Excavation

“Some questions have no answers.” Maggie reached up and touched his cheek. “But in truth, Sam, you didn’t escape death. None of us can. It’s still out there. Not even the Incas could escape it in the end.” She drew Sam closer. “For years, I’ve tried to run from it, while you stood back-to-back with your uncle against it. But neither way is healthy, because Death always wins in the end. We end up the worse for trying.”

“Then what do we do?” He begged her with his eyes.

Maggie sighed sadly. “We strive to live as fully as we can.” She stared up into his face. “We simply live, Sam.”

He felt new tears. “But I don’t understand. How -?”

“Sam,” Maggie interrupted, reaching a finger to his lips. The rescue blanket fell from her shoulder with a soft rustle.

“What?”

“Just shut up and kiss me.”

He blinked at her words, then found himself leaning down. Guided by her hands, he discovered her lips. He sank into the softness and heat of her, and he began to understand.

Here is the reason we live.

He kissed her tenderly at first, then more passionately. His blood rang in his ears. He found his arms pulling her closer to him, while she reached hands to the back of his neck, tangling in his hair and tumbling his Stetson from atop his head. They struggled toward one another, leaving no space between them.

And in that moment, Sam’s heart soared as he understood.

In this kiss, there was no grief… no guilt… no death.

Only life – and that was enough for anyone.

Epilogue

Two years later

Thursday, October 19, 10:45 P.M.

Institute of Genetic Studies

Stanford, California

Three floors beneath the main research facility, a man wearing a long white lab coat approached the palm pad to a suite of private laboratories. He pressed his hand flat on the blue pad and watched the pressure-sensitive reader flash across his fingers. The light on the panel changed to green. His name appeared in small green letters on the reader: DR. DALE KIRKPATRICK.

The sound of tumbled bolts announced his acceptance by the computerized monitoring station. He removed his palm and pulled the handle. The vacuum seal cracked with a slight whoosh of air, like a short inhaled breath. The middle-aged scientist had to tug harder to pull the door open against the slight negative pressure of the neighboring rooms, a built-in safeguard to keep biologic contaminants from possibly escaping the lab. No expense had been spared on this project. A government think tank, backed by the Pentagon, had invested close to a billion dollars in this project. A good portion of which, he thought with a wry smile, went directly into his personal salary.

His shoulder protested with a sharp twinge as he pulled the door fully open. Wincing, he entered the lab and let the door reseal behind him. He rubbed the tender spot alongside his rotator cuff. The bullet wound he had suffered in the halls of Johns Hopkins had required four surgeries to repair. Though he still had occasional pain, he could hardly complain – not only had he survived the attack, he had come away with a small quantity of Substance Z, the test samples used in the electron microscope assay.

Once word of his find reached the right circles, Dr. Kirkpatrick was allowed to vanish. His death was reported, and he was whisked to the West Coast, to the Institute of Genetic Studies at Stanford. He was granted the lab, and a staff of fourteen with the highest government clearance.

Dale continued down to his office, past the rows of laboratories. As he passed the computer suite, he heard the whir of the four in-line Cray computers as they crunched the day’s data collected by the gene sequencer. The Human Genome Project was a child’s puzzle compared to what his lab was attempting. He estimated it would take four more years to figure out the exact code, but he had the time. Whistling to break the silence of the empty lab, Dale used a keycard to unlock the door and enter his personal office.

Shrugging out of his lab coat, he hooked the garment on a coat rack, then loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves. He crossed to his desk and settled into the leather chair with a sigh.

He wanted to dictate the last of his annual review, so Marcy could type it up tomorrow for his inspection. He opened a drawer and removed his personal dictation device. Thumbing it on, he brought the microphone to his lips.