How to Lead a Life of Crime

by Kirsten Miller

  He helps me lift my back. I’m naked beneath my hospital gown. The icy steel table chills my balls. My teeth start to chatter, and my skin sprouts goose bumps.

  “It’s a bit cold in here, isn’t it?” Mandel observes. “We’ll go somewhere warmer as soon as you’re feeling steady enough to stand. In the meantime, there’s a question I’ve been dying to ask you. Would you really have amputated your own arm?”

  “What?” My mind is a block of ice, with its memories trapped in the center. I know they’re still there. But I can’t seem to reach them.

  “To get rid of the tracking chip.”

  I remember now. I wish I didn’t. “Yes.”

  “Fan-tastic!” Mandel exclaims. “My colleagues refused to believe it. But I never doubted you for a second. That’s why I took the opportunity to have your chip relocated. It’s somewhere much safer now.”

  I peer down at my arm. There’s a bandage where the chip once was. I’m confused for a moment, but then my hand instinctively flies up to the right side of my head. They’ve hidden the incision under my hair. The chip’s there. I can feel it.

  “If you’re willing to amputate your head, I’ll be very impressed,” Mandel says. I think he just cracked a joke. “It’s only a precaution, of course. Your escape plan was ill-conceived. There was never any chance you’d succeed. After curfew, the balcony railings on floors two through six are electrified. And the security on the ground floor is absolutely impenetrable.”

  “Why am I still alive?”

  “Why wouldn’t you be?” Mandel asks. “Everything is going according to plan. Are you ready to take a little stroll?”

  I slide off the side of the table. My feet freeze as soon as they touch the tiling. I see three autopsy tables, four lockers, and one desk. There are too many corpse drawers to count. I wonder if they’re all occupied.

  “Where are we?” I ask.

  “The Infirmary floor,” Mandel responds. “That’s what the employees call it, but my laboratory takes up most of the space. I’ll give you a quick tour of the facility before we head upstairs to my office.”

  “I’m naked,” I say.

  Mandel glances down at my hospital gown. “Of course! I almost forgot. There’s a fresh set of clothes in the locker with my name on it. Go ahead, get dressed. I’ll wait for you outside in the lab.”

  I open the locker. There’s a mirror fixed to the inside of the door. I start to get dressed, but it’s almost like I’ve forgotten how. I pull on pants before I remember that boxer shorts should be worn beneath them. And it takes me a moment to remember which go on first—the socks or the shoes. I assume it’s the lingering effects of the anesthesia. But when I look in the mirror, I see the truth. While I was under, they didn’t just add a chip to my head. They took something away from me too.

  • • •

  Mandel keeps glancing over at me. I think I’m supposed to be oohing and aahing. The narrow aisles make the massive laboratory feel like a labyrinth. All around us, machines hum and whirl and beep. The workers down here seem to understand the strange language. Every new sound sets off a flurry of activity as humans rush to obey the machines’ commands. We pause for a moment as a man in a full-body lab suit temporarily blocks our path while he feeds a tray of blood-filled test tubes into a giant white box. All I can see of the man are his eyes. His surgical mask and hood hide the rest.

  “What kind of research are you conducting?” I ask my guide. “Who are these people?” I can string words together in my head now, but my tongue still struggles to spit them out.

  “Some are neurologists. But most are sequencing DNA. You see, Flick, I’m a geneticist by training. I never thought I’d end up as an educator. My older sister was tapped to run the family business after our mother passed away, but she died in a car accident five years ago. As the only surviving Mandel, I had no choice but to assume control of the school. At first I was extremely annoyed. Then I discovered a way to combine my duty with my true passion.”

  “By experimenting on dead teenagers,” I butt in. “Have you told your doctors where their lab specimens come from?”

  “The better you pay people, the fewer questions they ask,” Mandel says.

  We pass a small room to my right. The door is ajar, and the overhead lights are off. Two females in lab coats are examining a series of backlit blobs that are laid out in a grid on a massive screen. At first I think they’re Rorschach blots. Then I realize they’re slices of someone’s brain.

  Mandel sees me lingering and gestures for me to catch up with him. There’s a pair of steel doors ahead of us, and he seems impatient to reach them. “Before I took over, the academy used to incinerate the bodies. It always seemed like such a terrible waste to me. Now at least the brains and blood are being put to good use. Mandel Academy students are helping to further the cause of science in ways they never dreamed possible.”

  “And to think they’re just a bunch of kids who flunked out of high school. I’m sure they’re thrilled. What exactly are they helping you accomplish?”

  “I’m searching for a gene mutation. One that’s rewired the brains of some remarkable individuals.”

  “Let me guess . . .”

  “No.” Mandel stops me. “Don’t guess. Follow me up to my office, and I’ll tell you the whole story.”

  • • •

  Judging by the angle of the sunbeams that shoot down through the atrium, it must be early afternoon. A bell rings just before our elevator climbs past the classroom floors. I don’t know which of the students shouts, but I hear my name echo through the building. Mandel has timed our journey perfectly. He wants everyone at the academy to see us.

  “You’ve just risen from the dead,” he tells me. “You used to be a prodigy. Now you’re a god.”

  We step out on the ninth floor, and Mandel uses his card key to open an unmarked door. Behind it lies a staircase. I used to peer out the windows in the Wolves’ Den and wonder what might be kept in the identical tower on the opposite side of the roof. Now I know. It’s Mandel’s private office.

  “Interesting choice of décor,” I remark when we arrive at the top of the stairs.

  Aside from a coatrack standing beside one of the windows, the room is completely empty.

  “I work underground. When I come up here, all I want to do is enjoy the view.” Mandel sorts through three black coats that are hanging from the rack and passes the largest to me.

  “I had this made for you,” he says as he chooses one for himself.

  The only coat left has a rounded, feminine collar. It looks about the right size for Gwendolyn.

  “Has she taken you out to the roof yet?” Mandel asks.

  “No.”

  “Ah well, she’s probably been saving it for a special moment. Do try to look surprised when she shows you.”

  The window next to the coatrack opens like a door. Frigid air rushes into the tower as Mandel steps outside.

  My body has a way of warning me when I’m being observed. An unpleasant tingle starts at the top of my spine and spreads until even the tips of my toes are buzzing. After a couple of months at the Mandel Academy, I’ve learned to live with the sensation. But this is different. It’s more than a tingle. It’s like I’ve just jammed a fork into an electric socket. We are out on the roof, surrounded by skyscrapers. I can see my father’s building in the distance. His office faces south, overlooking the harbor. He’s probably not watching. But others must be.

  The academy’s glass pyramid sits in the center of the roof. We’re on a flat, tar-papered widow’s walk between the two towers. A six-foot-high railing lines the edge of the building. Which means I can’t just push Mandel over the side. I could try to kill him with my bare hands—but I’d be willing to bet that he’s packing a Taser. I’d never make it out of this place alive. And God knows what they’d do to me before I died. Maybe I should shove Mandel through the glass pyramid. Then I could climb the drainpipe on the side of his tower, get past the fence, and jump. If my
body splatters on a city street, at least it wouldn’t end up in one of those drawers. And that is a very comforting idea.

  I could jump. I want to jump. I must jump.

  I won’t jump. I’m here for a reason. Lucas died to keep me alive. I owe it to him—and to Aubrey and Felix—to do everything I can to survive.

  “So how do you like my office?” Mandel laughs. “I know all of this probably seems very cloak and dagger, but I’d prefer to keep our chat private.”

  “How can you call this private? We’re standing on a roof in the middle of the financial district. Half of New York can see us.”

  “And what do they see? An older man counseling a teenage student? The only thing that matters for now is that no one can hear us. The alumni know about my research, of course. But the experiment I’m currently conducting is the most important of my career. I’m on the cusp of proving a remarkable theory. And I’d like the chance to present all of my findings at once.”

  “You said you’d made a wager with my father. Now you’re conducting an experiment. So what does that make me—your guinea pig?”

  “No, Flick. You’re going to be my superhero. My Captain America.”

  Captain America. The dipshit from the Lower East Side who let the government dose him with Super-Soldier serum. As a kid, I thought special powers like his were just another form of cheating. In my opinion, the only true superhero was Batman, who kicked ass without being anything other than human.

  “Did you do something to me down there in that lab?” I demand.

  Mandel shakes his head as if the question doesn’t make sense. “All I did was change the location of your chip. If I altered you physically, it could ruin the experiment.”

  “Then how do you expect me to become some sort of superhero? I don’t even have what it takes to escape from a building in downtown Manhattan.”

  Mandel beams. I’ve never seen him so animated. He’s practically giddy—like a grade school geek presenting his first science fair project.

  “What if I were to tell you that there’s a switch somewhere inside you? Until now, it’s been in the off position. But if it were on, you would be completely unstoppable. The point of my experiment is to locate that switch—and flip it.”

  I open my mouth, but Mandel holds up a finger.

  “I’ll explain everything. But you won’t understand unless you allow me to give you a bit of background information.” He pauses. “Perhaps you’ve noticed that some of the students here at the Mandel Academy are . . . different. Caleb and Ivan, for instance. What do you suppose sets them apart?”

  I remember Caleb’s empty eyes. “They’re sociopaths,” I say. “I don’t know why it took me so long to figure it out. They’re both completely insane.”

  My diagnosis neither shocks nor insults my companion. “Ah, see! You just made two very common mistakes. To begin with, Caleb and Ivan are not sociopaths. They’re psychopaths.”

  “Aren’t those the same thing?”

  “Not quite. Psychopaths and sociopaths are often confused because they share the same traits. Most are intelligent and cunning, for instance. Many are also remarkably charming. But both groups lack what you’d call a conscience. They always act in their own self-interest. They cheat, steal, or kill to get what they want, and they feel no remorse for their actions. Some—but not all—become criminals. Others find success in a variety of professions.

  “The difference between the two groups is simple. Psychopaths are born. Caleb and Ivan have always been the way they are now. Sociopaths, however, must be made.”

  “How do you make someone a sociopath?” I snort.

  “There’s more than one way, of course. The most effective is to find a child who’s been neglected, traumatized, or abused. Then you force him to fight for his own survival. You give him no option but to kill or be killed. You tell him he must survive by any means necessary—and offer him a prize if he does.”

  “Sounds a lot like the Mandel Academy.”

  “And that’s no coincidence. My mother perfected the recipe I just recited, though I don’t think she knew what she was making. But I’ve been studying the academy’s students since I was your age. It didn’t take me long to realize that those who managed to graduate were either psychopaths or sociopaths. Some had been born that way. Most Mandel alumni, however, had not. But they were raised in environments that offered no sense of safety or hope for the future. That experience, along with the training they received at the academy, turned them into sociopaths. By the time they graduated, none of them possessed a conscience. Their sole concern was their own survival.”

  “You made them monsters,” I say.

  “Not monsters,” Mandel corrects me. “Predators. That’s the term we use here. The alumni hate being labeled sociopaths or psychopaths—and they’d be furious to hear you call them all monsters. They don’t want to be thought of as mentally ill. And they’re not. No one at the Mandel Academy is insane. Psychopaths and sociopaths are not defective humans. As a matter of fact, I’m convinced they’re superior beings.”

  I feel like we just took a detour into sci-fi land. I do hope extraterrestrials are involved. If Mandel turns out to be barking mad, he might as well be entertaining, too. “Superior beings, you say?”

  “That’s the theory I’m testing. I believe that, at some point in history, the human race split into two different species.”

  It’s not quite as crazy as it could be, I guess. “How?”

  “A mutant gene evolved. Those who inherited the gene were smarter, stronger. Better. They became predators. Those without the gene were weaker, less intelligent, more prone to illness. They were the predators’ prey. That’s what psychopaths and sociopaths share in common. Both possess the mutant gene.”

  “Wait a second—you said sociopaths seem totally normal at birth. How is that possible if they inherited some kind of predator gene?”

  Mandel smiles. He loves playing professor. “Science has shown that many of our genes can be switched off or on. Psychopaths are born with an active predator gene. But they’re a very rare breed—perhaps less than one percent of the population. A much larger percentage of people are born with a gene that isn’t switched on. But if they’re placed in the right environment, the gene can be activated, and they’ll become sociopaths.”

  I don’t want to ask. “What does this have to do with me?”

  “You have the mutant gene. There’s little doubt that you inherited it from your father. But you haven’t been exposed to the conditions that will make your gene active.”

  “You’re saying I have the predator gene, but it isn’t expressed.”

  Mandel claps. “You know the proper term! Very impressive. That’s right. You’re what I call a hybrid.”

  “A hybrid?”

  “When predators mate with prey, the offspring inherit an inactive mutant gene. Hybrids look like predators but behave like prey. However, over the years, the Mandel Academy has proved that it’s possible to turn hybrids into full-blown predators. That’s what my mother did to your father. He arrived at this school a broken, battered little weakling. He left as a sociopath. My mother activated his predator gene. And that’s what I intend to do to you.”

  Shit. Shit. Shit. “And that’s going to be your big breakthrough? You just said your family’s been ‘switching’ hybrids for decades.”

  “Yes, but we’ve been terribly inefficient. This school recruits eighteen students a year. Only nine ever graduate. Our success rate is low because we’re forced to recruit students we hope can be predators. We’ve been relying on guesswork rather than science. Half of our recruits never become sociopaths, and that’s why we must expel so many students. However, if we find the predator gene—and develop a test for it—we can recruit only genuine hybrids and produce twice as many graduates each year.”

  “That’s what you’re searching for in the lab downstairs? The predator gene?”

  “Yes, and when my scientists finally find it, we can
test every potential student and admit only those who possess it.”

  “Gee, that sounds awesome,” I drone.

  “I think so,” Mandel says. “Unfortunately, your father and his supporters claim my research is far too expensive. The board of directors has threatened to close my lab unless I can prove that the mutant gene actually exists. They’ve given me a single year. But great discoveries cannot be rushed. I knew we might not locate the gene in time—so I offered to show it in action instead.”

  “I have a hunch this is where I come in.”

  “Yes. Like all genes, the predator gene is passed from one generation to the next. In order to prove its existence, I needed a subject who was likely to have inherited the mutant gene from one of his parents—but showed no sign of being a predator. It had to be someone particularly unpromising—a young person the academy would have never dreamed of recruiting. Then I would expose the subject to the kind of conditions that I believe can activate the mutant gene—and turn the hybrid into a first-class predator.”

  My blood has been drained and my veins pumped full of poison. “And you chose me for your experiment. How flattering.”

  “You weren’t an ideal choice. I appealed to the alumni first. Most of their offspring are likely to possess the mutant gene. I only needed a single hybrid for my experiment, but I quickly realized that no graduate would ever willingly enroll a child in our school.”

  “I bet. They wouldn’t want to risk their own kids getting killed.”

  Mandel chuckles. “It would be a difficult thing to explain to one’s spouse, that’s for certain. But I think most alumni were more concerned that their children might graduate. Predators don’t enjoy competition inside their own homes. Eventually I had to insist that your father volunteer one of his sons. He wasn’t terribly fond of the idea, but at the time he could hardly refuse.”

  “So you’ve been trying to prove your theory by activating my gene?”