Not to mention, Finn now knew Kristian had at least one other host species in his lab. He thought of the vials buried in his pack. As soon as he’d distanced himself from the lighthouse, he should have destroyed those ticks. It seemed farfetched that Ulrich could have brought the disease to America. Then again, Finn’s recent reeducation in the seemingly unthinkable made it difficult to dismiss it as coincidence. “You’re saying my mom deserves to be miserable?”
“No; I like Sylvia. She kept your dad in line. And while I feel bad that Petra died, I can’t help but think that Kristian turned out better because of Sylvia.”
She threw open the door, and bright light flooded the vestibule.
“I love it up here,” Cora declared. “If I could be anyone in the world, it would be Amelia Earhart.” She scrunched her face. “Before she vanished.”
“Have you heard of Nikumaroro?” he asked, shielding his eyes.
She shrugged as she stepped outside, and Finn guessed that she felt insecure about how little she knew about the world today.
“It’s a remote island in the South Pacific. They’ve found evidence that Earhart was marooned there. Apparently, she wasn’t as good at survival as you.”
Stifling a smile, Cora signaled for him to join her.
He exited the stairwell, and a strange sensation washed over him. For the first time while on North Brother Island, the surroundings felt familiar. He was standing in a rooftop garden similar to the co-op Lily participated in above the corner supermarket.
Lily would never see this firsthand, but he could describe it to her. Better yet, he decided, committing the scene to memory, he would draw it.
Despite the suit, he could almost smell the nearby tomato plants, their leaves rippling in the breeze. “You were right: this is far more precious than your story collection.” His stomach growled. “Or any pile of gold.”
“Who says I haven’t come across one of those as well?”
Finn raised his eyebrows. As a kid, he’d dreamed of becoming a shipwreck archaeologist.
She didn’t elaborate, either by design or because the hood had blocked his reaction.
“It’s beautiful.”
“I know.”
He chuckled and set down his pack. “No modesty, I see.”
“Why would there be? I’ve worked hard.”
“I can tell.”
“What I don’t eat fresh, I store in root cellars.”
“So that’s how you survive winter.”
“It’s how I survive. Period. God, the earth, and my plants; they’re my only solace.”
She sounded like Lily, Finn realized. That’s what Cora needed: a girlfriend, and Lily would be perfect.
“I’m sorry you’ve had it so rough.”
Cora stroked a corn stalk leaf. “The original seeds came from Ulrich. Want to guess how he gave them to me?”
Finn didn’t but felt obligated to hear it. “How?”
“By that point I was too wrecked to walk, so one night he came to my isolation cell in his Nazi hazmat suit—the same one you saw me wearing—and hauled me out behind this building. He dropped me and shoved my face into the mud with his boot. ‘You’ve got two weeks to get well,’ he said, tossing a bag of seed packets out of my reach. With no covering to shield my germs, and thus nowhere I could go, I spent the rest of that night in the muck, wearing only a shift.”
If Ulrich were still alive, Finn would kill him himself.
The fact that she’d tolerated Finn this long was nothing short of a miracle. “Why did you bring me here? Aren’t you worried I’ll tell Rollie or Kristian?”
“You won’t.”
Because I harmed my own brother so that you could escape. Rollie had been right: Finn’s act of defiance had put him closer to Cora than any Gettler had been since Otto had first become her doctor. “How do you know?” he asked to test the theory. She strolled over to a strawberry patch and bent to pick a few. “A, you’re not yet obsessed with this project. B, your dad didn’t bring you through the tunnel, which means he doesn’t trust you. That’s a positive in my book. And C,” she raised her eyebrows as she bit into a berry, “this place is booby-trapped.”
Finn froze, ramrod straight.
She wiped the juice from her lips with the back of her hand. “Don’t worry: as long as you step only where I do, you’ll be fine.”
“Sounds simple enough,” he said, trying not to imagine a volley of arrows spraying his chest. Or what it would be like to kiss those lips. “Do you want help?” “Why else would I bring you here?” She tossed him a cracked bucket and put on a straw hat and gardening gloves.
“It’s noon,” Cora said, studying the ground. “Time to eat. Then rest.”
The heat within Finn’s suit was insufferable, and he was thirsty and hungry, yet he didn’t want to look weak. “Since I can’t take this gear off, I’ll keep working while you eat.”
“We should rest in one of the classrooms for an hour so you don’t faint,” she said, arching her eyebrows.
Given that might happen if they kept working, Finn had no comeback. He grabbed his pack and followed her to an empty second-floor room, where she rolled out a shabby quilt.
From the doorway, he eyed the rubbish scattered across the tiled floor. The safest way for him to rest would be with his feet jutting into the hall so she couldn’t lock him in if he did drift off. To avoid puncturing his suit, he would need to sweep a space clear.
Crouched beside her blanket, Cora smoothed out a wrinkle. “This is an awkward question,” she looked away, “but would you mind lying next to me?”
He took a step back, knocking his elbow on the door frame, and an electric jolt surged up his arm. Grimacing, he clutched his funny bone to avoid answering.
“It was a dumb idea.” She examined her glove. “Forget it.”
“No, I . . . it surprised me, that’s all,” Finn said, searching her expression for any indication that this was a ploy to get him fully into the room.
“I didn’t mean it inappropriately. It’s just that a person needs other humans to feel fully human herself.” She stood up and moved to the window.
“I’m a cold monster, too selfish to save your mom, and humankind,” she said, staring out the broken window, the caramel streaks in her hair glowing with sunlight.
“No. You’re a good person, who’d been put through hell. That’s not your fault.”
“Yeah. Right.” She touched the inner corners of her eyes, and Finn noticed a small scar on the outer edge of each eyelid, mirrored by another below each eyebrow. He couldn’t imagine what heinous act had left those marks.
“You get why I can’t help, don’t you?”
“Absolutely.”
Her finger traced Manhattan’s skyline. “I know I’ve told you this is my island, but it’s not true.” She jabbed her hand through the opening. “That is my island. I want to go home, once I’ve fulfilled my purpose here. But every disease you Gettlers add to my blood is another shackle.”
Even if she offered to inject the bacteria, Finn couldn’t let her do it. Sylvia would feel the same way. But an assisted death? That couldn’t be the alternative. If she hung on until Lily had agreed to marry him, then what?
“I get it.” Finn pulled the syringe from his bag, snapped the needle against an exposed pipe, and returned the pieces to the case. “Let’s be human together.” He straightened the quilt.
She smiled, though it didn’t reach her eyes, and dropped down beside him.
With a narrow divide between them, Finn settled onto his back. Self-conscious of his hands at his sides, he folded them over his stomach, which also felt clumsy. He reached over and clasped her hand.
She squeaked in surprise, and he realized how novel this must feel to her.
“You sure this is okay?” she whispered.
No,
he thought, this is far from okay. “More than sure. Now shhh. Go to sleep.” He knew she wouldn’t. But neither would he.
To stay awake, he began rattling off in his head the names of the US presidents.
He was feeling woozy, like he’d just popped a pain pill. The heat within his suit made it impossible to keep his muscles tense, and his mouth was parched.
Monroe.
Her breathing slowed and became almost a sighing sound, its rhythm lulling.
Adams.
His eyes drifted closed.
Finn reached for Lily’s backside, and his hand landed on a worn, patchwork quilt. He bolted upright.
Near the door, Cora sat, the contents of his pack spread around her.
He scrambled to his knees. “What are you doing?”
“You said you brought this stuff for me.” She popped the last slice of an orange into her mouth and wiped her hand on her pants. “I don’t know what it is about vitamin C. I’ve never been able to get enough. This book is excellent, by the way. Thank you.”
Twilight lay open on the floor. She had to be twenty-five pages in.
Fending off a wave of dizziness, Finn blinked hard. “I thought you were asleep.”
“I was, just not as long as you.”
The ticks! Encumbered by the suit, he scrambled to retrieve his now-empty bag.
“Looking for these?” She held up the two vials.
He swore under his breath.
“I assume this one’s chloroform.” Cora raised the tube ringed with red tape. “Your family always has been infatuated with this chemical.” She flicked the other, marked with orange. “These are deer ticks.”
“They’re not mine.”
“I’m not an idiot; obviously they’re from Rollie. But now they’re mine.”
“You should destroy them, like I was planning to.” “That would be foolish. Like every other resource I come across—including you—I’ll have to evaluate their best use.” She tucked the vials into her messenger bag, and he swore under his breath.
By allowing her to get her hands on those tubes, he’d just reached a whole new level of familial betrayal.
Refusing to let her keep them, he reached for the edge of the duct tape that held the scalpel in place.
“Whatcha got there?” She leaned toward him.
He peeled back the tape and raised the instrument so she could see it.
“That’s mine!”
“It was yours, before you chained me to a roof! And pocketed my phone and Swiss Army knife.”
“The phone doesn’t work anymore. And what can I say? I like knives.” She eyed the scalpel in his grip. “If you think you can kill me with that, go ahead and try.”
Finn shook his head. “How about a trade?”
Staring at it wistfully, she rocked on her heels, then looked at the vials and back to the scalpel.
He studied the cross on its ivory handle. “You said it’s got special meaning.” “How’s this for a trade?” She patted the pouch on her hip. “Give it to me, and I’ll let you live.”
“Sure, if you throw in those two vials.”
“No deal.”
“Then it can’t be that special to you,” he said, positioning the scalpel against the pipe he’d used to break the syringe.
“Then you must not value your life.”
Hoping she wouldn’t call his bluff, he grinned. “You won’t kill me. Not after I tranquilized my brother for you.”
“You’re right; not today. But just like the dead”—she slipped the vials into her bag—“I have no need for sentiment.”
So much for trust being a two-way street, Finn thought and reattached the scalpel to his glove. “I’m done here,” he said, looping his arm through the strap of his pack.
“For today. I don’t blame you. When you do return, though, along with the textbooks, bring me the next in this”—she inspected the cover—“Twilight Saga. Please. And the latest edition of the New York Times.”
“If you’re so hell-bent on revenge, why should I return?” He moved to the doorway.
“Because.” She picked up the book to continue reading it. “You’re the kind of cat who likes a challenge.”
“These days we’re just called ‘guys.’”
“Fine. The meaning doesn’t change.”
Finn stalked down the hall, hating that she was right.
1964–1965
January 1964
ora pulled the hood of her parka tightly around her face, as much to shield her from Ulrich’s view as to ward off the frigid air. The snowflakes clinging to the crate were only a precursor to the blizzard that he’d claimed would arrive by dusk. From the morgue roof, she’d overheard him instructing the owner of the fishing trawler to return at three o’clock. His time constraint did little to settle her: Ulrich could accomplish plenty in nine hours, and based on the contents of this latest bimonthly installment of provisions, he had something special planned.
“You’ve dithered long enough,” he scolded from behind her as she crouched before the row of crates.
The shadows of the physical plant’s machinery shifted, and Cora knew he’d raised his lantern to strike her.
To keep him from seeing the fear on her face, she didn’t look up. Still, she could sense his hulking form, enlarged by the winter weather gear layered over his hazmat suit and mask.
Everything she’d requested appeared to be here: canned food; a jar of lard, which she would use for cooking over a small open fire on moonless nights; candles and matches; wool socks; toiletries; vitamins; and gasoline for the portable generator that powered her space heater on the coldest days. In November he’d surprised her with it, and she’d grudgingly thanked him—only because not doing so might cause him to take it back.
The complete fulfillment of her latest list wasn’t what had her worried. Rather, it was the extras he’d included. The goose down comforter, winter boots, fresh fruit, and parcel of beef couldn’t have come from the goodness of his heart.
A click sounded, signaling he’d shut the padlock that secured his dolly to a pipe in the boiler room. After his first delivery, he’d left it untethered, and she’d used it to blockade all the first-floor windows of the tuberculosis pavilion with furniture.
They’d both been learning from their mistakes. Once he left today, she would move these provisions to hiding places dispersed across the campus. Last July, not only had he emptied her second cache in the lighthouse, which had included her scalpels, but he’d also trampled her vegetable patch. Thank God he hadn’t recognized the resilience of the plants or the seeds hidden within their fruits. This spring, using a rusty trawl left behind in the supply shed and an old bucket to carry up the dirt, she would create a secret garden on the roof of the service building.
The tapping of his boot on the concrete warned her to finish her inventorying.
“I didn’t ask for this stuff”—she lifted a fur-lined mitten—“so I don’t owe you for it.” The lantern’s glow brightened, and she flinched in anticipation of a crack to her skull.
“Your comfort is my utmost concern,” he said, his mask not softening his voice nearly enough.
Ulrich never used sarcasm. She rounded her shoulders inward and remained in her crouched stance. Since Riverside had been abandoned the previous summer, he hadn’t experimented on her once. And now this: genuine interest in her well-being. She didn’t understand the behavior change. And she didn’t like it.
“I do appreciate your thoughtfulness,” she said because he expected it.
“I trust I’ve been including enough feminine hygiene products?”
“Yes,” she mumbled.
He brought the lamp closer to her face. “Your last menses: it began . . . ?”
Wishing she had Eleanor’s strength, she pictured the calendar he’d given her for
just this purpose. “The thirtieth, of December.”
Through her jacket hood, she could hear the scratching of a pencil as he recorded the date in his journal.
“Sehr gut.” He snapped shut the book and picked up his doctor’s kit. “Daybreak’s almost here, and the river traffic will be heavy this morning before the storm. Get up.”
She slid on the new mittens and followed him outside.
Instead of crossing the street to his laboratory in the morgue, he turned east.
“Where are we going?”
“The male dormitory.”
The toe of her boot caught on the pavement, and she almost fell. The last time she’d entered that building had been three weeks ago, and then only to get a few books from the first-floor library. For all she knew, he’d recently sneaked onto the island and installed a new laboratory there, which to her would be just another torture chamber.
Ulrich had kept walking, still unhindered at sixty-two by his uneven gait. She sped up to reestablish her standard trailing distance.
As she followed, she fantasized about smashing a rock against his skull. Despite the ease with which she could hurt him, he never seemed concerned with having her at his back. Because he knew that without him, she couldn’t survive. Yet.
Third, I will kill him, she thought with even greater conviction than the first time she’d made that vow.
She rounded the corner of the physical plant, and the male dormitory came into view. One of the original Riverside structures, it had witnessed more than its share of misery. She scooped up a pebble and tossed it into the nearby cistern, one of the many pointless routines that now filled her long days.
He would take pleasure in any agitation she showed, so she refrained from asking for details. During their last session, after collecting the standard vials of blood, he’d probed her about her family tree. How long had her relatives lived and had they been healthy? Who’d had blue eyes, a widow’s peak, fair skin, and brown hair, like her? How had her sister differed from her, and what did Cora know of Maeve’s father? Absolutely nothing—the same as with her own.
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