In spite of his awe, guilt clouded his mind. He not only knew about the inspector’s stifling presence, but he had also approved of it. And now Arianna was worried that the added stress might kill her: What if it did? Would he be partly responsible, since he had done nothing to stop it? But what could he have done? If he showed any loyalty to her, it would destroy them both. There was nothing he could do, except continue to hand in phony reports and inaccurate transcripts, shrug apologetically at Dopp’s growing frustration, and privately glorify Sam.
The power Sam held over Arianna’s life—and thus Trent’s own—was remarkable; if Trent were still religious, he would be inclined to pray to such a being. But it was both liberating and disappointing to know that praying was futile. Safely delivering the case was the most he could do. He looked over his shoulder every several blocks, worried that someone from the DEP could be trailing him, just as he had trailed her. But each time he glanced behind him, he saw mostly empty sidewalks and a few people who were not the least interested in him. To refocus his paranoia, he thought of Sam, flushing at the prospect of their meeting.
By the time he reached the dark alley and hopscotched over its filth, he felt privileged to be knocking on Sam’s steel door, to hand a genius his tools.
“Well?” came a faraway voice.
“Uh—SADFACE,” Trent called. It was the only password he knew.
“Who is that?” barked the voice, coming closer. “We don’t use SADFACE anymore.”
“Sam, I mean, Dr. Lisio, it’s Trent. I have the case for you.”
There was no response, and Trent wondered if he should repeat himself. But after a few seconds, he heard the three dead bolts unlocking inside. The door pulled back an inch, and Sam peered through the slit suspiciously, reminding Trent of their first—and only—meeting.
But this time they were alone.
“Hi,” Trent said, holding out the case. He was torn between wanting to step inside, away from the alley’s stench, or to step back, away from Sam’s surly gaze.
“Where’s Megan?” Sam demanded. Through the narrow opening, his pink cheek rubbed against the door’s edge.
“She got stuck at work. Arianna called me at the last minute.”
“Sure,” Sam snapped. “She calls to tell you but not me.”
“I’m sorry,” Trent replied, wondering why he was apologizing.
“Never mind.” Sam opened the door just enough for Trent to enter. “You better come in and wait while I exchange the clones.”
“Thanks.” Trent walked in and handed him the case, surveying the lab for a place to sit. Besides the stools that lined the counter in the back of the room, there was only a nylon cot on the floor. He decided to stand. While Sam emptied the flasks into the incubator and replaced them with clones from the freezer, Trent tried to come up with pleasant small talk. But his lips would not form the words, sensing that Sam would not play that game, at least not with him. Could he still be angry that Arianna had brought a stranger to their sacred grounds? But that wasn’t Trent’s fault, and he had obviously not reported them, so what was the problem?
Perhaps Sam had been antisocial for so long that his interpersonal skills had atrophied like a useless muscle. Trent wondered if he was lonely. The old man did not exactly seem to yearn for company. Did he have anyone to confide in, or wish he did?
As Sam transferred new flasks into the case, his gnarled hands moving with precision and grace, Trent was overcome by a strange feeling of kinship. Here they were, two men, as isolated from the world as from each other, united in the fight for one urgent goal, each doing his part the only way he knew how.
“I’m glad I could help you,” Trent blurted.
A sound like a grunt escaped Sam as he leaned into the freezer for another flask. Trent looked around the lab, trying to think of something else to say. Judging from the look of the place, Sam was certainly eccentric. Next to the cot on the floor, an open duffel bag was bursting with purple sweatpants and frayed T-shirts. Strewn on the floor were notepads, crumpled balls of paper, and old, heavy-looking textbooks. One book near Trent’s feet read in block letters: Genomics, Proteomics, and Systems Biology, 2006.
“Do you sleep here?” Trent asked, even though he realized the answer was obvious. Sam did not turn around.
“Yep.”
“Oh. Well, can I bring you anything else?”
“The less anyone comes here, the better.” Sam turned to face him while he snapped the black case shut. “I bet you didn’t even look twice before you walked into the alley.”
“You’re right,” Trent said. “I was too busy thinking about how honored I was to be helping you.”
Sam stared at him stonily. Trent stared back, determined to thaw his hostility, well aware that he risked worsening it. Outside, he heard fierce wind whipping up the air and barreling through the alley. From miles away, it seemed as if the clinic were howling for him to return. Inside his sweatshirt pocket, he rubbed the key Emily had given him to go back and stock the freezer’s vulnerable shelves.
He reached out for the black case. Sam handed it to him.
“Thank you,” Trent said. “I won’t bother you any more.”
* * *
Inspector Banks stood before Dopp on Friday morning like a prisoner before a judge: humble and ashamed.
“You’re supposed to be intimidating her,” Dopp said through gritted teeth. “She has hardly mentioned you to
