Deadly Design (9780698173613) Read online

  G.P. PUTNAM’S SONS

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  Copyright © 2015 by Debra Dockter.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Dockter, Debra.

  Deadly design / Debra Dockter.

  pages cm

  Summary: “Kyle McAdams races to find out what’s killing kids conceived at the Genesis Innovations Laboratory, before he becomes yet another perfect, blue-eyed corpse”—Provided by publisher.

  [1. Genetic engineering—Fiction. 2. Brothers—Fiction. 3. Twins—Fiction. 4. Family problems—Fiction. 5. Murder—Fiction. 6. Science fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.1.D63De 2015

  [Fic]—dc23

  2014031154

  ISBN 978-0-698-17361-3

  Version_1

  To Mom and Dad

  Thanks for always telling me I could

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Acknowledgments

  1

  I was five years old when I found out that my older brother wasn’t just my brother.

  It was right after my preschool graduation. Chairs were set up for parents and grandparents in the lobby of the school. A wooden box and a microphone sat across from the chairs. We were each expected to stand up on the box, lean over a microphone, and tell the audience what we wanted to be when we grew up. One little girl said she wanted to be a mermaid. That made everyone laugh. The boy in front of me played it safe. He said that when he grew up, he wanted to be a grown-up. Then it was my turn. I was going to say that I wanted to be a fireman. Not original, I know, but Mom had just bought me this awesome fire truck at a garage sale, so . . .

  I went to stand up on the box, and I noticed a photograph hanging on the wall behind me.

  There were a lot of photographs, each filled with groups of graduating preschoolers, all of them wearing nice shirts or dresses and all with the same dorky grins. But there was something in that photo, someone, that almost knocked me off the box. It was me.

  I looked at the kids lined up on either side of me. These were my classmates, the kids I’d learned my letters and colors with. The kids I’d chased around the small playground. But they weren’t the same kids in the photograph with me. We hadn’t lined up yet to take the official graduation picture. But there I was on the wall.

  “Kyle,” Mrs. Parks, our teacher, said as she gently took my shoulders and turned me toward the audience. “Tell everyone what you want to be when you grow up.”

  My mind was a complete blank, at least as far as deciding at five what path my life should take.

  I didn’t say anything. I stepped down from the box as a few people inhaled sharply like it was bad luck not to say what I wanted to be in the future. Like not saying something meant I wouldn’t have a future.

  My family didn’t stick around for the punch and cookies. Instead, Dad dropped Mom and my brother, Connor, off at the house, then he took me out for ice cream—just me because I wouldn’t stop asking why my picture was already on the wall and why I was wearing a green button-down shirt in the picture, when I don’t have a green button-down shirt.

  Dad and I got ice cream, then we walked down the block to the park and sat on a bench. That’s when he told me that Connor wasn’t just my brother; he was my twin brother, my identical twin brother. The picture was of him, not me. When Connor graduated from preschool, he was five, just like I was, so we looked exactly alike.

  I felt stupid. If Connor and I were twins, identical twins, I should have noticed. Twins are supposed to be the same age. That’s part of being twins, being born at the same time. But we weren’t.

  Dad explained everything at the park. Well, he probably didn’t explain all of it, not the part about him and Mom being carriers for a fatal disease called spinal muscular atrophy. Not the part about Mom having had six miscarriages. He did tell me that Chase, my other brother, whose picture sits on my parents’ dresser, died when he was six months old from a very bad illness that they wanted to make certain their next baby wouldn’t have.

  That spring day in the park when I was five and ice cream was melting faster than I could eat it because I didn’t have much of an appetite, Dad told me that Connor and I were designed in a special lab. They had a very smart doctor, and he created a baby for them who was very healthy. But then the baby split into two babies—me and Connor.

  Because they wanted us so much, they decided to separate us. Mom gave birth to Connor first, while I was kept at the lab.

  That threw me. Connor was at home with our parents, and I was still in some creepy lab? Then Dad explained that I was frozen the whole time, so I wasn’t lonely or anything. That threw me even more.

  While Connor was baking in Mom’s Easy-Bake Oven, so to speak, I was frozen. When he was crying and getting his diapers changed and people were talking about how cute he was, I was in the deep freeze.

  After our talk, we got ice cream for Mom and Connor, and we went home. Connor asked if I wanted to kick a ball around in the backyard, and I said yes, but I couldn’t keep my eye on it. All I could do was stare at him—at me, two years into the future. I asked Connor if he knew we were twins. He said he’d found out on his own a few Christmases ago when he was snooping for presents
in Mom and Dad’s closet. He found our baby books and when he started looking through them, noticed that when put side by side at the same ages, we were identical. He said he’d wanted to tell me, but Mom and Dad thought it would be better if I was a little older before I knew.

  People used to comment that Connor and I looked alike, but it seemed like people had to say that. Like it was a rule or something to say, “Oh, he looks just like his brother.”

  I remember Connor putting his hands on my shoulders, his arms tilting downward because he was two years taller.

  “I’m glad we’re twins,” he said. “Are you?”

  I nodded. He smiled, and we started kicking the ball again.

  But I couldn’t stop wondering what it would have been like if we’d graduated preschool together. If we could have always been together.

  • • •

  “Even in that stupid getup, he looks handsome,” Emma says, staring at Connor’s photo displayed on the wall with all the photos of the graduating class in their caps and gowns. It’s not a very big graduating class. Rose Hill High School has a total of about six hundred students in the entire school—pretty typical for a small town in Kansas. “I can’t wait to see him onstage giving his speech.”

  I don’t say anything as students rush past us, anxious to step out of the frigid air-conditioning and into the warm spring—almost summer—air.

  “I’m meeting Connor at your house after school,” Emma says. “You should let me drive you home.”

  “Doesn’t Connor have track practice?”

  She shakes her head, her long blond hair brushing against her shoulders. “The coach doesn’t want Connor worn out for the meet tomorrow, so no practice today. We’re going to hang out for a while and then grab some dinner.”

  Of course they are. I love having Emma around all the time. I love hearing her laugh as Connor tickles her on the sofa. I love watching him whisper in her ear right before he kisses her and my dad tells them to get a room and Mom tells them not to.

  I love her blue eyes. I love her full lips and the pink gloss she lightly coats them with. I bet it has a flavor—cotton candy or bubble gum. I could ask her, but I won’t. It’s bad enough to be head over heels for your brother’s girl, but I refuse to be that pathetic.

  “So, about that ride home?”

  Emma never offers me rides, usually because she’s too busy with her after-school activities. Plus, I only live a few blocks from school.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “I want to talk to you,” she says. “It’s important.”

  “It better be,” I say, not because being alone with her in a confined space could be torture, but because riding in her car is definitely dangerous. Really dangerous.

  We follow the dwindling mob of high school students out to the parking lot, where most of the parking spaces are occupied by hand-me-down four-doors or old pickup trucks. Emma’s car takes up half a parking space at most.

  “Get in,” she says, unlocking the doors with the remote.

  I hesitate, looking at the dull green coffin on wheels. “I think I’ll walk.”

  “Please,” she begs. “I promise it’s safe. It even has air bags.”

  “Are you sure?” The Smart car is tiny, and I can’t help imagining a dozen circus clowns crammed into it. “Does it really have air bags, or does a whoopee cushion pop out of the steering wheel?”

  “Don’t insult my car. I love my car. And I love the environment.”

  I open the door and get in. It’s roomier than I expected.

  “Your mom said you might not go to graduation?” Emma says once my seat belt is buckled.

  I half expect the door locks to engage, to trap me in the car for the conversation I don’t care to have.

  “Connor needs you there. You’re his brother, his twin. This is really important to him and your parents.”

  “You and my parents talked about this?”

  “Just your mom.”

  “Then why doesn’t she talk to me?”

  Emma hesitates. “You know your mom doesn’t like conflict.”

  “What conflict? My mom and I never fight.”

  “You don’t talk that much either. She doesn’t want to push you away. She doesn’t want you spending even less time with the family.”

  “I eat supper with them every night,” I say, trying not to sound pissed, but I kind of am. “I watch movies with them on the weekend. I let you and Connor drag me around.”

  “Sometimes,” she says.

  “I’m sixteen. Eating dinner with my parents is as social as I’m supposed to be. Besides, I have interests.”

  “You mean video games?”

  How can I explain to her that “video games” aren’t just games to me? I’m good at them. I’m damn good at them. Online players beg to have me on their teams. They schedule their playing times around mine because no one can kick ass on Call of Duty like I can. But compared to Connor’s history of athletic domination, who gives a shit if my kill-to-death ratio is off the charts.

  “I don’t want to make you mad,” Emma says. “I just want everyone to be happy.

  I scoff as a giant-ass pickup truck pulls up next to us.

  “Will you at least think about going?” she asks.

  How can I make her understand why I don’t want to go? Yeah, we may be twins, but we’re not twins in the traditional sense. Even if it weren’t for the age difference, Connor and I still wouldn’t look exactly alike. He has six-pack abs and giant biceps. And he’s super smart, super athletic. He’s super everything, and I’m . . . good at video games.

  “Why don’t you want to go?”

  I look at her like it’s a stupid question, because it is a stupid question.

  “I’m serious. And don’t tell me it’s your pride, because that’s bullshit. You are not supposed to be your brother. You are two different people, and that’s good. Besides, if you and Connor were carbon copies of each other, how on earth would I be able to choose between you?”

  She gives me a coy little smile.

  “Do you have any lemon juice?” I ask. “I just found a paper cut on my finger I’d like to pour some into.”

  “I just meant that you’re both special people. Connor is like my Clark Kent, my Superman. He’s perfect.” Emma’s eyes stare out over the dashboard, but I know from the way she’s smiling, her face beaming, that she’s seeing more than the after-school traffic. “He’s the most perfect person in the world, and we’re perfect together.” She looks at me, and she’s so happy. And I’m happy for her. I really am. “And you,” she says. “You’re like James Dean.”

  “James who?”

  “Dean. James Dean. He’s the quiet but tough guy. He doesn’t need anybody else, doesn’t care about what anybody else thinks. He’s a bad boy.” She gives me a sideways glance.

  I consider this, then nod in agreement. “Yep, that’s me. I’m bad to the bone.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Emma says. “Tell me something you’ve done, bad boy.”

  I think for a minute, but I don’t have to think for long because I’ve been so notoriously bad. “Last week, I was playing Call of Duty online. It wasn’t just me. I was playing on a team. I had guys relying on me, and I realized that I’d been chewing the same piece of gum for over two hours.”

  “Two hours?” She’s already amazed, her eyes wide with disbelief.

  “I couldn’t leave the game. I couldn’t let my guys down, but it was disgusting—like chewing on a rubber band. So you know what I did?”

  “What did you do? Tell me.”

  “I took it out of my mouth.”

  “And then?”

  “I stuck it on the nightstand. Yeah, that’s right. I didn’t put it in the trash. I could have. It was only a few feet away, but no. I stuck it there, and guess what?”

  “Wha
t?” she says, like she can’t take it. Like she wants to speed all the way home so she can rip my clothes off, and if I say something about Connor, she’ll say, “Connor who?”

  “I left it there.”

  “For a whole week?”

  I nod and she laughs, breaking character.

  “I better arrange an intervention,” she says. “You’re too wild for your own good.”

  “Yep, that’s me.” I turn up the volume on the radio, and she turns it down again.

  “So, graduation?”

  “Graduations are boring. They read a bunch of names, the choir sings a couple of sappy songs, and the band plays like shit.”

  “What about his speech? He’s valedictorian. That’s a big deal.”

  “I know it’s a big deal,” I say. “Everything in Connor’s life is a big deal. He doesn’t need me around to make it any bigger.”

  “But he does.” She reaches over and grabs my arm. “It’s not your fault that you were born second, and it’s not his fault he was born first. He cares about you, and he really wants you there. It’s important.”

  We stop at an intersection, and she looks at me. I can’t help but wonder what she sees. I have the same eyes, the mouth, the nose, even the voice—the exact same DNA of the guy she’s madly in love with. I’m just two years younger and too lazy to go to the gym.

  “Think about it?” She makes a left turn onto the street where I live. “What about the state track meet?”

  Now she’s really pushing it. “I suppose Mom mentioned that to you too, or was it Dad? Well, like I told him, I’m busy Saturday. I signed up to help medical students learn how to perform colonoscopies. So if Connor’s upset that I’m not there, if he wants to know ‘what’s up Kyle’s ass?’ you can tell him I have about a dozen medical students up it.”

  She growls, tightening her hands around the steering wheel. “It’s his last meet.”

  “So I’m supposed to go cheer him on while he breaks his own record.”

  “It’s also his birthday. We’re going out to dinner afterward.”

  The car slows, and Emma pulls in front of my house. She places her hand on my arm.

  “If you won’t do it for him, do it for me?”

  Why does she have to put it that way? Am I that transparent? Can she tell that there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for her?