The Messiah Code (44 page)

She wished she could return the tenderness of that embrace, but the manacles denied her. Blinking back disobedient tears, she heard him whisper in her ear: "My child, I am
so
glad I found you in time." Then before she could say anything in reply he quickly straightened up, his face again void of all emotion. "I will go now."

He walked to the door and pressed the buzzer. "May you be saved," he said, by way of farewell.

A thin smile creased her stinging eyes. "So I may save the righteous, and punish the ungodly."

When the guards opened the door the Father waited while they unfastened her manacles from the table and led her to the door. Then he gave her a small smile and walked out.

In the corridor of white tiles she turned to her left, to the door that led to the death row visitor reception area, and the already bright sunlight of the world outside. Normally the guards quickly hustled her to the right, back down the long corridor past the execution chamber to her cell. But for some reason today they stopped and let her stand there watching Father Ezekiel's stooped frame walk away from her, down that white tunnel to the light.

She was about to turn away of her own accord when she saw his shoulders stiffen, and his feet halt their busy steps. At first she thought he was going to turn back and say something to her, but instead he looked up through the reinforced glass screen that made up the top half of the door to the visitor reception area. The door opened and a tall figure stood there. She was only fifteen yards away but there was so much light streaming in from outside that she couldn't see who it was. Then the figure stooped and shook the Father's hand. She watched as the Father talked to the person silhouetted against the light. Ezekiel seemed awkward and anxious to leave, but he talked for a good few minutes before eventually nodding his head, shaking the person's hand again, and moving past the silhouette to the dazzling sunlight beyond.

The guards made no move to hurry her along. When the door closed on the Father's departing back, blocking out some of the light, she identified the figure. Dr. Carter. He had plainly come to visit her and she found this strangely annoying. She wanted to see him when she was out of here, when she could make him pay for all he had done, not now when she wasn't ready. But there was also a part of her that relished the prospect of goading him.

She waited for him to approach her, but he stood there, fifteen yards away, toying with a piece of folded paper in his left hand. He looked radically altered somehow, a different person from the man who had visited her only eleven days ago. He was dressed casually in faded jeans and a blue polo shirt, but it wasn't the clothes that accounted for the change. Then he smiled at her and she knew what it was. The smile wasn't particularly arrogant, just confident. It made him look younger, even boyishly handsome. The difference, she realized now, was that he was happy, and

she found this realization oddly unnerving. It certainly wasn't what she was expecting.

She watched him turn back to the door and ask the guard behind to open it. Again the flood of light burst in, and when the door reclosed she saw another shorter figure standing with Dr. Carter, shorter even than Father Ezekiel. It was a girl wearing a red baseball cap. The child was holding the scientist's hand, but it was only when the girl waved at her as she had in the photograph that Maria recognized her as his daughter, the terminally ill Holly Carter.

Maria didn't understand. The girl should be near death, dead even. But apart from the absence of hair beneath her cap she looked healthy--
vibrantly
healthy.

Before Maria could reorientate herself the door opened again, letting in the blinding light, and the girl disappeared. It was only now that Dr. Carter began to walk toward her. As if on cue, the guards marched her back into the interview room and fastened her manacles to the table.

W
hen Tom Carter entered the room and sat opposite Maria Benariac he felt no hatred. She was doomed to die whereas Holly had been saved. This was more than enough for him. The person he felt most sorry for was old Ezekiel De La Croix, and seeing his stooped frame moments ago had only increased his sympathy for the man. He imagined searching his whole life for someone, only to find them on death row, on the brink of being taken away forever.

Tom had come today because he couldn't bear the thought of Maria dying with the belief that she had succeeded. He needed her to know that ultimately her homicidal fanaticism and vindictive spite had been futile. He also wanted to tell her about the genes--the wonderful genes that had saved his daughter.

He recalled the last time he had sat in this chair, and could still summon up the metallic taste of fear and anger in his mouth. But this time he had nothing to fear from Maria Benariac. He sat back in his chair, toyed with the piece of paper in his hand and waited.

"What happened to your daughter?" she asked moments later.

"She died," he replied.

"But I saw..."

Tom nodded. "Yes. You saw Holly."

"But I don't understand. You said she was dead."

"She
was
. But she isn't anymore."

He could see the shock in Maria's face.

"How?" she asked.

"I used the genes."

"
You
used the genes?
My
genes?"

"No, I used the original ones. The ones from Christ. But I could have used yours."

Maria Benariac's guard was down now and her face displayed a strange blend of emotions. He could see anger and outrage that he had succeeded with Cana. But he also saw something else in her eyes: excitement.

"But how did you use them?" she asked.

Tom unfolded the piece of paper he had been toying with. The handwriting was clearly legible. "Well, there's something about the way they work that I think you'll find interesting." He leaned across the table with the scrap and Maria automatically turned her manacled hands palms upward as if holding a begging bowl. When he laid the piece of paper in her hands he noticed a cross-shaped scar on the pale skin of her right forearm. It was clearly an old scar, but the deep jagged quality of the cut informed his surgeon's eye that it had been made by the blade of a large knife, or dagger, not a precise instrument. His natural curiosity made him want to ask her about it, but when he considered her violent past he thought better of it.

Instead he waited for her to read the message on the paper. "I didn't write it in blood, I'm afraid. But I thought the Preacher might appreciate a little quote from the Bible. Do you know where it's from?"

"Of course," she scoffed without a moment's hesitation. "Acts, chapter 20, verse 35."

He smiled to himself. "Yes, I thought you would. It's one of the Christian teachings I admire most."

She shrugged her shoulders in frustration. "But I still don't understand. What's this got to do with how the genes work?"

Refusing to be hurried he leaned farther back in his chair, trying to find the right words. And at that moment he saw the depth of hatred in her eyes.

"You think you've won. Don't you?" she said, clearly believing he hadn't. Even at this late hour she was trying to pretend she had one last trick up her sleeve.

He shook his head sadly, remembering Olivia, Bob Cooke, and Nora Lutz, and all the others who had died. "I don't feel like I've won. Not against you anyway, because I was never really fighting against you. Your war may have been against me and mine, but my war was with other killers--killers far more deadly than you."

Maria clenched her jaw so hard he could see the muscles tensing on each side of her face.

"Tell me what the message has got to do with the genes," she demanded again, stabbing the piece of paper with her finger. "Tell me what it's got to do with
my
genes."

"Very well," he said, "I'll tell you." And after clearing his throat he proceeded to do just that.

When he finished he was surprised by Maria's reaction. Far from being angry as he'd expected, she looked stunned. All her arrogance seemed to leave her and for a fleeting moment he thought he detected fear. When he rose and walked over to press the buzzer she didn't even look up. The guards who came to take her away had to lift her out of the chair physically. The whole time she kept on staring at the message he'd left for her: "
It is more blessed to give than to receive
."

She now understood what the message meant, but Tom still couldn't understand why his revelation had so affected her. How could what he had told her change anything? She was going to be executed in a few hours. It wasn't as if she expected to live beyond today.

A
s the hour of midnight approached Maria Benariac kept replaying Dr. Carter's words in her head.

Carter must have been lying, she told herself, as the prison doctor injected her with antihistamine. She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she didn't register the irony of a doctor worrying about her adverse reaction to poisons he would later help inject.

But I saw Holly alive, she thought, and the scientist couldn't have known about the plan, therefore it must be true. When she'd first realized Holly had been brought back from the dead, she had been as excited as she was outraged, because it proved her plan would work. But after the scientist had explained, her excitement had evaporated. The more she obsessed about what he'd told her, the more worried she became that perhaps the plan
wouldn't
work.

As the female guards made her put on the diapers for when she voided herself at death, she tried to look for other possibilities. Dr. Carter had admitted that he didn't know
exactly
how the genes worked, so he could be mistaken. That meant her plan wasn't
necessarily
affected. If only the Father were here to advise her.

Yes, but how could he help? If the scientist was right, then it was too late to put another plan in place. She had

to face facts; the die had been cast and all she could do now was hope Dr. Carter had been mistaken.

It was on these thoughts that her mind frantically ruminated as the guards led her down the white corridor toward the execution chamber. But when the door opened and she saw the room in which she was to die, her mind went momentarily blank.

The white chamber, no larger than ten by fifteen feet, was dominated by a black upholstered table in the shape of a drooping cross. Both arms and the main body of the table were fitted with thick leather straps for restraining the condemned prisoner. Beside each arm was an intravenous tube linked to a free-standing chrome box the size of a large TV. On the top of the box was a battery of plunge syringes used for administering an anesthetic and two separate poisons through tubes into the prisoner's arms. Two intravenous drips were used to safeguard against the unlikely event one should fail.

She had been told earlier that the poisons would be released from behind the Plexiglas that divided the witnesses from the condemned prisoner. In this area there were two telephones, one of which was connected directly to the state governor's office, allowing for reprieves to be received right up to the last minute. It was tradition for the prison warden to stand by this phone and wait for three minutes after the designated execution hour of midnight before giving the order. However, with the U.S. President's Crime 2000 initiative, this had become little more than a meaningless ritual. Since February 8, 2000, not one last-minute reprieve had been given to any condemned prisoner on any death row across the United States of America.

Scanning the witnesses standing behind the Plexiglas barrier, Maria's eyes alighted on the short, wizened figure of Father Ezekiel. He was dressed in a simple black suit that hung loosely on his bony frame and owed no fealty to the fashions of the day. She had never really noticed before how old he looked, but tonight his wrinkled face reflected his ninety-six years. To her, he was still timeless. He was simply the Father, the man who had given her support and direction when the world had turned its back on her. How she wanted to talk to him now, to share her doubts with

him--her fears. She felt sure that he could reassure her.

But she couldn't speak to the Father. She had to have faith and face her Golgotha alone.

As the guards guided her to the table she looked through the Plexiglas, trying to catch Ezekiel's eye, suddenly desperate to warn him that something might be wrong. He just smiled at her, a smile of encouragement and complicity that stopped just short of a wink.

But you don't understand, she wanted to shout at him. It might not work. She began to struggle when the guards angled the table vertical and tried to strap her to it.

"Something's wrong," she shouted. She tried to push one of the guards away and lunge for the glass. "Make them stop," she shouted. "I'm not ready."

Ezekiel's eyes clouded with concern, not understanding. But the warden and other witnesses looked on impassively as the four experienced guards wrestled her to the table, each man responsible for strapping a particular limb. First her right and then her left leg were strapped to the table, then each of her arms. Next her torso and head, until her whole body was secured. Finally the table was returned to the horizontal. The prison doctor then inserted the intravenous drips into the vein on each of her outstretched arms, and attached the monitoring device to her heart that would tell him when she was clinically dead.

It was when she saw the simple white clock above the Plexiglas screen showing 11:58, that the full implications of what Carter had told her came into focus. There was no more time for selfdelusion. If his theory was correct, then not only was she doomed, but her life had been wasted. Not only had she failed to stop Carter but she had squandered her gift of healing: devoting her life to killing in God's name instead of saving.