No Time to Die (3 page)

When the fall rolled around, she hadn't felt ready to leave Gramps or her parents, and at the last minute deferred college for a year. She couldn't really explain her attachment to home, when all her friends were desperate to move up and on. She just knew she strongly preferred to stay put, where she was comfortable and accepted. But once she finally started at Northeastern, with hundreds of new faces staring at her in dismay, she began to focus on her otherness once more.

On her first day in the dorm, her roommate asked what would become a common question around campus: “What are you, like, twelve? Some kid prodigy?”

It was almost easier to act the impostor than to explain the unexplainable.

With the same refrain constantly circling her, soon she found it was all she could focus on, even as her grades slipped. College had not just magnified her underlying sense of defectiveness, but lit it on fire. Then, two months ago, it burned her alive. All semester, she'd been working up the nerve to talk to her crush, a popular sophomore who played first violin in the school orchestra. Figuring they shared a love of music, she approached him at a frat party to ask him to a concert, the Boston Symphony Orchestra.

He took one look at her and raised an eyebrow. “Aren't you a bit young for me?”

A brunette standing next to him smirked. “Maybe her babysitter's off.”

Their drunken friends cracked up. The joke spread, innocuous teasing for everyone else, but a torch of humiliation for her. The following weekend, she showed up at her parents' brownstone with two suitcases. They had no choice but to accept her decision to drop out, however disappointing.

At home with time to spare, her uneasiness morphed into an obsession, and then a quest, unceremoniously launched late one night in her bedroom with the Google search: “undiagnosed disease help.”

That was how she found Dr. Carlyle, a legendary diagnostician in genetic disorders. He was a consultant to the National Institutes of Health's Undiagnosed Diseases Program, an arm of the federal government that aimed to tackle the cold cases of medicine, with a limited acceptance rate of fifty people per year. Though it seemed impossible to gain entry into such an exclusive program, Dr. Carlyle himself was right in New York City, with a private practice that accepted new patients. When Gramps corroborated his famed status, her excitement was propelled to stratospheric heights.

If there was anyone on earth who could diagnose the mysterious, disparate problems she could only term
her condition,
Zoe felt certain he'd be the one. But her parents hadn't been quite as thrilled. Years ago, they had encouraged her to see plenty of specialists, then became wary after many futile visits; then accepting of the repeated diagnosis “idiopathic”; and finally, adamant that she accept it, too.

“Accept the things you cannot change,” her mother quoted from the Serenity Prayer with the regularity of rain.

And have the wisdom to know the difference,
she always thought in response. But her father was convinced that her obsession with her health had become neurotic.

“Enough,” he had commanded. “You're a perfectly capable young woman, and you're just using these symptoms as an evasion.”

“That's not—”

But he held up a hand.

“As a condition of living at home until you sort this out, you're going to a therapist, but
no more doctors
.”

 

 

It was 8:49
A.M.
Zoe cringed as she hurried through Central Park, recalling the memory of her father's piercing eyes, his shame at her for being a college dropout. A warm summer rain pelted the grass under her feet, turning the dirt soggy. She squished across the lawn, not caring as the soil muddied her pants and slid between her toes. The only thing that mattered was Dr. Carlyle's diagnosis. After that—

Time ceased. Her whole life, every desolate and bewildering moment, was compressing down to this one hour, this 9:00
A.M.
appointment. The magnitude of it flattened her focus to a point, and beyond that, the future skewed like light through a prism, breaking off into infinite directions.

But one thing was real, regardless of how the morning's events would play out: inside her purse was the envelope that could ruin her. Inside was her parents' credit card bill—a sum total of over $10,000 for her recent full body X-ray, MRI, tissue analysis, and genetic screening. Their family's Scrooge-like health insurance plan had denied coverage for the tests after she had already gotten them, so she had no choice but to charge the card. Would she face her parents with remorseful trepidation or calm conviction when they opened the bill?

She let out a nervous breath as she stepped from the mushy lawn to the wet concrete of the sidewalk. As Dr. Carlyle's nondescript office building came into view, she worried for the first time if she could have been wrong about her own motives. What if, as her parents believed, she was using her health obsession to conceal some more profound psychological distress?

No.
She shook her head defiantly, whipping her wet blond hair against her cheek. The rain was pounding the ground with increasing intensity, and passersby scrambled under the awnings of the nearest buildings. Already drenched, she stopped and turned her face to the sky. The warm drops felt like tears that wouldn't come—tears for herself, for her parents, and for the river of betrayal that separated them.

Since stealing the credit card, her first morally questionable act, her idea of growing up had taken on a new meaning—not the reckless fun of unsupervised independence, but quite the opposite—a crushing responsibility for every choice she would ever make. Was this what it really meant to get older?

Every step in her soaked pants felt leaden as she crossed the final block to Dr. Carlyle's clinic, to answers. She squinted at the slick asphalt of Fifth Avenue, which glowed red in the taillights of passing cars. Maybe she was searching for a neatness that didn't exist, but she was counting on one explanation to tie everything together, from her size, to her seizures, to her inability to fit in.
There can be a simple answer to a complicated problem,
she reassured herself.
Newton proved that three times over.

As she walked up to the clinic's door, the sound of the rain drowned out the world, leaving her worst fear the loudest noise.
What if there is a simple answer—but it's a death sentence?
The door stood inches away, gray as the sky. A gold plaque next to it read: Ray Carlyle, MD.

She froze.
This is happening,
she thought.

It wasn't too late to turn back, go home and admit her mistake, and work tirelessly to pay back every penny. She could return to Northeastern next semester and get on with her life, without ever learning the results of the tests. Ignorance, bliss. Throw in some drinking and drugs to dull her unease, and she might almost feel like everyone else. It would be so much easier than hearing Dr. Carlyle speak words like
survival rate
or
terminal
.

Her head throbbed at the base of her skull as she considered which choice would be the true evasion. She looked back at the road, at the cars splashing by, and beyond the trees, at the glistening path home.

A vibration near her elbow startled her: the appointment reminder on her cell phone. It was 9:00
A.M.

If there's a job to be done, just do it.

She pushed open the door and walked inside.

Washington, D.C.
Monday, June 10, 9:00
A.M.

L
es Mahler hated coming to the southeast quadrant of D.C. The vacant-eyed homeless roaming the neighborhood for food and drugs, the shabby apartments with half-broken shutters, the litter strewn over the streets like dirty confetti—all reminded him too well his own humble origins, the Bronx. With his dual doctorates in biology and philosophy and his prestigious title—chief of the Justice Department's Bioethics Committee—he wondered if his colleagues would ever believe that he once belonged to a place just like this. That for years he was a terrified blue-collar kid whose daily concern was to hide from the gang that ruled the streets.

He walked faster, sweating in the warm morning air, as if to distance himself from the ugly recollection.
Focus.
The official investigation into Helen McNair's disappearance had yielded no clues so far, and he was getting impatient. The police had been treating it like a missing persons case until a few days ago, when Les opened his official mail at the D.C. headquarters to find a notorious postcard: on one side was a picture of the Earth revolving around the sun, and on the other, Helen's name in black ink and the signature
Galileo
, the leader's brazen moniker for himself. These postcards were how the enigmatic organization known as the Network always claimed responsibility after an innocent person vanished into their secret ring. Allegedly the Network exploited their victims to carry out illegal science experiments, far from the prying eyes of any government oversight; the postcards appeared to be a way to mock the impotency of Les's committee, which was responsible for overseeing human experimentation nationwide. Its open investigations were highly confidential. The public had no knowledge of the Network or Galileo, and Les planned to keep it that way until after the whole gang was found and dismantled. But so far it had proved impossible to track down a group whose only appearances came through a string of disappearances. It was like trying to locate a black hole: you knew it existed, but only because of what it sucked away.

Helen McNair marked the twenty-seventh person—all scientists, doctors, or very sick patients—who had vanished. None of the victims had ever been found, except for one who disrupted the pattern: Dr. Eliot Shipley, a researcher found mauled to death in his lab by his own chimpanzees. His death was glossed over in the press as a tragic accident. He had died alone, there were no fingerprints anywhere on his shredded body, and only a harmless amount of alprazolam had been detected upon autopsy, but the committee knew not to be fooled when the heart-sinking postcard arrived a few days after his death.

Les knew that some of his staff were troubled that Dr. Shipley's body had been left behind, whereas all the other victims had disappeared. It appeared oddly messy and random in the context of Galileo's carefully orchestrated world, but then again, as Les reminded them, who could expect consistency from a maniac?

The investigation into Shipley's death was futile. Helen's disappearance on top of it was the tipping point that galvanized Les to start cutting corners. The proper system was slow and inefficient—search warrants, subpoenas, paperwork. If Les had learned anything during his years of government servitude, it was that taking matters into his own hands was the only way to get a job done fast.

A familiar housing project came into view one block away—a graffiti-covered brick building five stories tall. Three lanky teenage boys were slouched in front of it, the pungent scent of marijuana emanating from their lit joints. As he passed by, Les felt their eyes on his expensive suit. His grip tightened on his tan leather briefcase—not in fear, but alertness. No one could intimidate him anymore, least of all a couple of punks. Walking by, he met their menacing stares with a cold smile. It amused him to think of how ordinary his briefcase must appear to them. He maintained eye contact until they looked away, and then walked unchallenged into the building, whose door was propped open. Inside the deserted foyer, an emaciated cat mewed, brushing up against his ankles. Even through his pant legs, he could feel the sharp ridges of its ribs. Inside his pocket was half of a bagel and lox, wrapped tightly in deli paper—his breakfast still waiting to be eaten. He tore off the paper, inhaling the smoky salmon scent, and placed it on the floor. Then he quickly climbed the stairs two flights, marched to the last door on the left, and knocked twice.

“ 'S open,” came a voice.

A wave of disgust hit him as he stepped inside the studio apartment. Rotting food, empty Coke cans, and cigarette butts lay on the floor in front of a faded cloth couch, where an obese, bearded man was lounging with a laptop. He wore torn sweatpants and no shirt; his hairy chest glowed as white as his screen. He turned to face Les a beat late, as if he had been deep in concentration, and blinked a few times. His mouth opened, exposing two rows of yellow teeth, but no sound came out.

Les closed the door and leaned against it with a smile. “Miss me, Cylon?”

“What—what are you doing here?” The man's spine flattened against the couch as if to back away. Though his real name was John Westfield, he was known online as Cylon, his computer hacker alter ego. Busting him was a fond memory from Les's days in the FBI's Science and Technology unit. At the time, it had been one of the biggest stings of his career, allowing the FBI to recover thousands of Social Security numbers Cylon had stolen from ultrasecure bank websites. The crime had cost him more than three years of hard time. Les knew he had practically nothing left of his wealth or reputation.

“What did I do?” he demanded, putting his hands up. “I just saw my probation officer yesterday.”

Les ambled to the couch, wading through the trash, and perched on the armrest opposite him. “Nothing, I just wanted to talk to you in person.”

“How did you know I would be here?”

“You never leave this shithole.”

He shrugged. “Not much, I guess.”

“Looks like you're having a tough time getting back on your feet.”

“I can too.” He swung one leg toward the floor.

“Not literally,” Les soothed. “I mean, life after jail is never easy, but especially now. Who's going to hire an ex-con? Even if you cleaned yourself up, your record is the kiss of death.”

Cylon squirmed. The MacBook Pro on his knees rocked like a drunken boat. “You came here to tell me what I already know?” It was as close as he had ever come to confrontation, and still he couldn't look Les in the eye, or anyone for that matter.

“No, I came here to help you. I work directly under the President now. I closed a big case for him recently and he owes me one. He told me so himself.”

“Okay . . .”

“So here's the deal. I need you to do me a favor, and in return, I'll ask him to pardon your felony.”

Cylon gasped. “You would do that?”

Les smiled at his gullibility. “It's a pretty big favor.”

“I'll do it.”

“Let's see if you can. I need you to hack into Columbia University's servers and get me the e-mail account of an ex-professor named Helen McNair. She was kidnapped by a dangerous gang. But privacy laws are slowing down the release of her account, which could contain crucial clues. We need it ASAP if we want to find her alive.”

Cylon's pupils dilated as he assessed the challenge. His mind seemed to be whirring like a hard drive.

“Well? Can you do it?”

He looked down, his voice a whimper. “I don't want to go back to jail.”

“You won't,” Les assured him. “Remember, I've got all the connections you need. You're safe working for me.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Les tried to look him in the eye, but it was like trying to connect two same-side magnets.

“I dunno.”

Les sighed. He would have to sacrifice the briefcase after all.

“As a bonus to get you started, I brought you this.” He unhooked the two gold clasps on the case and flipped it open to reveal a row of tight green wads. “Two thousand bucks cash. Off the books.”

Cylon stared at the crisp bills. His lower lip trembled. “I dunno,” he repeated.

“What don't you know?”

“I'm s'posed to be done hacking.”

Les snapped the briefcase shut and stood up with a regretful smile. “Okay, but I don't think your probation officer will be very happy to hear that you're hiding drugs.”

“What! I am not!”

“Does it matter?”

Cylon's eyes closed. “Fine. When will you talk to the President?”

“As soon as it's done. I'll make it my top priority.”

“How d'you know he'll pardon me?”

“I'm positive. Now, when you have the info, copy it onto this blank drive and then call me with this phone.” Les handed him a thumb drive and a disposable cell. “I'll come pick it up. You don't even need to leave.” He turned to go, briefcase in hand.

“Wait, what about the money?”

“Oh, of course.” Les opened it and shook it out, watching Cylon's rapt face as the wads rolled to his feet. The earthy scent of paper money filled the room. “And remember what I said about time?”

“Uh-huh,” Cylon grunted, still transfixed by the cash.

“You have twenty-four hours.”

He snapped to attention. “But what if—”

“You don't want to find out.”

 

New York City
9:00
A.M.

 

Zoe's heart flapped like a panicked bird as the door to Dr. Carlyle's office shut behind her. A dissonant chime jingled.
I am here,
she thought.
I am really doing this.

In the waiting room, rows of black plastic chairs were stationed like sentries on either side of a center aisle. At its far end a receptionist waited behind a tall wooden desk. About a dozen people were scattered throughout the room, paging through worn-out magazines or plugged into headphones.

Zoe ventured a few steps down the aisle as if she were walking a plank, but her steely mouth and defiant chin concealed the struggle behind each step. No one watching her would have guessed the extent of her terror. At the front desk, she stood on her tiptoes and smiled up at the bored young woman on the stool, who looked to be about her own age. Probably a college student killing time for the summer, doing what Zoe ought to be doing—making money, not just spending it.

“Hi.” She hated the way her voice came out—small and questioning like a child's. She cleared her throat. “I'm here for a nine a.m. with Dr. Carlyle.”

“Your name?” the girl asked, barely glancing away from her computer screen.

“Zoe Kincaid.”

The girl typed a few words, paused, and then looked Zoe full in the face. The corners of her mouth twitched down, though it was hard to read her expression. Was it pity? Fear?

“What's wrong?” Zoe asked.

The girl's face smoothed into a professional smile. “Dr. Carlyle will be right with you, sweetie. Come this way.” She walked around to the front of the desk, towering in her heels above Zoe, and extended a hand out to her.

“It's okay, I'm not a kid,” she said wearily. “I'm probably older than you are.”

The girl drew back her hand with a frown, looking her up and down. Zoe could only shrug.

They walked down an antiseptic hallway to a tiny room, where she soon found herself alone under the glare of fluorescent tube lights. She climbed onto the examining table and kicked her heels against the strip of translucent paper stretched across it.

She had lied to the receptionist out of grown-up duty, but to herself she could admit the truth—she did want a hand to hold. As the doctor's knock loomed, all she could focus on was the emptiness of the chair in the corner. Its white plastic sheen radiated loneliness like heat. She closed her eyes and pictured Gramps sitting there, inevitably distracting her with an off-color joke—
Maybe he'll help you fill out. Better late than never, right?
She looked around the room at its starchy white walls and desk covered by an array of plastic gloves, tubes, cotton balls, and the harsh orange soap that carried an aroma of despair. The one photograph on the wall showed a sepia image of Half Dome, the gigantic rock at Yosemite. Zoe was reminded of her favorite ride at Disneyland, Indiana Jones, where in its climactic finale, the car lurches toward an oncoming massive boulder. Trapped inside a cave with no apparent exit, all seems lost—and even on second and third rides, this hopelessness had overcome her—when at the last moment, the bottom of the cave drops out to reveal the road to safety.

Stuck inside this room now, with no apparent trapdoor in the ground, Zoe knew that this time, she really was about to be steamrolled. Was it too late to slip out unnoticed? To cling to the safe notion that she was simply an obsessive hypochondriac? Rather than gravely ill, perhaps fatally—

A loud rap on the door startled her. She stiffened, bracing for Dr. Carlyle's face. His expression would tell her everything. The door pushed open and he walked in, carrying a hefty file under his arm. Reserved, serious, he briefly made eye contact and nodded hello. His lips formed a curt smile, without showing teeth. The permanent wrinkle between his gray eyes looked deeper than ever. This was all wrong. She waited—hope dropping off by the second—for his cheerful welcome or buoyant handshake, but his earlier confidence that had so reassured her was gone. He turned around to face his computer and spoke with his back to her.

“Zoe, how are you?”

In her mind, fire engines blared a five-alarm emergency through every neuron.
I'm dying. It's over.
She wondered if she could find her voice, but then reminded herself that she had chosen this route.
Reality
. After so many years in hiding, she was going to claim it.