Rebecca York (28 page)

"We'll be careful."

They both got back into the car. When he glanced at Lindsay, he saw her sitting rigid in her seat.

Reaching out, he touched her arm. She kept herself completely open to him.

You see an ambush?

I don't think so. But I'm nervous about meeting her. I feel like we're going to find out something we don't want to know.

He felt the same thing and didn't bother to hide it from her. He kept his eyes on the road, but an image had come into his mind, and he couldn't dislodge it. An image he had secretly been fighting for days.

Himself as a toddler, sitting in a waiting room with his mother—surrounded by other mothers and children.

He had been there more than once, waiting for one of the nurses to call his mother's name.

They reached Mrs. Vanderlin's clapboard duplex but drove past and slowly up the street, looking at the cars. No one was paying any attention to them.

"Let's get it over with," Lindsay murmured.

As though both were reluctant to make contact, they didn't touch as they made their way up the walk, past neatly tended beds of irises and peonies, to the front porch.

Jordan fought the tightness in his throat as he rang the doorbell.

"Just a moment," a woman's voice called out.

When she opened the door, the breath froze in Jordan's lungs as he stared into a familiar face. It was older and more lined than he remembered, but he knew who she was without being told. One of the nurses from the clinic where he'd gone as a boy.

He hadn't known the name of the clinic on those long-ago visits. He hadn't known why they'd kept going back there. He'd just known he was going to see a doctor he didn't particularly like.

But he realized with a flash of insight that he shouldn't have been surprised that he and Todd Hamilton had something important in common. He should have picked up on the clues. Apparently he hadn't wanted to know what was right in front of his face.

Beside him, he heard Lindsay gasp. "You're ... you're Vandi..."

The woman beamed. "Oh. How charming. And you must be ... Lindsay ... Powell. I'm Mrs. Vanderlin.

That's right. I'd forgotten. But you used to call me Vandi, didn't you."

Beside him, Lindsay nodded dumbly.

"You've grown into a fine young woman. But why couldn't I ever find out about you?"

Lindsay spoke haltingly. "My ... my parents divorced when I was two. Then my mom remarried and my stepfather adopted me. I'm Lindsay Fleming now."

"Yes, that would explain why you dropped out of sight. What do you do—for a living?"

"I'm an aide to a U.S. senator."

As Jordan listened to the conversation, he felt like he had stepped into a Mother Goose fairy tale.

"That's wonderful," Mrs. Vanderlin was saying. "So many of the children never fulfilled their promise. But you and Jordan obviously did."

"Their promise?" he asked.

"Yes, but what am I thinking, keeping you standing out here on the porch? I'm getting old. Come in and sit down." She stepped aside and led them down a short hall into a fussy living room where an overstuffed couch and chairs squatted on a faded Oriental rug. The room looked like something out of the nineteenth century, except for the television set on a low table in one corner.

"Please, have a seat," she offered. "Can 1 get you anything. Tea? Coffee?"

"No, thank you," Lindsay answered, and Jordan heard the tension in her voice.

They sat on the overstuffed sofa—neither one of them wanting to share their own private thoughts.

"I've kept track of my children. I thought of them as my children, you know. I kept a list of everyone.

All two hundred and twelve babies who were conceived by the clinic's methods. The charity patients and the babies from the couples who could afford to pay."

"And our names were both on the list," Jordan clarified.

"Well, Jordan Walker and . .. Lindsay Powell."

Making a mental leap, he asked, "Did Leonard Hamilton get the list from you?"

Apparently that was too much for Lindsay because she reached out and grasped his hand. You're thinking Hamilton got us together—to see what would happen ?

Yeah.

The silent conversation had taken place in a flash. Mrs. Vanderlin was speaking. "Mr. Hamilton and I talked about the children. So many of them have met... untimely deaths."

Trying to cope with this new information, Jordan stared at her, "How many?"

"Well, at least fifty-seven of you are dead. Including Todd and Glenn Barrow."

"Glenn, Todd's friend, was one of... us?" Jordan asked.

"Why, yes."

So Leonard Hamilton found out I was Lindsay Powell. That meant he had to do some digging.

Why didn't our parents tell us how we were conceived?

It wasn't common back then. Maybe they were embarrassed. You know—egg and sperm meeting in a petri dish.

Or maybe they signed a confidentiality agreement.

Mrs. Vanderlin broke into the silent conversation. "Mr. Hamilton had such high hopes for Todd. He thought that the doctor's method would get him a superintelligent heir."

"Wait a minute," Jordan interjected. "You said Dr. Remington was running a fertility clinic—for couples having trouble conceiving."

"Well, most of his patients were couples who could only conceive by in vitro fertilization, of course. But that wasn't the secret purpose of the program. He took so many charity patients so he'd have more embryos to work with."

Both Jordan and Lindsay leaned forward. "What was the purpose?" he asked.

"To create children with exceptional intellect. Dr. Remington offered his fertility services so he would have access to eggs and sperm. Except in the case of a few parents like Mr. Hamilton who were willing to pay for an intelligent child. Basically, after the doctor carried out the in vitro fertilizations, he operated on the blastocyte, to enhance brain development. It's a shame he didn't live to see the project through."

Jordan felt like somebody had aimed a jackhammer at his chest. So he and Lindsay were part of some nutball mad scientist's brain experiment.

"What happened to Dr. Remington?" Lindsay asked, her voice high and breathless, and he didn't need telepathy to know she was experiencing the same shock that he felt.

"He died of a heart attack. I think because he couldn't take the disappointment when the Crandall Consortium canceled his funding."

Jordan already knew the heart attack part. He hadn't known about the connection to the same organization that ran Maple Creek.

Crandall! The silent exclamation echoed from his mind to Lindsay's and back again.

"How did you know the Crandall Consortium was funding him?" Jordan asked, managing to sound amazingly calm.

"That nice man from the agency would come to the clinic for progress reports."

"Do you happen to remember his name?"

She thought for a moment. "I believe it was Kurt MacArthur."

More shocks to absorb. He knew from his computer research that Kurt MacArthur now headed Crandall. That was one of the few facts he'd uncovered. So back then— had he been a hit man?

"What was their interest in the experiment?" Lindsay whispered.

Mrs. Vanderlin looked uncertain. "I think it had something to do with the Russians—beating us in the science race. But Mr. Crandall wasn't satisfied with the IQ results. That's a shame, because some of the children have been outstanding in their fields." She beamed at Jordan. "Like you. You've done so well for yourself. And you, Lindsay. Working for a senator—that's an important job."

"So how did you end up with the clinic's records?" Jordan asked.

"Oh, no. You have the wrong idea. I don't have all the records. Not the scientific information. I think Mr. MacArthur took that away. But I had lists of the families and the children. I kept those."

Lindsay's fingers gripped his.

She seems nice. But is she trying to sell us a bill of goods?

We could try fofind out.

Turning all his focus on Mrs. Vanderlin, Jordan strove to penetrate her mind. He'd only tried the process with Lindsay. Mrs. Vanderlin was an unknown quantity to him.

He couldn't tell what she was thinking, maybe because she'd knocked the stuffing out of him with her revelation. He was still trying to come to grips with the information that they hadn't randomly been born with a special talent. Dr. Remington's experiments had given it to them—by accident. If Mrs. Vanderlin knew what she was talking about.

Her thoughts remained inaccessible to him, but he did get the sense that she was telling the truth—as she knew it. At least he was picking up a sense of integrity from her.

She was still speaking. "Sometimes I wonder if the doctor made a mistake with what he was doing.

Some of the children have gotten into such awful trouble. I know some who drank themselves to death or who took drugs."

Yeah, to blot out the buzzing in their brains. Jordan sent the silent message to Lindsay.

"Some of them deliberately committed suicide," the old woman mused. "The saddest was when two of them killed themselves together. That happened a few times. It was strange—don't you think? That two of my children would get together, but they'd decide to take that awful step."

Jordan winced. He and Lindsay were both remembering when they had first made love, remembering the sensation of walking a tightrope between ecstasy and madness. They'd come out of it with their sanity. It seemed that others had not.

He was feeling shaky now. So was Lindsay.

"This is a lot to take in," he told Mrs. Vanderlin.

"Of course. But it's wonderful that you're doing a book on fertility technology."

He'd forgotten all about the excuse he'd given. "Perhaps we'll come back and talk to you later," he muttered.

"I'm so glad to find the two of you doing so well."

"Thanks."

"Why don't you tell me where you're staying—in case I think of something else important?"

Jordan hesitated. "I can't remember the name of the place," he fibbed. Instead, he gave her his card, knowing he wouldn't be home anytime soon.

He and Lindsay stood. "It was wonderful seeing you again," they both said.

"Yes." The old woman started to heave herself out of the chair.

"No need to see us out. We can do that ourselves," Jordan said.

They gripped hands, as much to steady each other as anything else. Walking back to the car, he felt as though only the connection with Lindsay was anchoring him to reality.

They both collapsed into the front seat.

He felt sick and angry. He knew Lindsay felt the same. Well, not as bad. He was supposed to be an investigative reporter—but he'd completely ignored clues that should have set off alarm bells.

You didn't know, she murmured in his head.

I damn well should have been able to fit the pieces together.

Don't beat yourself up. Help me understand what's going on. How did the Crandall Consortium get mixed up in this—thirty years ago—and now? she asked.

"I think Todd figured out what we couldn't."

"He had more time. He dug into his past and connected the dots. Probably he and Glenn did it together."

"Okay. I'll give you that."

"He found out what was wrong with him because his father told him about the Remington Clinic. And our parents kept it to themselves."

"How do you know?"

"I'm guessing that Leonard Hamilton threw it in his face. 'I paid all that money to get an heir worthy of the Hamilton fortune. And you failed me.'"

Jordan nodded. Lindsay's theory made sense. "So Todd dug into the background of the diabolical clinic.

Maybe to get ammunition to use against his father."

'Don"i call it diabolical."

"Do you prefer unethical? Based on a lie? An experiment that delivered children who couldn't fit into society?"

He started the car. "Let's get out of here."

"I want to ask some more questions about Todd," she said as he headed back to their motel. "Either his father told him about the Crandall Consortium's funding of the Remington Clinic, or he dug that out for himself. Then he started investigating what Crandall was funding now?"

"Right."

"I assume that he wanted to strike out at Crandall for what they'd done to him. Maybe he was even striking out at his father."

She reached for his hand. "At least he found Glenn. I have to believe they were happy together."

"But it got them killed." Jordan cleared his throat. "Christ, it's a tragedy that we can't talk to him."

"Yes."

"I'd like to ask how it was for him—the buzzing in his brain and then finding Glenn Barrow."

"Two men who were as close as you and I are. I wonder what the chances were that he'd find another homosexual in the group."

"Probably not high."

The talk with Mrs. Vanderlin had shaken them both. He felt manipulated by Dr. Remington, by the Crandall Consortium, by Leonard Hamilton. Yet at the same time he was profoundly grateful that Hamilton had brought him together with Lindsay.

"Yes," she murmured, pressing her hand over his.

Once they were inside the room, she turned and held out her arms, and he went into them. When she lifted her face, his lips came down on hers for a savage, hungry kiss.

They devoured each other, the need between them building, even as they exchanged urgent information.

What are we going to do?

Get the Crandall Consortium off our backs.

Do you think they know we were on the list?

Probably they know about me. Maybe not you.

But they know I'm involved now.

He caught her desperation—her need for sexual contact. It mirrored his own. The longer they were together, the tighter the link that bound them. And the more unthinkable was separation.

Leonard Hamilton had brought them together.

Too bad we can't thank the man. In the next second he wished the thought hadn't flitted into his mind, because he felt her guilt when she focused on Hamilton.

Sorry.

It's hard to censor thoughts.

Her answer wafted below the surface, submerging in the need for physical contact. He tore at her clothing, getting her naked as fast as he could. And she was intent on doing the same.