“For something this important, won’t the FDA take that into account?”

Raborn laughed. “I see you haven’t had many dealings with the FDA. They’d make a steel pipe look flexible. Trust me, they’d never let me begin a trial.”

Erin’s eyes narrowed. “I see. Why do I have a sick feeling that I know why you called me?”

“I need your help, Erin. I could sense your passion in the article I read. Your drive to give society a tool to deal with these monsters. It came through, loud and clear. And you’re one of only a handful of researchers going into prisons and studying psychopaths, and taking MRIs of their brains on a daily basis.”

“You want me to test your therapy on my inmates, don’t you?”

There was another long silence on the line.

“You’re out of your mind,” said Erin.

“It’s the only way. It has to be done empirically.”

“Sure. And I go to jail.”

“No one will ever know. I’ll give you the therapeutic cocktail, and separately, the eight genes whose precise modulation is critical, at a wide variety of expression levels. You just have to add them to the mix in every possible combination until you find the one that works. It won’t be easy, since we can be all but certain the delicate balance of these genes that does the trick in mice won’t be the same balance needed in man. It took me hundreds of experiments, and it might take you the same. But when you’ve found the right combination, you’ll see a complete reversal of the condition. The brains of your psychopathic subjects will read as normals. Their amygdalas will light up when given emotionally charged words. And as I mentioned, these abnormal genes would not only be replaced, but expressed correctly. So their brain structures will revert to normal—they will be normal—at the level of their DNA. Right down to their sperm and ova. And your MRI data will be there to document the entire thing.”

“That’s how it’s supposed to work. But if there is one perfect combination of gene expression levels, I’m guessing there’s at least one imperfect combination. A combination that is lethal. How many mice did you kill along the way?”

“Surprisingly few,” said Raborn. “The vast majority of the wrong combinations do nothing. And as I’ve said, the therapeutic window with mice is very tight. It should be wider in man. So there is even less chance of hitting a lethal combination.”

“But you have no idea really. Less chance doesn’t mean no chance.”

Erin heard a sigh at the other end of the phone. “No. There are never guarantees when testing experimental medicines. Test subjects have lost their lives in the name of clinical research and will do so again. It’s unfortunate that this has happened. But that’s the nature of drug development. It’s a risk we have to take if we ever want to bring important new drugs to the world.”

“This is true, but in FDA-sanctioned trials, these patients give their informed consent. The benefits and risks are carefully explained to them before they sign on. They know there is a chance things could go wrong, but they are volunteers. Going in with their eyes open.”

“Look, Erin, you know that even if the FDA would allow a trial, psychopaths would never volunteer. They’re all convinced there isn’t anything wrong with them—it’s the rest of us who have the problem.” He took a deep breath. “Erin, you’re working with violent offenders, most of them repeat offenders. And when they get out they’ll do it again. You know they will. They have no conscience, no soul. If a few of them don’t survive our trial, this will be a tragedy. But nothing like the tragedies they’ve already caused in countless lives. And will again.”

“I won’t do it,” said Erin emphatically. “There is nothing you can say that will get me to change my mind about this. Period. I agree with what you say. And I have a history with a psychopath myself. I decided early on to study this condition, but not at the cost of my own soul. I vowed not to ever let this work erode my own moral standards.”

Just after she had decided on the course her life would take, Erin had stumbled across a famous quote from Friedrich Nietzsche: a warning. Battle not with monsters lest you become a monster, he had written. And if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes into you. She had taken this admonition to heart, determined not to let her work with monsters turn her into one herself.

“I’m not asking you to lower your moral standards. Just to reconsider them. I’m asking you to look at the big picture. Think of how many lives you’d be saving if you could wipe this scourge from the face of the earth. I’m not suggesting you kill psychopaths to get rid of them. All I’m asking is to cure them. Turn them into humans. Give them back a soul. You’d be doing them the ultimate service.”

Raborn paused for just a moment to let his points sink in and then pressed forward. “And think about the thousands and millions of victims around the globe you’d be saving. Not just the victims of violent crimes, but of swindles, and heartbreak, and manipulation. Now and for all future generations. If you knew the death of a few of these remorseless killers you study in prison would save tens of thousands of lives, tens of thousands of rape victims—often children—wouldn’t this be worth it? And again, not just for this generation, but for all eternity. The total decrease in human pain and suffering would be monumental. Incalculable. And I’m not even saying any of your subjects will die, because I don’t think they will. But if I’m wrong, and a few did end up dying, are you saying they wouldn’t have died for a noble cause?”

“I won’t do it,” said Erin.

But she said it with far less conviction this time. And she made no move to end the conversation.

8

ERIN PARKED THE Ford rental car in the large parking lot shared by Asclepius Pharmaceuticals and several other biotech companies in the industrial park. The sky was a vibrant blue, and exotic, tropical vegetation could be seen everywhere a visitor looked. Streams and small fake waterfalls wound their way along the common grounds of the biotech park, and the modern buildings were all four stories tall and made of blue-tinted glass, only the engraved marble obelisks in front of each differentiating one from another.

Here goes nothing, thought Erin nervously. Would Raborn be in? How would he react to her surprise? And where would she be spending the night?

She tried to convince herself that it was fun not knowing. Her life had become too programmed, she decided.

During her last conversation with Raborn, he had made no mention of travel, so she had high hopes that he would be in. If not, maybe she’d treat herself to the zoo or SeaWorld before she met Courtney for dinner. One way or another, she was determined to have a fun, relaxing vacation, and stay well clear of any of the local prisons. In fact, as far as she was concerned, she was done with prisons forever.

She eyed Asclepius’s lobby for a moment, but decided against this route. In for a penny, in for a pound. No use coming this far only to spoil the surprise by having a receptionist let Raborn know she was here. Sure, it was awkward to meet in the flesh after two years of a great Skype relationship. But Courtney had insisted that once Raborn saw Erin in spectacular 3-D, he would never be satisfied with Skype again. Especially if she was able to seduce him.

Raborn’s office was inside Asclepius’s vivarium, located within a nondescript building not officially affiliated with the biotech park, a few blocks away from their main offices, unlabeled so as not to attract attention from animal rights activists. She approached the entrance, a glass double-door, and pulled. She wasn’t entirely surprised to find it locked, especially since there was a key-card scanner affixed to the wall nearby.