part of the dying process,” she says, “although I don’t think Edward was confessing as much as brag-ging about the success of his experiment.”
“Do you have his research?” I ask.
She leans forward, placing her hands on the edge of the desk. “Yes, Kyle. I do. Had he not taken a sudden and dras-tic turn for the worse, he might have had time to give it to 2 3 1
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someone else. He had a list of researchers he was considering, but he couldn’t decide. How do you know who to trust when your ultimate goal is mass murder?”
“So you don’t agree with your brother’s vision of the world?”
“No.” She presses her palms against the desk. “I suppose I understand his logic, but there must be more humane ways of dealing with humanity’s problems. I suppose someone as brilliant and intelligent as Edward was would look for the most intriguing and challenging ways to address a problem. And, perhaps, the most practical.”
Her eyes soften as her narrow face lights with memories.
“As children, Edward and I were fascinated by science. Our father was a scientist. He would tell us about his work sometimes, and it all sounded so intriguing. When Edward was only eight, he was diagnosed with a rare form of childhood cancer.
He went through years of treatment, sadly leaving him sterile.
I think that’s why he was so fond of all of you. He had pictures, so many pictures of you all—files filled with them—like you were his own children.”
“He killed us.”
“Yes,” she says, looking at me and offering no excuse or explanation. “After his illness, he became obsessed with medicine, with physiology and genetics. I, too, became fascinated with crossing the bridge between science and medicine. We both became doctors—scientists—but our interests took us down different paths. At first I respected his work. He was fascinated by the human genome, with the ability to create humans who 2 3 2
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wouldn’t have to suffer as he’d suffered. But then he started manipulating genes to create a different type of humanity. Not just healthy, but superior.” She shakes her head and gives a short, unbelieving scoff. “My work centers on helping people live full lives, but creating a ‘super’ race is just . . .” She sighs and folds her hands tightly together. “What I didn’t know until recently was that his research into gene manipulation was to help fund his other interests, his true research.”
“Killing people,” I finish for her.
“Yes.” She looks at me. “I still can’t believe what he did to you and the others. He only confided in me once his illness had progressed to the point that he found it difficult to function.
I was, at best, appalled. But by then, what could I do except beg him to give me access to his research? At first he refused.
I tried to trick him, tried to appeal to the vanity that scientists sometimes have, saying how awed I was by his work. How it would be an honor just to look at it. He saw right through me, even in the fog the pain medications created. But as his illness progressed, it was easier to manipulate bits of information out of him, until I finally knew where his research was and how to access it. I wish he had given it to me freely, but he knew I wouldn’t use it as he intended. He thought he still had time to find the right person, but he had a stroke.” She dabs at her eyes with her white sleeves.
Since walking into this old hospital, I’ve felt ghostly fingers running up and down my spine, my arms, the sides of my throat. Now I feel them gripping me, pulling at me. It’s like 2 3 3
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they can see the days counting down on my forehead, and they want me to join them, to be friends with them and haunt these wide halls together.
“Can you save me?”
Dr. Bartholomew considers my request, but it’s not a request.
“Save me,” I demand.
“I haven’t had the research for very long, and to be honest, much of it is difficult to decipher. I have a group of researchers, people I trust completely, going over it as we speak. Ever since I first learned of your existence, it has been my goal to save you. It seems the least