by Kira Peikoff
He shook his head. “They not find it.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before? Why did you deny knowing anything?”
A frightened look came into his eyes as he mumbled a few sentences in Spanish.
Barrow interpreted. “He didn’t want to out her in case it gets her in trouble. But now he’s so worried that he doesn’t care. He just wants us to find her again.”
“Which we will,” Les said.
“But wait.” Barrow’s words came tumbling out. “The last time he talked to her before she left, she tried to convince him to offer his house as a safe house. He refused, but she told him he could change his mind anytime. All he’d need to do is display the secret sign of the followers outside, and then they would know they were welcome.”
“Which is?”
“A mailbox decorated with a painting of the sun.”
Les gave a disgusted snort. “What the hell does that mean? Galileo thinks he’s the center of the universe?”
“Who cares?” Barrow’s tone was slick with contempt. “We alert the post office right away, and the next thing we know—”
Les finished his thought with a smirk. “The leads will come pouring in.”
CHAPTER 26
Galileo’s return to the compound after a two-week absence changed the mood of the place, and Natalie could feel the difference in the air. His presence was like a hearth, restoring both warmth and energy to the isolated valley. People smiled at each other more and walked faster. When he was away, as Natalie had discovered, their morale was subject to the daily frustrations of experimentation. A communal misery sometimes united them more than any lofty shared goals.
But on the day that he came back—clean-shaven, in a linen suit, his tan faded and his wavy black hair growing out—the place buzzed. Beyond the speculation over his recent whereabouts was an eagerness to reunite with the man who made their passion projects possible. Natalie accepted that they celebrated him as the architect of the grand scheme in which they lived. They told her of his genuine interest, not just in their work, but in them as human beings—each with a family and a home left behind in order to join the compound. It was a choice to stay, a choice he never seemed to take for granted, and that was what endeared him to them the most.
She couldn’t help wanting to cut through the rejoicing with a few pointed questions. Yes, he was bold and brilliant and gracious. Yes, he had pulled off a feat of stunning complexity. But who was he? Why did he do it? And was there anyone on earth who really knew him?
No one could tell her the answers.
Over the past three weeks, between grueling days in her state-of-the-art lab, she had discovered that it was everyone’s favorite late-night topic. Even Theo and Zoe enjoyed staying up to discuss it, attending the nightly gathering in the quad, a kind of town square ritual that Natalie had come to anticipate. To her delight, they appeared to have overcome their initial awkwardness and become friends. While she literally burrowed down to work, they spent their days hiking through the mountains, reading to the hospital patients, and amusing themselves with the iPad’s reserve of television shows, books, movies, and music.
Three times a week, Galileo had arranged for Theo to study computer science with the tech guys in the Brain. Neither he nor Zoe had been to sleepaway camp before, which this place somewhat approximated, and Natalie could tell they relished their daily freedom. If Zoe was homesick, as any actual fourteen-year-old would be, she didn’t show it.
Every night, Natalie felt grateful for their newfound contentedness, even as she knew it couldn’t last. The long summer days would inevitably turn colder and darker, signaling the time for Theo to start college and Zoe to return home and embrace whatever future lay before her. Even if Natalie wouldn’t mind staying forever, engrossed in productive work, living alongside Helen and the others, she knew the kids could not. That was partly why she was rushing to run the experiments as quickly as possible.
The eight-person team had welcomed her with so much enthusiasm that she wondered if they were overcompensating, given the typically hostile competitiveness among scientists. But when they recounted for her all of their prior experiments, displaying the models and results, she understood that their reaction was genuine. Trying to find the master regulator gene was a random shot in the dark depths of an organism’s entire genome, like searching for a single piece of seaweed in an ocean. You needed someone like Zoe, with that gene fundamentally changed—akin to making the seaweed glow—and an enterprising specialist like herself to figure out where to look.
The less-than-humble truth was that she and Zoe were the best thing that could have happened to the project. But she made sure never to act like she knew it, or risk their goodwill becoming resentment. Her lifetime in labs had not yet solved biology’s biggest mystery, but it had schooled her in fragile egos.
As the days passed, the team’s chatter escalated about not only making some real leaps, but having a shot at the financial windfall that was the Archon Prize—the deadline approaching in just five and a half months. A lighthearted but constant reminder was pinned to the hallway outside their labs, three stories underground—an old-school calendar of cheeky quotes. The current month, July, featured one by the astrophysicist Neil deGrasse Tyson: The good thing about science is that it’s true whether or not you believe in it.
The date of December 31 was circled in red, no further comment needed.
On July 6, the date of Galileo’s return, the latest results from the karyotyping, microarray, and genetic sequencing of Zoe’s DNA came in.
Which was why, when Natalie found him unpacking in his apartment, her palms were clammy with dread.
He greeted her with a friendly but tired smile. “Hey, what can I do for you?”
She stepped inside, waving a hand to indicate that this was no trivial matter to be discussed in the doorway. Through his only window, the late afternoon sun poured a golden dust mote across the floor where his black suitcase lay, half emptied. Outside, she could see the foothills of the mountains clustered tight around them like sentries.
His apartment was smaller than she expected, the same cookie-cutter studio as everyone else’s. She wasn’t sure why that should surprise her. From the little she did know about him, it was clear that he didn’t care much for show. His only luxuries seemed to be the fine suits he wore when he came back, but while he was living on the compound, he spent his days in a tracksuit and sneakers.
Still wearing his fine navy suit, he knelt to flip his suitcase closed. Then he stood, giving her his full attention.
“What’s up?”
She wondered how many days he had gone without sleeping this time. In truth, his exhaustion was almost titillating. It was like a dent to the barrier of his professionalism, one notch closer to the real him.
“Tough commute?”
“You might say.”
She ignored the temptation to press him for details. “Going to stick around for a bit?”
He shrugged. “I’ve got a four-day turnaround.”
“Practically a vacation for you.” She smiled nervously, indulging her desire to delay the news. “I bet you can’t remember the last time you took one?”
A flash of what looked like grief crossed his face, so quickly that she barely processed it. Then he was shaking his head with a bemused smile. “Can’t say I do.”
“Too bad. Hey, you look different. Did you change something?”
His eyebrows raised as if to say, That the best you can do? She could tell his patience was dropping off by the second.
“I know!” she exclaimed. “It’s your nose! You took off the prosthetic.” When he’d come to pick her up from the jail, the bridge of his nose had been high and thin, with a mild bump. Now it was straight and sharp. It made his whole face look more proportional—more handsome.
“Yep. No cameras, no costume. This is me.”
“Is it, now?” She crossed her arms, her tone as light as she could manage.
&nbs
p; He eyed her before turning to hang up a black suit in the closet. “So what is it you’re afraid to tell me?”
I could ask you the same, she thought.
Instead she said, “We got the results of Zoe’s genetic analysis today.”
His head snapped around to face her. “And?”
“We found something. A weird variant. She has a microdeletion in region q13.3 of chromosome 22.”
“Could it be significant?”
“Well . . .” Her eyes roamed around his compact studio—his glass coffee table, black love seat, full-size bed made up with a neat white comforter. The room’s only picture was on the wooden nightstand: a framed four-by-six photo of a smiling young girl wearing a pink baseball cap. Oddly, her eyelashes were white, and her skin sagged around the corners of her mouth like an old lady’s. Natalie found herself transfixed by the image.
Galileo walked between her and the picture and lowered himself to the couch.
The sudden storm in his mood was alarming—his brows were pulled close together, his lips a tight line, his arms crossed over his chest.
“You were saying? The variant?”
“Sorry, yes.” She tore her gaze from the picture behind his shoulder and smiled sheepishly in apology—though for what, she didn’t know. “We also found sequence errors in a single gene called Shank3/ProSAP2 associated with an adjacent region that might be related to aging.”
He uncrossed his arms, leaning forward. “So what does that mean?”
She took his fascination as an invitation to sit beside him. “We might be onto something. If this is the right mutation, it could be the marker we need to locate the region that causes her developmental inertia. The actual genes in that region would have to be isolated and tested then to see if they’re the ones responsible for aging.”
“And if they are?”
“Then we run tests to silence the analogous genes in mice. And see if they stop aging.”
“Just what the world needs. A bunch of biologically immortal rodents.”
She chuckled. “I promise we’d keep them in their cages.”
A grin broke over his face, chasing away any lingering darkness. “I always expected you to make progress, but to have come up with a possible marker already, it’s—”
“No.” She held up a hand. “I wish it were that easy. But we can’t be sure that we’re starting with the right mutation unless . . .” She trailed off, biting her lip.
“Unless what?”
“Unless we test her family.”
He balked. “You’re telling me you need DNA samples from her parents?”
She held his gaze without flinching. “I know, it’s never going to happen. But that’s the only way to tell if this is really a weird variant worth investigating or if it’s just inherited—in which case, it’s not the one we’re after.”
“Christ. Even Zoe herself couldn’t ask them for that. Have you told her?”
“No, I wanted you to know first. The thing is, we really need it to move forward.”
“Can’t you just assume this mutation is unique to her and keep going?”
She lifted an eyebrow, rebuffing his wishful thinking.
He rubbed his temple as though it ached. “I know what you’re going to say.”
“What?”
“Assumptions are the death of science. Not to mention a fantastic waste of time.”
She gave him a half smile in spite of herself. “Pretty much.”
“You’re right. I may have an idea. But every time I go back out there, it’s a giant risk. I didn’t want to upset you, but I heard through the Network that whoever’s framing me has struck again. Now the feds’ pursuit is hotter than ever. That guy at the top, he’s not going to let us get away from him.”
“Oh no.” Natalie stared at the solemn line of his mouth, realizing how swiftly she had pushed the worry from her mind upon their arrival—not that it made the threat any less real.
“What can you do?” she asked, trying to keep her voice even to match his.
“I’ve got to be more careful than ever, since my little vacation is up.”
“Already?”
“I promised you all the supplies you’d need, didn’t I?”
“Within reason—not if it means getting yourself caught—”
By way of answer, he strode back to his closet and lifted the suit he had hung up minutes before. “I leave tonight.”
CHAPTER 27
Twenty days after Zoe’s disappearance, at a quarter past seven in the evening, Stephen Kincaid heard a knock at his door. His wife was upstairs taking a shower and he was in the den, staring at the distraction of the television without really seeing it.
He rose to answer it, not giving much thought to who could be calling. Probably a neighbor with another fruit basket, another reminder of the most agonizing event of his life. Not that he needed reminding. In his head on a constant loop played every interaction with his daughter leading up to That Morning, as he thought of it.
Where had he gone wrong? By trying to protect her, had he forced her away? There was no doubt in his mind that if he had been more accepting of her choices, she would be here today. At home, safe, where she belonged. But she was as stubborn and determined as he had raised her to be. Since she was a kindergartner learning to count, she had always prided herself on seeing challenges through. He should have known she wasn’t about to quit this time.
Overwhelmed with a wave of guilt, he checked the peephole. On the stoop standing before him was a tall, well-built stranger in his fifties or sixties, wearing a crisp black suit and tie, with a briefcase slung over his shoulder. His dark hair was wavy and a smattering of stubble covered his chin. His blue eyes seemed somber.
Stephen opened the door. “What can I do for you?”
“Mr. Kincaid?”
“Yes. And you are?”
“Jonathan Kelp, FBI.” He opened his jacket to reveal a gold badge with the familiar open-winged eagle. “I’m on the forensics team in the STB reporting to Bud Pinter and Les Mahler, and I’ve been sent to tell you about a possible new development in your daughter’s case.”
“What?” Stephen’s heart started to hammer. “Why hasn’t anyone called me?”
“This just happened today, sir. My bosses had me come in person because we’re going to need your cooperation. I’ll explain. Can I come in?”
“Of course.” A nauseating dread cooled his skin as they walked inside. Catastrophic visions pummeled him—Zoe’s body found, covered in blood, her vital organs removed. His baby’s precious body. It was not so long ago, the day that her downy head could fit in his palm.
Kelp was taking a seat on the couch when Stephen clutched his arm, breathing hard.
“Just tell me, is she alive?”
They locked eyes. The other man’s gaze was serious, his tone sincere. “We believe so.”
“But you don’t know for sure?”
“We got a tip today from a woman at a diner in Omaha, Nebraska, who thinks she recognized Zoe there this afternoon.”
He emitted a cry. “Pam!” he hollered. “Pam, hurry!”
His wife rushed to the landing and down the stairs, a blue towel wrapped around her head, nearly tripping over her long black nightgown. “What is it, what’s wrong?”
He gestured to their visitor, too overcome to speak. Kelp stood and introduced himself, then delivered the news. Her hand flew to her mouth, tears springing to her eyes.
“Who was she with?” Stephen demanded. “How did she seem?”
“If it was really her,” Kelp said. “We don’t know yet, but we’re taking it seriously. According to the witness, she looked healthy and happy. She was with an older dark-haired woman.”
Stephen clenched his fists. “Natalie Roy?”
“That’s our guess. But by the time the witness connected their faces to the news, they had already left. The police have dusted their booth for fingerprints and hair and other biological markers, but to confirm th
at it was really her, we need to test both of your DNA for a match.”
“Of course!” Pam exclaimed, almost jumping from foot to foot. “How? When?”
“Now.” Kelp leaned over to open the briefcase at his feet and removed two white plastic kits with what looked like toothbrushes and a tube inside. He handed one to each of them. “All you have to do is scrape the inside of your cheek with these swab collectors. Scrape hard for about sixty seconds, so we get enough DNA. Otherwise it could mean a delay.”
They took the kits and pulled out the brushes. Stephen inserted its tough bristles into his mouth and scrubbed, rubbing his cheek raw. Pam did the same, wincing. She had always been ticklish.
“That’s good,” Kelp said after a minute. “That’s enough.”
They handed him the scrapers, now coated with saliva. He unscrewed the caps on the two plastic tubes and plunged in the bristly heads, ejecting them so that they released into the clear liquid.
“This solution prevents bacteria growth,” Kelp explained. “But your specimens won’t be in here long. We’ll test them right away and get back to you.”
He stood to leave, his expression still grave. “Are there any other family members nearby to test? I recall a grandfather? It helps for ensuring accuracy.”
Stephen exchanged a look with his wife. Do you want to explain?
She turned to Kelp. “Well, there was my father, but . . . but he doesn’t live with us anymore.”
“He had some cell phone contact with that woman,” Stephen said, “prior to her arrest. And then he lied to us about the note Zoe left him. We couldn’t trust him after that.”
“Even though he denies having a part in it,” Pam added. “But he moved out anyway. My husband and he just weren’t getting along.”
“I see. Do you know where he went?”
She shook her head, crestfallen. “We haven’t heard from him since.”
“Oh.” Kelp faltered, seeming unsure how to respond.
“Well, thank you,” Stephen said, extending his hand like a bridge over the awkward pause. “We appreciate your coming all the way here from . . . from—”