“I’m sorry, Lieutenant. Miss Vi isn’t at home,” the comp box said pleasantly.
“Like hell she’s not.” He pointed his surveillance scanner at the wall and hit the access buttons. The scanner picked up heat, enough to indicate a person was inside the room. Finally, the door accepted the police override, unlocked and swung open.
An alarm sounded a high-pitched squeal. “Intruder at the front door,” Vi’s apartment computer warned.
York led the way in. His brother pushed past Shishido and was right on York’s heels. The medics would have their equipment up here in minutes.
Everything seemed untouched in the living room. No one was there. Then a soft moan came from the bedroom. His stomach twisted into a knot of both hope and dread the size of the antique baseball glove displayed on the wall. He hurried to the bedroom, ignoring Cal’s presence.
Vi lay on the floor, her beautiful face distorted almost beyond recognition. Mutation lesions marked her skin, her nose was deformed, brow bones extended, lips swollen to twice their normal size. York grasped the situation instantly and fell to his knees at her side. “This is no suicide by mutation. She wouldn’t do that. No way!” Vi would never use a substance meant to change her genetics in a horrible manner such as this.
Every bruise and mark looked extremely painful.
“Son of a bitch,” Cal growled, lowering himself to Vi’s other side.
Bitch? Hell, it’s more like Satan himself, York thought.
York leaned close to Vi’s ear, reluctant to touch her for fear of causing her more pain. “Medics are almost here. There’s a corrective antidote.”
She tried to whisper something.
“Did you get that?” York asked.
Cal shook his head. “It’s okay, baby. Help is on the way.”
Her lips moved, but nothing came out.
“Ugh. What the hell…” Shishido whispered.
“Shut it.” York silenced him with a hard look. He glimpsed Vi’s spot computer on the floor a few inches from her withered hand and picked it up. This is goodbye, friends, he read. He showed it to Cal.
A suicide note? He didn’t believe it.
His brother gave a forceful shake of his head. “Why?”
“Because someone did this to her.” It was the only answer he had. He got to his feet and touched Shishido’s arm, motioning for him to follow York into the kitchen. Maybe a drink of water would help her. Grabbing a bottle from the refreshment closet, he turned and said urgently, “This is a crime scene. Treat it that way.”
Shishido nodded. “Yeah. Okay. But the suicide note?”
“I don’t buy it,” York said.
“Isn’t it usually some kind of political statement?”
“Usually. I want you to start going over the apartment. Begin with her room.” York was already heading back to the bedroom.
“You’ve got it.”
He unscrewed the bottle cap, imagining it was the vile neck of whoever’d done this to Vi, twisting it in anger as he stopped by his brother. He knelt, handing the water to Cal. “Here.”
All he could do was wait, watching Vi and not really paying attention to what his brother was saying to her. They’d had a relationship. It was none of his business. He followed a dribble of liquid as it ran down her cheek and under her ear to a vintage, gold-filigreed earring. It was excruciating to see his friend reduced to this deformity. Stinking sweat poured from her as she shuddered and thrashed, another mutation transforming her chest. And he swore he’d find whoever did this.
When he looked at her face again, she was studying him. Her lips twitched in a knowing smile. The end was near.
“Not…suicide,” she whispered, her words audible this time. The confirmation of his fear pierced his heart. Her breath stuttered. Her eyes blinked as if she was going to lose consciousness. “Not suicide. She…she…”
Vi went still. Her body relaxed and York could swear he saw the life flow out of her. The sudden stillness echoed through the room.
York dropped his chin to his chest, confounded and devastated. Hurting. “Vi didn’t deserve this.” He was barely able to get the words out.
Cal rose to his feet. He slammed a closed fist into the palm of his other hand and cursed. “She never had a chance. There was no way of beating the mutation genes.”
Chapter Eleven
York stood by the window with Cal while a forensic team of robots and men and women worked behind them. He crossed his arms, holding in the pain of Vi’s death. He missed her already. No one else would understand his love of antiques, or let him raid their refrig for pizza. “How long will you be in town?”
Cal shrugged but didn’t look at him. “As long as you need me on the Gastion case.”
“Make sure you stop by and see Mom while you’re here.”
When Cal turned his head, his eyes were stark, his swallow audible. “Of course. I see she’s become even more devoted to the cause since… Danny.”
York exhaled sharply. “Yes. I try to keep her out of the news.”
Cal nodded. “I’d like to help find who did this,” he said softly.
“It’s not your jurisdiction.”
“True. But it sounds like you have bigger problems.”
“Unfortunately, I do.” He wondered what Cal thought of the genetics case, but was damned if he’d ask. “Nothing has been proven yet.”
Cal blew out a shuttering breath. “Christ. Tight-lipped as always.”
York stared at his brother. He was here to consult on the case, after all, so why not make use of him. He filled Cal in on what he knew.
“Yeah, got it. Avery brought me up to speed. Do you think Vi’s murder is related to the Gastion case?”
“I don’t know. Could be someone is trying to distract us. Could be Vi stumbled onto something she didn’t have a chance to tell us. I’ll go over her notes.”
He looked down at the park, noting how everything came together to give the impression of a blob of green instead of individual trees. Somehow, the case operated the same way. He just needed to get close enough—or far enough—for the perspective to change.
“Well, I’m sticking around to make sure you figure it out,” Cal said, his voice thick with controlled emotion.
York gave him a shaky smile. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Because you know me so well.”
True. They were more alike than he usually wanted to admit. York allowed old anger and hurt to surface and cover the pain he was feeling. “Yeah, right. And you don’t know me at all if you think for a second that I’ll tolerate you butting in.”
Cal crossed his arms. “Don’t be stubborn. According to your captain, with the scope of the virus problem, you need help.”
York suppressed a groan. It was time to put away their feud to find his best friend’s killer, as well as solve the virus case. “God, it sucks when you’re right.” He glanced over his shoulder. The forensic team was closing the body bag. It was like a giant Ziploc. He shivered. Vi deserved better. His voice heavy, he said, “I’m on my way to Foster Cryo. Want to join me?”
“Lead the way.”
* * *
The cryo center was located at the site of the old hospital where Dr. Foster made the crucial discovery regarding the ties between cryogenics, genetics, and cloning. Cryo was primarily used by people who were ill, which meant mostly by Coders. People were put on ice while a medical problem was solved, usually through cloning. Time was required to grow the appropriate body part, and the patients often didn’t have that time. Cryo gave that to them.
In this case, the D Generation kids would take a nap until Kindra found a cure. The procedure sounded deceptively easy. And, for the most part, it was. But there were risks.
He parked in the employee area to avoid reporters. It seemed the media problem grew by the minute, with news clips streaming over the Flex.
York and Cal hurried inside to the office of Jeffery Stowe, the head of Foster Cryogenics.
“
We’re here to help,” York explained. “Dr. B-Zaika is handling the virus identification process at Seville, and the police will clear a path through the reporters. Cal and I can aid in setting up and dealing with the families on this side.”
Stowe gathered a stack of spot computers, dividing them between the men. “Okay. Match a computer with each cryo unit. The system has a master mainframe, but these correspond with the specific pods and the clients’ relatives may sign them out to monitor their loved ones.”
Jeff led them to an industrial loft with a cement floor and metal-beamed ceiling. It housed rows and rows of cryo-pods. York estimated there were fifteen rows with twenty units per row, so the facility would hold close to three hundred children—less when adjusting for units that were already in use. York prayed they wouldn’t need that many.
Jeff Stowe positioned a greeting table inside the entrance door. “I’ve called in all the staff, but with this many… I’ll show you what to do. You can help them get prepared for the children.”
York was thrust back to when his son was ill and six years of heartache took over. What had he been thinking when he’d agreed to help get this operation going? “Wait a minute. I can’t do that.”
“Sure you can. It’s not difficult,” Stowe said. He went down a checklist, explaining how to settle the kids into the pods.
The door opened, and two technicians joined them. The rumbling voices of adults and children drifted in from outside as robots traversed the halls.
A young woman with light-brown hair popped her head into the room. “Our first clients have arrived.”
A number of fair-haired children, their eyes round with uncertainty, entered with their parents in an orderly fashion.
Cal tipped his body toward York, saying in a low voice, “I hope this goes over well. The facility usually services Coders.”
“They have no other choice.” York hadn’t really considered the complicated cultural issues. He wondered if Kindra had. He watched the parents and took in their strained expressions. Were they worried about what their children were going to go through or about the Coder environment?
It seemed ironic that the proverbial shoe was on the other foot. But to York, it didn’t matter. All children should be valued and precious. It was the adult GEIs he had issues with.
“Move to a cryo pod and fill out the information on the corresponding spot computer,” Stowe instructed.
York approached the first family in line. The little girl looked so much like Isabelle. He knelt down to her height. “You’re lucky. You get to choose your pod. Which one would you like?”
“I want my own bed at home,” she said, squeezing her mother’s hand.
“I know you do, but this is only for a short time,” York said.
“Mommy, something smells funny,” the girl said. “And my tummy hurts.”
The mother turned her eyes to York. “Is a stomach problem a symptom?”
“I don’t really know, but she’s probably nervous.” To the child, he said, “And that’s what this nap is going to fix.” York gave the little girl and her mom what he hoped was a supportive look. “You can tuck her in and tell her a story or sing to her, whatever your usual routine is.”
The mom held tight to the child’s hand, the reluctance to let go obvious in her eyes.
He drew in a huge breath. He totally understood her unease.
The cavernous room filled with the sound of high-pitched children’s voices, all around the age of two, and the parents’ controlled, sensible encouragement. To his surprise, there were very few tears, as logic seemed to prevail. While the parents tried to hold their emotions in check, he could see the panic in their eyes. It reminded him of his original opinion of most GEIs. It reminded him of how deeply broken and helpless he’d felt when Danny had fallen ill.
In the row across the aisle, Cal went through the same routine with a little boy.
He reached up for York’s brother to lift him into the bed, brave and anxious for the new adventure. “It’s like going on a space journey,” the boy said.
“You’re right. They use cryogenics for space travel.” Cal’s voice was calm.
“I’ll be here when you wake up,” the boy’s father said, adjusting the pillow beneath his son’s head.
Once each child was settled, a technician came and placed a medicated microdot laced with a sedative on his or her neck. Very soon, the child was asleep. Next, the intravenous tubes were established, and then the domed glass shield tracked closed with an unnerving whispered whoosh, sealing the child in.
York saw the process, again and again, all along thinking the parents had it too together, were too trusting, too confident of the outcome. Just watching it all tore up his gut.
He checked his Flex for the time. Five in the evening and his spine and shoulders were as tight as if they’d been doing this for three days instead of three hours. He was about to relinquish the duty to someone else when he turned to the cryo unit nearest to him. The bed was closed and already in use. His gaze passed over it, noting a child with dark, silky hair and a pale complexion inside. He did a double take.
No. It couldn’t be.
He placed both palms on the glass and leaned in closer. The boy’s eyes were closed, but York recognized his son’s features even in sleep. Even after six long years. Even though there was no reasonable explanation of why he would be here and not in the burial complex York had selected.
His knees grew weak and his chest compressed. He felt like he’d been hit by a truck. He struggled to draw his next breath. Thank God he had hold of the bed.
His brain kicked into gear and his hands trembled. He longed to open the case, to reach in and cradle Danny. What he wouldn’t give to touch, to kiss, to smell his child once again. His stomach lurched.
He must have made a sound, or perhaps he had remained there long enough for someone to notice, because the next thing he knew, Cal was there.
“Are you all—” Cal faltered, seeming as stunned as York. “How did he get here?”
“My question exactly.” His mind raced to piece together the puzzle and only one possible answer revealed itself. “Damn. My ex.”
“You think Madison put him here?”
“I do. Despite the fact that I explicitly rejected the idea.” York’s heart thrummed in his chest. The desire to rip open the containment unit was unbearable. He fisted his hands to hold them still. Unlike the GEI children, Danny wouldn’t be waking up when a cure for the virus was found. His gut did a queasy flip, and his heart ached.
“I’m going to kill her,” he said through clenched teeth.
Cal clapped a hand on York’s shoulder. “Come on, man. Let’s go. They can handle it from here.”
York looked up and around at the kids yet to be placed in beds. “No. Not yet. I should finish.” He gave his son’s body another hard perusal. His fingers curled over the glass, making a scratching sound.
Dammit, Danny was still gone, no matter if he was frozen.
Cal made a pained face. “Okay. Then I’m heading back to the precinct to follow up on Vi.”
York backed up a couple of steps. “Good idea. See you in a while.”
With a heavy heart, York found another child to help, and he pushed himself on from one pod to the next until every last child was tucked in. Safe from the deadly effects of the virus. At least for now.
No doubt they all had better odds than his Danny.
Chapter Twelve
Kindra’s hand shook as she positioned her finger over the tiny square on the holo monitor to pause the video. She stabbed at the screen, missed, and tried again. She had scanned the spreadsheets and bits of information of case after case, child after child, reviewing the figures on blood samples, throat swabs, urinalysis, and brain MRIs. She had set algorithms based on disease progress and location, hoping to find elements in common among the children. And now what? How long before she had any answers?
Finally, she rolled her chair away from the desk, exh
aled a long, frustrated push of air, and waited, clasping her hands together and touching a knuckle to her lips. Turning over the task to HERO was maddening, as was hanging around pacing and watching the clock.
Movement sounded behind her, and she swiveled the chair around. York ambled toward her, wearing a day’s-worth of beard growth. He was the best thing she’d seen in her lifetime. An ally. A defender of the weak and helpless. The fascinating, handsome man who seemed to care deeply about these kids. Far too susceptible to his charm, she felt like purring—if she weren’t so tired and if she were the sort to purr.
And she had an unexpected instinct to comfort him.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
“Not fast enough.” She loosed a weighty sigh.
He halted next to her chair, hesitated. His eyes looked older than when she’d seen him last. Unexpectedly, he grabbed hold of her arms and hauled her up. Surprised, she still gladly leaned into his solid chest and welcomed his sturdy embrace. He meant to comfort her, but also himself, she thought. Was the task of intaking the children to cryo that exhausting? She thought of Brianna and knew the heartbreaking truth. If her own child were one of the infected, she might look just like York did.
“Mmm,” she said, letting exhaustion claim her.
His arms encircled her tighter, tipping forward until his chin nuzzled her ear. She couldn’t identify the emotion that emanated from him. Sadness? If she had to say, he seemed depressed.
“What’s the latest?” he asked.
“We have all the cases logged in, and HERO is working on it.”
“Any new ones?”
“Yes. But only two in the last few hours.”
“Better than ten. Now what?”
“We wait.” She eased back and tipped her head up so she could see his scruffy face. He stared at her with intense dark eyes, making her wonder what he was thinking. “What happened with your partner?”
“She died.” His expression grew tight, the corners of his mouth drooping down, looking pained and sad, and withdrawn. Her fingers slipped from his arm as he moved from her, padding over to the desk.
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