The God Gene

by F. Paul Wilson

  If it worked.

  4

  She found Rick dozing behind the wheel when she returned. She watched him a moment. He seemed able to sleep anywhere. His face had lost all its tension. He looked almost … innocent. He didn’t jump when she rapped on the driver’s window, simply opened his eyes and gave her a little wave.

  “Napping?” she said as the glass rolled down.

  “Never pass up a chance to grab forty. Everything good in there?”

  Tell him or not? She felt guilty for holding back. But they’d be returning to the city tomorrow to visit NYU. She could tell him then.

  “As good as can be expected in a VA hospital.”

  “I hear you. Where to next? We were heading for a drink, as I recall.”

  She felt the need for a drink—a stiff one—but she wanted to make one more stop before that.

  Keeping her tone as offhanded and casual as she could, she said, “I was thinking of retracing our steps a ways.”

  He frowned. “Toward the city?”

  “Only about twenty miles or so back along Northern Boulevard.”

  “But that would put us—” His eyes widened. “Ohhhh, no. Don’t even consider it.”

  “Why not? If I’m going to be any help in finding your brother, I need to know where he came from, I need some insight on his decision making. And for that I need to meet your mother.”

  Probably true, but Laura was really looking for insight on Rick. And she was pretty sure his mother wasn’t anywhere near as bad as he made her out to be. A man’s relationship with his mother can reveal a lot about him, and Laura wanted a firsthand look.

  “First off,” Rick said, “as I told you, he’s not my true brother and not her true son—no shared blood between the three of us. So, on the nature-versus-nurture front, there’s no nature and minimal nurture.”

  “Didn’t you tell me he was her favorite?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Then I need to meet her. She must have had some influence on him. I’m serious, Rick.” She sensed him wavering so she moved in for the kill. “Marissa’s going over to a friend’s house after softball, so we have time for a visit before I have to be back. A quick fly-by. What can it hurt?”

  He stared skyward. “If you only knew.”

  “Rick…”

  “Okay, okay. But promise me one thing.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll still be talking to me afterward.”

  He had to be overstating this. Didn’t he?

  5

  THE VILLAGE OF MONROE, NEW YORK

  “So,” Laura said, staring at the house as they pulled up before it, “you never told me you grew up in Tara.”

  The front of Rick’s family home had a high, rounded portico supported by cylindrical columns. He remembered Tara as being far more angular, but he guessed every big house with tall white columns was a Tara of sorts.

  “Yep. Butterfly McQueen will be opening that front door any second now.”

  Instead, Lena let them in. He’d phoned ahead so Paulette knew they were coming. She appeared from the left as they stepped into the foyer. She was dressed in royal blue silk lounging pajamas—the things Laura had told him no one wore anymore. Add opera gloves, a long cigarette holder, and she could be a gray-haired Auntie Mame.

  Immediately upon her entrance—before she could speak—he jumped into an introduction.

  “Paulette, this is Doctor Laura Fanning.”

  Her eyebrows rose as she extended her hand. “How do you do, dear?”

  Laura gave her hand a single shake. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Somers.”

  “‘Doctor,’ is it? MD?”

  “Yes.”

  “What would you be doing with my—?”

  “We work together,” Rick blurted. “On occasion, that is.” Why am I sweating? “She’s going to help us find Keith.”

  “Really.” She elongated the word. “And just what kind of doctor are you?”

  “I’m with the county medical examiner’s office.”

  Paulette gasped and her hand flew to her chest. “You don’t mean—?”

  “Oh, no-no-no!” Laura said.

  Rick wondered how to salvage this …

  “No, it’s oaky,” he said. “We haven’t heard anything about Keith. It’s just that Laura is very good with forensics—a different kind of forensics than Hari. You know, evidence and such.”

  “Oh, dear. You gave me such a fright.”

  “Sorry,” Laura said. “I realize how that must have sounded.”

  She gave Laura a thorough up and down. “You’re quite striking. How did you become paired with Garrick?”

  Rick said, “We’re not ‘paired.’ We—”

  Paulette shot him a look. “Your friend appears capable of coherent speech. Why don’t we let her answer?” To Laura: “Is he always like this with you?”

  She smiled. “Not at all. We were hired separately and sent out as a team by a man who wanted us to track down a medication.”

  Paulette frowned. “Why would someone send a coroner in search of a medication?”

  “It’s complicated,” Laura said.

  “As are most things. Were you successful?”

  “Yes.”

  “And so now, because of that, you two are going to play detective?”

  Laura didn’t miss a beat. “I prefer ‘sleuth.’”

  Rick resisted a fist pump. Yes! Right back in her face.

  A smile twisted Paulette’s lips. “Sleuths … hmmm.”

  “What?” Rick said.

  “It just occurred to me that ‘Rick and Laura’ rhymes with ‘Nick and Nora.’”

  Fearing Laura would miss the reference, Rick said, “The Thin Man couple?”

  “Yes. That means you must have become adept at making martinis.”

  “Never had one,” he said. “Don’t think I’d like them.”

  “They’re an acquired taste … for the more sophisticated palate. Lena makes a good one. I’ll have her make us some. You really should try them if you’re going to be a detective couple.”

  “We’re not a couple,” Laura said, looking Paulette in the eye and not backing down an inch. “But I’d love a martini.”

  What was she doing? Going toe-to-toe with Paulette? He’d never seen Laura drink anything stronger than wine.

  You’re gonna hate it, he thought.

  Paulette was looking at him. “And you, Garrick?”

  “Beer?” he said with faint hope.

  A bad-taste purse of the lips. “What would make you think I’d have beer?”

  What indeed?

  “Champagne then.”

  6

  Laura looked longingly at Rick’s Champagne flute. The first sip of her martini had almost gagged her. Like straight gin. Awful. She’d never had one before and never would again. How did they ever become popular?

  But she’d be damned if she’d let Paulette know.

  Sophisticated palate, my gold-plated patootie.

  She choked down another sip and said, “So tell me about Keith.”

  Paulette sighed. “My dear, beautiful, brilliant boy. A mother’s dream. Never an ounce of trouble.” She cocked her head at Rick. “Unlike this one, who was nothing but trouble.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Tell the truth: In your search for this medication, did he make any indecent proposals?”

  Was she really asking this? Right in front of Rick? She wanted to say, I wish, but she’d only just met the woman.

  “Never. He has always been a perfect gentleman.”

  Unfazed, Rick waved his empty Champagne flute. “The CIA had mandatory etiquette classes. I got all A’s.”

  Paulette kept her gaze trained on Laura as Lena appeared and refilled his glass from a bottle painted with flowers.

  “The reason I ask is because before he left to join that gang of thugs, he ran through a slew of girlfriends. Their fathers hated him. No respect for their rules. He’d keep them out till all hours and b
ring them home any damn time he pleased. The complaints I heard!”

  Laura wanted to drive her point home. “Perfect. Gentleman. At least in my experience. In fact, he even saved my life at one point.”

  Paulette straightened in her chair. “Really? How—?”

  Rick jumped in. “I believe the subject is Keith?”

  Laura knew he hated to be the topic of conversation. Not one of those people who went on about themselves. Apparently he liked it even less when someone else was talking about him.

  “Yes, yes, of course,” said Paulette. “My dear Keith. Did you discover anything at his apartment?”

  Rick pulled the folded photo from his jacket pocket. “We found this on his printer’s hard drive. That’s Mozi, I suppose?”

  Paulette took a quick glance, then handed it back. “Yes, that’s the horrid little creature.”

  Laura asked, “Did he ever say how it died?”

  She shook her head. “No. He seemed barely capable of speech when he arrived with its ashes.”

  “Laura also found some DVDs,” Rick said. “Recordings of TV shows.”

  Paulette was nodding. “His publisher arranged a lot of interviews when the book was released. I caught most of them. Did you happen to notice one from The Anthony Akins Show?”

  Laura pictured the array of disks … “I believe I did.”

  “I missed that one. Would you mind terribly if we played it?”

  “Of course not.” Laura was planning to watch them anyway. Why not start here? “They’re in Rick’s truck…”

  “I’ll get it,” he said, hopping out of his seat.

  When he was gone, Laura found herself again under the scrutiny of Paulette’s hazel gaze.

  “You appear to be an intelligent, accomplished woman. How you must have struggled to get where you are.”

  She shrugged. “I’ve always had good study habits.”

  “I meant all the gender prejudice.”

  “You mean glass ceilings and all that?”

  “Yes. No matter what they say and what laws they pass, it’s still a man’s world.”

  No argument there, but … “Well, my boss, Doctor Henniger, the chief medical examiner, is a woman.”

  And can be a real bitch at times. The sociologists didn’t realize that certain women could be worse than men in keeping their own gender down. Once someone like Susan Henniger reached the upper echelons, she didn’t want competition from anyone.

  “But you must have encountered … prejudice.”

  She means because of my Hispanic coloring and features?

  “Nothing overt. I mean, half my fellow students at Stritch were female, with a lot of minorities. But what gets to you are the unconscious attitudes—like being constantly underestimated.”

  Being underestimated … that was the most insidious. During her training she tolerated the older docs calling her “dear” and “honey,” but being underestimated was the hardest to fight.

  “Well, be that as it may, why on Earth is someone like you involved with Garrick?”

  “We’re not ‘involved.’ We’re … we’re coworkers who’ve become friends.”

  “That’s all? I sense a bond between you.”

  A bond? Laura thought. Yes, she supposed there was.

  “Well, we shared some stressful experiences.”

  “Stressful” barely touched it. They’d walked through fire together and made it to the other side. Two people couldn’t do that without forging some kind of bond.

  “You’re sure there’s nothing more?”

  Well, there was that time in the Orkney Islands when we were on the verge of tumbling into bed.

  “Absolutely.”

  Though sometimes I wish …

  “Well, there will be.”

  Laura shook her head, baffled. “Why are you so insistent—?”

  “I see the way he looks at you. I don’t recall ever seeing him look at a woman that way before.”

  Did this woman ever hold anything back?

  Rick returned then, holding up a disk. “Got it.”

  But Paulette’s words stuck with her: I don’t recall ever seeing him look at a woman that way before … Laura wasn’t sure what that meant, but she liked the sound of it.

  “Before we watch,” Paulette said, “I’ve had Lena set out a selection of cheeses along with some Château d’Yquem.”

  “Oh, you shouldn’t have,” Laura said, and meant it.

  “It’s for my benefit as well. I rarely eat full meals these days. I prefer to graze. And besides, I have a charity function I must attend later.”

  “What’s the cause?” Laura said, just to be polite.

  Paulette waved her hand. “Some -itis or dystrophy. I’ve forgotten.”

  “Probably ‘Save the Beluga Caviar Sturgeon,’” Rick muttered as he surveyed the table.

  Laura realized she was hungry and was impressed with the variety: Brie, Camembert, Gouda, Dorblu, Edam, Gruyère, Roquefort.

  But apparently Rick couldn’t resist a dig.

  “What? No pâté?”

  Paulette gave him an icy look. “You know very well the barbaric torture ducks and geese must suffer to make their livers suitable for pâté.”

  “You used to serve it all the time when we were kids. That’s how I acquired a taste for it.”

  She looked embarrassed. “I’ve evolved.”

  “Guess you have.” He made a show of inspecting the table. “So, no veal then?”

  She walked away, saying, “You are insufferable.”

  Laura gave him a reproving look. “Maybe you should lighten up. Just a little?”

  He sighed. “You’re right. It’s just that her outrage buttons are so big and fat and tempting.”

  “Which means she’s too easy. You need a worthier opponent.”

  “You’re on her side?”

  “I always tend to side with the underdog, and you definitely outgun her.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about—”

  She leaned closer. “Look, what can she say that’ll penetrate your defenses? Nothing. While she’s basically a collection of trendy outrages waiting to be triggered.”

  His expression said he knew she was right.

  She nudged him. “Let’s grab some cheese and go watch your brother.”

  7

  “Isn’t he wonderful?” Paulette said as the recording ended.

  Rick shook himself back to the here and now. He’d been only half watching, thinking about Laura’s admonition to back off. She was right of course. Back in the day, Paulette had subjected him to a relentless onslaught of criticism from the moment he announced he was joining the CIA until the day he walked out. It had mattered back then. He’d been a lot younger and she was his mother, after all. Years of complete radio silence had followed, which, though a relief at first, had hurt in its own way. He’d gotten over it. Larger traumas later on had put all that in perspective.

  “He’s such a natural for TV,” she added.

  Rick noted the use of present tense, and that was good. But her remark proved that a mother’s assessment of her child’s performance in any field should always be suspect.

  Keith gave bad interview—mumbling, rambling, looking everywhere but at the camera and the interviewer.

  That’s the Keith I know.

  Laura cleared her throat. “Did Keith have any repeat interviews?”

  Paulette frowned. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “I mean, did anyone ever ask him back?”

  Rick repressed a nod. Yep. Laura had the same opinion: a stinkaroo guest.

  “Not that I know of. The publishers arranged the original publicity, and once the book was out, that was it. Why do you ask?”

  Rick could almost see Laura’s mind racing for an inoffensive answer. “Oh, just wondering if, when the God Gene publicity hit the media, they wanted to question him about it.”

  Paulette shrugged. “If they did, he never told me.”

  Laura rose from
her seat. “Well, I have a daughter to collect. It was very nice meeting you.”

  Blah-blah-blah … The conversational trivialities of parting passed through Rick’s head like ghosts as he guided Laura through the door and out to the driveway.

  “Well,” she said as Rick started the pickup, “that was … interesting.”

  “You’re still speaking to me?”

  She smiled. “You can’t choose your parents.”

  What a relief.

  “Just keep in mind that I’m adopted,” he added.

  “Well, you do have that to thank her for.”

  “I think I have my father to thank more. I gathered growing up that he was the one who wanted kids around the house and Paulette agreed because she’d have a nice family photo for the Christmas cards—sorry, holiday cards.”

  She stared at him. “Boy, that’s toxic. She’s an absolute horror. Might be the most toxic woman I’ve ever met. I bet she’d feel right at home running a Nazi death camp. Or maybe—”

  Rick raised his hands. This wasn’t like Laura. “Hey-hey. She’s not that bad.”

  Laura smiled and laid a hand on his arm. “Just seeing if I could get you to defend her. And you did. So I guess it’s okay for you to come down on her, but let someone else try…”

  “Well, when someone rags on your mother, even if she’s not your biological mother—”

  “—you’ve got to stick up for her, right?” She laughed. “That is so you.”

  He sighed. Yeah, he guessed it was. Didn’t like being so predictable, but very much liked the feel of Laura’s hand on his arm.

  “Well, you did warn me about her,” she went on, “but you never mentioned that your brother was on the spectrum.”

  “What spectrum?”

  “The autism spectrum.”

  That shocked him. “Hey, Keith’s weird but he’s hardly autistic.”

  “Well, the spectrum contains all degrees of developmental disorders. I think he’d be considered a sort of Asperger’s if they were still using the term. I’m hardly an expert—I mean, my patients don’t exhibit any sort of behavior—but he showed a lot of the signs in that interview.”

  “You mean the lack of eye contact?”

  “That and his flat affect and atonal speech. You said he never had any friends.”