The Divide Read Online Free PDF Page A

fragile.
    Tonight the Joyce Carol Oates seemed a little too architectural; she slipped into the welcoming embrace of Travis McGee. Old Travis had mellowed a lot in his later books. He had more second thoughts these days. She liked that.
    With the drapes open she curled up in bed, propped up with pillows behind her and a view of the city lights running north to the horizon. She was three chapters into the book and inclining toward sleep when the phone rang.
    She picked it up expecting Dr. Kyriakides, but it was late for him to be calling; she couldn’t place the voice at first.
    “John Shaw,” he said.
    Well—obviously. But he sounded younger on the phone. You couldn’t see his eyes; his eyes were ancient.
    Susan struggled to assemble her thoughts. “I’m glad you called—”
    “I think you’re right,” he said. “I think we should talk.”
    “I agree. Uh, maybe we can get together tomorrow?”
    “You’re at the Carlton?”
    “Yes.”
    “I’ll meet you in the lobby. Is noon all right?”
    “Of course—sure—”
    “See you there.”
    And then the line went dead, and she was left sleepy and amazed, staring at the receiver in her hand.
     
     
    She rode the elevator down at five minutes to noon the next morning and found him waiting.
    He was standing by a marble pillar, dressed in worn Levis, track shoes, and a blue windbreaker over a T-shirt, with his hands tucked into his jacket pockets. Susan moved toward him with her heart beating hard, as his head swiveled owlishly and his eyes focused in on her.
    “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t think I did a very good job yesterday. I didn’t know how to start.”
    “You’re in a tough position,” John said. “The messenger with bad news.”
    “Plus—I guess I was a little frightened.”
    He smiled. “Of me?”
    She laughed, but it was true. She
had
been frightened. Still was. But it was easier now, at least a little. “Where do we go for lunch?”
    “Depends. I don’t have a lot of cash. Are you on an expense account?”
    “It’s paid for.”
    “By Max?”
    “Ultimately.”
    “Well, there’s a decent Japanese restaurant around the block. I’m sure Max can afford it.”
    “Sounds fine,” Susan said.
    She had never eaten Japanese food but didn’t want to admit it. The atmosphere in the restaurant was traditional: koto music and waitresses in tight kimonos. She felt somewhat gauche, lost among the rice paper screens; she let John order for her.
    The waitress brought miso soup in a wooden bowl. No spoons —apparently you were supposed to pick up the bowl like a cup. John said, “You’re not used to this.”
    She forced a smile. “Redondo Beach WASP. We never ate anything more challenging than Mexican. I remember a lot of TV dinners.”
    “The main course is tempura. Nothing scary. Unless you have a problem with shrimp?”
    “No, that’s fine. You know, I learned to eat Cantonese and Szechuan in college. Just never got around to Japanese.”
    John turned his attention to the soup. He ate meticulously, Susan observed; almost mechanically. When the bowl was empty he pushed it aside and ignored it. “Max knows I’m ill.”
    Straight to the point, Susan thought. “He suspected it.”
    “Is he still working with prenatal growth regulators?”
    “Not officially.”
    “But on his own?”
    “Some animal research.”
    “Out of curiosity, I wonder, or guilt?”
    Susan frowned. “I’m sorry?”
    He waved his hand—never mind.
    The waitress brought sashimi on wooden plates. “Thank you,” Susan said. The waitress bowed and returned a “Thank you.”
    “It might be easier,” John said, “if you just told me what you know about me. We can begin there.”
    But it was a tall order:
What kind of monster do you think I am?
Susan told him what Dr. Kyriakides had explained to her—that John was the product of a clandestine research project conducted in the fifties. Before his birth he had received an intrauterine cocktail of cortical