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  CHAPTER 2

  HAROLD STEINER LOVED THE law. There was something pure about it, almost holy. In a world of disorder and impending chaos, it was the only mortar holding civilization together. A stronghold, separating man from the animals.

  So, nearly forty years ago, at the tender age of nine, Harold Steiner had pushed up his wire-rimmed glasses, cleared his tiny throat, and announced to the world that he would be a lawyer. By twenty-five he had become the youngest assistant D.A. in the history of Nebraska.

  But that was a long time ago. Before his life fell apart. Before Melissa’s murder. Oh, he still loved the law, but now he knew it to be a double-edged sword, one just as easily wielded by the barbarians, by those who could twist and distort the law to destroy the law. Savages like Michael Coleman.

  Steiner reached into the glove compartment, pulled out a faded bottle of Tylenol, popped the lid, and tossed his head back to swallow another handful. The headaches usually came three or four days before Melissa’s birthday and lasted until a day or two after. Today his daughter would have been twenty-six.

  No one was sure how many people Coleman had killed, or in how many states. There were the convenience store clerk and cop in Council Bluffs, the hooker in Omaha, and the half dozen or so unsolved murders that he’d never really copped to. But it had been Melissa’s murder that finally nailed him.

  Of course they hadn’t let Steiner anywhere near the case, not only because of his emotional involvement but also because it had been outside his jurisdiction. He had lived and worked in North Platte, near the southwest corner of the state. Missy had been killed at Creighton College in Omaha. But that hadn’t stopped Steiner from investing his own time, unofficially observing the collection and evaluation of evidence, talking daily with the assistant district attorney, helping behind the scenes, at the trial, the appeals, testifying at clemency hearings. In short, every time Coleman tried to exploit the law to his advantage, Steiner was there to help block him.

  It was exhausting work. Friends warned that he had crossed the line. Coworkers said he’d become obsessed. But the law was the law. Coleman had broken it. He had defied civilization, endangering it. And in the process, he had destroyed everything precious in Steiner’s life. For that, Coleman would pay. Regardless of the price, he would pay.

  Unfortunately, the cost to Steiner had also been high. Two years after the murder, Theresa had left him. Fourteen months after that, he had lost his job. Not really lost — “indefinite leave of absence” was the term they had used. And still Coleman’s lawyers found loopholes, and still they made their appeals, pleaded for stays, begged for mercy.

  Steiner turned off Blondo Street and headed north on 60th. Not one of Omaha’s classier neighborhoods, but it was something Theresa could afford. She hadn’t returned his last dozen phone calls, and this morning’s had been no different. But it should be different. This was Melissa’s birthday.

  He turned into the driveway of a worn, two-story rental and brought his Volvo to a stop. Checking what was left of his thinning hair (after all, he and Theresa still weren’t officially divorced), he stepped out of the car, switched on the alarm, and headed up her walk. Junipers sprawled over the cracked concrete, and some unknown vine encroached upon the steps. Melissa’s death had affected Theresa as much as it had him, but in a different way. She had simply quit caring.

  He pressed the buzzer, but it didn’t work. He opened the sagging screen and knocked.

  “Go away,” a muffled voice called from inside.

  “Theresa?”

  “Go away, I said.”

  “Come on, Therese. It’s me. Open up. Come on, sweetheart.”

  There was no response.

  “Theresa?”

  Finally the lock clicked open and a woman appeared in a blue terry-cloth bathrobe. She squinted up at him in the brutal morning light. She’d been an attractive woman once. More handsome than beautiful. She could be still, despite the extra twenty-some pounds she’d put on, and the drawn and weary face from too many late nights at too many bars.

  “Theresa?” He frowned. “It’s ten-thirty.”

  “So?”

  A smell wafted from the apartment. “Are you smoking again?”

  “What do you want, Harry?”

  “It’s the 26th.”

  She raised her hand to block the sun. “What?”

  “The 26th. Missy’s birthday. Don’t tell me you forgot.”

  “Of course I didn’t forget.”

  He could tell she was lying. “So, are you coming?

  “Harry …”

  Steiner stood in silence.

  Theresa swore. “Harry, it’s been eight years.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Harry —”

  “Listen.” He could hear his voice growing thin and tried his best to stay calm. “It could be eight hundred years. The point is, it’s her birthday. We’ll never forget her birthday. Right? Come on, Theresa, for crying out loud. After all, it’s …” The phrase was already dissipating, falling apart before he could finish. “…her birthday.”

  Theresa stood a long moment. “Okay,” she finally sighed, “I’ll be there. But not right now.”

  “When?”

  “Later, all right? Later.”

  “Therese —”

  “I promise.”

  “But —”

  “Good-bye, Harry.” She closed the door.

  “I’ll wait,” he called. “If you want, I can wait.”

  There was no response.

  “Theresa?” Steiner stood a full minute before turning and heading back to his car. He would go to his daughter’s graveside by himself. He would wait for Theresa there. Melissa at least deserved that: both of her parents, side by side, together at her grave. On her birthday, Missy at least deserved that.

  “This is a joke, right?”

  “I assure you, Mr. Coleman,” Murkoski said, trying to regain control of the conversation, “this is no joke.”

  “You come in here with some story about the blood of Christ, and you —”

  “No one said we had the blood of —”

  “— expect me to be your guinea pig?”

  “Please, Mr. Coleman…” Murkoski swallowed. He appeared to be regrouping, trying to start again. He threw a nervous look at O’Brien, who sat beside him in one of the three fiberglass-molded chairs. They had been in the attorney/client room with Coleman for only thirty minutes, and the killer already had Murkoski on the ropes, looking like a fool.

  And not just Murkoski. O’Brien had underestimated the man as well. They had carefully researched him, studied his psychological profile, medical workup, X-rays, blood chemistry; they had even run covert EKGs, EEGs, PETs, and a CAT scan on him last summer. Clinically, they knew everything they could know about the man.

  But, like most people, they had erred in assuming that multiple killers were ignorant animals with underdeveloped mental skills. After all, here he sat — ribs taped, nose broken, one eye still swollen shut. How could somebody like this possibly be an intellectual equal? Unfortunately, neither of them had taken into account an inmate’s worst enemy: time. Next to sleeping, the best killers of time were reading, writing, and learning the skills of fellow prisoners. Whether it was the careful, step-by-step procedure for making a bomb, courtesy of Hector Garcia, or the intricate nuances of the Nebraska legal system, garnered from the books in the prison library, years of reading and listening had sharpened Michael Coleman’s intellect to a razor’s edge. Then, of course, there was the psychological gamesmanship he’d acquired in running the Row. All this to say, that in less than half an hour, he had reduced Murkoski, the boy genius, into an agitated knot of frustration.

  The kid was flailing; O’Brien decided to step in. “Mr. Coleman. Regarding the identity of the blood. We can only say that it is extremely old, and that —”

  “ ‘A couple thousand years,’ you said.”

  “Yes, but —”

  “So how
were you able to keep it from disintegrating? And don’t tell me you found it inside some mosquito embalmed in tree sap. I saw that movie, too.”

  O’Brien took a long breath, but before he could answer, Murkoski jumped back into the fray. The kid never gave up. “The blood was sealed in candle wax. A small section of vine with fragments of bloodstained thorns was encased in the substance. We suspect it was revered as some sort of religious artifact for centuries. Kept on an altar where dripping candles inadvertently covered and sealed a portion of it.”

  “And what altar would that be?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Where?”

  “The southern deserts of Egypt. A monastery. The same one that claims to house St. Mark’s bones.”

  “How convenient.”

  “No, it wasn’t convenient. Not at all, Mr. Coleman.” Murkoski’s voice rose, trembling. “A lot of people risked their lives to bring it to us, and if you’re not interested in helping, then we’ll find somebody who is. In case you don’t know, there are three thousand other inmates on death row.”

  Coleman opened his hands and closed them quietly. “Three thousand twenty-six. Perhaps you should contact one of them.”

  Murkoski blinked. Coleman had just called his bluff. Of all the nerve. Murkoski appeared livid, but O’Brien was more impressed than angry. Coleman had no idea how many months they’d researched him, nor the time constraints they were now working under. And yet he’d uncovered Murkoski’s vulnerable underside, pressed all his buttons, and taken control of the conversation — in record time. The man was far more clever than they had imagined.

  O’Brien cleared his throat and tried again. “Mr. Coleman — whoever’s blood it is, and we can’t say for certain, we do know that this individual had a genetic makeup slightly different from the rest of us.” He could feel Coleman’s eyes searching him, looking for a crevice, for a weakness to take hold of. But he held Coleman’s stare and kept his voice even as he went into the details. “Human DNA molecules consist of over six billion base pairs. If strung out in a line, that’s enough to stretch to the moon and back 16,000 times. In the ancient blood sample we have, most of those have not survived. But what portions we do have, those that have remained intact, have proven quite interesting.”

  “How?”

  This was the hard part. The part O’Brien rarely shared. But it was Coleman’s body they were asking to experiment on, and it was certainly his right to know. “As far as we’ve been able to tell, the blood contains all the usual maternal genes, but there are some fairly unusual genes we’ve discovered on the male side.”

  Coleman raised an eyebrow, waiting for more.

  Murkoski moved in. “Certainly a man of your intelligence knows about X and Y chromosomes?” It was a patronizing question, and it was met only by Coleman’s silence. Murkoski continued. “Two X’s together make a female, while an X and Y chromosome determines a male?”

  More silence.

  “The X chromosome carries up to five thousand genes, while the lowly Y chromosome, that which makes us men, contains only a little over a dozen. So far science has only determined the function of one of those dozen-plus genes, the one that tells the embryo to develop testes instead of ovaries. The remaining male genes appear totally useless.”

  “Until now,” O’Brien corrected. “We don’t know how or why, but for some reason the portion of those Y genes that we were able to recover from the blood have a totally different makeup than any other male gene.”

  “Meaning?”

  Murkoski leapt to the punch line. “Whoever’s blood this was could not have had a human father.”

  Silence settled over the room. O’Brien watched Coleman. Not a muscle moved. Murkoski, on the other hand, leaned back in his chair, obviously assured that the playing field had once again been tilted to his advantage.

  The silence continued. O’Brien coughed slightly then resumed. “Most of these new genes still appear useless, but one in particular has stood out. When it is introduced into other organisms — when we replicate it in the blood of say, mice, the creatures’ behavioral patterns shift dramatically.”

  Coleman’s voice grew strangely quiet. “You’ve done this with other animals?”

  “Yes. Mice first, then more recently primates.”

  “And?”

  “The mortality rate has been higher than we’d like, but for those who have survived, the results have been staggering.”

  Murkoski continued. “They are no longer concerned with what’s best for themselves. Instead of focusing on their own needs, they act in a manner that’s best for their community.”

  Coleman sat motionless. Although he didn’t take his eyes off the men, it was obvious that wheels were silently turning.

  Unable to endure any silence for too long, Murkoski continued. “And now we’re ready to take the next step. To introduce this blood into a human being.”

  A flicker of a scowl crossed Coleman’s face.

  Murkoski didn’t appear to notice. “There are no promises,” he said. “The process could kill you. Or it could turn you into a lunatic or some type of mental vegetable. But if the experiment succeeds, think of the ramifications.” His voice rose slightly as his excitement grew. “We would be able to rid our society, our entire race, of its violence and aggression. Our tendency toward evil would be totally eliminated. We would create world peace. Nirvana. Heaven on earth.”

  Coleman’s voice remained quiet. “You’re playing God. You’re changing how we’re made.”

  Murkoski shook his head. “No. We’re merely accelerating the evolutionary process within our species. Some insects are already doing this, bees for instance. Several varieties commit suicide by stinging an intruder to save the community in their hive. Some birds risk their lives by warning if a hawk or other predator is in the area. There’s little doubt that our own species has already begun that evolutionary step — elevating the community over the individual. We’re merely picking up the pace a little, that’s all. Doing in a few months what would take evolution thousands of years to accomplish.”

  Another pause. “Why me?”

  “You’re scheduled for execution in six weeks. The Eighth Circuit has already denied your appeal. That just leaves the U.S. Supreme Court and the Appeals Board.”

  Coleman gave no reply.

  Murkoski was once again taking charge. “If you agree to participate, and if you survive, you have our guarantee that the governor of the state of Nebraska will commute your sentence to life.”

  For the first time, Coleman showed expression.

  “Mr. Coleman,” Murkoski continued, “we have contacts in very high places.”

  Coleman held Murkoski’s gaze. He’d been in the penal system long enough to know that, with enough clout, anything was possible. He sat for nearly a minute. Finally, he rose to his feet. The meeting was over. The decision made.

  “No,” was all he said.

  Murkoski sat stunned. “What do you mean, no? We’re offering you your only hope.”

  “Walking the yard as some do-gooder holy man is not hope. I wouldn’t last a week. No, if you want my cooperation, the deal is you get me a pardon.”

  There was no hiding the incredulity in Murkoski’s voice. “How do you expect us to do that?”

  “You’re the hotshot player here. If you’ve got the power to pull the governor’s strings for clemency, you’ve got the clout to pull a little harder and get me out.”

  Murkoski rose to his feet. “Listen, pal, we’re offering you your life. Who do you think you are, trying to negotiate with us?”

  “I’m a nobody, son. But apparently a nobody you need.” He turned, rapped on the eight-inch square of bulletproof glass in the door, and a guard instantly appeared. “Thanks for stopping by.”

  A moment later, Murkoski and O’Brien stood alone in the room, Murkoski in shock, O’Brien in quiet amazement. Coleman wasn’t only smart, he was also a high roller. He’d just taken control of the game, upped th
e ante, and escalated the stakes to double or nothing. The man was either very foolish or very, very fearless. O’Brien suspected the latter. And if they intended on using him, he knew at that moment that they’d better be careful. Very careful.

  Katherine had put off the meeting with Eric’s teacher for nearly a month. It wasn’t due to lack of concern for Eric. He was the most important thing in her life. It didn’t even have to do with having to close the store for ninety minutes as she schlepped down to the school and met with the man. No, Katherine didn’t like meeting with Eric’s teacher, because she didn’t like Eric’s teacher.

  The last meeting with Mr. Paris had not gone well. The first few minutes, discussing Eric’s mathematics and computer skills, had gone okay. Eric was impressive on both accounts. It was even okay when Eric’s teacher had discussed Eric’s need to work on his reading comprehension, physical fitness, and social skills (it seemed lately Eric had become the all-school punching bag). What was not okay was when the man hinted at Eric’s need for a good male role model, Katherine’s need for a good man, and Mr. Paris’s need for a good roll in the hay.

  Katherine was quick to spot his moves and draw the line, making it clear that she wasn’t interested, which led to Paris’s observation that he liked spirited women, which led to his hand gently taking her arm, which led to the outside edge of her shoe scraping down his shin from his knee all the way to his foot, which she stomped good and hard just in case he had missed her point. More training from Gary.

  But that incident had taken place over two months ago. And, ever since that little trip to Albertson’s, Katherine’s attitude had been changing about a lot of things. Maybe she had been overreacting. Maybe it was time to loosen up a bit. At least that’s what she was thinking as she sat at a student’s desk in the front of Mr. Paris’s empty third-grade classroom, burping back the taste of the Cabernet she’d just had for lunch.

  Paris, on the other hand, sat behind his oak desk, working hard at sounding professional while reviewing Eric’s scores.