building, across the connecting walkway, and up into the sanctuary of her office. Even tucked into the comforting depths of her old wooden chair, she thought she could still hear the echoing trail she’d left. After a moment, she realized she was listening to the rapid pounding of her heart.
You’re being ridiculous, she told herself firmly, palms flat on the desk. Take a deep breath and stop overreacting.
Marjory Nelson’s heart condition, not to mention her accessibility, had made her the perfect candidate for the next phase of the experiment. Brain waves had been recorded, tissue samples has been taken, bacteria had been specifically tailored to her DNA—all in preparation for her death. Or rather for the attempted reversal of it. Marjory, knowing nothing of what they’d been doing, submitted to the tests she’d been told might help, and died right on schedule.
Right on schedule. A second deep breath followed the first. It was fast and painless when it otherwise might not have been. Not to mention that her presence at the collapse had ensured they wouldn’t have to worry about the tissue destruction inherent in an autopsy.
Squaring her shoulders, Dr. Burke pulled the morning’s mail across the desk. They were reversing death. Catherine might have created the bacteria, but without her involvement this application would still be years, if not decades, in the future. She had made possible the logical progression of Catherine’s experiments and she would reap the rewards.
If recognition had flashed just for that instant in Marjory’s eyes, then they trembled on the brink of success long before empirical data suggested they should.
If recognition had occurred then . . .
Then what?
Marjory Nelson is dead and I’m truly sorry about that. She was an essential member of my staff and I’ll miss her. With a deft movement, Dr. Burke slid the letter opener the length of the envelope. The body in the lab is experimental unit number ten. Nothing more.
“I already spoke to the police about this, Ms. Nelson.” Nervously, Christy Aloman shuffled the papers on her desk. “I don’t know if I should be speaking to you.”
“Did the police tell you not to speak to anyone else?”
“No, but . . .”
“You have to admit, if anyone has a right to know, it’s me.” Vicki felt the pencil dig deep into the callus on her second finger and forced her hand to relax.
“Yes, but . . .”
“My mother’s body was stolen from these premises.”
“I know, but . . .”
“I should think you’d want to do what you could to help.”
“I do. Truly I do.” She made the mistake of looking at Vicki’s face and found she couldn’t look away. Gray-blue eyes were like chiseled bits of frozen stone and she felt as she had when, so many winters ago, she’d responded to childish dares and touched the metal gatepost with her tongue—foolish and trapped.
“Then tell me everything you can remember about Tom Chen. How he looked. What he wore. How he acted. What he said. What you overheard.”
“Everything?” It was complete surrender and they both knew it.
“Everything.”
“I don’t suppose you ever wore anything like this when you were alive.” Catherine pulled the Queen’s University sweatpants up over number nine’s hips. Grayish skin glistened with the most recent application of estrogen cream. “I mean all things considered, you were in pretty good shape, but you didn’t look like a jock. Sit.”
Number nine obediently sat.
“Raise your arms. Higher.”
A bit of agar oozed out between incision staples over the sternum as number nine’s arms lifted into the air.
Catherine ignored it and tugged a matching sweatshirt down over the arms and head. “There you go. A pair of shoes and you’re fit for polite company.”
“Cathy, I hate to say this, but you’re looney tunes.” Donald pushed away from the microscope and rubbed his eyes. “You’re talking to an animatronic corpse. It doesn’t
You’re being ridiculous, she told herself firmly, palms flat on the desk. Take a deep breath and stop overreacting.
Marjory Nelson’s heart condition, not to mention her accessibility, had made her the perfect candidate for the next phase of the experiment. Brain waves had been recorded, tissue samples has been taken, bacteria had been specifically tailored to her DNA—all in preparation for her death. Or rather for the attempted reversal of it. Marjory, knowing nothing of what they’d been doing, submitted to the tests she’d been told might help, and died right on schedule.
Right on schedule. A second deep breath followed the first. It was fast and painless when it otherwise might not have been. Not to mention that her presence at the collapse had ensured they wouldn’t have to worry about the tissue destruction inherent in an autopsy.
Squaring her shoulders, Dr. Burke pulled the morning’s mail across the desk. They were reversing death. Catherine might have created the bacteria, but without her involvement this application would still be years, if not decades, in the future. She had made possible the logical progression of Catherine’s experiments and she would reap the rewards.
If recognition had flashed just for that instant in Marjory’s eyes, then they trembled on the brink of success long before empirical data suggested they should.
If recognition had occurred then . . .
Then what?
Marjory Nelson is dead and I’m truly sorry about that. She was an essential member of my staff and I’ll miss her. With a deft movement, Dr. Burke slid the letter opener the length of the envelope. The body in the lab is experimental unit number ten. Nothing more.
“I already spoke to the police about this, Ms. Nelson.” Nervously, Christy Aloman shuffled the papers on her desk. “I don’t know if I should be speaking to you.”
“Did the police tell you not to speak to anyone else?”
“No, but . . .”
“You have to admit, if anyone has a right to know, it’s me.” Vicki felt the pencil dig deep into the callus on her second finger and forced her hand to relax.
“Yes, but . . .”
“My mother’s body was stolen from these premises.”
“I know, but . . .”
“I should think you’d want to do what you could to help.”
“I do. Truly I do.” She made the mistake of looking at Vicki’s face and found she couldn’t look away. Gray-blue eyes were like chiseled bits of frozen stone and she felt as she had when, so many winters ago, she’d responded to childish dares and touched the metal gatepost with her tongue—foolish and trapped.
“Then tell me everything you can remember about Tom Chen. How he looked. What he wore. How he acted. What he said. What you overheard.”
“Everything?” It was complete surrender and they both knew it.
“Everything.”
“I don’t suppose you ever wore anything like this when you were alive.” Catherine pulled the Queen’s University sweatpants up over number nine’s hips. Grayish skin glistened with the most recent application of estrogen cream. “I mean all things considered, you were in pretty good shape, but you didn’t look like a jock. Sit.”
Number nine obediently sat.
“Raise your arms. Higher.”
A bit of agar oozed out between incision staples over the sternum as number nine’s arms lifted into the air.
Catherine ignored it and tugged a matching sweatshirt down over the arms and head. “There you go. A pair of shoes and you’re fit for polite company.”
“Cathy, I hate to say this, but you’re looney tunes.” Donald pushed away from the microscope and rubbed his eyes. “You’re talking to an animatronic corpse. It doesn’t
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