“Where? And are The Testing candidates who failed there, too?”
“It doesn’t matter where she is. What matters is that Dr. Barnes has allowed these students to contribute to our society in a meaningful way. They weren’t strong enough to become leaders, but they are still able to assist our top scientists in understanding the worst corruptions that were inflicted upon our world and our race. It’s because of her and the other students that we’ve been able to make such great strides in reversing some of the minor human mutations.”
“Emilie isn’t a scientist. She’s not working in some secret lab, conducting experiments that will fix everything caused by the war.”
“Of course she’s not running the experiments.”
My chest tightens as I understand what Raffe’s father is saying.
“Then what is she . . .” Raffe’s voice trails off. Has he come to the same terrible conclusion I have? If the failed Testing and University candidates are not in charge of the experiments, the only thing left for them to do is to take part in them. “You’re running experiments on them?”
“Our best scientists are using the resources provided in order to fix the worst of the chemical and biological damage caused by the Seven Stages of War.” Resources. The word makes me shiver, as does the conviction in Official Jeffries’s voice—which grows stronger with every syllable. “Anyone who has seen the worst of the mutations understands why we’ve allocated some of our most promising resources to this project. Over the years, we’ve learned that subjects who can articulate the changes they experience are more useful than those who have no concept—”
The crack of a bullet makes me jump. I flatten against the wall as four more blasts echo in the house. Once the shots stop, I race toward the illuminated doorway. Gun raised, I prepare to fire. But I stop as I cross the threshold and see Raffe standing in the middle of the room, looking down at the figure sprawled on the woven gray carpet. Raffe doesn’t move as I cross the room and kneel next to the man staring blankly up at the ceiling. I should feel horror at what Raffe has done. Up close I can see the resemblance. Same thick hair. Same square jawline and cheekbones. But there is nothing but a sense of sympathy as I check his pulse and confirm what I knew the minute I saw the bloody hole in the center of his forehead. Just as the president requested, Official Rychard Jeffries is dead.
“I didn’t want to kill him,” Raffe says in a dull voice, his eyes focused on the man whose blood he shares. “I wanted to think that my father wasn’t as much a part of this as Dr. Barnes and the rest. But I was wrong. He is, and he didn’t deserve to live.”
The gun in Raffe’s hand trembles. In the warm light, his face looks pale. Strained. The same expression I’m sure I wore when my knife punched into Damone’s chest. Will told me once that the decision to kill is easy but living with it is hard. I understand those words now better than I did then, which is why I slowly rise and hold out my hand. “Why don’t you give me the gun, Raffe?”
“I’m not going to shoot you, Cia.” His attention does not shift from the ashen face lying at my feet. “I wouldn’t hurt you.”
It’s not me I’m worried about.
“I know.” I keep my voice soft and soothing, the way I used to do when I handled one of the baby animals my father helped bring into the world. “Give me the gun, Raffe. Just for a few minutes. You should go to the kitchen and get some water. That will help.”
Will it? I don’t know. If nothing else it will get him out of this room. Raffe might hate his father now, but from what he has said, I know there was a time he felt love and admiration for the man. Soon those emotions will catch up with him, and when that happens, I’m not sure what Raffe will do.
I take another step forward and uncurl his fingers so the gun drops into my hand. When Raffe doesn’t acknowledge my actions, I push aside my sympathy and sorrow. Yes, he needs to grieve. He needs to come to terms with what he has done. But this is not the time. A large clock on the wall tells me Will’s second explosion should have detonated fifteen minutes ago. Whatever cover those explosions has given us will soon expire. The officials may understand that we are using them as a diversion, and widen their search. Raffe managed to get a large piece of the information we needed from his father. Had he not fired, we might have gotten more. I wish I could have guessed what Raffe would do when he heard the truth. If I had . . .
I push away the regrets. If we survive this, there will be time enough to sort through them. But now we must move on to the second part of our mission—Dr. Barnes. And since I only vaguely know the area he lives in, I cannot get there on my own. I feel uncaring for thinking of more than Raffe at this moment, but it can’t be helped.
I take the recorder out of Raffe’s jacket pocket, switch it to the Off position, and say, “We’ve done as much as we can here. We need to go.”
My words are cold. Hard. Raffe’s head turns toward mine. Shock and tears glisten in his eyes. For a moment I worry that I will not be able to get him to move. That I will have to leave him behind and continue on my own. His eyes close. His jaw clenches, and when he opens his eyes and nods, the tears are gone.
“You’re right.” He turns his back on his father’s body and heads for the door. “Let’s go.”
Raffe doesn’t look back, but I do. I put the guns I hold in the side pocket of my bag and briefly study the man on the floor. Rychard Jeffries helped shape, revitalize, and educate this country. What he explained to Raffe is terrible, but he must have done good things along the way to achieve the position he held. Raffe’s passion and his dedication to his sister are proof that not everything Rychard Jeffries did was bad. For that alone, he deserves to be remembered.