Free The Conspiracy Club by Jonathan Kellerman Page A

looked around. From what he could tell in the darkness, the Lincoln was spotless. Nothing on the backseat. Before they’d set out, Arthur had unlocked the trunk, revealing freshly vacuumed gray carpeting, an emergency kit, and two umbrellas bracketed to the firewall. He’d deposited Jeremy’s briefcase next to the kit, closed the trunk gingerly.
    Hum, hum, hum.
    Jeremy felt himself nodding off. When he jolted awake, he checked his watch. He’d slept for just over a quarter hour.
    “Good evening,” said Arthur, jovially.
    The rain was coming harder. Jeremy said, “What part of town are we in?”
    “Seagate.”
    “The docks?”
    “My favorite part of town,” said Arthur. “The vitality, the sensory stimulation. The working people.”
    “The working people.”
    “The spine of any civilization.” A moment later: “I come from a long line of working people — mostly farmers. Where did you grow up, Jeremy?”
    “The Midwest. Not this city but not far.” Jeremy named the town.
    “A mercantile community,” said Arthur. “Any farming in your background?”
    “Not for generations,” said Jeremy.
    “A farm can be an educational place. One learns about cycles. Life, death, everything that falls in between. And, of course, the transitory nature of it all — one of my fondest memories is helping to birth a calf. A rather sanguinary process. I was seven and terrified. Petrified of being swept away in some great flood of bovine issue. My father insisted.”
    “Did that inspire you to become a doctor?”
    “Oh, no,” said Arthur. “If anything, quite the opposite.”
    “How so?”
    Arthur half turned, smiling. “The cow did it all by herself, son. I was made to feel quite redundant.”
    “But you became a physician anyway.”
    Arthur nodded. “Just a few more blocks.”
     

14
     
    S mells of fish, fuel, rust, and creosote told Jeremy the docks weren’t far. But no water in sight, just rows of stout windowless buildings, stripped of architectural fancy.
    Arthur Chess had driven to an oppressively narrow street lined with what appeared to be warehouses. The rain turned the pavement to gelatin; the Lincoln’s headlights were pathetic amber smears that died before they hit the asphalt. No stars, no moon, nothing to use as a navigational tool; the force of the storm induced myopia.
    The Lincoln turned onto another unlit strip and reduced its speed. Jeremy saw no blocks, no sidewalks, just one plain-faced building after another.
    A sanguinary process.
    Predatory bugs. What did he really know about the old man? What had he gotten himself into?
    Arthur continued a while longer, glided to a gentle stop, and brought the Lincoln to a rest in front of an unmarked, two-story cube. All Jeremy could make out were slab walls and a narrow door topped by a roll-out awning. Under the awning a bulb in a frosted glass case cast a fan of light. The illumination was of a hue Jeremy had never seen before — pale blue, purple-tinged, clinical.
    The moment Arthur switched off the engine, the door opened, and a small man stepped under the awning. The blue light reached his waistline; below that, he was dark, nearly invisible. The illusion was that of truncation.
    The half man’s arm extended, an umbrella snapped open, and he hurried to the rear of the Lincoln. Arthur pushed a button, the trunk popped, and when the small man circled back to the driver’s door he held a pair of umbrellas.
    He held the door open for Arthur, stood on tiptoes to shield the much taller pathologist, and got wet doing so. After handing Arthur an umbrella, he came around and opened Jeremy’s door.
    Up close Jeremy saw that the man was closer to Arthur’s age than his own, and no taller than five-five. Thin dark hair, parted and slicked, topped a round, puckered capuchin face of a type seen on some types of dwarfs. Bright black eyes picked up light from somewhere and sparked back at Jeremy.
    Under the eyes, a lipless smile.
    The man wore a dark suit,