recover from this,’ Nolan said reassuringly.
‘My prayers are most certainly with him. I was wondering, can you both stop by the house after the reception?’
Kelsey looked at Nolan, who nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Good, I have a favor to ask.’
Nolan followed the silver Buick, driven by Dorothy Paramo’s eighteen-year-old grandson, into the farm country just outside of South Bend. They stopped at a brick Victorian home with a weathered aluminum mailbox bearing the name PARAMO.
Nolan parked his SUV behind the Buick and followed Dorothy Paramo and her grandson into the house. Once inside, the young man bolted up the stairs, intent on trading his blazer and tie for a pair of loose-fitting jeans and a T-shirt.
‘This way,’ Dorothy Paramo said, leading her guests through the parlor toward the rear of the house.
She turned the crystal knob and opened the raisedpanel door that led to a small room lined from floor to ceiling with books. The only furnishings in the room were a couch, a small desk, and a chair.
‘This is where my husband came to think. Please, have a seat.’
Kelsey sat with Nolan on the couch as Paramo’s widow sat in Raphaele’s chair. A gnarled pipe, unsmoked in almost twenty years, still sat near the corner of the desk.
‘Raphaele always said that physicists came in two flavors: thinkers and doers. Einstein was a thinker; Fermi was a doer. In his collaboration with Ted, Raphaele was the thinker and Ted was the doer. My husband was an accomplished thinker and a gifted instructor; teaching physics was his avocation. Raphaele knew his limitations, physically and mentally. In both regards he knew he wasn’t up to the challenge of tackling Ted’s discovery.’
Dorothy Paramo swiveled the chair and leaned forward to open one of the desk drawers. She withdrew a thick clasped envelope from inside the drawer and set it upon her lap.
‘Of all my husband’s papers, these were the most dear to him. Whenever a particular problem vexed him, he would invariably return to these. They were his inspiration. These are letters – a correspondence he had long ago with the greatest mind he’d ever known. Raphaele never talked about the man; their correspondence was over a year before Raphaele and I met. Once, shortly after we were married, I snuck a peek, thinking they were love letters from an old girlfriend. Except for a few personal notes, I didn’t understand a word. Raphaele was quite amused when I told him what I’d done, then he explained how important the letters were to him. He said they were ‘a brief glimpse into the mind of a genius.’ I don’t know what happened, but their correspondence ended abruptly. This is something that hurt Raphaele deeply.’
Dorothy paused for a moment, collecting her thoughts. She closed her eyes, trying to quell the emotions rising within her.
‘A terrible thing has happened. My husband is dead, and our sweet Ted is lucky to be alive. He’s going to have a hard time recovering from all this, and I don’t want him to give up. Here’ – she handed the envelope to Kelsey – ‘I want you to take these to Ted. Raphaele wanted him to have them.’
‘Shouldn’t this come from you?’ Kelsey asked.
‘No, they were supposed to have come from Raphaele. He was going to give them to Ted after the lab had moved. He said that these letters contain ideas that might help a younger mind solve the riddle of their work. Ted is at the hospital in Ann Arbor now, and I don’t know when I’ll get up there to see him. The poor man has lost his life-work and his mentor. If these letters are all my husband said they are, I think Ted needs to see them as soon as possible.’
Ann Arbor, Michigan
Nolan and Kelsey followed the blue-and-white directional signs that led them through the first floor of University Hospital. They were there to visit Ted Sandstrom, who had been transported by air ambulance to Ann Arbor after receiving emergency medical treatment in South Bend. Though more than fifty percent of his body was severely burned, Sandstrom’s prognosis was good.
Wending their way through the maze of corridors, the two of them finally arrived at the Burn Unit, which was located in a remote corner of the hospital. When they reached the electronically locked double doors of the unit, the head nurse buzzed them through and had them sign the visitors’ sheet.
The unit was built in a curved, two-story block that jutted out from the hospital’s north face. Twelve singlepatient rooms followed the outer curve. Sealed windows in each provided a view of the Huron River. A glass-curtain wall isolated the patient room from the hallway while providing a direct line of sight for the medical staff. SpaceLab monitors hung from the ceiling, displaying the vital signs of each of the patients.
‘You have visitors,’ the nurse announced pleasantly upon entering Sandstrom’s room.
She quickly checked the IV bags and glanced at all the vitals displayed on the small in-room monitor. Satisfied, she moved on.
‘Hey, Ted,’ Nolan said as they entered.
A knot formed in the pit of his stomach. The sight of Sandstrom’s burned flesh didn’t shock him; he had seen far worse on SEAL missions around the world. Instead, it triggered memories and feelings he had hoped to leave behind upon his discharge.
‘Aren’t you going to ask how I’m doing?’ Sandstrom wanted to know, a bitter tinge of sarcasm in his raspy voice.
‘No, because you’ll either lie to spare our feelings or, worse yet, you’ll tell us the truth.’
‘Nolan,’ Kelsey barked, annoyed by his insensitive comment.
Sandstrom feebly raised his hand. ‘He’s right, Kelsey, I feel as good as I look. At least they’re treating me well, and the pain meds keep the edge off. How’s Dorothy?’
‘She’s holding up very well,’ Kelsey replied. ‘She sends her love.’
Nolan pulled a chair around to the side of the bed for Kelsey and then sat on the chair’s flat wooden arm.
‘Any word on the guys who did this?’ Sandstrom asked.
‘Nada,’ Nolan answered. ‘The police set up roadblocks all over the area but came up empty. The FBI is slowly sifting through what’s left of your lab for any physical evidence, but that’s going to take a while. I’ve asked a guy I know at the CIA to take a look at this as well.’
‘CIA?’
‘Yeah, there’s an international angle to this that the folks at Langley are better equipped to handle than the Indiana State Police. The guys who hit your lab looked and sounded an awful lot like Spetsnaz.’
‘What’s Spetsnaz?’
‘Russian army Special Forces. No one in the Russian government is crazy enough to launch a mission like this on U.S. soil, so it’s more likely that these guys are mercenaries and somebody with very deep pockets
