Trent backed away with dread, suddenly aware of the sobs that were coming from behind him. His throat constricted as he turned around, not prepared to find Arianna in a similar state; and then he gasped.
On the floor, facedown, was Sam. Blood was pooling under his chest, spreading out at a frightening rate, and his arms and legs were strewn at awkward angles from his body. Emily was kneeling next to him, and she looked up at Trent in tears.
“He’s dead now, too.”
Trent dropped the gun. Her words matched the scene, but his comprehension lagged behind. “What?”
“It happened so fast,” Arianna murmured. Trent looked up from Sam’s body to see her, still lying on her side—intact—on the table; her face was stark white. “The gun went off, I closed my eyes, and then he was on the floor.”
“He jumped in front of you,” Dr. Ericson breathed. He was still sitting behind her, holding the needle in place in her spinal column.
She stared down at Sam’s body in disbelief.
Trent shook his head, unable to speak. Emily was crying next to him. They said nothing, not knowing how to proceed from such a moment, for proceeding would involve accepting the reality of his death.
Dr. Ericson’s anguished voice broke the silence. “It’s our fault. He would have dropped the gun if we had put up our hands.”
Emily’s eyes met her husband’s. “No, I don’t think so. He wanted her.”
Trent saw the glistening of tears spill over Arianna’s lids. She said nothing, only squeezed her head and whimpered.
“The transfer, it’s done,” Dr. Ericson said quietly. Trent looked at the bag; it was empty. He watched the doctor remove the long needle from her back, and then covered the area with a gauze bandage.
“We have to get out of here,” Trent finally said. It was the only thought that seemed clear. He looked over at Dopp, whose face was now drenched in dark red blood that slid over his chin and neck onto the floor. Trent knew the memory of the sight would haunt him as long as he lived.
“What are we going to do with them?” Emily asked, motioning to the two bodies.
Trent shook his head. “We have to go. What can we do?”
“How can we just leave Sam behind?” Arianna cried.
“It’s not him anymore,” Emily said sadly.
Arianna’s face twisted in pain, and Trent found his legs and rushed to her side. He grabbed her hands and buried his face in her neck, feeling a cry rise in his throat. “But at least you’re okay,” he breathed. “You’re going to be okay.”
She did not respond, but clutched his hands; he felt her heart thumping against her ribs, strong and alive.
“We have to hurry,” Dr. Ericson said, coming around the surgical table and intercepting them to remove the wires attached to her chest. “Come on.” He turned to his wife and held out a hand. Before taking it, Emily gingerly reached inside Sam’s pockets. She pulled out his wallet, keys, and cell phone, snatched the crumpled piece of paper near his feet, and then rose reluctantly, pulling on her husband’s hand. When she took a step away from Sam’s body, the sole of her shoes tracked his blood on the floor.
“I want to say good-bye,” Arianna whispered. “Help me.”
Trent slid his hands under her body and scooped her up under the knees and neck, careful to avoid disturbing the gauze on her naked back. She sank against his strength, her legs dangling limply over his arms. He lifted her over the table’s edge and lowered her so that her face was nearly touching the back of Sam’s head. She leaned in closer and planted a kiss on it, leaving her lips pressed against his thin white hair. Gently, Trent pulled her away.
“We have to go,” he muttered.
Before she could protest, he swept her up and followed the Ericsons out the door. Their steps echoed down the hallway as they ran to the waiting room, and then out of the clinic and into the chilly black night, with Arianna’s surgical gown flapping in the air, exposing her bandaged back to the wind. Trent’s chest heaved against her side as he followed the Ericsons around the nearest street corner. Parked along the curb, a black car was waiting for them there.
TWENTY-THREE
The television in the apartment looked ancient—a hulking box about a foot deep, perched atop an antique wooden dresser. Trent, Emily, and Dr. Ericson were huddled in front of it, waiting for the Monday evening newscast to begin. Arianna was resting on the sofa out in the living room, having chosen to restrict herself from all news, lest the stress interfere with her recovery. Trent knew she was suffering enough guilt over Sam’s death not to be able to cope with any further fallout from Friday night’s events.
In the three days they had lived at Sam’s old apartment, two vigils were ongoing: one over her and one over the television. So far, her body was showing no signs of rejecting the transferred cells, and Dr. Ericson was optimistic that she had cleared the first seventy-two hours, but said she was still far from safe. It was crucial for her to remain as relaxed as possible, since stress hormones could trigger an adverse reaction, so she was taking a daily regimen of antianxiety medication along with prednisone, an immunosuppressive drug. While Dr. Ericson monitored her health, Trent and Emily traded shifts at her bedside, trying to distract her from grief and worry.
But it was difficult for Trent to conceal his own struggle to adjust to the drastic changes in their lives: splitting two dingy rooms and one
