Camden's Knife Read online

  Camden’s Knife © 2014 by John Patrick Kavanagh

  All Rights Reserved.

  This is a work of fiction.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  For more information contact:

  Riverdale Avenue Books

  5676 Riverdale Avenue

  Riverdale, NY 10471.

  www.riverdaleavebooks.com

  Design by www.formatting4U.com

  Cover Art by J. Lionne-Demilunes

  Digital ISBN 978-1-62601-090-1

  Print ISBN 978-1-62601-091-8

  Second Edition, December 2014

  First Edition April 2014

  An earlier version of this novel titled Sixers was published by Lynx Books in 1989.

  FOR SUSAN

  mac∙ro∙glint noun

  1. AN EVENT OR THING, esp. in THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, OF SUCH GREAT SIGNIFICANCE THAT ITS EFFECT(S) REVERBERATE THROUGH ALL STRATA OF SOCIETY

  2. A CULTURAL GAME CHANGER

  3. AN UNMATCHED, UNIQUE PHENOMENON

  mac∙ro∙glin∙tor, mac∙ro∙glint∙al, mac∙ro∙glint∙ly, mac∙ro∙glint∙ness

  slang: AN INTENSE ORGASM; A COUP D’ETAT; AN UNSTOPPABLE FORCE; AN UNEXPECTED TURN OF EVENTS

  PROLOGUE

  The FedEx Overnight envelope sat on a kitchen island in rural Georgia, unopened and half-hidden under a pile of magazines and circulars. Camden had tossed it there a week before and absently buried it deeper each day.

  As his visitor refilled a coffee cup, he noticed the sender’s return address and asked when Camden planned to catch up on his mail.

  “When somebody sends me something worthwhile,” he replied.

  “You’ve got a letter here from your former colleagues.”

  “Probably nothing new.”

  “Would you mind if I took a peek?”

  “Be my guest.”

  “I already am. On my second day now.”

  Camden chuckled.”Sure, Rob.”

  The envelope contained another certified check. The envelope contained another update brochure. The envelope contained another letter.

  Dear Dr. Camden:

  Enclosed is Southern United Enterprises check number J203609 in the amount of four hundred ninety-three million, five hundred thousand dollars ($493,500,000.00), representing the second-to-final payment due you under your separation agreement with the Company. As per that agreement, our accountants will make available to you or your representatives the calculations employed in arriving at this figure including withholdings.

  Along these lines, the Company requests that you respond to our recent inquiries concerning your plans regarding checks J197442 ($493,500,000.00) and J198677 ($493,500,000.00). The difficulties inherent in carrying this additional nine hundred and eighty-seven million dollars on our books for ninety and one hundred eighty days respectively are quite involved. We would appreciate your cooperation in presenting them, along with the enclosed check, for payment. In the alternative, we would again request you consider agreeing to a direct deposit option, in which case all three of the aforementioned amounts will immediately be electronically paid, along with any future monies due you, including the final amount, which, as you know, will be substantially larger than the previous payments.

  Ms. Lane requested that I forward to you the latest installment of our CYD Update brochure.

  Please feel free to contact me if I may be of further assistance in this matter.

  Sincerely,

  Julie Marx

  Assistant to the

  Group Vice President

  The pamphlet was vintage Lane - part information, part misinformation and part propaganda, with the usual doses of criticism, pessimism and grandstanding mixed in for flavor. The guest skimmed it, set it aside then held the check up to an overhead light.

  “Nice chunk of change they sent along, Doctor.”

  “I’ve got enough money to get by. Usual crap in Trisha’s advertising piece?”

  “Nothing new.”

  “Hasn’t been for close to eighteen months now.”

  Most of the details concerning Camden-Young’s Disease, easily the worst single affliction to have ever been leveled on mankind by the combination of Mother Nature and human tinkering with Her, were well known. The accidental creation of the CYD envirus at the H. Saferstein Genetic Engineering Laboratories near San Diego and its release following a massive explosion that destroyed the facility. Its unique camouflaging asset which made it undetectable anywhere except in human and some animal bloods. The inability of science to develop vaccinations or cures because envirus technology continued to baffle the best of scientists and the most powerful computers.

  The Febrifuge Blue line of pharmaceuticals created, manufactured and sold by Southern United Enterprises were godsends—consumed by A through C carriers for remarkable calming of symptoms and relief while D carriers, often illegally, sought the drugs for the extraordinarily pleasant highs they experienced following injection. Though not actually needing a sales pitch to move the products, it didn’t hurt that SUE had as its spokesperson Wexford, the most popular singer/celebrity on Earth.

  Camden stood slowly, almost cautiously, then stepped toward the trio of huge white dry-erase boards mounted on stainless steel easels at the far end of the great room, softly sharpening one of his treasured knives on a thin, 18-inch ruby-coated tool. The displays were covered with thousands of symbols creating hundreds of formulae in black, red and blue. He stared at them, occasionally cocking his head as if to assist his understanding of previous thoughts. Beside the board on the left was a rolling ten step, industrial platform ladder necessary to reach the highest notations.

  “Figured it out yet, Doc?” his visitor asked.

  “It’s there.” He paused.”Somewhere.” He paused again.”Maybe.”

  “You indi…you…yesterday, you said, I thought you indicated that you could break the code.”

  Camden sighed deeply as he gestured with the knife to the board on his left.

  “Over there, I’m thinking maybe I’ve got a quarter of it locked up.”

  Then he pointed to the center and right boards with the sharpening rod.

  “Mixed in here, perhaps another third. Perhaps less. Probably less.”

  His guest moved into the room.

  “It’s been said that if there was anybody in the world who could come up with the cure, with a capital T and a capital C, it would be you.”

  “Could?” he smiled.”Could? I already have.” He paused.”Probably.”

  “I…don’t follow.” He hesitated.”Oh, are you…are you talking about the legendary notebooks that were allegedly…”

  “Seized by sweet Trisha just prior to my unceremonious departure from sweet SUE.”

  The visitor stepped closer.

  “They…the notebooks? They really exist?”

  “Last time I saw them. And I know damn well that she’d never destroy them. And I also know damn well that nobody else could decipher my scribbles nor the thought processes behind them.” He paused.”And finally, I know damn well if I ever get my hands on them, however I get my hands on them, there’s going to be quite a…what do they call it? A game changer?”

  “So you’ve spent the last year just working on one formula?”

  Camden shook his head, gesturing with the sharpener.”Over there, I’ve got something that might be even more important.”

  “More important than curing CYD?”

  “Mmmhmm.”

  “But what?”

  “It’s…awhile back, I’d accidently come up with a concoction that turned out to be a bust
.” He stepped closer to the center easel.”But then I got to thinking about what the test results delivered. Not so much the end product. More about what might happen if the process could be…backtracked if you will.” He paused.”Readjusted, tamped down. Amalgamated.”

  The guest chuckled.”Could you simplify that for me?”

  “Wish I could, but it’s…the concept is right. It’s the execution that’s eluding me.”

  The visitor grinned.”Okay. As Julius Caesar used to say…let the games begin!”

  Camden pointed the knife in his direction.

  “Agreed, my young friend. As long as you keep in mind, as he didn’t, the fate of those who run afoul of evil enemies wielding extremely well-honed blades.”

  (The CYD Update brochure can be found at the end of the novel)

  CHAPTER 1

  It’s good to be home, Stonetree thought. Sometimes vacations were more trouble than they were worth.

  From his position beneath the comforter, he couldn’t tell if it was early or late, sunny or cloudy. The rattling of the windows was a remnant of the previous evening’s storm, and the slightest smell of coffee told him that Sharon was already up. It wasn’t enough of a clue, however, to tell him if she was still in the house. Probably, he supposed, she was sitting at the kitchen table, fiddling with her fingers as she did when she was nervous. Most likely, he guessed, she was waiting for him to join her to continue the conversation they should have finished the night before.

  When the flight from London touched down at 9:00, hours late after an interminable holding pattern to avoid passing through the vicious weather, they were both too exhausted to do much more than gather up their baggage, stagger through Customs, then limo/cab back to his North Side condo. Once there, they flopped onto the two oversize love seats in the family room and did nothing but stare out the half-open blinds for what must have been a good half hour. No lights, no music, no unpacking, no talk. Only exquisite, drained silence, broken occasionally by a random car passing on the street or the distant growl of thunder.

  He’d finally mustered enough strength to get himself a scotch, her a glass of wine. As he held it out before sitting down across from Sharon, he could see a tear had been wiped away from her cheek.

  He asked what was wrong. All she gave in response was a slow shake of her head. He ventured she was just tired and maybe a bit shaken from the landing, but she gave no reply. He chuckled and said he’d been scared too, offering it was appropriate that the voyage had ended with a bang, hoping she’d remember they’d almost missed the outbound flight by making love quickly and passionately when they should have been finishing their packing leisurely and carefully. He’d forgotten his robe and shaving cream while she’d overlooked a hair dryer, a favorite pair of sneakers and their entire supply of maps and pamphlets.

  He considered crawling over to her and tugging at her leg like a puppy seeking attention. She was curled tightly into a corner of the couch, distancing herself from the vacation, from him, from everything but her own troubled thoughts. He sensed if he held her, she’d cry, so they sat again in silence until he eventually fell asleep. He couldn’t remember getting up later, or undressing, or making his way to bed, or if she’d kissed him good night. The weariness he felt before dozing off was now replaced by apprehension. Being home might bring more to an end than only a trip.

  As he tossed the comforter to one side, he noticed the television glowing silently against the far wall. The second team hosts and weathergirl of The Today Show chatted and laughed, so it must be past 10:00. He couldn’t recall turning the TV on the night before.

  After showering and tossing on the abandoned robe, he trudged out of the bedroom, quietly enough not to startle Sharon if she was there, but loud enough to let her know he was coming. His suitcase was still in the front hallway, but hers had been moved and was now wedged against the door. He walked through the dining room and peeked into the family room. She was sitting at the coffee table, idly paging through a magazine. She looked up after a moment and smiled weakly, as one smiles when the bad news hasn’t been as bad as expected.

  “So, it looks like you’ve continued your unbroken four month string of getting up before I do,” he began.”The milk in the refrigerator must be awful by this time. What did you put in your coffee?”

  “It is,” she replied.”Just sugar.”

  “I really slept like a rock. How about you?”

  She shrugged. Moving into the kitchen, he fumbled through a cabinet looking for his favorite cup, stretching his neck to relieve the tightness rising from his shoulders.

  “I’m surprised I slept that well,’’ he continued.”The last time I got back from Europe I couldn’t get two hours of solid sleep for a couple of days. I didn’t know if I was supposed to be asleep or awake or eating or working. It was crazy. And after that landing last night. Jesus! I’m amazed I could even close my eyes. Do you want some more?”

  She stood and eased to the kitchen island, sitting in what she called the visitor’s chair, nudging her mug a few inches toward him. After leaning across to fill it, he sat beside her and toyed with the sugar bowl, wondering how long she’d been up and how long he could delay asking the obvious question. He was fairly certain why she was behaving this way, but didn’t want to sound confrontational.

  He wanted everything to be like it was in those first heady months they knew each other. He didn’t want to resign himself to the fact that those times were now farther away than Buckingham Palace or The Tate Modern. Vacation was over and the time for everyday reality had arrived. He would have sifted through the bowl for an hour, but she placed her hand on his and whispered, “Come on, David. Let’s talk.”

  He raised his head and stared into a face that seemed to sport a genuine smile. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, scrubbed and fresh, just like the morning they met. Her chestnut-bordering-on-red hair, long and tousled, gave her the look of a college student, not a 29 year-old woman. A sprinkling of freckles and her small, childlike nose added to an impression that more often than not called for the production of proof of her age.

  If only her eyes could be as brilliantly green as they’d once been. If only they could be as crystalline as they were the day he ambled into the cupcake shop in search of a quick snack. If only today could bring a replay of their first conversation, their first phone call, their first date, their first kiss. Now her eyes were glassy and flat, filled with tiny, bright red lines. Their source could not be mistaken by anyone who had seen the same lines in other sad eyes.

  “They don’t look too good, do they?”

  She sighed. Her hand rose to hide them from the light or from Stonetree, or both. Reaching up, he gently pulled her hand back to the table and held it under his own.

  “What?” he inquired with a dose of curiosity that sounded contrived even to him.

  “My eyes, David. Look at my eyes.”

  “What about them? They look a little bloodshot. You’re tired. How did you sleep last night?”

  “Not for a week,” she moaned.”I haven’t been tired for a week. Would being tired cause tremors, David? Do your hands shake when you don’t get enough sleep?”

  She thrust both hands forward, making him recoil slightly. The trembling wasn’t obvious, but it was there. She froze for a moment, and then gradually pulled them back, finally locking her fingers behind her neck and letting out a long, resigned breath.

  “Not jet lag?” he asked.

  “Not jet lag,” she replied.

  The first time he’d speculated that Sharon might have Camden-Young’s Disease was on the first full day in London. They’d spent the previous evening visiting with their hosts Wing and Susan, then went to bed reasonably early and slept late. He’d noticed the next morning over breakfast that she looked as though she had a serious hangover. She said she felt fine, but as the day wore on, it was apparent she was ill.

  The following day, he’d again noted her ragged look, although it wasn’t quite as pronounced. She sai
d she thought it was an allergic reaction to something and was taking antihistamines. She seemed to improve, so he put his anxieties on a mental shelf. However, though she’d also been dosing OcuGlaze, the insidious red lines were still noticeable, at least to him. As were the occasional times she’d lost her balance.

  “So what do you think?” he finally asked.

  “What do you think?” she shot back.”You’re the expert, I’m not.”

  “I’ve got a CPA,” he retorted.”Not an M.D. I didn’t go to medical school. I don’t work in a doctor’s office. The company only makes …”

  He stopped. He’d gone too far. His suspicion was no longer a secret, and he could never, ever retract the accusatory tone that permeated his voice.

  “They only make what?” she growled, venom in her words.”They only make what, David?”

  “Sharon,” he said calmly, “let’s not argue. Let’s bring this conversation down to a little more rational level, okay?”

  She nodded.”I’m sorry. I’m just upset. I don’t know what to think. I’m scared.”

  “And you’re tired and traveled out,” he reassured her.”So am I. But we had a good time. Right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And we promised each other that we’d go back again, didn’t we?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  This time her response was weaker, and he could sense the beginnings of a crack in her voice. He stood and moved behind her, delicately massaging her shoulders. Why did this have to happen to him, he wondered. Why couldn’t she just be like she was when they met? Why couldn’t they just have a couple more days off to do nothing but recover from all the rushing around? Why did the fantasy that was London have to come to such a disappointing end? Why couldn’t it be like it was before? He could feel her start to tremble.

  He moved his hands to the tops of her arms and squeezed them, pulling her back. She stood and wrapped her arms around him, holding him tightly. She began to sob, then to cry, and then to gasp, all in such quick succession that he was certain she’d faint.