Chapter 10 - The Doctor Who Disappeared Seven Years Ago
Victor closed the door behind him.
I did not move.
Neither did Elias.
For one strange moment, the three of us stood in a room overlooking Chicago as though we were about to discuss quarterly earnings.
Instead, I asked my children’s godfather whether he had murdered my wife.
Victor’s face hardened.
“No.”
“Did you know she survived the crash?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know where she went afterward?”
“For a while.”
“You let me believe she was dead.”
“It was necessary.”
I laughed.
“Interesting how everyone keeps using that word.”
Vane interrupted.
“Lawson, take the compound and go to your children.”
I looked at him.
“You’re suddenly concerned?”
“I have always been concerned.”
“You knew they could get sick.”
“I knew there was risk.”
“That sentence should disgust you.”
“It does.”
“Not enough.”
Victor stepped closer.
“We can argue ethics later.”
“No. We are going to discuss Genevieve now.”
He looked at Vane.
Vane gave a small nod.
That tiny movement told me something important.
Whatever alliance existed between them, Vane was not necessarily in control.
Victor said, “Genevieve found Miriam Voss.”
The missing geneticist.
“Alive?”
“At the time.”
“Where?”
“In Canada.”
“Public records say Miriam died five years ago.”
“She faked her death.”
Apparently that had become a popular habit.
“Why?”
“Because she helped build Lark.”
“What did she know?”
“Everything.”
“Where is she now?”
Victor hesitated.
“Missing.”
“Everyone seems to disappear around you.”
“She returned to Chicago seven years ago under another identity.”
“Why?”
“To retrieve research showing a treatment could reverse some of the risks we had identified.”
“GV-17?”
“An earlier form.”
I understood.
Genevieve’s search for a cure had begun before the twins became sick.
Maybe before they showed symptoms.
“She knew Jonah and Blythe were vulnerable?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
Victor’s eyes lowered.
“Since they were infants.”
I almost lost control.
“She knew for six years?”
“She knew there was risk. Not certainty.”
“And you knew too.”
“Yes.”
“Yet you became their godfather.”
Victor finally looked ashamed.
“I loved them.”
“Do not use that word.”
“It’s true.”
“You watched them grow while knowing something inside their blood might kill them.”
“Yes.”
I stepped closer.
“Then love should have made you tell me.”
“It should have.”
That answer disarmed me more than denial.
Vane said, “The program became something none of us anticipated.”
“Who is us?”
“Your father. Miriam. Me. Victor. Others.”
“My father died before the twins were conceived.”
“Yes.”
“So stop hiding behind him.”
Vane looked irritated.
I welcomed it.
Victor continued.
“Miriam discovered the long-term risk was higher than expected. She wanted to shut the project down.”
“You refused.”
“Vane refused.”
Elias said nothing.
“Miriam copied data,” Victor continued. “Then vanished.”
“And Genevieve found her.”
“Yes.”
“What did Miriam give her?”
“Evidence.”
“Treatment research?”
“And names.”
“What names?”
“Children.”
Eleven.
The code list Elena carried.
“Where did Elena’s mother fit?”
Victor’s expression changed.
“Elena told you about Claire Ward?”
“Enough.”
“She processed samples.”
“Did you kill her?”
“No.”
“Did Novagen?”
“I don’t know.”
“Convenient.”
“Lawson, you think everyone here had equal knowledge. We didn’t.”
“Then explain the hierarchy.”
He pointed at Elias.
“Vane controlled science.”
Then himself.
“I controlled infrastructure.”
“Through Mercer Holdings.”
“Yes.”
“And my father?”
“Original capital.”
“Prescott?”
“Security contractor.”
“Elena’s mother?”
“Technician.”
“Miriam?”
“Lead geneticist.”
“And Genevieve?”
Victor looked at me.
“The person who realized the children were being followed after birth.”
My phone vibrated.
Franklin.
I ignored it.
It rang again.
I answered.
“Talk.”
“Where are you?”
“Novagen.”
“Did you get GV-17?”
“Yes.”
“Then bring it immediately.”
“What happened?”
“Blythe is declining fast.”
Everything else stopped mattering.
“I’m leaving.”
Victor moved toward the door.
“I’ll come.”
“No.”
“Lawson—”
“You stay away from my children.”
He stopped.
I took the refrigerated case.
Then Vane spoke.
“The compound may not be enough.”
I turned.
“What?”
“GV-17 is preparation. The protocol requires compatible stem cells engineered with a corrective vector.”
“Where?”
“Those cells were produced from the original Lark reference line.”
“Where are they?”
Vane looked at Victor.
Victor closed his eyes.
“Ask Miriam.”
“I thought she was missing.”
“She is.”
“Then my children die because no one knows where the cells are?”
Vane shook his head.
“Someone knows.”
“Who?”
“Elena Ward.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“Her mother helped preserve the original line.”
“No.”
“Claire Ward created an emergency archive.”
“Where?”
“We never found it.”
“But Elena might.”
“She was the beneficiary named in Claire’s sealed estate paperwork.”
My mind raced.
Elena.
The necklace.
The codes.
Genevieve’s trust.
“She doesn’t know.”
“Perhaps not consciously.”
“What does that mean?”
Vane looked at me.
“Claire hid information in something Elena would never throw away.”
I immediately thought of the only thing Elena had carried through poverty, rain, and years of hiding.
Not the necklace.
Genevieve gave her that later.
Something from her mother.
I called Elena.
She answered on the first ring.
“Lawson?”
“Did your mother leave you anything before she died?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“A recipe book.”
I stared at Vane.
He nodded once.
“Where is it?”
“In my apartment.”
“Address.”
She gave it.
I called Prescott.
“Get the book.”
He didn’t ask why.
Twenty minutes later, he called back.
“There’s nothing here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Apartment was searched.”
“When?”
“Recently.”
“Book?”
“Gone.”
I turned to Victor.
“Who else knew?”
His face changed.
“Only Miriam.”
“And?”
“Genevieve.”
Vane went still.
I noticed.
“What?”
Neither answered.
“What?”
Victor finally said it.
“If the book has been taken, and neither of us took it…”
I understood.
Genevieve.
Alive.
Maybe.
Or someone using her trail.
Then Elena texted me.
I NEVER TOLD YOU THIS BECAUSE I THOUGHT IT WAS A DREAM.
MY MOTHER USED TO SAY:
“IF THEY COME FOR THE BOOK, FIND THE WOMAN WHO DIED TWICE.”
Miriam Voss.
May you like
The geneticist who had supposedly died, disappeared, and perhaps still held the final piece of the treatment.
We had less than forty-eight hours to find a dead woman.
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