A/N: Brief mention of an off-screen suicide in this chapter, in case that's a concern for anyone.
That Radium Glow
Chapter 7
Bruised clouds, heavy with rain, loomed over the city. They stretched out over the lake to blur into the horizon, round and distended like the bellies of the dead fish that sometimes lined its shores. A brisk, damp wind whipped the water into whitecaps and nearly took my hat with it as I waited for Steve Rogers outside the Drake Hotel. I hunched with my back to the wind to light a cigarette and glanced up at the ominous sky. I wondered if the businessmen and the heiresses in their penthouses ever got claustrophobic that close to the clouds.
I had just finished my cigarette and I was contemplating lighting another when Rogers appeared, freshly combed, shaved, and pressed for the start of a new day. I was stuffed into my second-best suit myself, and hating every moment of it. It was almost as bad as my dress blues. My shirt and favorite purple tie were crisp enough to chafe, and I'd even bothered to shine my shoes. I spotted Rogers tugging his own collar uncomfortably out of the corner of my eye while we drove north. It was the price we paid to look like respectable Feds, I guess.
The glamor and grime of downtown seemed very far away while we trawled the quiet streets of Evanston for the van Dyne residence. Stately homes in pastels and gingerbread trim preened along too-clean pavement between manicured lawns and immaculate sidewalks. Automobiles with fresh whitewalls and real chrome gleamed sedately in their driveways, or purred past my tired Ford with a whiff of exhaust and a hint of disdain. There were people, too, out of sight. Housewives in pearls taking a roast from the oven; adoring children in spotless clothes playing ball or dolls; fathers exchanging Oxfords for slippers at the door.
The little hairs on the back of my neck prickled. I didn't like it. It was all too neat. How many of these perfect facades sheltered liquor-soaked men still broken from war or quietly desperate women hiding behind false smiles and home-canned tomatoes? The city might be dirty, but it had an honesty about its vices that I could respect.
"Hey, Barton," Rogers exclaimed, yanking me out of my thoughts. "This is it."
I hit the brakes and we skidded to a halt. The van Dynes' Queen Anne mansion sprawled languidly behind an expanse of green lawn, all pediments and gables and leaded glass. A wide skirt of porch with lacy white trim jutted into mulched, empty flowerbeds, flouncing saucily where a single round turret made up one corner of the house. A pair of stately trees flanked the house on either side, glowering down at our incursion like bare-branched matrons standing sentinel over a debutante at her first dance.
I hunched into my coat as I followed Rogers up the flagstone walkway to the front door. Just like the university or Stark's penthouse, I didn't belong here, either. Rogers rang the bell and a moment later, a stone-faced maid complete with black dress and white apron opened the heavy wooden door. We produced our badges and she let us inside without a word. She sniffed a little disapprovingly while she collected our hats and coats, as if in judgment for our intrusion upon the family grief.
"Mrs. Pym will receive you in the parlor," she told us a little haughtily as she led us through a richly paneled foyer and into a side room on the front of the house. Parlor? I mouthed gleefully at Rogers behind her back. He shot me a warning look, and we both pulled our neutral lawman faces back on in time for the maid to turn around. "I will inform her that you have arrived."
She left the room and pulled the door shut behind her. Rogers eyed an uncomfortable-looking, horsehair covered chair festooned with dark wooden curlicues. He raised an eyebrow at me and opted to stand. I chuckled and wandered around a little, studying the parlor. Everything had that opulent, velvety patina of old money. My feet sunk pleasantly into a Persian rug, and ornate furniture was arranged carefully under the large bay windows. Little bits of china rested on shelves, and a set of musty-looking leather books dominated a bookcase to one side.
We must have waited at least half an hour before Mrs. Pym graced us with her presence. I was thinking about lighting a cigarette, and Rogers was shaking his head at me when the door opened and a petite woman stepped inside. She wasn't quite your typical WASP; I'd give her that.
Janet Pym was younger than I'd expected, with a small heart-shaped face and a pointed chin. Her black hair was cropped quite short, and a pair of hazel eyes swept over me and Rogers. She wore a black dress that wasn't exactly ill-fitting, and no jewelry or make-up beyond her wedding ring. She didn't look like she liked it.
"You must be Agent Barton and Agent Rogers?" Mrs. Pym asked, though she certainly already knew the answer. She dropped carelessly into an antique chair and produced a compact mirror and a lipstick. She flipped open the compact and carefully applied the lipstick. It was bright red. Rogers stared, and I hid a grin. Mrs. Pym glanced up coolly at us. "This is all Mother's doing," she said, gesturing at the black dress with a shrug. She smacked her lips experimentally and nodded to herself at the result, before setting down the lipstick and the compact. "Mourning, I mean," she added with a bitter chuckle. "I can do without everything but the lipstick. That's where I draw the line."
"We're sorry for your loss, Mrs. Pym," Rogers said formally. "And for the intrusion."
She chuckled again. "Janet, please," she told him. She glanced at me. "You don't happen to have a cigarette, do you? Mother doesn't approve of smoking, either."
I grinned. I was beginning to like Janet Pym. I dug in my pocket for cigarettes and a lighter. She took one and held it between her crimson lips while I lit it. I took one for myself and lit it gratefully. Rogers scowled.
Janet raised an eyebrow at him. "At ease, Captain." Rogers' cheeks went red and I guffawed with laughter. I was really beginning to like Janet Pym. She leaned back in her chair and gestured to a sofa across from it. Rogers and I each took a seat. "So are you two investigating Hank's death?" she asked, exhaling a lungful of smoke. The words were casual, but there were traces of grief in her face.
"Not exactly," I said, tapping the ash off my cigarette into a nearby tray.
"How long were you and Dr. Pym married?" Rogers asked.
Janet Pym shrugged. "About four years. We eloped after the war ended and Hank got a job at the University of California. Mother and Daddy were furious."
She looked real pleased about that, I noted. "How did you meet?" I asked.
Janet eyed us both. "The project," she said carefully. She lifted her eyebrows. "I think you know what I mean." Rogers and I both nodded, and she continued. "I was a computer."
"A what?" I interrupted.
Janet laughed. "A computer. A lot of calculations were needed to build the bomb; too many for the scientists to do themselves. So they gave them to us. That's how I met Hank."
I tapped my thumbnail against my front teeth. "You don't seem particularly bereaved for a new widow, Mrs. Pym," I said, just to see how she would react.
"Barton!" Rogers interjected angrily. I ignored him.
She didn't burst into tears. She didn't scream or yell at me, or even deny my accusation. Janet calmly stubbed the butt of her cigarette out in the ashtray. She sighed, and I had the sudden impression she was gathering her strength. She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue and said: "I left Hank eight months ago."
I shot Rogers a triumphant glance. His gaping mouth snapped shut and he narrowed his eyes warningly at me, but he didn't get mad. I got results. I repressed a grin. Rogers quickly pulled himself together and asked: "May I ask why?"
"If you tell me what you're investigating," Janet said, a little coyly.
"Bruce Banner," I said, before Rogers could stop me. She raised an eyebrow at me. "He went missing a few days ago, under some…suspicious circumstances."
"I see," she said neutrally, but I could tell she was intrigued. She glanced down to study her manicured fingernails. "Hank was too invested in his work. It was taking a toll on our marriage, and I'd had enough. I don't like coming in second all the time."
There was truth in her words, but not the whole truth. Her voice and her wedding ring told me that. "We were told he was unstable," I said.
Janet's hazel eyes flashed with sudden anger. "Who have you been talking to?" she demanded. She thought a moment and laughed bitterly. "Tony Stark. Who else? Well, it takes one to know one."
Rogers and I looked at each other. I wasn't sure what we'd been expecting, but it wasn't that. "Sorry, Mrs.- Janet, could you elaborate?" Rogers asked, a little apologetically.
She sighed and glanced questioningly at me. I guessed what she was after and held out my pack of cigarettes. She selected one and took my lighter to it. "Hank had his…ups and downs," she said slowly, around a puff of smoke. She looked up significantly at both of us. "Not like everyone else. Sometimes genius comes with a terrible price, and that was his."
"Like van Gogh," Rogers said, and Janet nodded. "A famous artist," he added, for my benefit. It didn't really help. I rolled my eyes. Rogers shook his head a little at my ignorance.
"During the war," Janet continued, and we shut up. "Hank was…angry. All the time. Most people don't know this, but he was adopted. His mother remarried when he was a kid and his stepfather adopted him." She paused, both for dramatic effect and to tap ash off the end of her cigarette. "She was Polish."
My heart sank. I heard Rogers wince a little. He knew better than I the particular horrors the Nazis had wreaked in Poland. Stark's comment about Pym hating Nazis started to make a little more sense.
"Half his family never made it out," Janet continued. "There was no news, not at first. Then there was. That was the reason he joined the project. He wanted revenge. And Reed Richards just egged him on, with all his plans for a super bomb..." She trailed off, her eyes becoming distant. "
"What about after the war?" Rogers asked. Pym sure wouldn't be the first guy I knew about who had trouble adjusting back to civilian life.
Janet tapped her cigarette absently. "The transfer to Berkeley did help," she said quietly. "So did Nuremburg. He still obsessed about a bigger bomb, but he had other work to do and at least he was away from Richards. It was okay for a while. Good even."
She trailed off again. I studied her. Her face was sad; her voice almost wistful. "Until about eight months ago?" I guessed.
Right in one. Janet nodded. She took a final drag on her cigarette and stubbed it out. "Hank's symptoms suddenly got worse. Just out of the blue. He'd been fine, well, not fine, but functional for years. He'd never been violent before. I…I just got scared."
I went very still. I could feel my heart pound a little harder against my ribs. Rogers leaned forward a little, his face very serious. "Janet," he said quietly, "was he violent towards you?"
She bit her lip, hesitating. There was a wariness about her now that even her considerable confidence couldn't mask. "Not intentionally," she told us. Rogers' face darkened and she quickly added: "He didn't intend me any harm, honest, Agent Rogers. And he was so, so apologetic when he came back to himself. I'd never seen Hank so distressed. I don't- didn't, "she corrected herself with a bitter little smile, "think he'd ever forgive himself." Her fingers found her wedding ring and she twisted it anxiously. I didn't get the impression her distress was over lying to the FBI, but for her husband. "I know he didn't mean it, but damned if I wasn't afraid."
"Afraid enough to leave?" I asked.
She took a deep breath. "We both decided it would be safer if I left. Hank knew he needed treatment and he wasn't going to be able to get it in Berkeley." She glanced up at us both. "That kind of thing would ruin his career. So we put out the word he was an alcoholic, and that I'd left him over it. He would go take the cure at a private sanatorium in Reno. Just not for drinking."
She went quiet for a moment, twisting her wedding ring around her finger over and over. "We'd always intended to reconcile in the end," Janet added, at once bitter and wistful. "But Hank went missing two months after I left. Escaped the sanatorium and disappeared. I knew then that it was never going to happen. I could…feel it. You're right, Agent Barton. I'm not sad. I'm just relieved they…found him."
Janet looked at her shoes. She blinked several times, but she was clearly too proud to let us see tears in her eyes. Rogers and I sat in silence until she took another deep breath and looked up again. She straightened in her seat. "Was there anything else you needed to know?"
"So, just to confirm, these new symptoms, the violence," Rogers asked, "Started suddenly? And you're sure it had never happened before?"
"Completely," Janet confirmed. "Hank had his ups and his downs, but he was never violent. Until then."
Rogers and I looked at each other. A sudden breakdown followed by a mysterious disappearance. The whole story rang familiar. Too familiar. Neither of us liked it.
I rubbed my chin thoughtfully. "How did you find this, uh, facility?"
Janet bit her lip. Her white teeth gleamed against the red lipstick. "It was recommended to us by the director of Hank's department. He knew about his…issues. Discreet and secure; I think the staff was vetted by the government. Hank wasn't their first client with access to sensitive information."
"You said you used Dr. Pym's drinking as an excuse to send him away," Rogers asked. "Did he actually drink?"
Janet hesitated again. "During his down periods," she confirmed. "His friends knew. So did a few of his colleagues."
It wouldn't hurt to ask, while we were here. "Did your husband take any pills, Janet?" I asked.
"You'll have to be more specific."
"For radiation."
"Religiously, after what happened to Banner and Richards," she replied with a shrug. "Even when he wasn't doing heavy experimental work."
We certainly had a lot to think about now. I jerked my head at Rogers and we stood to leave. Janet reached over to ring for the maid to bring us our hats and coats.
"Thanks for your time, Mrs. Pym," I said formally. She shook our hands in turn. "And we are sorry about your husband."'
"Just keep me informed, okay?" she replied. "If you get any news."
"Sure," I said. I tossed her what was left of my packet of cigarettes and winked. "For the road. Don't let your mother see."
Janet Pym gave me a half smile and a watery chuckle. She followed us onto the porch as we left; sitting sadly on a wooden chair and studying the pack for selection. She didn't wave as I slammed the car door shut and pulled out into the street.
I thought Rogers would tell me off when I got into the car, but he didn't. He fidgeted in his seat as I drove back towards downtown, drumming his fingers on the dash or peering out the window into the gloomy gray light. I pointed out one or two landmarks as we drove, but Rogers didn't seem to be interested in small talk. I enjoyed the feeling of the muscles in my shoulders slowly unknotting as we left the shining suburbs behind.
"What do you think the odds are?" Rogers mused aloud while we skimmed along the edge of the lake. "Two guys from the same team, with solid jobs and, by all accounts, healthy relationships, having violent mental breakdowns within a year of each other? After the war's been over for years?"
I took one hand off the wheel to tap my thumbnail against my front teeth, since Janet Pym had the last of my cigarettes. "Pretty long, I'd say. Pym had history, though. Sort of."
"Still strikes me as odd," Rogers countered. He rubbed his chin and sighed with frustration. "A lot of things are odd about this case. There are too many coincidences for my liking."
"Maybe it's not all coincidence," I said aloud, just to say something.
Rogers eyed me. "Like what, then?"
"I don't know." I shook my head and he looked back at the road. I didn't have any concrete ideas, just a swarm of nebulous thoughts and pieces of fact that refused to fall into any kind of place. We were close, I could sense it with that sixth sense I'd developed in the jungles of Guadalcanal and Saipan, the one that guided my rifle even when Barney's eyes failed. My heart twisted at the memory of my brother and I quickly pushed those thoughts from my mind. Maybe I could sneak a quick drink back at the office to settle my nerves.
"You think your guy out east has anything yet?" I asked.
"Sam? He just might," Rogers told me. "I told him to wire right away if he found anything, and he works fast."
We stopped for coffee and a quick bite at a little diner I liked before we hit downtown. I rode Rogers a little for ordering apple pie for dessert, but he took it in stride and even ribbed me a little about my purple tie. I didn't care. It had been a present from Bobbi, years ago, and it always brought me luck.
Miraculously, there was a telegram for Agt. Steven Rogers waiting on my desk when we returned to the office. He ripped open the envelope and scanned the paper inside. I took advantage of this distraction to take a quick nip from the flask in my breast pocket. Rogers looked confused as he read.
"Sam found Richards' death certificate," he said aloud. "Cause of death is listed as overdose of morphine."
"What?" I exclaimed.
Rogers' eyebrows knitted together. "They ruled it accidental, but the circumstances suggested there was some doubt about that."
"Foul play?"
He glanced up at me. "Suicide."
"According to Stark, he was dying of cancer," I observed. A chill went down my spine. "Wouldn't see anyone in his last months. Maybe he got tired of waiting."
"That's not all," Rogers added grimly, and I looked up. "Barton, he died in Reno. They shipped his body back for the funeral."
"Stark also mentioned he'd been out west for treatment," I said. I worried the inside of my lower lip with my teeth. "Reno again, though," I mused, thinking of the card Samson had given Rogers, the one that bore a Reno address. "And who do we know from Reno?"
Rogers wrinkled his nose. He looked more like a puzzled schoolboy than a federal agent perched on the edge of my desk with his tie loosened. "Samson checked out, though," he insisted. "I even had the records office pull his medical license." He dug around in our case file and held out a mimeograph of an official-looking form emblazoned with State of Nevada and a photograph of Samson. His green eyes stared out mockingly at me.
I raised an eyebrow. "Maybe he did, but something doesn't smell right," I said. Still, there were some brains behind Rogers' all-American good looks. "Christ, you're thorough. Can't believe the Army'd let you go, Cap. How'd you end up at the bureau?" I asked, a little playfully.
Rogers shrugged. "Too famous for the Secret Service."
I laughed aloud at that and Rogers grinned. "Fair enough," I told him, retrieving my spare pack of smokes from my bottom desk drawer and collecting my hat and coat. "Let's go talk to Samson. I want to hear him account for the night of Stark's party. Maybe have another go at Banner if he's fit."
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