“Don’t blame yourself,” was all he said. He couldn’t bring himself to admit what he really knew: she would never have married Phillips if Jack hadn’t been such a fool.
She turned around and placed a hand on the roof the car.
“I still remember when you brought it home. Your father had a fit, said it was a death trap.” She laughed. “By the time you were finished with it, he loved it almost as much as you did.”
He swallowed the lump in his throat. His best memories with his father were because of this car; working on it was the only time he had connected with him. A heart attack had taken his father right after his fiftieth birthday.
Taylor looked at Jack. “Do you really have to get rid of it? Can’t we hide it somewhere?”
He shook his head. “No, it has to be this way.” He stood straighter. “It’s just a car. Step back.”
Taylor took a last look, squeezed his hand, and stood back.
He leaned down and pushed. The car ran slowly down the hill until it reached the water. Jack held his breath as it began to sink, and when it was no longer visible he opened his mouth and exhaled. Time to keep moving.
An hour later, he pulled into a rest stop. Jack’s sister had come through with the progesterone oil, and now, he followed Taylor into the cramped bathroom, arousing looks of curiosity and a few disapproving glares, so that he could give her the shot. The thick viscous liquid necessitated a large-gauge needle, and Jack cringed looking at the size of it.
“I’m used to it, Jack. It’s no big deal.”
She winced as the needle went in, and he slowly plunged the oil into the area right above her buttock. She rubbed the spot, then gamely smiled and thanked him for helping her.
They grabbed some drinks and snacks and got back on the road.
She was snoring, and he chuckled to himself. She would die of embarrassment if she knew. His attraction to her was still strong, and he felt like a heel, but he had enjoyed the glimpse of her slim hips when he gave her the shot. Being with her again made him wonder, for the thousandth time how, he had ever walked away from her. He had sacrificed her happiness as well as his own, and he hadn’t even had the guts to tell her himself. It still shocked him to remember how selfish he had been.
After the art show, he had gone home and berated himself for flirting with Dakota. What was wrong with him? He was in love with Taylor—she’d been the only one for him from the time he was old enough to think about girls that way. Their relationship was story book—girl next door, high school sweethearts. So when there was a buzz on his intercom at 3:00 a.m., he should’ve known better than to answer it. Half-asleep, he pushed the button, and her throaty voice floated into his room.
“Hey, Jack. Whatcha doing?”
“Sleeping,” he’d mumbled.
A laugh came over the speaker. “The night is young. Buzz me up, I have champagne.”
Against his better judgment, he had. He’d intended to tell her that he was involved already, then send her on her way.
She’d walked in his apartment, gone straight to the kitchen, opened the cabinet, and gotten two glasses, all like she’d lived there forever. She poured them each some champagne, leaning against his counter, her full lips shiny with gloss, just begging to be kissed.
He took the glass from her and threw it back in one gulp.
“Listen, Dakota. I like you, but I’m—”
She moved toward him and put a finger on his lips. “Shh.” He caught a whiff of her perfume, something spicy, musky.
And then they were kissing, and he was lifting her shirt off. The whole thing felt like a dream, and he half expected to wake up in the morning alone. When the bright light of day shone through the curtains, he’d realized with a sinking feeling that he’d screwed up. Seeing the long, red hair fanned out on the pillow next to him—the pillow where Taylor’s head should have been resting, made him sick with guilt. He’d never been with anyone but Taylor before that night. Dakota had rolled over and looked at him, the expression in her eyes taking his breath away. There was something in those eyes that said, I know you—you belong with me, and he was torn in two, paralyzed by confusion. She closed the space between them, folding her body into his, and he felt himself respond. Like a drug, he had wanted more, needed more, and there was no turning back.
After that, he and Dakota became inseparable. Her loft was a block from his apartment. They spent all their free time together. He was bewitched. She was fascinated by everything Jack had to say, loved to read his articles, would look at him like he was the only person in the world.
After a month, he still hadn’t told Taylor. He didn’t know how. For the first time in his life, he lied to her. Told her he would be away on assignment. He knew he had to break the news, but how?
He had planned on going up to Boston on Friday and telling her in person. Dakota was cooking dinner when he mentioned it.
“I need to tell Taylor about us.”
She’d turned from the counter and sat down across from him, taking his hand in hers.
“Of course. Do you want me to go out for a while so you can talk in private?”
He rubbed her hand. “No, I have to do it face to face. I owe her that.”
A frown marred her face, and her lips turned up in a tight smile. She withdrew her hand and stood, turning her back to him. “Oh. When are you planning on going?”
Jack came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Don’t be mad. We have a long history together. I can’t just call her up and tell her I’ve fallen in love with someone else.”
She turned around and pressed against him, cupping his face in her hands. “I know. But I can’t stand the thought of losing you.”
“You’re not going to lose me. Not ever.”
“Of course, you have to go. I was just having a moment.” Her tone became light. “I would expect nothing less from you, my knight in shining armor.”
He smiled, relieved, and she reached out and grabbed his hand.
“Dinner won’t be ready for another half an hour. I know what I want for an appetizer.”
They fell on the sofa together, limbs tangled, lips locked and he could think of nothing else but the way she made him feel.
When they got the phone call on Thursday inviting them to a last-minute anniversary celebration in Las Vegas for her Aunt Sybil and Uncle Marcel that weekend, he’d modified his plans and made arrangements to go up to Boston the following weekend instead.
They arrived in Vegas late Friday night and Jack wasted no time in teaching Dakota blackjack. The party for her family wasn’t until Saturday, so they had the first night to themselves. As the chips accumulated and the liquor flowed, a pervasive euphoria filled Jack. He looked at Dakota and felt his heart swell.
Marcel walked over, clapped Jack on the shoulder, and gave him a broad smile.
“How’re you kids doing?” He glanced at the pile of chips in front of Jack. “Looks like you’re in the winner’s circle. We’re turning in for the night. See you tomorrow.”
“Good night, Marcel.”
Dakota got off her stool and, swaying, put an arm on Jack to steady herself. “Hey, handsome. Ready to call it a night?”
They walked arm in arm from the casino to the elevator.
She started to laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
She pointed to the sign by the elevator.
“The chapel of love. I was picturing us standing in front of an Elvis look-alike getting married.” She doubled over, laughing.
Jack chuckled and they both began to sing: “Going to the chapel and I’m going to get married. Going to the chapel and I’m gonna get maaaaried…”
The both stopped and looked at each other.
“Would it be too crazy?” he asked.
Dakota bit her lip. “Nothing seems less crazy.”
He couldn’t think of anything he wanted more. The truth was she owned him already.
“Let’s do it,” he said.
The rest was a blur. Say this. Sign here. Kiss the bride. And then it was done. They were married. They left the chapel and walked into the cool evening air. Suddenly he was sober. What in God’s name had he done?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Institute, 1975
June
Amelia is gone and despite her giving me the cold shoulder, I feel bad for her. To get thrown out on day one is humiliating. I can’t imagine having to go back to my parents and tell them that the two thousand dollars they spent on the program had been flushed down the toilet. On the other hand, one down, eighty-nine to go. She should have kept quiet, kept her doubts to herself. It’s not as though the idea of euthanasia doesn’t give me pause. Even though I hate to see anyone suffer, I am concerned about a course of treatment that requires a doctor to determine when a life should end. But I was smart enough to keep it to myself. How are we to decide when enough is enough? Now I’m not suggesting that we not play God because I’m not convinced that there is a God in whose hands to leave such decisions. As a woman of science, I have left behind my childhood fancies about God and angels and saints. I leave that magical thinking to my mother. So, while I have no religious ground to base my objection on, I do believe in the sanctity of life. The question is, what constitutes life? A pain-filled existence with no chance of recovery? I think what Dr. Strombill is trying to teach us is that we have to keep an open mind if we are to learn anything; otherwise, what is the point of being here?
It’s been a month now, and no one else has been dismissed. I see my own exhaustion mirrored in the eyes of others. We are pushed beyond our limits, but not one of us complains. No one wants to look weak. Each month, we are grouped in thirds, rotating at the end of the month so that we have the chance to work with everyone. We are given a survey at the end of each day on which we write two names—the person we feel has worked the hardest that day, and you can’t name yourself—and the person who we believe cut a corner, or didn’t push him or herself hard enough. The voting is supposed to be confidential, and when we finish our time here, the votes will be tallied and will factor into who makes it to the next stage. Alliances have already formed. I have identified five people similar to me, and we have figured out a way to work the system. Brian came up with a code. When we sit together for dinner in the evening, he tells a story from medical school. When he picks up his napkin and wipes his mouth, we tune in to the next sentence. The first letter of each word spells the name of the person we are to write down as the lazy worker. Then, whomever he gives a cookie to, is the one who we write down as working the hardest. Every other day, no one gets a cookie, and we vote on our own for the best worker, just so no one becomes suspicious.
It is the sixth and final lecture of the day. I am in the front row, where I sit every day, waiting for him to take notice of me. I must be chosen for phase two. The desire to beat them all out consumes me.
Today he leans on the desk and tosses a ball back and forth between his hands as he speaks.
“What if I were to tell you that we are making strides in gene therapy? That we are working to isolate the genes that cause diseases and replace them with healthy genes?”
There is a murmur of approval throughout the classroom. I lean forward in my seat, my body quivering with excitement. This is exactly the type of research I’m dying to be part of.
He looks up at the ceiling as he talks and spreads his fingers wide as he gesticulates. “Imagine. One day a world with no disease, no suffering.” His face darkens. “But there are those who warn of abuses, of playing God. Why should we not play God? If we can improve on his flawed design, should we not?”
I raise my hand. He nods in my direction.
“They are afraid.” My voice falters, and I clear my throat, trying again. “Of progress, there will always be those who stand in the way of progress.”
He smiles. “Yes, Maya! And do we let these naysayers, these cowards, stop our progress?” He answers his own question. “Of course not. But how? How do we stop them?” He walks toward me, puts a hand on my shoulder.
“Maya?”
“We become more than scientists. We become persuaders, convince others who can help us—lobbyists, politicians. Find those who hope to gain from our research and use it to our advantage.”
He claps his hands together and laughs. “Very good, Maya. You are learning fast.”
His comment garners looks of jealousy in my direction. I smile at him, unfazed by the reaction of my classmates, concerned only with Dr. Strombill’s opinion.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Jack disengaged the GPS in the Nissan, then glanced at her. “Keep an eye out while I do one more thing.” He got out of the truck and opened the hood. After a few minutes, he returned, holding a small chip.
“What’s that?”
“A device placed on all cars made after 2000. It’s an internal GPS, so that the car can be located. The government’s been installing them on cars ever since 9/11. Of course, the dealers have turned it to their advantage. They sell it as a way to find your car if it’s stolen. What they don’t tell you is that it’s automatically on every car anyway.”
Taylor studied Jack. “And you know this how?”
He shrugged. “If I told you, I’d have to—”
“Not funny,” she interrupted.
“A few years back, I took a break from life and did a piece on the cartel kidnappings in Columbia. I got a job as a bodyguard, made some connections with the other bodyguards there. One was ex-military intelligence. Let’s just say I learned a lot.”
She was looking at him like he’d lost his mind.
“You took a break from life by going to Columbia and protecting people from drug lords? Don’t you need training for something like that? Why would they hire a journalist?”
“Aw shucks. Thanks for the vote of confidence.” He gave her a wry smile.
“You know what I mean.”
He didn’t want to get into all of it with her. “I do have a black belt, and I took one of those civilian training courses.”
“You mean like Blackwater?”
“Something like that. I needed to do something different for a while.” He didn’t tell her that it was what saved his sanity, that if he hadn’t been able to get out of the country, away from everything and everyone he knew, he probably wouldn’t have made it.
Her eyes widened. “Was this after…” She couldn’t bring herself to say it.
He looked away and started the car. “Let’s hit it.”
After an uncomfortable silence, Taylor finally spoke. “How long till we get to the cabin?”
“Maybe three hours.”
She ran a hand through her hair. “I hope there’s running water. I’m in desperate need of a shower.”
Jack nodded. “It’ll have everything we need.”
“Jack, listen. I really need to get word to my dad that we’re okay.”
“They’ll be an untraceable phone waiting there for us.”
“Good.”
“But, Taylor, I’m not so sure anything you say to him will make him feel okay about your being with me.”
She raised her eyebrows. “I’ll make it clear that’s it temporary. He knows I would never be with you again.” Her tone was sharp, and she turned in her seat towards the window, as if she couldn’t get far enough away from him, and Jack knew that that message was meant for him as well.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Institute, 1975
July
I am approached by one of the instructors and shown to a private room. I blush with pleasure at being singled out. My unwavering attention is paying off.
My belongings are already there, and I am told to sit and wait. A few hours later, I am escorted out of the building and to a waiting limousine.
“Where are we going?” I ask the driver.
“To another building on campus.”
/> I lean back and look out the window, intrigued. We drive for over thirty minutes, each mile seeming to take us deeper and deeper into uncivilized terrain, trees and branches obscuring the view of everything but the road in front of us. At last, we stop, and I gasp as I open the door and step outside. I am standing in front of a castle. A real castle! I crane my neck to look at the top where I count at least eleven turrets. It is something out of a fairy tale, and I hug my arms around myself, too enchanted to speak at first. Finally, I manage.
“What is this place?” I ask. The neo-Gothic architecture looks familiar to me. I’ve seen it somewhere, in a picture or postcard.
“It is a replica of Hohenzollern Castle,” he replies.
“The German castle, right?”
He nods with a bored expression, as if we’re discussing the weather. “Of course, on a much smaller scale.”
I wonder again what I’m doing here and what in the world this has to do with my research fellowship.
“Follow me,” he says, and I walk behind him up a steep hill that leads to a tremendous iron door, feeling as though I’ve time traveled and am about to encounter knights in all their splendor waiting on the other side.
When we enter the cavernous hallway, there are indeed suits of armor, but they are empty, their owners departed long ago. My heart is pounding as I try to take it all in, when I am whisked down the hall by a woman. She leads me into a room that has a doctor’s examining table in the center and a counter littered with medical supplies. I am directed to sit on a table, which is covered with a paper sheet.
“What’s going on? Where am I?”
She hands me a robe. “Congratulations. You’ve graduated to the next phase.”
I look at her, dubious, wondering if I’m dreaming this. “I still have two months to finish my fellowship. This doesn’t make sense.”
She ignores my objections. “Everyone has to undergo a physical before moving on to phase two,” she states.
I take a deep breath. This feels wrong, but I’m afraid to jeopardize my chances.
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