Replication (4 page)

When he looked up, Dr. Kane had rounded on Dr. Elliot. “Are you a fool? Why him? Why now?”

“I didn’t do anything to your precious candidate.”

“J:3:3 does not lie.”

Dr. Elliot pressed his thin lips together then shrugged. “I didn’t give him enough to do any damage.”

Dr. Kane’s face reddened. “This is insubordination. How could you be so rash? Do you see me? I’m barely standing, the pain is so fierce. I can’t afford the risk of your torturous hobbies.”

“Oh, be reasonable. Do you honestly think I would jeopardize the plan? I’ve already tested this sample on eleven subjects. I know my limits. The adverse drug reactions are strictly flu-like. No one’s suffered any permanent damage.”

“Don’t touch J:3:3 again without me there.”

Dr. Elliot held up both hands. “You’re the boss.” His long legs carried him from the lab in three smooth strides.

Dr. Kane ran a hand through his hair and blew out a long sigh.

Martyr trembled. He didn’t understand what had been said. Why should Dr. Kane’s health depend on Martyr’s heath? Perhaps Dr. Kane’s condition was what happened to the people who didn’t get the antidote. Dr. Kane must be in the next group to receive it.

Dr. Goyer’s forehead wrinkled, as if he, too, were suffering some ill side effect. “Dr. Elliot purposely gave Martyr an unapproved pharmaceutical? As a … hobby?”

“His identification is J:3:3, Dr. Goyer. Their numbers are on their sleeves and wrists if you can’t remember. Calling them by their numbers makes it easier not to become attached.”

Martyr had never heard it put quite like that.

“Right. Sorry.”

“I’ve explained our reasons for pharmaceutical testing. We all do it, and you will too. But Dr. Elliot, he … enjoys it.”

“I understand the need for testing. But he already knew the side effects and administered it maliciously, not as a scientist seeking a cure or test results.”

“I know what he did. That said, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that J:3:3 lives a healthy life for eighteen more days. That’s all I care about right now. Keep an eye on him until you leave today,
then tell Erik to watch him tonight. If his condition worsens, call me immediately.”

With a final nod to Dr. Goyer, Dr. Kane left.

As Martyr watched Dr. Goyer cross the room, he was shocked that the doctors—especially Dr. Kane—had not remembered to re-hook his wrists to the exam table.

Dr. Goyer sat behind his desk and once again pressed the intercom button on his phone. “This is Dr. Goyer. Can I get one of the assistants in here? I need a mess cleaned up.”

“Right away, doctor.”

“Thanks.”

“What made you come back to the Farm?” Martyr asked.

“I always intended to come back, Mar—J:3:3. I simply lived far away and had to move, and that took a few days.”

“I’m glad you’re here.”

“You are? Why?”

“I like talking to you.”
You’re one of the few doctors who see me as more than an experiment
.

Dr. Goyer leaned back in his chair. “Well, we have the rest of the day to talk. Would you like that?”

Martyr winced as the burning itch surged. He nodded, unable to speak over the pain.

“You don’t like Dr. Elliot, I imagine.”

Martyr gritted out his words. “He’s a bad man. The things in his cupboard … Please”—he took a sharp breath—”keep him from hurting Baby when I’m gone.”

Dr. Goyer shifted in his chair. “When I met Dr. Kane last week, he seemed a different man. Now that I’m here, he’s not only deathly ill, but absentminded and moody. I’m afraid he hasn’t given me very efficient training, so I really can’t say what I’ll be permitted after your … your … expiration. I will do what I can for Baby, though.”

Martyr relaxed his posture. “Thank you. Hummer will also need someone. He and Baby are the two Section Fives who don’t speak.”

“I’ll make a note of that.”

“When Iron Man and I are gone, Fido will take over. He will be
a horrible leader, worse than Iron Man because he’s ignorant and barely talks. Plus, Fido hates Baby. Maybe Baby could move into Section One? Do you think Dr. Kane would allow it?”

“I can ask him.”

An awkward silence stretched between them as Martyr struggled to find questions appropriate for a doctor—even someone like Dr. Goyer—to answer. Each thing that came into his head seemed somehow forbidden.

Finally, Dr. Goyer said, “Would you like some more water?”

“Thank you.”

Dr. Goyer got up and retrieved another tiny paper cup. He filled it and handed it to Martyr. “Do you have anything you’d like to do, you know, before you … expire? Any desires?”

Could the doctor sense his thoughts? “We aren’t allowed things we cannot normally have.”

“I know, but that doesn’t mean you can’t wish, right?”

Martyr hid a smile. His wishes never came true. But it was still fun to think about them.

“Well, then? I’d like to know what you want, besides keeping Baby and Hummer safe.”

“I want to see the sky.”

Dr. Max had taught them about sky in science class seven years ago, and Martyr had never forgotten. It was blue, but he was not sure what blue looked like. It was rumored Rolo’s eyes were blue, but if anyone asked, Rolo smacked them with his stick.

“We’re not allowed outside because of the toxic air, but since I’m going to expire anyway, I’d like to see the sky before I fulfill my purpose. Do you think I’d be infected if I went outside just long enough to see it?”

“I don’t really know.”

“If I knew Baby and Hummer would be safe and I could glimpse the sky for only a moment, I would die happy. It isn’t too much to dream for, is it?”

Dr. Goyer rubbed his face with both hands. “No. Not at all.”

A
BBY DRESSED CASUALLY FOR DAY
two at Fishhook High. In her
concern
for her Dad’s welfare, she followed him that morning. He’d traded in his Lexus for a Chevy Silverado. The only similar thing about the vehicles was the gunmetal color.

Abby squeezed her steering wheel as she tried to keep up with his speed on the dark, icy road. Dad pulled into a narrow drive, where two wheel ruts snaked through the snow into a thick forest. The sign at the end of the drive read
Jason Farms
. Abby drove slowly, not wanting to be seen or get stuck. She rounded a sharp corner that spilled into a small parking lot in front of a run-down red barn.

What on earth?

Two dozen cars and a delivery truck from the local grocery store confirmed the farm was still active, but the barn’s peeling paint and small size made Abby wonder what all the owners to these vehicles could be doing and where their activities took place. Whatever they were up to, she prayed it was legit.

Fishhook High operated on a rotating schedule, so today Abby had Spanish II, Biology II, PE (which, to her surprise, was co-ed due to the school’s small size), and computers. Naturally, JD was also in her Biology II and PE classes. Abby couldn’t help being impressed by his challenging schedule, even though he was a year older. The cliché jock in her mind would be coasting by on electives his senior year. Of course, JD excelled at volleyball, which was the PE sport of choice that day. Abby had never been very athletic, but she had used her former gym membership three days a week to keep in shape. She had yet to find a suitable alternative in Fishhook but heard some girls in the hall saying that Sarah Palin took kickboxing someplace nearby.

She skipped showering after PE, having done little more than sit on the sidelines and watch. She had lunch before computers and so made her way to the cafeteria, wondering if she’d be sitting alone again. When she got her tray and scanned the tables, each girl she made eye contact with averted her eyes. Ug. Why was this so hard?

JD waved her over to sit at the popular table. She froze, realizing she had a choice. She could blend in and accept her place as the solitary brainiac/rich girl of Fishhook High, or she could go with the flow and see what life in the spotlight felt like for once.

JD flashed his perfect smile, seeming eager to help her make a decision.

Though momentarily blinded by the brightness of his pearly whites, he really only tempted her for a millisecond. Abby wasn’t a spotlight kind of girl, unless ranting on controversial issues of science, of course. She bypassed JD’s table and plopped down beside a pretty, African American girl she recognized from calculus class,
who had amazing, dark chocolate skin, perfect lips, and silky black hair that flipped out like a bell above her shoulders. Average-looking kids filled the table.
Pro number one
.

“Hi,” Abby said.

The African American girl smiled, chomped on her gum a few times, then turned to a shaggy-headed boy across the table. “Dylan, you totally lost me again. I just don’t get what you subtract from what for the fundamental theorem.”

Warmth filled Abby from inside. They were talking math. Pro number two!

Dylan sighed as if the girl had said she couldn’t figure out how to get her straw into her milk carton. “Okay, Kylee. Listen closely this time. I’ll make it as simple as possible.” He shook his hair out of his eyes. “The theorem uses a definite integral instead of an indefinite one. So, if the function
f
of
x
is nonnegative and continuous between the interval of
a
and
b
, you find the integral of that function by doing the antiderivative and plugging in the numbers of
b
and
a
respectively to get an exact number, as opposed to a general solution like you’d get from an indefinite integral.”

Kylee blew a tiny bubble and sucked it back in, the gum crackling and popping in the silence around the table. Her unresponsiveness told Abby she still hadn’t understood a word Dylan had said.

Abby seized the silent moment. “Once you have the antiderivative, you do the top number minus the bottom.
b
minus
a
.”

Kylee sucked in a sharp breath and slapped her palm on the table. “Thank you! You don’t know how long I’ve been trying to get that.” She turned to Dylan. “Simple is best with me.”

Dylan frowned at Kylee. “But that’s exactly what I said.”

Abby smiled and bit into her slice of pizza. She’d found her people.
Thanks, God
.

After lunch, Abby weaved through the students crowding the lobby on her way to computer class.

JD cornered her by the trophy case with his cool-man—stalker?—lean. “Second day better than the first?”

She backed against the glass to get some personal space. “Yes, actually.”
Ooh
. Her stomach flip-flopped. Six feet tall with thick, tousled brown hair and eyebrows that could flirt all on their own. She fought back the girly sigh trying to abduct her rational side and reminded herself this boy had trouble written all over him.

And he still reeked.

“You didn’t sit with me at lunch.”

“I had to help a girl with her calculus.”

“Ah. So you think you’re going to waltz in here and steal my valedictorian spot?”

Valedictorian? Abby made the mistake of looking into his chocolaty eyes. She slid down the glass as if she actually melted a little. “I don’t—aren’t you a senior? I’m only a junior. I thought I told you that.”

He chuckled softly, his smile lighting up his face. “I’m just teasing.”

“Are you really valedictorian?” Abby asked.

“So far.” He raised a finger just over her shoulder and tapped the glass. “That one there is all me. I ran a thirty-yard touchdown against Colony with no time left on the clock. Took MVP of the tournament.”

Ug. How easily JD bounced between interesting, smart hunk and cliché über-full-of-himself quarterback. And now he was way too into her personal space. His body was so close that, even if she wanted to, she couldn’t turn to admire his football award. Abby peered under his arm, mapping a getaway route. Resorting to violence on her second day might make a bad impression, but she wasn’t completely opposed to the idea.

Second option: If she could duck and turn, she might be able to snake her way free. Too bad she wasn’t the most graceful of athletes. This plan could backfire into an embarrassing sprawl across the crowded lobby floor. She glanced back to JD. His eyes closed and he leaned down.

Uh oh.

She turned her head and his lips met her ear.

Abby gasped. “
What
are you
doing
?”

He recovered with a raised eyebrow. “I like you.”

“Like me? We just met yesterday.”

JD’s lips stretched into a grin, and the brainless fool came in for another try. Abby ducked and he lip-locked the trophy case. How apropos.

Two of his letter-jacket-wearing friends who were standing by the school’s front doors burst into laughter. Abby darted away, cheeks blazing. Before she could make it to the main hall, however, someone grabbed her hand.

She turned back to see JD staring at her like she was the last donut in the box. “Hey, I’m sorry. I thought you liked me. I misread your signals.”

She jerked away. “I wasn’t giving you any signals.” Was she? She had smiled a lot, but she was only reciprocating. Well, she
had
swooned for a second … But a smile didn’t translate to “please make out with me.” Not in any language. She strode toward computer class, heart racing.

Her high school goals did
not
include dating. But even if she were interested, she would never move
that
fast. She had standards, and his behavior wasn’t even
near
measuring up. She knew she was pretty and guys liked her hair, but she tried not to give off mixed signals. As a result she wore very little makeup, almost always kept her hair tamed in a braid or ponytail, purposely trying to make herself plain. Plus, she didn’t want to risk using cosmetics tested on animals—but that was beside the point.

JD darted in front of her and held out his hands. “Come on, Abby. Give me another chance. I’ll be good, I promise. Come hang out with me and the guys at Reggie’s. It’s a pizza and ice cream place a few blocks from here. I’ll buy. It’ll be fun. As friends, okay?”

Not okay. JD Kane had one too many cons against him, even for pizza and ice cream. Abby stuck out her bottom lip in a pout. “I’m sorry, JD, but I’m busy until you go to college.”

Abby stared at her reflection in the massive windows in the living room and ran her fingers through Einstein’s fur. She’d completed all her homework, even finished reading The Great Gatsby. She glanced at the grandfather clock and sighed. 8:47. No sign of Dad, no messages, no texts. She dragged her feet into the kitchen, set Einstein on the counter, and pulled out the bread and a block of cheddar to make herself a grilled cheese sandwich.

Plate in hand, she settled in front of the TV. She prayed over her meal and went looking for old episodes of CSI. Grilled cheese and CSI. Two pros. See, it was all about looking for the positives.

But it bothered her that Dad was so secretive about his new job—and that his workplace itself seemed intent on keeping secrets of its own. Old memories surfaced, fights between him and Mom over research ethics, and the newspaper article that brought the truth to Abby, Mom, and the rest of the world.

Oh, Dad. What are you doing now?

She finished her sandwich, then snuggled under a blanket and into the Las Vegas world of crime.

The sound of keys in the front door jolted her awake.

Her dad’s enlarged shadow floated along the hallway. “Abby, honey. You still up?”

CSI had ended while she’d slept, and now the TV blared a cable talk show. How long was I out? Abby sat, knocking the blanket and Einstein to the floor. The cat stretched and pranced to his food dish in the kitchen, his tail raised behind him like a flag. Abby picked up the remote, yawned, and clicked off the television. She looked over the back of the couch to see her dad standing in the foyer. “Just waiting for you. You could text, you know, if you’re going to be this late.”

Dad shrugged off his trench coat and hung it in the closet. “I’m sorry. I’ll try to remember to check in tomorrow.”

“Why you so late?”

He lifted his scarf over his head and put it with his coat. “We’re working on some important research.”

“What’s so important? … at an old barn in the middle of the woods?”

Dad ambled toward the kitchen and, as usual, evaded questions requiring specific answers. Though she was surprised he didn’t jump on the fact she knew where he worked. Was he even listening?

“Did you make dinner?”

It was always all about his needs. Did she do her homework? Pick up the mail? Make dinner? Do the laundry?

Why wouldn’t he be open with her? She didn’t understand his secrecy. What could be so hush-hush about a barn? At George Washington U, before
the incident
, he’d taken her to the lab and showed her his work. She’d met his colleagues and ate barbecue at their homes on Saturdays. She wished he’d let her in now. The fact that he wouldn’t didn’t bode well.

She stood up and walked to the island that separated the kitchen from the living room. “What do you do there, Dad?”

“Abby …” His voice held a warning tone. He set his briefcase on the counter between them and met her eyes long enough to say, “It’s a
private
lab. They have the right to confidentiality. I signed several agreements stating I wouldn’t discuss my work with anyone.”

“Not even your own daughter?”

“Not even you.” He looked away. End of conversation.

“You’re not doing something bad again, are you?”

He opened the fridge. “Any leftovers?”

She set her jaw to keep from saying something she’d regret. She was too tired for a text war, but stomped toward the stairs just to show him his answers were not acceptable. “Good-night, then.”

He didn’t seem to catch on. “Night, Abby, honey.”

In her bedroom, she burrowed under her purple comforter and closed her eyes. Seeing the barn that morning, and Dad’s secretive behavior, dug up all kinds of memories she’d been trying to suppress. Her mom’s death had devastated them both, but Abby’s parents hadn’t exactly been happily-ever-after. They’d never argued about normal things, like whose turn it was to take out the trash, or how to raise Abby, or money—well, that one wasn’t entirely true. Dad hated that Mom tithed at church, claiming she was throwing away his hard-earned salary. He never understood
Mom’s relationship with God. That foundational difference led to the other, more passionate debate: Dad’s work.

Dad had started out with a craving to save the world. That was what Mom had said she first loved about him. He wanted to find a cure for diabetes, cancer, AIDS, you name it. But Mom’s breast cancer diagnosis turned ambition into obsession. As the years went on—genius that he was—he found his way onto a Nobel Prize-nominated team that used embryonic stem cells of mice to modify genes. It wasn’t until some undercover reporter’s story made the front page of the
Washington Times
that Abby learned the truth.

Dad’s team had also been experimenting with embryos and fetal tissue, trying to clone human cells and organs in the name of science, in the search for a cure for cancer. The lab had used anonymous human donors, but since federal funding for human cloning was illegal, and Dad was at a federally funded lab, the government shut them down. Dad was out of a job.

All this went on while Mom was dying from cancer.

So Mom and Dad had fought. Big time. Yelling and screaming on the way to a doctor’s appointment. Harsh whispers and evasion when Mom got back from a round of chemo. Mom called Dad a murderer. Dad called Mom a brainwashed fool.

And Abby had spent a lot of time in her room reading
Forensic Magazine
.