does it? I wrote my articles, of course, refuting everything John ever theorized, but it wasn’t enough. It won’t ever be enough.”
“So why open up now?”
The question seemed to amuse him, but it was a bleak and dark humor. Lifting a hand, he tapped the base of his skull. “Brain tumor,” he said matter-of-factly. “Supratentorial glioma. I have six months . . .
It made sense. He was stepping away from the game and wanted to clear his debts before he went. It was human nature. It was only too bad it wasn’t our nature to settle things before it was on the verge of being too late. “Two last questions, Dr. Bellucci, if I may.” Placing the mock notes into my jacket pocket, I asked, “Do you think if Hooker hadn’t been found out that he would’ve been able to do what he’d planned in the beginning? Do you think he could have gone on to substantially change the genes of a person after they were born?”
“Genetic replacement is a reality for us now.” He continued to unconsciously rub the juncture of his neck and skull. “Unfortunately, the amazing medical miracles we were so sure it would bring about have been accompanied by problems nearly as adverse as what we were trying to cure. As for John . . . normally, I would say his chances were low. What he was aiming for was worlds beyond what the scientific community is doing now. Still”—he dropped his hand and used it to make a throwaway gesture—“this is John we’re speaking of and that alone makes it almost conceivable. I’m not saying he would’ve accomplished any of his goals, mind you; they were far too improbable, not to mention insane. But I do believe if he’d continued on with the resources we had, he would’ve advanced genetic replacement considerably—in theory if nothing else.”
Insane and brilliant was a mix that hadn’t done the world any good throughout history. “Did Hooker have any government connections, contracts? He vanished, as you said, so thoroughly. I have to wonder if he had professional help.”
Once again he was out of the chair. This time it was to pull the drapes, squinting as if even the dull gray light hurt his eyes. “I wondered that myself, but truthfully I don’t have the slightest idea. Although it would be hard to imagine John voluntarily taking up with an organization with far more rules and regulations than academic research ever dreamed of.” He pressed a knuckle against his temple and gave a pained grimace.
The interview apparently over, I followed his lead and stood. “I appreciate your time. We can show ourselves out if you want.”
“No, no. I’m fine.” He moved over and shook my hand. “And I appreciate it far more. The chance to get this off my chest means quite a bit to me.”
We were nearly at the door when I remembered one more question I’d wanted to ask him. “Did Hooker have any family to speak of? Children maybe? A son?”
Michael had commented on how closely his John had resembled his namesake, Jericho, and I’d wondered if he had performed his twisted magic on his own blood. Had he tried to create an even darker version of himself?
“Son? No. John was an only child and had no other family after his parents died. He didn’t marry and had no children that I knew of. Not before he disappeared anyway. Why?”
“Just curious,” I answered somewhat truthfully. In the foyer a wet figure almost collided with us as it came through the front door wrestling with an umbrella and an armful of yapping dog.
“Gina.” Bellucci leaned in to take the white bundle of wet-dog smell away from what turned out to be a short, squat woman in a raincoat. “Let me help you.”
“Thank you, sir.” Stripping off her coat, she revealed no-nonsense black polyester pants paired with a plain white blouse. She was either a housekeeper or a nurse, although Bellucci didn’t seem to be in need of the latter yet. “Priscilla quite took her time with business. I’ll have to towel the little beast off.” After carefully wrapping both her umbrella and tightly folded coat in plastic bags she obtained from the top shelf of the closet, she reclaimed the still-barking dog and whisked it off. Not a single drop of water hit the floor during the process.
“Good help is hard to find,” Bellucci said ruefully. “But anal-retentive help is priceless.” He shook my hand again and let us out onto the porch. “Let me know when the article comes out, would you?”
I nodded. “Of course. As soon as I finish it and send it off, I’ll let you know.”
Eyes distant, he said quietly, “Hurry.” Then he closed the door, leaving us to the rain.
Protected from the weather by the overhang, Michael and I stood in silence until he finally said, “That was a lot of big words on your part. Are you okay?”
“My head hurts, but I’ll try to struggle on,” I replied dryly. Actually I was struggling, but it was in an effort to keep afloat above a wave of pessimism. What we had learned had given us something of a background on Jericho, but it hadn’t given us anything useful to our situation. The issue of government ties was still a mystery and Jericho had no family he might keep in contact with, which left us with no way to trace him. And while we did know now how it all began, we didn’t know the answer to the more important question.
How it would all end.
Chapter 28
The beach house was mostly as I remembered. It was a little shabbier, with a few areas of peeling paint and warped wood, but otherwise it was the same. A sprawling affair on stilts, it looked identical to the majority of the houses up and down the coast. There was an outside shower to spray off the sand and salt and a deck with chairs of weathered wood to watch the sunrise over the dunes. The ocean itself was hidden behind those same swells of sand and could be seen only from the windows on the second floor. You could hear it, however, no matter where you were . . . inside or out. I’d spent the majority of my life listening to the sound. In many ways it had been one of the few constants. Maybe now I could learn to enjoy it again.
“Can we go see?”
I dropped my duffel bag by the stairs leading up to the house and gave Michael a shrug and half smile. “Why not? It’s definitely worth seeing.” The Institute hadn’t been too far from Miami, but that didn’t mean Michael had had the opportunity to see the ocean—not that he remembered.
Leaving Zilla in the car, he took off toward the dunes. I zipped up my jacket against the biting wind and followed with less enthusiasm. When I crested the slope, slipping and sliding with every other step, I wanted to turn away from the sight. Gray water under a gray sky; it wasn’t like that day. That day had been all blues. Blue overhead along with crashing waves the color of a million shattered marbles was what I’d seen then. Gray or blue, it was all the same. It was where I’d been the moment life had fallen away beneath me. Sitting on my horse’s back as the water soaked my jeans, I had watched blue meet blue as water met sky. I’d watched that instead of watching Lukas, and . . . here we were.
It was why I lived in a condo on the beach. I wouldn’t let the impulse to close my eyes defeat me. I lived by the ocean; I swam in it, because I wouldn’t let myself forget. I didn’t deserve to. Seeing the waves fall was the same as seeing Lukas do the same. I wanted to look away, this time as all times, but I didn’t.
And because I didn’t, I was lucky enough to see Michael’s expression. He stood on wet sand in brine-soaked shoes and stared without blinking. This time water met sky in his eyes. I draped an arm over his shoulder. “Big, huh?”
“Big,” he agreed softly.
We stood for a long time in the presence of that which should’ve made me feel very small. It didn’t. Standing next to Michael, I suddenly felt big, and as whole as I’d ever been. In a place that echoed the beginning of a nightmare, the nightmare finally ended. And it felt right that it happened that way, an inevitable circle.
After a while the cold drove us back to the house. Inside the smell of damp and must wasn’t nearly as bad as I had expected, but I still cracked a few windows. As I worked, Michael roamed about exploring. He would stop here and there to peer at a framed picture or pick up a seashell collecting dust, although even that wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Maybe Anatoly had a cleaning service come in once every few months to keep the place from falling apart. Being what he was didn’t change the fact he’d respected Babushka Lena and, in turn, would respect her treasures. “Pick a bedroom, Misha,” I prompted. “There’re four of them upstairs.”
He looked up from the abstract pink and purple curl of abalone shell nestled in the palm of his hand. “I get my
