Genesis Code

by Jamie Metzl

  “Not just me. That’s the whole point.”

  “So someone had to be the father, and it might as well be you, but two humans can’t together breed the messiah. Whatever Joseph did, he wasn’t Jesus’s real father.”

  “Yes,” Becker whispers.

  “So you needed to use genetic enhancement to make sure the baby wasn’t just a regular mortal, that it had some kind of superhuman spark that separated him from the rest of us. Did MaryLee agree to that?”

  Becker’s eyes tell me the answer is no. “He would be elevated above the rest of us, would help us all realize our destiny, the true greatness within each of us, within all of us,” he says feverishly.

  “But there was just one problem,” I say. “You couldn’t exactly get her knocked up in an animal lab in Texas.”

  My choice of words clearly pains Becker. “Not knocked—”

  “I get it,” I say, cutting him off without a hint of kindness. “If she’s inseminated in a lab, it’s technically a sort of virgin birth.”

  Becker doesn’t answer. The words probably don’t sound fully biblical coming from my mouth.

  “And you needed access to a fertility clinic, but what kind of fertility clinic is going to impregnate someone with a genetically modified embryo?”

  Becker physically backs away, pulling his head as far away from me as the backrest of his wooden chair will allow. I move my head forward to close the gap.

  “After we applied for the patents,” he says, “I was approached by someone from Bright Horizons. A woman.”

  “Jessica Crandell,” I say.

  He looks at me surprised. “She said they wanted to purchase my patents and learn more about our processes.”

  “And you thought this was a sign from God,” I say sarcastically.

  “You’re not a believer, Mr. Azadian, but it was the one thing I, we needed.”

  “So what? You did a deal? You bought the company?”

  Becker looks surprised. “Why would I buy the company?”

  “Then you did a deal.”

  He looks down. “Yes.”

  “And the terms were?”

  Becker seems to pull each word from his mouth. “That I’d give them the patent rights and the knowledge in exchange for their help—”

  “Creating for you a genetically enhanced messiah,” I say, finishing the sentence. “And MaryLee’s test scores were good enough to get her in to the pilot program.”

  Becker flashes a confused look.

  “What qualities did you order for him?” I fire.

  Becker flinches. “I don’t know,” he whispers.

  “You don’t know?”

  “They said they could help with extra capabilities, that they’d isolated some genes that most geniuses seemed to have, that they could help us lift DNA samples off of iron nails from the crucifixion.”

  “What?” I leave off the additional the fuck.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” Becker says, “but the nails were found by Israeli archeologists in the ossuary of Caiaphas.”

  I stare at Becker, incredulity smeared across my face.

  “A funeral box of the priest who presided over the trial of Jesus,” he adds.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I explode.

  Becker pulls back.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, realizing I’ve overstepped, “Go on.”

  “So I sent in my—”

  “Your sperm sample,” I say, matter-of-fact.

  “And I spoke with MaryLee about what I needed her to do.”

  “And she was on board?”

  “She believed, too,” Becker says quietly. “She agreed when she was home over the summer. Then she went to Bright Horizons here in Kansas City, and three months later she was . . .”

  Becker’s face fights the emotion welling underneath.

  “Dead,” I say coldly.

  I feel an almost uncontrollable rage building inside of me. This fucking narcissist tramples on a beautiful young woman who did nothing more than trust him, pulls her into his sick science experiment. I’m disgusted.

  And yet.

  And yet I can’t help but feel that this feverish force of unprocessed emotion did not kill MaryLee Stock. Yes, he put her in the situation that got her killed. Yes, he deserves whatever happens to him as a result. But I now feel I know on a deep, personal level that Cobalt Becker was not the trigger man.

  Becker’s complete nakedness before his fucked-up values, his God, his love for MaryLee, touches me in an irrational way I’m not completely able to resist.

  I am appalled.

  But in spite of myself a part of me can’t help being touched by Becker’s insane faith in the power of dreams, crazy, audacious, impossible, dangerous dreams, dreams that seek to forge a new reality, make a claim against the vast imperviousness and anonymity of time and space, strive to make a dent in the universe. “So who killed her?”

  Becker looks up at me with questioning eyes. “I don’t know,” he says softly. Then his energy begins to change. His body fills with air. A strange power reasserts itself on his face. “But I damn them to hell.” His words are laced with dark, vengeful anger.

  I stare at Becker for what feels like an eternity.

  I have complete contempt for him, yet somehow recognize that in a crazy fucked-up way we may possibly be on the same side. My eyes lock on his. “We’re going to find these fuckers, and I need your help.”

  Becker places his two enormous hands palms down on the table. A fierce determination defines his powerful face. “Tell me what I need to do.”

  64

  My mind tracks options like a cryptographer as I march out the door of Café Aixois.

  Becker makes a deal. Bright Horizons impregnates MaryLee. Three months later she and eight other women are dead. I’ve got most of the backstory, but, my body feels from every pore, who cares? Nine women are dead, and I still don’t know who killed them. Two women are in danger. And what the hell am I doing in Kansas City?

  I don’t see Maurice in the church lot across the street but trust he’s there. The brick phone rings as soon as I close the door and hit the ignition.

  “How’d it go?” he says intensely.

  “I don’t think Becker killed her. Bright Horizons did a deal with him. They traded breeding him a messiah for the technologies he’d developed down in Texas.”

  “Hmm,” Maurice says, thinking. “So who did it?”

  “I don’t know, but I need to get back right away. Where’s the car?”

  “You know the Price Chopper supermarket at Brookside?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Park your car in the lot. Leave the key under the mat. Go into the store. There’s a bathroom in the cold storage area behind the fruit and vegetable section. Walk past it and you’ll see a door just ahead of you on your right, about four o’clock. Go through that door. There’s a fully charged black Cherry Voltero parked just outside the door. It’s unlocked. The keys are in the glove compartment.”

  “Thanks, Maurice,” I say, still feeling he’s somehow let me down.

  He picks up the ambiguity in my voice and responds to it. “I’m here if you need me.”

  I don’t respond.

  The drive to Brookside takes five minutes, the car transfer two. I don’t make it far before my anxiety forces me off the road. I call Toni’s room from the brick phone as I merge onto I-70.

  Click, click, click. Come on. The phone rings. Once. Twice. Three times. I calculate the size of the room. The phone is reachable from any point within two rings at most. Is something wrong? Does the hotel phone even work? Why hadn’t I checked it earlier?

  I call again five minutes later. Ring. Ring. Ring. My heart pounds. The decision tree forms in my mind. The Sleep Inn Motel main number is on the key chain. Someone ought to be able to go check. I dial. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. With each ring my mind imagines a worse scenario.

  I know I shouldn’t do it, but I can’t help myself. I dial Toni’s
u.D number.

  “This is Toni. So sorry I can’t get your call right now, but leave your name and number and I’ll get back to you just as soon as I can. Thank you.”

  My heart sinks. Panic begins to set in.

  “I’ve been calling the hotel, there’s no answer,” I begin mid-sentence as Maurice picks up.

  “What do you think?” he finally says.

  “I don’t know,” I say unconvincingly, then add what I’m really feeling, “the worst.”

  My words float in the silence. I’d almost hoped they would become absurd when exposed to the rational sunlight of another person’s thinking.

  I check my speedometer. Eighty miles per hour. I should be going a hundred but I’ll really be fucked if I get pulled over in someone else’s car. And then what might happen to . . . ? I banish the thought.

  “That’s not the only option,” Maurice says. “Where are you?”

  “On I-70 West,” I say, “just passing Topeka.”

  I can almost feel Maurice’s mind laboring. “Where are you going?”

  I pause. I’ve been an idiot this whole time, feeling like I’ve been secretive while unknowingly broadcasting my every move. “Why?”

  “I’ve got your back,” Maurice says. “I’m going to jump in my car now. Will be about an hour behind you.”

  Can I trust the phone? I have no idea. Fuck it, my panic dictates. “The Sleep Inn Motel, 5403 Huettner Drive, Norman, Oklahoma.”

  “I’m on my way. Wait for me when you get there,” Maurice says.

  “Hurry.”

  The call drops, and there is one more remaining option on my logic tree. A voice inside tells me it’s a mistake. I override. Panic has delivered me to the hands of instinct.

  “This is Rich Azadian calling,” I say aggressively.

  “Didn’t I tell you—” Gillespie says.

  “If anything happens to them, I am going to hurt you. I don’t know how exactly you’re involved in all of this, and frankly, right now I don’t give a shit. But if one finger is laid on either of them, I will never, never rest until I take you down.”

  “Calm down, Azadian,” he says. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “I think you do,” I say, not completely sure but desperately needing to hedge my bets.

  “Okay,” Gillespie says calmly, “then tell me what you think I know.”

  I’m caught. To say or not to say? Do I trust him or do I not? I don’t. “Fuck you,” I hiss. My threat has been delivered. Perhaps that’s the best I can do. I kill the connection.

  Eighty miles an hour feels pathetically, painfully slow. I call the hotel again. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. No answer.

  I call the hotel again. Beep. Beep. Beep. The brick phone goes dead. They didn’t know much about battery life in the fucking nineteen nineties. I slam the worthless phone into the passenger seat.

  Emporia, Wichita, Blackwell, my forward progress feels creeping. Maybe everything is okay. Maybe I am overreacting. Maybe, maybe, maybe. The point is that I don’t know. The point is that I’ve promised Maya to keep her safe. The point is that just when I’m realizing what’s important to me, I am terrified I could lose it. The point is that racing down Highway 35 South I am desperately alone and realizing that perhaps I don’t have to be.

  Norman, Oklahoma, fifty-seven miles. Norman, thirty-two miles. Norman, twelve miles. The signs seem to taunt me. Entering Norman, Oklahoma.

  My heart pounds.

  I know I should think of something clever as I screech into the Sleep Inn parking lot. I also know that everything could be fine, and I’ll feel like an idiot banging wildly on the door again or diving in through the window. Maurice may be an hour away but I can’t wait another minute.

  I leap stealthily up the stairs and pause in front of their door. My heart beats like an overwound metronome.

  I try to force myself to stop and think, but I am on autopilot. I gently turn the door knob. It is unlocked. I hold my breath as I open it a few inches. No noise. A bit more. Nothing. I peer my head into the crack between the door and the wall.

  I see it and my mind freezes.

  Toni and Maya are lying face up on one of the beds. Plastic cuffs bind their legs and arms together. Duct tape covers their mouths. They look at me with bulging, frantic eyes.

  But their pupils keep shifting beside me.

  And before I can figure out why, I feel hard metal pressing against my temple.

  65

  “Don’t say a word, Mr. Azadian,” I hear as if through a fog. “That’s right. Just relax and step inside. Good, good,” the calm voice says. “Now just walk four steps toward the TV . . . One, two, three, four. Good, Mr. Azadian.”

  I look over at Toni and Maya. Their bodies are paralyzed with fear.

  “Now lie on the ground face down. . . . Good, Mr. Azadian. . . . Put your hands together behind your back. . . . That’s it. Just like that.”

  The high-pitched voice sounds eerily familiar. I feel the tight plastic cuffs cutting into my wrists.

  “Now put your legs together. . . . Yes . . . Perfect,” the voice continues.

  I feel the cuffs cutting the blood flow at my ankles. My body twitches between the various impulses—yell, fight, squirm, swear. One impulse overrides them all. Focus.

  I breathe in and watch my breath pass from my nose down to my lungs. I breathe slowly out and observe the reverse.

  I’m not dead yet, and while I live, with every ounce of energy I have, I will fight to protect the people I love.

  My face is pushed into the dust-ridden carpet, but my mind is clear. “The police will be here any minute,” I hiss.

  “Will they now?” the condescending voice responds.

  I feel the metal pressing into the back of my head.

  “If you’ll just tilt your head back a bit and open your mouth.”

  The gloved hand on my forehead and knee on the back of my neck compel compliance.

  “That’s it, Mr. Azadian. . . . Good,” the troublingly calm voice says.

  My mind shuffles frantically through the options, trying to place the vaguely familiar voice.

  The gloved hand stuffs a piece of cloth in my mouth. Then I hear the duct tape being pulled from the roll and torn.

  “Good, Mr. Azadian, that’s very good.”

  He rolls me over.

  The pasty white skin, the square glasses, the light brown hair slicked across his head, the flinty, unflinching eyes and eagle face take only a fraction of a second to register.

  He’d spooked me as Gillespie’s menacing sidekick. Now his crooked half smile feels downright terrifying.

  Collins holds my mouth closed and slaps on the duct tape.

  I stare furiously, as if trying to zap him with the one tool I have left at my disposal.

  “I think you’ll be a lot more comfortable on the bed,” he says with menacing formality.

  I squirm as he bends down to haul me up, my mind struggling to reconcile his gentle tone with the ferocious, otherworldly look in his eyes.

  “You’re not as light as you look, Mr. Azadian,” he says as he forcefully drags me on to the second bed.

  I stare at him with a rage beyond anything I’ve ever known as I drop onto the mattress. I am powerless. I twist my head toward Toni and Maya.

  “Just lie where you are, Mr. Azadian,” Collins says. “No need to make this any more difficult than it needs to be.”

  The words make me squirm.

  Collins leans his face toward me and grins pityingly, as if focused on a vision beyond me, beyond this room, maybe even, I sense, beyond this world. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell who the good guys are and who are the bad ones,” he continues as he takes Maya’s clothes from her small bag and tosses them around the room. “If someone could have killed Hitler, shouldn’t they have taken the shot? Would we have called him a murderer with so much at stake? Look at the Israelites coming out of Egypt. Who blames God for the ten plagues, for slaying those first-borns, f
or wiping out Pharaoh’s army? Sometimes bad things need to be done in the name of good. Don’t you agree, Mr. Azadian?”

  I stare as fiercely as I can.

  “All that is necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing. I can’t remember who said that.”

  Tolstoy, you mother fucker.

  Collins looks up reflectively. “Doesn’t matter. Sometimes God has big plans for all of us, but he needs us to do our a bit here on earth. Sometimes good people need to do things that seem bad in the little picture but a lot different in the big one. Don’t you agree?”

  He takes out a bottle of Clorox, pours a little on a washcloth, and begins calmly rubbing the door handles and drawer knobs. My body stiffens as I realize what he is doing, why we are all still alive. He is preparing a perfect crime scene, just as, I now realize, he did in MaryLee Stock’s apartment. Like MaryLee, we are only to die when he is ready, in the manner he chooses, with little or no evidence left behind.

  I am bound and gagged but my mind searches desperately for options. Can the US government really just kill us like this? Why is Collins explaining himself to me? I don’t know but latch onto my sixth sense as my only hope. My eyes soften. I nod my head in an oblong motion as if considering the proposition.

  “Take her, for example,” he continues, looking over at Maya. “She seems like a perfectly lovely girl, somebody’s daughter, a daughter of God. Who would ever want to harm her?”

  Maya thrashes angrily, a wild animal caught in a trap who still has fight left in her.

  “But you know what’s inside of her. That, Mr. Azadian, is why you are here. Why you’ve made my life so much easier by choosing this out-of-the-way place.”

  The eerie, self-possessed tone of Collins’s voice terrifies me as he prepares the crime scene like an artist, moving a plastic glass from one place to another, stepping back to assess his work, then making small adjustments. His moves are calculated, deliberate, professional.

  I look over and catch Toni’s eye. I’m so sorry, I try to say.

  A small tear rolls down the side of her face.

  Then my self-doubt, maybe even self-hatred, kicks in. What did he just say? I led him here, made his life easier, brought Toni and Maya to the middle of nowhere then left them to rush back to Kansas City. What kind of man am I? I’m tied up, tied down, emasculated, powerless, lost.