Chimera (The Korsak Brothers #1)(95)
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.