Morvicti Blood (A Morvicti Novel Book 1)

by Lee Swift

  They took samples of his blood and urine, checked his reflexes, listened to his heart and lungs, and recorded his temperature.

  “That about does it for our part, Mr. McCord,” Dr. Black said, heading to the door with Dr. Brown. “We should have the results back shortly.”

  After they left, the two men who had led him to this room placed him in the chair facing the mirror. They put the handcuffs back on him and connected them to the metal post in the middle of the table.

  Without a word, they exited the room, leaving him alone in absolute silence.

  Soundproof. Nice.

  He couldn’t see the microphones, but knew they had to be somewhere in the space. With what he’d seen of the current technology, they might be embedded in the mirror.

  He still didn’t have a clue who had kept him stashed away for so long, or why. And what about Walt Turner’s killer who was still on the loose? How did Commissioner Poole play into everything? Poole had been at Murphy Street and at Angelique’s flat. Without a doubt, he was involved in some way.

  Now that Angelique was in safe hands, he wanted to get back on the streets of London and figure out everything as fast as he could.

  Smiling, he tapped out a message on the table’s surface in Morse code.

  Remington, you still have that birthmark on your right ass cheek that looks like a butterfly?

  The speaker came on.

  He could hear some guy in the background laughing. “I want to see it, boss.”

  “You are not Austin McCord, asshole. You’re not fooling anyone,” Remington said. “Trust me, I will find out who you really are.”

  “I am completely sure of that, Professor.”

  CHAPTER 26

  12:06 PM

  Dr. Thomas Wilson wanted to yell, but knew a cooler head would serve him better. “I understand your concern, but I assure you the sample I need from the mummies in your exhibit is miniscule.”

  Sitting behind the giant desk, the current curator of the British Museum’s International Exhibitions, Dr. Kelsi Vickers, gave him a grin. “Dr. Wilson, I wish I could help you, but—”

  “Then bloody well help me.” His frustration at the woman’s constant condescending tone bubbled over. He stood and pounded his fist on top of the desk. “Do not wish it. Do it. I am so close to a breakthrough on my research.”

  “Please, Thomas. Have a seat.”

  Hearing her call him by his given name unsettled him. It came off more like a granddaughter talking to her confused granddad than a peer to a peer. This generation’s informality never appealed to him. He missed the past more and more.

  Reluctantly, he complied, sitting back in the chair. “Dr. Vickers—”

  “Please, call me Kelsi.”

  “Fine. Kelsi. According to the museum’s Human Remains Policy Document, section 5.2.2, and I quote: ‘Human remains in the Collection help advance important research in fields such as archaeology, human biology, the history of disease, palaeoepidemiology, bioarchaeology, physical anthropology, forensics and genetics.’ I am a geneticist. I have important work.”

  “I know your hypothesis, and I understand why the two mummies in question are so important to your research, it’s just that…”

  She droned on and on about the channels he would need to go through to get any sample of any mummy housed at the museum.

  He’d never dreamed the desire to be talking with Vickers’ predecessor would be so strong, but it certainly was now.

  Lyle had a horrific temper and could be just as patronizing at times, but their joint love of loose tobacco bonded them in a way nothing else could. The unique access his old friend had given him to the museum’s exhibits had been unprecedented. Paperwork, required by other researchers, vanished.

  I’m too close to give up now. “There are ways to fast track these kinds of things. The paperwork can be filled out later. Your exhibit closes tomorrow. I have run out of time to get my samples.”

  She nodded, giving him hope that he was getting through to her. “As you know the two mummies are on loan from Egypt. Their decapitation in 2011 during the looting has added new layers to their handling than any we have with other mummies.”

  “Of course, of course. I know the history—and the mystery, too. That’s why I’m here. I believe that others are aware of their true identity. I believe that it wasn’t just some random looting, but a coordinated operation made to appear like a looting.” He thought about shutting his mouth, but she’d already acknowledged knowing his hypothesis. “Living hominids, other than Homo sapiens. Imagine how proof of that would disrupt the very fabric of society. Those who know the truth have worked hard to make sure it doesn’t come to light.”

  “I understand you’re very passionate, but—”

  “I am passionate. This is my life’s work. I’ve bled for this work. My reputation has been tainted because I’ve refused to back down in my search for the truth. The scientific community has finally come to the irrefutable conclusion that a large portion of humanity has small percentages of the species previously thought to have died out forty thousand years ago.”

  “Just because some humans carry those genes doesn’t mean they still exist.”

  “Wrong, Kelsi. They do exist. I am absolutely certain that their direct descendants, one hundred percent non-human, are breathing the same air, walking the same streets, living in the same cities as we are.”

  “Dr. Wilson, I truly wish I—”

  “Hyper-hibernation,” he interrupted. “That’s the key to it. Hyper-hibernation. A miraculous state of low body temperature, slow breathing, reduced heartbeat, and an overall decreased metabolic rate. That’s what I’ve been searching for my entire career.”

  He closed his eyes, recalling the first time he’d witnessed the marvel of rebirth: Guatemala, 1973. He’d been so young then—and so naïve.

  He opened his eyes. Dr. Vickers stood in front of him with a worried look on her face. How long had he been silent? He felt his hands trembling and shoved them into his pockets. Damn Parkinson’s.

  “Are you okay, Dr. Wilson?”

  She’d left her chair and came around the desk without him being aware. He’d gotten too caught up in telling her about his cherished hypothesis. A mistake. One he’d repeated time and time again. When will you learn, Tom?

  “I’m fine. Let me continue, please.”

  She smiled. “Certainly. You’re my only appointment left today.”

  Maybe she was a better replacement for Dr. Lyle Woods, God rest his soul.

  “Most believe hibernation is about the conservation of energy when food becomes scarce and unavailable during certain seasons, but Kelsi, what if it is also to regenerate the body? A time to heal? Homo sapiens suffer with one flaw in our genetic code that cannot be overcome. No matter what aging theory is the flavor of the day for the scientific community at the moment—free radicals, DNA damage, autoimmune, reproductive cell cycle, teleomere—the brick wall is the same. We all get old, get sick, and eventually die. Hubert’s Arctic Bacteria prove that hibernation can last millions of years.”

  “I’ve read the research.”

  “Then you know that immortality is not only possible, but it exists today. Imagine a world without aging, illness, or the grave.”

  “Dr. Wilson, I truly wish I could help. I really am sincere about that. But private donors are underwriting this mummy exhibit. They not only helped fund the release of the two mummies from Egypt, but also their transportation, storage, and security. They have put in additional protocols far beyond the museum’s norm. No one is allowed to even be with the mummies without their consent.”

  “Give me the list of these donors. I’ll call and tell them how urgent this is.”

  “You only need one name, Doctor.” Kelsi reached over her desk retrieving a pen and paper. “This is his name and number. He represents the other donors. If you win him over, you’ll be all set.”

  She handed him the paper.

  “Thank you so much.
I really appreciate this.” He looked at his watch, realizing he needed to leave for the BBC studio for his interview with Ms. White. Afterwards, he would track down the gentleman who was in charge of the exhibit’s donors. He would do whatever it took to get the man’s approval. He must have the tissue samples. Once he had them in hand, he would return to his beloved lab and begin testing on the mummy tissue and the two fingers. When completed, he would likely have the proof he needed. Whatever the copycat Ripper was up to, he must figure it out quickly. Perhaps it would help Poole discover the man’s true identity before another innocent person died.

  “Good luck, Thomas.”

  “Thank you, Kelsi.” He read the name on the paper.

  Mr. Walt Turner.

  CHAPTER 27

  12:30 PM

  Still chained to the table, Austin looked up as Remington came barging in.

  Wearing plastic gloves, his old friend slammed the childhood photo of him and Angelique on the metal table. “Where the hell did you get this?”

  “In a room on Murphy Street a half block from Baylis Road—the place I woke up in. It’s on the other side of the river not far from the London Eye.” Austin gave him every detail he could remember about the location. “Buddy, whoever put me down there knows about Angelique. You’ve got to make sure she’s safe. Do you think she has any enemies?”

  “Who do you think you are telling me how to protect my wife?” Remington’s face burned hot, showing how strongly he cared for Angelique.

  “I’m her brother. We want the same thing.”

  “Not a chance, asshole. You’ve hurt her just by being here and posing as her dead brother.” His friend removed the picture and placed Walt Turner’s identification in its place. “Who the fuck is this guy? You? Or are you working with him?”

  “I have no idea who this man is, but I can tell you that he is dead.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  “No.”

  “We found bloody clothes in that shopping bag you were carrying. How do you explain that?”

  Austin recounted everything that had happened after he came to in the underground medical-looking room. The other people on stretchers next to his. The bags of blood. Walt Turner’s head rolling to the staircase. “When I saw the photo of Angelique and me I knew I had to get to her and make sure she was safe.”

  “Quite the story, Jack.”

  “Jack?”

  Remington brought out an envelope in an evidence bag. “My men retrieved this from your overcoat. This note was inside.” He presented the clear bag that had a single piece of paper. “Did you write this?”

  “No.”

  “It was in your overcoat.”

  “Like I told you before. Not my overcoat.”

  “But you took it with you.” Although Remington was an excellent interrogator, it was clear that he was confused and frustrated. And whatever was troubling his old friend seemed to be much more than his identity.

  “Yes, I took it with me.” Austin had received the same training on how to conduct an interrogation as his friend. Remington was fishing, hoping to discover a discrepancy in his story. “I told you, Professor. I was naked and in a bit of a rush to get out.”

  Remington’s eyes narrowed. Austin had never seen that look from him before.

  They stared at each other in silence. What did Michael know that he wasn’t sharing?

  Remington frowned. “Did you enjoy killing those women?”

  “What women?”

  Remington held the paper in front of him. “Tell me this isn’t your message to Dr. Thomas Wilson.”

  Austin read the note.

  Dear Dr. Wilson,

  I hope the ladyfingers I sent let you know that I am sincere in wanting to help you with your work. You’ve been ridiculed for your hypothesis, but you and I both know that you are correct. There is a secret society that needs to be exposed. I will be leaving more gifts and messages for you and my beloved along the path of blood that will help with this endeavor.

  Together, we can bring light to the darkness.

  Until we meet face to face,

  Jack the Ripper

  “Look, Michael, I don’t know what this is about. Do you mind filling me in? Jack the Ripper died over a hundred years ago.”

  “Don’t try to fuck with me, asshole.” Michael leaned over the table and got in his face. “You’re a copycat killer. You killed those two innocent women. Did you also kill Mr. Walt Turner? How many people have you killed?”

  “You know the count as well as I do. You and I only killed in the line of duty. You were there every time, by my side.”

  His friend pounded his fists on the table. “Goddamn it, you’re not Austin McCord. Stop trying to feed me that crap.”

  Keeping his voice steady and low, he said, “I get it. I’m the prisoner. You’re the interrogator. Those are our roles at the moment until you can verify my identity.”

  Remington stepped back from the table. “You’re slick, Jack. Very slick.”

  It was plain as day that his friend remained unconvinced.

  Remington tapped on the mirror. “It won’t be hard to find the holes in your ridiculous story.”

  A few seconds later the door opened and another officer entered the room. “Yes, sir.”

  “Harris, get a team together and check out the building on Murphy Street.”

  “On it.” Harris left.

  Remington took the seat opposite Austin’s chair. “I will get to the bottom of this and find out who you really are.”

  “You will find out. I’m Austin McCord, Professor. You’ll see.”

  Remington’s face darkened. “I buried my friend. He’s dead. You’re not him.” He stood and collected the items he’d brought with him. Then he walked to the door. “And if anyone tries to harm my wife I will put a bullet between their eyes, and that includes you.”

  “That’s what I’m counting on, buddy.”

  Remington’s hot gaze remained fixed on him for a few seconds, and then he left the room.

  CHAPTER 28

  12:30 PM

  David Bathry sat in his office at Scotland Yard. The entire building’s modern-motif sickened him with its floor-to-ceiling glass walls, industrial-grade carpeting, metallic surfaces, and linear furniture. He’d considered redesigning his private office, but had decided against it. Bringing attention to the depth of his superior sensibilities was not worth the risk. He had a role to play. That was why he always donned a cheap suit when on premises.

  He continued his review of the early morning feeds from every camera in and around the Murphy Street location. Even with the new information he had accumulated in the last several minutes, he wasn’t sure what his next step should be.

  Two men had exited the building in question, but departed at different times.

  One he knew well—and one he did not. The latter had left wearing the overcoat that the first man had worn when he had entered the building.

  Bathry’s main concern was with the first man, the halfblood he’d liberated long ago, but he knew the second would need to be identified and dealt with as well if he was to survive this nightmare.

  The cameras had lost Jack.

  Bathry had run facial recognition software through the massive surveillance system, hoping to target the halfblood’s current location. But the bastard had been too smart to be found. Evading detection was just one of the man’s many specialties.

  “Are you all right, sir?” a high-pitched voice asked. He hadn’t even seen Gloria standing in the doorway.

  He looked down. Unknowingly, he had shredded his paper cup into pieces; its remains covered the top of his desk.

  The bitch had failed to follow his explicit request of bringing his morning drink in his favorite cup, an artistic piece he’d commissioned from a renowned Berlin-based porcelain manufacturer. Having to keep up the ruse of being less than he really was, the cup was the one luxury David allowed himself at this hellhole.

  “Gloria, was ther
e some reason that you brought my coffee in this?” He pointed to the paper debris.

  She trembled. “I’m so sorry, sir. I accidentally knocked your cup off the shelf this morning. I will buy you a new one.”

  “Not necessary.” He failed to keep his tone civil. How could he when at this very moment he was imagining what Gloria would look like with her body sliced to ribbons?

  “More…coffee?” she asked in a wary voice.

  He plastered on a large smile. “Thank you dear, no. Mustn’t overdo it this morning, ha.”

  She smiled weakly in return, and then backed away.

  Imbeciles. Complete imbeciles surround me.

  He turned his attention back to the monitor. The second man had come out less than a half hour after the first. He had spoken with a lovely woman with a large dog. As quickly as possible, Bathry locked in on the man’s features, sending them through the facial recognition program, which had been developed by a bloodliner in the United States to protect the Morvicti. Every member assigned to any military, police, or security organization around the globe had access to the sensitive software.

  The second man had begun walking down the street when a third man in a dark suit appeared.

  Bathry paused the video, staring at the image of Poole frozen on his monitor. This man was someone he had to deal with, though carefully. Poole wasn’t a Bathry. The man’s veins carried the blood of his enemies. Poole was a Drake. Belisarius Drake, the cousin of Octavian.

  Keeping the hatred secret was part of the ancient vow Bathry had sworn to uphold.

  He started the video, watching again as the unknown man jumped into a blue van. “Who are you? And why is Poole interested in you?” One way to find out. He signed into the secure database, quickly checking the recent reports from the field.

  It took less than a minute to find the one he was looking for.

  “Approximately 9:20 AM, an armed man hijacked a driver and his delivery van on Baylis Road. Forced driver to take him across Waterloo Bridge. Suspect took the driver’s mobile phone. Disappeared on foot near Lancaster Place.”