God Project (23 page)

What about his son?

An image of Jason came into his mind, and for a moment a hint of a smile played around his lips. But then
the smile faded. For just the briefest of moments, he saw the small, still body of the guinea pig that had been his son’s pet.

Steve shook himself, banishing from his consciousness the half-formed thought that had flashed through his mind.

The thought, he told himself, had nothing to do with Jason. Rather, it had come from Sally, and her growing obsession that something had been wrong with Julie. That obsession was spreading like a disease to include Jason as well.

It was time, he decided, to have a long talk with Sally’s doctor.

   Arthur Wiseman grinned at Steve and gestured toward the empty seat in front of his desk. “Is this your first visit to a gynecologist? If it is, let me assure you that you have nothing at all to fear. The examination is painless, and …” He let the joke trail off as he saw the dark expression in Steve’s eyes. “Sit down, Steve,” he concluded softly.

The two men watched each other in silence for a moment, Steve wondering if he’d made a mistake in coming to Wiseman, while Wiseman waited patiently for Steve to begin talking. When it became obvious to him that Steve wasn’t going to begin, he broke the silence.

“I take it this has something to do with Sally?” he asked, his voice professionally neutral.

Steve nodded. Once more a silence fell over the small office.

Wiseman tried again. “Has something else happened?”

“I’m not really sure,” Steve admitted uncomfortably. “I can’t really put my finger on anything. It’s just that she’s—well, she’s changed. She’s so edgy, and she overreacts to everything. Like yesterday, when Jason had a little accident in the kitchen.”

“I know,” Wiseman interrupted. “I was here when she brought Jason in. Sally seemed to think it was a lot worse than it was.”

“Exactly! And she’s like that with everything. She’s
found out about a survey that included both Julie and Bandy Corliss, and now she and Randy’s mother have cooked up some kind of plot.”

Wiseman groaned, remembering his own talk with Sally. “You think she’s getting paranoid?” he asked.

The question startled Steve. He hesitated, his brows furrowing deeply. But before he could answer, Wiseman smiled genially.

“It’s only a catchword,” he said. “Loaded with all kinds of prejudices and connotations. But it does rather get to the heart of the matter, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose so,” Steve replied, his voice almost inaudible. Then, inhaling deeply, he made himself meet the doctor’s eyes. “Do
you
think she’s paranoid?”

Wiseman shrugged. “I’m not a psychiatrist, and I don’t like to make psychiatric judgments. But,” he went on, as relief flooded over Steve Montgomery’s face, “that doesn’t mean she’s not having some severe problems. How could it be otherwise, considering what’s happened? The loss of a baby is the worst thing that can happen to a mother, Steve. Most mothers would prefer to die themselves than lose their child. He paused for a moment, drumming his fingers on his desk top. “Would you like me to find someone for Sally to talk to?”

“You mean a psychiatrist?”

“Or some other kind of therapist. I’m not at all sure Sally needs a psychiatrist If her problems were coming from something physical, that would be one thing. But I think we both know the source of her trouble, and it seems to me that a good psychologist should be able to help.”

Steve shook his head slowly. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “I’m just not sure she’d go. She doesn’t think anything’s wrong with her.”

Wiseman stood up, pointedly glancing at his calendar, and Steve, almost by reflex, echoed the movement.

“No, she’ll never do it,” Steve said. “I know her, and I just don’t think she can be convinced.”

“Sometimes,” Wiseman replied, “we almost have to force people to do what’s best for them.”

Before the implications of his words had fully registered on Steve Montgomery, Wiseman showed the young man out of his office, then returned to his desk. He began jotting notes on a pad of paper, then made a list of five psychologists. At the bottom of the sheet he made one final note, reminding himself to check on the status of his malpractice insurance. He tore the sheet off the pad and slid it into the top drawer of his desk just as his nurse opened the door to announce his first patient of the day.

Wiseman rose, smiling warmly, and moved around his desk to greet the young woman who shyly followed the nurse. He took the file the nurse proffered, and waved the woman, Erica Jordan, into the chair so recently occupied by Steve Montgomery. Only when Erica Jordan was settled in the chair and the nurse was gone did Wiseman return to his own seat. He opened the file, glanced over its contents, then smiled at the woman.

“Well, it seems that an IUD is the indicated method,” he said.

Erica Jordan paled slightly. “Then I
am
allergic to the pill?”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” Wiseman replied. “It isn’t really a matter of allergies. It’s just that the pill has certain side effects, and you seem to be prone to some of them. Migraine headaches for instance. And then there’s the cancer in your family.”

“I didn’t think cancer was hereditary,” Erica Jordan protested.

“It isn’t, as far as we know. But still, we hesitate to prescribe the pill where there’s a history of cancer. Not that there’s any direct connection, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

“Damn,” Erica said softly. “Why do I have to be allergic to everything? And what if I turn out to be allergic to the IUD too?”

Wiseman shrugged. “It could happen,” he admitted. “Maybe you’d better think about a diaphragm again.”

Erica screwed up her face and shook her head. “Nope.
I know myself too well for that Let’s go with the coil and hope for the best.”

Wiseman picked up the phone and spoke to the nurse, then turned his attention back to Erica Jordan. If you’ll go on into the examining room, Charlene will help you get ready. And I have something that just might help with any possible allergic reaction. It’s a salve, and it goes in with the device itself. “It’s supposed to lessen any irritation and help your body accept the presence of the coil.”

“For how long?”

“Quite a while,” Wiseman replied. “According to the literature it’s effective for up to a month. And of course, I’ll want to see you again in a month’s time, just to be sure.” He smiled encouragement as he guided her to the door. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

Half an hour later, with the procedure completed and Erica Jordan on her way back to work, Wiseman slowly and carefully began amending Erica Jordan’s medical records to reflect the insertion of an intrauterine contraceptive device into her womb. He was also careful to note that, “in view of the patient’s susceptibility to allergic reaction,” the application of bicalcioglythemine (BCG) had been both indicated and implemented.

When the record had been updated to his satisfaction, he keyed the proper codes into the computer terminal on his desk and added the new information to the permanent files that were stored in the Shefton County computer.

   Paul Randolph sped through the countryside, acutely aware of the budding trees and the warmth of the air. He was, he knew, spending altogether too much time in Boston, cooped up in either his office or his apartment, seldom escaping the city. He shouldn’t have left the city today—his desk was piled high with work, and he had been forced to juggle appointments with three possible donors to CHILD. Still, it seemed to him that today he had had no choice. Today, he had a problem.

The long narrow drive ended at the gates of the
Academy. Except that Paul Randolph still thought of it as The Oaks. He rolled down the window and punched a code number into the lock-box that was discreetly concealed in a clump of laurel, and watched the gates swing slowly open. He put the car in gear, drove through, then watched in the rearview mirror as the gates closed behind him. Only when he heard the distinctive clunk of the lock did he continue along the winding driveway to the house.

He parked in front of the main entrance, got out, and had already started up the steps when he changed his mind. Tinning, he retreated from the house, stepping back to examine it, to
feel
it, much, he imagined, as a prospective buyer might. For himself, he decided, the inspection would end right there. The house, even though it appeared quiet and peaceful, no longer felt right to him. In the months since the project had been relocated to the estate the house seemed to have changed. The warmth it had held during his childhood here was gone, and now it was as if the house itself didn’t approve of what was being done within its walls.

And neither, Paul Randolph told himself as he started once more toward the door, do I.

With the authority of familiarity he strode through the entry hall and went directly to the clinic. He recognized Louise Bowen, but when she started to speak to him, he ignored her greeting. “Where’s Hamlin?” he demanded.

Her welcoming smile fading from her lips, Louise gestured toward a closed door. “I think he’s—” She fell silent as Randolph opened the door, marched through, and closed it behind himself.

Inside the office George Hamlin looked up from his work. He frowned, set his pencil aside, then turned cool eyes on his visitor.

“It really wasn’t necessary for you to come out here, Paul,” he said. “Your call yesterday was quite sufficient.”

Paul Randolph made no immediate reply. Instead, he went to stand at a window, where he stared unseeingly out at the expanse of lawn and woods. When he spoke,
he still faced the window, his back to Hamlin, “I’ve been thinking all night, and what I have to say today is too important to talk about on the telephone.”

He waited for Hamlin to speak. Seconds passed by, marked only by the soft ticking of an antique clock on Hamlin’s desk. Finally Randolph turned, wondering if, by some incomprehensible chance, Hamlin had actually left the room.

Hamlin hadn’t. He was now leaning back in his chair, his feet propped up on his desk, his arms folded across his chest, his features placid. As Randolph turned to face him, he smiled. “It’s a good trick, Paul,” he said easily. “But I’ve used it too often myself. If you want to talk to me, face me.”

The eyes of the two men locked in a silent struggle for control of the situation. It was Randolph who finally looked away, doing his best to cover his defeat by sinking into a chair and fighting a cigarette. Hamlin watched him wordlessly.

“I’ve come to a decision, George,” Randolph said at last as he slipped his lighter back into his pocket. “I’ve decided to close the project down.”

Hamlin’s eyes widened in disbelief, and his feet came off the desk to be planted firmly on the floor. “You can’t do that,” he said softly. “We’re too close to success, and we’ve got too much time, money, and research invested here.”

“And we’ve also done some things that you and I know are both unethical and illegal,” Randolph shot back. “It’s no longer a question of money and research. It’s now only a question of time, and I’m afraid we’ve run out of that We’re going to close the project down while we still can.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Lucy Corliss,” Randolph replied, his voice oozing with deliberate sarcasm. “Have you forgotten already?”

“Of course not,” Hamlin replied, carefully ignoring Randolph’s baiting. “Randy Corliss’s mother. You told me about her yesterday.”

“But apparently it bears repeating. It seems she’s looking
for her son, George, who I assume is still here. She found out that he was being surveyed by CHILD, and she wants to know what the study was all about.”

“So you stall her.”

“Exactly. I stall her. In fact, I already have. I told her it would take some time to comb the records, and that I’d get back to her.”

Hamlin nodded. “Then what’s the problem? You have a hundred projects you can give her.”

“The problem, George,” Randolph replied coldly, “is that you have consistently maintained that there was no way anyone could find out about our surveys, particularly this one. And yet, Lucy Corliss found out that her son was being ‘watched,’ as she put it. If she found out that we were watching her child, then others will too.”

“That doesn’t hold, Paul.”

“Doesn’t it?” Randolph began pacing the room. “I’m afraid I don’t have as much faith in what you tell me as I used to, George. Do you remember when we began the project? It would only take a couple of years, you said. That was twelve years ago. It could all be done with lab animals, you said. But that was ten years ago, and you haven’t used an animal since. I still don’t know how I let you convince me on that point, George—it’s going to ruin us all. You also assured me there was no possibility that the integrity of the project could be compromised. But Lucy Corliss has become suspicious. In short, this project is not what it was originally presented to be, it has gone on far too long, and has become a liability to the Institute. I have no other choice than to close it down.”

Hamlin leaned forward, resting his clasped hands on the polished surface of the desk. “I’m not closing this project down, Paul,” he said in carefully measured tones. As Randolph started to protest, Hamlin cut him off. “I listened to you, and now you can listen to me. All that’s happened is that a woman has stumbled across our studies. Statistically, that doesn’t surprise me. There’s nothing in the world that can be kept a total secret,
nothing at all. But what has she found out? Has she actually found out about
this
project? I doubt it.”

“So do I,” Randolph agreed. “And it’s my job to see that she doesn’t It isn’t just
this
project. George. CHILD has many other projects going, all of them valuable, and none of them dangerous. But this project could bring down the entire Institute.”

Hamlin’s eyes narrowed angrily. “It could also make the Institute the most important research center in the world.”

Randolph shook his head ruefully. “You just don’t understand, do you, George? That’s been the problem between you and me since the very beginning. You have no idea of what could be involved here. Sometimes I don’t think you even understand exactly what you’re doing.” He paused, wondering how far he should go. Still, the showdown between them had been coming for years, and now there seemed no point in avoiding it any longer. “I’ve read your reports, George. All of them. All the euphemisms. ‘Nonviable subjects.’ ‘Failed experiments.’ ‘Defective organisms.’ ” Suddenly Randolph’s voice dropped, as if he were no longer talking to Hamlin, but to himself. “Do you know how long it was before I let myself admit to what you were doing? Years. For years I read those reports and told myself you were talking about rats or rabbits. Maybe even monkeys. I wouldn’t let myself know the truth.” He tried to smile, but produced nothing more than a twisted grimace. “I think I’d have made a good Nazi, George, and I think you would have too.”