Shadow Tag, Perdition Games

by L E Fraser

  When Virgile’s body vanished from my sightline, I turned and ran for home, avoiding the crowd and ensuring that I stayed hidden in the shadows of the trees along the banks of the Teche. My mind raced as I sprinted for the safety of home. Virgile’s father would eventually report his monstrous son missing. If the gators smelled blood in the water and took the body, there would be no reason for the sheriff to suspect murder. I hadn’t recognized anyone milling around, ergo no one had recognized me. My name was not amongst the invited. No one had witnessed me talking to Virgile, of that I was certain, so I had no need to fear anyone would offer a description to the police.

  By the time I reached home, I had convinced myself that I was safe. I crawled into bed and closed my eyes, eager for the sanctuary of sleep. I felt no satisfaction, no guilt, and no regret. I felt nothing but the gentle kiss of a breeze through the open window. And then I detected the whisper of Pearl’s sweet voice from beneath the cypress tree, and I knew everything would be all right.

  I drifted off to sleep as she sang me our Cajun lullaby.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Sam

  SAM REMEMBERED CARDOON Bistro from the day of her interview at Serenity Clinic. When she’d bought the veteran a coffee and a sandwich, she’d been too anxious about the interview to pay attention to the restaurant’s interior. She took a minute to look around, immediately understanding why the eatery intrigued Reece.

  The bohemian style was charming and the aroma of rich coffee made her mouth water. Stunning prints—abstract, cubist, and surrealist—decorated every wall. Wildly coloured chairs, vintage light fixtures, and soft jazz music accented a carefree boho ambience. A chalkboard offered a selection of foodie delights, including a daily special of smoked-sturgeon cheesecake with caviar. It sounded disgusting to Sam, but Reece would salivate over it.

  She spotted Aazar at a table for two and walked over to join him. She wasn’t discounting him as an incestuous rapist, but he’d kept his word by contacting her to discuss his sister’s blood results. The real test of his honesty, and perhaps his innocence, would be if he disclosed Fadiya’s pregnancy.

  A woman with a pronounced limp approached them and put a plate of multi-coloured macarons in the centre of the table. She removed a white china coffee pot from her tray and set two mugs, a pitcher of heavy cream, and a bowl of coloured sugar cubes beside the coffee pot.

  Aazar waited until the server had left before he spoke. “Thank you for meeting me.” He was wheezing softly, but seemed able to handle communication without too much physical distress. “I’d prefer no one at Serenity knew we were speaking.”

  “Why’s that?” Sam asked, reaching for a purple macaron.

  He slid a sheet of paper across the table.

  She shoved the second half of her macaron into her mouth and glanced at the paper. “What am I looking at?”

  “Fadiya’s blood results,” he said. “It’s positive for ketamine, a drug primarily used during anesthesia. It induces a trance-like state and memory loss.” He paused to catch his breath. “It’s a psychoactive agent that can cause hallucinations and perceptual anomalies.”

  “Delusions,” Sam said, pouring a mug of aromatic coffee for each of them.

  “At first, I believed they were drugging her to prevent the lung lobe transplant,” he said. “Cancer drugs cost patients tens of thousands of dollars a year. If I live long enough to complete my research, the pharmaceutical industry will suffer significant losses.”

  Sam had read that the top cancer medications generated annual revenues that exceeded two billion dollars. That was after the cost of research to develop the drugs. The global population would benefit from Aazar’s scientific genius, but capitalistic pharmaceutical companies would not.

  “You think Fadiya is a victim of mind-altering drugs as a plot to ensure your death?” Sam asked.

  “I did, but now I fear it’s much darker than that,” he said.

  “How so?”

  “Fadiya is pregnant,” he said. “I ran a quantitative beta HCG. Based on the levels, she’s over eight weeks. You knew, didn’t you?”

  “I did.” She put down her coffee mug. “There’s missing CCTV footage from the camera outside her room. We’re in the process of recovering the data.” She paused, holding his level gaze. “When we do, we’ll identify the rapist.”

  Aazar waved his hand dismissively. “She wasn’t raped,” he said. “Do you know about my illness and the living-donor transplants Fadiya has gifted to me?”

  Sam nodded, curious where he was going.

  “Human leukocyte antigens are proteins on the cells in the body,” he said. “Out of one hundred different antigens, six are essential in organ transplantation. People inherit three from each parent. With the exception of identical twins, there’s just a twenty-five percent chance of siblings being a six-antigen match.” He adjusted his oxygen flow.

  “So, it’s lucky your sister is compatible.” Sam reached for a pink macaron.

  “Luck had nothing to do with it,” he said grimly. “Fadiya was not conceived naturally. Genetic modification created a perfect DNA match.”

  She dropped the macaron onto her plate. “I don’t understand.”

  “A geneticist edited the DNA of the germline and altered the contradictory hereditary factors to create a perfect match to me,” Aazar explained. “They transferred the genetically engineered embryo into my mother. The stem cell transplant from Fadiya’s umbilical cord blood put my disease into remission. The process also ensured they’d have access to a perfectly matched organ donor.”

  Sam understood where he was going. “You think a geneticist replicated the process and impregnated Fadiya with the embryo.”

  “Yes, because Fadiya has outlived her usefulness.”

  What he was suggesting entailed such gross medical malfeasance that it didn’t warrant serious consideration.

  “Human gene editing is illegal in Canada,” Sam said. “You’re talking about a conspiracy that would involve multiple highly skilled scientific experts. Why would these people risk their medical licences and prison?”

  “Utilitarianism theory—the greatest amount of good for the greatest number,” Aazar replied. “My work has the potential to eradicate cancer. Imagine what that means for millions of people.”

  “But why take this monumental risk when Fadiya’s lung lobe can save you?” Sam argued.

  “Every day that passes reduces my odds of surviving the surgery,” he said. “Stem cells are the best chance for my disease.”

  “Then why not use a surrogate to carry the scientifically designed match?” Sam argued, unwilling to believe any doctor would use a mentally incompetent seventeen-year-old as an incubator.

  “There are scientific reasons Fadiya is a perfect host, but if we’re right, they need to minimize collusion,” he said. “A surrogate might someday speak out. A raped, deluded patient minimizes risk of exposure.”

  “Someone at Serenity Clinic would have to be involved,” Sam said. “It would be the only way to access Fadiya to administer the fertility medications, harvest her eggs, and implant the embryo.”

  “I have suspected for some time that something malevolent is going on in that clinic,” he said. “My sister never suffered from delusional disorder, not until she arrived at Serenity.”

  “The court ruled her incompetent before your parents admitted her to Serenity,” Sam said. “Why did the psychiatrist at the hospital testify that she was deluded?”

  “Because I taught her how to fake her symptoms,” Aazar said calmly.

  His admission shocked her. “Why?”

  “Fadiya had undergone multiple living donor operations by the time she was twelve,” Aazar said. “A few days after authorities found her alive at Bueton, my parents consented to another transplant. I love my sister very much so I devised a plan to prevent further harvesting. I taught her to fake her mental illness so the court would revoke her right to consent.”


  “I agree that Fadiya has good days but the others are bad,” Sam said. “She can’t fake what I’ve witnessed.”

  “I agree,” he said. “Someone at Serenity Clinic is drugging her with hallucinogens to mimic delusional disorder.”

  “Fadiya’s allegiance to Mussani and Bueton is very real,” she said patiently. “Your sister suffered complex trauma from her experiences in the cult. Her mental health issues are real, Aazar.”

  He leaned across the table. “Don’t you see? Someone is using that trauma to control her. Whoever it is pretends to be Mussani. So long as Fadiya believes a dead man visits her, she’ll never be free to make her own life choices,” he stated with passion.

  “I also believe that someone is impersonating Mussani,” Sam said gently. “But the reason for the hallucinogens is that your sister is a victim of sexual assault. The drug keeps her docile during the attack and works to discredit her in the event she reports the assault.”

  Sam didn’t disclose her suspicion that someone was selling his sister to multiple men, profiting from the sick fetishes of deranged predators.

  “Before the pregnancy confirmation, I also feared that someone was violating Fadiya,” he said. “I took measures to protect her.”

  “That’s why you were sneaking into her room at night,” Sam stated. “Did you tamper with the security camera outside her room?”

  “You don’t understand,” he said in frustration. “I wanted them to know someone was in her room.”

  “Why?”

  “To see if anyone would investigate. They didn’t. I sat up there for an hour twice a week for over a month.” He held her eyes and there was anger boiling in his. “Do you see?”

  She did. Security monitored a live feed from the cameras. The night guard would have seen a stranger going into Fadiya’s room. The guard protected the intruder by ensuring uninterrupted access to a vulnerable patient. Then the corrupt security officer removed any trace of the man’s visit from the camera.

  “The bribed guard witnessed you entering the lockdown unit and assumed you were connected with the person who pays him,” Sam said.

  “Because the co-conspirator believed I was with the medical team.” Aazar’s hand shook as he sipped from his coffee mug. “My sister is being used as a human incubator.”

  Sam didn’t know what to think. If his theory was accurate, it didn’t account for the bruises on Fadiya’s body or her description of Mussani’s visits.

  “Wouldn’t ketamine harm the baby?” she asked.

  “Lengthy use of the drug could have a negative effect on brain development.” He put down his coffee mug. “If they genetically engineered a child merely to sustain my life, do you think they’d care?”

  “But how would they ensure Fadiya would carry the baby to term?” Sam asked. “When pregnancy follows a violent crime, abortion is many people’s choice.”

  “So long as the court deems Fadiya incompetent, it won’t be her decision,” he said bitterly.

  “I realize that, but your mother is her guardian and power of care. Won’t she demand termination?”

  “Muslim scholars hold that the child of rape is a legitimate child. That will be her excuse,” he said with anger. “After the baby is born, my mother will assume guardianship of the child—a child she will use to sustain my life, the way she used Fadiya.”

  Sam felt her eyes widen. “You can’t be suggesting that your parents are behind this?”

  “Do you know what the name Fadiya means?” he asked.

  Sam shook her head.

  “Sacrificing saviour,” Aazar said. “Why do you think my parents chose that name?”

  Sam had considered it possible that Aazar’s parents valued their son’s life over their daughter’s due to cultural and religious beliefs, but this was unspeakably evil.

  “A great deal of money has exchanged hands to make this possible,” Aazar said. “My father travelled unexpectedly to the Middle East in the spring. I believe it was to liquid international assets and wire-transfer the associated fees to off-shore accounts.”

  Sam was having a difficult time believing Fadiya’s mysterious pregnancy was an elaborate plot orchestrated by corrupt scientists. Aazar’s rationale was persuasive, but his immense intellect was ignoring the higher probability of rape—a terrible crime Sam had investigated too often when she’d been a cop. If Aazar had convinced Fadiya to fake delusional disorder, his guilt over putting her at risk must be crushing. Perhaps it was easier for him to fabricate wild theories than to accept that his sister was a victim of rape.

  “You hold Dr. Armstrong in great esteem,” Aazar said. “Is your resistance due to your admiration?”

  “I’ve been an investigator for a long time,” Sam said. “The simplest explanation is usually the right explanation. Evidence currently points to sexual assault, not an elaborate medical scheme.”

  Aazar picked up the blood report. “Ask Dr. Armstrong to test Fadiya’s urine for ketamine,” he said. “It can only be detected in blood for a few days, but it stays in the urine for over a week. If Dr. Armstrong denies its presence, will you consider my theory?”

  “Fine,” Sam said. “Give me the blood report.”

  He held it out. “My condition and treatment renders me impotent and sterile.” He swallowed hard, and an expression of unmitigated revulsion twisted his features. “If you believe I violated my own sister, I will consent to a medical procedure to extract sperm. A seminogram will prove I’m infertile.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Sam plucked the blood report from his hand and tucked it into her pocket.

  She believed him. If he were guilty of incest, his reaction to her questions would have been much different. Everyone had a ‘tell’ when they lied—an unconscious and uncontrollable tic or body motion. Sam had spent years honing her skills to become a human lie detector. Either Aazar was a stone-cold psychopath or he was telling the truth.

  “Thank you for hearing me.” He stood, walked to the door, and exited the restaurant. A black SUV pulled up outside the door and a driver helped Aazar into the back seat.

  Ugly conspiracy theories circled like vultures in Sam’s mind. The medical and scientific industry needed Aazar Basha. They didn’t need his sister.

  If Aazar were right, after the baby’s birth, Fadiya would be a serious liability.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Reece

  REECE HAD BEEN awake most of the night, agonizing over what to do. His future father-in-law would only have shared the impending political nightmare if he were certain that his information was accurate. Reece had to accept the inevitable—Gretchen Dumont was about to be exposed for unprofessional, amoral, and possibly criminal conduct. Her vendetta against Toronto Police Services would taint Reece’s investigation into a vigilante killer with unfounded bias and render his findings immaterial.

  He had to get his investigation into the right hands. If he didn’t, a killer would continue to hunt. He could accept any number of consequences, but he couldn’t live with that.

  His only option was to follow Sam’s advice and reach out to Bryce Mansfield. Reece trusted the head of the homicide unit implicitly, but Bryce had excellent political contacts. He would have heard about Gretchen’s quest to humiliate Toronto Police Services. Reece wasn’t sure how Bryce would react to a speculative declaration from her articling student that a serial vigilante was hiding homicides as sudden deaths. Reece had to convince Bryce without impugning the officers who caught those cases.

  Assuming he could persuade Bryce to take over the investigation, Reece would own his actions and confess his betrayal to Gretchen. She would fire him. He’d heard of a few articling students being canned by their principals. To the best of his knowledge, it had destroyed their future law careers. He supposed that was the least of his troubles. Breaching confidentiality could mean criminal charges. Ex-cops didn’t fare well in prison but he saw no option. When he’d been with the provinci
al police, he’d made an oath to faithfully and impartially preserve the peace and prevent offences. His responsibility was clear, regardless of the personal consequences.

  By seven o’clock in the morning, he’d made his decision and reached out to Bryce. It had taken a bit of persuading, and the promise of a Fancy Franks Coney Island dog, but Bryce agreed to meet him at noon.

  Reece arrived at Sugar Beach Park fifteen minutes early. The two-acre urban park was busy. Parents and young children frolicked in the granite maple-leaf-splash pad, and sunbathers enjoyed the Muskoka beach chairs and bright pink umbrellas along the shores of Lake Ontario. Reece walked the promenade by the water’s edge until he found an unoccupied bench. He sat and texted Bryce his location.

  It was warm, with a nice breeze from the water, and the bright blue sky was freckled with cottony clouds. Mariners piloted giant yachts, slick sailboats, and small recreational crafts around the still waters of the lake. The ferry glided toward Toronto Island from the foot of Queen’s Quay on the mainland. It was a beautiful summer day. Reece wished he could enjoy it rather than anticipating the implosion of his career.

  A few minutes before noon, Bryce flopped onto the bench beside him. He stretched out his long legs and tugged at his tie. Streaks of grey highlighted his closely cropped dark hair, and his face had deeper lines than Reece remembered. Bryce wiped at the sweat on his forehead with the back of his hand.

  “Want to tell me what I’m doing out here roasting my nuts in the middle of a work day?” he asked gruffly.

  Reece handed him a greasy paper sack.

  “You walk this puppy through the garden?” Bryce asked with a grin.

  “And bought it a ring,” Reece said.

  Bryce took a giant bite of his hotdog and moaned. “Alice has me on a hippy, plant-based diet.” He dug into the bag for an onion ring. “Never marry a woman half your age. The liabilities outnumber the benefits. How’s Sam doing?”