Next History: The Girl Who Hacked Tomorrow (18 page)

“
We re-tested you against Mr. Porterfield’s earlier samples, using the samples you gave us recently. We got 99% hits from some markers, 0% hits from others.”

“
What! How can that even work?” Tharcia is immediately sorry she came.
He’s even partway my father? Ewwwww.
He wants something.

“The DNA testing we do shows whether t
wo individuals have a biological parent-child relationship. A paternity test establishes genetic proof of whether a man is the biological father of an individual, in this case, you. In a DNA parentage test, the result is a probability. It is 99.99% when the alleged parent is biologically related to the child. Because your blood sample and your buccal swab do not show the same hits with Mr. Porterfield, you could have two or more completely different sets of genes.”

“Why two?”

“Or more. Usually, people have a single set of genes. But occasionally, a person can have two or more different sets. In a single body.”

“So I
’m a freak show now?”

“No
t so much. As I said it’s rare. Such individuals are known as
chimeras.
”

“A chimera.”
Tharcia thinks the word has a nice sound.

“
Correct. A chimera is a single organism composed of two or more different populations of genetically distinct cells originating from different zygotes.”

“
I started out as two zygotes?”

“
A chimera can form when two or more early zygotes fuse together. Each population of cells keeps its own character and the resulting organism is a mixture of tissues.”

“So I
’m twins.”

Doctor
Munoz grins. “If true, you would have started out as fraternal twins. Some of the markers hit positive for Mr. Porterfield, some did not.”

Tharcia’s expression darkens.
“So, my mom was having sex with more than one guy?” Her heart flops at the idea Porterfield could be related to her in the teensiest way.

“
We need to test the other father for a match. And yes, but the intercourse can be days apart. At least two of your mom’s eggs had to be present, which is how fraternal twins are created. Two eggs ripen and release instead of one. Not necessarily on the same day.”

“
Two eggs. So I am twins, in one body?”

“That’s what it
looks like. As I say, the other father must be tested to be certain.”

“So who is the other father?”

“We can’t tell you that. If you know someone who has similar traits or characteristics, someone your mother mentioned perhaps, he might be a candidate for testing. You might know this person yourself.”

“My mom died. She’s not saying much
.”

“Right. Perhaps you can go back through old photos, talk to any family.”

“I have an aunt. How good is your test?”

“
It’s a 21-marker analysis with a gender marker and overlapping genetic systems. It provides a double-blind test for every sample. Because Mr. Porterfield is not excluded, as we say, there is high likelihood he is your father. Or one of them.”

“One of them
,” she mutters with distaste. Hops off the table, shakes hands with Doctor Munoz, and leaves the office. Walking through warm sunshine toward her car, Tharcia‘s mood is dark.
Mom, you dumb cunt. How could you even like him?

As
she hurries between cars in the clinic parking lot, images of her dream-twin come. A woman who in her stature and coloring looks a lot like her mother.
My secret twin
. But it comes to her she is thinking about this all wrong. She is letting events control her. It’s time she learns how to push back.

As s
he drives away, Tharcia decides she must visualize her own future reality, not as dream, but as her firm intention of events that must take place. She focuses her mind on a single question.

What
is it I want?

Father Gary Tilton tiredly folds shut his laptop, slumps in the high-backed swivel chair in his office at Sacred Heart Catholic Church, closes his eyes. He needs a moment to consider what he has just read. A fellow priest sent him to a blog about the mysterious demise of the singer, Annetka, by a fashion critic calling himself Carrion Gray. Tilton surmises the blogger’s name is made up. But the details resonate. In all Tilton’s study and research into supernatural beings, useful in his work as exorcist, he’s seen descriptions of Angels which correspond with some facts in the blog entry.

In
many mythologies, Tilton knows, depending on sources, translations and accounts, angels can appear on Earth as humans. Only the white angels, he reminds himself. Dark angels cannot take human form, or ever conceal their wings. Descending to Earth for white angels is a one-way process, they cannot go back. They lose their wings and become mostly human, although they retain many of the super-being qualities which all angels own.

If
the blog is accurate, Tilton ponders, what was this angel, Annetka, doing here? Was she captured by pride, wanting a privileged ride among humans? Did she have a heavenly mission?

If Annetka was an a
ngel on Earth, what killed her? And why? He’s heard one darkly suggestive rumor: that the time of her murder is roughly coincident with the arrival of the mystery man in the Pentagon courtyard. Tilton knows that Lucifer has many enemies among angels. Folkloric myth suggests that Lucifer is allowed on Earth but rarely, or completely forbidden. His presence here would cause violent activity, revenge and retribution. Angels can be a bloody lot.

Tilton
, as millions of others, saw on news feeds today the blab-tab story from Annetka’s manager, who had first arrived at the murder scene. From her bed in a New York City psychiatric hospital, she’d told how the big living room window splintered outward into winter sunlight, described the spread-winged thing poised in midair for a split second before it winked out of sight. Awakening from her induced coma, she screamed out, “It has wings! Scales! Wings and claws! It has a dick and it has wings!”

Tilton’s
meeting with the Harrison girl nags him. A young woman using random spells to conjure her mother as though she were a demon. Tilton shakes his head dubiously. The rules of demonology are complex and hazily documented. He admits it’s bizarre enough to possibly work.
But with what results?

Texts and emails
in the last hour inform him that numerous priests among the Vatican’s trained and experienced exorcists are being summoned to join a convocation for assignment in Virginia. With a sick lump of foreboding, Tilton decides there could be a connection with the girl. He sees her as too peculiar to be a victim, but rather a motive force, focused with intensity on achieving her result.

In Tilton’s view, Satan
, even in in the 21st century, is admitted more broadly than among Christians who follow a literal Bible. Satan is a clear concept in mainstream Churches. Two years ago, Tilton attended a conference of U.S. Catholic bishops, participated in an extended debate over growing demand for exorcism, and the shortage of qualified priests to work with the possessed.

Callings and conjurings
of demons emanate from deepest survival-sanity of unconscious drives, Tilton knows, the hindbrain field reaching out for whatever feels good in the moment, a mental underworld where arises addictive sex, alcoholism and drunkenness, wealth-lust and unstoppable greed, the depths of violence and the horrors of abuse. Tilton’s sense of the girl is she’s damaged in a way she skillfully hides. He doesn’t realize why, but knows he must warn her. And deep in Tilton’s unconscious, unknown to him, replays the memory of her slim hips, climbing stairs before his captivated eyes in her white, snug little jeans. A woman like that could cause great damage, if she has not done so already.

A new email dings in Tilton’s inbox. From the
Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Chicago. Tilton reads with pride overlaid by anus-clenching terror. He is to join the priestly convocation that will depart for Arlington, Virginia, early tomorrow morning.

The
Vatican thinks this is real.

Pool balls click amid a cascade of voices at the Sea Snake Brew Pub in Santa Cruz. Clay orders a Pelican, grabs a spot at the bar being vacated by a young couple. Waitress hurries up with his pint, couple older surfers squeeze in beside him.

Place is too loud to talk, the singer and her backup
band are wailing. Clay checks the place out, glimpses in the back bar mirror a real stunner. Intelligent and sultry face, drinking a daiquiri and talking into her phone. Reminds Clay of Tharcia’s mom, dark eyes, dark hair framing pearl-skinned face. The stool beside her is vacant.

A g
uy materializes at her elbow, Clay watches him chat her up. The whole thing takes fifteen seconds. First the dude’s shoulders droop, he says something more, then turns away. The whole time she doesn’t look at him. Stool beside her stays empty.

Clay is nodding, yeah
, getting a half smile as he sips his pint. Doesn’t take long, scene replays with another guy, tries to sit next to her. Twenty seconds max, he’s out of there. The action subsides then for about five minutes, until somebody new comes along, makes his attempt, walks away staring daggers at the carpet.

Clay laughs to himself.
Now this looks like fun.
In his imagination, puts himself in the position of a glamorous woman sitting alone in a crowded bar. Sees exactly what she is doing. She is there to be picked up, sure, but it’s Saturday Night and she’s in no rush, making a game out of it. Playful.
All right.
Walks to where she sits with her phone and her drink. Stands behind the empty stool, doesn’t look at her, signals the bartender, shouting above the noise, “Two shots of your
Tezon Blanco
.”

Clay
doesn’t sit, keeps his eyes moving around the room, watching the scene, the singer, follows the bartender’s graceful stretch for the Tezon on a high shelf. Doesn’t glance at the woman eight inches from his elbow, mostly keeps his back to her.

“I don’t drink tequila,” says a smooth voice next to him.

Clay doesn’t look over. The shots land, Clay throws down some bills, turns back to where he was sitting, elbows his way in between the surfers, one of whom is about to take his stool. Clay downs one of the shots, feels the hot blue fire make its way down his throat.

“She put you away pretty fast, dude,” one of the surfers says
with a guffaw.

Clay laughs. “
Didn’t hit on her.
Dude
.”

The surfer
shoots his mate a puzzled expression.

“That’s what she’s here for,” Clay
yells into the club’s roar. “See how many guys she can shut down. I just iced her.”

Guy laughs, “Gnarly.
” His back to her, Clay tosses down his second shot, thumps the glass on the bar, strides out the front door.

Fifteen minutes later he is back. Seat beside the
dark-haired woman still empty. Beside her half a daiquiri, she’s texting on her phone. Clay does the same again, stands close, jostles her elbow without noticing, calls out his order for two tequila shots.

“I could switch to tequila,” she says
calmly. Although her voice is soft, Clay hears her easily in the uproar. Looks over, nice smile waiting. He shrugs, slides one of the shots across to her. When she lifts the glass in toast, her eyes over the rim are intelligent, full of play and mischief. They toss it back. Now Clay gets a closer look. She’s a few years older than him, a total goddess. He smiles, tilts his head toward the bar.

“
Yes. I’d like another.” Her voice is sultry-cool. Clay calls for two more, reminds himself that’s all the drinking he can do without a bottom on his stomach. Down the bar one of the surfers is giving him a WTF look with a big grin. Clay shrugs.
Kitty whisperer.
Told ya.

Clay sits, but keeps his attention moving around the boisterous crowd.
The shots arrive and back they go. Clay sets his glass down. “Nice to drink with a class act. Bump into you sometime.” Twirls from his stool with a smile. She puts a hand on his arm.

“
You hungry? I know where there’s a good jazz club.” Her look hints at other things the evening could offer.

Clay
smiles. Hunger comes in many flavors. “Well, yah, I definitely gotta get food in me.”

“Come,” she says. When she gets off the stool
their eyes are at the same level, spike heels set off her calves in the short leather skirt. As they leave she draws glares from guys who’d tried her, most others simply check out her style as she leads Clay out the door.

On
the sidewalk she tells him, “There’s a nice place down in Pebble Beach with a jazz trio. Guy on keys is good. Friend of mine.”

Her car is a black Aston Martin, she drives it fast. Clay figures she’s got a radar detector or something expensive looking out for her because they do the stretch of Highway 1 from Santa Cruz to Pebble in 25 minutes
, not a cop in sight. Clay sits back in the leather seat and watches, figuring the car has a dozen airbags and he’s drunk enough not to care. The road ahead is a video game of tail lights and highway signs whizzing past, the blurred center line. She doesn’t take chances, but keeps it above 90 most of the time, on a clear stretch the car hits 145.