Die Again Tomorrow (15 page)

Before she could reply, a faint sound out in the hallway distracted her. From the tilt of Richard's head, she saw that he heard it, too. Like her, he was experiencing the X101's powerful side effect of increased sensory awareness. Both of them turned to see a fluffy white dog padding into the room, his small body swaying with the ship's motion. He kept his black nose to the floor and steered himself toward their booth, then jumped up and crawled over Galileo to snuggle into her lap.

Galileo shook his head with a smile. “And here I thought he was my dog.”

In fact, Captain, a twelve-pound bichon, belonged to the whole ship; he was one of the first survivors from Dr. Quinn's initial animal experiments with the X101. Galileo had grown attached and let the dog stay on as a pet, but ever since Isabel had arrived, he'd taken to following her around. He had once exhibited signs of being highly sensitive, too, thanks to the drug. She wondered if in its aftermath, he could tell who needed comfort the most.

“Hey, Cap,” she murmured, stroking his floppy ears. He gazed up at her with tender brown eyes that looked impossibly wise. His muscular little body radiated warmth. She leaned down to kiss his head, wishing she could bury herself in his curly cotton fur and forget everything.

Richard was regarding Galileo with a look of respect. “Your plan is genius. I just hope it works.”

Galileo opened the box and lifted up the ring. It wasn't the petite, elegant kind Isabel preferred. It was gaudy and oversized—a statement piece for an older, snobbier woman. “Like I was saying,” he said, “we're one step ahead.”

With an impish smile, he turned it upside down so they could see the wide gold band. “You can't tell, can you?”

Isabel plucked it out of his grip and inspected it. He was right. There was no way to tell that one of the material scientists on board had melted a heat-resistant GPS chip into the metal.

“So you'll track the ring,” Richard said. “And see where it ends up.”

“You got it.” Galileo pulled a laptop out of the briefcase at his feet and flipped it open. He navigated to a map program, where a red dot was glowing in the southern Atlantic Ocean. His cursor hovered over it. Two numbers popped up: 24.2476° N and 81.1915° W.

“Here's us now,” he said. Then he clicked a few times on the map, bringing the northern East Coast into view.

Isabel hugged the dog close to her pounding heart, knowing and hating what was coming next.

“Next stop,” Galileo said, “New York.”

CHAPTER 27

 

“L
isten to me.” Greg spoke in the stern voice he reserved for recalcitrant patients. “Joan.”

Instead of paying attention to her husband, she stared out the window of their taxi. On the other side of the avenue, white headlights of oncoming cars flashed by like comets in the dark. An unfamiliar pang quickened her breath. She realized it was envy. Those people in those cars were headed away from the place she was dreading. The place she now had to call home.

“I know what you're going to say,” she said, “and I don't care.” She flicked a piece of lint off her silk black dress to show her indifference.

“It needs to be said. Sweetheart, please.”

The affectionate term persuaded her to face him. That evening, he'd gone straight from his shift in the ER to a fund-raising dinner for his charity, Doctors on the Mend. Now, in spite of his crisp suit and tie, he looked haggard. The skin under his eyes was sunken and bluish. His lips, tired from smiling for potential donors all night, were pursed in frustration.

No one knew the extent of their financial meltdown. No one understood how close they were to total collapse, how desperately they were keeping up appearances. The irony didn't escape Joan that while they were out cheerfully soliciting thousands for charity that night, the prospect of their own bankruptcy loomed. Yet she insisted on holding the long-scheduled gala dinner, chatting up wealthy guests, leaving the event by cab instead of walking to the nearest subway. Anything to make their lives seem normal, just for a night. But between her and Greg, a schism was widening.

She'd told him about her charade at the hospital and her suspicion that there might be a conspiracy among the staff.

“Isn't it strange,” she'd blurted at home the night before, “that your colleagues pretended not to know anything about a creepy pattern of deaths related to life insurance? Even Dr. Yardley, who was the very person who told you about the rumors in the first place?”

Greg squinted at her. “They don't know you from a hole in the wall.”

“So?”

“So they were being understandably discreet,” he said. “They're afraid. You think they're gonna talk to an outsider?”

“I don't buy it,” she snapped. “They seemed like they really didn't know what I was talking about.”

“You don't know them. I do. And how dare you try to deceive them for information? Do you realize how much trouble you could have gotten into—I mean, Jesus. Trespassing on the locker room? Stealing a nurse's
uniform
?”

“I put it back after,” she offered. But she didn't say anything else.

The truth became clear to her: Greg had a blind spot for the people he knew and liked. But she didn't. And she didn't trust them one bit. Not when his life was at stake, on top of everything else—their son's fury, their dwindling cash, their crappy new apartment that was serving as a stopgap.

Now, in the cab, he was attempting a truce.

“Sweetheart,” he said again. He reached out across the empty middle seat and offered his hand. She took it grudgingly. His fingers were cold, his skin rough and dry.

“I know you want to be some investigative hero,” he said, “but I think you should just back off. It's not worth it.”

“Really? Some investor literally owns your life. You already had one close call. I'm not going to sit around and wait for another.”

Greg took a deep breath, as if reaching the limit of his patience. “You're not going to find him. It's that simple. This person doesn't want to be found.”

Her lips parted in disbelief. His passivity was maddening. “So—that's it, then? You're going to pretend everything's fine?”

“No, I just don't want you getting mixed up in the mess I made.” He looked her in the eye. “I would never survive if something happened to you.”

“I'm fine,” she retorted, but then softened her tone. “I appreciate your concern, but I can take care of myself.”

“
I appreciate your concern?
I'm your goddamn husband, not a business letter.”

Greg rarely cursed. The stress must have been affecting him more than he let on. It unsettled her whenever she glimpsed his inner turmoil, since most of the time, his medical training kept him painstakingly composed.

His gaze didn't waver. “I know how bad I screwed up, but I love you more than anything. I hope you know that.”

She gave him a small smile. “I know.”

They sat in silence for the rest of the ride. If he was hurt that she didn't return the sentiment, he didn't say so. She did feel the same way, of course—but it was complicated. Her love was entangled in a braid of resentment, anger, and misery. It didn't help that just then, they were driving past their stately former apartment building.

She pressed her nose to the window to drink in the sight of the grand glass lobby, the doorman standing by in his double-breasted tux. On the top floor—their penthouse—the lights were on. The new tenant was no doubt enjoying every handcrafted detail she'd worked so hard to perfect. Would they ever return home again? Could they possibly make it through this nightmare intact?

Twenty blocks later, when they pulled up to their new building—a squat, six-story townhouse wedged between a noisy bar and a smoke shop—she was struggling to contain the lump in her throat.

There was no doorman, only a black front door leading to a hallway that reeked of cigarettes. She followed Greg inside to their first-floor apartment.

“I'm going to take a bath,” she said as he opened the door to a dark living room that was still crowded with moving boxes. She walked in first and turned on the light. “I need a few minutes to—”

She broke off with a gasp.

Their front window had been smashed in. Jagged glass shards littered the room. Pieces big and small covered the wood floor, glittered on the sofa fabric, poked out from cardboard boxes. In what was left of the window, a starburst of cracks spread outward from the hole in its center.

She heard Greg's sharp inhale as he came up behind her. They both stood gaping at the mess in a daze.

“I don't get it,” she said after a few moments. “The bars on that window are solid steel. It's not like anyone could actually get in.”

Greg's voice was grim. “It must be a warning. That's all I can think of.”

“Not random violence? This neighborhood isn't the best . . .”

He was shaking his head. “I think someone did this to scare us. You or me, I don't know, but one thing is for sure.”

“What?”

His arms tightened around her. “We need to watch our backs.”

CHAPTER 28

 

I
t was past midnight when the storm hit. Isabel lay awake in her narrow cabin, clutching the bed's guardrails so she wouldn't tumble out. Waves pummeled the ship, one slap after another. Thunder rumbled overhead. All she could see outside her porthole was thick fog, illuminated every few minutes by flashes of lightning. The churning of the sea mirrored exactly how her stomach was reacting to the voyage north. Even if the ship wasn't pitching up and down like a shoddy carnival ride, her anxiety about New York made sleep impossible.

In just two and a half days, she would have to leave the nest of the boat—alone—to try to bait a maniac. But why did he insist on luring her out into the open? Who was really running the show? Would Galileo come through for her as promised? And when would she get to reunite with her family?

That was the hardest part—not knowing when she would see them again. God, what she wouldn't give for an hour at home to bask in the glow of normalcy: baking banana bread with her mom, teasing Andy about his latest crush, relaxing out on the porch under the coconut palm—

A soft knock interrupted her fantasy. She glanced at the alarm clock bolted to her nightstand: 1:14
A.M.
Oddly late for a visitor. She rolled out of bed and staggered to the door. Since she wasn't wearing a bra under her spaghetti strap nightshirt, she used the door to shield her chest as she opened it.

Chris was standing there, gazing down at her with a crooked grin. In dark jeans, a button-down, and gray Chuck Taylors, he looked cuter than any other physician-researcher on board. She noticed the blond stubble on his chin was gone. Now that his face was smooth, his jaw seemed sharper, more masculine. He smelled of aftershave and musk. There was a gleam in his eye, as if they were both in on some private joke.

“Hey.” She could feel a smile spreading across her face. He was a welcome distraction. “Pretty late, isn't it?”

“I knew you weren't sleeping through this.” He swept his arm toward the floor rocking beneath them. “So I came by to take you out.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Right, 'cause there's so many places to go.”

“Yeah, I thought we could catch a movie.”

“Very funny.”

“No, I'm serious. Come with me.” He grabbed her hand, but she stiffened.

“I'm barely dressed . . .”

His smile widened. “Even better. Come on.”

He pulled her out from behind her door and stared at her tight shirt and boxer shorts. At first she covered her chest with her elbow. No man had seen her new breasts since her mastectomy and reconstructive surgery. What would he think of their unnatural perkiness? The slightly uneven nipples? The purple-yellowish bruises still dotting her collarbone? But then she realized she didn't care. She let her arm drop. She had a right to be proud of her body, no matter how much of a beating it had taken. It was strong. And that made it beautiful.

Given his admiring once-over, Chris appeared to agree.

“Where are we going?” she whispered as he pulled her down the dark hallway, past a dozen other cabins, to the stairwell.

He closed the door behind them and descended the concrete stairs, winding around and down. She trailed behind, barefoot.

“There's an old movie theater on deck one,” he said, his voice reverberating in the closed space. “And I just so happen to know where the projector is.”

“Are we allowed to?”

“Who's going to stop us?”

She shrugged. She usually wasn't one to break rules—not that there was a specific rule against watching a movie in the middle of the night, half naked. That wouldn't violate anyone's research projects. But life on the ship had a certain rigid order—set times to eat, work, and sleep. Everyone followed the pattern. So she couldn't help feeling like they were getting away with something.

He stopped so abruptly that she bumped into him.

“First,” he said, “why not a little detour? There's something cool I want to show you.”

“What?”

“You'll see.”

They exited the stairwell on the second lowest deck and found themselves in another narrow, dark corridor lined by doors on either side. Chris approached a certain door labeled
QUINN
on a gold plaque. There was a silver number keypad under the handle. He pressed in a code. Two beeps sounded and the lock clicked open.

“Why is there a special lock on this one?” she asked. Walking past the other doors, she'd seen that none of the others had a number pad.

Chris gritted his teeth. “'Cause Quinn's nuts.”

His derisive tone surprised her. She was even a bit offended on the doctor's behalf. Dr. Quinn was her savior. She felt extremely loyal to him: He occupied a glorified pedestal in her mind. When she passed him on the residential deck or in the dining area, a thrill surged through her, like he were a celebrity. One day, of course, his name would be legend. He was the developer of the X101. Only no one knew it yet.

Chris pushed open the door. It opened onto a lab about the size of a cozy living room. To the right, several microscopes sat on a high counter next to two sinks, along with an array of scientific equipment that she couldn't identify—bulky rectangular hoods, a heavy-duty circular machine that looked like it spun at high speeds. To the left stood two supply closets, plus a floor-to-ceiling subzero fridge and freezer. On a long table at the back, various chemical bottles were stacked next to rows of glass slides. The whole room seemed precisely ordered. Just how she would have imagined Quinn's lab.

“So,” she said, “this is where the magic happens?”

“Yup, check this out.” He swung open the refrigerator door and pulled out a frosty glass vial containing a clear fluid. “This is what saved you and your friend. We just synthesized a brand-new dose.”

Her eyes widened. How could something so ordinary-looking be so extraordinary? “That's awesome,” she said. “Literally awesome.”

“Pretty sick, huh?” He put it back in the fridge and quickly shut the door before the vial warmed to room temperature. “But it's a pain in the ass to make. Each dose takes a week of full-time work.”

“For you and Quinn both?”

“Yeah. And he only lets me work with him.”

“'Cause you're such a rock star?” Isabel sidled closer to him, smiling at herself for stumbling with the ship's seesawing floor.

Chris chuckled. “That, and he's freakin' paranoid.”

She rested a hand on his chest, conscious of her breasts pressing against his torso. As she opened her mouth to ask what he meant, he leaned down and kissed her. She tipped her head back and wrapped her arms around his neck. It had been ages since her last romantic encounter, with the fiancé who'd cheated on her. For months afterward, she'd been so intent on getting over him—focusing on her television show, then on her mother's survival, then on her own—that she'd all but forgotten the pleasures of intimacy. Now she relished Chris's hungry mouth on hers, but when he slipped a hand into her boxer shorts, she grabbed his wrist.

“What's wrong?”

“Can we take it slow?”

He pulled his hand back. Their eyes locked, and she felt her face flush. “I mean,” she said, “I don't even really know you.”

He flipped his palms up casually, but she detected annoyance in his voice. “What do you want to know?”

“I don't know,” she said, aiming for levity, “your life story in a nutshell? Sixty seconds, go.”

“Um, okay.” He ticked facts off his fingers. “Born and raised in Southern California, boring suburb, one of five kids. My mom's a homemaker, my dad teaches high school physics. I was a super nerdy science geek. What else?” He paused. “There was a phase when I dealt drugs, got in some trouble. But I got into Harvard anyway, 'cause my grades were perfect. Then I studied my ass off, got a couple degrees, worked for Quinn, we got recruited . . . and now we're here.”

“Impressive,” she said. “Bad boy makes good?”

“Something like that.” His eyes seemed amused, but there was a hardness in them she didn't understand. He cocked his head. “Your turn.”

That was when she heard the sound—and stiffened. Soon Chris heard it, too. Footsteps out in the hallway. Plodding steps coming closer. And men's low voices.

Her feet felt rooted to the ground. The voices were getting louder, approaching the door to Quinn's lab. Her heart somersaulted into her throat. The footsteps stopped right outside the door. She stared at Chris, her mouth forming a silent O. Then came two unmistakable beeps—the number pad unlocking.

Chris grabbed her arm and dragged her into the supply closet, pulling the door closed just before they heard two people walk in. Underneath a shelf sagging with textbooks, she and Chris crouched into the smallest versions of themselves. They held their knees tight against their chests, keeping their chins low, their breaths quiet.

Through a slim crack where the door didn't fully close, they could see Dr. Quinn and Galileo passing by. Isabel caught sight of them for only a split second, but it was enough to make out the distress on both their faces.

“No one is out to get you, Horatio,” Galileo was saying. His voice was gentle but firm. “You're safe here. Please, be reasonable.”

“But you can never be sure, can you?” The old scientist's tone was prickly. “You know what I think. The human psyche is a mysterious black hole, impossible for anyone outside of it to grasp. Even yours.”

“I can't believe you. After all these years, still.”

“Every relationship is a leap of faith. And faith is not my strong suit.”

“I get it, you've been burned—”

“You have no idea!”

“I know, I know. But that was a long time ago. Don't you realize how irresponsible it is to keep everything in your head now? What you've done—it's the biggest breakthrough we've ever seen. But you're seventy-seven. God forbid something happens . . .”

Quinn's voice was stubborn. “As long as I alone know the formula, I can't be gotten rid of.”

“That's ridiculous and you know it.”

Their footsteps approached the refrigerator. It opened with a whoosh. Isabel couldn't see what was happening, but she heard the clink of glass against metal.

“I will guard your secret with my life. You have my word.”

“Careful,” Quinn muttered. “We haven't had time to make more yet.”

“Even more reason to do this right now. Tonight. Come on. You talk, I'll take notes. Then I'll encrypt every word. You don't have to trust anyone but me.”

“Do you think I don't know how much money I'm sitting on? I mean, why
wouldn't
you want to get rid of me? Then you wouldn't have to share the proceeds when you license it for a billion dollars. The world already thinks I'm long dead, so I'm at your mercy. For all I know, you've been working up to this since the day we met.”

“Jesus Christ! Do you hear yourself?”

There was a sigh. “Maybe I am just a paranoid old crank. I don't know. You have been good to me over the—”

At that moment, the ship jerked so violently that Isabel cupped a hand over her mouth to suppress a cry. At the same time, a violent crack sounded overhead, like a heavy branch snapping. The shelf above her and Chris groaned under the weight of textbooks sliding. She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping the door wouldn't pop open. That was when she caught the first whiff. With her senses on high alert, the smell was unmistakable.

Smoke.