All he had to do now was transfer the cells into a flask, load it into the black case, and head to the clinic. Dr. Ericson would be waiting for him there to drain the cells into a sterile bag attached to a tube with a long needle at one end. And then, if all went according to Trent’s plan, Arianna would be free to meet them at the clinic shortly thereafter. At least the traitor had come through with an idea and even guaranteed it to work, since it would exploit Dopp’s deep desire for his suspicions to be vindicated. In just a few hours, then, both those bureaucratic swine ought to be left far behind, as Sam, Arianna, the Ericsons, and Megan disappeared uptown.
It was hard to believe that the transfer was almost here, after so many months of trial and error, hope and disappointment, and the depletion of scientists, resources, and time. Sam took a final look around. The lab looked the same as it had on any other day—or night, for that matter. The microscopes sat on the counter, soon to be unplugged, like the freezer and incubator. Already it was equipment of a past era that would be left behind to rust. But all of it had served him well. He would miss this place, rats squeaking and all, this hidden room that could not mesh with the outside world, though within it had so much to offer.
A protective scorn rose in Sam’s chest as he thought about the unseeing eyes that were soon to enter. And then suddenly he was overcome with tenderness. This private lab was going to serve them one last time, like a dying dog faithfully wagging its tail; I’m here for you, it wanted to tell its master, until the very end. And so it was with this basement, this chamber of progress and loophole of the world. In its dying role, playing the distraction, it was going to serve up their tickets to freedom.
* * *
At 7 P.M., Arianna was sitting in her kitchen, alone. She thought of Sam, who ought to be on his way to the clinic with the cells. A thrill tingled the hair follicles on her arms. Her apartment was completely quiet, so no sounds could interfere with the plan. Even the dishwasher was turned off.
She reached for her bugged cell phone on the table. In her hand, the slab of plastic felt light, even insignificant. She rubbed her thumb over the tiny microphone slit that served as both her mouthpiece and Dopp’s earpiece. For the first time, she hoped he was listening.
Clumsily, she dialed Trent’s number.
“Hello?” he answered.
“Hi, it’s Arianna.”
“Hey, I was just thinking about calling you. How are you?”
“I’m okay, I guess. Are you doing anything?”
“Not really. How come?”
“I was wondering if you wanted to come over, actually.” Her voice dropped, growing serious. “I want to talk to you about something in person.”
“Oh, well, sure. Is everything okay?”
“Kind of. I’ve just been thinking a lot and I want to talk to you.”
“Okay, I’ll come right now.”
“Thanks. See you then.”
Arianna snapped her phone shut. She hoped they had sounded natural. She checked her watch: 7:07 P.M. In the time it would take Trent to arrive, she knew that Sam and the doctors would be arranging for the transfer procedure: preparing the cells in the bag, checking all the monitors, concocting the IV sedation, just in case. How badly she wanted to be there with them!
She wheeled herself to the window above the kitchen sink. The view faced east, over Fifth Avenue and the front circular driveway of her building. She used to love standing at the sink and watching the cars fly down the street, all the way to the Washington Square Arch. But from her wheelchair, she could no longer reach the window. Channeling her lingering strength, she pulled out a stepstool from the nearby pantry, flattened it open, and set it down in front of the sink. Its highest step was level with the countertop. With every ounce of determination, she hoisted herself onto the lowest step of the stool, and then pulled herself up to the next one, and the next, until she was able to crane her neck to see out the window. Immediately, she spotted what she had come for: Dopp’s gray car was parked on the curb.
* * *
Sam hugged the black case close to his chest as he walked briskly to the clinic. It was dark out, the air frigid. The streets were still piled with slush from the recent storm, but he hardly cared if his sneakers were soaking wet, as long as he didn’t slip. Inside the case, the atmosphere was completely different; it was a toasty 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit, an incubator writ small. Sam thought of the glass flask inside, and conjured up the last image he had seen of the cells under the microscope. Could he have missed any problem cells? No, they were all pure. He was sure of it. He had checked so many times. But hadn’t he been much more tired than he realized? No, unless his eyes had deceived him dozens of times, the cells were fine. He could allow himself to breathe; his part was nearly complete. All he had to do was make it to the clinic. Step by step, cross the street. Washington Square Park came into view, shadowy and grim. He could see the outlines of trees, their branches quivering in the wind. There was no moon. He tightened his arms around the case as he walked along the park’s perimeter. The clinic’s door was two blocks away.
“Sam!” yelled a female voice.
He stopped short and turned toward the voice, which had come from a street perpendicular to the park, one block over from the clinic.
Megan’s auburn head was sticking out the window of a black four-door sedan parked along the sidewalk. He hurried over to the car.
“Just wanted
