“It is. Jane is… I think… a cloned human being.”
“Then the Volkers are her parents! But whodunit? Who cloned her? The government?”
“The government hasn’t even tumbled to Jane’s being cloned yet, as far as I can tell. They think she’s just your average all-American poltergeist—Jane the psychic discus- thrower.”
“Wow, I get it. They figure she’s a walking telekinetic tantrum in need of government guidance, like a missile. Is she?”
Kevin’s face tightened. “Maybe.”
“But if they didn’t clone her, who did?”
Kevin took another slug of Scotch. It was loosening him up and bringing him down and he didn’t care. “Them.”
“Them, oh, sure. Uh… who?”
“The aliens.”
“I knew it! I knew it was aliens! How alien?”
“I’m not sure. Never saw them. Saw their ship, though. They lifted Jane into it with a laser beam.”
“And you never saw… them?”
Kevin shook his head and swirled the last of the Scotch in the bottom of his mug. Kandy’s roach had burned to ashes in his cast-iron armadillo ashtray. His thin fingers twitched as if needing something to latch onto. They found his elbows.
“Heavy, man. You sure about this?”
“Think it over. The Volkers claim twenty-five years ago that they were taken into a space ship. Adelle Volker— barren for years—bears a child eight or nine months later. Lynn.”
“You talking immaculate conception here?”
“No, Papa Volker was the father, but Mrs. Volker didn’t even know she was pregnant until after the UFO incident, and then she never connected it with the alien visitation. But they—them, the aliens—could have taken a cell from her, just one cell.”
“Well, we’ve done it with frogs.”
“We’ve done it with lots of things, only we destroy the genetic material before we have to worry about the ethics of dealing with the results. The aliens didn’t.”
“So Jane grows up in the sky with diamonds—”
“Jane doesn’t grow up. That’s just it. She grows. From her recollection under hypnosis, she’s… stored… in some semisuspended state. Fed information. Fed our language—whatever. ”
“That’s why she was found so emaciated! She’d been in an induced coma!”
“And why she rebounded so fast under care. She’s perfectly healthy, Kandy. Perfectly. Always has been. The aliens saw to that with every scientific means at their command.”
Kandy lifted an excited fist and pulled on the ponytail frizzing down his back. “Then Jane’s a… instant human! Just add IV and feed daily. God, what a concept. Maybe you are nuts, Kevin.”
Kevin went on, almost to himself. “They dropped her on at least one other earthlike planet to ‘glean’ data. That’s how she fixated on the fur coat she called Zyunsinth, probably haired hominoids—”
“The aliens used her like a portable tape recorder?”
“A biological probe, a living data recorder. It’s not so nuts. Isn’t that what we all are? Kandy? Input/output— food, information, emotions even? Our scientists tamper with genetic messages already. ‘Engineering,’ we call it. If we can depersonalize it, why can’t the aliens? All that DNA is just so much circuitry to them. They send Jane out with her sensory skeins, then reel up her memory like a trawling line until all the little silver fishies fall to deck.”
“That’s… inhuman, Kevin.”
“Yeah. It doesn’t allow for complications, anyway. Like Jane’s unforeseen emotional response to creatures even vaguely of her kind. Zyunsinth imprinted on her visceral level, even after she’d been wiped and the aliens had released her here.”
“And you—you made an even better teddy bear.” Kevin nodded. “Me. I really gummed up the works. Jane began maturing—adolescently, emotionally… sexually. None of that alien software was designed to overcome a glandular storm like that. She was becoming human, not just acting like some preprogrammed automaton.”
“But what about the special effects?” Kandy probed. “Jane’s telekinetic abilities, Swanson’s flying household object brigade? Frankly, Kev, I doubt the feds would give a ratshit about how Jane got here as long as they could aim her where wanted and fire when ready.”
“But they can’t, Kandy! Don’t you see? The more human Jane becomes, the less predictable she’ll be. Her… powers are built-in defense mechanisms. The aliens want their expensive toys to get maximum mileage on their perilous journeys, just as we don’t want Voyager to poop out for want of gas or a head-on with an asteroid.”
“Fascinating!” Kandy had assumed a Mr. Spock tone. “And you actually screwed this phenomenon? Sorry, that just slipped out. ’Nother Scotch?”
Kandy collected the empty mug and strolled to the paper-littered dining room sideboard for the Johnny Walker bottle.
“That’s the most understandable part of the whole mess,” Kevin said bitterly. “Damn it, Kandy! Don’t do a Dr. Cross on me.”
Kandy shrugged as he dropped off the fresh drink. “I’m not surprised. Face it, Kevin, you wear guilt like a red flag. ’Sides, she didn’t look too bad after she filled out some.”
“I didn’t ‘screw’ a phenomenon or a clone or a secret weapon. Jane was… is a woman. And she’s different from any woman I’ve ever known—”
“I’ll say.”
“—she’s new. She grew up without all the garbage childhood pours into our heads, that cultural imperative of ‘shoulds’ and ‘musts.’ It’s all programming. Only Jane’s alien programming, ironically, left her moral and emotional responses free to form a mature intelligence. She was fascinating. I was helping her—”
“I can imagine what Cross would say to that.”
“He did. And I said back. God, I wish the old fart were still involved, I might be able to make some headway with him.”
“You don’t know where the Probe crew’s gone?”
Kevin shook his head. “Scary how the government can make people vanish… That’s why I’ve got to find Jane! They wanted me to work with her, but I refused.”
“Holy Christ! Why?”
“Jane doesn’t need what they want from her.”
“So you’d let a creep like Nordstrom pry it out of her! Kev, your judgment goes AWOL when you switch into noble mode. You could have jived the feds, worked with Jane your way.”
“I never believed that they really had her.”
“And now that you think you’ve seen her free, you’re afraid they do? Makes a lot of sense, Blake.”
“I know. But it was weird, seeing her like that. She didn’t look quite real, almost seemed… naked… again, as if a past, helpless Jane were haunting me. Maybe she’s—”
“Naw. She’s engineered to survive, remember? Alien- guaranteed. Look, maybe you should find that government guy—”
Kevin looked up from his mug.
“I tried. This morning. I asked at the federal building— the one the cops took me from. Nobody there admits to having heard of Turner. I finally could use the bastard, and I’ve lost him.”
Chapter Thirty-three
* * *
Absolute dark had fallen by the time Kevin returned to his condo. Minnesota winter evenings, like mercy killers, pulled the plug on light as well as warmth.
Kevin labored up the three flights of stairs from the parking lot. Only the snow-trampled middle section was passable, and even there footing was treacherous. Jane, he supposed, had tripped up these steps in broad daylight, sure as a mountain goat.
His key scraped at the lock. Despite spending all afternoon at Kandy’s, he hadn’t even gotten drunk, just numbed around the edges. It wasn’t enough. The door swung inward without him. He followed it.
On his oversized forties Goodwill couch sat Turner.
Kevin’s keys clattered to the glass-topped coffee table like a gauntlet. “I’d have more privacy sleeping in the park.”
“What are you complaining about? 1 heard you we
re looking for me, so I found you.”
Kevin came closer to study the government man. Turner looked almost as bad as Kevin felt. “What’s up?”
“That should be my line, Doc.”
“Never mind. What do you want?”
“Why did you want me?”
“I asked first, Turner.”
“I want you to come with me to Jane Doe.”
Kevin’s shoulders slumped. He could no longer deny Turner’s seriousness. Incredible as it seemed, in the few days they’d been separated, Jane must have been found as Turner had said—naked, again; lost, again; semistarved, again. Perhaps even memoryless—again. Kevin would be beginning, all over again.
Turner shoved himself out of the sofa’s mushy mohair depths. “I think you’re ready to come now.”
“What about Nordstrom?”
“Nordstrom’s… disabled.”
Kevin, shocked, tried to read Turner’s face. It remained blanker than a page in a Nothing Book.
“Come on, Doctor. You know you want to be there.” Turner walked to the door.
Kevin waited just long enough to wad together some self-respect before picking up his keys and following.
* * *
The room looked like they’d filmed a scene from Porky’s there. It was an unholy mess.
Buckled vinyl floor tiles splayed every which way. The bed lay upside down, every strut of its functional metal undercarriage obscenely visible. A dried trail of sewage snaked through a partly open door. In the bathroom beyond, mirror shards tinseled the ceramic-tiled floor.
“It smells like jail,” Kevin said.
“We found him at five a.m., pinned under the bed. He was caked with filth and not making much sense. You ever seen anything like this, Doctor?”
Kevin scanned the disheveled room, then looked down at the vinyl tiles spun out of place. Enlarge them to the size of LP record albums and…
“Yeah. I’ve seen something like it. This all the damage?” Turner stalked the bed, then wheeled to the nightstand to flourish a sheaf of manila folders.
“These documents—your medical records, background stuff—and some other… unrelated… papers were strewn around the room. The bulk of it landed in the sewage. We threw it out. It was mostly photographs.” When Kevin looked confused, Turner spelled it out as much as he cared to. “Black-and-whites of the camps. In Germany. After the war—and during. Pictures of… inmates… as they looked when they were liberated. And the bodies.”
Kevin nodded finally, surveying the room piece by misplaced piece. When he glanced up again, Turner was looking away. He stared at the man until he had his eyes. “And you let Nordstrom have her.”
“We’d used him before.”
“He used you! And now, Jane.”
“Let’s get out of here,” Turner said gruffly. Kevin’s eyes questioned his. “It’s… making me sick.”
In the hall, Turner thrust the manila folders at Kevin. “What’s this?”
“I told you. The documents in the case.”
Kevin flipped open the top folder. Julie Symons’s face stared at him, stared past him actually. She had always posed without looking into the camera.
“That’s the only photo Nordstrom had that we can’t identify,” Turner said. “You know her?”
“I did.”
“Who is she?”
“None of your goddamn business.” Turner’s and Kevin’s eyes caught, held, held on. Turner didn’t ask again.
Kevin turned Julie facedown. Behind her lay the newspaper likeness of Jane, and another sketch. He picked it up.
“New drawing,” Turner explained. “Some woman made it at Brother Paul’s House of Charity downtown. That’s how we found her.”
“Jane was at a soup kitchen?”
Turner shrugged. “She ate there at least, we presume, though it can’t have been much.”
Kevin’s fingers traced the charcoal spirals depicting the hat atop Jane’s head.
“A bag lady gave her that. Crazy character, walking hat rack. The hat wasn’t on Jane when the police got there.”
“What was?” Kevin turned and began walking along the phony corridor leading into phony hospital rooms, all empty. His tone was brisk. He was the doctor on the case finally called in and demanding a report on a patient. “Nothing. She was naked.”
Kevin stopped. “Completely? You weren’t just jiving me before? Naked?”
Turner nodded. “Again. Even in the snow and cold. It was a miracle she was alive.”
“Maybe not.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think she can regulate her metabolism, even subconsciously.”
“Another thing puzzles me. Was she… losing a lot of weight when you two were on the run up north?”
Kevin stopped again. “What the hell do you mean? Don’t lay this weight thing on me. She was fine. I wouldn’t let her starve; she wouldn’t let herself starve. Jane’s not anorexic. Never was. She’s a survivor, first and foremost. More than you can imagine, Turner, Jane Doe is a survivor.”
Turner’s hands spread to deny whatever had offended Kevin.
“Where is she?” Kevin asked next. Demanded.
“You think you can… help her? Figure this out?”
“Haven’t you read your Mother Goose, Turner? ‘All the king’s horses and all the king’s men—’ ”
“You think… she did it.” Turner’s head jerked back to the room they had left.
“Don’t you?”
“Yes, but what’s wrong with that? Neither one of us gives a… plugged nickel about Nordstrom. At least it proves her telekinetic powers.”
“Turner.” Kevin looked away, then tried again. “Turner, Jane Doe’s powers are purely defensive. Defensive. She’s never… attacked anyone psychically. From a distance. She’s incapable of it. That’s not the Jane Doe I know.”
“Then who—and how?”
“Maybe it’s the Jane Doe Nordstrom made. I don’t know yet. Let me see her.”
Turner led him to a door that duplicated Nordstrom’s.
“Convincing setup,” Kevin conceded. “If I didn’t know better I’d think I was in a hospital.”
“You are, in a sense. We can get you anything you need.”
“I need time, Turner. I need luck. I need what you can’t give me—Jane before you and Nordstrom had a chance to damage her.”
Turner hovered behind him anyway.
“I want to see her alone.” Turner’s face hardened. “Alone.”
Kevin opened the door, went in, shut it.
It stayed shut.
The room was exactly like Nordstrom’s, except for the large mirror opposite the bed. Kevin remembered the watching post Turner had mentioned in jail. He supposed Turner could be standing behind the two-way glass even now. He didn’t care.
Kevin approached the bed. Jane lay on it, pale as the hospital sheets, her hair a charcoal smudge against the white. He didn’t want to believe his eyes. She seemed to be a sketch of a woman—flat, empty, a mere likeness. The extent of physical regression in so short a time was unbelievable, the fact of it inescapable.
Kevin swallowed a spitball of sudden rage choking his throat. The brusque doctor-act was no defense against seeing this renewed nightmare in black and white. A recurring dream, a biological rerun. Total déjà vu. He was approaching a conundrum again, once again reduced to a clumsy, probing instrument that could destroy as well as salvage the delicate psyche.
“Jane?” He had whispered without meaning to.
Her eyes opened. They held the flat opacity of smoked Plexiglas. “Kevin.” She smiled thinly.
He fought to keep his shock from infecting her. “You’ve… lost a lot of weight.”
“I have, haven’t I?” She lifted a bony hand to study it with a professional calm he envied.
Kevin reached out, his hand poised to grab hers, crush it with his caring, his pain, his guilt. The rash gesture froze, then his hand lightly clasped her wrist to take a pulse. Br
aced as he was for something—a tingle of telekinetic energy between them, her violent withdrawal—the fact that nothing did happen unnerved him more. She behaved so normally and looked so abnormal.
His mind routinely tallied the beats of her pulse while his emotions mimed silent screams for release. He could only regard this Jane through a bottomless well of despair. How far he had to take her again—could he? But he knew no course but caution, and couldn’t face anything except one step at a time. One… heartbeat… at a time.
“How have you been?” His distress retreated behind med school inanities; bedside manner by Dr. Bob.
Jane’s pulse throbbed steadily between his icy fingers. Sixty-eight beats a minute; low, but consistent with his hypometabolism theory. He calibrated her pumping heart on his handsome Swiss watch, wanting to hurl the gleaming watchface through the spying mirror, wanting to pull Jane into his arms and sob into her shoulder—My God, Jane, you’re back where you began! What happened to you, what have they done to you? How could they hurt you so much so fast?
Instead he gently laid her arm on the sheet and pulled a chair to the bedside.
“You haven’t said how you’re feeling, Jane.”
“Slow,” she answered. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
His heart stopped as he recognized something familiar in Jane—her serene faith in him. “Were you so sure I’d come?”
“Of course.” Her eyelashes dropped as she looked away. “I didn’t like Dr. Nordstrom. He was… inconsistent.”
Kevin ached to blurt out what Nordstrom really was. Maybe if he named a villain he wouldn’t have to confront the victim. He forced his voice to remain bland. “People are sometimes like that. But I’m here now. I’ll be working with you.”
“Oh.” She met his eyes with the first strong emotion she had shown—dismay. “Do we have to work? I remember everything we did in session before, and… I’m sleepy.”
“Don’t think of it as work. Think of it as us talking. You do still want to talk to me, don’t you, Jane?”
A smile played tag with the taut corners of her mouth. “Oh, yes, Kevin. I’ve had… trouble… remembering recent things. I think it’s because I used my… mind, because I had to use it. But I remember how we talked.” Her hand finger-walked across the sheet to grasp his. “I’m glad you’re back. I’ve missed you.”
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