The Messiah Code (15 page)

"Clothes don't have genes," explained Debbie, grinning from ear to ear.

Jack gave the crescent-shaped scar on his face a pensive stroke. "What a shame, Karen. You and I have been through some scrapes together, but I've never seen you
au naturel
before. I've often wondered about it though."

"Well, you can keep on wondering, Jack," laughed Karen. "Unless of course you want to show me yours first."

Turning back to Jasmine, Karen nodded toward the hologram. "So you got that from the DNA in my hair root?"

"Yup. The Genescope has always been able to tell physical characteristics from a person's genotype, but this new software takes it one stage further. It builds up a three-dimensional computer-generated picture of an individual from their genes, and then converts it into a hologram." She pointed to the suspended head. "We only used your hair to show you how accurate it is."

"I'm convinced. But how about the suspect's DNA? I can't wait to get a look at the bastard."

Jasmine turned back to the Genescope and punched four keys on the adjacent keyboard. This prototype had no voice commands yet, but that would come. In time she would even be able to make the holograms talk back. She pressed one final tab and the life-size head of Karen Tanner vanished into thin air.

Jasmine turned back to the screen above the keyboard. Karen's colleagues in forensics had found fresh blood on the thorns of a rose in the murder victim's kitchen trash; the same roses witnesses had seen in the blond suspect's tote bag. "Okay, we've done the analysis on the blood sample found at Fontana's apartment."

The FBI agent nodded, her green eyes expectant. "And?"

Jasmine watched Debbie check the holo-lamps, then give her a thumbs-up sign. "Well, what do you want? Just the Preacher's head or his whole body?"

Karen smiled. "Give me the works."

"Okay, time to summon up the Genie."

Jasmine pushed the enter key.

The rumble from the Genescope changed to the crackling sound of static, then the holo-lamps around the circular holopad lit up, and a ghostly figure appeared before them. The apparition conjured up from the Preacher's genes gradually became more solid in appearance as the four colored holo-lamps--one magenta, one cyan, one yellow, and one white--merged to create the necessary variety of hues, painting in the higher levels of definition fed to them by the Genescope's bio-computer.

This "painting" happened from the feet up, line by line, and within seconds the figure was complete. It was perfectly lifelike, except there was one thing wrong with it. It was a woman.

Jasmine turned to the stunned FBI agent, staring open mouthed at the hologram, and said, "I thought the Preacher was a man."

Karen nodded vacantly. "So did I."

"She's beautiful," said Jack.

And she was. Her hair was a rich coppery chestnut and her tall, athletic figure with its full breasts and long shapely legs was stunning. However, it was the large eyes that were most striking; their catlike shape was remarkable enough, but it was their unusual color, the left one blue, the right one brown, that really made her stand out.

"She should be a man," said Karen Tanner again. "We know the Preacher killed a male prostitute called Babe and took his place to get close to Fontana. But when we questioned the doorman he described a blond
man
. Christ, only the height matches his description."

"Are you sure the blood came from the Preacher?" asked Jack. "Perhaps you've got a copy-cat killer."

"No way. The blood was fresh and it wasn't Fontana's, so it must have been the killer's. But the murderer didn't only leave the Preacher's biblical message, which everybody knows about; he used his pen too--"

"Pen?" asked Jasmine.

"Yeah, the Preacher almost always writes his message in the victim's blood, using a special nib to aspirate blood from one of the arteries--usually the femoral. But in this case he--or she--used the victim's severed jugular. The writing matches that found on other homicides too. No, this was definitely the work of the Preacher."

"So, now you know the Preacher's a woman who's good at disguises," concluded Jack.

"
Really
good at disguises," muttered the FBI agent, taking a computer-generated sketch out of her pocket. "This blond guy was seen by a ton of people approaching the apartment. Despite the obvious disguise, we've got what we think is a pretty good idea of his facial structure. But the nose, chin, cheekbones are all wrong. Even the guy's eyes were a different color." She pointed to the hologram. "And look at those breasts. You can't hide a chest like that even with strapping. This is one goodlooking woman, and believe me, some of the witnesses I interviewed were the kind of guys who would notice a looker. Yet they all
swear
they saw a
man
."

Jasmine shrugged. "People do change the way they look. All the Gene Genie can do is replicate a person's appearance from the genes they were born with on the basis of a lifestyle 'norm' that takes into account average diet and

exercise. It can't factor in cosmetic or surgical changes later in life."

Karen Tanner grimaced in frustration. It was obvious that the agent had been expecting a major breakthrough, and this wasn't it.

"At least you now know she's female," said Jack. "Surely that must put a whole new angle on the case. I bet you'll turn up new leads when you review the Preacher's past homicides in the light of this. And you know roughly what she looks like now."

Karen turned and flashed her green eyes at him. "Do I, Jack? Christ, for all I know she could look like Marilyn Monroe or Arnold Schwarzenegger by now."

I
n fact Maria Benariac resembled neither as she studied the man coming out of the small white church of Cittavecchia in Sardinia. Dr. Carter seemed to be smiling and despite his slight limp moved with fast, purposeful steps across the sunlit street. In his right hand he held a case, and in his left something small, which she couldn't recognize. It looked like a glass tube.

She adjusted her compact Olympus auto-zoom and leaned back in the hired Fiat, watching him approach a similar white car parked three spaces away.

Click. Click
. She took two pictures; the camera's quiet autowind motor purred in her ear.

Dr. Carter had been in the church in Cittavecchia for almost two hours speaking with the priests. She couldn't understand it. He was an atheist. What business could he have here?

After her unsatisfactory phone call to the Father, when he had been so evasive about the Brotherhood's plans for Dr. Carter, she had determined to shadow the scientist. It seemed to her that for some reason the Inner Circle lacked the courage or will to finish what it had started, and she hated the idea that his evil might go unpunished.

It hadn't been hard to track him down to Sardinia. A call to GENIUS had told her where he was in Paris; then a concerned call to the Paris hospital had soon elicited the scientist's travel arrangements from there. At first she had tried to convince herself that she didn't need to follow him here. But she knew her reluctance stemmed from the fact that Corsica, with all its memories, was only a short boat trip away.

Click. Click
. Two more snaps. If the camera were a gun, she mused, the scientist would be dead. If only.

She watched him open the door to his rental car, stoop his tall frame, and climb into the driver's seat. When he was comfortable, she saw him put his case on the car dash, open it, and then after one last glance at the glass tube put it in the case.

She heard the car's engine stutter into life, and watched as he pulled out from his space and turned toward the airport. For a second she considered following him, but stopped herself. She had the plane timetable and there was plenty of time before the next flight back to the Italian mainland, and then Boston.

With one last glance at Dr. Carter's receding car, she left her own vehicle, making sure her dress didn't catch on the car door, and walked to the church. Inside she addressed the first priest she saw in Italian, explaining that she was looking for her brother-in-law--a tall American man with a limp. He and another priest listened to this well-dressed woman with her sophisticated Rome accent, and respectfully informed her that her brother-inlaw had just left for the airport, but that she shouldn't worry because he had found what he came for.

Before she could even ask what that was they led her to the statue of the Madonna at the back of the church. Still not understanding what the scientist had taken, she explicitly asked the priests to tell her. Their answer made her leave the church both baffled and outraged.

It was only when she was driving back to the airport that the thought came to her.

She always made a point of studying the motivations and practices of those she cleansed. It added to the righteousness of the kill to know what the targets did and why. After all, she wanted to satisfy herself that their deaths were necessary before she killed them. Dr. Carter had been no exception. She had read up on genetics when first receiving his folder. Although she had gained only a superficial understanding of what the science could and could not do, it had been enough to convince her that Dr. Carter was playing God.

Now, as she tried to fathom why an atheist had chosen to visit a small church in Sardinia, she couldn't rid herself of the terrible notion forming in her head. If the thought was correct then the scientist was even more dangerous than she feared.

But she wouldn't act yet. She would gather more evidence, and confirm the facts. Only then would she tell Brother Bernard and the Father.

Despite her outrage, she smiled. At least, if her suspicions were proven correct, then Father and Bernard would have no choice. They would be forced to let her finish what she had started in Stockholm.

J
asmine Washington had never seen so many guns in her life, and they frightened her.

"Larry, what the hell are you doing with these in the apartment?"

"Relax, will you? They're fakes." Larry smiled and put the brown box on the floor of the spacious lounge.

"Fakes?"

"Yeah, fakes. Props. They're samples for the thriller we're making in L.A. I only had the consultant send them here because I'm seeing the director first thing on Monday. She wanted to see the kind of weapons the hero and villain might use."

Jasmine hated guns, and it wasn't just because of what had happened to Olivia. Throughout her childhood in South Central L.A., guns had been a daily feature, as had the shootings and schoolyard murders that went with them.

She said, "Just keep them out of sight."

Larry raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Come on, Jazz, you won't see 'em again. But perhaps you should at least consider looking at one of them. Just to see how they work."

She shook her head. She remembered her elder brother saying the same thing back in the 'hood, when she was almost ten. Just before he'd been killed by a random drive-by shooting and her parents had banned her from going out on the streets alone. "Put them away, Larry. Okay?"

Larry bent and pushed the box behind the couch. His voice was apologetic. "They're gone. Okay. I'm sorry." He walked over to her and took her in his arms. He was a tall, athletically built man with a sensitive face. But it was his strong arms that Jasmine loved most. She prided herself on her fearless independence, but there were times when it was reassuring to surrender all that hard-won independence for a moment, and retreat into those arms. Olivia's death and Holly's disease had made her realize how very fragile everything was. Her recent exposure to the Preacher's exploits hadn't exactly restored her faith in humanity. So Larry's protective embrace felt particularly comforting right now. She knew it was irrational, but she believed that nothing truly bad could happen while he held her. Offering no resistance, she allowed him to guide her gently onto the couch as he kissed her mouth.

She had got back from work unusually early tonight and, despite the guns package, was delighted to find Larry at home. They hadn't seen much of each other recently. He had spent half the week in Los Angeles preparing to shoot his new movie there, and she'd been working all hours getting the Gene Genie software to work. It was bliss to be at home by six-thirty on a Friday night with the whole evening and weekend to themselves.

She snuggled closer to Larry as she felt his arms tighten around her and his sweet breath warm the back of her neck. Inevitably, it was when his hand slipped inside her silk blouse and began to caress her left breast that the phone rang.

And rang.

And rang.

"Shit," she said under her breath.

"Relax! Let it be," he murmured behind her, his fingers now undoing her bra, and moving to cup her other breast. "The machine will get it."

She sighed, and surrendered to the warm feelings coursing through her body. She murmured, "You should stay away from home more often."

The phone kept ringing.

"Shit," she said again.

Larry continued to stroke her breasts, then began to move down her stomach, making those feelings heat up in her belly--and lower.

He whispered urgently in her ear. "The machine will kick in soon. Don't worry about it."

But she did worry about it, and the answering machine wasn't kicking in. Ever since she'd almost ignored that scholarship call from Stanford, she'd been unable to leave a phone ringing, convinced that each call could be the next
big one
, the one she ignored at her peril.

She disentangled herself from Larry and moved to the phone. "Must have turned the machine off."

"Well, turn it on again."

But she couldn't. She had to pick the phone up now that she was standing over it.