The Orion Plan (24 page)

Over the past twenty-four hours her cancer had taken a vicious turn for the worse. As soon as she'd returned from her brief visit to the hospital she'd collapsed on her living-room couch and spent the rest of the day in a feverish half-sleep, sweating and groaning. She'd drifted in and out of consciousness, sometimes dreaming absurd dreams, sometimes rising from the couch and stumbling around the apartment. At one point she went to her bedroom and unpacked her shoulder bag, but she was in such a daze that afterwards she couldn't remember what she'd done or where she'd put everything. And then, sometime in the middle of the night, her living room seemed to get unbearably hot, so she opened the sliding glass door and staggered outside to the chaise lounge.

She lay there until dawn. The hours passed like ghosts, but as the morning came and the patch of sky brightened above her, Dorothy's mind began to clear. It occurred to her that she might be dying. The more she considered the possibility, the more likely it seemed. In addition to the terrible pains in her abdomen, she was finding it difficult to breathe. But she wasn't alarmed and she certainly wasn't going to call 911. There was no point in going back to the hospital. Although her doctors had nothing but good intentions, they would only make things harder for her. Better to make her peace with the Lord now than to endure weeks of suffering. She was a little puzzled as to why her cancer had worsened so suddenly, but in the end it didn't matter. She'd prayed for a cure, and the Lord had given her this instead. She would try to accept His will with humility and grace.

But it was hard to be humble and graceful when it felt like someone was knifing you in the belly. With a grunt, Dorothy rolled onto her other side and waited for the pain to shift again. Now she faced the sliding glass door, which was filthy because she hadn't washed it in months. She felt a twinge of shame and thought of her mother, who'd spent forty years working as a maid for the white folks in Montgomery, Alabama. If her mother were alive to see this, she'd sigh and shake her head. Then she'd find a rag somewhere in the apartment and clean it herself.

Dorothy grimaced. This wasn't what she wanted to think about during her last hours on Earth. She should be thinking of more positive, uplifting things. Like the five glorious years she spent in Africa, doing missionary work and learning how to tell Bible stories in Swahili. Or the civil-rights work she did for the Union of Black Episcopalians, or the wonderful friends she'd made at Holy Trinity Episcopal Church. But instead she stared through the filthy glass at the furniture in her living room and remembered the day she moved into the apartment. That was in August 1994, almost twenty-two years ago, soon after she became Holy Trinity's vicar. The apartment was just a few blocks from the church, which was a good thing because she intended to work long hours. She was an energetic, idealistic thirty-seven-year-old then, full of devotion to God and eagerness to do His will.

She was also someone's mistress. She was breaking the seventh commandment.

Dear Jesus, why am I thinking about that now? That's the last thing I want to think about.

Her lover's name was Martin Bell. He was a sweet, funny, intelligent man, a high-school math teacher who lived in Harlem. She met him on the subway on her very first day in New York, when she came to the city to interview for the position at Holy Trinity. Three months later she discovered that he was married, and that he had two young daughters no less. At that point she should've ended their relationship, but she didn't. She continued to see him for the next ten years.

And why didn't I stop it? Because I was already in love with him? Because I was lonely and didn't think I'd find anyone else? Because I was tired of being good?

No one at Holy Trinity suspected it, because she and Martin were careful. They never went out to dinner in the neighborhood. He visited her apartment two or three times a week, sometimes staying only a couple of hours. Despite the limitations, it was a loving, passionate relationship. Martin was her soul mate. He just happened to belong to someone else.

I would've stayed with him to this day if not for the guilt. I never saw his wife, not even a picture of her. But he showed me photos of his daughters. Pictures of them in kindergarten and summer camp. Getting bigger every year.

After ten years of sin she finally ended the affair and came back to the Lord. She begged his forgiveness and he granted it. But now she realized that the person she'd hurt the most wasn't Martin's wife or his daughters or even the Almighty. She'd betrayed herself. If she hadn't taken up with Martin she could've found a different soul mate, someone equally charming and intelligent but not already married. She could've had children with him, sons and daughters of her own. And he would be at her side right now, holding her hand, comforting her during her last hours.

Dorothy was crying. No tears leaked from her eyes because she was so dehydrated, but her body shook with sobs.

Lord, you gave me the gift of life, and I ruined it. There were so many opportunities I missed, so many joys I never got the chance to feel. Yes, I did some good work in your church, but it wasn't enough. I should've done more. Oh Jesus, why did I waste your gift?

Her sadness intensified the agony in her stomach. The pain spread to her chest, rolling onto it like a boulder. It shoved the air out of her lungs and crushed her heart. But as she struggled for breath she heard an answer to her question.

Don't despair, my child. It's not too late.

She recognized his voice. It was the same voice she'd heard in the laboratory at the hospital, the soft, kind voice that had murmured in her head while she stared at the lovely researcher named Naomi. But now the Lord didn't speak to her in pictures and emotions, as he had before; now he spoke in clear, unmistakable words. Her heart thudded and the air rushed back into her lungs.

Oh yes! I hear you, Lord! I hear you!

You've been a faithful servant for many years, Dorothy. Your reward is waiting for you in Heaven.

Thank you, Jesus! Oh, thank you, thank you!

I am well pleased with you already, but I have heard your prayer. You still long to serve me, even to the last breath. And now you can perform one final task for me, if you wish it.

Yes, yes, I do wish it! But how can I serve you, Lord? I'm dying.

You can complete what you began yesterday at the hospital. Do you remember?

Dorothy nodded. She remembered the stack of cell culture plates, the plastic trays loaded with stem cell colonies. She'd removed them from the incubator in Naomi's laboratory and stuffed them into her shoulder bag. She vaguely recalled unpacking the bag in her bedroom, but nothing after that.

Lord, I was weak! I didn't understand what you wanted from me. And then I got so sick—

All shall be well, child, all shall be well. You need only rise and make your way into your house. Go to your room, your bed. You shall die, but then you shall be resurrected.

A surge of holy fervor made her tremble. It was all true, all the promises made by Jesus and his apostles, all the prophecies in the Old and New Testaments. With shaking hands she grasped the wooden arms of the chaise lounge and pushed herself up to a sitting position. Her body felt as light as air.

Yes, Lord, I'm coming! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

She swung her feet off the chaise and planted them on the brick surface of her patio. Then she took a deep breath and stood up. Her head swam for a moment—the garden spun around her, the square patch of sky twirled overhead—but she managed to stay on her feet. She took a careful step forward and then another, walking as if on a tightrope. After the fourth step she reached the sliding glass door and grabbed its handle. She pulled at it but the door wouldn't budge. She was so weak now, weaker than an infant. But then she felt the Lord's voice in her mind again, urging her on. She gave the handle a stronger tug and the door slid open.

Hot air wafted out the door and billowed against her. Her living room had been very warm last night, but now it was broiling. The heat stung her face as she stepped inside and closed the door behind her. There was a strange smell in the room too, fetid and salty like the beach at low tide. Dorothy breathed in the hot, foul air and coughed it out. Her head swam again and she almost fainted. But her bedroom was only a few yards away and the Almighty was behind her, giving her the strength to go on. She stumbled to the bedroom door and grasped the knob, which was so hot it burned her palm. But she opened the door anyway and peered inside.

The room was dark and empty. Her bed, bureau, and night table were gone. At first glance she thought a burglar must've broken in during the night and carted away the furniture, but then she noticed another big change: the walls were covered with shiny black metal from floor to ceiling. The metallic sheets even covered the bedroom window and the door to her closet.

Lord? What happened here? Where's my—

Don't be frightened. Step into the room and close the door.

The bedroom was even hotter than the living room, but Dorothy obeyed. She closed the door and stood there in the dark, waiting. The only light in the room came from around the edges of the door she'd just closed. After a moment, though, she glimpsed a faint glowing line at the other end of the room, where the far wall touched the ceiling. The line slowly advanced across the ceiling, like the greenish bar of light that scans documents in a copying machine. It made a faint oozing noise as it moved overhead. Then Dorothy heard the same noise behind her. She turned around and saw another glowing greenish line move sideways across the wall. These lines, she realized, were the edges of the metallic sheets, which were expanding to cover the ceiling and the bedroom door. Within seconds the shiny black metal sealed off the room.

Now I will give you a new bed.

She saw yet another glowing line slide across the floor, pulling the metallic sheet behind it like a carpet. But when this line reached the center of the room it changed color, turning a vivid shade of red. As the line continued to advance it spread a different kind of sheet across the floor, a thick mat of red spongy material that looked softer than the shiny black metal around it. The line kept moving across the floor until the mat was about three feet wide. Then it stopped a few inches from Dorothy's feet. This red mat, she realized, was the bed the Lord had prepared for her. It was her deathbed.

Lie down, my child. Your work is done.

She knelt on the floor and looked closely at the glowing mat. The spongy material was about four inches thick. It looked moist and swollen and its color was so strange. After a few seconds Dorothy remembered where she'd seen that shade of red before. It was the color of the stem cell colonies in the trays she'd taken from the laboratory.

Lord, I'm afraid! I don't—

Enough. Lie down.

All her strength suddenly drained from her limbs and she fell to the mat. Her shoulder hit it first, and then she rolled onto her back, sprawling helplessly. She felt like she was floating in a shallow pool of red mud that was sludgy and rank and boiling hot. She squirmed in pain and tried to roll off the mat, but a long black wire arose from one of the metallic sheets and looped over her waist, pinning her down. Another wire restrained her legs and a third stretched over her throat and pressed down on her windpipe. Then more wires with sharp hooks tore into the fabric of her bathrobe and ripped it off her body.

Stop!
What are you doing? Who—

Please be calm, Dorothy. Soon you will be reborn. Isn't that what you wanted?

The red mud melted the skin off her back. She felt the hot, thick slurry seep into her chest and stomach. It dissolved her hair and leaked into her skull and drowned her thoughts. The voices inside her head grew faint.

You're not him! You're Satan! You're … you're …

I am the Word made flesh. I am the Light of the World.

 

FIFTEEN

Scientists are strange creatures, Sarah thought. They love to criticize and nitpick and tear apart each other's work, but if you're looking for someone to help you out at a moment's notice, your best bet is to call one of your old friends from graduate school.

She sat in an office in Columbia University's Science and Engineering Library at the corner of Broadway and West 120th Street. The office belonged to Phil Clark, a chemist who specialized in developing new polymers and other advanced materials. But that hadn't always been his specialty. When he and Sarah had been grad students at Cornell he'd been just as obsessed with meteorites as she was. And when NASA had hired Sarah to study Martian meteorites, she'd asked Phil to help her analyze the rock that appeared to hold fossils of ancient bacteria. Phil had scrutinized the microscopic structures inside the meteorite and found that their iron-bearing minerals were remarkably pure, just as you'd expect them to be if they'd been synthesized by microbes. He'd reported this finding without any excitement. Nothing surprised Phil, not even evidence of extraterrestrial life. He was one of the most levelheaded men Sarah knew.

So now she was startled by the emotion on his face as he stared into the eyepiece of the scanning microscope on his desk. He was reexamining, for maybe the fortieth time, the sample she'd brought to his office yesterday, the half gram of metallic shavings she'd scraped off the blade of Gino Torelli's ax. Normally, Phil was calm and methodical, but now his cheeks were flushed and his mouth hung open. He ran his hands through his thinning hair and flakes of dandruff sprinkled the back of his polo shirt. After a couple of minutes he lifted his head from the microscope and stared at a pile of printouts on his desk. The papers showed the results of all the tests Phil had performed on the sample over the past twenty-four hours: the mass spectrometry, the X-ray diffraction study, the dielectric analysis. He shook his head as he pored over the columns of numbers. He was a tall, gangly man, and his head swayed like a scarecrow's.