Charisma (19 page)

Shane hands his jacket to a valet who seems to materialize out of nowhere. Then he undoes a button of his shirt.

Dr. Gordon examines him. “Are you feeling well?”

Shane grins. “Just warm.” He waves down a passing
waiter and
snags a prawn that he dips in chili sauce and pops into his mouth.

Dr. Gordon looks at me. “You'll keep an eye on him?”

“Of course.” I'm surprised Dr. Gordon doesn't send Shane straight home, but maybe a dramatic fainting episode would spur donors.

Shane laughs. “Now we should go forth and inspire, right?”

Dr. Gordon leads us around the room, introducing us to Dr. This and CEO That, all with manicured hands and perfectly groomed hair, not a synthetic fiber in sight. When Dr. Gordon finally dismisses Shane and me, we load our plates with seafood and find our assigned seats at a table on an outside terrace overlooking the Hood Canal. Gentle notes of music drift along the sultry summer air. A well-dressed couple take their places across from us.

Shane seems to rise three inches off his seat. “You're Carlos Zahn, right?”

The man smiles and introduces himself and his wife. Shane informs me this is Seattle's star soccer player.

Carlos's expression is sympathetic. “So sorry you both have experienced such madness.”

I shrug it off, grateful he didn't point out that the madness was self-inflicted. “You must be used to dealing with reporters and crazies. How do you still have a life?”

He glances at his wife, Anna. “Having someone on my side helps.”

Anna lifts her chin. “Focus your attention on the positive. The more good you can offer, the more you'll receive. We're very interested in the promise of gene therapy, especially for children like our son, who has cystic fibrosis.”

Sally Sims must've seated us together on purpose. Anna and I launch into a discussion of AV719. It turns out her son is in the trial. I learn where it's taking place, but also that the security is unusually high. As I pump her for info, Dr. Gordon joins us. He peeks warily at Shane, whose face is flushed, and then turns to me. “Ready to say a few words to the guests, Aislyn?”

My throat goes dry. But Shane's in no condition to get in front of a crowd. I follow the doctor to the podium. My knees wobble slightly as I step up to the small stage. There must be over two hundred investors surrounding me. Most smile expectantly as Dr. Gordon tells them how someone like me, desperate for the benefits of gene therapy, risked participating in a “premature” experiment. No mention of his daughter's involvement, which shouldn't be a surprise; powerful people operate by different rules.

After enthusiastic applause, I clear my throat and peek at the faces. A twenty-something guy with pale skin and black hair stands near the edge of the crowd, grimacing. His heavy glare causes my chest to constrict, but I manage to get my words out.

“Hello, everybody. I'm the girl you never would've noticed before. Being invisible isn't something I'd recommend. What was unbearable, though, was not having a voice, not because folks wouldn't listen, but because I could not bring myself to speak.”

A few people nod; many simply cock their heads, waiting for more. The scowling guy steps forward, standing only ten feet away, hands in his pockets. When he catches my nervous glance, he inches closer, menace oozing from his eyes. Who is he? I glance around, but don't spot any burly guards among the silk and jewels.

I take a breath. “I couldn't stand up for myself, but what slayed me was that I couldn't stand up for my brother,
Sammy, who
has CF, which he says feels like drowning from the inside out. Whether or not you think gene therapy is worthwhile for debilitating personality traits, it's a game changer for life-threatening conditions like Sammy's. Scientists are testing gene treatments against AIDS, cancer, and a whole bunch of other diseases.” I gaze at Anna and Carlos Zahn, who smile in return.

As I tell stories of hope, I'm wary of the action in front of me. A woman in a blue blazer now hovers alongside the mean-faced guy and whispers to him. Are they working together or have I become completely paranoid? The grimacing guy snaps something at the woman, and, for a second, I'm afraid it'll come to blows. But then they make their way toward a door, almost as if the woman is shoving the guy. I breathe easier. This must be how security is handled at fancy parties.

Pasting on a smile, I conclude my speech to great applause. Still, as I make my way through hand-shakes and chit-chat with potential donors, I keep an eye out for eerie lurkers.

I'm sucked into a vortex of introductions to politicians and scientists, early retirees and media personalities. Cameras flash and toothy smiles beam. Bright-eyed guests toast to the prospect of gene therapy. A tiny spark of hope ignites—maybe someone will figure out a cure without taking back all of the good stuff Charisma has given me. Soon I'm surfing on their waves of excitement.

Until I reach Shane.

His skin has gone ashy and he wipes at sweat on his temples. He laughs with a female in a low-cut dress, but he shifts from one leg to the other as if he's trying to keep his balance.

I introduce myself to the woman and say to Shane, “We should leave soon.”

He puts a steaming arm around my shoulders and leans heavily onto me. “But the party's in full swing.”

“I think Dr. Gordon wants to chat about the latest research.” I excuse us from the woman and lead Shane out of the dining hall. In a harsh whisper, I say, “I don't care if you think your symptoms are from partying. You need to see someone now.”

In the foyer, where fewer people mill around, I grab Shane around his torso. His body burns.

I jolt backward. “You're so hot.”

He winks. “You finally noticed?”

I punch his arm.

He laughs. “All I really need is some fresh air. If that doesn't work, we'll talk to Dr. Gordon. Deal?”

“Fine.” I turn back toward the dining hall and spot the scary guy staring at us as he types on his phone. Guess it takes all kinds of people to fund research. I hurry Shane out a side door.

Under the early evening sky, Shane immediately perks up. Maybe fresh air really is all he needs. I start toward the water, drawn to the rhythmic waves.

We amble along the shore. The sun is almost to the horizon, but the air is still warm, more like the tropics than Seattle.

Shane points. “You know where I want to go? The clam spit. You and I could've made a kick-ass geoduck-harvesting team.”

I take off my shoes and carry them by the straps. “We would've made a terrible team. I thought Chloe dared you to harass me.” At the mention of Chloe's name, I feel a pull at my chest.

He grabs my hand. “Chloe's strong. They all are. It's been weeks and they're still stable. And either Nova or Vida will come up with a cure soon.” He stops and hugs me, more like a brother than any of his often tasteless comments would suggest. I bury my head into his chest, so comforting and warm. Too warm. “You really do have a fever, Shane. We should go inside.”

“I feel way better out here. A few more minutes, okay?”

We part, but he doesn't let go of my hand as we resume our trek along the water. It's comforting and reminds me how lucky I am to have him at my side through this.

A guard stands sentry at the fence where the institute's grounds end. Fortunately, the protesters haven't traveled this far down. We check in with the guard and promise to return in a few minutes.

On the clam spit, only a couple of beach-goers huddle on a massive driftwood log. Shane rolls up his pant legs so we can wade into lapping waves that scold us, slap, slap, slap. Or maybe that's just what I think I deserve.

I say, “Okay, don't freak, but I've had ear-ringing the past couple of days.”

He jolts. “Why didn't you say anything?”

“Why do you think?”

He shakes his head and glares at the sky. I pull him back toward the beach. The couple on the log stare our way, one of them tapping on a phone. When I gaze back, they turn toward each other.

“The sun'll set soon,” I say.

“Let's enjoy this for a while longer.” He doesn't have to add that with both of us experiencing symptoms, we should enjoy everything we can.

We alternate between hunting for skipping stones and hurling them into the waves. The couple rises from their log and faces the forested area nearby. One of them excitedly points to something in the greenery. I stretch my neck, trying to figure out what's there.

As if reading my mind, the shorter of the two turns to us and calls out in a girl's voice, “Eagles nesting!”

Shane increases his pace, heading their way. “I saw an eagle here last time. Let's check it out.”

Of course, he'll run after any adventure, even one as small as sighting an eagle in the wild. Every moment is so unbearably precious. Laughing quietly, we follow the couple into the trees, where the evening sun barely reaches. In the brush, more voices rustle.

“I hope they don't scare off the birds,” I whisper.

We tiptoe on bare feet along the path. We'll have to wash off before putting our shoes back on. But, really, who cares about dirty feet?

Shane pushes ahead through the ferns, probably ready to tell the others a thing or two about eagle watching. Twenty yards in, though, he halts abruptly. “What the—?”

I hop around him for a look. At first, I don't believe what I see. In a small clearing under a darkening sky, a handful of people hover, all wearing hoodies and masks that cover most of their faces. Predatory eyes fix in on us.

My insides go cold. This is no birding convention. More like a cult. The kind that sacrifices eagles instead of viewing them.

The tallest member of the group steps forward and holds out his arms wide, as if about to take flight. “Glad you could join us, Aislyn and Shane.”

I pull at Shane. “Run!”

He and I crash through foliage, but there's no chance. Two massive bodies spring from the trees and block us. Before I can scream, we're bound, gagged, and blindfolded. Rough hands yank my arms and push me forward. When I resist, someone hoists my legs and another person seizes me from under my armpits. They carry me through scratchy brush and then dump me onto a carpeted floor that rumbles with a running engine. There's another body next to mine, so warm it has to be Shane.

The van's doors slam and we take off on a bumpy road, Shane and I jostling into each other. I twist at the ties on my wrists, but can't loosen them. When I kick my legs at the door, someone grabs them and binds my ankles with prickly rope that digs into my skin. Oh God, are these protesters who've lain in wait for an “abomination” to destroy? I thrash like a bull, but can't loosen my bindings.

We ride for what seems like hours, toward who knows what. Bound and blindfolded, I fall into a consuming terror, far worse than any panic attack.

I scream against my gag, which only chokes me. Maybe if I calm down, whoever's taken us will say something. The van rumbles on and on, no way to calculate where we are. Or what these people want. With a renewed flash of horror I remember the messages I received to “share what I had” or how I should be treated like “vermin.” Oh God, oh God, oh God.

Waves of chill and heat wash over my body again and again. It takes all I have to control my gasps and avoid choking on the gag.

Finally, the car slows to a crawl and eventually stops. The screaming in my brain widens into a dark, hopeless canyon. Will this be how things end for us? Somewhere in a desolate ditch?

Every muscle in my body clenches when someone yanks my arms and cuts the tie binding my wrists. I flail but am clutched between vise-like, hairy arms that wrap around me from behind. Beery breath hot on my cheek has me cringing. The owner of the breath says, “The more you wiggle, the better I like it.”

I go still, waiting, pulse hammering.

There's grunting and thrashing nearby, before a few loud cracks lead to silence on the opposite side of the van. My heart lurches toward Shane and whatever they've done to him.

The floor vibrates as if someone else has climbed aboard. A voice with the smooth tone of the tall, skinny guy we saw in the woods says, “Hopefully, your visit with us will be brief. That all depends on you, of course.”

Brief, as in they'll kill us soon? My bones go to jelly.

Now the voice is in my face, cooing. “So, Aislyn, would you like to share what you have the boring way or the fun way?”

I shake my head violently, struggling against the massive body clenching me.

The voice says, “Aw, I was hoping for more cooperation. Oh, well.”

There's the sound of something snapping like a balloon. Then rubbery, gloved hands clamp my left arm, pulling skin as they straighten out my elbow. When I resist, there's a sharp slap to my cheek that has me seeing stars. I whimper through the gag.

A cold wash runs across my inner elbow. The smell of alcohol wafts over the musky smell of the thug behind me.

Something sharp pierces the inside of my elbow. I flinch. The needle pops out and stabs in again. And then again.

The voice growls, “This will be a lot easier if you stay still.”

I don't have much choice, since the large, sticky person clamps my arms and someone sits on my legs. But even with my body cemented in place, the needle pierces me a couple more times.

Finally, it remains within my flesh. The voice says, “Mmm. Looks like I found the sweet spot, precious.”

Precious? Who else called me that recently? A memory hovers at the edge of my brain. As my blood flows out over long minutes, my head becomes light and my thoughts fuzzy.

The voice hums. “You bleed so pretty. Only a few more vials to go.”

How much have they taken? My life is draining away. A life that has taken such unforeseen turns. All because of a stupid decision. Hot tears tumble onto my cheeks as I think of Jack, my friends, my mom, and Sammy. If only I'd understood the consequences of allowing Dr. Sternfield to do what she did. If only any of us had.

If only, if only, if only.

My hearing becomes fainter. Little flashes of light spark inside my eyelids. My brain fights to remain conscious, but my thoughts flutter off one by one into nothingness. Until all that's left is a sigh.