Tonight the Joyce Carol Oates seemed a little too architectural; she slipped into the welcoming embrace of Travis McGee. Old Travis had mellowed a lot in his later books. He had more second thoughts these days. She liked that.

With the drapes open she curled up in bed, propped up with pillows behind her and a view of the city lights running north to the horizon. She was three chapters into the book and inclining toward sleep when the phone rang.

She picked it up expecting Dr. Kyriakides, but it was late for him to be calling; she couldn’t place the voice at first.

“John Shaw,” he said.

Well—obviously. But he sounded younger on the phone. You couldn’t see his eyes; his eyes were ancient.

Susan struggled to assemble her thoughts. “I’m glad you called—”

“I think you’re right,” he said. “I think we should talk.”

“I agree. Uh, maybe we can get together tomorrow?”

“You’re at the Carlton ?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll meet you in the lobby. Is noon all right?”

“Of course—sure—”

“See you there.”

And then the line went dead, and she was left sleepy and amazed, staring at the receiver in her hand.

She rode the elevator down at five minutes to noon the next morning and found him waiting.

He was standing by a marble pillar, dressed in worn Levis, track shoes, and a blue windbreaker over a T-shirt, with his hands tucked into his jacket pockets. Susan moved toward him with her heart beating hard, as his head swiveled owlishly and his eyes focused in on her.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t think I did a very good job yesterday. I didn’t know how to start.”

“You’re in a tough position,” John said. “The messenger with bad news.”

“Plus—I guess I was a little frightened.”

He smiled. “Of me?”

She laughed, but it was true. She had been frightened. Still was. But it was easier now, at least a little. “Where do we go for lunch?”

“Depends. I don’t have a lot of cash. Are you on an expense account?”

“It’s paid for.”

“By Max?”

“Ultimately.”

“Well, there’s a decent Japanese restaurant around the block. I’m sure Max can afford it.”

“Sounds fine,” Susan said.

She had never eaten Japanese food but didn’t want to admit it. The atmosphere in the restaurant was traditional: koto music and waitresses in tight kimonos. She felt somewhat gauche, lost among the rice paper screens; she let John order for her.

The waitress brought miso soup in a wooden bowl. No spoons—apparently you were supposed to pick up the bowl like a cup. John said, “You’re not used to this.”

She forced a smile. “Redondo Beach WASP. We never ate anything more challenging than Mexican. I remember a lot of TV dinners.”

“The main course is tempura. Nothing scary. Unless you have a problem with shrimp?”

“No, that’s fine. You know, I learned to eat Cantonese and Szechuan in college. Just never got around to Japanese.”

John turned his attention to the soup. He ate meticulously, Susan observed; almost mechanically. When the bowl was empty he pushed it aside and ignored it. “Max knows I’m ill.”

Straight to the point, Susan thought. “He suspected it.”

“Is he still working with prenatal growth regulators?”

“Not officially.”

“But on his own?”

“Some animal research.”

“Out of curiosity, I wonder, or guilt?”

Susan frowned. “I’m sorry?”

He waved his hand—never mind.

The waitress brought sashimi on wooden plates. “Thank you,” Susan said. The waitress bowed and returned a “Thank you.”

“It might be easier,” John said, “if you just told me what you know about me. We can begin there.”

But it was a tall order:What kind of monster do you think I am? Susan told him what Dr. Kyriakides had explained to her—that John was the product of a clandestine research project conducted in the fifties. Before his birth he had received an intrauterine cocktail of cortical growth regulators, human hormones Dr. Kyriakides had isolated under a classified government grant. The purpose of the research was to produce a superior human being, specifically in the neocortical functions—the most highly evolved functions, such as intelligence.

John’s smile was fixed. “ ‘Highly evolved’—sounds like Max. He told you all this?”

“At greater length. And with more breastbeating.”

“He does feel guilty.”

“I have the impression he always did.”

“Did he mention that his ‘government grant’ was by way of a client operation of the CIA? That his name came up twice in the Church Committee hearings?”

“Yes. He says they were funding everything in those days—LSD at McGill, exotic botany at Harvard. Postwar insanity.”

“Did he also mention that he was the closest thing to a father I had for the first several years of my life?”

“Something like that.”

“And that he farmed me out for adoption when the project was closed down?”

“He didn’t have a choice.”

“But now he wants to talk … because he thinks I’m dying.”

“I should never have said that! I’m sorry—I just wanted to get your attention.”

“But it’s possible?”

“The animal studies have been mixed,” Susan admitted.

“Some animals have died.”

She looked at the table. “Yes.”

The tempura arrived then. Susan picked at hers. It was good, but she’d lost her appetite.

John ate vigorously.

When the check arrived Susan used her credit card and filed away the customer copy. John said, “Are you up to walking a little?”

She nodded.

“It’s a good day for it. Autumn is the best time of year in this city.” He stood up and pulled his windbreaker over his T-shirt. “I don’t get many afternoons like this.”

They rode the College streetcar west to Augusta. The day was cool but endlessly sunny, the sky a shade of blue you never saw in LA. When the streetcar stopped, John climbed down through the rattling mid-car doors and offered her his hand. How dry his skin is, Susan thought … and then scolded herself for thinking it. He wasn’t an animal, after all.

He led her south through a maze of ethnic markets, fish stalls, vegetable bins, used-clothing outlets. This was Kensington Market, John said, and it was his favorite part of the city.

It was also crowded and more than a little bewildering—no two signs in the same language—but Susan felt some of the carnival atmosphere, maybe picking it up from John. He took her to a cafe, a sidewalk table under an umbrella and far enough from the fish stalls that the air was tolerable. He ordered two cups of fierce cappucino. “Legal drugs.” Smiled at her. She sipped the coffee. He said, “Well, maybe I am dying.”

Her cup rattled against the saucer. “Do you always have these two-track conversations?”

“You mean, is this a manifestation of my superhuman intellect? Or just an annoying habit?”

“No, I don’t mean that. I mean—well, if you don’t want to talk about it—”

“Max must have warned you, surely? John the monster.” He startled her by closing his eyes. “You’re wearing Levis and a brown sweater with a checked collar showing at the neck. You have brown hair, blue eyes, a mole under your right cheekbone and another one just under your ear. You have both hands on the table; the nail is chipped on your left index finger. You don’t wear nail polish. The building behind you is catching the sunlight; it has twenty-eight rectangular windows facing the street and a revolving door with a mango cart parked on the sidewalk in front of it. The cart vendor is wearing a yellow plaid shirt and a black beret. A grey Nissan Stanza just drove past, southbound—it should be at the intersection by now.” He opened his eyes and stared at her. “You come from Southern California and you’re timid with people. You have an exaggerated respect for Dr. Kyriakides—take my word for it—and some unresolved feelings about your own father. You have a suppressed speech impediment that begins to surface when you talk about your home, which you don’t like to do. You think you like me, but you’re still a little frightened. You—”