Conviction

by Dwayne Gill

  “The same for me,” said Natalie.

  Duncan exited the room and returned a few minutes later carrying a tray. It looked out of place for him to be serving them, but he didn’t appear to mind. He placed the tray, loaded with sweetener and creamer options, in the center of the table.

  As the three coffee drinkers prepared their cups, Cane thought about Marcene. Who was she? She seemed to know a lot but revealed little. It was frustrating for Cane to want someone and for them to remain out of reach, and then he thought about the many people over the years who viewed him the same way.

  Duncan was leaning back, relaxing. “I felt like I got to know Marcene over the past year, but only as a colleague. She’s brilliant and has a vivid imagination. We exchanged messages by letter for a long time, and her theories and research impressed me.”

  “What type of research?” asked Cane.

  “Why, genetics, of course,” said Duncan. “Altering or enhancing DNA.”

  “Like designer babies?” asked Natalie.

  Duncan smiled. “Yes. Designer babies was a fad earlier this century. It was basic. But you’re on the right track.”

  He sipped his coffee, and the three of them waited.

  “What Marcene was more concerned with was the ability to alter traits way beyond those proposed by designer babies,” said Duncan. “She was convinced there was a way to alter someone’s strength and intelligence.”

  “Is that possible?” asked Natalie.

  “No, it’s not,” said Duncan. “Strength and intelligence aren’t solely decided by a person’s genetic code, nor could someone program them in. Many factors affect them.”

  “But I thought people had shown it could be done, in theory?” asked Natalie.

  Duncan smiled at her. “I’m sorry, who are you, if I may ask?”

  “Natalie Lawrence. I’m a student at Stanford. I’m studying molecular biology. I was here to attend your lecture today, in fact. It’s an honor to meet you.”

  “The honor is all mine,” said Duncan. “I hope you’ll be able to attend the lecture.”

  Natalie and Lynks exchanged a look.

  “Some men tried to kill her last night,” said Lynks.

  “Oh, my.” The professor’s eyes widened. He wasn’t used to discussing violence. “I hope you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine,” said Natalie. “These two men saved my life.”

  “Marcene’s the one who saved her life,” said Lynks. “She told us Natalie was in trouble, and we intervened.”

  Duncan seemed to take it all in. “Wow, it’s been some night then,” he said. “I hope I can help.”

  Cane pulled a bloody shirt from the bag he brought with him. “Marcene instructed me to bring this to you. It has the DNA of one of the marked men on it. I assume you know who I mean?”

  The professor nodded and accepted the shirt, like a kid dazzled by a new toy. He seemed to give no thought to the blood on the shirt or how it got there.

  “Marcene was convinced someone altered the men’s DNA,” said Duncan. “I told her it couldn’t be altered, at least not in the way she was describing. And you,” he said as he pointed to Natalie, “asked me, before I interrupted you, why it couldn’t be done. Right?”

  “I said I thought it was being done or had been done,” she said.

  Duncan looked confused. “There were rumors that scientists were working on designing certain types of humans, hoping to create super-soldiers. But we’ve had rumors like those since World War II. German scientists supposedly invented mind-control technology, which was just a false rumor. One that many died for, mind you. But I like to stick with what we can demonstrate to be true. And this altering of the DNA, it’s not possible. One cannot create a blueprint of a strong, intelligent, blue-eyed, blonde soldier. You can only nurture something into being strong.”

  “You can predispose someone into having the enhanced ability to be receptive to being strong, though, right?” asked Natalie.

  “Yes,” said Duncan. “That’s correct. The terminology needs work, perhaps, but I think I know what you mean. You can, for instance, choose for someone to be ‘big-boned,’ but you can’t design how big you want their muscles to be or how much you’d like them to lift. Just like we can’t choose people’s height, but we can, in a way, ensure they’ll be taller than average.”

  Cane’s head was spinning with all the scientific talk. “So, you’ll be able to look at that DNA and tell me if the person is genetically altered?” he asked.

  “I can’t make any guarantees until I see the sample, but yes, that’s the goal,” said Duncan. The professor took one last sip of coffee and placed his cup on the tray. “This will take some time. I must do these tests at the MIT facilities off-hours.”

  “We understand that,” said Cane.

  “Marcene mentioned not being able to trust anyone. I hope you know to do this discreetly,” said Lynks.

  “That’s what I’ll do,” said the professor. “How do I contact you when I’m done?”

  Lynks scribbled out a phone number. “Call this. It can’t be traced.” The professor took the note and nodded.

  “Did Marcene tell you anything about us?” asked Lynks.

  Duncan looked at Lynks, then at Cane. “She didn’t tell me any information about any of you; however, she promised me that a strong, scary-looking bald guy would deliver me something someday that proved her theory about the marked men. I assume that person is you,” he said, looking at Cane.

  They left a few minutes later and climbed into Lynks’s mobile center. The visit had disappointed Cane, as he’d hoped to leave with a few answers. He thought Duncan might’ve been able to shed light on Marcene, but she remained a mystery.

  “He’s a smart guy. I’m glad I got to meet him,” said Natalie.

  Cane glanced at her and saw her eyes still dancing from the visit. He felt badly for her; in a few hours, she would’ve been sitting in front of Duncan at his lecture. Instead, she was evading dangerous men. Natalie was a strong girl, it seemed. She bounced back from nearly being killed last night pretty smoothly, although he was sure she still wanted answers.

  He also wondered about her connection with Marcene; it seemed far too much of a coincidence for her to be attending the lecture of a man Marcene had long been in contact with.

  “Natalie,” said Cane. Her head snapped up, surprised to hear him say her name. “How long had you been planning to attend Dr. Duncan’s lecture?”

  Natalie’s eyes shut for a second. “It was last-minute. I decided to go a week ago.”

  “Who told you about it?” asked Cane. Lynks’s eyes were widening, seeing where Cane was going.

  “My professor encouraged me to go, along with some friends of mine,” said Natalie. “The lecture had been planned for another day but was postponed. There was a scheduling conflict the last time, so when we heard the new date, we were all eager to go.”

  Cane was disappointed. He’d hoped that Marcene orchestrated her trip to attend the lecture. She might have played a role, but if she did, it wasn’t obvious.

  Cane started up the van.

  “Where to now?” asked Lynks.

  “Chicago,” said Cane. “We’re going to see Calvin Wilson.”

  Direction

  Saturday, 9/9/2028, 9:00 a.m.

  FBI Headquarters, Washington, DC

  Hart waited in his boss’s office for FBI Director Harvey Foster. Hart hated coming to Washington; he’d much rather be in the field or at his field office in Virginia. The politics of this place rubbed him the wrong way; he detested every fake smile and handshake, especially from those he’d known before joining the FBI. People seemed to lose themselves in Washington; it was a place that drained the morals and ethical principles from those that entered.

  FBI Director Harvey Foster was a politician through and through, so much so that most around him believed he had other aspirations that reached beyond his current position. He looked like a senator. He was a good-looking man, tall, re
gal, well-spoken, and liked by many people. Hart wasn’t one, however. He respected him professionally; he’d been serving five years now and had done a decent job. Hart preferred Todd, who was second-in-command, and they’d always had a better working relationship. Todd was honest and down-to-earth, a very likable man.

  Foster entered his office and smiled at Hart as they shook hands.

  “Good to see you,” said Foster. “Thanks for coming in. I know you’re tired.”

  Tired wasn’t a strong enough word. Hart only slept an hour last night. He couldn’t wait to find a place to pass out. “It’s been a long morning,” he said.

  “I know,” said Foster. “Perry and his crew are still at the scene. He had no luck finding the two victims’ vehicles. There were a few unclaimed cars, but none panned out.”

  Hart nodded. He figured as much.

  “Did you see the sketch yet?” asked Foster.

  Hart had forgotten about it. Perry must’ve emailed it, like he’d requested, but he’d been too busy and tired to remember to check. “Not yet,” he said.

  Foster slid a piece of paper in front of him. On it was a sketch of a bald-headed man with a scruffy beard and sharp features. Hart knew who the sketch depicted.

  “It was Cane at the hotel,” said Foster. “I’ve already circulated this sketch. It’s the first good one we’ve had in years.” He was smiling confidently.

  The only other known sketches of Cane had been from years ago, using descriptions from Bowman and the other trainees. Hart already knew where Foster was going with this.

  “I want to prioritize finding Cane,” said Foster.

  Hart fought the urge to laugh. “That’s easier said than done, sir.”

  “We should get good leads from the sketch,” said Foster.

  Hart doubted there’d be many “good” ones. There’d be leads; people would call from all over, claiming to have seen the man in the sketch, talked to him, even given him a ride. It would be maddening, and while FBI staff would handle the bulk of the tedious work, he’d still have to waste his time on useless tips.

  “We’ll never find him this way,” said Hart. “I tried for years to get a solid lead on him.”

  “I also want you to talk to Bowman again,” said Foster, ignoring Hart’s statement. “It’s been years since we’ve had a conversation with him. Maybe time has softened him up.”

  Or hardened him further, thought Hart. “Bowman will never give Cane up,” he said.

  Bowman was helpful in helping locate the other trainees, but not so with Cane. They always had reason to believe Bowman knew more about Cane and his whereabouts through the years, but he’d done an excellent job hiding it. They’d searched his phone records, even set up surveillance, but came up empty every time.

  “This time you’ll be pitching him something different,” said Foster. Hart looked at him blankly. “Tell him we want Cane’s help.”

  “Is that true?” asked Hart. He sat up in his chair.

  “There’s urgency,” said Foster. “We need to find who the marked men are connected to. And who’s better qualified than Cane to find answers?”

  Hart was incredulous, but he tried to conceal it. “Sir, with all due respect, Cane is a wanted man. He killed a civilian and two children. And now you want me to work with him? To ask for his help?”

  “I know, I know,” said Foster. “It’s not ideal. But Cane was getting close to these guys at one time. I think we must base our actions on the encroaching threat.”

  Hart wondered what Foster knew that he didn’t. These marked men had been around for years, causing trouble, sure, and rumors abounded about their ties to the Russians and other terrorists of interest, but why the urgency now? He had a feeling that even if he asked, he wouldn’t get a satisfactory answer.

  “I know you want Cane brought to justice,” said Foster, “I promise you I want that too. But now’s not the time. We need to focus on the threat that’s right in front of us. Two marked men just tried to kill a college student. They dressed for the occasion and deployed a very dangerous EMP. They weren’t crazy lunatics going on a killing spree. They knew what they were doing.”

  “But why the urgency?” asked Hart. “Do you know something more? Are they mobilizing?”

  “The CIA suspects something bigger is coming,” said Foster. “They don’t know what yet, but they’ve been intercepting communications that suggest they’re planning something significant.”

  Hart couldn’t help but notice how vaguely Foster answered every question. Everything he said was old news. He knew it would be a waste of time to look for Cane, but there was nothing Hart could do. “I’ll go talk to Bowman,” he said.

  Foster stood and extended his hand. Hart rose and shook it.

  “Keep me posted,” said Foster. “And work your magic with Bowman. He may be our best shot at finding Cane.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Hart.

  Hart left with a bad feeling in his gut. As badly as he’d always wanted to find Cane, he didn’t think it was possible. He thought of a statement Bowman had made years ago, referencing Cane. “If you ever find him, it’s because he wanted you to. If you’re ever close enough to reach out and touch him, then know you’re close enough for him to touch you.”

  ◆◆◆

  After Hart left his office, Harvey Foster sat back down, leaned back, and sighed. He liked Hart; he was a reliable agent who had always been loyal to him and his country.

  But he needed something more than that right now. He picked up his phone.

  “Amos. I have Hart questioning Bowman. Let’s see if Bowman takes the bait.”

  “He won’t,” said Amos.

  “Hart can be convincing,” said Foster. “We’ll see where these leads go from the sketch.”

  “Won’t be good enough,” said Amos. “We don’t know what Marcene’s told him. He could be making plans to extract Daniel as we speak.”

  “I already put in a call this morning to have Daniel moved. There won’t be any surprises,” said Foster.

  “How soon?” asked Amos.

  “Wednesday,” said Foster. “It’s the earliest I could arrange it without drawing suspicion.”

  Amos sighed. “That’s a lot of time for things to go wrong.”

  “Just have your men ready,” said Foster. “I’ll take care of things on this end.”

  Caged

  Saturday, 9/9/2028, 8:00 a.m.

  Macon State Prison, Georgia

  Daniel sat on the bed inside his cell, reading The Hunchback of Notre-Dame. Bob, a guard at the prison, had been talking about the book since he got there, urging him to read it.

  It was duller than he’d thought it would be. Classic, my ass, he said under his breath. He tossed the book aside. He wasn’t an avid reader; maybe that was the problem. In jail, reading was one of the few escapes from the ugly reality, so he figured he’d keep trying.

  Daniel occupied an eight-by-ten cell by himself. Authorities deemed him a high threat to those around him given his history of confrontations since being incarcerated. He didn’t care; he liked the solitude, at least compared to the alternative. The guards let him out of his cell once a day for an hour, but they never allowed him on the yard with the other inmates.

  He’d only been in Georgia for a month since being transferred by his last prison, Stateville Correctional Center in Crest Hill, Illinois. Another prisoner had tried to kill him and Daniel nearly dismembered the man with his bare hands. When the would-be assassin turned out to be one of the marked men, the prison came under fire, especially the guards, for allowing the two to be in proximity to one another.

  To ease the tension, all thought it best to move Daniel out of the state he wreaked havoc upon in the first place, fearing he might not live long. Daniel thought they were more afraid of having more nearly dismembered bodies turn up around him. I could do this all day, he’d said to the warden.

  It didn’t matter to him where he was housed, even though he thought he got the better deal
. Here he was isolated, so he didn’t have to worry about putting up with any other inmates’ foolishness. While most disliked the solitude, he reveled in it.

  The other bonus was Bob. He and Daniel seemed to get along well from the start, as Bob didn’t seem as intimidated by his size as most others. Daniel was a huge man; the prison weighed him in at four hundred twenty pounds and listed him as seven feet, five inches tall. His size had been a common talking point all his life, one he resented for most of it. People had a hard time seeing past how large he was. Daniel carried himself in a way that made him appear even more massive than he was, causing most to over-exaggerate his size. Comparisons to André the Giant, a professional wrestler from years ago, were common when he was younger, usually made by older people. He’d also heard the name Big Show, who was yet another wrestler. He once looked up videos of these two guys wrestling and laughed at how slow they were.

  Daniel didn’t have a lot of the ailments that others his size faced; he was deceptively agile and was in great shape. Bob said if he would’ve chosen to play basketball, he would’ve been the most dominant player ever. He compared him to a basketball player from the early 2000s named Shaquille O’Neal, widely considered to be one of the best centers ever to play, and also a massive, agile athlete, especially early in his career. Despite Bob’s playful comparison, he never judged Daniel by his appearance, which he appreciated. Daniel warmed to him more than most other people and Bob treated him fairly, even kindly. Bob worked the day shift, seven days a week, and Daniel had yet to see him miss a day. Prison guards usually worked staggered shifts, so this was unusual. Bob either liked his job, or, as Daniel suggested, loved being around him so much that he couldn’t bear to be away.

  “I’m afraid if I miss a day, you’ll end up tearing someone’s arm off,” Bob had said in response.

  However, the truth was not as comical. Bob’s family died in a car accident almost six years ago, with him driving. They were returning from a long road trip when he fell asleep at the wheel. His wife and two sons died instantly, and while he survived, he lost his left leg the following day. It took months of rehab and grief counseling before he campaigned to get his job back. He couldn’t bear being home alone in his empty house, so he used the position as his escape.