BROKEN SYMMETRY: A Young Adult Science Fiction Thriller (3 page)

Could they have saved him? If the police had taken him directly to the hospital, would he be alive right now?

The heartache stung, and I gritted my teeth to fend off the ensuing wave of anguish. I fought back tears. In my heart, my father had died eleven months ago.

So why did this hurt so much?

I knew the answer, of course. It was because I needed closure. I needed the truth.

Since last night, I had become convinced he had come back with a message for me . . . a message he had written down.

I needed his diary.

From my experience with bureaucracy, though, I knew that if the diary remained in evidence, I would never see it again. When they finally got to it years from now, it would be filed away in some archive and lost forever.

I had to get it back while I still could.

On my way home I stopped by the hardware store and made copies of every key on the police officer’s key chain. Then I went back to the police station, apologized for picking up the wrong keys, and got my own keys back.

It was that easy.

At two in the morning, dressed in black jeans and a black hoodie, I parked a block from the police station and took a minute to steady my breathing.

***

The fourteen police cars parked on Eastgate Mall in front of the San Diego Police Department hunkered down like sleeping grizzlies, their engines still cooling and clinking from the second shift. 

I was sneaking right into their den.

Straining to keep myself from shaking, I climbed the handicap ramp to the front door as casually as I could manage. If someone asked, at least my story wouldn’t have to account for crouching in the shadows like a burglar.

At the lock I fumbled with the keys, now shivering, and I swear the clinking could have woken anyone within a mile.

The first one fit, but didn’t turn the lock. The second didn’t fit. I tried the third, the back of my neck burning.

Footsteps sounded behind me, and I freaked. A spike of adrenaline fried my nerves
—
and any hope of playing myself off as an officer’s daughter. I scampered behind a trash can, curled into a ball, and held my breath.

The drum of my heartbeat obscured my senses. My limbs tensed, but the two approaching figures weren’t cops.

A drunk couple stumbled past me and continued down the sidewalk.

I didn’t let myself breathe until they were out of sight, and then only barely.

Back at the front door, lightheaded and nauseous, I tried the rest of the keys. Key number four fit but didn’t open the lock. Beyond the glass, emergency light strips lit an empty hallway. No one about. Please stay like that.

Key number five. The last key. I jabbed at the slot, my hands now shaking violently. The key didn’t fit.

It must have been one of the others. Maybe I’d turned the wrong way. I would have to try them all again. Or maybe none of them fit
—
maybe the rookie didn’t even have the station key. Why would he?

An earsplitting police siren drove needles through my heart. I froze, choked on my fear. Suddenly, it was daytime.

Bright light singed my neck and cast my shadow onto the floor inside the door. An inch from my eyes, loose strands of my hair caught the glare like filament.

Headlights. Right behind me.

The light moved on, though. The patrol car sped down the street, and its siren faded into the distance. For several minutes I stood at the station door, too terrified to move.

I had to try all the keys again.

But the cold and the adrenaline rush had leeched the dexterity from my fingers, and the keys kept getting tangled. Why the freak did this guy need so many keys anyway?

At last the first key slipped into the lock, but like before it didn’t turn. I leaned into it, and the metal dug into my finger. No way . . . with more pressure, the key would snap. I eased off and rotated the key the opposite direction. Still nothing.

On a whim, I tugged the handle anyways. The handle and the lock rotated as a unit and the door clacked open.

Warm, police-smelling air whisked past me. Oh God. I had just broken into a police station. The urge to flee sent me stumbling backwards. My heel banged into the trashcan. The noise startled me, and I scrambled over a hedge and tore down the street, soaked with sweat.

A block away I caught myself.

The truth. My father had written the truth in that diary, addressed directly to me.

Recovering the diary was not a choice.

I steeled my resolve and marched back toward the police station, slipped inside, and beelined for the evidence room.

Dim fluorescent strips swam overhead, catching up with me on the linoleum. The same hallway I ran down yesterday to find my father. The reminder hurt.

I pressed on and found the door marked
Evidence
. I tried the handle. Locked.

Back to the keys.

I repeated the same process of trial and error that had gotten me into the station. Of course none of the keys worked.

Footsteps.

I jerked around, but saw nothing. Just the dark hallway. A petrified shiver shook my body, hiked my breathing.

Then I really did hear footsteps. Coming toward me. I ran.

Only the wrong direction. I crashed into a body at the intersection between two hallways. The man grunted, and his cup of coffee crashed on the floor. I caught sight of his face just as he did mine.

Joe Paretti.

Chapter 3

“
No. No-no
-
no
,” he said. “Do I have to arrest you, Blaire?”

“The door was open,” I lied, and then all my pride flew out the window and I burst into tears. He grabbed my arm and dragged me into his office.

“I’m writing you up for this right now,” he said. “Getting you sent to juvie for this. Breaking and entering . . . and a goddamn police station . . . Jesus Christ.”

“I had the keys,” I mumbled. “Your partner gave them to me. I was coming to return them.”

Joe slammed the door to his office. “Let me see those.” He wrenched the keychain out of my grip, and his eyes narrowed at the ACE Hardware logo on the duplicated keys. He flung them to the ground. 

His rage terrified me.

While Joe rummaged in his filing cabinet for the proper forms to write me up, I stole a glance at his desk
—
at whatever it was keeping him here so late at night.

My dad’s report.

I peered closer.

Adams spotted on John Hopkins Dr. in bushes below South Employee Parking Lot. Speaking incoherently and delusional . . . 

Under possible suspects, he had written Charles Donovan . . . and my name
—
Joe slapped an arrest form on top of the report and nailed me with a stink eye.

“But I’m sixteen,” I said.

“Think I give a damn?”

The phone in Joe’s office rang, and he paused, halfway through writing the date. He picked up the phone.

An angry woman’s voice hissed over the speaker.

He replied, “fifteen more minutes, hun, I promise
—
”

“I’m just going to leave, okay?” I said, backing toward the door.

Joe waved me back, absently at first, then vigorously when I didn’t come. I obeyed, my head hung low.

I heard his wife say, “Is somebody there with you?”

“It’s nobody, hun.” Joe massaged his temple, clearly flustered. “No, you didn’t hear a girl . . . look, she snuck in. I’ll explain later. Just give me
fifteen minutes!
” He hung up.

Joe wrung his head in his hand and kneaded the sides of his head. “Just leave, Blaire, before you try my patience any more. I’ve had a long night.”

Without waiting for him to change his mind, I bolted. Besides, I already had another idea.

The wife.

***

I cupped the phone to my shoulder on Saturday morning and flipped through my mailbox while it rang. After two rings the woman answered.

“Is this Mrs. Paretti?” I asked.

“I thought I told you to take my name off your calling list,” she said. “You’re from Outbreak Awareness, right?”

“No, I’m calling about your husband.” I scratched absentmindedly at the seal of a letter addressed to me. “I’m Blaire. He’s working on my dad’s case.”

She paused. “How’d you get my number?”

“I looked it up on the internet.”

“Could I have the name of the site you found it on?”

“Look, I was just calling to see if you could ask your husband something.”

“Sorry, I’m not interested. Please take me off your calling list.”

“No, I’m calling about your husband,” I said. “I need you to talk to him because he’s being unfair and he’s not listening to me.” Even to me, my voice sounded whiny, like a spoiled kid’s. Great.

She didn’t respond, so I continued. “My dad died and left me a diary. It’s all I have left from him, and Joe
—
I mean, Detective Paretti
—
won’t let me have it. If you could just talk to him for me
—
”

“If it’s evidence he can’t really give it back to you now, can he?”

“But if you just talked
—
”

“It’s Blaire, right?” she said. “How old are you?”

Her question deflated my confidence, and my answer sounded pathetic. “Sixteen.” No one cared about a sixteen-year-old girl. They cared about fifteen-year-old girls and seventeen-year-old girls. Sixteen-year-olds were just punks.

“Hold on,” she said, her voice now edged with suspicion, “what do you want with Joe again?”

“Just tell him he’s being unreasonable.”

“Whoever you are, stay away from my husband,” she ordered. “And don’t call me again.”

“Mrs. Paretti, wait
—
”

The woman hung up.

I lowered the phone, mouth agape. Had she just hung up on me? I redialed her number, but it went to voicemail.

Fuming, I busied myself with the envelope in my hands and slid out a typewritten letter.

Dear Ms. Adams:

After careful consideration of your application, Intelligent Symmetry Design & Interiors is pleased to offer you a summer internship at our Mission Valley branch. Please arrive promptly at 9:00 AM on June 30 for orientation.

Sincerely,

Amy Donovan

Administrative Assistant

The internship I had wanted so badly just two days ago. My biology teacher had invited me to apply because I scored in the top percentile on the PSAT and somehow earned the title of National Merit Semifinalist. I barely remembered the months right after it happened. Just a haze.

But now the letter reminded me of how shallow my life had become without my dad.

I always forgot how jealous my classmates were, how they thought I had everything
—
grades, guys, first place in cross-country, internships, probably even a scholarship to Berkeley or Harvard.

But none of that could fill the hole in my heart. None of that could bring him back. At the thought, pressure swelled in my sinuses.

I would give it all up in a second to see my dad again.
In a second
.

***

In the afternoon, I clipped my cell phone to my tights, plugged in my earbuds, and cranked up my indie rock. Then I took off running into a blast of hot air, prepped and hydrated for five miles.

Within two blocks, the April heat stripped me out of my shirt, and I tied it around my waist. My pink sports bra earned a honk of approval.

I lengthened my stride, relaxed my body, and pushed myself to the edge of my natural gait. The exertion constricted my throat, and I forced myself to take longer, deeper breaths.

Then I broke through. My legs sailed ahead of me, caught me and propelled me, rendered me weightless again and again. I was practically sprinting, giddy with endorphins and hardly breathing. I could go all day.

Sweat slicked on my stomach and back, cooling the skin. My focus sharpened.

The diary.

How the hell was I going to get that thing back? With my legs pumping beneath me and the wind coursing through my hair, I mulled over the challenge, my dad’s disappearance, and his mysterious reappearance two nights ago.

And that other name I had read on Joe’s report.

Charles Donovan
.

My dad’s former employer, now a suspect.

A ring tone interrupted whatever song was playing. I fumbled with the buttons midstride, and managed to accept the call without slowing.

“Hello?”

“Blaire, it’s Doctor Johnson.”

“Hi . . . what’s up?” Speaking broke my rhythm and I gasped for air.

“Are you okay?” She sounded alarmed.

“I’m running.”

“From what?”

“No. Jogging.”

“You bring your phone when you jog?”

“It doubles as a music player, whatever
—
” I crossed against a red light to a ruckus of squealing tires and honks.

“I’ll be quick then,” she said. “The blood test confirmed that he is indeed your father.”

A pang of something. I wasn’t sure what. Loss. The loss of my last hope. Disbelief. Uncertainty. Maybe just emptiness.

“Uh-huh,” I answered, my voice devoid of emotion.

“But we found something else too.”

“In his blood?” I ran through another red. More honks. I was really cruising now.

“Yes, an unusually high amount of Lysine, probably suggesting a hyperactive pineal gland,” she said.

“Haven’t gone to med school yet, sorry.”

“Basically we’re seeing evidence of a chromosomal disorder. Not proof, just evidence,” she said, “Which is why I’d like to do a karyotope test
—
and run the test on you as well. Would that be alright, Blaire?”

We had learned about chromosomes in biology. They were the structures inside cells that contained the DNA, of which humans had forty-six
—
twenty-three from each parent.

I remembered a few of the chromosomal disorders like Down Syndrome and Klinefelter syndrome; none of them were very good. “Was something wrong with him?”

“I’d just like to do the test Blaire.”

“Okay. I guess
—
” The ring tone sounded in my ears again. “Can you hold on a second,” I said, “I’m getting another call.”

This one was from Joe Paretti.

“Blaire, don’t ever call my wife again.”

“I can call her if I want. She has a public listing.” I hurdled a hedge and spun onto La Jolla Shores Drive, which would take me past the sea cliffs up to The Scripps Research Institute.

“Where are you, why are you breathing like that?”

“None of your business, Joe. And I’m on the line with someone else right now. So you’re just going to have to wait.”

I didn’t know how to switch back to the first call though, and I ended up hanging up on both of them. Oops.

***

Without really thinking, I ended my run along Torrey Pines Scenic Drive, near the spot where Josh and I had stargazed. Of course, barbed wire fence stopped me a hundred yards short. The loops of razors whistled in the wind.

The quarantine zone.

I peered through the fence at the cluster of buildings beyond the golf course. Over the past few days, The Scripps Research Institute had transformed into a military compound.

Ranks of soldiers, olive green Humvees, two helicopters, and even what looked like a mobile missile launcher gathered around towering structures of concrete and tinted glass
—
I recognized the Immunology & Microbial Science building and The Skaggs Institute for Molecular Biology.

A dark mass drew my eyes toward the water: the Navy destroyer. Still here.

Suddenly I made the connection. It wasn’t here on port call, it was stationed here as part of the quarantine. Earlier this week, the military had announced that this was an exercise to test how the community would respond to an outbreak of a virus.

Despite the heat and my sweat, I felt a chill down my spine.

I picked back up to a jog and followed the fence up the road to the south security checkpoint at the intersection of Genesee Avenue and John J. Hopkins Drive, where more troops and a handful of Humvees clustered around two guard towers.

According to Paretti’s report, that was where they picked up my dad.

My eyes flicked to the South Employee Parking Lot. I noted the security. The fence was no problem
—
I had slipped under easily
—
but the soldiers and the Humvees?

Surely they took breaks. I mean, it couldn’t be harder than breaking into a police station.

No way, Blaire. They had a freaking destroyer offshore
—

Shouts from the south checkpoint made me flinch. The guards were shouting at me, telling me to step away from the fence.

I obeyed. By the time I made it home, I had firmly decided
—
hopped up on endorphins
—
that I really needed that diary. And I had an idea.

So far Joe had resisted my attempts. But there was no way he could resist me.

***

That night I grabbed my shortest skirt, my highest heels, and spent an hour dolling myself up with lip gloss, eye shadow, and blush. I even ironed my hair into playful curls.

If the only way Joe would hand over that diary was if he thought it came with a blowjob, then so be it. Let him think that.

One glimpse of Barbie Doll in the mirror convinced me; by evening’s end the diary would be mine.  All I had to do was surprise him like this and crank up the charm, and he’d agree to anything.

But it was Saturday, so where would I find him? I dialed his office, which rang twice before diverting me into an automated menu system. I tried his home phone, and he answered with a gruff “Joe here.” I hung up immediately.

Bingo.

I found Joe Paretti’s address online and drove over to his house, a simple one-story in the suburbs with an orange tree for a lawn.

On the walk from the sidewalk to his front door, I had to tug my skirt down four times. I must have grown a few inches taller since I’d last worn it. It was hardly decent. With each step, I could feel a breeze slipping between my upper thighs . . . where it wasn’t supposed to.

On the porch, I arranged my hair so it just covered one of my eyes and rang the doorbell.

His wife answered.

Uh oh.

“Is Joe home?” I said.

She assessed me in from head to toe, and her eyes narrowed to slits. My cheeks burned with shame, and I squirmed in my outfit, struggling to lower my skirt again.

“I’m Blaire,” I whispered, too embarrassed to speak. “He’s working on my dad’s case.”

“You’re that girl who called earlier?”

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to bother you
—
”

“Oh, God.” Her hand shot up to her mouth. “He’s having an affair with you.”

“What?
Joe?
Ew, no
—
what are you talking about?” I blushed even hotter.

“You little whore!” She opened the door and chased me off the front porch. “You bitch . . . you slut!”

I ran, lost both my heels, and continued barefoot to my Jeep. Behind me, the wife lost steam quickly.

I dove into my car, hot and embarrassed, and slammed the door. On the drive home tears stung my eyes.

I had crossed a line.

Once secure in my bedroom, I ripped off my clothes, dragged on sweats, and crawled into bed mortified.

And for what? I hadn’t even gotten the diary.

***

On Sunday, smoldering with guilt and feeling utterly incompetent, I watched my father’s coffin lowered into the ground. Only a few people had attended the graveside service. Josh, some of my friends. Their parents. But they were here for me, not for him.

Their sympathy was all that kept me standing.

We were estranged from the rest of our family. Those who actually knew my father had been at the memorial service eleven months ago. In their hearts, he had passed on a long time ago. I didn’t even have numbers to call.

“May his soul and the souls of all the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace,” said the priest.