«Serious individual attention.»
«College preparatory, full housing for students and staff. An Intentional Community. Huh, some phrase. A challenging, yet supportive environment. Blah, blah. Foundation for Brookhollow College, and blah about that. Tuition… Holy Mother of God.»
«Wowzer!» Peabody's eyes widened. «That's a semester. That's a semester for a six-year-old.»
«Get me a comparison to another top-level boarding school.»
«Coming up. What are we chasing here, Dallas?»
«I don't know. But we're gaining. Double,» she replied. «Brookhollow's priced double a comparative facility.»
«Got the founder. Jonah Delecourt Wilson, born August 12, 19t-Died May 6, 2056. That's Dr. Wilson,» Peabody added. «M.D. as well as Ph.D. Known for his research and work with genetics.»
«Really? Hmm.»
«Married Eva Hannson Samuels, June of 1999. No children. Samuels—also doctor—predeceased her husband by three years. Private shuttle crash.»
«Hannson. Avril's maiden name. Gotta be related.»
«Wilson founded the school, served as its first president for five years, then his wife took the helm. She remained in that position until her death. Current president is an Evelyn Samuels—listed here as her predecessor's niece—and one of the first graduates of Brookhollow College.»
«All in the family. Bet when you pump money into an institution like this, you get all sorts of perks. I bet you could have your own lab. Maybe send some of your subjects in as students. Get them a fine education, while you were monitoring them. A geneticist, a reconstructive surgeon, and a private all-girls' boarding school. Mix well, what might you get?»
«Um. Really, really major fees?»
«Perfect females. Gene manipulation, surgical enhancements, specified educational programs.»
«Jesus, Dallas.»
«Yeah, pretty fucked up. Screwed squared if you take it a step further and speculate that the grads might be 'placed' for a stinging fee with interested parties. She said—last night during her statement— Avril said she was what Will Icove wanted. Just like that. Wouldn't a doting daddy want to give his only son what he wanted?»
«It's a little science fiction, Dallas.»
«DNA.»
«And?»
«Dolores Nocho-Alverez. DNA. I bet that alias is a little private joke.» She picked up her 'link when it beeped. «Dallas.»
«Got a freaking tome so far on Senior. Due to the recent events, I'm working on one for Junior. What's going on, Dallas?» Nadine demanded.
«Is there anything in that tome regarding an association with a Dr. Jonah D. Wilson?»
«Funny you should ask.» Nadine's eyes sharpened. «They both gave their time and skill during the Urbans. Became friends, and associates. Helped found rehabilitation centers for children during and after the wars. There's more on that, and other things, but I need to dig more. I'm getting a whiff of something—maybe a censure from the AMA, internal inquiries, but it's buried deep.»
«Mine it out, and if I'm on the right track, you might just have the story of your career.»
«Don't toy with me, Dallas.»
«Send me everything you've got. Get more.»
«Give me something to air. I need a—«
«Can't. Gotta go. Oh hey, if Roarke contacts you, it's about an invite for Thanksgiving.»
«Oh yeah? Frosty. Can I bring a date?»
«I guess. Later.»
She clicked off. «Let's go take another look at Icove's house.»
Peabody saved data, jumped up. «Are we going to New Hampshire on this?»
«I wouldn't be surprised.»
In a palatial house overlooking the sea, the privacy screens on the walls of glass protected those inside from intrusion. Through them, the water was a soft blue-gray stretching toward the horizon.
She would paint it that way, she thought. Empty and quiet and wide, with only birds strutting along the surf.
She would paint again, and paint vividly. No more of the soft and pretty portraits, but the wild and the dark, the bright and the bold.
She would live—soon—she would live the same way. Freedom, she imagined, was all of those things.
«I wish we could live here. I'd be happy if we could live here. We could live here with the children and just be who we are.»
«Maybe someday, somewhere like it.» Her name wasn't Dolores, but Deena. Her hair was dark red now, and her eyes a vivid green. She'd killed, would kill again, and her conscience was clear. «When it's finished, when we've done all we can do, it'll have to be sold. But there are other beaches.»
«I know. I'm just feeling blue.» She turned, contained elegance, then smiled. «No point in feeling blue. We're free. At least as close to it as we've ever been.»
Deena walked over, took the hands of the woman she considered a sister. «Scared?»
«Some. But excited, too. And sad. How can we help it? There was love, Deena. Even if it was twisted at its root, there was love.»
«Yeah. I looked in his eyes when I killed him, and there was love in them. Sick and selfish and wrong, but love. I couldn't think about it, couldn't let myself.» She breathed deep. «Well, they trained me how to do just that, shut out feelings and do the job. But after…«
She closed her eyes. «I want peace, Avril. Peace and quiet and days with nothing but both. It's been so long. Do you know what I dream of?»
She squeezed Deena's fingers. «Tell me.»
«A little house, a cottage really. With a garden. Flowers and trees, and birds singing. A big silly dog. And someone to love me, a man to love me. Days of that, quiet days of that with no hiding, no war, no death.»
«You'll have it.»
But Deena could look back, year by year. There was nothing but Hiding, nothing but death. «I made you a killer.»
«No. No.» Avril leaned close, kissed Deena's cheek. «Freedom. That was your gift.» She walked back to the wall of glass. «I'm going to paint again. Really paint. I'll feel better. I'll comfort the children, poor little things. We'll take them away from all this as soon as we can. Out of the country, at least for a while. Somewhere they can grow up free. As we never were.»
«The police. They're going to want to talk again. More questions.»
«It's all right. We know what to do, what to say. And nearly all of it's the truth, so it isn't hard. Wilfred would have respected her mind, this Lieutenant Dallas. It's so fluid, and somehow straightforward. She's someone we'd like, if we could.»
«She's someone to be careful with.»
«Yes. Very. How foolish of Wilfred, how egocentric of him to have kept personal records in his home. If Will had known—poor Will. Still, I wonder if it's to the good that she knows about the project. Or knows something. We could wait, see if she's able to follow it through. She might end it for us.»
«We can't take that chance. Not after we've come this far.»
«I suppose we can't. I'll miss you,» she said. «I wish you could stay. I'll be lonely.»
«You're never alone.» Deena went to her, held her. «We'll talk every day. It won't be much longer.»
She nodded. «It's horrible, isn't it, to wish for more death. To want it to come quickly. In an awful way, she's one of us.»
«Not anymore—if she ever was.» Deena eased back, then kissed her sister's cheeks. «Be strong.»
«Be safe.»
She watched while Deena put a blue bucket hat over her hair, dark glasses over her eyes, then picked up a bag to sling over her shoulder.
Deena slipped out the glass door, jogged quickly over the terrace down the steps to the sand. She walked away, just a woman taking a stroll on a November beach.
No one would know what she was part of, where she'd come from. Or what she had done.
For a long time, there was only the water and sand and birds. The knock on Avril's door was soft, as was her voice command to release the lock.
The little girl stood there, blonde and delicate like her mother, rubbing her eyes. «Mommy.»