Deadly Design (9780698173613) (26 page)

“K
yle.”

I feel a hand against my shoulder.

“Wake up.”

I know the voice. I must be dreaming.

“Kyle.” The hand is more forceful this time, pulling at my shoulder.

“Matt?” I open my eyes, and it's him. Matt's standing in the lab. He's wearing a baseball cap and a jean jacket, and he has a gun pointed me. The grogginess in my head vanishes.

“It's time to go,” he says, his voice flat as he glances for a second at the screen, at Cami and Josh.

“What are you doing?”

“I'm sorry,” he says, gesturing toward the screen. “I knew sooner or later you wouldn't be able to resist. Welcome to the modern age of no privacy. Uncle Sam taught me. You just watch the bait.” He nods at the screen again. “Then wait. Once you enter the site, you're traced back to the source. I already knew you were in Chicago. I figured Rubenstein's private lab would be within a three-mile radius of his office and the hospital where he works. I just had to wait for you to enter the trap.”

I look at the time on the screen. It's just after midnight. “Jerry?”

“He's fine,” Matt says. “Just taking a little nap in the hallway. I could have left him outside, but I didn't.”

I look at the gun, in disbelief. “Why?”

“She's going to help me.”

I lift my shirt. “Like she helped me?”

“I'm sorry,” he says, looking away for a moment from the scars. “Dr. Bartholomew, Claudia, made sure she knew everything about you. So when I went for my
appointment
at the VA, she knew about the connection between me, you, and Jimmy. I know I told you she couldn't help me, but I lied. She made me an offer.”

“You've been working for her ever since then?”

“I can't live like this,” he says, his voice raised. Matt takes off the baseball cap; sweat beads on his forehead. “You don't know what it's like. She said I'll even be able to have kids someday.”

“Well, good for you,” I say. And I know she can make him a kid or two in a lab. The guy doesn't have balls, but he can have kids, just like fucking Edward Bartholomew was sterile and he . . . I stare at Matt, my eyes cold enough to freeze him, I think. “I'm sure your kids will be really proud of their dad. Why don't you take a picture of me? Then you can show them who you sacrificed so that they could exist.” I laugh, my incisions starting to ache like they know Claudia's waiting to reopen them. “Even if she can help you, she won't. The only person she cares about is herself.”

“She
is
going to help me.” The hand holding the gun is shaking, which seems odd for a marine. But then, his hand wasn't meant for guns; it was meant for computers. “She's going to help a lot of other people, other guys like me missing arms and legs and other parts. I'm sorry, Kyle, but you're a necessary casualty—unless, that is, you can tell me what Rubenstein did with her brother's research.”

I'm forming a lie in my head. The research is somewhere in the hospital where Rubenstein works, or in his office locked in a safe behind a poster of Kirk Hinrich doing a jump shot. It's—

The door to the lab starts to open. “Are you in here, Ky—”

The bullet hits the center of her chest. She looks down at it for a second, confused, shocked. Then her knees give way, and she's on the floor. I run over to her.

“Rosemary! Rosemary!” She's dead. She and her husband were trying to have a baby. She likes cooking shows and her favorite author is Nicholas Sparks and blood is spreading across her pale pink scrubs. I wish I were a doctor. I wish these hearts were all ripe for the picking and I could grab one, take out the heart that's been torn by Matt's bullet, and plug in the new one.

I look up at Matt. His mouth is hanging open.

“Another casualty?” I ask, and I want to rip off his prosthetic leg and beat him to death with it, because taking his gun and shooting him would be too goddamned unfulfilling.

“Let's go,” he says, holding the gun steadier now, even though his face is tinged with green. “Let's go!” he yells.

“Okay.” I stand, and all thoughts of lying to him are gone. I won't let anyone else get hurt because of me.

I
don't have a coat on. The cold air hits me as soon as we step out of the building. I think of Jerry and his warm coat, and I wish I'd taken it off him. He was lying in the hall beside the door, just like Matt said. He didn't look hurt, just asleep.

My breath clouds in the air and disappears quickly in the cold wind. I start shivering like crazy, and I'm afraid the incisions are going to start tearing open again.

“Here,” Matt says, halting me. With the gun still in hand, he slips one arm, then the other, out of his jacket and hands it to me. I put it on and follow him past the Volkswagen Beetle that's parked at the front of the lot, close to the building; I bet it's Rosemary's. I start shivering again, despite the jacket.

I hear him push a remote, and lights flash on a dark sedan. “Get in,” Matt says, his arms held close against his body now.

As directed, I get in. “Have you ever killed anyone before?” I ask as Matt turns the key and air blasts forth from the heater vents.

“Shut up,” he says, and pushes a few buttons on the GPS screen.

“So you're taking me back to Saint Louis?”

“Claudia is.” He gestures toward the screen. “There's an ambulance waiting on the outskirts of town. She doesn't trust anyone but herself and her assistants to take you back, so we're meeting them.”

“Are you going to drive and hold a gun on me the whole way there?”

“Open the glove compartment.”

I open it. The only item inside is a syringe.

“Take it out.”

I take the syringe in my hand, and even though it's slender, I know that the sparse amount of liquid is enough to turn my brain off.

“Inject it into your leg.”

I keep holding it.

“Now.” He points the gun at my head.

“You won't shoot me,” I say. “Claudia wants me alive.” I hear voices approaching the rear of the car. One's complaining about the cold. It's the cleaning crew. They come for a few hours every night to empty trash cans and mop floors. I've never met them, but I know one of them, the man, likes to hum to himself.

“You're right,” he says. The dome light in the car still glows. This summer, I remember, I felt sorry for Matt. So young and good-looking and alone. I never noticed the desperation in his eyes, the clouds amongst the clear shade of blue. And there's something else in his face, a hardness that wasn't there when he first woke me in the lab.

Because now he's killed someone. Killed for his cause. There's no backing out now.

“Inject yourself, or I'll shoot one of them,” he says, his eyes moving between me and the couple walking past.

I slip the cap off the needle.

“The man or the woman. Your pick.”

“I'm doing it,” I say, seeing a bead of clear liquid forming at the tip of the needle as I bring it toward my thigh.

“Now!” He steadies his hand against the dashboard, the gun pointing at the man's back.

I think of Cami and my parents, and how if I do this, I'll never see them again. I'll never see anything ever again.

“Now,” he says, looking at me, wanting to make certain I do it right.

I lower it toward my leg just as the man playfully grabs the woman, making her scream. Matt looks up, and I act. I jab the needle into his stomach and start pressing the plunger. He grabs my hand, pulling out the syringe.

I know I got at least some of it in him, but how much, and how much does it take?

He lifts his shirt like looking at the injection site will somehow tell him if he's about to pass out or not. But he doesn't have to wonder for long. He shakes his head in a vain attempt to clear it, then slumps against the steering wheel.

I
put the gun on the dashboard, and once the two-person cleaning crew is in the building, I get out of the car. I lean in across the passenger seat and pull on Matt. He's heavy, but I manage, slowly and painfully, to slide him across the seat. Then I get behind the wheel. I turn onto the street and follow the directions on the GPS, the directions that will take me to Claudia Bartholomew.

My destination is six miles away. My gut feels like it's on fire from the strain of moving Matt, but I'm thankful for the pain. It's both the proverbial fire in my gut and the literal one. I'm so angry. And I want to stay angry.

I take the gun from the dashboard and set it in my lap. Claudia's not getting me. She'll never lay a hand on me, never again. I glance over at Matt, slumped against the door like he's sleeping, his mouth slightly gaped and a surprisingly peaceful look on his face. His baseball cap is on the floorboard, and I wait until I'm at a stoplight to reach down and pick it up. I put it on my head.

Five miles.

There are streetlights and stoplights and lights shining from office windows and businesses. The streets are filled with cars, and I know back home in Rose Hill, the streets are mostly empty. But this isn't some small town. This is Chicago, and I fight to focus among the glaring lights or oncoming traffic and the occasional car horn.

Four miles.

Another red light. A guy in the car next to me is jamming to very loud rap music. I turn the heater up another notch and roll the window down to hear it better. I could turn on this car's radio, but I don't want to. I don't want music clouding my mind. I just want a small dose of it, a reminder of what life is supposed to be like. Of what life could be like if Claudia Bartholomew were out of the picture. If she were dead.

The light turns green, and the car makes a right turn, but I go straight. I follow the directions on the screen and listen to the voice telling me which way to go.

A short melody comes from the seat next to me. I glance over at Matt, then reach into his jeans pocket and take out his phone. He has a text:
Do you have him?

When I first got my license, I promised Mom and Dad never to text and drive. But traffic is moving slowly, and this is a rather special circumstance. I push Reply.

On our way.

I put the phone down and settle my hand over the gun.

Three miles.

The traffic is getting lighter as I drive through a business district. First the buildings are tall and covered in glass. Then they become shorter, with no windows except for maybe one or two. Factories and warehouses line the streets, becoming more and more sparse until they are gone altogether.

Two miles, and there's nothing but a two-lane highway with the lights of houses here and there gleaming in the dark.

One mile. The voice instructs me to turn left on a gravel road.

Of course she would want somewhere discreet. Someplace a bystander wouldn't see a body being carried from a car to an ambulance and think it was odd and perhaps call the police. My hand clenches the gun as the tires move across the gravel, and then I see it. The ambulance is pulled over, hugging the ditch. The hazard lights are blinking, and as I approach, I see people getting out. There are three of them, squinting against my headlights. One of them, a man, waves for me to turn them off, but I don't.

I pull the baseball cap down more over my face, knowing that the second I open the door, the dome light will come on. With my head tilted downward, I open the door.

“Finally,” I hear Claudia say. “Henry, get the gurney.” She comes toward the car while two people, a man and a woman, open the back door of the ambulance.

I get out of the car and push the Unlock button on the door with my left hand, keeping my right hand and the gun close to my side.

“I hope you didn't have any problems,” Claudia says as she approaches the passenger side. “You've certainly caused me enough problems, Kyle, but still, no hard feelings.”

I lift the gun, but she's behind the car and the angle is off. I hear the man's voice, Henry's, telling me to drop the gun.

I look over at him, at the back of the ambulance, and I see that both he and the other woman are armed and pointing guns at me. It seems ridiculous in a way—the three of us, standing on a dirt road in the middle of a freezing cold night with our guns like we're in some late night movie. They squint a little in the glare of the car's headlights, and I inch forward, trying to get a better view of Claudia. Then I do what people do in late-night movies, I point the gun at the one in charge. “You drop your guns, or I shoot her.”

Claudia laughs and starts clapping her hands, the sound muffled by her thick gloves. “You
want
to shoot me,” she says. “They know that. They know what I've done to you, what we”—she motions to the man and woman, as if they've all taken a turn with the scalpel—“have done to you. If you plan on shooting me no matter what, they might as well shoot you right now.”

She looks at the man. He's large with broad shoulders. The woman is tall and lanky. They're both wearing black pants and black jackets and holding black handguns.

“How about you all fire on the count of three?” Claudia says. “I might possibly die, depending on how good a shot you are, Kyle, but considering the dark and your lack of experience with a real gun, and the fact that both of my associates are not only doctors, but skilled marksmen, I think my odds are much better than yours. Or you could put the gun down. We could have a nice conversation. It doesn't have to be this way, you know. I can still save you, Kyle.”

I laugh. “Don't you remember that your brother made me intelligent? Okay, sure. I wasn't smart enough to see through you at first, but then sociopaths have reputations for being charming and cunning. Matt's smart, and he bought it, so I guess I shouldn't feel too bad. Just out of curiosity”—I keep the gun trained on her—“did you really have any intention of helping him? Can you seriously grow him a new penis? Give him testicles? Or were you just saying what he wanted to hear so you could use him?”

She opens the passenger door, and Matt falls onto the dirt road. With the door open, I can see her face even better. She's smiling as she looks down at his unconscious body.

“I just love desperation,” she says. “I love how it turns people into putty that you can mold into anything you like. You and your parents were willing to have your body frozen. Frozen!
This
sorry excuse for a person turned on his friend like Judas delivering Christ.” She kicks Matt, not hard, but she kicks him. “And for what? For the pleasure of having sex again, the ability to spawn children? Do you think I would really waste my time on such pursuits?”

I can't see where Matt's lying on the other side of the car, but I know she's wrong about him, at least partly. It's about being normal, about feeling whole. It's about wanting to love someone with every part of your being and about getting back what was so unfairly taken away.

He's desperate, and she took advantage of him. It's because of Claudia Bartholomew that Rosemary is dead.

“One.”

I start the countdown, because as much as I want to live, I know I can't, not as long as she's alive.

“Two.”

Suddenly Henry's head and gun turn toward Claudia. I see a flash from the woman's gun, and I duck without thinking. There's a searing pain in my shoulder. I prop myself up against the car and try to look through the still-open driver's door to where Claudia was standing. I can't see anything. I climb into the front seat. I want to grip the gun with both hands, but my left arm won't move, so I hold it as tightly as I can with my right. I lie flat on my stomach, trying to keep my head down as more shots fly. I scoot forward on the seat, and then I see Matt. He's still on the road, but he's not lying unconscious anymore.

His body is straddling Claudia's, his fingers wrapped around her neck. Her gloved hands are pulling at his arms, but it's no use. He's choking the life out of her, strangling her so thoroughly, his arms are shaking with the effort. Her hands keep pulling at his arms, then they start reaching for his face, trying to gouge at his eyes. She keeps reaching, her back arching with the effort, and then something snaps. Her arms fall to her sides.

Matt moves back, away from her body. He stares at her for a moment, then he looks up at me. Tears are streaming down his face. Then a bullet pierces his forehead, and I start firing.