The God Gene

  Was he serious? Sometimes she couldn’t tell.

  Okay, sure, she had a little OCD going for her. But so what? It made her a better ME. When posting a corpse, it paid to do everything the same way in the same order every time. That way she didn’t miss anything.

  Playing along, she held up the tablespoon. “Look. I’ve got to put this someplace, right? So I put it next to another tablespoon.” She did just that. “See? Simple. Same with a dessert fork: next to another dessert fork. And so on and so on. Why? Because it makes unloading a breeze. Just grab all the dinner forks at once and drop them into the dinner-fork slot in the utensil drawer. Bam. Done in one shot. Nothing to it.”

  He was still nodding. “Uh-huh. Where are the bodies buried? Under the rhodos?”

  She put on a shocked expression. “Don’t be ridiculous! Their roots are too thick.”

  “And what if I took this,” he said, reaching for a steak knife, “and put it with the forks?”

  “Well, then I’d have to kill you—with the steak knife, of course.” She grinned as she closed the dishwasher. “When did you become funny?”

  “‘Funny’ as in ‘strange’? Always been strange.”

  “You hid it when we met—under a thick layer of crankiness, as I recall.” She remembered not liking him much at first.

  “Because I didn’t know if I could trust you. I’d experienced the inexplicable and you hadn’t. Now you have.”

  “The ikhar.”

  “The ikhar. Its existence is proof that there’s more to life on Earth than what we see. You’ve accepted that all is not as it seems, so now we are simpatico.”

  “I wasn’t given much choice, was I. Dragged kicking and screaming to acceptance, but yes, I have to admit that all is not as it seems.” To change the subject, she pointed to the B & N bag. “Before we wade too far into the Sea of Paranoia, would you mind putting those out in the family room?”

  “More neurology books?”

  She explained Marissa’s current class work.

  He shook his head. “It’s baseball season.”

  “You mean spitting season?”

  He grinned. “That bothers the hell out of you, doesn’t it.”

  “It’s disgusting.”

  No lie. Baseball players couldn’t seem to go ten seconds without spitting something. And not one of them seemed capable of chewing with his mouth closed. Yuck.

  “Well, spitting season’s fully up and running. Got a feeling her discretionary reading is going to be limited to Sports Illustrated and the back pages of the Daily News.”

  Marissa loved all baseball but loved the “Metropolitans”—as she insisted on calling the Mets—most of all. And miracle of miracles, the Metropolitans were doing well again this year.

  Laura tapped her temple. “There’s method to this madness. I picked out a couple of big books, heavy on illustrations. We both know she’ll balk at the idea of ‘learning’ during one of her precious games, but if someone, let’s just say her mother, or perhaps a guy she thinks is really cool and pretends to like baseball as much as she does—”

  “Hangin’ in there. Hope I can last. MLB season goes on like a Castro speech.”

  “‘Oh what a tangled web we weave…’”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Another likable trait. To get on Marissa’s good side, Rick had pretended to love baseball when he hated it. Neither he nor Laura had anticipated him being a semi-regular visitor then, but Rick hadn’t let Marissa down. He’d studied up on the sport and could now trade stats with the best of them.

  “So,” she said, “what if, during a commercial break, you casually picked up one of the books and found a cool picture and said, ‘Hey, look at this!’ Who knows? She might do some page flipping during subsequent breaks, or even when nothing is happening on the field. Which is often.”

  “Except for spitting.”

  “Spitting excepted, of course.”

  “Your optimism is inspiring. Naïve, but inspiring nonetheless.”

  “I’m counting on your help, Rick.”

  “I’m on it.”

  She handed him the B & N bag. “Kindly find strategic places for these in the family room.”

  “Any suggestions?”

  “Well, they’re called coffee-table books. Why not start there?”

  “You have a coffee table?”

  “It’s that low flat thing in front of the couch.”

  “Oh, the footrest.”

  She laughed. “Yes, that too.”

  “Got it.”

  A few seconds after he left the kitchen she heard him say, “I’ll be damned! That’s my brother!”

  She hurried into the family room, expecting to see him staring at the TV. Instead his gaze was fixed on the book in his hands.

  “Brother? You have a brother?”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not in touch with my family much.” He held up one of the books she’d bought: The Ties That Bind by Keith Somers, Ph.D. “But that’s him. That’s my bro.”

  Keith Somers … okay, right. Rick’s real name was Garrick Somers, not Rick Hayden (“like the planetarium, not Panettiere,” as he was wont to say). He’d arrived at his Rick Hayden identity via a long, arduous, devious, and deadly path.

  With all that had happened, with all their time together in Europe, why hadn’t he ever mentioned a brother? He’d been there for her when Marissa was near death. Didn’t he know she was here for him?

  “You never told me you had a brother.”

  “You never told me you had a coffee table.”

  “I’m serious. Aren’t you worried about him?”

  He frowned. “Worried? What’s to worry about? The cover says it’s an international bestseller.”

  He looked puzzled. Which meant he didn’t know. How could he not?

  “He’s missing.”

  His expression went slack. “What?”

  “He disappeared.”

  “When?”

  “Weeks ago—probably over a month, month and a half now. It’s been all over the news. How could you not—?”

  “Whatever news I get comes over my phone—headlines, mostly—and Stahlman’s kept me so busy I must have missed it.”

  “Didn’t anyone in your family call?”

  “My family? Not likely.”

  “But—?”

  “It’s complicated. Just let me say the radio silence is no surprise. And let me tell you: Keith’s a little weird.”

  “What’s that got—?”

  “Not as weird as my sister, of course.”

  “Sister? You have a sister?”

  He sighed. “Yeah, two sibs, one of each sex.”

  “And a mother and father too, I assume.”

  “Dad died. Cancer.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “Years ago. When we moved back from Switzerland, he quit the pharmaceutical biz and cofounded a clothing company. Not sure how he did it, but it got huge. Let himself be bought out after he heard the terminal diagnosis. Left my mother a very wealthy widow. I mean, very wealthy. Who knew there was that kind of money in retail clothing?”

  “You don’t have that scion vibe.”

  “Cylon? You mean like in Battlestar Galactica?”

  She found it hard at times to tell when he was putting her on, so she said, “Sci-on—son of a rich family, a trust-fund kid.”

  “Well, first you need a trust fund for that, right?”

  “You mean your father—?”

  “Like I said, he left it all to my mother, and she’s not my biggest fan.”

  Laura narrowed her eyes. “All right, what did you do?”

  He shrugged. “The ultimate filial betrayal: joined the CIA.”

  “And that’s a problem?”

  “With my mother it is.”

  “But you’re still her son.”

  “Welllllll…” He drew out the word to its tensile limit.

  Laura got it. “You’re adopted.”

  “All three of us. I’m t
he middle child. Keith’s the elder Cylon.”

  “Scion.”

  “No, if you knew Keith you’d know Cylon is closer to the truth.”

  “Whatever. So he’s not really your brother.”

  Rick rubbed his jaw. “Not biologically, I guess, but the way I look at it, if you’re both adopted by the same people, if you shared the same last name and were raised in the same house, you’re brothers.”

  “I can’t believe you’ve never mentioned them. Especially after you know all about my family.”

  “Well, it’s never come up. And your having a Mayan mother was kind of germane to our mission, wasn’t it?”

  Point taken. “Still…”

  “You know that old cliché about knowledge that can drive you mad? That describes my family.”

  “Aren’t we exaggerating just a little?”

  “Not really. If you ever see where I come from, I’ll never hear from you again.”

  Well, nice to know she mattered that much to him. Still …

  “You ought to know by now I’m not easily put off.”

  “You’ve never met my mother. We’re talking about a migraine in lounging pajamas.”

  “Nobody wears lounging pajamas anymore.”

  “You have no idea.”

  No question: Rick seemed to find his family truly embarrassing.

  “But your brother … he’s missing.” She took his arm and pulled him toward her home office. “Come on. We can Google the news and catch you up. The munchkin’s got softball this afternoon so we’ve got plenty of time to get you up to speed on your brother. And you need to know.”

  “Can we debate that?”

  “No.”

  She led him into her office off the family room where she settled before her aging Dell. She hopped into Google news and immediately found a raft of articles on Keith Somers, Ph.D., a zoologist specializing in evolutionary biology and the application of genetics to taxonomy, assistant professor in NYU’s Department of Biology, author of the hugely successful bestselling pop-science book The Ties That Bind.

  As she opened successive links, Rick leaned forward, resting one hand on the edge of the desk and the other on her shoulder. So intent was he on the screen he seemed unaware he was touching her. But Laura was aware. A vague electric tingle trickled from the gentle pressure of his palm. She liked it.

  She focused on the screen where scant details about Dr. Somers disappearing between his home and office six weeks ago were recounted. Police statements from that time provided no useful information.

  The news pieces tapered off quickly after the disappearance as more sensational stories captured the fickle attention of the news cycle, and there’d been no mention of Dr. Somers for weeks.

  “Well,” Rick said, his hand sliding off her shoulder as he straightened, “that was a waste of time.”

  Laura felt his frustration. She cleared her throat. “It’s as if they’ve forgotten about him.”

  “Either that or my mother’s negotiating a ransom.”

  “The quotes from the police said they didn’t suspect foul play.”

  He shrugged. “Keeping police away may be part of the ransom demand. Look at what we know: This rich guy leaves work and never arrives home … that means he’s either been snatched or he’s running from something. Keith is a biology nerd. Spends his life deciding how various living things should be classified. Not the type to get into anything shady. That leaves a kidnapping.”

  Why wasn’t Rick more disturbed? Maybe he just didn’t show it. They’d gone through a few hairy moments in their quest for the ikhar and he’d never once lost his cool.

  “For all we know, he could be back by now.” He sighed. “As much as I know I’m gonna regret it, I don’t see any choice but to go straight to the source. And that means doing something I haven’t done in years … something I dread more than anything else in the universe.”

  Laura couldn’t imagine. “What?”

  “Gonna have to call my mother.”

  3

  Laura had left him in her office and returned to the kitchen to work on dinner—so ET can phone home alone, as she’d put it.

  Rick still remembered the home phone number, at least what the number used to be. How many years since he’d called home? He didn’t remember. Wasn’t even sure his mother still lived in the same house. But then, she’d need an awful good reason to leave a waterfront property on Long Island Sound. She sure as hell didn’t need the money from the sale, so odds were high she’d stayed there.

  He held off punching in the number and looked around. He’d never been in here before. He moved to the nearest wall and browsed the photo gallery. Sprinkled among the many pics of Marissa were a sampling from Laura’s youth. Her Mormon father had met her Mayan mother while doing a missionary work in Quintana Roo.

  Laura had grown up in Salt Lake City and did she ever stand out in her school photos. This beautiful dark-skinned, dark-haired, blue-eyed girl surrounded by all her lily-white Mormon classmates.

  Rick wondered how that must have felt growing up. He’d been born with a face and a name that would be welcome in any country club in the world, while Laura had grown up a swan among ducklings.

  Ah, but what a swan she’d turned out to be. He’d hesitated to rest his hand on her shoulder but the urge had been overwhelming. He’d settled for simply touching her when what he’d really wanted to do was knead her shoulders until she was good and relaxed and then slide his hands down her front to her—

  Whoa. Stop. Not the time or place for fantasies. Like thinking about the night in Kirkwall when, after a lot of wine, they’d started kissing. What might have happened if Clotilde had waited an extra hour before interrupting them?

  He shook it off, pulled away from the photos, and punched in the old phone number.

  A woman answered in accented English. “Allo?”

  Obviously not his mother.

  “Is this the Somers’s residence?”

  “Yes. Who is it calling?”

  “Rick—Garrick Somers.” He’d almost said Rick Hayden. “May I speak to Mrs. Somers?”

  Some muffled conversation as the receiver’s mouthpiece was covered, then a familiar voice came on.

  “Garrick? Is this really you?”

  Paulette Garrick Somers had given him her maiden name as his first and had never once called him “Rick.”

  “The one and only, Paulette.”

  And he’d stopped calling her “Mom” sometime during college.

  “Where have you been? I’ve been trying to contact you.”

  “You have?”

  “Well, not me, personally. Lena tried, but your number has been given to someone else.”

  He’d had easily a dozen or more phone numbers since they’d last spoken.

  “Who’s Lena?”

  “My assistant. She even called that gang of thugs you joined but they said they’d never heard of you.”

  No surprise there. Part of his deal upon leaving the CIA was that all records of his connection with the Company would be buried.

  “Not with them anymore.”

  “Now that’s the first good news I’ve had in weeks.”

  “Look, I’m calling about Keith.”

  “Well, it’s about time.”

  “Only heard about it twenty minutes ago.”

  “How is that possible? He’s your brother.”

  “If it’s not front-page news, I usually miss it. And frankly, what I looked up just before I called doesn’t tell me much. Was he kidnapped? Have you had a ransom demand?”

  “No, nothing like that. I haven’t heard from anybody, especially Keith.”

  “What about the police?”

  “Worse than worthless, as expected when it comes to anything other than abusing minorities! They think he pulled a disappearing act on his own. Patently ridiculous! Something happened to him and it’s all because of that damned monkey.”

  “Monkey? What—?”

  “It’s t
oo involved to go into.”

  “Isn’t anybody looking for him?”

  “I am looking for him. But I’m the only one. First you left to join those thugs, then Cheryl left and won’t tell me where she is, and now Keith.” Her voice broke on the name. Keith had always been her favorite. “I’m all alone in this.”

  Was she looking for his help? Paulette would never come straight out and ask—especially not someone even remotely connected to the CIA.

  “What can I do?”

  “Nothing. I’ve got everything under control.”

  Sure as hell didn’t sound like it.

  “Look, I’m not far away—just down in Shirley. I’m coming over.”

  “Don’t put yourself out.”

  “See you soon.”

  He hung up and walked back to the kitchen where Laura was chopping romaine. He stood and watched her for a moment. She had such a unique look—slim, sturdy frame, inky hair, olive skin, but those eyes … those startling pale-blue eyes were the cherry on the whipped cream.

  But her looks were just the wrapper. Inside she had smarts, she had guts, she had character. She was funny, she was true-blue, all the corny stuff that goes into being a hausfrau and mother. And still something oh-so-sexy about her.

  Not to mention her aura. Not the new-agey nonsense, her presence. It suffused her home. The world outside was ugly and petty and populated by trolls and leeches. But here in this place, this home, he sensed serenity. All because of Laura.

  He wanted her. God, how he wanted her.

  Here was the woman who could save him. But what would save Laura from him? That mission in Düsseldorf … he’d discovered a darkness within him. He’d made the world a better place, but at such a cost.

  The Company had assigned him to infiltrate a group of violent young Germans. Despite being into anarchy and nihilism, they seemed more into talk than action until a mysterious stranger gave them an old book by a long-dead Düsseldorf native. They took to it and it led them into an unspeakable vileness that defied categorization, performing ceremonies that involved mutilating children in the hope of summoning something they called the Dark Man.

  Rick had trapped them in their farmhouse and ignited the explosives and incendiaries they’d stockpiled there. They’d booby-trapped the barn where they kept the children—couldn’t allow anyone to see what they’d done—and when the farmhouse went up, so did the barn.