Living Proof

by Kira Peikoff

  When the DEP bureau formed in New York City, he had his answer. There he could apply his talent for intuition in a direct, practical way: weeding out sinners to protect innocents. So he had ended up in a branch of law enforcement after all, but one whose mission was straight out of the Bible. There was no way, then, that God would let him down at the most crucial moment of his career.

  Reminding himself of this, Dopp inhaled a slow breath. The smell of new leather had begun to nauseate him. He cracked the window a tad, just enough to get a whiff of cold air, and subconsciously started to gnaw on his hangnails. It was a habit from his childhood that had cropped back up in recent days.

  But what if, just this once, he had been wrong?

  He spit a torn cuticle out the window’s narrow slit.

  What if she was just a very ill lady with some sinful ideas?

  No embryos had ever gone missing. There was no evidence of a lab anywhere. Could she have been going to the East Village regularly before to see a doctor, as she had told Trent? Dopp had been so sure that was another one of her lies. But could there have been a little-known specialist who practiced there?

  No. The tip of doubt was the first crack of faith; it was the Devil beckoning to him; it was the weakening of his divine link. At all costs, he could not ignore his intuition about that woman. It could not be wrong. His connection to God could not be slipping after fifty-seven solid years.

  He spit another hangnail out the window and then rested his left hand on his gun, secure in its holster around his belt. The barrel was smooth and reassuring. He was still in control, still the director of the DEP: the noblest of all government agencies, despite any questions about its necessity.

  If only Windra would call again, even to prod him. But Dopp had heard nothing from the senator since Monday, and the budget talks had begun by now. Dopp checked the news on his laptop like a fiend, but there was nothing noteworthy yet about their progress. The talks were behind closed doors, so he—and the news—could not follow them. Could Windra have stopped calling because he had written off the DEP as a lost cause?

  Dopp would prove him wrong yet.

  “I will,” he pledged aloud to no one.

  But his boldness sounded forced, even to him. He turned to his laptop and navigated to the website of an online Bible. Reading some of his favorite passages in Colossians and Revelations would at least keep his self-doubt at bay.

  * * *

  The five stacks of papers on Trent’s desk should have overwhelmed him: they were printouts, separated by borough, of the daily electronic reports sent in by all the fertility clinics in the city. Yesterday’s reports. He was supposed to be reviewing each one and checking it against past records, then sending a summary to Dopp, who was continuing to assign random inspections from his car.

  But with an understaffed office consumed by apprehension, Trent could tell that the department’s efficiency was sliding. So he wasn’t too worried that his own productivity was about the same level as Dianne’s, his notoriously lazy colleague who had been the first person Dopp fired this week. Trent’s own employment status meant nothing to him. Not today. Not with one day left before the transfer.

  Arianna was counting on him, one last time: it was a huge moment of truth. He hated to think of it that way, but the phrase sneaked into his mind like the slogan of a pressure-mounting campaign. How the hell was he going to distract Dopp for forty-five minutes? He sighed, blowing off the top report in one of the stacks on his desk. He could hardly imagine luring Dopp away from her for even forty-five seconds.

  What could possibly take up his attention for that long?

  Trent knew that his wife was heavily pregnant. How that could work to Trent’s advantage, though, was unclear. Unless Trent could somehow suspend communication between the two, and then tell Dopp to rush to Long Island for an emergency delivery …

  No, impossible. Besides, even Dopp’s seven-year-old son had a cell phone, and was fond of calling his father during business hours to report the most mundane details, like the fact that Joanie had forgotten to cut off his sandwich crust. So there was no way that the boy would fail to communicate with his father if his mother went into labor.

  What else might draw Dopp away? Trent scrunched up his eyes, summoning an image of his exacting boss. What might scare him enough to drop everything and run to another site? A fire in the department’s headquarters? Too dangerous. A break-in at his own home? Possibly. Trent did have a gun, courtesy of the department, and knew where his boss lived. But the timing would be risky—what if the family wasn’t even home? Not to mention that it was a heinous stunt to perpetrate on his wife and kids. But was Dopp’s stakeout of Arianna any less vicious, any less undeserved?

  It might work, though Trent was uncomfortable with the idea. There had to be a lure that was both surefire and nonviolent. Preferably not involving others. He tried rephrasing the question in his head: What did Dopp want?

  And then he gave a start, and reached for his phone to call Arianna on her private cell. It was so obvious, and so simple—Dopp was desperate to find the secret place he had suspected and hunted for all along.

  * * *

  Friday. The day finally arrived, and more quickly than Sam had expected. It was early evening when he looked up from his microscope for the last time, feeling immensely proud. The cells had differentiated into perfect oligodendrocytes, all containing Arianna’s unique DNA, and they had proliferated in the petri dish. There was no logical reason for her body to reject them.

  Sam had outdone himself: out of the four batches of stem cells he extracted, all had differentiated into the correct cells, proving that his hit-upon combination was no fluke. But he needed only one batch for the transfer, so the other three would remain behind, lost testaments to his breakthrough.

  He had flawlessly—if obsessively—executed the whole procedure, checking on the cells every hour instead of every two, for the past forty-four hours. Fatigue had come and gone, a momentary phase, as nervous excitement took hold. The only sign of his marathon of insomnia was droopiness in his eyelids, but he hardly noticed it. When Arianna’s life depended on it, staying on task was easy.

  All he had to do now was transfer the cells into a flask, load it into the black case, and head to the clinic. Dr. Ericson would be waiting for him there to drain the cells into a sterile bag attached to a tube with a long needle at one end. And then, if all went according to Trent’s plan, Arianna would be free to meet them at the clinic shortly thereafter. At least the traitor had come through with an idea and even guaranteed it to work, since it would exploit Dopp’s deep desire for his suspicions to be vindicated. In just a few hours, then, both those bureaucratic swine ought to be left far behind, as Sam, Arianna, the Ericsons, and Megan disappeared uptown.

  It was hard to believe that the transfer was almost here, after so many months of trial and error, hope and disappointment, and the depletion of scientists, resources, and time. Sam took a final look around. The lab looked the same as it had on any other day—or night, for that matter. The microscopes sat on the counter, soon to be unplugged, like the freezer and incubator. Already it was equipment of a past era that would be left behind to rust. But all of it had served him well. He would miss this place, rats squeaking and all, this hidden room that could not mesh with the outside world, though within it had so much to offer.

  A protective scorn rose in Sam’s chest as he thought about the unseeing eyes that were soon to enter. And then suddenly he was overcome with tenderness. This private lab was going to serve them one last time, like a dying dog faithfully wagging its tail; I’m here for you, it wanted to tell its master, until the very end. And so it was with this basement, this chamber of progress and loophole of the world. In its dying role, playing the distraction, it was going to serve up their tickets to freedom.

  * * *

  At 7 P.M., Arianna was sitting in her kitchen, alone. She thought of Sam, who ought to be on his way to the clinic with the cells. A thrill ting
led the hair follicles on her arms. Her apartment was completely quiet, so no sounds could interfere with the plan. Even the dishwasher was turned off.

  She reached for her bugged cell phone on the table. In her hand, the slab of plastic felt light, even insignificant. She rubbed her thumb over the tiny microphone slit that served as both her mouthpiece and Dopp’s earpiece. For the first time, she hoped he was listening.

  Clumsily, she dialed Trent’s number.

  “Hello?” he answered.

  “Hi, it’s Arianna.”

  “Hey, I was just thinking about calling you. How are you?”

  “I’m okay, I guess. Are you doing anything?”

  “Not really. How come?”

  “I was wondering if you wanted to come over, actually.” Her voice dropped, growing serious. “I want to talk to you about something in person.”

  “Oh, well, sure. Is everything okay?”

  “Kind of. I’ve just been thinking a lot and I want to talk to you.”

  “Okay, I’ll come right now.”

  “Thanks. See you then.”

  Arianna snapped her phone shut. She hoped they had sounded natural. She checked her watch: 7:07 P.M. In the time it would take Trent to arrive, she knew that Sam and the doctors would be arranging for the transfer procedure: preparing the cells in the bag, checking all the monitors, concocting the IV sedation, just in case. How badly she wanted to be there with them!

  She wheeled herself to the window above the kitchen sink. The view faced east, over Fifth Avenue and the front circular driveway of her building. She used to love standing at the sink and watching the cars fly down the street, all the way to the Washington Square Arch. But from her wheelchair, she could no longer reach the window. Channeling her lingering strength, she pulled out a stepstool from the nearby pantry, flattened it open, and set it down in front of the sink. Its highest step was level with the countertop. With every ounce of determination, she hoisted herself onto the lowest step of the stool, and then pulled herself up to the next one, and the next, until she was able to crane her neck to see out the window. Immediately, she spotted what she had come for: Dopp’s gray car was parked on the curb.

  * * *

  Sam hugged the black case close to his chest as he walked briskly to the clinic. It was dark out, the air frigid. The streets were still piled with slush from the recent storm, but he hardly cared if his sneakers were soaking wet, as long as he didn’t slip. Inside the case, the atmosphere was completely different; it was a toasty 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit, an incubator writ small. Sam thought of the glass flask inside, and conjured up the last image he had seen of the cells under the microscope. Could he have missed any problem cells? No, they were all pure. He was sure of it. He had checked so many times. But hadn’t he been much more tired than he realized? No, unless his eyes had deceived him dozens of times, the cells were fine. He could allow himself to breathe; his part was nearly complete. All he had to do was make it to the clinic. Step by step, cross the street. Washington Square Park came into view, shadowy and grim. He could see the outlines of trees, their branches quivering in the wind. There was no moon. He tightened his arms around the case as he walked along the park’s perimeter. The clinic’s door was two blocks away.

  “Sam!” yelled a female voice.

  He stopped short and turned toward the voice, which had come from a street perpendicular to the park, one block over from the clinic.

  Megan’s auburn head was sticking out the window of a black four-door sedan parked along the sidewalk. He hurried over to the car.

  “Just wanted to wish you guys luck,” she said. Her eyes searched his as if for reassurance.

  “Thanks,” he replied.

  “You sure she’ll be okay?”

  “I have every reason to think so.”

  Megan nodded, biting her lip. “I’ll be here waiting.”

  Seeing her worried face unnerved Sam; didn’t they have this situation under control?

  “I have to go,” he said. He could see the translucent puffs of his own breath in the air. The next time he’d be outside, he would be with Arianna, helping her into this very car.

  “Okay,” Megan said. “Be careful with her.”

  He nodded. Then he turned on his heels and headed toward the clinic. The black case had grown heavy in his tired arms.

  * * *

  Trent made sure to wait a few minutes before leaving his apartment, just to allow Dr. Ericson, Emily, and Sam extra time to prepare. He paced back and forth across his room, holding a sheet of paper and muttering the words he had so painstakingly typed. The plan had to work; it hinged on Dopp’s Achilles’ heel. If Trent understood his boss at all, they would be safe.

  He ran through the words on the page again and then stuffed the paper into his coat pocket and ran out. A withered part of him had the urge to pray, but he reminded himself that no safety net had ever even existed. Courage had abruptly become more difficult to summon.

  The subway ride passed quickly as he concentrated on what he needed to say, while remembering not to come off as rehearsed. As he emerged from the West Fourth Street station, inhaling the cold air, the imminence of the situation struck him. It was too late to second-guess anything; in the next few minutes, the plan would be set in motion. His heart hammered as he approached Arianna’s building. Don’t look nervous, he told himself. You can’t look nervous.

  He turned the corner at Fifth Avenue and saw Dopp’s car parked on the curb, right before the sidewalk curved in along the driveway. Squinting at the windshield, Trent could make out the shape of his boss’s head, but not his face. He hurried over to the car, composing his features into a look of anticipation.

  He waved at the tinted window, and Dopp pushed open the passenger-side door. His eyes were bloodshot, but he looked alert.

  “Hi,” Trent said, stepping into the car. He had never seen its interior, with its dashboard panel of interception devices, buttons, and speakers.

  “Why do you think she wanted you to come over?” Dopp demanded in lieu of hello.

  Trent widened his eyes and shook his head. “I don’t know. But I’m about to find out.”

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” he snapped.

  Trent shrugged and jumped out of the car. “Text me if you need to,” he said before closing the door. Then he turned and hurried inside the building.

  Good, he thought; Dopp was still his eager self.

  Inside the elevator, he rummaged in his coat pocket for his script. He hoped she had her copy in hand. It had taken them twenty-two e-mails during work yesterday to finalize it. He wished they could have practiced it live. As the elevator opened onto her barren hallway, he coughed. There was barely any saliva on his tongue.

  He walked to Arianna’s door and knocked loudly. A few seconds later, she opened it with a small smile and raised eyebrows, a tacit: Are you ready?

  He nodded back: As ready as ever. “Hi, how are you?” he said, stepping inside.

  “I’m okay. Thanks for coming over.”

  “Sure. So you got me all curious. What’s going on?”

  “Well, why don’t you come sit down.”

  She motioned to the kitchen table, and Trent followed her there, then pulled out one of the wooden chairs and sat. On the table were two items: a printed sheet of paper that mirrored his own, and her cell phone. Against the sink, under the window, stood a stepstool, and Trent understood right away why it was there.

  Arianna wheeled herself up to the table’s edge and cleared her throat. He could tell she was nervous, as she kept licking her lips and glancing at her own script.

  “So,” she said, looking at the piece of paper. “I wanted you to come over so we could talk about something very close to my heart. I’ve been considering discussing it with you for a long time, but I just needed to feel completely ready. It’s the kind of thing I don’t want to regret telling you.” She took a deep breath and exhaled.

  “Okay…”

  “The thing is th
at I realized today, finally, that I do trust you. And it’s taken me a while to get to this point, a long while. But I do.”

  “Well, that’s good news, though I thought you already did.”

  “I’ve been getting there slowly. And now I think I’m ready to take you somewhere very important to me.”

  “Really? Where?”

  “Hang on. First I owe you an apology. Remember when I told you I went to a church in the East Village?”

  “Yeah…”

  “Well, I lied. Kind of.”

  * * *

  Dopp leaned forward so that his nose was nearly touching the car’s speakers. Every muscle in his body was taut, except his pounding heart.

  “What do you mean, kind of?” came Trent’s perplexed voice.

  “Well, it’s true that I was going to a church in the East Village. But not for the reason you think.”

  “Not for prayer services?”

  “Right.”

  “Why else would you go to church?”

  “It’s not any old church. It’s very unconventional. For starters, it’s in the basement of the actual church. And in a back alley that’s pretty filthy, so consider yourself warned about that.”

  “Umm. Okay. Is it in a bad neighborhood or something?”

  “Well, it’s Alphabet City, what used to be Saint James Church of Christ.”

  “Used to be? Can you just tell me what’s going on?”

  “I would much rather show you.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “Okay, but please tell me one thing: You’re not part of a cult, right?”

  Moron, Dopp thought. Just go along with her!

  He flipped open his laptop and typed, “Saint James Church of Christ, East Village, NYC” into a search engine.

  Arianna was chuckling. “No, nothing like that.” Then she let out a sudden, low moan.