by E. E. Giorgi
Shrewd comment. Like in politics, opposite ideologies end up meeting at the other end of the spectrum. “Tell me again how this thing works.”
Diane heaved a deep breath to calm herself. “There are two types of cells in the body: the somatic cells and the germline ones. When you change the DNA in a somatic cell, you affect the single individual. You may cure the disease, but the defective gene may still be present in the germline cells, which are the cells responsible for the production of gametocytes. In women, gametocytes give rise to oocytes and in men to spermcytes. If the defective gene is still present in the germline cells, it will be passed on to the individual’s progeny. It’s only when you modify the germline cells that the change you’ve introduced—”
“Will be carried on to the next generation. I see it now. They eliminate the genetic disease at the source.”
Diane nodded. “They eradicate the trait.”
As we crossed the campus, I had to pull Diane aside a couple of times to save her from a collision with the occasional reckless cyclist. Apparently her philosophy that it should be the driver to mind for pedestrians held for four- and two-wheelers alike.
“These are students, Diane. They have midterms and sex in their heads. They don’t watch where they’re going.”
Diane’s thoughts were sailing in different seas. “Do you really think White and Kelson let Chromo experiment with their only child? Offer her up as guinea pig?”
“Kelson only mentioned that Gaya was conceived in vitro. Maybe they weren’t aware of what was going on.”
Diane sighed. “We need to find out if they received gene therapy from Chromo. The therapy would’ve modified their germline cells, yielding genetically modified embryos.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe anyone would risk their child’s life like that. And for Chromo, to offer something this experimental—it’s craziness on top of craziness.”
“Diane, you’re naïve. People exploit anything in order to make money.”
“I am naïve. One thing being a scientist has taught me is that there are no certainties, only theories. And theories can be proven wrong.”
We climbed a set of stairs guarded by the leafy crown of a magnolia tree, and came to the courtyard in front of the library building, flanked on both sides by a monastery style portico. Bunches of white carnations and yellow roses lay by the pillar where Conrad’s dead body had been found, and a handwritten sign loosely taped above read, “WE WILL NEVER FORGET YOU. THE STUDENTS AND FACULTY.”
“What are you thinking?” Diane asked.
“I’m trying to convince myself we have enough to put Medford in jail with twelve counts of murder—the twelve kids from Huxley’s study who died of leukemia. If I can convince myself, then I might have a chance tomorrow with Udall, the deputy D.A.”
Diane’s heels tapped on the tiles of the portico and echoed against the vaulted ceiling. “I doubt it. Gene therapy is in its experimental phase, there are virtually no laws regulating it. Even if there were… That nicotine smoking was linked to lung cancer came out in the mid ’fifties, and yet until the mid ’nineties the tobacco industry managed to convince everybody that they weren’t forcing people to smoke. They have the right to sell your death sentence one packet a day, it’s up to you to take it or not. ‘Contributory negligence’ they called it.”
“What if Huxley proved the connection between gene therapy and leukemia? Then, even if they claimed whatever happened was ‘contributory negligence,’ it wouldn’t hold anymore.” I clicked the car key button and by the curbside my Dodge’s headlights flickered to life.
Diane grabbed the handle to the passenger’s door. “We don’t have Huxley’s data, Track.”
“We’ll get it.” I slumped behind the wheel. “I’ll talk to Udall tomorrow. Damn it, I swear we’ll get it. I want Udall, White and his big lawyer—all of them down at the homicide table. If we need to cut the guy a deal, we’ll cut him a deal, but I want him to talk. Chromo screwed up. The only one who can tell us the whole story is White, and I want to hear it from beginning to end.”
“But what do you expect him to tell you?”
“That Chromo sold him hocus pocus. Listen, you don’t kill based on a hunch. White shot Conrad because he understood what the man did to his daughter. If he talks, he can give us probable cause for a warrant. More than one, in fact. I want to canvass not just the company, but Medford’s house and cars, too.”
“You think Medford did it?”
“The guy’s too smart to dirty his own hands. But he’s the one with the most at stake. Huxley’s discovery was going to bring down the whole corporation. Even if all he did to shut her mouth was a phone call, I’m gonna turn his house inside out until I can prove it.”
We fell silent. The Five was a garland of red and white lights, each carrying its own end-of-the-day frustrations, tiredness, what-shall-I-have-for-dinner thoughts, and a few new-age smart commuters who plugged in an audio book and let the mellow voice of a narrator wash away their traffic anxieties.
“It’s late. I’ll take you home,” I said as we passed the sign announcing the junction to the One-Thirty-Four. It made no sense to go back to downtown.
Diane hesitated. “My car’s at Cal State.”
“I’ll pick you up in the morning.”
I’m tired. And after I drop her off I can go home.
Yeah, right.
Diane watched the street while nibbling her thumb, pools of yellow streetlight flashing on and off her profile. I couldn’t get the conversation with Troy out of my head. I knew she couldn’t, either. Five miles into the Two-Ten, I swerved into the Lincoln exit ramp. The car knew the way. I just followed.
At the next turn Diane stirred. “What did you just do?”
“What? Nothing, I’m driving.”
“How did you know the way?”
Man. “I just guessed.”
“You looked me up!”
“I didn’t.”
“Fine.” She slouched back against the headrest. “No more directions. Keep guessing.”
“You never gave me directions!”
“You should’ve asked.”
Women. Mother Nature played a trick on men when she decided to make them so damn attractive. To dope us from all the extra talking they do. I had two choices: stick to my guns and take a random tour of Altadena, or take her home. I took her home, pulled on the driveway and turned the engine off.
“Why did you look me up?”
“I didn’t. It’s illegal to look up a fellow LAPD.” That’s why I peeked at her driver’s license instead.
She stared at me, in defiance at first, and then her eyes softened. Her lips twitched upwards. Damn it, Ulysses, just grab her and kiss her. She wouldn’t have pulled away. I know. Her scent told me. The top button of her shirt, right below her throat…
Call it destiny in reverse: my cell phone rang, at which Diane bade me goodnight and stepped out of the car. I watched her walk to the door, insert the key, and then vanish inside, while the mobile screeched in my ears, Pick me up, you dork. Hell, I wanted to pick her up. One should have the guts to smash those wireless devices. They have a tendency to ruin your life.
I looked at the number and rolled my eyes. Great timing.
“’T’s up, Hort?” I drawled.
“I think Gary wants to sleep with me.”
Surprise! Had I told her the night before, she would’ve turned me into stone like Medusa. Gary was the manager who owned a gallery in Santa Barbara, a yacht in Venice, and who knows what other luxurious wonders that his lucrative business entitled him to. As the saying goes, “Art for art’s sake.”
“Do you think I should sleep with him?” Hortensia sounded as casual as though she’d just asked what I had for dinner.
I groaned. “I think you’re old enough to decide for yourself.”
I could see her thin, golden brows pinched together in a furrow. “Track, you’re not helping.”
“What the hell do you want me to say?”<
br />
“Uh, let’s see. Considering you’re the guy I’m currently sleeping with, I would’ve imagined a somehow stronger opinion on the matter, one way or the other.”
As hard as I tried, I couldn’t find the flaw in her argument. The rest of the conversation didn’t go too well. I was tired and not in a mood to put up with her. Hortensia treated me to a complementary “fuck off” and hung up. I closed the phone, tossed it on the passenger’s seat, and started the car again. The headlights flickered one more time on the façade of Diane’s condo. Dark and silent. I backed out of the driveway and left.
I have to call Udall to set up a meeting with White and his lawyer. Once the man talks, I want the signed search warrant on my desk in two hours. The key point is to get White to talk, shed some light onto this murky business of getting genetically engineered children. Shed some light…
I slammed on the brakes. Shit, the lights! I made a reckless U-turn and gunned the vehicle back where I’d come from. The reek of burnt tire stung my nose. There were no streetlights along the road, only private garden lights playing peek-a-boo between the dark silhouettes of the trees. I clenched the wheel, flattened the gas pedal, and cursed. Three minutes—three fucking minutes I’ve been parked on her driveway listening to Hortensia’s nonsensical rants, without ever noticing how wrong things were. I pulled onto the driveway, drew my gun, and sprung out. Dark. Not the fleck of a light in any of the windows.
I surveyed Diane’s property while dialing her number. I could hear her phone ring from inside her home, yet after four rings the answering machine went off. I walked all around the building. Not a single window had lit up. Parked on the street a few yards away was a van with a professional seal on the sides, something about carpet cleaning.
Was it there when I dropped her off?
She was inside—I could smell her from the door. I stood behind the doorjamb and tried the doorknob. It yielded.
She would’ve locked it.
I pushed it all the way and inhaled.
The place was in complete darkness. I smelled her first: sour. She’s terrified. I widened my nostrils and inhaled more. Blood, hers, and gun oil, no gunpowder though. Not yet. The smell of the intruder came next, harsh, and extraneous. Not Huxley’s assassin. A man, smoker, sweating profusely. I clasped the grip of my Glock and edged inside, back flattened against the wall.
Hidden in the tall grass, the prey feels safe. It holds still, its head down, a few twigs tickling its muzzle. It can smell the predator. In a split of a second it has to make a decision: stay hidden or run. The enemy is too close to break loose. It will pounce, and once it does, the end will come fast. The prey decides to stay. The winds blow against, carrying its smell away from the predator. To remain hidden is the best strategy.
The predator advances. Low on its belly, nostrils wide open, and all senses wide alert. The flick of a sprig, the whiff of a new scent. It can detect everything. Nimble toe pads go unheard on soft turf. The prey can only hope the winds won’t change direction. Because once they do, it will no longer be able to tell where the predator is.
The living room was orderly, only a mug on the coffee table, and a few sprawled magazines. No ransacking, no open drawers, no slashed cushions. I froze.
The kitchen.
I could smell them, two distinctive scents coming from the same spot. I heard their uneven breathing. Diane’s small intakes of air, one after the other, frenetic and difficult. He’s half choking her. He couldn’t see me. Human eyes are imperfect. And he couldn’t hear me coming, either. Surprise is a feline’s deadliest weapon.
The shades of the window above the sink were open, and the iridescence from outside bathed the countertops in a milky light. I followed their scents until I saw them. He was crouched behind the kitchen island, holding Diane down, thrusting the barrel of a gun to the side of her neck. He pressed a filthy hand to her mouth, yanking her head back and making it difficult for her to breathe. He’s waiting for me. Once I step into the well of light he’ll shoot.
I held the Glock in position. “Drop the gun and let her go,” I said, making him jump. Blinded by darkness, he didn’t expect me this close.
He squeezed Diane closer and retreated farther back. “Come out, you son of a bitch, or I’ll kill her!” he yelled. Coarse voice, ragged from years of nicotine and alcohol.
I weighed my options. “Okay. Don’t shoot.”
He hesitated. “Your gun. Make it slide on the floor towards me.”
He can’t be that stupid. I lowered the gun on the floor where he could see it but didn’t let go. “I will kill her if you don’t do as I say,” he snarled. He slid his unarmed hand down and squeezed Diane’s left breast, so hard she whimpered. The gesture, coupled by her outcry of pain, sent blood pulsing to my head.
I kicked the Glock toward him while drawing my backup from the ankle holster—an S&W 340PD with full-on .357 Mag loads.
Try and fool me, asshole.
He grabbed Diane by the waist and pulled her back towards the glass doors to the kitchen balcony. Diane wriggled away and tried to sink her elbow in his stomach. In the fraction of a second his upper torso became visible, I held the revolver on target, thumbed off the safety, and fired. The blast kicked both of them backwards. The glass doors shattered into pieces and shards flew everywhere.
I smelled blood and I couldn’t tell whether it was Diane’s or her attacker’s. His gun clonked to the floor, shiny with blood. His eyes were red shots of rage. He shoved Diane against me and threw himself through the French doors and down the balcony.
“You okay?” I shouted to Diane.
I glimpsed her give a shaky nod and bolted after the fugitive. I’d almost blasted his arm off with my revolver, and yet the asshole was so high on adrenaline he charged through broken glass and jumped six feet down the balcony. Adrenaline, and maybe a little help of PCP. I leaped after him and chased him through the shrubs down the arroyo, his path flashing with the trail of blood.
The prey panics and runs. Once the predator pounces, its only hope is to outrun it. The chase will last only a few seconds, maybe minutes, and only one will prevail. The predator’s claws come closer to its hind legs. The prey feels the jaws draw nearer, breathing on its back. One final pounce and it’s over. Sharp claws delve on its back and dig into the flesh. Next come the incisors, deep, clenching the throat: they fasten around the windpipe and crush it. The prey’s lungs wilt, longing for air. Blood oozes into the predator’s mouth as it tightens its jaws, its sweetness making it growl in anticipation. It feels the prey’s muscles tense under the siege and then finally relent. The last frantic spasms of death.
The hunt is over.
CHAPTER 30
____________
Wednesday, October 22
I was covered in glass shards, dirt, and blood—how much was mine and how much the attacker’s I could not tell. Rage blinded me. My head throbbed.
What the hell happened there?
I was clutching something in my fist. A watch, not mine.
“Track!”
All windows in Diane’s house were lit now, and two light posts illuminated the backyard. She saw me emerge from the shrubs delimiting her property and came running towards me. I slid the watch in my pocket. I should’ve tossed it, but I didn’t. I couldn’t.
The ghastly look in my eyes made her stop. “Track?”
Is it really you?
I no longer know.
She was shaking. “I called the dispatcher. Where—where is he?”
“Dead.”
“What?”
“I said he’s dead!”
Diane stepped closer and raised a hand to touch me, maybe reassure me. I startled and jumped back. “STAY AWAY!”
She winced and retreated. A window from the adjacent condo opened, and an apathetic face leaned out. “I called the police!” she hollered.
“WE ARE THE POLICE!” I yelled back.
“Let’s wait inside,” Diane mumbled.
I slumped
on the couch and dropped my head in my hands. “Who the hell was that?” I demanded.
Diane looked bewildered, but by now I could no longer tell if it was because of the attacker, or me, or a combination of both. She went to the sink and filled two glasses of water, propped one on the counter—most likely intended for me—drained the other and filled it a second time. “I don’t know the man. He grabbed me from behind when I stepped into the house.”
“How did he get in?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did he want?”
“Hell, Track. I said I don’t know!”
The responding officers found us yelling at one another. The K-9 unit followed. Their tracking dogs cut loose through Diane’s backyard into the arroyo behind her property. They found the body in a matter of minutes, covered in blood, dirt, and dead leaves.
“Do you have a place where you can spend the rest of the night, Ms. Kyle?” one of the officers asked. The balcony glass doors were completely destroyed. Diane turned to look at me. For a few seconds she held my gaze. I stared back blankly. Such an idiot I am at times.
“Yes,” she finally said, her eyes on me. And then she turned, reached for the phone, and dialed. “You better show those cuts to the paramedics,” she told me while waiting for the call to be picked up.
CHAPTER 31
____________
Thursday, October 23
Diane Kyle steps into the elevator and looks in the mirror. Her reflection stares back, frazzled and distraught. The sleeping drugs had finally kicked in last night, though it must have been three a.m. when exhaustion prevailed. It had bought her only a few hours of obliviousness, after which her eyes sprang open again, the anxiety still there, relentless.
Somebody was in my house. A stranger tried to kill me. Why?
The thought was terrifying: the unknown threat, the violation of her home and shelter, her nest, her safe haven from long days spent either at a gruesome crime scene nitpicking evidence from a dead body, or at the lab, centrifuging vial after vial of blood. I need a refuge I can coil in and forget the wake of violence I see every day.
