“Amy. I want you to call her Amy.”
Marius regards me impassively. “I work better if it’s not personal.”
“It’s personal tome,” I insist.
“But you’re not the one who has to get her back. All right?” Marius doesn’t wait for an answer but bulldozes ahead. “Did your daughter seem worried about anyone in particular?”
I shake my head.
“Is she dating anyone at the moment?”
“No. At least, no one serious, only casual dates.”
“I’ll need a list of names.”
I nod.
“Tell me about the last time you saw her.”
The last time. My heart snags on the memory. It was Saturday night. We had dinner at Amy’s place, some Thai takeout dish. She only picked at her food, teasing me about working every night, saying I should just propose to my test tubes.
This is what it’s like to be a parent of a missing child. You’re haunted by last moments. The last time you spoke to her, the last time you hugged her, the last time you told her you loved her.
I bury my head in my hands. “Do you think Amy’s still alive?”
“Killing your daughter would be a stupid move and these people don’t appear to be stupid. They have everything to lose if they kill her.”
I look up, hope flaring at Marius’s confident tone. With a pang, I remember my impatience and arrogance at our first meeting a year ago.
Marius had introduced himself by informing me he was in charge of the security detail for SAMP—Secure Advances in Medical Progress—a member organization dedicated to promoting the necessity of animals in biomedical research and education. SAMP’s membership included research institutions, pharmaceutical companies, biotechnical corporates, universities, and veterinary schools.
“Animal rights militancy originated in Britain,” Marius had explained, “but it’s now exported all over the world.”
“Why have you contacted me?” I remember asking.
“Security briefing,” he told me. “Activists are taking their war to scientists’ homes. They’re making it personal and they’re getting results. What researcher wants demonstrations outside his front door? Propaganda about his work distributed to his neighbors in an attempt to turn the community against him?”
“That kind of extremism doesn’t exist here.”
“Not yet.” As if sensing my skepticism, Marius said, “Don’t be too dismissive of the animal rights movement here. We have the ideal climate for research and development—we’re cheap, we can supply primates, and our lack of legislation and accountability around animal experimentation means that laboratories can operate under a great deal of freedom. It won’t be long before animal rights radicals react to this,” were his parting, prophetic words.
I took Marius’s business card and assured him I’d contact him if I experienced any threats or harassment, but I was secretly dismissive of the man’s words, thinking he was overreacting.
Now I’m paying the price for my misjudgment.
“Tell me everything you remember about the man who came to see you,” Marius asks now.
“He was tall, looked well-built, articulate.” I describe him in as much detail as I can, but I know my description is inadequate. The man was wearing a ski mask.
“SAMP has a database of animal rights activists,” Marius tells me. “We’ll check if anyone matches with what you’ve told us. He didn’t tell you the name of his group?”
“No.” I make a helpless gesture. “What should I do?”
“Go through the motions of complying with their demands. That’ll buy us the time we need to figure out who they are and where they’re holding Amy. Once she’s safe, the police can arrest them.”
“I want to help,” I whisper fiercely.
“You can help by trusting me to do my job.” His nostrils flare as if smelling something distasteful. “I’ve been catching thugs all my life. They might come wrapped in different causes, but underneath the rhetoric they’re all the same animal. An animal that falls for the simplest trap.”
