Tracy leaned forward across the table. Her brow furrowed and her eyes seemed alight. “You don’t think athletes that take advantage of enhancements work hard? Maybe they’ve got to get them just to be on an equal playing field.”
Jordan appeared surprised but held up his hands in a defensive gesture. “Fair argument.”
“Regardless, we do need to figure something out,” Chris said. “Any information we can gather would be helpful. I promise that we can be discreet about it.”
Exhaling, Jordan appeared ready to refuse again.
“You do realize that you’re probably in just as deep shit as we are,” Tracy said. “Your name came up on a list of Randy’s. And I think that anybody with their name on that list is in danger.”
“That’s what I have Greg for,” he said. “Besides, where do you get off on such an absurd idea?”
“Because five of the eleven people on that list are already dead.” She narrowed her eyes, speaking slowly for emphasis.
Only the crackling of the fire could be heard as the three sat around the couch, absorbing everything that had been revealed in that short time. The snow flurried against the skylights over their sitting area.
Chris shivered again, and Jordan looked sympathetically at him. “You don’t look so good, my man.”
“Don’t feel so good, either,” Chris said.
Tracy put the back of her hand against his head. “You feel a bit warm, too. I think you’ve got a fever or something.”
“Just a headache, I think.”
“I’ll make you a deal,” Jordan said. “You go and take a warm shower, borrow my clothes, and I’ll talk to Tracy here. We’ll see if we can’t work something out.”
“Thanks,” Chris said. He could feel his face draining. “That’d be great. I appreciate it.”
“No problem. You know where everything is, right?”
He nodded. “As long as you haven’t changed your place up like you did your business, I’ll be fine.”
“Same place you’re used to waking up at with a hangover,” Jordan said.
Thanking Jordan again, Chris went back to one of the guest bedrooms. He closed the door behind him and unbuttoned his shirt. Throwing it down on the ground, he gazed around at the queen bed clad in a puffy comforter, where he’d woken up several afternoons with a pounding headache and patchy memories.
***
Chris closed his eyes as the showerhead hissed to life. As the water washed over him, his head pounded, but not with the throbbing ache of a night drowned and forgotten in alcohol. Rather, stress and anxiety hit him like storm tides on a rock wall. He clenched his eyelids tighter. Even as he closed them, flashes of red and black exploded in his vision. Maybe Jordan and Tracy were right. Maybe he was getting sick, exposed to the cold so long without protection. It made sense.
But the knots in his stomach and the nagging worry in his mind were not solely physical reactions to a virus attacking him in a moment of vulnerability. A weakened immune system was not the reason his face had paled and he found it hard to breathe.
Veronica might have been found lying in a pool of her own blood, stabbed like Randy. He would never see her dance again, never see her paintings. Never apologize to her.
He tried to rationalize that she was no longer in his life, should no longer be so important to him. She was no different than anybody else on that list that he didn’t know. His thoughts flickered to Tracy, sitting on the couch talking to Jordan. Two different people from different times colliding in a situation beyond any he had ever expected to face.
When he turned the faucet off, he opened his eyes and stood up straighter. He would need to move forward. He couldn’t dwell in the past if he wanted to change his future.
Chapter 20
Brushing his fingers through his still-wet hair, Chris joined Tracy and Jordan in the sitting room again. He sat down on the couch in the spot nearest the fireplace and let the smoky warmth dry his hair.
Tracy turned. “Did you know Jordan’s writing a novel?”
“Oh, yeah. He’s always talked about being a writer.” Chris dismissed the statement with a wave.
“Ah, but now I’m actually writing,” Jordan said. “I’m more than just fancy talk. I’ve put my pen to paper, as they say.”
Fascination lit up Tracy’s eyes. Ceaseless energy seemed to emanate from her, infecting Jordan. But Chris could not bring himself to share in their excitement. The shower had cleaned away the grime and sweat from the evening’s events, but it had not washed away the thoughts and worries that had compounded since Randy’s death.
“Tell you what, my man, why don’t you keep low and stay at my place for a day or so? We can catch up,” Jordan said. He motioned to the bar, his voice smooth and calm.
“I appreciate it, but I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”
“Come on,” Tracy said. “It might be good for us to clear our heads. Besides, if those two meatheads are staked out somewhere, I’d rather deal with them in the daylight than tonight again.”
“I don’t want to waste any more time,” Chris said. “Maybe you can hide out here while I go back to Respondent.”
“Hell, no,” Tracy said. “It would be stupid for you to go right back to Respondent with the samples.” She grabbed his hand, squeezing it. “We need time to think about things. Jordan offered to talk it all over with us.”
He exhaled. “Fine. We’ll stay.”
“Fantastic. I’ll go make mojitos.” Jordan stood up and walked toward the bar. He patted Chris’s back on the way. “You might not realize it now, but this is exactly what you need.”
As Jordan went to the kitchen, Tracy drew closer to Chris on the couch. She traced her hand along his jawline. Her fingers caught on his stubble. “You feel any better?”
“I think so.”
She draped an arm around him, enveloping him in a one-armed hug. Chris felt as if his ribs cracked.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” she said. “I was pretty damn worried.”
“Me, too.” But he didn’t feel okay. His thoughts swirled in a cloud of doubt and worry. “Could you tell me who else died on that list?”
With a somber slowness, Tracy nodded. “Sure, I made notes next to each of their names.” She handed him the paper ripped from the notebook with the names.
Taking a deep breath, Chris skipped over all the names until he got to Veronica Powell. Next to her name, no mark, no note indicated that she had died. Or at least, she had not been found dead yet. “You’re sure that these are the only people found dead so far?”
Tracy shrugged. “I mean, I can’t give you a hundred-percent guarantee. But those are the only ones I could find anything on.” Little creases formed along her brow as her eyes narrowed. “Didn’t you recognize another name on the list? You never told me which one.”
“No, no.”
“You definitely did.”
“No, I mean, I was wrong. It was just the one. Just Jordan.” He glanced at the bar, and Jordan winked at him as he crushed fresh mint leaves.
“Hey, Greg,” Jordan called out into the front hallway. “Why don’t you join us? I’ve made enough for four.”
Greg lumbered into the room and plopped down on a chair in the opposite corner of the sitting room. He nodded a greeting and then looked toward Jordan. “You want me to stay the night, too?”
“I think it might be a good idea,” Jordan said. He brought over four skinny drinks. Flecks of green mint leaves floated among ice cubes suspended in the glasses. He handed them out. “Cheers to staying alive.”
Chris’s glass clinked against Jordan’s, but he didn’t return the man’s smile.
“So, what’s the deal with the samples?” Chris asked. “If I’m staying here for the night, is there any way we can at least take a look at them tomorrow? I’ll do whatever’s necessary to keep it all under wraps, too. No one has to know we even used your lab.”
“Here’s what I’ve decided: I’ll have Greg bring them to
the lab and we’ll give them a once-over ourselves.”
“Tracy and I would be happy to do it. No need for you to get involved.”
“You’ve already gotten me involved.” Jordan shook his head. “Besides, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to show up at my place of business. A guy with a record like yours shouldn’t just be dropping in on a place with a reputation like mine, you follow?”
Chris begrudgingly agreed.
The night wound down with more drinks and conversation. Snow covered the skylights. The flowerpots and benches on the rooftop garden were only white protrusions on a bleak landscape. As Chris settled into bed with Tracy and his body succumbed to exhaustion, he found his mind racing for the second night in a row with thoughts of Veronica. He needed to warn her, to tell her to get way. And he’d already waited one day. It could already be too late.
Her breathing slow and steady, Tracy turned and her body pressed against Chris. She seemed to be smiling in her sleep. He winced as she gripped his side, caught in a dream, her fingers grabbing at the white scars below his ribs.
Chapter 21
Veronica’s eyes shone a vivid blue as she brushed back the long dark hair that had fallen in front of her heart-shaped face. She wore a loose-fitting shirt that flowed over the sculpted curves of her muscular yet petite body shaped by a lifetime spent performing in dance companies and highly technical workshops and classes. Several rings, a few gaudy, one simple, decorated her fingers. “Come on. If this is just a ploy to get me back, it’s not going to work.” She poked his arm playfully and then folded her arms over her chest. “I’m coming here as a favor to you, because you begged me.”
Chris could tell she had not bothered to put on any makeup. Still, he found it difficult to maintain eye contact, distracted by thoughts of his own inadequacies and a self-conscious nagging that kept him wondering how unhealthy and scrawny he must appear sitting across from a woman as vibrant as her.
The feeling was not new.
When they had been together, she had told him early on that a LyfeGen Sustain had been implanted within her. The artificial organ, crafted for individuals based on their DNA, cost more than most—including Chris—could afford. On an artist’s budget, Veronica couldn’t pay for it, either. Instead, the implantation procedure had been a gift from her parents when she’d graduated from the University of Iowa with dual bachelor’s degrees in studio arts and dance.
“No, I’m with someone else now,” Chris said. “You don’t have anything to worry about. I mean, you do, but it’s not me you have to worry about.”
Chris thought now, as he had before, what it would mean that she might grow old with skin free of wrinkles and eyes full of sparkle as he decayed in front of her. He would deal with the natural afflictions as they came; glaucoma, cancers, arthritis, and other diseases would have to be treated reactively. Veronica, instead, was blessed with an artificial organ that enhanced her body’s natural healing capabilities, with cells specialized to identify and react to afflictions too nascent for even a trained physician to identify. She would age gracefully, beautifully, as he shriveled and became sick in front of her.
Taking a sip of her mimosa, Veronica cocked her head. Her hair caught a beam of sunlight and glowed. “Oh? Someone else?” She gave him a doubtful look.
“That’s not important right now.”
“Well, I suppose I could keep any affair between us secret. This could be interesting.” She smirked.
“What? No!”
Veronica laughed. “I’m just kidding. Have you lost your sense of humor?”
She poked at her blue crab eggs Benedict. Every time they’d brunched at The Point at Fell’s, she would insist on the same dish and drink the same mimosa. Despite her endeavors in all manners and styles of dance and the artworks she created that ranged from simple portraits on canvas to complicated holosculptures projected from a holodisplay, she never strayed from her Sunday tradition. It was sacred to her.
In front of Chris sat a steak meant to be medium rare but sufficiently cooked to well done, with fried eggs more brown than white. He pulled a hand through his hair, donning a serious expression. “I think your life’s in danger. Please. Just go visit your parents in Illinois for a while.”
Again, Veronica chuckled. “You always said that when you got involved in your side businesses.” She never referred to his illegal genetic dealings as anything more than a side business. Even after she knew he had been convicted and gone to prison, she refused to say the words aloud, as though an evil spirit would curse her if she acknowledged what he had done.
“I know,” he said. He sighed. “You know that’s why I couldn’t stay with you, right? I couldn’t put you at risk like that.”
“But you couldn’t quit your little business, either.”
His cheeks turned red. He couldn’t look her in the eye. “I was an idiot.”
“What about her?”
“Who?” Chris turned back to her.
Veronica’s eyes seemed almost pleading, sad. He wondered how she could always show such sympathy for people she hardly knew. He supposed that untapped connection with anyone and everyone had enabled her to express the brutal power of emotion in her art.
“Your new girl. If what you’re telling me is all true, then don’t you worry about her?”
He reached across the table and grabbed her hand. “I’m not joking around. At least five of the people on that list are already dead. You’re on that list.”
“I’m sorry, but I never got involved in any of your business. I don’t have anything to fear.”
“Goddammit, Veronica. I’m trying to help you.”
Again, she smiled. But her smile appeared morose. “Chris, I can’t deal with your games anymore.” She drew her hand back from his.
He closed his eyes and sighed. Veronica’s soft fingers grasped his again. A surge of warmth spread through him.
“If you’re this concerned, I’ll leave as soon as our show is over next Saturday. This is the last weekend we’re performing at the Lyric stage.”
Opening his eyes, Chris let out a slow breath. “You promise?”
“Sure. I promise.”
“And if you see anything, or anything weird happens, you promise you’ll leave right away?”
“I’ll be fine. I will.”
“If anyone strange tries to do anything to you, so much as talk to you, just let me know.”
“Okay, okay. I will. I promise.”
“I’m serious, Veronica. Can I at least walk you home?”
She appeared skeptical.
“No funny business. I swear.” He held up his hands. “It would make me feel better.”
***
While Chris walked along the sidewalk with Veronica, kicking up freshly laid salt with every step, his mind churned with excuses for Tracy and Jordan. He had barely managed to get out the door, telling them he just needed to be alone with his thoughts. Tracy had almost exploded on him, her face red with a mixture of anger and worry. Fortunately, Jordan had held his hand out and explained how Chris had always needed his solitude from time to time.
He had promised he would be back soon and that he would stay well away from both Tracy’s and his apartments so as not to draw the attention of last night’s pursuers. Still, an unread message on his comm card from Tracy blinked in red lights.
He slid the message open. “How long will you be?” He shoved the comm card back into his pocket before Veronica saw it.
Veronica skirted around his incarceration by asking if he had read any decent books or taken up any new hobbies since they parted ways. For a time, they discussed a couple of classic books written by turn-of-the-century author Jeffrey Eugenides. Chris recalled that Eugenides had visited the University of Iowa several times during his writing career—of course, well before she had attended the university. He wondered how great it would have been to have talked to the author that he and Veronica had read voraciously. Their conversation lit up in remembered joke
s they’d shared, and his urgent worries seemed to retreat from his mind.
As they drew nearer to Veronica’s apartment, he felt an instinctual urge to hold her hand.
She pressed a hand against the small of his back. “Do you want to come up for a bit? It’d be good to catch up for a while.”
Chapter 22
The sunlight permeating the clouds over the Chesapeake emitted a dull gray glow over Baltimore. Flecks of sunlight glinted off the piles of snow along the streets not yet soiled by pedestrians, plows, or passing cars. Chris kicked at a dirty gray puff of snow as he left Veronica’s apartment. He prepared new excuses for his tardiness when he returned to Jordan’s lofty penthouse.
His khaki pants, borrowed from Jordan, stuck to the back of his ankles with the wetness they’d soaked up from the ground. He kept stepping on the cuffs with his heels. While he’d never considered himself short, he couldn’t help but feel vertically insufficient wearing Jordan’s clothing.
As he walked along Pratt Street back toward the Inner Harbor, he hailed a cab on his comm card. He looked down at the display as he trudged along and tripped, ripping the seams on the cuff of the khakis in the process. “Ah, hell.” A cab rolled up, and he lowered himself into the back seat. Even Jordan’s shirt, trim and svelte on Jordan’s frame, made Chris appear as if he had borrowed clothes from his older brother’s wardrobe. He entered in Jordan’s address.
Before confirming the destination, he cleared the screen and retyped the address of his own condo back on Fed Hill. The cab passed by people wrapped in long dark coats and scarves, hats, and gloves. He felt thankful that at least today he could swim in the warmth of one of Jordan’s coats, but he longed to wear one of his own. Besides, he meant to go to work on Monday despite all that had happened in an attempt to appear ignorant of what had transpired over the long weekend. He couldn’t show up wearing such ill-fitting clothes and expect people not to at least make a joke about them. And he didn’t look forward to the jesting, much less questioning, from any of his coworkers.
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