Deadly Design (9780698173613) (17 page)

“C
laudia Bartholomew,” Matt says, and this time he's not on a screen in Uncle Jimmy's bedroom. He's sitting at the kitchen table in Cami's house.

“Who's she?” Cami asks. She knows everything now. Not so much because I told her, but because I filled in what she missed when she was listening in through Jimmy's bedroom door.

“When I finally got into Sharp's phone records, her name came up the most,” Matt says. “There are a couple of other possibilities—an immunology expert in Boston who looks promising, and a super-smart guy who graduated from medical school when he was eighteen. Dr. Sharp has had contact with both of them, but this Claudia Bartholomew, she's a genetics specialist from Saint Louis, and she's made several trips to Wichita over the past few months.”

Matt opens a large manila envelope.

“Before you get your hopes up too much, she might not be coming to Wichita to see him. I know for certain they've had several phone conversations, but she's been seeing patients at the VA hospital here and in a few other states. She's working on some way of helping veterans by using stem cells.”

The door leading from the garage opens, and Cami's dad walks in. He tosses his briefcase on the kitchen counter, then turns to look at the four of us sitting around the kitchen table.

“Hello,” he says.

“This is Matt,” Jimmy says, standing. “You met him when I was in the hospital.”

Cami's dad, a slender man with short brown hair, comes forward and shakes Matt's hand. “Yeah, I remember. How are you?”

“Okay,” Matt says.

“Glad to hear it.”

“And you sort of know Kyle,” Cami says, getting up from her chair just as Jimmy sits back down.

Her dad shoots me a smile and a wave.

“I saved you some dinner,” she says. “I can warm it up.”

“That's okay. We ordered pizza for the producers' meeting. I'm beat.” He gives us a weary smile. “I think I'll see if Josh wants to watch some cartoons with his old man. Let you guys get back to whatever you're up to.” He heads for the living room, but not before giving Cami a one-armed hug.

Matt looks at me and gets back to the business at hand. “I found a picture of Claudia Bartholomew online.” A photo slides from the envelope. In it, Claudia Bartholomew is standing behind the podium at some sort of conference. I pull the photo closer, and I'm struck by how familiar she looks. Then it comes to me. She's the woman who came out of the elevator at Dr. Sharp's condo.

“I've seen her,” I say. “She was at his apartment the morning I went to talk to him.”

“Are you sure?” Matt asks. “I hacked into the records at the airport, and she took a flight into Wichita on August third. What day did you go to Dr. Sharp's?”

I glance at the calendar stuck to the front of the refrigerator with a pineapple-shaped magnet. “It was August seventh. That's when I saw
her
coming out of the elevator. She had to have been seeing him.”

“So when is she due back in town?” Jimmy asks.

Matt pulls another paper from the envelope. He glances over various dates and times. “She's got appointments again at the VA in two weeks.”

“Then I can talk to her,” I say.

“And say what exactly?” Jimmy asks.

Matt lifts his brows in agreement. “If you ask her about Sharp, about his research, if she is involved, she's liable to lie and say she doesn't know what you're talking about. His master plan isn't exactly legal, and if she's buying into it, who knows what kind of a person she is.”

“Then I need proof,” I say. “If I can find proof that she's involved, maybe I can blackmail her into helping me.”

“What? Threaten to go to the police?” Matt asks. “You'd have to have some pretty solid proof. How are you going to get that?”

“You said she'll be back at the VA in two weeks, right?”

Matt nods.

“She'll probably be meeting with Sharp again. Maybe he'll even give her his research then. Do you know if she has an office at the VA?” I ask Matt.

“I'm sure she does.”

My heart's beating faster. It's talking to me, telling me to do whatever I need to so that it can keep beating.

“I have to find a way to break into her office,” I say. “Is there any way to find out exactly where it is?”

Matt thinks for a moment. “I doubt she has a permanent office. It's probably just one she uses when she's in town. But I know some people at the VA. Me and Jimmy are a little more familiar with that place than we'd like to be.”

Jimmy frowns. “I don't know what you're talking about.” He leans back in his chair, both hands going to his head, and I'm not sure if he's scratching his scalp or feeling for the scars left by the IED.

“I can talk to some people,” Matt says. “See what they know.”

“If we can find out when she'll be there and where her office is, I'll sneak in and take a look around. Maybe she'll have something on a flash drive or in her briefcase or something.”

They all nod like it's a great idea. Truth is, it's an idea, and right now, I'll grasp at anything.

“We'll come up with a plan,” Jimmy says. “We'll get you into that office. And even if you don't find much, any connection might be enough to scare her into helping you.”

“Or maybe,” Cami says, “she'll help you because it's the right thing to do.”

I force a smile, but right now, my faith in doctors isn't exactly at an all-time high. What I really need is faith in myself. It might take a genius to figure out how to keep me alive, but I'm going to have to be the one to convince him or her to do it.

I
look at Matt's text message, holding the phone under the desk so my teacher doesn't see it.
Dr. B at VA, 8-25.
Today's August 21. In four days, Dr. Claudia Bartholomew will be at the Veterans' Hospital, and I'll get into her office, hopefully.

“Where's your homework, Mr. McAdams?” Mr. Olson flips through pages of graph paper, no doubt looking for my name on our algebra assignment, but he doesn't find it.

I sit up straighter at my desk and slip my phone into my pocket. I so don't need this shit. Who gives out homework the third day of school, anyway? All I care about is getting through the next four days. According to Matt, Dr. Sharp's been in contact with at least a dozen doctors and researchers, including Claudia Bartholomew. But she's still our lead contender. She's the one he calls the most, and she reciprocates. To make matters even more interesting, Matt found out that Dr. Sharp recently booked a one-way ticket to Saint Louis, where Claudia Bartholomew lives. Maybe he's planning on spending his last days with her, combing through every detail of his experiment.

And Mr. Olson wants me to spend my evenings graphing math problems. Fuck that. “I didn't do it,” I say, not disrespectfully, but honestly and with little emotion.

“Why not?” He tries to match the calmness in my voice, but the vein that runs cockeyed down the center of his broad forehead is starting to protrude.

“Let's just say I had a few more important things to do.” Like having Jimmy teach me how to pick locks in case Dr. Bartholomew's desk or filing cabinets are locked. And spending time with the people I care about because I might not have that much time left with them. But spending time with algebra? Hell no.

“More important things to do. Like video games, I suppose. Or searching for your dad's
Playboy
magazines?” The other students laugh.

“My dad's more of a
National Geographic
kind of guy. And I don't play Xbox much these days. I prefer reality. So no, I wasn't playing by myself or with myself.”

Some students around me snicker again, and I hear a distinctive “Oh, shit!” from the back of the room.

Mr. Olson puts his hand on his blossoming waist. He's a big man. His chest is thick. He was a linebacker for the school in his glory days, but take away the practices and weightlifting and keep the eggs and bacon for breakfast, and you get a mammoth-sized math teacher.

I do feel a little sorry for the guy. I mean, he and I are probably going to die from the same thing, but he doesn't have to. He could put down the bucket of chicken and self-pity and go to the gym. He could get a different job if he hates this one so much. He could live a long life. He has a choice.

“What do you plan on doing with your life, Mr. McAdams? Really? Are you going to live with Mommy and Daddy until the day you die because you don't want to be bothered with learning anything?”

I laugh, feeling the irony down to my bones. “Actually, Mr. Olson, that may be exactly what I do. How about you? You need to sit down? Your heart doing okay in there?”

His cheeks turn red, and his chest heaves in and out with great effort. “You know,” he puffs, “I had a lot of respect for your brother. But don't think that the world is going to give you a pass because he died.”

I smile, even feel like I might tear up a little, but that feeling passes quickly. “You were at graduation, weren't you?”

He nods.

“Well, as someone who respected and admired my brother, I'm sure you'll appreciate this quote from his speech.” I give him the finger.

“Would you like to go to the principal's office?” he asks, the vein protruding even more, and I'm pretty sure I can see it pulsing with each beat of his heart.

“I've been to the principal's office a few times. It's not very stimulating.”

He slams the homework on his desk. “That was a rhetorical question, Mr. McAdams. I wasn't actually asking you if you wanted to go to the principal's office.”

“Oh, sorry. I misunderstood.”

He gestures toward the door, but my eyes stay fixed on his tense, forty-year-old face.

“Do I need to call security?”

“Rhetorical?” I ask, complete with a perplexed look on my face. “I mean, do you really need to call security just to deal with me?”

His fingers curl in against his palms like he's ready to punch something, or someone. He steps a few feet closer to me and stands, feet planted, between two rows of desks. “Do you think your brother would be proud of you right now? Don't you care what he'd think?”

Cool air has been rattling the metal vents, but suddenly the rattling and the hum of the air-conditioning system stops. Every person is still and silent. Waiting.

“Well.” I throw my voice into the quiet. “He doesn't think anything because he's dead and cold and buried in the ground. And you know what?” I stand. My hands are shaking as I grip the edge of my desk and flip it over. “You might want to make that call to security after all.”

T
he sky is a thick, solid gray. I've always hated the brightness of the artificial turf on the football field, and now, with the dark clouds and the heavy drops of rain, it seems even brighter, even more fake. I'm in the doorway of the football locker room. Separate from the school itself, this is the place where players line up before running onto the field and tearing through the long banner the cheerleaders make for each home game.

The season won't officially start for a few more weeks, but in two hours, the football team will take to the field for practice. Last year, Connor would have been counting down the minutes of his trigonometry class or Spanish 4 or maybe forensics. He'd have been anxious to get on the field and start practicing with his team. He loved football. He loved the way the crowds in the bleachers would scream and stomp their feet to cheer him and the other players on. Now rain is pelting the long strips of metal seats. It's running down the stairs and onto the artificial grass that doesn't need rain to stay green.

I like the sound of the rain hitting the metal roof of the small building that has only two rooms, one for each team. I like the way it collects in the gutters and falls to the ground in a steady stream just in front of where I stand. And I like the way the sound fills my head, leaving little room for thought. I'm tired of thinking, but I can't stop doing it. Even when I'm sleeping, I dream about Dr. Sharp, about him and me sharing a coffin and how even in death I can't rest, because he's constantly coughing, constantly spraying my face and my white satin pillow with his blood.

When I got sent to the principal's office, she was nice enough to ask me which parent I wanted her to call. I told her to call Dad, even though he'd have to leave work and I knew my mom was at home, probably mopping spotless floors or dusting dust-free furniture. Mom's kind of been on autopilot since James died a few weeks ago. She does things; she never stops doing things, and it doesn't matter if they need to be done.

I can't get Dad's expression out of my head. He wasn't angry or bewildered. He was sad. I'd rather he'd been angry. I wish he'd shaken his head in disappointment and told me that when we got home, I was really going to get it. I'd be grounded and the Smart car taken away and no more television or video games or going to see Cami. But you don't punish the dying. You don't ground those who are about to go in the ground. And he thinks I still have almost a year and a half left. How can I tell him and Mom that I don't?

Principal Wiggins explained what happened. Dad listened, nodding his head and not once looking at me with the outrage she was expecting. Then he asked me to step into the hallway for a moment while he talked to her in private. When the office door opened and I was invited back inside, she wasn't looking at me with that “I'm disappointed in you” expression anymore. The woman who had been pissed at me a few minutes earlier, ready to refer me to both grief counseling and anger management, looked at me like she was . . . sorry. She promised not to share my “condition” with anyone else and changed my two-week suspension to three days. Dad went back to work. I told him that I would take my time getting home, since there were still a few hours of school, and it might be good to wait until he got there to tell Mom about my suspension.

I wasn't sure where to go. And then I found myself here. It's not quite the same as visiting Connor's grave, but it's close.

“There you are,” Cami shouts from beneath the overhang of the concession stand. She runs across the field, and by the time she reaches the locker rooms just past the end zone, rain clings to the curls in her hair, and her soaked T-shirt is pressed against her body.

“Why aren't you all wet?” she asks, once she's safely beneath the overhang.

“I was here before it started raining,” I say, watching her shiver. “Come on.”

The door labeled
HOME TEAM
is locked, but Connor had a key to it. I try a few different keys on the key ring until one opens the door.

I'm not sure what I'm expecting when I go inside. I mean, this is the home of the Mighty Panthers, but it really looks like a giant, glorified bathroom. There are sinks along one wall. Above them is one oblong window with frosted glass. Toward the back of the room, there's a dry-erase board and two rows of benches.

“Give me your shirt,” I tell Cami. She hesitates, then sees the automatic hand dryers on the wall. She peels the T-shirt off. I mean to look away, but I don't. I see the white skin of her belly leading to the thin skin-colored bra she's wearing, and I can't look away. I take off my own shirt, and still staring, hand it to her. Then I hold her shirt up to the dryer. “How'd you find me?” I ask.

“Your dad called. He told me what happened. He's worried about you, so I told him I'd try to find you. Even though your car is kind of little, it's easy to spot in a pretty empty parking lot. And don't worry. I already called and told him I found you.”

“Thanks, but aren't you supposed to be in class?”

“I'm in class: Kyle McAdams 101.” She smiles, looking adorable in my blue striped T-shirt. “I was lucky to get in, actually. It's considered advanced studies.”

“Really,” I say, pushing the button on the dryer again and shivering just a little at my own bare torso. “I had no idea I was so complex.”

Cami comes toward me, wraps her arms around my waist, and presses herself against my back so we can both benefit from the warmth of my shirt. Her hands are on my stomach. They feel amazing, driving everything from my mind except thoughts of her. She's still shivering. She steps away, slips her hands behind her back and under the shirt. Then she reaches into one sleeve and pulls out one strap of her bra, then does the same thing on the other side, only this time, her entire bra comes out the sleeve of my T-shirt. It's like the best magic trick I've ever seen.

“It's pretty wet,” she says, taking it to the other dryer and pushing the button.

I watch her, and all I can think is how much I wish I hadn't given her my shirt. Shit, I almost feel weak-kneed at the thought of her standing there, bare from the waist up, then I wonder if once her clothes are dry, she'll be able to use the same trick to put her bra back on. I don't think so. I could close my eyes. I should, but . . .

Cami starts laughing.

I push the button again and talk loudly over the noise. “What?”

“The expression on your face. You look like Josh right before he unwraps his birthday presents.”

My face is heating, and I'm not sure if it's from the hot air blasting toward me or something else. “Are you implying that I want to unwrap you?”

She lays her bra across the sink, comes toward me, and takes her semidry shirt out of my hands. Her hands go back around my waist. My fingers slip into the damp curls of her hair, and I kiss her harder than I mean to, but I can't help it. She's kissing me. She loves me. Even with everything she knows. Even though
we
might not last because
I
might not last, she hasn't backed away. She's never backed away. I kiss her harder. The iron taste of blood starts to mingle with the taste of her.

Our lips part, and I stare into her face. I know it so well: the depth of her brown, almost black eyes, the subtle blush of her cheeks, the lips that aren't long and thin, but small and full and perfectly arched.

Cami's fingers grip the hem of the shirt she's wearing, and she begins to peel it away but hesitates. She's breathing deeply, and I know her heart is pounding, just like mine is. She starts moving her hands upward again, but I catch them in mine.

“Wait.” I pull the shirt down. “I love you. And I
want
you, but when we do it,
if
we do it, it won't be in a place like this. I'd have to be the world's biggest dick to take advantage of you in a locker room.”

Cami dons a look of confusion. “Did you say that you
are
the world's biggest dick or that you
have
the world's biggest dick?”

I laugh. I can't help it, and that's what I love about her—one of the many things I love about her. She's always trying to make me feel better. No matter what. I tightly grip her arms and shake her gently to make sure she's looking at me and knows that I'm serious.

“Camille,” I start, “I love you. I am in love with you.”

She takes my face in her hands. “I love you, but don't call me Camille. I hate being called Camille.”

Moments.

I don't think it is the number of years a person lives that matters, but the number of moments they experience and how those moments come together to form who you are, or were, and what your life meant. This is a moment. Standing in the stadium locker room, the rain pounding against the metal roof. With Cami's hands pressed against my cheeks and her eyes smiling and weeping at the same time, because she loves me.

I kiss her. The taste of fear and love and optimism is intoxicating, and I wish I could drink this moment, this kiss, into my body somehow and taste it forever.

It's too intense, and Cami steps away. She takes her nearly dry shirt and turns around. I watch as she pulls my shirt off, and without putting her damp bra back on, pulls her shirt over her body. Then she turns around.

“It's probably good that we didn't make love in here. If we did it on the floor, instead of athlete's foot, we might have gotten athlete's ass.”

I grimace in disgust, but laugh. “Whatever happens, I just don't want you to have any regrets.”

“You never answered my question.”

“What question?”

“Are you the world's biggest dick, or do you have the world's biggest dick?” She's smiling, blushing.

“Well.” I kiss the underside of her wrist. “Both would be true, actually. I mean, I am genetically enhanced.”