Her Perilous Wolf by Julie Steimle (best e book reader TXT) 📕

He looked to the elevator doors.

“As for Audry, can you contact her for me and tell her I need to speak with her?” His grandfather gazed hopefully at him.

Wincing, Vincent replied as the numbers changed on the pad, “Grandpa, Audry is in Africa.”

“What?” The old man’s eyes widened on him, shocked. “Again?”

“She flew into Tanzania two days ago,” Vincent said, “And I don’t have a contact number for her that will reach her directly. It is more of a friend to friend, memo note that can be sent on kind of communication.”

The old man paled, lost opportunity flickering out of his eyes. “Bu… uh… Why does she always do this? I thought her doctorate had to do with American wildlife.”

Though it was heartwarming to know that their grandfather had taken a genuine interest in his cousin’s work, paying close attention to it so that he was up-to-date, Vincent knew the old man just wanted Audry to abandon her research and become a society girl. He had said so on a number of occasions. She was ‘too pretty to be chasing tigers’, as he put it. Audry would have considered that remark sexist.

“It is,” Vincent assured him with a nod. “But she’s come to a dead end, she says, and she has to reassess the direction of her research.”

“And she thinks she can find it in Africa?” the old man asked incredulously. The elevator doors dinged as they opened.

“I think she’s running away,” Vincent murmured honestly, following his grandfather onto the elevator.

The man gazed toward him with a knowing smirk. He sighed, nodding. “Yes…. Our darling does do that, doesn’t she?”

Vincent blinked at him, wondering what he meant as the doors closed.

“The question is, what is she running from?” The elderly man mused over this as he stood there, his wrinkles creasing on his brow.

Vincent had a guess (while his stomach lurched when they went down), yet he wondered if maybe he was wrong. Rick was not in Idaho. He was at school finishing off his MBA (the SRA site’s update said so). She could have just thrown herself into her work and never see him again, right?

When they reached the bottom floor, his grandfather said to him, “Alright. You go on this trip, which I see you are intent on. Find out the mood of this young tyrant, and help me figure out how to broker a deal with them. If it truly is a lost cause, let me know once you are positive of it. I don’t want to waste any more time on a company that is blind to decent business propositions.”

Vincent nodded, watching his grandfather pass through the foyer, waving to secretaries. He exited the building, quickly entering his car for lunch. Vincent, however, hung back. Now all he had to do was draft a plan which would appeal to Michael Toms. If he was one and the same person as that listed SRA agent, then maybe he could get a more inside perspective on the situation.

It took very little time to pack his bags for the trip, even less time to get his plane tickets. Vincent was at the airport that very evening, and after crossing the nation in just a bit over six hours, he rented a car then checked himself into a cushy hotel where he crashed for a long night sleep.

 

*

Blood.

Everyone around him said he had an unhealthy obsession with it. But Doug did not think the word ‘unhealthy’ fit his intense interest in the study of that particular biological component. Blood was fascinating. It was organic plasma—a liquid connective tissue in the body. It was what made complex organisms thrive. There were all kinds of blood out there too. Blood was not just red. It was a rainbow of colors in the animal kingdom.

Doug had catalogued every type of blood of the animal kingdom, including their antigens, percentages of kinds of cells which are unique to that particular sort of blood, and the plasma quality. He had enlarged photos of all the various cells, along with digital diagram of the proteins and such that constructed them. He also had catalogues of rare blood diseases—which was why he was so engrossed in the blood samples Troy Meecham kept sending him. Each one had varying degrees of toxicity. And the oddest part? That blood, if fresh, attacked other blood like pathogens. And more, it was thriving.

The red blood cells especially were interesting. For starters—their color was not red anymore. And they seemed to have formed tiny hairy villi that moved them about the bloodstream like little microbes… so the heart did not even need to pump. But everything else about those cells was the same as usual. They still moved oxygen. And they still had hemoglobin. Yet they were just a faint pink rather than red. The leukocytes were also fascinating. They were practically super powered, allowing nothing to get to them. And the plasma was also different. It had a toxic odor to it, one which Doug could not figure. It almost reminded him of vinegar, yet it smelled rancid and oily.

Oddly, the most toxic samples of the blood Troy had sent him disintegrated completely in sunlight. It had even been sent to him in an opaque container with a wax-pen note on it indicating that he keep it out of direct sunlight—so Troy knew it would happen. But it was such a fascinatingly peculiar note that Doug had simply wanted to see what would happen for himself, so he fetched a dropper and petri dish, and dropped samples of the ultra-toxic blood on it then put it out in the window sill. The moment the blood drops touched sunlight, the droplets smoked into the air in acrid black wisps. In seconds, those drops became tiny dust stains in the dish.

He jotted notes down then tried the same thing with the less toxic samples. Those, surprisingly, did not turn to dust—though one did smoke as if burning, drying up in the light. He examined all the dried blood samples under the microscope afterward. By varying degrees, the blood cells had degraded—just by sun exposure.

 One of the rules Troy had given Doug in regards to handling this blood was that he should never ever let it touch his skin. Troy had warned him that it would cause burns. And if he ever accidentally got flecked with it, he was to rub garlic oil on that spot immediately. At first Doug thought it was a joke, but he did prepare some garlic oil anyway as it was better to be safe than sorry, and Troy was the expert about this particular biohazard. So Doug was grateful that when he had flecked some of that acrid blood on his skin on accident, he was prepared.

It definitely burned. And the garlic oil, which he hastily massaged into the spot, did its magic immediately. The end result, a slight red mark on his skin, which after a day, faded.

That got Doug thinking. He wanted to know how much Troy already knew. Troy had given him no instruction. He merely requested that he test and document the blood in every way possible. Troy knew about the effect of sunlight on it, and clearly about the garlic oil. He knew Troy was looking for a cure to a sort of infection caused by this blood and had perhaps tried herbal oils on it. Doug wondered if the garlic oil itself contained something to neutralize the plasma—a special component or combination of components. It was worth researching what that component was.

Testing his theory, Doug put a drop of that blood into a clean petri dish. Then he added a tiny drop of the garlic oil, just to see what it would do.

The effect was shocking. The blood itself turned back to a natural red as the oil mixed in. And under the microscope the red blood cells had returned to normal. No more villi. However, while jotting those notes down, he noticed that the blood sample dried up soon after… much like the blood on the windowsill, becoming powder. It was unsettling. The garlic oil cured the blood, but then killed the blood as if the blood and all it components were in fact a pathogen.

He sent Troy a text, along with the coded attachment, containing his results. He asked:

 

∞ The garlic oil seems to have great effect in improving the blood, but the later degradation had proven to be inevitable. How did you know garlic would be useful against treating the toxicity of this blood? ∞

 

Troy answered almost immediately. It was likely his phone was near him in his lab.

 

꙳ How could I not? I’ve been researching this blood for quite a while. I know its limitations. Now, we need to record the effect the blood has on human tissue. I have some of the equipment in my lab, but I need you to conduct the same experiment, along with your feedback. ꙳

 

Doug frowned at that. He texted back:

 

∞ Why don’t I just come to your lab? This back and forth is getting ridiculous, if not dangerous. ∞

 

Troy’s response came after a brief time. He seemed to be thinking a while.

 

꙳ I wish. But they don’t want you in close proximity with me. Like I said. Some of this blood is mine. They don’t want you at risk. ꙳

 

Grumbling, Doug responded.

 

∞ I’ve handled Mr. Deacon’s blood—the both of them. I think I will be fine with yours. ∞

      

Troy’s answer came quickly with a winking emoji.

 

꙳ ;) Alright. But we can’t let Rick find out. He’d flip a lid. He thinks I’m endangering you. ꙳

 

Muttering, Doug texted back:  ∞ The guy needs to ease up. ∞

Done for the day, Doug collected up and locked away his supplies within his small office lab refrigerator while also packing up the results to send back. Then he locked that. It was one of Troy’s most important stipulations. He had refused to ship anything to Doug until after Doug had proved he had a lab that was clean and secure. His lab for bloodwork was in his home office, one which he kept locked when he was handling (what his wife reminded him were) biohazards. Whenever he as working with blood he hung on his door a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign. The office had its own bathroom, which was the main reason Troy finally gave in to shipping blood samples rather than just showing pictures. Doug needed some autonomy for his research to be worth something.

The courier showed up at the door an hour later to collect the samples Doug wanted to send back. Doug had packaged them in such a way that they were thoroughly secure and well-labeled. The man who regularly carried the samples back and forth between him and Troy was a pleasant sort of guy, somewhere in his twenties, west-coaster by his accent and manner, and went by the name of Art Condie—though his given name was Arthur. There wasn’t anything particularly noteworthy to make Art stick into memory. Art wore a clean suit, had a clean haircut, and minded his own business. Perhaps the only thing that that did keep him in memory was how Art noticed Skyler and Maris when they were running around the house and cautioned Doug to make sure they never burst in on him in the office during lab work. Clearly this Mr. Condie knew what was in the packages. Today he brought a letter, making a trade.

“What’s this?” Doug read the front of the envelope. It was not Troy’s handwriting.

“Oh, that’s from Rick Deacon,” Art said. “He figured he could save the cost of a stamp.”

Doug lifted his eyes to Art. “You know Rick?”

Art’s smile crooked up to one side as he tucked the package from Doug to his hip. “Of course I do. I work for him.”

Doug’s jaw popped open a mite. “What? I thought you worked for Troy.”

Shaking his head, Art said, “Oh. No. Not really. I am more like tech