When she tested it to see if it fit, the faceplate snapped neatly into place as if magnetized. After a moment, it began to glow with a simple instruction.
Initiate Self-Destruct?
The last step in her aunt’s plan, covering her tracks by burying the underground laboratory under a mountain. Once she had assumed the role of a newly wealthy Constance D’Arcy, she’d have been free to build a laboratory anywhere on earth and wouldn’t have to remain hidden from the world. For all Con knew, the new laboratory was already underway somewhere. But what to do about the old one?
Con’s finger hovered over the “Initiate” button.
Was there any reason not to blow the place to hell? The key to her aunt’s research might be locked in Con’s head, but Abigail had re-created important parts of it. All stored on the laboratory’s servers. Gaddis would find it eventually. He might already be on his way to crack the place open like an ancient burial mound. Hell, Con might do it herself one day. Right at this moment, she felt clear in her mind that, even in the right hands, the damage her aunt’s research would do would be incalculable. But what about as her body and mind continued to sever ties and drift inexorably apart? Would she be so principled then? She could already hear the counterargument forming—how she should wait and see if she felt the same in a few months. The laboratory was secure, and not even Gaddis knew how to get inside. So why rush into a decision?
It made perfect sense, so she pressed the button.
60 Seconds.
It began to count down.
Sixty seconds? That wasn’t enough time. Con tapped the faceplate again, but no option to abort appeared.
45 Seconds.
Con backed away and went for the door. Yanking it open, she nearly lost her balance and fell, half expecting security to have locked her inside. But the door opened easily, and she spilled down the stairs. She ran about ten feet before pulling to an abrupt halt. Two thoughts occurred to her simultaneously, which taken together added up to one overriding sentiment: no running away.
Either the faceplate was a trap—a middle finger from beyond the grave—in which case there would be nowhere Con could run in sixty seconds that would be safe from Abigail’s revenge, or else her aunt had designed the self-destruct so that no running was necessary. Either way, Con wasn’t going to spend the last thirty seconds of her life running like an animal.
Curious, she turned back to the cottage and put her hands on her hips. Whatever happened, she wanted to see it coming. She thought she’d earned that much.
She waited.
It wouldn’t be long now.
PART FOUR
AWAKEN THE GHOSTS
On the other hand, what I like my music to do to me is awaken the ghosts inside of me. Not the demons, you understand, but the ghosts. There, I’m using that old language again. I don’t believe in demons. I don’t think there is such a thing. Or evil. I don’t believe in some force outside of ourselves that creates bad things. I just think of it as all dysfunctionalism of one kind of [sic] another. No Satan, no devil. The devil only really appears in the New Testament. He makes a couple of casual appearances in the Old, but only as an irritating obstacle. We create so many circles on this straight line we’re told we’re traveling. The truth is of course is [sic] that there is no journey. We are arriving and departing all at the same time.
—David Bowie
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Con held the final chord until it faded to silence and then held her hand up to the light. It trembled faintly, and she flexed her fingers, trying to shake it off. Her hands did that now whenever she played for any length of time. The tremors had gradually worsened these last few weeks, but if she rested at night and followed her team of doctors’ elaborate regime, it was mostly manageable.
She glanced over at the little purple Christmas tree, which was a permanent resident in the studio. It had become her good luck charm that she touched every morning before she started work for the day. It twinkled at her supportively.
“Everything okay in there?” Stephie asked over the intercom.
Con looked through the glass at Stephie and Dahlia sitting at the console. “Yeah, my hands are a little sore.”
“Not surprised, you’ve been at it for ten hours. Need a break?”
This was their arrangement—Con lied about how she was feeling and Stephie pretended to believe her. When Con first moved in, she’d told her friend about the diagnosis. She reckoned that Stephie and Elena had a right to know what they were getting themselves into, but it only made them more insistent that Con come to stay with them. She’d begged them not to treat her any differently, though. Whatever time she had left wouldn’t be spent treated like an invalid. She had too much she wanted to get done first.