“And Clyde knows about this?”
Luke shrugged. “He knows we’ve seen each other a few times. He doesn’t like it.”
“I don’t either.”
“Oh, snap out of it, Gray. Don’t blame Marianne because her family is a swarming vat of pestilent lice. Can I use your typewriter or not?”
“Not here.”
Luke was dumbfounded. “You’re being stingy with a typewriter because I like a Magruder?”
“I’m being stingy because I have three hundred thousand dollars’ worth of equipment in this factory. I can’t afford to have it vandalized if Magruder’s henchmen decide to come after you here. Take the typewriter, but use it somewhere else.”
It was the best he was going to get. Luke packed up the typewriter to take to his boardinghouse, but thoughts of Marianne still tormented him. He had a sinking sensation that Marianne Magruder would forever be his huge, once-in-a-lifetime regret.
He would let her go, but not without sending her a token of remembrance. He visited a jeweler’s shop and found an enamel pendant shaped like a small spray of forget-me-nots. The pale blue petals were the exact shade of Marianne’s eyes. He paid for the jeweler to wrap the pin and have it delivered to the Department of the Interior with no note or return address.
His interlude with Marianne was over, but echoes of their brief, magical time together would live with him forever.
Thirteen
Winter eventually released its grip on Washington, DC, and soon the ice was gone and tiny, bright green buds appeared on the branches as March warmed into April and then May.
Luke whistled as he strode back to the boardinghouse, the current issue of The Washington Post folded beneath his arm. On the bottom of the front page was the announcement that Oscar Garza was resigning from Congress. Luke tried not to preen, but he’d been working for months on exposing the bribery scandal leading to Congressman Garza’s resignation. It was his second triumph, for last month he’d succeeded in pressuring Alfred Westheimer into declining a bid for reelection. Two congressmen down, three more to go.
Luke had a spring in his stride as he vaulted up the boardinghouse steps. Partly it was his good mood from making progress on removing undesirable characters from Congress, but partly it was from almost two weeks of not ingesting any poison.
There had been turnover on the Poison Squad. Four men had left because they’d had enough of Dr. Wiley’s tainted meals, but most of the original crew was still here. By now they’d become almost like a family. A loud, brash family hailing from different walks of life, but Luke was grateful for them. Something about enduring hard times together turned strangers into brothers-in-arms very quickly.
Dinner smelled good as he stepped through the front door. Princeton was reading a novel in the parlor while the Rollins brothers played a game of chess. It looked like Little Rollins was losing, but perhaps his loss could be chalked up to sketchy concentration from whatever poison he was being fed this week. Over time Luke was beginning to recognize different batches of symptoms depending on whichever preservative was being tested that month. Sometimes he suffered nausea and stomach problems. Sometimes it was headaches and painful joints. This week the people ingesting the preservatives had poor concentration and difficulty sleeping. Perhaps one of these days he’d learn which preservatives they were being subjected to, but for now he honored Dr. Wiley’s rules about staying out of the kitchen. They all submitted to weekly draws of blood and fluid samples, a questionnaire, and a brief physical exam.
Nurse Hollister entered. “Dinner is served,” she said, looking unusually nervous. “Go ahead and start eating, but please stay at your places. Dr. Wiley is expected to join us soon, and he asked that everyone remain in the dining room until he gets here.”
“What’s up?” Princeton asked.
“I don’t know, but he’s been in a bad mood all day.”
Little Rollins snorted. “Maybe he’s been eating what we’ve been getting all week. That would put anyone in a bad mood.”
Luke wandered into the dining room and took his assigned seat. The plates had already been set on the table. Tonight it was chipped ham with a cherry glaze, corn bread, and green bean casserole. The poison could be anywhere, but his plate was almost certainly chemical-free. He’d simply been feeling too good this week to believe he was among the test subjects.
“I love ham,” Princeton said as he sat down.
“Want some of mine?” Little Rollins called from the other table. There was no need to answer. Everyone knew the rules and had been abiding by them.
Luke bowed his head in prayer. He used to endure a good bit of ribbing from some of the others who thought it hysterical that he prayed before a meal likely infused with poison. Luke had cheerfully pointed out that was all the more reason to pray.
Dr. Wiley’s heavy footsteps thumped into the room. Luke knew what was wrong the moment he spotted the issue of Modern Century in the doctor’s hand.
“Who here has been speaking to the press?” he demanded, holding the magazine up for everyone to see. “This is the second time in the past three months that an article about the hygienic table trials has appeared in this magazine. There is too much insight in this article for the reporter to have gleaned it from external observation. Someone on the inside is speaking with him.”
“What’s the name of the journalist?” Nicolo asked. “I’ll go pry the truth out of him.”
“It’s an anonymous article,” Dr. Wiley replied.
Luke broke off a section of corn bread and casually slathered it with butter. Looking back on events, it was a good thing Clyde Magruder had vandalized Modern Century’s Washington office. Luke had figured Clyde might strike again and decided to close the office rather than tolerate additional attacks. Now he quietly typed his articles at his family’s town house in Alexandria. He published occasional articles in journals all over the East Coast and kept his special affiliation with Modern Century quiet from the men in this house.
“Well?” Dr. Wiley pressed. “Are any of you going to own up to being responsible for this breach of confidentiality?”
Luke set down his butter knife. “What’s the problem with sharing news of the study with the public? The taxpayers are paying for the study. Don’t they have a right to know about it?”
“Too much ruckus,” Dr. Wiley pronounced. “Everyone remembers what happened the first week, with people lining up outside our door and clamoring for details. They were making celebrities out of you.”
“That’s the best part of the whole study,” Nicolo said. “The ladies at the Census Bureau still look at me with respect. For once in my life! Do you know how hard it is for a man as short as me to get that kind of admiration?”
There was plenty of laughter at Nicolo’s comment, and a little wind went out of Dr. Wiley. “I know it’s flattering, but this is a controlled scientific study. The men of the hygienic table trials are—”
“We’re the Poison Squad,” Princeton interrupted. “At least get our name right.”
Dr. Wiley bowed his head in concession. “I suppose you all have earned the right to name yourselves whatever you want. But you don’t have the right to tattle to the press. I intend to send a firmly worded letter to the editor of Modern Century and demand the name of his source. I will be sorely disappointed if it turns out to be one of you.”