Genetic Imperfections

by Steve Hadden

  “So you don’t know his condition?” Prescott asked, with his greasy-haired head cocked forward, attempting to play the very unfamiliar role of the man of the family.

  “No—only that he’s like a cockroach. Who survives a plane crash in the ocean?” Priscilla looked away in disgust in an effort to hide her sadness.

  “Ah, be careful, sis, someone might get the idea you don’t want him to survive.” Prescott grinned.

  “I don’t! He’s been nothing but a pain the ass for the last ten years.”

  “Why don’t you divorce him?”

  “That’s a stupid question. Sometimes I wonder about you.”

  Priscilla wanted to punch her brother. He knew that the only reason she had stayed with David was to please their father. And now with the Trust passing to the two of them, any divorce would result in an equitable split of the marital assets. That meant David would get half of Priscilla’s ownership in the Trust. No divorce; she was rooting for the angel of death.

  “Mrs. Wellington?” A handsome young doctor in teal scrubs and booties interrupted the conversation.

  “Hello, doctor,” Priscilla replied. “This is my brother, Prescott Rexsen.”

  The doctor shook his hand.

  “First, let me say I’m very sorry about the loss of your father.”

  “Thanks,” Prescott replied and smiled. Priscilla couldn’t believe he wasn’t covering up his joy.

  The doctor raised his eyebrows, then turned his attention to Priscilla.

  “Mrs. Wellington, it’s a miracle your husband is alive. He’s taken in a lot of water and has trauma to his head and chest. He’s unconscious, and we’re not sure he’ll make it. There’s not much we can do. It’s all up to him. It will be a long night. I wish I had more to tell you.”

  Priscilla lowered her head as if she cared.

  “We’ll let you know when you can see him.” The doctor paused. “Do you have any questions?”

  Priscilla shook her head and looked up through her thick eyelashes.

  “No, doctor, just do everything you can.” Again, what she thought she should say.

  “Okay. I need to get back in there. Can you update his brother?” The doctor nodded to the back of the room, and Priscilla spotted Joe. She looked at him sharply, and he crossed his arms and stared back.

  “Certainly I can.”

  The doctor disappeared behind an automatic door. Prescott leaned down with his arms folded, still keeping his eyes on the door and whispered.

  “Good job, sis. Even I almost believed you cared.”

  “Shut up, Prescott, you asshole.”

  Prescott kept his arms folded, stepped back, and looked at Priscilla.

  “Well, you won’t be calling me names tomorrow. I called our lawyer and told him to get the papers drawn up tonight to have the control of the Trust transferred to us first thing in the morning. That asshole said there wasn’t a death certificate yet. I told him to just do it anyway he can because the old man is gone. As the new trustee, I’ll be able to vote the shares of the Trust any way we want at the board meeting this weekend. And by the way, how does it feel to be a billionaire?” Prescott grinned.

  “You’d better not do anything stupid with our money. The only reason you’re trustee is because you have a penis, a very small one I might add.”

  “At least I have one.” Prescott stomped down the hallway and disappeared.

  Priscilla hated the fact that their father had chosen Prescott as trustee. She remembered when her love and admiration of her father had turned to hate and jealousy. Although she’d attended college and graduated in theater arts, she’d asked to help him run the business. His reply was no, and it was followed within a week with Prescott getting a vice president position, despite the fact that Priscilla knew he couldn’t spit and hit the earth. A part in a television series from a friend of the family followed as an obvious bribe to let the issue go. It was clear what her father really thought of her: a girl who couldn’t run the business—ever.

  Ignoring Joe, Priscilla removed a silver bullet lipstick and a compact mirror from her purse and applied another layer of the glistening red gloss. She stood slowly, wriggled in her dress, and sauntered to the admissions desk. She gave her number at the Peninsula to the young receptionist.

  She knew if she hurried she could still catch some of Hollywood’s self-anointed studs at the Belvedere, hopefully with a few drinks already in them. While her father never thought she was good enough, younger men made her feel she was very good at something. It wasn’t running a major pharmaceutical company, but it was one thing she had that nearly every man she met wanted. It was the only power she had, until now.

  CHAPTER 8

  The blood-red numbers illuminated the darkness: 3:37 a.m. The room’s corrugated steel walls were lined with computers, video displays, radios, and other state of the art communications and surveillance equipment. The video displays silhouetted three men dressed identically in black. They monitored the displays and listened to the latest chatter regarding the events of the past twelve hours. A fourth man stood hulking over them and stared at a display over the shoulder of one of the men. The pulsating ghostly shadows exaggerated his square jaw, protruding cheekbones, and ruddy complexion. A scar formed a dark canyon on the left side of his thick neck, signaling his deadliness.

  “Sorry, sir,” the red-haired man in the chair said crisply, while he awaited an ass chewing from the man he regarded as his superior officer.

  “Forget it. We got the old man, and Wellington is not out of the woods yet. What’s the latest?” He slapped a meaty hand on the man’s shoulder.

  “One of the two marks is dead. Wellington somehow survived. I’ve never heard anything like this, sir. I’ve been on crash sites of F-15’s that dropped from much lower altitudes, and we had to gather the pieces of the crew. You can see here on the screen, the last report from the transponder came from 26,000 feet. The HH-65A out of Los Angeles reported to the Coast Guard command center that they picked up one survivor, male, between forty and fifty years old. He has a few broken ribs, chest and head trauma and was in critical condition when they dropped him off at Cedars-Sinai heliport facilities at 7:04 p.m.”

  “Any word from the hospital?”

  “They received the patient, and he’s still critical. He’s in a coma, no surgery. I’ve got three of my men there. One has infiltrated hospital security and is undercover as an orderly. It’s pretty hot inside. Media got wind of it as quick as we did. They know a corporate jet went down. Coast Guard will confirm it’s one of Rexsen’s pretty quickly.”

  “Well, keep an eye on Wellington for now. Your people need to get in position and be sure we can neutralize him if we need to.”

  “Understood, sir. Our plan is already underway. It may take a little time, but we’ll get to him if we have to.” The man shuffled a few papers on the table and pulled out a photograph of Tori Clarke.

  “What about her, sir?”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Still at home. We have her under surveillance. My guys got into her apartment and got the lights on, so to speak. So far she’s called home and bragged about how well she did today.”

  His superior held the photograph in the light from the screen.

  “Seems like such a waste to be home alone, I’ll bet she’s great in bed.”

  Both men chuckled.

  “Keep an eye on her. I don’t want too many accidents at once, but if she starts to act suspicious or contacts the regulators, do what you have to. I want to get this one done cleanly. Our client is getting a big payday based on our work. This is the one we can retire on.”

  “You can count on it, sir.”

  He knew there were two ways to retire from this business: get the big kill or be killed. This would be the big kill. If they completed their missions, their client would have access to over a billion dollars or more. And the remaining marks were in the crosshairs. They were nearly half way there. He could taste the rum and fe
el the Caribbean sun warming his face. After a career in the darkness, it would be nice to finally see the sun.

  CHAPTER 9

  At first, the high pitched tone was barely audible and repeated every few seconds. David Wellington’s mind seemed to float, as if in a dream. He could sense his body, but it was heavy and every limb, finger and toe was weighted down. The tone grew louder and became intermixed with a soft gentle voice that called his name. It was higher than most men’s voices, but it definitely was a man.

  The voice came closer, and David struggled to see. He’d had no sensation of sight. Still, he tried to see. A blurred white light filled his eyes, and an image began to form ever so slowly. Someone stood at his side. He struggled to clear his mind. The person moved closer, and as the image came into focus, David saw a younger man dressed in light blue scrubs, who repeated David’s name. He was in his thirties and had thick brown curly hair cut neatly above his ears and brushed cleanly back away from his round face.

  David noticed a name tag but couldn’t see any writing on it. Every image was filtered through an opaque haze affecting his vision. The young man smiled and a dimple appeared on the left side of his cheek.

  “I’ve been pulling for you. Glad to see you’re still here,” he said.

  “What is this place?” David asked. “Heaven?”

  The young man chucked. “Not quite.”

  “Am I alive?”

  The young man just smiled.

  “What is this place?”

  David’s mind was a blank page.

  “My superior won’t let me say.”

  How strange, David thought; his mind was slow and clumsy and his speech was awkward and difficult.

  “How did I get here?” David finally asked.

  “He decided to give you a second chance.”

  David’s vision slowly faded again. He struggled to make sense of what the young man was saying.

  “What?” David said in frustration.

  The figure faded into the milky white light, but his soft gentle voice continued.

  “You need to know there is a reason. It’s his reason. Listen to your heart; open it up to everything; listen. The reason is within each of us. It’s as unique as every person on earth. Some never find it. You’ve been given a second chance.”

  The voice was barely audible and was being drowned out by the rhythmic beeps that grew louder and louder.

  “Remember his reason is not always obvious. Seek it.”

  The image was gone, and the white light faded to black. But the beeping became loud and clear. David noticed the smell of cleaner, like the Spic and Span his mother always used. He felt a hand wrap around his wrist and lift it.

  “Mr. Wellington. Can you hear me, Mr. Wellington? Try and open your eyes.”

  David could feel the weight of his eyelids, and he used all his energy to lift them. They would barely open. He could see clear tubes leading into his face and dangling from around his bed.

  “Hi, Mr. Wellington. You’ve been injured, and you’re in Cedars-Sinai Hospital in Los Angeles.” This time it was clearly a woman’s voice. He rolled his eyes in the direction of her voice and saw a woman dressed in blue scrubs gently smiling at him.

  “How did I get here?” he asked.

  “Your plane crashed in the Pacific, Mr. Wellington. The Coast Guard brought you here yesterday evening. You’ve been in a coma since then.”

  “Where’s the young man?”

  “Mr. Wellington, I’m the only one here. You must have been dreaming.”

  It seemed too real to be a dream, but he accepted her explanation.

  “Will I be okay?”

  “I think so. Your doctors will talk to you in detail later. Right now you need to rest. We don’t want anything to happen to our miracle man.”

  David was confused and closed his swollen eyes, trying to comprehend the nurse’s comment. She apparently sensed his confusion.

  “They’re calling you the miracle man,” she explained. “The news, the papers, they all say no one could have survived that crash. You’re our miracle man.”

  He kept his eyes closed, and his mind began to float again. The young man’s final words replayed over and over in his mind: His reason is not always obvious. Seek it.

  CHAPTER 10

  Tori drove north along Highway 1, as she did every Saturday morning. While there were much faster expressways, the coastal route helped clear her mind of the clutter of the week so she could focus solely on her little brother, Aaron. He was nine the last time she saw him in the hospital. Even as he labored to breathe, he cracked his mischievous grin and looked as if he was about to do something he shouldn’t. She replayed their final conversation as she drove: how they both hated the sickness inside him for what it did to him and to their family; how God would take care of him in heaven and what fun he would have there. But she always came back the promise she made him that day. That promise was the reason she headed north to the cemetery outside of Camarillo every weekend.

  The sun was well above the Santa Monica Mountains as she turned right and drove through the stone pillars of Our Lady of the Angels cemetery. She wound along the smooth blacktop road lined with majestic queen palms. After passing the shimmering granite fountain marking the entrance to the small chapel nestled against the green hillside, she turned left and drifted to a stop. Slipping her Prius into park, she leaned forward and gazed out the passenger’s window at the small granite tombstone. Over the years, the sadness of the site had given way to the joy of talking with her brother again. She smiled, grabbed the fresh daisies on the seat and headed out to see her brother. Tori pulled her gray cardigan tighter as the chilly breeze tugged at her lapel.

  “Hi, Aaron. Looks like another great day,” she said as she knelt down and pulled the wilted daisies from the planter. She instinctively brought the fresh bouquet to her nose and smelled the subtle sweetness of the flowers, just as she and Aaron did when they’d come upon them at their ranch outside of Fillmore, a few miles north of the gravesite. Tori slipped the fresh bouquet into the planter, stepped back and sat down, legs crossed, on the smooth green grass.

  “So this week was a weird one, AC.”

  She’d given Aaron that nickname when he was five and he’d discovered that all of his Kindergarten classmates had them, but they couldn’t think of one for Aaron.

  “We were so close to getting CGT to the other kids, but then I found a problem. I had to present my findings to that jerk I told you about last week and he said he’d have to have someone else verify my work!”

  Just then, she heard another car approaching. She glanced over her shoulder and the black Chevy Suburban drifted past her car. Through the heavily tinted windows, she saw the driver lean forward and spot her, but he kept going and disappeared over the next hill. Tori turned back to her brother.

  “But don’t worry, AC. The work I’ve done to find the problem also gave me the solution.” She leaned closer to the tombstone and smiled. “I won’t let you down.”

  Tori leaned back, tilted her head to the heavens, and felt the warm sun on her back. She scanned the few clouds roaming the sky. She knew Aaron was there somewhere watching. She wanted to tell him something didn’t feel right: things just didn’t add up. But she remembered him as the nine-year-old he was and decided not to worry him. She’d made a promise and she was keeping it. That was good enough.

  Startled by the growl of an engine to her right, Tori looked across to the adjacent hillside and spotted the plume of black smoke hovering over the backhoe. The yellow arm began to claw at the ground like a deadly predator digging for its prey. But the hole would be empty until filled with perhaps another victim of a genetic imperfection—worse yet—another child. She looked back at the words engraved into the tan granite inlay on the grave stone.

  Loving son, joyful brother, God’s little angel

  “No matter what, AC … I’ll have the answer soon.”

  She stood and glanced back at the backhoe piling t
he brown dirt on the grass.

  “No more children will die from this—no more!”

  CHAPTER 11

  The Saturday afternoon sun hung directly overhead and brought welcomed warmth to the groups of golfers making their way around Pebble Beach Golf Links. A light salty mist drifted in on the ocean breeze, scented with the smell of freshly-cut grass. Sea lions lounged on the offshore rocks, while otters playfully tangled with the kelp beds. Brown pelicans patrolled the shoreline in tight formation. One-hundred-year-old cypress trees silently kept guard over the fairways and landing areas. White golf balls emblazoned with the Rexsen Labs name in bright blue letters filled the air and littered the beaches. An unexpected memorial service for Adam Rexsen had been hastily arranged and held earlier in the morning. The sudden death of Rexsen’s founder, while many of the board members were in the air themselves, hit too close to home.

  But under the banner of “Adam Rexsen would have wanted us to carry on the business of realizing his life’s dream,” eloquently spoken by his only son, board members somberly displayed their best slices and hooks and occasional water balls, as originally scheduled.

  Royce Brayton restrained a chuckle as William Walters, one of the most powerful men in investment banking, fed another ball to the sea lions playing in Stillwater Cove. After the customary cursing, Walters placed another ball on the tee, opted for an iron, and chopped one towards the left side of the sixth hole.

  “Nice one, William,” Prescott Rexsen commented in a silky tone.

  “Claire, you’re up,” Brayton said, showing the way to the tee with his outstretched gloved hand.

  Claire Armstrong stepped to the tee. She was a lanky, battle-weathered woman, notorious for her sharp tongue. She headed Armstrong Investments, one of the largest mutual funds in the country. Together, Walters and Armstrong were the most powerful force on the newly formed Rexsen board. It was not by chance they were in a foursome with Prescott Rexsen and Royce Brayton.