Charisma (21 page)

Evie stands up too. “Maybe we better take our priorities somewhere else while you show off for the reporters. I hope you realize how outrageous you're being, before it's too late.”

They stomp off downstairs. For a moment, I'm
tempted to
chase after them, but it wouldn't do any good. I force myself to breathe deeply, trying to calm down. I can't dwell on their mistaken impressions—it would paralyze me from doing what needs to be done. Because, in spite of what everyone says, I know the best path to follow. Even if it pisses off the universe.

I get online to prepare, quickly finding the info I need. I study it and grab the right tools to load into my backpack before going to bed. If only my thoughts would stop swirling around Jack's and Evie's accusations.

Hours later, my internal clock wakes me five minutes before the alarm I set. I quietly dress and tiptoe downstairs, where I run straight into Mom. Damn.

She hovers over the table with a cup of coffee. “You're up early.”

“Couldn't sleep.” My planning hadn't accounted for interference from Mom. I grab a muffin and gobble while I come up with a way to salvage my mission.

“What would you like to do this lovely day?” she asks.

“Maybe just stay inside after all the craziness.” I stretch into a big yawn. “Boy, all I needed was food. Bet I could sleep until lunchtime now.”

She nods. “Good. You need the rest.”

Perfect. As unobtrusively as possible I reach into the cupboard for a couple of granola bars. “Would you mind asking Sammy not to wake me? I'm serious about sleeping until noon. Probably much later. I don't even want to answer the phone.” I stretch again and rub my eyes.

Relief softens her features. “That's an excellent idea. Pleasant dreams.”

Yawning loudly, I heave my body upstairs. Okay, if I'm going to make a move, I need to do it before the reporters show up.

Heading out the front door isn't an option. Hmm. The windows on one wall of my bedroom face the side of the house. In wistful daydreams of escape as a kid, I thought climbing down would be doable. Theoretically. Now I need to test that theory.

I pack the granola bars along with a water bottle and the stuff I collected last night. Even though I'm sure Mom will warn Sammy not to disturb me, I lock the door. I also write a note explaining how crucial it is for me to question Mrs. Sternfield. I tape the note to my laptop in case Mom unlocks my door in a panic later on. Hopefully, I'll return soon enough to prevent that from happening.

I leave a radio playing softly and rub my hands
together. After
putting on my sneakers and taking a deep breath, I climb out of my window. Whoa, the second story seems much higher when you're balanced outside it on a half-inch ledge. Much higher.

Legs shaking, I call upon whatever daredevil genes I inherited from Dad as I reach for the rain gutter. Will it bear my weight? It wobbles but holds fast. Clutching it, I toe the bricks, level by level, and slowly climb down. A woodpecker goes to work on the madrona tree a few yards away, startling me. I claw at the rain gutter, causing it to rattle. Inhaling
deeply, I
take another step down, and then another. Five feet from the ground, I lose my grip and fall, landing hard on my butt.

Whew, stop for a breath. As I brush dirt from my shorts, I glance around to make sure no one's watching, and then run from tree to tree until I'm at the edge of the front yard.
Quietly, I
unlock my car and put it in neutral to push it forward to the neighbor's before starting the engine. Hopefully, no one will notice that my car isn't in its normal spot later.

I get in and take off, not able to breathe normally for ten blocks. Once I'm sure I'm not being followed, I turn on the stereo and crank up my favorite playlist. Not that it does much to improve my anxiety or guilt. People have given Jack, Evie, and my family grief because of me. Sammy's out of the AV719 trial. Mom's a stressed-out mess.

The list is overwhelming. I want to be the one who fixes the chaos I've caused.

Two hours later, at eight a.m., I cruise around the cul-de-sac in front of Mrs. Sternfield's house. There's no movement from her house or any of the others. Now what? It's not like I'll try to break in while she's here. Shoulda factored the early hour on a weekend into my planning. Maybe Jack and Evie had a tiny point about my impulses taking front seat to my brain lately.

I drive out to the main road and pull into the lot at the trailhead where I parked with Shane the last time. Oh, God, Shane, you'd better recover. My insides seem to go hollow and the aching loneliness of missing him threatens to undo me.

Panting, I wrap my arms around myself, rocking against the seat. I've seen too many victims of CZ88 slip off one by one, some with a scream, others a whimper. All while I stood by helplessly. And now it's just me, alone with my sorrow, fear, and guilt. After all, Dr. Sternfield didn't forcibly jam a needle into me the way the blood-jackers did. I made the decision with only the tiniest prompting. And now my family and friends are suffering alongside me. At any moment, I could join the CZ88 victims, trapped in a coma and waiting for a rescue that might never arrive.

Which is why, no matter how much I hurt, I can never give up.

Charisma Feared As a Potential Bio-Weapon

John Rasmusson,
Hilton News

The recent abduction of two teens, where attackers stole significant amounts of their blood, has citizens fearing a potential terrorist threat. According to our sources, Aislyn Hollings and Shane Elliott, who a month ago accepted the dangerous gene treatment known as Charisma, were kidnapped by a masked group of assailants, who “blood-jacked” the teens before abandoning them on a deserted road. Although Ms. Hollings's condition appears stable, Mr. Elliott now lies in a coma.

The purpose of the alleged blood-jacking is unknown, but theories abound, including the use of Charisma-tainted blood in weapons of terror. Sarah Dunsworth, a spokesperson for Survival America, stated, “We cannot be too vigilant when it comes to the safety of our country and those who scheme to attack it in a myriad of ways, including biological.”

I grab a granola bar and stare at the road. Every fiber of my body senses Mrs. Sternfield is the best chance for learning info that no one else holds. So I'll keep vigil and wait for my chance, whatever the consequences.

An hour later, a white Acura pulls out of the cul-de-sac. That seems like a car Mrs. Sternfield would drive. I squint for a glimpse of the driver. The silhouette is petite, probably a woman, but she passes too fast to be sure. Still, Mrs. Sternfield strikes me as the type to get an early start, weekend or not.

I drive back to her house and park two doors down. If the person in the Acura wasn't Mrs. Sternfield, and I end up arrested, I'll claim my symptoms are getting worse and causing erratic behavior. I've got plenty of ammo to play either the sympathy or the crazy card.

I stroll around the house, thumbs hooked in belt loops the way I imagine a meter reader would, even though it's Sunday. Unfortunately, every door is locked, and peeking into each window only reveals clutter-free furniture. No secret lab or chimp cages.

My head darts toward the neighbors' homes to see if anyone's watching. Is that a flutter of curtain? I wait, but no further sign of movement. I take a deep breath, thinking.

Okay, time for serious action. My brain goes cottony for a moment, whether from the insanity of what I'm about to do or from the remaining effects of blood loss, I can't say.

I huddle next to the back door, pull a small flat screwdriver out of my pocket, and, following the video instructions I looked up online, stick it into the lock, nudge it upward and twist. To my amazement, the door opens.

I tiptoe into the house, hoping Mrs. Sternfield hasn't set an alarm. Two steps into a hyacinth-blue kitchen that smells like croissants, I don't detect any sounds. A scan of the room shows not a dish out of place, nor anything else that would constitute evidence of gene therapy gone bad, unless the case of protein bars on the table has been modified somehow.

I tread softly through the first floor, starting with a
lemon-polish
-infused dining room. The table's set with two place mats, linen napkins, and a tea tray. She must be expecting a visitor. I pick up my pace, scanning a tidy living room and what appears to be an unused guest bedroom and bath.

Bracing myself, I make my way upstairs, startling whenever a floorboard beneath me squeaks, and only moving again after catching my breath. On the second floor, I glide through a bedroom decorated in off-white satin, and then home in on the second room, an office.

I power up her computer as I rummage through a stack of papers in the file bin. Most are bills, but there's a
binder filled
with press clippings. Fanning through them, I skim headlines screaming of Charisma and Dr. Sternfield's death. A morbid collection to remember one's daughter by, but no article includes anything I don't know.

The computer chimes to life with a tinny chord, and, happily, no password challenge. I set down the binder and hunt through computer folders, soon finding one titled “Charlotte.” Bingo.

Before I can open it, the sound of the front door opening freezes me. Oh no. Already? As quietly as possible, I power off the computer and tiptoe to the hallway.

Heels click on wood and then echo on tile, followed by cupboards shutting and glass clinking against counters. I search in hope of finding an upstairs balcony I can climb down. No such luck. Swallowing back fear, I stare at the stairs leading to the foyer and front door, maybe twenty yards from where I stand. Could I run down and outside without being spotted from the kitchen? That seems like my best shot. Risky as it is.

My gaze lingers back on the office. If only I had more time to go through the Charlotte folder and examine the data Mrs. Sternfield considered worth saving. Something more than family photos, I'd bet.

Clanking rises from downstairs. It's only a matter of time before she heads up here. When the sound of running water begins, it's my cue to leave.

I slip off my shoes and skitter down the steps to the door, past boxes of fruit. Unfortunately, the door creaks as I open it, drawing a “Is someone there?” from the kitchen. I pull the door mostly shut behind me, in the hopes she'll think she left it open, and sprint across the yard and down the street until I'm at my car. Fumbling for my keys, I unlock my door and hop inside, panting. Only after I rev my engine do I check the rearview mirror to see Mrs. Sternfield reach the edge of her driveway, hands on hips and looking around.

I rumble off, hoping against hope she hasn't gotten a glimpse of me or recognized my car. Another peek in my mirror shows her turning around and heading back toward the house. Still, I scrunch my body low as I pass a neighbor walking his pit bull.

At the entrance to the cul-de-sac, I slow down to turn back onto the main road. A small pickup truck coming from the opposite direction stops at the same intersection. I glance at the other driver and jolt when I recognize a familiar face. Dr. Dulcet.

What the hell? I sink lower into the seat. My heart races as I drive off.

My mind spinning, I head once again into the trailhead lot and park. Off in the distance the pickup truck is already out of sight, no doubt at Mrs. Sternfield's. He must be her guest for tea. But it isn't a social visit, I'm sure of it. He must want info out of her too. But will she give it up? If only I were a true spy, with microphones and tracking devices.

For what seems like endless minutes, I stare at the street leading to Mrs. Sternfield's house, wishing my gaze could laser through all that stands between me and her door. I shift and wiggle, trying to find a comfortable position, but it's useless.

Right now they could be discussing insider information in the race for a cure. What's her price? As if trying to save lives isn't enough.

An hour later, the pickup truck leaves the cul-de-sac and Dr. Dulcet speeds past my hiding area. Now what? Return to Mrs. Sternfield and demand she tell me whatever she told him? It's not as if there are Internet instructions on interrogating hostile witnesses. Well, no online tutorials that I've sought out. Yet.

Dr. Dulcet has more incentive for finding a cure, so he's the one I should demand answers from, see if he's as up-front as he claims. I start the engine and trail the pickup truck.

We meander through winding roads, heading deeper into the mountains, where the trees meet over the street, casting it into permanent shadow. I follow him through the gloom, the back of my neck tingling. I dread ending up on another desolate road, yet I can't back down now.

At an unmarked intersection, he turns onto a gravel lane that leads into thick forest. My heart goes crazy as I contemplate following him along the almost-nonexistent road. On such a small path, he'd spot me for sure. Okay, think this through. Since it's unlikely this forest road will lead out to another street, waiting for him seems like a worthwhile gamble.

Backtracking, I park on a turn-about. I'm getting good at this surveillance thing. Sure wish my phone hadn't been stolen by the blood-jackers, though.

I find a floppy hat to hide my face before settling down for the wait. It's ten minutes before another car goes by, giving me time to ruminate about the damn ringing in my ears. Are Shane and the others able to dream, or is the racket in their heads driving them insane?

Forty minutes later, the pickup pokes from the gravel road and speeds past my parking spot. Clearly, he wasn't out here long enough for an outdoor sport. So, why, then? It has to be related to the falseness in Mrs. Sternfield's expressions and her appearance in hiking clothes a week earlier.

Given I don't have a partner in crime, following Dr. Dulcet from the safety of my car is awfully tempting. But if there's a secret in the woods, it may not be there long. And it's not like Jack or Evie'll be coming back here with me.

Taking a deep breath, I start my car and head down the unmarked road.

When the bumpy terrain becomes so rough I fear being able to get out again, I stop. Should I continue on foot? What if I run into another pack of blood-jackers? Or worse?

A pain shoots behind my eyes. If I don't investigate what's going on out here, there's an excellent chance I'll die anyway. That gets me out of the car.

I lock everything tight, and pick up a wrist-thick stick for protection. Armed, I tromp forward through damp, chilly shade. All I wear is a T-shirt and shorts. Obviously, I have more to learn about this surveillance stuff than I thought.

A breeze sweeps through the foliage, rustling leaves and twigs. Whenever a branch snaps or bird calls, I duck for
cover, heart
racing until I'm sure it isn't another human. When each sound dies, I smack my palm with the stick in mock bravery, but my soul seems to wither. The blood-jackers stole something far more valuable than my blood and phone.

Around the next bend, I smell something. Smoke? I peek through the trees trying to make out where it comes from, and that's when I spot the cabin. A beautifully constructed building of broad planks that reminds me of something on the vacation channel. But why is Dr. Dulcet wasting time here?

I creep closer, keeping behind shrubbery for cover.

I sigh. The idea of waiting out here in the damp for what could be hours seems too stupid to contemplate. But so is confronting whoever's in the cabin about what Dr. Dulcet's up to.

Frustrated, I toss a rock at the door. It misses, but thunks against the wall. Good enough. Let's see what happens. I hide behind a broad fern.

A moment later, the window next to the door opens and a head pokes out. Then sticks out farther. I recognize that head. It can't be.

My insides fill with rage and shock, yet also an incongruous twinge of hope. Because Dr. Sternfield is alive.