by Kira Peikoff
“As it turns out, she didn’t just resign,” Les Mahler said, looking straight at Natalie. “She’s disappeared. No one has seen her for six days. She lived alone, and her apartment is vacant. Her relatives have not been able to contact her, and her credit card shows no activity.”
Natalie’s lips parted in shock, her mind racing. Helen had never mentioned wanting to go away. She hated leaving Manhattan, even used to joke that it would take a funeral to get her out—her own.
“Now, normally, this would be treated as a missing persons case by the local police department, but we do not believe this to be a regular case.” Mahler turned to his colleague. “Bud, do you want to . . . ?”
Bud Pinter opened a black file on the table and pulled out what looked like a postcard encased in clear plastic. Without removing the plastic, he held it up for the room to see, pinching it between thumb and forefinger. The focal point of the postcard was a photograph of the Earth moving around the sun in space.
“This,” Pinter said, “is a postcard that was mailed to our headquarters the day we believe Dr. McNair disappeared. On the flip side”—he turned it around to show a short loopy scrawl on the white back—“is her name and this message:
“ ‘And yet it moves—again. Yours, Galileo.’ ”
Everyone stared. Pinter’s tone carried a gravity that assured them this was no joke. Natalie frowned. The sentence reminded her of a famous line uttered by the real Galileo Galilei back in the sixteen hundreds, when the Church had forced him to recant his heretical belief that the Earth revolved around the sun. He’d cooperated, but then said under his breath, “And yet it moves.” Four words that would come to forever signify rebellion against dogma—now hijacked by a madman.
“This will come as a shock,” Les Mahler said, “but the person who calls himself Galileo runs a covert network of radicals who pose a serious threat to scientists, doctors, and even patients here in the U.S. You won’t likely have heard of him because we’ve kept his profile extremely low, under the radar of the media and the public. But his cult is disturbingly entrenched across the country, from what we have been able to glean, and so far has proved impossible to penetrate or track.”
He paused, looking at each stunned face around the table.
“This group is extremely dangerous,” he went on. “Their crimes have a pattern—they always involve someone in a medical or scientific field who suddenly goes missing. Then, like clockwork, a postcard arrives just like this one, sometimes even on the same day, as if to boast that the abduction was premeditated, and the postcard was mailed in advance of the crime. By the time we get it, it’s too late. There’s always the victim’s name, the same message, the same signature. The only thing that changes is the postmark, which comes from a different city every time, from Burbank to Anchorage to Des Moines. All over the country. We don’t know where the victims go or what happens to them.”
Natalie felt warm tears sting her eyes as a surreal image popped into her mind—Helen, bound and gagged, in the clutches of a felon. It didn’t seem possible. The last time they had seen each other, right after her forced resignation, Helen was a woman in mourning. Her spouse of forty-five years was her career, and its sudden death had knocked her sideways. She’d gone straight home to be alone. Natalie was certain she hadn’t known of any impending danger.
She raised a shaky hand. “How many have been targeted?”
Pinter answered. “Twelve scientists, eight doctors, and six patients—and now Dr. McNair.”
“Just—vanished?”
“It seems that way. In many of the cases, we’ve recovered suicide notes, but these victims had no reason to end their lives. We think their captors must have forced them into it, so it seems like they’re disappearing of their own accord.”
“Have any . . . remains ever been found?” Adler asked.
Mahler paused, his face grim. “Only once. The man was a top industry researcher doing drug development, found mauled to death by a couple of lab chimps that had escaped their cages. His death was ruled accidental, but Galileo’s postcard arrived shortly afterward.”
“We don’t know why he was left behind to die instead of abducted like all the other victims,” Pinter added. “It’s another mystifying aspect of this case.”
“So the other victims—they could still be alive?” Natalie asked.
“It’s possible,” Mahler said. “But not probable. The committee’s mission for two years has been to track down this Galileo and uproot his Network, but it’s been much more difficult than you can imagine. They seem to be very well connected, with rampant safe houses across the country, known as stops on the Galileo Underground. But it’s impossible to prove.”
“Leading to where?” Mitch Grover asked. For once, Natalie noted, the smug smile was wiped off his face. He looked nervous.
“We don’t know. That’s the question.”
Natalie raised her hand again. “What’s the motive? Why abduct these people in particular? Why Helen?”
“We can only speculate,” Pinter replied. “What the victims have in common is a history of controversy—they’re all scientists and doctors who have gone against the grain in various ways. Except for the patients, who all had mysterious or late-stage illnesses before they were abducted.”
“It’s possible that they’re being punished or exploited somehow,” Mahler added. He didn’t elaborate.
“So how can we help?” Adler asked. He leaned forward. “Anything you need, Columbia is at your disposal.”
“Be vigilant,” Mahler said. “Don’t hesitate to call if you have anything suspicious to report. There’s also a number where you can anonymously call in tips if you’re worried about retribution.” He passed out cards with contact information. “Everything said here must remain strictly confidential. If this story gets out, a media circus will make Galileo burrow down somewhere. We need him to be up and active, not hiding. Also please clear your schedules for the rest of the afternoon. We’re going to need to question each of you privately regarding Dr. McNair. Even the smallest thing you tell us could prove significant. Time is of the essence if we have any hope of finding her alive.”
Natalie choked back a sob. How could this be happening? And to Helen of all people—the most passionate and daring friend she’d ever had, the only one who shared her courage to try to push humanity forward.
“One more thing,” Mahler said. “I apologize for what this will do to your working environment, but it must be said. From now on, each of you needs to be very careful whom you trust. As you know, Dr. McNair’s controversy and resignation was an internal matter. The only way Galileo could have known to target her so soon after the fact is if his Network relayed the news back to him.”
Adler looked taken aback. “What are you saying?”
Mahler turned to answer him, but before he opened his mouth, Natalie realized why his initial observation of the staff was fraught with suspicion.
“Dr. Adler, I’m afraid your department has a mole.”
CHAPTER 7
New York City
Wednesday, June 12, 1:00 P.M.
“Zoe?” She pressed the phone hard against her ear to get closer to the voice. “This is she,” she said into the mouthpiece, barely above a whisper.
“It’s Dr. Carlyle.”
She held her breath and raised her eyes wide at Gramps, who was resting in bed on a spread of pillows she had fluffed. His cozy room had its own personality apart from the rest of the house—the walls were decorated with vinyl records of Frank Sinatra and Tommy Dorsey. On his night table was an old black radio that he still used to listen to baseball games. Across from his bed, a floor-to-ceiling bookcase was lined with leather-bound classics, medical textbooks, and dime-store paperbacks. Next to the open window, Zoe sat in a wooden rocking chair and hugged her knees to her chest.
Gramps’s half-sleeping eyelids whipped open. Though only one full day had passed since her diagnosis and his accident, she had never been more conscio
us of losing precious hours to the wasteland of unproductive time—time without any progress toward a solution to Gramps’s aging. Nor had she ever been so aware of how advanced his frailty had become. Before, she had never really noticed his cane, or his labored movements, or his faint wheezing when he climbed the stairs. After she watched his wrist snap like a pencil, the frightening truth had become clear—he was old. Old in a final way that she might apparently never know, in an irreversible way that took all of her courage to admit, unless she could get to the scientists fast enough, as fast as possible.
“Zoe, are you there?”
“Hi! Hi, I’m here.” All day they had been waiting for his call, like shipwrecked sailors for a boat.
He cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
“What?” The hair on her arms spiked, meeting the chill that flowed down from her neck. “What do you mean?”
“I spoke with the director of the NIH program this morning and told him about your case. And, well, even though he was personally fascinated, he said the program could never accept you.”
“Why not?” She clutched Gramps’s pale green bedspread, unable to look at him.
“It’s quite maddening, I’ll be honest. The National Institutes of Health is an arm of the government, so their research mandates come with an agenda. Antiaging research is specifically not on it, because if people were to live longer, many of the major federal programs like Social Security and Medicare would be severely overburdened. The economy could crash, and then there’s the government’s concerns about overpopulation and limited natural resources. Not that I agree; I’m just repeating what I was told. I’m sorry, Zoe, but the NIH won’t touch your case with a ten-foot pole.”
Panic rose in her throat like a fist, choking her. “I can’t believe this! Don’t those people want to figure out how to live longer?”
“It’s not up to them, unfortunately.”
“This is ridiculous!” she moaned, and the childlike whininess of her own voice grated on her. She spoke again, more evenly. “There must be someone else I can see.”
“There is. I made some other calls for you, and there’s a prominent biogerontologist up at Columbia who can’t wait to meet you. I’ve taken the liberty to arrange the introduction for today at three, if that’s okay. His name is Dr. Mitch Grover.”
Two hours later, Zoe found herself in a small office whose walls were papered with gold-framed diplomas—a BS, MS, and two PhDs—as well as various certificates of honor and recognition. On the wide desk in front of her lay neatly organized stacks of reports, journals, and class syllabi next to a bronze paperweight statue of The Thinker. The real-life thinker behind the accomplishments was younger than she would have guessed, probably in his midthirties, which dazzled her all the more. So what if his smile carried an air of pretension? He shared her eagerness to unlock her body’s secrets. He was going to help her help Gramps, and that knowledge filled her with warmth.
Before she could stop herself, she had poured out her entire story to him, from her failed development right up through Dr. Carlyle’s shocking diagnosis and the NIH’s stunning rejection.
“I just can’t believe that something as insignificant as politics could come before real life,” she finished tearfully. “But it doesn’t matter now, does it?”
Dr. Grover handed her a tissue. “It can be very disruptive to mix science and politics,” he agreed. “We just want to get after the truth, and then they go and set all these restrictions based on some bureaucrat’s notion of what’s worth studying.”
“I don’t know how you can stand it.”
“I’m lucky enough to work in a private institution.” He smiled, showing a row of unnaturally white teeth. “I only work on projects that I find important, not the trend of the day. And you know what? It’s their loss, because we’re going to make history.”
“How soon can we get started?” she asked, nearly bouncing in her chair. “You’ll want to sequence my genome, right?”
“Definitely. But before we talk further I’ll need you to take a look at these consent forms.” He handed her a few sheets of paper. “To participate in scientific research, you’re required by law to agree to any possible risks and consequences, and to release Columbia from all liability . . .”
“Fine, fine.” She waved a hand, skimming the pages. “Where’s a pen?”
When he didn’t give her one right away, she looked up. He grimaced, seeming embarrassed on her behalf.
“I know this is annoying,” he said, “but I’ll need your parents to sign off. Because of your unusual case—your true biological age—you’re still technically a minor.”
“That’s bull. I can decide for myself.”
“I’m sorry, but I spoke with Columbia’s lawyers as soon as I knew you were coming. In order to move forward, we need your legal guardians’ written and verbal approval. Otherwise we could be exposing ourselves to a major lawsuit.”
She felt her stomach clench. “And verbal?” Written was one thing—she’d seen her parents’ signatures enough times to copy them blindfolded.
“Yes, I’ll need to speak with them both to confirm that they’ve read and understood the forms.”
“But—they’ll never agree! They don’t even know I’m here!” In a few stumbling words, she explained her father’s cynical position on the scientific establishment—along with his status as a high-powered attorney—and her mother’s hands-off concurrence.
“Oh,” he said. “I had no idea.”
“But I’m over eighteen!”
“I’m sorry. The lawyers . . .” He trailed off, looking crestfallen.
“So what are you saying? I can never escape my parents’ control?”
“I don’t know.” He paused, gritting his teeth. “I don’t see how we can move forward without this right now. In other circumstances, I might be willing to bend the rules a little, but . . .”
“But what?”
He eyed the open door behind her. She got up to close it.
“But what?” she repeated.
“I can’t really go into it with you.” He sighed. “Look, my department is going through some internal issues, and the last thing I want to do is stir up a controversy.”
“What about making history?” she said.
“Things are touchy around here right now. I can’t go into detail.” He fidgeted with a rubber band on the desk. “I can’t afford to get myself in trouble.”
She shook her head. “So that’s it, then? Just because of a stupid form?”
“I don’t expect you to understand. I’m sorry—this is very disappointing for me also. Extremely disappointing.”
She jumped to her feet, marched to the door, and swung it open. She could picture Gramps at home in bed, nursing his broken wrist and eagerly awaiting every crumb of the meeting. Now is when the magic starts, he’d predicted as she walked out the door.
She threw a final withering glance at Dr. Grover and steadied her voice, despite the anger and desperation trembling through her. “Thank you for your time, but I’ll find someone whose hands aren’t tied by fear. I don’t expect you to understand.”
Peeking out of her office, Natalie watched the defiant girl storm down the hallway. Her knobby knees brushed together with each stride, while her long braid flicked back and forth like a puppy’s tail. She looked no older than twelve or thirteen, but had Natalie overhead correctly? Mitch’s door had been open for most of their meeting, and if what the girl told him was true—
As Natalie debated whether to run after her, the elevator at the end of the hall opened and the girl stepped inside. In a split second, Natalie was on her feet, knocking back her chair, just as the doors slid closed. Catching the briefest glimpse of her face, Natalie saw that she was wiping her eyes, her thin shoulders heaving. Then she was gone.
Natalie’s sense of maternal anger overpowered all else. She strode into Mitch’s office, where he was sitting behind his desk, looking dazed.
/> “What the hell was that?” she demanded, stopping in the doorway. “Why did you make that poor girl leave crying? Who is she?”
Mitch shook his head. “Such a damn shame. Zoe Kincaid, possibly only the second person ever to have Syndrome X. And parents that want to keep her under a rock.”
“My God. Are you sure?”
“Ray Carlyle made the diagnosis, so I’m pretty damn sure.”
“My God. I never—Mitch, the chance of being born with that must be one in a trillion! Let alone to have it happen to someone during our lifetime.”
“I know. But what can I do? She says they’ll never consent, and I’m not going to be the one to cause problems, not with that lunatic Galileo on the loose and Helen probably dead, and”—he looked sharply at her—“a spy roaming the halls.”
“Don’t talk about her like that,” Natalie snapped with such ferocity that he winced. “And don’t you dare look at me that way.”
“What way?”
“Come on, Mitch.” Since yesterday, when Les Mahler had spent double the time questioning Natalie as everyone else, a tacit suspicion had sprung up around her like a foul mist. It was ludicrous. If she had any information that could help find Helen, the feds wouldn’t be able to keep her away.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered. He became bothered by a coffee stain on the desk and rubbed it with the heel of his hand.
“Anyway, lightning’s not going to strike in the same place twice.” Natalie plunked herself into his guest chair and leaned toward him. “Don’t you realize that girl is like a walking fountain of youth?”
His hand froze. He stared at her. “So you want me to get the school sued?”
“Do you really think that would happen? It’s not like you’d be hurting her. You just need a DNA sample to start the process.”
“I can’t, her father is a partner at Powell Kincaid.” His eyes narrowed to charcoal slits. “Oh, I get it. I get what this is all about. Well, aren’t you clever.”
“What are you talking about?”