In Her Image

Then, just as quickly, the petite woman was surrounded by admirers or, more accurately, fawners, offering to do whatever the Vice President might have hinted needed to be done. A young woman helped her remove a fur shawl. A young man handed her a filled champaign glass that she took with both hands. If the clothes had been ancient Egyptian, it could have been a scene right out of a Cleopatra movie.

"Janet Hunter," Dale whispered, trying to keep his voice below the titter that surrounded the woman. "She certainly does have an effect on an audience."

"Yeah, she does," replied Tom.

Silence flooded in between the two men as the woman looked over at them and then transmitted a short, closed-mouth smile. When she turned the other way, Dale continued talking, just to make conversation and cut through the nervousness.

"I don’t suppose it’s just the way she dresses, though she does look very elegant in black satin."

"I guess. I don’t know much about the way women dress, but I think there’s somethin’ missing."

"What, pearls? They’re there, a triple strand. Tom, I’m surprised you don’t see them. They show up well on the dark background."

"No, not pearls, an applique."

"Applique?"

"Yeah, somewhere near her navel. A red one that looks like an hour-glass."

A sense of horror overwhelmed him. A fertile garden it was, that could be nourished by the remains of unneeded, unwanted people. People like Dale who already knew too much. People who would no longer be needed after the clones lived outside their artificial wombs.

Yet there was no specific odor of rotting flesh, so how was it accomplished? He remembered Tom. His body was charred. The witch must be cremating the carcasses first, probably using the propane from that big, underground tank. Next she would sprinkle the ashes as fertilizing mulch to grow those vegetables. Was the produce grown here sold at the commissary? Did people in the compound eat the fruits of the dead?