Origin in Death (19 page)

"Association of both places of employment to Icove, Wilfred B., Sr.; Icove, Wilfred B., Jr.; Wilson, Jonah; and Samuels, Eva or Evelyn."

"She's not their child," Roarke put in. "Not biologically. She's the image of Deena Flavia."

"Breed them and sell them. Breed and sell. Sons of bitches. Manipulate the genes-make them perfect, made to order. Train, educate, program them. Then sell them."

He reached out, instinctively rubbing her shoulders. "Would she have wanted the child, do you think? Or just revenge."

"I don't know. Depends on what drives her harder. Maybe she figures on getting both."

The computer came back, listing all four names with connections to the locations in Argentina.

"Computer, start search and match images. Any graduate of Brookhollow Academy or College with current students. List all data on all results."

Working . ..

"Let it task," Roarke said softly. "Let's get some sleep. You'll need a clear head tomorrow. I assume you're going to New Hampshire." "Damn right I am."

She was up at dawn, and still Roarke was up and dressed ahead of her. With a grunted greeting she trudged into the shower, ordered jets on full at one-oh-one degrees, and boiled herself awake. She hit the drying tube, gulped down the first cup of coffee, and felt nearly human.

"Eat something," Roarke ordered, and switched from the finance reports on-screen to the morning media cast.

"Something," she repeated from inside her closet.

When she stepped out, he glanced at the clothes she'd grabbed and said, "No."

"No, what?"

"Not that outfit."

If the term aggrieved had an image beside its definition, it would have been her face. "Oh, come on."

"You plan to pay an official visit to an exclusive boarding school. You want to look authoritative."

She tapped the weapon holster she'd hung over the back of the chair "Here's my authority, Ace."

"A suit."

"A what?"

He sighed, rose. "You do know the concept, and you happen to own several. You want power, prestige, simplicity. You want to look important."

"I want to cover my naked ass."

"Which is a shame, I grant you, but you may as well cover it well. This. Clean lines, and the dull copper color adds punch. Wear it with this." He added a scooped-neck top in a kind of muddy blue. And go crazy, Eve. Wear a bit of jewelry."

"It's not a fricking party." But she pulled on the pants. "You know what you need? You need a droid, a dress-up droid. Maybe I'll buy you one for Christmas."

"Why settle when I already have the real thing?" He opened the jewelry vault in her closet and selected etched gold hoops for her her and a sapphire cabochon pendant.

To save time and aggravation, she dressed as ordered. But she balked when Roarke made a little circle in the air with his finger.

"Pushing your luck, pal."

"It was worth a try. You still look like a cop, Lieutenant. Just a very well tailored one."

"Yeah, the bad guys will be awed by my fashion sense." "You'd be surprised," he replied.

"I've got work."

"You can call up the search results right here and eat some breakfast. If a machine can multitask, so can you."

It didn't feel quite right, but then neither did the suit. But since he was already giving the order, she programmed a bagel from the AutoChef.

"You can do better than that."

"I'm stoked." Her office wasn't the only place she could pace, she reminded herself, and began to do so while biting into the bagel. "Something's going to come."

"Data on-screen then."

Acknowledged. Match one of fifty-six . ..

"Fifty-six?" Eve stopped pacing. "That can't be right. Even figuring the amount of time, number of students, you wouldn't have so many visual matches. You can't... wait."

She stared at match one.

Delaney, Brianne, DOB February 16, 2024, Boston, Massachusetts. Parents Brian and Myra Delaney nee Copley. No siblings. Married Alistar, George, June 18, 2046. Offspring: Peter, September 12, 2048; Laura, March 14, 2050. Resides Athens, Greece.

Matched with O'Brian, Bridget, DOB August 9, 2039, Ennis, Ireland. Parents Seamus and Margaret O'Brian nee Ryan. Both deceased. No siblings. Legal guardianship to Samuels, Eva, and upon her death Samuels, Evelyn. Currently enrolled and residing Brookhollow College, New Hampshire.

"Computer, pause. She had a kid at twelve?" Eve asked.

"It happens," Roarke said, "but-"

"Yeah, but. Computer images only, split screen, magnify fifty percent.'

Working . . .

As they came on, Eve stepped closer. "Same coloring, that's fine. The red hair, the white skin, freckles, green eyes. I'd say the odds are reasonable for those inherited traits. Same nose, same mouth, same shape of the eyes, the face. I bet you could count the fricking freckles and get the same number for each. Kid's like a miniature of the woman. Like a ..."

"Clone," Roarke finished quietly. "Christ Jesus."

Eve took a breath, then another. "Computer, run the next match.

It took an hour, and the sickness came into the center of her being and lay there like a tumor.

"They've been cloning girls. Not just messing with DNA to boost intellect or appearance. Not just designing babies or tuning them up physically, intellectually, to enhance. But creating them. Flipping off international law and creating them. Selling them. Some into marriage," Eve continued, staring at the screen. "Some into the market place. Some created to continue to work. Doctors, teachers, lab techs thought they were designing babies, training LCs. But it's worse, worse than both."

"There are rumbles now and then about underground reproduce cloning research, even the occasional claim of success. But the laws are so strict, so onerous and universal, no one's come out and proved it.

"How does it work? Do you know?"

"Not precisely. Not remotely, actually. We do some research cloning-well within the parameters of the law. For tissue, organs. A cell implanted in a simulated female egg, triggered electrically. If it's privatized, as ours would be, the cells are donated by the clients, who would pay handsomely for the generated replacement tissues, which would have no risk of being rejected after transplant. I'd have to gather that in reproductive cloning, you'd have cells, and actual eggs-once merged- would be implanted in a womb."

"Whose?"

"Well, that's a question."

"I've got to get this to the commander, get the go-ahead and get to the school. You can fill Louise in on this."

"I can."

"He'd have made billions on this," Eve added.

"Grossed."

"I'll say it's gross."

"No, no." It was a relief to laugh. "Gross income. It would cost-has to cost enormously to run the labs, develop the technology, the school, the network. The net income would be substantial, I'd think, but Eve, the cost, the risk? I think you're looking at a labor of love."

"You think?" She shook her head. "We've got nearly sixty on record now attending the Academy. There must be hundreds more, already graduated. What happened to the ones that didn't come out exactly right? How much do you think he loved the ones that weren't perfect?"

"That's a hideous thought."

"Yeah. I've got a million of them."

She took time to put it together into a report, to contact Whitney and request an early briefing. She tagged Peabody on the way to Central and arranged to pick up her partner.

Peabody hopped into the car, tossed her hair. It was longer by a good four inches and did a kind of flip at the tips.

"McNab truly spiked on my hair. I've got to remember to shake things up more often."

Eve gave her a cautious sidelong glance. "It makes you look girly."

"I know!" Obviously pleased with the comment, Peabody snuggled back in her seat. "And it was great being a girl after I got home last night. He went ape shit over the papaya boob cream."

"Stop now, save us both. We've got a situation."

"Figured you didn't offer to pick me up to save me a fight with the subway."

"I'm going to brief you on the way, then the commander. We'll have a full briefing-EDD included-at ten hundred."

Peabody said nothing as Eve ran through the data she'd gathered overnight. Her silence carried through into the garage at Central.

"No questions, no observations?"

"I'm just... absorbing, I guess. It's so contrary to my makeup. My DNA, I guess you could say. The way I was raised, taught. Creating life is the job of a higher power. It's our job, our duty and our joy, to nurture life, protect and respect it. I know that sounds Free-Agey but-"

"It's not so far off from what I think. But personal sensibilities aside, human reproductive cloning is illegal under the laws of New York, the laws of the country, and the laws governing science and commerce on and off planet. Evidence indicates the Icoves broke those laws. And their murders, which is our domain, were a direct result of that."

"Are we going to have to turn this over to the- Who handles this kind of thing? The FBI? Global? Interplanetary?"

Eve's face was set as she slammed out of the vehicle. "Not if I can help it. I want you to hit research mode. Get everything you can on human cloning. Technical areas, legal areas, equipment, techniques, ct bates, claims, histories, myths. We want to know what we're talking about when we get to Brookhollow."

"Dallas, with what you found out, we're going to find them up there. Some of them are just kids. They're just kids."

"We'll deal with it when we come to it."

Whitney wasn't as reticent as Peabody, and peppered Eve with questions throughout her report.

"This is a Nobel Prize winner, Lieutenant, whose memorial service, scheduled for fourteen hundred this afternoon, will be attended by heads of state, worldwide. His son, whose reputation and acclaim were rising to match his father's, will be similarly honored next week. New York will hold both these events, and the security, the media- the fucking traffic details are already a nightmare. If a whiff of this leaks, it could go beyond nightmare into the realm of international clusterfuck."

"It won't leak."

"You better be damn sure of that, and damn sure of your facts."

"Fifty-six matches, sir, through Brookhollow Academy alone. I believe many if not all of these correspond to the coded files Icove Sr. kept in his apartment-his currents, so to speak. He worked closely with a geneticist, and was, at one time, a vocal proponent of genetic manipulation."

"Genetic manipulation is a thorny area. Human cloning is a dark, dank forest. The ramifications-"

"Commander, the ramifications already involve two deaths."

"The ramifications will echo beyond your two homicides. Political, moral, religious, medical. If your allegations are fact, there are existing clones, many of them minor. For some, they'll become the monster, for others the victims." He rubbed his eyes. "We'll need some expert legal opinions on this. Every agency from Global to Homeland is going to jump on this."

"If you notify them of the recent findings, they'll take it from us. They'll shut down the investigation."

"They will. What's your objection?"

"They're my homicides, Commander."

He was silent a moment, watching her face. "What's your objection, Lieutenant?"

"Beyond that, and that is my primary objection, sir. It's... It needs to be stopped. Government-any government puts their finger in this pie, they're going to want to pull out a plum. More hidden research, more experimentation. They'll sweep all this under the rug, and put everything we've found under the microscope. They'll Code Blue it, and block the media, block the information. The Icoves will be memorialized with all honors, and the work they did in the dark will never come to light. The .. . the subjects," she said for lack of a better term, ''created will be rounded up and examined, debriefed, confined, and questioned. They were manufactured, sir, but they're blood and bone like the rest of us. They won't be treated like the rest of us. Maybe there's no stopping that, no way to prevent that from happening, but I want to follow this through. Until I've got nowhere else to go." He laid his palms on the desk. "I'll need to bring Tibble into this.' Eve nodded. "Yes, sir." They could hardly circumvent channels without the knowledge of the chief of police. "I think APA Reo could be useful, in the legal areas. She's smart, and ambitious enough to keep the lid on until it's time to take it off. I've used both Dr. Mira and Dr. Dimatto as medical experts thus far in the investigation. Their input could also be useful. I'll need a warrant for records at the school and would like to take Feeney or his pick with me to go through data on-site."

He nodded. "Consider this investigation as Code Blue status. Need-to-know only, full media block. Put your team together." He glanced at his wrist unit. "Brief in twenty."

Chapter Eleven

SHE’D ALTERED HER APPEARANCE. SHE WAS GOOD at it. Over the past twelve years she'd been many people. And no one. Her credentials were impeccable- meticulously generated, flawlessly forged. They had to be.

Brookhollow Academy was red brick and ivy-no contemporary glass domes or steel towers, but dignity and blue-blooded tradition. It was expansive grounds, sturdy trees, lovely gardens, thriving orchards. There were tennis courts and an equestrian center, two of the sports deemed suitable for Brookhollow students. One of her classmates had won Olympic gold in dressage at the tender age of sixteen. Three years before she'd been sent away to marry a young British aristocrat as keen on horses as she.

They were created for a purpose, and they served that purpose. Still she'd been happy to go, Deena remembered. Most of them were.

Deena didn't begrudge them their happiness, and would do all she could to protect the lives those like her had built.

But every war had its cost, and some might be exposed. Still more would finally, finally taste the freedom that had forever been denied them.

What of those who had resisted, or failed, or questioned?

What of them?

For them, and the others to come, she'd risk anything.

Here at the Academy, there were three swimming pools-two indoors-three science labs, a holo-room, two grand auditoriums, a theater complex that rivaled any on Broadway. It boasted a dojo and three fitness centers as well as a fully staffed clinic for healing and for teaching. Inside its walls was a media center where students earmarked for media careers trained, and yet another studio for music and dance.

Twenty classrooms with live and automated instructors.

There was a single dining hall, where the food was well-balanced-tasty, and served three times a day, precisely at seven A.M., twelve-thirty and seven P.M.

Midmorning and afternoon snacks were available in the solarium at ten and four.

She'd loved the scones. She had good memories of the scones.

The living quarters for the students were spacious and well decorated. If, at the age of five, you passed all the tests, you were moved into those quarters. Your memory of those first five years was... adjusted.

In time, it was possible to forget-or nearly-the experience of being a mouse in a maze.

You were given uniforms, and a suitable wardrobe. One that was designed to suit your personality type and background.

You had a background, somewhere. You'd come from something, though it was not what they gave you. It was never what they gave you.

Instruction was rigorous. A Brookhollow student was expected to excel, then to move on to the college, and continue. Until Placement-She herself could speak four languages fluently. That had been handy. She could solve complex math theorems, identify and date archaeological artifacts, execute a perfect double-gainer, and organize a state dinner for two hundred.

Electronics were like toys to her. And she could kill with efficiency, using a variety of methods. She knew how to pleasure a man in bed and could discuss interplanetary politics with him in the morning.

She had been intended not for marriage or mating, but for covert ops. In that, she supposed, her education had succeeded.

She was beautiful, had no genetic flaws. Her estimated life span was one hundred and fifty years. Which might be considerably extended through continued advancement in medical technology.

She had run at twenty, and had lived a dozen years in hiding, forging her way underground, honing the skills she'd been given. The thought of living another century as she had to this point in her life was her constant nightmare.

She did not kill coldly, however efficiently. She killed in desperation, and with the fervor of a warrior defending the innocent.

For this death, she wore a stark black suit custom-tailored for her in Italy. Money was no problem. She'd stolen half a million before she'd run. Since then, she'd accessed more. She could have lived well, avoided any detection. But she had a mission. In all of her life, she had only one.

And was well on the way to accomplishing it.

The starkness of the suit only made her look more feminine, and it set off the bright red of her hair, the deep green of her eyes. She'd spent an hour that morning subtly changing the contours of her face. A slightly rounder chin, a fuller nose.

She'd added a few pounds to her body, all of them curves.

The changes would be enough, or they wouldn't.

She wasn't afraid to die, but she was terrified of being taken. So she had what she needed in a capsule should she be identified and captured.

The father had allowed her to come in, had granted her audience, had believed her claim of loneliness and regret. He hadn't seen his death in her eyes.

But here, in this prison, they would know what she'd done. If they recognized her, her part was over. But there were others who would step forward if she fell. Too many others.

If there was fear in the back of her throat, her face was calm and serene. She'd learned that, too. Show them nothing. Give them nothing.

Her eyes met the driver's in the rearview mirror. She worked up a smile, nodded.

They paused at the gates for the security scan. Her heart tripped now. If it was a trap, she'd never go out those gates again. Dead or alive.

Then she was inside, winding through the lovely grounds. The trees, the gardens, the sculptures.

The main building loomed in front of her, five stories. Soft, soft red brick bedecked with ivy. Sparkling windows and gleaming columns.

The girls, she thought, and wanted to weep. Young and fresh and lovely, walking alone or in pairs, in groups, to other buildings. For instruction, for recreation.

For tests. For improvements. For evaluation.

She waited for the driver to park, to come around and open her door. Offer a hand. And hers was cool and dry.

She showed no reaction other than a small, polite smile when Evelyn Samuels stepped out of the great front door to greet her.

"Mrs. Frost, welcome to Brookhollow. I'm Evelyn Samuels, the head of the Academy."

"A pleasure to meet you at last." She offered a hand. "Your grounds and buildings are even more impressive in person."

"We'll give you the full tour, but please come inside for tea."

"That would be lovely." She passed through the doors, and her stomach curdled. But she glanced around, as a prospective parent might when visiting a school she considered for her daughter.

"I'd hoped you'd bring Angel, so we could get acquainted."

"Not yet. As you know, my husband has doubts about sending our daughter so far away to school. I prefer coming alone, this time."

"I have no doubt that between us we can convince him that Angel will not only be happy here, but benefit from a superlative education and community experience. Our great hall." She gestured. "The plantings were developed and nurtured through our horticultural programs, as are all our gardens. The art you see was created by the students themselves over the years. In this building, on this level, we have our administrative offices, our dining hall, solarium, one of our six libraries, the kitchens and culinary science areas. My day quarters are here, as well. I'd be happy to show you through now, if you like."

Her mind was screaming to get out, to run, escape, hide. She turned, smiled. "If you don't mind, I'd love that tea."

"Absolutely. One moment." She took out a pocket 'link. "Abigail, would you see that tea is set up in my quarters here for Mrs. Frost? Right away."

As Evelyn guided her, she gestured, explained.

How much the same she was, Deena thought. Starched and handsome, boasting of her school in her cultured voice. Moving efficiently, always efficiently. She wore her hair short and soft now, and in a quiet brown. Her eyes were dark and sharp. The eyes were the same. Ms. Samuels's eyes.

Eva Samuels's eyes.

Deena let the words buzz in her ears. She'd heard all of it before, when she was a prisoner. She saw girls, neat as dolls in their blue and white uniforms, speaking in undertones as was expected in the great hall.

Then she saw herself, so slim, so sweet, coming gracefully down the steps from the east wing. She trembled once-only once was allowed- and deliberately looked away.

She had to pass the child, so close she could smell her skin. She had to hear her voice as she spoke: "Good morning, Ms. Samuels. Good morning, ma'am."

"Good morning, Diana. How was your cooking class?"

"Very good, thank you. We made souffles."

"Excellent. Mrs. Frost is visiting us today. She has a daughter who may join us at Brookhollow."

She made herself look, made herself look into the deep brown eyes that were her own. Was there calculation there, as there had been in hers? Was there the rage and the determination, bubbling, boiling under that serene surface? Or had they found a way to smother it?

"I'm sure your daughter would love Brookhollow, Mrs. Frost. We all do."

My daughter, she thought. Oh God. "Thank you, Diana."

There was a slow, easy smile, and their eyes held one more instant before the child said her good-byes and walked away.

Her heart bounded. They'd known each other. How could they not? How could you look into your own eyes and not see?

As Evelyn led her away, she glanced over her shoulder. So did the child. Their eyes locked again, and there was another smile, a full one, a fierce one.

We'll get out, Deena thought. They won't keep us here.

"Diana is one of our treasures," Evelyn said. "Bright and questing, Quite athletic, too. While we focus on giving all our students the most well-rounded of educations, we do comprehensive testing and evaluations so we're able to showcase their strengths and main areas of interests."

Diana, was all she could think with emotions cartwheeling through her. But she said the right things, made the right moves, and was shown into Samuels's quarters.

Students were only admitted to this sanctuary when they were particularly good, or had committed some major infraction. She'd never been through the door.

She'd been very careful to blend.

But she'd been told what to expect, had been given the precise layout and specifications. So she concentrated on it now, on what needed to be done now, and forced all thought of the child away.

The suite was decorated in the school colors-blue and white. White walls, blue fabrics. White floor, blue rugs. Two windows west-one double window south.

It was soundproofed, contained no cameras.

There was security, of course, windows and door. And Samuels wore a wrist unit that held a communicator. There were two 'links, one for the school, one private.

A wall screen, and behind the screen a vault that held files on all students.

Tea was spread on a white table. Blue dishes, white cookies.

She took the chair she was offered, waited until Samuels poured tea.

"Why don't you tell me more about Angel?"

Despite her efforts, she thought of Diana. "She's my heart."

Evelyn smiled. "Of course. You mentioned she shows artistic abilities."

"Yes, she enjoys drawing. It gives her great pleasure. I want her happy, more than anything."

"Naturally. Now-"

"What an interesting necklace." Now, she thought, do it now, before you sicken. "May I?"

Even as Evelyn glanced down at the pendant, Diana was rising from her chair, leaning forward as if studying the stone. The scalpel was in her hand.

And into Evelyn's heart.

"You didn't recognize me. Evelyn," she added as Samuels gaped at her. Blood trickled onto her crisp white blouse. "You only saw what you expected to see, just as we thought. You perpetuate this obscenity. But then, you were created for that, so maybe you can't be blamed. I'm sorry," she said as she watched Evelyn die. "But it has to end."

She rose, sealing her hands quickly, moving to the screen. She found the control where she'd been told it would be, opened it, then used the decoder she'd tucked in her purse to unlock the vault.

She took every disc. She wasn't surprised or displeased to find a substantial amount of cash as well. Though she preferred electronic funds, paper would always do.

She relocked the vault, swung the screen back in place, secured it.

She left the room without a backward glance, set the privacy mode.

Unhurriedly, pulse galloping, she walked out of the building t: where the car and driver waited.

She breathed, just breathed as they drove toward the gates. When they opened, the pressure on her chest lifted a fraction.

"You were quick," the driver said softly.

"It's best to be quick. She never knew me. But... I saw Diana, and she did. She knew,"

"I should have done this part."

"No. The cameras. Even with an alibi, you couldn't beat the cameras. I'm smoke. Desiree Frost is already gone. But Avril Icove." She leaned up in the seat, squeezed Avril's shoulder. "She still has work to do."

The push of his name, and the considerable billions behind it, bagged Roarke a ten o'clock meeting with the acting CEO of the Icove Center.

"It'll be informal, and very preliminary," he told Louise as they were driven through ugly traffic. "But it gets us in the door."

"If Dallas is on the right track, the repercussions are going to be staggering. Not only the technology that's been developed underground, the explosion of the Icoves' reputation, and of this facility and all the others involved, but for God's sake, Roarke, the ethical, legal, moral dilemma of dealing with the clones themselves. Medical, legislative, political, religious wars are inevitable. Unless it can be buttoned up, covered up."

He shifted to face her, lifted a brow. "Is that what you'd chooser'

"I don't know. I admit, I'm torn. As a doctor, the science of it fascinates. Even bad science is seductive."

"Often more so."

"Yes, often more so. The debate on artificial twinning crops up from time to time, and while I'm opposed to it on a basic level, it's powerful stuff. In the end, too powerful. And too fraught. Replicating human beings in a lab, selecting traits, eliminating others. Who decides what are the parameters? What of the failures, as there must be in any sort of experimentation of procedures. And again, if she's on track, what of the temptation a man as reputable as Icove allegedly gave in to-to use those clones as commodities?"