Vitro Page 6

  She finally nodded, and he rolled his eyes and went on. But wherever he was leading her, she never found out, because as soon as she saw an alcove that opened to an upward staircase, she darted into it and raced up, two steps at a time. She didn’t pause to look back to see if he was following her. When she reached the top, she found a hallway identical to the one below, and cut right toward the center of the building.

  There was still no sign of anyone. Maybe all these rooms were filled with sleeping people like the curly-haired girl. She ran as softly as she could, and when she reached the wide doorway opening to the atrium, she glanced back and saw Nicholas hurrying after her.

  She raced around the wide balcony, which opened to a lobby below her, and above her stretched a dome of glass that gleamed silver white in the moonlight. There were few lights in the atrium, and no people. Three hallways plus the one she’d just come down branched away, two on her left and one on her right. She dashed toward the right one, then at the last minute whirled and climbed over the balcony, balancing on the outer ledge and staring down at the floor one story below. She was hovering just above a long marble receptionist counter.

  Sophie heard Nicholas’s footsteps above her, and she didn’t hesitate, but let go of the balcony railing and dropped onto the desk, bending her knees and landing with surprising silence. Hazarding a look up, she saw Nicholas turn into the upper hallway; he hadn’t noticed her go over the balcony. Good.

  Sophie jumped to the floor and crouched behind the counter. Above her on the wall, a colorful mosaic depicted a mermaid on a beach. Across the lobby, double glass doors led outside, and a scattering of old wicker furniture occupied the floor space between.

  The four lower hallways were all lit brightly. She ignored the one she and Nicholas had entered first, and instead made her way around the perimeter of the room until she reached the next one.

  I just want to have a look on my own. The island wasn’t that big. She could find her mother herself, and if Nicholas really was just trying to help, she could make amends for running off later. Right now, she had only one goal: to find Moira Crue. If she had to scour every room in every building to find her, she’d do it.

  She opened the first door she came to. It was a narrow closet, filled with chemicals, linens, and old microscopes. So, it’s a lab after all.

  The next room held four octagonal consoles set in the middle of the floor, with round gray towers rising out of them, as tall as she was. She walked around them curiously, unable to make sense of the numbers and letters stenciled on the gray exteriors. When she spotted a small lever on the side of one, she flipped it, and jumped back when the sides of the tower slid downward into the consoles, exposing an inner blue light and cold fog that rolled out and onto the floor. Inside was a series of glass shelves filled with small holes, and in the holes, tiny, apparently empty glass vials were suspended. An automatic arm lifted out of the console, a magnifying glass held in its grasp, and it lined up with one of the vials. Sophie leaned forward and peered through it to see an almost imperceptibly tiny sliver of metal floating in the vial in some sort of viscous substance. For some reason, it left her with a chill in her spine, and she hurriedly flipped the lever; the console closed itself, hiding the shelves and the fog and the little vials.

  As she shut the door to the strange room, she heard voices. Her heart leaped into her throat, and Nicholas’s voice haunted her mind: Do you want to get yourself shot?

  She ducked back into supply closet and kept the door cracked just a hair—and she barely made it in time. A woman and a man strode past, voices low in conversation, clipboards cradled in their arms. The man was dressed in slacks and a white collared shirt; the woman wore a long white lab coat.

  “Well, in my opinion, it’s too soon,” the woman was saying with a heavy French accent. “We need another four years at least.”

  “You know how it is, Laurent. We don’t get opinions; we get orders.”

  “If it goes sour, it’s not my fault.”

  “If it goes sour, it won’t matter. This place has been balancing between success and failure for years. All it’ll take is one mistake.”

  Sophie held her breath until they’d gone past, and waited another moment for their voices to fade before she crept out of the closet and tiptoed down the hall. Her senses were on high alert, listening and watching in case anyone else appeared.

  She pressed her ear to the next door and heard no sound inside except the humming of a computer. Taking extra precaution after nearly being seen by the doctors, she peeked under the door to be certain the light was off. She was just about to turn the handle when she heard footsteps approaching from the atrium. Heart stalling, Sophie whipped open the door and slipped into the room, shutting the door softly behind her. Her muscles ached both from the crash landing and from the nerveracking business of sneaking around.

  The room was lit with a soft blue glow, which came from the screen of the computer set against the far wall. She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the dim interior, and gradually made out a hospital gurney that stood in the center of the room. Several others were pushed against the wall to her right, but unlike them, the one in the middle held an occupant. She pressed a hand to her mouth and went stone still; if the person was awake, there was no way they wouldn’t see her.

  But the person didn’t speak or even move. Sophie slowly crept across the room; if the person coming down the hallway opened the door, she’d be spotted immediately. She looked around frantically, but there weren’t many places to hide except—but it’s so obvious. Still, she was running out of time and options. The footsteps were getting closer. They were slowing down. She knew that in moments, the handle of the door would turn and she’d be caught.

  Sophie ran to the gurney, intending to hide beneath it. As she did, she caught a glimpse of the sleeping figure’s face in the pale blue light from the computer.

  A cold chill ran down Sophie’s spine.

  She froze, her eyes locked on the face.

  No. That’s impossible.

  Behind her, the door swung open and light from the corridor burst into the room and washed over the sleeping girl. Sophie’s muscles seized, urging her to turn around, to run, to hide—but she couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away. Couldn’t understand . . .

  The girl on the gurney, her eyes shut and her skin pale and her breath so soft it was nearly imperceptible, was all too familiar to Sophie.

  Because she was looking at herself.

  Then she felt a shattering pain on the back of her head and she dropped into deep and all-consuming darkness.

  EIGHT

  JIM

  Jim woke with a start, launching himself out of the seat only to slam his head into the roof of the cockpit. Sucking in a breath, he fumbled with the door. It swung open, and, caught off guard by a sudden pitch of the plane, he tumbled out of the cockpit and fell straight into the sea, where he swallowed a salty mouthful of water and startled a school of bright yellow fish.

  Choking and now fully shocked to wakefulness, Jim dragged himself onto the beach and sat in the sand, blinking through the dripping hair that had fallen over his face. He shook his hair and coughed out seawater, then winced up at the sky. It was still dark, but now the moon was behind him, so he figured it was still a few hours until dawn. His back was stiff and sore, and his arms burned from hauling the logs and the plane around. The Cessna rocked on the waves, and a fallen coconut bobbed against one of the floats, clunking with each roll of the surf.

  He climbed to his feet and looked around. There was no sign of Sophie or Nicholas or anyone at all.

  Jim wandered up the beach and found his shirt where he’d left it the day before after diving in after the tires. He shook out the sand and pulled it over his head, then found his boots. His socks were damp, so he pulled the boots on without them. Then he stood staring across the channel. The tide was on its way out, slowly an
d reluctantly pulling away from the islands.

  “Where are you?” Jim muttered, scanning the trees on the opposite island.

  He swore and scrubbed at his hair, kicked the sand, started toward the plane, then turned around and came back. This isn’t your problem, he told himself.

  He could just go. He hadn’t made any promises to Sophie Crue. Sure, they’d been friends once and all that, but he’d already gone out of his way to help her reach the island, had done as much as could be expected. She probably found her mom, and they’re catching up over coffee. Safe and sound. He told her he wouldn’t stay past nightfall. She knew he wasn’t going to wait around. Maybe she thought he was already gone. Maybe he was waiting for someone who would never come. She could have at least come back and said goodbye. For old times’ sake.

  This was what he got for ignoring his own inner voice of alarm. He’d known better the moment he heard the words “Skin Island.” He’d known things would get messy.

  Jim stormed around the beach for a bit longer, deliberating and justifying, somehow always finding himself feeling guilty. But for what? He’d done what he said he would do and more—he ought to have gone home hours ago. I don’t owe her anything. In fact, it’s the other way around. He looked at his wrecked plane, wincing as the dollar signs began to pile up in the back of his mind.

  “Hey!” he yelled across the channel. “That’s it! I’m going, you hear? I’m counting to ten and then I’m outta here!”

  Jim stalked back to the plane. He kicked off his boots, knotted the laces together, and slung them over his shoulders so he could wade out to it. Once he was back in the cockpit he tried the engine; it took a while, but it finally cranked. He was skipping nearly every point on his preflight checklist, but with the landing gear gone, it seemed to hardly matter. Already his mind ran through landing scenarios, trying to plan the best beach to put down at. Then he’d have to find a way to haul it to a mechanic. And then he’d have to find a way to pay the mechanic.

  But try as he might to keep his mind occupied with these problems, his thoughts kept coming back to Sophie Crue. The initial surprise when he’d first realized who she was. Her constant nervous movement in the plane, toying with the instruments and with his mom’s beads. And then that Nicholas, his hands on Sophie’s, drawing her away, his eyes devouring her like a circling shark.

  “Damn,” Jim whispered, letting his head fall against the seat. He stared at the beads swinging from the ceiling. They glowed white, as if lit from within, and he could almost hear his mother’s voice singing the poem: Taya’ mina’lak sin hinemhum, taya’ tatauau sin anining . . . She was the only American he’d ever known who could sit with the Chamorro women as they wove hats to sell to the tourists, and who could sing and compose verses out of thin air. She’d taken to Guam more quickly and deeply than Jim or his father ever had, but that hadn’t stopped her from running away to the U.S. with the first stranger who gave her a second look.

  Jim shut his eyes, let out a deep sigh, and then slipped out of the plane for the second time. He waded ashore, his boots over his shoulder, and walked through the shallows until he reached the point where the channel was narrowest. He twisted his torso back and forth, loosening his sore muscles as best he could, then plunged into the water.

  The tide was low, but not so low that the current flowing between the islands was gone. It pulled at him, drawing him ever east, and he struggled with all his strength against it. The water had been rising instead of falling; the tide was coming in, not out, as he’d assumed. After over a decade of living on an island, he had the tide schedule fairly well memorized. It must have been later in the morning than he had thought. It took the last of his strength to make it to the opposite shore, and when he reached it, he collapsed in the sand and gasped for air, his body screaming with pain from the crash, hauling the logs and the plane, sleeping crunched up in the cockpit. Should have gone home and left well enough alone.

  Well. It was too late now. He couldn’t swim back, not until he’d rested and the tide had receded. Either he could sit here and wait or he could follow through on his harebrained plan of finding Sophie and making sure she was okay.

  He rolled onto his back and groaned, then slowly rose to his feet. Water trickled down his face and his back and dripped from his hair. He had a nearly overwhelming thirst; what little water he’d brought with him he’d drunk the day before. To top that off, he was starving enough to catch a fish and eat it raw.

  Maybe they’d have something to eat at the Corpus center. If he said he was with Sophie, maybe her mom could pull some strings, get him cleared, and just give him some food and a Coke and then they could all go their separate ways, no harm done.

  He laughed aloud. If only. He doubted it would be as simple as that.

  Jim pulled on his wet boots and began the trek across Skin Island.

  When he reached the southern shore, dawn was already unfolding in the east, an origami masterpiece of scarlet and orange. The trees seemed kissed with fire, the edges of the leaves glowing with golden light. The beauty of the tropical sunrise was lost on Jim, who had seen it a thousand times already. His attention was divided between keeping a sharp eye on his surroundings and thinking of reasons why he should turn around and go home while he still had the chance.

  He stood on a narrow beach at the foot of a high bluff, below the big hotel building that seemed to be the center of activity on Skin Island. He’d seen it on his approach, watched a few doctors and guards come and go. Then the bluff rose to hide it from sight, until he could only make out the roof from where he now stood. He climbed up the bluff, finding ample footholds where the water had eaten away the rock. The downside of this was that the rock was rough and left his hands scraped and bleeding. But he wasn’t going to chance approaching the building from the north or east, through the trees, because he would be too easily spotted in the strengthening light.

  When he reached the top of the bluff, he hauled himself onto the grass and kept low; the hotel was about a football field’s length away, and the space between was open except for the odd palm tree. Off to his right, on a grassy, flat patch of land, sat a dark helicopter. He recognized it as one of the only aircraft that ever left Guam for Skin Island.

  He faced the double glass doors that led into the center of the building; they opened onto a covered veranda surrounded by hibiscus plants. A guard leaned on a sculpted column, smoking and reading a magazine. He didn’t have a rifle, but Jim did see a handgun strapped to his side. Not very vigilant, but all the same, Jim couldn’t just slip past him.

  If Sophie was nearby, there was no sign of her. Maybe one of the other doors would be open, or a window. He could go around the side of the building, out of the guard’s line of view, find another way in. Just as he was about to make a dash for cover, the doors opened and he froze. It was another guard; they must have been changing shifts. Jim took the opportunity to run across the edge of the bluff until the corner of the first wing came between him and the front doors. He waited ten seconds, then sprinted to the wall. The first three windows he passed were locked, and the first door. He started to go on, but suddenly the door swung open and he was sure he’d be seen. But he still flattened himself against the wall, by the hinged side of the door, so that as it opened it came between him and the person walking out. They shoved the door so wide that it nearly crushed him, and he had to suck in his breath to avoid being hit.

  There was a tiny alcove to his right, where the building bent inward before branching out into the next wing. Jim slipped inside just as the person at the door emerged; it was a girl with a mass of curly brown hair, and she was followed by two other kids, both of them boys. They all looked to be sixteen or so, and were dressed in identical khakis and white polos, like a gospel choir.

  “C’mon,” said the girl. “Before they do the morning rounds.”

  “They’ll go looking for us,” said one of the boys, a gin
ger-haired, gangly fellow with a flashlight in his hand.

  “Won’t matter. We’ll be clear across the island by then. Hurry, or we might lose him.”

  They walked right past Jim, but the morning was still dark enough that he was hidden by shadow.

  “Think he’s still hanging around?” asked the second boy. “What kind of idiot would come here?”

  They’re looking for me. The feeling of unease he’d had all night doubled. Had they seen his plane land? Had Sophie’s mom sent them, or Sophie herself? He didn’t think it would be on Sophie’s behalf, to tell him she’d decided to stay on Skin Island and he could go home. They were taking too much care not to be seen by the guards; whatever their agenda was, it didn’t seem to coincide with the doctors’.

  And what were a bunch of teenagers doing here anyway? He knew the facility had to do with medical research or something like it. Were they patients? Test subjects?

  The door was swinging shut. The trio was still in sight, heading away from the front of the building and toward the trees, but their backs were to Jim. He stepped out of the alcove and lunged at the door, managing to get the tips of his fingers on the handle before it shut. He glanced back, heart missing a beat, but they hadn’t noticed him. Still, there was no time to relax in relief. He slipped into the building and softly shut the door. It locked behind him.

  Well, now what? He couldn’t very well wander up and down the halls, calling Sophie’s name. At least it was still early enough that most everyone should be asleep, for another hour anyway. He hoped the three kids had been an exception, and that no one else on Skin Island was such an early riser. What if they made it to the airstrip and found his plane, but not him? Would they tell someone, launch a search? There were just too many variables, too much risk.