Die Again Tomorrow (24 page)

CHAPTER 44

C
hris sat cross-legged on the floor of his lab, cell phone in hand. He wasn't technically allowed to have one—it was against Galileo's rules—but when the hell had he ever played by the rules? Not as a teenager, when he knocked up his high school girlfriend and abandoned her to a life of small towns and small dreams; not when his parents shunned him for deserting his kid and told him he deserved to fail; not when he took up dealing drugs to put himself through Harvard; not when he undermined his competition in graduate school to study with the master biochemist Horatio Quinn; and certainly not on the ship, when he learned enough about the X101 to no longer need Quinn at all.

He powered on his white iPhone, which he kept hidden under his mattress in his private cabin. There was no call history because he'd never used it before. But for the past seven years, as long as he'd lived on the ship, he knew the day would come when he would need to sneak off—and execute his master plan. All along, he aimed to cultivate a business partner on the outside, someone knowledgeable enough to help him convert the physical existence of the X101 into glory and wealth. Ideally this person would help him get a patent, a prestigious journal publication, and some national press, then help him license distribution to the highest bidder. No doubt pharmaceutical companies all over the world would trample one another for a piece of the drug that defied death. The companies would love that it could be manufactured and sold immediately, without the hassle of FDA approval, because the drug worked on a corpse, not a patient—and there were no rules governing acceptable medication for the dead.

Of course Galileo would never dare come after him. If he did, Chris could expose his illicit routes, members, and allies around the country. The blow he could deliver would paralyze the entire Network. But he wouldn't have to go that far. The power of the threat alone was enough to ensure he would escape without retribution.

He smirked just imagining the look on his father's face when Old Pop realized that the son he'd condemned to failure all those years ago was a celebrated scientist worth millions. Then Pop could no longer be ashamed. Once Chris was a mind-blowing success, his family would have to admit they were wrong to think he was a negligent asshole. They were wrong to tell him to give up his grand ambitions in order to be a young father and husband, trapped in a pathetic conventional life like theirs. They would be horrified to realize how deeply they had misjudged his talent and genius, and they would beg him to accept their apology. And he would, because he was forgiving. He might even agree to meet the son he'd never wanted. The kid probably hated him, but once he got rich, he could write a check to smooth things over. Everyone would have to admit he was a star and they were lucky to dwell in his orbit.

He'd come this far already, putting up with year after year of painstaking toil in obscurity, not to mention Quinn's ferocious possessiveness. Year after year of cultivating his skeptical mentor's trust—while stoking his paranoia about everyone else. Year after year of keeping his own head down in front of Galileo, waiting for the day it would all pay off. He wasn't about to let some prude bitch get in his way now. She hadn't been bold enough to condemn him outright, but the accusation was plain in her eyes.

It was unfathomable how she could have come to suspect him. Between the raging storm and the fire, nature had handed him the perfect cover that night. In the same moment, he'd recognized his opportunity and seized it. Time was of the essence, since Quinn had been on the verge of giving up the whole secret synthesis procedure to Galileo. Stupid Quinn would have erased Chris's proprietary claim to the knowledge, so thank God that threat was over.

But his new problem was just as worrisome. What if Isabel went to Galileo with her suspicions—and then Galileo kicked him off the ship? So many excruciating years would go to waste, his life's master plan ruined in an instant.

About ten hours had passed since Isabel's unnerving revelation. It was 10:05
P.M.
, and so far, at least, his worst fears hadn't come true. When Galileo returned from his off-site appointment around 5
P.M.
, Chris had rushed to corner him before she could. He announced the return of the X101, and Galileo had practically exploded with euphoria. He led a procession to see the resuscitated rats in the lab, where all the other staff cheered and whooped and slapped Chris on the back. Isabel and Richard were the only ones who didn't join in the hoopla, but no one else seemed to notice. Afterward, the party moved to the top deck to celebrate with a feast of the kitchen's best stock—brisket and potatoes, with cherry cobbler for dessert.

Now the rest of the ship had gone to bed, and Chris was back in his lab, alone. Pacing. The ridges of his iPhone dug into his palm. Time was running out to make a sly exit. Any minute, Isabel could be ratting him out. As much as it pained him, he had to let go of his original plan to make as much of the X101 as he could smuggle out. It would take too damn long. He also originally wanted to wait to leave until he had a partnership in place on the outside, someone cunning enough to guide his next steps. But at this moment he knew no one, had no money, and nowhere to go.

All he had was the single vial of X101. He needed to escape with it ASAP.

And he could think of only one person nearby who could help him. It was someone who wanted to profit off the drug as badly as he did. Someone who also played by his own rules. But unlike himself, this person had financial savvy and power and connections. And a common enemy in Isabel Leon.

It was the investor Robbie Merriman.

Chris had memorized his number after having snuck a peek at Galileo's recent call history on the satellite phone. He strode to the lab's door to double-check its lock, then dialed the digits. He noticed that his hands—whose steadiness he prized—were trembling.

The phone rang until a machine instructed him to leave a message at the tone. Chris called back three more times, not caring if he was being obnoxious, until finally someone picked up. A brusque voice hissed in his ear:

“Hey, asshole, you have the wrong num—”

“Mr. Merriman?” he cut in. “I'm Dr. Chris Donovan, and I—”

“How do you know my name?”

He tightened his sweaty grip on the iPhone. “I'm one of the doctors who brought Isabel Leon back to life.” The faster his words tumbled out, the faster he paced. “She was a test subject of a new drug that delays the death of brain cells for up to twenty-four hours. There's literally never been anything like it in history. It's going to change the face of medicine.”

He paused to breathe. He knew he sounded like a pitchman, but if there was any product that ever lived up to its hype, it was the X101.

Merriman's strident tone softened. “So it is real.”

“It's real,” Chris said. A grin tugged at his lips. He was about to be a freaking
billionaire.
A sensation. It was so close he could already see the headlines: T
HINK
D
EATH IS
P
ERMANENT
? Y
OU'RE
D
EAD
W
RONG—
M
IRACLE
D
RUG
R
EVOLUTIONIZES
E
MERGENCY
M
EDICINE.

What Merriman said next stunned him. “Did you know Horatio Quinn?”

“You've . . . heard of him?”

“I remember the crazy buzz around his research before he dropped away some years back.”

“Well, I'm his protégé. He died in an accident and left me his legacy. I'm the only person who knows how to synthesize the drug—and I'm currently holding the only vial in existence.”

Actually the vial was in the refrigerator at a perfect 35 degrees Fahrenheit, but it sounded more dramatic that way. He'd always had a flair for drama.

“Why are you calling me?”

“Because I'm trapped right now.” Chris touched the cool metal of one of the rat's cages. The plump white rodent was curled up next to his wheel, exhausted from the ordeal of having died. But he was alive. His little back was rising and falling with the steadiness of his breath.

“Why? Where?”

“In a private lab near Manhattan with Isabel and a bunch of other researchers. They think the drug is communal property and they're going to take it from me, even though Quinn wanted me to license it for the public good. I've got to get it out of here before it's too late, but I need help. I have nowhere to go and know nothing about business. You'd get a cut, of course.”

Merriman barely waited a second to reply. “My connections in finance and big pharma would open all the doors you need. I know how to get major deals done fast.”

Chris pumped his fist. He had to force himself not to shout. “I figured you're an investor,” he said smoothly. “You'd know what to do.”

“You're in a lab right now?”

“Yes.”

“Show me.” Merriman's voice gained a hard edge. “I want to see this vial. I want to see you're the real deal.”

Chris gave an easy chuckle. “I promise I am.”

“Prove it.”

“Fine.” He tapped his iPhone to request FaceTime. A couple of high-pitched beeps sounded, then Merriman's face popped up on the screen. It was obscured in darkness. All Chris could make out was the curve of his forehead and a vague outline of dark hair.

“Hi,” he said to the shrouded face. “Okay, so, here's the lab.” He held up the phone and slowly turned in a circle so Merriman could take in its state-of-the-art microscopes, countertops lined with laminar flow hoods, sinks, centrifuges, and shining chrome equipment that gleamed under the fluorescent lights.

“Here are test rats I've just revived with the drug.” He zeroed in on the rodents sleeping in their cages. “And here”—he walked to the refrigerator—“is the vial I put back a minute ago.” He swung open the door and carefully plucked the vial from its holder. The colorless X101 didn't look like much, so he rushed to speak before Merriman became skeptical. “It's an extremely precise compound that acts on the brain's calpain enzymes to inhibit the signals to neurons that it's time to die. And,” he added proudly, “I've just developed a new test for quality control.”

You don't think I'm legit?
he thought.
Watch this.

Setting the phone upright on the counter facing him, he set up a quick demonstration with a heated flask of hydrogen peroxide and sulfuric acid, explaining in detail how the atomic ratios in one drop of the formula reacted with the solution to produce a black liquid upon contact.

But just as he was about to suck up a drop of the compound with a pipette, his hand froze.
What the hell?
Some of the liquid was missing. He'd made exactly 2 milliliters—the amount needed for one human dose. So why was the level now at 1.75 milliliters? A tiny drop or two for the demo wouldn't affect the volume that much.

“Well?” Merriman's voice prompted from the speakerphone.

“Sorry.” He shook off his bewilderment and completed the demo. Then he returned the chilled vial to the fridge before it warmed up. “I also have extensive notes about our clinical trial with Isabel and twenty-one other recent corpses whose brains were preserved by the drug, in conjunction with therapeutic hypothermia and other known emergency measures, while doctors reversed their underlying causes of death. The drug's worked on victims of heart attacks, overdoses, poisoning, blood loss, and of course, drowning. Everyone's recovered without brain damage.”

“Impressive,” Merriman said.

Chris caught a glimpse of white teeth on the dark screen. A smile.

“Thank you, sir.” He exhaled a breath, feeling as though he'd just passed the most important exam of his life.

“We just have one issue.” There was that harsh edge again.

Chris frowned at his shadowy image. “What?”

“How do I know you're coming to me in good faith? For all I know, you're working with Isabel to trap me. I'm not an idiot. I know what she's after.”

“Absolutely not! I'm trying to get
away
from her. She's nothing but trouble.”

“That's not good enough. I need you to convince me.”

“How?” Chris clenched his teeth. “I'm already running out of time.”

“Get rid of her. The sooner the better. Then we can talk.”

CHAPTER 45

T
he abrupt knock jarred Isabel awake. She opened her eyes to near total darkness. The sky outside her porthole was black. The only light came from the digital alarm clock on her nightstand. Its glowing red numbers read 12:10
A.M.

She was alone except for Captain, who was curled up behind her head on the pillow. It must be Richard, she thought. He was coming to visit for a late-night rendezvous. She threw off her covers and climbed out of bed. He probably wanted to pick up where they'd left off, before her confrontation with Chris ruined her mood.

Afterward, she'd shut herself in her cabin to brood. Of course Chris had announced his breakthrough with the X101 the minute Galileo returned, before she could get a word in edgewise. But what good would it do to tell Galileo her suspicions for a second time? He seemed as eager to celebrate Chris as everyone else. He hadn't even bothered to tell her yet about his offsite meeting with Joan Hughes. He was too busy calling Chris a savior—without irony. It was enough to make her gag.

She was too agitated to be good company for the evening, so she told Richard she needed some space. He'd kissed her and gone to bed in his own cabin next door. That was three hours ago. Since then, she'd tossed and turned until deciding to lie still with her eyes closed, in the hopes that imitating sleep might quiet her racing mind.

Richard surprising her now was just what she needed to escape the cruel eternity of insomnia. It was perceptive of him to realize that she didn't really want to be alone, even when she said she did. Maybe his senses were still heightened from the X101, or maybe he was just a discerning guy. In any case, she would reward him well. She smiled as she opened the door.

And then she froze. On the threshold, wearing jeans, Converse sneakers, and a black hoodie, was Chris. His big-boned figure filled the doorway and would have unnerved her if not for the contrite look on his face. He bit his lip as he thrust a pink origami rose into her hands. Its paper bud was carefully folded to mimic the unfolding petals of a real rose. She blinked at him without taking it.

“What's this? What are you doing here?”

He gave her a sheepish half smile. “Sorry I couldn't get real flowers. But I had to come by to apologize.”

She crossed her arms. “Do you know what time it is?”

“I know, but I can't stop thinking about what happened before. I totally misread the situation and now I feel like an asshole. I'm sorry.”

Because you are
, she wanted to snap. Her expression must have said it because he winced.

“I mean it,” he said. “Can we be cool?”

“Sure, whatever.” What was she supposed to say?
No, you're a murderer?
“Well, it's late, so . . .” She trailed off just as Captain hopped down from the bed and padded over to her. Chris bent down to pet him, but the dog didn't wag his bushy tail the way he usually did. Instead he emitted a strange whine that sent a tingle down her arms.

Her stiff tone betrayed her discomfort. “Good night.”

She started to close the door, but Chris stood up and blocked the doorway.

“Take this,” he insisted, offering her the faux flower again. “I made it for you.”

She took it grudgingly, just as she noticed that his other hand was hidden in his back pocket.

“What—”

Before she could finish the thought, his fist reared back and smashed into her forehead. Its propulsive force toppled her backward, pain searing through her skull like a white-hot migraine. She felt herself stumble in the darkness, tried to grab hold of the door to slam it, but he knocked her down and overpowered her with the full weight of his body.

She rocketed into fight mode, thrashing and biting for all she was worth. When her knee smashed into his groin, he cried out and fell to his side, grabbing his crotch.

“Bitch!” he moaned.

She tried to scramble away, but he recovered quickly enough to slam her back against the floor. When he sat on her chest, her ribs felt like they might crack. She shrieked, but he stifled her voice by shoving a handkerchief into her mouth. Captain nipped at his hands until Chris scooped him up and threw him out into the hallway, then closed the door. Now they were alone.

She kicked and bit and flailed with all her strength, but he was impenetrable. It was like trying to injure a bear with a toothpick. He easily pinned down her arms by squashing her hands beneath his weight. Then he reached into his back pocket—while holding her gag in place—and pulled out a coil of gray electrical tape. She kept trying to scream, even just to make eye contact, but he avoided her gaze altogether. His eyes had hardened into a look of dispassionate concentration, like a robot executing a task. Any human warmth or compassion was gone. That indifference frightened her the most, because it meant he was capable of anything.

He unspooled the tape and ripped off a section with his teeth. Then he fastened it across her mouth from ear to ear. Her cries came out like pathetic muffled whimpers. Still sitting on her chest and hands, he whipped out an iPhone from the pocket of his hoodie. An iPhone! No one on the ship had one. Her eyes widened as he dialed a number he seemed to know by heart. He turned on video while it rang and positioned it upright on a nearby chair facing them. A man answered hello, but his face was hard to make out from her helpless position on the floor.

“I told you I wouldn't waste time,” Chris said. “Can you see?”

“Yeah. You got the vial?”

She could hardly believe whose voice she was hearing. It was Robbie Merriman.

“In my pocket,” Chris said.

“Then make it fast and get out of there.”

Chris turned his attention back to her. “This'll be quick.”

She glared at him as viciously as she could. But struggling was useless. Her arms were inert and numb. She was beaten. His grubby hands started to constrict around her neck.

An image popped into her mind of her mom and Andy, and how devastated they would be. The pain of knowing she would never reunite with them hurt more than Chris's fingers digging into her throat, pressing against her vocal cords, choking off her breath. A horrifying flashback struck her of being held underwater by the scuba diver, suffocating to death. How could this be happening again before her bruises had even healed? Her head was growing dizzy, the edges of her vision fading to black.

She heard Captain's frantic barking out in the hallway. His high-pitched yap seemed to get farther and farther away. The pressure of Chris's enormous body crushing her chest was how she imagined a heart attack must feel. If only she could gasp for air! But his hand was tightening around her neck like a blood pressure cuff. The rush of blood to her face made her even dizzier. The harder he pressed, the less clearly she could see.

She felt like she was seconds from passing out when she heard, along with the dog's barks, a thunderous kick on her door. She squinted through her blurry vision to see Richard storming into her cabin. He flipped on the light.

“What the hell is going on in here?”

Chris immediately released his grip around her neck and jumped up. His immense weight lifting off her felt like a divine reprieve. She curled onto her side, panting.

Richard took one look at her crumpled body and the tape around her mouth, and lunged at Chris with the savageness of a feral animal. They crashed onto her bed and traded blows to the face, but Chris was too powerful. He was pummeling Richard, pounding him over and over with his giant fists. She ripped off her tape and screamed as loud as she could, and within seconds, her nearest neighbors were in her cabin breaking up the fight.

She looked on as two furious men, Theo and the cardiac specialist Dr. Powell, dragged Chris off Richard. Chris struggled and shrieked expletives at them but the men held his hands behind his back and wrestled him to the ground. He went limp and silent when he finally realized he was defeated.

She gaped at his prostrate figure lying inches from her feet, his sweaty pink cheek pressed to the wood floor. Her head was throbbing, her mind numb.

Theo put a hand on her arm. “Are you okay?”

She didn't realize she was trembling against the wall. But his touch snapped her out of her daze. Poor Richard was doubled over moaning on her bed, holding his left eye with both hands. She stepped around Chris, resisting the urge to kick him in the jaw, and ran the few steps to the bed.

“Oh, honey. Can I see?”

Richard winced as she gently moved his hands away from his face. His battered eye was already turning purple and swelling. Blood oozed out of a nasty cut on his lid. He was keeping his eye open with his thumb and forefinger.

She dabbed at the blood with her nightshirt. “That's going to be a nasty black eye.” She glanced at Theo and Dr. Powell, who were working to immobilize Chris's wrists and ankles with his heavy-duty electrical tape. “We need some help.”

“On it.” Theo sprang to her intercom to call for backup.

Richard was beginning to hyperventilate as he pried open his lid. His breaths were coming out in short rapid bursts. He swung his hand wildly back and forth in front of his nose.

“You're going to be okay.” She stroked his forehead. “It's just a black eye.”

“No.” His panicked gaze darted from his hand to her face. “I can't see.”