Mutation (21 page)

     But if this scenario were the case, why hadn't the smart rats been disposed of? And what about VJ? Besides, so few people had access to the computer and the labs. Victor thought about the hacker who had deleted the files. But how would such a person gain access to the labs, or even the day-care center? All at once, Victor understood that it was only at the day-care center that the Hobbs and Murray babies' lives intersected. They had to have received the cephaloclor at the day-care center!

     Victor angrily considered Hurst's threat: "You're not the white knight you want us to believe." Maybe Hurst knew all about the NGF project and this was his way of retaliating.

     Victor started pacing again. Even the Hurst idea didn't fit well with the facts. If Hurst or anyone wanted to get back at him, why not old-fashioned blackmail, or just exposure to the newspapers? That made more sense than killing innocent children. No, there had to be another explanation, something more evil, less obvious.

     Victor sat down at his desk and took out some results from recent laboratory experiments and tried to do some work. But he couldn't concentrate. His thoughts kept circling back to the NGF project. Considering what he was up against, it was too bad he couldn't go to the authorities with his suspicions. Doing so would require a full disclosure of the NGF project, and Victor understood that he could never do that. It would amount to professional suicide. To say nothing of his family life. If only he had never done this experiment in the first place.

     Leaning back in his chair and putting his hands behind his head, Victor stared up at the ceiling. Back when VJ's intelligence had dropped, Victor had never even considered testing him for cephaloclor. Could the antibiotic have been sequestered in his body since birth, only to leach out when he was between two and four years old? "No," Victor voiced to the ceiling, answering his own question. There was no physiological process that could cause such a phenomenon.

     Victor marveled at the storm of events whirling around him: Gephardt's murder, the possible purposeful elimination of two genetically engineered children, an escalating series of threats to himself and his family, fraud, and embezzlement. Could these disparate incidents be related in some fantastic, grisly plot?

     Victor shook his head. The fact that all these things were happening at once had to be coincidence. But the thought they were related nagged. Victor thought again of VJ. Could he be at risk? How could Victor prevent him from receiving cephaloclor if there was some sinister hand trying to effect just that?

     Victor stared blankly ahead. The idea of VJ's being at risk had disturbed him since Wednesday afternoon. He began to wonder if his warnings about Beekman and Hurst had been adequate. He got up from the desk and walked to the door. Suddenly he didn't like the idea of VJ wandering around Chimera on his own.

     Starting out in the lab just as he had done on Wednesday, he began asking if anyone had seen VJ. But no one had seen either him or Philip for some time. Victor left the lab building and went to the cafeteria. It was just before lunchtime and the cafeteria staff was in the final countdown in preparation for the noontime rush. A few people who preferred to get a jump on the others were already eating their lunches. Victor went directly to the manager, Curt Tarkington, who was supervising the stocking of the steam table.

     "I'm looking for my son again," Victor said.

     "He hasn't been in yet," Curt said. "Maybe you should give him a beeper."

     "Not a bad idea," Victor said. "When he shows up, would you ring my secretary?"

     "No problem," Curt said.

     Victor checked the library, which was in the same building, but there wasn't a soul there. Stepping outside, he debated going to the fitness and day-care centers. Instead, he headed for the security office at the main gate.

     Wiping his feet on a straw mat, Victor entered the small office that was built between the entrance and the exit to the Chimera compound. One man was operating the gates, another sat at a small desk. Both wore official-looking brown uniforms with the Chimera insignia patch on the upper sleeves. The man at the desk jumped to his feet as Victor entered.

     "Good morning, sir," the guard said. His name tag gave his name: Sheldon Farber.

     "Sit down," Victor said in a friendly tone. Sheldon sat. "I have a question about protocol. When a truck or van leaves the compound, does someone take a look inside?"

     "Oh, yes," Sheldon said. "Always."

     "And if there is equipment on board you make sure it is supposed to be there?" Victor asked.

     "Certainly," Sheldon said. "We check the work order or call electronic maintenance. We always check it out."

     "What if it is being driven by one of the Chimera employees?"

     "Doesn't matter," Sheldon said. "We always check."

     "What if it is being driven by one of the management?"

     Sheldon hesitated, then spoke. "Well, I suppose that would be different."

     "So if a van is driven out of here by one of the executives, you let it go?"

     "Well, I'm not sure," Sheldon said nervously.

     "From now on I want all trucks, vans, and the like looked into no matter who is driving. Even me. Understand?"

     "Oh, yes, sir," Sheldon said.

     "One other question," Victor said. "Has anyone seen my son today?"

     "I haven't," Sheldon said. Then to the man operating the gates he said, "George, did you see VJ today?"

     "Only when he arrived with Dr. Frank."

     Sheldon held up a hand for Victor to wait. Turning to a radio set up behind the desk, he put out a call for Hal.

     "Hal's been cruising around this morning," Sheldon explained. Some crackles heralded Hal's voice. Sheldon asked if VJ was around.

     "I saw him down near the dam earlier this morning," Hal said through a good deal of static.

     Victor thanked the security men and left their office. He felt a minor amount of irritation, remembering how willful VJ was. Victor could remember telling him to stay away from the river at least four or five times.

     Pulling his lab coat more closely around him, Victor started for the river. He thought about going back to the main building to get his regular coat, but didn't. Although the temperature had dropped from the previous day, it still was not that cold.

     Although the day had started clear, it was now cloudy. The prevailing breeze, from the northeast, smelled of the ocean. High above, several sea gulls circled, squawking shrilly.

     Directly ahead stood the clock tower building with its Big Ben replica stopped at 2:15. Victor reminded himself to bring up the issue of renovating the structure as well as the clock at next Wednesday's board meeting.

     The closer he got to the river, the louder the roar from the waterfall over the spillway of the dam became.

     "VJ!" Victor shouted as he approached the river's edge. But his voice was lost in the crash of the water. He continued past the eastern edge of the clock tower building, crossed over a wooden bridge that spanned the sluice exiting from the basement of the building, and arrived at the granite quay built along the river below the dam. He looked down at the white water as it swirled furiously eastward toward the ocean. Glancing left, he gazed at the expanse of the dam spanning the river and at the broad millpond upstream. Water poured over the center of the dam in an imposing arch of emerald green. The force was enough for Victor to feel through his feet, standing on the granite quay. It was an awesome testimony to the power of nature that had started earlier that year with gentle snowflakes.

     Turning around, Victor shouted at the top of his lungs: "VJ!" But he bit off his shout with the shock that VJ was standing directly behind him. Philip was a little farther away.

     "There you are," Victor said. "I've been looking all over for you."

     "I guessed as much," VJ said. "What do you want?"

     "I want . . ." Victor paused. He wasn't sure what he wanted. "What have you been doing?"

     "Just having fun."

     "I'm not sure I want you wandering around like this, especially down here by the river," Victor said sternly. "In fact, I want you home today. I'll have a driver from the motor pool give you and Philip a lift."

     "But I don't want to go home," VJ complained.

     "I'll explain more later," Victor said firmly. "But I want you home for now. It's for your own good."

     Marsha opened the door to her office that gave out to the hall and Joyce Hendricks slipped out. She'd told Marsha that she was terrified of running into someone she knew while coming out of a psychiatrist's office, and for the time being Marsha indulged her. After a time, Marsha was certain that she could convince the woman that seeking psychiatric help was no longer a social stigma.

     After updating the Hendricks file, Marsha poked her head into the office waiting room and told Jean that she was going off to lunch. Jean waved in acknowledgment. As usual, she was tied up on the phone.

     Marsha was having lunch with Dr. Valerie Maddox, a fellow psychiatrist whom she admired and respected, whose office was in the same building complex as Marsha's. But more than colleagues, the two women were friends.

     "Hungry?" Marsha asked after Valerie herself opened the door.

     "Starved." Valerie was in her late fifties and looked every day of it. She'd smoked for many years and had a ring of deep creases that radiated away from her mouth like the lines a child would draw indicating the rays of the sun.

     Together they went down in the elevator and crossed to the hospital, using the crossway. In the hospital shop they managed to get a small table in the corner that allowed them to talk. They both ordered tuna salads.

     "I appreciate your willingness to have lunch," Marsha said. "I need to talk with you about VJ."

     Valerie just smiled encouragement.

     "You were such a help back when his intelligence dropped. I've been concerned about him lately, but what can I say? I'm his mother. I can't pretend to have any objectivity whatsoever, where he's concerned."

     "What's the problem?" asked Valerie.

     "I'm not even sure there is a problem. It certainly isn't one specific thing. Take a look at these psychological test results."

     Marsha handed Valerie VJ's folder. Valerie scanned the various test reports with a careful eye. "Nothing appears out of the ordinary," she said. "Curious about that validity scale on the MMPI, but otherwise, there's nothing here to be concerned about."

     Marsha had the feeling that Valerie was right. She went on to explain. VJ's truancy, the forged notes, and the fights he'd been in in school.

     "VJ sounds resourceful," said Valerie with a smile. "How old is he again?"

     "Ten," Marsha said. "I'm also concerned that he only seems to have one friend his own age, a boy named Richie Blakemore, and I've never even met him."

     "VJ never brings this boy to your home?" Valerie asked.

     "Never."

     "Maybe it might be worth chatting with Mrs. Blakemore," Valerie said. "Get an idea from her how close the boys are."

     "I suppose."

     "I'd be happy to see VJ if you think he would be willing," Valerie offered.

     "I'd certainly appreciate it," Marsha said. "I really think I'm too close to the situation to evaluate him. At the same time, I'm terrified at the thought he's developing a serious personality disorder right under my nose."

     Marsha left Valerie in the elevator, thanking her profusely for taking the time to hear her out, and for offering to see VJ. She promised to call Valerie's secretary to set up an appointment.

     "Your husband called," Jean said as Marsha came back in the door. "He wants you to be sure to call back."

     "A problem?" Marsha asked.

     "I don't think so," Jean said. "He didn't say one way or the other, but he didn't sound upset."

     Marsha picked up her mail and went into the inner office, closing the door behind her. Flipping through her mail, she phoned Victor. Colleen patched the call through to the lab, and Victor came on the line.

     "What's up?" asked Marsha. Victor didn't often call during the day.

     "The usual," Victor said.

     "You sound tired," Marsha said. She wanted to say he sounded strange. His voice was toneless, as if he'd just had an emotional outburst and was forcing himself to remain calm.

     "There are always surprises these days," Victor said without explanation. "The reason I called was to say that VJ and Philip are at home."

     "Something wrong?" asked Marsha.

     "No," Victor said. "Nothing is wrong. But I'm going to be working late so you and the others go ahead and eat. Oh, by the way, there will be security watching the house from 6 P.M. until 6 A.M."

     "Does the reason you're staying late have anything to do with the harassment?" Marsha asked.

     "Maybe," Victor said. "I'll explain when I get home."

     Marsha hung up the phone but her hand remained on the receiver. Once again she had that uncomfortable feeling that Victor was keeping something from her, something that she should know. Why couldn't he confide in her? More and more, she was feeling alone.

     A particular stillness hung over the lab when Victor was there by himself. Various electronic instruments kicked on at times, but otherwise it was quiet. By eight-thirty Victor was the only person in the lab. Closed behind several doors, he couldn't even hear the sounds of the animals as they paced in their cages or used their exercise wheels.

     Victor was bent over strips of film that bore darkened horizontal stripes. Each stripe represented a portion of DNA that had been cleaved at a specific point. Victor was comparing his son David's DNA fingerprint-one taken when David was still healthy-and one of his cancerous liver tumor. What amazed him was that the two did not entirely match. Victor's first hunch was that Dr. Shryack had given him the wrong sample-a piece of tumor from some other patient. But that did not explain the vast homology of the two strips; for whatever differences there were between the two fingerprints, much was the same.