He hesitated.
"Don't be afraid."
Tentatively, he did as she asked. He felt her fingers close around his, gripping him tightly. He watched as she closed her eyes and appeared to go pale, as if in pain. Then a strange warmth suffused his hand before traveling up the arm to his torso. It was as if his skin had been rubbed with liniment. Suddenly she released her hold, and a thin smile curled her lips.
"I don't understand," he said, reaching for the box of pills he'd left on the table near her manacled hands.
"Leave them," she said quietly.
"What?"
"The tablets. You no longer need them."
He froze and just looked at her. It wasn't possible. And yet the pain in his stomach had gone--not just lessened as it did normally--it was gone
completely.
She smiled at his shock, but beneath her smile he could see she was almost as stunned as he was.
She asked, "Now do you believe my plan can work?"
He managed a mute nod. He could give the doubting Brother Bernard his proof.
"Good--then go," she said. "You have much to arrange."
T
om watched Karl Lambert's hands direct the laser scalpel, trying to remove the black diseased tissue without damaging the rest of the brain--his daughter's brain.
Half of him desperately wanted to be holding the laser, rather than just assisting with the operation. But the more rational half of him knew he would be a liability--even without an injured left hand. He'd always believed that he should be able to perform any surgical procedure with clinical detachment, but he now knew this wasn't true. However much he tried to see Holly as the patient, and nothing else, he couldn't. She was his precious, vulnerable daughter and just the thought of operating on her made his hands shake.
Around the table were four monitors. Three tracked Holly's life signs, the middle one with the insistent, reassuringly regular
Beep--Beep--Beep
was an ECG tracking her heartbeat. The fourth screen showed a close-up of Holly's brain with Karl Lambert's micro-laser cutting away the dark tumor cells. These screens were monitored by Staff Nurse Lawrence and the younger nurse Fran Huckleberry. Tim Fuller, the anesthetist, stood at the head of the table about four feet away from Karl Lambert and Tom.
Although Tom was technically assisting Karl, there wasn't much he could do except watch. The surgery was so delicate that even one pair of hands seemed too many. He tried to console himself with the knowledge that Karl Lambert was an excellent surgeon, one of the best. Still, he was only too aware that even if Holly did survive the op
eration, it would buy her only a few more months at most. Once again he wondered whether it was really worth it, just to extend the suffering and sadness?
He still found it hard to accept that Maria Benariac would rather die than save Holly. It was so vindictive, so pointless. What did she hope her execution in four days' time would achieve? He remembered all the stories Mother Clemenza had told him about the young Maria. He also recalled Maria's confident acknowledgment that she could help Holly--if she wanted to. What a terrible waste.
Beep, Beeeep, Beee...eep, Bee...eeee...eeee...eep.
He turned to the ECG and felt his heart stop beating. The line was flat. Holly's heart
had
stopped beating.
Suddenly time seemed to pause. He saw Karl Lambert look up from his hands, his normally calm eyes worried. Lambert must have cut into healthy tissue--vital brain tissue--which had thrown Holly's system into shock. As Tom charged up the paddles to jumpstart Holly's heart, Nurse Lawrence applied the conducting gel. Holly's left leg began to twitch violently and soon her whole left side was in spasm. It took all Tom's strength to press the paddles to her chest and administer the necessary shock to her heart. He tried to forget that this was his daughter beneath him, tried not to think of the trauma going through her small body. He concentrated only on what needed to be done to keep her alive.
The first shock had no effect; the line on her ECG stayed flat.
Tom waited while the paddles were recharged, then again applied them to Holly's chest. Her whole body convulsed and for a second he imagined he saw the line spike, but he was mistaken. It remained flat.
The third shock. Nothing.
Then the fourth.
To Tom, the battle to bring her back seemed to last an epic amount of time, but in reality it was over in ninety-two seconds. At exactly 11:09 A.M. it became to clear to everyone around the operating table, that nothing more could be done.
Holly Carter was dead.
Two things happened to Tom then. The first was that he heard an awful wailing cry like that of a wounded animal, and for many seconds didn't realize that the cry was his own. The second was a revelation, so sudden and so obvious that it made him cry out again.
Before anyone could console him, he shouted, "Don't touch anything!" and ran from the operating room. Ignoring Jasmine, Alex, and Jack waiting outside, he sprinted as fast as he could in the direction of the Crick Laboratory.
W
hen a body dies it does so in stages. Naturally, when the heart
stops pumping blood or the lungs stop taking in oxygen or the
brain ceases to function, then to all intents and purposes the body
is clinically dead. But a body is a collection of cells, and not all
cells die at once...
T
om Carter ignored the busy elevators and rushed to the stairs. Running up them as fast as his injured leg allowed, he jerked open the door to the second floor, pushed past one of his virologists entering the Mendel Laboratory Suite, and ran across the expanse of the main lab. Oblivious to the looks from some of the scientists bent over their work, he pushed his palm into the scanner of the secure door leading to the Crick Laboratory, willing it to open.
As soon as it hissed and slid to one side, he raced across the empty lab to the refrigerated cabinet, which contained the thirteen vials of Trinity serum. Clawing open the cabinet, he reached in and pulled out one of the glass vials. He opened the drawer below the adjacent workbench, and scrambled around for a syringe. Ripping off the sterile wrapper he thrust the needle into the vial and filled the hypodermic with virtually all the contents. Tapping the syringe, he pushed the plunger to release any air bubbles. He pulled up his left sleeve, twisted it like a tourniquet to raise one of the veins in his forearm, then thrust the needle into his arm and depressed the plunger.
W
hen Jasmine led Jack and Alex into the operating room she had no more idea than the rest of them where Tom had gone. She had considered going after him until Alex had held her back, telling her that Tom would want to be alone.
Karl Lambert looked pale, as did the rest of the operating team. He made a halfhearted gesture to keep them out of the operating room, but didn't press it. He tidied up Holly's keyhole incision and covered the top of her head with a green surgical cloth.
When Jasmine looked down at her goddaughter, Holly's eyes were closed as if in sleep and she looked strangely peaceful. Jasmine had a strong urge to touch her and prod her into life.
Jasmine didn't touch her, though. She didn't cry either, although she felt the same cold sadness in her heart that visited her when both her brother and Olivia had died. She didn't even cry when she saw the grief in Alex's face. Only when she saw the single tear leak from Jack Nichols's left eye and follow the arc of his scar down to his mouth, did she weep. Seeing the tough ex-FBI man shed that one tear brought home to her the whole tragedy of what had happened.
The sudden noise startled them all. Tom didn't so much push open the swinging doors as slam them open: a gale blowing in from a hurricane. The left sleeve of his green gown was rolled up and his eyes were fever bright. Oblivious to them all he strode to the table and stared down at his daughter. For a moment Jasmine saw the fever leave his eyes and a look of infinite tenderness soften his gaze; then he leaned down and put his arms around Holly as if to lift her from her bed. But he didn't lift her; he crouched over the table and hugged his dead daughter close to him.
Jasmine couldn't see Tom's face because he was looking down, but Holly's pale visage was clearly visible over his shoulder. The same shoulder that now began to shake as he clutched his daughter still tighter to him.
Alex Carter placed a consoling hand on his son's back, but as soon as his fingers touched Tom he jerked his hand away, as if he had touched a hot stove. However, as he turned, his face showed no pain, only puzzled shock.
Then Jasmine saw something that would stay with her for the rest of her life. It happened so fast that at first she wasn't sure she'd really seen it, or if she had, whether it even meant anything.
Holly blinked.
Jasmine looked around at the others, checking to see if they'd witnessed it too. But Jack and the doctors had turned away, leaving Tom to his grief. Even Alex was looking down, wrapped up in his own thoughts. No one could see Holly's face except her.
Then Holly's eyes opened.
Jasmine was either going mad or something very weird was going on. She looked around her again, trying to control her breathing and get her disobedient mouth to speak. Still the others stood in silent grief, paying no attention.
Then Holly smiled sleepily at her and said, "Can I have a glass of water please, Jazz?"
And Jasmine did what she had never done before in her entire life.
She fainted.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Four days later, Massachusetts State Penitentiary
M
aria ate her last breakfast in good spirits. Despite the fact that her execution was scheduled for midnight, she couldn't remember feeling more exhilarated or alive. The eggs tasted as if they had been prepared by the finest French chef, and the milk was fresher and colder than any she'd drunk. Her every sense was so heightened that even the most mundane experience gave her the childish joy of fresh discovery. The blue of her prison fatigues suddenly had a cornflower purity to it that made her wish she had worn clothing of this color before. And the new holding cell she had been put in prior to the execution was a wondrous distraction. She had amused herself most of yesterday afternoon just itemizing every subtle but discernible difference between this cell and her previous one. Still, what brought her the most joy and comfort was the simple but awesome power she knew resided in every cell of her body.
She was the chosen one. She knew that now and accepted it. She had been bathed in the gene pool of God, and had mastery over life and death. No longer was there anything to fear from anybody or anything. She could still give herself an electric thrill just remembering her meeting with Father Ezekiel. When she'd touched his hand and cured his ulcer she had felt the energy--
the
power
--flow from her
body into his. The exhaustion that followed was nothing compared to the exhilaration of knowing that her power remained undimmed from those half-remembered childhood days.
She had found her meeting with Dr. Carter equally satisfying. She had always gained a righteous thrill from performing the kills. There was something primal and pure about
taking
a life, but none of her executions, not even the most exhilarating faceto-face encounters, had come close to the rush she'd experienced turning down Dr. Carter's request. She had discovered that to kill is one thing but to deny life is something else entirely. It was a virtual kill. To have the power to
give
life, and then to choose not to use it was like nothing she had experienced before. It felt like...like...like she was a god.
She heard the now familiar click-clack of the guards' heels coming down the corridor. Her spiritual adviser had arrived for his final visit.
N
ine minutes later in the interview room she was looking at Father Ezekiel's tired, but excited face. "Is everything arranged?" she asked. He nodded. "As your spiritual adviser I will attend your execution along with the witnesses and the warden. Our contacts in the Brotherhood have ensured that the relevant personnel will be on duty to do what is necessary." A pause. "Are you still sure it will work?"
Maria found Ezekiel's concern touching. "Have faith, my Father."
"I do have faith in you, my child, but I'm scared that after waiting this long..." His voice trailed off. "It's just that I would have preferred a more...
conventional
rescue."
"But can you think of a better way to ensure no one doubts who I am? This way I will be able to prove I am truly the chosen one."
Ezekiel gave a reluctant shrug and played with his ruby ring. "I suppose you are right."
"I know I am. Will Dr. Carter be at the execution?" The less Dr. Carter could connect her to the Father the better.
"I don't think so," said Ezekiel De La Croix. "Only two relatives of the unrighteous slain have asked to attend, and the scientist is not among them. He is too busy attending to his dying daughter. But if he does come it need not jeopardize the plan. He probably knows that I am your spiritual adviser, but assumes I only met you after discovering you possessed the genes. After all, it is only right that after a wait of two thousand years I should be with the New Messiah during her final days."
She nodded at this. He was probably right.
The Father rose from his chair. "I should go now and check that all the preparations are in place...." He hesitated for a moment, playing nervously with the ring on his finger, suddenly reluctant to leave. "And I may be too busy speak to you again before the execution..." His usually impassive face was suddenly an open canvas of intense emotions. She saw sorrow, regret, hope, fear, and love--yes,
love for her
--color the contours of that ancient face like cloud shadows rolling across a landscape. He walked around the table and stood over her. This time he didn't kneel in front of her, but bent and embraced her. Then he did something which so surprised and touched her that it brought tears to her eyes--he kissed her left cheek.