White Mountain. Dinah McCall

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      “Yes.”

      “How long?”

      “Two weeks, maybe more.”

      “Do we have any background on Walton or, I should say…Waller? What was his line of expertise? Was it nuclear…? Biological…? What in hell did that old man know that would still be of interest after all these years?”

      “He was a doctor. If there was a special project, we know nothing about it.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Dolan.”

      “Sir?”

      “Watch your back.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      The line went dead. Jack dropped the phone on the bed and reached for his shirt. The leisurely week he’d been hoping for had just gone up in smoke.

      Up one floor and at the far end of the hall, the uncles had gathered in David Schultz’s room. Their demeanor was morose, reflecting their depression. Jasper Arnold scratched his bald head as he looked about the room.

      “What about the clinic?” he asked.

      “What about it?” Thomas countered.

      “Samuel was the heart of it,” he said. “David and I have wanted out for more than five years. The staff is well-trained. We’ve accomplished what we set out to do. I say let them have full authority and we officially retire.”

      Rufus Toombs smoothed his hands over his paunch, then laid his hands on his knees and leaned forward.

      “Samuel had plans, remember? He swore he’d perfected the process even more than before. Things have already been set into motion.”

      Jasper waved away the comment. “Exactly my point. Samuel had plans…but Samuel is dead.” He took out his handkerchief and mopped the nervous sweat from his brow. “I have plans, too, and they do not include being murdered.”

      David interrupted. “I think you’re all overreacting.”

      Thomas Mowry had been listening quietly, but when he heard what sounded like derision in David’s voice, he had to speak up.

      “There are facts that cannot be ignored. Please. We should concentrate on them and not run amok here, worrying unnecessarily and blaming each other for what is, ultimately, inevitable.”

      “What are you talking about?” Jasper cried.

      “Age has caught up with us,” Thomas said. “And…quite possibly our pasts. We knew this could not go on forever. Besides, we have Isabella to consider and protect.”

      The other four looked at each other and then away, individually nodding or muttering.

      “Yes, yes, Isabella,” David said. “We have to think of our precious girl.”

      “Right,” Thomas said.

      For a moment there was silence, then Jasper asked, “So, what are we going to do about the last project? You know how high Samuel’s hopes had been. He kept claiming to have corrected the final flaw in our earlier works.”

      Rufus sighed. “Speaking of the works…I have news.”

      The others grew silent, waiting, fearing, yet knowing that their sentence must be that they hear it, if for no other reason than the fact that they were the ones who had set it in motion.

      “We have another self-destruct.”

      There was a collective sigh of frustration and regret that went up within the room and then, moments later, Thomas asked, “Who?”

      “Norma Jean Bailey.”

      “The blonde?” Thomas asked.

      Rufus nodded.

      Thomas’s voice began to shake. “I had such high hopes for that one. She’d already done some modeling and had enrolled in acting school, remember?”

      Each man there averted his eyes from the others, choosing instead to look away, as if afraid to see blame in the other men’s eyes. David Schultz simply bowed his head and covered his face with his hands.

      Thomas Mowry stood abruptly. “This leaves only two of the original twenty alive. I find this an unacceptable reason to try once more.” Then he strode to the window and stared out at the valley and White Mountain beyond.

      John Michaels, who up until now had remained silent, cursed beneath his breath, then, oddly enough, began to cry.

      The others said nothing. What could they say that hadn’t been said before? Finally Jasper broke the silence.

      “Does this mean we scrap Samuel’s last project?”

      “I say we take it to a vote,” David said.

      The five old men looked at each other. Finally they nodded in agreement.

      “Then a vote it is,” Jasper said, and picked up a pen and a pad of paper from beside the telephone. “Yes means we give the project one last try. No means we quit. Now. With no regrets and no blame.”

      “All right,” they echoed, and then each wrote his decision on a piece of paper and tore it off before passing the pad and pen to the next man.

      David took a small porcelain bowl from a bookshelf, folded the paper his vote was on and dropped it into the bowl before passing it around.

      One by one, the men dropped in their votes. Jasper Arnold was the last. He dropped in his paper, then set the bowl aside as if it contained something foul.

      “It’s your bowl. You count them,” John said, and handed the bowl to David.

      David Schultz felt every one of his seventy-eight years as he moved to his desk with the bowl in his hands.

      “Once the count is made, there is no going back. Understood?”

      “Understood,” they echoed.

      He unfolded the first bit of paper.

      “Yes. It reads yes.”

      He laid it aside and picked up the next, unfolding it with methodical precision.

      “No.”

      He picked up the next and the next, until he had two votes for yes and two votes for no. The room was completely silent except for the occasional hiss of an indrawn breath and the faint scratchy sound of paper against paper.

      “This is the last and deciding vote. Whatever it—”

      “Just do it!” Jasper cried.

      David nodded, then unfolded the paper. His nostrils flared. His expression went blank. He looked up.

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