Frameshift

“We shall continue the charade that she is your child,” said Klimus, not in the least flustered. “But I shall visit her weekly and record details about her growth and intellectual abilities. When it comes time for me to publish that information, I will do so just as you would, Dr. Bond, in a psychological case study — referring to the infant specimen merely as ‘Child A.’ You will take no action against me; if you do, I will put on a custody fight that will make O. J. Simpson’s defense look like a public defender’s first case.” He swung on Pierre. “And you, Dr. Tardivel, will never speak to me in that tone of voice again. Now, do we have an understanding?”

Pierre, furious, said nothing.

Molly looked at her husband. “Don’t let him take her away from me.

When—”

She stopped short, but sometimes one could read minds without having the benefit of that special genetic quirk. When you’re gone, she’ll be all that I have left.

“All right,” said Pierre at last, through clenched teeth. “Come on, Molly.”

“But—”

“Come on.”

“I’ll be over this Saturday,” said Klimus. “Oh, and I shall bring equipment to take blood samples. You will not mind, I’m sure.”

“You fucking asshole,” said Molly.

“Sticks and stones,” said Klimus, with a shrug — “but I own Amanda’s bones.”

Molly rose. Her face was completely red.

“Come on,” said Pierre. He opened the door to Klimus’s office.

They exited the room. Pierre slammed the door behind them, took her hand, and continued down the corridor. They made it into Pierre’s lab; Shari was off somewhere else.

“Damn it,” said Molly, bursting into tears. “Damn it, damn it, damn it.”

She looked up at Pierre. “We have to find some way to get rid of him,” she said. “If there was ever a justified case of murder—”

“Don’t say that,” said Pierre.

“Why not? I know you’re thinking the same thing.”

“I wasn’t sure before,” said Pierre, “but now I am — this kind of experimentation is pure fucking Hitler. Klimus must be Marchenko.” He took his wife in his arms. “Don’t worry — he’s going to die, all right. But it won’t be us doing it. It will be the Israelis, hanging him for war crimes.”

Chapter 34

“Justice,” said the female voice at the other end of the phone.

“Avi Meyer, OSI,” said Pierre.

“I’m sorry, Agent Meyer is out of the office today. Would you—”

“His voice mail, then.”

“Transferring.”

“This is Agent Avi Meyer. I’m at a meeting in Quantico today, and won’t be back in the office until tomorrow. Please leave a message at the tone.”

Beep!

“Avi, call me as soon as you can. It’s Pierre Tardivel — the geneticist at Lawrence Berkeley. Call me right away. It’s important.” Pierre read out his number, then hung up.

“He’s out of town for the day,” said Pierre to Molly, who was sitting on a lab stool. “I’ll call him again Monday if he doesn’t call first.” He moved over to her and hugged her. “It’ll be all right,” he said. “We’ll get through this.”

Molly’s eyes were still bloodshot. “I know,” she said, nodding slightly. “I know.” She looked at her watch. “Let’s go get Amanda from Mrs. Bailey. I want to hold my daughter.”

Pierre hugged her again.

Pierre’s conscience had been bothering him for days. It wasn’t as though he’d taken anything valuable. But, still, a man’s razor was a very personal item. It might have meant a lot to Bryan Proctor’s widow — an important way of remembering him. And, well, if things did get out of hand with Klimus, and they had to flee to Canada, Pierre didn’t want this continuing to prey on his mind. He wasn’t sure what pretext he’d use to explain his visit, but if he could get back into the apartment, he could return the razor to the medicine chest, maybe hiding it behind some other items so that its reappearance wouldn’t be obvious.

He pulled up to the dilapidated apartment building in San Francisco, walked into the entryway, and pushed the intercom button labeled super.

“Yes?”

“Mrs. Proctor? It’s Pierre Tardivel.”

Silence for several seconds, then buzzing from the door. Pierre made his way slowly over to suite 101. Mrs. Proctor was waiting for him in the doorway, hands on hips. “You took my husband’s razor,” she said flatly.

Pierre felt his face grow flush. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

He pulled a small, clear plastic bag containing the razor out of his pocket.

“I’m — I’m a geneticist; I wanted a DNA sample.”

“What on earth for?”

“I thought maybe he had a genetic disorder that you didn’t know about.”

“And?”

“He didn’t. At least not a common, easily-tested-for one.”

“Which is precisely what I told you. What’s this all about, Mr. Tardivel?”

Pierre wanted to be a million kilometers away. “I’m sorry. It’s all crazy. I feel terrible.”

She kept staring at him, unblinking, golf-ball chin thrust out.

“I just had this crazy theory that maybe your husband’s death and the attempt on my life were linked. You know I’ve got a genetic disorder, and I though maybe he did, too.”

“But he didn’t.”

“No, he was in perfect health.”