He left the office more depressed than when he had entered. As he walked along the littered sidewalk to the Metro station, his thoughts strayed back to the businessman. The man had refused to give his name or any means by which he could be contacted. But he had promised that he would return when he felt certain Chris would accept the offer. Chris warranted that such a time might present itself sooner than he had anticipated.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Here’s where all the wet labs are,” Randy Nee said. “Could be slippery! Better watch your step!” He laughed and wiped a hand across an eye as though he had been brought to tears by his own joke.
Chris offered a smile that he hoped would placate his new manager’s self-indulgent humor and followed Randy into the room filled with equipment. A PCR machine buzzed near the door as a projected readout tracked the RNA replication process in real time. Several large flow hoods lined the opposite wall. A couple of basic microscopes sat on benches next to racks of glass slides.
“The fluorescent scopes are in the room off by the incubators.” Randy motioned to the closed door. “Looks like someone’s using them, so I won’t show you them now. Wouldn’t want to bleach their samples with any bright light from out here, would we?” He laughed far more than seemed appropriate.
“No, I don’t think that’d be nice at all.”
Randy slapped Chris’s back. “No, no, it wouldn’t.”
All of the equipment was familiar. In fact, the lab at Respondent Technologies appeared almost half the size of the Ingenomics lab where Chris had designed muscle-restoring genetic enhancements to treat conditions like muscular dystrophy.
The door to the microscope room cracked open. Green light illuminated a small glass slide on the stage of the scope in the otherwise dark room as a researcher in a long white coat slipped out.
“Tracy, come meet your new colleague.” Randy waved at the woman.
Tall and thin, Tracy cut an athletic figure even in the white lab coat. Her large hazel eyes caught Chris’s and her red lips curled into a disarming smile. She held up a blue-nitrile-gloved hand in a cursory greeting. “Nice to meet you.”
He smiled back, feeling like a sheepish boy meeting a movie star. After his stint in prison and being wrapped up in a job search, he hadn’t spent much time out. Seeing an attractive woman like Tracy, a sudden wave of shyness hit him. He nodded back. “Uh, I’m Chris.”
“Ah, oh, yeah.” She brushed back a lock of hair that had come free from her dirty blond ponytail. Realizing what she had done, she ripped off both gloves and cursed.
“Don’t want to contaminate your cells, now, do we?” Randy laughed. “Got time to talk about the project?”
Tracy shook her head, and another long strand of hair came loose to swing in front of her face. As she spoke, she fixed her hair back into the ponytail. “I’m in the middle of something right now. Maybe later?” She stretched on a new pair of gloves, grabbed a box of slides, and went back into the microscope room.
“She always knows how to keep herself busy,” Randy said. “Give her a problem and she won’t leave until she solves it. You’ll enjoy working with her.”
He wasn’t sure yet if he’d enjoy working at Respondent at all. All the same, he had no choice. The businessman, had shown up at his doorstep as promised, shades and all, to offer him the position. He’d said that the interview he had set up served only to satisfy formal hiring requirements. Chris had the job. He only needed to assure his strange benefactor that he would complete whatever task the man had planned.
Chris forced a smile. “Sure thing.”
***
After the lab tour, Randy introduced Chris to Paul Ram and Kristina Liang. Both were Master’s-level biomedical engineers, but Randy said that they were just as capable as any of the PhDs he’d run across. Paul cringed at this, while Kristina smiled with a resigned sigh and a roll of her eyes.
Now, Chris sat alone. As he sifted through HR manuals and paperwork on his comm card, a sudden tap on his shoulder caused him to jump. He dropped the comm card, and it clattered onto his desk. A projected page about confidentiality agreements wobbled before settling again.
“You familiar with APC genes?” Tracy hovered over him.
“Uh, no. Should I be?”
“You’re going to have to be.” She grabbed an empty seat from a nearby desk and pulled it over. The subtle scent of lilacs drifted over him as she plopped into the chair. “It’ll be your project. Was supposed to be mine, but I’ve got a bit too much on my plate. Randy figures this’ll be a good way to get you involved in the group.”
“So what’s APC responsible for?”
“You’re going to read all about it. You want me to ruin the suspense?”
“I don’t mind. It’s not like I’m planning to read the book, anyway. I’d rather just see the movie.”
Tracy smiled. “APC is a tumor suppressor. About a hundred and fifty thousand people a year end up with colon cancer because they lack proper APC encoding. Polyps line those people’s colons like weeds. Real nasty stuff.”
“Sounds like it,” Chris said.
“Anyway, we’re going to need you to design a delivery system.”
“Just a delivery system? I don’t need to work on the actual gene or anything?”
“I already took care of that. Randy told me you’re good with delivery systems. You need to figure out the best way to deliver these genes to people so they don’t get ass cancer.”
Taken aback, he sat silent for a moment.
“Not glamorous enough for you, big guy?” She smirked. “Everybody wants to cure cancer, but no one wants to be the ass guy.”
“No, no, it’s fine. I’ll do it.”
“Damn right, you will.” Tracy playfully punched him in the shoulder. “Bigger and better things once you get it done.” She stood up and held out her hand.
Chris stood up and looked straight into her vibrant hazel eyes. The grin remained across her face as she squeezed his hand.
“I’m glad to have another bioengineer on the team. Can’t wait to get to work.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I’m glad to be here.”
Tracy walked back to the lab, her hair swaying in concert with her gait. She strode between the other engineers’ desks, her head held high. Stopping, she turned back. “You want to get a drink after work? You look like you need to loosen up.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Tracy eyed Chris from across the marred table, a glass filled with a stout in her hand. “What’s your view on cheating?”
He forced a brief laugh, unsure if humor or seriousness was the proper response. He’d been prepared to answer questions about where he grew up or where he received his PhD or what hobbies he pursued in his free time. Maybe talk about his favorite show on the holo. Before answering, he took a gulp of his pale ale. “Are we talking about hiding notes on your comm card for a college exam or are we talking relationships?”
“I’m talking relationships. We’re well out of school. Why would I care about that?” Tracy gave him a sly look as she propped her elbow on the table and settled her chin in her palm.
He grinned. “Are we on a date that I don’t know about?” His ability to flirt had decayed since he had jumped right from a long-term relationship with Veronica to utter isolation from the opposite sex in prison. He cringed a little when Tracy’s head flew back and she opened her mouth as though aghast. His face grew warm.
“I’m just giving you shit. But you can tell a lot about a person from that question.”
“By asking them their views on cheating in a committed relationship? I feel like that’s a pretty straightforward question.”
“You’d think that. And maybe you and I would be on the same page. But I can always tell when someone’s bullshitting me. They’ll act extra disgusted, as if it’s a sin just to bring screwing around up in front of them.” She licked her lips and closed her eyes. “Those will be the same guys that you’ll find with your best friend, naked, and th
ey’ll say they helped her move or some stupid shit like that. Real bags of crap.”
Chris laughed. What he’d thought would be a happy hour filled with small talk had turned into a roller coaster of conversation. “Okay, fair enough. So, what kind of guy do you think I am?”
“I think you’re the kind of guy that would be a horrible liar.”
“Is that a good or a bad thing?”
“It doesn’t matter as long as you don’t have to lie, does it?”
Chris finished off the last swig of his ale and set the empty glass down. He flipped through the menu displayed on their table’s mini holoscreen. His stomach growled at the depictions of juicy burgers, thick-cut French fries, and beer-battered fish. The foods, all standard bar fare, still seemed like a luxury to him since leaving prison. He hadn’t ventured out much and hadn’t enjoyed the proper company to eat a good meal with. Now, looking across the table at Tracy’s stunning features and her radiant smile, he felt an immense contentment. “Do you want to grab dinner?”
Tracy’s lips puckered up and she frowned. The ephemeral wisp of optimism and confidence that had materialized dissipated when he saw her furrowed brow. Had he been too forward? He needed to get a handle on his interactions with women again. It hadn’t been as easy as jumping on a bicycle after a couple years spent walking. No, it felt like jumping on a bucking bronc instead.
“The beer’s good enough here, but I’m not a big fan of the food. I do know a place down the street, though, that blackens a killer rockfish and has live jazz. Sound good to you?”
“That sounds great.”
***
The blackened rockfish at the Rusted Scupper melted in his mouth with the perfect mix of spice and the cool taste of the mango salsa that came on top of the fish. Smooth jazz filled the large dining room. Tracy’s eyes sparkled with the candle that burned between the two of them, and Chris was sorry when they each finished their white-chocolate crème brûlée and the last drops of their bottle of pinot grigio. As the lights dimmed in the restaurant, a singer approached the stage.
Without so much as an introduction, she belted out Etta James’s version of “At Last.” Shivers went up Chris’s spine as a few brave dancers approached the floor in front of the band. The mood in the restaurant shifted from swanky dining to back-alley jazz club.
“This place is great. Reminds me of Chicago,” he said. He moved to pay for the check as it appeared across the holodisplay, but Tracy swiped his hand away.
She wagged a finger at him. “My treat.”
“No, I insist.” He nudged his comm card forward.
Tracy swiped her comm card in front of the holodisplay. “I told you I’d take you out, welcome you to Respondent, and I’m making good on that promise. Don’t make me a liar.”
Chris held up his hands in a defensive gesture. “Fine, fine.” He dropped his hands. “I appreciate it.”
They stood up to leave, and he cast a final glance at the dance floor. More couples had filled the space, their bodies swaying and twirling under the low lights.
“Let’s go dance,” he said. Maybe the bottle of wine had tipped him over the edge and imbued him with liquid confidence. He felt warm inside and could not remove the smile from his face. Tracy appeared ready to protest. “Just one dance.”
“I don’t dance,” she said.
“I’ll teach you.”
Tracy shot him a dubious look. “You know how to dance?”
He nodded. Of course he did. Veronica had practically forced him to learn. When they had dated, she couldn’t take herself seriously as a professional dancer if her partner didn’t know a simple four-step swing dance or a straightforward waltz. He had followed her to ballroom dance lessons, and she had hauled him onto dance floors similar to the one here.
Now he dragged someone onto the dance floor. He did so with a confidence he had never felt when Veronica had wrapped her skinny fingers around his wrist and forced him to lead her in a foxtrot.
Once they were on the dance floor, the tempo of the music increased. He eased Tracy into a simple four-step and introduced a couple of swings into their rhythm. At first, her face appeared frozen in fright as she stumbled to follow. Soon, that melted into a beaming smile as she grew accustomed to Chris’s lead. As the singer’s voice belted out onto the dance floor, Tracy preempted his moves and tried to lead.
“You have to wait for me,” he said, spinning her around. “The man’s supposed to lead.”
“And who the hell made up that rule?” Tracy smirked but let him take the lead again.
Between dances, they rested at the bar and reenergized with rounds of rum and Coke. Sweat dripped down Chris’s back and sheened across Tracy’s forehead as the lights turned up on the dance floor and applause filled the room. He slipped his hand into hers as they joined the flow of traffic pouring out of the restaurant and into the chilly night air.
Tapping on her comm card, Tracy peered up. “I’m calling a cab. You live nearby?”
“Not really.”
“Good. I can call you a cab, too.”
Chris couldn’t help but feel a glimmer of disappointment. The balloon of optimism holding him up had been popped.
She hugged him when the cabs rolled up. “This was fun. We’ll have to do it again.” With a final wave, she disappeared into the vehicle.
***
Maybe working at Respondent wouldn’t be so bad. Sure, he would be working on a delivery system for treating colon cancer, wading through literal shit, but maybe...maybe he could start over. Screw whatever that damned businessman wanted. He’d work hard. Yes, he’d make a new name, redeem himself.
Plus, Tracy had promised they could “do it again.”
Chris slid his comm card across the lock to his condo. Instead of unlocking the door, the card dropped. He leaned down to retrieve the card and almost fell over. His vision swam, distorted by one too many drinks.
He admitted that the project didn’t excite him. Work wouldn’t be easier tomorrow, but it would be made more bearable by the lingering sounds of hearty laughter, good conversation, enjoyable dancing, and the subtle hint of lilac ingrained in his memories.
Once inside, he grabbed a glass of water and then flopped onto his couch. Chugging the water, he fiddled with the comm card to turn on the holoscreen. Maybe he’d catch the Late Show with Sean Cooney. Again, he dropped the card. It fell on the coffee table next to the bag of his belongings from prison. Some strange feeling had prevented him from moving the bag, as if sorting out its contents would reconfirm those months spent idling away in cell block B-4, those idiotic mistakes that had gotten him in there, those last few hours when he hadn’t known if he’d leave the prison alive.
But he had made it out.
He had survived.
With rekindled determination, he set his glass down and dumped the contents of the bag across the table. One of his tumbling sketchbooks knocked the glass off, and water spilled and rolled across the hardwood floor. He ignored it and threw the empty plastic bag at the front door. He’d throw it in the dumpster tomorrow, forget about the prison, and forget about the time wasted.
He grabbed the closest of his journals. At least he had done something worthwhile. Well, maybe not worthwhile, but at least interesting. Something new.
Flipping open to the first page, he admired a hawk that he had drawn. Its eyes, large like a puppy’s, rendered it almost cute instead of fierce. Instead of ruffled, detailed plumage, the bird consisted of a smear of blacks and grays from his charcoal set. He turned to the next page, a winking outline of Kate Winslet from a classic movie.
He skipped through forty-five other pages until he reached a portrait of a golden eagle. The eagle’s eyes appeared deep, almost three dimensional. Its feathers were lustrous, each barb drawn out. Slight smudges distorted the details since he had never sprayed the charcoal with any protective coat of acrylic spray. Better than the hawk, though.
For the next half hour, he scanned through his sketches and drawi
ngs. He might not be ready for a gallery opening, but he’d done something right. Been like—what had Kurt said? Been like Shadow from American Gods. He’d learned his trick from prison.
He leaned back on the sofa, and the room seemed to spin. Pulling his hands through his tousled hair, he exhaled and scanned the books on the coffee table again. The cracked leather cover of Vincent’s notebook caught his eye.
There was no title, nothing to mark that it had belonged to Vincent. Just the knowledge that it had sat on his cellmate’s desk for the eight months that Chris had been there.
He had never asked Vincent what had landed him in prison. But Vincent had told him about a cheating wife and her secret boyfriend. His cellmate had shared in many a conversation about the progress of synthetic organ technology, the corruption in Congress, or a book that both had read. The man could talk for hours, sometimes without so much as a reassuring nod from Chris, about any and every topic. Vincent seemed to know a little about quite a lot, though every conversation tended to turn back toward the problems with genetic enhancements and artificial selection of genes replacing the natural course of things. Still, he had never spent too much time discussing personal matters or his time outside the pen.
Those answers potentially lay in Chris’s hands now. All in the journal that Vincent had scribbled in nightly. Sometimes for just a couple of noisy minutes, sometimes well after Chris had fallen asleep. He found he missed falling asleep to the sound of the pen scratching across paper. It reminded him of the times when, as a kid, he had napped on the family room couch while his mother sat next him and wrote in her daily journal. But it wasn’t just that strange Freudian comfort that he missed; he missed Vincent.
When Chris had been stabbed, Vincent had disappeared. Why? Hadn’t Kurt mentioned that others had died? Or was it just Frank?
His thoughts spun into a frustrating blur. He stuck his fingers into the journal but couldn’t muster the courage to open it. No, it wasn’t his to read. It had been Vincent’s and would always be Vincent’s.
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