dangerous to sleep in her own bed. This was so unfair. When she glanced over her shoulder at her cozy little bungalow with the warm brown bricks and the clean white trim at the windows, an unwanted memory of fear tightened her gut. Those intruders had invaded her privacy, violated her home. Never before had she felt so vulnerable. She wanted bars on the windows and triple locks on the doors. Even then, she didn’t know if she’d feel secure. “There’s something I need to do before we leave.”
She marched up the sidewalk to the front door and went through the living room and dining room to the kitchen where she took a bag of dried cat food from the cupboard. The stray cats in the alley depended on her for food. She couldn’t abandon them. Nor could she leave the whole bag by the trash cans in the alley where the raccoons would carry it off.
Later she’d call her neighbor and ask him to take over for her while she was away. And how long would that be? A day? A week? Two weeks? So unfair!
As she went out the back door and down the narrow sidewalk to the gate in the white picket fence, Blake followed. “What are you doing?”
“Taking care of the wildlife. There’s a family of cats that live out here.”
Instead of scoffing, he spoke in a gentle voice. “You could call animal rescue. I’m sure there are organizations that take care of feral animals.”
“I’ve tried.” Four times she’d contacted humane groups. “These little guys don’t want to be caught. Even when the cat rescue people manage to pick up one or two, another litter of kittens appears. They multiply like Tribbles.”
“Like what?”
She squatted beside a blooming lilac bush and poured cat food into a plastic container. “Tribbles. You know, furry critters that reproduce exponentially. From Star Trek.”
“You’re a Trekkie,” he said. “That explains the T-shirt.”
When she’d changed out of her too-short skirt, she had put on black denim jeans and the least obnoxious T-shirt in her closet—blue with a subtle Enterprise emblem above her left breast. If she slipped back into her black jacket, no one would notice the emblem.
“I’m not a psycho fan,” she said. “But I’ve attended a number of science fiction and fantasy cons. You’d probably like them. G.I. Joe is popular again.”
As she watched, two gray-striped kittens peeked over the low-hanging lilac boughs and mewed.
“Hi, little guys.”
Eve sat back on her heels so she wouldn’t scare them. The kittens crept closer to the food, nudging each other. Their yellow eyes were huge in their tiny faces. Their pink noses pushed at the dry food.
Blake squatted beside her. “New members of the feral cat family?”
“I’ve never seen these two before.” The way she figured, there must be a couple of females who were constantly pregnant—no need for frozen embryos with these felines. “Tribbles.”
One of the kittens jumped and scurried back into the bushes. The other sat and stared at Eve. A brave little one. Would her child be courageous? And curious?
Slowly, she stretched out her hand, palm up, toward the kitten. The pink nose came closer and closer. With sharp little claws, the kitten batted at her finger, then darted away.
Babies—kittens, puppies and people—had the most remarkable innocence. And so much to learn. Would she be a good teacher? A good mother? Damn it, she couldn’t even take care of herself, much less a baby.
Tears welled up, and she bolted to her feet so Blake wouldn’t notice that she was crying. He already regarded her as less than useful in terms of his investigation, and she didn’t want him to add weepy to his list of complaints.
During the ride back to Denver, she intended to convince him that she ought to be his partner. It was only logical: two minds were better than one.
Sitting in the passenger seat, she waited to speak until they were on the highway and relatively free from the distraction of stop-and-go traffic. Without preface she said, “If Prentice warned you that I was in danger, he must have wanted you to protect me. Therefore, it’s unlikely that he sent those two intruders.”
Blake stared through the windshield, refusing to respond.
She continued, “Prentice also said that he might have accidentally caused the threat, which implies that he knows who sent them.”
Though he still didn’t comment, a muscle in his jaw twitched.
“And so,” she said, “Prentice must have communicated with someone after he spoke to me. Is there any way we can get his phone records? Or monitor his e-mails?”
Grudgingly, Blake said, “I can’t reach him. He won’t answer the phone when I call. Supposedly, he’s on vacation.”
“He talked to me.”
“I seriously doubt that he’ll set up a meeting with you.”
“Probably not.” Their conversation hadn’t been friendly. “He can’t just disappear. Someone at his clinic in Aspen must know where he is.”
“They won’t rat out their employer. Even if we find him, he’s smart enough to use an untraceable phone or encrypted computer.”
They were sharing information, and that pleased her. As long as she didn’t talk about his father, she figured Blake would work with her. “When I talked to him, his voice got tense when I hinted that I might give the baby up for adoption. For some reason, Prentice and the person who sent the intruders want me to be a real mother and raise this child. I’d like to find out who was working on this study.”
“You think another scientist wants to continue the experiment through you.”
“It’s possible,” she conceded.
But genetic engineering—both the concept and the practice—had greatly evolved over the past twenty-five years. The Prentice-Jantzen study was archaic when compared with new research on the human genome. It simply didn’t make scientific sense to continue with an outmoded methodology. “If I give birth to the second generation, who benefits?”
“The father.”
His quick response surprised her, though it shouldn’t have. The existence of a male sperm donor was, of course, necessary to create a viable embryo. But she had avoided thinking about that part of the equation.
If her child truly was second generation, the father had to be someone else in the initial study. They needed to know the identities of the original superbabies. “We need to see your father’s notes on the Prentice-Jantzen study.”
“Can’t,” he said. “That data was stolen in the robbery.”
Dr. Ray was murdered and his notes stolen. Surely, not a coincidence.
BY THE TIME THEY GOT BACK to Denver, sunset had colored the skies with fiery red and yellow. A few years ago in Kenya, Blake had seen the body of an elder burned on a funeral pyre in a solemn ceremony. The flames purified and released the soul from the body.
He
