Beyond Control, page 23
“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 I 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 to find 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’t 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.
The bed was too far away. He wanted her, needed her now. When he lifted her naked body in his arms, she wrapped her legs around him, and he braced his shoulders against the door as he dove into her.
Orgasm was like a quick rush of joy. Of affirmation. Of relief.
When he thought his legs were working properly, he pulled out of her, then cradled her in his arms as he carried her across the room and laid her on the bed.
She snuggled against him, and for long moments they both drifted in feelings of contentment.
For a little while they relaxed together. Then he sensed her thoughts.
I have an idea.
He didn’t have to ask what. It was there in his mind.
Todd and his friend decided to go up against Maple Creek by themselves. What if we don’t have to do it alone? You said that we might have to protect ourselves against other people like us. But what if they want to work with us? What if we can find the others and tell them what happened? Get their help?
It was a plan. And for the first time he felt hope rise in his chest.
Do you think there are others who have bonded—who are already living their lives—together?
The Trinity twins. We know about them.
Jordan climbed out of bed again, brought his computer from the desk, hooked it into the phone line, and booted up.
While they waited for the machine to run through its initial routine, Lindsay asked, Do they have a Web site?
Everybody has a Web site.
I don’t.
Your boss, the senator, does.
He used Google to find the twins. Then clicked on the link. The front page opened with a starburst of color that faded to a picture of a dynamic looking man and woman standing shoulder to shoulder. Both had blond hair. The man wore an expensive navy suit. The woman was dressed in a demure white jumpsuit. He was handsome in the Nordic god sort of way. And she was an equally striking woman, her blond hair shimmering around her heart-shaped face. They looked cool and confident.
Linsday climbed off the bed and started gathering up her clothing. Jordan puttered around the site.
First he looked at the twins’ biography and laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Lindsay called from across the room as she pulled on her panties. Then pulled a T-shirt over her head.
“This piece of fiction.” When her head was visible again, he gestured toward the screen. “Come get a load of their bio. It’s totally made up. They talk about being descended from a long line of psychics who lived in Hungary and cultivated the ‘old ways,’ then passed on their gifts from generation to generation.”
“Maybe they are,” she countered, laying his clothing on the end of the bed.
“Are you keeping house?” he teased.
“Right. Even in a motel room.” She cleared her throat. “Maybe they do have Hungarian blood.”
“Come on. We know they got their psychic abilities the same way we did.”
“Maybe they have both. That would certainly give them an edge on everybody else.”
“I think the fact that they were together from birth gave them an edge. They bonded early.”
“Became sexual partners early?”
“I guess so.”
“It’s a little creepy. But I can see how it happened.”
He was about to make another observation when the screen rippled like a pool of water into which someone had thrown a stone.
“What the . . .”
“Jordan?”
Before he could finish the sentence, a blue-tinged hand emerged from the screen and grabbed him around the neck, choking off his breath.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
LINDSAY LOOKED AT Jordan, who had only moments before been speculating cynically about the Trinity twins.
His face was contorted. The skin red and blotchy.
Fear leaped inside her. “My God, what’s wrong?”
He didn’t answer. When he tried to speak, no words came out. Lindsay watched in horror as he raised his hands toward his throat and pulled at something she couldn’t see.
Jordan, what?
His lips moved, and she heard him scream in her mind.
Oh, Christ . . . The computer . . . The silent words choked off as he raised his hands—clawing at his own throat.
Something was choking off his life with horrible speed.
When his hands fell back to his sides and he slumped sideways, she knew that he couldn’t even defend himself—and she had only seconds to save him from death.
In those moments of terror her mind made crucial connections. He had gone to the Trinity Web site. And this horror was coming from them.
It didn’t make sense. But she knew on a gut level that if she looked at the screen, they would get her, too. What if she touched the computer? Was that just as deadly to her?
They could both die in the next few seconds. But what did it matter? Without him, she would only drift through her lonely existence. It hadn’t been so bad before. Now she knew the difference.
When she reached for the laptop, she felt a jolt of electricity travel up her arms.
The shock made her gasp, but she didn’t let go. Keeping her gaze averted from the machine and ignoring the horrible sizzling sensation that crackled through her body, she fumbled to spring the catch on the little clip that attached the phone line.
It wouldn’t move. She couldn’t do it with her hand because her fingers were too numb.
She wanted to scream in frustration. Instead, she focused her mind on the catch, squeezing the plastic with her thoughts instead of her fingers.
Maybe it took only nanoseconds. But it felt like centuries before the phone connector came free.
It was like slamming a metal door on a firestorm. The sizzling stopped. Jordan gasped in a breath.
She pushed the computer out of the way and turned back to him. He had sunk down against the pillows, sucking in air.
“Jordan? Say something, Jordan. I need to hear your voice.”
“I think . . . we’d better not consider Saxon and Willow Trinity best buddies.”
