Just as the man’s gaze approached the railings of the third floor, Chris ducked behind a fairy dollhouse built from tree trunks.
Moving through another hallway, Chris rushed toward the skywalk that connected the indoor museum exhibit with the larger warehouse next door.
In his head, he thanked Veronica for introducing him to the place. He remembered scoffing at a couple of the stranger displays, such as the large wooden door with soiled plastic dolls nailed to it and dripping red paint. The macabre piece of art seemed much too horrific to be taken seriously, but Veronica had scolded him for not acknowledging the intent of the artist who had constructed the piece. Not to mention, the artist had been a prisoner. But he had no time to try to understand the piece any better now, and Veronica was not there to guide him. He relied upon the memories of their visits together to plan his escape.
A few people still meandered through the exhibits, in no particular rush to depart the museum before its closing time in twenty minutes.
Chris pushed past them into a room filled with sculptures constructed of pulsating neon lights. Vibrant blues, reds, and greens lit up the room in turns. The lights made a show of a man running from an avalanche, starting from the entrance of the room and ending beyond the next hallway. He rushed alongside the running figure to the exit. There, he could run to the new fourth floor, where holodisplays depicting the various stages of Hell lined the wall, or follow a skywalk made of glass toward the warehouse.
Going up offered two exits: leaving from where he had come in or going down a staircase that led to the main entrance. If he went that way and his pursuer followed, there would be little chance for Chris to evade him.
He ran across the skywalk. It was lit up with lines of multicolored LED displays. Below him, three stories down, his running shadow swept over the ground. He sprinted to the large warehouse. Another hulking shadow formed on the sidewalk below. The blue-eyed man pounded across the skywalk.
A lonely holodisplay announced that the warehouse of kinetic art had already closed for the evening. Chris jumped over the metal chain blocking the entrance. He plunged into the darkness of the two-story building and sprinted across the catwalk. Try as he might, he couldn’t quiet his clanging footsteps. He hurried down a spiral staircase. On the ground floor, his footsteps grew quieter.
His pursuer’s pounding feet pierced the quiet. Chris hid behind an enormous poodle built around an ancient Volkswagen Beetle. Outside both the north and south exits of the building, he could catch a cab.
Still, he couldn’t risk the thirty seconds it might take to run from the interior of the old warehouse to the exit and then to the cab. The man chasing him appeared too formidable. He didn’t want to guess what his fate might be if his pursuer caught up in those few seconds.
Chris needed a better way out. For now, he ducked behind the poodle’s front paw and caught his breath.
The man slowed and sauntered down the stairs. His head swiveled back and forth.
“Christopher Morgan. I’m not going to hurt you. Please, just come out. It’ll save all of us a lot of trouble.”
Chris struggled to prevent himself from wheezing. Once again, he wished he had taken advantage of months of recreation in the prison. If he could just run and be able to take a breath without feeling like he gasped for the last molecules of oxygen that existed in the world, he would have felt much more comfortable, more self-assured.
“Come on out. I just want to talk. I know what you must be thinking right now, and I want to assure you that we’re on your side.”
The man’s shoes squeaked as he pivoted in place in the middle of the floor. His silhouette seemed to blend in with that of a hybrid steam-engine train/biplane built around an ancient gasoline-powered truck.
“Mr. Morgan, we can help you.”
Chris pressed himself tighter against the poodle’s leg. He looked toward the closest exit near him. The south exit. Between his current position and the exit, another sculpture hung from the back of a truck. A person, sedentary and fat, constructed from various footballs, soccer balls and baseballs, sat on a couch made from hockey sticks, baseball bats, and goal posts. Crouching, he inched his way toward it.
“Stop this, Mr. Morgan.”
He froze in the shadows, certain the man had seen him. But the man swiveled around again, looking toward the north exit.
Chris backed up, his eyes glued on the man, and used his hands to guide him until he could feel the cool, varnished wood of the exhibit. He grabbed at it, feeling for a loose piece somewhere, anywhere.
He cursed inwardly. These artists might have been better craftsmen than he realized. He backed around the oversized couch made of sports equipment. Streetlights filtered in through the southern doors, lighting up the perfect runway for his exit.
As he moved toward the double doors, an inhuman yodel filled the room. The glass case near him lit up, displaying a miniature wooden man with hands cupped over his mouth yodeling on a mountaintop, his torso bobbing back and forth. Chris grimaced, wishing he had remembered the annoying display that he had so often complained to Veronica about. While children seemed to love running back and forth in front of the display to spark the yodeling man’s ugly howls, he would cringe each time the voice cried out. Now, a meager cringe seemed an insufficient reaction to the yodeling.
He gasped, pressed himself against the wooden couch again, and froze. As much as he wished to run, his muscles would not move. The man’s footsteps grew closer.
“Come on. Let’s make this easier. I want to get you out of whatever deal, whatever bribe or blackmail is hanging over your head. You have to trust me.”
Holding his breath, he explored the wooden sofa sculpture again. He just needed one loose object, one passable hockey stick. With his right hand, he groped around until he discovered the handle of a baseball bat that gave when he applied a little pressure. The bat creaked loose. He ripped it from the seams of the couch. A couple of metal nails clattered across the cement floor, but he no longer cared.
Stepping out from behind sculpture, he took a wild swing at the man’s head. The bat connected with a solid thwack, but not with the man’s skull.
“Just come with us. This can be so much easier.” The man held the business end of the wooden bat in his left hand and lowered it as Chris gritted his teeth and strained his arms. “Forget about the other night. I didn’t know who you were.” The man held the bat as Chris tried to pull it from the his grip.
“What the hell do you want?”
The man seemed almost perplexed. “You know what we want.”
The chain at the end of the skywalk clanged above them. Both Chris and the man turned up toward the sudden sound.
“Hey, we’re closing for the night.” A woman’s voice called out from atop the catwalk. She reached her hand out, and the lights in the warehouse buzzed on. “You’re going to need to—”
The tall man and Chris froze, each holding opposite ends of the bat. Chris let go of it and jumped to the side. The blue-eyed man stumbled forward, tumbling over his own weight.
Chris sprinted through the south exit and ran toward the street, flagging down a taxi. The first cab drove by, its occupant giving him a strange look. The second stopped, and he jumped into it, welcoming both the warm air and the locked doors. He input an address and commanded the cab to take off as his pursuer slammed his fists against the window.
The man ran behind the cab, but the car outpaced him. Chris settled into the crackling leather seat and moved back toward the holodisplay to change his destination. It would be a mistake to go home to retrieve a coat and the portable freezer. That would be the first place the black Corvette would try to find him. Instead, he headed straight to Jordan’s.
Chapter 19
When the cab arrived at 427 North Charles Street, gray fog and the haze of falling snow silhouetted the sculpted spires of the building. Harsh winds tugged at Chris. He wrapped his arms tighter around himself, shivering as he approached the building.
Under the small outcropping near the entrance, he scanned the nearby street. There was no sign of his pursuers or Tracy anywhere, and any trace that might have existed had been covered by a blanket of snow. He tried calling her once more, the shrill ring drowned by the wind against his naked red ears. She did not answer.
Chris touched the display screen at the building’s entrance, selecting a button labeled “J. Thompson.” He bobbed up and down on his feet, trying to conjure just a bit more warmth in his numbing limbs. While he waited, his eyes darted between the snow-covered streets and the pinhole for the video feed that routed his image to Jordan’s penthouse apartment.
“Come up.” The voice didn’t sound like his old friend’s. It seemed rougher and more aggressive than Jordan’s normally buoyant greetings. He wondered if someone else had gotten to his friend first. He might be delivering himself straight into the hands of his pursuers.
In the lobby of the building, a contingent of Grecian columns stretched like ivory fingers from the marble floor to the reliefs carved into the ceiling. Everything from the lush tropical plants adorning the artificial creek to the enormous holodisplays of rotating Greek pottery was just as gaudy and magnificent as Chris had remembered.
He rubbed his arms together as the elevator hummed and rode upward. Though a current of warm air washed over him, his arms shook and his teeth chattered. The elevator pinged and announced that he had reached the Penthouse level. As the doors slid open, he took a nervous step forward into the atrium with its wide glass ceiling and a spurting fountain that changed colors, competing with the building’s lobby for gaudiness.
Without warning, a large man stepped in front the elevator’s entrance and held Chris against the cool stone wall.
“Is this the guy?”
“That’s him,” a familiar voice said. “Chris, good to see you.”
The sentry released him.
Dressed in a suit and almost a head taller than him, Jordan Thompson stood with outstretched arms. The man grinned with a smile to rival the Cheshire Cat’s and almond-brown eyes that matched his smooth skin. Chris approached but shirked his friend’s embrace.
“What gives?” He glared at Jordan.
“Sorry, my man. Can’t be too careful.” A look of concern spread over Jordan’s face as he studied Chris’s neck. “What the hell? Did that just happen?”
Chris pulled his collar up over the bruises. “No, no. Those are from a few days ago.”
“Oh, good. I mean, bad for you, but I’m glad Greg didn’t do it.”
Greg, his muscled arms crossed over his bulging chest, let out a low grunt of acknowledgment. “I’m gentler than that, Jordan. You should know.”
Jordan laughed and gave Greg a dismissive gesture. “You’re supposed to be watching out for us, not telling jokes.”
Chris frowned, glancing between Jordan and Greg, but decided that this route of conversation would not be conducive to figuring out what the hell Randy’s samples contained and why a suited thug had chased him down. His stomach tightened in knots as he remembered someone else had been pursued. “Is Tracy here?”
“She’s in my office right now.”
“What’s she doing?”
Jordan shrugged. “Beats me. But she made herself right at home after interrogating me.”
“Sounds about right.”
Jordan led Chris through the archway into his expansive living area. A wide sitting area contained suede couches. Chris’s eyes lingered over the fire crackling in a fireplace. A massive preserved tree trunk served as a coffee table. Next to the sitting area, a polished mahogany bar jutted over a hardwood floor. He recalled several parties Jordan had hosted there. Most of the time, Jordan had mixed and served drinks from behind the bar. He’d smiled as his patrons sipped and chugged each of his concoctions.
“This way.” Jordan motioned to the French doors near the bar. Beyond the glass panes, Tracy pored over something on Jordan’s desk. Her hair, tied up, swung as she scanned back and forth. Chris knocked on the window, and she whipped her head around. When she saw him, her eyes widened and she ran to the door.
She wrapped her arms around Chris and squeezed him tight. “God, I’m glad you made it.”
“Yeah, me, too.”
She kissed him on the cheek. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” He frowned. “Why didn’t you answer my calls? I was worried about you.”
Tracy held out her comm card. It blinked red. “Sorry, it’s down. The shitty little thing hasn’t been working since the cab ride. Firmware problems, I think.”
“What about his?” Chris nodded toward Jordan.
Turning away, Tracy’s cheeks adopted a red hue. “I don’t have your ID memorized.” She turned back to him with a raised eyebrow and accusatory stare. “You got mine memorized?”
Chris exhaled. “Fair enough.” Still, he couldn’t shake the idea that she might have tried harder to get in contact with him while nestled in Jordan’s apartment. He tried to dismiss the idea, reminding himself he had told her to come here, to stay put and wait for him.
Jordan clapped his hand on Chris’s shoulder. “So, Tracy says you’ve got something for me.”
“You haven’t told him what’s going on yet?”
Tracy shook her head.
“She told me she was your girlfriend, showed a couple of holos of the two of you on her comm card to prove it, and said you might be in danger. Something about people chasing you.”
“Jordan, you’ve gotten a little lax on security,” Chris said. “I, an old friend, get the royal treatment when I come in, and you let a stranger into your home no problem. And into your office, no less.” He waved a hand, indicating the shelves full of hardcover books that lined the office. It was more library than workplace.
“A beautiful woman comes walking up to my door and I turn her away?” Jordan shook his head. “I thought you knew me better than that.” He motioned to the sitting area with the wraparound couch. “Why don’t we have story time? Coffee, anyone?”
“Please,” Chris said, already settling into the couch and pulling Tracy down next to him. Even if he had not wanted a hot drink, he knew it would be no use refusing Jordan. The man would not accept a refusal of any kind. Jordan had never hired any employees to relieve him of his cooking or drink making. He relished his time in the industrial-sized kitchen. His meals were often things of artistic beauty, and Chris found himself wishing he possessed half as much talent in any of his own undertakings.
Tracy began to shake her head no, but Chris shot her a look to encourage her to accept Jordan’s hospitality. “Uh, yes, that sounds great. Thanks.”
When Jordan set the mugs of coffee down, Chris told him everything, starting from his final days in prison and continuing all the way until the last moments of his chase through the Visionary Art Museum. Then he explained that he and Tracy wanted to find out what those samples contained, but they feared that analyzing the vials in their own laboratory would be an invitation for scrutiny. They didn’t want to attract the suspicions of their coworkers or any other researcher that might stumble upon results that might be associated with illegal genetic enhancements.
He exhaled at the end of his story and offered a pathetic smile to Jordan. “Will you help us?”
Jordan smiled apologetically. For a moment, the man said nothing. His brown eyes gleamed in the soft light of the sitting room. Shadows played across his face as the fire swayed and crackled from the brick fireplace. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, my man. After you went to prison, I figured it would be a good time for me to get out of the business, too. I don’t want to get back in.”
“I have a lot of questions, and nobody’s been able to give me any answers,” Chris said. “Hell, people have tried to kill me multiple times in the past couple months. I don’t know what’s going on, and I just want to clear this up, clear my name so I can move on. That’s all I want.”
Looking out the window that led to his rooftop g
arden, Jordan would not meet Chris’s gaze. “I don’t know. I want to help, but I don’t have any equipment here.”
“That’s fine. That’s more than fine. I don’t have anything in my condo now, either. We can bring the samples to your lab.”
Jordan sipped from his mug. “My lab hasn’t produced genetic enhancements for humans in over a year now.”
Before Chris went to prison, Jordan’s shell of a company had advertised its research as a step toward producing a suite of new tools for improving the health and meat yield of livestock. They’d secured a few government grants, but that was not where the company had produced its income.
After hours, the lab’s undocumented employees kept busy producing genetic enhancements for things like strength (Chris’s own specialty) and improved eyesight—even enhancements thought to reduce the need for sleep. The enhancements had not been scientifically proven other than by a ramshackle collection of shoddy papers published in countries with little oversight in scientific literature. Still, who would report that their illegally obtained genetic enhancements didn’t perform as advertised? Even better, with Chris’s help in improved delivery vectors made from DNA-based materials, evidence of stereotypical illegal enhancements like viral vectors or metal-based nanoparticles did not present in Jordan’s products.
“The lab’s abandoned? Even better. We can do the analysis ourselves.”
Tracy’s head bobbed up and down. “We’d be glad to.”
Jordan laughed and put his mug back down on a coaster. “No, no. Like I said, we haven’t produced anything for humans. We’re into horse racing now.”
Chris’s mouth dropped. “You mean you’re doing enhancements for animals? For real?”
“I am. And since equine athletics have not caught up to the same standards of organized human sports regarding such improvements, business has been quite lucrative.”
Chris chuckled. “I bet you’ve put a lot of stud horses out of business.”
“I do feel pity for the studs. I have to admit: I admire true athleticism over these cheats but not enough to refuse making a couple bucks off those same cheats.”
The Black Market DNA Series: Books 1-3 Page 11