by Kira Peikoff
“Make sure you know where she is at all times, no matter what. Don’t let her leave without knowing exactly where she’s going.”
A deep sigh came over the line. “But she’s very strong willed and doesn’t get scared easily. Even if we tell her about this, she might not take it seriously.”
“Try to get her to understand the danger she’s in. The Network is viciously efficient: we haven’t been able to recover a single victim out of the twenty-seven, except for one they killed and left behind.”
“Jesus.”
“In the meantime, we’re working around the clock to infiltrate it. I’ll update you if and when I have news to share.”
“Is Natalie Roy . . . Oh my—could she have been recruiting Zoe . . . ?”
“That’s what we’re working to find out. But either way, we can rest a little easier knowing she’s in jail.”
“Thank you. Thank you so much for telling me.”
“No problem. We just want your little girl to stay safe.”
Les didn’t add the rest of his thought: from science. Not only was Zoe Kincaid in danger—she was a danger. If Natalie Roy or someone similar from the Network actually did get to plumb the depths of her unique DNA, the result could be disastrous: a fundamental manipulation of the human line that would alter the species forever after. If ageless freaks were to dominate the planet, then what? There’d be a population explosion leading to a catastrophic lack of resources. Natural death was desirable—not only that, it was necessary. Death wasn’t up to individuals to control—only to submit to when their time came. God help everyone if some lunatics in the Network tried to change that.
Now that Natalie was out of the way, the extent of her menace to society was a moot point. After Galileo, it was Zoe Kincaid who worried him the most.
New York City
2:00 P.M.
The Metropolitan Correctional Center was a scab upon downtown New York City, a squat building the color of grime. Inside, the air reeked of hopelessness. Natalie’s holding cell was home to a family of cockroaches that scooted around the dirty floor, indifferent to human disgust. In adjacent cells, other women’s moans echoed like a howling wind. Natalie sat on a ragged cot hugging her knees to her chest, as if compressing her body would allow her to be less than fully present.
Her booking and arraignment had passed in a blur—in less than twenty-four hours, she’d been photographed and fingerprinted, and had appeared before a judge to enter her plea of not guilty. He was notoriously harsh on any charges involving children, so he set her bail impossibly high for her to post at $250,000. With a smirk, he had announced the date for her preliminary hearing—two months away—and struck his gavel, calling “Next!” without hesitation.
Now she was wearing a brown jumpsuit, devoid of all possessions, identity, and purpose—and of her son. She rocked back and forth on her heels, softly muttering his name, looking up every once in a while as if an escape path might materialize in her seven-by-nine-foot cell. But the walls were solid cement, the black bars as hard as bone. Wan daylight eked through a slight rectangular window. Its glass seemed designed to filter out radiance and warmth.
Her life was ruined. Her dreams of ceaseless toil in the lab, unraveling the mystery of aging one DNA strand at a time, were over. Part of her wondered if this was all just a mistake, if she would be released when the authorities realized Zoe wasn’t truly a child. That she and Natalie had the luck to coexist on the same planet was staggering. That they were now being forced apart—it was like finding two halves of a ripped lottery ticket and burning both.
A uniformed guard strode past her and she cried out for his attention. She was cold, hungry, thirsty—and helpless. But he walked past, barely shooting her a glance. Across the way, in a cell facing hers, a stocky female prisoner snickered.
“Help,” the other woman mimicked in a high-pitched tone. “Ain’t one gonna help your ass here.”
Natalie turned her face to the wall to avoid eye contact.
Instead of her own plight, she thought of Zoe’s. Poor Zoe—to be treated as a second-class citizen, completely denied the voice she thought she had. Natalie wondered how she was coping with the indignity, and with her dashed hopes. As for her own, nothing could salvage them. If she thought she was a pariah after one transient newspaper article, then serving jail time was like a tattoo on her face. When she got out, she would be relegated to the blackest of blacklists. Never again being able to look through a microscope was akin to a musician going deaf overnight. Yet it was a risk she had chosen to take, and she would suffer the consequences, however unfair they were.
But Theo had not chosen his grief. What would happen to him without her? Not just practically and financially, but emotionally? He was staying at a friend’s house in the short-term, until a more permanent solution could be found. It was harrowing to accept that there was nothing she could do to help him, the baby she had cradled, the one person for whom she would gladly lay down her life. And she was worse than powerless—she was the perpetrator of his agony.
He had not come to see her yet, and she was both dreading and craving their initial visit. Even if he were enraged, she would be able to drink in the sight of his face. She would preserve his image in her mind with all the care of a fine curator, examining every detail to keep the memory intact. One glance, she felt, could sustain her for a year.
And after that?
Closing her eyes, she lay down on the rigid mattress and tried to make sense of how one bad week could annihilate everything she held dear.
“Dr. Carlyle,” Zoe nearly shouted into the phone. She was sitting alone in her bedroom with the door closed, while outside a gaggle of reporters huddled on the doorstep. News of the previous night’s arrest had traveled from the police blotter to the local media, who were salivating for firsthand details of the “abduction.” To the tabloids, Zoe was learning, people fell into only two categories, victims and villains. When both seemed clear-cut, the story fit the template of sensationalism to perfection.
“Dr. Carlyle,” Zoe repeated. “Are you there?”
“Yes, are you okay? I heard—”
“Please, I’m fine. I chose to go. But no one will listen to me, and now Natalie’s in jail! What can we do?”
There was a pause. “I’m sorry. There’s not much anyone can do at this point.”
She paced over her sheepskin rug. “What if you tell everyone I’m not really a child?”
“I—I can’t afford to get in the middle, Zoe. I understand that you feel older, but it’s up to the courts to decide whether and when you can become your own guardian.”
“But you know that could take years! You’re just going to let Natalie rot in jail for a crime she didn’t commit? Plus she’s the only person who might be able to help my grandfather!”
“I’m sorry.” He sounded crushed. “I really am.”
“You can’t just give up. That’s not good enough. I’m telling you, she’s innocent. They might listen to you and let her go.”
“I’m afraid the system doesn’t work like that. Even if I agreed to testify, the trial could take a long time. And there’s no guarantee she’ll be exonerated.”
Zoe racked her brain for a galvanizing reply, but realized he was right; they were backed against a corner as tight as Natalie’s cell. “So that’s it, then. It’s just over? No last resort, no nothing?”
“Well.” He cleared his throat. “Zoe, you’re a brave girl, I know that. The question is how brave.”
“What are you talking about?”
“There is still one thing that could be done.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so!”
He paused. “Have you heard of the Network?”
She stopped midskip across the room. “You mean, the crazy group my dad says is out to kill me?”
“We’re not killers,” he said. “Far from it.”
CHAPTER 12
New York City
Four days later: Tuesday, June 18,
8:30 A.M.
Natalie awoke to the screech of her bars swinging open. A prison guard’s leathery face peered down at her, the closest she’d come to human contact all weekend. He usually just slid her half-edible meals through a flap and marched away.
“What’s going on?” she murmured, raising herself onto her elbows.
“Bail was posted. You’re free to go.”
She stared up at him, dumbfounded. His formidable figure stood in silhouette at the entry to her cell. “What?”
“You heard me.” The hint of a smile tugged at his lips, but his eyes remained stoic. “Get out of here. Go.”
“I—I don’t understand,” she stammered. “I don’t have the cash—who?”
“Said his name was Mr. Roy. Your ex-husband?”
“Nick?”
“Yeah, that was it.”
She shot upright, swinging her legs out of bed. “But I haven’t heard from him in a decade!” Once he remarried and started another family, he had stopped sending Theo birthday cards. After that, she’d wanted nothing to do with him or his money, even if he was a successful venture capitalist. “How would he even know what happened?”
The guard shrugged. “Maybe he saw the papers. Here’s your stuff.” He handed her a plastic bag containing the cashmere sweater, jeans, and low-slung heels she’d been wearing the night of her arrest, as well as her purse with her wallet, phone, and keys. “I’ll leave, you get changed, then I’ll show you out. He’s waiting for you.”
“He’s here?” Her mouth hung open as she tried to picture what Nick might look like. Would his curly blond hair be receding? Would he still be slender and athletic, or paunchy around the middle?
“Out front,” the guard said. “Hurry up. I don’t got all day.”
He stepped out, and she ripped off her jumpsuit and slipped into her soft, familiar clothes. The scent of her gardenia perfume still lingered on them and reminded her of Helen. Natalie had never missed her friend more.
The guard was waiting as promised when she stepped through the bars. With a smile, she handed him her barely touched breakfast of peanut butter on toast, picturing the lox and bagels she would never take for granted again.
“It’s all yours,” she joked.
“Ha.” He patted the EpiPen in his front pocket. “I don’t do nuts. But for prison food, it don’t look half bad.”
“Can’t say I’m going to miss it.”
They walked down the corridor to jeers and catcalls of the incarcerated women whose cells lined the long stretch. Natalie kept her head down until they turned the corner into an administrative holding area, and through that, to the heavily watched lobby. Cameras were stationed in all corners. Burly security officers stood by the door, eyeing her. Fresh air was just steps away. She was practically bursting to run out, but waited for the guard to clear her as he entered notes into a computer.
He turned to her and announced what sounded like a script. “You’re to return to court for your hearing date on August seventh, and on condition of release, you’re to have zero contact with the victim. Failure to comply will lead to your immediate arrest.”
She nodded vigorously.
“Okay, then you’re free to go. But just so you know, some reporters are waiting to hound you out there. News travels fast.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you.”
She spun around and charged through the metal detector, out the wide double doors, and into the windy early morning, with the guard trailing behind her. Five strangers swarmed her and thrust black recorders into her face, cameras clicking.
“Tell us why you did it.”
“Do you regret it?”
“Do you think you deserved to get caught?”
She stumbled backward, waving them away, but they continued to buzz around her, snapping pictures and yelling.
“What would you want to say to Zoe’s parents?”
“No comment,” she muttered. “No comment.”
They showed no signs of backing off, so she elbowed through the cluster to the edge of the sidewalk. Cars whizzed by on the busy street, honking, and well-dressed men and women walked to work clutching briefcases, oblivious to the dark world just out of their sight. The racket of voices and traffic thudded against Natalie’s eardrums, sensory overload after days locked in a cell. She glanced upward, breathing in deeply. The sun was inching up into the sky—the sky!—and at first, she didn’t notice the tall bearded man standing a few feet away, watching her.
A man she had never seen in her life. He was wearing aviator sunglasses and a baseball cap over short black hair. His plain gray T-shirt and faded blue jeans revealed a tanned, muscular physique, but his age was impossible to tell. He could have been thirty-five or sixty.
He approached her and smiled as if they were sharing a private joke. The reporters noticed him, and ceased shouting to watch her reaction.
“Natalie!” he exclaimed. “I know you weren’t expecting me, but when I saw on the news that you were in trouble, I had to come.”
She froze, too confused to move. The reporters waited. He reached out his arms and enveloped her in a hug before she could say a word.
“Play along,” he whispered in her ear. “I’ve come to get you out of here.”
He pulled back and she suppressed a gasp. Up close, she noticed the faint blending makeup around a prosthetic nose masking his own.
“I’ve thought about you and Theo every day,” he said. “I picked him up. He’s waiting in the car.”
“He is?” She saw that a blue sedan with tinted windows was parked along the curb.
“Yes, now let’s get you home.” He took her hand, but her feet remained planted. “I know I have a lot of apologizing to do, but I’ve missed you both more than you can imagine,” he said. “Won’t you give me the chance?” A strange urgency in his voice prompted her to respond, before she’d had a chance to think.
“Oh, Nick,” she said, the lie sounding shrill to her ears. “I’ve missed you, too.”
He kissed her hand and led her to the car, as the reporters snapped pictures. Like a gentleman, he opened the front passenger door. With no time to stop and ask the torrent of questions clamoring for release, she climbed inside. One question rose above all else. She twirled around to inspect the backseat.
Theo was there.
He was not alone.
PART 2
The only free road, the Underground Railroad,
is owned and managed by the Vigilant
Committee. They have tunneled under the
whole breadth of the land.
—HENRY DAVID THOREAU
CHAPTER 13
Washington, D.C.
8:30 A.M.
The call came while Les was finishing his six-mile run on the treadmill at the local gym. Without slowing, he plucked his cell phone from the plastic holder and eyed the number. It was a 212 area code. New York City. He wiped the sweat off his ear.
“This is Les.”
“Les? Stephen Kincaid.” The words tumbled out as if they couldn’t be spoken fast enough. “Zoe’s father. We talked last week?”
“Of course.” Les continued to jog, pumping his free arm. “What can I do for you?”
“She’s—she’s disappeared. We woke up this morning and she was gone, her backpack was gone. We’ve already called the police. Please, you have to do something!”
Les jabbed the treadmill’s emergency stop button and slid backward off the machine.
“You weren’t supposed to let her out of your sight!”
“She must have left in the middle of the night—What could we do? Lock her up?”
“You said she’s very independent, right? Could she have run away on her own?”
An irritated sigh came over the line. “I can’t believe she wouldn’t tell anyone, not even her grandfather. They’re bonded at the hip.”
“And he doesn’t know anything?”
“That’s what he says, but he’s a bit of a rebel, my father-
in-law. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had something to do with this.” Les heard a woman’s angry shout in the background. “Sorry, my wife thinks I’m just being paran—”
“Hello? Les?” interrupted a panicked female voice. “It’s Pam. Is there anything you can do to help us?”
“Everything in my power.” He was having trouble keeping his voice even. “But first we have to try to rule out the most serious scenario.”
“The Network? Do you really think they could have—?”
Les clenched his teeth. “I’m afraid it’s possible.”
Her shriek pierced his eardrum. He glanced around, searching for privacy. The joggers on the treadmills were plugged into their headphones, paying him no attention.
“Listen to me. I need you to stay calm while I look into this. I’ll call you when I know more.”
As they hung up, snatches of images bombarded him—Zoe Kincaid’s cherubic face, the splashy headlines that would be all over this story if she wasn’t found stat, the map of the U.S. on his wall, with its twenty-seven red pushpins from coast to coast, where each prior victim had vanished. Still twenty-seven, he thought. No more than twenty-seven.
For the rest of the morning, he waited in dread, going in a blur from the gym to his office, hoping that any second Stephen would call back to say she had come home. No call came. Finally, just after 11:00 A.M., the mail arrived. He quickly scanned the pile of letters, memos, packages. And then he saw it—a postcard of the Earth revolving around the sun. On the back was Zoe’s name, the same cryptic message—And yet again it moves—and Galileo’s bold signature. It was postmarked from D.C. yesterday, when she was still safe at home—which meant her abduction had been carefully planned and executed. There was no telling where she was now.
The next moment the phone was in his hand, Stephen Kincaid on the line.
“Don’t move,” he instructed. “I’m getting on the next flight to New York.”
This day was getting worse by the hour. When his flight landed, Les received a message from Benjamin Barrow at the committee with more bad news—Natalie Roy had been bailed out of jail, and now she and her teenage son were nowhere to be found. A mystery man had posted every last penny of her $250,000 bail, which the FBI had already traced to an offshore Cayman Islands account in the name of G.I. Joe—an insult and a mockery, in Les’s opinion. Exactly the kind of stunt the Network prided itself on.