Frameshift

The next day, as Pierre was coming down the corridor to his lab, he heard his phone ringing. He hurried along (at least it was hurrying for him; anybody else could have outpaced him by walking briskly), opened his lab, and scooped up the phone. “Hello?”

“Hey, Pierre. It’s Helen Kawabata.”

“Hi, Helen.”

“You’re in luck. There was actually a fair bit of DNA on Bryan Proctor’s razor. The blade was getting dull; he’d obviously been using it for a long time. Anyway, I’m going to be in court this morning, but you can come pick up the samples this afternoon if you like.”

“Thanks very much, Helen. I really appreciate it.”

“It’s the least a peach could do. Bye.”

Pierre turned to the work of PCR typing Amanda’s and Hannah’s DNA — not as complete as full genetic-profile DNA fingerprinting, but it would give results in two days instead of two weeks. When he had the process set up, he got in his car and drove over the Bay Bridge to San Francisco, went to police headquarters, picked up the refrigerated samples of Bryan Proctor’s DNA, and drove straight back to LBNL. Shari Cohen happened to be coming down the corridor.

“Shari,” said Pierre, “would you have a chance to run that same battery of tests on one more sample for me, please?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks. Here it is. Oh, and can you also check to make sure there’s a Y chromosome present?” There was always a small chance that Mrs. Proctor used a man’s razor on her legs or armpits.

“Will do.”

“Thanks. Let me know as soon as you’ve got the results.”

That night, Pierre came home, kissed Molly and Amanda, and sat down on the couch to look at his mail. He was trying to keep his mind off Amanda’s DNA; he wouldn’t have results until the day after tomorrow.

Pierre’s copy of Maclean’s had shown up, with news that was now two weeks out of date from Canada; his Solaris had arrived, as well. He made a point of reading French magazines to keep himself still primarily thinking in that language. There was also his Visa bill, and—$

Hey, something from Condor Health Insurance. A big manila envelope.

He opened it up. It was the company’s annual report, and a note announcing their next annual general meeting.

Molly sat down on the couch next to him. While Pierre read over the annual-meeting notice, she started flipping through the annual report. It was a thin perfect-bound book with a textured yellow-and-black cover, measuring the same size as a standard piece of typing paper. ‘“Condor is the Pacific Northwest’s leader in progressive health coverage,’” she said, reading from the first interior page. ‘“With foresight and a commitment to excellence, we provide peace of mind for one-point-seven million policy holders in Northern California, Oregon, and Washington State.’”

“Peace of mind my ass,” said Pierre. “There’s no peace of mind in telling a pregnant mother that she has to either abort her baby or lose her insurance, nor in telling a Huntington’s at-risk that he has to take a genetic test.” He held up the meeting notice. “Do you think I should go?”

“When is it?”

He peered at it. “Friday, October eighteenth. That’s — what? — three months from now.”

“Sure. Give them a piece of your mind.”

It was the first day of August. Pierre got into his lab early, ready to check over the DNA fingerprints for Hapless Hannah and Amanda Tardivel-Bond.

All he had to do was glance at the autorads, and—$

Goddamn it. God fucking damn it.

Every marker was the same.

He found a chair and sat down in it before he fell down.

His daughter, his baby daughter, was a clone of a Neanderthal woman who had lived and died in the Middle East sixty-two thousand years ago.

It was all—$

“Dr. Tardivel?”

Pierre looked up. It took a moment for his eyes to focus. He covered the autorads he’d been looking at with his hands. “Oh, hi, Shari.”

“I’ve finished testing that last DNA sample.”

Pierre’s head was still swimming. He almost said, “What DNA sample?”

Of course: the Bryan Proctor specimen, the one Helen Kawabata had recovered from his razor. “And?”

Shari Cohen shrugged. “Nothing. He — and it was a he — tested negative for every genetic disorder I tried.”

“Diabetes? Heart disease? Alzheimer’s? Huntington’s?”

“Clean as a whistle.”

Pierre sighed. “Thanks, Shari. I appreciate your help.”

“Is everything all right, Pierre?”

Pierre couldn’t meet her eyes. “Fine. Just fine.”

Shari looked at him for a moment more, then, with a little lifting of her shoulders, went over to one of the lab counters and began to work. Pierre leaned back in his chair. He was so sure that he was onto something — some vast conspiracy involving mercy killing of those who faced dark genetic futures. But Chuck Hanratty had killed Bryan Proctor, a man without any major genetic disorder. It made no sense.

Pierre glanced again at the autorads of Hannah’s and Amanda’s DNA, then got to his feet.

“I’m going home,” he said to Shari as he passed her.

“Are you sure everything’s okay?” asked Shari.

Pierre heard her, but didn’t trust himself to respond. He made his way out to the parking lot and found his car.