Forbidden Birth

by William Rubin

  Durand kept his gaze forward as he marched through Area Three.

  Area Four was the “finishing school” for the clones. A clone’s age was adjusted as necessary, and the chemical bombardment of the clone’s brain was concluded. Who the clone was and its mission were imprinted into a clone’s cerebral cortex in Area Four. They were injected with nanometer-sized devices. These devices were programmed to adhere to blood vessels and nerves throughout a clone’s central nervous system and to the heart and other vital organs. These tiny devices ensured their complete obedience to Durand.

  Area Four was the most fascinating and fearsome area in the facility. It was compromised of twelve separate operating room suites. Within each suite was a cart that contained long vertical cylinders. Small balls, ready to dance up and down in the cylinders, rested at the base. Masks, tubing, and drawer after drawer of meds rounded out each cart. In the center of each room a massive, movable light-source sprang from the ceiling and stared down on an adjustable bed. Implantation of the control devices took place in these rooms under carefully controlled circumstances.

  Durand had repeatedly warned his lab manager about securing Area Four at all costs. He would do so again now. If a clone escaped Area Four before processing was complete, it was possible for it to act entirely upon its own volition—nobody in Area Four wanted to learn what that meant.

  Durand smiled as he looked carefully around. The entire facility was state-of-the-art, beyond state-of-the-art, really. Everything was a prototype, surpassing equipment available at similar facilities in the way the modern-day race cars surpassed Ford’s first Model T’s.

  The lab manager, Thomas O’Toole, double timed it over to Durand. He knew his boss had an infallible memory, no tolerance for misdeeds or a misspoken word, and little patience.

  “The plant is working out very well, sir. We’ve moved past the slow start and technical difficulties that plagued us earlier. We’re at peak efficiency now.”

  “Excellent. You are to be commended for your efforts, Tom. Just don’t lose sight of quality. We’re not striving for a production plant of mindless clones like in an Aldous Huxley novel. No, each clone takes a great deal of time, effort, and money. Each must be perfect in every way.”

  “I understand, sir. Great care is being taken to live up to the full breadth and depth of your vision. Any product with even the slightest flaw is destroyed and the process begun anew.”

  “Good. When will we have the next one in place?”

  “A week, ten days tops. We’ll stay right on schedule…unless someone like Ravello interferes again. Should I be concerned about that possibility, sir?”

  The Giver’s laugh sent a chill up and down O’Toole’s spine. “Not unless frequent flyer miles can harm us. I’ll have Ravello scurrying from one coast to the other, desperately trying to figure out what I have planned for the world at large and him in particular.”

  “You just love torturing the detective, don’t you, sir?”

  “Since my near apprehension, I have stepped up my surveillance of Detective Ravello and my analysis of his areas of weakness. Soon I will have the dear detective begin his walk with us on the dark side,” The Giver said with another throaty, bone-chilling laugh, “and I’ll be sure he has some unexpected companionship on his journey.”

  Chapter 81

  Los Angeles, CA: Sunday, October 4th, 4:17 p.m. (PT)

  The tall black model with the bitchy stare, pouty lips, and skin-tight bikini thrust her head back, tossing her straight, jet-black hair off her shoulders. The late afternoon sun shimmered off the pool’s surface, the glare complicating the photographer’s task as he zoomed in and out on the model’s well-honed body. The camera’s shutter snapped open and shut as a cool breeze blew in from the north.

  Holly Williams had come a long way from the mean streets of London’s East End, where she and her four sisters grew up fatherless and destitute. Charm and beauty were their only possessions, the sole reasons the family kept clothed and fed.

  “That’s great, baby. Amazing! You are it, Holly. Just a few more. Roll onto your back and cradle your cleavage in your arms. That’s it…great…we’re done.”

  Amy G., Holly’s most recent beleaguered assistant, scampered poolside as fast as her chunky legs would allow. “Here’s your robe, Ms. Williams. Would you like any water or a snack?”

  The model gazed down at the girl with disdain. She slipped into the pink satin robe and flicked her head. “Gather my things up, you troll. No time to strap the feedbag on. We have an appointment to get to.”

  Holly enjoyed the many privileges and riches fame bestowed on her. Her life was at its apex—with nowhere to go but down.

  §

  Holly Williams strutted into the swank Beverly Hills office of Doctor Richardo Viejo, her entourage trailing around and behind her as drones often do with their queen bee. She tapped her slender, manicured fingertips incessantly on the black granite reception area counter. Her provocative lips twisted into an aristocratic smile that accentuated her high cheekbones and almond eyes. She surveyed the crowded waiting room, then spoke with impatience. “Janice, I have no time to wait. Be a luv and have Richardo take me in right away.”

  “It…it’s Jennifer, and I, uh, don’t see you in the book today, Ms. Williams. What were you coming in for? Is the Doctor expecting you?”

  Holly looked skyward, shook her head to and fro, and sighed her reply.

  “Figure it out, Jennifer. With this body, you can eliminate lipo, a boob job, and a tummy tuck. It’s something else in Richardo’s bag of tricks, luv.”

  “Well, maybe some Boxin or Collagen—”

  “Silence! Your inane ramblings are giving me a splitting headache,” Holly said with a hand draped across her forehead. “Do run along and tend to my needs, deary. I wouldn’t want to give Doctor Viejo a bad report about you. Go on! Shoo, shoo,” she said with a backhanded wave of both hands.

  Richardo Viejo leaned his tone and trim six-foot-three physique into Holly’s, his hug lingering a few seconds longer than etiquette dictated. He leaned back and looked Holly up and down, his eyes drawn almost hypnotically to her chest.

  “You look great, Holly. I wish I could take credit for those. But, alas, Our Lord and God still does the best work,” he said with a chuckle and a difficult to place Central or South American accent.

  “Ah, but you’re a very close second, Richardo,” Holly said with a sensuous, suggestive glint in her light blue eyes as she ran the tip of her tongue over her lips.

  Viejo chatted with Holly as he plied his trade. He twisted and turned the delicate syringe with its tiny 30-gauge needle. Viejo delivered the medication with a gentle, sure touch to multiple areas in her forehead and the area between and to the side of her eyebrows. Every so often he leaned back, as all great artists do, to scan the canvas before him. His gaze honed in on the smallest details of the young model’s body, then panned out to gain a wider perspective, confirming his work fit perfectly into the contours of her body.

  Holly was indeed blessed with an abundance of natural beauty. It inspired, aroused, and terrified him—in equal measure and all at once. The suave surgeon with the impeccable touch and mysterious past took a few moments. He leaned back, rotating his head while flexing and relaxing his shoulders. He pondered his next move.

  “Ah, such a wonderful, soft touch, Richardo. It always feels like you are massaging away my imperfections. I need that now more than ever. I have another dreadful court appearance tomorrow and want to look my best.” A brief silence passed between them as Viejo collected his thoughts.

  “Oh. What are they pestering you about now, my dear?” Viejo said with a silky, lilting tone.

  “It’s another servant trying to cash in and make a name for herself at my expense. An altogether ridiculous assault charge, but you know how they love to play the temperamental diva card with me.…” Holly spat the last phrase out with a raised chin and clenched teeth.

  “Ah, let’s not tense up, H
olly, you’ll interfere with the treatment. Don’t worry, you’ll knock them dead in court tomorrow,” Viejo said with affection as he patted, then squeezed her hands after laying down his syringe.

  “You’re right, darling. What would I ever do without you?” the model said while pecking each of the surgeon’s cheeks, then gliding her lips over his.

  Admiring herself in a mirror Viejo held before her, she offered her approval. “Marvelous as always, luv. Know any lawyers who are as gifted as you?” Holly said with a chuckle as she ran her eyes down and back up the surgeon’s body. “You’re looking tan and trim. Dipping into your own bag of tricks, Doctor?” she said with a lighthearted, innocent smile.

  The Latino laughed it off with a blush of his face and a wave of his hand. “No, not yet, anyway, Holly. So, anything else I can do for you today?”

  “Funny you should ask,” Holly said, her gaze locked in on Viejo as she wore her best maiden-in-need-of-rescuing smile. “I thought a doctor’s note saying I was under the influence of powerful painkillers during the supposed assault might help in court tomorrow.” Holly rose and ran her hands up his chest and played with his shirt collar while her eyes implored him to grant her request.

  “Ever the optimist, Holly. I’m afraid a note from your plastic surgeon wouldn’t carry much weight, and unfortunately, I have some legal problems of my own and have been advised by counsel to keep a low profile for the time being. It kills me but I won’t be able to help you right now.”

  Holly leaned in, her warm, wet voice dancing in Viejo’s ear. “That’s too bad, Richardo. It’s been such a mutually beneficial relationship.” Her right hand began its slow journey towards his crotch, tantalizing him with its descent. “I’d hate to think this is the end of the line for us.”

  §

  After Holly left, Viejo made his way back to his private office, where he kept separate records on a small group of his patients. He had twenty minutes until his next patient arrived; it was more than enough time to chart his recent treatments on three of these select patients. Viejo would have preferred to rely on his memory, not keeping potentially damning information in clandestine records, but he had no choice.

  Durand was the one who set him up in practice and kept the patients rolling in the door, and Durand was a stickler for copious note taking. Viejo finished the last chart entry, ignored the knot in his stomach, and returned the charts to a compartment hidden in the wall near his file cabinet. As he straightened his tie and prepared to head off to exam room one for a new consultation, his phone rang. The knot in his stomach tightened as he read the caller ID.

  “How are you, GB?”

  “I’m doing well, Richardo, and how about you? You’re not at the Playboy Mansion or some other LA brothel again, are you?”

  “No, no, of course not, GB. I’ve taken your advice and, how shall I say it, restrained my more primitive urges,” he said with a sly smile.

  “Good. We’re so close right now, yet in such a delicate phase of operations. We can’t afford to have anything go wrong on your end or have you get sidetracked with some tramp. How are the treatments going?” GB asked expectantly. “You're documenting everything carefully, I assume?”

  “Very well, and yes, of course, I am,” Viejo said stiffly. “It’s all laid out for Durand. My successes, failures, and some novel techniques I’ve been working on.”

  “Good, good. The boss will be very happy to hear that.”

  “Say, the office has been a little slow this month. Any plans for a fresh infusion of lovely young patients?”

  “You know that’s out of my hands, Richardo. I’m just a glorified lackey, like you. But I’m sure it will pick up. In the meantime, the boss has some other work to keep you busy.”

  “Oh?”

  “Durand wants you to do some harvesting for him. A package will arrive later today with more specifics on the victims and props he wants you to leave at the scenes.”

  “What?! I don’t want any part of this. I thought I was keeping a low profile?”

  There was only silence on the other end. Viejo knew his protests were futile. Durand had enough on him to ensure his unfailing cooperation.

  “Very well, I’ll do as you say…”

  Viejo’s Hippocratic oath was about to take another beating.

  Chapter 82

  “Heard you had a close call last night, partner?” Kennedy said as we settled down at our beaten-up work desks. Paperwork obliterated most of my desktop. I pushed piles of it to each side, clearing enough space to put down my orange juice and a half-eaten, buttered sesame bagel.

  “Yeah, some idiot almost took me out,” I said between sips. “But despite this big trash-can-of-a-head, he still missed,” I said with an offhanded laugh that failed miserably in concealing my concern. “Good thing, too. I don’t know who would take care of Michelle and the kids if I was pushing up daisies.”

  “You kidding, Chris? They’d be a hell of a lot better off without you—unless you consider a near fatal birthday stabbing a good thing for your family. If that’s the case, you should be up for father of the year,” Kennedy said as he blew on his cappuccino and looked across our abutting desks with a smart-ass grin.

  I stared back at him with mock indignation, thinking about how crazy, near deadly, the last six months had been for all of us, Kennedy included. His joke, despite the stinging accuracy in it, showed we were all, at last, moving on. Moving away from the pain. That must be a good thing, right?

  “Seriously though, how’s Michelle doing? I haven’t seen her in a few weeks.”

  “She’s holding her own, just about back to normal, Kev,” I said with an upbeat, optimistic tone.

  “Yeah?” Kennedy replied with a don’t bullshit a bullshitter look that I had been staring back at since childhood.

  I held off my reply, stalling a bit by biting into my bagel.

  “Nah. Physically, aside from a little memory loss about the attack, she’s fine. Mentally it’s another story all together…” I shook my head as my voice trailed off.

  Kennedy came around, leaned on my desk, and rested a large hand on my shoulder while he waited for me to continue. “She’s trying her best to be happy-go-lucky Michelle, but it’s not working so well.” I made brief eye contact with Kennedy before averting my gaze.

  “There’s…a darkness, a fear and suspicion that permeates and projects from her. She’s in counseling, battling to get back to herself, but I don’t know if she’ll ever move past this,” I said with resignation. “Kev, I’d give anything to get her back, whole.” I choked back the dark sorrow that had overcome me, gritting my teeth so I wouldn’t lose it right there at the precinct.

  “I’m sure she’ll pull out of it, Chris. Just give her time,” he said in a subdued tone. “It’s only been a few months.”

  Kev’s words clanged about in the air between us before falling limply to the floor. We stared past each other, time dragging on, neither of us knowing what to believe about the future anymore.

  Chapter 83

  “How the hell does crucial evidence on the Durand case just disappear, Officer Gertz?” I said, glaring at the baby-faced officer guarding the cage in front of me.

  “Uh, not sure, Detective Ravello. I can only tell you it didn’t happen on my shift.”

  “Great…passing the buck helps me a lot right now, Gertz. Who else checked this stuff out in the two months since I’ve been down here?”

  “Let’s see,” the young officer said as he scanned down the pages of the log book. “Looks like nobody else has been here,” Gertz said with uncertainty.

  “That you know of,” I muttered as I turned and walked away. I headed up the stairs to share the latest setback with Kennedy.

  §

  “How’s it going, Kev?” I said with more intensity than I would have liked. I did my best to mask it, but I’m sure my face betrayed my piss-poor mood.

  “Okay,” Kennedy said with caution as he looked up from some paperwork and studied me. “W
hat’s eating you, partner? Michelle pack yogurt for your lunch again?” he said with a smirk.

  “No, nothing that tragic or irreversible,” I said with an involuntary grin and a lightening of my mood. I grabbed my jacket and got up. “Walk with me and I’ll fill you in.”

  We took the elevator down to the first floor and exited onto 51st Street and Lexington Avenue. A stiff breeze blew in our faces as we exited the precinct. The realization hit me: there’d be no Indian Summer this year. I’d spent most of the spring and all the summer tracking Durand. My efforts were spilling into autumn with the case as cold as the turn in the weather promised to be.

  “So what’s up, big guy?” Kennedy said nonchalantly.

  “It’s the Durand case. Stone cold and yet it’s still deteriorating.”

  Kennedy eyed me with apprehension.

  “I went down to evidence to see if looking everything over again would jump start my brain.”

  “And?”

  “There are a few items missing, including Durand’s diary of the whole bloody affair.”

  Kevin stopped walking. “Missing? How’s that possible on such a high profile case?”

  “Ya got me. Guess it’s not so high profile anymore. We both know the Feds and the NYPD haven’t done shit with the case since just after you and Michelle got out of the hospital.” I was fuming.

  “So much for benign neglect, huh?” Kennedy interjected.

  We started down the sidewalk again.

  “You got it. And now we’ve got a mole to worry about to boot.” Times like this I wished I smoked. I sure could use a new outlet right now. The more self-destructive the better.