanation, leaving Cam to stand with the packaged lab coat and a growing uneasiness in his gut.
Being head of the Department of Applied Genetics shielded him from the general stream of gossip and rumor, so he’ d not heard of Ms. McHenry’s late-night self-admission for hallucinatory paranoia until fifteen minutes ago, when the clinic receptionist had told him. That information had prompted him to open her file, which had shown him not only the false diagnosis but a notation in her physical evaluation that she had an existing hairline scar on her left inner forearm sustained during one of her berserk ex-husband’s beatings. Barely had he read the fraudulent notation when McHenry had caught up with him and shown him the scar herself.
He’d recognized at once what they had done to her, for he’ d worked on the ATR project a bit when he’d first arrived at K-J and had seen it in action. What he couldn’t understand was why they’d done it.
The grit of her approaching footfalls on the graveled path behind him now intruded into his musings, and mindful of the AD’s warning not to speak to her further, he hurried away before she could stop him.
Since “at your convenience” meant “immediately” in Swain-speak, Cam headed straight for the main elevators in the ziggurat’s huge central atrium, stepping through a pair of sliding glass doors into the warm, moist, loam-scented air of the kidney-shaped atrium’s artificial jungle. Seventy-foot-tall trees soared above him, encircled by nine stories of vine-cloaked balconies. More vines linked balcony to balcony, balcony to tree, and tree to tree in a riot of foliage that supported a collection of exotic birds, butterflies, reptiles, and small monkeys. Where once he’ d gawked in amazement, Cam now strode briskly along the artificial stream, past the thirty-foot-tall man-made waterfall to the bank of six glass-walled elevators that served the upper floors. One of them had just arrived, its passengers disembarking, and shortly he was ascending toward the ninth floor.
Watching the atrium’s vine-cloaked balconies and tree trunks slide downward as the car glided up, he continued to chew on the rationale behind using what was certainly an unapproved medical procedure in their attempt to cover up the break-in. In light of Swain’s past procedural indiscretions, it seemed a foolish action indeed.
Though it had been thirty years since the FDA had barred him from receiving federal research money, it had all come about because he’d dared to perform unauthorized experiments on human subjects, one of whom had died. Shame and exile had been Swain’s reward, and he’d spent a decade working in various privately funded international research facilities. He’ d returned to a mostly permanent residence in Arizona some nine years ago, living on-site to direct the last stages of the Institute’s construction as he began recruiting staff and funding for its operation. It had only been five years, however, since he’d been fully exonerated by the FDA for his earlier crimes.
After all of that, why would he repeat his original sin now, when there was no need?
As the elevator stopped at the ninth floor, Cam turned from the view of
Cam looked at him in surprise. “I would think Ms. McHenry’s alleged wee-hour hysteria and hallucination has removed all need for any such proof. Not to mention the near instantaneous healing of her cut,” he added dryly.
Slattery’s dark bushy brows drew together and he seemed momentarily at a loss for words. Then he harrumphed and leaned forward to pluck Lacey McHenry’s file folder from Cam’s grasp. “The director wants you in his office at your earliest convenience. I’ll take this up to Gen for you.” He continued on toward the ziggurat without further explanation, leaving Cam to stand with the packaged lab coat and a growing uneasiness in his gut.
Being head of the Department of Applied Genetics shielded him from the general stream of gossip and rumor, so he’ d not heard of Ms. McHenry’s late-night self-admission for hallucinatory paranoia until fifteen minutes ago, when the clinic receptionist had told him. That information had prompted him to open her file, which had shown him not only the false diagnosis but a notation in her physical evaluation that she had an existing hairline scar on her left inner forearm sustained during one of her berserk ex-husband’s beatings. Barely had he read the fraudulent notation when McHenry had caught up with him and shown him the scar herself.
He’d recognized at once what they had done to her, for he’ d worked on the ATR project a bit when he’d first arrived at K-J and had seen it in action. What he couldn’t understand was why they’d done it.
The grit of her approaching footfalls on the graveled path behind him now intruded into his musings, and mindful of the AD’s warning not to speak to her further, he hurried away before she could stop him.
Since “at your convenience” meant “immediately” in Swain-speak, Cam headed straight for the main elevators in the ziggurat’s huge central atrium, stepping through a pair of sliding glass doors into the warm, moist, loam-scented air of the kidney-shaped atrium’s artificial jungle. Seventy-foot-tall trees soared above him, encircled by nine stories of vine-cloaked balconies. More vines linked balcony to balcony, balcony to tree, and tree to tree in a riot of foliage that supported a collection of exotic birds, butterflies, reptiles, and small monkeys. Where once he’ d gawked in amazement, Cam now strode briskly along the artificial stream, past the thirty-foot-tall man-made waterfall to the bank of six glass-walled elevators that served the upper floors. One of them had just arrived, its passengers disembarking, and shortly he was ascending toward the ninth floor.
Watching the atrium’s vine-cloaked balconies and tree trunks slide downward as the car glided up, he continued to chew on the rationale behind using what was certainly an unapproved medical procedure in their attempt to cover up the break-in. In light of Swain’s past procedural indiscretions, it seemed a foolish action indeed.
Though it had been thirty years since the FDA had barred him from receiving federal research money, it had all come about because he’d dared to perform unauthorized experiments on human subjects, one of whom had died. Shame and exile had been Swain’s reward, and he’d spent a decade working in various privately funded international research facilities. He’ d returned to a mostly permanent residence in Arizona some nine years ago, living on-site to direct the last stages of the Institute’s construction as he began recruiting staff and funding for its operation. It had only been five years, however, since he’d been fully exonerated by the FDA for his earlier crimes.
After all of that, why would he repeat his original sin now, when there was no need?
As the elevator stopped at the ninth floor, Cam turned from the view of
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