Frameshift

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 longdistance 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.