I suppose that was her way of apologizing for Genie’s death, too. I licked my lips, hearing Genie’s last words.
“I choose Jesus!”
I turned inward. Lord, if Genie truly repented and turned to you, then she is with you now, and she is different—changed. Transformed into your image. But without Cushing’s hunt for me and the pressure she exerted on Genie to help her trap me, Genie would not have gotten on Cushing’s bad side and been forced to move back to Albuquerque. Without all that, would she have come to a saving knowledge of you? Ever?
I didn’t know the answers, but if Genie had turned to Jesus in her last moments, I was grateful. I would go through it all again to see her safe in Jesus’ arms. So how could I hold animus against Agent Trujillo?
I could not.
“Thank you, Agent Trujillo. I appreciate your words more than you know. And I more than accept your apology: I forgive you.”
She seemed surprised. “Thank you. That . . . that means a lot.”
She gathered herself. “Well, then. I should be going.”
Abe saw her to the door. In the scant seconds the doorway stood open, I glimpsed the burned-out wreckage of my old home.
My old home. In my heart, I’d surrendered it, given it away before it blew up, so what did it matter, except in the sentimental corners of my heart?
***
Hours later, I felt steady enough to leave.
“Where will you go, Gemma?” Emilio asked. “Why can’t you stay here?” He didn’t want me to go, and I didn’t want to leave, but the tiny house was full with Abe and Emilio. And besides, I had stuff on my mind.
Zander and Abe waited for my answer, so I made my response cheerful.
“I’m staying in a hotel. It’s a nice one, too. I have some decisions to think about and pray over.”
The threats were gone. The months of running were over. The weight of being hunted and pursued, lifted. I felt unfettered—so much so, that I felt jittery. Jumpy.
Lord, what next? What do I do now?
“I’ll walk you to your car,” Zander offered.
“No. No, thank you, Zander. Gemma Keyes can’t be seen until I’ve decided if she’s dead or alive, right? And you’d look odd, walking to my car and back. Alone.”
I was pushing him away, trying to protect my heart.
Lord, I need you to tell me what to do.
***
That evening, the nanomites reported their casualties: It was a huge number—3.7 million obliterated by Cushing’s bomb. But, according to the nanomites, the number of lost mites amounted to a single grain of sand upon a seashore. (That’s what thinking in terms of trillions will get ya, I suppose.)
Their loss will not diminish the power of the nanocloud, Gemma Keyes.
I mourned the lost nanomites anyway as I prayed over the difficult choice before me.
Lord, I need your wisdom. Please guide me.
The hospital released Dr. Bickel the following morning. Although Zander’s hand was healing and would be out of full commission for a few weeks, he picked Dr. Bickel up and took him home—to the Albuquerque house Dr. Bickel owned in his own name and had lived in when he worked for Sandia, the home he hadn’t seen since the explosion in his lab killed Dr. Prochanski. A nurse’s aide, as recommended by Dr. Bickel’s doctor, met them there and took over Dr. Bickel’s homecare until he was able to do for himself.
Please, Lord. I need you to speak to me.
I kept my date with Zander to wrap Christmas presents. It was fun, but subdued. Zander didn’t press me on my decision even though the clock was ticking: I needed to provide Gamble an answer by the end of day tomorrow.
Lord? I’m waiting. I trust you.
***
I called Gamble with my answer the following afternoon, minutes before the seventy-two-hour deadline expired.
~~**~~
Chapter 29
Zander, Agent Gamble, Dr. Bickel, and I converged on Abe’s little house early Christmas morning. The four of us were what Aunt Lucy and Abe had called “orphans” back in the day, those who had no family nearby to spend the holiday with. Zander’s sister, Izzie, had gone to their parents’ home in Las Cruces for the week; both of Gamble’s sisters and their families lived in Ohio; Dr. Bickel had no family to speak of.
Neither did I.
So, Abe and Emilio gathered us into their home, into their first Christmas together. It seemed fitting, too, that the people who knew my secrets should share the holiness and beauty of the day. We were bound together by those secrets, by our common trials and tragedies.
We had agreed to come early that morning. Zander, Dr. Bickel, and I arrived shortly after 7 a.m. Gamble got there a few minutes later. Not surprisingly, Emilio was already awake and wired. He grinned and bounced as we stacked more presents under the tree—adding to an already sizable pile.
“That boy’s been up since 4 o’clock,” Abe groused. “He’s been dancin’ ’round that tree like Peter Pan and the Lost Boys cavorting ’round a bonfire. I’m an old man, and I need my sleep! Not used to bein’ awake in the middle of the night.”
Then he waggled his eyebrows and smiled. “When his racket woke me up, I made my coffee and fixed him some hot chocolate, and we got on the sofa together and pulled an old afghan over us to keep warm. Just sat in the dark, watching the lights twinkle on the tree. Wasn’t long, and that boy laid his head on my shoulder and fell back t’ sleep. Me, too. Mighty nice way to welcome Christmas morning after all.”
Abe insisted on a big Christmas breakfast before we celebrated further, and he’d baked and cooked up a memorable one: orange juice, egg nog, homemade cinnamon rolls, fat sausages, scrambled eggs, fried potatoes, and tamales.
“Got the tamales from Mrs. Baca at church. She and her four daughters make a thousand tamales every December. I always put my order in early.”
Gamble, his mouth full of sausage and tamale, replied, “I need that woman’s number.”
When breakfast was over, we team-cleaned the kitchen and dining nook. I washed, Zander dried (one-handed), Dr. Bickel put away, Emilio took out the trash, Gamble swept, and Abe wiped down counters and table.
At last Abe let Emilio open his presents—one by one. The boy was excited, and I had to think how few real Christmases he’d had in his life.
He unwrapped Abe’s gift first. The torn paper revealed a large box with the words, “Blazer 6800 Pro Skateboard,” in bold letters next to the image of a board coated in ice-blue sparkles over a midnight-blue background.
In his joy, he couldn’t stand to open the box, so he just hugged the board—box and all—to himself. Then he put it aside and ran to Abe, hugged him harder. “Thank you, Abe,” he whispered over and over.
“Sure glad you like it, Emilio,” Abe whispered back.
We knew neither of them were talking about the skate board. The bond between Abe and Emilio was growing.
Emilio plowed through a pile of clothes (from Zander and me), a remote-control car (from Gamble), and a model airplane (courtesy of Dr. Bickel).
“This last one is from us,” Zander told him. “From Gemma and me.”
We’d known the gift was “just right” the moment we’d laid eyes on it. Seeing Emilio open it would be a memory I knew I’d always treasure.
He tore into the paper to reveal a wood case about fourteen by ten inches. The case gave no indication as to what was inside. We laughed because he looked at every side, wondering aloud what the wooden box might contain, before unfastening the two latches.
As Emilio lifted the lid, I craned my neck to look inside with him and, at the same time, watch the expression on his face. His eyes widened—and I laughed with joy.
Abe couldn’t bear the suspense. “Well, what is it?”
“It’s . . . it’s . . .”
Rather than tell, Emilio turned the case around. Inside, nestled in neat rows, was a set of wood carving tools—various sized blades, chisels, and spoon gouges; two rasps, a skew, a V tool, a fishtail, thr
ee awls, a small mallet, and a whetstone. The steel blades, ferrules, and working ends gleamed; each tool was embedded in a polished hardwood handle.
“For carving?” Emilio finally managed. That’s when I saw unshed tears standing in his eyes.
Zander reached behind the couch for another package. “And this present goes with that one.”
Emilio placed the open set of tools upon the coffee table and received the gift. Blinking away the moisture in his eyes, he ripped the paper from the box and pried open the top.
“Wow!” He stood up and took the box to Abe. “See?”
The box was packed with an assortment of types and sizes of wood.
Abe selected a chunk and hefted it in his hand. “Well, well! You will be a true craftsman in no time, son!”
I don’t think Abe realized the import of his words, particularly when he spoke the word “son,” but Emilio’s reaction was telling. He dropped the box of woods in Abe’s lap, covered his eyes, and burst into tears.
Abe muttered, “My goodness!” He set the box aside and gathered Emilio to him.
Despite every recent hardship, I couldn’t remember a happier Christmas.
Then, bam, tomorrow would hit me like a sledgehammer: Back to the real world.
Why couldn’t every day be as happy as Christmas?
~~**~~
Chapter 30
January.
Dark. Dreary. Winter.
Christmas and New Years were over; spring was months away.
No, spring is an eternity from now.
Ugh.
I’d told Gamble to go ahead and announce my “death.”
The Monday following Christmas, three weeks back, he’d released a statement saying that the remains of two bodies had been found in the explosion’s aftermath. “DNA evidence supports our belief that the deceased are sisters Genie and Gemma Keyes.”
Two bodies? Two? Talk about confused.
In fact, Gamble’s statement hadn’t mentioned Cushing at all.
I’d chewed on that for a while. Perhaps . . . perhaps it would have proven difficult to explain Cushing’s presence in my house without also providing inquiring minds with a loose thread to pull—and Trujillo had warned me about loose threads.
“Nano. Please continuously scan all available news sources for reports of General Cushing. If you find mention of her, let me know?”
We will, Gemma Keyes.
I went back to Gamble’s statement. He had gone into some vague details regarding the cause of the explosion, ending with, “It may be weeks or months before ATF determines the exact circumstances of the explosion that took the lives of these two young women.”
Meaning, I’d surmised, that ATF would put off the report as long as possible and deliver whatever their higher-ups told them to deliver using whatever oblique and imprecise language they were directed to use.
It was disturbing to reread Gamble’s statement in the online papers and see it reported in the news. It was creepy and disconcerting to know that my old classmates and people I’d worked with believed me dead and would never know why the government had been hunting me. Would likely believe the worst of me.
And it bothered me that Zander’s sister might remember me as a criminal. It bothered me a lot.
I admitted, too, that I was grieving for Genie. I’d never dreamed that I would face the loss of my sister, or that her last act would be a selfless one.
Did Genie give the nanomites the precious seconds they needed to propel us out of the explosion’s kill zone?
In spite of the facts that we’d never been close, that we’d been more enemies than sisters, I grieved for her. I now had no family. Well, I had Emilio. And Abe.
I was still . . . processing.
On the day of the deadline, I’d told Gamble to announce my death, but I had refused the government’s WITSEC proposal. I’d weighed my commitment to Emilio and my obligation to help Abe raise Emilio, and I couldn’t let them down. I would not break Emilio’s heart or be yet another adult who had made promises to him and then broken them.
No, I hadn’t taken the government’s deal, because I couldn’t leave Albuquerque. My heart was here.
In more ways than one.
So, I’d told Gamble to announce my death, but I’d declined the government’s offer of a new life. I didn’t need them to put me in WITSEC when the nanomites could do a much better job—when their work was far superior to the WITSEC program’s. It was more secure, too.
I’d called Dr. Bickel the same day and let him know my decision, and I’d called Abe and asked if he would prepare Emilio for the news reports and assure him that I was fine, but that I needed a few weeks to “birth” a new identity.
“You and Emilio won’t see me for a while, Abe. I need to put space between Gemma and whomever will emerge in her stead. That means staying away from you and Emilio until I come up with a natural way for her replacement to ‘meet’ you guys.”
I hadn’t called Zander with my decision; instead, I’d asked Abe to pass on my message.
The next morning, I’d checked out of the hotel and into one of those by-the-month furnished suites using Kathy Sawyer’s I.D. and credit card. With Cushing gone, no one was looking for Kathy. However, I would lean on Kathy Sawyer’s persona only as a short-term fix, one I would discard shortly. Trujillo knew about Kathy, and I didn’t want Trujillo (or anyone, for that matter) breathing down my neck.
Not ever.
Within hours of giving Gamble my decision, the nanomites and I had begun to scope out my new identity. We’d started with my appearance. How I presently looked was already quite different from “Gemma BN” (Before Nanomites). My increased metabolism and lengthy workouts had slimmed and honed my body to a wiry machine, and the sharp planes of my face were striking in their contrast to the old Gemma—but they weren’t dissimilar enough. To anyone who’d known Gemma before, I was a fitter and leaner Gemma, but I was Gemma, and they would know it.
That had to change. I had to change.
Based on the parameters used in facial recognition software (such as the nine regions corresponding to the functional parts of the face and the attribute classifications assigned to each of them), the nanomites and I isolated my specific facial characteristics: My chin and jawline, the exact space between my eyes, the width of my nose where it intersects my eyes, my brow shape and height, and so on.
I had the nanomites draft a full-length 3D digital replica of my body (same height, shape, weight, and coloring), and superimpose my face onto the model. We targeted the top five facial aspects that best identified me, then we altered the image’s characteristics in ways only genetics or the most drastic of cosmetic surgeries could produce.
When we finished, the replica’s face was unrecognizable as Gemma Keyes.
“Add some highlights to brighten her hair, Nano, and choose a shorter hairstyle.”
Gemma Keyes.
“Hmm?”
DOD issued a bulletin this morning: An Air Force transport went down over the Atlantic late yesterday.
Baffled, I asked, “Why are you bringing this to my attention?”
General Imogene Cushing was listed on the flight’s manifest.
“They’ve already released the names of those presumed dead?” The turnaround seemed too quick to me.
No, Gemma Keyes. As is customary, the military will notify all relatives of the victims before releasing their names to the media. However, since you instructed us to watch for use of General Cushing’s name, we have been scanning all available files for any new references to her. Two hours ago, General Cushing’s name was added to the manifest of the lost flight.
So, that’s how it would be handled. Wait for a plausible tragedy, then include her death in it. No body to I.D.; no questions.
I shuddered and nodded. “Thank you, Nano.”
I returned to the unfinished rendering of my new identity and tweaked it a bit more. When I was satisfied with the woman whose face stared back at me, I tol
d the nanomites, “Nano, this is the new me. It’s how I want you to make me look when we’re ready to make the change. At all times, unless I say otherwise, I should look like her.”
And the voice. People who knew me would recognize Gemma Keyes’ voice, wouldn’t they? The voice had to go, too.
“Nano, how would you propose altering my voice in an ongoing manner?”
We could alter your voice in one of two ways, Gemma Keyes: through continual manipulation of the soundwaves your vocal cords emit or through actual microsurgery to your vocal cords.
Microsurgery? A chill shivered through me. I’d had it with microsurgery! “Um, let’s stick with manipulating my vocal soundwaves for now, Nano.”
What name will you choose, Gemma Keyes?
Headache. I massaged a spot squarely in the middle of my forehead. All of the me-modifying decisions were getting to me. Stressing me out.
“And that’s another thing, Nano. Once I choose a name, we will stick with it. In fact, starting now, no more addressing me as Gemma Keyes. We’re creating my next identity, not ‘borrowing’ someone else’s. I will become this woman; it will be a permanent adaptation. So, please stop calling me Gemma Keyes.”
I was being brutal for my own sake, tearing off every vestige of Gemma Keyes, but the nanomites didn’t like it. I could tell by the frosty silence that followed.
“Nano? Did you hear what I said?”
We heard you.
“Okay, then.”
I pondered long and hard over the name I would bear the rest of my life. I penciled and penned various combinations, scratching out the rejects, compiling a list of “maybes” and “possibles.” I finally figured out that I was, subconsciously, looking for a first and last name with the same rhythmic quality and number of syllables as Gemma Keyes.
Emma Stone.
Rachel Weisz.
Maggie Smith.
Ashley Greene.
Taylor Swift.
Blah-blah Blah.
Choosing the “right” name was a harder exercise than I’d thought it would be. In those moments when I was being honest with myself, I admitted that I just wasn’t ready to let go or ready to move on.
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