But what Pia could see before her seemed like a destination in itself. The dreams inherent in what was growing next door were being made into a reality in this tiny secret chamber. Pia felt a sense of awe, that she was present at the creation of something immense and extraordinary. No one in the room was saying a word. Pia stared at the artificial kidney sitting in its nutrient solution, the blue light reflecting in the bath and flickering over her face. She had been working in Rothman’s cathedral but now she had seen the shrine. She knew that Rothman would have preferred the organ to be a pancreas, but she knew he knew that would not be far behind.

She could hardly wait to see that happen.

Chapter 23.

23.

ONE CENTRAL PARK WEST
NEW YORK CITY
MARCH 4, 2011, 1:20 P.M.

Jerry Trotter was slumped in his study, his head twisted awkwardly as it rested on his desk next to his slender Mac keyboard. As he snored fitfully, Jerry was having a particularly lurid dream. He is sitting as far back in a chair as he can while a man is yelling right in his face. In the dream, Jerry is late for a vital appointment, but he doesn’t know what it’s for, and he can’t find out until the man stops yelling at him and gets out of the way. Jerry twitched himself half awake but didn’t move. He’d drooled on the desk and his head was pounding. A phone was ringing somewhere nearby.

After an hour that morning, Jerry had turned off the ringers on all the phones in the house and on his regular cell phone. It appeared that there were plenty of people who wanted to talk to him. He hadn’t shown up at work so they figured he was at home or at least somewhere where he could pick up his cell phone. But the only calls Jerry cared about would come in on the device that Max Higgins had given him. So that must be the phone that was ringing.

Jerry sat bolt upright and pulled something in his neck. A quick spasm of pain ran up into his head as he scrambled for the phone. It stopped ringing.

“Shit, shit.”

Although he was one-part asleep and couldn’t orient himself properly, Jerry found the phone and pushed at the unfamiliar buttons. A 917 number came up and he pressed the green button. The phone redialed. It wasn’t Higgins, and he couldn’t remember Hooper’s number or Brubaker’s.

“Let it be Hooper,” he said quietly, with purpose. “Let it be Hooper.”

Someone picked up the call.

“Where’ve you been? I called twice.”

It was Hooper.

“You got something?”

“Bingo.”

“What is it? You gotta tell me. . . .”

“We need to meet. The Starbucks on the corner of Sixtieth. Opposite the Mandarin Oriental.”

“That’s right across the street.”

“See you in ten minutes.”