Project Eden

Chapter 39

"Why do you suppose he's so secretive?"

My question is directed at Mirada's assistant, but in many ways I'm asking it of myself. To disappear into the jungle so completely that not one person knows where you are . . . the thought bewilders me. Maybe it's my dependence on technology, but the thought of cutting ties with everyone seems impossible. On second thought, it might be kind of nice . . . for a few days. But months?

"Wouldn't you be?" Isabel says. "If the world knew what he was on the cusp of discovering, there would be people hounding him day and night, and not just because of the celebrity status it would bring. If people thought that there was a miracle drug to cure a disease, they would be lining the streets for a chance to save their own life or that of a loved one."

I nod. "Good point. I imagine it would be difficult to get anything done if he was being perpetually interrupted."

"Not to mention that some might try to steal or sabotage his work," Isabel says. "The pharmaceutical industry is a billion-dollar complex, with more money and power than you can imagine. Having been to some of their laboratories and corporate offices, I'm astounded by how much of the world they control."

"Oh, I can imagine quite a bit," I mumble.

The assistant gives me a curious look, but I pretend like I didn't notice. Instead, I decide it's time to do a little fishing.

"There have been quite a few advances in medicine the past few years," I say. "What makes his research different than other developments to dementia treatment?"

Her eyes narrow slightly. "I never said he was involved with dementia research."

I wave my hand in the air as if dismissing her comment. "Oh, you know how scientists are. Biggest lot of gossips I've ever met."

Her expression softens and she laughs briefly. "That's true. In all honesty, I don't know the extent of his research or even many of the details. He's very . . . secretive isn't the right word, more like private about his work. He doesn't want to anyone to see his research until he's one hundred percent certain that he's come to the correct conclusion. All I can reliably say is that he is looking into the properties of various plant species with the potential to teach human cells how to repair themselves."

My eyebrows raise at that one. I suspect our earlier deduction of a cure for dementia is about to be confirmed—and maybe even more.

That confirmation seems to jolt Zee awake. ""Repair themselves? Such as rebuilding the neuro-pathways that have deteriorated as people age? The implications of that . . ."

She nods but purses her lips, not letting another word slip past them. Boy is she one tough nut to crack. I'm hoping Zee had better luck with her while I was snooping, but I suspect we're at the end of what she's willing to share with us. Zach is leaving the door wide open for her to elaborate and yet she says nothing.

I tap my pen against the notepad and sigh in disappointment. "We were hoping to meet him to ask some questions about his research for this profile. Do you know when he might be returning? I'd like to at least speak with him before the piece runs in the journal, though a face-to-face meeting would be better so we could take some photos of him."

Isabel takes a moment to answer. "Normally I'd say we could work something out, but since he's in the field doing research, we have no way of contacting him."

I paste surprise on my face but make sure not to overdo it. "That's unfortunate. Do you have any indication about where he might be?"

"Unfortunately, no," she says. "The best guess I can give you is somewhere in the Biosphere. He doesn't take any device that uses GPS with him, even though his wife and the university president have been begging him to use one for years now."

"I imagine that's frustrating for you," I say. "But you truly have no way of contacting him? We'd be happy to travel to Guatemala to a town of his choosing, if that's possible. It might even be better, since we'd be able to photograph him near the jungle itself. The image would look fantastic on the cover."

"I'm sorry." She shrugs. "I really don't know, nor does anyone else."

"How long is he usually gone for? If he's planning to check in with you soon, we'd be happy to wait a few days, or even weeks, if necessary, in order to meet him. I'm fascinated by his work and would love to speak with him about it."

"Sorry." Her tone tells me she's starting to get annoyed by the line of questioning. "Like I said, we really don't have any way of contacting him."

Okay, time to pull the plug on this interview. I suspect this is all the info we'll get from her. As I stop the digital voice recorder and place it in my bag, I pray once again that Zee got her to drop some important nuggets of info.

I motion to Zach and then turn to leave when something catches my attention. Sunlight glints off some picture frames on a shelf next to Mirada's desk. In one a distinguished looking man is surrounded by the tools of the chemist's trade: test tubes and a microscope, diagrams scribbled on paper and a chalkboard filled with intricate calculations and chemical breakdowns. I'd almost mistaken him for Alfonso Mirada, the resemblance is so similar, but the photo is much too old for our dear professor. It isn't until I look more closely at the image that I realize a pair of eyes nearly covered with a mop of dark hair is peering over the edge of the table next to the scientist, fingertips whitened by the pressure of pulling himself up tall enough to see what the older man is doing. The boy and the chemist share the same dark, intense eyes alight with wonder and discovery.

With that realization I return to the wall of drawings, in particular a section on the other side that I'd initially skimmed over, taking photos of the display but not paying attention to the contents. Diplomas, press clippings, and a smattering of awards are framed and displayed prominently. A closer look reveals a detail that is small but important—there isn't just one Alfonso Mirada named in these documents, there are two. Padre y hijo. Father and son.

One particular framed news article catches my eye, an obituary detailing the life and accomplishments of the father. Most notable were the years. His last major achievement ten years before his death at the age of 66. It seems odd that someone who was still relatively young in his fifties would stop work completely . . . unless something prevented him from doing the work.

I glance over my shoulder at the pair of nerds in the middle of saying their goodbyes. "Isabel, I'm curious about something."

She looks slightly annoyed at the interruption, but she walks over to join me anyway.

"You didn't mention that his father was also a scientific genius," I say. "That's an important detail to leave out. I'm sure you weren't trying to hide the fact that they were both working in the same field on similar topics "Perhaps even more so. It makes me wonder why he the profession so early, nearly a decade before his death. Was he letting his son take credit for the work?"

I smile inwardly at the flash of anger that crosses her faces, though she quickly smooths it over. Behind her Zee is mouthing something at me, probably to the effect of "be nice," but I ignore him. I intentionally phrased the question as a provocation. People reveal more than they intend when angry, especially in defense of someone they admire.

"Yes, his father was a genius, though nothing compared to him. How anyone could imply that he'd steal his father's work is . . . is—" Isabel pauses and takes a steadying breath. "Professor Mirada is the most brilliant man I've ever met. Yes, he did use his father's research as the basis for his own, what he's done has far outpaced anything his father ever achieved. Why, if his father hadn't suffered from early-onset dementia—"

Bingo. And that, my friends, is the key to all of this and the passion that drives Mirada's research. Somehow I knew it had to be personal. He's still trying to save his father, even years after his death.

Zach is saying something to Isabel that seems to calm her down, but mentally I've moved on from the conversation already. I feel bad for upsetting her, but not enough to regret it. We got the confirmation that we needed, and now my mind is on to planning the next stages of our mission—tracking down a scientist gone mad with obsession, hunting for a cure that will always be too late.