Deadly Design (9780698173613) (19 page)

“Do you have his research?” I ask.

She leans forward, placing her hands on the edge of the desk. “Yes, Kyle. I do. Had he not taken a sudden and drastic turn for the worse, he might have had time to give it to someone else. He had a list of researchers he was considering, but he couldn't decide. How do you know who to trust when your ultimate goal is mass murder?”

“So you don't agree with your brother's vision of the world?”

“No.” She presses her palms against the desk. “I suppose I understand his logic, but there must be more humane ways of dealing with humanity's problems. I suppose someone as brilliant and intelligent as Edward was would look for the most intriguing and challenging ways to address a problem. And, perhaps, the most practical.”

Her eyes soften as her narrow face lights with memories.

“As children, Edward and I were fascinated by science. Our father was a scientist. He would tell us about his work sometimes, and it all sounded so intriguing. When Edward was only eight, he was diagnosed with a rare form of childhood cancer. He went through years of treatment, sadly leaving him sterile. I think that's why he was so fond of all of you. He had pictures, so many pictures of you all—files filled with them—like you were his own children.”

“He killed us.”

“Yes,” she says, looking at me and offering no excuse or explanation. “After his illness, he became obsessed with medicine, with physiology and genetics. I, too, became fascinated with crossing the bridge between science and medicine. We both became doctors—scientists—but our interests took us down different paths. At first I respected his work. He was fascinated by the human genome, with the ability to create humans who wouldn't have to suffer as he'd suffered. But then he started manipulating genes to create a different type of humanity. Not just healthy, but superior.” She shakes her head and gives a short, unbelieving scoff. “My work centers on helping people live full lives, but creating a ‘super' race is just . . .” She sighs and folds her hands tightly together. “What I didn't know until recently was that his research into gene manipulation was to help fund his other interests, his true research.”

“Killing people,” I finish for her.

“Yes.” She looks at me. “I still can't believe what he did to you and the others. He only confided in me once his illness had progressed to the point that he found it difficult to function. I was, at best, appalled. But by then, what could I do except beg him to give me access to his research? At first he refused. I tried to trick him, tried to appeal to the vanity that scientists sometimes have, saying how awed I was by his work. How it would be an honor just to look at it. He saw right through me, even in the fog the pain medications created. But as his illness progressed, it was easier to manipulate
bits
of information out of him, until I finally knew where his research was and how to access it. I wish he had given it to me freely, but he knew I wouldn't use it as he intended. He thought he still had time to find the right person, but he had a stroke.” She dabs at her eyes with her white sleeves.

Since walking into this old hospital, I've felt ghostly fingers running up and down my spine, my arms, the sides of my throat. Now I feel them gripping me, pulling at me. It's like they can see the days counting down on my forehead, and they want me to join them, to be friends with them and haunt these wide halls together.

“Can you save me?”

Dr. Bartholomew considers my request, but it's not a request.

“Save me,” I demand.

“I haven't had the research for very long, and to be honest, much of it is difficult to decipher. I have a group of researchers, people I trust completely, going over it as we speak. Ever since I first learned of your existence, it has been my goal to save you. It seems the least I can do under the circumstances. But as of this very moment, I don't know how to. And if there is a way to keep your heart from stopping, there is the immortality sequence to consider.”

I think I see the envy in her eyes. She's older than my mom. I'd guess midfifties. At best, her life is half over. She's a doctor who saves lives, and in another twenty or thirty, forty years, she'll be dead or in a nursing home. I'm sixteen. I have no aspirations of saving anyone's life but my own, and I could outlive her by centuries. Or I could be dead in less than four months.

“Can you figure it out—how to keep my heart from stopping? You can take out the other sequence too. I don't care about living forever. I just want to make it past seventeen.”

“We don't have much time.” Dr. Bartholomew stands, staring at me, coming closer, like I'm part of her brother's research, like I'm cells in a petri dish and she wants to shove me under a microscope. Her beady black eyes narrow over her slight nose. “I can't remove the sequence that will slow your aging,” she says. “It speaks directly to the brain, and the brain controls all bodily functions. To tamper with that, I'm quite certain, would lead to your death. I don't know how to keep the other genetic sequence from stopping your heart, but I promise I will find a way. No one in this world, Kyle, is more important to me at this moment, than you are.”

I stand, feeling like I have to. Like I need to move, like I need fresh air because the cold air coming from the vents is filled with some type of anxiety-inducing drug. My insides feel like they're boiling, while my skin feels cold. My heart is racing—no, it's begging.

She offers me her hand. It's small and smooth, and I take it. “I know how incredibly dangerous his research is,” she says. “You have my word that I will destroy it as soon as I fulfill my promise to save you. Until then, why don't you relax a bit? And avoid breaking the law.” She gestures toward the contents of her purse still on the desk. “Curing you might prove difficult if you're locked in a juvenile facility.”

I nod in agreement.

“I promise, as soon as I know something, you'll know.”

I want to believe her. I want so desperately to believe that she's the answer to my prayers, the miracle I've been looking for.

“W
hat'd you find out?” I ask Matt's image on my computer screen. He's thumbing through pages of material about Dr. Claudia Bartholomew.

“She seems all right. No ethical violations or felonies. Two speeding tickets and a fine for driving with a taillight out, but that's it. I didn't find anything suspicious. She's part of a research group doing work on using stem cells to grow human organs and, eventually, limbs. So far they've been able to create kidneys and bladders. They hope to use the same processes for livers and maybe even hearts.”

“What about her personal life?” I ask.

“She got married when she was twenty-six. They divorced a year later, and she took back her maiden name.”

“Any kids?”

Matt shakes his head.

“You met her,” I say. “What'd you think of her?”

He backs away from his screen a little, settling in his chair. “She seemed nice, professional. She can't help me with my issues, at least not right now. They can't grow what I need, not yet, anyway. But hey, at least it's nice to know there's someone out there trying.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “It is nice to know there's someone out there trying. I just hope it's the right someone.”

Matt leans toward the camera. “If you're worried that she's a singularly goal-driven psychopath like her brother . . . I just don't see it. There's been some controversy about stem cell use, but I seriously can't find anything questionable about her. I think you can trust her.”

I want to believe him, and maybe I do. I don't know. My life is really in her hands, and if I were Matt, I'd want to trust someone who might be able to make me a complete man again. I guess when it comes right down to it, I don't have any choice.

“How's Jimmy?” Matt asks. “Did you see him today?”

“I went this morning. Cami and her dad are going to see him after her dad gets off work.”

“How is he?”

“Medicated,” I say. “He's so doped up, he couldn't even eat his breakfast without help.”

Matt nods. “I bet you didn't know that Uncle Sam was such a drug pusher. Guy loves giving out the meds.”

“It's not going to hurt him, is it?” I hate seeing Jimmy like that. He seriously couldn't hold his head up for more than a few seconds.

“He'll be fine,” Matt says. “Once they release him, we'll get him off all that shit.”

I look at him doubtfully, because it can't be that easy.

“I'm going to go see him tomorrow,” Matt says. “Hopefully he'll be out in a few days. It's not like he hasn't been down this road before.”

“But he went down it because of me.”

“Hoorah,” he says. “Being a hero isn't supposed to be easy.”

“Yeah,” I agree, because Jimmy is my hero.

My phone starts to ring.

“I'll catch you later,” Matt says. He gives me a little wave and goes offline.

“Hey,” I answer.

“Have you checked Facebook lately?” Cami asks.

I'm surprised, because she knows that I don't get on Facebook anymore. Not since James . . .

“You might want to. I think you have an invite. Emma said she sent you one.”

“Emma? Invite to what? Isn't she still gone?”

“Her parents' wedding anniversary is next week, and she's coming home for it. She invited me to the party and said she sent you an invite too.”

“Why me? I'm the reason she moved.”

Cami doesn't say anything. She doesn't have to. Maybe the months Emma has been away have strengthened her. Maybe she's gone on lots of nature hikes around Minnesota's numerous lakes and found peace with losing Connor, so seeing me won't be a big deal. Fat chance.

She's not over him. No one could ever get over him. So maybe that's why she invited me.

“You don't have to go,” Cami says.

“I do.” I have to go because Connor can't. He can't make sure that she's all right. And if seeing me somehow brings her comfort, then . . .

“I love you,” Cami says, making me smile, even though I don't feel like it.

I want to go find Connor and tease him because he has to go to some boring anniversary party. I want to see him in a pressed shirt, a tie, and uncomfortable dress shoes. I want him to come home and tell me how everybody kept asking him when he was going to pop the question to Emma. I want them to have the future they should have had, the future I was jealous of.

I want Connor alive.

I want Emma happy.

I think about how people carve their names or initials into tree trunks or get them tattooed into their skin. Connor + Emma = Forever. It's as true as 2 + 2 = 4. It can't be changed. Two can't be added to another number and equal four. Emma plus any other person can never equal what she had with Connor. Never.

“Are you there?” Cami asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “I'm here.”

I'm here for now,
I think. And I can't help but wonder what Kyle + Cami will end up equaling.

I
feel like I'm suffocating in Emma's living room. There are people everywhere, all of them dressed to the hilt and holding a beverage of some sort. Some sip from thin-stemmed wineglasses, others from short, fat glasses filled with orange juice and vodka or deep circular glasses with the rims dipped in salt to offset the flavor of the festive green margarita mix.

I've never been drunk before. Okay. I've been buzzed. In eighth grade, I met Scott Henderson behind the Ferris wheel at the county fair. He had a bottle of his mom's peach schnapps, and we got a little wasted. Enough to lose our corn dogs and the schnapps on the bumper cars.

I'm not drunk now. At least I don't think I am. I asked Emma's dad for a Coke. He gave me a large glass, and in the heat of all the bodies in the room, I downed it. When I asked for another one, he laughed. I watched him as he put a few more ice cubes into my glass, then he doused them with rum before adding Coke from a two-liter bottle.

“Shit,” I said out loud, making Emma's dad, a chiropractor with a thin face and graying hair, laugh again.

He gave me the drink, slapped me on the shoulder, and said, “I won't tell if you don't.”

Emma's family has a nice house. From the living room, a person can see into the dining room and the kitchen. The granite counter dividing the kitchen from the dining room is covered with various bottles of liquor, and a blender is constantly whirling and crushing. There's music playing, and while no one is outright dancing, not yet anyway, people sway as they mingle, holding clear plastic plates with appetizers on them.

Emma is standing in front of a potted tree, its branches strewn with tiny white lights. She's wearing an off-white dress with a ribbon that encircles her torso just below her breasts, which are pushed up so the top crescents of them are visible. Her shoulders are bare, and her legs practically are too, the dress stopping midthigh. She's wearing thin-strapped, high-heeled shoes, and her hair drapes over her shoulders.

“Having fun?” Emma shouts over the music being piped in through her dad's surround-sound speakers.

“Yeah,” I lie.

“I'm sorry your parents couldn't make it,” she shouts. “I told Mom and Dad not to invite them. I'm sure they're not up for a party. I told them not to invite me either, but . . .” Her bare shoulders shrug. “Cami's not coming,” she says, not knowing that Cami had called to tell me that nearly two hours ago. “Her dad's working, and she found a babysitter, but then Josh started throwing up. But it's okay. I'll have plenty of time to see her later.”

“You will?” I ask, wondering how long she's going to be in town and how many classes she can afford to miss back at the community college in Minnesota.

“You came.” She lifts her hand and brushes it against my cheek. “It's so hot in here, and loud.”

“Yes,” I say emphatically. And the floor shifts under my feet just a little.

“Are you drunk?”

“No,” I insist, then look at my half-empty glass of rum and Coke. “Maybe.”

“You lightweight.” Emma laughs and takes my hand. “But it's okay. I'm a little drunk too. Maybe more than a little.”

She leads me to the stairs, the temperature decreasing with each step. The basement is huge. There's a giant flat screen on one wall, and sports posters and memorabilia hang on the others. A couple of people are shooting pool, and I don't like the sound of the balls cracking into each other.

“Still too crowded?” Emma asks.

I nod and follow her down a long, dark hallway.

“Welcome to my abode,” she says, opening the door to a large room bathed in soft violet light.

“This is your room?”

There's a square, black-lacquered table in the center. The inner blob of a lava lamp dances next to a tray of sand and pebbles and a bonsai tree. In the corner of the room, a giant beanbag chair sits next to a stack of paperbacks. Mother-of-pearl wind chimes dangle from the ceiling, a breeze from a small fan making them move in a constant, clinking motion.

Against the wall is a large bed covered by a dark, faux-fur blanket. Above the bed, a poster of Bob Marley looks down on a pile of satin pillows.

“Do you like it?” Emma asks. “My parents remodeled it for me. Well, they repainted it. Mom and I went shopping and I added a few personal touches. I think they're hoping I'll move back home.”

“Where are the cheerleading trophies and the calendar with the cute puppies on it? This looks like a hookah bar.”

Emma smiles, like “hookah bar” is exactly the look she was hoping for. She sits on the bed, unfastens the thin straps on her shoes, then slides them off.

“Was Connor ever in here?” I ask. “Before it looked like this?”

It's too dark to see if the mention of his name makes her flinch, but I don't think it does.

“My parents don't allow boys in my room. But I'm in college now. I'm not a little girl anymore. Besides, they're busy with their guests. And”—she slips from the bed to the door—“there's a lock.”

She turns the deadbolt and leans her back against the door. “Did you know that Connor and I never made love?”

Between the weird lighting and the rum, my head is starting to spin a little.

“We never did. I was willing, but he wanted to wait. I thought it was romantic.” She's smiling as she takes a step toward where I'm standing, just a few feet from the bed. “He had this vision of us going on a ski trip with other college students. We'd all share some big cabin in the mountains. There'd be a huge fireplace and a hot tub. And one day, when the others all decided to go skiing, we'd stay behind.”

The smile fades.

“You always think you have time,” she says. “Time to make things just right. Time to make them romantic and lovely, but you don't.” Emma looks at me. “You don't know, when you say good-bye to someone, if you'll ever see him again.” Her hands reach behind her back, and with a slight shimmying motion, her dress slips from her body. Her strapless bra looks violet in the lighting. Even her tiger print thong is purple, and the image of a great purple tiger roaming the plains of Africa pops into my head, then pops right back out again.

The air was cool a moment ago, but now my skin feels like it's heating from the inside out. And those damn wind chimes are giving me a headache.

She comes forward and takes my face in her hands.

Her smell is incredible, and her mouth tastes like strawberries. She pulls me onto the bed, and we sink into the thick black fur. I run my hands over her legs as they curl around mine.

“I don't want to wait anymore,” she says, her breath hot against my neck.

“Me neither.” My hands cup beneath her bare hips. Our mouths find each other, the flavors of rum and daiquiri fusing on our tongues.

“I want you so much,” she says, tugging at my clothes.

“I want you. God, Cami, I want you.”

Her body stiffens beneath mine. Emma's body. Not Cami's.

“Oh, shit!” I scramble from the bed.

“Cami?” Emma's voice is more air than sound. “You and Cami . . .” Tears burst through the clouds in her eyes.

“You were the one who kept bringing us together,” I say, wanting to remind her that I'm Kyle. I'm the one with Cami. Not Connor. Connor could never be with anyone but her.

I sit on the bed, wrap the blanket around her, and hold her. I hold her tightly, as tightly as I can, but I know I can't make her feel better, just like I couldn't make her feel better after Connor's funeral. She needs
him.

“I'm sorry.” My voice is soft against the top of her head. Emma looks up at me, then squeezes her eyes closed, and I wish I were brave enough to throw acid in my face, so she wouldn't have to see Connor anymore.

Suddenly I see Dr. Sharp standing in the violet light of the room. His skin looks even nastier now as it clings to his slightly exposed skull. He's a skeleton in baggy clothes with black beaded eyes and a mouth made of exposed teeth and bone. Volcanic anger and sadness rise in me, and hatred.

I won't let him get me. He took Connor and James and the others. He dragged their families, everyone who loved them, down into hell with him. But I won't let him take me. Dr. Bartholomew told me she'd find a way to save me, and whatever way she finds, no matter what I have to do or what pain I might have to endure, I'll do it. I'll survive. I won't let Cami end up like this, and in whatever way I can, I'll be there for Emma. Even if it's just to hold her and to tell her how sorry I am and that I miss him too. I'll do it for her, and I'll do it for Connor.