“Daria Klein, I’d like you to meet Ponter Boddit.”
“Wow,” said Daria, and, as if that weren’t quite enough, “Wow,” she said again.
“Daria is working on her Ph.D. Her specialty is the same as mine—recovering ancient DNA.”
Mary and Daria talked for a few minutes, and Ponter, always the scientist, looked around the lab, endlessly fascinated by Gliksin technology. Finally, Mary said, “Well, we’ve got to get going. I just wanted to pick up a couple of specimens I left here.”
She walked across the room to the refrigerator used to store biological specimens, noting that a few new cartoons had been taped to it, joining the selection of Sidney Harris and Gary Larson panels she’d put up herself. She opened the metal door and felt the blast of cold air coming out.
There were maybe two dozen containers inside, of varying sizes. Some had laser-printed labels; others just had strips of masking tape that had been written on with Magic Marker. Mary couldn’t see the specimens she was looking for; doubtless they’d been shuffled to the very back by others using the fridge in her absence. She started moving containers, taking out two big ones—“Siberian Mammoth Skin,” “Inuit Placental Material”—and placing them on the counter, so that she could more easily see inside.
Mary felt her heart pounding.
She rummaged through the specimens again, just to make sure.
But there was no room for error.
The two containers she’d labeled “Vaughan 666,” the two containers that held the physical evidence of her rape, were gone.
Chapter Twenty-seven
“Daria!” Mary shouted. Ponter loomed close to her, clearly wondering what was wrong. But Mary ignored him and shouted out Daria’s name again.
The slim grad student dashed across the room. She said, “What’s wrong?” in that defensive tone that implies, “What have I done now?”
Mary stepped away from the refrigerator so that Daria could see its interior, and she stabbed an accusatory finger toward it. “I had two specimen jars in here,” said Mary. “What happened to them?”
Daria was shaking her head. “I didn’t take anything. I haven’t even been into that fridge since you left for Rochester.”
“Are you sure?” said Mary, trying to control the panic in her voice. “Two specimen jars, both opaque, both labeled in red ink with the date August 2nd”—she would remember that date for the rest of her life—“and the words ‘Vaughan 666.’”
“Oh, yeah,” said Daria. “I saw those once—when I was working on Ramses. But I didn’t touch them.”
“Are you positive?”
“Yes, of course I am. What’s wrong?”
Mary ignored the question. “Who has access to this fridge?” she demanded, although she already knew the answer.
“Me,” said Daria, “Graham and all the other grad students, the faculty, Professor Remtulla. And the janitorial staff, I suppose—anyone who has a key to this room.”
The janitorial staff! Mary had seen a janitor working in the ground-floor corridor of this building, just before…
Just before she’d been attacked.
And—God damn it, how could I be so stupid?—you didn’t need a bloody degree in genetics to recognize that something labeled with the name of the victim, the number of the beast, and marked with the date of the rape was what you were looking for.
“Is everything okay?” asked Daria. “Was it some of the passenger-pigeon material?”
But Mary yanked another container out of the fridge. “ That’s the fucking passenger pigeon!” she shouted, slamming the container down on the counter top.
Ponter’s translator bleeped. “Mare…” he said, softly.
Mary took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Her whole body was shaking.
“Professor Vaughan,” said Daria, “I swear I didn’t—”
“I know,” said Mary, forcing calmness back into her voice. “I know.” She looked at Ponter, whose face was a study in concern, and Daria, whose expression was segueing to that from fear. “I’m sorry, Daria. It’s just that—just that they were irreplaceable specimens.” She shrugged a little, still furious at herself but trying not to show it. “I never should have left them here.”
“What were they?” asked Daria, her curiosity getting the better of her.
“Nothing,” said Mary, shaking her head and stalking across the room without looking to see if Ponter was following. “Nothing at all.”
* * *
Ponter caught up with Mary in the corridor, and he touched her shoulder. “Mare…”
Mary stopped walking and closed her eyes for a second. “I will tell you,” she said, “but not here.”
“Then let us leave this place,” said Ponter. And he and Mary headed down the stairs. On the way down, they passed a blue-shirted janitor coming up, taking the steps two at a time, and Mary thought her heart was going to rocket through the roof of her skull. But, no, no, it was Franco—she knew him well enough—and Franco was Italian. With brown eyes.
“Why, Professor Vaughan!” he said. “I thought you weren’t going to be with us this year!”
“I’m not,” said Mary, trying to sound normal. “Just dropping in for a visit.”
“Well, have a good one,” said Franco, as he passed them.
Mary exhaled and continued down. She exited the building, and Ponter followed her, and they headed for Mary’s car, but this time Mary took a long detour to avoid the intersecting walls where she’d been attacked. At last they made it to the parking lot.
They got in the car. It was hotter than hell inside. Mary usually left the windows down a crack in the summer—and it was still summer, after all; fall didn’t officially arrive until September 21—but she’d forgotten this time, her mind swirling with far too many other thoughts at returning to York.
Ponter immediately broke into a sweat; he hated the heat. Mary started the car. She pushed the button to lower the windows, and turned the air conditioner on full blast. It took a minute to begin to blow cool air.
With the car sitting there in the parking lot, engine running, Ponter said, simply, “So?”
Mary raised the windows, afraid that someone walking by might overhear. “You know I was raped,” she said.
Ponter nodded, and touched her arm lightly.
“I didn’t report the crime,” Mary said.
“Without Companion implants and alibi archives,” said Ponter, “I am sure there would have been little point. You told me most crimes go unsolved in this world.”
“Yes, but…” Mary’s voice broke, and she shut up for a time, trying to regain her composure. “But I didn’t think about the consequences. Somebody else was raped here at York last week. Near Farquharson—that building we were just in.”
Ponter’s deep-set eyes went wide. “And you think it was done by the same man?”
“There’s no way to know for sure, but…”
She didn’t have to finish the thought; Ponter clearly understood. If she had reported the rape, perhaps the man might have been apprehended before he’d had a chance to do the same abominable thing to someone else.
“You could not have foreseen this turn of events,” said Ponter.
“Of course I could have,” snapped Mary.
“Do you know who the other victim was?”
“No. No, they keep that confidential. Why?”
“You need to release this pain—and the only way to do that is through forgiveness.”
Mary’s back immediately went stiff. “I could never face her, whoever she is,” she said. “After what I allowed to happen to her…”
“It was not your fault,” said Ponter.
“I was going to do the right thing,” said Mary. “That’s why I wanted to stop here, at York. I was going to turn over the physical evidence of my rape to the police.”
“Is that what was in the missing containers?”
Mary nodded. The car was getting quite chilly now, but she didn’t touch th
e controls. She deserved to suffer.
After a time with no response from Mary, Ponter said, “If you cannot contact the other victim for forgiveness,” he said, “then you must forgive yourself.”
Mary thought about this for a moment, then, without a word, she put the car in reverse and backed out of the parking space. “Where are we going?” asked Ponter. “To your home?”
“Not exactly,” said Mary, and she turned the car, heading out of the parking lot.
Mary entered the wooden booth, knelt on the padded railing in front of her, and crossed herself. The small window between her chamber and the priest’s opened, and she could see Father Caldicott’s strong profile silhouetted behind the crisscrossing wooden slats.
“Forgive me, Father,” said Mary, “for I have sinned.”
Caldicott had a slight Irish accent, even though he’d been in Canada for forty years. “How long has it been since your last confession, my child?”
“Since January. Eight months.”
The priest’s tone was neutral, nonjudgmental. “Tell me about your sin.”
Mary opened her mouth, but no words came out. After a time, the priest prodded her. “Child?”
Mary took a deep breath, and let it slowly out. Then: “I…was raped.”
Caldicott was quiet for a few moments, perhaps considering his own line of thought. “You say ‘rape.’ Were you attacked?”
“Yes, Father.”
“And you gave no consent?”
“No, Father.”
“Then, my child, you have not sinned.”
Mary felt her chest tightening. “I know, Father. The rape was not my sin.”
“Ah,” said Caldicott, sounding as though he understood. “Did you—were you impregnated? Have you had an abortion, child?”
“No. No, I did not get pregnant.”
Caldicott waited for Mary to go on, but, when she didn’t, he tried again. “Was it because you were practicing artificial birth control? Perhaps, under the circumstances…”
Mary was indeed on the Pill, but she’d made her peace with that years ago. Still, she didn’t want to actually lie to the priest, and so she chose her next words with great care. “That is not the sin I speak of,” she said softly. She took another breath, gathered her strength. “My sin was that I did not report the rape.”
Mary could hear the wood creaking as Caldicott shifted on his bench. “God knows about it,” he said. “And God will punish the person who did this to you.”
Mary closed her eyes. “The person has raped again. At least, I suspect it’s the same person.”
“Oh,” said Caldicott.
Oh, thought Mary? Oh? If that’s the best he can do…
But Caldicott continued. “Are you sorry you didn’t report it?”
The question was probably inevitable; contrition was part of the quest for absolution. But Mary nonetheless found her voice cracking as she replied. “Yes.”
“Why didn’t you report it, child?”
Mary thought about that. She could say that she’d simply been too busy—which was almost true. The rape had occurred the night before she’d been whisked off to Sudbury. But she’d made her decision before she’d received the phone call from Reuben Montego looking for a Neanderthal-DNA expert. “I was afraid,” she said. “I’m…separated from my husband. I was afraid of what they’d do to me, what they’d say about me, about my morals, if this matter ever came to court.”
“But now someone else has been hurt by you r…by your inaction, ” said Caldicott.
The priest’s comment brought to mind a lecture she’d heard on AI a few months ago. The speaker, from the MIT Robotics Lab, had talked about Asimov’s Laws of Robotics, the first of which was something like, “A robot may not injure a human being, or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.” It had occurred to Mary then that the world might be a better place if people lived by the same injunction.
And yet—
And yet, so many of the principles she used to guide her were exhortations to inaction. Most of the Ten Commandments were things you were not to do.
Mary’s sin had been one of omission. Still, Caldicott would probably say that it was a venial sin, not a mortal one, but—
But something had died in Mary the day the crime was committed. And, she was sure, the same had happened to the animal’s new victim, whoever it might have been.
“Yes,” said Mary at last, her voice very small. “Someone else has been hurt because I didn’t do anything.”
She saw Caldicott’s silhouette move. “I could prescribe some prayer or Bible reading as penance, but…” The priest trailed off, clearly inviting Mary to complete the thought.
And Mary nodded, finally giving voice to what she already had known. “But the only real solution is for me to go to the police and tell them everything I know.”
“Can you find the strength in you to do that?” asked Caldicott.
“I was going to, Father. But the evidence I had of the rape—it’s gone.”
“Still, you may have information that can be of help. But, if you wish another penance…”
Mary closed her eyes again, and shook her head. “No. No, I will go to the police.”
“In that case…” said Caldicott. “God, the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of His Son has reconciled the world to Himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins.” Mary wiped her eyes, and Caldicott went on: “Through the ministry of the Church, may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins…”
Even though she was facing a most difficult task, Mary did feel a weight lifting from her.
“…in the name of the Father…”
She’d go today. Right now.
“…and of the Son…”
But she would not go alone.
“…and of the Holy Spirit.”
Mary crossed herself. “Amen,” she said.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Ponter was sitting in a pew. As she approached, Mary was surprised to see that he had an open book in his lap and was flipping through the pages. “Ponter?” she said.
He looked up. “How did it go?” he asked.
“Fine.”
“Do you feel better?”
“Somewhat. But there’s still more I have to do.”
“Whatever is required,” said Ponter. “I will help in any way I can.”
“Are you reading the Bible?” asked Mary, astonished, as she looked at the open book.
“Then I have guessed correctly!” said Ponter. “This is your religion’s central text.”
“Yes,” said Mary. “But…but I thought you couldn’t read English.”
“I cannot. Nor can Hak, yet. But Hak is more than capable of recording the images on each page of this book, so that when he does acquire that capability, he can translate it for me.”
“I can get you a talking Bible, you know—either one that uses an electronic device to speak the words, or tapes of an actor reading the words. There’s a great set that James Earl Jones did…”
“I was unaware of such alternatives,” said Ponter, simply.
“I didn’t know you wanted to read the Bible. I, ah, didn’t think it would be of any interest to you.”
“It is important to you,” said Ponter. “Therefore, it is important to me.”
Mary smiled. “I am so lucky to have found you,” she said.
Ponter tried to make a joke of it. “I am easy to spot in a crowd,” he said.
Still smiling, Mary shook her head. “You are indeed.” She looked up at the crucifix above the pulpit, and crossed herself once more. “But, come on, we should get going.”
“Where to now?” asked Ponter.
Mary took a deep breath. “The police station.”
“‘It’s important to you,’” repeated Selgan. “‘Therefore, it’s important to me.’”
Ponter looked at the personality sculptor. “That’s what I said, yes.�
��
“And was that truly your only motivation in consulting this book?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, was this not the book that contained the supposed historical accounts you mentioned earlier? Was this not the book that held their principal evidence for a life after death?”
“I honestly don’t know,” said Ponter. “It was quite a massive book—not overly thick, but the symbols in it were small, and the paper used was the thinnest I’d yet encountered. It will be quite some time before it is translated.”
“And yet you were moved to examine it?”
“Well, there were many copies in the room I was waiting for Mare in. One in front of each position on the benches, it seemed.”
“Have you consulted an audio version, as Mare suggested?”
Ponter shook his head.
“And so you still wonder about this supposed proof?”
“I am curious, yes.”
“How curious?” asked Selgan. “How important is this issue to you?”
Ponter shrugged. “You accused me before of having a closed mind. But I don’t. If there is truth in this outlandish claim, I want to know it.”
“Why?”
“Just out of curiosity.”
“Is that all?” asked Selgan.
“Of course,” replied Ponter. “Of course.”
The desk sergeant was looking Ponter up and down. “If any of you Neanderthals ever want a new job,” he said, “we could use a hundred of you on the force.” They were at 31 Division headquarters on Norfinch Drive, only a few blocks from York.
Ponter smiled awkwardly, and Mary laughed a little. The cop was indeed one of the strongest-looking Homo sapiens males Mary had seen in a long time, but there was no doubt who her money would be on in a fight.
“Now, ma’am, what can I do for you?”
“There was a rape last week at York University,” said Mary. “It was reported in the campus newspaper, the Excalibur, and so I assume someone reported it here, as well.”
“That’d be Detective Hobbes’s department,” said the cop. He shouted to somebody else. “Hey, Johnny, can you see if Hobbes is in?”
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