by L. C. Shaw
He speaks, and the calmness of his voice chills me. “It’s good to see you have a strong will. I made the right genetic choice for my child.”
He still holds my wrists, and they begin to ache. I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself, as reason returns. “Please let go.”
He studies me for a moment. “If you ever strike me again, I will have your hands amputated.”
It is then that I vomit all over him.
Chapter Twenty-Three
EVENING HAD FALLEN, AND TAYLOR DOZED ON. JACK’S nerves were frayed—he had to do something. There was no way he would be responsible for another baby dying. He had to get Taylor checked out before they hit the road again. Think, think. He flipped open the burner cell and punched in eleven numbers. His contact answered on the first ring.
“Hit it.”
“Craig. It’s Logan. Thanks for the setup.”
“What’s up?”
“I need a doc—obstetrician. Can you send someone ASAP?”
There was a brief silence. “Soonest will be tomorrow. I’ll see who I can find in the area.”
“Thanks.” Jack hung up and went into the bedroom to check on Taylor.
Her eyes fluttered open at the sound of his footsteps. “What am I going to do?”
“We’re going to get you looked at to make sure everything is okay. I’ve called a buddy about getting a doctor here. Someone will be here tomorrow. In the meantime, you need to stay off your feet.”
“Can you feed Beau and take him out?”
“Of course.” He squatted to the dog’s level. “Come here, buddy.” Beau was so reluctant to leave Taylor’s side, she had to coax him to go with Jack.
“It’s okay. Go ahead,” she said.
The golden retriever ambled over to Jack and looked back at Taylor.
Jack smiled. “Good boy. Let’s let your mom get some rest, and you and I will take care of business.”
After Beau finished and they were back in the cabin, Jack grabbed a Coors from the refrigerator and sat down. If it weren’t for the fact that they were on the run, this could be a nice little slice of domesticity. How great it would be if they were here on a little getaway, if he hadn’t screwed everything up.
He downed a couple more beers while sitting and remembering, and finally, when his thoughts started turning maudlin, he switched off the lamp and got up.
“Let’s go check on her,” he said to Beau and tiptoed into the bedroom. The light from the hallway was bright enough for him to see that she looked like she was sleeping. He was about to turn and go to his room when she spoke.
“What time is it?”
“Almost eleven. Sorry if I woke you.”
“You didn’t. I’ve been lying here for a while, just worrying.”
He didn’t know what to say and finally came up with, “You should probably try to rest.”
She flicked on the lamp on the nightstand and sat up, propping a pillow behind her. “Can you sit with me for a little?”
He sat down in the chair by the bed before she could change her mind.
“I’ve been thinking about this baby, wondering how I’m going to keep it safe. I always thought that was a simple thing, you know, that the hard part was getting here, after all the treatments and disappointments, that once I was pregnant, the hardest part was done.”
“It’s going to be okay. The baby’s going to be fine.” A meaningless platitude. He didn’t have anything else to offer.
She shook her head. “I’m not even talking about this.” She gestured around the room. “I mean, just, in general. I was so busy trying to get pregnant, I never thought about the fact that this little life would be looking to me for all the answers. Poor thing.”
“Poor nothing. That baby couldn’t have a better mother. I’ve never known anyone as fiercely loyal to those she loves as you.”
She shrugged. “Will it be enough? Will I be enough?”
He wanted to tell her that she didn’t have to be, that he’d be with her to help her if she let him. Instead, he said simply, “You will be plenty.”
She closed her eyes and yawned.
“I’ll let you get some sleep,” he whispered.
Without opening her eyes, she said, “Would you mind staying until I do?”
He’d do her one better. He’d sit in that chair all night and make sure nothing came near her or her baby.
* * *
When morning finally broke, Jack was still on edge. He hadn’t slept well, worried through the night that Taylor might take a turn for the worse. Every time he started to doze off in the chair, he’d hear a sound escape her, and he’d startle awake, afraid she was losing the baby. When she awakened, she had agreed with Jack that she should stay off her feet until the doctor examined her.
Now, he glanced at his watch. A little after noon. When was the doctor going to arrive? He decided he should do something productive while he was waiting, so he took a seat at the kitchen table and studied the map Phillips had left for them. A knock at the door made him jump. He was pretty sure it was the doc, but just in case, he grabbed his gun and held it behind his back when he went to the door.
“Who’s there?”
“The doctor you ordered.”
Jack relaxed, tucked the gun behind the small of his back, between his jeans and shirt, and opened the door. The man had to lower his head to get through the doorway.
Jack gave him a quick once-over: close-cropped hair, ranger boots, hard-muscled arms. Something wasn’t right. His blood ran cold when he realized the man didn’t carry a doctor’s bag.
“Who are you?” Jack asked. The man lunged toward him. Jack realized he’d made a mistake and went for the gun, but the man was quicker. He pulled Jack to him, wrapped his arm around his chest, and pressed a knife against his neck.
“Where is he hiding?” he asked.
“Who?” Jack asked, playing dumb.
The man tightened his grip. “Don’t play games with me, Logan. You know damn well who. Where is Jeremy?”
Jack could barely speak with the viselike arm compressing his throat. He had to think. If he gave him nothing, he and Taylor would both be dead. Think. Who was this and who did he work for? Had Craig double-crossed him? No way. Jack held his hand out in surrender, and the man let go.
Jack coughed and tried to regain his voice.
“Have an idea. Don’t know exactly,” he croaked out.
“Tell me what you know,” the man demanded.
Jack coughed again, stalling. Then he saw Beau peeking out from the bedroom from the corner of his eye.
“Give me a second. I’ll get you what I have.” Jack quickly assessed his surroundings, ready to grab the fork from the table when he heard a deep growl. Beau flew from the next room toward the man in a single lunge, sinking his teeth into the man’s neck. The intruder toppled over immediately, and the knife fell from his hands to the floor. Jack didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the gun from under his shirt and fired. He needed only one shot.
“Good boy!” He hugged the dog with relief.
Taylor rushed in. “What’s going on?”
Jack looked from Taylor back to the dead man, splayed on his back just a few feet away.
“That’s not the doctor, is it?” she whispered.
“No. Unfortunately no doctor’s coming. Somebody double-crossed my friend. We’ve got to get out of here.”
“What are we going to do with him?” If she was shocked by the sight of a dead man lying there, she didn’t show it.
“Leave him. You’re in no shape to lift him, and I can’t do it alone.” Jack had a feeling that his friend Craig would never be coming to the cabin again. He felt sick, worried that by reaching out to Craig to help, he might have put him in danger. But there was no time to think about it now.
“Throw your stuff into a bag and let’s go. I’ll put Beau in the truck now.”
Just a few minutes later, they were driving away down the dirt road, when Taylor turned to Jack, her eye
s wide. “Uh-oh.”
“What is it?” he asked, his body tensing.
“The lights in the cabin just went on!”
Chapter Twenty-Four
THE INSTITUTE, OCTOBER 1975
I HAVE JUST FINISHED MY BREAKFAST OF BACON, EGGS, AND toast. I forced myself to eat despite the fact that I feel like my appetite will never return. I am tired all the time, and my breasts are sore.
The door to my room opens, and he comes in.
“It’s a beautiful day outside. Why don’t we take a walk?”
I jump at the chance to leave these four walls, even if it’s with him.
He picks up one of the sweaters that he’s provided. “Better bring this along. I don’t want you catching a chill.”
I bristle at his solicitous comments and the charade of civility he affects. I grab the sweater without a thank-you and follow him down the hallway. I can see from the windows that the sun is shining and for a moment my heart lifts. I’ve missed being outside, seeing the sky and the feeling of infiniteness surrounding me, instead of the confinement of my room. We descend in the elevator and emerge on the ground floor. People are coming and going, but no one pays attention to me, and everyone looks away from him deferentially. He opens the iron door, and I walk outside and feel the cool breeze kiss my face. I want to run and never stop. The season is beginning to change, and I pick a fallen maple leaf from the grass. It is bright orange, and it makes me want to cry. Everything around me is a symphony of color, and the beauty overwhelms me. My isolation has made me forget what a beautiful world it is.
We walk down a cleared path that leads to a large pond at least two miles in diameter. A paved walking trail encircles it, and I wonder if it’s used by the students in phase two. This morning, though, we are the only ones walking.
He begins to speak, and I brace myself for another tale from his childhood.
“The best thing that ever happened to me was meeting Friedrich. He was a genius. He taught me how to play chess, what books to read, how to understand what was important and what was not.”
I say nothing and file the information away, in case it can be useful to me later.
“When I was fifteen, we made the plan. It was time for me to go and live with him. Late one night, after my father had finished his bottle of bourbon, I lit the match that would burn that ramshackle hovel to the ground. I barricaded his bedroom door shut. I superglued the windows so he couldn’t push them open and let the smoke out. Thanks to his paranoia, he’d had bars put on them years before, so there was no way he could climb out. Then, I stayed outside and listened for his screams. What music they were to my ears. I knocked on the window. He turned and looked at me, wide-eyed and crazed. ‘Help me, you worthless punk,’ he said, and I raised my middle finger, smiled and watched as the flames licked at his filthy pajamas. He cursed me as the fire engulfed him. Once I knew he was beyond saving, I left. They never connected me to it. The house had burned to nothing, and they assumed it was an accidental fire.”
“Wasn’t there an investigation? Didn’t they look for you?”
He sneers. “We were trash. Dirt-poor, lowest on the rung in a Podunk town with crooked cops and small-minded people.”
“Didn’t anyone see you living in the house on the hill?”
He waves his hand dismissively. “Are you being deliberately obtuse? The point of the story has nothing to do with how I escaped. But I’ll satisfy your curiosity. We moved.”
I shiver in spite of myself and avert my eyes. I can’t deny that I am glad he escaped from his father, but it shocks me that I’m not more horrified that he did this. He has drawn me into his past, and I feel myself rooting for his escape, angry at this abusive monster that has so warped him. But even as the thought crosses my mind, it occurs to me that he will never escape his father. And then I shudder when I consider the fact that he was able to stand, watching and unmoved to mercy knowing his father was inside burning. What hope do I dare have if he was capable of such an act when he was still a child? His father has turned him into a sadistic murderer. Could he have been saved if Friedrich had been different?
We walk in silence for the rest of the time, and I am surprised by how tired I am. When we return to my room, I thank him, but only because I hope that we will do this again.
He turns to leave when I ask, “Why was Friedrich in a wheelchair?”
He turns back and answers. “He was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease after the war, when he was in his sixties. Only a few years before I met him, but by then it had progressed aggressively.”
“Did they try Levodopa?”
“Yes, of course. It worked for a while, then stopped. They classified him as a nonresponder.”
“Is he still alive?”
His lips part in a smile. “Why don’t you see for yourself?” He looks above my head, to somewhere on the wall, and nods. I follow his line of sight and squint. It is then that I see it—a small hole. My face is hot, and I glare at him.
“You’ve been spying on me all this time?” The fact that someone has been watching while I take my clothes off, sleep, talk to myself—it’s unthinkable. “Have you enjoyed seeing me naked, you pervert?” I ask him.
He laughs again. “I’m no pervert, Maya. No one cares about seeing your body, especially as it grows fat. We’re just making sure you don’t try to hurt yourself or the baby.”
The blood rushes to my head, and I turn away from him and walk to the window so he can’t see the tears running down my face.
Ten minutes later, the door opens, and I turn around. Steel-blue eyes lock onto mine. The white hair is receding and reveals a still-smooth forehead for a man who looks like someone’s grandfather. His features are unremarkable; in fact, his face looks rather benign. His thin lips are set in a straight line, and he looks at me as if he knows me. When he crosses the threshold, I see he holds a cane in his left hand. It is a struggle for him to walk.
Damon runs to him, placing a hand on his back and helping him to a chair.
“Father, can I get you some water?”
He waves him off, impatient with the fussing, and lands with a thud in the chair.
“Dr. Papakalos, it is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”
The German accent is thick. “You’re Friedrich?” I ask.
A look of disdain appears, and he looks up at Damon, shaking his head.
“The youth today—no respect.” His eyes settle on me. “You must call me Dr. Dunst.”
He spits the words at me, and I recoil. I see it now in his eyes—the same predatory look that Damon has. They may not be related by blood, but they are the same. He looks at me, expectantly, and I say nothing, watching the fury build in his eyes.
Dunst leans back in the chair, pulls a silver case from his suit pocket, and extracts a cigarette. His hand shakes as he fumbles trying to ignite his lighter. After several failed attempts, it spits out a flame. He takes a long pull and blows smoke rings. I cannot stop looking at his mouth making the small o’s. As he holds the cigarette in the air, my eyes are drawn to a purplish discoloration on his skin.
“I have met your parents,” he says finally.
My heart skips a beat. “When?”
He arches a white eyebrow. “Before you were born, back when I was stationed on their island.”
“During the war?” I ask.
“When else?”
It dawns on me with sickening certainty that this man before me must be a Nazi. Can this very ordinary, frail old man be one of the legion of fiends responsible for the anguish and slaughter of millions?
“You are a Nazi?” I whisper.
He looks at me as if I were a cockroach under his foot. “I am an American citizen, a respected scientist. Your country says so.” He laughs.
“But you were part of the Nazi regime that occupied my parents’ island?” I know it must be true, but I need to hear it from his lips.
He shrugs. “I was not there on holiday.” He pulls a bottle o
f eye drops from his pocket, leans his head back, and squirts two drops into each eye. A thought occurs to me, and I continue to watch him.
Damon moves a chair next to his and sits.
“Did your mother talk about bringing something of value with her to America? Of hiding a treasure?” Dunst asks.
Again, I search my mind for any memory, but I still come up blank. I shake my head.
“She never talked about some coins, silver pieces?” he persists.
They are both staring at me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl.
“My mother doesn’t like to talk about those days. The occupation was hard on them. The Germans”—I give Dunst a pointed look—“were cruel. They took whatever they wanted with no regard to anyone or their feelings. All the islanders were starving while they ate like pigs and—”
“Quiet.” Damon’s command slices through the air, and I feel the anger emanating from him. Dunst seems unaffected by my outburst. I suppose he is used to the hatred of others.
Dunst sneers at Damon. “Don’t waste your energy. Her opinion matters not.” Then he leans forward and enunciates very slowly. “Think hard, Maya. Try to remember where your mother might have put them.”
“How do you expect me to tell you anything if I don’t know what they are?” This provokes a reaction. I am lying, though. I have no knowledge of anything at all related to treasures or silver from Greece. But I want to know what they are so desperate to find.
They exchange another look, and Dunst nods his head so slightly I wouldn’t have seen it if I hadn’t been looking.
Damon turns to me and says, “The thirty silver pieces Judas received for betraying Jesus.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
TAYLOR GRABBED JACK’S ARM. “SOMEONE’S BACK AT THE cabin!”
Jack swore. He had to gather his thoughts.
“He must have had a partner. This is bad. They’ll use that man’s death to their advantage.”
