And I think of the one overriding question I didn’t ask.Why me?
I stuff the photos back into the envelope. I don’t want to look at Amy’s face staring at me with the force of an accusation. With a jolt, I notice how my hands are shaking. I can perform the most elaborate surgeries under the most daunting pressures, and yet I can’t seem to cope right now.
Amy is my only child. I can’t lose her. Not like I lost my wife.
The only reason I survived that loss was because Amy clung to me so tightly she stopped me from drifting off into the darkness that threatened to bury me.
I have to be sure the man is telling the truth. I try dialing Amy’s cell phone, but it goes straight to voice mail. I have a key to her house so I drive there immediately. The guard at the gate knows me and lets me through.
Her house is in darkness.
That’s when I know the pictures aren’t a lie, that my daughter has been kidnapped, because Amy is so terrified of the dark she always leaves a light on. Always.
Defeated, I head back home.
Nursing a tumbler of whiskey, I finger the hefty information pack the man purposefully left behind, pages and pages of alternative methods to animal testing—in vitro research, non-invasive imaging techniques, computer modeling, human clinical studies, and so on.
I shake my head. The man is mistaken. These so-called alternative methods complement, rather than replace, the use of animals in research. None of the alternatives are sophisticated enough to duplicate the full biological system of a living being or predict all the complex interactions that take place within that system. Lab animals are indispensable to my progress.
I give a cursory glance to the leaflets listing reasons why animal experimentation is wrong, reinforced by pictures of mournful-looking monkeys reaching through the bars of their cages. A shiver scrapes its way across my nerve endings. I’d sooner deal with a mercenary than an ideologue.
I push the pack away. The man was wearing gloves so I don’t worry about messing up any fingerprint evidence. It appears he’s as thorough as he is insane.
Sick with fright, I stand.What am I going to do?
For the last thirty years, my existence has shrunk to studying the spinal cord. My daughter has, by necessity, slotted into that existence.
Now I’m being asked to give up my research. I think of the consequences if I do. And what would happen if I don’t.
I can’t give it up.
Abruptly, I remember the email I received a couple of weeks ago from Marius Boyd. The man has kept in regular contact ever since our first meeting nearly a year ago. I boot up my laptop, but it’s taking too long so I turn my drawers inside out looking for Marius’s business card. I finally find it buried under a file of research protocols.
I grip the edge of my desk, my fingers trembling.
Then I pick up my phone and dial a number I thought I would never have to use.
16
HEATHER
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Tuesday evening, July 13
Justin:Ready for your big day tomorrow?
Lying on the couch in the living room, I reread Justin’s text. Is that concern? Or is he checking up on me?
Upstairs, my sister is practicing her latest piece on the violin, the high, sweet notes drifting down the stairs. My dad is sitting in his armchair on my right, feet propped up on an ottoman, the newspaper a wall of depressing news obscuring his face. I hear my mom in the kitchen reorganizing the pantry.
It’s a typical evening in our home and I revel in the normality of it, because tomorrow will be anything but normal.
I look at Justin’s message again. Am I ready for my first day at SolomiChem?
Heather:As ready as I can be.
Justin:How many times did you go to the bathroom today?
