Designer Genes (2 page)

“A bond
issue?” roared Popsworthy, who seized on every issue that came up as part of
his platform. “I won’t hear of it!” He looked around as if for applause. A
couple of people uttered half-hearted cries of, “Hear! Hear!”

“Is there some
hurry about rebuilding?” asked Finella. “I mean, those space heaters in the
classrooms work fine, and we’ve got plenty of canvas for the roof.”

“If we don’t
have enough money by the start of the fiscal year on July 1,” Quade said, “we
can’t begin construction for at least another year. One more major breakdown
and the state’s going to condemn this facility, which means our kids will have
to be bused to Groundhog Station.”

The principal,
Uncle Dick Smollens, nodded in glum confirmation, and a horrified murmur ran
through the audience. It was already a source of dissatisfaction that the
town’s older students attended a regional high school in that rival community.

“A town of two
thousand people needs its own school,” said Gigi Wernicke, the grocery store
owner, whose large frame overflowed her folding chair. “Especially with
this—this baby boom we’re having.”

She referred
to the fact that the student population of a hundred and fifty was being
augmented annually. This was thanks in large part to board member and handyman
Billy Dell Grimes and his wife, Willie, who had eight kids and another on the
way.

Carter
understood her point, and he hated to disagree with Quade, his best friend from
their high school days. Nevertheless, as a board member, he had an obligation
to express a different view.

“What with
April 15 being just around the corner, I’m having a hard time with the idea of
more taxes, and so are a lot of small businesspeople,” he said. “Can’t we find
another way? We could hold a fund-raiser, for instance.” But
not
if it
involved the kind of donation he’d made in L.A. Only—that hadn’t really
benefited the school district, to the best of his knowledge.

What had the
pretty blonde lady said? That he’d be helping couples complete their families.
That he be immortalizing his legacy. That he’d be doing it for the children.
But which children?

In the back of
the room, Mazeppa set down a paper plate half-full of Finella’s Spring Salad,
whose main ingredients were corned beef and lemon gelatin. “Aw, shoot!” she
roared. “We should have expected something like that from a bachelor. You and
Quade don’t even have kids.”

“That’s so,” agreed
Popsworthy. “Some of us are devoted family men.” That was ironic, considering
that his only son, after graduating from high school two years ago, had
promptly moved to Dallas. Apparently discovering this was not far enough from
Nowhere Junction, he had subsequently relocated to Tucson and then to Las
Vegas. According to the latest rumor, he’d joined the Peace Corps and was
preparing to travel to Nepal. What was next, outer space?

Frowning,
Quade tapped his gavel. “Seeing as Carter and I got elected by default two
years ago when we skipped a town meeting, I consider any criticism on that
score out of line.”

“Besides, Carter’s
right about the taxes,” said Billy Dell. He was sitting at the end of the
semicircle of trustees in order to make a quick getaway if his wife, Willie,
went into labor. She sat in the front row, her pregnancy clearly near term.
“Some of us can hardly make ends meet as it is.”

“If you spent
less time playing Starship Intruders with your kids and took on a few more
handyman jobs, it wouldn’t be so durn hard,” snapped Mazeppa. With her
strawlike dark hair, glittering eyes and pinched mouth, she scarcely needed
makeup for her annual role as the witch in the town’s Halloween Carnival.

“That does
it!” Billy stood up. “Now I know Mazeppa is related to some of the town folks
and we take care of our own, but she’s been living in my laundry room for six
months and criticizing every move I make. Besides, we need the space for a
nursery. It’s time somebody else shouldered the burden.”

Tears sparkled
in Mazeppa’s eyes. “I guess I know when I’m not wanted. Young people are all
alike. When you’re old, they figure you’re disposable.”

“Don’t cry,”
Carter said quickly. “Nobody’s going to put you out on the street.” He wished
Quade would steer them back to the topic of replacing the school, but sticking
to the agenda at a public meeting in Nowhere Junction was a Herculean task.

“Oh, nobody’s
going to put her out, are they?” said Billy Dell. “Well, Carter, that reminds
me, you’ve got a great big house all to yourself.”

“Great big?
It’s less than twelve hundred square feet, and there’s a dog and a cat.”
Realizing that might not appear a very strong defense, he added, “And terrible
fleas.”

Finella’s knitting
needles clicked. “We don’t care to hear about your fleas, Carter. Why don’t you
go see Dr. Miles and spare us the medical details?”

“I didn’t mean
I
have fleas...”

Quade raised
his hand for silence. “Is there any more discussion about putting a bond issue
on the ballot?” There wasn’t. “Then I call for a vote.”

*

After two days
of driving across Texas, Buffy had memorized the Country Music Top Ten. She’d
also learned six ways to prepare chili and eight tips on perfecting her
barbecue sauce. Try as she might, she couldn’t find a radio station that
specialized in romantic advice and decorating tips. Not that she needed either,
considering that she was on the brink of a divorce and only a few degrees short
of flat broke.

She’d closed
her bank account before leaving L.A. The house and furnishings had been Roger’s
before their marriage, so she didn’t have a bed to call her own. Just a baby, a
tiny trunkful of luggage and a large bag of organic dried fruit.

Buffy drove
past a sign that read, “Nowhere Junciton, 10 miles.” Someone had misspelled
Junction—years ago, judging by the weathered condition of the paint— and no one
had bothered to fix it. This was a far cry from Beverly Hills, where, when a
building needed repainting, they tore it down and put up a bigger one.

Buffy was
entertaining a parade of second, third and fourth thoughts about her
destination, when her two-timing engine seized its chance to self-destruct.

This round, it
didn’t bother to sputter in a dainty, respectable manner. Instead, it gave out
a huge clanking noise and hissed like a diva spotting a knockoff of her new
designer dress worn by her husband’s mistress.

A burning
smell wafted into the passenger compartment.

“Cut the
theatrics!” Buffy said.

The engine
spluttered one last time and died. A profound silence settled over the Texas
night as the car drifted to the side of the road.

She was stuck,
ten miles from Nowhere. In the back seat, Allie slept. Overhead, a zillion
stars glittered uselessly. Buffy had never felt so alone.

“How boring,”
she said. Taking out her cell phone, she dialed Carter Murchison’s business
number, which was the only one she had for him.

It rang four
times. Five. Six. He must have closed up shop for the evening. There wasn’t
even an answering machine. What now?

She was about
to click off when, on the seventh ring, a woman answered, “Murchison’s Garage.”

Was he
married? He hadn’t been married two years ago. Not according to the records
that the clinic had provided.

“Mrs.
Murchison?” Buffy asked.

“No, this is
Mimsy. I mean, Dr. Miles,” said the woman.

“Are you a
mechanic?” “Doc” might be a nickname.

“No, I’m the
town doctor,” the woman said. “I was on my way to the school board meeting when
I heard the phone ring and I thought someone might be in trouble, so I answered
it.”

“The phone
rings on the street?” she asked, confused.

“I was walking
by the garage,” the doctor said. “Carter left it open. To whom am I speaking?”

Buff gave her
name and explained that she was on a trip with her baby daughter and her car
had broken down. Surely Carter Murchison could drive his tow truck out to
rescue her.

“He’s over at
the school,” the doctor said.

“Be a dear and
give me his cell number, would you?” Nearby, in the rustically fragrant
darkness, something uttered a strangulated chirp. Buffy chucked a prune at it.

“He doesn’t
have one,” said Mimsy. “He uses CB.”

Buffy puzzled
over the initials. Usually, she was good at alphabet soup. She knew USC and
UCLA, LOL, TTFN and, unfortunately, the CHP, which had socked her with a ticket
for using the freeway car pool lane even though she was pregnant at the time
and therefore consisted of two people. “CB? He calls back?” she guessed.

“Citizens Band
Radio. It’s totally outdated, but… Quade!” Mimsy exclaimed, which made no sense
until she added, “I just remembered. Quade has a cell phone. He’s at the
meeting.”

At last they
were making progress. “Thank you,” Buffy said. “I’ll be happy to take that
number.”

“Just a hint.
Don’t tell him your first name is…”

Too late.
She’d already pushed the red button. Besides, why on earth would Carter care
about her name?

*

The vote to
put a bond issue on the June ballot failed, 3-2. Only Finella sided with Quade.

“You people
are a bunch of cheap so-and-sos!” Mazeppa rattled her shopping cart, which, as
usual, she had brought with her. “What are you planning to do, hold classes in
a barn?”

JoJo Anderson,
the postmistress, stood up. “Does anybody have a clue how much a new school is
going to cost? That’s what I’d like to know.”

“Hold on.”
Quade performed a quick search in his phone. “Here’s a ballpark estimate. Even
considering that we already own the land, it’ll be somewhere in the
neighborhood of five million dollars.”

A hush fell
over the auditorium. It was broken only by the drip-drip-drip of a leaky pipe
that Billy Dell had tried twice to find, without success.

“That’s a lot
of bake sales,” muttered Finella.

Quade’s phone
rang. Carter hoped there wasn’t trouble on his cattle ranch.

With an apologetic
smile, the board chairman answered, “Quade here.” He listened, then handed the
unit to Carter. “It’s for you.”

“Me?” Who
would call him on Quade’s phone? Putting it cautiously to one ear, he said,
“This is Carter.”

“Thank
goodness! This is Buffy.”

The woman had
to be joking. “That isn’t possible,” he said. “Buffy’s my cat.”

“Excuse me?”

“There’s
nobody in town named Buffy except my cat.” To his chagrin, Carter realized that
some fifty people were listening intently to his end of the conversation. Also,
it struck him that the name had popped into his mind when the cat wandered into
his house shortly after his return from L.A. But what did that have to do with
anything?

“Let me get
this straight.” The woman spoke in a no-nonsense manner. “This is not your cat.
Are we clear on that?”

“Well, which
Buffy is it?”

“Buffy Arden.
You may not remember me, but we’ll deal with that later,” she added. “My car
broke down ten miles outside town. I need you to come right now!”

He got the
picture. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until after the board meeting, miss.
We’re making on a very important decision.”

An exasperated
breath rattled the receiver. “Mr. Murchison, I wouldn’t insist if it were just
me, but there’s the baby.”

“What baby?”
he asked.

Fifty sets of
ears pricked up. The only one who spoke, though, was Mazeppa. “What’s this
about a baby?”

Carter put his
hand over the mouthpiece. “This lady’s car broke down outside town and she has
a baby.”

“Is it a motor
home?” asked Finella.

Apparently his
hand didn’t prevent the nonfeline Buffy from hearing, because she said, “It’s a
sports car.”

“Sports car,”
Carter repeated aloud.

“You can’t
leave a little baby out in the cold!” huffed Sweetie Popsworthy, although she
of all people should know it wasn’t due to drop below seventy degrees tonight.
She occasionally broadcast the weather on public access cable TV from her
husband’s dry goods store.

“I move that
Carter goes out and helps the lady,” said Billy Dell.

“Second!” Gigi
wasn’t qualified to second the motion, since she didn’t serve on the board, but
nobody objected.

“Any
discussion?” asked Quade. “Hearing none—”

“Wait a
minute.” Carter needed to think this over. He wasn’t sure he wanted to rush out
in the middle of an important meeting to help a woman with the same name as his
cat.

“Hearing no
discussion,” Quade repeated, with a glare, “I call for a vote. All in favor,
raise your hands.”

Four hands
went up. “Opposed?”

A man ought to
know when he was licked. That was one lesson among many that Carter’s father
had taught him. “The opposition yields.”

A cheer arose
from the audience. “To the rescue,” called the ever-ebullient Pastor Ephraim
O’Rourke. At ninety-three, he was still spry as a grasshopper.

Carter
unfolded his long legs and said, “I’m on my way.” He returned the phone to
Quade and left the auditorium. As he crossed the street in the warm night air,
he felt grateful that none of his fellow townspeople had guessed the real
reason he was reluctant to go.

He could swear
he’d heard that woman’s voice before, long ago and far away. It had been in
connection with an incident he would really, really, really rather forget.

Sitting in the
front seat eating a dried apple ring, Buffy tried for the thousandth time to
remember what Carter Murchison looked like. Vaguely, she recalled that he was
tall with brown hair, but that was as far as it went.

It had been a
year and a half since she’d met him. During the two or three months she’d spent
working as a spokesperson for the fertility center, she’d recruited him at a
hotel seminar, along with hundreds of other willing victims, as she now
considered them.