Frameshift

by Robert J. Sawyer

  Amanda started crying. Pierre immediately got back on his feet and hurried over to her, picking her up, holding her against his shoulder, and bouncing her up and down gently. “There, there, honey,” he cooed. “There, there.” He smiled at Klimus, back in the dining room. “Sorry about this,” he said.

  “Not at all, not at all,” said Klimus. He pulled out his notebook and jotted something down.

  C h a p t e r

  28

  Six weeks later

  “Look at Mommy, sweetheart. Come on, look at Mommy. There’s a good girl. Now, Daddy’s got to prick your arm a little bit. It’ll hurt, but not too much, and it’ll only last a second. Okay, sweetheart? Here’s my finger. Give it a good squeeze. That’s right. Okay, here we go. No, no—don’t cry, honey. Don’t cry. It’s over now. Everything’s going to be all right, baby…Everything’s going to be just fine.”

  Pierre checked a small sample of Amanda’s DNA. His daughter lacked the frameshift mutation on chromosome thirteen, and so presumably wouldn’t grow up to be a telepath. Molly seemed to have curiously mixed feelings about this, but Pierre had to admit he was relieved.

  Pierre’s earlier work had shown that only one of Molly’s two chromosome thirteens had the telepathy frameshift, meaning Amanda had had only a fifty-fifty chance of inheriting it from her mother (Amanda, of course, would have received one of Molly’s thirteens and one of Klimus’s thirteens). So there was really nothing remarkable about baby Amanda not having inherited her mother’s frameshifted gene, and yet—

  And yet, during simple PCR amplification of Molly’s DNA, the frameshift had been corrected, so—

  So was this a case of Amanda actually, by the luck of the draw, receiving the non-frameshifted chromosome thirteen from her mother, or—

  Or did none of Molly’s eggs contain the frameshifted DNA? Had it been somehow corrected there, too, just as it had in PCR replication?

  Obviously, the frameshift couldn’t be corrected every time it appeared, or it would have been fixed when Molly herself was developing as an embryo thirty-odd years ago. But still, somehow, it was being corrected now. Pierre had to know whether the correction was present in Molly’s unfertilized eggs, or whether the correction was only made after the egg was fertilized and had started dividing.

  Thanks to the pre-IVF hormone treatments, Molly had brought a large number of eggs to maturity in a single cycle. Gwendolyn Bacon had extracted fifteen from her for the IVF attempt, but she had told Klimus to only attempt to fertilize half of them, meaning seven or eight of Molly’s unfertilized eggs were presumably still here in building 74.

  After phoning Molly to get her permission, Pierre left his own lab and walked down to the same small surgical theater in which Molly’s eggs had been extracted over a year ago. Pierre knew one of the techs there: the guy was a San Jose Sharks fan, and the two of them often argued hockey. Pierre had no trouble getting him to find and hand over Molly’s eggs, seven of which were indeed still in cold storage.

  Of course, it was possible that a random selection of seven eggs might all have the same maternal chromosome thirteen, but the odds were against it. The chances were as slim as a family having seven children and all of them being boys: 50% × 50% × 50% × 50% × 50% × 50% × 50%, which was 0.078%—a minuscule likelihood.

  And yet that apparently had happened. Not one of the eggs had the frameshift.

  Unless—

  Molly’s two chromosome thirteens differed from each other in other ways, of course. Pierre started testing other points on the chromosomes extracted from the eggs, and—

  No. The eggs had not all gotten the same chromosome thirteen.

  Four of them had received one of Molly’s chromosome thirteens—the one that, in Molly’s body, didn’t have the frameshift.

  And three had received the other one of Molly’s thirteens—the one that, in Molly’s body, did have the frameshift.

  And yet, incredibly, the frameshift had been corrected out of every one of the eggs…

  A month later, Pierre and Molly drove to San Francisco International Airport. Pierre was about to meet his mother-in-law and sister-in-law for the first time. Amanda was going to be baptized the next day; although the Bonds weren’t Catholic, Molly’s mother had insisted on being on hand for this, at least.

  “There they are!” said Molly, pointing through a sea of people, all struggling with their bags and luggage carts.

  Pierre scanned the crowd. He’d seen pictures of Barbara and Jessica Bond before, but none of the faces leaped out at him. But now two women were waving at them from the back of the group, wide grins across their faces. They jostled their way through the little exit gate the crowd was funneling out of. Molly rushed over and hugged her mother and then, after a moment of sibling awkwardness, hugged her sister, too.

  “Mom, Jess,” Molly said, “this is Pierre.”

  There was another awkward moment; then Mrs. Bond moved in and hugged him. “It’s wonderful to meet you at long last,” she said, just the barest hint of a dig in her voice. She’d not been pleased when Molly had gotten married without even inviting her.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, too,” said Pierre.

  “Hey,” said Jessica, a note of light teasing in her voice, perhaps trying to defuse the tension her mother’s remark had engendered. “You told us he was French-Canadian, but you didn’t say he had such a sexy accent.”

  Molly giggled, something Pierre had never before heard her do. She and Jessica were suddenly teenagers again. “Go find your own immigrant,” she said, then turned to Pierre. “Honey, this is Jessica.”

  Jessica held out her hand, the back of it facing up. “Enchantée,” she said.

  Pierre adopted the role being requested of him. He bent low and kissed the back of her hand. “C’est moi, qui est enchanté, mademoiselle.” She giggled. Jessica was a real knockout. Molly had mentioned that Jess had done modeling and he could see why. She was a taller, tartier version of her sister. Her makeup was expertly applied: black eyeliner, a dusting of blush, and pink lipstick. Molly was standing right beside him; Pierre felt momentarily anxious, but relaxed when he realized he was indeed musing about all this in French.

  “I’m afraid our car is parked a fair distance away,” he said. The women’s bags weren’t very big. Even a few months ago, Pierre would have picked one up with each hand and simply carried them. But his condition was getting worse in small but noticeable daily increments, and he was now just as likely to drop them. Although his foot had been shaking somewhat, he’d hoped he’d been doing a credible job of making it look like toe tapping, as if he were some jittery type-A personality.

  A few feet away, a big man was making a macho show of discarding the baggage cart his female companion had found and carrying a bulging Samsonite case himself. Pierre moved as fast as he could, seizing the cart and placing Jessica’s and Barbara’s bags on it. At the least, he could certainly push the cart for them. Indeed, it was probably better having it as a sort of discreet walker as they embarked on the long hike to the garage.

  “How was the flight?” asked Pierre.

  “It was a flight,” said Jessica. Pierre smiled, sensing a kindred spirit. What more could one say about spending hours in a tin can?

  “Where’s Amanda?” asked Barbara, her tone making clear that she was very much the new grandmother, eager to see her first grandchild.

  “A neighbor is looking after her,” said Molly. “We thought all this”—she rolled her eyes, indicating the hubbub around them—“would be too much for her.”

  “I would have loved to have been there for you,” said Barbara. Pierre allowed himself a slight sigh, lost on the background noise of the cavernous terminal. His mother-in-law wasn’t going to easily forgive Molly for cutting her out of so much of Molly’s life. Barbara and Jessica were only going to be here for four days, but it was clearly going to seem longer.

  They passed through a pair of sliding glass doors into the late-afternoon sunshine. As soon
as she was out of the terminal, Jessica fished a pack of Virginia Slims from her purse and lit one. Pierre jockeyed slightly so as not to be downwind from her. Suddenly she looked far less attractive.

  Molly opened her mouth as if to reproach her sister, but in the end said nothing. Her mother clearly recognized the expression, though, and shrugged. “It’s no use,” she said. “I’ve told her a thousand times to quit.”

  Jessica took a deep, defiant drag. They continued on toward the parking lot.

  “Have either of you been to California before?” asked Pierre, the role of defuser now falling to him.

  “Disney World when I was a kid,” said Jessica.

  “Disneyland,” corrected Molly, sounding every bit the big sister. “Disney World is in Florida.”

  “Well, whichever it was, I’m sure they still remember you throwing up all over the teacup ride,” snapped Jessica. She looked to Pierre with wide eyes, as if still stunned by it all. “How anyone could get motion sickness on the teacups is beyond me.”

  Pierre spotted his car. “We’re over there,” he said, gesturing with his head as he steered the luggage cart.

  Yes, he thought. A long stay indeed.

  Pierre managed to carry the bags up the front steps. Molly looked on with compassion. They had worried about those steps when they bought the house, and watching him struggle with the bags gave her a clear foretaste of what was to come for him. The back door opened onto level ground; they knew eventually that it would end up as his principal entrance.

  Once the bags were inside, Molly’s mother and sister plopped down, exhausted, in the living-room chairs.

  “Nice place,” said Jessica, looking around.

  Molly smiled. It was a nice place. Pierre’s taste in furnishings was abysmal (Molly shuddered every time she thought of that hideous green-and-orange couch he’d had), but she had a good eye for such things; she’d even taught a course on the psychology of aesthetics one year. They’d furnished the whole room in natural blond wood and green malachite accents.

  “I’m going next door to get Amanda,” said Molly. “Pierre, maybe you can get Mom and Jess a drink.”

  Pierre nodded and set about doing just that. Molly went through the front door and out into the twilight, enjoying being alone for a moment. It had been so much easier rebuilding her relationship with her mother and sister through letters and long-distance phone calls. But now that they were here, she had to face their thoughts again: her mother’s disapproval of the way Molly had left Minnesota, her dubiousness about her whirlwind romance and marriage to a foreigner, her thousand little criticisms of the way Molly dressed and the five extra pounds she hadn’t quite gotten rid of since the pregnancy.

  And Jessica, too, with her infuriating vacuousness—not to mention her outrageous flirting with Pierre.

  It had been a mistake having them come out here—of that, already, there could be no doubt. She would try to keep them out of her zone during the rest of their stay, try not to hear their thoughts, try to remember that they, as much as baby Amanda, were her flesh and blood.

  She walked next door to the pink-stuccoed bungalow and rang the bell.

  “Hi, Molly,” said Mrs. Bailey as the woman opened the screen door. “Come to take your angel away?”

  Molly smiled. Mrs. Bailey was a widow in her mid-sixties who seemed to have a bottomless appetite for baby-sitting Amanda. Her eyesight was poor, but she loved holding the baby and singing to her in an off-key but enthusiastic way. Molly stepped into the entryway, and Mrs. Bailey went over to Amanda, who had been napping on the couch. She picked her up and carried her over to Molly. Amanda blinked her large brown eyes at her mother and allowed herself to be passed from one woman to the other.

  “Thanks so much, Mrs. Bailey,” said Molly.

  “Anytime, my dear.”

  Molly rocked Amanda in her arms as she carried her back to their house. She walked up the steps and let herself in the front door.

  The arrival of the baby was enough to get Barbara and Jessica up off the couch. Pierre, although also wanting to see his daughter, apparently realized he’d have no luck competing against the three women for access. He settled back in his chair, grinning.

  “Oooh,” said Jessica, leaning in to look at the baby cradled in Molly’s arms. “What a little darling!”

  Her mother leaned in, too. “She’s gorgeous!” She waved a finger in front of the baby’s eyes. Amanda cooed at all the attention.

  Molly felt her heart pounding, felt anger rising within her. She pulled the baby away and moved across the room.

  “What’s wrong?” asked her sister.

  “Nothing,” said Molly, too sharply. She turned around, forced a smile. “Nothing,” she said again, more softly. “Amanda was sleeping next door. I don’t want to overwhelm her.”

  She moved toward the staircase and started up. She saw Pierre trying to catch her eye, but continued on.

  Dog, Jessica had thought.

  My God—what an ugly kid! her mother had thought.

  Molly made it to the top floor and into the bedroom before she began to shake with anger. She sat on the edge of the bed, rocking her beautiful daughter back and forth in her arms.

  Three months passed; it was now the middle of December.

  Amanda, in a crib across the room, woke up a little after 3:00 A.M. and started crying. The sound awoke both Pierre and Molly. Molly went over to the padded chair by the window, and he watched quietly as she sat in the moonlight, breast-feeding his daughter. It was hard to imagine a more beautiful sight.

  His left wrist started moving back and forth.

  Molly put Amanda back down, kissed her forehead, and returned to their bed. Pierre could soon hear the regular sound of his wife’s breathing as she fell back to sleep. Pierre, though, was now wide awake. He tried to steady his left wrist by holding it with his right, but soon that one began to shake, too.

  He thought back to the Huntington’s support-group meeting in San Francisco. All those people moving, shaking, dancing. All those people, like him. All those poor people…

  We had a guy from your lab give a talk a couple of years ago. Big old bald guy. Can’t remember his name, but he won a Nobel Prize.

  Burian Klimus had spoken to that group, and—

  Holy shit. Holy fucking shit.

  Avi Meyer hadn’t proven it yet—indeed, might never be able to prove it, after half a century—but Klimus could very well be a Nazi.

  Which meant he might very well be involved with the local neo-Nazi movement…

  Neo-Nazis had certainly been responsible for the stabbing attempt on Pierre’s life and the shooting of Bryan Proctor, and, given the similarity of weapon, quite possibly for the murder of Joan Dawson.

  Klimus had addressed the Huntington’s group, had likely met the three members of it who had been murdered.

  Klimus worked day in and day out with Joan; surely he’d been aware of her incipient cataracts.

  And Klimus knew that Pierre had some genetic disorder; Pierre himself had told him that in explaining why he and Molly wanted to use donated sperm.

  Voluntary eugenics, Klimus had said to Pierre. I approve.

  Could the old man have been trying to improve the gene pool? Weed out some Huntington’s sufferers, maybe a diabetic or two?

  But no—no, that didn’t make sense.

  Joan Dawson was way past menopause; although she had a grown daughter, she herself was incapable of making further contributions to the gene pool.

  And Klimus knew that Pierre wasn’t going to breed.

  But if not eugenics, then what?

  An image came to his mind from out of the past, from the early 1980s: a drawing on the front page of Le Devoir.

  Twelve dead babies.

  Not eugenics.

  Mercy—or, at least, someone’s version of it.

  After all, the same thought had come to Pierre, too, unbidden, unwelcome, unfair, but there nonetheless: some of those with Huntington’s would be b
etter off dead. And the same might be said for an old woman who lived alone and was about to lose her sight.

  Pierre lay awake the rest of the night, shaking.

  C h a p t e r

  29

  Pierre took the elevator up to the third floor of San Francisco police headquarters and walked down to the forensics lab. He knocked on the door, then let himself in. “Hello, Helen.”

  Helen Kawabata looked up from behind her desk. She was wearing a spruce green suit today, jade rings, and emerald ear studs. She’d also changed her hair since Pierre had last seen her: it was still frosted blond, but she’d traded the pageboy for a shorter, punkier look. “Oh, hi, Pierre,” she said, rapid-fire. “Long time no see. Listen, thanks for that tour of your facilities. I really enjoyed it.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Pierre. Every now and then, he tried to respond to a “thank you” with a California “uh-huh,” but he had never felt comfortable with it. Still, his smile was a bit sheepish. “I’m afraid I have another favor to ask.”

  Helen’s smile faded just enough to convey that she felt the books were now balanced: she’d done him one favor, and he’d repaid it with lunch and a tour of LBNL. She did not look entirely ready to help him again.