taste as pleasing as it had before. In fact, this time I detected an
underlying bitterness, which reminded me that apricot pits were a
source of cyanide.
Toasting the end of the world tends to focus the mind on the dark
potential in all things, even in a humble fruit.
Asserting my incorrigible optimism, I took another long sip and
concentrated on tasting only the flavor that had pleased me
previously.
Angela said, “Not fifteen minutes pass before three guys respond to
Rod’s phone call. They mustve driven in from Wyvern using an ambulance
or something for cover, though there wasn’t any siren. None of them
are wearing uniforms, either. Two of them come around to the back,
open the door, and step into the kitchen without knocking. The third
guy must have picked the lock on the front door and come in that way,
quiet as a ghost, because he steps into the dining-room doorway the
same time as the other two come in the back. Rod’s still got the
pistol trained on the monkeyhis arms shaking with fatigue-and all three
of the others have tranquilizer-dart guns.”
I thought of the quiet lamplit street out front, the charming
architecture of this house, the pair of matched magnolia trees, the
arbor hung with star jasmine. No one passing the place that night
would have guessed at the strange drama playing out within these
ordinary stucco walls.
“The monkey seems like he’s expecting them,” Angela said, “isn’t
concerned, doesn’t try to get away. One of them shoots him with a
dart.
He bares his teeth and hisses but doesn’t even try to pluck the needle
out. He drops what’s left of the second tangerine, struggles hard to
swallow the bite he has in his mouth, then just curls up on the table,
sighs, goes to sleep. They leave with the monkey, and Rod goes with
them, and I never see the monkey again. Rod doesn’t come back until
three o’clock in the morning, until Christmas Eve is over, and we never
do exchange gifts until late Christmas Day, and by then we’re in Hell
and nothing’s ever going to be the same. No way out, and I know it.”
Finally she tossed back her remaining brandy and put the glass down on
the table so hard that it sounded like a gunshot.
Until this moment she had exhibited only fear and melancholy, both as
deep as cancer in the bone. Now came anger from a still deeper
source.
“I had to let them take their goddamn blood samples the day after
Christmas.”
“Who?
“The project at Wyvern.”
“Project?”
“And once a month ever since-their sample. Like my body isn’t mine,
like I’ve got to pay a rent in blood just to be allowed to go on living
in it.”
“Wyvern has been closed a year and a half” “Not all of it. Some things
don’t die. Can’t die. No matter how much we wish them dead.”
Although she was thin almost to the point of gauntness, Angela had
always been pretty in her way. Porcelain skin, a graceful brow, high
cheekbones, sculpted nose, a generous mouth that balanced the otherwise
vertical lines of her face and paid out a wealth of smiles-these
qualities, combined with her selfless heart, made her lovely in spite
of the fact that her skull was too near the skin, her skeleton too
ill-concealed beneath the illusion of immortality that the flesh
provides. Now, however, her face was hard and cold and ugly, fiercely
sharpened at every edge by the grinding wheel of anger.
“If I ever refuse to give them the monthly sample, they’ll kill me.
I’m sure of that. Or lock me away in some secret hospital out there
where they can keep a closer watch on me.”
“What’s the sample for? What’re they afraid of?”
She seemed about to tell me, but then she pressed her lips together.
“Angela?”
I gave a sample every month myself, for Dr. Cleveland, and often
Angela drew it. In my case it was for an experimental procedure that
might detect early indications of skin and eye cancers from subtle
changes in blood chemistry. Although giving the samples was painless