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flesh in expensive, beautiful cabinets, sealed against rot and protected from putrefaction. In his day, it
was the ceremony of interment that had been important,
the mourning, the declarations of grief, the long and complicated farewell. Massive monuments to the
dead were placed so people could appreciate them, not buried for the pleasure of the worms. What was
wrong, he wondered, stepping closer, with a plain wooden box? He 'd been buried in a plain wooden box.
The sandbags had been taken away, but the imprint still showed in the satin pillow. Henry shook his
head and leaned forward. There was no comfort for the dead and he couldn't see how denying that
comforted the living.
Suddenly, he hesitated. The last time he'd bent over a coffin that should not have been empty he'd ended
up nearly losing his soul. But the ancient Egyptian wizard who called himself Anwar Tawfik had never
been dead and Marjory Nelson assuredly had. He was being foolish.
There was a hint of Vicki's mother about the interior. He'd spent the day surrounded by her scent and he
easily recognized the trace that still clung to the fabric under the patina of odor laid on by the day's
investigation. Straightening, he was certain that whatever else she'd done in her life, or her death,
Marjory Nelson had not risen as one of his kind.
But there was something.
Over the centuries, he'd breathed in the scent of death in all its many variations, but this death, this faint
suggestion that clung to the inside of nose and mouth, this death he didn't know.
Five
"Dr. Burke, look at this! We're definitely picking up independent brain wave patterns."
"Are you certain we're not just getting echos of what we've been feeding in?"
"Quite certain." Catherine tapped the printout with one gnawed nail. "Look at this spike here. And here."
Donald leaned over the doctor's shoulder and squinted down at the wide ribbon of paper. "Electronic
belching," he declared, straightening. "And after thirty hours of this-is-your-life, I'm not surprised."
"You may be right, Donald." Dr. Burke lightly touched each peak, a smile threatening the corners of her
mouth. "On the other hand, we might actually have something here. Catherine, I think we should open
the isolation box."
Both grad students jerked around to stare at their adviser.
"But it's too soon," Catherine protested. "We've been giving the bacteria a minimum of seventy-two
hours ..."
"And it hasn't been entirely successful," Dr. Burke broke in. "Now has it? We lost the first seven,
number eight is beginning to putrefy, and according to this morning's samples, even number nine hasn't
begun any cellular regeneration in muscle tissue. The near disaster with number five proved that we can't
continue isolation much past seventy-two hours, so let's see what happens when we cut it short."
Catherine ran her hand over the curved surface of the box. "I don't know ..."
"Besides," the doctor continued, "if these spikes do indicate independent brain wave activity, then
further time in what is essentially a sensory deprivation chamber will very likely ..."
"Squash them flat."
The two women turned.
"Inelegant, Donald, but essentially correct."
Pale eyes scanned the array of hookups: monitors and digital readouts and one lone dial. "Well, except
for the continuous alpha wave input, she isn't actually doing anything in there," Catherine admitted
thoughtfully.
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Dr. Burke sighed and decided, for the moment, to let Catherine's terminology stand. "My point exactly.
Donald, if you would do the honors. Catherine, keep an eye on things and if there are any changes at all,
sing out.''
The seal sighed open, the hint of formaldehyde on the escaping oxygen-rich air surely an illusion, and
the heavy lid rose silently on its counterweights. The body of Marjory Nelson lay naked and exposed on
what had been a sterile pad, huge purple scars stapled shut. Hair, already becoming brittle, fell away
from the clips that held the top of the skull in place. A faint trace of burial cosmetics painted an artificial
blush across cheekbones death-mask prominent.
At her station by the monitors, Catherine frowned. "I'm not sure. It could be a loose connection. Dr.
Burke, could you please check the jack."
Pulling on a pair of surgical gloves, Dr. Burke bent over and reached to roll the head a little to the left.
Gray-blue eyes snapped open.
"Holy shit!" Donald danced backward, crashed into number nine's box, and clutched at it for support.
Dr. Burke froze, one hand almost cradling the line of jaw.
One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. An eternity.
As suddenly as they opened, the eyes closed.
Her view of the body blocked by equipment, Catherine ignored Donald's outburst-in her opinion they
came too often to mean anything-and sighed. "Just a wiggle. Probably something in the wire."
"In the wire!" The stethoscope around Donald's neck swung in a manic arc. "We didn't get a wiggle,
partner, we got recognition."
"What?" Catherine shot to her feet and stared from Donald to Dr. Burke. "What happened?"
"We opened the lid, she opened her eyes, and bam!" Donald punched at the air. "Just for an instant, she
knew who was standing over her. I'm telling you, Cathy, she recognized Dr. Burke!"
"Nonsense." Dr. Burke calmly checked the implant before straightening. "It was an involuntary reaction
to the light. Nothing more." The peeled gloves slammed into the garbage. "Switch off the oxygen
supplement-we've only got three full tanks left and I'm not sure when we can get more from the
departmental supplies-and run a complete check on the mechanicals. Draw the usual samples."
"And the alpha waves?"
"Keep recording." A little pale under the glare of the fluorescents, Dr. Burke paused at the door. "But at
the first sign of any agitation, cut the power. I have things to catch up on, so I'll see you both later."
Catherine's puzzled gaze traveled from the lab door to Donald.
"Sure as shit looked like recognition to me," he repeated, wiping his palms on his pants. "I think the [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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