I scrunched up my nose. “Didn’t you already think that?”
“Well, there was always the concern that we created a facsimile—a lookalike, if you will.” Dr. Franks licked his lips. “But it looks like I’ve regenerated Takuma Sato himself.”
I shrank away from Dr. Franks, who was eyeing the Japanese man like a starving man might eye a piece of prime rib.
“Let’s get started, Jackson,” he said into the nearby intercom. Over his shoulder, he added, “And since you’re already here, you might as well stay to observe.”
“Oh, don’t you worry,” Mama said, thumping him on the back. “We won’t be goin’ anywhere.”
One of the assistants, likely Jackson, sat down at the same table. “Please state your name for the record.”
Another assistant leaned over the Japanese man’s shoulder and mumbled something in his ear.
“Takuma Sato,” the man said.
The other assistants scribbled down his answer, though they must have known what he was going to say.
“And your date of birth?” Jackson asked.
The translator mumbled something in his ear again, and the man replied in Japanese.
The translator cleared her throat. “He doesn’t understand the question, sir.” Her voice was high and squeaky.
Jackson leaned forward. “Then ask him when he was born.”
The translator asked, and the Japanese man answered.
“He’s lost track of the days,” the translator said slowly, “but he thinks it’s been fifteen since he woke up in the sub.” Her eyes crinkled at the corners, and I got the impression she was smiling. “Probably not the answer you were looking for.”
Dr. Franks’s face turned purple. “Don’t write that down!” he barked.
The assistants’ hands froze over their clipboards. A few tried to erase whatever they’d just written (but only when they thought he wasn’t looking).
“And Miss Ryland,” Dr. Franks went on, “please refrain from sermonizing on the subject’s answers!”
Miss Ryland ducked her head, though her eyes didn’t stop smiling. I pressed a hand over my mouth to cover my own grin.
Jackson removed his mask, revealing a stubbly chin. “We’re not communicating very well, are we?” He propped his elbows on his knees and looked the Japanese man in the eyes. “We just want to figure out if you remember where you came from.”
Miss Ryland whispered something to the man, who slowly shook his head.
“I don’t see why you care,” I said after Dr. Franks chucked his own clipboard, “seeing as you already know.”
Self-consciously, he retrieved his clipboard. “But I want to know if he knows.”
“One out of two ain’t all that bad.”
Dr. Franks harrumphed.
“Well, maybe he’ll remember soon.” Under my breath, I added, “He has been dead, you know.”
Dr. Franks rolled his eyes. “I know.”
The interview continued without another interruption. Jackson asked the Japanese man every question he could think of, including what six times thirty-nine was (two hundred and thirty-four) and what the Japanese man liked to do (talk to Jackson, mostly, but also eat fruit cocktail). I thought his answers were impressive—I wouldn’t have remembered my times tables if I’d been dead for seven years—but Dr. Franks just stood there scowling.
Finally, Jackson asked, “Do you remember how you died?”
A haunting silence filled the room. I gripped the windowsill instinctively. He hadn’t remembered much, just a vague flash or two, but he might remember this. If you cut out the years between his death and rebirth, it had only happened a few weeks ago. And if he remembered how he’d died, would he remember killing Robby?
The Japanese man looked around, then set his sights on me. I couldn’t look away.
Last summer, me and Theo had found a stray dog at the pier. Theo had scampered off, blubbering something about rabies—if those Clausens knew anything, it was how to retreat—but I’d held my ground. It was like me and that dog had been able to say a bunch of things without saying one word. Eventually, Theo had come back and convinced me not to leash him, but a part of me had always wondered what friends we might have been if I’d been brave enough to take that dog home. As I locked eyes with the Japanese man, I wondered the same thing.
The man dropped his gaze first and whispered something to Miss Ryland.
“He doesn’t remember,” she murmured, keeping her eyes on the table.
Dr. Franks pounced on the intercom. “He must remember something,” he hissed. “So push him, Jackson. Make him work. We need precise responses if we want to be able to complete a full analysis.” Under his breath, he added, “You know he’s our last hope.”
This seemed like just the sort of thing that Sergeant Friday would write down in his little black notepad. But I didn’t have a black notepad (or a way to carry it, for that matter), so I committed it to memory.
Jackson shifted uncomfortably. “Is there anything you’d like to add?”
Miss Ryland posed the question, then waited for his response. The man drew a quick breath, then distinctly said, “No.”
He said it in Japanese, but somehow, I understood (and for some reason, I believed).
Dr. Franks smacked the intercom. “He’s lying!” he insisted, then spun sharply around and leveled a finger at Mama. “This is your fault, isn’t it? You planted that sample. You sabotaged my research. You’re probably in league with the boys from Cavendish themselves! But how could they have known my other subjects wouldn’t—?”
Dr. Franks stopped himself before he spilled the beans, but the damage was already done. He’d all but admitted that something was happening. Unfortunately, Mama was less interested in pumping him for details than setting the record straight.
“No one sent us,” she said as calmly as a spring morning.
But Dr. Franks was just getting warmed up. While the assistants’ jaws slowly dropped, he whined about everything from English food (which apparently tasted like shoes) to the boys from Cavendish (whose names were James and Francis).
The Japanese man, on the other hand, watched me through the glass. Neither of us said a word, but we still had a conversation. He asked about our house and whether the trees in our backyard were big enough to climb, but it seemed like he was really asking if I was going to take him home.
10
I tapped Dr. Franks’s shoulder. “When do we get to take him home?”
“Excuse me?” he asked.
I cleared my throat. “I said, when do we get to take him home?” I said it carefully so he wouldn’t misunderstand. “That is what you’ve been tryin’ to get us to do from day one.”
“Well, yes,” he said, retreating. “But I thought—I just assumed—”
“We wouldn’t want him?” Mama asked.
“Well, yes!” Dr. Franks shouted as he fiddled with his sleeve. “In case you haven’t noticed, he’s a Jap.”
“Oh, we’ve noticed,” I said.
“Then you also must have noticed that he doesn’t belong to you. What makes you think you have the right to steal ten years’ worth of research?”
I threw up my arms. “I thought you wanted us to take him!”
“I did,” he said. “Before . . .”
“Before what?” Mama pressed.
I bit my lip to keep from squealing. Mama had finally asked the all-important question. Dr. Franks was finally going to have to tell us the truth.
He opened his mouth to answer, and for a second, I really thought he was going to say it. But then he snapped his mouth shut. “Before I changed my mind.”
I stuck both hands on my hips. If he wanted to play that game, then I’d play it, too. “Well, I’m not changin’ mine.”
“Then it appears we’re at an impasse.”
“A stalemate,” Mama said. “Which means we’ll need someone to break it.”
Dr. Franks harrumphed. “Well, it shouldn’t be you.”
“No,” Mama agreed, “it should be someone impartial, someone—”
“In charge?” I asked.
“Exactly,” Mama said.
I smiled mysteriously. “Then I know just the person.”
Mama cocked an eyebrow, and a part of me worried that she was going to try to stop me. But instead of getting in my way, she got out of it. And smiled. Go ahead, sweetness, that smile seemed to say. If anyone can do this, you can.
As it turned out, the head honcho was pretty easy to find. I just shouted Dr. Pauling’s name as I dashed up and down the halls, taking random lefts and rights. Every intersection looked the same, so it wasn’t hard to choose. Doors slid open in my wake, ejecting scads of assistants, who trailed along behind me like a ticker-tape parade, lab coats and clipboards fluttering. Luckily, they weren’t as good at playing tag as I was.
The men in black suits, on the other hand, were another matter altogether.
I slammed into the first after taking a wrong turn. He tried to grab me while I blinked the stars out of my eyes, but I recovered just in time to duck under his arms. Regrettably, the second was harder to elude. He seized me from behind while I was distracted by the first, then picked me up as easily as if I were a string bean. I liked to think I’d eaten more Mother Lodes than that.
The cavalry showed up after the man tossed me over his shoulder. At least the assistants looked like they could barely breathe.
I stuck out my chin. “I want to talk to Dr. Pauling.”
One of the assistants sneered. “He isn’t here, silly girl.”
But I wasn’t discouraged. “I have reason to think he is.”
At least that shut him up. He backed off just in time for Dr. Franks to turn the corner. Mama was hot on his heels.
“You will put her down this instant,” Mama hissed after sizing up the situation, “or I will gut you where you stand.”
Dr. Franks elbowed around her. “You will do no such thing. That child is a menace to society, and I insist that you restrain her.”
The man glanced at Mama, then Dr. Franks, then Mama again, then put me down. He must have been more afraid of Mama (and I couldn’t say I blamed him).
Dr. Franks bristled. “If you won’t detain her, then I demand that you expel them.”
The man checked with his partner, then mumbled, “Sorry, doc. I can’t kick anyone out without Dr. Pauling’s say-so.”
Dr. Franks’s cheeks paled. For a second, maybe less, I actually felt sorry for him.
“Come with me,” the man said.
Me and Mama scurried after him, afraid of getting lost. Dr. Franks delayed for as long as he could, then, grudgingly, clomped after us. If he wanted Dr. Pauling to hear his side of the story, he had no choice but to follow.
The man led us through the labyrinth like a bloodhound on the scent. He never paused to get his bearings or even check his nose. His partner hemmed us in, probably to keep us from exploring.
Eventually, we arrived at an unfamiliar elevator. It smelled like pencil shavings, which reminded me of Daniel. He’d once drawn a dragon for me on the back of an old napkin, with two ketchup spots for eyes. The napkin was still tucked inside my sock drawer (along with my favorite seashell and a two-dollar bill that Grandpa Willy had passed down to me).
No one dared to speak as the elevator rattled upward. When the door opened again, I raised a hand to shield my eyes, since this floor was much brighter than the ones below it. Maybe Mother Nature had come up here to hide.
The man knocked on a door, then turned the shiny knob, revealing a small lobby with an even smaller desk. The room wasn’t as fancy—after all, the doors had knobs—but the tulips made it friendlier. It only had one other door, which was firmly shut.
The secretary eyed us intently as the man explained the situation, but instead of pumping us for details, she invited us to sit. I was the only one who did, though I couldn’t have said why. I thought the chairs looked comfy, and there really was no telling how long we’d have to wait.
But I’d barely gotten settled when another man opened the second door. “What is it?” he demanded. His suit was brown, not black, but he looked too young to be the man from the portrait.
“Three visitors for Dr. Pauling,” the secretary said.
“Dr. Pauling isn’t taking visitors.”
“He’ll want to take these ones.”
The man sighed. “Very well. But if this is another singing telegram, we might just have to fire you.”
I took that as my cue to barge into the room, which turned out to be a disappointment. I’d expected a smart office, with floor-to-ceiling bookcases and maybe a telescope, but except for a few men and a funny-looking model, it was perfectly empty.
“Dr. Pauling?” I asked.
One of the men looked up from the model. “Yes?” His nose was big and bulbous, and little tufts of hair were sprouting from his ears.
I folded my arms across my chest. “You have my cousin, and we want him back.”
“Your cousin?” Dr. Pauling asked.
I felt my cheeks redden. “Well, that was who he was supposed to be.”
Mama cleared her throat. “What my daughter means is that there’s a boy downstairs whose well-being we feel liable for.”
I didn’t know what “liable” meant, but Dr. Pauling clearly did, because he straightened up.
“He’s been involved in an experiment,” Mama went on. “But the experiment’s over now, and Dr. Franks won’t let him go.”
Dr. Pauling raised his eyebrows. “Victor, care to explain?”
Dr. Franks waved that off. “They’re obviously exaggerating,” he said, but even though he sounded sure, his almost-trembling knees betrayed him.
Dr. Pauling rubbed his jaw, then motioned us into the room. “Close the door,” he said, and the man in the brown suit closed it.
We arranged ourselves into a crooked line, with Dr. Franks on my left side and Mama on my right. The men looked us up and down, some with interest, some with the same unconcealed contempt Miss Fightmaster reserved for troublemakers and Charles Darwin. Still, I didn’t look away. If I looked away, they might decide I wasn’t serious, and I was as serious as sin.
“Now,” Dr. Pauling said, making himself comfortable (or as comfortable as you could make yourself in a room without a chair), “I’d like to hear this story one small detail at a time.”
Dr. Franks chuckled uneasily. “It is rather amusing.”
“I’m sure it is,” he said. “But I’d like to hear it from the girl.”
I resisted the urge to stick my tongue out. “Well, the whole thing started with Robby.”
“Who’s Robby?” Dr. Pauling asked.
“My cousin,” I replied. “Except the experiment didn’t go like Dr. Franks thought it would.”
“Do they ever?” he asked, smiling.
The other men snickered, except for Dr. Franks. He rocked back and forth like he had to use the bathroom.
“Anyway,” I said, “we have this Japanese man now, but Dr. Franks decided that we can’t take him home.”
Dr. Pauling rubbed his eyes. “A Japanese man? Where’d he come from?”
“Forgive the intrusion,” Dr. Franks cut in, “but I don’t think this line of questioning is strictly necessary—”
“Victor,” Dr. Pauling said, “as I already told you, I want to hear this from the girl.” He returned his attention to me. “So where did he come from, this Japanese man?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Japan?”
The other men snickered again, like I’d said something funny. Scientists were peculiar folks.
“Excuse me,” Mama said, “but we just want to know if he can hold the boy indefinitely.”
“Of course not,” Dr. Pauling said. “The Institute’s not in the habit of incarcerating volunteers.” He arched an eyebrow at me. “But how do you know this Japanese man wants to go home with you?”
I thought back on those times when we locked eyes through the window. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “But I know I want to take him, and it seems like that should count.”
This time, no one snickered. Dr. Pauling rubbed his jaw again and studied the model. At first, it had reminded me of a spiral staircase, but the more I stared at it, the more I decided that it looked like an exotic flower.
Finally, he glanced at Mama. “You support this rescue mission?”
Mama nodded. “Absolutely.”
Then he glanced at Dr. Franks. “And they signed the standard contract?”
Dr. Franks harrumphed. “Well, Mrs. Clausen did.”
“Who’s Mrs. Clausen?” Dr. Pauling asked, then swiftly shook his head. “Oh, never mind. Don’t tell me. I probably don’t want to know.”
I snorted. “You’re not kiddin’.”
Dr. Pauling mopped his forehead with an off-white handkerchief. “It sounds like we have no choice.”
Dr. Franks nearly leaped out of his lab coat. “Well, of course we have a choice! We can’t concede the race to James and Francis!”
“We’re not conceding anything.” Dr. Pauling gripped his shoulder. “Certainly your line of research isn’t dependent on one subject.”
Dr. Franks started to answer, then changed his mind at the last second.
“You see? Things will work out.” Dr. Pauling glanced at me. “Was there anything else?”
I shook my head. “We’re good.”
He held out his hand. “It’s been a pleasure doing business.”
I grinned as I said, “Likewise.”
11
We picked up the Japanese man back on the first floor. Thankfully, someone had managed to find him a pair of pants and a clean shirt. I could have handled riding home next to a Japanese man or a man in his pajamas, but certainly not both.
The Sound of Life and Everything Page 6