“On our way to the TriPoint camp, these young militants — the Child Army... Trace had hired them. To kill Marc. I didn’t know until they grabbed us. I’m the one who convinced them not to go through with it. Trace and I talked after that. He promised me he would find another way.”
“If that’s true—”
“It is.”
“Then Trace lied to you.”
Nadia takes a moment and then says, “In the end, Trace saw the situation for what it was.”
“What was it?”
“Either him or Marc. Marc was going to tell. It would have been bad for him and Maggie — but for Trace, it would have been the end. He was the one who harvested organs. He’d spend the rest of his life in prison. He tried to make Marc see that. He tried to make Marc see that what they were doing was actually good — it could change the world. Their work saved lives. They were on the cusp of making organ donation simpler and safer and more readily available. How, Trace kept asking himself, did Marc not see that? And still — still — I think Trace would have done the right thing. But then the massacre happened at TriPoint, and Trace went back. He said he wanted to save his friend. He said that an experience like this may make Marc see the light. So I didn’t know. Not for sure. It wasn’t premeditated. It was, I don’t know, a crime of opportunity.”
Nadia looks at Maggie.
“Doesn’t make my husband less dead,” Maggie says to her.
Nadia has nothing to say to that. No one does. For a while, they just stand there. No one talks. No one moves. Maggie turns away from them and stares out over the vineyard. The sun dips lower, bruising the sky a spiraling purple and orange. She finally has the answers. The truth will set you free, they say, but right now it feels as though it will forever hold Maggie captive. She hears Porkchop calling her name, but even he feels far away, unable to reach her. She doesn’t want to hear. She doesn’t want to reply. She doesn’t want to think or process or assess or consider the repercussions.
Not right now.
Right now, she just wants to stare at the spiraling purple and orange and wish the world away.
Epilogue
Three days after Maggie gets back to Baltimore, she calls Vipers and asks to speak to Porkchop. She hasn’t seen him since that last day in the vineyard.
The woman who answers the payphone says he’s unreachable.
“Tell him it’s Maggie.”
“Porkchop is off the grid.”
“So you don’t know where he is?”
“No one does.”
“Suppose I really needed him.”
“He’s off the grid,” she says, “but we can put him back on it if there’s an emergency.” Then she adds in a kinder voice: “Give him time, Maggie.”
A week goes by. She calls Vipers again. The woman tells her the same thing. Another week passes. Same thing.
No sign of Porkchop.
Three weeks after that last day in France, Pinky answers the payphone when she calls.
“Porkchop is still incommunicado.”
“Tell him I know,” Maggie says. “Tell him I know, and I don’t care.”
There is a long pause on the other end of the line. Then Pinky says, “You think you know. But you don’t.”
Then he hangs up.
Two days later, Charles Lockwood calls her. “Oleg is in a coma. But that heart is still beating in his chest.”
BEAT... BEAT... BEAT...
“Thanks for letting me know.”
“Also The Vineyard — the whole operation — has been shut down.”
“Good.”
“No great loss,” Charles says. “Oleg never kept the best scientists and researchers in the end. The best scientists and researchers may complain about the rules and protocols, but they understand why they’re there. They want to work in the sunlight, not cut corners in the dark. That’s the part Oleg never understood.”
“I appreciate the call,” Maggie says. “Take care of yourself, Charles.”
“Let’s stay in touch,” he says.
“Yeah, I don’t think so,” she replies, but he’s already ended the call.
Maggie’s phone rings again. The caller ID tells her it’s the payphone at Vipers.
“Porkchop is back,” Pinky says.
“I’ll come up tomorrow.”
She disconnects the call and steps outside into the crisp night air. She takes a deep breath. This time of the year, the neighborhood always smells of freshly cut grass and backyard barbecues. The Burroughs family — Mom, Dad, Son, Daughter — sit on their front lawn. They all wave at Maggie. Maggie forces up a smile and waves back. Someone across the street is blasting a surprisingly touching Nick Cave ballad. His voice is raw and vulnerable as he repeatedly reminds a loved one that he’s waiting for them.
Maggie blinks, swallows, and lifts her phone into view. With a shaking finger, she clicks on the griefbot icon. The app comes to life.
Marc’s face appears. He smiles at her.
“Oh man, Mags, it’s good to see you.”
She stares at the screen. Nick Cave is singing to that same loved one to sleep now, sleep now, take as long as you need. Maggie closes her eyes and makes herself listen to the rest of the lyrics. When the song is over, she takes one last deep breath and heads back inside. When she enters the kitchen, Sharon looks up at her.
“We need to delete this,” Maggie says, pointing at the app. “For good.”
The train pulls into Penn Station.
Pinky waits for her out on 33rd Street. They drive in silence to Vipers for Bikers. It’s closed. Pinky unlocks the door and lets her in. And there, pacing in the room alone, is Porkchop. No Zen-like patience today. He doesn’t have his sunglasses on. He turns and looks at her with shattered eyes.
“You told Pinky you know,” he says.
Maggie nods.
“Tell me.”
“I saw your passport.”
Porkchop takes a deep breath. “When?”
“Right before Nadia showed up.”
They both stop.
Nadia.
“I had to let her go,” Porkchop says.
“I know.”
“Even if I’ll have to look over my shoulder.”
“It was the right call.”
“What else could I do?”
No need to answer that. Porkchop had pointed the gun at Nadia, his finger twitching on the trigger, his face twisted in anguish. But he didn’t pull the trigger. Instead, he muttered, “It stays with you,” and told Nadia to go.
“What made you check my passport?” he asks.
“Your clothes were already in your room, and then Florence asked you if you’d been enjoying your stay — even though we just arrived. Why would she ask that? Then I looked at the flight schedules. There was nothing from JFK to Dubai stopping in London until later in the day. So I started thinking about it. After I called Trace to come home, he broke into Apollo Longevity. He wouldn’t do that just to get phenobarbital and clonazepam. He stole the THUMPR7 and the assisting equipment. Those would be his get-out-of-jail-free card. My guess is, he planned to put it in the Wells Fargo bank. But he never got the chance because, well, you killed him. That means you had the THUMPR7. How am I doing so far?”
“Pretty well.”
“So what was the deal you made, Porkchop?”
“I contacted Ivan Brovski via Barlow. I told him I had the artificial heart they’d been looking for. I would bring it to him. I would get you to France and help convince you to do the surgery. In return, they would pay us an extravagant amount of money and promise to leave us alone. That was the key — you and I would be out. I already knew who killed Marc. I already knew what happened to Trace—”
“But I didn’t.”
“You knew enough.”
“No, sorry, you don’t have the right to make that decision for me.”