The Girl Who Was Supposed to Die (20 page)

His voice interrupts my thoughts. “You must have Michael's and Elizabeth's guns. Pick them up by the barrels and put them on the floor. Now.” He swivels his own gun to point it at Ty. “Or I shoot him in the head.”

I have no doubt that he means what he says. And while there must be something we could do—some tricky move that would both distract him and leave us unscathed—I can't think of what it is. We both reach under our coveralls. Nowell's expression doesn't change, but I can see his finger tighten infinitesimally on the trigger. A second later, the two guns are on the floor. Leaving us what for weapons? A mop? A broom?

“So why are you two here?” Nowell says thoughtfully. “Why would you risk everything to come here? And to this room in particular. Not the room where the hantavirus is being manufactured. The room your father found because he couldn't leave well enough alone.” His face changes as understanding dawns. “When your father left, he stole a sample. Did something happen to that sample? Did someone become contaminated?”

There's no point in lying anymore. “It's Max.”

“So it's been”—Nowell's eyes flick upward, thinking, but are back to me before I can make any kind of move—“what? Thirty-six hours? That means late tomorrow your little brother will start running a fever that just keeps climbing. And his back and hips will ache like someone's trying to tear the meat from his bones. Then his lungs will begin to fill with blood, and he'll struggle for breath. Have you ever seen anyone die like that? It's not pretty. They panic, like a drowning swimmer, but there's nothing you can do because they're drowning from the inside, and there's no medicine that can save them. And finally he'll die. Your little brother will die, and there'll be nothing you and your parents will be able to do but watch.”

“Not if we get him the vaccine,” I say.
Don't act. Be.
I'm another person now, an even more desperate version of me. Max's life depends on it. “Please. Max is only three years old. He doesn't know anything. He can't hurt you in any way. Just let him live. Let me bring the vaccine to him, and after that I don't care what happens to me.”

Nowell's reply is full of lilting sarcasm. “He doesn't know anything, just like you didn't know anything? Your parents have already taught me what happens when I trust someone in your family. They could have been rich beyond their wildest imaginings. And no one would have been hurt. People would have paid well to make sure that didn't happen. It was simply a matter of wealth transference.”

As he speaks, he moves toward the third cooler. The cooler with the container labeled
HV VACCINE
. Still keeping the gun trained on us, he opens it, reaches in with one hand, and unerringly finds the bottle.

“No, I'm sorry, Cady, but I can't let you take this. Your parents knew there would be a price if they went against me. Now they have to be prepared to pay it.” He takes the bottle I just had within my grasp, and in one motion he unscrews the cap with his thumb.

“No!” I scream. Before I can get to him, he laughs and pours it down the sink. I slap my palm over the drain, but it's all seeped away. The bottle is empty.

And Nowell is laughing. Laughing as I scream.

Behind us, an alarm begins to sound, an unending high-pitched drone. Nowell's head whips around. Smoke is seeping from under the warmer door.

“What have you done?” His voice is nearly drowned out by the alarm. “What have you idiots done?”

Nowell runs over and grabs the handle of the warmer. But when he wrenches open the door, a flash of orange explodes out. A fireball envelops him, rolling up and over his body. And then everything goes dark.

 

CHAPTER 40

DAY 3, 5:07 A.M.

 

When I wake up, I'm lying on my back on a narrow bed made with white linens. The ceiling is white acoustical tile and the walls are pale green. It's the third time in a row I've woken up someplace I didn't recognize. First the cabin. Then Ty's bedroom. Now I guess it's a hospital room.

Only this time my mom is asleep in a chair next to me. When I sit up, she starts awake. Her eyes dart around the room, and then she takes a deep, shaky breath and hugs me so hard I can't breathe. But I don't mind.

“Max?” I ask her when she finally loosens her grip. My voice is a croak. She pulls back but keeps her hands on my shoulders.

“It looks like he'll be okay. Thanks to you, Cady.” Mom kisses my cheek and then takes my good hand in hers. I notice that they are both bandaged, not just the one with the missing fingernails. “He got the vaccine a couple of hours ago.”

“He did?” I realize it's still dark outside. Still nighttime.

“You were so smart, Cady”—violet shadows lie under her eyes—“switching the vaccine to an unmarked bottle and putting it in the insulated lunch bag. That kept it cool when the fire flashed over. Nowell thought he poured the vaccine down the drain, but it was really just a vial of water. Max is running a little bit of a fever, and they're monitoring him, but so far, it's just a precaution.” She takes a shaky breath. “I was so worried I had lost both of you. I don't think I could live if I did.”

“And Daddy?” The word slips out. I haven't called him Daddy since I was Max's age. But I feel like a little kid. I want to be a little kid again, when my parents could keep me safe.

Mom blinks a few times, but before I can get too worried she gently squeezes my shoulder and says, “He had to have some surgery and now they've got him on IV antibiotics because of the wound in his shoulder. But he should be okay, too.”

“And Ty? The guy who was helping me?” He was closer to Nowell when Nowell opened the door.

“He's got some first- and second-degree burns, like you. And like you, they say he'll be okay.” She leans down and hugs me again. “Oh, Cady, we're so lucky to have you as a daughter,” she whispers in my ear. “You saved us. You saved us all.”

We're both quiet for a long moment. I'm trying to take in that it's all over. Really over. Everyone is safe.

“What happened? All we were doing was trying to heat up the eggs so that Nowell wouldn't be able to use the virus inside them to make a vaccine. We lit a fire and closed the door to the warmer. But when he opened the door, it exploded.”

“I guess it's called a backdraft. The fire had been starved of oxygen and then got a fresh supply when Kirk pulled the door open. Thank God the building is new enough that it has a sprinkler system. It could have been much worse.”

I remember angry orange flames, the gray smoke that suddenly rolled over me. Screaming Ty's name, I had dropped to the floor. And that's the last thing I really remember. I have fainter memories of water falling like rain, sirens, people lifting me up.

“How did the firemen know to come?”

“The fire triggered the sprinklers, and the sprinkler system automatically notified the fire department and told them which floor the fire was on,” Mom says. “When the firefighters found the security guard tied up, they called the police. Nowell was still holding a gun, and Ty was able to tell them something about what was going on. Now Homeland Security is investigating.”

“And Nowell? Is he dead?”

“Kirk's got second-degree flash burns, and he's lost his hair and eyebrows. I understand he has some upper airway issues due to the heat of the gases. But he'll live. Which I guess is a good thing.” Mom gives me a crooked smile. “And Elizabeth and Michael are in custody.”

I don't know whether to be glad or sorry that Nowell is alive. The rest is very good. And suddenly my eyes are so heavy that I have to close them again.

But this time I know I'm safe.

 

CHAPTER 41

THREE MONTHS LATER

 

Next to me, Ty sticks out his tongue and tips his head back, balancing on his ski poles. He's trying to catch one of the fat flakes that are beginning to drift down from the pale sky. The woods around us are deserted, just sparkling snow and dark evergreens and the faint tracks left by our cross-country skis. Even though being here was Ty's suggestion, I worried it would remind him too much of his dad's accident. But we're on cross-country skis, sticking to groomed trails and keeping well away from the trees.

“Gah one!” Ty snaps his mouth shut and raises his head to look at me, grinning.

“It's amazing to think each one is different.” With the fingertip of my glove, I nudge a snowflake that has just landed on the sleeve of my turquoise down jacket. It shimmers and then turns into a rivulet of water.

“Just like people.”

“And fingerprints,” I say with a shiver. It's about twenty degrees outside, cold enough that each breath is sharp in my nose. But that isn't why I can feel gooseflesh walking up my arms underneath my thick wool sweater.

Fingerprints make me think of criminals, which makes me think of Kirk Nowell, Elizabeth Tanzir, and Michael Brenner. All three are in jail and have been denied bail after having been deemed flight risks. Their trials won't take place until summer. There's another half dozen guys who helped hunt for me and my parents, but they're busy cutting deals with the prosecutors. Nowell is facing the most serious charges, including murder for shooting poor Officer Dillow.

Nowell tracked me to Newberry Ranch (and later to Ty's apartment) through Brenner's work-issued cell phone, which had a built-in GPS. Like James had guessed, Nowell used a spoof card to make Officer Dillow think he was calling from Sagebrush. Brenner is the one who hacked into Facebook and put up my fake profile and status updates.

Ty sees me shiver. “Cold?” He shifts one of his ski poles, puts his arm around me, and runs his hand up and down my arm. Is he just being nice, or does it mean something more? We've been texting each other a few times a day, but living in different cities, we've hardly spent any time together since the police finished questioning us. Ty came to Portland last month when we were part of a big award ceremony held by the governor. We were surrounded by hero cops and hero firefighters. All those folks in uniform got to their feet and applauded us for stopping Z-Biotech's plan.

Now, three months after everything happened, our lives have mostly returned to normal. We're both back at school and complaining about homework. I'm not on the cover of magazines anymore, and I no longer have to worry about turning on the TV and hearing my name. When the man whose car we stole heard the whole story, he decided not to press charges.

We came here this weekend so my parents could talk to contractors about having a new cabin built on the same site. They had asked me if they should sell it, wondered if the bad memories would overwhelm me. But now that I have my memory back, I know there are so many more good memories. Plus there's Ty himself, only forty-five minutes away.

He squeezes my shoulder, and I realize he's still waiting for an answer.

“I've been having a lot of bad dreams lately.”

In my dreams, the fire still explodes out of the stainless steel door, but it's Max who had opened it. In the worst of the dreams, Max is dead and Kirk Nowell is coming at me with a pair of pliers. Or Max is sick, bright red blood frothing on his lips, and I hold his tiny body until it goes limp and his eyes roll back in his head. No matter what form the nightmare takes, I wake up feeling drained, bile bitter on the back of my tongue.

The government is now making a new batch of the hantavirus vaccine. The plan is for it to be ready by next summer so they can offer it to the farmers and ranchers who live in the area where the field mice make their home. My parents are working with other virologists and wildlife biologists to figure out if it's possible to eliminate the hantavirus from the field mice altogether.

Ty drops his arm, shrugs his backpack onto one shoulder, and pulls out a thermos. “I've got the cure for bad dreams,” he says. “Hot cocoa.”

“With marshmallows?” I'm joking, but he grins and pulls a plastic bag of mini marshmallows from one of his coat pockets.

While he unscrews the lid, I try to shake away the memories, to ground myself in the moment. We're safe now, and free, and we're no longer on the run. I know who I am and I have all my memories—good and bad. When the trials happen, I'll deal with them.

I take a deep breath of the sharp, clean air. The snow sparkles in the sun like diamonds. Ty hands me the tiny tan plastic cup, and I fill my mouth with the sweet brown liquid, the marshmallows melting on my tongue. I feel the warmth going all the way down.

I hand the empty cup back to Ty. He fills it again and raises it to his mouth, his eyes scanning the horizon, while I watch him. I'm not sure how I should act around him. Everything has been so crazy. We know all kinds of things about each other, and we know we can trust each other, but we've never kissed. Does he even like me as a girl? Does he even know the real me? And who is the real me anyway? The girl who got straight
A
s and starred in plays? The girl who almost died? The girl who fought back any way she could?

And then Ty turns to me and his lips touch mine. And I find an old answer deep within myself.

Don't act. Be.

The past is over; the future is yet to come. I have only this moment, sparkling like a diamond in my hand and then melting like a snowflake.

I stop thinking and kiss him back.

 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

 

Thanks to Christy Ottaviano, Amy Allen, Marianne Cohen, Rich Deas, April Ward, Holly Hunnicutt, Allison Verost, Lucy Del Priore, Emily Waters, and all the other wonderful folks at Henry Holt/Macmillan. I am so glad you are on my team. My agent, Wendy Schmalz, has been my cheerleader, advocate, and confidant for twenty years.

Firefighter and paramedic Joe Collins helped me figure out how to best set a fire. Dr. Denene Lofland shared her knowledge of bioweapons. Author Jennifer Lynn Barnes answered a weird question I had about chimpanzees. And a police officer who would rather not be named was kind enough to send me snapshots of the inside of her patrol car.