Genesis Code

by Jamie Metzl

  “What did the letter say?” I ask.

  “That they would offer me $75,000 to carry a baby. Seemed like a good deal. They sent me twenty-five thousand when I got impregnated. They said I get twenty-five more when the baby is born and twenty-five two years after that if I stayed quiet.”

  “And who did you meet with at Bright Horizons?”

  “Some lady. Jessica.”

  “Jessica Crandell?”

  “Yeah,” Maya says, seeming surprised that I know this.

  Shards are beginning to come together in my mind. “Maya, you’re right that if Bright Horizons had some kind of technology, they had to get it from somewhere, and maybe . . .” I stop myself.

  “Baby,” I say, looking at Toni, “call Maurice back on the phone.”

  The sound emerging from the receiver sounds downright prehistoric, a primordial groan.

  “Maurice, it’s me.”

  “Who else calls at four thirteen in the morning?” he mumbles.

  “We need to find out if Bright Horizons had licensed any patents. If Becker had some kind of technology, maybe he did a deal with Bright Horizons. Maybe there are footprints out there we can track.”

  “Mmm,” Maurice groans, still not awake, “search?”

  “Maurice, track down Joseph Abraham. We need to find out if Becker had any patents or Bright Horizons did any licensing. It’s an angle we haven’t explored.”

  “All right,” Maurice says, his mind still discombobulated. “Will.”

  “Call me back when you know, okay?”

  “You all right?” he says, pulling himself out of sleep.

  “I am.”

  “Got the girl?”

  “I do, we’re . . .”

  “Don’t tell me,” Maurice fires back, this time sharply. He’s awake. “I’ll call you later this morning.”

  The line drops.

  Something inspires me to pull off in Norman, Oklahoma. I drive about fifteen minutes away from the highway until I come across the Sleep Inn Motel. The run-down place looks like it might have been a Howard Johnsons when this road to nowhere had once been a thoroughfare. That must have been decades ago, and clearly no renovations have been made since. The sleepy Sikh takes my cash in advance with no questions. I pay for two rooms for two days, park, then help the two exhausted women up the stairs and into their room.

  I open the door to mine and inhale a noxious mixture of smoke and mold. I strip down to my underpants, fling off the slimy bedspread, and melt into the lumpy mattress.

  61

  The grinding ring of the brick phone wakes me from an impossible half-sleep.

  “Yeah,” I grumble.

  “It’s me. I need you to come to Kansas City.”

  I shoot up. The hotel room looks strange in the daylight, foreign. The image of Toni and Maya sleeping in the next room ricochets through my mind, my masculine need to protect the women in my cave fully activated. “I can’t.”

  “Listen to me, Rich,” Maurice says. “Becker is going to be in Kansas City at three this afternoon. I can’t meet with him. You need to do it.”

  “No, Maurice. I’ve got two women here I need to—”

  “Listen to me,” Maurice repeats, this time more forcefully. “He’s coming to Kansas City and I can’t meet with him.”

  A pit forms in my stomach as I begin to sense where he is heading.

  “I’m willing to take the risks I need to on this, but meeting with Becker just isn’t one of them.”

  I don’t credit Maurice with an answer.

  “You know I’ve been willing to put my job on the line,” he continues in an almost apologetic tone, “but if I’m the one meeting with Becker and Roberts finds out, I’m done. That gives Becker a lot of leverage over me. It’s a stupid risk. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “And you think my leaving here does?”

  “I don’t know where you are right now, Rich. My guess is no one does. My guess is that you are four or five hours away from KC. If you leave now, you can be here by one or two. Meet with Becker and you’ll be back wherever you’re going by eight or nine. Who else is going to be able to get what we need out of Becker?”

  “You, Maurice.”

  “It’s not the right thing to do.” Maurice pauses then speaks softly. “I’m not going to do it.”

  Crackles punctuate the void.

  “This is bullshit,” I say.

  “It’s the only option that makes sense.”

  I hate the idea, I’m not at all convinced, and I’m beyond pissed at Maurice. His argument, however, does have a hint of depressing logic. Becker can definitely get Maurice fired if he decides to, and it’s abundantly clear in my mind that we should never underestimate Becker.

  “What do you think Becker has been up to the last twenty-four hours?” Maurice presses on.

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s the point. There’s so much riding on this for him, for Senator King, for the country. I doubt he’s been spending the last twenty-four hours twiddling his thumbs. It makes no sense for me to be there with my job and family so clearly on the line and Becker knowing it.”

  “And I should be because I have so little to lose?” I say heatedly.

  “Sorry, Rich. That’s what gives you the most leverage. This is really the best way. We both need you to be here this afternoon. There’s too much at stake for you not to be.”

  I weigh the two options in my mind. The nausea I feel at my core tells me the scale is tipping in his favor.

  “We’re supposed to meet at Café Aixois at three. Do you know where that is?”

  “Fifty-Fourth and Brookside Boulevard?” I say hesitantly.

  “Fifty-Fifth,” Maurice says. “I’ll be parked at the Presbyterian church across the street to keep an eye on things, but I want to be sure Becker doesn’t see me.”

  “What about my car?” I say, recognizing that my questions are forming an unstated consent.

  “How do you mean?” Maurice asks, luring me into the details.

  “If I do come back into the city and meet with Becker, I’m pretty sure someone would be able to track me down in the car I’m driving and follow me back to, to where I am now.”

  “I’ll take care of that. I’ll get you a different car when you’re here. You’ll be there at three?”

  I hesitate.

  “Rich?”

  I hate the idea but recognize the logic. “Yeah,” I grunt. I hear the beginnings of the word “good” as the line drops.

  The room is silent but for the occasional rumble of cars speeding by. I feel sick.

  My jeans and sweater feel like weights as I drag them on. I put on my shoes, trudge a few steps down the balcony, and softly knock on the door of room 24. No answer.

  My heart quickens.

  I knock harder, trying to balance my sense of panic with my desire to be gentle if I’m waking them from sleep.

  Still no answer.

  Panic sweeps me. I pound on the door.

  “What the fuck?”

  The words feel like music.

  “Sorry, Maya. Good morning,” I fumble, “can you open the door? I need to talk with you guys.”

  “Morning, baby,” I hear muffled through the thin walls. “Just a sec.”

  “You don’t look so good,” Toni says as she opens the door a few moments later.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I look better than I feel.”

  “Now what?”

  “I need to go to Kansas City for the day to meet with Becker.”

  “I thought Maurice was doing that,” Toni says.

  “He was, but not anymore. Now apparently I am.”

  I see the concern on her face. “When will you be back?”

  “By eight or nine tonight at the latest,” I say. “I didn’t really want to go, but I spoke to Maurice this morning and—”

  She takes my hand and squeezes it gently. “It’s okay, baby. I trust you.”

  I feel trusted. I’m just not sure I’m
worthy of it. “I’ll leave you the old phone.”

  “I don’t think you should,” Toni says. “Who could know we’re here? God knows we’re not going anywhere.”

  “I’ll pick up some food for you at the gas station before I go,” I say, trying to retain a few qualities of a caretaker.

  “Sure, baby,” Toni says in an amused tone, as if she’s allowing me to take care of her for my own benefit.

  “Maya,” I add turning toward her, “will you keep an eye on her for me?”

  Maya rolls her eyes. Things seem to be getting a little mushy for her taste. “We’ll just spend our day practicing our thermogenesis,” she says, half paying attention as she flips through cable channels.

  The food I bring back from the Sinopec station is hardly the stuff of a successful caveman protecting his women. Chocolate milk, various candy bars, two large bottles of water, pumpkin seeds, and a smattering of Little Debbie snacks that seem to have arrived in Norman, Oklahoma, through some kind of time warp from the 1950s.

  It’s the best I can do, I tell Toni with my eyes.

  It’s okay, get out of here, she tells me with hers.

  My silent link to Toni feels ever farther away as I speed north on Highway 70 toward Kansas City.

  62

  The plan. Get to Kansas City as quickly as possible. Meet with Becker. Change cars. Come back. Then what?

  How long, I wonder, will we need to hole up with Maya? What are we waiting for?

  Jesus electronic billboards shout at me as I drive past.

  ANTI-GOD IS ANTI-AMERICAN, ANTI-AMERICAN IS TREASON, TRAITORS BEWARE.

  JUDGMENT DAY IS COMING—CRY MIGHTILY UNTO GOD.

  YOUR CHOICE . . . HEAVEN OR HELL. READ JOHN 3:36. The blistering digital flames appear to almost leap from the billboard.

  Red, white, and blue KING FOR PRESIDENT signs stand underneath each of these billboards, each now joined by five or six people in King for President e-shirts waving American flags. This level of energy feels like an ominous sign for the coming primary.

  The screeching ring of the brick phone breaks my concentration.

  “Rich, it’s Maurice,” he says, “I’m here with Joseph. We checked the patent registry. Genesis Labs, a company owned by the same registered holding company that controls Rapture Grove, applied for three patents to the US Patent Office.”

  “And?”

  “They all deal with techniques for genetic transfer.”

  “Let me guess,” I say, “by linking genes to new chromosomes.”

  “Partly, boss,” Joseph says. “Using artificial chromosomes as a delivery mechanism for simultaneous genetic transfer.”

  “In cows?”

  “To crossbreed Texas bluegrass with the jatropha plant.”

  “Why?”

  “On their application they say it’s because jatropha is an exponentially more efficient biofuel sources than bluegrass but hadn’t been domesticated enough to grow outside of tropical climates. And if they can bring together the easy production of bluegrass and the energy potential of jatropha through simultaneous mass genetic transfer, they can more quickly turn native bluegrass fields into energy fields on a much larger scale.”

  “And if the genetics works for plants . . .”

  “All life comes from the same source, boss.”

  Genetically modified bluegrass, biblical red heifer, MaryLee Stock, Megan Fogerty, Maya Armstrong. “Were the patents granted?”

  “They’re pending.”

  “But they get patent protection while this happens?”

  “Yes.”

  The synapses fire wildly across my brain. Becker gets the patents but needs more firepower to realize his dream. What does he do? He buys Bright Horizons? He sells them the technology? He makes a deal to give the technology to Bright Horizons in exchange for their help breeding the next messiah? Then how does the government get involved? Where do the Chinese fit into all of this? Where does he get the money?

  “Do we know if anyone bought the patent rights?” I say.

  “Looking for that but haven’t seen anything yet,” Joseph says.

  “Keep on it,” I say, tapping off the call.

  My head throbs for three hours, my hands shake as I drive nervously on.

  But my mind shifts into gear as I step in the door of Café Aixois.

  63

  I find him sitting alone in the corner. He had seemed so big, almost Godlike, preaching in the sanctuary in Springfield, but here he looks smaller, like a man. I sit, looking him straight in the eye.

  “Reverend,” I say calmly and authoritatively, “you are going to talk.”

  “Do you have any idea what you’re dealing with?” Becker says, his chest rising.

  The sheer power of his presence pushes me back. Then I catch myself. I lean forward. “That’s not going to work this time, Reverend,” I say steadily, hiding the pounding I feel in my heart.

  Becker eyes at me cautiously, a wounded lion, not what he once was, who still knows how to be dangerous. I hold his stare for what seems like an eternity. Becker’s eyes are clear and powerful. Then I see them soften slightly around the edges.

  “I loved MaryLee Stock,” he says with a vulnerability that seems remarkably authentic. “I practically raised her from a child. I would never hurt her. I did never hurt her.”

  “But she was hurt,” I say, staring harshly at him. “She was killed.”

  His neck strains.

  “You got her pregnant with your child,” I press on. “You put her in the middle of this mess. You are part of her murder and now other women are in grave danger. If there’s something I need to know, this is your last chance to tell me. Otherwise, all of this is coming straight at you.”

  “Where’s Henderson?” he says, trying to shift the energy of our conversation.

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m here representing both of us. I’m here representing MaryLee.”

  My words seem to cut Becker. I let the silence settle.

  Becker breathes in, turns his head to the side, then squares and faces me. “There’s not really that much to tell . . .”

  I think of MaryLee Stock and Megan Fogerty, of Maya Armstrong hiding in the motel room and feel a deep anger rising up inside of me. “If you don’t tell me everything starting now, I’m going to get up and leave. And I promise, your life is going to start getting a lot worse.” I’m not sure where my voice is coming from, but it’s angry and it’s deep and it’s powerful.

  Becker’s eyes bear aggressively into mine. Then his energy changes. He takes a deep breath. “I met MaryLee when she was three,” he says quietly. “She was a beautiful child, an angel.”

  “Go on.”

  “She grew up in the church. She was so smart but also so good. I’ve never met someone with such a pure spirit.” He pauses.

  “Go on.”

  “She grew up into a beautiful woman in every way. I loved her.”

  I glare at Becker.

  “Not that way,” he says, “in a cosmic way, a Godly way.”

  “Which is why—”

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “So what is it?”

  “A woman like that is an incredible rarity. She doesn’t come along every—”

  “Two millennia?” I say, cutting him off.

  He looks into my eyes.

  “Life, Mr. Azadian, is not only what we perceive here and now. It is much more. But those secrets don’t unfold on their own. We need to seek them out, to uncover them. Jesus was Jesus, but he couldn’t have become what he became without Paul. God is God, but he needs enablers here on earth.”

  “And you are the enabler?” I ask derisively.

  “I’m one of them. All of us have the potential to be if we hear God’s voice, if we allow ourselves to be.”

  “And the red heifer?”

  “You know that part already. I’ve been trying to breed a red heifer at my ranch for years now.”

  “For if the sprinkling of defiled person
s with the blood of goats and bulls and with the ashes of a heifer sanctifies for the purification of the flesh, how much more shall the blood of Christ, Who through the eternal Spirit offered Himself without blemish to God, purify your conscience from dead works to serve the living God,” I say from memory, staring him deeply in the eyes.

  He looks back at me stunned, as if I’m wounding him with his own sword.

  “Hebrews 9,” I say, not mentioning I’d ripped the page out of the Gideon’s Bible this morning.

  Becker flinches. “God doesn’t always act on his own. That was the message of Jesus,” he says quietly.

  My patience has run out. “Tell me exactly what happened,” I order. “How did you get MaryLee to go along with this? How did you get the patents? What did you do with them? What was your relationship with Bright Horizons?”

  Becker stares at me as if unwilling to let me dictate the flow of the conversation. I glare back.

  “We started doing experiments at the lab,” he then says quietly. “Our scientists made a lot of progress.”

  “And your Genesis Labs made three patent applications in January last year.”

  “Yes.”

  “For gene transfer onto additional chromosomes and simultaneous mass genetic transfer.”

  “Yes,” Becker says. “Genesis code.”

  The name doesn’t surprise me. “God’s will?” I ask in a snarky voice.

  Becker doesn’t respond.

  “So you thought you’d use this to give birth to a superbaby, a messiah?”

  “I thought that God had given us the knowledge to pursue God’s will.”

  “And you were the interpreter?”

  “I was one of them. Everyone is. Gregor Mendel, as you know, Mr. Azadian, was a monk.”

  “Go on.”

  “And I knew, I always knew, that MaryLee was destined to be the mother.”

  “She was Mary?”

  “Maybe not exactly, but as close as we were going to get here on earth.”

  “And so you—”

  “I would never have touched her.” Becker leans forward and looks deeply into my eyes. “I did never touch her. She knew what we were doing and agreed.”

  “But you needed her to be the carrier of the messiah and you were the father. What does that make you, God or the Holy Spirit?” I say, spitting out each word.