Darwin's Children Part 11

Grief had been tracking Mitch Rafelson like a hunter. It had him in its eyebeams, painting him like a target, preparing to bring him down and settle in for a long feast.

He felt like stopping the Dodge on the side of the road, getting out, and running. As always, he stuffed these dark thoughts into a little drawer in the bas.e.m.e.nt of his skull. Anything that demonstrated he was other than a loving father, all the emotions that had not been appropriate for eleven years and more, he hid away down there, along with the old dreams about the mummies in the Alps.

All the spooky little guesses about the situation of the long-dead Neandertals, mother and father, and the mummified, modern infant they had made before dying in the cold, in the long deep cave covered with ice.

Mitch no longer had such dreams. He hardly dreamed at all. But then, there wasn't much else left of the old Mitch, either. He had been burned away, leaving a thin skeleton of steel and stone that was Stella's daddy. He did not even know anymore whether his wife loved him. They hadn't made love in months. They didn't have time to think about such things. Neither complained; that was just the way it was, no energy or pa.s.sion left after dealing with the stress and worry.

Mitch would have killed Fred Trinket if the police and the van hadn't been there. He would have broken the man's neck, then looked into the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's startled eyes as he finished the twist. Mitch ran that image through his head until he felt his stomach jump.

He understood more than ever how the Neandertal papa must have felt.

Seven miles. They were on the outskirts of Pittsburgh. The road was surrounded by blaring ads trying to get him to buy cars, buy tract homes, spend money he did not have. The houses beyond the freeway were packed close, crowded and small, and the big brick industrial buildings were dirty and dark. He hardly noticed a tiny park with bright red swings and plastic picnic tables. He was looking for the right turnoff.

"There it is," he told Kaye, and took the exit. He glanced into the backseat. Stella was limp. Kaye held her. Together like that, they reminded him of a statue, a Pieta. He hated that metaphor, common enough on the fringe sites on the Internet: the new children as martyrs, as Christ. Hated it with a pa.s.sion. Martyrs died. Jesus had died horribly, persecuted by a blind state and an ignorant, bloodthirsty rabble, and that was certainly not going to happen to Stella.

Stella was going to live until long after Mitch Rafelson had rotted down to dry, interesting bones.

The safe house was in the rich suburbs. The tree-filled estates here were nothing like the land around the little frame house in Virginia. Smooth asphalt and concrete roads served big new houses from the last hot run of the economy. Here the streets were lined on both sides with fresh-cut stone walls set behind mature pines and broken only by black iron gates topped with spikes.

He found the number painted on the curb and pulled the Dodge up to a hooded security keypad. The first time, he fumbled the number and the keypad buzzed. A small red light blinked a warning. The second time, the gate rolled open smoothly. Leaves rustled in the maple trees overarching the driveway.

"Almost there," he said.

"Hurry," Kaye said quietly.

29.

Joseph Goldberger School for Children With Special Needs, Emergency Action Ohio, Central District Authority A small contingent of Ohio National Guard trucks-d.i.c.ken counted six, and about a hundred troops-had drawn up at the crossroads. A perennial around the school, blooming every spring and summer, dying back in the winter, protesters stood in clumps away from the troops and the alarm trip wires. d.i.c.ken guessed that today they numbered three or four hundred today, more than usual and more energetic as well. Most of the protesters were younger than thirty, many younger than twenty. Some wore brightly tie-dyed T-s.h.i.+rts and baggy slacks and had felted their hair in long bleached dreadlocks. They sang and shouted and waved signs denouncing "Virus Abominations" genetically engineered by corporate mad scientists. Two news trucks poked their white dish antennae at the sky. Reporters were out interviewing the protesters, feeding the hungry broadband predigested opinion and some visuals. d.i.c.ken had seen all this many times. small contingent of Ohio National Guard trucks-d.i.c.ken counted six, and about a hundred troops-had drawn up at the crossroads. A perennial around the school, blooming every spring and summer, dying back in the winter, protesters stood in clumps away from the troops and the alarm trip wires. d.i.c.ken guessed that today they numbered three or four hundred today, more than usual and more energetic as well. Most of the protesters were younger than thirty, many younger than twenty. Some wore brightly tie-dyed T-s.h.i.+rts and baggy slacks and had felted their hair in long bleached dreadlocks. They sang and shouted and waved signs denouncing "Virus Abominations" genetically engineered by corporate mad scientists. Two news trucks poked their white dish antennae at the sky. Reporters were out interviewing the protesters, feeding the hungry broadband predigested opinion and some visuals. d.i.c.ken had seen all this many times.

On the news, the protesters' standard line was that the new children were artificial monsters designed to help corporations take over the world. GM Kids GM Kids, they called them, or Lab Brats Lab Brats, or Monsanto's Future Toadies. Monsanto's Future Toadies.

Pushed back almost into the gra.s.s and gravel of a makes.h.i.+ft parking lot were a few dozen parents. d.i.c.ken could easily tell them apart from the protesters. The parents were older, conservatively dressed, worn down and nervous. For them, this was no game, no bright ritual of youthful pa.s.sage into a dull and torpid maturity.

The staff car and its two escorts approached the first perimeter gate through a weave of concrete barricades. Protesters swarmed the fence, swinging their signs in the direction of the protected road. The largest sign out front, scrawled in red marker and brandished by a skinny boy with prominent bad teeth, read, hey hey usa/ don't f.u.c.k with nature's dna!

"Just shoot them," d.i.c.ken muttered.

Augustine nodded his tight-lipped concurrence.

d.a.m.n, we agree on something, d.i.c.ken thought. d.i.c.ken thought.

In the beginning, the protesters had nearly all been parents, arriving at the schools by the thousands, some hangdog and guilty, some grim and defiant, all pleading that their children be allowed to go home. Back then, the nursery buildings had been filled and the dorms under construction or empty. The parents had mounted their vigils year-round, even in the dead of winter, for more than five years. They had been the best of citizens. They had surrendered their children willingly, trusting government promises that they would eventually be returned.

Mark Augustine had been unable to fulfill that promise, at first because of what he thought he knew, but in later years because of grim political reality.

Americans by and large believed they were safer with the virus children put away. Sealed up, out of sight. Out of range of contagion.

d.i.c.ken watched Augustine's expression change from studied indifference to steely impa.s.sivity as the staff car climbed the sloping road to the plateau. There the ma.s.sive complex sat flat and ugly like a spill of children's blocks on the Ohio green.

The car maneuvered around the barricades and pulled up to the dazzling concrete gatehouse, whiter even than the clouds. As the guards checked their schedule of appointments and consulted with the Secret Service agents, Augustine stared east through the car window at a row of four long, ocher-colored dormitories.

It had been a year since Augustine had last inspected Goldberger. Back then, lines of kids had moved between cla.s.srooms, dormitories, and cafeteria halls, attended by teachers, interns, security personnel. Now, the dormitories seemed deserted. An ambulance had been parked by the inner gate to the barracks compound. It, too, was unattended.

"Where are the kids?" d.i.c.ken asked. "Are they all all sick?" sick?"

30.

PENNSYLVANIA.

Stella saw and felt everything in ragged jerks. Being moved was an agony and she cried out, but still, the shadows insisted on hurting her. She saw asphalt and stone and gray bricks, then a big upside-down tree, and finally a bed with tight pink sheets. She saw and heard adults talking in the light of an open door. Everything else was dark, so she turned toward the darkness-it hurt less-and listened with huge ears to voices in another room. For a moment, she thought these were the voices of the dead, they were saying such incredible things, harmonizing with a weird joy. They were discussing fire and h.e.l.l and who was going to be eaten next, and a mad woman laughed in a way that made her flesh crawl.

The flesh did not stop crawling. It just kept on going, and she lay in the bed with no skin, staring up at cobwebs or ghostly arms or just floaters inside her eyeb.a.l.l.s, tiny chains of cells magnified to the size of balloons. She knew they were not balloons. It did not matter.

Kaye was beyond exhaustion. Iris Mackenzie sat her down in a chair with a cup of coffee and a cookie. The house was huge and bright inside with the colors and tones rich folks choose: creams and pale grays, Wedgwood blues and deep, earthy greens.

"You have to eat something and rest," Iris told her.

"Mitch . . ." Kaye began.

"He and George are with your girl."

"I should be with her."

"Until the doctor arrives, there's nothing you can do."

"A sponge bath, get that temperature down."

"Yes, in a minute. Now rest, Kaye, please. You nearly fainted on the front porch."

"She should be in a hospital," Kaye said, her eyes going a little wild. She managed to stand, pus.h.i.+ng past Iris's gentle hands.

"No hospital will take her," Iris said, turning restraint into a hug and sitting her down again. Iris pressed her cheek against Kaye's and there were tears on it. "We called everyone on the phone tree. Lots of the new children have it. It's on the news already, hospitals are refusing admissions. We're frantic. We don't know about our son. We can't get through to Iowa."

"He's in a camp?" Kaye was confused. "We thought the network was just active parents."

"We are very very active parents," Iris said with iron in her tone. "It's been two months. We're still listed, and we will stay listed as long as we can help. They can't hurt us any more than they already have, right?" active parents," Iris said with iron in her tone. "It's been two months. We're still listed, and we will stay listed as long as we can help. They can't hurt us any more than they already have, right?"

Iris had the brightest green eyes, set like jewels in a face that was farmer's daughter pretty, with light, florid Irish cheeks and dark brown hair, a slender physique, thin, strong fingers that moved rapidly, touching her hair, her blouse, the tray, and the kettle, pouring hot water into the bone china cups and stirring in instant coffee.

"Does the disease have a name?" Kaye asked.

"No name yet. It's in the schools-the camps, I mean. n.o.body knows how serious it is."

Kaye knew. "We saw a girl. She was dead. Stella may have got it from her."

"G.o.d d.a.m.n d.a.m.n it," Iris said, teeth clenched. It was a real curse, not just an exclamation. it," Iris said, teeth clenched. It was a real curse, not just an exclamation.

"I'm sorry I'm so scattered," Kaye said. "I need to be with Stella."

"We don't know it isn't catching . . . for us. Do we?"

"Does it matter?" Kaye said.

"No. Of course not," Iris said. She wiped her face. "It absolutely does not matter." The coffee was being ignored. Kaye had not taken a sip. Iris walked off. Turning, she said, "I'll get some alcohol and a bath sponge. Let's get her temperature down."

31.

OHIO.

The director greeted the staff car at the tangent where the wide circular drive met the steps to the colonnade of the administration building. He wore a brown suit and stood six feet tall, with wheat-colored hair thinning at the crown, a bulbous nose, and almost no cheek bones. Two women, one large and one short, dressed in green medical scrubs, stood at the top of the steps. Their features were obscured by the shadow of a side wall that blocked the low sun.

Augustine opened the door and got out without waiting for the driver. The director dried his hands on his pants leg, then offered one to shake. "Dr. Augustine, it's an honor."

Augustine gave the man's hand a quick grip. d.i.c.ken pushed his leg out, grasped the handle over the door, and climbed from the car. "Christopher d.i.c.ken, this is Geoffrey Trask," Augustine introduced him.

Behind them, the two Secret Service cars made a V, blocking the drive. Two men stepped out and stood by the open car doors.

Trask mopped his brow with a handkerchief. "We're certainly glad to have both of you," he said. At six thirty in the evening, the heat was slowly retreating from a high of eighty-five degrees.

Trask flicked his head to one side and the two women descended the steps. "This is Yolanda Middleton, senior nurse and paramedic for the pediatric care center."

Middleton was in her late forties, heavy-set, with cla.s.sic Congolese features, short-cut wild hair, immense, sad eyes, and a bulldog expression. Her uniform was wrinkled and stained. She nodded at d.i.c.ken, then examined Augustine with blunt suspicion.

"And this is Diana DeWitt," Trask continued. DeWitt was small and plump-faced with narrow gray eyes. Her green pants hung around her ankles and she had rolled up her sleeves. "A school counselor."

"Consulting anthropologist, actually," DeWitt said. "I travel and visit the schools. I arrived here three days ago." She smiled sadly but with no hint that she felt put-upon. "Dr. Augustine, we have met once before. This would be a pleasure, Dr. d.i.c.ken, under other circ.u.mstances."

"We should get back," Middleton said abruptly. "We're very short-staffed."

"These people are essential, Ms. Middleton," Trask admonished.

Middleton flared. "Jesus himself could visit, Mr. Trask, and I'd make him pitch in. You know how bad it is."

Trask put on his most royal frown-a poor performance-and d.i.c.ken moved in to defuse the tension. "We don't know," he said. "How bad is it?"

"We shouldn't talk out here," Trask looked nervously at the small crowd of protesters beyond the fence, more than two hundred yards away. "They have those big ears, you know, listening dishes? Yolanda, Diana, could you accompany us? We'll carry on our discussion inside." He walked ahead through the false columns.

One agent joined them, following at a discreet distance.

All of the older buildings were a jarring shade of ocher. The architecture screamed prison, even with the bronze plate on the wall and the sign over the front gate insisting that this was a school.

"On orders from the governor, we have a press blackout," Trask said. "Of course, we don't allow cell phones or broadband in the school, and I've taken the central switchboard offline for now. I believe in a disciplined approach to getting out our message. We don't want to make it seem worse than it is. Right now, my first priority is procuring medical supplies. Dr. Kelson, our lead physician, is working on that now."

Inside the building, the corridors were cooler, though there was no air conditioning. "Our plant has been down, my apologies," Trask said, looking back at Augustine. "We haven't been able to get repair people in. Dr. d.i.c.ken, this is an honor. It truly is. If there's anything I can explain-"

"Tell us how bad it is," Augustine said.

"Bad," Trask said. "On the verge of being out of control."

"We're losing our children," Middleton said, her voice breaking. "How many today, Diane?"

"Fifty in the past couple of hours. A hundred and ninety today, total. And sixty last night."

"Sick?" Augustine asked.

"Dead," Middleton said.

"We haven't had time for a formal count," Trask said. "But it is serious."

"I need to visit a sick ward as soon as possible," d.i.c.ken said.

"The whole school is a sick ward," Middleton said.

"It's tragic," DeWitt said. "They're losing their social cohesion. They rely on each other so much, and n.o.body's trained them how to get along when there's a disaster. They've been both sheltered and neglected."

"I think their physical health is our main concern now," Trask said.

"I a.s.sume there's some sort of medical center," d.i.c.ken said. "I'd like to study samples from the sick children as quickly as possible."

"I've already arranged for that," Trask said. "You'll work with Dr. Kelson."

"Has the staff given specimens?"