The Variables (43 page)

“That’s ridiculous,” Lucy said. “I can’t believe that worked—”

Grant tugged her toward the door. “It only works if they don’t send someone to this room after us,” he said.

With their hearts pumping and the adrenaline coursing, Grant and Lucy booked it down the hallway and caught the elevator at the exact moment one of the observers popped out into the hallway after them, his walkie-talkie squawking. When the doors had shut, Lucy leaned into Grant, and grabbed his hand. She felt like they could conquer anything.

The elevator hit the surface and kept soaring upward. She couldn’t calm herself. It felt like the time she had been caught toilet papering a teacher’s house. Mid-throw, the lights had flipped on and her eighth-grade math teacher stormed out of his house with a water gun. It had been a sleepover idea gone wrong, but once they were back at their house, the girls had giggled under the covers until they couldn’t breathe. Excitement, mischief, and the exhilaration of getting away had kept them from sleeping until the wee hours of the morning.

Their teacher hadn’t identified them, but the girl’s parents, who had been hosting the sleepover, made the girls all pay for the missing toilet paper. It was a story Lucy told with pride.

“This isn’t how I imagined your first night back,” Lucy said. “Can you tell me what this is all about? Why are we running around like this?”

“I’m supposed to be dead,” Grant replied matter-of-factly. “If it weren’t for Blair, I would be.”

Lucy froze. She couldn’t find the words to reply. “I don’t...don’t...understand. But Copia...”

“Doesn’t exist,” Grant replied.

“All those people?”

“Dead.”

“Dead?”

“Your father created a secondary virus. It was unleashed it on the Copia crowd while they watched a video from Huck.” His eyes went glassy and he stared at Kymberlin whooshing past them. “That’s what he had been working on…why he never told me what we had been doing in the lab. He knew, Lucy. Your dad knew everything.”

“No,” she whispered. “Grant…”

“I can’t think about it too much…if I think about it too much…” he trailed off.

The elevator started to slow. Their destination approached.

“Why do you need Ethan?” Lucy asked next. She never broke her gaze from Grant. She held tightly on to his hand and refused to let go.

“Because I promised someone I’d deliver a letter. And honestly Lucy...I don’t know how many lives I have left.”
 

Ethan was right where the cameras had shown him to be—sitting and watching a screen imbedded into a bar-top. It was the World Series game seven between the Yankees and the Diamondbacks. Lucy wondered if Huck had managed to save any professional athletes. She hadn’t heard of anyone famous making Huck’s list. But maybe someday the Islands would boast competitive games with their own teams. Maybe when people grew tired of watching prerecorded history they would demand some sports of their own. The Island Games. It had a nice ring to it.

Ethan’s leg was stretched out to the side, and he glanced at Lucy and Grant as they entered the bar and pulled up the stools on either side of him. He took a sip of a beer and managed to say hello. Lucy and Ethan hadn’t seen much of each other in the past few days, and their brief encounters had left Lucy feeling wounded. But she didn’t feel like she had much time to dedicate to her brother’s moodiness, and so she let his frosty hello roll right off her back.

“Hey yourself,” Lucy said. “I didn’t know about this place. I’m learning about new places every day.”

“Nostalgia Sports,” Ethan replied, nodding toward the marquee outside. “Just another place to remind you of all the things that aren’t the same.” He took a drink.

“Ethan...” Lucy started. She picked up a napkin and began unfolding it, playing with the corners. “Grant...”

“Stop,” Ethan said. “I can tell that tone. You’re here for a favor?” Immediately, he took Lucy’s hand and placed it against the rough exterior of his fake leg. He held her hand there, his palm covering her hand entirely, and didn’t break eye contact, even after she started to squirm and pull away. “This happened to me. You want to hear about it?”

Lucy didn’t answer. She looked back at him, unblinking. He had never offered to tell her about his leg or his time in Portland without her; all of that had remained unspoken. She assumed that he had told Cass, but Lucy didn’t know for sure. While he seemed hostile, or maybe just drunk, Lucy didn’t want him to slip away; she could feel Grant’s impatience on her other side, and she felt torn.

“Of course,” Lucy answered. “But Grant needs...”

“There was a doctor...” he started talking over her. He looked off to the corner, and then shook off some floating memory and looked back to her. “She took my leg and just chopped it right off in the middle of the DiCarlo’s living room. You know them right?” Lucy nodded. “The leg is probably still there. My
leg
. And I didn’t have this contraption, so I was entirely dependent on these strangers to care for me. Which they did. The entire time.”

“I’m sorry—”

“No,” Ethan interrupted. He stared at the counter. “That’s just the thing, Lucy. You’re sorry for all the wrong reasons.”

Alfonso Soriano of the Yankees had hit a home run. Lucy watched him running the bases on the small TV screen, the other players crawling out of the dugout to greet him, and the Arizona fans remaining stoic as the Yankees took the lead. Ethan leaned over and flipped the screen off. The baseball game shriveled up and went black.

“I screwed up, I know. You don’t know how truly sorry I am. Please. I’m not sorry for the wrong reasons...I’m sorry for
everything
,” Lucy said with sincerity. She took her free hand and put it on top of Ethan’s hand; it was cold and clammy. Grant stood by her side, unmoving. She could feel his arm against her back.

“They killed them, Lucy. Slaughtered the people who had done nothing but try and save me. They knew their lives were in danger, too. And I—” Ethan closed his eyes. “I should have run away where no one could find us. We all should have left. I was wrong...”

Grant’s leg was now bouncing up and down on the stool, he tapped his fingers on the counter and opened his mouth to say something, but then he changed his mind. His hand went to his pocket and he pulled out a folded up bag. Lucy looked at it, and turned back to Ethan.

“You don’t
negotiate
with these people, Lucy.”

“Grant has something for you...”

“Ethan,” Grant said, leaning across the counter.
 

“Our family isn’t the same,” Ethan replied to Lucy, ignoring Grant. “Some things you don’t get back. And it’s just...those people...who died...I cared about them.”

“I respect that this is a really tender brother-sister thing going on...” Grant continued, “and I’m sorry if this is rude...but Ethan, can you please listen to me?”

Lucy and Ethan turned to Grant, and Grant put the folded up airsickness bag on the counter and pushed his pointer finger down on the top, and slid it over to Ethan’s arm.

“From Ainsley,” Grant said quietly.

The bar went quiet. Or maybe it had been quiet before and none of them noticed. Someone at another table was watching a soccer game and the fans were chanting a series of
oh oh oh ohs
along with the heavy beat of a drum. The bartender, a dark man with a nametag that read
EUS One: Chemist
, ran a rag over a pint glass in slow, methodical circles.

“Oh,” Ethan whispered, his eyes narrowing. He took the bag and tucked it into his own pocket without reading it. “I...no...that’s not possible,” he mumbled. He kept his hand on his pocket, as if just feeling the note was enough.

“I didn’t read it,” Grant said quickly.

“Ainsley,” Lucy repeated. “Who’s Ainsley?”

“A girl,” Ethan said. He looked at Grant, “Is she—?”

Grant nodded once. And Ethan looked overcome with emotion. He popped himself up off the chair and wrapped his arms around Grant.

“Where?” was all Ethan whispered.

“The shore,” Grant replied. “With Darla...and my dad.”

Lucy’s mouth dropped open. “What?” She spun and looked between Grant and Ethan. “What? Are you serious? You waited to tell me all of that?”

“I’m sorry...” he replied, then he turned to Ethan. “Blair knows.”

Ethan stiffened. “Grant—”

“You can trust her. She wants to reunite Darla and Teddy. But...”

Several guards entered Nostalgia Sports, they scanned the bar top and paused when they saw Grant. Walking briskly toward them, Grant looked to see if there was anywhere to run, but they were trapped. Ethan stood up and stood between the guards and Grant. Lucy grabbed his hand. The men placed their hands on their guns and nodded to the bartender who nodded back then switched to drying another cup.

“Mr. King, Miss King,” they said. Then they turned to Grant. “Grant Trotter. Huck Truman has requested an audience with you in his office. Please follow us.”

“Is this optional?” Grant asked with a half-smile.

The men did not smile back.

“He doesn’t have to go with you,” Ethan replied and he crossed his arms.

“This is non-negotiable,” one of the guards said to Ethan. “Step aside, please.”

“No way. He’s not going,” Ethan said.

“Move aside.”

Ethan uncrossed his arms and took his pointer finger and poked it into the sternum of the guard closet to him. “I said he’s not going with you,” he hissed.

Without another word, the guard looked to his partner and then stepped back. Lucy gasped as the guard lifted his boot and took aim against Ethan’s prosthetic leg, kicking it squarely in the space just below where Ethan’s prosthetic began. The leg gave out underneath him and Ethan scrambled to hold on to something. He grabbed the upper part of the barstool and his limbs flew out around him.

“I’ll go!” Grant yelled, but Lucy clung to his hand. “I’m sorry, Lucy...I have to…”

“Don’t,” Lucy said. She turned to the guards, “I’m not letting him go. You can take it up with Huck if you want to, but I’m not letting go.” She stood firm and defiant, even though her heart beat ferociously.

“Lucy—” Grant said. He unwrapped her hand from his own and then he stopped and helped Ethan to his feet. “Ethan, if...”

“No,” Ethan said. He took a step forward toward the waiting guards, but this time the guard went for his weapon.

“Stand back, Mr. King,” the man said.

“Don’t let her do anything dangerous,” Grant said. “Please.”

“The Kings don’t like to be told what to do,” Ethan replied. He clasped his hand on Grant’s shoulder as Grant stepped in front of the guards.

“No!!” Lucy cried and she tried to go after him, but Ethan stopped her. He grabbed her around her shoulders and pulled her into him, hanging on to her as Grant was led away. She could feel the throbbing down to her elbows. “No! Don’t you dare hurt him!” she yelled again. It didn’t do any good. They walked off with Grant in tow, out into the hallway and out of sight.

The other bar patrons watched the spectacle unfold and then went back to their drinks. They busied themselves by staring at their TV screens.

“They’re going to kill him,” Lucy said to Ethan, tears welling up in her eyes. She started to march off again, but her brother grabbed her hand and held it firm. Lucy shook her head. “Ethan...listen to me...they are going to kill him! And I didn’t get to say goodbye. Ethan, they didn’t even let me say goodbye!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Huck pointed to a big and black concert grand piano, walked over to it, and ran his hand over the top of the open lid. It was the most majestic piece of musical equipment Grant had ever seen. It had an ebony gloss finish and the keys were achingly pristine.
 

“I hear you play,” the old man said to Grant.

With his hands shoved deep in his pockets, Grant shrugged. He tried to take in the full grandeur of the entire room. Ornate, detailed, with beautiful touches—and a view of the shore, just out of reach. Bookshelves held large leather-bound volumes of classic literature, and the walls held frames for an array of artwork and photographs. It was stately, clean, and classic.

Hanging on one of the closest walls was a prominent frame with a wrinkled drawing that looked not unlike the Kymberlin towers. Large pillars rose from the ocean shaded in muted colors. Someone had tried to iron out the creases, but it was worse for wear: dirt-smeared, a dollop of red rust in the corner, wrinkles running through the penciled labels.

“I guess?” Grant answered Huck like a question. He looked at the man’s eagerness and cleared his throat. “I mean, yes. Sometimes. I play.”

The guards had dumped him into the room without fanfare—led him past Huck’s young secretary—and left him to fend for himself against the leader, who had been sitting alone at a big oak desk covered in papers. He rose when he saw Grant and had walked straight over to him and pointed to the piano. No other salutation, no niceties. The time for that had passed.

“Play something for me,” Huck said, and he reached down and pulled out the piano stool, patting it and motioning for Grant to sit.

“I’m not that good,” Grant tried to defer, but he realized that Huck was not going to take no for an answer.

“I don’t play at all,” Huck replied with a gentle smile. “Even if you play Mary Had a Little Lamb, I’m sure it would sound amazing on this piano.”

Grant slid onto the bench and ran his fingers over the keys lightly, and he played a chord to hear the richness of the vibrations. He thought of the song he had made up in Leland Pine’s living room. The notes had just come to him then and they had fallen right into place. It was a sad sort of melody, with strong minor chords: a reflection on his sadness at the time, his longing and worry. He closed his eyes and tried to remember how it started, and as soon as his fingers began to play, the song came back. He played and played, with his eyes closed, forgetting Huck was listening, forgetting everything except the ivory keys and the feeling of his foot against the pedal.

When he finished, he kept his hands on the piano for a long time, and then slid them into lap, afraid to look up.

“That was,” Huck started, and then he dropped his voice to a whisper, “simply amazing. Did you write that?”