the Miracle Strain (aka The Messiah Code) (1997)

by Cordy, Michael

  Three days ago, Karen Tanner had told him all she knew about the killer, and passed him copies of the more relevant files. He had been disheartened at first because everything Karen had told him, and everything he had read in the files, pointed to only one thing: that Maria was highly skilled at taking lives. Nothing had even hinted that she had any desire, let alone ability, to save them. He had determined to probe further back into her past.

  Karen had warned him that the Preacher wasn't inter ested in doing deals. But yesterday Tom had visited the state governor, Lyle Mellish, to see what bargaining chips he could gain. Governor Mellish had been a friend for many years, and was as straight as a politician could ever be. Tom had also cured his grandson of cystic fibrosis, which helped. When Tom had asked how likely it was that Maria's death sentence could be postponed or commuted to life, Mellish had stressed that her death penalty was written in stone, and nothing short of a miracle could change it. "Look, Tom, I'm here on a crime and punishment ticket," he'd said. "That's what's sexy. I can't be seen to be soft on one of the most notorious killers of recent times. Can I?"

  "Would your electorate thank you for helping put away even bigger killers?" Tom had asked calmly. "Such as cancer, heart disease, and possibly many more?"

  Mellish had pricked up his ears at that. "Depends. What exactly are you talking about?"

  When Tom had explained about the healing genes in general terms, including the fact that Maria Benariac possessed them, Mellish had been flustered.

  "What exactly do you need?" he had asked eventually after pacing around his office at least five times.

  "I need unrestricted access to her, and if necessary permission to conduct tests."

  "Is that all?"

  "I also need to be able to offer her something to co-operate."

  "Like what?"

  "Her death sentence commuted to life."

  "You've got to be kidding. Tom, she killed Olivia, for Christ's sake."

  Sharp intake of breath. "I'm aware of that. I've got to offer her something. Or she'll have no reason to help."

  A pause. "She would have to do something big to justify her death sentence being commuted. Before her execution date."

  "How about curing a terminally ill patient?"

  A nod. "That would do it."

  "Good. I'm demanding no less."

  With the governor's deal in his pocket he had taken the next flight to Paris, and then to here: Calvi, Corsica.

  He turned the Peugeot around the next corner and caught his first complete sight of the gray, Gothic building beneath the looming turret. It sent an involuntary shiver down his spine. A cross between Colditz and the Bates Motel. Not an appealing place to spend one's childhood.

  The large gates were open but the grounds looked deserted. He turned into the driveway and up to the main house. The tall dark windows were broken and the maquis had run wild, not only invading the gravel drive but creeping up the walls as well. A yellow earthmover, a stack of bricks, and other building equipment were piled outside the large French windows to the right of the imposing front door. A brand-new construction sign indicated that L'Hotel Napoleon was due to open on this site in the summer of 2004.

  The orphanage had closed down five or so years ago, but the staff at Europcar where he'd hired the Peugeot had told him that an old woman, who once had something to do with the orphanage, still lived there. She had been working the gardens over the last few years and in exchange had been allowed to stay on the grounds. The man at the Europcar desk had tapped his temple a couple of times and warned Tom that Madame Leforget was a little "confused."

  But confused or not she didn't appear to be here now. Trying to curb his disappointment, Tom brought the car to a stop and looked around. What did he expect? To just turn up and find her strolling around the grounds? It would be getting dark soon. He should go back to Calvi and come back tomorrow. He drove farther down the drive looking for a place to turn. On his left was a gap in the bougainvillea, where a small path snaked around the end of the house. Since he was here, he thought he might as well check it out.

  Parking the car, Tom followed the overgrown path on foot. The pungent smell of maquis and bougainvillea accentuated the long shadow of unease cast by the dark house. Behind the main building was a row of children's swings and a small ordered garden surrounded by a white waist high fence. Something about them seemed unusual; then Tom realized that unlike the surrounding jungle they were beautifully maintained. The fresh, glossy red paint of the swings gleamed in the dying sun, and the white fence, manicured lawns, and well-stocked borders of the small garden formed an island of order and care in this sea of neglect.

  Madame Leforget was obviously still a very active presence around here.

  A sound to Tom's right made him turn. There, standing silently beneath the cluster of trees, was a woman of about seventy. Squat, she had an obese body and a sagging round face. Her eyes, behind large glasses, were tiny beads set deep into fleshy sockets--her mouth, a frowning line bracketed between heavy jowls. Wispy gray hair hung down on either side of her face and her dark shapeless dress looked like a habit. The beady, unblinking eyes appeared to be studying him closely.

  "Madame Leforget?" he asked.

  The woman stood motionless, and said nothing.

  Tom walked toward her and introduced himself in his rusty French, hurriedly trying to explain that he hadn't come to trespass on the grounds or damage them, but to visit her.

  "Pourquoi?" the woman asked eventually.

  Tom explained about the orphanage, and how he was trying to find somebody who might remember a girl who had stayed there from about 1968 to 1983.

  The old woman appeared to think about the question for a while and then said, "There were so many children." Her voice suddenly became sad. "And now they've all gone---Elles sontdisparues--but when they return the gardens and playground will be ready for them... And they will be safe."

  Tom nodded slowly. "The gardens are indeed beautiful."

  The woman gave him an angry look. "And safe. Nothing will happen to them here," she said defensively.

  Tom's heart sank. He could see from her wild eyes that Madame Leforget was more than just a little confused. It didn't look as if he was going to get any new information.

  He turned to go back to the car. "I'm sorry I troubled you, madame. I was just trying to find out about someone called Maria Benariac."

  The change was incredible. Her eyes cleared and her posture straightened in an instant. "Maria?" she asked in a faraway voice. "It was my fault, you know. All my fault."

  "What was your fault?"

  She looked suddenly wretched. "Father Angelo. Sister Delphine. I didn't believe, you see. I thought the girls were all lying. I thought Maria was a liar. So clever, so pretty, and so deceitful."

  "You knew Maria well?"

  "All the nuns remember her."

  He looked at her habitlike dress again. "You were a nun here?"

  A short sad laugh. "I was the Mother Superior once--many years ago. Until the troubles, and my breakdown. They tried to make me leave, but I insisted I stay here and work out my penance."

  "Will you tell me about Maria? What she was like?"

  She stared at him with those unnerving eyes for a moment, as her troubled mind came to a decision. "Come," she said, eventually. "You will be my confessor."

  The lodge where she lived was humble but surprisingly cozy, and Tom found himself seated in the kitchen. In no time a bowl of fish soup, croutons sprinkled with grated cheese, and a glass of red wine appeared on the table in front of him. Eventually she sat opposite and proceeded to tell him of the young girl called Maria Benariac.

  "The nuns never knew whether she was an angel or devil. She looked beautiful and was very clever, but she was a terrible liar--so I thought anyway. The poor girl was punished often." A sad shake of the head. "I punished her often."

  Tom sipped his wine. "Why did you think she was a liar?"

  She shrugged. "Much
of what she said was hard to be lieve. But many things--good and bad--happened around her."

  "What sorts of things?"

  "Well, at the end, when she was older, awful things. She claimed Father Angelo, a senior priest, raped her. I thought she was lying until Sister Delphine committed suicide and the priest..." She trailed off.

  "What happened to the priest?"

  "He died badly."

  "Was Maria responsible for his death?"

  The ex-nun shrugged, clearly not shocked by the question.

  "You said there were some good things that happened around her," he tried, not holding out much hope.

  "Oh, yes. They happened when she was very young. There were many stories--so fantastic that at the time I was sure they were lies--devilish lies--" Her eyes glazed over as her mind wandered back to the past. "La grande tombee," she whispered to herself. Her eyes focused on him again. "It was a clear night in June, and I was awakened by a noise outside on the drive. I rushed outside and saw four of the younger girls--the oldest eight, the youngest about seven--screaming outside the front door. The girls were forbidden to go outside their dormitories at night, so they were punished. Maria claimed she shouldn't be punished because she had only gone outside to help the other girls. Did you see the large turret on the roof of the orphanage?"

  Tom nodded.

  "Well, Maria claimed that the other girls had fallen off the roof balcony. And she had rushed down to help them. Of course the other girls said they weren't even up on the balcony. That was completely out of bounds. And when I checked the girls, they had no injuries. If they had fallen from that height they would have been killed."

  "So?" asked Tom, utterly absorbed.

  A shake of the head. "So I punished Maria even more than the others, for lying. It was much later that one of the other girls admitted she had gone up on the balcony on a dare. And the janitor found a gap in the rotten board through which they could have fallen."

  "So you think Maria was telling the truth after all? That she made them better?"

  A shrug. "That wasn't the only incident. There were many others. It was the same with the bees."

  "The bees?"

  Clemenza Leforget poured herself some more wine. "One afternoon the girls went on a trip to Corse. When they got back Maria and Valerie were sent to me for disturbing a nest of wild bees. Apparently they had walked off to a nearby stream and Maria had thrown stones at the nest. The local farmer had been furious because the bees had disturbed his sheep. Maria claimed that Valerie had been attacked by the bees and covered in hundreds of stings. But she had made her better."

  "What did Valerie say?"

  "She backed up Maria's story, but I thought that was just to make me feel sorry for her and avoid the punishment. And I was angry with them both for being so stupid. Valerie was allergic to bee stings, you see. According to the doctors, just one sting could kill her. I had Valerie checked, of course, and not surprisingly, he couldn't find any evidence of even one sting. The girl had either never been stung, or Maria had somehow neutralized all the poison. You can guess which option I chose to believe. But there was one strange thing which at the time I refused to take notice of."

  "What was that?"

  "The doctor claimed that not only could Valerie not have been stung by a bee but she no longer had an allergy. She had somehow been cured."

  Tom said nothing for a while. He just looked closely at the woman opposite him. "Why didn't you believe her?"

  "I hated her. Maria was so beautiful, and clever. She lacked humility. She needed to be taught a lesson. And when she began to claim she could heal people it was too much; it was blasphemy."

  "Are there any other stories?"

  "Yes, many. And there is one that I definitely know to be genuine--whatever I chose to believe at the time. Maria was often punished by being locked in the cellars. She was terrified of the dark, and once, when she was very young, she held on to the nun who was punishing her and begged not to be sent to the lock-away. Maria said she would do anything if the nun didn't send her away. Of course the nun didn't believe her, but for once felt compassion and sent her off to bed unpunished. Afterward, perhaps a week later, the nun who had had diabetes all her life went for a routine checkup and was told she was cured."

  "And you're sure it was Maria who cured her?"

  "Positive."

  "How can you be so sure?"

  Clemenza grimaced. "I was the nun."

  "And yet you still didn't believe her?"

  "No. I couldn't. I didn't want to. I just put it down to coincidence." She wrung her hands. "But if I had believed her then, I could have protected her from Father Angelo. And perhaps even nurtured her gift." She suddenly fixed him with a pained stare. "Do you know where she is now?"

  Since Clemenza clearly had no idea of Maria's predicament, he decided not to burden her with the information. "Yes," he said.

  "One day I will ask for her forgiveness."

  Tom paused and found himself appraising the woman opposite. Even if she was unbalanced, why would she tell a complete stranger these fantastic stories unless they were true? He hadn't even told her he wanted to know whether Maria could heal or not.

  "How do you believe Maria did these acts of healing?" he asked.

  "I don't know."

  "But what do you think?"

  A shrug. "I'm not a doctor, and I'm no longer a nun, but I've been thinking about this for the last twenty years. I have a simple theory. I think Maria had a gift from God. A gift she could pass on to others. It was almost like she had a good disease that she could make other people catch from her."

  Tom smiled as he looked into the woman's eyes.

  "Does that sound foolish?" she asked.

  "Not to me it doesn't. Not at all. But why did you use the past tense? You said she had this gift."

  Mother Clemenza smiled sadly, and poured him some more wine. "I think it was because I always punished her for telling 'lies' about what she did. But as far as I'm aware she didn't perform one other act of healing after the bee sting incident--after her eighth birthday. I doubt she even remembers what she once could do."

  The same night, North Boston

  That night Bob Cooke turned in his sleep. In his dreams he wasn't in his apartment in North Boston, but back in California, and the surf was big. He loved his science, and working with the great Tom Carter, but however exciting or important it was, there were times when he wished he could give it all up and ride the waves again.

  The noise woke him just as he was about to paddle out for the last big one. Yeah, he thought, in his groggy half-asleep state, come August he'd go back and catch up with the gang. Maybe do some hot-dogging.

  That noise again.

  Was someone downstairs? It sounded as if it was coming from the kitchen. Then, just as suddenly as it started, the noise stopped.

  "Hey, Dawn! Did you hear that?" he whispered to the woman next to him.

  "What?" she said sleepily, turning into him and pushing that cute butt of hers into his crotch.

  "Thought I heard something."

  She moved her soft buttocks against him, and then snaked her hand behind her to grip his hardening penis.

  "I didn't hear anything," she murmured. "But I sure as hell felt something."

  "It was probably nothing," he said, enjoying the feel of her hand on him.

  "Don't be so tough on yourself," she said, gripping him. "It doesn't feel like nothing to me."

  He laughed in the dark. "I meant the noise."

  "Noise?" she groaned. "If you use this thing like you're supposed to, I'll give you noise."

  He closed his eyes while she maneuvered him inside her, and then moved his hips to her rhythm. Okay, he admitted, as he allowed her to roll him over on his back and mount him, brushing her breasts over his face. There were some things better than science and surfing.

  Half an hour later both their bodies were entwined and asleep. Perhaps if they had stayed awake just another ten minutes th
ey would have smelled the gas coming from the carefully cut pipe in the kitchen downstairs. And been able to dismantle the simple match, sandpaper, and spring contraption expertly rigged up beside it.

  The next morning, Charlestown

  Nora Lutz put the last piece of toast on the tray, next to the pot of imported Scottish marmalade her mother liked. Then she poured out a cup of tea--milk first naturally; her mother wouldn't drink it any other way since her trip to England in '78. Finally she placed the bowl of bran-rich cereal with its small jug of cold milk in the remaining corner. Once the breakfast tray was organized to her satisfaction, she left the kitchen of her twostory apartment in Charlestown and, stepping past two of the cats, made her way up the well-trodden stairs to her mother's room.

  There was a time when she resented her mother's sickness. But that was years ago, when she was in her thirties, when she still had a life to sacrifice. Now, forty-five, her whole existence outside of her mother revolved around her work at GENIUS. Being put on Cana had been a godsend--an important project that had placed all her gripes into context. And it didn't matter that her mother didn't understand or appreciate what she did. Carter and the others valued her contribution and that's what counted. Cana, and all it promised, was her escape from the claustrophobic demands and emotional blackmail of the woman she loved dearly, but sometimes wished would quietly pass away.