No Time to Die (23 page)

T
wenty days after Zoe's disappearance, at a quarter past seven in the evening, Stephen Kincaid heard a knock at his door. His wife was upstairs taking a shower and he was in the den, staring at the distraction of the television without really seeing it.

He rose to answer it, not giving much thought to who could be calling. Probably a neighbor with another fruit basket, another reminder of the most agonizing event of his life. Not that he needed reminding. In his head on a constant loop played every interaction with his daughter leading up to That Morning, as he thought of it.

Where had he gone wrong? By trying to protect her, had he forced her away? There was no doubt in his mind that if he had been more accepting of her choices, she would be here today. At home, safe, where she belonged. But she was as stubborn and determined as he had raised her to be. Since she was a kindergartner learning to count, she had always prided herself on seeing challenges through. He should have known she wasn't about to quit this time.

Overwhelmed with a wave of guilt, he checked the peephole. On the stoop standing before him was a tall, well-built stranger in his fifties or sixties, wearing a crisp black suit and tie, with a briefcase slung over his shoulder. His dark hair was wavy and a smattering of stubble covered his chin. His blue eyes seemed somber.

Stephen opened the door. “What can I do for you?”

“Mr. Kincaid?”

“Yes. And you are?”

“Jonathan Kelp, FBI.” He opened his jacket to reveal a gold badge with the familiar open-winged eagle. “I'm on the forensics team in the STB reporting to Bud Pinter and Les Mahler, and I've been sent to tell you about a possible new development in your daughter's case.”

“What?” Stephen's heart started to hammer. “Why hasn't anyone called me?”

“This just happened today, sir. My bosses had me come in person because we're going to need your cooperation. I'll explain. Can I come in?”

“Of course.” A nauseating dread cooled his skin as they walked inside. Catastrophic visions pummeled him—Zoe's body found, covered in blood, her vital organs removed. His baby's precious body. It was not so long ago, the day that her downy head could fit in his palm.

Kelp was taking a seat on the couch when Stephen clutched his arm, breathing hard.

“Just tell me, is she alive?”

They locked eyes. The other man's gaze was serious, his tone sincere. “We believe so.”

“But you don't know for sure?”

“We got a tip today from a woman at a diner in Omaha, Nebraska, who thinks she recognized Zoe there this afternoon.”

He emitted a cry. “Pam!” he hollered. “Pam, hurry!”

His wife rushed to the landing and down the stairs, a blue towel wrapped around her head, nearly tripping over her long black nightgown. “What is it, what's wrong?”

He gestured to their visitor, too overcome to speak. Kelp stood and introduced himself, then delivered the news. Her hand flew to her mouth, tears springing to her eyes.

“Who was she with?” Stephen demanded. “How did she seem?”

“If it was really her,” Kelp said. “We don't know yet, but we're taking it seriously. According to the witness, she looked healthy and happy. She was with an older dark-haired woman.”

Stephen clenched his fists. “Natalie Roy?”

“That's our guess. But by the time the witness connected their faces to the news, they had already left. The police have dusted their booth for fingerprints and hair and other biological markers, but to confirm that it was really her, we need to test both of your DNA for a match.”

“Of course!” Pam exclaimed, almost jumping from foot to foot. “How? When?”

“Now.” Kelp leaned over to open the briefcase at his feet and removed two white plastic kits with what looked like toothbrushes and a tube inside. He handed one to each of them. “All you have to do is scrape the inside of your cheek with these swab collectors. Scrape hard for about sixty seconds, so we get enough DNA. Otherwise it could mean a delay.”

They took the kits and pulled out the brushes. Stephen inserted its tough bristles into his mouth and scrubbed, rubbing his cheek raw. Pam did the same, wincing. She had always been ticklish.

“That's good,” Kelp said after a minute. “That's enough.”

They handed him the scrapers, now coated with saliva. He unscrewed the caps on the two plastic tubes and plunged in the bristly heads, ejecting them so that they released into the clear liquid.

“This solution prevents bacteria growth,” Kelp explained. “But your specimens won't be in here long. We'll test them right away and get back to you.”

He stood to leave, his expression still grave. “Are there any other family members nearby to test? I recall a grandfather? It helps for ensuring accuracy.”

Stephen exchanged a look with his wife.
Do you want to explain?

She turned to Kelp. “Well, there was my father, but . . . but he doesn't live with us anymore.”

“He had some cell phone contact with that
woman
,” Stephen said, “prior to her arrest. And then he lied to us about the note Zoe left him. We couldn't trust him after that.”

“Even though he denies having a part in it,” Pam added. “But he moved out anyway. My husband and he just weren't getting along.”

“I see. Do you know where he went?”

She shook her head, crestfallen. “We haven't heard from him since.”

“Oh.” Kelp faltered, seeming unsure how to respond.

“Well, thank you,” Stephen said, extending his hand like a bridge over the awkward pause. “We appreciate your coming all the way here from . . . from—”

“D.C. It's no problem, sir. We just want to get your daughter home quick and safe.”

“Thank you,” Stephen said again, giving him a solid handshake. “You'll let us know as soon as you know something?”

“Of course. I have a feeling Zoe will come out of this just fine. It's only a matter of time.”

As soon as the door closed behind him, Stephen ran to the phone in the kitchen to call Les Mahler, whose number he had memorized weeks earlier. Last they talked, Les had informed Stephen of some promising new intelligence regarding the Network's coded communication with its followers—something about painted mailboxes—but since then, there had been no real leads.

Day after day, they had been coping with the painful rise of hope and crushing disappointment. Now he couldn't wait to rehash this latest, biggest development with the man in charge. Maybe Les would share with them even more details. Stephen wanted to soak up every little one, from the length of his daughter's hair, to the meal she had eaten, to the clothes she had been wearing.

When Les answered the phone, his voice was clipped, as if he were running to or from some important meeting. “Yeah?”

“Les, it's Stephen. Can you
believe
this?”

Pam nudged him aside, pressing her mouth to the phone. “We're freaking out!”

Stephen hit the speaker button. Silence filled the room.

“Les, you there?”

“Uh, yeah, what are you talking about?”

“You know! The witness. In Omaha?”

“What? Who said anything about a witness?”

Stephen wanted to shake him. “The FBI agent who was just here! Doing the DNA testing?”

“The
what?
Who?”

He swallowed past the rise of bile in his throat. “Jonathan Kelp?”

The room was as silent as death. Stephen couldn't bear to look at Pam, even as a low moan escaped her.

“I'm sorry,” Les said. His voice sounded strangled. “We have no one by that name.”

Stephen sprinted to the front door and flung it open, Pam trailing close on his heels. Outside, the trees were swaying in the warm night. The block was empty, save for a yellow cab rolling by with its light on, waiting to pluck any stranger off the street.

She drew a heart around the word
love
, her trademark sign-off, and stuffed the letter into its envelope, then stood from her perch on the giant pile of red rocks she affectionately thought of as her thinking spot. It was about a mile away from the compound, accessible through the main hiking trail, and several hundred feet above the ground. She often scraped her elbows or knees climbing up by way of precarious stone footholds, but the beauty and the quiet on top were worth it. Nowhere else had she found a place so isolated and distant from the swarming city she knew. Here it was just her and the mountains and the breeze under a purple-orange sky. She stretched her arms as wide as they could reach, facing east, away from the setting sun. Toward home.

That was when she heard the rustling noise down below. It sounded like someone's shoes scuffing the dirt trail, drawing nearer. Her heart fluttered. Theo. He was coming to tell her it was dinnertime. Lately he had been running in the gym six or seven miles in the afternoons, while she sought out her perch to write and reflect. Their routine was peaceful—in her former life she might have said boring. But in the midst of so much other tension, she had come to cherish its predictability, along with his companionship.

She scampered down the cascade of rocks and hopped to the ground, a grin already on her face. But the shadow that preceded the person around the bend in the trail was not lanky like Theo. It stretched thicker and longer, with wavy wisps framing the head. The man turned the corner and came into view. It was Galileo, wearing his characteristic nylon track pants, white T-shirt, and sneakers. She brightened at once, surprised and pleased; since he'd returned from New York a few days earlier, she had been desperate for some face time, but he always seemed preoccupied with other people's requests and problems.

“What are you doing out here?”

He smiled. “Coming to find you. Theo told me you'd be here.”

“You know I've been dying to talk to you?”

“I know, sorry it's taken me a few days.”

She fell into step beside him as they started walking back toward the compound.

“It's okay, I know you're super-busy. You should have, like, a sign-up sheet.”

“Not a bad idea. So what's up?”

“I just wanted to hear about home,” she said, unable to keep the wistfulness out of her voice.

“Your parents cooperated beautifully.”

She tried to imagine her unsuspecting mom and dad doling out their DNA to him. It was a picture that made her want to both laugh and cry.

“How did they seem?”

“They miss you like crazy. It's obvious how much they love you.”

A lump popped up in her throat. She realized how badly she wanted to matter, not just as a vessel of cells, but as a person. Who else beside her family could appreciate her for who she was, apart from her genes? Here she was just a walking experiment. It was cynical thinking, she knew, but sometimes she couldn't help wondering if anyone really cared what happened to her.

“I kind of miss them, too,” she admitted. “Are they okay, do you think?”

“They were pretty distraught. I tried to tell them you were safe. But until you get home in one piece, they're going to have a rough time.”

She let out a heavy sigh. “I wish we could just tell them the truth.”

“I know, darling. But secrecy is the price for the freedom we have here.”

“What about Gramps? I wrote him this letter. Can you send it for me?”

He took the envelope without responding right away. Not far above them, a hawk circled, then plummeted to the ground to snap up a snake from a nearby hole. It flew off with its prey wriggling in its beak. She looked away with a shiver.

“I didn't get to see your grandfather,” Galileo said. “But I will do my best to get this to him.”

Do your best?
she wondered.
How hard is it to send a letter?

They were entering the compound now, crossing through the outer band of apartments and into the quad. It was quiet. Not a single person could be seen dashing to the cafeteria or into the labs, even though the sky was getting dark. Usually at this time people were rushing to get a quick bite before their evening workouts or lab time or hospital duties.

The emptiness was distracting. She turned to see if Galileo noticed it, but he was walking toward the cafeteria, not pausing to look around.

“Wait,” she called. “Where is everyone?”

He stopped and shrugged. “Let's go eat.”

“I don't know.” Her skin started to prickle. “I feel like something's weird.”

“Nah, come on, I'm starved.” He motioned for her to come along.

She hesitated, but trust in his judgment took over. She was just being hyperalert, probably a lingering effect of their crazy journey. She caught up with him as they reached the entrance to the cafeteria's great hall. He turned to her with a mischievous grin and grabbed the door handle.

Before she could say anything, the door swung open to a boisterous roar from the standing crowd.

“Happy birthday!”

She froze, her heart pounding. It seemed like everyone who lived on the compound was there—Natalie and Theo and Helen, all the scientists she knew from the aging team, along with the other various scientists whom she knew only by sight, plus the lab techs, the cafeteria ladies, the tech guys from the Brain, the hospital nurses—even her patient friend, Mrs. Avalon, was sitting in her wheelchair, grinning. Silver and pink balloons floated up along the ceiling and purple streamers had been hung around the room, dangling from wooden beams.

It took her half a minute to recover her voice. She turned to Galileo, the mastermind, the trickster. He was beaming.

“Now you know where they were.”

She stared at the group, feeling a rising sense of betrayal in spite of their goodwill. Her birthday had lost its magic. She had purposely told no one. Before, she used to eagerly anticipate July 11, counting on another year to jump-start her growth. But now—now that she knew it wasn't going to happen—this day felt too strange and disappointing to acknowledge. Especially since it was her twenty-first.

There was a vital mechanism in her that no longer existed. It was like throwing a party for a ghost and pretending it was alive. How could they expect her to participate in such a charade, let alone be joyous? A moment of silence would have been more fitting.

She frowned, surveying the smiling crowd. “But—how did you all know?”

“We had your medical records from Dr. Carlyle,” Natalie said. “I noticed your birth date and told Galileo. Blame him,” she joked. “It was his idea.”

“This has been in the works for a while,” he said, turning to the group. “Right?”

They whooped in response. Theo put two fingers in his mouth and whistled.

“Wait,” Zoe muttered, thinking back to the other day when they were lounging in the quad, dreaming of Magnolia Bakery back in New York. “Is that why you asked for my favorite cupcake flavor?”

Theo chuckled. “Yup.”

She couldn't help feeling touched by his participation. Somehow it alleviated her bubble of angst that was threatening to explode.

“Do you do this for everyone's birthdays?” she asked Galileo.

“No, you're just a special guest.” His smile faded as he grew serious. “You know by now this is a pretty intense place. All work and no play. But in just a short time, you've managed to fire up everyone's excitement. And it's not just because of the aging experiments, it's
you
. Your beautiful smile and kind words for all these folks doing such tough jobs, and for the sick patients. This past month can't have been easy on you, yet you don't complain. Age doesn't matter, Zoe. Only who you are. So today, we honor you for being such a remarkable young woman.”

It was the word
woman
that clinched her tears. In it was everything she hoped and dreamed for her life—the brains, the curves, the independence, the wisdom. That impossible state all other girls reached without a drop of effort.

They must have thought she was crying with gratitude, because another cheer rose up. Then the crowd parted like a zipper, starting from back to front, as one of the cafeteria ladies emerged with a two-tiered cake and placed it in front of her on the nearest wooden table. She could see right away that it was her favorite, red velvet with cream cheese icing. The circle moved in tighter around her, stealing whiffs of such a foreign delicacy.

“It's not Magnolia,” Theo said, coming up beside her, “but I found their recipe online.”

She gave a small smile in spite of herself. “Fine, but no singing.”

“What the birthday girl wants, the birthday girl gets. You guys hear that?”

“Hurry up and blow it out,” someone yelled. “So we can eat!”

Stuck in the center was a single lit candle. She wiped away her tears, wondering how they had decided on the number. Did someone think twenty-one candles might be insensitive? Or just impractical? Would they serve her alcohol? Not that she wanted any—she'd done a few vodka shots at Northeastern and tried to like beer, both without success.

Natalie leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Make a wish.”

“I'm the opposite of Peter Pan,” she mumbled. “I just want to grow up.”

“Hush! Or else it won't come true.”

She shrugged. That still wasn't what she wanted most.

Closing her eyes, she chanted a silent wish with all the fervor she could muster.

Let Gramps stop aging.

She blew out the candle and Natalie patted her on the back, while everyone clapped.

“Now where's my slice?” shouted Mrs. Avalon from somewhere in the back, raising a frail hand. “Old ladies first. Right, Zoe?”

A few people chuckled and looked at her, waiting for some kind of response. A response appropriate from the birthday girl.

But she couldn't. She couldn't pretend to be happy or normal anymore. It was too much to bear. Without a word, she stumbled around and elbowed her way through the crowd, ignoring the scattered gasps.

“Hey!” Natalie called after her. “Wait!”

“Zoe!” Galileo shouted.

Too embarrassed to make eye contact with anyone, she hurried to the door and broke into a run. She traced the path they had just taken, rushing past her own apartment, through the hallway, and out into the chilly black night, into the mountains. There was only one place she wanted to be.