Down the hall, a few of the Vitros began to cough. Sophie’s heart leaped. Maybe it’s not too late.
“I must save him,” Sophie heard one whisper. She looked over. It was Lux. She began to crawl toward Jim like a broken wind-up toy.
“Lux, no.” Moira took two strides and pulled her away, held her in one arm and Sophie in the other, the girls cradled against her as if they were four years old. Their hair curled together into an indistinguishable tangle on Moira’s chest.
“Connie, go down the hall. Third door on the left—there should be some oxygen tanks and masks in the closet. He needs oxygen fast.”
He nodded and stepped around the bodies on the floor to reach it. With a wild twist of her body, Sophie broke free of Moira and ran after him, because she couldn’t bear standing still, watching Jim and Lux, hoping for a sign of life. She needed to help, needed to move, do something. She scrubbed the tears from her eyes with her shirt and gritted her teeth, channeling the pressure inside of her into movement.
Andreyev found the tanks and handed two of them to her. It took another minute to locate the masks, which she draped around her neck. Then, feeling like an astronaut preparing to dive into space, she tramped back to Moira and held out the equipment. Setting Lux down, Moira deftly connected the mask’s tubes to a tank and opened the valve to release the oxygen; she pressed it to Jim’s face.
She heard a sudden gasp behind her, and turned her head to see Jim’s chest rising. Her heart fluttered and the tension in her own chest rushed out of her in a loud exhalation, and then she jumped when she heard Lux do the same. Her twin’s face had finally relaxed. She stared at Jim’s face greedily, timing her own breaths with his as if she could somehow transfer air into his lungs by sheer force of will. Sophie watched her, transfixed.
“He’s coming back to us,” Moira said, sounding relieved herself, and Sophie wondered if she’d forgotten that just hours earlier, she’d been ready to sacrifice Jim for Sophie’s sake.
Dr. Hashimoto and the bodyguards appeared down the hall, trailing a posse of shame-faced doctors. Moira didn’t even look up. She set her mouth in a hard line and focused on bringing Jim back to life. The other doctors silently set to work, fetching oxygen, moving the Vitros onto gurneys they wheeled out of the elevator.
Sophie’s thoughts strayed to Nicholas. Where was he? It seemed that no one had seen him since Moira sent him to undo the damage he’d wrought on the newborn Vitros, but obviously he hadn’t followed through. It made Sophie nervous, not knowing what he was up to. But they couldn’t very well launch a search party now; they had to focus on resuscitating the Vitros.
One by one, all of the others awoke and were taken away by the doctors, who were all wearing surgical masks to protect them from the gas. Jim’s eyes finally opened, and he moaned, but Moira hushed him and kept the mask on his face.
Behind them, the elevator door opened and the doctor named Rogers tumbled out, shouting for Moira, his surgical mask puffing in and out as he yelled.
“What now?” she called, her face weary.
Dr. Rogers rushed to her. “It’s not good!” he said.
“What a shock. What is it?”
“It’s Strauss. She’s not happy. She’s got all the guards outside, armed, and she’s ready to make a statement. You’ve really pissed her off, and Moira,” Dr. Rogers winced and dropped his gaze. “I think she means to make an example of you.”
THIRTY FIVE JIM
Jim leaned on Sophie and Lux leaned on Jim; they made their way out of the building like a trio of wounded soldiers, flanked by Moira and the Vitros, who were being pushed on stretchers or supported by the doctors. Events were moving too quickly around him, leaving him disoriented. He was still weak and dizzy from the hydrogen cyanide, and tasks as simple as navigating through a doorway took all his concentration to accomplish.
Sophie’s eyes were fixed on Jim as they walked—well,
limped , more like. He seemed to be recovering steadily, now that he was breathing cleaner air. “You’re alive. I can’t believe you’re alive.”
“Crazy, right? I’m as shocked as you are.” He was trying very hard not to think about what had happened in the basement of that building. Everything else that had happened on the island—that had ever happened to him in his life—paled in comparison to the horror of being trapped in that room. The bitter, almond scent of the gas seemed to cling to him, assuring that every few seconds his mind slipped backward into the gas chamber and a feeling of panic swelled in his chest. He had to fight it back each time, and the effort was exhausting.“But your plane—I saw—it exploded and I thought you—” “Oh. That.”
“Yes, that. Did you forget you were nearly blown to pieces?”
“Hm. Must have slipped my mind between being nearly shot and nearly gassed to death. In a freaking gas chamber. Like this is some kind of fascist prison.”
She looked away, her face scarlet. “I’m glad you’re not dead.”
“Makes two of us,” he said with a crooked grin. “And I’m glad you’re not dead. From what I can tell, you saved our lives.”
“Well. Me and . . . and Mom.”
He scrunched his eyebrows inquisitively; there was too much underlying weight in her tone for him to believe that was the whole story. She shook her head at his look and said, “I’ll tell you later. Listen, what I said to you on the beach back there—I didn’t really . . . I just want to say . . .”
He studied her face, his throat tightening when he thought of their fight. He’d been shocked at how deeply her words had pierced him—he hadn’t realized how much power she had over him, to be able to hurt him like that. I care about her more than I knew. Overcome suddenly with a feeling that terrified him as much as it excited him, he took her hand and squeezed it tight. “I know. Me too.”
They crossed the atrium, flanked by Moira, a crowd of doctors, and a man with two bodyguards who Sophie pointed out as Andreyev, the Russian investor. Jim examined the man sidelong as they walked; he looked weary and slightly shell shocked, much like Jim felt. Though, of course, Jim could easily add to his list of ailments the side effects of hydrogen cyanide and near suffocation. He felt as if his brain had been reduced to sludge and was currently sloshing painfully around in his skull. He checked on Lux; she was pale and barely lucid, but faring better than he was.
When they stepped outside, they all froze, like a crowd of war refugees. Strauss was waiting with a dozen guards in a line behind her. Each one had a rifle pressed to his shoulder and the barrels were all aimed at the doctors and those with them.
The gurneys bearing the more helpless Vitros sat on the grass, with a few doctors moving frantically among them, their eyes glancing worriedly at Strauss’s guards. Andreyev’s bodyguards smoothly slid in front of him, their hands straying to the lapels of their coats, but even if they managed to reach whatever firearms they had hidden, they would be no match for Strauss’s men. Several of the doctors raised their hands in immediate surrender.
“Moira.” Strauss’s voice was soft, dangerous. The floodlights turned her white pantsuit a sickly yellow. “This little drama of yours has gone on long enough. Constantin, I cannot express how disappointed I am in the way you have been treated on this island. I assure you, Corpus will make reparations.”
“Hm,” Andreyev said, his face expressionless.
“We won’t let you kill them,” Sophie said, stepping forward—a poorly planned move, Jim thought, since it left him swaying on his feet as the world spun; he was dangerously close to toppling over and taking Lux down with him. “The Vitros have done nothing wrong. They need help, not a gas chamber.”