by Kira Peikoff
Dopp frowned and turned from his computer back to the speakers.
“What’s wrong?” Trent asked.
“Hang on.”
Dopp waited impatiently, wishing he could see what was happening. About ten seconds of silence passed.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I have to go lie down.”
“What just happened?”
“Shooting pain in my head. I’m—I’m getting dizzy. It’s been happening out of the blue.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“This wasn’t supposed to happen.… Damn it.”
Dopp winced.
“Well, don’t feel bad.” Trent sounded disappointed. “It’s not your fault. You can show me another time, right?”
“Yeah, well, how about if I go lie down for a bit, and then see if I’m up to it?”
Dopp felt his spine stiffen.
“Sure. Can you get into this place whenever you want?”
“Yeah, I have the keys. I’m just going to go in my bedroom now, sorry. I need to take something.”
“Do you need help?”
“No, thanks. Come wake me in a half hour, okay? Sometimes the pills take a while to kick in.”
“All right.”
“I’m really sorry. You can watch TV out here or whatever you want.”
“Okay. Are you sure you’ll be all right?”
Her voice sounded lower, as if she had moved away from him. “Just give me some time.”
Dopp heard a door close, probably to her bedroom, and then silence. With trembling hands, he turned back to his laptop and clicked the link that had come up first in his search. The link led him to a map of the East Village, with a tiny green arrow focused on a certain intersection. It was near Avenue C and Tenth Street. Above the square map, a precious line of text popped up: 150 Avenue C.
He closed his eyes for a second. Thank you, God.
Then he grabbed his cell phone and typed a text message to Trent as fast as he could: I have the address.
* * *
Trent smiled at the text message and nudged Arianna. She had wheeled down the hallway toward her bedroom and pretended to close the door. But actually she was lingering in the hallway with Trent at her side, trading uneasy glances with him: Did it work? What is he thinking?
Trent held the phone up for her to see the message. She raised her eyebrows and mouthed, Now what?
He held up a finger and typed a message back to Dopp: Hang on—I got this.
Then he went into the living room and turned on the television. A news channel came on first, and he flipped through the channels for something more boisterous, settling on a live broadcast of a concert at Madison Square Garden, featuring a punk band he had never heard of. The guitars screeched along with the singer’s growling voice, and in the background, the drummer crashed cymbals with glee. Trent turned the volume up.
Arianna remained in the hallway, expecting him to leave. But he mouthed, Wait, walked back to her side, and picked up her hand. She frowned in confusion. “Not yet,” he whispered, hoping she would understand that it could only help them to further aggravate Dopp’s temptation and curiosity. Sure enough, a second text message soon fired back: What’s going on??
Trent knew it was time. He typed back: Found her keys. Be right there. Then he nodded to Arianna. She pointed to a little table in the foyer, by the front door, and he saw she had left her keys there for him. As he leaned his face close to hers, a few strands of her hair tickled his lips. “Wait until you see our car leave before you leave,” he whispered.
“I will,” she whispered back.
“Are you sure you can you make it up to the window?”
She nodded.
“Okay. Good luck. I love you.”
He grit his teeth as his face hovered by her ear; the words could not help escaping him. He took her cheeks in both hands and gently turned her face to his. She looked away from him, hesitating.
“I understand,” he whispered. Then he leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. The moment was fast, just a hurried peck, but in that split second, the world condensed the way it always did when they were together and alone. And then it was over, and he was hurrying to the door, snatching her keys from the table, and waving a final good-bye before running out to meet his boss.
* * *
When Trent reached the car, he could hear the faint rumble of the engine. A good sign. He yanked the passenger door open and jumped in, dangling Arianna’s keys like bait.
“Look what I found!”
Dopp stared at them as if mesmerized, his lips parted, cheeks flushed red. He snatched the keys away. “I think this could be it,” he said.
“I do, too,” Trent lied. The televised punk concert was leaking through the speakers. “Let’s go check it out, hurry, before she wakes up!”
Dopp balked, shaking his head. “You go back inside and keep an eye on her. I’ll go myself.”
Trent felt a cool shiver scale down his back. “But she’s sleeping,” he protested. “I want to see this place, too!”
“I don’t care. We shouldn’t leave her alone.”
Trent sulked, dangerously pushing the limit. But he was supposed to draw out their time away as long as possible—so what good would he be if Dopp went unescorted?
“Get out,” Dopp barked. “Let me go!”
Reluctantly, Trent got out. As soon as he slammed the door, the car screeched away from the curb. He stood still for a moment, watching the car turn out of sight at the first corner. Then he raced back into the building, took the stairs to the third floor, and burst into the apartment.
Arianna was perched atop the stool, clutching the edge of the sink. She stared at him in surprise. “What happened? I was about to leave.”
Trent threw his hands up. “He wouldn’t let me come! He wouldn’t let me leave you alone! But you were ‘sleeping,’ so he wasn’t supposed to care. Damn it!”
Arianna watched him calmly. “It doesn’t matter. He still left, and by the time he goes there, sees the place, comes back, and then realizes we’re gone, the whole thing should be done. So come help me get down, and let’s get out of here!”
Trent hurried over and lifted her down into her wheelchair. “But now he’s going to know I was in on it. He was never supposed to find out!” Trent shook his head in disbelief as his plan of returning with Dopp to find Arianna’s apartment empty—an apparent shock—faded into oblivion.
“So you’ll flee with us,” Arianna shot back. “Now you have to. But as long as we’re safe, who the hell cares where we are?”
Trent gulped, nodding. “Let’s go, let’s go. We already lost five minutes.”
She reached up her arms to him. “Just carry me.”
“And leave the chair behind?”
“There’s too much slush outside. We have to run.”
He scooped her up as if she were a fragile bird and raced out the door.
TWENTY-TWO
Dopp drove as fast as he could, following the directions of the car’s built-in GPS system. Crossing over to the East Village, he hit traffic made slower by the slick roads, which forced him to keep stepping on the gas and then the brake, jerking forward in frustrating bursts. His left hand gripped the steering wheel, and his right clutched the keys that Trent had produced. On the silver metal ring hung eight keys of different sizes and ridges, and Dopp rubbed his thumb over all of them, wondering which one he needed. Maybe Trent was not so useless after all. It must have taken some kind of quick thinking to look for her keys, though Dopp hadn’t asked where they were. But who cared? For once, finally, Trent had done a good job.
Dopp’s head whipped back against the headrest as he slammed on the brakes for maybe the ninth time. He pounded the steering wheel with his fist. The keys stuck out between his fingers like a weapon. Even a siren would not get him very far in this. Reminding himself that God was in control, he tried to let go. The avenues past Broadway were less clogged, and he started moving east in longer spurts, crossing
Fourth Avenue and then Third, Second, First, all the way to Avenue C. Then up two blocks, to Tenth Street.
“Your destination is on the right,” the car’s automated voice announced. He stopped at the curb and jumped out, keys in hand. A tall, magnificently constructed church rose in front of him, pockmarked with troubling signs of abandonment: On the landing above the front steps, an arm stuck out of a makeshift shelter of cardboard boxes. The rest of the body was hidden under blankets, either sleeping or drunk or dead. From the sidewalk, Dopp smelled urine. He grimaced and held his breath, studying the church itself. Oval-shaped stained glass windows on either side of the front door were smashed in, and a painted cross on the door was peeling. He squinted at the door and walked a little closer to the steps that led up to it, covering his mouth and nose with his hand, barely aware of the cold. A name was engraved above the peeling cross: SAINT JAMES CHURCH OF CHRIST.
Dopp read the words several times; this was the place Arianna had frequented?
She had talked about a back alley, a filthy back alley. Dopp turned and headed to the end of the block. To his right, sure enough, a few yards away, there was a narrow opening. He walked to it and leaned his head around to peer inside. A warning surge of fear swept through him—this was the type of place where he could be killed and the body could go unfound for days. It was completely black inside; he could discern only the two steep walls on either side, the backs of other buildings that were nearly contiguous, but not quite. He stepped inside, leaving the comforting glow of the streetlight. About a half block away, the steeple of the church rose high. He pulled out his cell phone and shone it on the ground. It was covered with debris sunken into yellowed slush, and right away he noticed curious footsteps planted into the slush at regular intervals. Fresh, he concluded, since the storm had stopped only hours ago. He trudged forward, keeping his arms close to his sides, hoping it was too cold for rats. A metal railing came into view, directly under the church’s steeple. As he came closer, he saw that about ten concrete steps led down to a door. A basement. He shivered as he descended the stairs, gripping the left railing; it was freezing.
At the bottom of the stairs, he opened his fist holding the keys. There were three locks on the door: one next to the knob, one above, and one below. Pretty high security for such a God-forsaken place. He thrust one random key into each lock, but it did not fit any of them. He tried again with another, and another, until the middle lock turned. It took two more keys to unlock the top, and the last key turned the bottom.
His heart was beating furiously. As he opened the door, he pulled his gun out of its holster and cocked it. Inside, it was pitch black, but he heard tiny feet pattering across the floor. Something ran over his foot, small and plump. He jumped back with a shriek, his scalp bristling with fear.
“Anyone here?” he called loudly. Gauging from the fading echo that the room was not so small, he inched forward, shining his cell phone on the nearest wall until he saw a light switch. He moved closer and flipped it on. Fluorescent lights buzzed to life overhead, and he could only squint at the floor as he tucked his cell phone away.
Little by little, he looked up, and what he saw first was somehow both astonishing and expected: a row of microscopes. Three stood on a counter in the back of the room. On the floor, he saw what had touched him: rats. Five hairy rats with long tails. Two of them were darting back and forth with ease, while the others barely moved. Several cages stood in the back of the room with their doors flung open. Disgusted, Dopp looked to the right: On a counter along that wall, there was other laboratory equipment, which he was trained to recognize from his days as an inspector: three sterile laminar flow hoods, a centrifuge, a shelf containing supplies—empty pipettes, glass dishes, rubber gloves.
Feeling as if he were in an alternate universe, he looked to the left again. Two black refrigerator-like containers stood side by side, and Dopp surmised what they were: an incubator and a freezer. He felt the force of righteousness pull him in their direction, and he replaced his gun in its holster as he walked up to one and swung open the door, expecting to feel either heat or cold emanating forth. But there was no temperature change. This machine was not even on. Inside, however, stood several glass petri dishes containing red fluid. Dopp gasped. They looked just like the dishes that held embryos prior to in vitro fertilization. Horrified, he reached for one, cradled it in his palm, and hurried to the row of microscopes. It had been five years since he was last an inspector, but his old laboratory training had been thorough. He switched on the microscope at its base, but nothing happened. Why was everything here unplugged? He placed the dish on the counter, crouched down under it, and moved a half-filled metal wastebasket to find an outlet. There it was, along with a limp cord. He plugged it in and stood back up.
Now the microscope turned on. He carefully placed the dish under the lens, and looked through it. Instead of a clump of cells bound by a spherical mass—a primitive embryo—he saw a spread of individual cells. It was, undoubtedly, the spawn of a destroyed embryo.
A violent roar ripped from his throat, abrasive against his vocal cords. He shook with outrage, filled with unparalleled fury: How many babies had died?
He spit onto the microscope’s lens, wishing to inflict his horror onto anything that deserved it, anything that contributed to what was likely a massacre of unimaginable scale. A fighting urge snaked through his veins. He was in a branch of Hell, set up in a church. The energy in his arms reached an uncontrollable peak in his fists, and he lifted the heavy microscope and hurled it to the floor. It hit the ground with a noisy smash as parts broke off and glass shattered near his feet. He kicked the bulk of plastic that remained and it struck the wastebasket under the counter, knocking it over. A stream of empty soda bottles, a half-eaten apple, and paper garbage poured out. Dopp stood with his shoulders heaving, catching his breath, still shaking.
Then he noticed a crinkled piece of paper on the floor, in the midst of the broken mess, on which was scrawled a very familiar name: Arianna. He crouched down and snatched the paper, smoothing it out.
“Dear Arianna,” it read. “It’s taken me a long time to realize I want to tell you this, but”
The rest of the page was blank. Dopp’s interest was piqued. On the floor, mixed with shambles of the microscope, were a few other crumpled balls of paper. He reached for one of them and unfolded it. This one was much longer, an entire page of scribbled blue ink.
“Dear Arianna,” it started again.
I hope this is the last weekend of your life that you have to suffer. You have no idea how hard it’s been for me to watch you get sicker these past few months. But what happened today will change everything—of course it’s unknown, but I have every reason to believe that it will work. Theoretically, it’s perfect. I can’t wait for this week to pass. And when it does, you’ll be the bravest patient your clinic has ever seen. All I want is for you to live, Arianna. The world can’t afford to lose you.
Dopp’s mouth hung open as he quickly skimmed the rest of the page, with particular words catching his attention: walk, fantasy, hope, pioneers, I love you, Sam.
Who was Sam? And what had happened today that would “change everything”? Dopp glanced at the upper right-hand corner of the page: “January 21, 2028.” That was exactly one week ago. One week ago was the day she had lied to Banks about her “sister’s baby,” and then rushed out of her office—could that event be connected to this? He studied the letter again, feeling his eyes drawn back to the page; and then two entire sentences jumped out as if they were blazing red: “I can’t wait for this week to pass. And when it does, you’ll be the bravest patient your clinic has ever seen.”
Dopp bolted into the air, stuffed the letter into his shirt pocket, and ran out of the lab, bounding up the stairs, tripping blindly down the alley. He reached the street and turned left, then around the corner. His car was waiting on the curb, and he jumped inside and wrenched on the ignition. A feverish pulse throbbed in his head, and his breath pin
ched in his throat as he slammed on the gas and fumbled to grab his cell phone from his pocket. He started to drive with one hand on the wheel as he called Stewart, the sullen inspector who had monitored her all day at the clinic.
It rang several times before his monotonous voice came on the line. “Hello?”
“Stewart,” Dopp said. “Did you see Arianna do anything unusual today at the clinic?”
“No, like what?”
“Like get any sort of medical attention?”
“No, she was in her office all day with me.”
“You’re sure she didn’t receive any kind of treatment?”
“How could she? I was there the whole time. What’s going on?”
“I just found her secret lab,” Dopp breathed. “Underneath an old church.”
“Holy Jesus. Where?”
“Avenue C and Tenth. Gotta go.”
Dopp hung up and called Trent. After four rings—four rings—he answered.
“Are you still at her apartment?” Dopp breathed.
“Yeah, why, what happened?”
“Is she still sleeping?”
“Yes … what’s going on?” Trent sounded worried.
“I think she might try to go back to the clinic tonight. Make sure she stays put until I get there. Whatever you do, don’t let her go anywhere!”
“What happened?”
“It was a lab, just like we feared.” Dopp’s voice quivered. “And there are more people involved. Someone named Sam.”
“How—how do you know that?”
“I found a letter. I’ll explain later. But just make sure she stays put. Don’t let on that you know anything. I’ll arrest her as soon as I get there.”
“Where are you now?”
“Avenue A and Eighth. I’ll be there soon.”
For a second, silence, then: “Okay.”
Dopp hung up, not caring to say good-bye. He tried to keep his mind on the road, but all he could see was the destroyed embryo in the dish. It was the kind of awful image that he knew he would never forget—a crime scene that would have made even the most seasoned DEP agents recoil. This was why he needed to keep his job. And it was exactly what was going to make that possible. The hidden lab was sensational—it would be all over the news, as soon as Arianna’s arrest was made public. He couldn’t wait for the moment he told her the words.
