The Miracle Strain (34 page)

"What was that?"

"The doctor claimed that not only could Valerie not have been stung by a bee but she no longer had an allergy. She had somehow been cured."

Tom said nothing for a while. He just looked closely at the woman opposite him. "Why didn't you believe her?"

"I hated her. Maria was so beautiful, and clever. She lacked humility. She needed to be taught a lesson. And when she began to claim she could heal people it was too much; it was blasphemy."

"Are there any other stories?"

"Yes, many. And there is one that I definitely know to be genuine--whatever I chose to believe at the time. Maria was often punished by being locked in the cellars. She was terrified of the dark, and once, when she was very young, she held on to the nun who was punishing her and begged not to be sent to the lock-away. Maria said she would do anything if the nun didn't send her away. Of course the nun didn't believe her, but for once felt compassion and sent her off to bed unpunished. Afterward, perhaps a week later, the nun who had had diabetes all her life went for a routine checkup and was told she was cured."

"And you're sure it was Maria who cured her?"

"Positive."

"How can you be so sure?"

Clemenza grimaced. "I was the nun."

"And yet you still didn't believe her?"

"No. I couldn't. I didn't want to. I just put it down to coincidence." She wrung her hands. "But if I had believed her then, I could have protected her from Father Angelo. And perhaps even nurtured her gift." She suddenly fixed him with a pained stare. "Do you know where she is now?"

Since Clemenza clearly had no idea of Maria's predicament, he decided not to burden her with the information. "Yes," he said.

"One day I will ask for her forgiveness."

Tom paused and found himself appraising the woman opposite. Even if she was unbalanced, why would she tell a complete stranger these fantastic stories unless they were true? He hadn't even told her he wanted to know whether Maria could heal or not.

"How do you believe Maria did these acts of healing?" he asked.

"I don't know."

"But what do you think?"

A shrug. "I'm not a doctor, and I'm no longer a nun, but I've been thinking about this for the last twenty years. I have a simple theory. I think Maria had a gift from God. A gift she could pass on to others. It was almost like she had a good disease that she could make other people catch from her."

Tom smiled as he looked into the woman's eyes.

"Does that sound foolish?" she asked.

"Not to me it doesn't. Not at all. But why did you use the past tense? You said she had this gift."

Mother Clemenza smiled sadly, and poured him some more wine. "I think it was because I always punished her for telling 'lies' about what she did. But as far as I'm aware she didn't perform one other act of healing after the bee sting incident--after her eighth birthday. I doubt she even remembers what she once could do."

The same night, North Boston

That night Bob Cooke turned in his sleep. In his dreams he wasn't in his apartment in North Boston, but back in California, and the surf was big. He loved his science, and working with the great Tom Carter, but however exciting or important it was, there were times when he wished he could give it all up and ride the waves again.

The noise woke him just as he was about to paddle out for the last big one. Yeah, he thought, in his groggy half-asleep state, come August he'd go back and catch up with the gang. Maybe do some hot-dogging.

That noise again.

Was someone downstairs? It sounded as if it was coming from the kitchen. Then, just as suddenly as it started, the noise stopped.

"Hey, Dawn! Did you hear that?" he whispered to the woman next to him.

"What?" she said sleepily, turning into him and pushing that cute butt of hers into his crotch.

"Thought I heard something."

She moved her soft buttocks against him, and then snaked her hand behind her to grip his hardening penis.

"I didn't hear anything," she murmured. "But I sure as hell felt something."

"It was probably nothing," he said, enjoying the feel of her hand on him.

"Don't be so tough on yourself," she said, gripping him. "It doesn't feel like nothing to me."

He laughed in the dark. "I meant the noise."

"Noise?" she groaned. "If you use this thing like you're supposed to, I'll give you noise."

He closed his eyes while she maneuvered him inside her, and then moved his hips to her rhythm. Okay, he admitted, as he allowed her to roll him over on his back and mount him, brushing her breasts over his face. There were some things better than science and surfing.

Half an hour later both their bodies were entwined and asleep. Perhaps if they had stayed awake just another ten minutes they would have smelled the gas coming from the carefully cut pipe in the kitchen downstairs. And been able to dismantle the simple match, sandpaper, and spring contraption expertly rigged up beside it.

The next morning, Charlestown

Nora Lutz put the last piece of toast on the tray, next to the pot of imported Scottish marmalade her mother liked. Then she poured out a cup of tea--milk first naturally; her mother wouldn't drink it any other way since her trip to England in '78. Finally she placed the bowl of bran-rich cereal with its small jug of cold milk in the remaining corner. Once the breakfast tray was organized to her satisfaction, she left the kitchen of her twostory apartment in Charlestown and, stepping past two of the cats, made her way up the well-trodden stairs to her mother's room.

There was a time when she resented her mother's sickness. But that was years ago, when she was in her thirties, when she still had a life to sacrifice. Now, forty-five, her whole existence outside of her mother revolved around her work at GENIUS. Being put on Cana had been a godsend--an important project that had placed all her gripes into context. And it didn't matter that her mother didn't understand or appreciate what she did. Carter and the others valued her contribution and that's what counted. Cana, and all it promised, was her escape from the claustrophobic demands and emotional blackmail of the woman she loved dearly, but sometimes wished would quietly pass away.

She was coming to the fifth step, so she paused a second, preparing to mouth the words her mother would usually call out about now. "Nora, is breakfast ready yet?" Without fail the words would come just after she began her climb.

But she heard nothing. No demands, no pleas, or complaints. Not even any sound of movement. Only silence.

It wasn't till she reached the bend in the stairs that she felt compelled to call out herself. "Mom, breakfast's coming. I've made the tea, just like you like it. Okay?"

Silence.

"Mom?"

Unconsciously she began to quicken her step. She couldn't remember the last time her mother had overslept. Suddenly she thought the worst, and instantly regretted the times she had thought of her mother's death. On the landing she called again. "Mom, are you all right? Talk to me and stop fooling." Still nothing. She was now almost jogging, and the tea had spilled onto the toast and cereal. Her mother wouldn't like that, she thought, as she elbowed the door open.

"Mom, wake up!"

Then she dropped the tray, and put her hands to her mouth. She wanted to scream, but was too terrified.

It wasn't just her mother's twisted body lying motionless, a pillow over her head, that provoked Nora's reaction. It was also the dark-haired man with smoky green eyes who suddenly appeared beside her, holding her hands over her mouth, before plunging a syringe into her arm.

Back Bay

Boston

Moments later in the Back Bay area of town, Jasmine Washington reached for her car keys and bent down to where Larry sat drinking orange juice on the sunny terrace. She kissed him and said, "I'll see you tonight."

Larry put his copy of Variety down on the table, returned her kiss, and said, "Have a good day at the office. And give my love to Holly."

"I will."

She kissed him one more time, and then went down to the carport. Above her she heard Larry call: "When will you be back?"

"Shouldn't be late."

"What you wanna eat?"

She climbed into her 325i, pulled back the soft top, and started the engine. She backed the car onto the road, into the morning sunshine, then looked up at Larry, leaning over the terrace. She blew him a kiss, gunned the engine and shouted, "Surprise me!" then screeched off with a whoop.

Perhaps if Larry hadn't called down and diverted her attention she might have noticed the slick pool of liquid in the carport beneath where her BMW had been parked. The liquid that Larry would later discover was brake fluid.

Chapter Twenty-Six.

Death Row

Massachusetts State Penitentiary

After her night of despair Maria Benariac had told herself to accept the inevitable. Within a couple of days she had control over her fears again. There would be no reprieve, no divine intervention, no grand plan put in place to allow her to finish the scientist. She knew that now and had forced herself to come to terms with it.

She ate her breakfast slowly from the plain white plate, trying to extract every last pleasurable sensation from the textures and flavors of the eggs and hash browns.

When the approaching click-clack of the guard's heels disturbed her breakfast, she looked up, annoyed. And when the heavyset woman appeared outside the bars of her cell Maria frowned at her. "I haven't finished yet," she said. "I haven't even had half my time yet..."

The woman eyed her carefully. "Relax, Preacher woman, your food's going nowhere. Just came to tell you you've got a visitor."

Maria groaned. Hugo Myers was taking his professionalism too far. She thought he wasn't going to visit anymore. After all, if there wasn't any chance of an appeal then there wasn't much point seeing her lawyer. "Do you know what my brilliant attorney wants?" she asked, not expecting an answer.

"Attorney?" The guard laughed. "Your visitor's no lawyer. He's about as different from a lawyer as you can get. Hell, he wants to be your spiritual adviser."

Maria Benariac felt a tiny flower of excitement bloom in her stomach as the two guards led her, manacled, from the cell on Tier B of death row down the white-tiled corridor, past the execution chamber to the interview rooms.

When Ezekiel De La Croix stood and smiled at her, she felt so moved that she wanted to embrace him. She stared deep into his dark eyes, and said nothing. The guards sat her down, and attached her manacles to the metal ring in the middle of the steel table. When she was secure they walked back to the door. The taller one paused and addressed Ezekiel. "Sir, this is a secure room for use by attorneys and spiritual advisers. Your conversation cannot be monitored or recorded. But on no account must you touch the prisoner." He pointed to a large button on the wall. "When you've finished, or if you want anything, just ring the buzzer."

"I will," said Ezekiel, as the guards left the room, locking the door behind them.

Now that they were alone, Maria opened her mouth to speak. "Father, I am sorry. Please forg--" But before she could continue Ezekiel placed a finger over his mouth. Then he walked around the table and stood beside her, looking down at her. For a long while he just stood there saying nothing, staring at her. She wanted to ask him what was wrong, but stilled her tongue, sensing he wanted to say something.

Suddenly she noticed tears on his cheek. He didn't make a sound, but there was no disguising it. The Father was crying.

Before she could say anything he knelt before her and bowed his head. When he did eventually speak it was so quietly that she couldn't hear him, and when he raised his voice and repeated his words she didn't understand them.

"May you be saved," he said more strongly.

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

Head still bowed, eyes still averted, Ezekiel said, "Dr. Carter found our match on Project Cana..."

"And?" she prompted.

"He has identified the person who possesses the genes of the Messiah. The same person who was born when the Sacred Flame changed. The same person who as a child had Christ's gift of healing." Ezekiel raised his head then, his black eyes drilling into hers. "That person is you, Maria. You are the New Messiah. You are the chosen one."

For a moment she froze, staring into his eyes, her brain unable to process what she had just heard. It went beyond shock; she was a bystander to the revelation Ezekiel had just made.

Could this be possible? Could this be true?

Despite her disbelief, a small part of her, a part deep in her consciousness, had no doubt. You always knew you were chosen, it seemed to say. Now you know what for.

"May you be saved," said Ezekiel again.

This time Maria hesitated only a second before replying: "So I may save the righteous."

Ezekiel then stood and retook his seat. "Now you know your destiny, there is much I need to tell you. There is much we need to do."

Still barely able to believe how everything had suddenly changed, Maria was simply glad to be back in the Father's affection. She coaxed a smile, leaned forward as far as her manacles would allow, and listened to what he had to say.

That night Maria barely slept. Gone was her despair, and even her stoic sense of resignation. Instead she couldn't stop thinking about all Ezekiel had told her, particularly the childhood stories she had long forgotten.

Could they have been real? Had they actually happened? All those feelings and memories she had suppressed as the fantasies of an unhappy child now came back. Every story Ezekiel had recounted to her now evoked and corroborated recollections that she had assumed and always been told were figments of her own imagination.

She opened her eyes and looked defiantly into the dark ness that filled the cell, willing herself to recall everything she usually tried to forget. What she most remembered was the fear and fatigue as she'd walked to every broken and bloody girl who had fallen from the orphanage tower, trying to make the still bodies move again. On her prison bunk her body relived the dull ache and outflowing of energy every time she'd embraced the girls, and the numbing tiredness afterward that left her feeling pale and wretched. But most of all she remembered the relief when, one by one, they had stood up and brushed themselves off.

Somehow the patina of the past and her own denial were gradually peeled away by Ezekiel's revelation of her destiny, leaving the preserved images and feelings uncorrupted by time.

Ezekiel had told her all about his visit to Dr. Carter's lab and how the scientist had revealed her genetic inheritance. He had also informed her that Gomorrah had been unleashed on Dr. Carter and his team. She told him that she wanted to finish Dr. Carter herself, but Ezekiel would give only a noncommittal shrug. More important, the Inner Circle still hadn't resolved how they were going to get her out of here. And she had only twelve days left.

The thought of her imminent execution made her mind wander back to her abilities. They fed her with a feeling of power and control that went beyond any righteous thrill she had experienced executing a kill. The incident of the bee stings affected her more than the others because not only could she remember it vividly, but it gave her an idea that made her tremble with excitement.

She wondered if she could still perform these feats of healing. She tried to think back to the time when she gave up those powers, but couldn't. All she could recollect was the fear and despair of being continually punished for her "lies." Still, she felt sure that if she only allowed her powers to return, they somehow would.

She had always felt she was chosen. She now realized that there had been a plan laid down for her after all, and she had been wrong to doubt her faith. A fever took control of her. Man had always been able to affect death; she knew that better than most. But only God had ever wielded true control over life as well. So, if she shared this ability, what did that make her? A true child of God?

She rolled off her bunk and paced the dark cell, willing the dawn. Exhilaration raced through her. It was clear what she had to do now--obvious even. She hoped the Father returned tomorrow so she could tell him her plan. If she was to get out of here, then she would need his help, and that of the Brotherhood--of her Brotherhood. She smiled in the now harmless dark.

There was so much to prepare.

Ezekiel De La Croix did not return the next day. But Maria Benariac did have another visitor later that afternoon.

Tom Carter waited alone in the featureless interview room of the state penitentiary, unaware that Ezekiel had sat in this very chair the day before. Tom's blue shirt and cotton jacket were crumpled. Dark semicircles of tiredness cast shadows beneath his eyes and his head ached. He looked vacantly around the depressing room, registering the off-white windowless walls and the harsh fluorescent tube lighting. His mind was elsewhere. He wasn't even sure why he had come any longer.

He had returned from Corsica yesterday feeling both frustrated and excited. Confident that Maria could help Holly, but far from confident that she would--whatever inducement he gave her. At Logan Airport he had sailed through customs and on reaching the main concourse had scanned the waiting faces for the GENIUS driver he'd arranged to meet him, desperate to get back and see Holly.

To his surprise, Jack was there instead, with two policemen flanking him. One look at his friend's unsmiling face and his first thought was that Holly's condition had deteriorated--or worse. However, his relief on hearing otherwise had been shortlived.

"What? An explosion in Bob Cooke's apartment? How is he?"

A shake of Jack's head. "He's dead, Tom. Along with his girlfriend, and an old man who lived in the apartment below."

"Dead?" Tom hadn't been able to take it in. Still couldn't.

And then after the initial shock the question that flashed across his brain was: Did he solve the mouse puzzle before he died? He had guiltily pushed this query to one side almost as soon as he had thought it, but it was still there, unanswered.

Bob Cooke's death hadn't been the whole news, of course. Far from it. It was when he heard how Nora had apparently found her mother dead in bed and subsequently died of a heart attack that he'd begun to understand the implications.

"Nora died of a heart attack?" he'd said incredulously, repeating what Jack had told him like some idiot mimic. "But Nora had the constitution of an ox, and her mother had been ill for years. Her death would have been anything but a shock to Nora..."

And finally in the car on the way back to GENIUS, Jack had told him about Jazz's crash.

"Oh, no! For God's sake, tell me she's okay!"

A tired shake of the head from Jack. "It's too early to tell."

That was when it all had become clear. Horribly clear.

"My guess is that whoever was behind Maria Benariac is still trying to stop Cana," Jack had said. "And that means that Preacher or no Preacher, you are still a target."

For a long moment he had thought of giving up there and then. Not because his life was in danger--the novelty of that had long since worn off. But because his obsessive quest to save his daughter had cost so many other lives. He was no longer just one in a long list of people some sicko fanatic didn't agree with and wanted dead. This was about someone wanting to stop his project and everyone attached to it at all costs. And now they had killed people---his friends--because of what he was doing. Because of his selfish, single-minded, fuck-what-anybodyelse-thinks quest to save his daughter. And come to think of it, was he really just trying to save his daughter? Or was that quest just a cover for his obsessive crusade to teach nature a lesson? To kill cancer and all those other twisted turns of vicious chance that Mother Nature throws out to prove how pathetic we and our technology really are. Wasn't he really just trying to subjugate her and redress the balance, at whatever the cost to those around him?

Isn't that what this is all about? he had asked himself as Jack turned the car into the GENIUS campus. It was only after he'd gone to the ward and looked into Holly's trusting eyes and fed off her courage that he'd managed to suppress those demons that fueled his self-doubt. It was only then that he'd seen the true purity of what he was trying to do, the simple truth that he was using everything in his power to save his daughter. Nothing more. Nothing less.

If he managed to save others, that was all fine. But that mission, that burden, was already taken care of by the other initiatives under way at GENIUS and countless other places around the world. All Cana was concerned with, all he was concerned with, was saving his daughter. If the deaths of those who had been killed helping him on the project were to mean anything, then he had to follow it through to the end. And if anyone else tried to stop him, then they were the evil ones tampering with nature--tampering with a father's natural drive to save his child--not him.