“Hey, guys,” Hugh said, walking through the office area. “I know you said not to come in, but I thought I could help out.”
Chris put the dish in one of the incubators. “Sure.” He glanced at Jordan. “Let me handle my, uh, project, and maybe you two can work on producing new vectors to replace the ones we lost.”
“Sounds fair to me,” Jordan said.
Hugh stepped over the glass. “Man, this place is messed up.”
“But no time to clean up,” Jordan said. “We’ve got keep working.”
A buzzing in Chris’s pocket caught his attention. He peeled off a glove and took out his comm card.
Jordan offered him a sympathetic expression. “Veronica again?”
A chill crept through him, and he shook his head. “Dellaporta.”
As Hugh joined Jordan at the lab bench, he donned a pair of gloves. “Who’s that?”
Instead of answering, Chris stepped out of the lab and went into the conference room. He held the comm card to his ear and spoke in a low voice. “Am I under arrest again?”
“No, Morgan,” she said. “I want to meet.”
“You promise you won’t bring your handcuffs? What’s up?”
“Look, I can’t talk now. It’d be better to speak in person.”
Chris furrowed his brow. A couple gulls floated past, gliding on an updraft. “Fine. No tricks?”
“No,” she said. “I just want to talk.”
“About what?”
“Come on, Morgan. Don’t make this hard on me.”
They agreed to meet at a restaurant near Fell’s Point, close to the harbor. Chris exited the conference room. “Jordan, I hate to say it, but I’ve got to go.”
“Does this have something to do with the break-in?” Hugh asked.
Chris ignored him. “Can you watch my experiments while I’m gone?”
“Of course,” Jordan said. “Be careful. I can’t do all this without you. Got that?”
Chris waved and called a cab through his comm card on the way down to the lobby. Dellaporta didn’t seem like the kind of detective that would take advantage of him or entrap him. At least, he hoped so. If she could trust him, if she actually believed him, he reasoned he should offer her the same respect.
It might be a stretch, but if he could somehow help her figure out if someone or something else was responsible for the deaths of Novak and the others, then he might as well risk trusting her. It could be the difference between continuing his work at TheraComp and ending up back in prison if the law found him as guilty as his mind insisted he was.
***
The cab let Chris off on a brick-paved street. He eyed the address Dellaporta had sent. It matched up with the eccentric restaurant, Salvador Deli. Lit up by blue and purple lights inside, paintings reminiscent of Dali’s famous works decorated the walls. But all the artwork had been given a culinary twist, including one depicting melting sandwiches rather than clocks.
Dellaporta waved at him from a booth, and he joined her.
“This place? Seriously?” he said.
“I think it’s kind of funny,” she said. She took a bite of a Reuben sandwich and grinned as she chewed. “Hungry?”
“You have a twisted sense of humor.” Chris folded his arms. “What’s so important you need to talk to me in person in the middle of this acid trip of a place?”
She clasped her hands together on the table. “I need your help.”
“Now I know this is one big farce.”
“No, I’m serious.” She took out her comm card and placed it between them, next to the sandwich and a mug of coffee. On it, an application ran to block any standard audio-recording devices. “I’m risking my badge because I think there’s something or someone at work that’s bigger than you and me.”
“And you want an ex-con to assist in your investigation,” Chris said. “Come on. Last time someone told me they needed my help, they tried to have everyone I know killed.”
“I’m not Lawrence Kaufman,” she said. “I’m someone who is actually interested in doing the right thing. Before I tell you this, I want you to know that we haven’t released this information to the press. Not a word, okay? If you mess up, if you say something to the wrong person, I won’t protect you anymore from my colleagues. In all likelihood, you’ll end up back in jail, no bail, with a bevy of new charges.”
Chris held up his hands defensively. “I promise. I won’t say anything. I want to know what the hell is going on just as much as you do.”
“I doubt that.” Dellaporta fidgeted with the buttons on one of her shirt cuffs. “Okay.” She leaned across the table. “Every single one of the individuals affected by this cancer epidemic—”
“It’s an epidemic now?” Immediate dread surged up within him, replaced by the more logical skepticism her choice of language warranted.
She dismissed him with a wave. “No, not an actual epidemic. Just listen. Everyone showing signs of this cancer has, at one time or another, received a genie.”
“That’s not really new. The doctors said as much.”
“Right. Well, it’s not just any enhancements. It’s all strength enhancements. Muscle-mass modifications, primarily.”
“And that’s why your colleagues think it’s me?” Chris asked. What she said certainly didn’t allay his own feelings on his product’s involvement in the matter, but he recalled Jordan’s assurance that most of these people purportedly suffering from this cancer weren’t his customers. “I’m not the only kid on the block who ever made a strength enhancement. I mean, these victims aren’t all former...clients of mine, right?”
“That’s not a question I can answer,” Dellaporta said. “I don’t know who you sold to or everything you distributed. But I do know not all these patients—dead or alive—used the same genies.”
“Why doesn’t your Bio Unit track down the other manufacturers?”
“We don’t know who the others are.” She probed her sandwich but left it on its plate.
“Ah, so that’s why your commissioner wants me, huh? Christ.” If Dellaporta suspected others were at fault, if she was right, helping her track these others down might shed light on the true culprit enhancements behind the disease. “So what can I do for you?”
“I don’t have a warrant to procure anyone’s blood samples from the hospital. I can’t access their medical records, and I can’t even so much as visit them to see if I might recognize any of them.”
Chris stared at her with narrowed eyes. “Hold on a second. Do you suspect someone hospitalized of being involved in this?”
Dellaporta’s eyes gazed over an image of an apple in the shape of a skull. “Maybe,” she said. “Maybe. That’s the best I can tell you.”
“So what do you propose I do?”
“This sounds crazy, but bear with me. The doctors at the medical center are desperate to save their patients, but they’re facing a losing battle. I’ve been speaking to one of them about it. Robin Haynes.”
A recollection of the doctor’s brown hair, slender frame, and heart-shaped face flashed across his mind. His heart skipped a beat. “The pediatric oncologist?”
Dellaporta’s eyes widened, and she nodded. “You know her?”
“You could say that.”
“Basically, without a warrant, we can’t just procure patients’ blood samples or send them to our Bio Unit. This means we can’t check to see if there are any patterns in the enhancements these patients used.” Dellaporta sipped from her coffee. “Dr. Haynes suspects they’ve found a possible common genetic sequence in each of them, but she can’t release the information to my department without risking her medical license. She wants to know what’s going on, and even if we can’t use any of this in court, we do need to figure out if we can prevent this disease from spreading.”
“Where do I come in?”
“Because of the life-threatening nature of the disease and the fact that the best Haynes can do is prolong these people’s lives, she thinks th
e Institutional Review Board would be willing to approve research studies on the patients’ blood and tissue samples. With those, the right researchers might be able to identify a cure or possibly adapt an existing genetic therapeutic to curb the effects of these patients’ symptoms.”
“Wait. You’re telling me you want me to save these people’s lives?” He couldn’t have hoped for more. Even if they couldn’t prove his wares hadn’t caused these bouts of dreadful cancer, curing the disease might let him sleep better, might offer him a chance of living with himself. But once again, he waited for the immediate emotional reaction to subside. What Dellaporta offered seemed too good an opportunity to pass up. The pungent scent of potential entrapment hung in the air. Was she tricking him? Did she have some ulterior motive? “You really want to help these suspected criminals and enhancers?”
Dellaporta nodded.
Suspicion clouded his thoughts. He had no intention of trying to do good, trying to rectify what he’d done, and then getting thrown behind bars because Dellaporta led him to incriminate himself in some scheme. “Why do you want me to help you? Why not get another group?”
“If you can point me to another company willing to get involved in finding a cure for dying enhancers, do it,” she said. “As far as I know, you’re the only former genie manufacturer that’s running a legitimate research organization. I thought you might have a tad bit of sympathy for your old clients.” She spoke more truly than she probably realized.
“And you actually care about these criminals enough to enlist my help?”
“Not everyone in PD is as heartless as you’d like to believe. I don’t think these individuals all deserve the death penalty.” Dellaporta ran a finger around the edge of her coffee mug. “No one deserves the grotesque deaths these people are succumbing to.”
“It’s nice to think you might be a real humanitarian, but that can’t be all there is to it.” Chris wasn’t yet convinced she had these people’s—or his—best interests in mind. “What else is in it for you?”
“Truthfully?” Dellaporta opened her eyes and sighed. “Because of our department’s policy and the hospital’s, we can’t just interview random dying patients who are already in extreme pain because we have a feeling that one of them might know something that would help us.”
“Ah, so you need them to walk out of there alive, and you’re hoping you can scoop one of them up to squeeze information out of them.”
“That’s part of it.” Dellaporta exhaled slowly. “If we found out where they were buying their enhancements, we might be able to pinpoint who’s responsible for this mess. We can only do that if they’re conscious and alive, though.”
“Makes sense. But I’m already in over my head trying to figure out how the hell I’m going to deal with your department coming after me.” He purposely neglected to mention the emotional turmoil also plaguing his thoughts. He didn’t expect her sympathy.
“I know,” she said. “If we find something from one of these guys, if they direct us to the culprits supplying the cancer-causing enhancements, we can drop your charges and show my people you aren’t responsible.”
His ears perked up at the idea they could prove he hadn’t caused the spread of this disease. Assuaging those persistent thoughts would be an enormous benefit to his mental health.
“Look, the medical center’s research team is at a standstill. I doubt they know enough about genies to be of any real use. My department is convinced this is all your fault. You don’t exactly have many allies in this.”
“Besides you, apparently.”
“Besides me,” she repeated. “If you can get the proper releases from the IRB and come up with a treatment, we can get to the bottom of this.”
Chris glanced back at the liquefying sandwiches on the painting hanging behind the deli’s counter. He could empathize with the dripping Reubens and BLTs in the kitschy piece of art. He felt ready to melt under the heat of Baltimore PD’s fervor to have him back behind bars, of the possibility he might be infected like those other men and women dying in Dr. Haynes’s unit, of the fact he and Jordan had almost been killed when their company had been broken into. And most painful of all proved to be the guilt that all this might have resulted from his negligence in selling genetic enhancements a couple years ago.
“Well, let’s do this, then. Let’s figure out what the hell is going on.”
“Thanks. I’ll put you in contact with Dr. Haynes, and I’ll entrust you to take care of this.” She held out a hand. “Deal?”
“Fine.” Chris took her hand and shook. He stood to leave. “But when we do figure this out, you will have my back, right?”
She nodded. “I promise.”
Chapter 12
After returning to the Maryland Biotech Incubator building, Chris stepped over the ridge that had once held the glass wall separating the lab from the office space.
“I’ve got interesting results to share,” Jordan said.
Hugh changed the liquid media in a couple of cell-culture flasks under the flow hood. The large, metal-framed device was enclosed on three sides and had a glass viewing window. A constant stream of sterilized air flowed through the hood—hence the name—and helped keep samples free from contaminants. “Seriously, you guys going to leave me out of the loop on this one?” Hugh asked.
“Maybe later.” Chris waved a hand. “You don’t want to be involved in this one, anyway.”
Hugh rolled his eyes and returned to his work.
Jordan motioned for Chris to follow him into the conference room. They slid the glass door shut. Chris took a seat, and Jordan leaned up against the edge of the table.
“You don’t look so great,” Jordan said. “Want to get coffee first?”
The idea of any respite provided by caffeine tempted Chris. His eyelids felt heavy and his shoulders sagged, but his curiosity prevailed over his exhaustion. “No, you better tell me what you found. I’m headed to the hospital soon.”
“Something wrong?”
“Not with me,” Chris said. “Dellaporta wants me to work the IRB over there and see if our company can get emergency approval to perform research using patient samples.”
“Sounds promising, but they do realize we’re into veterinary medicine, now, don’t they?”
Chris held his hands out, palms up. “They’re desperate. Besides, Dellaporta has ways of twisting my arm.”
“She’s pretty, Chris, but remember what happened last time you let a pretty woman convince you to pursue a fool’s errand.”
“It’s not like that.” Chris leaned back in the chair. “Trust me, I don’t see her like that at all.”
Jordan grinned and held up his hands defensively. “Whatever you say.” His expression grew serious. “Chris...”
His friend’s graveness told him everything he needed to know. “You found the viral vector in my blood, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
He pushed aside any thoughts of self-pity. One step at a time. “So, what does it do? What do the genes translate to?”
Jordan rubbed a hand over his shaved head. “That’s the strange thing. Something happened when I was waiting on the sequencing results.”
“What do you mean?”
“Must’ve been a machine error, but during the DNA replication process, the temperature went too high and the DNA denatured—we lost the first sample.”
“So you got nothing out of the tests?”
Jordan lifted his shoulders. “I’m sorry, but it looks like I might have made a mistake. That’s what I get for taking time off from working in the lab for so long. I can isolate a new sample from Novak’s blood, though, and see if we can glean something useful from it.”
“Don’t worry,” Chris said. He could practically see the heat radiating from the asphalt and passing cars below as the air shimmered under the noonday sun. The city, the world kept moving, and he might have a biological disaster waiting to explode within his body, ready to pull him from this earth. But he f
igured few would notice his violent exit from the world, and maybe it was better that way. If he’d caused this, he’d deal with the consequences. Alone.
“You’ve already got enough on your plate, even with Hugh’s help. I have a feeling I’ll find out what’s in those samples when I get to the hospital. Besides, if we can actually pull off this emergency approval from the IRB, we’ll have plenty of fresh samples from other subjects.” He forced a smile. “And you can’t forget about the dogs. We’ve got to make up for all the stolen CDXT.”
Jordan placed a hand on Chris’s shoulder. He squeezed it. “We’re going to figure this out. You’re one of the best goddamn researchers I know. I wouldn’t have helped you transition from street genies to making therapeutics for pets if I didn’t think you knew what you were doing.”
“I appreciate it,” Chris said as he stretched out of the chair. He held up a single finger. “Can you keep an eye on the cell culture I set up? Before I left to see Dellaporta, I transfected some muscle cells with a sample of the isolated vectors from Novak’s blood to see what would happen.”
“You got it, my man.”
Jordan returned to the lab and slipped on a white coat. Chris hoped his friend was right. Jordan might’ve been confident in his research skills, but he still felt horribly inadequate. Before he left the conference room, he stared at a cadre of gulls circling over the harbor, their eyes searching for remnants of food in the trash dropped by the tourists thronging along the waterfront.
The vector, whatever had been in Novak’s blood, now flowed through his. It had been replicating within him for the past couple of days. He could go to the hospital and tell them they were wrong; their diagnosis had been premature and inaccurate. But what good would that do?
If Dellaporta was right, Dr. Haynes and her group were losing a race against time and corrupted biology. Hell, Dellaporta wanted Chris to help them. They must have been desperate.
Committing himself to their care, telling them he actually did have the same vector circulating his bloodstream as these other dying men and women, would mean he’d be imprisoned in those hospital walls. He would waste away as the doctors struggled to treat him and the others. No one cared about washed-up enhancers enough to pursue any kind of substantive remedy.
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