Deadly Design (9780698173613) (23 page)

“A
m I supposed to give him five milligrams every eight hours or eight milligrams every five?”

I press my eyes open to see a man sitting in a folding chair next to me. He's holding a phone up to his ear, and he looks frustrated.

“I know you wrote it down, but your handwriting is worse than chicken scratch. Eight milligrams. No, he's still out. Hopefully he'll wake up soon and I can call his parents get him the hell out of here!”

“I'm awake now,” I manage to say.

The man with a tanned, narrow face and deep winkles looks at me awkwardly. “He's awake,” he says into the phone and waits. “Hold on, I'll ask him.” He turns to me. “Are you in much pain?”

I think for a second, and the answer is, mercifully, no. I shake my head.

“Good,” he says. “The boy says he's not in much pain.”

There's a sheet under me and blanket covering me. My arm is hanging over the side of a . . . sofa, and something is licking my hand. I look down and see a wiry-haired mutt lying beside the sofa.

“Duke, stop that,” the man yells at the dog, then gets back to his phone conversation. “You sure he should be taking two of those? He says he's not in that much pain, and one will knock me on my ass faster than a bottle of whiskey.” Pause. “Fine. You're the nurse. You just make sure you call me once you get to Phoenix. And, Virginia, be careful.”

He ends the call, but stares at the phone for moment, like maybe he forgot to say something important to the person on the other end.

“Was that Virginia?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says. “On a goddamned plane to Phoenix, thanks to you. I don't think she's ever coming back, either. Her daughter lives out there. I just hope whatever you got her mixed up in doesn't follow her.”

I want to assure him that it won't, but I can't. “You might call her back. If Dr. Bartholomew knows that she has a daughter in Phoenix, that she might go there . . . she might want to go someplace else.”

He exhales like an angry old bull, his eyes staring down at the floor. “Her daughter's married, not too long either, so she's got a different name. Virginia doesn't socialize much with the hospital people, so maybe they don't know.”

I try to give him a reassuring smile and pull my arm back onto the sofa so the dog will stop licking it.

“I'd wash that hand good, if I was you,” he says. “Duke's got a thing about chewing on dirty underwear. His mouth's like a sewer.”

I look at my hand and don't know whether to laugh or cry. I don't even know where the hell I am.

“I'm Gene, by the way. Friend of Virginia's. And I know who you are. Kyle, the fella who got my hernia acting up because I had to drag your ass in here all by myself at two o'clock in the goddamned morning. Virginia wanted to come back here, but I took her straight to the Amtrak station. Can't be too careful these days. And when she said you'd been in a coma for two months, I thought you'd weigh less. Must have been cramming French fries up that feeding tube.”

What little hair is on Gene's head is light brown, and it matches the faded freckles that disappear into his wrinkles. He looks mean, reminding me of the story my mom used to tell us about the troll who lived under a bridge and ate goats.

“You two close friends?”

Gene scoffs. “Have been for six years now. Ever since her husband and my wife died. She comes over every morning after work for coffee, and we share the newspaper. Then she tells me about you, how she's all worried and whatnot, and the next thing I know, I'm parked by some hospital door and she's smuggling you out of there. And now I don't know if I'll ever see her again.”

“I'm sorry. I don't want you dragged into this. I should probably go.” I force myself to sit up, and the pain, comes creeping back like I've been hiding from it and now it's found me.

“Not so fast. I seen what that doctor did to your gut. Virginia said something about them messing with your DNA. You have any superpowers?” he asks.

“No.”

Gene frowns, obviously disappointed. “What did this doctor do to you, then?”

“He put a genetic sequence in me, so that I'll die before I turn seventeen.”

“And when's that?”

“A little less than a month.”

He sighs and rubs a hand over his sparse hair. “Well that's some fine fucking shit, ain't it? What kind of a sorry-ass excuse for a human being would do something like that to a kid? A kid!” He steps away from me, then toward me again. “You're not just walking off here. We have to
do
something about this. You know, I got shot in Vietnam. I was pinned down, and bullets flying everywhere. You know how many times I got shot?”

He waits for me to answer, his reddish-gray brows lifted.

“Three times?” I guess.

“Nineteen. Yeah. That's a one in front of a nine. But did I give up? Did I lay down in that jungle and ask God's forgiveness for the shit that I done in my life? No. I got up. That's what I did. And that's what we're going to do right now. You're going to get up and go sit down at the kitchen table. I'm going to fix you some . . . soup or something. I'll give you a Lortab, just one—she said two, but that's too many—and no more shots. We need you awake so we can figure this all out. And we are going to figure this out. You got it?”

I fight the urge to shout, “Sir, yes, sir!” But I just nod and struggle to my feet. A sudden breeze hits my backside, and I realize I'm still wearing the hospital gown. “I don't suppose you have any pants I can borrow.”

• • •

I think of Virginia on a train to Arizona. I think about the danger I'm putting Gene in just by being here, and I'm not hungry. But Gene wants me to eat, so I force the tomato soup and a Lortab down, half expecting the soup to seep through the hole in my stomach.

“So what about calling the police?” Gene asks.

I remember the conversation Dr. Bartholomew and I had right before I was supposed to be frozen. She was trying to convince me to trust her because of all the influential people she'd helped, all the money she had access to.

“I don't think that's a good idea,” I say. “Dr. Bartholomew has a lot of connections.”

Gene slumps a little in his chair. “You know, I can see Virginia's house from that window there.” He nods at the window over the kitchen sink. “Our backyards bump up against each other. While I was washing that bowl out for your soup, I saw a car pull up to the house. Three people got out and jimmied their way in the back door. I imagine they're looking for you.”

“I should leave,” I say. “If they find me here, they'll want to know how much you know. If they think you're a threat—”

“You're not leaving. Not unless we have a plan. Surely there's someone out there you can trust. Someone who might be able to help you.”

Someone Dr. Bartholomew doesn't know about. Or maybe, someone she does know—a patient from the VA who saw her once, so that I could sneak into her office.

“Do you have a computer and internet?”

Gene smiles. “Do I have a computer and internet? You're talking to one of the most popular fellas on the Silver Fox dating website. Just a second. It's in the bedroom.”

I push the bowl of soup away and wish I could push the thought of Gene Skyping in his bedroom with old women out of my mind as easily.

“Here we go,” he says, opening the laptop on the table in front of him. He punches in his password and connects to the web. “What do you need?”

“I need to send an email.”

Gene logs into his account, then slides the computer over to me.

I type in Matt's email address. His messages go directly to his phone, so I don't expect it to take too long to hear from him.

“What's your Skype password?”

He clears his throat. “Big Fox seventy-two,” he says. “The
B
and the
F
are capitalized.” He clears his throat again.

Within minutes, Matt's face comes up on the screen. “Kyle? Holy shit! Where the hell are you? Aren't you supposed to be frozen?”

My excitement at seeing a friendly face dims for a second. “How do you know I was supposed to be frozen?”

He looks confused, then a little hurt. “Jimmy told me. I know he said he wouldn't, but since I already know just about everything anyway, he wanted to keep me in the loop. But don't worry. I haven't told a soul. I swear. And don't be mad at Jimmy. You know Jimmy.”

I nod, but I'm surprised. I do know Jimmy. He said he wouldn't tell, and I believed him. “How is he? Do you know how Cami is?”

“Fine, I guess. But what about you? Where the hell are you?”

“I'm fine,” I say out of habit. “No, I'm fucked is what I am. I need your help.”

“You bet. Name it, I'm there. You need me to come get you?”

“Before we found Dr. Bartholomew, there were a few doctors you thought might have the other Dr. Bartholomew's research. Can you give me their information?”

“Yeah, sure. Wait—I thought she had it.”

“So did I. Do you have the names? Their contact information?”

“Yeah.” Matt leaves the screen for a minute. I hear drawers opening and papers rustling, then he's back. “You got a pen and paper?”

I start to rise, but the Lortab isn't working yet, and I gasp in pain. But it doesn't matter because Gene's there with a small notebook and a pen.

“Okay, I'm ready.”

“You want the immunologist in Boston or the boy wonder in Chicago?”

“Both,” I say.

“To be honest,” Matt says, “if Claudia Bartholomew doesn't have the research, my bet's on the kid in Chicago. I guess I shouldn't call him a kid; he's like twenty-two now. Before we thought Claudia had the research for sure, I did some digging. Your psycho doctor had quite a few phone calls with this kid, Dr. Brian Rubenstein. And Rubenstein is an expert in genetics, plus he's a genius—probably got an ego almost as big as Edward Bartholomew's—so they might have hit it off. Are you anywhere close to Chicago? I can wire you some money. Or I can come and get you. Take you there myself. What about your folks? Do they know where you are?”

“No. They still think I'm frozen.” The words make me sick. The thought of my parents still trusting that bitch is like a blade slicing through my skin, making yet another incision. “They need to keep thinking that for now,” I say. “It's safer that way.”

“Safer? Kyle, what's going on? Let me help. It's not like I have anything better to do.” He gives a slight laugh. “And we're kind of like our own little platoon—me, you, and Jimmy. We got to look out for each other.”

“You are helping me,” I say. “For now, I just need his phone number and address if you have them. I'll let you know if I need anything else.”

Matt leans in toward the screen. “Sure thing,” he says and reads off the contact information for a Dr. Brian Rubenstein.

“Thanks a lot, Matt,” I say once the information's written down.

“Promise you'll let me know if I can do anything for you. Really. Anything.”

I'm tempted to tell him where I am. To ask him to get in his car, pick me up, and take me to Chicago. But it's at least a seven-hour drive from where Matt lives to Saint Louis. That's too much time to be putting Gene at risk and too much time to waste. I nod and then log off.

I
slump down in the seat, pulling the baseball cap Gene gave me farther down over my face. The bus to Chicago is pretty crowded. A girl around my age is sitting one seat over. I know she's looked my way a few times, but I'm avoiding eye contact. I don't want to talk to anyone.

I know it sounds stupid, but I miss Gene, and Virginia. They both stuck their necks out for me. Hopefully, Virginia will be safe in Phoenix, but Gene's going to have to read the newspaper alone every morning. And there's the bus fare and the money he stuck into my jeans pocket. His jeans, and his T-shirt, his jacket, his socks, and the tennis shoes he stopped to buy me because none of his shoes came anywhere close to fitting.

I'm going to repay him. Even if Dr. Rubenstein can't help me, I'll tell Mom and Dad about Gene before I die, so they can thank him for trying to save their son.

The bus lurches, and I grab my stomach and groan.

“Are you all right?” the girl asks.

“Yeah,” I say, giving her a quick glance. “Had my appendix out a few weeks ago. Still kind of sore. I just need some sleep.”

“Sure,” she says. “Where are you getting off?”

“Chicago.”

She smiles. “Me too. There'll be a few stops between here and there. I'll make sure and wake you up. If you're asleep, that is.”

I look at her, and I know it's the painkiller Gene gave me and the drugs still lingering in my system from my two months in a coma, but I feel like crying. She's probably fifteen or sixteen. An average-looking teenage girl with straight brown hair and bangs cut slightly crooked. She smiles at me with her mouth closed, most likely because her parents can't afford braces. She's nice, and with luck, she'll live a long time.

“Thanks.” I lay my forehead against the cool glass and close my eyes.

• • •

I don't sleep. I can't. Not with the pain and the people walking up and down the aisle to the restroom and the screaming baby and the stops where people get off and new people get on and, just maybe, there might be someone looking for me.

It's six hours of hell, but every time we stop suddenly or hit a pothole and the pain makes me want to scream, I remind myself how lucky I am to feel pain. How lucky I am to be awake and alive.

“We're here.” The girl nudges my shoulder.

“Thanks,” I look at her, and her face fills with concern.

“Are you sure you're okay? You really don't look well.” She places a hand on my forehead like she's my mom. “You're warm. I think you have a fever.”

“I'm okay,” I say, and try to prove it by standing up. The air suddenly turns black for a second as I grab hold of the seat in front of me. Suddenly, her arms are around me, helping me stand.

“Let's get you off this bus,” she says, leading me down the aisle, and then the steps. “My grandmother is picking me up. Mom and I haven't been getting along since my dad left, so Grams said I could live with her for a while. Who's picking you up?”

My foot catches on something, and I almost go down, but she keeps hold of me. “No one.”

We walk to the side of the bus, and she leans me against it. “Let's get your luggage and then we'll find Grams.”

“I don't have any luggage,” I say, trying to feel my legs beneath me.

“I just have a backpack,” the girl says. She takes her ticket, shows it to the driver, and collects her pack.

I try to stand on my own, try to balance with one hand on the bus. When I feel somewhat steady, I let go, but I feel sweat against my back. I want to take Gene's jacket off, but I can see my breath. I know it's cold outside, but I feel hot.

“Let's find Grams,” she says, taking my arm again. “We'll get you to a hospital.”

“No.” I pull away from her and almost stumble backward. “No hospitals. If you can . . .” Think. Think. Think. “A pharmacy,” I say. “If you can drop me off at a pharmacy, that would be great. I just need my medicine. And I can call someone from there to get me.”

She considers me, and I think she knows I won't get into a car with her and “Grams” unless she agrees to do what I ask.

“Fine,” she says. “Let's go find her.”