The Compound (11 page)

T
HAT NIGHT
I
DREAMED OF TURDUCKENS. SUCCULENT ROWS
of them, lined up side by side on the banquet table in the ballroom in our Seattle house.

The glowing amber digits on my clock proclaimed 4:13
A.M
. when I woke up, my appetite tortured. Lying there and reminiscing made it a thousand times worse. But it felt impossible to move as the memory rushed back.

Eddy and I were nine. Dad ordered a dozen turduckens to feed the guests at our annual Christmas Eve dinner. Christmas mornings were just for family. But the night before was reserved for the hordes of people Dad had worked with over the year. And, being a Rex Yanakakis shindig, the main course had to be something unusual. No run-of-the-mill turkey or ham or goose for my father.

So turduckens it was.

What is a turducken? An exclusive culinary creation available by special order from some little Cajun town
down South. Entirely deboned, a turducken consists of a turkey, stuffed with a duck, stuffed with a chicken, like an edible Russian nesting doll. Some were stuffed with alligator, crab, shrimp; my favorite was the traditional cornbread variety.

That Christmas Eve, Dad oversaw the kitchen staff himself, making sure everything was perfect. Dressed in tuxedos, Eddy and I stood at the door along with Lexie, who wore a floor-length green velvet dress. With practiced smiles on our faces, we stood there, waiting to greet the guests. We heard the vehicles as they drove in, idling near the front door while the valets hired for the evening helped the guests out before relieving them of their cars.

The guests entered through an awning and red carpet set up for the evening. After they gushed over us for a moment or two, they handed off their coats to the servants. Then they were checked off the list which, I suspected, read like a who’s who of anyone of any technological and scientific importance within a hundred-mile radius of the Space Needle. My mom loved causes, especially the ones that aimed to save the environment or children in developing countries, and was on the board of many charitable organizations. So the other half of the list most likely was a who’s who of prominent local activists.

With all the activists and scientists, many of whom were probably animal-rights people, there must have been plenty of vegetarians in the room. There was no way to tell simply by looking which faction any of them might have belonged to. This was the party of the season, and everyone
was in tuxes or long evening wear, mingling around, holding their drinks until a tinkling bell signaled it was time to gather around the overflowing buffet table.

The three of us lined up next to Mom, who wore a red velvet ball gown and held Terese, who wore a smaller version. First Dad made a short speech, thanking everyone for being there. Kind of pointless, in my opinion, since people would have paid good money to attend that function.

The tradition held that Dad was to carve and present the first few servings. So, as Dad sliced with a flourish into the turducken, revealing the layers of varying shades of poultry, the room was still. Except for the enthusiastic and merry orchestra playing “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.”

The smells of the trinity of poultry mingled with the rest of the feast, creating a tantalizing aroma. Thinking about it so many years later, I had to smile as I thought about what might have been going through people’s heads as they lined up.

The people who didn’t eat meat wondered how to get out of partaking in what was obviously the pièce de résistance of the Rex Yanakakis Christmas Eve Dinner.

The animal-rights people cringed, not wanting to voice their objections for fear of pissing off Clea Sheridan Yanakakis, who was very generous to their causes with her husband’s money.

The people who did eat meat tried to ignore the jittery noncarnivores surrounding them.

In his black Armani tuxedo, Dad set the first slice of turducken on one of the expensive china plates in a tall
stack beside him and held it up. “Get a plate from me and you can pile on the rest of the buffet. Who’s first?”

He passed out the plates. Murmurs arose until the noise level was back to normal. From my place beside Mom, I glanced around the room as people ate, most avoiding the 430-calorie serving of striated poultry resting in an ominous fashion on their plates. Then, after that first turducken was served, Dad started making the rounds. I watched him make small talk, perhaps asking if they tried the turducken yet. He’d wait while each guest had eaten at least one bite in front of him, ever the dutiful host, making sure his guests were taken care of.

After everyone had been served, the Yanakakis children were ushered upstairs where we changed into pajamas and ate our own turducken dinner. Eddy and I loved the stuff. Grumpy Els brought two huge pieces up to our TV room. Rich and flavorful, turducken was perfect for making Christmas Eve dinner memorable.

Like every year when we’d finished eating, Eddy and I hid in the library, the one room in our mansion where guests thought they could escape to, unnoticed. Eddy and I had learned that during parties the library was where we were most likely to spy someone saying or doing something … well …
interesting
.

Our social life was sheltered, to say the least. Rare were the moments when we were allowed to go somewhere on our own, without supervision. We lived for the unpredictable moments that Dad’s dinner guests usually provided.

His belly full like mine, Eddy actually fell asleep in our
hiding spot in one of the long storage seats along the window. We’d stuffed pillows in for comfort, too much so in Eddy’s case. Though the music was muffled from my vantage point, I heard the orchestra move on to traditional carols.

I stayed awake by humming along softly with the songs I knew. During “Hark! the Herald Angels Sing,” someone came in the library. I lifted the cover to hear better, trying not to make any noise.

I immediately recognized the man by his voice: Dad’s accountant, Phil. He was with a woman.

She groaned. “I ate too much, this dress is tight now.”

“Stupid turducken.”

I heard sloppy sounds.

The woman spoke again. “Do you think Rex realized how many vegetarians had their first bite of meat in like, decades, tonight? I can’t believe no one just flat out refused.”

“They could have just said no.”

“How do you refuse Rex Yanakakis? Especially when he’s standing right there.”

Phil’s voice was a growl. “He loves that.”

“What do you mean?”

“The meat. He knew half the guests were vegetarian or vegan or PETA. It was a game.”

“A game?”

“Oh yeah. The let’s-see-what-I-can-get-them-to-do-just-because-I’m-Rex-Yanakakis game.”

“He said that?”

Phil laughed. “Of course not. It’s always like this with him. He won’t brag or use his name to get preferential treatment, but once in a while, he has to test his power to see how far his name and money and reputation will go. Or how far they’ll get someone else to go.”

The woman’s dress rustled. “He does so much good with his money.”

“Exactly. Which is why he can get away with this. That’s why we all let him get away with it.”

“I can’t believe he would think that way.”

Phil chuckled. “If Rex is anything, it’s calculating. His whole life is planned. When he was eighteen, he lost out on a prestigious fellowship to a Chinese girl. Of course, by that time his parents were dead and he had plenty of money for school. It still irked him. He told me he swore at the time it would never happen to any kids of his. So what’s he do? Marries a hot Chinese chick.”

“I thought she was Hawaiian.”

“Yeah, she’s Chinese, too. He sends those twins of his to Chinese school.”

There were more sounds, smooching.

She spoke again. “So what do you do for him? I mean, any company secrets you can share?”

“Oh, I’m working on something big.”

“What?” She squealed.

“I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.” Phil pushed out a contented sigh. “Let’s just say I’m going to retire a very wealthy man.”

The orchestra began a slow, beautiful rendition of “O
Holy Night.” Goose bumps rose on my arms. Suddenly my stomach stuffed with the turkey stuffed with a duck stuffed with a chicken was not as settled as previously thought. I shoved the bench cover as far as it would go, springing up and out, racing past the two adults. They were locked tight in an embrace, and if they noticed me slipping by them, they didn’t let on.

I tried to make it to the bathroom, but my foot caught on the hallway carpet. I tripped, landing on the floor in time to spew my guts on the shoes in front of me—white orthopedic oxfords that belonged to Els.

I hadn’t thought about that night for a long time. Maybe I’d forgotten it.

Well, until that moment after the turducken dream. The memory of that Christmas Eve was so clear, like it had just happened. That totally sucked to hear Phil say those things about my dad. I was eight. Dad was my hero. I thought he was everyone else’s, too. I never doubted it before that night.

But thinking about that night, about Phil, I made a connection. How deeply was he involved in the Compound and the secrecy surrounding it? How far had he gone to keep it a secret?

I tossed and turned, my heart pounding. I must have drifted back to sleep at some point, because the next thing I knew I awoke to warm hands on my face, slapping sweetly.

I tried to see through my grogginess and my hair as my hands automatically formed a shield.

Terese giggled.

My eyes snapped into focus. A blond-haired cherub sat on my chest, gurgling as it smacked me again. One of the Supplements. What the—!

“Reese!” I sat up and pushed the thing off me. “Get out of here!” I tried to jump out of bed, but my legs were entangled in the sheets. I only succeeded in falling onto the floor, dragging most of the bedding with me. “Get out!”

“Calm down. He’s just a child.” Terese bounced the Supplement in her arms. “Quinn, can you say ‘Eli’?”

“Get out of here!” I yelled, throwing pillows at her, hard, until I drove them out of my room. I kicked free of my covers and lunged for the door, slamming it behind them.

My legs shook too hard to hold me. I collapsed against the wall, my hair covering my face.

My breath came too fast.

My heartbeat skipped.

Sweat broke out on my forehead.

One of the Supplements had touched me.

For six years, no one had touched me, skin on skin.

Little Miss Perfect didn’t understand. She didn’t understand how our circumstances would deteriorate; forcing us to do things no one should ever have to do. Things necessary for our survival. Things that would become impossible to carry out if we ever came to care for the Supplements.

With both hands, I smoothed my hair back from my
face, holding it there for a moment as I tried to compose myself.

Still trembling, I walked into the bathroom and didn’t get in the shower until it was steaming hot. I wanted the fragrant soap and the flowing water to wash away the unwelcome touch, the dream, the memory of that long ago Christmas party—everything.

It didn’t work. Because no matter how I tried, I couldn’t erase how fresh and soft those little hands had been on my face. I refused to let myself dwell on how exquisite that warm, innocent touch had felt.

A touch like that was meant for someone good.

For someone who deserved it.

A touch like that was not meant for someone like me.

T
HAT MORNING WAS ONE WE HAD MUSIC
. M
OM HAD BEEN
giving us lessons since we were little. Lexie played piano, so with Terese’s oboe, my trumpet, and Mom’s cello, we played a lot of group pieces. We weren’t a string quartet, but Mom created her own arrangements for us, based on many classic ones.

We had been working on her variation of Beethoven’s String Quartet no. 15 in A Minor. Mom led us off, the deep tone of the cello setting an eerie aura. Each of us was to join one by one, almost in a fugal pattern, as we gradually repeated the melody in succession. There were leading tones on the strong beat, and then there were quiet, slower half notes that felt mysterious, almost sinister.

Not a picker upper, by any means.

My trumpet took the violin’s part, which had a difficult entrance of running sixteenth notes. I took a breath, pressed my lips to the silver mouthpiece, and began.

Lexie slammed her hands on the keys, the sound loud and discordant. “God, Eli. You were frickin’ late!”

I took my lips away from the mouthpiece. “Was not.”

Mom kept playing. “Watch your language, Lexie. You’re both doing fine; let’s pick it up where we are. Come on.”

Lexie groaned. She started playing again.

Terese and I joined in. Terese’s oboe played the part of the bass, and the rest of us played in opposition to her. The intensity, and volume, grew as we moved through the piece. We were good.

The piece was long, but we had no more interruptions or mistakes. As it came to a close, the harmony strengthened and progressed to the simple ending, which was a solo for me with accompanying chords from Lexie. At least our instruments cooperated, no small feat considering Lexie’s clenched jaw and drilling stare.