I have a thousand answers for him, and none. Genie, the child in the documentary, never did learn to talk. After years of poking and prodding by linguists with more interest in the next big book than in Genie herself, the girl ended up exactly where Petroski suggested. In some kinda home.

When I’ve put the finishing touches on my message to Patrick, I hand it back to Petroski. He grabs my hand.

“Can you help? You’re a doctor, right?”

I nod. Sort of.

“Can you help?” He stops, looks down at the triple stripes on his sleeve, and says, “I took an oath, you know. Maybe we should ride it out. This Pure thing can’t last forever.”

Time to throw a log on the fire. “You’re right. It can’t. It probably won’t. Another few years and Reverend Carl will be another footnote in a history book. Of course, he might stick around longer.”

“Yeah.” Petroski’s on the fence.

“You know, Sergeant,” I say, making it up as I go, hating myself a little as I stoke the flames, “I read an article a few years back. We used to think kids had until thirteen or fourteen to—you know, for that bang thing to happen. But I’ll tell you, as an expert, they have a lot less time than that. Three, four years, maybe. Afterward, their brains sort of”—I search for the right word—“click off.”

His face pales, and I wince despite the fact that it’s the reaction I’m going for.

“Well, I’d better get back to work,” I say. Better, I think, to give him a few minutes to mull things over while I work out the details with Lorenzo.

Leaving him, and the key to the Honda, at his desk, I walk back to my corner of the lab, this time along a different route. Half the ID cards are turned the wrong way, but I read a dozen of them, keeping in mind Lorenzo’s advice to worry about the titles and nothing else.

Chapter Sixty-nine

SIXTY-NINE

Approximately two percent of the population holds a doctorate. If you ignore the PhDs in English, the percentage is less. Much less.

“I count nine,” I say. “Out of about twelve.”

Lorenzo must have been luckier than I with the ID cards. “I got fifteen out of twenty.”

Two-thirds, three-quarters, it doesn’t matter. We’re sitting in a lab filled with experts. Given enough time, you could get a monkey to type out Shakespeare. In a lab like this, you could build a rocket to Mars in a hell of a lot less time. A brain-scrambling neurotoxin? I’d estimate overnight.

Which is just in time for the morning meeting Patrick will be attending tomorrow.

I check the room again. Eyes are exhausted, but busy. Lorenzo gives them until morning to come up with something that might satisfy Morgan.