She reached over to him, placing her fragile hand on top of his. “You okay?”
He nodded once. “Fine.”
“Liar,” she said with a teasing smile. “It’s okay to be scared, you know. But in a few minutes the doctors will be with us and we’ll have answers. That’s the first step in a process.”
Bic looked at her hand and smiled, “I used to hold you in one arm.”
She pulled her hand away with giddy embarrassment. “Cut it out, Unc.”
“Look at you now,” said Bic. “A brilliant woman getting ready to put your mark on the world. Your momma would be proud.”
“Thanks, Unc, but you’re changing the subject.”
Both heads snapped toward the opening door as a six-man panel of doctors entered.
“Well,” said Dr. Yang, a serious-faced Asian thirty-something with a Beatles haircut. Bic had never much cared for the Beatles look, but this guy pulled it off. “We didn’t find any abnormalities.”
“None?” Gracie asked. Bic thought she sounded disappointed.
Dr. Yang shook his head. Bic almost expected to hear girlish shrieks as his side swept bangs moved back and forth. “I went over the body scans six times.”
She turned to Dr. Samuel, a man with dark caramel skin and dark brown eyes in his forties with close-cropped graying hair wearing a lab coat pressed as stiff as cold rubber. “No abnormalities in the bi-frontal white matter regions?”
“None,” said Dr. Samuel. He threw a glance at Bic–what was the look? Reassurance? Pacification?
“You did the flair, T1 and T2 signals?” Gracie asked, clearly perplexed.
“I did. Personally.”
“And nothing?”
“Nothing. No lesions. No shadows.”
“No lesions,” the man echoed. He continued gazing at Bic. Reassurance, pacification... pity...
Accusation...
Malevolence...
The man’s face distorted into a wooden mask, drawn taut and lightening in hue, with black grains and knots appearing there. And the eyes glowed from behind the mask in a familiar, dope-stained red. And a voice barked out from behind it, “I see you.”
Bic jerked back in his seat as if jabbed with a cattle prod.
“Mr. Green? Are you okay?” asked Dr. Samuel, his appearance completely normal.
Bic nodded slowly, his breath coming in a long, uneasy sigh. “Yeah. Been a long day of tests is all.”
++
Though he obediently looked around as Gracie showed off the building they exited, Bic barely noticed the beautiful, clear day illuminating the impressive four-story atrium. It even smelled light and summery. Until they stepped outside. The full impact of the heat and humidity of a city set next to an enormous body of water hit him and roused him a bit. As they moved through the facility parking lot, Gracie’s voice sounded oddly distant as it reverberated, even though she walked right next to him. “Unc, I’m so sorry to put you through all that for nothing. I thought they’d have some answers. Or at least know what questions to ask next.”
“I appreciate you trying,” he said. “I was proud of you in there. Half the words you said, man, sounded like Martian to me.”
“I’ll figure out what’s wrong with you, I promise. We still have the bloodwork to assess. I’ve been corresponding with a hematologist in Boston who specializes in rare blood diseases.”
They stopped in front of her Nissan Maxima.
“Thank you,” said Bic.
“Unc,” she said, “are you serious?”
“You’re a busy girl. You don’t have to do this.”
“I don’t want to hear any more thank yous outta you. It’s insulting,” she said with a smile. Gracie stopped, “Hey, why don’t you come with me to see our lab building? It’s not every medical researcher who gets the funds to build her own private lab. I want you to see all the cool stuff we’re doing and meet everyone.”
“I’d love to, but I need to catch a flight.”
Gracie frowned. Bic couldn’t help but noticing her brow furrowed just like her mother’s used to. “You just got here.”
“Let me know when I can meet with that doc in Boston. And I meant what I said about you being busy. I don’t want you to take your eye off your company worrying too much about me.”
Her face beamed for a moment, then turned serious again. “Please tell your investors I have a plan to speed up getting our drug advanced into Phase 1 human FDA trials.” With a proud smile, “We cracked it.”
“Since you were five I believed with all my heart you’d find the cure,” Bic said emotionally. “The only way I can sleep at all at night is knowing the good you’re going to do for so many.” He enveloped her a big, long hug, then gave her a couple of pats on the back and released her.
“I miss these,” she said tenderly. She put her hand on his arm. “You have to promise me I’ll see you again before another two years pass, okay?”
“I promise,” Bic said, as he opened Gracie’s door for her.
“Really,” she said, getting in.
“Really.”
And closed the door.
Chapter 2
Bic made sure Gracie exited the garage before he left his car to reenter the center. He moved calmly, though his hands trembled. He hadn’t had a desire to release his darkness, since he had released that same anger by feeding Congressman Tidwell to the sharks. But seeing that hallucination of that mask triggered something primal inside of him. His successful suppression over the last two years of his rage had suddenly sprung back to life. But why? He didn’t need to kill anymore. He didn’t need a raw piece of meat to drop at the scene as he looked into the eyes of his victim to say the last words they’d hear on this earth. Those where the traits of a serial killer. That Bic was no more, or so he thought. Now he realized that Bic Green hadn’t died inside him, but had merely gone to sleep. And now, like a recovering alcoholic is drawn back to the bottle...
Bic wandered the hallways near the conference room until he spotted Dr. Samuel walking at the opposite end of a corridor. The doctor turned into an office. A third Bic Green–the hunter–was awake. And the hunter wanted answers.
Bic entered the office, shutting the door behind him, and took a seat. The blinds were shut, blocking out the beautiful Chicago day, but also blocking out the heat. Most of the room was immaculately tidy, but his desk and the table behind him were stacked with files. Dr. Samuel looked up from the stack of case files that covered his desk, his computer monitor glowing to his left, brightening that side of his face.
“Bic, can I help you?”
“You don’t seem surprised to see me.”
Dr. Samuel hesitated, then replied, hints of Southern roots barely noticeable. “I’m sorry I didn’t have any answers for you.”
“I think you do.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
Bic blinked once, letting the silence stretch just a little too long. “Something happened to your face.”
The man cocked his head. “My face?”
“I’ve never experienced it before. I felt like you sensed it too.”
“Bic... are you ok?”
“Who are you?”
“I’m not sure I understand...”
“I saw a wooden mask on your face. I heard a voice.”
“A mask... on my face…” Dr. Samuel’s eyebrows furrowed together as his eyes darted to the closed door then back to the man seated before him.
Bic nodded slowly.
The doctor turned his head slightly, keeping his eyes trained on Bic the whole time. He extended his open hand. “Why don’t we move to the conference room where there’s water and more comfortable seats, and we’ll talk about this, ok?”
“I’m not crazy,” Bic said, straining against the words.
“I never said you were, Bic.”
“I know. I know because it’s written all over your face: You know I’m not crazy.�
��
“So... you’re saying you experienced some sort of... hallucination? What did you see?” asked the doctor when Bic didn’t reply initially.
“I told you. Your face became a mask. Aged wood, very stylized and carved to look like a long face, dyed brown.”
“Sounds like you saw a Dan mask.”
Bic looked on for an explanation.
The doctor leaned back in his chair. “Refers to the Dan people of Liberia. It’s a sacred object used for protection and as a channel for communication with the spirit world.”
“Does this have something to do with what’s wrong with me?”
“Could be a side effect of the meds Dr. Green gave you. Sometimes it takes a while till we can regulate dosage. She should have gone over that with you.”
“You’re a bad liar, doctor.”
Dr. Samuel smiled awkwardly. “Excuse me?”
“You have what poker players call a tell. You blink a lot when you lie.” Bic said matter-of-factly.
The man’s face froze and he blinked a couple times.
“What are you holding back?” Bic asked with a sigh, shifting in the uncomfortable seat.
“As a doctor, that is, as a member of the medical profession who’s sworn to do no harm, I’d say I’m holding nothing back. But as a man who can plainly see that you’re not going to leave this office–or let me leave, for that matter–I can tell you about my Auntie Elodie and what she did in the Bayou when I was a young boy. And though my medical mind wants to say that she did some stuff medicine will eventually explain, I can safely say that it hasn’t explained it yet.” He paused, watching Bic. “That’s between you and me. Understand?” Dr. Samuel spent the next few minutes talking about his ancient aunt, and what she did with masks, rituals, and powers that no one understood. How the darkness ran deep with blood. He finally trailed off.
“You didn’t blink once. Thank you.” Without another word, Bic rose and left the office.
When he got to his car, his hands were trembling. The rage was back. The other Bic, the killer, was awake and thirsty.
He put his head back onto the headrest and closed his eyes, feeling the hate wash over him like water from a baptismal font. Darkness did run deep with blood, And he had come to a realization.
“He’s not dead,” he said out loud. “The bastard’s not dead.”
Thoughts of his father revved the engine of bloodlust within him.
Chapter 3
(Early July)
Jaco Ivanov climbed the metal steps of the Gulfstream G650, his face a carefully schooled mask of respect. Pausing briefly, he glanced at his yellow gold and stainless-steel Rolex and silently nodded to himself before continuing. His pearl-white Savile Row suit, which contrasted strongly with his bright blue eyes and brown eyebrows, matched the corporate jet in both color and sleekness. The aircraft itself, hangared at a private airfield twelve miles outside of midtown Manhattan, bore a royal blue corporate-stylized ‘V’, logo of Vintigen, the largest “Big Pharma” company in the world. Its coveted line of anti-cancer drugs grossed more per year than the GDP of any but the largest of first world countries.
Blessedly cool, conditioned air inside the cabin pulled the muggy July heat away from his skin. A well-built man, dressed like a Secret Service agent, met Jaco and motioned to him to raise his arms for a pat-down. Jaco removed his aviator sunglasses, placed them atop his bald head, then smirked as the young, blue-eyed man with the dark hair patted him down. The agent caught the smirk.
“Ticklish?” Spoken with a sneer.
“No,” said Jaco, “I was just thinking about how you remind me of me, maybe 30 years ago. You sure you’re not my bastard son?”
Jaco caught a glimpse of a SIG Sauer P226, the standard sidearm of a Navy SEAL, beneath the other man’s sport coat.
“Got tired of burning garbage in the desert?”
The agent stopped and looked at him quizzically.
Arms still up, Jaco motioned with his head toward the man’s weapon. “Who does a Navy SEAL have to screw to get this cushy job?”
Ignoring him, the agent finished the pat-down and nodded.
The front section of the plane’s interior was plush, with four oversized off-white leather captain’s chairs arranged in a conversational grouping. Jaco smiled; he might steal this design for his own plane, substituting his family crest for the V logo stitched on the back of each seat.
“Have a seat,” the agent called to him. “You’ll be taken to the back cabin once we’re in the air.”
“Yes sir, sir, yes sir,” Jaco said under his breath, surveying the finer details of the plane’s interior.
He fell into one of the captain’s chairs, the young agent beside him. Jaco closed his eyes. He didn’t care to know the kid’s name. To him, names, like the people they were attached to, were unimportant unless they came with some intrinsic value that would benefit Jaco Ivanov. He ran through various scenarios he might encounter once the meeting began, and their outcomes. He hoped it would be something he could take care of alone. He didn’t want to involve more people than necessary. Pies were better whole, not split.
About 30 minutes after takeoff, he opened his eyes and looked out the nearest window. All he could see was the vast sparkling blue of the Atlantic Ocean. They were a couple hundred miles offshore by now. The young man sitting next to him had his right index finger on his earpiece. He nodded and stood. “Sir, they’re ready for you in the back room.”
Jaco stood, then proceeded through the eight-panel door leading to the rear section of the plane. The space was about three times larger than the front cabin, with four captain’s chairs identical to the ones up front occupying a small foyer. Beyond, was a massive, walnut oval conference room table with a dozen chairs around it.
Two men sat at the table, wearing collared shirts. Suitcoats hanging on hooks at the end of the room emphasized the backroom feel of the meeting. One was Colton Nash, the CFO of Vintigen. Colton was one of those guys who had a boyish face that made them look twenty-nine for decades. As long as you didn’t know him when he was twenty-nine. He was tan, short, chubby, blue-eyed, and he had his blond hair like Robert Redford in Three Days of the Condor. Tasteful but expensive jewelry shone from wrist, fingers, cuffs, and collar, including a tie-pin and a collar pin. Jaco thought maybe that was the rich man’s version of suspenders and a belt.
The other was Peter Rains, a CIA operative in charge of the black ops assets operations. His look was pretty much the opposite. Dark hair and eyes, tall, trim, dark suit, and no jewelry except a watch, and not an expensive one. Peter was his handler some five years back, before Jaco’d gone rogue. Jaco knew that in Peter’s world, when he was going to do something on US soil for the “good of the country,” using hired guns from the criminal world was part of the playbook. And if one gets caught, one merely exterminates the problem, and life goes on.
Peter stood and extended his hand. “Jaco. Good to see you again.”
“Likewise, Peter.”
Peter motioned for him to sit at the head of the table.
Jaco pointed to the 30-year single malt bottle of Glenfiddich at the bar. “That for little old me?”
Rains smiled. “Thought you might like a drink once the deal is done.”
Jaco sat, “I’ll admit it’s a nice touch, Peter, but don’t think a fine bottle of scotch is going to get you a discount.”
Nash cleared his throat. “Now that you mention it, can we get down to business?”
Jaco glared at the man with a deeply calm smile, “By all means.”
Nash opened a file folder for Jaco to see. “Mr. Ivanov, I’m gonna cut right to the chase. There’s a small biotech company called Greentech. It’s getting in the way. We’d like very much for its founder, its scientists, and all of its research to... not be in the way anymore.”
Jaco scanned the file, taking his time about it.
“Our people will take care of the research submi
tted,” said Rains. “The patents, the FDA crap. You take care of the rest.”
Jaco clapped the folder shut. “What’s the pay?”
“Two million.” Rains said.
Jaco snickered. “I mean in total.”
Rains and Nash exchanged glances.
Jaco leaned forward. “Gentlemen, you wouldn’t have hired me if this company wasn’t a really big problem for you. So tell me, what are they on the verge of curing this time? Diabetes? HIV?”
“It’s no different than any job in the past,” said Rains.
“Sure it is. I can tell by the scotch.”
“The, uh… Powers That Be want the company taken out,” said Rains. “Leave it at that, Jaco. Are you in or out?”
Jaco sat on his thought for a moment, then smiled. “I’ll be damned. It’s cancer! Which one did they cure?”
“According to our guy at the FDA, all of them,” said Nash.
“You don’t need me,” said Jaco. “Seems like you could buy this startup company for two million. Sorry, gentlemen, but you wasted your scotch money.”
“We’ve made an offer,” said Nash. “They’re not for sale.”
“Everybody’s for sale,” said Jaco.
“Not this broad,” said Nash. He pulled out the second page in the packet.
“And who’s this?”
“This is Grace E. Green. Also goes by Gracie,” said Rains. “She’s the founder, head scientist, and private owner of the company.”
“And your chief target,” added Nash.
The picture of the young woman made him smile. Her skin, her cheeks, her full lips, her brown eyes; kind and intense at the same time. She reminded him of the first time he’d seen Halle Berry on the big screen. He tapped the photo. “I don’t kill kids, it’s bad business.”
“She’s no kid,” Nash sneered. “She’s 31 years old. A Ph.D. and M.D.”
Jaco looked at Rains, and then back at Nash, distracted for a moment by the chunky ring on Nash’s right hand.
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