Chapter One
Daisy Hubbard headed down the hallway past the equipment room with
its centrifuges and spectrophotometers and listened to the light,
fast click of her own heels. The echoing stillness inside Berhoffer
Medical School late at night was unlike any other stillness in the
world. Over a century old, the Wessels building was an enormous
creaking labyrinth of twisting corridors and submarine
sounds-hissing radiators, gurgling water pipes, the constant hum of
machinery. This was Professor Marlon Truett’s lab, the top
neurogenetics department in the country, and Daisy was one of its
rising stars. She had worked her entire life to get here. Blind
ambition had fueled her. She wasn’t afraid to admit it, her career
came before everything else-a husband and children, family
obligations, her crazy sister.
Daisy could hear dissonant sounds coming from somewhere inside the
lab and paused for a moment to listen. The cleaning crew had come
and gone. According to the sign-in sheet, she was supposed to be
alone in the lab tonight. She glanced at her watch. Half past
midnight. Her best friend, Fiona Wu, was convinced that the lab was
haunted, but Daisy didn’t believe in ghosts. She wasn’t a
superstitious person. Now she moved a little further down the
hallway, where she could hear it distinctly-a tinkling, musical
sound. “Sugar, Sugar” by the Archies. What a relief. Somebody had
left the radio on in the X-ray room, that was all. No ghosts.
Her hands trembled slightly as she dug around in her pockets for her
keys. She unlocked the door to the Mouse Facility, switched on the
lights and was hit by a familiar mixture of animal and chemical
odors. The Mouse Facility was composed of two rooms-a larger “outer”
room containing a chemotherapeutic workstation, an operating table
and a refrigerator for specimens, and a smaller “inner” room which
housed the mice. Professor Truett’s lab of forty graduate students,
postdocs and technical assistants worked as a team, their mission to
isolate the specific genes that caused certain rare inherited brain
disorders, some of the rarest in the world. Truett’s shining
achievement stood right in front of her now, the old DNA model on
its rickety metal stand, a four-foot plastic double helix resembling
a spiral staircase. He’d won a Nobel Prize for his work, and just
looking at the model strengthened Daisy’s resolve to work harder, to
push beyond the boundaries and unlock the secrets of these fatal
diseases.
High above the model on a dusty shelf were a dozen empty champagne
bottles, the celebratory symbols of past accomplishments. Truett had
a special bottle waiting just for her, a rare vintage: ܱé
Williams Duetz 1990. He believed in Daisy. He had the utmost faith
in her, and she didn’t want to disappoint him. She wanted to be the
first person in the world to cure a neurodegenerative disorder using
gene replacement therapy.
Pocketing her keys, she went over to the aluminum sink and started
to wash up, then thought she heard a scratching sound. She turned
the water off and stood listening for a moment. All she could hear
was the radio in the distance. Shrugging it off, she grabbed a paper
towel and wiped her hands. Taped to the wall above the sink was a
list of screwups that had occurred in the lab so far this year, and
Daisy was relieved to see that her name wasn’t on it. Fiona had
dropped the agarose gel; Archie had forgotten to switch on the hot
lid for the PCR cycler; Carlson had tried to filter water through
the “hydrophobic” filters, talk about humiliating. To the sides of
the screwup sheet were colorful signs that served as unnecessary
reminders: HUMANE IS THE WAY WE TREAT OUR VALUABLE GUESTS! and MICE
SAVE LIVES! Of course Daisy treated her mice humanely. She loved her
mice and gave them the kind of overweening attention that had made
her the butt of Carlson’s jokes. Daisy and her pwecious wittle
babies … She wuvs her meeses to pieces …
There was a loud noise down the hall now-a thump or a bump-and she
spun around and peered into the darkness beyond the door’s single
pane of smoky glass. Scientists weren’t supposed to be afraid of the
unknown, were they? She stood poised on the brink of panic, goose
bumps breaking out on her arms.
“Daisy, Daisy … give me your answer do …”
Her body began to relax. “Truett?”
“I’m half crazy …”
She ventured out into the hallway, where she could hear Professor
Marlon Truett’s mellifluous voice echoing throughout the corridor.
She stepped into the X-ray room and turned off the radio, then
checked the tissue culture room. “Truett?” She followed the sound of
his voice all the way back to her workbench with its moody printer
and terminally ill fax machine, black electrical cords slithering
across the floor into multiple sockets. Three benches occupied this
side of the lab, along with a shared sink. Daisy’s workstation was
wedged in between a large uninsulated window overlooking the parking
lot and a broken autoclave. Truett stood in his rumpled gray suit
and colorless tie in front of the autoclave, trying to lift it off
its rusty platform. He was obviously drunk, just back from a
scientific conference in New Mexico, and her heart fluttered
delicately at the sight of him.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked in a gently chiding
tone.
“Oh, there you are.” He dropped the autoclave back on its base and
spun around with the grace of an aging Baryshnikov. “Why do we keep
all this broken equipment around, Daisy? Seriously, what’s the
point?”
She listened with a vexed expression. Truett and his moods. There
was a low hum in the air that never went away, and the night pressed
black and starless against the windowpanes. From her second-story
window, she could see down into the Boston cityscape below, where
the streetlamps cast icy streaks of light across the patchwork
asphalt. Earlier in the day, she’d discovered the stitchlike
footprints of a mouse in a frail arc of snow on her windowsill.
Field mice were distant kin to the genetically pure mice they bred
inside the lab. “So how was the conference?” she asked him.
“Oh, terrific. Have you ever spent seventy-two hours with a bunch of
mental midgets?” He waved his hand in disgust. “They keep asking the
same old boring questions, Daisy. Everybody wants to talk about
cloning, for God’s sake. Nobody wants to discuss what’s never been
discussed before.” In his mid-fifties, Marlon Truett had the silver
hair and trademark glower of an academic legend. Whenever he walked
into a room, there was no doubt in his mind who God was. He’d never
been handsome in the classical sense, but now he was very
distinguished-looking. He possessed both a monster ego and the kind
of power that could be incredibly seductive. Truett could raise his
students up to great intellectual heights, or else crush their hopes
with a few carefully chosen words. He could ruin careers, but if you
stood right next to him, some of the limelight might rub off on you.
“It was so damn hot down there,” he complained, great furrows
opening on his tall forehead. He moved a little too close, his
powerful ego looming before her like a boulder about to tip over.
“The air-conditioning wasn’t working, we were all swimming in our
own sweat, and Munson’s giving one of his laborious speeches on
science and God … when all of a sudden, there’s this raging
debate going on about genetics and morality. And I’m the bad guy,
because I want to cure the world’s most incurable diseases. I’m
being vilified in my own time, Daisy.”
“I doubt that very much,” she said.
He snatched her hand and focused sharply on her face. “God, you’re
drunk, Daisy.” He giggled. “Shame on you.”
Very gently, she reclaimed her hand. “Somebody needs a cup of
coffee.”
“Shh, keep your voice down! Mice are sleeping.”
“C’mon,” she said with her best schoolmistress air. “I’ll make us a
fresh pot and you can tell me all about it.”
“Forget the damn coffee. Give me a kiss.”
She held his gaze for a moment, then pretended this exchange hadn’t
happened. “Follow me, Professor.”
“I’d follow you to the ends of the earth.”
“There are no ends of the earth.” She did her best to keep two paces
ahead of him. Truett was married to another professor at the
university, but it was an open secret that he cheated on his wife.
Last year one of the department secretaries passed around a
confidential letter from a woman whom the esteemed professor had met
during one of his many scientific conferences. The woman had
written, “I know I promised never to contact you, but I just had to
let you know that last night will be with me forever. Your ideas are
endlessly fascinating, and if we ever meet again …”
It was a startling revelation, but then again, nothing Truett did
shocked people anymore. He had the attitude of an adolescent boy,
the body of an aging college athlete, an intimidating intellect and
a southern drawl so deceptively down-home his competitors had a
tendency to underestimate him. The odd thing was, Daisy couldn’t
hate him for his infidelity. She understood that this was no
ordinary mortal. Truett was bigger than life and could get away with
these things. She wondered if his wife felt the same way.
Now he followed her obediently into the lunchroom, where she
switched on the fluorescent lights. Recoiling in mock horror, he
said, “Oh God, let’s get out of here before I lose the will to
live.” The harsh light illuminated every dingy corner, every aging
appliance.
“Take a seat,” she said.
He swayed in the doorway. “Some drunk I am.”
“Should I call your wife?”
He winced. “No, don’t do that.”
“I’ll make us a fresh pot.”
“Don’t do that, either.”
She walked over to the calcified coffee machine and dug around in
the cupboards for the filters while he took a cautious step inside.
“Daisy?”
She looked up.
“I’m afraid I’ve got bad news.” He sounded serious. “We have to
abandon the Dahlberg trials.”
“What?” She dropped the filters on the floor.
“Turns out a private company already owns the patent.”
Stupefied, she bent to pick up the filters.
“What’s happened to the scientific community?” he said with a
dramatic groan. “We used to be so generous with our research. We
used to share our findings, Daisy, but not anymore. I remember the
days when science was a calling, an actual calling. Now you can’t
ask for start-up funds without consulting the patent lawyers first.”
“We still have Stier-Zellar’s and Rostislav, don’t we?”
He nodded. “Thank God.”
She pulled out a chair for him. “Sit, Truett.”
He sat down and cradled his chin in his hands, then watched her with
solemn curiosity. “Do you know what I like the most about you,
Daisy?” He paused before answering his own question. “You have no
life.”
She felt an angry flush crawl up her neck. “That’s a rotten thing to
say.”
“Relax. It’s what I like about you.”
She poured them both a cup of coffee, then sat down next to him. The
first time they ever met, five years ago, his angry eyes and wild
gray hair had terrified her. Now he moved her in a deep,
inexplicable way. He’d received a genius grant at the age of
twenty-seven and, as the father of rare orphan brain disorders, was
the medical school’s most prominent prima donna. Daisy treated his
words with the utmost respect. Still, she didn’t like being alone in
the lab with him late at night. He was complicated and demanding,
and she wasn’t sure where their working relationship ended and their
personal relationship began.
“You haven’t asked me about my trip yet,” he said petulantly.
“I thought I did.”
“Ah, but you didn’t.”
“So, Truett.” She played along. “How was your trip?”
“Dismal. Met a colleague on the plane. Claude Bagget.” He wrinkled
his nose. “The thief.”
“What did Claude do now?”
“Published that article on viral vector systems. Beat me to it, the
bastard.” He rolled his eyes. “He’s got spies everywhere, you know.”
Daisy laughed. “I doubt that very much, Truett.”
“Oh, you do, do you?” He wagged a finger at her. “Oh, to suffer the
slings and arrows of outraged colleagues … I’m just a poor South
Carolina farm boy, you know. A simple man at heart.”
“Simple,” she repeated with a skeptical nod. “Right.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I’ve never met anyone more complicated.”
He scowled down at his cooling cup of coffee, then reached into his
jacket pocket and produced a silver flask. He took several swallows
before offering her a taste. “Want some?”
“What is it?”
“Arsenic. Bottoms up.”
“Since when do you carry around a flask?”
“I was born with a silver flask in my mouth.” He shook it in her
face. “Come on. Be a man.”
She smiled reluctantly, then took the flask and tipped her head
back, wincing as she swallowed something bitter and strong.
“For God’s sake,” he said with a delighted smile. “You look like
you’re twelve years old.”
She enjoyed this mindless flattery. She was pleased that he’d
singled her out. They had a unique relationship in the lab, a close
student-mentor bond. He hyped her efforts, and she worked five times
harder than anybody else.
“Your wife must be worried,” she said now.
“Julia? She doesn’t worry.”
“Never?”
“Nah. She sleeps like a baby.” He eyed her curiously. “What about
you, Daisy? Do you sleep like a baby?”
“Ha.” She tilted her head to drink again, feeling a warmth in her
belly. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”
“Would you sleep with me?”
“You’re an outrageous flirt, you know.”
“Are you shocked?”
“Nothing you do shocks me anymore, Truett.”
“Liar. I think you’re deeply shocked.”
“Right. I’m such a prude. I have no life, remember?”
His look was stern. “Such a waste.”
She gave an involuntary shiver. She handed back the flask, and their
fingers touched briefly. There was something raw and dangerous about
his gaze, and she wanted him to stop. He was making her feel vaguely
threatened. She edged his coffee cup closer and said, “Drink up.”
With a mischievous grin, he put the flask away and took a sip of
black coffee. “Mm. Terrible.”
She smiled.
“Go home, foolish girl,” he said softly. “Before I devour you
alive.”
“You’ve got a pretty high opinion of yourself, don’t you?”
“Go home before I say something I’ll regret.” He fished his car keys
out and promptly dropped them on the floor. “Ugh.” He leaned over
and reached for them but kept drunkenly missing.
“Truett,” she said, “you’re in no condition to drive.”
He looked up.
“I’m taking you home.”
With a heavy sigh, he staggered to his feet. “Your wish is my
command.”
As they drove across town, Truett breathed deeply beside her,
looking old. She could feel butterflies in her stomach as she
thought about the line he had crossed. Still, she could forgive him.
He was drunk. He would probably have no memory of it tomorrow. The
tree boughs sagged with snow on this blustery March night, and the
moon had disappeared behind the clouds. The parking spaces in Boston
were so hard to come by that people dragged old armchairs or
cardboard boxes over to the curb in an effort to save their places,
and a dusting of snow gave these items a ghostly glow.
“Daisy,” he said, sliding her a look, “what are you thinking about?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? You look so damn sad.”
“I’m not sad.”
“Your eyes have that faraway look.”
“I’m not sad, Truett.”
“Daisy … you leave your unhappiness behind you like the wake of
a canoe.”
She didn’t like where this was going. The streetlamps cast mutating
shadows across the snowdrifts while the car’s chains rattled over
the slippery road. She swung into the circular driveway of Truett’s
expensive Colonial, her high beams illuminating the cat-poop-studded
snow. Truett and Julia owned several cats, whereas Daisy didn’t have
any pets. She didn’t own a goldfish or even a houseplant. It was
true what he’d said about her-she had no life outside the lab.
While the car idled in the driveway, he turned to her and said,
“Look at you. Now, there’s a whole lot of lovely in one place.”
“Truett …”
He raised her chin with his finger. “Pleasure and pain are this
close right now. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
She shook her head.
He leaned forward and kissed her.
His kisses were sweet and sour. His lips were the lips of an older
man, and for the first time in her life, Daisy felt sorry for him.
He smelled of the lab, of his boring conference in New Mexico, of
his hatred for Claude Bagget and his desperation for government
money.
She drew back. “Good night, Truett.”
He got out and slammed the door, then stumbled up the porch steps.
She didn’t understand what had just happened. Her hands wouldn’t
stop shaking as she pulled out onto the road, where elusive shadows
darted from her headlights’ glare.
(Continues…)
Warner Books
Copyright © 2005
Alice Blanchard
All right reserved.
ISBN: 0-446-57672-7
Excerpted from Life Sentences
by Alice Blanchard
Copyright & copy 2005 by Alice Blanchard .
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
