God Project (40 page)

“It’s all right, honey,” he was saying. “There’s nothing wrong. You just—well, you sort of came apart a couple of hours ago, so Mark gave you something to put you to sleep for a while.”

Sally sank back onto the pillow and gazed silently at her husband for a few moments. Was it a trick? Was it really Mark who had given her the shot, or Wiseman?

Wiseman.

Wiseman was dead. Wiseman, and … and the Corlisses, and Carl Bronski. Tears welled up in her eyes and brimmed over. Steve reached out and gently brushed them away.

“They’re all dead, aren’t they?” she asked, her voice hollow.

“All except Randy,” Steve replied.

“What happened?”

“Not now,” Steve protested. “Why don’t you go back to sleep?”

“No. I want to know what happened, Steve. I
have
to know.”

“It was an accident. Apparently Bronski lost control of the car—a blowout, maybe. Anyway,: it skidded off the road, turned over, and the gas tank ruptured.”

“Oh, God,” Sally groaned. “It must have been horrible.” Her eyes met Steve’s. “They … burned?”

Steve nodded. “Jim and Lucy did. Carl was thrown out of the car. It rolled on him.”

“And Randy?”

“He got out. Somehow, he got out. His clothes burned completely off him, and all his hair …”

Sally closed her eyes, as if by the action she could erase the image that had come into her mind. “But how could he have survived? The burns—”

“He did survive. And he’s all right, Sally. It’s like what happened with Jason.”

The door opened and Mark Malone appeared. He closed the door behind him, then stepped to the foot of Sally’s bed, glanced at her chart, and forced a smile. “I wish I could say you looked better than you do.”

“Steve just told me about … about …” Her voice faded away as her tears once again began to flow. She groped around her bedside table and found a Kleenex. Wiping away the tears, she pushed herself a little higher up in the bed, then forced herself to meet Malone’s eyes. “What does it mean, Mark? What’s going on?”

“I wish I could tell you,” Malone replied. He hesitated, then spoke again. “You have a visitor. But you don’t have to see him.”

“A visitor? Who?”

“Paul Randolph.”

Sally’s eyes widened. “From CHILD? He’s here? But—but how? Why?”

“He telephoned about an hour ago. He wanted to know if we’d done something to our computer programs.”

Sally felt her heart skip a beat. “The programs?”

Malone nodded. “That’s what he said. His story was that their computer tried to do a routine scan of the updates of our records and couldn’t.”

Steve frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means all the codes are gone,” Malone said. “It means that all our evidence has disappeared.”

“But it doesn’t matter,” Sally said. “We’ve got the printouts—” Malone’s shaking head stopped the flow of her words.

“They’re gone, Sally. Before Arthur killed himself he destroyed everything. He altered records in the computer and burned all your printouts. It’s all gone, Sally. Everything.”

As the full meaning of his words sank in, Sally felt suddenly tired. Tired, and beaten. It was over. The information was gone, all of it. But where? And even as she asked herself the question, she knew the answer. “They did it themselves, didn’t they?” she asked. “The people at CHILD dumped the whole thing out of the computer.”

“Undoubtedly,” Malone agreed. “Although Randolph denies it. That’s why he came out here. I told him what’s been happening out here, and he wants to hear the whole story from you. He says he also wants to tell you what they know about Group Twenty-one. Except they call it the GT-active group.”

“What does that mean?” Steve asked.

“It refers to something called introns,” Malone said. “I think Randolph can explain it better than I can, but if you don’t want to talk to him,” he added, turning his attention back to Sally, “you don’t have to.”

Sally’s eyes grew cold. “I want to,” she said. “I want to know what they’ve been doing to the children, and I want to know why.”

Malone hesitated, then turned to Steve as if for confirmation. Steve nodded.

“If Sally wants to see him, bring him in. But don’t leave us alone with him.”

“I won’t,” Malone promised grimly. “I want to hear this as much as you do” He left the room, and a moment
later returned, followed by Paul Randolph, who immediately moved to the side of the bed and took Sally’s hand in his own.

“Mrs. Montgomery,” he said, “I can’t tell you how sorry I am about what’s happened. I’m Paul—”

“I know who you are,” Sally said, withdrawing her hand from his grasp and slipping it under the sheet “What I don’t understand is why you want to talk to me.”

“I need help,” Randolph said. “May I sit down?”

Sally nodded.

“I need to know exactly what you found out about what you’ve been calling Group Twenty-one. I gather you found evidence that their flaw may have been caused by some external stimulus.”

“You know that better than I, Mr. Randolph.”

“All I know, Mrs. Montgomery,” Randolph said earnestly, “is that a number of years ago our Institute came upon a genetic irregularity which we’ve recently named the GT-active factor. It’s very complicated, but basically what it means is that in certain children there is a normally functionless genetic combination called an intron that for some reason has become functional. It has to do with the enzyme bases that mark the beginning and end of the intron sequences in DNA. For some reason, the guanine-thymine sequence, which normally marks the beginning of an intron, has failed in these children. We’ve only recently identified which intron it is that has become active.”

Sally’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “But you’ve been tracking these children for years, she pointed out.”

“Because of a hormone present in their bodies in higher quantities than is normal,” Bandolph explained. “Hormones, as you may know, are produced under the direction of DNA, Just as are all the other compounds in the body. We suspected a genetic irregularity because of the hormone, but it was only recently that we were able to trace it to the GT-active factor. Our next step will be to determine the source of the factor itself, which, until now, we’ve assumed was hereditary—a combination of
the genetic structures of the parents that produces the GT-active factor. But apparently you’ve discovered evidence to the contrary.”

“Yes,” Sally said, “I have.” Slowly, she began to repeat the story that had begun the night her daughter had died. She talked steadily for nearly an hour, while Paul Randolph sat listening to her, taking occasional notes, but never interrupting her. When she finished, she sank, exhausted, into the pillows, then stared bitterly at Randolph. “But you knew all about it,” she said. “It was all there, and it all pointed directly to CHILD. You killed our children, and you kidnaped them, Mr. Randolph.”

Paul Randolph avoided her gaze, rose, and drifted distractedly toward the window. When he finally began speaking, his back was still to the room. “You’re partly right, of course. We
did
kidnap some children, Mrs. Montgomery. In fact, the next child we intended to take is your son, Jason.”

As Sally gasped, Steve rose to his feet, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. But then Randolph turned around, his face slack and his eyes bleak. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” he said softly, “but your son is dying.”

Sally flinched. “No!” she cried. “Jason’s not dying. He’s fine! He’s never been sick a day in—”

“None of them are, Mrs. Montgomery,” Randolph said quietly. Though his voice was soft, there was a tone to it that demanded the attention of everyone in the room. “That’s what makes the whole thing so incredibly difficult. These children, the children with the GT-active factor, seem healthy. They
are
healthy, incredibly so. The hormone appears to be triggered by trauma. That is, any damage to the tissue of these children from any source whatsoever—germs, viruses, injuries—triggers production of the hormone. And the hormone, in turn, spurs tissue regeneration. These children have a regenerative ability that is nothing short of miraculous. Damaged tissue which should normally take days or weeks to repair itself regenerates in a matter of minutes, sometimes even seconds.”

Sally’s eyes met Steve’s as they each remembered the incidents with Jason—the acid, the boiling fudge, the fight with Joey Connors. The unexplainable was suddenly explained.

Reluctantly, she turned her attention back to Randolph. “But you said Jason was—was dying.”

“And he is, Mrs. Montgomery. That’s the other side of the coin. Although the hormone makes the children appear abnormally healthy, in the end it kills them. It’s as if at some point the hormone has drawn on every bit of energy these children possess, and they die. From what we know, they simply seem to burn out. With the little girls it happens very quickly. So far none of them have survived past the age of one year. With the boys the process is slower. Some of them have lived to be nine. None has lived to see his tenth birthday. And that’s why we kidnaped some of them.”

“Did it occur to you that kidnaping is a federal crime, Mr. Randolph?” Steve asked, his voice crackling with indignation.

“Of course it did,” Randolph snapped. “But in the end, it was the only possible course of action.”

Steve stared at the distinguished-looking man with a mixture of revulsion and curiosity. “In the end?”

“When we began to understand what was happening, we tried to explain the situation to some of the parents. We wanted to put the children under twenty-four-hour-a-day observation. Needless to say, the parents refused. And why wouldn’t they? There was nothing wrong with their children, nothing at all. It was impossible to make them understand what the problem was.”

“So you began
stealing
the children?” Sally asked.

“Not at first. We simply kept track of them. You know how—you discovered our tracking system. But two years ago it became obvious to us that
all
the children were going to die. One way or another, the parents were going to lose them. So we took them, hoping that we could eventually discover how the burn-out phenomenon was triggered. So far, we haven’t succeeded. But at least now
we seem to know the source of the problem.” He paused. “Wiseman.”

“No,” Sally objected. “It wasn’t Dr. Wiseman. It couldn’t have been. When he found out what was happening, he killed himself.”

“Because he thought he’d been used, or because he knew he’d been caught?” Randolph countered.

“What are you saying?”

“Did you know that Arthur Wiseman was something of an expert in genetics?”

Sally looked puzzled, and Mark Malone frowned. “Even
I
didn’t know that,” he said.

“I don’t see what—” Sally began, but Randolph interrupted her.

“If these children were somehow made the victims of some form of recombinant DNA, and apparently they were, it happened in Arthur Wiseman’s office. He told Malone about a salve he used, which he claimed he got from PharMax. PharMax has never heard of it. It seems to me that Wiseman must have devised it himself.”

“But why?” Sally flared. “Why would he do it?”

“Science,” Randolph told her. “There are people in the world, Mrs. Montgomery, for whom research and experimentation exist for their own sake. They feel no responsibility for whatever they might create. For them, creation and discovery are fulfillment in themselves. Such people have no thoughts about the final results of what they are doing, no concern about any possible moral issues. Knowledge is to be sought, and used. If you
can
do something, you
must
do it. And if Wiseman found a way to alter the human form, the temptation to do so must have been overwhelming. It probably wasn’t until this morning that the consequences of what he’d done became clear to him. And so he buried the evidence. There’s nothing in the computer anymore, Mrs. Montgomery. No records of which children bear the GT-active factor, no records of which women were treated with Wiseman’s compound. Nothing.” He sank into a chair and shook his head. “I’m not sure we can ever rebuild those records.”

Sally lay still, trying to sort it all out. Was he telling her the truth?

He wasn’t. Deep inside, Sally was sure that he was lying to her, or, if not lying, then telling her only a part of the truth. After all, she reflected, he had admitted to having kidnaped Randy Corliss.

Had he also, somehow, killed Randy’s parents and Carl Bronski?

Again, she wasn’t certain. Of one thing, though, she was very sure.

What she had found out, or thought she had found out, had been taken away from her. There was no way she could get it back again. It was all probably still there, buried somewhere in the memory bank of a computer, but so deeply buried and expertly covered that she would never be able to dig it up.

And if she tried, she would very likely be killed.

And I, Sally thought silently to herself, am not going to be killed. I am going to tell this man whatever he wants to hear, and I am going to stay alive and raise my son.

My son.

Jason. Was he dying? Or was that, too, a lie? For that question, only time itself would provide an answer.

Sally pulled herself into a sitting position and carefully smoothed the sheets over her torso. Then she made herself meet Paul Randolph’s eyes.

“Thank you,” she said softly. Thank you for coming here and telling me all this. You can’t know what it’s been like. “It’s been a nightmare.”

“One that’s over now, Mrs. Montgomery.” He paused. “Except for the children.”

“Yes,” Sally breathed. “Except for the children. What can we do?”

Randolph made a helpless gesture. “I wish I could tell you. Watch them. Love them. Try to make their lives as happy as you can. And hope.”

“Hope?” Sally asked. “Hope for what? You said none of them has lived to reach the age of ten.”

“And so they haven’t, Mrs. Montgomery. But we know practically nothing about this. Maybe some of them will live. Maybe your son, maybe Randy Corliss. All we can do is watch and hope.”

“Randy Corliss.” Sally repeated the name, then looked to Steve. “What’s going to happen to him?”