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"We'll find a cure!" Desmond got up and started pacing
the room. They were closer to a cure. When Gillian had been born, no one even knew what was wrong with her. The hybrid disease, combining his cursed blood and her mother's hereditary leukemia, flew in the face of established medical knowledge. As an infant, her violent rejection of her first bone marrow transplant had nearly killed her. She'd stayed in the intensive care unit for over a month.
Dr. Chen linked her reaction to an unusual antigen in her blood, one shared by Desmond and Philippe. When she'd grown older, and stronger, Desmond had acted as the donor for her next transplant. She hadn't rejected his bone marrow. Instead, she'd transformed it into cancerous cells, accelerating her disease's hold. They hadn't dared to risk another operation.
But Rebecca shared the antigen. And she had a normal metabolism. Desmond couldn't waste the opportunity.
"You risk everything for an impossibility," Philippe insisted.
"And I would risk more if I could! Gillian's life is at stake." Desmond narrowed his eyes, a horrible suspicion taking root. "Unless the risk is an excuse. You don't want her to live."
Philippe sucked in his breath. "Des— "
"I can't lose Gillian. I won't lose her."
Philippe unfolded his mirror shades and stood. Desmond made no move to stop him. The sooner Philippe was out of his home, the better. But Philippe wasn't done. "You know the terms of the curse. You love her. Therefore, she'll die."
"But she doesn't have to die now!"
"Toujours le maudit enfant gâté!" Philippe's eyes blazed dark fires. He clenched his fists, shattering the sunglasses. "Nothing ever changes. You want it all your way. But not this time."
Philippe threw the ruined lenses into the trash and stalked out.
Sinking into his chair, Desmond stared at the shattered plastic in the trash. He was not a spoiled child. Because of his curse, he would watch Gillian die. The alternative, that she would live a cursed life like his, was too horrible to contemplate. He didn't question the fact, just the timing. He wanted her to live before she died.
He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. The stress was getting to him. Desmond was so afraid of losing his daughter, he was in danger of losing his only real friend.
It was his own fault. Philippe would never understand. How could he, when he'd been raised by a grandmother who regularly beat him for no reason, insisting, "Don't you love me, boy."
Still, Philippe did have a point. A small one. Desmond had to look past Dr. Chen's research and Gillian's potential cure. What would happen when Rebecca left? They couldn't afford for her to share the details of the work being done here. Someone might guess the truth.
His gaze crossed the suitcase, lying on its side by his desk. It was probably too late for him to talk to her tonight, but he should still deliver her suitcase. She'd want clean clothes in the morning. He'd just get someone to watch Gillian, and then he'd go over to Rebecca's suite. Maybe, if he was lucky, she'd be awake.
REBECCA'S WATCH alarm woke her from an uneasy sleep at one in the morning. She opened her eyes to the reassuring glow of the overhead light. Time to make her escape. Now, before she had a chance to think about where she was, or what she planned to do.
She crept out of bed and pulled on her clothes. After this adventure, she'd have to consign her suit to the rag bag. It hadn't been designed for middle-of-the-night escape attempts, but it would have to do, since she wasn't about to run around in a slip and bare feet.
In the darkened main room of her suite, red and blue light filtered through the room's stained glass window. Her heart beat faster. There was barely enough light to keep her from tripping over the wicker furniture as she tiptoed to the entry. Holding her breath, she pressed her ear against the door and listened. Nothing. The Institute slept.
She jammed a terry cloth towel into the crack beneath the door, so no one would see her lights on and come to investigate. Then she flipped the wall switch and bathed the room in heavenly brightness.
She paused to take a shaky breath, before she lifted the cover off of the VCR. Her makeshift tools were hidden inside: a simple screwdriver that was no more than a straight piece of metal, four thin scraps of metal wrapped with wire that could act as clamps, a long cable with bare wire showing at the ends, and a hunk of the VCR's motor to use as a hammer, doorstop or last-ditch weapon. She took out the screwdriver and wrapped the rest in a hand towel.
Now, time to open up the keycard scanner. She fitted her makeshift screwdriver into the notch on the first screw and twisted. Then listened. No alarms sounded, so she continued turning. One screw came free. The second screw came free. Wait, was that a sound?
She pressed her ear to the door, not daring to breathe. Nothing. Could she hear anything, even if there was something to hear? Dismissing the unproductive worry, she returned to work. The third and fourth screws gave easily, but the cover didn't move. Why hadn't it fallen off the wall? She had to get it off, or her plan wouldn't work.
Running her fingers around the edge of the cover plate, she squeezed the metal. A concealed latch popped free, and the plate hinged down. She twisted it and popped the other latch.
The cover was off. She set it on the floor and smiled. Step one accomplished.
She opened the towel and picked up the cable and one of the clamps. Twining the cable wire with the wire on the clamp, she secured them to each other. Then she wedged the clamp into the heart of the wires and computer chips behind the scanner. She secured another clamp to the other end of the cable. Now for the tricky part.
Holding the cable as close to the end as she could without actually touching the clamp, she stretched it toward the electrical outlet. If she was right, the plastic sheath covering the cable would protect her from shock.
The clamp connected with the electrical outlet and slid inside, then all hell broke loose. She dropped the cable and covered her head as electricity arced and crackled through the scanner, blue-green sparks leaping from contact point to contact point. A high-pitched whine filled her ears, only to be drowned out by a flurry of popping. With a final snap that spit hot shards of metal onto her arms, the cable fell free and writhed about the floor.
She grabbed it and yanked. The cable pulled from the socket and went limp in her hand. Shaking, she dropped it on the floor. That was close. Too close.
