Page 8 of Saint of the Shadows

“I’m the woman who has it all. I can have my serious science discoveries and my celebrity gossip too.” Annie glided back in her chair and yanked the magazine from Marisol’s hands. Annie continued, “I’m actually following Varian’s secret off-the-books side project, and the media tend not to write about Vincent Varian in Scientific American, unfortunately.” She moved her bejeweled cat-eye glasses up from her face and rubbed her eyes.

Marisol shook her head and mocked in a fake deep voice, “Secret side project?”

“My ego would like to think the project they refer to is my work, but most think he’s funding the police’s super-cop program.”

The chamomile hadn’t kicked in yet, so Marisol had time for an Annie rant. “What do you actually think?”

“One of those rags said he has a home outside town deep in the Micah National Forest, never filmed nor seen.” Annie exaggerated her facial expressions like she was telling a spooky campfire story. “Now, none of those magazines have said it, but I think it’s home to his secret lab where he’s developing a weapon. Consider it the Manhattan Project’s sequel.”

Marisol grazed her finger across a photo of Vincent and drew an invisible mustache. “Sounds diabolical. He doesn’t seem to have the brains for that kind of project.”

“He doesn’t. But he can buy the brains.” Annie leaned toward her computer. The massive, messy topknot on her head pulled her closer to the monitor.

The computer screen shuffled through the squiggly shapes of chromosomes and the geometric shapes of molecules. Chromosomes, molecules, chromosomes, molecules.

The pattern scrambled Marisol’s brain. She failed to imagine how Annie spent hours staring and clicking. “Can’t you get an intern to do all that mindless work for you?” Marisol asked, teasing, unsure how electronically filing old samples propelled the medicine world forward.

“I want the utmost control.” Annie patted the keyboard.

“I just wouldn’t want to go through years of an M.D.-Ph.D. just to file.”

“You say file. I say coding genetic traits into chemical compounds. Tomato, tomahto.”

Marisol set her cup of tea down and covered Annie’s eyes to pull her away from the computer. Annie pushed Marisol’s hands away and whirled away from the desk on the chair. She cocked her head. “I’ve told you my theory.”

Marisol lip-synced the next words, ones she heard time in and time out.

Annie said, “The cures for most ailments have been around for many years, but a global conspiracy suppresses the research.” Marisol stopped her mockery before Annie said, “By going through important past research of Dr. Victor Varian, I will find the exact point in time that the cure suppression occurred. I found one of Dr. Varian’s promising formulas, though the mice metabolized it quickly. Not to mention the unpleasant side effects. But if I learn the right combination…”

“You’ll discover the cure to end all cures,” Marisol said. She unbuttoned her coat and flicked it behind her as she hoisted herself up on a counter next to a glass cage where a white mouse scurried. The mouse mattered more than the Varians, and the poor thing plodded around with tumors drooping like swollen teats. Speaking of giant boobs devoid of life: the Varians. “Victor… which one is he?”

“Vincent’s long-dead father. The doctor. Not to be confused with the nuclear physicist grandpa who died last year.” Annie coasted to a file cabinet and traded one box of slides for another, loading them into the computer. “I’m nearly a year into this project. I’d be further into this thing if the law would allow some stinkin’ human cloning.”

Oh, no. Annie warned Marisol to slap her if she sounded too much like a mad scientist. Instead of aslap, Marisol asked, “What’s our mission, Dr. Park?”

“People over ambition.” Annie sank into herself and sighed. “But I will get my eureka in the bathtub by god.” She waved her finger in the air for emphasis.

Marisol looked up from the mouse cage. “I met a guy last night.”

Annie stopped clicking and reclined in her chair, swallowing one gulp of her coffee. “Do tell.”

“We had another Patron Saint in the hospital last night. But this time, he snuck into the clinic. I caught him trying to treat his own stab wound.” Her brain crackled with another rush of dopamine, revisiting the images of a well-built torso and scorching blue eyes. “I helped him like some back-alley surgeon.”

Annie choked on her coffee. “Are you insane?”

“There was something about him.” Marisol nibbled her lip to counter her rising embarrassment. “I’m about to risk professionalism, but this is my safe space, right?”

Annie signaled for Marisol to confess in a parody of a priest’s blessing.

Marisol breathed through her teeth and shook her head. “No man has ever given me that spark.”

Annie released a low, throaty laugh. “It’s the mask thing. Behind it, anyone can be anything, and you hate when things get familiar.”

“I don’t”—Marisol prepared for the oncoming rebuttal—“always hate when things get familiar.” She looked at her dry nail beds. “I work too much to get close with anyone.”

“That’s a pattern. Now that you’re a woman of a certain age, you’re escalating. I just didn’t think your kink journey would take this long to begin. First, it’s masks, then ropes, and then, ‘Oh Annie, don’t go back there. That’s the sexy playroom.’”

“Ha ha. The world’s escalating. I pulled a blade out of him. A whole blade.” Marisol raised her hands with a six-inch gap to show how long the knife had been. “He should’ve bled out or at least ruptured his spleen or kidney, but he was fine. A knife wound was nothing but a paper cut. And when I turned my back, he disappeared into the night.”

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