by Kira Peikoff
“Embryos are not just plain life,” Dopp continued, “but the most sacred form of life—humans without sin, since they are not yet born.”
Trent nodded, thinking sadly: It’s too late for you, boss. Dopp was as steeped in religion as Einstein in physics; it was inseparable from his identity. Under the force of mysticism, his reasoning power had shriveled. Trent understood that Dopp was incapable of viewing an embryo as anything less than a full human being with rights. And Trent realized he had been on the same path. Once a person believes something long enough …
“This is why we have to fight for the department to exist,” Dopp was saying. “We should all feel honored to come here every day. I know I do.”
“So do I.” Trent cleared his throat. “Of course I do.” His lie felt laughably transparent, as if he had just stated his allegiance to Mars. Dopp was watching him with a displeased look—could he suspect anything had changed?
On Trent’s desk, his cell phone shivered. The emergency.
“Who is it?” Dopp asked.
Trent had to answer, and there was only one person whose call was acceptable to take.
“It’s her.”
Dopp’s face brightened. “Don’t let me stop you.”
He tried not to betray his urgency as he lifted the phone to his ear. An odd whimper escaped from the other end of the line.
“Hello?” Trent said. “Arianna?”
“Hi.” The word tumbled into a sniffling sob that burst through his earpiece.
“Are you okay? What happened?”
From the doorway, Dopp eyed him with unchecked interest.
“Trent,” she cried, “Ian quit. All because of you, isn’t that the stupidest thing you ever heard?” She sniffled harder. “I told him you weren’t a threat, but he’s gone and now there’s only two of them and they’re furious.…”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said carefully, his mind racing. “Where are you now?”
“Outside the lab. I’m going to have to cancel on my patients and go home; I’m a mess.…”
“Do you want me to meet you there?”
“I would hate to interrupt your writing—”
“Nonsense. I’ll be right there.”
“Thank you—thank you so much.”
Trent closed the phone and looked up.
“What was that about?” Dopp asked immediately.
Trent looked somber. “She got some bad news about her MS. So she’s skipping work and going home—I thought you would approve of me going to comfort her.…”
“Of course. Maximize the face-to-face time. And remember, no one is exempt from the law.”
“Right.” Trent rose, picking up his briefcase, eager to leave.
“Right,” Dopp repeated more firmly, eyeing Trent’s naked wrist. “Where’s the watch?”
At home, he thought, on the floor. “At home; I didn’t think I would be seeing her this afternoon. I’ll stop by and get it on the way there.”
“Fine. I want to see the transcript on my desk first thing tomorrow. Even if she says nothing pertinent.”
“Of course.”
Dopp stepped out without another word.
* * *
Dopp’s skin alerted him first to the strange feeling that came over him as he walked down the hallway from Trent’s office to his own. Heat seared his forehead, tinged with a shivery cool that made his hands clammy; it was the kind of unsettling instinct that demanded attention, the body’s way of showing the mind what it already senses and does not wish to acknowledge.
He thought of the state budget that loomed ever closer; within weeks, it would be decided, along with the department’s fate for the next year. He thought of Arianna’s face at Christmas dinner, and the way she had stared at Joanie, disturbingly devoid of remorse for her past crimes. What other nefarious acts had she committed, or was she still committing, on his watch?
Trent was taking dangerously long to crack her. Dopp hated to cut it so close. He had assumed that after the dinner, Trent and Arianna’s bonding would kick in, and her caution would unravel like a schoolgirl’s braid. But apparently it had not. And what was this garbage that Trent spewed about the stem cell heart possibly helping people, the very heart that was the stuff of the dead? The thought revolted him. Perhaps he had misjudged Trent—maybe he was too inexperienced to be trusted with such a serious case. Not to mention his immature impulse to quit, as if he were pursuing Arianna for kicks and not out of a sacred duty to protect the Lord’s youngest children.
But Trent had seemed so eager and capable, Dopp remembered. And he had managed to forge a closeness with Arianna that begged to be exploited. Well, now they were too invested to rethink that strategy. At any moment, she could confess to him. But it was possible to keep closer tabs on the situation.
A flick of his finger and a few words later, his trusted employee Jed White was standing before him. Like a sideways skylight, the sheer glass wall behind Dopp’s desk ushered in sunlight, catching the copper in Jed’s hair. The light bounced off the walls, highlighting the largest frame on the wall, one of ornate twisting gold, which held a photograph from a private meeting of Dopp shaking hands with the Pope. That had been before Dopp left the priesthood, but while his affair with Joanie was developing. Dopp still felt ashamed for having presented himself to the Pope as a servant of the church while lust festered inside him. He kept the picture front and center to remind himself not of the honored meeting, but of his deeply human failure.
“Jed, what do you think is the most important quality I seek in my employees?”
“Loyalty?”
“That’s right. To the Lord and our mission. Those loyalties should outweigh any allegiance you feel toward a coworker.”
“Of course.”
“Are you friends with Trent Rowe?”
Jed hesitated, seeming unsure of the correct answer. “We’re cool.”
Dopp smiled. “I thought so. Given that, I need you to take over a special role for the department: integrity control.”
“Integrity control?”
“Yes. What you will need to do is handle a private assignment that requires total confidentiality and discretion. A bonus will be arranged.”
“I’m listening.”
“Trent has been acting a little strange lately, so I need you to watch him and see if he is doing his job. See if he seems motivated to solve the case, or if he’s slacking off. Spend some time with him and Arianna Drake together. Do they seem close or distant? Does she seem to trust him? And what does Trent tell you about her when she’s not there?” Dopp paused while Jed scribbled notes on a pad. “Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. I saw them together at my house last weekend, but I bet she acts differently toward Trent when she’s more comfortable, like around friends. And I bet Trent will share his attitude about the case more freely with you than with me.”
“Makes sense.”
“Fine, then I will suggest to Trent that you spend some time with him and Arianna again, so you can help reinforce his good image. The way we did it before, weeks ago. He’ll buy it, no problem.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Dopp smiled. “I know your paycheck is due in a week. I’ll be sure to add a little something for your extra time.”
“Thank you,” Jed said graciously. “My pleasure.”
* * *
“Seventy-third and Columbus,” Trent told the cabdriver, hating that he had to pick up the watch before seeing Arianna. At home, he could at least change out of his suit.
Twenty minutes later, the same cab was speeding down Fifth Avenue toward Washington Square. Trent rubbed his palms on his jeans and looked out the window, ignoring the leather strap that felt too tight around his wrist. The glass face bore a scratch from being thrown at the wall, but the recording feature worked as well as ever. Outside the window, chic storefronts and fancy hotels sped by in a blur, until the cab stopped before the concrete arch at Washington Square Par
k. Trent ran into Arianna’s building and climbed the stairs to her third-floor apartment. Before he knocked, he made sure to turn off the watch’s ear, at least for now.
She answered the door with a tissue in one hand, wearing pajama pants and a tank top. Her ragged hair clung to her temples as if she had been lying down, crying.
“My God,” he said, stepping inside and embracing her. She pressed her head against his chest, sniffling.
“What’s done is done,” she mumbled.
“It’ll be okay,” he said, aching to believe it. “There are still two men working practically around the clock, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So we still have a chance.”
She looked up at him, and a smile restored the beauty to her face. “We do.”
“As bad as it is, this isn’t the worst that could have happened.”
She nodded, slipping a cold hand into his. “Come lie down with me. But let’s not talk about this. I need a day away.”
“I hear that.”
She led him into her bedroom. Slanted light shone through the window, illuminating the dancing dust in its rays. Her red comforter sat on the floor in a fiery lump. On the bed, the white sheets were tangled.
“Looks like my bed most days,” he joked.
“We should have slept here last night. Sorry I fell asleep on you.”
“We can still make up for it.” He kicked off his sneakers and slid on his stomach onto the mattress. Then he unhooked the watchstrap and put it on her nightstand behind a lamp so he couldn’t see it. She climbed onto the bed and curled up next to him, slipping a hand around his waist. Her face burrowed into the warm crevice between his collarbone and chin, and he wrapped his arms around her, chuckling as her eyelashes tickled his neck. He wondered if she felt the same thrilling tingle where their bare skin touched: her forehead against his neck, her hand on his lower back, her shoulder against his biceps.
Her lips caressing his neck told him the answer. A flush of heat rushed to meet the spots where her lips touched him, as she moved up his throat to his jaw, over the tip of his chin, landing finally on his mouth. His lips burned to taste hers. They kissed hungrily before she drew back, pulled her tank top over her head, and unhooked her bra. Her breasts were sculpted ivory, exactly as he had imagined. He cupped them one by one with his mouth, feeling an aching yearning in his groin.
She ran her fingers through his hair and then down his back, pulling up his T-shirt. He yanked it over his head and she smiled at the parallel ridges on his torso, brushing her fingertips down the middle line from his chest to his waist, and then unbuttoned his jeans. As she touched him, he let out a little moan and pulled the drawstring of her pants untied. Her naked body was all curves bound by flat smoothness, no sign of its trauma within.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured. With a demure smile, she reached over to the top drawer of her dresser and handed him a condom. He slid it on and then rolled on top of her, supporting himself with his elbows.
“I’ve wanted you this whole time,” she whispered as he pushed into her slowly, so as not to hurt her.
Their eyes met as their bodies joined, and he knew that no words could express the desire he had been suppressing. Instead his body told her everything he wanted to say, with every move, it told her, as he lost himself in its rhythm, watching his own pleasure reflected in her open mouth, her pink cheeks. She writhed underneath him, hoisting her hips off the bed to receive every bit of him, faster and faster they moved, until, together, their bodies protested in one violent burst; she moaned, throwing her head back in fierce joy. As the pleasure dispersed, he watched every twitch of her face, overcome by a sense of awe and intimacy he had never before experienced.
She opened her eyes to catch him gazing down at her, and grinned.
“Wow,” he murmured.
“Indeed.”
Gently, he rolled off her and rested his hot cheek against his arm, inches away from her face. She reached up to stroke his bristly chin.
“Trent,” she whispered. “I think I’m falling in love with you.”
As if without permission from his mind, his throat grew a massive lump. He strained to gulp past it.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
He shook his head, unwilling to confront the reality in spoken terms: I can’t imagine life without you.
“I don’t ever want to get up,” he said.
Her face relaxed. “You don’t have to. Not today.”
He closed his eyes, forcing himself to forget the vicious hourglass and the world it came from. In a later moment, he would fret about her; in a later moment, he would reach for the watch and revive his skilled deception, as well as the private suffering that came along with it. But for now, he would concentrate only on the delicate fingers stroking his face.
THIRTEEN
Trent reached for Arianna’s hand across the kitchen table at his apartment. His right hand, which could easily palm a basketball or play a ten-key interval, dwarfed her left one. He closed his fingers over hers.
“How do you do anything with these little things?”
She chuckled. “It’s brains not brawn, baby.”
Baby. Embryo. Dopp.
And his lightness was shattered. Such inadvertent connections to his other reality had crept up often in the last several days. It was as if he lived with a chronic hacking cough that would abate—allowing him a few moments of bliss—but then return at the slightest trigger. The most mundane encounters would do: a gold cross necklace on a stranger; a headline about the stalled state budget; a glimpse of a classy brown watch.
“What?” Arianna said, noticing his slackened lips. “What did I say?”
“It’s just hard,” he said carefully. “To forget everything for a few minutes, but it’s worse to remember. How do you stay positive?”
“Stress decreases my immune function.” She smiled dryly.
“I’m sorry about Ian.”
“It’s not your fault. But Sam and Patrick are still giving me the cold shoulder.”
Trent shook his head. “Wouldn’t I have reported you by now?”
“You would think. When I brought them new embryos this afternoon, Sam literally turned his back on me and didn’t even say good-bye. And I thought he and I were close.”
“Weird,” Trent remarked, thinking of his own fallout from the night he had seen the lab. Thrilled as he was to find hope and clarity, he was increasingly nervous at work—but the steep cost was one he would continue to pay as long as her life hung in the balance. At times, it struck him as absurd that his office looked the same when so much about his purpose there had changed. The painting of the Crucifix still hung on the wall, now a reminder of a different kind. As he passed familiar faces in the hallway, he wondered: Would they ever understand the cruel irony of their work—the actual lives suffering from disease because of them? He had to banish thoughts of Arianna to summon a cordial smile for his colleagues.
There, he was still one of them, and no one needed to be more certain of it than Dopp. So when Dopp had demanded the transcript and audio file of his visit to her apartment, Trent handed it over like a competent employee. Only it was the cut-and-pasted version, less the incriminating parts about the lab. He had uploaded the audio file from the watch to his computer at home, and then spent two hours deleting and chopping their conversation into a logical, safe flow. With a professional musician’s software, he was able to match Arianna’s tone and pitch to any words he improvised on her behalf. What remained was the requisite talk of her worries about her worsening condition, coaxed out by Trent’s questions: “How do you feel?” and “What has your doctor been saying?”
Trent had placed this typed transcript on Dopp’s desk with a sigh, his best portrayal of disgruntlement.
“Nothing?” Dopp asked.
“I’m sorry. That time with her was useless.”
“Not good. She needs a push, a reminder of your trustworthiness.”
“What
do you suggest?”
Dopp’s response was one Trent thought of now, as he caressed Arianna’s smooth hand. The plan needed to be made; it was dangerous to procrastinate. He asked about her plans for New Year’s Eve, the following Saturday night.
She shrugged. “I don’t have any yet.”
“Well, do you want to go to dinner with Megan and maybe my friend Jed again?”
The words felt like a dirty solicitation.
“Sure. I know she wants to meet you. And Jed seemed nice. Maybe they’ll hit it off.” She looked pleased at the idea.
“They might.” Sure, he thought, right after Jed brings flowers to your sickbed.
He caught her staring past him, looking wistfully at his Yamaha keyboard.
“Can I play it?” she asked.
“Of course.”
They rose from the table and squeezed onto the tiny leather seat in front of the keyboard. She picked out a few white and black keys before stumbling over the first few measures of Beethoven’s “Für Elise.”
“That’s all I know,” she said.
“Did you ever want to learn?”
“Always. I just never got around to it.” She looked down for a moment and then back at him. “What do you like to play?”
“Would you like to hear ‘Für Elise’?”
“Show me how it’s done.”
At the touch of his fingers, Beethoven’s melody sprang from the keys, flush with tension and nuanced by careful dynamics. Trent’s hands swept over rapid passages without compromising the pace. Each note lured his hands into the next chord and the next theme; the memory of the piece lived in his callused fingertips, crowded there with dozens of other pieces he had studied and loved. She applauded when he rested on the final chord.
“I knew you played piano, but I had no idea you played.”
He laughed. “It’s just a hobby. Thank you, though.”
She seized his hands, inspecting his fingers. “Who knew that these hairy hot dogs could pull off something like that?”
He laughed again, returning to that shifting, precious interval between bouts of anxiety. But the relief began to erode as soon as he became aware of it, like the edge of consciousness that splinters dreams. Trying to hold on to the feeling, he kissed her, and an idea struck him: it was one that would help enrich her days and, as a result, maybe help assuage some of his duplicitous guilt.