“Smart as they come,” he confirmed with haughty cheer around a mouthful of nougat and chocolate.
My comeback was buried in my next sneeze and Michael used the opportunity to ask a question. “Do you think this man will know anything about Jericho? Anything that can help us?”
It had been his idea to begin with, but we all needed some reassurance once in a while. “I don’t know. I’m hoping. From what you said, this Bellucci has a real hard-on for sticking it to Jericho and his theories.” At his mystified expression, I clarified. “He hates him.” I wadded up the tissue and dropped it in the cup holder. “The funny thing is that friends may come and go, but people tend to keep track of their enemies. It’s screwed up, but there it is.”
The rain continued to beat in a lulling rhythm on the roof of the car as Michael contemplated my rough and ready wisdom. Apparently it called for the fortification of another candy bar. I let him get halfway through it before saying, “I have a question of my own.”
Michael shrugged lightly in permission, but there was a hint of uneasiness in the gesture. He knew I was bound to continue in the same vein and Jericho was far and away not his favorite topic. I couldn’t blame him. The thought of being strapped to the table in that bastardized excuse for a medical room was horrifying enough. But picturing Jericho bending over me with gleaming teeth rivaled by the glitter of the metal instruments in his hand stitched my bowels with a needle and thread of ice. Worse than that, though, would be not knowing when or where your moments in the basement would come.
Michael had said it hadn’t hurt that much, that he’d been sedated for the majority of it. Did that matter? Hell, no. It might be that loss of control made the experience more unbearable. You couldn’t prepare and you couldn’t resist. It would be like falling, falling, and never having a chance to grab on to anything. Michael had forgotten a lot of things in his life. It didn’t surprise me he’d as soon forget this as well. I only wished our situation could have allowed him that luxury.
“You said Jericho was grooming you and the other kids to be assassins,” I started. “That he was going to sell you.”
His nod was hesitant and wary, a far cry from the indifferent reaction he’d shown the last time this topic had come up. Trust; it was all about trust. Unconsciously or not, he was now letting me see flashes of what churned inside him.
“How’d that happen? How did they go about it?” There had to be some way to obtain more obvious evidence that the government was turning a blind eye to Jericho’s setup. Saul had thought it obvious, but I still wanted to be sure. “Did people come in and”—Jesus Christ. I gritted my teeth to finish the disturbing question—“pick you out?” Like a stray dog at the shelter or a ripe melon at the grocery.
They did.
But from what Michael said, the children never saw the “shoppers.” The ones near graduation were shepherded into a room with mirrored walls to be looked over by invisible eyes and then sent back to class. The next day one of the students would be gone. It wouldn’t be based all on appearances, I was sure. Blending in to a certain population might be necessary, but obedience and temperament would be considered as well. And that last one would be the reason Michael had only heard about the inside of those rooms, not seen them. Michael may have been obedient on the surface, but his temperament wasn’t that of a killer. As he’d said before, it was a toss-up as to whether he would’ve seen graduation.
The only thing I was accomplishing was to stir up bad memories for Michael, and I gave up on the subject for the moment. Proof might not exist in either direction. If it didn’t, we would probably spend the rest of our lives on the run. Jericho we could evade, with luck, but the government was a different matter. Then again, Elvis had been doing it for more than thirty years.
We stopped at a gas station to check the phone book for Dr. Marcos Bellucci’s address and buy a street guide. He lived in a fairly ritzy area, not quite up to Uncle Lev’s standards, but nice enough. There were quiet streets and trees that would cast wide pools of shade in the summer. Now they bowed morosely under the drizzle. Michael shared their opinion of the weather. As I parked the car on the street, he made a face at the rain spattering against his window. “We should’ve bought an umbrella when we stopped for the map.”
He was such a cat with his distaste of the cold and wet. “Manly men like us don’t use umbrellas,” I instructed, switching off the car.
“We don’t?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?” he asked curiously.
“I don’t know, kid. It’s an unwritten law. Kind of like the one that says we don’t wear shirts with Einstein on them,” I drawled.
I could see he was contemplating throwing the rest of his candy bar at my head, but at the last moment he decided it was too precious to waste on the likes of me. Folding the wrapper carefully around it, he stored it in the glove compartment. “Next store we come to, I’m getting an umbrella,” he said firmly.
“Afraid to get wet, Misha? Think you’ll melt?” I teased.
“That’s not what I want to use it for,” he shot back.
Either he wanted to hit me over the head or insert it in places rain gear simply wasn’t meant to go. Both choices caused mental images that had me wincing. Pocketing the keys, I climbed out of the car and was instantly soaked. The houses on this street were all close to the curb. The majority of them were prewar and two and a half stories high with elaborate lacy moldings and stained glass. They were nearly as pristine as they must have been when they were new. With a definite pride of ownership, the neighborhood was the type that would abound with professors, artists, overgrown houseplants, and a thousand flavors of tea.
Resting a hand on the wrought-iron railing, I walked up the stairs that led to the sidewalk. “Get a move on, kiddo.”
With coat pulled over his head and a scowl darker than the lowered sky, Michael followed. When we both stood on the porch, I rang the bell. I could hear the faint ripple of musical notes through the front door. I heard a murmur at my shoulder. “What are we going to tell him?”
I glanced over to see an annoyingly dry brother, his hair and face untouched by the rain. But was he manly like me? I didn’t think so. “We? I thought the resident genius would come up with a good story.”
He barely had time to flash me a vexed look when the door opened to reveal a wiry man in a charcoal gray sweater and black pants. Equally black eyes took measure of us from behind rimless glasses. “Can I help you?”
I held out my hand and gave my best professional smile. From the blanching of his skin, apparently it was a shade too much of my old profession. I tried to tone it down, from wolflike to that of a friendly German shepherd. “Dr. Bellucci? I’m Peter Melina, freelance journalist. I was wondering if I could have a few minutes of your time.”
He shook my hand cautiously. “Ah . . . perhaps you should’ve called first. What’s this about?”
“An article I’m writing regarding the ethics of genetic manipulation,” I responded smoothly. “Specifically the ethics of a certain Dr. John Jericho Hooker.”
At that, his caution disappeared and a crusading light blossomed as red patches high on his knife-sharp cheekbones. “That bastard. He’s done as much to sully the name of the field as Mengele.” Pulling off his glasses, he used them to wave us in. “Come in.” After looking me up and down, he added, “I’ll get you a towel.”
I closed the door behind us and waited obediently on the small hooked rug as Bellucci disappeared down a hall. Beside me Michael was entangled in the vines of an amorous potted plant. Pushing them aside with exasperation, he whispered to me, “If you’re a journalist, then who am I?”
“An eager-to-learn high school intern,” I replied absently as I looked the place over, taking in the polished wood, high ceilings, painted ceramic tile, and the lush quiet that came from an empty house or really thick walls.
“Clever,” he said. “You’re a good liar.”
“And I didn’t even have to take a class.” Lying well wasn’t a talent most boasted of, but there were times it did come in handy. The fact that Michael probably had in all actuality suffered through such a class only made me want to put Jericho in the ground all the more.
Bellucci returned with a thick towel and handed it to me. Thanking him, I dried my face and scrubbed at my hair to blot up the water. “We can talk in the study,” he offered, and led the way, sliding paneled doors open to reveal what looked more like a sunroom than a study. The walls were only a framework to support the many windows. In fair weather the room would be awash with bright sun. It was nice. I could picture lying on the large
