the Miracle Strain (aka The Messiah Code) (1997)

by Cordy, Michael

  Helix shrugged. "So we can forget about Maria? And concentrate on Dr. Carter?"

  Ezekiel didn't like the way the two imperatives had now clashed. He felt personal regret about Maria, but more important the Brotherhood had lost their most effective operative. At least Carter hadn't been killed, because then both imperatives would have been compromised. He nodded at Helix. "Yes, we shall have to leave Maria to the U. S. justice system, and concentrate on Carter. But if he doesn't deliver us a match, then I will personally see to it that Gomorrah finishes him. And everyone else involved in this Project Cana."

  GENIUS Hospital Suite, Four days later

  Four days later Tom was in a good mood as he stood in the GENIUS Hospital Suite with the patient's file notes open in front of him. Even the pain in his bandaged hand seemed bearable. According to what Karen Tanner had told him yesterday, with the evidence the FBI had on the Preacher she would be making her last sermon in a matter of months--to the state executioner.

  Events finally seemed to be going his way. His wife's killer brought to justice. A match on the database. Just reading the file on Al Puyiana, the Indian who shared Christ's genes, had given him a boost. The dead man's DNA might be no more use than the original Nazareth genes, but at least the evidence suggested he could heal. All this added weight and reason to his wild goose chase. And on top of everything, Hank Polanski looked as if he was getting better.

  "Well, Doc?" asked the young man, sitting upright in his bed. "How am I doing?"

  Hank was a completely different person from the pallid, sunken-eyed patient who had started his gene therapy treatment only a few months ago. Nurse Lawrence stood beside him checking the intravenous drip going into his arm. The drip was coming from a bag of red liquid suspended from a stand next to the bed.

  "Looking good, Hank," said Tom eventually.

  "Yeah, I feel a heap better."

  Tom smiled as he read the file. Things were going well. He pulled out an X ray and showed it to Hank. "The primary tumors in your lungs have stopped growing and are even beginning to reduce. Your three secondaries have all died."

  "So the fifteen percent long shot paid off?"

  "So far, Hank. But we've still got to monitor you closely. You won't get the all-clear for years. But things are definitely improving."

  Hank laughed. "No kidding. I'm still alive, aren't I? I'd call that a definite improvement."

  Tom smiled, but said no more. Hank was no longer at death's door, but he wasn't out of the waiting room yet. Even though the odds had shifted significantly in favor of the young man's survival. Tom said good-bye to Hank and walked back down the ward. As he checked on the other patients he thought of Project Cana and allowed himself a rare, giddying fantasy. If they could get the genes to work, then perhaps they could save every Hank Polanski and Holly in the world. He turned to the other beds and imag ined all their occupants well again. He pictured this ward closing down, simply because there were no more patients.

  If only Jasmine could identify the name behind the match she had found in the Black Hole. He wished that the match from the Paris database carried an identifying name or title, not just the coded index number: #6699784. He also wished Jasmine had been able to copy the whole genome, and not just the sequence matching the Nazareth genes. They could then have used the Gene Genie to establish the individual's appearance.

  Still, at least he knew a living match existed, and on what database. It should now only be a matter of time before Jasmine wheedled her way back into the Black Hole, and found the name behind the coded number. The name of the Brotherhood's and Holly's savior.

  "Tom?"

  He turned to see Alex walking toward him. Suddenly he wasn't in such a good mood anymore. Before his father said another word Tom knew his news. Alex had taken Holly for her brain scans at Massachusetts General today. And it was plain from his drawn look that the scans had been positive. Even though Tom had known DAN's prophecy would come true, its accuracy still shocked him now that it had become a physical reality.

  That night Holly read the newspaper reports of the Preacher's capture, telling Tom how awesome it was that her dad and godmother were heroes. It was then, almost in passing, that she mentioned her headaches and dizziness for the first time. She told him how although she'd stopped playing with her computer, they still wouldn't go away. He listened to her, saying nothing, then gave her two painkillers.

  Earlier, Tom had examined the shadow on his daughter's brain scans. The scans had told him that Holly's cancer had not only started but was accelerating at an alarming rate. It had become even more imperative that Jasmine identify the match she'd found. But whatever happened on Cana, and whenever it happened, Holly couldn't wait for it. It was important now that she be told what was wrong with her, and what was required to help her. He'd informed patients of serious illness countless times before--he hoped with compassion and humanity. But telling his own precious child was different and once again he wished that Olivia were here to guide him.

  After breakfast the next day he walked with his daughter in the garden. It was a clear spring morning in mid-April, with dew still on the lawn. The bulbs Olivia had planted last autumn were in full flower--a riot of reds and yellows. There was a freshness to the air that spoke of life and rejuvenation.

  The gardener was tending the rosebushes at the far end of the lawn. He looked up from his work and smiled from under his faded Boston Red Sox baseball cap.

  "Morning."

  "Morning, Ted," said Holly and Tom in unison.

  Long since retired, Ted had helped Olivia out in the garden once a week for almost seven years. But after Olivia's death he had come around most days to carry out the seeding plans they had discussed together. Tom often tried to pay him for his time but Ted always refused. Taking off his cap and scratching his short grizzled hair, he'd give a sad smile and say: "Thanks all the same, Dr. Carter, but I ain't got much else to do at my age. And anyway, this is my way of keeping close to Olivia. You understand?"

  Tom did understand. But he also knew that the widower was not averse to Marcy Kelley's company either.

  Tom held Holly's hand as she walked with him to the other end of the garden, the bottoms of her over-baggy jeans damp from the dew-laden grass.

  "Do you know why you get your headaches, Hol?" Tom asked.

  She kicked the wet lawn with her Day-Glo trainers. "Isn't it the computer?"

  "No, Holly, it's not."

  She looked up at him, her forehead creased in thought. It was an expression he'd seen before. "What is it, then?"

  Tom stopped walking and crouched down beside her on the grass. Holly's hazel eyes were watching him very closely now.

  He smiled at her. "First of all, Holly, don't be frightened. We are going to stop the headaches, and you're going to be okay. Do you understand that?"

  "Yes, Dad," she replied in a quiet voice. Her wide eyes looked at him with such complete trust that it squeezed his heart.

  "Do you remember the checkup you had with Grampa yesterday?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "You know that it's a scan that checks if everything's okay in our heads. Well, on the last scan you were fine as usual. Except for a tiny bump."

  Holly's forehead creased in incomprehension. "Bump?"

  "Yeah. Do you remember that time when I knocked my head on the larder door at Grampa's and I got that big lump on my head."

  Small smile. "And Mom called you cone-head?"

  Tom gave a mock frown. "You all called me cone-head."

  The smile broadened. "No, Grampa called you rhino skull."

  "Anyway, your bump's special because it's on the inside. My bump hurt because it was like a big bruise. But yours hurts because it puts pressure on your brain. This gives you headaches at times, and makes you feel sick and dizzy."

  Holly frowned, but nodded slowly. "How did I get it?"

  "Well, with my bump it was my fault, because I banged my head into the top of the doorway. But your bump isn't your fault at all
. You've been very unlucky. Something has gone wrong with some of the cells inside your head that makes them form a bump."

  "Why?"

  "Imagine all the cells in your body are like school kids that have to behave in order to keep the body healthy. Occasionally, for no real reason, some of these kids disobey their teacher or parent. When this happens they disrupt all the other kids and cause a disturbance in our body..."

  "And we get sick?"

  "Right."

  "When will the bump go away?"

  "Well, Holly, it won't go away by itself. And because it's inside it's difficult to get rid of. But don't worry, we will get rid of it. First of all, we're going to give you medicines to reduce the swelling and limit the effect these bad kids are having. And then we might have to take the bump out."

  "Like sending the bad kids out of school?"

  "Exactly. But you're going to have to be brave. The treatment isn't easy. And you'll have to stay in the hospital for a while."

  Holly cocked her head to one side. It was exactly the same mannerism Olivia used to adopt whenever she was thinking hard about something. "Are you going to give me all the treatment?" she asked.

  "If you like. Others will help, but I'll be your doctor."

  "And I can stay in the special hospital at your work?"

  "Of course."

  She seemed to weigh up this information before giving a satisfied nod. Not only did she seem unafraid, she was even a little excited. She'd always visited him at work. And had often gone into the ward to meet the patients. Now in a perverse way she seemed to look forward to being one of those special patients she'd seen him devote so much time to. This absolute trust made telling her easier, but at the same time the very real possibility of betraying that trust terrified him.

  "It's not going to be easy," he said again. Usually he had to urge patients to be positive after giving them the bad news, but in Holly's case he felt the need to temper her optimism.

  She asked, "Can Jennifer and Megan visit?"

  "Sure."

  "And I can still use the computer?"

  "Of course you can. As long as you feel up to it. We'll make sure you're fully connected with the best computer stuff Jazz can get hold of."

  Again she thought about this and nodded. "And I'll see more of you?"

  "Sure you will," he said. "Whenever you want me. Night or day. I'll be there."

  A week later, Boston Detention Center

  April 24. Maria had been in custody at the Boston detention center for less than two weeks, but already she hated it. It wasn't so much the trial and probable death sentence--she even found the interrogations by Karen Tanner a welcome diversion. What she hated was the loss of control. In her cell she couldn't keep the light on, exercise properly, or shave her head. And because she wasn't allowed access to sharp edges of any kind she couldn't even relieve her stress with her customary bloodletting. So she kept herself together by focusing on her one imperative: getting out and stopping Dr. Carter.

  Her ankle manacles chafed as she shuffled into the interview room to speak with her expensive lawyer. She took her seat opposite Hugo Myers and stared at his styled silver-gray hair and matching silver-gray suit. The man was in his forties and looked like an extra from some TV show, but the attorney was supposed to be good at what he did. Even if all he'd done so far was explain how little he could do without her cooperation. He had approached her only hours after her arrest, offering his services in exchange for nothing more than the attendant publicity. She hadn't even needed to dip into her Chase Manhattan account, set up for just such emergencies.

  The guards manacled her hands to the ring on the table in front of her. She smiled at that. She may have lost control, but they, at least, still showed her respect.

  After greeting her, Hugo Myers hammered away with the same question he'd been asking all week--the same question Special Agent Karen Tanner had been asking her.

  "So," he said, leveling his muddy eyes at her with the best sincerity money could buy, "have you considered whether you're going to make the deal?"

  "How can I? Like I told the FBI. I don't know what they're talking about."

  Hugo Myers raised an immaculate eyebrow, then made a steeple with his hands. "Look, Maria, in case the Federal Bureau of Investigation wasn't explicit enough at the last meeting, let me clarify a few things. Scotland Yard has taken the Bureau to visit your London apartment. They've seen your unusual collection of weaponry, and the wigs and the makeup. But most important, they've read your neatly stacked pile of manila folders, containing detailed files on homicide victims over the last thirteen or so years.

  "They've also got your custom-made pen nib and testimony from the only guy in your files who's still alive. This Dr. Carter is a respected scientist who has given a statement outlining how you tried to kill him on two occasions, and how you killed his wife during the first attempt. This statement is corroborated by another eminent scientist, his colleague, Dr. Washington. Okay, so you weren't actually seen killing the four guards at GENIUS, but the bullets match your gun.

  "Tomorrow you're going to have your DNA read at the FBI scanning facility. And if your genetic profile matches the DNA found at the Fontana murder scene, then the feds can tie you to the Preacher's kills. Are you getting the picture here? I'm your lawyer, and even I think things look pretty bad. Basically, unless we do a deal, you're gonna fry. From the detailed files the FBI found at your apartment they think you must have had some help. In fact they're convinced you were working for someone. And if you tell them who gave you the files, the D. A. has said he'll cut a deal."

  "But I wasn't working for anybody. Only God."

  Hugo Myers clenched his jaw and nodded slowly, plainly trying to maintain his composure. "Maria, have you heard the sound bite: 'Make the criminal pay, not the taxpayer'? It's the President's tag line for his Crime 2000 initiative. His war on crime was a big vote winner and most state governors have embraced it. Do you realize that ninety-eight percent of all murder trials since March 2000 have been completed on fasttrack? That means they've taken less than two weeks. Your trial starts the day after tomorrow, and will be over in ten days or less.

  "But what should most concern you is the innovation over death row. The liberals have always branded waiting ten years or more to be killed as inhumane, and the far right has long squealed about the costs of keeping these 'dead' people alive. So now everyone's happy. The longest stay on the row since the new law was passed two years ago is thirty-seven days. This is justice McDonald's-style. It's fast, satisfying, the same everywhere, and people love it." Myers paused and leveled his muddy eyes at her again.

  "Unless you cooperate, you could be dead within two months. Just tell them who you were working for, and I can probably do a deal to get you life."

  Maria frowned. She wouldn't betray the Brotherhood to these unbelievers. However weak Ezekiel had been, the Brotherhood was the only family she had known, and it still represented the only hope for protecting the righteous and finding the New Messiah. Betraying them wouldn't help her finish Dr. Carter. Silently she called to her God for guidance.

  "What if I plead not guilty?" she asked, enjoying the effect her question had on the frustrated counselor.

  The lawyer's eyes rolled and a sigh issued from his thin lips. "Are you innocent? Despite all the evidence?"

  "Innocent? In the eyes of God. Completely."

  "If your DNA scan tomorrow proves positive, then that is not how you'll be seen in the eyes of the state of Massachusetts."

  "I thought you were meant to defend me. Not just explain what might happen. Of course, if you don't want this high-profile case I can always find another lawyer."

  A resigned shrug from the silver padded shoulders. "Not guilty, huh?"

  "I was never the guilty one. Certainly never as guilty as those I'm charged with killing. Anyway, I don't really care what the jury decides."

  "That's all right, then," said Hugo Myers, his voice as dry as tinder. "Because i
f you plead not guilty, there's about as much chance of your getting off as there is of your being elected President."

  IT Section. GENIUS Headquarters. Boston. A week later.

  Why the hell was nothing ever simple? thought Jasmine a week later, as she reached across her desk for the Diet Coke. She put the ice-cold can to her forehead. She had run out of ideas. Whatever she tried she couldn't get any more data out of the Black Hole in the minute allowed, other than the coded number and a small stretch of genome.

  In the three weeks since Maria's arrest she had been busy giving evidence and avoiding TV cameras. Larry had been great. When it came to handling fame and media interest, his film producer contacts came to the fore. He had brought in one of his Hollywood press specialists to be Tom's and her spokesman, fielding all the press interest over her "saving Dr. Tom Carter's life," and the "heroic capture of the Preacher by Nobel scientists." Having the media channeled away from her had given her room to breathe, allowing her time to think through what had happened.

  The Preacher aside, Jasmine still hadn't come to terms with the fact that she had now scanned every DNA database in existence and found two matches, including the recently deceased Al Puyiana. That was two out of five hundred million people. Given that the world population was about four and a half billion, did that mean proportionately there were some nineteen people walking the earth carrying Christ's genes? The chosen few were rare in the extreme, a minuscule percentage, but hardly unique. Which one was the real Messiah, if any of them was?