“JESUS,” SAID MIRANDA, “SHE’S ON THE LAM AND SHE’Sknocked up to boot?” It was the morning after I’d seen the pregnancy-test kit in Art’s lab, and I’d dropped by the bone lab when I first arrived on campus. I’d had a bad night of it, so I was eager to get out of bed and onto campus, and I’d been relieved to see Miranda’s car parked beside the stadium when I arrived. When I walked into the lab, she was checking her Facebook page on the computer, but now—when I told her of Isabella’s pregnancy—she closed the window on the screen and gave me full attention. Suddenly her eyes widened and she clapped a hand to her mouth. “Holy crap, Dr. B. Oh, my God. It’s your baby, isn’t it? Oh my God, oh my God, oh myGod. ”
I shrugged miserably. “I don’t know. It seems so far-fetched in so many ways, but then again, she doesn’t—didn’t?—seem like the sort to sleep around.” I shook my head. “Then again, what the hell do I know about what sort she is? She killed a man to avenge the bombing of Nagasaki; clearly she’s a bit unhinged. For all I know, she might’ve slept with a dozen other men in the past few months.” But even as I was saying it, I knew it wasn’t true.
“When you say ‘other men,’ I assume you mean besides you. Iknew you were sleeping with her,” she said, with what sounded like a mix of vindication and disapproval.
“Slept,” I corrected miserably. “Just once.”
“And am I right in thinking that maybe, just possibly, the topic of protection did not…um, arise, before or during the doing of the deed?”
“Alas, you are correct,” I said. “Things happened pretty quick that night. I think we both got swept away.”
“Swept away? Sweptaway ? What are you, sixteen years old? Jesus, Dr. B., this isn’t the Age of Aquarius, it’s the Age of HIV. And herpes, not to mention—duh—unplanned pregnancy.”
“You’re right, of course. But you know what, Miranda? It’s easy to be right in hindsight. Haven’t you ever been wrong—wrong and headlong—in the heat of the moment?”
“Not since undergraduate—” She stopped midsentence, and her cheeks reddened. “Okay, okay, I see your point. Butfuck, Dr. B.” She snorted. “Oh, wait, you already did that, didn’t you?” I was not amused, and she could tell. “Sorry. I don’t mean to make light of your distress. Butfuck , Dr. B.—you had sex with a murderer.”
“I know that now,” I protested, “but I didn’t know it then. I mean, I knew I was having sex with her. But I didn’t know she was a murderer. Murderess. Whichever.”
“I prefer the term ‘crazed killer,’ actually,” she said. “But don’t let me sway you one way or another.”
She studied me, her face suddenly serious. “So if Isabella got pregnant after being exposed to gamma radiation, does that complicate things medically? Isn’t there a big risk of birth defects?”
I shook my head. “I looked that up yesterday, and I don’t think so. Handling the source burned her fingers—just like it singed your fingertips and cooked Eddie’s hands—but apparently it wouldn’t endanger a baby who was conceived a week or two later.”
“Well, thank heaven for small favors,” Miranda responded. “Still, if it’s your baby, that’s pretty heavy stuff. How are you doing with that?”
“I don’t honestly know,” I said. “I can’t even imagine it. There might be a baby on the way that I’ve fathered, with a woman who’s wanted by the police and the FBI? I have a grown son, Miranda. I have two grandsons. I don’t know this woman. I don’t even know where she is. And if I did, I’d have to turn her in.”
“Wow. Makes worrying about a dissertation topic seem like small potatoes.”
“What do I do about this, Miranda?”
She shrugged. “Whatcan you do? She’s a fugitive. It’s not like you can get together and discuss the situation over coffee at Starbucks. I mean, if the FBI can’t find her, you probably won’t be able to. So unless she surfaces, I don’t see how you can do anything except wait.”
“But she’s in trouble—deep trouble—and she needs medical care for her hands, and she needs prenatal care for the baby. Formy baby. Jesus. What a mess.”
“It is a mess,” she agreed. She paused, looking uncomfortable, then added, “So…um, Dr. B.? Is there somebody else you can talk to about this? Because I’m probably not the best person. A therapist, maybe? Or your son?”
I didn’t tell her that I was already talking to a therapist. She was right, of course, to feel uncomfortable about the conversation. It had been inappropriate to unburden myself to one of my students, even one with whom I’d worked for years, almost as an equal. “I’m sorry, Miranda. That was inconsiderate of me. You’re right. I’ll talk to Jeff.”
Leaving the bone lab, I avoided the stairs that led up one flight to the departmental office. Instead I took a right, out the door at the bottom of the stairwell, and then skirted the base of the stadium on the one-lane service road that threaded between the girders and the columns. The day was chilly, and the cold felt good on my face for the two-minute walk to the north end zone. There I closed my door and dialed a call.
But it was not my son I called—it was the Oak Ridge Police Department, and I was pretty sure the call wasn’t going to make me feel better.