Owl Island by Randy Sue Coburn

Author:Randy Sue Coburn
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780345493682
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2006-06-13T00:00:00+00:00

“The new program tests out fine,” Dunson said as Laurienne settled into an armchair near his desk.

“That’s good news.” She tried to hold eye contact while he paced, but sparkly things began dancing in her peripheral vision as she tracked him around the room.

“And now here’s the bad news,” Dunson said. “I expect we’ll be announcing our patent approval any day now, so results from this database have to be even more exact.”

Laurienne shook her head a little to see if the sparklies might disperse. They didn’t.

“You don’t agree?” Dunson asked.

“Oh, I do. Completely.”

“We need a thorough rundown of all the research out there concerning this gene. And we can’t nail it without more programming modifications, without repurposing the code. Think you’re up to it?”

A bolt of white-hot pain sliced through the back of Laurienne’s head and traveled down her neck. Holy shit. One little white lie, not even a whole bogus sick day, and this was what she got—sick for real. She clutched the chair arms, knuckles whitening as breath hissed down the back of her throat. “I think so,” she told Dunson. “We’ve got a good group.”

“I’m talking about you, specifically. Don’t tell me you’re having personal problems.”

“No. I mean, nothing I can’t handle. Nothing out of the ordinary.” As the pain mutated into a viselike grip on her forehead she fought down a wave of nausea.

“Because I can put someone else in charge if you’re tapped out.”

“No sir, I’m not tapped out.”

“Okay, but if anything ever does come up, remember, my door is always open.” He came close to give her shoulder a squeeze that was somewhere between solicitous and sexual. “I enjoy taking a certain amount of credit for your performance here. Wouldn’t want you falling short at an important time like this.”

She focused on the top button of his black knit shirt as he half sat, half perched on his desk above her, the posture of a pedagogue flavoring authority with youthful verve. “I won’t fall short,” she said.

Taking notes, she somehow made it through Dunson’s explanation of all the new program functions that had to be created. When they were done, she walked down the hall until she was sure of being out of sight, then raced around the corner to the women’s bathroom, punched in the entry code, and barely reached a toilet before vomiting.

Laurienne stayed in the stall for what seemed a long time while her body rocked and heaved. It wasn’t at all like what she remembered from being sick as a kid, when she lost everything in one big purge while her mother held a damp washcloth to her forehead. Whatever had hold of her now seized and wrung her out once, twice, then three times, with a round of dry heaves for good measure. She slumped against the stall to catch her breath, her balance. The root of her tongue ached from all that retching, but now her headache felt more manageable, more normal. She was wet with sweat

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