Deadly Design (9780698173613) Page 23

  “I’d wash that hand good, if I was you,” he says. “Duke’s got a thing about chewing on dirty underwear. His mouth’s like a sewer.”

  I look at my hand and don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I don’t even know where the hell I am.

  “I’m Gene, by the way. Friend of Virginia’s. And I know who you are. Kyle, the fella who got my hernia acting up because I had to drag your ass in here all by myself at two o’clock in the goddamned morning. Virginia wanted to come back here, but I took her straight to the Amtrak station. Can’t be too careful these days. And when she said you’d been in a coma for two months, I thought you’d weigh less. Must have been cramming French fries up that feeding tube.”

  What little hair is on Gene’s head is light brown, and it matches the faded freckles that disappear into his wrinkles. He looks mean, reminding me of the story my mom used to tell us about the troll who lived under a bridge and ate goats.

  “You two close friends?”

  Gene scoffs. “Have been for six years now. Ever since her husband and my wife died. She comes over every morning after work for coffee, and we share the newspaper. Then she tells me about you, how she’s all worried and whatnot, and the next thing I know, I’m parked by some hospital door and she’s smuggling you out of there. And now I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t want you dragged into this. I should probably go.” I force myself to sit up, and the pain, comes creeping back like I’ve been hiding from it and now it’s found me.

  “Not so fast. I seen what that doctor did to your gut. Virginia said something about them messing with your DNA. You have any superpowers?” he asks.

  “No.”

  Gene frowns, obviously disappointed. “What did this doctor do to you, then?”

  “He put a genetic sequence in me, so that I’ll die before I turn seventeen.”

  “And when’s that?”

  “A little less than a month.”

  He sighs and rubs a hand over his sparse hair. “Well that’s some fine fucking shit, ain’t it? What kind of a sorry-ass excuse for a human being would do something like that to a kid? A kid!” He steps away from me, then toward me again. “You’re not just walking off here. We have to do something about this. You know, I got shot in Vietnam. I was pinned down, and bullets flying everywhere. You know how many times I got shot?”

  He waits for me to answer, his reddish-gray brows lifted.

  “Three times?” I guess.

  “Nineteen. Yeah. That’s a one in front of a nine. But did I give up? Did I lay down in that jungle and ask God’s forgiveness for the shit that I done in my life? No. I got up. That’s what I did. And that’s what we’re going to do right now. You’re going to get up and go sit down at the kitchen table. I’m going to fix you some . . . soup or something. I’ll give you a Lortab, just one—she said two, but that’s too many—and no more shots. We need you awake so we can figure this all out. And we are going to figure this out. You got it?”

  I fight the urge to shout, “Sir, yes, sir!” But I just nod and struggle to my feet. A sudden breeze hits my backside, and I realize I’m still wearing the hospital gown. “I don’t suppose you have any pants I can borrow.”

  • • •

  I think of Virginia on a train to Arizona. I think about the danger I’m putting Gene in just by being here, and I’m not hungry. But Gene wants me to eat, so I force the tomato soup and a Lortab down, half expecting the soup to seep through the hole in my stomach.

  “So what about calling the police?” Gene asks.

  I remember the conversation Dr. Bartholomew and I had right before I was supposed to be frozen. She was trying to convince me to trust her because of all the influential people she’d helped, all the money she had access to.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say. “Dr. Bartholomew has a lot of connections.”

  Gene slumps a little in his chair. “You know, I can see Virginia’s house from that window there.” He nods at the window over the kitchen sink. “Our backyards bump up against each other. While I was washing that bowl out for your soup, I saw a car pull up to the house. Three people got out and jimmied their way in the back door. I imagine they’re looking for you.”

  “I should leave,” I say. “If they find me here, they’ll want to know how much you know. If they think you’re a threat—”

  “You’re not leaving. Not unless we have a plan. Surely there’s someone out there you can trust. Someone who might be able to help you.”

  Someone Dr. Bartholomew doesn’t know about. Or maybe, someone she does know—a patient from the VA who saw her once, so that I could sneak into her office.

  “Do you have a computer and internet?”

  Gene smiles. “Do I have a computer and internet? You’re talking to one of the most popular fellas on the Silver Fox dating website. Just a second. It’s in the bedroom.”

  I push the bowl of soup away and wish I could push the thought of Gene Skyping in his bedroom with old women out of my mind as easily.

  “Here we go,” he says, opening the laptop on the table in front of him. He punches in his password and connects to the web. “What do you need?”

  “I need to send an email.”

  Gene logs into his account, then slides the computer over to me.

  I type in Matt’s email address. His messages go directly to his phone, so I don’t expect it to take too long to hear from him.

  “What’s your Skype password?”

  He clears his throat. “Big Fox seventy-two,” he says. “The B and the F are capitalized.” He clears his throat again.

  Within minutes, Matt’s face comes up on the screen. “Kyle? Holy shit! Where the hell are you? Aren’t you supposed to be frozen?”

  My excitement at seeing a friendly face dims for a second. “How do you know I was supposed to be frozen?”

  He looks confused, then a little hurt. “Jimmy told me. I know he said he wouldn’t, but since I already know just about everything anyway, he wanted to keep me in the loop. But don’t worry. I haven’t told a soul. I swear. And don’t be mad at Jimmy. You know Jimmy.”

  I nod, but I’m surprised. I do know Jimmy. He said he wouldn’t tell, and I believed him. “How is he? Do you know how Cami is?”

  “Fine, I guess. But what about you? Where the hell are you?”

  “I’m fine,” I say out of habit. “No, I’m fucked is what I am. I need your help.”

  “You bet. Name it, I’m there. You need me to come get you?”

  “Before we found Dr. Bartholomew, there were a few doctors you thought might have the other Dr. Bartholomew’s research. Can you give me their information?”

  “Yeah, sure. Wait—I thought she had it.”

  “So did I. Do you have the names? Their contact information?”

  “Yeah.” Matt leaves the screen for a minute. I hear drawers opening and papers rustling, then he’s back. “You got a pen and paper?”

  I start to rise, but the Lortab isn’t working yet, and I gasp in pain. But it doesn’t matter because Gene’s there with a small notebook and a pen.

  “Okay, I’m ready.”

  “You want the immunologist in Boston or the boy wonder in Chicago?”

  “Both,” I say.

  “To be honest,” Matt says, “if Claudia Bartholomew doesn’t have the research, my bet’s on the kid in Chicago. I guess I shouldn’t call him a kid; he’s like twenty-two now. Before we thought Claudia had the research for sure, I did some digging. Your psycho doctor had quite a few phone calls with this kid, Dr. Brian Rubenstein. And Rubenstein is an expert in genetics, plus he’s a genius—probably got an ego almost as big as Edward Bartholomew’s—so they might have hit it off. Are you anywhere close to Chicago? I can wire you some money. Or I can come and get you. Take you there myself. What about your f
olks? Do they know where you are?”

  “No. They still think I’m frozen.” The words make me sick. The thought of my parents still trusting that bitch is like a blade slicing through my skin, making yet another incision. “They need to keep thinking that for now,” I say. “It’s safer that way.”

  “Safer? Kyle, what’s going on? Let me help. It’s not like I have anything better to do.” He gives a slight laugh. “And we’re kind of like our own little platoon—me, you, and Jimmy. We got to look out for each other.”

  “You are helping me,” I say. “For now, I just need his phone number and address if you have them. I’ll let you know if I need anything else.”

  Matt leans in toward the screen. “Sure thing,” he says and reads off the contact information for a Dr. Brian Rubenstein.

  “Thanks a lot, Matt,” I say once the information’s written down.

  “Promise you’ll let me know if I can do anything for you. Really. Anything.”

  I’m tempted to tell him where I am. To ask him to get in his car, pick me up, and take me to Chicago. But it’s at least a seven-hour drive from where Matt lives to Saint Louis. That’s too much time to be putting Gene at risk and too much time to waste. I nod and then log off.

  46

  I slump down in the seat, pulling the baseball cap Gene gave me farther down over my face. The bus to Chicago is pretty crowded. A girl around my age is sitting one seat over. I know she’s looked my way a few times, but I’m avoiding eye contact. I don’t want to talk to anyone.

  I know it sounds stupid, but I miss Gene, and Virginia. They both stuck their necks out for me. Hopefully, Virginia will be safe in Phoenix, but Gene’s going to have to read the newspaper alone every morning. And there’s the bus fare and the money he stuck into my jeans pocket. His jeans, and his T-shirt, his jacket, his socks, and the tennis shoes he stopped to buy me because none of his shoes came anywhere close to fitting.

  I’m going to repay him. Even if Dr. Rubenstein can’t help me, I’ll tell Mom and Dad about Gene before I die, so they can thank him for trying to save their son.

  The bus lurches, and I grab my stomach and groan.

  “Are you all right?” the girl asks.

  “Yeah,” I say, giving her a quick glance. “Had my appendix out a few weeks ago. Still kind of sore. I just need some sleep.”

  “Sure,” she says. “Where are you getting off?”

  “Chicago.”

  She smiles. “Me too. There’ll be a few stops between here and there. I’ll make sure and wake you up. If you’re asleep, that is.”

  I look at her, and I know it’s the painkiller Gene gave me and the drugs still lingering in my system from my two months in a coma, but I feel like crying. She’s probably fifteen or sixteen. An average-looking teenage girl with straight brown hair and bangs cut slightly crooked. She smiles at me with her mouth closed, most likely because her parents can’t afford braces. She’s nice, and with luck, she’ll live a long time.

  “Thanks.” I lay my forehead against the cool glass and close my eyes.

  • • •

  I don’t sleep. I can’t. Not with the pain and the people walking up and down the aisle to the restroom and the screaming baby and the stops where people get off and new people get on and, just maybe, there might be someone looking for me.

  It’s six hours of hell, but every time we stop suddenly or hit a pothole and the pain makes me want to scream, I remind myself how lucky I am to feel pain. How lucky I am to be awake and alive.

  “We’re here.” The girl nudges my shoulder.

  “Thanks,” I look at her, and her face fills with concern.

  “Are you sure you’re okay? You really don’t look well.” She places a hand on my forehead like she’s my mom. “You’re warm. I think you have a fever.”

  “I’m okay,” I say, and try to prove it by standing up. The air suddenly turns black for a second as I grab hold of the seat in front of me. Suddenly, her arms are around me, helping me stand.

  “Let’s get you off this bus,” she says, leading me down the aisle, and then the steps. “My grandmother is picking me up. Mom and I haven’t been getting along since my dad left, so Grams said I could live with her for a while. Who’s picking you up?”

  My foot catches on something, and I almost go down, but she keeps hold of me. “No one.”

  We walk to the side of the bus, and she leans me against it. “Let’s get your luggage and then we’ll find Grams.”

  “I don’t have any luggage,” I say, trying to feel my legs beneath me.

  “I just have a backpack,” the girl says. She takes her ticket, shows it to the driver, and collects her pack.

  I try to stand on my own, try to balance with one hand on the bus. When I feel somewhat steady, I let go, but I feel sweat against my back. I want to take Gene’s jacket off, but I can see my breath. I know it’s cold outside, but I feel hot.

  “Let’s find Grams,” she says, taking my arm again. “We’ll get you to a hospital.”

  “No.” I pull away from her and almost stumble backward. “No hospitals. If you can . . .” Think. Think. Think. “A pharmacy,” I say. “If you can drop me off at a pharmacy, that would be great. I just need my medicine. And I can call someone from there to get me.”

  She considers me, and I think she knows I won’t get into a car with her and “Grams” unless she agrees to do what I ask.

  “Fine,” she says. “Let’s go find her.”

  47

  “Is he a drug addict?” the old lady asks for the second time.

  “No. He has a fever. He had his appendix out a few weeks ago. I think he has an infection.”

  “Then we should take him to a doctor.”

  “He wants to go to a pharmacy.”

  “Because he’s a drug addict,” the old lady says loudly, like she wants me to know she has me figured out. “We’re not taking him home with us. He’ll rummage through my medicine cabinet and take all my pills.”

  “We just need to take him to a pharmacy,” the girl says, her voice strained like she’s trying not to get into a fight with her grandmother before they even make it home.

  “Sorry for the trouble,” I manage to say from the backseat. “I really appreciate the ride.”

  “Where are your parents?” the old lady asks, her voice even louder.

  “It’s a long story,” I say. And I’m in no shape to tell it right now, I want to add. “I’ll call them soon, I promise.”

  We stop at a traffic light, and she turns to look at me. Her face is round, her hair is dyed pitch-black. She’s wearing bright red lipstick, and with her white complexion, she looks like a senior citizen who’s gone Goth. Her mouth twitches a little.

  “There’s a pharmacy on the next corner. I’ll drop you off if you promise to call your folks and quit using drugs.”

  I’d laugh if I didn’t hurt so much. “I promise.”

  We pull into a pharmacy parking lot. The girl gets out of the front seat, comes around to the back, and helps me out.

  “I’ll walk you in,” she says, and I realize that I don’t know her name. I also realize that, at this moment, I don’t care.

  “It’s okay,” I say, lifting my arms in a ta-da motion to show her I can make it inside on my own. “Thank you. Really,” I say, and my eyes start to tear because of the pain and because of Virginia and Gene and now this girl who’s so nice and is so plain and ordinary, and to me, that seems so extraordinary and wonderful, because being superior sucks.

  She gives me a smile, but doesn’t get back in the car. Not immediately. Not until she knows I can make it inside on my own.

  Thank God the doors are automatic.

  The clerk at the front register is chewing away at a piece of gum as she rings up a giant package of toilet paper. She looks at me.

  “Pharmacy counter?” I
ask.

  She stops chewing, her mouth hanging open as she points toward the back of the store.

  I turn down an aisle of Thanksgiving decorations. A woman looks at me, her eyes widening at the sight of me while the little boy next to her points at me. Do I look that bad? They’re gawking like I’m the infected guy who’s about to start the zombie apocalypse. I look to where the boy is pointing. My jacket is hanging open, and there is a dark spot in the middle of Gene’s light blue T-shirt. Blood. I lift the shirt and see where one of the freshest incisions has managed to tear open.

  “Oh my God,” the woman gasps.

  I pull my shirt back down. “It’s okay,” I say, not wanting to scare the little kid any worse. “Just need some Tylenol, maybe a Band-Aid.”

  I continue past the ceramic turkeys and fake autumn flowers. I make it through the cold medicine aisle and then to the pharmacy counter.

  There’s no one there, so I ring the bell, and a man with short red hair and a crisp white jacket appears. “Can I help you?” he says, his polite smile dropping from his face when he looks at me. “Are you all right?”

  “Just need a prescription. Can you call my doctor?”

  “Sure,” he says. “What’s his name?”

  I take the piece of paper out of my pocket, set it on the counter, and write my birthday next to it. “This is his name, phone number, and my birth date. My name is Kyle McAdams.”

  “What’s the medication?”

  “Just say it’s for my heart,” I say, trying to look at him, but my sight is starting to blur.

  “You should sit down,” he says. “There are chairs over there.”

  “Thanks.” I’m not sure where over there is, but I move toward the wall and when I feel something solid sticking out, gently lower myself down into it.

  I can just hear him talking as my head falls against the back of the chair. I hear him say “emergency,” and at first I want to get up and run because maybe he’s calling Dr. Bartholomew. But she’s in Saint Louis. At least, I think she is. And I’m in Chicago.