CHAPTER THREE

I spent all of Wednesday evening thinking about Thursday morning. First, I called Marika (“Guess where I’m going tomorrow?”), then I texted Jason, leafing through my new copy of Sociological Theory in Mid-Millennium Urban Centers so I could send the message in code. “Been offered a new job. You’re a security risk. Prepare for investigation.”

Finally, I texted Domenic, Jason’s best friend since childhood, to see what he knew about Kyotenin degradation. I’d tried an online search but apparently hadn’t figured out how to spell it right, since I couldn’t turn up any useful information. Anyway, Domenic—who is currently studying for a medical degree at the downtown campus of Northwestern—usually had an entertaining and informative perspective on any topic, so I was interested in getting his take.

About an hour later, as I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth, I heard the subtle ding of a reply. My EarFone transcriber recited Domenic’s words in a light, unalarmed voice. “Kyotenin degradation. Gradual and fairly gruesome deterioration of the musculature system, usually starting at the lower extremities of the body and working its way higher. Most often begins with malfunction of the toes and feet, leads to failure of the leg muscles, travels upward to affect the bowels and lower organs, and eventually incapacitates the heart. Invariably fatal. No recorded cases of anyone living past the age of twenty-five. Hope you don’t have it . . . nope, you’re too old.”

I stood there for a long time, staring at my horrified reflection in the mirror. Caroline had just said Duncan Phillips’ son was sick. She hadn’t mentioned that he was under a death sentence.

Did he know he was dying? How did that shape his days?

Theoretically, all of us know we’re mortal, but secretly most of us don’t believe it. When I was a teenager, the thought of death only crossed my mind when I tried to figure out how to stop my mother from worrying. What would it be like to be nineteen years old and have that grim reality as a constant companion?

What would I do if I knew I would be dead within the next five years?

I didn’t think I would be trying to earn a high school English degree. I couldn’t imagine Duncan Phillips’ son would be too interested, either.

I almost wished I was not going.

In the morning, I put on a calf-length amethyst-colored dress and black suede boots instead of my usual trousers-and-sweater combination. I figured, as I was going to visit a rich man’s house, I should put a little extra effort into my appearance. My most stylish coat, a short leather jacket, wasn’t quite heavy enough to keep me warm as I hustled through the cool Chicago morning and stepped into my local teleport gate.

Even so, I stood there shivering for a moment before punching in the numbers for the Phillips house. Trying to nerve myself for what was awaiting me on the other side of the brief transmission. But I finally entered the code and pressed my thumb chip to the payment button, and I was on my way.

I materialized in a gatekeeper’s booth at the end of a long, sweeping driveway that led to a grand mansion of red brick and dark wood. I had quick, immediate impressions of lawn, trees, and fortress before a wiry young security guard opened the booth door and motioned me out. He was an African American who looked to be about twenty-five years old and lean as a racing dog.

“Name and I.D.?” he asked, consulting a terminal.

“Taylor Kendall,” I said, flashing my Sefton card.

“Who are you supposed to meet with?”

This had been in Caroline’s papers. “Someone named Bram Cortez.”

The guard nodded. “Get back in the booth,” he said. “I’ll send you up to the house.”

I stepped inside the gate, shut my eyes, and opened them in another world. The interior teleport pad featured glass walls through which I could see much of the first story of the Phillips mansion. A long, open foyer unfolded for what seemed like acres of fabulously expensive carpeting and artlessly arranged occasional tables loaded up with statuary and silver. A huge, curving staircase spiraled up to some distant height; great archways admitted glimpses of larger, more elaborate rooms to my left and right. The scent of imported hyacinths permeated even through the teleport walls.

A man waited for me outside the glass door, standing so still that for a moment I almost believed he was part of the decor. Gathering my wits, I stepped outside and gave him a quick appraisal. He was tall, maybe an inch or so above six feet, with short-cropped dark hair starting to fleck with gray. He had strongly marked features wrapped in skin just a few shades darker than my own. A well-tended mustache drew attention to his stern mouth, and his dense brown eyes assessed me with a sort of inexorable politeness.

“Taylor Kendall?” he said, his voice completely dispassionate.

“Yes.”

“I’m Bram Cortez.” On the page, I’d read his first name as if it rhymed with tram , but he pronounced it Brom , much like the composer. “I’m director of security here. I need to ask you a few questions. Come with me.”

I nodded and half-expected to be motioned back inside the teleport compartment; in this house, I would not be surprised to learn the inhabitants beamed from room to room. But, no, he turned his back and led me down the length of the foyer and into a long hall that opened off the back corner.

We eventually came to rest in a small, well-lit office that displayed absolutely no personality. Beige curtains at the window, a plain wooden desk empty of any object except a closed manila folder, a couple of straight-backed chairs, no books, no art, not even a stray coffee cup. I hoped this was one of those odd seldom-used areas that sat empty until a stranger like me appeared; I would hate to think anyone spent the majority of his day in such a depressing place.

I watched Cortez, and when he sat, I followed suit. He opened the folder and began leafing through the papers. I could not believe he had not already memorized their contents.

I studied him while he reviewed my records. My mind has an odd habit of offering up poetry at random moments, and Bram Cortez was tripping all my William Ernest Henley switches.

Out of the night that covers me

Black as the Pit from pole to pole

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul . . .

When he looked up, his face showed no expression, but his eyes held an unwavering intentness that made me want to squirm and manufacture confessions. “You came highly recommended by your dean and your department chair, as well as by your students, whose class evaluations were forwarded to us,” he said in a level voice. “However, you realize that this is a household of strategic importance to national and international security, and that you must undergo some scrutiny before you are allowed to work here.”

I nodded. “So I understood. I assume you’ve already checked out my nonexistent police record.”

Either my words or my insouciant tone surprised him, though he instantly erased the expression. “I have. I have a few more questions.”

“Go.”

“Your father was a software developer and part-owner of an AI firm. To your knowledge, how much time did he spend in politically sensitive areas like China and Russia?”

“I know he went to both of them a couple of times when I was a kid, but that was at least twenty years ago.”

“Did he ever discuss the details of those trips with you?”

“Not that I can remember.”

“Any reason you can think of for his failure to talk about those travels?”

“Maybe they weren’t very interesting. Knowing my dad, he never set foot outside of whatever hotel he stayed at.”

“Did your mother accompany him on these trips? Did she mention visits to China or Russia?”

“The topics of ‘China’ and ‘Russia’ simply did not arise when I was growing up,” I said in a flat, distinct voice. “Isn’t there anything else you want to ask me about?”

He gave me a quick lancet look that made me feel he might be able to slice my heart out simply by desiring it, so I subsided a bit. He glanced at his notes. “Your brother Jason,” he began. “He’s currently enrolled in the University of Colorado at Denver and spends about ten hours a week writing for an online media service. How long has he held that job or a similar one?”

The questions went on and on, stupid questions, senseless questions, bearing no relation to my ability to teach or, as far as I could tell, hold an intelligent conversation.

“Your ex-husband, Daniel Faberly. He’s a computer technician for a company that provides support to military contractors. Do you happen to know what level his security clearance is?”

“It used to be pretty low-level, but he may have earned something higher by now. I haven’t asked.”

“When is the last time you communicated with Daniel Faberly?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a year ago.”

“Phone records indicate that he called you on July 16th last year.”

It was with some effort that I controlled my rising temper. “That sounds about right.”

“That’s hardly a year ago, Ms. Kendall.”

“If I’d known the parameters of the investigation, Mr. Cortez, I might have brought my old calendar. As it is, I’m relying on memory, and I just can’t remember.”

“What did you and Daniel Faberly talk about on that occasion?”

“His mother had died and he wanted to tell me.”

“You’d been close to his mother?”

“We got along.”

“Did you attend the funeral?”

“It was in Maine.”

“You teleport every day, Ms. Kendall. A trip to Maine would not have seemed out of the way if you’d wanted to put in an appearance.”

I came to my feet, smiling tightly. Clearly, I had surprised him again, for he was a few seconds behind me and obviously annoyed that he had not anticipated my move.

“You know what?” I said. “I don’t want the job.”

“Excuse me?”

“I was told I might do some good, tutoring a dying boy, and I was willing to do it, but this is bullshit, and I’m not going to sit here and listen to it. So just show me to the nearest secure teleport gate and I’ll beam out of your life forever.”

I swear a faint flush spread over his face; if he hadn’t been so unemotional, I’d have thought he was embarrassed. “Ms. Kendall. I’m sorry if you don’t like the questions that have been asked, but this is a high-risk establishment—”

“Yeah, whatever. What exactly do you want to know? I’ve never been arrested for anything, I don’t know a single national security secret, and if by some chance I was able to stumble upon poorly guarded military plans hidden somewhere in this goddamn mausoleum, I first wouldn’t recognize them and second wouldn’t have a clue who to sell them to, either in America or outside of it. I’m a good teacher, I like kids, and the last person I intentionally hurt was my ex-husband, who deserved it. If that’s not enough for you, then I’m out of here. Let’s not waste any more of our time.”

Jason says it’s fatal to get me mad, not because anyone fears the consequences of my wrath, but because it’s impossible to shut me up. In the general run of things, I’m passably articulate, but when I’m furious, the sentences come singing out as if I’m channeling the phrases of a vengeful angel.

“Ms. Kendall. Please sit down,” Bram Cortez said.

I looked at his stern face and dropped back into my chair without another word.

He took his own seat and remained quiet for a moment, seeming to think something over. I watched his face, which, despite my antagonism, I rather liked. It looked like it had been a mask, a wall, an impregnable shield for most of his life; it was opaque, it let out no stray, bright thoughts or skipping laughter. Yet I did not read brutality or indifference in its hard lines. There was nothing to see except bone and dark pearlescent skin.

Finally, he looked up. “When I was told you would be coming here for an interview, and I began the background checks, I was astonished to realize you were a woman,” he said at last.

This caused my eyebrows to rise almost to my hairline. “I’m astonished in turn to learn of your amazement.”

“We don’t hire women in this household,” he said bluntly.

I stared for a moment. “There’s so many things wrong with that statement I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Everyone who works here is male,” he said, his voice wintry. “Cooks, crew, security personnel, everyone. It hadn’t occurred to me that a woman would be offered as a candidate.”

He didn’t explain why Duncan Phillips would only hire men, and I figured the reason would only make me mad, so I didn’t ask. In any case, it didn’t matter since I obviously wasn’t going to get the job. “If I’m not a viable option, why am I even here?”

“Because your name was put forward by the dean at Sefton, and Duncan Phillips made it clear that the Sefton candidate would be his first choice unless that person turned out to be a security risk.”

“Thus the interrogation.”

“Yes, although two other candidates have also been recommended—both of them men—and they are being thoroughly vetted as well.”

I took a deep breath and blew it out in this unattractive horsey manner that I immediately wished I could recall. “Well, I’m sure you’ve found something to disqualify me by now, so let’s just wrap this up—”

“No.”

“No what?”

“No, I haven’t found anything. I’m guessing your brother is something of a hellion, but that’s not really a crime. You remain Duncan Phillips’ first choice, and I have no legitimate reason to eliminate you. I will share that conclusion with him when I meet with him later tonight.”

I met his eyes, unable to keep the hostility out of my own. “And if he decides to offer me the job, do you think I’ll really take it? After all this?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “But before you turn it down, I’d like to ask you two things.”

I could hardly imagine what. “Sure.”

“Would you be willing to meet Quentin? Duncan Phillips’ son.”

By this point, I was pretty certain I’d never want to cross the threshold of this house again, but I was consumed with curiosity, so I said, “All right. What’s the second thing?”

He looked directly at me and this time the scalpel-sharp eyes seemed dull with a passing pain. “How did you know he was dying?”

I took a quick sip of breath. I barely remembered making the comment while I was ranting in full spate. “My supervisor told me the name of his disease and I asked someone about it. Does he know?”

Cortez’s face turned even more impassive. “His father doesn’t discuss it with him, but he knows. I’m not sure that he lets himself think about it.”

I don’t know why I asked it. “Is he close to his father?”

I don’t know why he answered. “No.”

The word hung in the air between us for five or ten seconds. “What happened to his mother?”

“Died when Quentin was a boy.”

The lack of detail instantly made me surmise the worst—suicide, accidental drug overdose, mysterious circumstances. “Does he have other family members?”

“An aunt. His mother’s sister. Her son is about Quentin’s age, and they’re friends. But they moved to Australia a couple of years ago, and he’s hardly seen them since.”

His voice was cool and impersonal, but I thought, He likes this kid. Isn’t that funny? I would have gone to court and sworn it that very minute. “Does he enjoy school? Will he want me—or anyone—coming in to tutor him?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know that he enjoys school all that much. He likes having people around.” His eyes rested on me for a moment, assessing, calculating. “He’d really like you.”

Based on which particular set of my responses did Bram Cortez make that assumption? “Well, let’s go see him,” I said.

*

I fell in love with Quentin Phillips at first sight.

Bram Cortez and I traversed football fields of well-decorated hallways on two different levels to come to the handsome wood door that guarded Quentin’s room. Cortez’s knock was followed by the invitation to enter, but I spent very little time looking around the room. All I could see was the frail, smiling boy sitting in his wheelchair, his silhouette backlit against the sunlight pouring in through triple windows.

“Bram! I’ve checkmated you. You weren’t paying attention.”

“There’s no way you’ve checkmated me,” Cortez retorted.

The chair skimmed closer with a smooth motorized hum, and Quentin came into clearer focus. His face was an aesthete’s, bony and lean; his arms and legs, all the parts of his body I could see, were painfully thin. He wore a T-shirt and sweatpants that seemed far too big, either chosen to disguise his skeletal frame or purchased at some earlier date when they were a better fit. His smile blazed out from his face in a way that stopped my heart. I almost could not keep from reaching out to pat the tangled honey-brown curls.

“I did, though! I did!” Quentin insisted. “Let me show you. I—”

“Hold on a minute, buddy, let me introduce you to someone,” Cortez interrupted.

Quentin swung his chair tentatively in my direction and gave me a sideways look. I realized he been watching me from the second I walked in, he just hadn’t known what to make of me. “Hi,” he said.

I waved at his T-shirt, sporting the dates of an ancient Fat Hippos concert tour. “No way you bought that shirt for yourself,” I said with mock seriousness. “You weren’t even alive during their reunion tour.”

He laughed. “No, I stole it from Dennis.”

“You stole it from Dennis?” Cortez exclaimed. “He doesn’t know you have it?”

Quentin looked both guilty and extremely pleased with himself. “No.”

“He’ll drown you,” Cortez said with conviction.

Quentin laughed again. “No, he won’t. He’ll make me give it back, maybe.”

“He’ll make you give it back for sure , and then he’ll drown you.”

“Do you even know who the Fat Hippos are?” I demanded.

“Sure, I have all their XCDs,” he said. “Wanna hear one? Which one do you like best?”

“‘Back at Firestone,’” I said. “But I hate whatever that song is on track six. You know—about the gooey girl.”

I could tell by Cortez’s quick look that he hadn’t thought I’d be able to name an album title, let alone a deep cut. “How do you know the Fat Hippos?” the security chief asked in a polite voice. “You seem like a well-brought-up young woman.”

I grinned. “My brother the hellion.”

“Bram won’t let me play the Fat Hippos or any of those guys when he’s up here,” Quentin offered. “He hates monster rock, but I think it’s strat. You know, it gives me a rush.”

I nodded. “I have to be in the mood for it. Usually when I’m cleaning house. Then I crank it up.”

Quentin crowed with laughter, then glanced over at Cortez, the mischief and the questions chasing each other across his face.

Cortez hastily explained. “Ms. Kendall, this young man is Quentin Phillips. Quin, this is Taylor Kendall. She’s interviewing for a chance to be your English teacher.”

Now Quentin’s mouth fell open. I interpreted the look as one of shocked delight. “Really? She might come here to teach me? But that would be so jazz!”

“She might not be so much fun once you get past questions of musical preferences,” Cortez said drily.

I laughed and held out my hand. “Nonsense, I’m even more fun when I start talking about novel structure and iambic pentameter. Quentin, I’m glad to meet you.”

He stretched out his hand enthusiastically, and my fingers closed on a collection of bones. His skin was hot and dry, and his grip was weak. I wanted to cry right there.

“Do you play chess?” he asked.

“Not very well. Even if you can’t beat Bram Cortez, I bet you’re better than I am.”

“Maybe we can play a game sometime,” he said. “When do you start?”

“I haven’t been hired yet,” I said.

The boy looked over at Cortez. “Don’t I get a say in this?” he asked. “I’m the one who has to spend time with her.”

“It’s up to your dad,” Cortez said.

Quentin looked instantly disappointed, which gave me some kind of idea about how much his father consulted his wishes. “Well, it’s been very nice meeting you,” he said to me earnestly. “And I hope I get a chance to see you again.”

Cortez took a step closer and cuffed the boy, so gently, on the shoulder. “I’ll come back before I leave tonight,” he said. “Then I’ll be looking at that chessboard.”

Quentin smiled again. “Just you wait,” he said.

*

In a few minutes, we were back in the interminable hallway and making our long journey toward the front entrance. “If I’m ever invited back here, I’m bringing food supplies in case I get lost,” I said.

Cortez smiled. “It’s not complicated, it’s just big. You’d find your way around pretty quickly.”

We traveled a moment in silence, then I said, “So what are the chances that Duncan Phillips would hire me?”

“Good, I think. As I said, he’s favoring the Sefton candidate, and I haven’t found a reason to disqualify you.”

“I know you’ve been trying.”

He glanced down at me just in time to catch my grin, and I thought he almost smiled back. “And Quin obviously liked you,” he said. “Though Quin likes everyone who’s kind to him, so that’s not much of a recommendation.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Would you take the job if it was offered?”

I took a few steps without answering. “After my interview with you,” I said slowly, “probably not. But having met him—absolutely.”

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s Quin.”

We didn’t say anything more until we arrived at the teleport gate, which Cortez actually opened for me, as if it were a real door and we were back in a different century. When I had materialized in the booth a couple of hours earlier, I hadn’t noticed the keypad, set like an expensive wall decoration into a rosewood square. But now I not only saw the keypad, I realized it didn’t include a payment button. So either all visitors to the Phillips mansion were assumed to have transit passes in their thumb chips, or the household itself bore the travel expenses of its guests. Maybe both.

“If I’m hired,” I asked, “do I get to jump straight to the house, or do I have to go through the guard gate every time?”

“Straight here,” he said. “You’ll get your own code. And then, if you’re ever dismissed or become a security risk for any reason, we just delete the acceptance from the terminal, so you can’t beam back. Easier than changing the facility’s code and giving out the new number to everyone who’s still using it.”

“The rich are different,” I said.

“Not the rich,” he said. “The paranoid.”

I raised my eyebrows. Again, he gave that rare smile that rendered him almost human.

“I didn’t say that,” he added.

“Okay. So who will let me know if I’m hired?”

“I’ll call you one way or the other. If you take the job, when would you be available?”

“Tuesday afternoons and Friday any time.”

“You’d be free starting next week?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’ll hope to see you then.”

I couldn’t think of anything else to say, so I just nodded and shut the door. He stood there and watched me as I keyed in my gate number, and in a matter of seconds, he disappeared from view.

I was back in my neighborhood and wondering if my life had just changed, and in how many ways.