The Messiah Code (35 page)

Again she thought about this and nodded. "And I'll see more of you?"

"Sure you will," he said. "Whenever you want me. Night or day. I'll be there."

A
pril 24. Maria had been in custody at the Boston detention center for less than two weeks, but already she hated it. It wasn't so much the trial and probable death sentence--she even found the interrogations by Karen Tanner a welcome diversion. What she hated was the loss of control. In her cell she couldn't keep the light on, exercise properly, or shave her head. And because she wasn't allowed access to sharp edges of any kind she couldn't even relieve her stress with her customary bloodletting. So she kept herself together by focusing on her one imperative: getting out and stopping Dr. Carter.

Her ankle manacles chafed as she shuffled into the interview room to speak with her expensive lawyer. She took her seat opposite Hugo Myers and stared at his styled silver-gray hair and matching silver-gray suit. The man was in his forties and looked like an extra from some TV show, but the attorney was supposed to be good at what he did. Even if all he'd done so far was explain how
little
he could do without her cooperation. He had approached her only hours after her arrest, offering his services in exchange for nothing more than the attendant publicity. She hadn't even needed to dip into her Chase Manhattan account, set up for just such emergencies.

The guards manacled her hands to the ring on the table in front of her. She smiled at that. She may have lost control, but they, at least, still showed her respect.

After greeting her, Hugo Myers hammered away with the same question he'd been asking all week--the same question Special Agent Karen Tanner had been asking her.

"So," he said, leveling his muddy eyes at her with the best sincerity money could buy, "have you considered whether you're going to make the deal?"

"How can I? Like I told the FBI. I don't know what they're talking about."

Hugo Myers raised an immaculate eyebrow, then made a steeple with his hands. "Look, Maria, in case the Federal Bureau of Investigation wasn't explicit enough at the last meeting, let me clarify a few things. Scotland Yard has taken the Bureau to visit your London apartment. They've seen your unusual collection of weaponry, and the wigs and the makeup. But most important, they've read your neatly stacked pile of manila folders, containing detailed files on homicide victims over the last thirteen or so years.

"They've also got your custom-made pen nib and testimony from the only guy in your files who's still alive. This Dr. Carter is a respected scientist who has given a statement outlining how you tried to kill him on two occasions, and how you killed his wife during the first attempt. This statement is corroborated by another eminent scientist, his colleague, Dr. Washington. Okay, so you weren't actually seen killing the four guards at GENIUS, but the bullets match your gun.

"Tomorrow you're going to have your DNA read at the FBI scanning facility. And if your genetic profile matches the DNA found at the Fontana murder scene, then the feds can tie you to the Preacher's kills. Are you getting the picture here? I'm your lawyer, and even I think things look pretty bad. Basically, unless we do a deal, you're gonna fry. From the detailed files the FBI found at your apartment they think you must have had some help. In fact they're convinced you were working for someone. And if you tell them who gave you the files, the D.A. has said he'll cut a deal."

"But I wasn't working for anybody. Only God."

Hugo Myers clenched his jaw and nodded slowly, plainly trying to maintain his composure. "Maria, have you heard the sound bite: 'Make the criminal pay, not the taxpayer'? It's the President's tag line for his Crime 2000 initiative. His war on crime was a big vote winner and most state governors have embraced it. Do you realize that ninety-eight percent of all murder trials since March 2000 have been completed on fasttrack? That means they've taken

less than two weeks. Your trial starts the day after tomorrow, and will be over in ten days or less.

"But what should most concern you is the innovation over death row. The liberals have always branded waiting ten years or more to be killed as inhumane, and the far right has long squealed about the costs of keeping these 'dead' people alive. So now everyone's happy. The longest stay on the row since the new law was passed two years ago is thirty-seven days. This is justice McDonald's-style. It's fast, satisfying, the same everywhere, and people love it." Myers paused and leveled his muddy eyes at her again.

"Unless you cooperate, you could be dead within two months. Just tell them who you were working for, and I can probably do a deal to get you life."

Maria frowned. She wouldn't betray the Brotherhood to these unbelievers. However weak Ezekiel had been, the Brotherhood was the only family she had known, and it still represented the only hope for protecting the righteous and finding the New Messiah. Betraying them wouldn't help her finish Dr. Carter. Silently she called to her God for guidance.

"What if I plead not guilty?" she asked, enjoying the effect her question had on the frustrated counselor.

The lawyer's eyes rolled and a sigh issued from his thin lips. "Are you innocent? Despite all the evidence?"

"Innocent? In the eyes of God. Completely."

"If your DNA scan tomorrow proves positive, then that is
not
how you'll be seen in the eyes of the state of Massachusetts."

"I thought you were meant to defend me. Not just explain what might happen. Of course, if you don't want this high-profile case I can always find another lawyer."

A resigned shrug from the silver padded shoulders. "Not guilty, huh?"

"I was never the guilty one. Certainly never as guilty as those I'm charged with killing. Anyway, I don't really care what the jury decides."

"That's all right, then," said Hugo Myers, his voice as dry as tinder. "Because if you plead not guilty, there's

about as much chance of your getting off as there is of your being elected President."

W
hy the hell was nothing ever simple? thought Jasmine a week later, as she reached across her desk for the Diet Coke. She put the ice-cold can to her forehead. She had run out of ideas. Whatever she tried she couldn't get any more data out of the Black Hole in the minute allowed, other than the coded number and a small stretch of genome.

In the three weeks since Maria's arrest she had been busy giving evidence and avoiding TV cameras. Larry had been great. When it came to handling fame and media interest, his film producer contacts came to the fore. He had brought in one of his Hollywood press specialists to be Tom's and her spokesman, fielding all the press interest over her "saving Dr. Tom Carter's life," and the "heroic capture of the Preacher by Nobel scientists." Having the media channeled away from her had given her room to breathe, allowing her time to think through what had happened.

The Preacher aside, Jasmine still hadn't come to terms with the fact that she had now scanned every DNA database in existence and found
two
matches, including the recently deceased Al Puyiana. That was two out of five hundred million people. Given that the world population was about four and a half billion, did that mean proportionately there were some nineteen people walking the earth carrying Christ's genes? The chosen few were rare in the extreme, a minuscule percentage, but hardly unique. Which one was the
real
Messiah, if any of them was?

Jasmine had been wrestling with her faith. In the end she told herself that Christ had been unique for spiritual reasons, but by coincidence had also possessed these three genes. She knew this conveniently sidestepped the issue, but she'd intentionally distracted herself by working flat-out on the search to find the identity of the match on the Black Hole database.

She looked at the computer screen in front of her. So far she'd been able to get back into the Black Hole and access file #6699784, but in the sixty seconds before the Predator system traced her she hadn't had time to pull off the whole genome. She had tried to pull off new sections of the sequence, but each time she had gone back in she had been able to access only the sequence she already possessed. She certainly didn't have enough of the genome to do an appearance analysis, and without the sex chromosomes she couldn't even identify the gender.

She opened the can and took a drink. Idly, she tapped a few keys and called up IGOR. She hadn't checked the latest entries collected by Big Mother for at least a week. Without thinking, she clicked on the icon containing the Nazareth genes and fed them into the IGOR update window, clicking the on-screen "
Match Sequence
" button. At the last minute she realized she hadn't imported the Nazareth genes icon at all, but the icon containing the incomplete #6699784 sequence she'd taken from the Black Hole.

"Jeez." She was even more screen-drunk than she'd thought. She moved the mouse but before she could press the cancel icon, "
Match Found
" suddenly flashed up on the screen.

"What?" That shouldn't have happened. #6699784 had been scanned weeks, months, even years ago, whereas the IGOR updates were scans done in the last few days. A cold clammy panic descended, as she realized what might have happened. Immediately she clicked on the Nazareth genes icon and inserted it into the IGOR update window. She crossed her fingers and watched the screen.

And waited.

"
Match Found
" flashed the words again.

Quickly she selected the matched genome and opened it. Seconds later the screen was filled with three pictures of the subject's face: left profile, full frontal, and right profile. Beneath the pictures was a name and personal details. The database title on the top of the screen told her that this was the exact same subject she'd located in the Black Hole. But this barely registered on her brain as she stared at the face in front of her, a face she knew too well.

O
ver in the Hospital Suite Tom didn't know whether to feel elated or depressed. This morning Hank Polanski was leaving the ward, to continue his impressive recovery at home. Tom saw how the other six patients took encouragement from his cure. He just wished that one of them--the newest arrival--wasn't Holly.

Hank Polanski went to each patient in turn to say goodbye and wish them well. He seemed painfully aware of how lucky he was to be able to leave this exclusive, close-knit club before he was forced to take out life membership.

"See ya, Holly," said Hank Polanski as he came to Holly's bed. Most of her beautiful blond hair had already fallen out from the first round of chemotherapy and she looked pale. "You'll be okay."

"Bye, Hank," smiled Holly bravely, returning his offered high five.

"And when I get stuck with Wrath of Zarg or my old Doom games, I know who to ask for help," said the twenty-three-yearold with a grin.

"Yeah, right," said Holly, trying to hold her tired smile.

Finally, Hank came to Tom and there were tears in his eyes. The young man began to say something, then thought better of it. He just reached for Tom's hand and shook it strongly. "Thanks, Doc. Thanks for everything."

Tom smiled and patted his shoulder. "Hank, this is what it's all about. It's a joy, a genuine joy, to see you well again." He meant it too. And as Hank and his mother left the ward to continue a life they thought had been lost to them, Tom turned his attention back to Holly.

Karl Lambert, the NIH neurosurgeon based at GENIUS, had advised immediate keyhole laser surgery, but the scan had shown Holly's tumor to be in a particularly inaccessible part of the brain. The risk of paralysis or worse from just one slip of the laser was great. So Tom had elected to try to slow the tumor's growth, buying time till Jasmine identified her match and Project Cana could be used. As well as chemo this stalling strategy involved radiation and some pro-drug therapy.

Even if these treatments worked they were at best hold ing measures, and he would have to operate eventually. But at least they bought him time to give Cana a chance of coming to the rescue.

He entered Holly's cubicle and sat on the bed beside her. "How are you feeling, Holly?"

The brave smile Holly had flashed for Hank suddenly crumpled, and tears welled up in her eyes. "Why can't I go home like Hank, Dad?"

Tom felt his heart squeeze deep inside him. Holly had reacted particularly badly to the radiation, which had made her nauseated. There were no other kids on the ward to keep her company, and now even the lively Hank had gone.

"It took time to make Hank well, Holly," he soothed. "And we need to keep you here to observe you, and ensure you get the right treatment."

"But I hate it here," she said, hurt and frustration flaring in her hazel eyes. As her voice got louder and the pitch higher, large tears rolled down her cheeks. "If Mom was here,
she'd
let me go home." Holly turned away from him and pushed her face into the pillow. "I don't want to be sick," she shouted into the linen, her small shoulders racked with her sobbing. "I hate it. I hate it. I hate it."

He leaned forward and put his hand on the back of her neck, stroking her. He sat there in silence for some moments, until gradually her sobbing calmed and her breathing became regular. Leaning forward, he kissed her. "Holly, you will feel better soon. The tablets the nurse gave you earlier will start to work any moment now."

Standing up, he told Holly he'd see her soon and headed for the atrium. Before he reached the door Jasmine came running into the ward, brandishing a printout in one hand and looking flushed.

She grabbed Tom by the arm and steered him through the still swinging door into the deserted waiting room. As soon as they were alone she passed him the folded printout and hissed, "I've found out who our match is."