4 Blood Pact (12 page)

“Dr. Burke, look at this! We’re definitely picking up independent brain wave patterns.”

“Are you certain we’re not just getting echos of what we’ve been feeding in?”

“Quite certain.” Catherine tapped the printout with one gnawed nail. “Look at this spike here. And here.”

Donald leaned over the doctor’s shoulder and squinted down at the wide ribbon of paper. “Electronic belching,” he declared, straightening. “And after thirty hours of this-is-your-life, I’m not surprised.”

“You may be right, Donald.” Dr. Burke lightly touched each peak, a smile threatening the comers of her mouth. “On the other hand, we might actually have something here. Catherine, I think we should open the isolation box.”

Both grad students jerked around to stare at their adviser.

“But it’s too soon,” Catherine protested. “We’ve been giving the bacteria a minimum of seventy-two hours . . .”

“And it hasn’t been entirely successful,” Dr. Burke broke in. “Now has it? We lost the first seven, number eight is beginning to putrefy, and according to this morning’s samples, even number nine hasn’t begun any cellular regeneration in muscle tissue. The near disaster with number five proved that we can’t continue isolation much past seventy-two hours, so let’s see what happens when we cut it short.”

Catherine ran her hand over the curved surface of the box. “I don’t know . . .”

“Besides,” the doctor continued, “if these spikes do indicate independent brain wave activity, then further time in what is essentially a sensory deprivation chamber will very likely . . .”

“Squash them flat.”

The two women turned.

“Inelegant, Donald, but essentially correct.”

Pale eyes scanned the array of hookups: monitors and digital readouts and one lone dial. “Well, except for the continuous alpha wave input, she isn’t actually doing anything in there,” Catherine admitted thoughtfully.

Dr. Burke sighed and decided, for the moment, to let Catherine’s terminology stand. “My point exactly. Donald, if you would do the honors. Catherine, keep an eye on things and if there are any changes at all, sing out.”

The seal sighed open, the hint of formaldehyde on the escaping oxygen-rich air surely an illusion, and the heavy lid rose silently on its counterweights. The body of Marjory Nelson lay naked and exposed on what had been a sterile pad, huge purple scars stapled shut. Hair, already becoming brittle, fell away from the clips that held the top of the skull in place. A faint trace of burial cosmetics painted an artificial blush across cheekbones death-mask prominent.

At her station by the monitors, Catherine frowned. “I’m not sure. It could be a loose connection. Dr. Burke, could you please check the jack.”

Pulling on a pair of surgical gloves, Dr. Burke bent over and reached to roll the head a little to the left.

Gray-blue eyes snapped open.

“Holy shit!” Donald danced backward, crashed into number nine’s box, and clutched at it for support.

Dr. Burke froze, one hand almost cradling the line of jaw.

One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. An eternity.

As suddenly as they opened, the eyes closed.

Her view of the body blocked by equipment, Catherine ignored Donald’s outburst—in her opinion they came too often to mean anything—and sighed. “Just a wiggle. Probably something in the wire.”

“In the wire!” The stethoscope around Donald’s neck swung in a manic arc. “We didn’t get a wiggle, partner, we got recognition.”

“What?” Catherine shot to her feet and stared from Donald to Dr. Burke. “What happened?”

“We opened the lid, she opened her eyes, and bam!” Donald punched at the air. “Just for an instant, she knew who was standing over her. I’m telling you, Cathy, she recognized Dr. Burke!”

“Nonsense.” Dr. Burke calmly checked the implant before straightening. “It was an involuntary reaction to the light. Nothing more.” The peeled gloves slammed into the garbage. “Switch off the oxygen supplement—we’ve only got three full tanks left and I’m not sure when we can get more from the departmental supplies—and run a complete check on the mechanicals. Draw the usual samples.”

“And the alpha waves?”

“Keep recording.” A little pale under the glare of the fluorescents, Dr. Burke paused at the door. “But at the first sign of any agitation, cut the power. I have things to catch up on, so I’ll see you both later.”

Catherine’s puzzled gaze traveled from the lab door to Donald.

“Sure as shit looked like recognition to me,” he repeated, wiping his palms on his pants. “I think the good doctor’s spooked and I don’t blame her. Spooked me, too, and I barely knew the woman.”

Catherine chewed her lip. “Well, it didn’t register electronically.”

He shrugged. “Then maybe we’ve got activity going on outside the net.”

On cue, number nine began banging on the inside of his box.

Donald jumped and swore, but Catherine looked suddenly stricken.

“Oh, no! I promised him he wouldn’t have to spend more time in there than absolutely necessary to maintain the integrity of the experiment.”

Watching her hurry across the lab, Donald fished a candy from his pocket and methodically unwrapped it.
Now that’s a person who doesn’t get out enough.

 

Usually, Dr. Burke considered the sound of her footsteps, leather soles slapping against tile, nothing more than background noise, acknowledged then forgotten. Today, the sound chased her through the empty halls of the old Life Sciences building, across the connecting walkway, and up into the sanctuary of her office. Even tucked into the comforting depths of her old wooden chair, she thought she could still hear the echoing trail she’d left. After a moment, she realized she was listening to the rapid pounding of her heart.

You’re being ridiculous,
she told herself firmly, palms flat on the desk.
Take a deep breath and stop overreacting.

Marjory Nelson’s heart condition, not to mention her accessibility, had made her the perfect candidate for the next phase of the experiment. Brain waves had been recorded, tissue samples has been taken, bacteria had been specifically tailored to her DNA—all in preparation for her death. Or rather for the attempted reversal of it. Marjory, knowing nothing of what they’d been doing, submitted to the tests she’d been told might help, and died right on schedule.

Right on schedule.
A second deep breath followed the first.
It was fast and painless when it otherwise might not have been.
Not to mention that her presence at the collapse had ensured they wouldn’t have to worry about the tissue destruction inherent in an autopsy.

Squaring her shoulders, Dr. Burke pulled the morning’s mail across the desk. They were reversing death. Catherine might have created the bacteria, but without her involvement this application would still be years, if not decades, in the future. She had made possible the logical progression of Catherine’s experiments and she would reap the rewards.

If recognition
had
flashed just for that instant in Marjory’s eyes, then they trembled on the brink of success long before empirical data suggested they should.

If recognition had occurred then . . .

Then what?

Marjory Nelson is dead and I’m truly sorry about that. She was an essential member of my staff and I’ll miss her.
With a deft movement, Dr. Burke slid the letter opener the length of the envelope.
The body in the lab is experimental unit number ten. Nothing more.

 

“I already spoke to the police about this, Ms. Nelson.” Nervously, Christy Aloman shuffled the papers on her desk. “I don’t know if I should be speaking to you.”

“Did the police tell you not to speak to anyone else?”

“No, but . . .”

“You have to admit, if anyone has a right to know, it’s me.” Vicki felt the pencil dig deep into the callus on her second finger and forced her hand to relax.

“Yes, but . . .”

“My mother’s body was stolen from these premises.”

“I know, but . . .”

“I should think you’d want to do what you could to help.”

“I do. Truly I do.” She made the mistake of looking at Vicki’s face and found she couldn’t look away. Gray-blue eyes were like chiseled bits of frozen stone and she felt as she had when, so many winters ago, she’d responded to childish dares and touched the metal gatepost with her tongue—foolish and trapped.

“Then tell me everything you can remember about Tom Chen. How he looked. What he wore. How he acted. What he said. What you overheard.”

“Everything?” It was complete surrender and they both knew it.

“Everything.”

 

“I don’t suppose you ever wore anything like this when you were alive.” Catherine pulled the Queen’s University sweatpants up over number nine’s hips. Grayish skin glistened with the most recent application of estrogen cream. “I mean all things considered, you were in pretty good shape, but you didn’t look like a jock. Sit.”

Number nine obediently sat.

“Raise your arms. Higher.”

A bit of agar oozed out between incision staples over the sternum as number nine’s arms lifted into the air.

Catherine ignored it and tugged a matching sweatshirt down over the arms and head. “There you go. A pair of shoes and you’re fit for polite company.”

“Cathy, I hate to say this, but you’re looney tunes.” Donald pushed away from the microscope and rubbed his eyes. “You’re talking to an animatronic corpse. It doesn’t understand you.”

“I think he does.” She slid one bony foot into a running shoe, pressing the velcro closed. “And if maybe he doesn’t understand all of it now, he’ll never learn to understand if we don’t talk to him.”

“I know. I know. Necessary stimulus. But we’re not getting anything back—brain wave wise—that we haven’t put in. Granted,” he held up a hand to cut off her protest, “we’re getting some evidence of interfacing with gross motor skills. You don’t need to give every muscle fiber a separate instruction and that’s fucking amazing, but face it,” he tapped his head, “there’s nothing upstairs. The tenant is gone.”

Catherine snorted and patted number nine reassuringly on the shoulder. “Great bedside manner. I can see why you got kicked out of med school.”

“I didn’t get kicked out.” Donald set another slide under the microscope lens. “I made a lateral move into graduate studies in organic chemistry.”

“Not an entirely voluntary move from what I heard. I heard Dr. Burke had to save your ass.”

“Catherine!” Miming shock and horror, Donald spread both hands wide. “I didn’t know you knew such words.” He shook his head and grinned. “You’ve spent too much time with single-celled orgasms . . .”

“Organisms!”

“. . . you need to get a life.”

Catherine moved to number eight’s box and adjusted the power. “Somebody has to stay here and take care of them.”

Donald sighed. “Better you than me.”

 

Touch.

Her touch.

As electronic impulses continued to move out from the net, more and more words were returning. Hold. Want. Have. Number nine didn’t know what to do with those words, not yet.

Wait.

 

“Is she asleep?”

“Yes.” Henry sank down onto the sofa and rested his arms across his knees, the scattering of red-gold hair below his rolled-up sleeves glittering in the lamp-light.

“Did you have to . . . convince her?”

“Very nearly, but no. I merely helped her to calm and exhaustion did the rest.”

Celluci snorted. “Helped her to calm?” he growled. “Is that a euphemism for something I don’t want to know about?”

Henry ignored the question. “It’s late. What are you doing up?”

Lifting his feet up onto the coffee table and stretching long legs, Celluci grunted, “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Do you want to?”

It was asked innocently enough.
No. Not innocently. Nothing Fitzroy did came under the heading of innocent.
Neutrally enough. “No.” Celluci tried to keep his response equally neutral. “I just thought that if you had any idea of what we’re supposed to do next, well, I’d like to hear it.”

Henry shrugged and threw a quick glance back over his shoulder toward the bedroom where Vicki’s heart beat slow and steady, finally free of the angry pounding it had no doubt taken all day. “I honestly have no idea.” He turned to look through the shadows at the other man. “Don’t you have a job to go back to?”

“Compassionate leave,” Celluci told him shortly, eyes half closed. “Shouldn’t you be out, oh, I don’t know, stalking the night or something?”

“Shouldn’t you be out detecting?”

“Detecting what? It hardly makes sense to stake out the scene of the crime and you can bet that asshole Chen, or whatever his real name is, has vanished. All the profiles in the world won’t help us identify a perp we can’t find.”

Henry reached down and fanned the papers on the coffee table by Celluci’s feet. Vicki had spent the evening compiling the day’s data and when he’d risen, just before eight, she’d presented her results.

Henry had been impressed; and equally concerned. “Victory” Nelson appeared to have no room in her investigation for grieving. A steady emotional diet of rage, especially at this time, couldn’t be healthy. He scanned the pages of notes and shook his head. “She’s got everything here but a picture.”