He hadn't even thought about things like that. He hadn't needed to. As soon as he stepped through the door, a wall of noise hit him – hissing coffee machines, clattering plates, and loud conversations. Zoe pointed to a table.
"Take a seat," she said. "I'll get the drinks."
At least Ian was ready for that. "Nothing for me, thanks."
While he waited, he checked around him. It was as much out of disorientation as caution, because there were a lot of mirrors on the walls and the place was busier than he'd expected, much more daunting than being in the street. He was worried that he'd reach a point where he'd have to turn and run. But he sat down, took out the envelope, and slid it from its wrapper onto the table.
There: he'd done it. It was an irrevocable step into a situation that he wasn't sure he could handle.
Zoe came back with a frothing cup in one hand. "Is that it?" she asked, moving the envelope to put down her coffee. "Can I take a look now?"
It was his last chance to change his mind. He didn't. He couldn't stay in this limbo forever.
"Yes," he said.
Zoe opened the envelope. Ian watched the expression on her face while she read the two typed pages for an agonizingly long couple of minutes. Her frown grew and deepened. Judging by her eye movement, she was re-reading everything. Eventually she stopped and looked at him over the top of the sheet.
"I don't suppose I can ask where you got this."
Ian dodged the question because he couldn't think of a safe answer yet. "Do you understand it?"
"I think so. It's pretty vague in places, but it's very specific about the company, isn't it? You know what's in it, do you?"
He nodded. "Yes."
"Are you the subject?"
She waited for him to answer, but he didn't. He couldn't.
"It's you, isn't it?" she said. She didn't smirk or shake her head. She was taking it seriously, believing it all. "Look, I need to know what you want me to do with this. I mean, it's a hell of a story, and just the kind of issue we want to cover in The Slide. And it predates the Chinese claim to the first human-animal hybrid embryo. I'd really like to know who wants it out there and why."
Ian could have told her without giving away enough detail for anyone to find him if she let something slip. But his gut told him not to. There was nothing about her that made him uneasy; he was just losing his nerve. He had no more control over where this would lead than he did over anything else.
But it was too late to roll things back and sit on the secret. He didn't have to mention Gran, though. Zoe might well have known about the ranch. It felt like one risk too many.
"It's insurance," he said, quoting Gran. "Does it look genuine to you?"
"You wouldn't believe the stuff that government agencies get up to." Zoe dropped her voice. She'd been talking very quietly, almost drowned out by the hissing of the espresso machine and the chatter around them, but now Ian had to strain to hear her. "Just tell me. Is it you? Is somebody after you? This must be worth a fortune to someone, so I'm guessing that you're running scared."
Ian wasn't ready for that. He should have done this on the phone after all. And now he was starting to feel breathless. He should have known that the stress of the trip might make him morph. He was terrified of changing in front of her.
And everyone else.
He couldn't sit here any longer, but he couldn't stand up and run out the door, either.
"Okay, you're giving me this," Zoe said. "So I'll take that to mean you want it investigated. Reported. Public. If not, you better say so now."
She still didn't ask his name. He could see the sign to the rest rooms on the wall by the stairs. He just needed to walk away for a moment to get himself under control, then think this through. He needed a breather. He'd say something he'd regret. He'd blurt something out.
"I've got to visit the bathroom." Ian jerked his thumb over his shoulder and picked up his backpack. "Excuse me."
He had to weave his way around tables and customers. He still expected everyone to stare and point at him, but he was so ordinary to them, so unimportant, so invisible that he had to squeeze past. He trotted up the stairs and shut himself in the men's toilet, a small room with two cubicles and a wide mirror over the basin. He checked his reflection to make sure nothing had changed and locked the door.
Shit, this was crazy. Zoe believed him. She hadn't laughed or dismissed it. He had just minutes to sort himself out before he went back downstairs, and then he'd have to tell her more detail. Was it safe to identify Gran and admit what he was? Even if Zoe protected her sources, she'd still know where he lived, and things could go wrong. Gran always said there was no such thing as a secret.
But Gran said I could trust this woman.
Ian couldn't stall any longer. He held his breath for a moment. Okay, he'd go back and tell her about Gran. They must have known each other well enough. But as he slid the lock, he could feel pressure building in his sinuses and that wind-burned feeling creeping across his face. By the time he opened the door, he knew what he was going to see in the mirror. Whatever it was, it wouldn't be the same face he came in with.
Shit. I should have known it would happen.
His hair was darker and his features were broader. This time he looked so different that he couldn't go back and sit down in front of Zoe again. This wasn't the marginal kind of change that just made the sheriff think he needed new glasses. Even if Zoe didn't freak out, Ian wouldn't be able to look her in the eye. All he wanted to do was go home, lock the door, and hide. But he had to walk through that cafe and past her to do that.
Maybe he could show her. He might not have to say a word. She'd be the first stranger to know, but he just couldn't predict how she'd react, and they'd have an audience.
Ian realised he didn't count Kinnery as a stranger.
Why didn't you call back, you bastard?
Some guy walked into the bathroom. Ian didn't look around. He just caught the reflection as the man edged past him into a cubicle. Then an idea hit him: if he looked that different, he could use it to walk out.
He took off his jacket and cap and shoved them into the rucksack. It looked different when it was fully packed. Then he took off his T-shirt, turned it inside out so that the striped pattern didn't show, and put it back on.
Just walk out. Just walk down those stairs and keep going.
Run. Run, just like Gran said.
Ian was ashamed of himself for retreating, but he'd tried to do too much too soon. As he left the bathroom, he almost ran into customers coming the other way. The place was really busy now. That would be his salvation. He picked his way between the tables and people standing at the counter, took a careful look in Zoe's direction, and noted that she was re-reading the letter. She kept glancing in the direction of the stairs.
If she'd seen him at all, she hadn't recognised him.
He walked straight out of the cafe and down Pike Street. She didn't come running after him. Even if the CCTV cameras picked him up as he headed for the bus station, they wouldn't identify him as the same guy.
For a moment, Ian felt on top of the world. It was like being the Invisible Man. Whatever else this experiment had condemned him to, he could always hide. But the elation faded fast. It was a useless defence mechanism if he couldn't control it.
He had to go hide for real, the way normal people did. And he had to find another way of getting home from the bus station in Athel Ridge. He couldn't call Joe for a ride now. Joe would notice the changes. It was going to be a long, long walk.
He had to come up with a better plan than this if he was going to survive in the world of normal, unchanging people.
EN ROUTE FROM VANCOUVER INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
JULY.
Was this it? Was he dying, here and now, in a goddamn taxi, in a traffic jam?
Charles Kinnery gripped his briefcase until his knuckles turned white and waited for the pain to pass or finish him off. It was deep and sharp, a knife from sternum to spi
ne that almost stopped him breathing. He was suddenly terrified, not of death itself, but of the paperwork he hadn't destroyed and the possible indignity of being found dead having crapped his pants.
He was a biologist, for Chrissakes. He should have known whether a fatal heart attack caused loss of bowel control. Did it? Did it?
The chest pain lasted an agonizing fifteen seconds, but he was still breathing. Reflux. Might just be reflux again. He'd call his doctor next week and get it checked out. He was more worried these days about what he might leave behind, the unresolved mess of his existence.
His phone chimed with a new e-mail. He flicked his thumb across the icon to clear the notification, but one word from the header jumped out at him, a word that almost put him into cardiac arrest for real: RINGER. The world around him vanished and all he could see was that single word.
Project Ringer. God Almighty, where the hell did that come from?
The corpse had drifted to the surface after all those silent, dark years weighted down at the bottom of the lake. Why did he ever think it wouldn't?
His stomach crawled halfway up his throat. The only people who knew the project's name were those who'd worked on it, and they were well drilled not to use it in headers. They were gone, too, long dispersed to other companies, retired, or dead. The driver couldn't possibly see what he was reading, but Kinnery found himself shielding the phone's screen with his hand like a schoolboy trying to hide his exam answers.
His eyes darted wildly over the text. The message had come from something called The Slide. It took him a few moments of mouth-drying panic to decide whether to take a deep breath and read it or break off to check what The Slide was. He settled on the message.
'I understand you led a genetics research program called RINGER, funded by the US government. I've received some documents that I'd like to discuss with you. You might prefer to call me on the number below. Zoe Murray, Staff Writer, The Slide.'
It was as bad as it got. "Ah, shit."
Kinnery glanced up, worried that the driver had heard him, but the man was still looking straight ahead as the cab exited the bridge. Whatever documents this woman had seen, she knew the project's name and the source of funding. Kinnery didn't dare phone her. It would be a fishing expedition. A skilled interviewer could work out as much from his silences as from what he said. So what the hell was this document?
No – what was The Slide?
Kinnery tapped the link in the signature and was almost relieved to see the home page. It was one of those whistle-blowing conspiracy sites frequented by aging stoners and teens who fancied themselves as anarchists, full of crackpot stories about what the government was really putting in the water supply and why your every phone call was recorded on a giant computer. Damn, that was a bad example. Okay, they got it right sometimes. The rest was bullshit, though.
Ringer. What else has this woman got?
He'd have to warn Maggie right away. Fringe site or not, they'd managed to acquire information that not only named Ringer but identified him as project leader.
That was a heart-stopper. It was bitter-sweet, too, because he'd never been able to stand up and tell the media that the Chinese lab hadn't been the first.
We beat them by years. No, I beat them by years. And not with goddamn rabbits.
Maybe this Murray woman had seen a redacted budget report that shouldn't have been let out of the filing cabinet. That might have had only his name and the project ID on it. Genetic research – well, it wouldn't take Einstein to look up the name Charles Kinnery and work out that the program wasn't about better ways to reinforce concrete.
Nothing really major, then. Nothing at all. Because even my team didn't know everything, did they?.
Kinnery told himself optimistic lies and tried to work out which of the team might have been sufficiently disgruntled to dredge this up after so many years. But dredge up what, exactly? All his immediate team knew about was the creation of transgenic embryos that were destroyed in days. It was borderline legal at the time, depending on which lawyer gave an opinion, and proper legislation was years away. But it was classified, and, officially, it had never happened.
Creating a full-term human-animal hybrid was way beyond any grey area, though. And it was certainly illegal now.
A change of labels, a discreet amendment of records, and the rest of his team were none the wiser. If The Slide had acquired files from the project, it would be damaging but possibly survivable. KWA had no records that even hinted at Ian's existence.
Kinnery reassured himself that it wasn't as professionally humiliating as research into walking through walls or espionage by psychic map reading. Even if the legality was questioned – how would that happen with a classified military project, anyway? – it would make him eminently employable in Britain and some other parts of Europe.
Not here, though.
If Zoe Murray had identified him, then she'd probably called his old business partner at KWA as well. Shaun Weaver was a devious and patient bastard. Why hadn't he rung yet? Perhaps he was waiting for Kinnery to show his hand.
Perhaps he knows what I did. Did he know all along?
"Here you are, sir. The taxi driver slowed to a crawl. "Which number?"
"Ah, two blocks ahead, please."
I go away for a week or so, and the world caves in. Why? Why now?
Kinnery unlocked his front door and went straight into the study to boot up his computer. A red light was flashing on his desk, the voicemail counter on an old landline phone that had rung only a dozen times in the last five years, telling him that he had messages. The call forwarding to his cell phone hadn't worked. Maybe he'd forgotten to set it. Damn: he’d deal with that later. But he already knew who'd called. There was only one person who had the number.
It would be Maggie Dunlop.
Kinnery plucked up courage to press the play button. If she'd called, it was because she absolutely had to, but if this had something to do with The Slide it didn't bear thinking about. Nobody should have known she was there. Nobody knew that she had Ian. Nobody knew Ian existed.
"Jesus, Maggie," he said aloud. "Don't be mad at me."
He hit the play button. "You have ... three ... messages," it said. "Message one, Monday, one-thirty-two, a.m." Damn, she'd be spitting nails. He heard a few clicks and the sound of someone breathing before putting down the receiver. The second message threw him completely, though. At first he didn't recognise the voice that followed the robotic time-check. "Monday, ten-fifteen, a.m. Mr Kinnery ... this is Ian. Call me back." Then the third message – terse, upset, urgent – tipped him into another heart-pounding moment of panic. "Wednesday, eleven-thirty-five a.m. It's Ian. You need to call me back. Gran's dead. I know what you've done. You have to call me."
It was now Saturday. Shit, shit, shit.
Kinnery found himself reaching for his car key even before he tried returning the call. It would take him at least seven hours to drive down to Athel Ridge. Dear God, Maggie was dead. Ian was there on his own. What was he doing? The boy couldn't possibly cope.
He unlocked his desk and took out the second-hand pre-paid cell he kept for calls that needed to be untraceable. His life had become one of a paranoia that had bleached every scrap of normality from his existence – every job, every relationship, and every moment of quiet contentment. He knew he deserved it. Sometimes he wondered if he'd embraced it as his penance. How often did he think about Ian these days? Sometimes he could almost forget the problem existed for months at a time, but it was always going to land on his doorstep one day. And he still didn't have a solution for it after eighteen years.
He keyed the number, shaking. It rang for a long time but nobody answered.
The number was another unregistered cell. Maggie usually left it in the house or switched it off and took out the battery in case someone was using it to track her. She had more security drills than the goddamn CIA. Maybe Ian had gone out to feed the animals. Kinnery decided to keep ringing until he got a
n answer, and if he didn't get one in a couple of hours, he'd drive down there and collect the kid.
If someone hasn't beaten me to it. Maggie's dead. No answer from the ranch. Conspiracy theory hacks suddenly calling me about the project after nearly twenty years. It's all blown up. Why now? How's all this connected?
Ian was a string of decisions escalating from bad to catastrophic that Kinnery couldn't go back and put right. He'd had plenty of chances to stop, each one successively harder until everything became irrevocable.
I knew what I was doing, or at least I knew it was wrong. I don't understand why he turned out the way he did, though. Not even with all the advances we've made since then.
And what the hell am I going to do without Maggie?
It was hard to think of her being gone. Kinnery hoped his shock was partly grief and that he still had some semblance of human decency left, but he knew his own capacity to lie to himself. Maggie had been the only person he could turn to when he needed to hide Ian. She ran that ranch like a survivalist camp. It had an independent water supply, enough food stored to wait out a disaster, solar power and biogas, and shotguns she knew how to use. She was the paramilitary wing of the crazy cat ladies. Nobody noticed her and Ian in an invisible society of off-gridders and eccentrics that had swallowed them like quicksand.
Kinnery couldn't recall her being any other way. When everyone else in their college class outgrew idealism and took jobs with big pharmaceutical corporations, Maggie had stayed firmly stuck in her save-the-whale mind-set, unbuyable, uncompromising, and – inevitably – unemployable in her area of expertise.
And now she was gone.
He found it impossible to sit down and wait. He couldn't concentrate enough to check the rest of his mail. If Ringer had finally surfaced to bite him in the ass – and if he was getting chest pains – then disposing of the paperwork was long overdue. There was nobody to put his affairs in order if he died now.
But I did it. I made Ian. I had a transgenic embryo implanted in a girl who needed the money by a doctor who didn't.
He opened the safe set in the study wall. The internal bolt slid back with a chonk and the small door swung open, releasing a musty chemical scent of old paper and plastic. The top shelf was packed with notebooks and discs, all that remained of his Ringer data, jammed in so tightly that he scraped his knuckles trying to pull them out.
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