Baumgartner put out a hand and stopped him. “However, I might pose a rhetorical question—and it is only that, a question.”
Cap left the computer turned on. “Pose away.”
Baumgartner looked away again, as if he were talking to someone else. “What if you were Burkhardt, and you had Merrill breathing down your neck demanding results, because he had big backers breathing down his neck demanding results? And what if a certain Dr. Capella’s published contention that ‘evolutionists have no ultimate basis for being honest’ is in fact true?”
Cap didn’t know quite how to answer. If Baumgartner was cutting him a break, he didn’t want to ruin it. “Could you, uh, expound on your question just a little?”
Baumgartner would not look at him—apparently his way of having the conversation without really having it. “Well, just for the sake of discussion, if you were expected to, say, bridge that 2 percent gap between humans and chimpanzees to demonstrate how we originally diverged from a common ancestor through mutations, how many base pairs would you have to change, rearrange, correct, or mutate, in precisely the right order, using site-directed mutagenesis alone?”
Cap already knew the answer. He and Baumgartner had publicly debated this topic several times. “The human genome contains some three billion base pairs. Two percent of that would be sixty million.”
Baumgartner nodded quietly, seemingly amused by the numbers. “Sixty million. That would be a lot of changes to make even if you had the four million years we all think we had, and of course every single change would have to be beneficial. Imagine how daunting that job would be to an ambitious anthropologist in his midforties.”
Baumgartner finally turned his eyes to the computer screen as if to confirm something. “Given all this, if you were Burkhardt, would you attempt to cheat? Would you, perhaps, entertain the possibility of moving wholesale amounts of DNA, even whole genes, the quickest way possible?”
Suddenly Cap knew where Baumgartner was going, and it was so obvious it was embarrassing. He leaned toward the computer and began to see in those myriad, confusing lines a pattern he hadn’t put together before. “Viral transfers.”
Baumgartner pointed out some of the lines himself. “Your ‘junk DNA’ may not be the junk you thought it was.” He leaned back in his chair again, acting aloof. “Then again, maybe it is. Huge, horizontal transfers can get messy. You’re never quite sure where the new information is going to land or how the organism is going to turn out.”
Cap grabbed up his computer. “Emile, you just might be a real scientist one day, you know that?”
He waved it off. “I was only posing a question!”
Ten
For one fleeting moment, Beck felt a sweet happiness. She was home with Reed and they were talking and laughing with each other in whole sentences. Sunlight streamed into their living room through an open front door, and strangely, she felt no urge to close it. Whether someone was coming to visit or she and Reed were going to venture out for a walk, either prospect was just fine, maybe for the first time in her life.
But that fleeting moment was in a dream, and when she jerked awake under a dark canopy of serviceberry, the dream slipped from her, image, by image though she struggled to keep it, until nothing remained but a sad sense of loss.
It was morning again. She couldn’t remember what day it was or how many days she’d been lost in this place, wherever this place was. But as she shook off sleep, one thing felt different, enough to make her look around the thicket, searching for old and familiar company.
It seemed she was alone.
She looked about discreetly, stealthily. She listened. Were they gone? Had they left her?
She felt her ankle, then put some weight on it. With a crutch, or perhaps a brace of some kind, she could walk on it—for a while. She was on a mountain slope. They hadn’t traveled very far since leaving their footprints at that baiting site. If she could make her way down the mountain and find that dry streambed, it might lead her to the baiting site and from there, to people.
It was now or never.
She crawled quietly, pressing through the fine and brittle branches, looking about, hopeful. So far, the forest was silent, as if—
“Hmph,” came through the tangle to her right as the ground heaved into a reddish mound obscured by needles and leaves.
Beck stopped crawling, closed her eyes, and sighed, her head dropping. So much for that little hope. I can’t outrun her.
A quiet stirring beyond the thicket drew her eye, and she saw Jacob sitting with his back against a pine tree, eyes half-open. He looked rather smug. Leah was combing and picking meticulously through the hair on his head and neck, pulling out pine needles, leaf fragments, and an occasional bug, which she ate, a tip for the beautician.
With no escaping in her immediate future, Beck thought of her own hair. Just trying to run her fingers through it told her it was a mess. She pushed free of the entangling undergrowth and settled down on the soft humus, taking the folding hairbrush from her jacket pocket. She brushed slowly, finding snags, tangles, twigs, and needles, but it felt great, almost spiritual. It was something she could do for herself because she wanted to, a way to restore a small measure of order to her ridiculous world—and it was something human for a change.
Having brushed out the last tangle, she pitched her head forward to gather her hair into one strand and deftly tied her hair into a neat knot on top of her head. There! Neat, brushed, and out of the way.
She thought she heard Rachel gasp. An ape, gasping? She looked toward the bushes. Rachel stared at her as if she were a stranger with two heads, antennae, and one big eye in the center of each forehead.
Beck’s hand went to her head. “Hmmm?” What’s the matter? It’s just me.
Not good enough. Rachel approached in a cautious, sideways gait, head cocked with curiosity and alarm as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Gently, but with the firmness of a corrective mother, Rachel took hold of Beck’s head—
Beck screamed and fought back, squirming, kicking, swatting, trying to free herself, struggling for her life.
Rachel didn’t kill her. She examined Beck’s head and then, with a gentle but irresistible cradling embrace, pulled Beck in close, sitting her down, like it or not, scolding her with pig grunts.
Still alive, with head and neck intact, Beck put her screams and kicks on hold, but she couldn’t control her trembling. In scurrying thoughts she reminded herself that Rachel had never yet harmed her. Maybe if she went limp and played dead, Rachel would be satisfied. Maybe if she remained calm, Rachel would calm down as well. Maybe if—
With Beck properly positioned in front of her, Rachel went to work, poking, pulling, and yanking the knot on top of Beck’s head. It hurt.
“Oww!” Beck dared to reach up.
Rachel huffed and batted her hands away.
Beck reached up again. Rachel batted her hands away more sternly, then picked her up and sat her down with a bump as if to say, You sit still, young lady!
There was nothing to do but grimace until Rachel undid the knot. Beck’s hair tumbled to her shoulders.
With the issue resolved, Beck’s terrifying brush with death was over. Rachel gave Beck’s hair several gentle combings with her fingers and let her go. Beck hobbled away, hair untangled, groomed, and free in the breeze. She sat in the grass, trying to calm herself.
It wasn’t easy. What was the big problem? If Rachel was so obsessed with appearances, she could certainly give a little more attention to her own appearance!
Beck took a slow, deliberate breath and tried to remind herself that these were animals, and animals just did what they did. Rachel liked Beck’s hair the way it was, and as for the reason— Beck snickered bitterly—did Rachel even need one? Was she even aware of one? Maybe appearances were important to Sasquatches; maybe they were unsettled by change; maybe Beck was projecting her own feelings into these animals and was totally wrong about everything.
Fe
eling grumpy, Beck took out her hairbrush. If she couldn’t wear her hair up, at least she could brush it again, her way of having the last word. She ran her brush through her hair with strong, anger-driven strokes, purposely turning her eyes away from Rachel and devoting her attention to Leah and Jacob.
Leah seemed in no hurry as she combed Jacob with her fingers. She deftly scooped out bugs with her fingernails and neatly arranged his coat one section at a time, all the while stealing an occasional side glance to see if Rachel was watching. Beck marveled at Leah’s expression. She reminded herself again that these were animals, but the more she watched, the more she had to wonder—Was it possible for an ape to be catty?
A movement from Rachel drew her attention—and held it. Beck stopped brushing, the brush poised in her hair at the top of a stroke.
In her slow, lazy way, and with her eyes focused on Beck’s right hand, Rachel was stroking the left side of her head with her big fingers.
Beck switched and brushed the hair on her left side.
Rachel clumsily stroked the right side of her head with her right hand, a hairy mirror image.
Beck felt Leah looking their way and shot a glance back. Leah immediately went to work as if she hadn’t been watching a thing.
Now, this was intriguing. Beck looked down at the brush in her hand. Was Rachel mimicking, or was she asking?
She rose carefully, tentatively. While gently touching Rachel’s chest to soothe her, she placed the brush against Rachel’s head and passed it lightly through the tangled hair.
Rachel sighed and relaxed. She was all for it, like a dog getting petted.
Beck brushed a little more, and Rachel leaned into it.
Well. Okay, then.
Beck kept going, brushing out the tangles, combing with her fingers, cleaning Rachel’s coarse, oily coat. When she stopped to pull twigs, bugs, leaves, and loose hairs from the brush, Rachel nudged her to continue. She returned to her work, parting Rachel’s hair neatly down the middle, coifing the sides and teasing the hair to give it body, blending the head and neck hair with the hair on Rachel’s back. She had to pause frequently to clean debris from the brush, but Rachel finally accepted that part of the process once Beck gave her first choice of anything the brush found.
Before Beck realized it, she was having fun. She started humming to herself, no tune in particular.
Rachel stared off into space and made a deep-toned noise of her own. “Hmmmmhmmmmhmmm.”
Beck smiled and kept humming, working on Rachel’s right shoulder. Grooming the whole body was going to be a big job, like brushing down a vertical horse, but the hair was mostly cooperative, sorting itself out and falling into place as the brush passed through.
Rachel watched, obviously pleased, as Beck brushed her right arm. “Hmmmmmhmmm.”
Beck started whistling just to see what would happen.
Rachel cocked her head, apparently surprised.
“Woo-w-whistle!” Beck said, and did it.
Rachel had to think about it and then tightened her lips against her teeth and made her playful teakettle sound. Beck laughed and whistled with her. It was just like getting their dog, Jonah, to “sing” by making high, howling sounds. Beck whistled, Rachel whistled; Beck whistled, Rachel whistled. Now for that left shoulder—
“Rooarr!” Rachel flinched so violently she sent Beck tumbling.
Beck righted herself, poised to run, expecting to die, thoroughly, shakingly terrified. I’ve broken the rules!
But Rachel wasn’t angry. She looked down at her left shoulder, gingerly touching the place Beck had tried to brush.
Still trembling, and making sure she had Rachel’s permission for each step, Beck dared to come back.
Now that the caked blood was broken up by the brushing, Beck could see for the first time where the blood had come from. The wounds were recent and just beginning to heal—two large tears near the top of the shoulder with smaller cuts between and on either side. The curved pattern suggested the obvious: Rachel had been viciously attacked and bitten.
Beck backed away, the brush at her side, and stole a fearful glance in Jacob’s direction. He was still sitting against the tree, basking in all the attention he was getting from Leah. He met her eyes only once, then looked straight ahead as if he didn’t care to discuss it.
Cap, in billed cap and blue coveralls he borrowed from the caretaker’s garage, carried a bag of garbage on one shoulder to obscure his face as he walked down an alley to check out the rear of a particular building. During the summer quarter, many of the labs and classrooms were not in constant use, meaning the lab he needed might be empty. At least the alley was empty. He tossed the bag into a Dumpster, looked around as casually as he could, then walked briskly up the alley to a back door.
This was Corzine University’s Bioscience building, his old stomping ground, a modern, three-story structure with lots of glass, state-of-the-art labs and classrooms, and what used to be his office. Access through the front door would mean signing in and making his presence known, which would bring questions and permission denial, things he couldn’t afford. This door in the back, known only to maintenance staff and professors trying to avoid squabbles with student protestors, required only a key.
He pulled a key from his pocket, the one he’d unknowingly left in another pair of pants when the administrator told him to turn in all his keys. He’d planned to bring it back or maybe just mail it. If things didn’t go well today, they’d get it anyway.
The key worked. The door opened. He ducked inside.
He was in the combination office and locker room of the maintenance department. Against one wall was a row of lockers; opposite the lockers were the desk and cot of the head custodian, Louis. The desk calendar was filled with Louis’s usual notes and reminders in blue felt-tip pen. Good. Things were still the same. Hopefully, Louis kept the same schedule. He always arrived for work at eight in the evening, after everyone else had gone home—except for intensely occupied molecular biologists who had a habit of working late. He and Louis had gotten to know each other pretty well.
Cap even knew which locker was Louis’s, and that Louis never bothered to lock it. Inside, he found the custodian’s coveralls and, most important, an access card that operated the doors in the rest of the building. Louis lost that card once, and another time his youngest daughter had used it for making motor sounds in the spokes of her bicycle. Ever since, Louis kept it in his locker, strung on a lanyard.
Cap hung the access card around his neck. He checked his watch. Most of the staff and students were probably at lunch right now. This was going to be tight, but doable.
He hurried into the next room, where supply shelves reached to the ceiling and the cleaning carts were parked evenly spaced in a straight row. The trash cans on board were emptied and relined, cleaning solutions replenished, clean dust cloths in place, mops beaten and ready to go again. He picked a cart, added two more dust mops with big heads to the cart’s broom rack—in case he needed to hide his face—and wheeled the cart up to the metal-clad fire door that stood between him and the rest of the building.
Without waiting to rethink this or bolster his courage, he swiped the card through the slot of the keypad. The lock clicked open, and he pushed through.
It felt odd sneaking into a place where he felt so much at home. He’d been up and down these clean, off-white halls and through these department doors so many times he almost knew this place better than his own house. He hurried down the hall, avoided the eyes of a few students who passed by, came to a T—
A man with perfectly coifed hair and wearing a tailored suit stood at the end of the hall to the right; he was straightening a few pages that had gone crooked in a notebook he carried.
It was Dr. Philip Merrill, formerly the department chair of Molecular Biology, recently promoted to dean of the College of Sciences. He was more than well entrenched in the system—he practically was the system—and he and Cap had never been on good terms.
&nbs
p; Cap turned down the hall to the left, ducking around to the front of his cart and pulling it behind him, keeping his back to Merrill and the cart with the big mops between them.
He rolled past an informal lounge area with chairs, a couch, and some Science, Nature, and Cell magazines, and then through some heavy double doors marked Authorized Personnel Only Beyond This Point.
Immediately to the right was a door with a large glass window. A placard on the wall to the left read Molecular Biology Research Center, and under that was a blank space where his name used to be. Cap swiped Louis’s card through the keypad, and once again, the lock clicked open.
Inside was a wondrous place, his former world. His micropipettes and PCR thermal cycler waited faithfully on the bench where he preferred them, although the electrophoresis gel boxes and power supply had been rearranged to someone else’s liking. The reagents inside the glass storage cabinets were exactly as he’d left them, so they would be available if he needed them. Joy of all joys, the fluorescent microscope was still in place and operational, its video camera still interfaced with a computer.
There was no time to waste. Cap parked the cart against the door, adjusting the mop heads to block the window. Then he pulled the blinds on the outside windows. He reached inside his coveralls for a paper bag, and from the paper bag he pulled three plastic bags—one containing the rest of the hair samples, one containing the rest of the stool samples, and one containing the squashed thermos that still held dried saliva. The folks at the Judy Lab were good people, but Cap knew they also had professional considerations, especially where former biology professors were concerned. Holding back a portion of the samples and keeping them safely tucked away was a planned precaution.
He’d already made a trip back to the Internet, asked the right questions, and gotten a positive ID on that “junk” DNA. Now he knew what to look for, and he had a very good idea where to find it. The procedure would only take a few hours, and he could do it alone. If Baumgartner’s not-so-subtle hint was correct, he would soon know.
The Frank Peretti Collection: The Oath, the Visitation, and Monster Page 121