Deadly Design (9780698173613) Page 18

  “Can’t you hear them?” he asks me, his voice loud, his eyes staring up at the ceiling. “They’re coming to get me. They’re laughing, can’t you hear them?” His fingers are moving nervously against one another. His torso is rocking back and forth.

  A bald man in blue scrubs slides the window open. “What’s the problem?”

  “My uncle,” I say. “He’s been here before. PTSD and some other shit, I don’t know. I came home from school, and he was like this. He’s not making any sense. He’s really freaking me out.”

  “What’s his name?” the man asks.

  “Jimmy. Jimmy Williams.”

  The man closes the window and comes around to the glass door. He punches a code into a keypad. A buzzer sounds, and the door opens. “Hey, Frank,” he hollers to a thin African American man behind him, “I’m gonna need your help with this one.” He approaches us with his palms up in a nonthreatening stance, but he’s a big man with a thick neck, and any stance he takes looks threatening.

  “It’s okay, Jimmy,” he says.

  “No it’s not!” Jimmy grabs hold of me, like he’s terrified, and I have to wonder just how familiar he is with insanity, because he’s doing a hell of a job. “Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me!”

  “It’s okay, buddy,” Frank says. “You want your nephew to come with you?”

  Jimmy nods.

  “You okay?” Frank asks me.

  “Yeah, sure,” I tell him. “It’s okay, Jimmy. These men are going to help you. But we have to go in here, all right?”

  The two men back up as I lead Jimmy through the steel door.

  “That’s great, Jimmy,” the bald one says. “You’re doing great.”

  Once we’re inside, Jimmy looks around like he’s Frodo getting his first look at Mordor. “I don’t like it here,” he says. “You’re bad guys! You’re bad guys!”

  I half expect him to start lashing out, to grab a chair and throw it at them, but Jimmy knows what’s he’s doing. He wants to be evaluated, not harpooned with a sedative and strapped to a bed.

  “Do we look like bad guys?” the bald one asks. “We’re the good guys. I did two tours over in Afghanistan. How many did you do? I bet more than me.”

  Jimmy eyes him. “Four,” he says. “Hate that fucking place.”

  The man laughs. “Me too, buddy. They can keep their fucking desert. But we ain’t there no more. We’re home. Ain’t that right. It look like the desert around here to you?”

  Jimmy shakes his head.

  “You want to come with me. I know a nice quiet place we can go. You and me can talk about things. Things only you and I know. Like having to wash our own goddamned laundry because those assholes the government hired don’t know shit about doing laundry.”

  Jimmy smiles, and for a minute, I think he’s falling out of character. He lets the guy lead him down the hall.

  “You hang out here,” the other one says to me. “We’ll get him settled, then I’ve got some paperwork and questions for you.”

  I nod. “You bet.”

  I sit down and watch as they turn a corner; then I stand and head for the elevator. According to Matt, the entire east wing of the hospital is restricted. It’s the wing where the majority of staff offices are and where the mentally ill patients are kept. Once you get past a security door, you’re in. You can travel between floors and still be in.

  I start to push the Up button on the elevator, but stop myself. There’s a good chance someone may be getting off on this floor, and they’ll wonder what I’m doing here. To the right is a door leading to the stairs. I climb to the second floor, then the third.

  I stand there for a moment, listening. There’s a conversation going on between at least two people, both females, waiting for the elevator. One’s talking about her kid, how he just started pulling himself up and walking around the furniture. The other woman oohs and ahs at how cute that stage is. I hear the elevator door ding and the voices grow distant, then silent. I close my eyes, envisioning the map Matt showed me.

  From the stairs, take a sharp left turn, then go straight to a hall labeled 3B. Turn right, go past the men’s restroom and a water fountain. Then there’s another hall but go straight. Dr. Bartholomew’s office is on the left side of the hallway. There’s a chance her name won’t be on the door, due to the fact that it’s only used when she’s in town, so don’t forget that it’s the second door from the far end of the hall.

  I glance at my phone. Matt’s appointment is in five minutes. She has three other appointments scheduled before his, and another two after.

  Cracking open the door from the stairwell, I listen for voices or footsteps. I don’t hear anyone, so I push the door open. There’s a man in a doctor’s coat at the end of the hall, but his back is turned, so I follow Matt’s directions until I get to the office that is not labeled. Every other door has a nameplate on it, but on this one there is only a faded rectangle where a name should be.

  Her office isn’t locked. It’s evident that this is just a place for her to dictate information in private and make phone calls while she’s visiting patients at the VA. I can imagine that her office in Saint Louis is much larger and actually decorated and carpeted. This room is bare. The walls are beige, and the wood floor is covered by a fine layer of dust.

  There is a bookshelf that stretches from the floor to the ceiling, but it’s mostly empty. And there is no filing cabinet. The desk is my only bet. Other than a cup of coffee and an outdated dial phone, there is nothing on the desk. I open the center drawer and see paperclips, a pen that’s sprung a leak, and what look like Oreo crumbs.

  The top side drawer has a few envelopes with a silhouette of the hospital stamped in the corner, next to a notepad with the same silhouette. There are rubber bands, a fingernail file, and an abandoned pack of nicotine gum; someone must have started smoking again. The only other drawer is large and has a keyhole.

  I hold my breath as I grip the top of the drawer and pull. It doesn’t budge. I take the small tool set Jimmy gave me out of my pocket and choose a flathead screw driver. I slip it in between the top of the drawer and the desk. I might be able to flip the latch and open it. It won’t budge. I put the screwdriver back, and this time, I select a slender instrument like what my dentist uses for those hard-to-reach places. I tilt and turn the instrument inside the lock the way Jimmy taught me when we practiced last night.

  Footsteps sound in the hall, and I duck down behind the desk. A man is talking, and I wait to hear who he’s talking to. When there’s only silence instead of a reply, I realize that he’s on a phone. My heart slows back to a frantic pace, and I start working on the lock again. After what seems like minutes, but according to the clock was only thirty seconds, I hear a click and the drawer opens. There is no neatly labeled flash drive with blinking neon arrows pointing to it, just an oversized leather handbag.

  I always assumed all purses were filled with dirty Kleenexes, loose change, a lint-filled hairbrush, and a stick of gum so brittle it shatters if you try to bite into it. But not Dr. Bartholomew’s. I empty the contents onto the top of the desk: a thin leather wallet, a silver compact with a matching silver cylinder of lipstick, and an appointment book.

  I start flipping through the appointment book. It’s filled with names and times. I flip from page to page and then back again, but nowhere do I see the name Richard Sharp. I flip back to the last pages, the pages where names and phone numbers and addresses are kept. Still no Richard Sharp. I go through the book again and again. I look through the drawer again, even feel around the bottom, because I’ve seen things hidden there in movies. Nothing.

  I lean back in the chair and want to scream. If I scream loud enough, maybe the two guys taking care of Jimmy can run up here and take care of me. I wouldn’t mind a cup full of pills, or maybe even a shot in the ass, if I could forget about everything for a while.

  B
ut not for too long.

  The door opens.

  We stare at each other. Dr. Bartholomew’s expression is one of anger and outrage that I’m sitting behind her desk going through the contents of her purse. Then it’s as if she recognizes me, and her expression shifts more to curiosity. She closes the door.

  “I’ve seen you before,” she says, coming forward and sitting in the chair in front of the desk.

  “I was going into a building you were coming out of,” I say. “I was visiting Dr. Sharp.”

  Her thin lips tilt in a slight smile. The hair that settles against her shoulders in one giant curl seems a bit more yellow now than it was. She’s wearing her white doctor’s coat over a petite frame, and there’s something so familiar about her, something more than just the fact that I saw her coming out of Sharp’s building.

  “That’s not where I know you from,” she says, “although I do remember being a bit startled when the elevator opened and there you stood. I don’t know why I was so surprised, really. I knew he wanted to meet you. He was very curious about you.”

  “Was?” I ask, and even though I know he said he’d never help me, I want him to be alive. I want there to be a chance that he might change his mind.

  “I’m afraid he passed shortly after your visit. It’s a blessing, really. My brother was in a great deal of pain.”

  “Your brother?” I almost choke on the question.

  “You didn’t know? I thought he might have told you his true identity. If I were dying, I would want people to call me by my given name. His was Edward.” She says the name deliberately.

  “Do you know what he did to us? To me and my brother and the others?”

  She closes her eyes, and when she opens them again, I see the resemblance. He was so emaciated when I saw him that the only family members he could resemble would have to have been long dead, but eyes don’t lose weight in a dying body. They don’t fade, and she has the same black, birdlike eyes as her brother.

  “Confessions are part of the dying process,” she says, “although I don’t think Edward was confessing as much as bragging about the success of his experiment.”

  “Do you have his research?” I ask.

  She leans forward, placing her hands on the edge of the desk. “Yes, Kyle. I do. Had he not taken a sudden and drastic turn for the worse, he might have had time to give it to someone else. He had a list of researchers he was considering, but he couldn’t decide. How do you know who to trust when your ultimate goal is mass murder?”

  “So you don’t agree with your brother’s vision of the world?”

  “No.” She presses her palms against the desk. “I suppose I understand his logic, but there must be more humane ways of dealing with humanity’s problems. I suppose someone as brilliant and intelligent as Edward was would look for the most intriguing and challenging ways to address a problem. And, perhaps, the most practical.”

  Her eyes soften as her narrow face lights with memories.

  “As children, Edward and I were fascinated by science. Our father was a scientist. He would tell us about his work sometimes, and it all sounded so intriguing. When Edward was only eight, he was diagnosed with a rare form of childhood cancer. He went through years of treatment, sadly leaving him sterile. I think that’s why he was so fond of all of you. He had pictures, so many pictures of you all—files filled with them—like you were his own children.”

  “He killed us.”

  “Yes,” she says, looking at me and offering no excuse or explanation. “After his illness, he became obsessed with medicine, with physiology and genetics. I, too, became fascinated with crossing the bridge between science and medicine. We both became doctors—scientists—but our interests took us down different paths. At first I respected his work. He was fascinated by the human genome, with the ability to create humans who wouldn’t have to suffer as he’d suffered. But then he started manipulating genes to create a different type of humanity. Not just healthy, but superior.” She shakes her head and gives a short, unbelieving scoff. “My work centers on helping people live full lives, but creating a ‘super’ race is just . . .” She sighs and folds her hands tightly together. “What I didn’t know until recently was that his research into gene manipulation was to help fund his other interests, his true research.”

  “Killing people,” I finish for her.

  “Yes.” She looks at me. “I still can’t believe what he did to you and the others. He only confided in me once his illness had progressed to the point that he found it difficult to function. I was, at best, appalled. But by then, what could I do except beg him to give me access to his research? At first he refused. I tried to trick him, tried to appeal to the vanity that scientists sometimes have, saying how awed I was by his work. How it would be an honor just to look at it. He saw right through me, even in the fog the pain medications created. But as his illness progressed, it was easier to manipulate bits of information out of him, until I finally knew where his research was and how to access it. I wish he had given it to me freely, but he knew I wouldn’t use it as he intended. He thought he still had time to find the right person, but he had a stroke.” She dabs at her eyes with her white sleeves.

  Since walking into this old hospital, I’ve felt ghostly fingers running up and down my spine, my arms, the sides of my throat. Now I feel them gripping me, pulling at me. It’s like they can see the days counting down on my forehead, and they want me to join them, to be friends with them and haunt these wide halls together.

  “Can you save me?”

  Dr. Bartholomew considers my request, but it’s not a request.

  “Save me,” I demand.

  “I haven’t had the research for very long, and to be honest, much of it is difficult to decipher. I have a group of researchers, people I trust completely, going over it as we speak. Ever since I first learned of your existence, it has been my goal to save you. It seems the least I can do under the circumstances. But as of this very moment, I don’t know how to. And if there is a way to keep your heart from stopping, there is the immortality sequence to consider.”

  I think I see the envy in her eyes. She’s older than my mom. I’d guess midfifties. At best, her life is half over. She’s a doctor who saves lives, and in another twenty or thirty, forty years, she’ll be dead or in a nursing home. I’m sixteen. I have no aspirations of saving anyone’s life but my own, and I could outlive her by centuries. Or I could be dead in less than four months.

  “Can you figure it out—how to keep my heart from stopping? You can take out the other sequence too. I don’t care about living forever. I just want to make it past seventeen.”

  “We don’t have much time.” Dr. Bartholomew stands, staring at me, coming closer, like I’m part of her brother’s research, like I’m cells in a petri dish and she wants to shove me under a microscope. Her beady black eyes narrow over her slight nose. “I can’t remove the sequence that will slow your aging,” she says. “It speaks directly to the brain, and the brain controls all bodily functions. To tamper with that, I’m quite certain, would lead to your death. I don’t know how to keep the other genetic sequence from stopping your heart, but I promise I will find a way. No one in this world, Kyle, is more important to me at this moment, than you are.”

  I stand, feeling like I have to. Like I need to move, like I need fresh air because the cold air coming from the vents is filled with some type of anxiety-inducing drug. My insides feel like they’re boiling, while my skin feels cold. My heart is racing—no, it’s begging.

  She offers me her hand. It’s small and smooth, and I take it. “I know how incredibly dangerous his research is,” she says. “You have my word that I will destroy it as soon as I fulfill my promise to save you. Until then, why don’t you relax a bit? And avoid breaking the law.” She gestures toward the contents of her purse still on the desk. “Curing you might prove difficult if you’re locked in a j
uvenile facility.”

  I nod in agreement.

  “I promise, as soon as I know something, you’ll know.”

  I want to believe her. I want so desperately to believe that she’s the answer to my prayers, the miracle I’ve been looking for.

  37

  “What’d you find out?” I ask Matt’s image on my computer screen. He’s thumbing through pages of material about Dr. Claudia Bartholomew.

  “She seems all right. No ethical violations or felonies. Two speeding tickets and a fine for driving with a taillight out, but that’s it. I didn’t find anything suspicious. She’s part of a research group doing work on using stem cells to grow human organs and, eventually, limbs. So far they’ve been able to create kidneys and bladders. They hope to use the same processes for livers and maybe even hearts.”

  “What about her personal life?” I ask.

  “She got married when she was twenty-six. They divorced a year later, and she took back her maiden name.”

  “Any kids?”

  Matt shakes his head.

  “You met her,” I say. “What’d you think of her?”

  He backs away from his screen a little, settling in his chair. “She seemed nice, professional. She can’t help me with my issues, at least not right now. They can’t grow what I need, not yet, anyway. But hey, at least it’s nice to know there’s someone out there trying.”

  “Yeah,” I agree. “It is nice to know there’s someone out there trying. I just hope it’s the right someone.”

  Matt leans toward the camera. “If you’re worried that she’s a singularly goal-driven psychopath like her brother . . . I just don’t see it. There’s been some controversy about stem cell use, but I seriously can’t find anything questionable about her. I think you can trust her.”

  I want to believe him, and maybe I do. I don’t know. My life is really in her hands, and if I were Matt, I’d want to trust someone who might be able to make me a complete man again. I guess when it comes right down to it, I don’t have any choice.