Frameshift by Robert J. Sawyer Read Free Book Online Page A

twenty-six this summer, and was now well on her way to her Ph.D in behavioral psychology. But tonight she wasn’t studying.
    Tonight, she sat in a bar a few blocks from the University of Minnesota campus, the smoky air stinging her eyes. She’d already had a Long Island iced tea, trying to build up her courage. She was wearing a tight-fitting red silk blouse, with no bra underneath. When she looked down at her chest, she could see the points made by her nipples pressing against the material. She’d already undone one button before entering, and now she reached down and undid a second one. She was also wearing a black leather skirt that went less than halfway down her thigh, dark stockings, and spike-heeled black shoes. Her blond hair was hanging loosely around her shoulders, and she had on green eye shadow, and lipstick as bright red as the silk top.
    Molly looked up and saw a man enter the bar: a not-bad-looking guy in his mid-twenties, with brown eyes and lots of dark hair. Italian, maybe.
    He was wearing a UM jacket, with “MED” on one sleeve. Perfect.
    She saw him looking her over. Molly’s stomach was fluttering. She glanced at him, managed a small smile, then looked away.
    It had been enough. The guy came over and took the barstool next to her, well within her zone.
    “Can I buy you a drink?” he asked.
    Molly nodded. “Long Island iced tea,” she said, indicating her empty glass. He motioned for the bartender.
    His thoughts were pornographic. When he didn’t think she was looking, Molly could see him peering down her front. She crossed her legs on the stool, bouncing her breasts as she did so.
    It wasn’t long before they were back at his place. Typical student apartment, not far from the campus: empty pizza boxes in the kitchen, textbooks spread out on the furniture. He apologized for the mess and started cleaning off the couch.
    “No need for that,” said Molly. There were only two doorways off the living room, and both were open; she moved over to stand in the one that led to the bedroom.
    He came over to her, his hands finding her breasts through the blouse, then under the blouse, then quickly helping her remove the blouse altogether. Molly undid his belt buckle, and they shed the rest of their clothes on the way to the bed, plenty of light still spilling in from the living room. He opened his night-table drawer, took out a three-pack of condoms, and looked at Molly. “I hate these things,” he said, testing the waters, hoping she’d agree. “Kills the sensation.”
    Molly slid her palm across his hairy chest, down his muscular arm, and onto his hand, taking the condoms from him, and putting them back in the still-open drawer. “Then why bother?” she said, smiling up at him. She moved her hand to his penis and stroked it into full erection.
     
    5 years later
    Washington, D.C.
    Avi Meyer sat in his apartment, mouth hanging open.
    Demjanjuk had been found guilty, of course, and sentenced to death.
    The outcome had been obvious from the beginningof the trial. Still, there had to be an appeal: it was mandatory under Israeli law. Avi hadn’t been sent to Israel for the second trial; his bosses at the OSI were confident nothing would change. Surely all the claims filtering into the press were just clever ploys by Demjanjuk’s grandstanding attorneys. Surely the interview aired on CBS’s
60 Minutes
with Maria Dudek, a skinny woman now in her seventies, with white hair beneath a kerchief, ragged clothing, and only a few teeth left, a woman who had been a prostitute in the 1940s in Wolga Okralnik near Treblinka, a woman who had had a regular john — a regular
ivan
 — who operated the gas chambers there, a woman who had screamed in bought passion for him — surely this old woman was mistaken when she said her client’s name had not been Ivan Demjanjuk but rather Ivan
Marchenko
.
    But no. Avi Meyer was watching all the OSI’s work unravel on CNN. The Israeli Supreme Court, under Chief Justice