stopped tapping his fork and set it down on his rumpled napkin.
"That's the definition of a sociopath," Bork said thoughtfully.
Lee let go of Plover's arm. "I've started torturing animals," he said. "I'm seriously thinking about hurting people."
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hyde," Camp said, tossing Lee a salute.
"Anyone else?" Nathaniel asked, fascinated.
Bork took a bite of rare prime rib and lifted his fork. "Only for a day," he said, chewing. "Then it stopped being fun."
"Did you actually butcher someone, you son of a bitch?" Camp asked with a manic grin.
Bork looked back at Camp as if the question were rude—or meaningless.
"Price loves butterflies," Lee said. "Did he suggest you name your program Mariposa? All the soldiers, all his employees, psychologically damaged by combat . . . You said you could restore them, make them bright and shiny again. And we became your test subjects . . . You gave him your guarantee. Didn't you?"
Plover nodded like a bobble-head doll with a stick shoved up one side of its neck. "In a nutshell," he said.
"It's hell to be a baby again, Doc," Camp said.
Plover looked down at his plate.
"The vice president," Nathaniel said. "Was he one of your patients?"
Plover jerked as if stung. "That's privileged," he said, and tried reasserting some last shred of authority. "It's privileged —and dangerous!"
"Bingo," Bork said, marking a scored point with his finger in the air. "You're already smarter than you used to be, Nathaniel."
Plover's cell phone buzzed. He fumbled it out of his pocket, dropped it on the table, then retrieved it and answered, "Hello?"
Nathaniel noted this was not an EPR unit; hence, the caller was not the Quiet Man.
"Doc, you shouldn't be talking on those things," Camp said. "Microwaves can ruin your brain."
As Plover listened, his face lost the rest of its color. "Are you sure?"
He shut the phone, closed his eyes. "I have to leave now," he said, struggling to regain whatever was left of his composure. "Mr. Trace, we need to speak in private, as agreed."
"You and the doctor run along," Bork said. "The rest of us will sit here and chitchat."
In the crowded lobby, Nathaniel took Plover's trembling arm and aimed him to the mall restroom. Through the big fire doors, the hall beyond was empty.
Plover handed his package to Nathaniel.
"The Quiet Man mentioned someone named Jones, some sort of expert—you seem to know him. Jones suggested I give this material to you, and that you find a woman named Rebecca Rose. She is in law enforcement, I presume."
Nathaniel listened with interest, enjoying the patterns of blood flow in Plover's face and hands. He could almost feel the heat. Plover was definitely a candidate for a heart attack.
Bee vision.
"Jones might know something," Nathaniel admitted as he opened the package. The doctor watched him closely while he pulled out a reddish-purple dragon about two inches long, printed on a sheet of pliable plastic. The package also contained a badge on a black braided lanyard and a photo of a woman with medium-long hair.
"These are my credentials for the COPES conference, across the street," Plover said. "They'll get you past most of the outer security. The dragon is a skin computer. A dattoo. People put it on their arms and exchange personal data. I've preloaded this one with crucial information. She'll be wearing a dattoo as well. Cross arms, like this." He demonstrated by hooking his arm around Nathaniel's. "It works through clothing."
Nathaniel was amused. He rolled up his sleeve and peeled the dattoo from its plastic sheet. It laid down easily on his inner forearm and conformed to the skin, stretching a little.
"Remember this about Axel Price," Plover said. "He rarely does anything without having two excellent reasons. That's the secret of his success. The seven of you were in a bad way—and there was my research. He needed you healthy, and he saw a way to make huge profits from treating PTSD. Relieving human misery
"That's the definition of a sociopath," Bork said thoughtfully.
Lee let go of Plover's arm. "I've started torturing animals," he said. "I'm seriously thinking about hurting people."
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hyde," Camp said, tossing Lee a salute.
"Anyone else?" Nathaniel asked, fascinated.
Bork took a bite of rare prime rib and lifted his fork. "Only for a day," he said, chewing. "Then it stopped being fun."
"Did you actually butcher someone, you son of a bitch?" Camp asked with a manic grin.
Bork looked back at Camp as if the question were rude—or meaningless.
"Price loves butterflies," Lee said. "Did he suggest you name your program Mariposa? All the soldiers, all his employees, psychologically damaged by combat . . . You said you could restore them, make them bright and shiny again. And we became your test subjects . . . You gave him your guarantee. Didn't you?"
Plover nodded like a bobble-head doll with a stick shoved up one side of its neck. "In a nutshell," he said.
"It's hell to be a baby again, Doc," Camp said.
Plover looked down at his plate.
"The vice president," Nathaniel said. "Was he one of your patients?"
Plover jerked as if stung. "That's privileged," he said, and tried reasserting some last shred of authority. "It's privileged —and dangerous!"
"Bingo," Bork said, marking a scored point with his finger in the air. "You're already smarter than you used to be, Nathaniel."
Plover's cell phone buzzed. He fumbled it out of his pocket, dropped it on the table, then retrieved it and answered, "Hello?"
Nathaniel noted this was not an EPR unit; hence, the caller was not the Quiet Man.
"Doc, you shouldn't be talking on those things," Camp said. "Microwaves can ruin your brain."
As Plover listened, his face lost the rest of its color. "Are you sure?"
He shut the phone, closed his eyes. "I have to leave now," he said, struggling to regain whatever was left of his composure. "Mr. Trace, we need to speak in private, as agreed."
"You and the doctor run along," Bork said. "The rest of us will sit here and chitchat."
In the crowded lobby, Nathaniel took Plover's trembling arm and aimed him to the mall restroom. Through the big fire doors, the hall beyond was empty.
Plover handed his package to Nathaniel.
"The Quiet Man mentioned someone named Jones, some sort of expert—you seem to know him. Jones suggested I give this material to you, and that you find a woman named Rebecca Rose. She is in law enforcement, I presume."
Nathaniel listened with interest, enjoying the patterns of blood flow in Plover's face and hands. He could almost feel the heat. Plover was definitely a candidate for a heart attack.
Bee vision.
"Jones might know something," Nathaniel admitted as he opened the package. The doctor watched him closely while he pulled out a reddish-purple dragon about two inches long, printed on a sheet of pliable plastic. The package also contained a badge on a black braided lanyard and a photo of a woman with medium-long hair.
"These are my credentials for the COPES conference, across the street," Plover said. "They'll get you past most of the outer security. The dragon is a skin computer. A dattoo. People put it on their arms and exchange personal data. I've preloaded this one with crucial information. She'll be wearing a dattoo as well. Cross arms, like this." He demonstrated by hooking his arm around Nathaniel's. "It works through clothing."
Nathaniel was amused. He rolled up his sleeve and peeled the dattoo from its plastic sheet. It laid down easily on his inner forearm and conformed to the skin, stretching a little.
"Remember this about Axel Price," Plover said. "He rarely does anything without having two excellent reasons. That's the secret of his success. The seven of you were in a bad way—and there was my research. He needed you healthy, and he saw a way to make huge profits from treating PTSD. Relieving human misery
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