No Time to Die (17 page)

T
hey traversed the yard backward. Galileo explained that inverting the direction of their footprints was an easy way to mislead anyone who might come poking around. To Natalie, it was another example of either his paranoia or ingenuity; she wasn't sure which. But they obeyed. He stayed a few feet out ahead, his reverse stride purposeful, his spine erect.

In the glow of the moonlight, Natalie could see the tense muscles of his back underneath his T-shirt and the corners of sweat that darkened his armpits. Her breath caught when she also noticed on his head of black hair the strands of white that glistened in the light when he moved. Was it possible that he could be ten or fifteen years older than she'd suspected? The thought reminded her just how little she knew about him—and how quickly she had extended her trust.

He turned around to motion them to wait. Then he took off jogging across the backyard toward the house next door. At first Natalie's stomach lurched. Could he be deserting them? But when he crept back over his footsteps in the grass, she understood. More misdirection. He joined them again as they made their way to the back door, Zoe taking huge reverse steps to keep up.

Galileo knocked six times in a strange pattern of emphasis, every other knock a stressed beat. “It'll take a minute, but don't worry. He's expecting us.”

Theo kicked a fallen twig away from the door. Zoe sighed and scanned the yard. Except for the swaying trees and a distant rumble—probably thunder—the night appeared still.

When Natalie's impatience was reaching its peak, she heard plodding footsteps inside the house coming closer. Galileo smiled as if to say,
See?

The curtain was pulled back on the sliding glass door and an elderly olive-skinned man peered out at them. His face seemed molded from ancient clay. Cracks ran from the corners of his dark brown eyes and around his mouth.

A latch clicked and the door slid open. The four of them squeezed through, Galileo leading the way. The scent of spices hit Natalie first—cumin and coriander and pepper. She saw that they were standing in a cheery kitchen decorated with yellow tiles and a painting of tulips in a geometric-patterned vase.

Before them, the man stood hunched over at the waist, his hands clasped behind his back, beaming up at them. Natalie wondered if this was his way of showing respect. If so, it made her very uncomfortable. How could Galileo require this kind of subservience? The poor man was overweight, and as he stretched out his arms and leaned forward, she worried he might topple over.

“Galeeleo!” he exclaimed in a thick Mexican accent. “I am so happy to see you!”

“And you, Julian!” Galileo said, crouching down to embrace him.

“How was de trip?”

“Well, we made it.” He gestured to Julian's back. “How've you been?”

Natalie winced as she watched his futile efforts to strain against his back and stand tall. That was when she realized that he wasn't purposefully hunched over—he was disabled, his body frozen in a permanent bend. Her spine ached just looking at him.

“Good,” Julian said with a smile, and Natalie could see he was forcing cheerfulness, despite what must have been great pain.

“Why don't we sit down,” Galileo suggested, “and then—”

“No, no I am fine. Introduce to me your friends.”

Galileo obliged with a round of introductions. Theo and Natalie each shook his hand, which carried a surprisingly firm grip. When Zoe reached out hers, with a delighted grin he pinched her cheek instead.

“You are
muy bonita, señorita
. Just like my little girl.”

“Who's not so little anymore,” Galileo said. “His daughter, Nina, works at the headquarters. You'll all meet her, she's lovely.”

“What does she do?” Natalie asked, more to be friendly than out of real curiosity.

Julian's grin deepened into the proud smile of a man who'd gambled everything and won. “She is—how you say—a virologist.”

“Cool!” Theo exclaimed.

“She's one of our best researchers,” Galileo said. “We're very proud to have her.”

“What's wrong with your back?” Zoe asked.

An awkward pause ensued, during which Natalie shot her a chastising look. Any adult ought to know better. Julian raised his eyebrows.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “I was just wondering.”

She's still uninhibited,
Natalie thought with fascination.
Still like a child.

Galileo patted Zoe's back as if to reassure her. “That's okay. He had a bad accident at work last year.”

“I was elevator repairman,” Julian said. “One day I fell into shaft. From de seventh floor.”

Zoe wrung her hands, clearly regretting bringing it up. “I'm so sorry.”

“It's okay.” His face brightened. “The Network save me.”

“What's a little extra construction,” Galileo said, winking at Julian. Then he caught Natalie's eye. “We take care of our own.”

“What did they do for you?” she asked, intrigued.

“I show you.” He motioned with a hand to follow him, trudging out of the kitchen through a short hallway that opened up to a living room furnished with an old boxy television and beige fabric couches. He stopped at the base of a steep green-carpeted staircase, leaned on the handrail, and pointed.
“Aquí!”

Carved into the wall, to Natalie's surprise, was an elevator. Zoe pressed the button, which lit up. A moment later, the doors slid open to reveal a blond wood–paneled interior, straight out of a luxury hotel.

“Whoa!”

“So I no have to move,” Julian explained. “After, I couldn't take stairs but I live here forty-six years. I no want to leave.”

Galileo patted his shoulder. “I'm so glad it's working out. Why don't you go upstairs to rest and I'll make us dinner?”

“Oh, but Señor Galeeleo, you drive all day!”

A car door slammed—loud enough to come from his driveway. Natalie felt her heart palpitate. Galileo rushed to the front door and peered through the peephole. Natalie reached for Zoe and Theo and pulled them close.

“I expecting no one,” Julian said, frowning.

“Well?” she called.

When Galileo turned around, his eyes had gained the hardness of a soldier.

“Julian, it's time. Don't be afraid, you know what to do. Guys, follow me.”

Natalie felt her stomach shred itself. “Where?”

Zoe's lips started to tremble. “I don't like this.”

The knock came. It sounded as grim as a gunshot.

“Hang on,” Galileo said, running to grab their backpacks from the kitchen.

The knock gave way to a pounding that lacked any charade of politeness. The doorknob jostled.

“
Ay, Dios
,” Julian breathed, sinking onto the bottom stair.

Natalie felt a suffocating helplessness set in around them like quicksand. There was no way out. A vision of her desolate jail cell flashed before her, and of the promised lab that might have been. Galileo was pulling her by the arm, toward the staircase.

A gruff voice yelled through the door. “FBI, open up!”

Before she could further contemplate their peril, she felt Galileo's hand on the small of her back shuttling her, Theo, and Zoe upstairs. They tripped over each other, scrambling to move quickly, no time for questions.

“We know you're home!” shouted the voice outside. “Open up!”

As they reached the top of the stairs, Natalie glanced around wildly. There were only three modest rooms—two bedrooms and an office. Where could four people hide?

“They're going to find us!” she whispered.

“No.” Galileo turned to look her in the eye, as though he had all the time in the world. “You forget who's really running this show.”

“Who?”

A mischievous smile broke across his face. “Me.”

“I
f you don't open this door,” Les shouted, “we'll have to break it down!” His blood was pumping at his temples. He hadn't felt this alive, this intense, since the day he founded the committee five years ago.

“Are we really going to?” asked the anxious cop standing next to him on the doorstep. “You know, break it down?”

Les smiled at him as at an angel. In spite of the AMBER alerts, the forensics work on the postcards, and the coordinated effort to man interstate checkpoints, it was this scrawny plainclothes cop who had saved the day by trailing the car—
a stolen cop car
. In fact, Les knew he himself deserved all the credit—the brains behind the operation always did. But he was feeling charitable.

A blockade had been stationed for reinforcement at the neighborhood's artery to the main highway, and two helicopters were hovering above—the FBI chopper that had flown him in and one from the Ohio State Police—beaming around white spotlights like the moon's rays on steroids. The fugitives were cornered up, down, and sideways.

“We have a SWAT team for that,” Les told the cop. “Chill out.”

“But what if it's not this house?”

“The whole damn block has been searched. It has to be.”

Inside, they could hear someone shuffling to the door.

Les fingered the pistol in his holster, tangible proof of his control.
I got this,
he thought. How satisfying it would be to see the smugness wiped off Benjamin Barrow's face when he found out.

The door opened a crack and a short, elderly Mexican man poked his face out.

“Hola, señores,”
he said. “Can I help you?”

The audacity,
Les thought. “We've been banging on your door for five minutes, sir. What took you so long?”

The door swung all the way open in answer. The man wasn't short, he was disfigured, hunched over as if his back were supporting an invisible stack of bricks.

“I'm very sorry. I am slow to get around, you see.”

“Oh. And your name is?”

“Julian Hernandez.”

“I'm Les Mahler and this is my colleague Dave Wood.” He flashed his shiny federal badge with the seal of the Bioethics Committee—an eagle standing atop a microscope. “I'm sorry to inform you there's a suspected kidnapper in your neighborhood. We have to inspect every house on this block.”

The man's brown eyes widened in horror. “Of course! Please, have a look.”

Les stared at him, challenging him to flinch or look away. But his face was placid—either the blank look of an innocent or the practiced blankness of an accomplice.

“Come in,” he added. “Take your time.”

“Thank you.” Les charged past him inside, sizing up the territory. It was a modest house that showed its age in its fixtures and furnishings—faded fabric couches and dusty bookshelves in the living room to the left, and to the right, an antique wooden table surrounded by old chairs.

Les directed the cop to check out the upstairs, while he staked out the downstairs, hurrying through a wallpapered hallway and into the kitchen—the only room so far that looked lived in. Pink and yellow and blue tiles brightened the space as if it were a carnival. Water was boiling on the stove and the pungent scent of taco spices permeated the air. Julian followed at a distance, lagging behind.

“Why so much food?” Les asked, eyeing the countertop, which was covered with shredded cheese, diced avocados, tomatoes, and an open can of beans.

His eyebrows shot up. “What?”

Les swept an arm over the counter. “Seems like you're having guests.”

“No, señor,” he replied. “I make a lot at once to save for the whole week.”

“You live alone?”

“Sí.”

“For how long?”

“Oh, more years than I can count
en inglés
.”

Les noted the flicker of fear in his eyes when he noticed the gun, but that wasn't tantamount to guilt. He brushed past the old man into the living room. To tuck away four people in a house like this could not be easy. The fireplace was too narrow, the kitchen cabinets too small. There were no crevices or shielded corners that he could see. He walked through each room, including the sparse two-car garage, looking underneath couches, opening cupboards, peering behind curtains, under counters, in the washer and dryer. But the few rooms that comprised the downstairs were frustratingly devoid of hiding spots.

They had to be upstairs. He was heading to the staircase when he noticed, carved into the wall on his left, what looked like an elevator. Curious, he jabbed the button and the doors slid open. The interior was like a tight wood-paneled closet, so tight that only a few people could fit at a time. Four, no way.

The cop scurried down the stairs then with his palms upturned.

“Nada. Just two empty bedrooms and an office.”

“No attic?” Les asked Julian, who shook his head.

“I checked,” the cop said. “Nothing.”

“You looked down the elevator shaft?”

“Empty.”

Les shook off his disappointment. He expected Galileo to be slicker than that.

“But every other house has been searched!”

The cop shrugged. Julian glanced between them, his expression impartial—almost bored. Les could feel his certainty dissipating. He wanted to punch a hole in the wall. How the hell could four flesh-and-blood people vanish into thin air?

“Let's check outside,” he snapped, leading the way to the back door.

The yard was about a half acre of patchy grass with a humble row of potted plants and flowers near the door. The roses were wilting in the heat, scattering white and pink petals over the ground. There was no outdoor pool or other potential hiding spot out here. But the property did back up onto a dense bunch of trees and shrubs just past the fence. Taking heart, Les shined his flashlight over the grass. He squinted, dropping to his knees. Distinct patches were crunched into the lawn, bending the blades of grass sideways. Were they—footsteps?

“Hey,” he called to the cop. “Check this out.”

Together they aimed their flashlights over the suspicious sweep of grass, tracing the indentations across the yard. At a patchy spot with only soil, Les noticed something strange. One of the footprints was smaller than the others, only about eight inches long, and its imprint was a crisscross pattern of interconnected squares.

He knelt down, examining the marks. With a little analysis, they'd be able to determine the type and size of shoe, but to him it was obvious—these footprints belonged to a kid. He thought back to the house and made a mental note to go check more closely for this specific print on all floors and carpets. If Zoe and the fugitives had been in this yard, they could very well have been in the house, too—which would mean the old hunchback might be an accomplice.

He examined the lawn further. At a certain place in the middle, the cluster of steps appeared to diverge. One set of large footprints trailed off to the left, leading all the way to the neighbor's backyard. In the thrall of discovery, Les followed them up to the short dividing fence between the two houses and then ran back to the center, where the cop was calling him over. Here, the side-by-side indentations—some big, some small—were pointed toward the back fence. Toward the forest. So they weren't in the house after all. They had split up and gone on the run. Les smiled.
Gotcha
.

With the reinforcements he was about to call in, they would be captured in no time—pathetic ripples crushed by his tidal wave.

He thought of the veneration he would garner back at the Capitol. Benjamin Barrow would have to concede his effectiveness, and together they would use this hook to reel in Galileo and destroy him.

But in the service of humanity, before the celebrating could commence, there was still one unfortunate but necessary chore for Les to tackle. The girl was too dangerous, even if freed from the Network. At any point in her life—and who knew how long it might otherwise be—some deviant scientist could get hold of her DNA and wreak havoc. He thought of a chilling quote that had always stuck with him, from Gore Vidal, about what human beings were doing to the planet already.
Think of the Earth as a living organism that is being attacked by billions of bacteria whose numbers double every forty years. Either the host dies, or the virus dies, or both die
.

This particular virus was like a superstrain. All he had to do was isolate her once and for all.

Then he would be freed up to concentrate on his biggest prey—the scum who made the experimentation possible.