first and a parent second. That’s not to say he didn’t—doesn’t—love us. In fact, he thought the sun rose and set in you. The day you were born he passed out Cuban cigars as if they were candy and named you after his father.” The memory was so fresh that I could all but see the blue balloons floating, cheerfully proclaiming “It’s a Boy!” for anyone who cared to know. “It didn’t matter that you were practically a carbon copy looks-wise of Mom and her side of the family. He saw something in you, something special.”
And he hadn’t been wrong.
Lukas had been born special, but not the kind of special that Jericho embraced. His was a rare but completely natural special, a shining quality that made a father beyond proud, a mother doting, and a seven-year-old boy think his new baby brother was the best kid in the world, even if the butterball didn’t do anything but eat and poop.
“Anyway,” I forged ahead before Michael could comment on how our father loved Lukas, not him. “Anatoly’s on the run from the government. They have more indictments against him than they did Capone. But if we could find him, he knows more about going under the radar than I ever will, not to mention the money he has socked away in off-shore accounts. That kind of cash would take us far from here—far enough.” Sitting up again, I turned off the phone. “And he’ll want to see you . . . to see his son. He won’t be able to believe I found you.” Even in my imagination, I couldn’t picture that scene in my head. “He just . . . won’t believe it.”
“Why not?” The triangle disappeared beneath the erasing scuff of a sole. “Why wouldn’t he believe? Wasn’t he looking for Lukas too?”
How do you tell a boy his father had given up on him long ago? And he had. Anatoly had lost hope with a speed that had seemed shocking to a fourteen-year-old kid. It still seemed just as shocking to a twenty-four-year- old man. So, how do you tell a boy that? How do you tell him he was assumed dead by everyone but me?
You don’t.
“I think he trusted the authorities to do their job. More than I did at any rate,” I temporized. “Weird as shit, I know, considering his occupation, but the FBI did write the book on missing kids. It’s what they do. And I’m sure he had his contacts working day and night for a long time.” I didn’t remember if that had been the case or not, but it must have been. The first few weeks after Lukas had been taken were still hazy to me. Emotional trauma, I guessed, but there hadn’t been any therapists to verify my self-diagnosis. Anatoly, old-school Russian and old- school mob, didn’t believe in that kind of thing. Still, whether I remembered or not, I knew Anatoly would’ve pulled out all the stops for his missing son . . . whether he had hope or not. He loved Lukas. Criminals could love. They killed, they stole, but they were capable of love—in their way. It was a mental litany I’d repeated doggedly more than once or twice during my teenage years. Some days I had even believed it.
“But you kept looking yourself—personally. Long after a lot of people would’ve given up.” This time it was a circle he traced, as geometrically perfect as a soap bubble. “Why?”
It was a difficult question with an easy answer. I searched because he was my brother, but that wasn’t the whole truth. I also searched because I had been the one to lose Lukas, and “personally” wasn’t the word for the way I took that. “I’m smelling more Freud here, kiddo,” I dissembled as the wings of a bird beat overhead. “There’s a leather couch and two hundred bucks an hour in your future; I can see it now.”
I may as well have been talking to the wind for all the notice he took. “You blame yourself.” He may have been watching me. I didn’t know; I didn’t look. “You think it’s your fault.”
This was a topic that needed no discussion. I’d discussed the hell out of it with myself for the past ten years. Yeah, I had it down to a real art. Putting the phone in my pocket, I didn’t so much change the subject as ignore it altogether. “You finished that last book in the car, didn’t you? Find out anything that could help us out?” This time I did meet his eyes and with a gaze as bland as oatmeal and impenetrable as a vault.
He studied me for a long moment, then, to my relief, let the matter drop. I had the uneasy feeling, however, that we’d be circling back to it soon enough. “Yes, I’m done. I’m not sure it’ll be helpful or not, though.”
“We’ll never know until you spit it out.” I swung my arm in a classic director’s gesture to point at Michael. “Go.”
And go he did.
He’d learned a lot from those few books, enough that he could’ve taught an introductory course in genetics. It was something I could see with astonishing clarity. Blazer and tie, chalk dust on his hands, and an unquenchable passion for knowledge etched on his lean face, he would be a college professor who had the freshmen girls hanging their panties on his office doorknob; my brother, the intellectual stud muffin.
The more high-tech details went in one ear and out the other for all the foothold they gained in my brain, but I didn’t try to rein in Michael. Much of the miniature lecture was over my head, true, but I enjoyed his enthusiasm. Most of his inner self was so locked down that watching him cut loose, even over something as dull as science, was a kick. After tossing off esoteric terms such as polymorphism and pseudogenes with machine-gun rapidity, he finally began to slowly wind down. “It’s as we thought,” he summed up. “A customary chimera is simply a person with genes from their brother or sister intermingled with their own. No special powers. They’re ordinary people . . . like you.”
To give him credit, there wasn’t any condescension in that statement. Considering all he could do, it was rather remarkable that he didn’t consider himself more than human rather than less. If I could get him to see that he was neither . . . that in the ways that counted he was as human as anyone, I would be content. “Ordinary like me.” I shook my head sadly. “How awful for them.”
“I said ordinary, not normal. If they were like you, they’d be anything but,” he said straight-faced. “Anyway, I think you were right about Jericho. He must’ve been a mutation, the first chimera to have the healing ability and the increased intelligence. As for stronger and faster . . .” He frowned. “He is strong and fast, but I don’t think much more so than, say, an athlete. Nothing in the supernatural range, at least.”
Thank God for small favors, I thought with relief. I thought he was probably right. Michael himself had seemed strong when he’d pulled me into the car after I’d been shot, but it could’ve been the strength of adrenaline.
“I’m guessing he studied his own genetic makeup and found the mutation. He determined where he was different from other chimeras, and that was his starting point to making more like him. I can see that.” This frown was deeper than the first and ripe with confusion. “What I can’t see is how he made the leap. Altering a few replicating cells, that’s possible. Altering an entire person, I can’t begin to guess how he could do that. There’s gene replacement therapy, but the books didn’t really cover that in much detail, but enough to know the scientific world isn’t quite there yet. To treat a disease, yes. To remake a whole new person . . .” Shaking his head, he finished his thought, saying with self-disgust, “I’m smart, but I’m not that smart. I just don’t see how it could be done. It seems impossible.”
“You’re smart enough. We just need better books,” I contradicted before bringing up a more difficult subject. “What I really want to know is whether Jericho’s process is reversible.” I saw his shoulders immediately tighten at the question as his face smoothed out to the mask I’d seen that first day in the Institute. “Not for you, Misha,” I clarified immediately. “You’re fine the way you are. Hell, perfect in my book. I wouldn’t take that healing trick away even if I could. And as for the other, you wouldn’t hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it. I know that as well as I know anything in this whole goddamned world.”
He remained silent, but his shoulders relaxed slightly. Standing, I walked over to him, scattering puffs of red dirt as I went. Sitting beside him on the rock wall, I said quietly, “It’s the other kids. I know some are like you, Peter, and John. But some are like Wendy. If someone can’t undo what Jericho did to them, they won’t ever be free.” Rescuing the children was a premature thought at best, but I wanted to keep it in mind. Even if it were possible, it could be a long time before anything could be arranged. Maybe years. Regardless, giving up on the kids without even thinking about what could be done for them seemed the worst sort of betrayal. And they’d been betrayed enough in their short lives. I didn’t know if I could help them, but I wasn’t going to forget them.
“Just something to think about,” I added, bumping his shoulder with mine. “You ready to go? Grab lunch? You’re too skinny, kid. We need to fatten you up.”
His lips curved. “Bab . . .”
“Don’t even say it,” I warned, cutting him off with a scowl. “I’m nobody’s grandma, not even yours.”
“Uh huh.” It wasn’t as literate as the majority of his responses, but combined with the amusement that softened his features, it got the point across.
We were back in the car and on our way before Michael asked seriously, “You honestly wouldn’t change me if you could? You wouldn’t want me to be normal?”
“You are normal.” I shot him a grin as I turned his previous words back on him. “Just not ordinary.”
