Susan imagined Sammy had emerged from her apartment, headed for the incinerator, leaving the children inside, hopefully napping. Fleeing the Calvins’ apartment, the killers must have run into her. Susan could imagine the young mother glancing toward them to apologize, realizing their strangeness, perhaps even screaming, before a well-placed gunshot ended her life. Susan could not help putting herself in Sammy’s place—the sudden terror, the agony of a bullet tearing through her skull, then darkness as she collapsed to the ground. She hoped only that the children had remained inside, blissfully sleeping, unaware of what had happened until neighbors or police carried them safely, blindly past the gore.
Without her scream or, perhaps, the thud of her body, the police might not have known about John Calvin until after Susan returned home and discovered his body. By then, there would have been no chance of catching the murderers; the trail would have grown cold.
Susan could not get the same vivid picture of her father’s end as she did of Sammy Cottrell’s. There was just too much she did not know, could not know, until after the full investigation. She wondered why understanding his last moments meant so much to her. Did it really matter whether he spent them battling his attackers or falling calmly and silently to their attack, whether he attempted to follow their demands or oppose them, whether he even saw it coming? Was it better to die oblivious or to know your attackers and their motives? Thus far, she had only hoped he had not suffered. Now she needed to know so much more.
The police had warned Susan about that. They had made it distinctly clear that days or weeks might pass before they delivered any more information to her. They promised they would tell her as soon as they knew anything, that calling sooner would only frustrate everyone.
Susan opened one eye a slit to glance at her Vox again. It was now 4:36, only thirteen minutes since she had last looked. She sat up, eyes still tightly closed, careful not to awaken Kendall. She needed to know something, anything, and, if the police would not tell her, perhaps she could learn something from Lawrence Robertson.
Susan slipped from the bedroom into Kendall’s tiny living room. She already knew her way around the familiar and simple décor, and dodged a coffee table by memory to flop into the well-worn checkered armchair. She considered sending a text, then remembered how he had left her hanging, and placed the call instead. He did not deserve the luxury of a leisurely reply.
To her surprise, and despite the hour, Lawrence answered immediately. “Susan?”
“This is Susan,” she confirmed. “Did you expect someone else to call you from my Vox?”
There was a catch in Lawrence’s voice. “Are you…alone?”
“Not completely,” Susan admitted. “I’m at a friend’s house, but he’s asleep in the other room.”
“Susan,” Lawrence said. “Are you sure you’re safe?”
Susan wanted to shout, “Of course I’m not sure. My father was murdered in our secure apartment in the middle of the day. How can I ever be sure of anything again?”
Lawrence’s voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “I’m so sorry. We’re so sorry, Susan.” She finally recognized the oddity in his voice and timbre. He, too, had spent a long time crying.
“What was he doing home in the middle of the afternoon?” Susan tried not to sound accusatory, but she doubted she wholly managed to hide her anger. He should not have been home. He loved his job; he was never home on weekdays, not even on the Fourth of July. He had never considered any day a holiday unless Susan also had it off, which was rare.
Lawrence sighed. “It was his idea, Susan. We tried to talk him out of it.”
“Why?” Though soft, it was a demand. Susan did not specify whether she wanted to know why her father left or why they tried to stop him. She needed both answers.
Lawrence complied. “We got a tip, not particularly reliable, but we took it seriously. We always take threats seriously. John insisted on going home, packing some things, then personally picking you up when you finished work.”
Susan assumed Lawrence meant by cab, as they did not own a car.
“We suggested staying together in a safe place or getting a police escort, but he was sure no one would try anything in broad daylight.”
Susan wondered aloud, “Was it a threat against USR? Or against my father specifically?”
Lawrence Robertson cleared his throat. She could tell he did not want to answer. “We had reason to believe John was the target.”
“How?” A more significant question arose, and Susan asked it without waiting for an answer to the first. “Why?”
The founder of U.S. Robots and Mechanical Men went very quiet.
“How and why?” Susan repeated.
“We don’t know.”
It was a lie, and Susan knew it. She also dared not press too hard. Lawrence Robertson did not have to tell her anything, and if she challenged him, she might lose the little information she could coax from him. Quite possibly, he did not want to relay certain details until he had her in a more secure location. “Dr. Robertson…”
He cleared his throat.
“Lawrence,” Susan substituted, guessing he was about to remind her he preferred a first-name basis with his best friend’s grown daughter. Coming across as an equal might also encourage him to speak more freely. “Am I in any danger?”
“We don’t know,” Lawrence admitted. “They obviously can’t use you to get to him anymore, so that should get you off the hook. Unless…”
Lawrence Robertson could not have trailed into silence at a more frightening time. “Unless,” Susan repeated.
“Unless we’re reading this completely wrong.” Lawrence finished quickly, sounding frustrated. “Susan, we just can’t be sure. It’s best for you to lay low, stay safe. If you can get police protection, so much the better. If you can’t, get out of the city. Find a relative, a friend, a loved one—”
Susan interrupted, suddenly angry. “A relative? They’re all dead. A loved one? Dead, too. My mother, my father, Remington, my grandmother.”
“Your grandmother died from cancer.”
“She’s still dead,” Susan pointed out. “The operative state for anyone who loves me is dead.”
“I love you,” Lawrence pointed out.
“Not enough, apparently,” Susan said sullenly. “Or you’d be dead.”
“Snap out of it,” Lawrence ordered. “Your life may be in serious danger. You need to find a safe place to go, to hide. It’s better you don’t tell anyone where you’re going, not even me. Keep contact to a minimum. You never know who can trace what.”
Susan would have none of it. She was not going to cower in a dark hole of ignorance while her father’s murder remained unsolved and utterly senseless. “Now hear this, Dr. Lawrence Robertson. My father didn’t raise a coward. I’m not going to let a thug stop me from completing my residency. I’m staying right here in Manhattan. And if you don’t want to know where I am, hide your own damned self!”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Lawrence said in an oddly reassuring voice.
It took Susan a moment to realize his intentions. He was trying to let her know he would be nearby if she needed him. That assuaged much of her rage, and she suddenly felt drained and tired. “Lawrence, who killed my father? Was it the Society for Humanity?” The name of the organization tasted bitter on her tongue. She wanted to spit it out, to stomp on it.
“We believe so, and that’s what we told the police when they questioned us.”
Susan appreciated that. When patients injected with nanorobots had detonated bombs in the city, he had begged her to keep the information from law enforcement for a time. Susan had spent many hours considering whether involving law enforcement earlier might have saved the lives of Remington and a mall security guard. It had taken a lot of thought, and even more soul-searching, to realize the request had saved many more lives in the long run. Lawrence could not have anticipated Remington flinging himself into harm’s way to save others.
&nb
sp; “I want you to know when I asked you to erase our conversation, I wasn’t hiding anything from the police. I just didn’t want anyone tracing and connecting the two of us, at least until we have a better idea what we’re facing.”
“And now?” Susan pointed out. “We’re connected again.”
“If you’re intent on staying in Manhattan, some association is necessary. At the least, it’s important for me to know you’re safe. However, I plan to erase any communications on my end so they can’t find you through me.” Lawrence did not request the same security for himself from her. “I’d appreciate knowing any information the police pass on to you.”
“And vice versa,” Susan insisted.
“And vice versa,” Lawrence agreed. “Stay safe, Susan. Please.”
“I’ll try. And you, too, Lawrence. You, too.” With that, Susan cut off the connection and erased the call. Wearily, she leaned into the plush contours of the armchair and succumbed to exhaustion.
Susan awakened sprawled across the chair, her eyes less swollen and no longer painful. A heavy shade covered the terrace door, preventing any penetration of light directly into the living room, although tendrils of sunlight oozed from the bedroom, allowing her to easily make out the gray lumps of furniture. She glanced at her Vox to find it later than she expected: 10:34 a.m. Susan rose and pulled open the drapes, allowing light to flood the otherwise dreary room.
In front of the checkered armchair in which Susan had slept, the coffee table held her personal palm-pross with a square, orange sticky note on the cover, a vase of plastic daisies, and a large figurine of a monkey. Shelves held an entertainment system and an assortment of VFDs: movies, games, shows, and novels.
A sofa took up most of the left wall space, with paintings and pictures above it. Between the overhead spot-lamps in the ceiling dangled a mobile with ceramic circus clowns in various positions ranging from the merely goofy to the bizarre, most with rust-colored hair and bulbous scarlet noses, a perfect complement to Kendall’s quirky humor. Smaller simian figurines sat in most of the empty shelf spaces, including a trio in the classic “see no evil, hear no evil, say no evil” positions, except the first was peeking through his fingers over the words “I see you,” the second had hands cupped behind his ears with the caption “I hear you,” while the third was using his hands to form a makeshift megaphone and shouting, “I’m going to tell!”
The one oddity of the scene finally penetrated Susan’s sleepy, overactive brain. She returned her attention to the sticky note, pulling it off her palm-pross to read it: “Went to work. If you can find anything resembling food, help yourself. Call if you need anything.” It was signed KS.
Susan stared at the note longer than necessary, trying to read things in it that did not exist. Despite their intimacy the previous night, nothing seemed to have changed. He had not suddenly started referring to her as “darling” or, worse, “snugglebear” or “snooky-ookums.” Knowing Kendall, he was probably waiting to do so until the right moment for maximum hilarity for everyone around them. In the heat of the moment, at her most vulnerable and personal, Susan had not considered the effect a failed relationship might have on their friendship.
Susan was glad Kendall was not privy to her conversations with Lawrence Robertson. Her fellow resident would never have left her alone had he known she might be in any danger. As much as she had appreciated a friendly shoulder the previous night, she needed some time to herself to sort out her future. One thing she knew for certain: She was not going to lounge around Kendall’s apartment, mooning over her loss, feeling sorry for herself, and waiting for the police to feed her crumbs of information. After a quick shower, some fresh clothes she had grabbed from home, and a bite to eat, she headed for Manhattan Hasbro Hospital to visit her father at the morgue.
Susan had visited the Pathology Unit many times at the various hospitals serving Thomas Jefferson Medical School, usually to examine tumor or marrow cells from a patient not yet diagnosed. She had even attended a few autopsies of patients who died while under the care of fellow medical students and residents and even, once, under her care. She vividly remembered the overwhelming odors of formaldehyde and other preservatives, the chill bite of the refrigerated room, and the echo of voices and whispers from her colleagues. Her patient had died from overwhelming infection after a marrow transplant intended to rescue him from the aggressive chemotherapy necessary to extinguish an osteosarcoma, a tumor of the thighbone.
Susan could never get the image of his face out of her mind. He looked peaceful enough, his eyes closed, his features slack, his limbs still at his sides. The endotracheal tube, cut short, still jutted from his lips, and an intravenous central line catheter remained taped to his chest, reminders that his was not a natural death at home. It seemed impossible she had chatted with him the previous day, discussing his favorite video game and laughing over a well-meaning, colorful get-well card in which his younger sister had declared him a “sweat bother she luffed.”
When the pathologist had made the first incision, Susan found herself sobbing against her will, unable to banish memories of the nights on call she had spent with him, the days of agony she had suffered with his family, the terrible decisions she had presented and faced with them all together. They had known the transplant option was a long shot, but the possibility of a permanent cure seemed worth risking several months of a slow and withering death. She had always wondered if they regretted losing those last several weeks together when the end had come so quickly, all a horrible disaster.
Susan knew where to find the Manhattan Hasbro Pathology laboratory, the usual well-camouflaged first-floor location. She had passed it many times in her travels between units, barely acknowledging its existence as she flew past it on another mission. She knew it had separate areas for tissue and cell examination, bodies headed for mortuaries, and those requiring full or partial autopsies before dispatch. Anyone who died under suspicious circumstances would require a full autopsy, and murder certainly qualified as suspicious circumstances.
As boring and innocuous as the staff entrance appeared, Susan knew there must also be a more dignified door for families of the deceased. She did not bother to look for it. She knew too much of the process to be lulled by somber, tasteful décor. She had learned to react to death with clinical detachment, no longer amazed by the way anything living could go from a breathing, vibrant individual to a lifeless shell in an instant. Susan had even once seen a woman look the attending physician in the eye, squeeze his hand, and state, “I’m going to die now,” immediately fulfilling her pronouncement with astonishing accuracy.
Susan had no idea whether she could maintain her professional composure at the sight of her father lying cold on a mortuary trolley beside an electric reciprocating saw, let alone the other trappings of an autopsy. She had sobbed unabashedly at Remington’s funeral, but she had not had to glimpse him through a mantle of clinical formality, as a pathology specimen prepped to have every cavity of his body probed and examined. There she had played the appropriate role of mourner. Here she would have to confront the situation as a doctor, not a daughter, or she had no business using the staff entrance and areas.
Uncertain if she could handle the situation, Susan steeled her features, seized the knob, and turned it. The door opened onto a hallway. There was no desk or receptionist, this being a part of the hospital that did not anticipate visitors, at least not through this particular entrance. A sign on the wall pointed out the pathology laboratory to her left. The right hallway led to the mortuary and autopsy area. Straight ahead, a sign declared, led to the family and waiting areas. Susan turned right.
The hallway opened onto an enormous unisex lavatory area, with showers, lockers, changing nooks, and storage bins filled with disposable gowns, aprons, booties, and masks. Susan heard a distant toilet flush, but it otherwise looked empty. She donned the appropriate gear, leaving the mask dangling from her neck in case she blundered into an ongoing autopsy.
Footsteps
dampened by the paper booties, Susan moved almost soundlessly into the only other exit from the restroom, a storage area containing empty stainless-steel gurneys polished to a reflective sheen and multiple cabinets that surely contained the tools of the pathology trade. There were three additional exits from the room, none of them labeled. The first door was noticeably colder than air temperature, which suggested she had found the morgue. Susan pushed the door open into a room with a sloping concrete floor and an enormous drain in the center. Plastic handles jutted from three of the four tiled walls, and lines between the tiles revealed them as drawers that could easily accommodate multiple bodies. Every handle had three rings inset over it, and plastic tags dangled from several of these.
High above where the cabinets clearly ended, spacious windows admitted natural light, though Susan suspected vision could travel only one way. No hospital would allow passersby to look into any pathology area. The fourth wall held a sink and multiple built-in cabinets for object storage. A well-tiled hole allowed the passage of samples through it, presumably into the middle room, which would contain microscopes and chemicals for examining and preserving bits of viscera, skin, and organs. In the ceiling, lights and colossal fans lay recessed behind plates of plastic to allow for easy cleaning.
In the center of the room sat two tables, each over seven feet long and four feet wide, with drainage grooves, mounted spotlights, embedded scales, and a spigot. No bodies currently lay open on either table. Aside from a couple of deeply entrenched stains, they both gleamed to a shimmer that easily reflected Susan’s face.
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