Genetic Imperfections

by Steve Hadden

  He dropped into his unmarked Impala, picked up the radio mike, and made the call to dispatch. The APB was issued for the Lincoln Town Car. Waters replaced the mike, shoved the car in drive, and headed back to the crime scene. After all, he was working.

  CHAPTER 32

  Dawn broke over the San Gabriel Mountains, and David carefully maneuvered the sleek twin-hulled catamaran through the calm waters of Dana Point Harbor. He stood at the helm, dressed in a white nylon windbreaker, white shorts, and a blue polo shirt he’d found in the stateroom of the catamaran. He knew he looked just like the other sailors, who scurried about the decks of the expensive sailboats and yachts, getting ready for their weekly therapy. He tipped his head back as an offshore breeze cooled his face. The fresh salty air and the first hues of sunlight refreshed his weary mind and battered body.

  He actually smiled, a bit grimly: He had lived to see another day.

  He noticed everything as though for the first time: the brown pelicans perched on the piers, standing guard over the waterway, the bright white seagulls circling above the procession of sailboats as they made their way to the open waters, the smiles on the boaters’ faces as they waved to him as if he was part of some special fraternity. Beyond the breakwater of the harbor, he could see the long silhouette of Catalina Island, barely visible in the early morning mist. He’d overlooked all this beauty before the plane crash. Now he was seeing a world he’d ignored during his first forty-five years on earth.

  He pulled the Ray-Ban sunglasses from the console and slipped them over his eyes. The sun had cleared the mountains behind him and warmed his back. Tori stepped from the stateroom. David adjusted the glasses and hoped they concealed his stare. At David’s suggestion, she’d changed from her conservative pants suit to the white shorts and midriff top they’d found in one of the dressers. A white body wrap made a vain attempt to conceal her shapely body. She was freshly showered and smelled of lavender. Her silky dark brown hair was pulled into a tight ponytail and highlighted her high cheekbones and lightly tanned skin. Her legs were long, and her toe nails revealed her fondness for French pedicures. But David focused on something else. He was happy to see the fear and shock from the events of last night had faded. Tori seemed confident and committed. This was not the same woman from last night.

  “Good morning, Mr. Wellington.” She smiled at David for the first time.

  Her renewed energy was contagious.

  “It’s David, and good morning.” David returned the smile. “Wow, you look great. Feeling a bit better?”

  “Yes, thanks. How long to Catalina?”

  “Just a couple of hours.”

  David tried to keep looking ahead but his eyes were stealing another look at Tori. He wanted to protect her and that strange connection he noticed last night created a gravity he couldn’t escape. She stepped closer to David, leaned against the helm’s console and crossed her arms. Her brown eyes flashed and examined David’s face.

  David regained his senses and continued his description of the route. “We’ll head around the north side of the Island and duck into Hamilton Cove. It’s outside the busy traffic of Avalon, but it’ll be a short shot to catch the Flyer to the mainland.”

  Tori shifted her weight and cocked her head to the side. “The Flyer?”

  “The Catalina Flyer.”

  “I know what the Flyer is. I’m wondering why we’re going back to the mainland?”

  David heard the tension in Tori’s voice. He shared her concern of going back so soon into harm’s way, but time was running out. The catamaran began to roll gently over the waves as it moved into the open water.

  “Let’s get the sails up, and then we can talk. Here, take the helm but keep us on this heading.” David pointed to the display on the console and bounded onto the deck. He skillfully unfurled the sails and returned to the cabin.

  “You look like you’ve done this a time or two,” Tori said, impressed with David’s seamanship.

  “Yup. After you live in Newport Beach long enough sailing gets in your blood.”

  He smiled and confidently stepped back to the helm. As he had hoped, the diversion of raising the sails broke the tension between them. Tori returned to her position leaning on the console, but continued to watch him. David settled into the captain’s chair.

  “I think I understand what happened last night, Tori.”

  Tori cocked her head and listened.

  “Your work on CGT scared Brayton. I don’t know how he did it, but I don’t think the plane crash was just a coincidence.”

  Tori refolded her arms. Her eyes grew wide.

  “You mean your plane crash was planned?”

  “It kind of makes sense now. Brayton knew about your work. You told him on Friday, just before the board meeting. If he could get rid of Adam Rexsen and me at the same time, he’d be able to get control of Rexsen Labs and hide your work. The company would go public, and he would reap hundreds of millions of dollars. If he doesn’t know CGT can be fixed over time, he thinks the IPO would be cancelled, and there would be no payoff for him.”

  David glanced up to examine the sails. They billowed in the strengthening breeze.

  “So last night was about getting rid of me?” Tori said as she bit her lower lip.

  “I’m afraid it was about getting both of us.”

  David shifted his gaze from the bow to Tori. She turned her head and stared at the open water. A tear ran from the corner of her eye, and she quickly wiped it away.

  “This can’t be happening to me. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “I know—it’s terrifying. But I think I may have figured out a way to save the research, based on what you told me last night.”

  Tori shook her head furiously. “You may be used to having people wanting to kill you, but I’m not—Damn, damn, damn. You’re not even scared. The police want you and me for murder, and one of your high and mighty executives wants you out of the way. And you just sit there and tell me you have a plan to save the research!”

  Tori stepped even closer. David drew back into the captain’s chair.

  “And us as well,” he said.

  “I’m just a researcher,” she said softly. “I’m a biochemist who thought she could find a cure for the cancer that killed her nine-year-old brother.”

  David leaned forward and placed his hand on hers. “You’ll still have that chance, I promise. In a couple of hours we’ll be safe in Hamilton Cove. I used to hide there when I wanted to get away from Rexsen Labs. We’ll find a way out, I promise.”

  “You had a brother who died?” he asked.

  “My little brother. He was nine when he died of acute myeloid leukemia. It came out of nowhere. He and I were always together. He’d loved to make me laugh. Even at the end, he loved to make everyone laugh. It crushed my mother. Now every time I see her I can see the sadness in her eyes. I know that when she sees me, she thinks of him.”

  The catamaran was at full sail now, and the boat sliced through the blue swells. They were halfway to Catalina Island, which grew larger as they approached. David listened to the rigging that kept beat with the rhythm of the sails. He glanced up at the mainsail and then glanced at Tori.

  “So that’s why you became a biochemist?” he said.

  Tori stared toward Catalina.

  “My thesis was on the use of mircoassays for genetic mapping. I would have gone to medical school, but I thought the answers to the cancer problem would come from biotechnology. I was very excited when I was named to the CGT team. But I was crushed when the new microassay method I discovered showed the treatment repaired the targeted gene but unintentionally modified another.” Tori paused.

  “I’ll bet you were,” David said. “I was too.”

  “And then I was shocked when the expression profile of the post treatment DNA, the profile that shows which genes are switched on, matched the one in the national database for pancreatic cancer.”

  “But you said you know how to fix it?” David
asked.

  “I think so. We identified the proteins in the genes damaged by the treatment, and we were able to modify the treatment to avoid the problem. All of the mice we tested showed complete remission and no side effects. Their genetic expression profiles checked out.” She stopped talking and seemed to be gazing out to sea.

  David gazed at Tori. Her dark brown curls waved in the breeze. She was beautiful, brilliant, and committed. Her little brother shared the same terrible fate as his son. They’d fallen victim to a common enemy. He now understood why Adam Rexsen was right. There is a purpose to this business. It was clear as the brilliant blue sky before him. He remembered Amy’s hopeful blue eyes, and how they had silently begged him for help. He was committed and determined to help—not just her, but thousands of sufferers. His jaw tightened, and he squeezed Tori’s hand.

  “We’ll find a way to get your work to the people who need it, so help me God.”

  He never wanted anything as much as he wanted to help Tori get the treatment to the thousands of kids who suffered every day and whose family carried the invisible scars for life.

  A pair of sleek bottle-nose dolphins appeared and frolicked in the bow waves. David remembered the words that haunted him each night.

  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 unique to every person on earth. Some never find it. You’ve been given a second chance. Remember, His reason is not always obvious. Seek it.

  CHAPTER 33

  Brayton slammed the Wednesday morning LA Times on the table and startled the servant standing a few feet away on the top deck of the luxury yacht. Wellington and Clarke were on the run, and Prescott’s murder had been pinned on the pair. To top it all, Brayton read about it on the front page of the morning news, just like everyone else in Southern California.

  He hated surprises, especially considering what he had paid to be kept informed. With Prescott dead, Priscilla had control of the Trust, and he knew the calls from concerned board members would start soon. The big-wigs from Jones-Frederick wouldn’t be far behind. As the underwriter for the IPO, their investors would be clamoring for information regarding the strange series of occurrences that put control of the Rexsen Trust in the hands of a woman with no business experience.

  The wind gusted and knocked over the crystal flute filled with orange juice. Brayton noted the clouds building to the west. The twin diesels surged between the growing swells. No question this would be a bad day.

  “Good morning Royce,” Priscilla said, announcing her entrance onto the skydeck. The attendant stepped to the chair facing Brayton and gently guided Priscilla into her seat.

  For the first time he could remember, Brayton’s stomach churned as a little doubt about his ability to control her entered his mind. Dressed in a smart dark blue pantsuit, she appeared calm and confident. For the first time since he’d known her, she appeared to be going for the strong, not the sexy, look. He didn’t like it. She looked too composed for just having learned of the death of her only sibling less than a week after the death of her father.

  “Good morning, Priscilla,” Brayton replied.

  Priscilla eyes dropped to the paper on the table. “I see Prescott’s murder made the front page.”

  The lack of remorse in her voice raised Brayton’s suspicions.

  “Yes, it did, and your husband and his girlfriend are wanted for the killing.”

  Brayton pushed the paper across the table. Priscilla ignored it.

  “I sure hope they get him, and don’t give him a chance to explain his way out of it,” she said.

  Brayton wondered where the conversation was headed. “I’m not sure what you mean?”

  Priscilla leaned on her forearms and Brayton could see the coldness in her brown eyes.

  “If he lives and divorces me, he’ll have half the Trust, and you’ll have to deal with him too.”

  Brayton felt as if he’d stepped into a trap. The gusts had become stronger and swirled around the table. The sun disappeared behind the approaching squall line. He squirmed in his chair under the weight of Priscilla’s silent stare. He wasn’t sure anymore if he was the hunter or the hunted.

  “He won’t make it.” Brayton tried to sound confident.

  “What makes you so sure?” Priscilla pressed.

  He tossed his linen napkin on the table and knocked his chair away from him.

  “Trust me. I gotta catch the jet to New York.” Certain he could bull his way out of the discomfort of Priscilla’s pressure, he turned his back to her.

  Priscilla slapped her hand on the table as the gust blew the hair away from her face.

  “I’m not done with you yet!”

  Brayton spun and squinted to protect his eyes from the rain beginning to sting his face. How dare she threaten him like this?

  “You forget who you’re talking to!” He closed the distance between them with one giant step.

  Priscilla shot up from her chair to meet him.

  “No, Royce. You forgot who you’re talking to. I’m the head of the Rexsen Family Trust, and I’m going to New York with you.”

  He leaned on his knuckles and met Priscilla face to face in the center of the table.

  “What?” he roared.

  “You heard me,” she retorted. “The underwriters will have questions, and they will ask to delay the IPO because of all this negative press. I’ll go and show them I’m in firm control, and by Tuesday we’ll all be a hell of a lot richer.”

  Brayton tried to rein in his temper. A damn woman telling him what to do, especially one he slept with. Who the hell did she think she was? He hadn’t had that happen since his second stepmother, and she was a better lay.

  “Shit!” Brayton cursed and clenched his fists. “Okay. But let’s get one thing straight; you need me to make this thing happen. I’ll call the shots until we all can cash out.”

  “Of course, Royce,” Priscilla smiled, “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

  CHAPTER 34

  Donovan’s instructions were clear. Fulfill the contract or become a mark. Lane wiped the sweat beading on his forehead. He knew Donovan would follow through with the threat, and based on his first-hand knowledge of Donovan’s work, Lane knew being the mark was no fun. The rain pecked at the windshield of the black Suburban. Waters sat in the passenger’s seat, sleeping. Some detective. He checked his watch. It was noon, and the beach traffic, slugging down Balboa Island Boulevard, had been thinned by the rain. They’d been positioned just off the boulevard at eighteenth street for two hours, outside the sixties vintage bungalow owned by Wellington’s driver. Lane could see the beach at the end of eighteenth and the surf just beyond the sand. Find the driver, find the limo, and find Wellington; a simple, but effective, plan.

  The screen door on the aqua one-story opened. Lane sat up, elbowed Waters in the side and tossed a black balaclava mask in his face.

  “There’s the mark. Let’s go,” Lane said.

  He started the Suburban and pulled quickly behind the 1969 SS 396 Chevelle in the driveway. Both men bolted from the truck and sprinted to Joe Pirelli. Dressed in sandals, black gym shorts and a gray tank top, he dropped his bags and prepared to defend himself. He acquiesced when Lane showed him the compact but deadly MP5K under his jacket. With Waters leading the way, Lane slipped a hood over Joe’s head and pushed him into the back seat of the Suburban next to Waters. The handcuffs were on in a second, and Waters pressed his service revolver against Joe’s ribs. The Suburban raced down eighteenth and turned left on Balboa to Newport Boulevard, then headed out of Newport Beach to their destination.

  Joe had expected this. Maybe not this soon, but he knew it was coming. His training had already kicked in. Remain calm, assess the threat and make a plan for escape. Then, wait for a break; timing was everything. Although the hood kept him in darkness, it heightened his other senses. He counted turns and noted the direction. He traced each one on the mental
map emblazoned in is head from the years of driving for David Wellington.

  He felt the left turn on Balboa and the merge onto Newport Drive. He felt the car rise over the bridge to the mainland, followed by a sudden stop. Must be the light at Coast Highway, he imagined; they proceeded straight on to Highway 55 with a left onto the 405, north. Joe sung his favorite Jimmy Buffet beach song, Margaretville, to keep time. Three times meant he was 12 to 14 minutes up the interstate when they exited. The twisted route and the foul smell of sulfur from the refineries told him he was in Long Beach. The pungent odor of harbor trash cooking in the sun and the rumble of the huge cranes told him he was at the docks.

  He knew what came next.

  The Suburban came to a stop, and Joe heard the door open. A gun barrel stabbed into his ribs.

  “Get going,” Waters said.

  Waters’ voice confirmed what Joe already suspected. These were the two jokers he’d taken care of on Wellington’s yacht. His confidence grew along with his resolve. As a veteran of the Marines Special Ops, with a stint with the CIA, he had been in hell holes around the world. Most people underestimated him because of his five-foot-six height, and most viewed him as an Italian limo driver. But he knew his training and strength gave him a distinct advantage.

  He was shoved through a doorway, a warehouse, he guessed, based on the metal on metal echo of the closing door. He was slammed into a chair. Still in handcuffs, he winced when he felt the cutting pain as plastic ties were tightened around his ankles, anchoring him to the chair. The rustling noises around him ceased.

  He closed his eyes in anticipation of the hood being ripped off his head. He didn’t anticipate the brass knuckled fist slamming into his left cheek. The blow stunned him, but he still felt the pain rip through his jaw and the blood run down his neck.

  “That one was just to get your attention,” said the masked man, bending down to be face to face with him.

  “Now, where is your boss?”

  “Don’t know,” Joe said. Short frustrating answers, he thought.