In the back of the bottom drawer, he found notebooks filled with formulas and data in scientific techese. It was frustratingly
incomprehensible, but looked important. He decided to take a few of the smaller notebooks with him.
As he leafed through the papers, Kit felt a cold prickling at his back. It was too quiet in here, too quiet in general. Why
had the lab suddenly been deserted? Abandoned? Why had the bird-children been left behind?
The embryos in the bottles looked long dead. Some of the drawings were flyspecked. Each manuscript was annotated, so marked
up and crossed off, it looked as if the author had started, stopped, started again, then finally given up.
And how did all of this link up with Max and the four other children? The ones they’d found lying in their own waste, starving
in the cages down the hall? The ones who were probably being put to sleep.
Kit heard a noise behind him and turned. It was only Frannie. He wanted to tell her everything, all at once.
“Come look at this amazing stuff. Tell me what you think.”
T
HEIR ARROGANCE is absolutely astonishing. Like nothing I could begin to imagine,” I said angrily. My eyes were greedily taking
in the elaborate line drawings on the walls.
Kit was emptying out a carton of documents onto the floor. He lifted up sheaves of paper to show me what he’d found.
“This box is filled with pictures and diagrams of wings. All kinds of wings. They were designing in here. Do you believe this?”
“More like redesigning,” I said, as I leafed through a fistful of the well-wrought line drawings. “Whoever made these drawings
is definitely playing God, Kit.”
“It’s the group from Boston and Cambridge, the outlaws from MIT. They make their own rules. They always have. Anthony Peyser
believes he’s above the rest of us and above the law as well. Look at these.”
He showed Frannie a half dozen
memos to staff.
At the bottom of each page was a handwritten
A.P.
…. Anthony Peyser.
I had been racking my brain trying to think if anyone I knew in the area might be Dr. Peyser. No one came to mind, and I had
met most of the medical doctors and scientists in the area. David knew them all. Where could Peyser be hiding himself? Could
this have been his office? Was he the mystery designer?
Kit sat in a desk chair in front of a computer. He was punching letters on the keyboard and a directory of contents had scrolled
up.
“I’ve been calling up a few files at random. I haven’t been asked for a password once. The front door is wide open. Why? The
keys to the files are hanging on the bulletin board and… Why?”
“Don’t ask me. I don’t get it either. Not yet.”
My eyes fell on a pile of the notebooks he’d spilled onto the floor. Whoever had made the notes had a brilliant way with a
fine-line pen. The drawings were made with a high degree of medical accuracy, but there was art to them as well. Had Dr. Anthony
Peyser actually worked in this room? I suspected that he had. A.P. had been here.
I picked up a drawing from the pile before me. It showed a little boy, an infant, with a heart growing outside its chest cavity,
a
huge
heart. I studied it carefully. It illustrated why tissue engineering was so problematic. No one knew how to reliably stop
the cellular growth once the process had begun.
But even if that major problem had been solved, it was a hell of a leap from growing organs on lab animals to growing wings
on a human child. And with Max it wasn’t just that she had wings. Her entire cardiopulmonary system was avian, and that led
me to conclude that she’d been created out of whole cloth.
My mind was churning at about a million miles an hour. I felt I could go stark raving mad at the blink of an eye. The whole
world was being turned upside down. Someone had challenged everything we had learned to believe in and accept.
Assume nothing. Question everything. That’s what this was about, wasn’t it? To evolve life, as
man
chose to evolve it.
I was considering outrageous possibilities I hadn’t dared to imagine before. One winged child could have been a biological
accident, but now that I’d seen the other four, I had to accept that there had been a definite intent to create a new kind
of being. And, by God or despite Him, someone had actually done it. Someone had succeeded at playing God here.
What had they created?
K
IT CONTINUED TO WORK furiously at the desktop. Like many of the younger agents in the Bureau, he was good at it. He liked
computers most of the time, and was comfortable around them. He brought up Netscape, then opened it. In the location field,
he typed—
about:global.
Up came all the sites the previous user of the desktop had visited in the past few months. Kit quickly scanned the list. He’d
been doing similar detective work on the case before he left Boston.
He honed in on
www.ncbi.nbm.n.h.gov.
It was Genebank, the government-run repository for all known genetic sequences.
He looked for key words in red, indicating a previous user had clicked on them. There were several. He went to “
taxonomy.
” Under “
Taxonomy browser,
” he clicked “
tree.
” Then he typed in “
aves
” in the search field.
Apodidae (swifts), Laridae (gulls), Columbidae (doves),
and
Hirundinidae (swallows)
had all been searched.
The plot thickened.
Kit closed the site and returned to the list
about:global.
Next, he went into the Cold Spring Harbor Laboratory site. He futzed around with a few entries, then tried
DSHL publications—Genome Research.
He went into the September 1997 issue, where he became puzzled again. The previous user had called up a paper on
Double-Muscle Belgian Blue and Piedmontese Cattle.
Cattle? He stopped typing and thought about the curious entry.
“Frannie. Come here for a second,” Kit said without looking away from the screen.
He showed her what he’d been doing, then the last article he found. “What’s all this stuff about cattle somebody from here
was checking out? You understand it?”
“Some,” Frannie said. She read the rest of the article, then reread key parts of it. She thought about what she had just absorbed.
“Son of a—” she finally said. “I think I understand. I’ll give you a wild theory, anyway.”
Kit nodded and listened.
“The article is about a mutated cow gene. The study actually began twelve years ago. Somebody produced double muscling in
the chest of these cows. So here’s a theory. Kit, I think this is how they could have made Max’s chest muscles large enough
to support wings and also carry her weight. This is part of how they made her.”
W
E SEARCHED THE COMPUTER files for a few more minutes, but found nothing else of interest. So Kit and I continued our tour
of the School. The arrogance and amorality of the scientists working here affronted everything I believed in. I wanted to
find one of “them” and strangle the person with my bare hands.
I looked at the foreboding metal sign on the locked door before us: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. So of course, Kit kicked it
off its hinges. “Authorization accepted,” he said.
We were instantly bombarded with alarms blaring in the room and out in the halls. We walked inside. The rank smell of human
waste washed over us like a fetid cloud. The dark of the room was broken by neon-colored tracers flat-lining across unseen
video monitors.
I found the light switch and flicked on the overhead lights.
I have been exposed to some really bad things in my years of working with animals: abuse, neglect, occasional cruelty. But
I’d never been confronted with anything as horrifying as this. Nothing even came close.
We were inside some kind of pediatric intensive-care ward. It was filled with shiny new life-support equipment, but also a
dozen or so small cribs. All the equipment was new and expensive.
I shook my head slowly back and forth. This couldn’t be real. I held back tears, but it was hard. I looked at Kit. He had
turned pale.
Inside the cribs lay dead and dying children. Everywhere I looked, I saw failure of pulmonary, cardiac, and renal systems.
The screeching electronic noise was meant to alert medical personnel of trouble, which was pretty much total. Empty IV bags,
stalled ventilators and dialysis machines. Vomit and excrement coated the tiny patients.
I finally screamed. I couldn’t stop screaming. Kit reached out and held me. I took long, steadying breaths, until I regained
control of myself.
“We have to do something for them,” I whispered. “We can’t leave them to die like this. I can’t do that.”
“I know, I know,” he whispered back. “We’ll do what we can, Frannie.”
The room was painted pale yellow, with a border of whimsical cartoon animals running along the top of the walls. The cartoons
made it worse—much worse. A flannel board next to a refrigerator held crayoned pictures, and yellow-on-white happy faces were
stuck up at random on the walls. The happy faces killed me. Just killed me. I steeled myself to peer down into the closest
crib. Inside, a naked female infant about several months old squirmed and waved her small, perfect hands in the air. The tiny
baby had no face, no features at all.
A feeding tube was inserted into her small stomach, but the attached bag was empty. I put my hand gently on the top of her
head. The green line of the heart-rate monitor beat faster.
She was aware of me.
“Hello, baby,” I whispered. “Hello, sweet little girl.”
I threw open the fridge, then the cabinet doors. I shoved aside bandages and tubes and syringes, but there was no food anywhere.
In mounting despair, I hurried to the next crib. The baby boy inside was already dead and decomposing. He had a head the size
of a volleyball and the musculature of a child of four or five.
“You poor, poor thing.”
I pulled the plug from the monitor, ripped out the catheter in the little one’s head. I covered his face with a blanket.
The third crib held another dead child, a year-old babe with a body shape as ordinary as any little kid on the block—except
that his skin was separated in irregular tears. The skin hadn’t grown at the same rate as the child.
The child’s eyelids were inverted, and the sightless, bulging eyes stared up at me. I couldn’t ever begin to imagine the pain
he had endured before his death, possibly from sepsis. The fourth crib held year-old twins conjoined at the waist. One had
died, and because they shared many organs, the other would be dead soon, too.
I gently put my hand on the living child’s cool cheek and the eyes fluttered open.
“Hi, baby. Hi there.”
There was nothing I could do for the living twin, nothing anyone could do without medical supplies. I was sobbing now as I
went from crib to crib.
A dialysis tube had once been hooked up but was now dangling alongside the crib of a small being with simian features. The
child was undernourished, dehydrated, comatose.
Everywhere I looked were deformed, impossible children. If I was right, the most incredible tragedy was that these children
had been grown from ordinary human zygotes. They could have been perfectly normal, but they’d been mutated. Human experiments
had been performed in this room again and again.
Kit was going from crib to crib, yanking out electrical cords and tubes. It was the only thing we could do.
Suddenly Max was in the lab beside us. I was afraid for her. I wanted to protect Max from this, but it was too late. Her eyes
were sad, but knowing. “They put the babies to sleep,” she whispered. “They do it with the rejects, the losers. They do it
all the time. Now you know.”
They!
Whoever they were—I hated them fiercely. My fists were clenched tight at my sides.
“We should get out of here right now,” Kit said. “They have to come back at least one more time. They can’t leave all this
to be found.”
I looked at Kit. “Or any witnesses.”
M
AX, the other children, Kit, and I hurried through the towering fir woods as if we were playing a bizarre game of tag or hide-and-seek.
We were “it.” “They” would be after us soon. We were witnesses to horrible crimes that included murder.
Ironically, the mountains and woods looked so damn pretty. The light was softly dappled. Bluejays and phoebes twittered away.
Leaves rustled and fluttered in a lightly pine-scented breeze. But it was as scary as an unexpected trip into Hades. We knew
the horrible truth—at least a part of it.
The children were whistling, and I couldn’t for the life of me understand why. Max seemed to be leading them and she was doing
a good job so far.
I turned to Kit. “Why are they whistling?”
He shook his head. “No idea.”
Max screamed. “They’re coming! It’s Security! Hunters! Trust me on it. Run faster! Get away from here! Everybody run!”
I grabbed the closest child—Wendy—and I carried her down a narrow pathway that led deeper into the woods.
Kit took hold of Icarus, the little blind boy, who was frightened enough to go with him. Kit had his gun out, dark and scary,
but also comforting.
“Wendy,
look!
” Peter called out to his sister. “Look
up!
” He was rooted to the ground, stunned by the sight of Max flying into the air.
No matter how many times I’ve watched her fly, I was always struck dumb by the miraculous, indelible sight. I knew how Peter
felt, but this was no time for gawking.
I yelled, “Pe-ter! Come here! Right this minute! Move it!”
Still clutching Wendy, I plucked him up, too. They clung to me. They weren’t too heavy, but heavy enough.
I found temporary cover in the bushes. Gunfire crackled around us. A dark hole opened in the thick trunk of a nearby tree.
I picked up the two small children again and stumbled and ran as fast as I could.