Rachel Alexander 05 - The Wrong Dog

times, the klutz. All his money, Madison couldn’t find a better goon?
    And what now? Send someone else? Do it himself? He was in too deep to stop. Whatever it was he was after, nothing was going to stand in his way—no loss, no law, no anything.
    I made a grilled cheese sandwich, putting a mug on top of it to make sure the cheese melted. Sitting at the table, I looked at my notes, trying to figure out what this was all about, how the different parts connected, and when I thought I had most of it, I locked the door, took a hot shower, and waited for morning.

Chapter 33
    He Took a Step Toward the Gate

    I called the house on West Fourth Street, and when he answered, told him where I’d be in an hour. He agreed to meet me so that we could talk. Then I showered, dressed, ate, and fed the dogs, taking the bullies for a walk, then leaving them home and taking Dashiell to the dog run.
    He’d gotten there before me, taking the same seat he’d had the first time I’d met him, looking pretty much the same as he had then, overdressed for where he was. This time, perhaps to keep the sun out of his eyes, or maybe for some other reason, he was wearing dark glasses.
    I kept Dashiell on leash and sat down next to him. He dipped his chin, but didn’t speak.
    “Why?” I asked him.
    “You couldn’t possibly understand.”
    “Try me.”
    He looked me over and exhaled through his nose, like a horse. Clearly, I wasn’t up to his high standards.
    “I’m your best shot,” I said.
    “It seemed an incredible opportunity for me, a dream come true. Except—”
    “Except that you’d never be able to publish it, never be able to announce it, never get to take credit for it.”
    He shook his head. “No. That was part of the deal. Though I thought that one day he might change his mind. I hoped that, at least.”
    “If you were successful.”
    He smiled. “Yes, that big if.”
    “And you were. There were how many Blanche clones?”
    “Just the three. Once we had those, we didn’t try for more.”
    “Still, it’s an astonishing accomplishment.”
    “Still,” he said, staring straight ahead, across the run, focusing on God knows what.
    “And fantastic as that was, something that would have assured your place in history, it was just the warm-up.“
    “Yes.” No surprise showing on his face. Still staring straight ahead, as if he was talking to himself, not to me. And maybe, in a way, he was.
    “The real work, how did that go?”
    He shrugged. “It hardly matters now. The project ended last night.”
    “So I heard.”
    Now he turned his head and looked at me, at least I assumed he was looking at me. All I could see in those dark, dark glasses was a miniature reflection of myself, something akin to what Charles Madison had so longed to see. “He wanted this enough to kill for it.”
    “I had no idea. I knew he wanted it enough to spend millions on it. The rest, when it happened . . .”
    “But you didn’t stop then. You didn’t leave. You—“
    “I was in so deep. I was so involved in the project. The thought of abandoning it, well, I just couldn’t, I couldn’t. I told myself—”
    “That it wasn’t your fault, what happened, it was his fault. He’d done it. You were just a scientist doing what you’d been trained to do, using your extraordinary talent, following along from question to question.”
    He turned back toward the other side of the run and nodded. “Yes. Something like that.”
    “Did you know, when Sophie died, what had been done?”
    “Not at first. But then I heard talk.”
    “He was on the phone?”
    “No. He was talking to his son. Arguing, actually. I was coming in from the lab, crossing the garden. I could hear them through the French doors.”
    “His son,” I said.
    “Adopted.”
    “Ah.”
    “And the daughter also?”
    “Yes.”
    “So neither of them—”
    “No. That was the gist of what he told me, that he was not able to father children but that more than anything in the world, he wanted one who would inherit his ability.“
    “Who would play the piano.”
    “Compose and play, yes.”
    “But the son and daughter?”
    He shook his head. “I suppose it’s a form of megalomania, not so different from his. But when he approached me, all I could see, all I allowed myself to look at was the opportunity to work with unlimited funds, with fewer restraints than I’d have anywhere else.”
    “Something you were unable to turn down.”
    “I expect I could have turned it