Enhancement (Black Market DNA Book 1)

by Anthony J Melchiorri

  Releasing the woman, Jordan motioned to Chris, clasping the woman’s hands all the while. “This is Greg’s mother, Mrs. Harding.”

  She released Jordan and grasped Chris’s hands. Her palms felt dry and warm, her knuckles swollen with arthritis. “Call me Jeanette. Were you a close friend?”

  Chris thought to respond that he wasn’t. That he had only known Greg for a couple of days. He remembered watching Greg read a book while he, Jordan, and Tracy had discussed the unraveling of a conspiracy, the untangling of a mess that Chris had dove headfirst into without considering the depth of his plunge.

  Instead, he nodded. “Greg was a wonderful man.” He opened his mouth to say more, to express something, anything, but he pressed his lips closed again and offered Jeanette a smile that he hoped appeared as sincerely sympathetic as he felt.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said, letting go of his hand and smiling back at him with an expression of sorrow. Chris could tell that expression was not just sorrow for the loss of her son, but it was an expression of her own condolences to him.

  Once again, he followed Jordan into the small line in front of Greg’s casket. A window composed of intricate, curling patterns above them let in a golden glow above where Greg lay in repose. Chris gazed up, avoiding the casket. His eyes darted among the ornate carvings in the arching ceiling, protruding square shapes, each with a circle in the center like eyes watching the service from above.

  A tide of dizziness swelled up in him and he started for the pews, but Jordan grabbed his arm. Chris opened his mouth and closed it again, his eyebrows arching. The words he wanted to speak would not come.

  “It’s okay.” Jordan squeezed Chris’s arm. On Jordan’s ribs, a long gash healed with the help of dermal tissue wraps. The engineered cell populations in the wraps rejuvenated his skin, minimizing the formation of scar tissue while preventing infections. A dark ring encompassed his left eye. Stubble sprouted from his head as his tight curls of black hair grew back in from where the nurse had shaved it to better glue up the cuts on his head. His left arm was slung in a cast. On his foot, he wore an oversized boot secured in place with Velcro to stabilize the healing fractures in his ankle. He insisted on the walking boot and refused to use a crutch to support his weight. The doctor had told him he could walk on the fracture and that he was lucky to have such relatively minor injuries. But Jordan had told Chris he had not felt lucky. What he had lost that day had nothing to do with his own body.

  “Thanks.” Chris closed his eyes and breathed in slowly.

  As they approached the open casket, he traced the dark-stained wood that marked the top edges, brushing his fingers along it. Jordan bent to kiss Greg on the cheek. Chris bit the inside of his cheek, willing himself to remain stolid.

  Jordan whispered something to Greg, closed his eyes briefly, and then turned. “Your turn.”

  Greg seemed relaxed. His lips curled slightly, hinting at a smile that would never see fruition. His hands were clasped together on his chest in repose over a royal blue tie. The black suit jacket curved over his rounded shoulders and narrowed as it disappeared into the casket. Now, more than ever, his cheekbones struck out from his face and his pointed chin jutted out.

  This man had never sought to solve a murder or concern himself with chasing down a vicious illegal genetic enhancement organization peddling its wares to street users and government buyers alike. He had never expressed interest in connecting a rash of prison murders to organizers on the outside. Yet he had given his life when Tracy threatened to take Jordan’s. And Chris could not shake the thought that all of this was because of him. Because he had been stubborn, tried to play amateur detective, manipulated both by the businessman and then by Tracy.

  No, not manipulated. He had made his choices. No one else could be held responsible. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. He placed that hand on Greg’s chest, let out another long breath, and then joined Jordan in a pew.

  ***

  With no destination in mind, Chris and Jordan meandered along the Inner Harbor. Both admitted they did not feel inclined to spend the rest of the afternoon in either of their homes. Tomorrow, they would be interviewed by Baltimore PD detectives yet again. Chris would undergo another round of modified dialysis so the PD’s Bio Unit could remove and analyze the viruses and gene samples from his blood to help them in the investigation against the Kaufmans’ group and Tracy Harrow’s as-yet-unidentified organization. His willing cooperation and the use of his blood as evidence enabled him to eliminate his remaining time on parole. Still, at the remaining interviews, there would be questions, untold scrutiny, and little rest.

  Today, there was nothing.

  A chilling wind blew in from the harbor, imploring Chris to hold tight to his coat. He shrank his neck into the coat’s collar. Jordan limped along, gritting his teeth with each step but refusing to complain. Despite the cold brought on by the wind, the sun shone brightly. The calm waters of the harbor mirrored the clear blue sky and reflected blinding light onto them as gentle waves curled up.

  They walked west along the Harbor Bridge. A family with two screaming toddlers passed by as Jordan and Chris pressed themselves against the low wall of the walkway.

  They paused in the middle of the bridge between the piers. A massive cruise ship embarked in the distance, blasting three low calls from its horns to mark its departure.

  Chris wrapped his gloved fingers around the steel bar and swung his head up to the sky. He inhaled, sucking in the mix of salty air from the harbor and the pungent smells of the city. “I can’t believe I let her manipulate me.”

  Raising an eyebrow, Jordan said nothing.

  Chris opened his mouth to let out the protest dancing on his tongue, the excuses and the cruelties that Tracy had inflicted on him. He stopped. “No, you’re right. I was blind. Stubborn.”

  “You see what you want. You’ve always been that way.”

  Jordan did not need to remind Chris about his initial arguments for dealing in black-market genetic enhancements. As he looked back at Jordan, the man’s left eye still yellow from healing, he recalled his disdain for working at a life-sucking company that owned his inventions and profited from his efforts. And, when the company reported its latest innovations to investors or celebrated its quarterly earnings, the investor briefings and press releases never acknowledged Chris’s part of the work. He had carried them—he and an army of other scientists and engineers who worked tirelessly and without recognition. The company constantly reminded them that they toiled for a greater good, distributing images of the children whose lives had purportedly been saved by their technologies. But of course, the company turned a hefty profit in the meantime.

  “I was immature, wasn’t I?”

  Jordan closed his eyes and chuckled. “Yes. You were. Probably still are.” He smiled. “But I’m not claiming to be any better.”

  They both turned back to the bay. The cries of circling seagulls accompanied the scraping of the wind against their ears.

  “I’m sorry, Jordan. I truly am.” He placed his hand on Jordan’s back.

  “What will you do now?” Jordan asked.

  “I don’t think I could’ve gone back to Respondent even if they had kept me on, and I’m not sure that I’ll be an easy hire anywhere.” He laughed, shaking his head. “I’ll figure something out.”

  “At least you’ve got time. Will you stay in Baltimore?”

  Shaking his head, he shrugged. “I’m not sure that it’s safe here for me anymore, but I’m not ready to leave.”

  “Yet you’re too stubborn for witness protection.”

  Chris’s brow wrinkled up as he frowned. “I’m not going to hide from my problems.”

  “It’s your life.”

  “I know,” he said and let out a sigh. “As corny as it sounds, I won’t give up who I am and everything I’ve done. All the choices I made were mine. You were right.”

  “That’s fine, but it doesn’t mean you need to risk your life.�
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  “I already have.” He locked eyes with Jordan. “I risked yours, too. Greg’s. Veronica’s.”

  “What are you going to do about the girl?”

  “Veronica?” Chris raised an eyebrow. “She’s no girl.”

  Jordan held up a hand in self-defense. “Pardon me.”

  “She hasn’t returned my calls. Her parents wouldn’t tell me where she is.” He turned away for a moment. “Rightfully so, I suppose.”

  “You want to see her, huh?”

  “Of course. I need to apologize to her. Out of everyone, she had the least to do with any of this. I want to make things right.”

  “If that’s the case, maybe you should let her go. Let her take care of herself. Like you said, she’s not just a girl, and you might reintroduce her to a world of trouble.”

  Neither of them said anything while they watched the gulls circle and dive above them. Jordan motioned for them to continue walking toward the aquarium. They dodged through crowds as the cold ate through Chris’s coat and settled in his skin. He could feel goose bumps sprouting on his arms and shivered. They passed the U.S.S. Constellation docked nearby. Despite his discomfort, he admired the old three-masted sloop. It was more than two hundred years old, yet it had withstood the seasons and the storms to remain a permanent fixture in the Inner Harbor. He could not help but imagine what it had looked like with billowing white sails delivering it across the Caribbean in pursuit of slaver ships. The ship and its history captivated him, and Jordan tugged on Chris’s shoulder to prevent him from running into an equally transfixed tourist.

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ll look out for you,” Jordan said. “Like I said before: if you need anything, I’ll be there.”

  “I know.” He took a final glance at the Constellation before they crossed Pratt Street. Its image reminded him of his own amateur attempts to capture a three-masted sailing ship in one of his prison charcoal drawings. “There’s still so much about all of this I don’t understand. Like, how did Vincent know about Ben Kaufman?” A shiver went down his spine.

  “Maybe he was one of the former employees Lawrence mentioned?” Jordan shrugged as they crossed the street, winding between cars stopped in traffic. “Besides, I would’ve hoped you’d learned not to worry about those kinds of questions now. It might be safer not to know.”

  Sighing, Chris nodded.

  “Remember, you can always take up that witness protection offer.”

  A cool wind rustled the branches of a tree growing from one of the planters that lined the sidewalk. Spring would come soon enough. The mercurial weather blowing over them and eastward toward the Atlantic would cease its fluctuations, replaced by a humid heat and intermittent, warm showers. The dirty, melting snow would be cleansed from the city, and Chris would still be here to soak it in.

  Alive.

  He was alive.

  Maybe he should listen to Jordan, leave it all behind. Start over again. Only this time, he vowed to get it right.

  EPILOGUE

  Instead of moving away after the Baltimore PD’s investigation concluded, Chris stayed in Baltimore. He applied to a couple of companies in passing while he lived off his remaining savings and the severance pay he’d received from Respondent. If money ran out, he could always go to Jordan.

  Jordan would gladly host him in his penthouse, which Chris imagined seemed even lonelier now than ever before.

  But he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t be reminded of the loneliness brought on by his actions.

  Most companies did not bother to respond to any of his applications. He would have been inclined to believe that they were adamant to avoid a convicted felon, along with a man who had become momentarily infamous for his involvement in bringing down two underground genetic manufacturers. While a few news streams seemed to laud him for heroism, others took the opportunity to resurrect his past and use it to incriminate him in a deeper scandal. They suggested that he was still involved in the illegal genetics manufacturing economy and had been granted amnesty for blowing the whistle on the Kaufman brothers and their rivals.

  Frustratingly enough, no news organizations seemed to implicate any governmental interest in these technologies, nor did they accuse companies like NanoTech that Ben Kaufman had suggested would be serving as launderers for the neural strength enhancements.

  When he wasn’t applying for jobs, he read Jordan’s draft manuscripts. He tried to assure Jordan that he would be of no use when it came to critiquing the man’s novels. But Jordan felt certain that Chris owed him a favor or two and that reading his works-in-progress would be recompense enough.

  As he reread the story about the truck driver, a soft knock came from his door. At first, shaken out of the story, he cocked his head, unsure if the sound had come from elsewhere. The soft patter sounded again, and he pocketed his comm card, the manuscript projection shimmering closed, as he stepped toward the door.

  Without checking through the peephole, he swung open the door. Before him, a woman with cropped, raven-black hair and crisp blue eyes looked up at him. Her heart-shaped face and knowing smile set him at ease.

  “Veronica.” He could say no more.

  She let herself in, brushing past him. “How are you?”

  Chris closed the door and locked the deadbolt for good measure. “I’m fine. What about you?”

  Veronica smiled her characteristic, toothy grin. The goofy smile contrasted her litheness when she danced, especially when she convinced him to join her on the dance floor, pretending to let him guide her through crossovers, spins, and twists. In reality, she had led Chris. She unbuttoned her jacket and pulled down her shirt collar to show the small, pink scars. “Doing better.”

  “Why didn’t you get dermal patches to heal those up?”

  She scoffed at him. “Did you?”

  He patted the scarred ridges in his side. “No, but I didn’t have a choice. Prison medicine isn’t exactly about aesthetics and, frankly, fixing a couple scars was not a priority when I got out.”

  “I never wanted to forget,” she said, her voice dreamy and strangely uplifting.

  “Your dancing, though.”

  Veronica laughed. “Choreographers don’t seem to be so worried about a couple of scars.” She pursed her lips. “I think, in a weird way, a few of them like it.”

  “So you’ve been performing? Is that such a good idea right now?”

  “I’ve been dancing with a company, but I haven’t performed yet. Why don’t we sit?”

  Before he could answer, she gripped his wrist and pulled him down on the couch. She draped her legs over his coffee table and leaned against the armrest on her side. Chris sat on the opposite end, his posture bent and stiff.

  “No one has bothered you, then?” he said, his face contorted in worry.

  Veronica’s grin evaporated. She closed her eyes and shook her head. “Not since that day.”

  He reached a hand across the couch but restrained himself from touching her. “I’m sorry.” He pinched his eyes closed. “God, I’m so sorry.”

  “I should’ve listened to you and left as soon as you told me to go.”

  “No, don’t even pretend like it’s your fault. Don’t do that.” He exhaled a long breath. “I thought you had died. Seeing you on the floor, I’ve never felt worse. Hell, it’s selfish of me to tell you how I felt.” He restrained himself no longer and hugged her.

  Veronica recoiled but then placed her arms around him. At first, she bent her arms at stiff angles. She relaxed. Her breath tickled his ear. “The doctors said someone had tried to resuscitate me. Without that—without any forced pumping—even the Sustain wouldn’t have saved me.”

  “I didn’t save you.” Chris pulled away, his hands on her shoulder. “I almost killed you.” He let her go, but she held onto his hand.

  Veronica played with his hand, threading her fingers between his. “What will you do now?” She was no different than Jordan. Asking him about his future. Asking him about what he would d
o now that it was over. It would never be over.

  Chris turned her wrist over in his hand, massaging her palm with his thumb. He did not look into her eyes. “I’m not sure yet.” He held her hand as his eyes explored her pale skin between the white scars. A vessel in her wrist protruded, reminding him of its hidden contents. “I think I might start my own business.” He looked up at her, a new light in his eyes. “Yes, I think I’ll give it a go as an entrepreneur.”

  He sat up straighter and grinned. “Jordan mentioned that he would be willing to invest in me.” Shaking his head, Chris chortled. “I don’t know why the man has so much faith in me, but I’d like to think it’s for a good reason.”

  Veronica smiled again. The jubilant innocence returned to her face. Her cheeks flushed with a red warmth and her teeth appeared to shine. Her face, small scars still evident on her cheek and high up on her forehead, appeared beautiful, optimistic to him.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  Chris took both her hands in his. He’d never told Jordan or the police what he had told Ben Kaufman. The police, of course, knew Veronica had been tortured but had fallaciously connected it with efforts by Tracy’s group to find out if he had told her anything about the Kaufman brothers and their whereabouts.

  But no one, not even Veronica, knew of the advanced genetic technology coursing through her arteries, pumped by her heart, and returned through her veins. The vectors replicated, nascent and innocuous to Veronica. With reverse engineering and a bit of modification, Chris could manipulate the genes. He could make them seem new, different from the samples from his own blood. He could make them his.

  “I’ve got a couple ideas,” he said. He smiled at her, hoping he did not appear too gleeful or happy. After all, he should be stricken with guilt, bedridden by depression. He forced his grin to dissipate. His lips became tight, his eyes narrow. “You know, nothing can be the same now. Not between us, and not here in Baltimore.”

  For a moment, he saw Tracy’s hazel eyes and her dirty blond hair. He felt her solid grip on his arms, the way she embraced him, pushed the air out of him. He heard the brashness in her voice, the determination and fierceness. She was not so different from him. She had wanted what he wanted.