Vox(51)

There wouldn’t be a single “Project Wernicke” binder; there would be a hundred, neatly housing years of our research.

But Morgan had only one, and it wasn’t labeled with a number indicating its position in a sequence.

Also, the spine was broken. Morgan’s binder was, evidently, well used.

I think about this as the elevator begins its descent, while Poe stands silently behind me, slightly to my left. He seems not to be breathing; he’s that quiet.

First, there are three teams: White, Gold, and Red. That much I learned from spying in Patrick’s study last night. Poe’s slips about our team and the other MRI tubes make sense now—other teams mean other labs. Other labs mean other projects.

Second, our equipment wasn’t installed three days ago. No way. This machine—however large it is, and whatever it encompasses—has been months in the making.

Third, Morgan’s binder has a broken spine.

I catch my reflection in the polished steel elevator walls and realize I’ve been talking to myself. Poe is in the reflection too, dwarfing me. He has the slightest of smiles on his face, a sliver of a smile, and I think about what sharp teeth must be behind it. Sharp enough to tear me to shreds without making a sound.

“Here we are.”

The voice shocks me. Its echo, cold and quiet, bounces off the interior walls of the elevator. I will the doors to open, and after a few interminable seconds, they do, onto the bone white hallway of the lab floor. My key card is still inside my purse, buried underneath lipstick and wallet and all the other crap my fingers find first.

Lorenzo, I think. I need to find Lorenzo.

My heel catches in the gap between floor and elevator; such stupid things, high heels are. Jackie always said they were as sinister as that old Chinese custom of foot-binding. Fucking high heels. Made by some asshole of a man to hobble a woman, make her walk two paces behind him, she said, twirling a sandaled foot while sitting on the sofa. But I’m not walking anywhere right now; I’m facedown, half of me inside the elevator, half of me on the tile of the corridor. More than hobbled.

Cheek to the ground, I can see the locked lab door only ten feet away, and I scramble to my feet. A cold hand, heavy as a meat hook, grips my arm and pulls.

“I’m fine,” I croak. Or I think I do.

“Careful, Dr. McClellan,” the voice belonging to the meat hook says.

I’m up now, key card clenched in my fist, running to the main door of the lab, footsteps behind me. Poe isn’t as quiet as he was. I slide the card into the slot; nothing happens.

There’s a laugh behind me, a soft laugh that makes me jump and drop the key card.

And that hand again, its long fingers digging into my shoulder, turning me around.

“You all right, Gianna?”

I turn and sink into Lorenzo’s chest. Behind him, the corridor is empty. Poe is gone.





FORTY-THREE




We can’t risk turning on the MRI machine again, so Lin and Lorenzo suggest a different plan when I tell them we need to talk.

“You’re sick,” Lin says as we approach the security checkpoint. “We’re taking you out to your car.”

She’s to my right, pretending to support me, while Lorenzo has an arm around my waist. Our purses and briefcases are searched, and a uniformed man—army, I think, but he could be a marine—pats us down one at a time.

“They’re clean,” he barks to another man, and a light above the doors turns from red to green. “Have a nice weekend.” The soldier says this as if he hasn’t just spent five minutes groping us, as if this were any other office building in Washington.

The doors slide open, letting us out into the late May afternoon. Lorenzo doesn’t let go of me, only holds me tighter, pressing his hip against mine. Someone is probably watching us from the windows five floors up, so I pause and bend over at the waist, hands on my knees, as if I’m catching my breath. It isn’t that difficult an act.

“The projects are all color coded,” I say, keeping my focus on the asphalt. “One red, one gold. The one we’re on is the White team.”

“Morgan told you that?” Lorenzo asks.

“Right,” I say. “All Morgan wanted was to lecture me on how perfect the world was when women stayed home. No. Morgan didn’t tell me anything, but he had a thick binder he tried to hide. Didn’t work, of course. Morgan’s twice as stupid as he looks.”

“Can you ask Patrick about it?” Lin says. She’s crouched beside me in the parking lot, her back to the building. “No, never mind. Can you get back into his study and have another look?”

“Maybe. Patrick’s been drinking more lately, and it’s Friday. I might be able to work something out tonight.” I say this without really knowing where the words are coming from. They can’t be mine, these spy-like thoughts. Jackie, maybe, would think up a scheme to get her husband drunk and pry his desk drawers open, but not Jean. In seventeen years of marriage, I’ve never snooped around Patrick’s papers, either personal or business, never looked for clues of a mistress or a one-night tumble. Once, when I couldn’t find my planner, I thought I might have left it in his car. Even then, as I clicked open the driver’s-side door, I felt like an infiltrator.

“We don’t keep secrets from one another, babe,” Patrick said when I told him about the missing planner. “Never have, never will. I don’t care if you go into my car. Snoop around all you want. You might find a dirty handkerchief in the glove compartment, though, so watch out. Cooties, you know.” He played lightly with his fingers up and down my arms as he said this. “Beware the Irish cooties!”