The 49th Mystic, Page 3

  And the smartest, even for her age. The only subject they rarely discussed was religion—he had no intention of compromising her faith, regardless of his own doubts.

  “We’ll go over everything again at the hospital, but in short, yes. It’s going to work.”

  Belief was half the battle, and the last thing he wanted was to reinforce any more fear in her. Between her blindness and the nightmares, she’d suffered far more than her fair share.

  Everyone had fears, usually deeper and more pervasive than they realized. The mind simply suppressed them as part of its survival mechanism—a good thing in the short term. But that suppressed energy invariably resurfaced, usually through disease.

  As a therapist, he was well aware of the dangers associated with suppressed fears, but the dangers of not suppressing them were even more debilitating in the short term. Panic attacks didn’t serve daily life well. The only permanent solution was to root those fears out at their source—a tall task for anyone.

  Rachelle was far more sensitive than most. It wasn’t that she had greater fear than the average person; her mind just couldn’t suppress the same fears that were hidden deep within everyone else. They lived with her 24/7.

  No amount of encouragement or therapy had helped much. For some reason she’d developed a fear that if she did see, she would only be blinded again. The debilitating nightmares that had wormed their way deep into her subconscious were evidence of this. The numerology in those dreams—seven times seven equaling forty-nine, the number of finality before liberation, which was the number fifty according to numerologists—had become synonymous with her fear that she would always be stuck in blindness.

  David wanted to cure his daughter’s blindness, but relieving her of her fears was his greater ambition. If her eyes could be permanently healed, those fears would lose their grip. And CRISPR’s genetic engineering was their best hope.

  Unfortunately, like all procedures, CRISPR came with risks—in this case a rare but severe one.

  Coma.

  But after much deliberation they’d made their decision, and he chose to focus on the best possible outcome. Coma resulted only when genetic tags were miscalculated. He was sure they’d gotten it right.

  “Feels surreal,” Rachelle said. “Especially on a day like today.”

  “What, the end of the world as we know it? That’s not gonna happen in Eden. Nor anywhere else. If there’s an attack on the West Coast, then maybe. Let’s hope not, because anyone who’s even heard about Eden will be heading straight for us.”

  “I thought no one could get in.”

  “There’s always a way in. Out’s another matter. Let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  They turned onto Third Street and headed out of the neighborhood. The homes were uniformly placed on one-acre lots with small vegetable gardens and plenty of space for comfort. Most of the residents lived in Westside. All of the homes were built with the same basic materials—asphalt shingle roofs, fiberglass siding formed as boards and painted white, green, beige, or brown.

  To the north: the warehouse and utilities. To the east: cultivated land that grew mostly potatoes, corn, high-yield wheat, and fruit trees. Vegetables came from personal gardens and were traded or sold at Saturday market or at the grocery store, all days except Sunday, the busiest day of the week despite being called the day of rest. All livestock, primarily cows and goats, were corporately owned and grazed on common land to the east.

  “Morning, Doctor,” a voice called from across the street. Betsy Williamson, wearing a thin smile, was walking her white poodle, Puddle. Why Puddle, he had no idea. The sweet lady in her seventies suffered from recurring bouts of eczema. The rash on her arms and neck came and went with her stress.

  “You need a patient?” she asked, crossing to them.

  “Thank you for asking, but no, not today. I can see you tomorrow if you like.”

  “Actually, I was thinking of Robert.” She glanced up and down the street. “Seems he’s forgotten the proper courtship protocol.”

  Puddle had pulled Betsy closer, eager to sniff and nuzzle Rachelle’s legs. His daughter bent down and petted the dog, whispering his name.

  “Robert’s making advances, is he? Sounds like a problem for Linda,” he said, referring to the woman he technically reported to, one of four council members responsible for Eden’s oversight.

  “I wouldn’t want to get him in trouble,” Betsy said. “And to be truthful, I don’t mind. It’s just that I don’t want him to get on the wrong side of things, if you get my meaning.”

  “Don’t give it another thought.”

  She studied him. “Don’t give him another thought? Or don’t give him getting in trouble another thought?”

  “Think about Robert all you like, as long as it doesn’t cause you stress.” By the looks of the rash on her neck, she was stressed already. “I’m sure he’ll go through proper channels if he wants to take things further.”

  She nodded but didn’t seem convinced. Then he understood.

  “So you want him to take it further.”

  She blushed. “I didn’t say that. Heavens, I’m too old for all of that anyway.”

  “Well, if you decide you’re not too old for all of that, I see no harm in offering him a smile and kindness. There’s no law against showing love, Betsy.”

  She smiled. “I suppose not. That’s why I like you, Doctor.”

  “I like you too, Betsy.”

  And then she was off, pulling away her feisty little poodle, which was clearly more interested in playing with Rachelle than following his master.

  “Cute dog,” Rachelle said.

  “Cute dog.”

  The town square was empty other than Old Man Butterworth, who was skimming debris out of the large fountain, and three kids kicking a soccer ball back and forth on the lawn next to the church.

  Various stores and places of business lined the four main streets that bordered the square—a hardware store, a clothing store, a café, and a small grocery store, among others—offering all the basics required to support a small town of 153.

  Everyone was undoubtedly glued to their televisions or making what calls could get through to those they knew on the East Coast, getting the real scoop. Strange to think that in a world not so far away, millions of people were at their wits’ end, facing grave threats that had them sweating bullets and scrambling for answers.

  Electricity was like sight, he thought. You don’t miss it until it’s gone.

  David led Rachelle past the square, continued up Third Street, then down Sixth and past a large sign at the edge of town: Eden Hospital. The sprawling white building rising from the middle of a wide green lawn was much larger than needed to service such a small population, but the Judge had spared no expense. Whatever equipment or supplies David or Miranda requested, they eventually received.

  Like the delivery they’d received by courier today, which had not come cheap.

  Only half of the hospital housed patient-care facilities. The other half was reserved for research and labs, all utilizing the latest equipment. When the world collapsed, Simon wanted every advantage. He said this too was God’s provision.

  The equipment they used was mostly operated by one tech, Emerson Watkins, who loved the name they’d given him—RG, short for Resident Genius, which he was.

  David and Rachelle entered through the main glass doors and headed past the reception desk, where Sue sat watching a television on the wall. She finally noticed them and stood up.

  “Have you seen this?”

  “Yes, I have. Hi, Sue.”

  “Hi, David. Sorry. Quiet day in here.”

  Wasn’t it always? “That’s a good thing.”

  “It is, thank God.” She motioned down the hall. “Miranda said to tell you she’s in 202. Hi, Rachelle.”

  “Good morning, Sue.”

  They headed down an empty tiled hallway. Room 202 was the second of five examination and outpatient rooms.

/>   Miranda stood from a stool where she’d been hunkered over an array of tubes and needles on a stainless-steel tray. She’d pulled her blonde hair back into a ponytail as she always did “on duty.”

  Her soft brown eyes looked at him with expectation, sparkling under the fluorescent lights. She was an angel, he thought, not only because she cared for Rachelle as much as he did, but because . . . well . . . she cared for him. Selfish as that sounded, when he was with Miranda he was aware he’d hidden in his own isolated world with Rachelle for far too long.

  Her eyes shifted to Rachelle. “Good morning, sweetie. I hear you’re ready to tackle something brand new.”

  Rachelle hesitated. “That’s what I hear too.”

  The door opened and RG barged in, always the nerd and proudly so, down to the black-rimmed glasses and white lab coat he often wore about town.

  His eyes darted between them from under unkempt reddish curls. “So this is it?”

  “This is it,” Miranda said, approaching Rachelle. She nodded at David and took his daughter’s hand. “Come sit on the table, Rachelle.”

  Rachelle hoisted herself up on the table, legs dangling, hands folded. For a long moment the others stood in silence, caught up in the gravity of the moment. David nodded at Miranda.

  “Okay, sweetie, I know your father’s told you this, but just so you’re clear, there are some risks, however small, that—”

  “I know,” Rachelle interrupted. “Coma. I understand. But that’s a risk I’m willing to take.” There was a light tremor in her fingers.

  More silence. She was just being brave—they all knew that.

  “I don’t want to hear why it might not work,” she said. “Just tell me why it is going to work.”

  RG looked at David, who nodded again. The floor is yours. RG slipped a hand into his pocket. “You know about epigenetics.”

  “It’s the mind’s way of making changes to our DNA,” Rachelle said. “Like new code written by a software engineer to modify existing code. Change the code and the program does something different.”

  “Right. We’re essentially very complicated computers—brain, body, and perception all working together as one organism. External factors like environment, as well as persistent beliefs and intentions, actually turn genes on or off, which changes the expression of those genes and thus our bodies. That’s why we have pygmies in Africa and tall blond hunks in Norway, even though they all originated from one common ancestor. Science is only just learning how it works, but there’s no question that it does.”

  “We have the power to change our bodies through thought, we just aren’t sure how yet,” she said. “That’s the point.”

  “Correct. Enter CRISPR, a more direct shortcut to changing our bodies. Rather than waiting for generational mutations to gradually change us, it’s possible to switch specific genes in any DNA strand on or off, which then changes the expression of the cells that DNA controls.”

  “Using the Cas9 enzyme, which snips the desired DNA,” Rachelle said, “and a guide RNA called CRISPR made to match the cut and replace it with a different gene.”

  Rehearsing the details had a calming effect on her, David thought. RG glanced at him, smiled, and continued. “That’s right, professor. CRISPR has to be engineered for each specific gene. When we learn precisely which gene grows eyebrows, for example, a CRISPR could be designed to replace the gene that grows hair with one that grows bone. That’s what all the fuss is about. In the wrong hands, it could radically change the human species. Even wipe it out. All of this has been known and verified for over a decade. What’s new is how it’s implemented.”

  He pushed his glasses up on his nose.

  “Until recently, CRISPR was directly inserted into stem cells or embryos. Now they’ve figured out how to use it on the formation of new cells in a mature organism, simply by injecting it into the affected system.”

  “In my case, my blood.”

  “Your blood. More precisely, your red blood cells, which are deformed.”

  “The point is,” David said, “we have a very carefully engineered strand of CRISPR designed to modify your bone marrow, which, as you know, produces new red blood cells.”

  Miranda lifted a bag of clear liquid from a silver icebox and carefully set it on the tray next to the table. She gently took Rachelle’s hand and set in on the cool bag.

  Over two years of research and calls to all corners of the globe came down to this moment. So simple. Yet not so simple at all. Years of research had gone into the engineering of the fluid in that bag. More accurately, the CRISPR Cas9 in that bag. Still, that changing a human genetic code could be so simple staggered David’s mind.

  “So this is it,” Rachelle said, putting on a brave face.

  “This is it,” David said. “We inject CRISPR into your bloodstream and it finds its way to the haemopoietic bone marrow, where stem cells will be repaired so they can produce healthy red blood cells to replace your sickle cells. It takes about four months for all the old red blood cells to die off and be replaced with new, healthy cells.”

  “So in four months I should be healthy.”

  “In four months your sickle cells should be gone. We can then repair your retinas using one of several available procedures without any concern that deformed sickle cells might destroy that repair. If all goes well, you’ll be able to see with your eyes. Permanently.”

  Another long beat.

  “Well, then,” Rachelle said. “Hook me up.”

  THE ENTIRE PROCEDURE took less than half an hour, all of it like a dream to David. It all seemed too simple, too easy, too quick. But they’d spent countless hours on the phone with doctors from Paris, carefully rehearsing details until there was nothing left to discuss. This was, amazingly enough, how it was done.

  It was no wonder more and more laws were being written to control the use of CRISPR. What could heal could also deform, kill, or exterminate.

  They had given Rachelle an oral sedative because the anemia constricted her veins and she was terrified of needles. They hadn’t meant to put her out, only halfway there, but she fell asleep listening to RG’s lengthy explanation of just how, in the near future, when science perfected gene editing in neural cells, the brain itself could be altered.

  Miranda’s careful intravenous insertion of the precious fluid took less than ten minutes.

  And that was it. Miranda gave David’s arm a squeeze for good luck, removed the IV, and dropped the needle, tube, and bag into a bin for safe disposal.

  “Let’s let her sleep,” David said, watching his daughter.

  “Should wear off soon.”

  He nodded. “Give me a moment with her, will you?”

  “Of course.” Miranda touched his shoulder. “I have a good feeling about this, David. I know it doesn’t work on everyone, but she’s strong. Have faith.”

  He put his hand on hers. “Thank you. I’ll wait here until she wakes up.”

  He stood over Rachelle after they left, reviewing all that had preceded this moment. All the worrying, the endless nights of fear she’d suffered. Such a brave soul.

  He finally sighed and stroked her cheek, noting that her eyes were moving behind her eyelids. He wasn’t a man of prayer, but he prayed in his own way that she was dreaming well.

  She twitched and let out a faint whisper.

  His mind drifted to his wife’s death. She’d suffered nightmares during the last trimester of her pregnancy. She often woke in a panic, completely disoriented, memories jumbled. In the final week she’d become convinced that they were all part of an experiment in some elaborate conspiracy. Fearful of what she might do to herself and the baby, David had insisted the attending physicians give her sedatives.

  She’d died in her sleep, here, in this hospital. Miranda managed to save baby Rachelle through an emergency C-section, but David had never forgiven himself for his role in her mother’s death, regardless of the fact that sedatives had nothing to do with her passing.

  O
r had they?

  The sound of the door gently closing behind him pulled him from his thoughts. He started to turn, expecting to see Miranda.

  Instead he saw a tall man dressed in a white jacket and dark slacks. Shiny leather shoes. Dark hair slicked back with oil, mouth grinning wide to show a perfectly formed set of too-white teeth. His eyes were a light brown, almost amber, gentle and piercing, inspiring warmth and confidence.

  A stranger. What was a stranger doing in the hospital? Or in Eden, for that matter? A stranger wearing a single diamond stud in his left ear and two silver chains around his neck. David could smell his cologne at ten feet.

  “Hello, David,” the man said. “Name’s Smith. Vlad Smith. I’ve come to bring sight to the blind.” Smith shifted his gaze to Rachelle and stepped forward.

  Alarmed, David moved to cut him off. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  Smith pulled up and stared at him. “You don’t understand, David. The CRISPR you just injected into your daughter isn’t going to work. I’m your only hope.”

  He knew about CRISPR?

  “How did you get in? Simon—”

  “Think of me as the one Simon reports to, although that isn’t entirely true. Either way, I’m here to make a few small adjustments. There’s something very wrong with this valley and I’m going to fix it. Your daughter’s the key, so I need to fix her first.”

  David stood speechless.

  “Are you going to yield to reasoning, or am I going to have to manhandle you?”

  “Have you lost your mind?”

  “Oh no, not me, David. But you have. You’re as blind as your daughter. The good news is that blindness is merely a matter of bad programming and clogged memories.”

  Smith cocked his left eyebrow.

  “Did you know there’s a way to manipulate specific memories now? Erase old ones and overwrite them with new ones using neural lacing? Not my gig, but I can help people think clearly again. Once they see my power, they’ll let me do what I need to do. The lives of everyone in Eden depend on it. So please, if you don’t mind, step aside.”