“Petroski!” I yell into the empty white space of the lab as Lorenzo pushes the gurney past countertops of flying paper, eyeglasses, a fucking slide rule. “Petroski!”

Petroski comes running from his station. The chimp utters a low moan, not a hoot, not a screech, but a woeful, hollow moan.

Don’t look at her, Jean. Don’t you dare look at her.

But, of course, I do.

Fury shimmers in her soft brown eyes as we reach the open cage.

Petroski draws his service weapon. His hand shakes as he clicks something with a thumb. The safety, maybe. What the hell do I know?

“Don’t shoot her unless you have to,” I say. “All right, Enzo. On my count. One . . .”

The chimp’s paw leaves her head and reaches toward me.

“Two,” I pant.

Iodine from the wound fills my nostrils as she extends.

“Three!” With every ounce of strength, I heave the beast off the gurney with Lorenzo taking most of her weight. A claw brushes my lips as chimp Number 413 rolls into the cage. Lorenzo slams it shut and steps back to the centerline of the cage room, taking me with him. One furry paw shoots between the bars, clawed fingers splayed, then retracts. The chimp goes back to massaging one side of her head.

It almost looks as if she’s trying to remember something.

“Oh god, Enzo. Morgan. Where’s Morgan?”

Based on the tour, I know there’s only one way in and out of the lab, and Morgan hasn’t come through. Lorenzo is back across the room in four long strides, as I yell to him to get Jackie and Isabel out of the way. I don’t know if he hears me.

Lin signs something I can’t understand, points to me, then to the caged chimp.

“Close one,” I say, unsure of whether this is what she means.

She nods.

“Go see about Jackie and Isabel,” I say. “I’m going to help Lorenzo.”

Another nod.

I don’t know whether it hits me while I’m still in the primate room, or whether I think it as I walk through the lab with its tilted stools and scattered papers, but it hits all the same. It hits like a fucking grand piano dropped from a high floor. Morgan. A syringe. Lorenzo.

This isn’t water soluble. Or injectable into the bloodstream.

Try that, and you’ll fry half his brain.

My legs seem to move on their own.

Chapter Seventy-three

SEVENTY-THREE

Morgan LeBron stands five foot six and might tip the scales at 150, after someone wet him down with a fire hose. Lorenzo can pick me up with one arm tied behind his back. It’s no match at all, unless the smaller of the two has an edge.

Morgan does.

He has an edge with twenty cc’s of poison and one hell of a sharp needle.