“Correct. The DNA we found is very close to human DNA. It is not like any other known or recorded animal DNA either.”
“You’re not joking right?” She began to grin. “And it’s got nothing to do about the shirt you’re wearing? I mean alien stuff…”
“I’m absolutely serious,” Martin B. responded in an emotionless, matter-of-fact manner. “I’m not saying that it is aliens from outer space either. It is just quite strange, yah.” He nodded his head several times, and then drank the rest of his cranberry juice from the beaker. Still holding up the beaker, he continued, “There are compounds there that are commonly found in blood: platelets, similar blood stoma, white blood cells. But the DNA is unfamiliar.”
As Stevens furrowed his brows and turned to glance at Etelson, he said, “Yeah, quite strange.” Then turning to Martin T., he asked, “Hey, Martin T.”
Martin T. didn’t respond; his head remained down focused on his editing.
Stevens approached him, and Etelson followed. He called out again, “Hey, Marty, how about those red blood cells in the red pearl?”
Martin T.“s head popped up. He blinked to clear his mind, and then, he turned his attention to Stevens. He replied, ‘Ah, yes Agent Stevens. The results have returned. And it is very exciting and perplexing.’ His hand combed up his medium length brown hair.
“Well, the strangeness continues,” commented Etelson.
Martin T. replied with a grin, “Strange indeed. And here is why. As I told you before, human red blood cells do not contain nuclei, but these red blood cells do. Also, within each of the nuclei, of the cells in the red pearl, we do not find complete strands of DNA, instead we find only a segment of it. That is, there is one, and only one, single gene. Peculiar, yah?”
Martin T. stood, walked to a whiteboard, and with a smile, began to diagram a gene sequence. “Now, remember that genes are sequences of the molecules guanine, cytosine, adenine, and thymine.” He represented the molecules with the letters G, C, A, and T, respectively. “And they combine with each other to form two strands that spiral into the double helix of the DNA. One strand is a sequence of many molecules of guanine, cytosine, adenine, and thymine and the other strand is another sequence of those same molecules but in different order. You are following so far?”
The Agents nodded.
Martin T. went on, “Ok. Genes encode either proteins or functions for organisms. However, the gene we found does not define any known protein or any known function. It is quite fascinating and perplexing. The only way these red blood cells, their nuclei, and the gene sequence within them could exist is if they were synthesized and not naturally created. But with our current technology, there is no known way to synthesize them.”
Bewildered, Stevens said, “So, it can’t be synthesized, manufactured, or whatever…and it’s not naturally created. But yet the blood exists, and we have it.”
Martin T. nodded, as he made his way back to his stool.
“Oh, you lab guys are just killin’ me,” Etelson blurted in mild complaint. She paused, and then thought out loud, “Well, ok. So the perpetrator - and I’m assuming it’s the perp - put this red pearl in the second victim’s ear. And put it out in the open for us to see. So, then it’s safe to say there’s probably something in it that he or she wants us to know about. Rye and I verified that the first victim did not have anything like this red pearl found on her. So, this is something possibly just for this victim. We do, though, have a woman who could have been the third victim. But, thank God, she’s alive. So, unless there’s a real third victim out there somewhere with the pearl in her ear, we’ve got to work with what we have now. We’ve got to figure out what it is in this gene sequence the perp wants us to know.”
Martin T. offered, “Yah, I can certainly ask other colleagues for their opinion and possible theories. Also, I will continue to do more investigation with the blood. Und maybe I can find something else.”
Stevens added, “We’ll be doing some mind-melding on our side to try to figure out what this is. And very nice work, by the way, in discovering these things for us.” As he and Etelson made their way out of the lab, he said, “We’ll get back in touch later and compare notes.”
* * * * * * *
Their Paris hotel was on Boulevard Saint Jacques. It was early in the morning seven years ago, and inside the hotel, the longhaired goateed man stood a few steps in front of the concierge’s half-moon counter. His wife stood next to him holding their son’s hand.
Speaking French, the concierge was helping a woman, and the two peered down on a tourist map of Paris between them.
Soon, the woman left with a grateful smile and the map in her hand.
As his family stepped forward, the longhaired man read the concierge’s name pinned on the lapel of his burgundy coat, “Jean Luc,” and he also noticed that the man was bald and between his fifties and sixties. Jean Luc was about his height, but with a slight bend in his back and neck, it made him stand a bit shorter.
Looking through his silver oval-rimmed glasses, Jean Luc turned his attention to the family of three, as they approached.
The longhaired man noticed Jean Luc fix his gaze directly upon him. It was a long stare, almost long enough to make him feel uncomfortable.
Then strangely, the Jean Luc looked bewildered. But then, he caught himself and tried to regain his professional composure. Quickly, turning to the goateed man’s wife, he smiled a warm welcome. “Bonjour. Madame, monsieur, et mon petit fils,” he greeted invitingly in French.
The scene was a dream, a dream about a particular time when his family had enjoyed the excitement and the beauty of Paris in late summer. In his sleep, his mind and body were at peace.
The longhaired man replied, “Bonjour, monsieur. I was wondering if you could help us find our way to the, uh, Tour Eiffel.” He said Tour Eiffel with his best French accent, followed by a sheepish smile.
“You will be taking the metro?” Jean Luc responded, with clear English and a bit of a French accent.
“Oh, oui.”
“Bon.” Jean Luc reached for a pamphlet from a plastic stand on the counter. He unfolded it to a page depicting a map of the Paris metro system. He circled a point on the map with a black pen. “We are here. The closest station is here at Saint-Jacque on the Green Line, Six. You will take it this way to Charles de Gaulle Etoile, and it is better if you go down here at the Bir-Hakeim station.” Jean Luc circled the two stations on the map. “From here you can see signs to the Tour Eiffel, and it is a maybe some streets away.”
Slowly, Jean Luc’s voice began to fade into silence.
His dream skipped forward a few moments later, as he, his wife, and son began walking out of the hotel and through its glass door, kept open by a doorman.
Behind them the concierge’s eyes followed them, as they exited the building. He smiled kindly at the couple and their little son, and then, his eyes slowly began to well with tears. Quickly, Jean Luc turned, wanting to hide his emotions from those around.
As the longhaired man nodded a “thank you” to the doorman, the dream transitioned. The glass door transformed into a solid, dark-stained, wooden door. His wife and son were no longer with him, and the doorman became a young man.
He followed the young man through the entrance of an apartment building. Before completely coming in, he turned his head to the right and looked down the street. About half a block away, on the same side of the street, was an awning stretched across the top facade of a restaurant.
He looked up and could see, on the awning, the words “Creperie Josselin” written in a tan color.
Turning his head forward, he began walking through the entrance. The young man had disappeared. The space around him turned black. He stopped walking. For a few seconds there was dead silence. He began to hear his own slow breathing.
Then, light began to invade the dark space, illuminating a door directly in front of him. Just below eye-level was the number on the door: L1.
The light s
tarted to become brighter and brighter. It consumed the darkness at his periphery, and then spiraled inward to consume the darkness at the center of his field of vision.
However, the light began to shine too brightly, becoming a painful white light. The walls around the door seemed to evaporate because of it. Then, the door was consumed, and then, the only thing that remained was the apartment number, L1. Finally, that too was gone, and he could see nothing, but the pure white light.
He raised his forearm in front of his face, in order to shield his eyes, and it took a moment to adjust his vision. Glancing above the horizon of his forearm, he noticed that a dark object, like a black dot far away against the white light, was coming closer. Its form was indistinguishable, but as it approached, he could tell that it was slowly spinning, as it floated in the air.
From the distance, the object appeared flat, almost two-dimensional.
As it slowly approached, he could see that the object spun on a diagonal axis. One side of the object was pure black, and the other side was glistening, reflective.
He lowered his arm as the object came closer.
Suddenly, the object shattered into thousands of pieces, and within a second, each piece dissolved into the air.
Soon after, his mind began to wake from its sleep.
In his semi-conscious state, he reviewed the dream. It was half-dream and half-memory: a true memory of both the hotel and the kind concierge, but a dream of the apartment door numbered L1 and of the shattering mirror.
Then, suddenly, something else became apparent. His waking mind could sense a presence in his surroundings. Someone moved behind the corners of the walls a short distance away. It approached cautiously, keeping its distance, as if in motion either to stalk or to observe.
A feeling of impending danger overcame him. He needed to spring to his feet, in order to protect and defend himself. But his half-sleeping mind had yet to regain control of his body.
His head jerked and his arms twitched, as he attempted to wake himself.
The being changed its direction, from staying in the periphery to moving in closer to him.
His mind yelled in order to wake himself up.
The being stopped and stood, at an arm’s length from his head. Then, it began to reach down over him.
His left hand began to make a fist, as his right arm twitched to bend at the elbow.
Suddenly, the being disappeared.
Immediately, he woke up.
It was morning.
He was face-up, lying on the floor beside the couch. The sun, shining brightly in his eyes, was directly at the center of the glass pane of his living room window.
After blinking several times, he realized he was back at his apartment.
Instantly, he jerked himself up and leaned against the couch.
His head quickly moved left and right, searching for the being he thought was near him.
Seeing nothing and sensing nothing, he immediately remembered his wound, the wound delivered by Sik’s blade, as he chased Sik in D.C.
Hurriedly, he pulled up his shirt in order to see the bloody gash underneath.
But there was none.
He grabbed at his shirt to stretch it out. It was sliced where Sik’s knife had entered his gut. Dry blood almost completely stained the shirt, but his skin was completely clean.
He gasped, “Oh my God!”
Suddenly, there were three solid knocks on his apartment door, and then three more.
Stunned and rattled, he ran to his room, as he peeled off the bloody shirt he wore. He threw it in the closet and grabbed a black, button-up long sleeved shirt.
Looking down at his jeans, he saw blood at the waistline, and he made it disappear.
As he ran back out to the living room, he quickly scanned around and into the kitchen, to make sure there was nothing out that needed to be hidden.
On top of his coffee table, a bottle of wine lay on its side. Next to it was a wine glass and next to that were two crushed cans of beer. On the kitchen counter was a similar setting: crushed cans of beer, empty bottles of wine, and used wine glasses.
People from the FBI should be on the other side of the door, he thought. Nevertheless, he didn’t feel like cleaning up the mess inside. I don’t care if they see it.
He heard three more solid knocks.
His shirt still wasn’t on. Composing himself, he slid his arms through the sleeves, and opened the door. “Hi. Yes?” he said, as he saw the two agents standing at his threshold.
The cawing sound of a crow caught his attention. Briefly, he darted his eyes up to the sky and saw what appeared to be the same afraid black crow he had seen some days ago, being chased by possibly the very same tiny aggressive brown bird.
Quickly, he looked back down at the two visitors. He hurriedly buttoned his shirt from the bottom up - just to be sure he would conceal any blood on his pants that he could have missed.
Etelson was first to speak and, at first, spoke confidently, “Good afternoon, sir. I’m…” She looked at his face and quickly noticed how good-looking he was. Then, she inadvertently glanced down at his chest. She gazed at the toned muscles of his slender tanned body. She was caught off guard and obviously distracted.
“…I’m, uh, Etelson,” she said, then tried to continue, “and this is…um…” She said the words slowly, trying to remember the sentences she so frequently used to introduce herself and her partner. Still distracted, she lifted her hand and aimlessly pointed at Stevens.
She looked dazed.
Finally, she looked up at his face, and then looked awkwardly to the right, at Stevens, not knowing what to say any more.
Stevens pursed his lips and frowned. He was disappointed at her lack of professionalism. Quickly, he recovered for the both of them. “I’m Special Agent Riley Stevens, and this is Special Agent Katrina Etelson. We’re from the FBI, sir.”
“Hi, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” He shook their hands.
Stevens continued, “Sir, you were informed we were paying a visit, correct?”
“Yeah, sure, that’s right. Come on in.” He turned around to show them in.
Stevens walked in first. Turning around, he slowly shook his head in disappointment at his partner.
She frowned and meekly mouthed a silent word, “Sorry…”
After they walked in, he left the door open to let the light in. After finishing buttoning up his shirt, he then quickly buttoned his sleeves, making sure the symbol on his left wrist was not visible.
Etelson and Stevens looked around, noticing the empty bottles and crushed cans.
He didn’t think to ask them to sit down. Guests to his apartment were infrequent to never. So, he left the two agents standing in front of the opened door.
“So, what can I help you with?”
Stevens explained, “Sir, you informed local authorities of a note you had received concerning the incidents in South Carolina and New York City.”
“Yes.”
“Could we please take a look at the note?”
“Sure. Just a minute.” He made his way to the kitchen and opened a drawer behind the counter. He withdrew a clear zip lock bag, and in it was the note. He read it once more to himself. The words said, “You’re late to start, but it’s time to play our epic game. My first move was Israel, South Carolina. My second move will be in NYC.”
Calling out to them from the kitchen, he said, “Hey, I’m just gonna get a beer here if you don’t mind.” He began to get nervous and thought the beer would calm him down.
“No problem, sir,” Stevens responded.
Stevens leaned over and remarked to Etelson in a whisper, “Remember the D.C. coffee shop employee, by the Montreme Hotel? This guy here looks like he can fit the description of the longhaired goateed guy who told the employee to get help for the abducted woman.”
Etelson quickly raised her eyebrows in acknowledgement.
He opened the refrigerator door and opened a can of beer. Drinking from it, he wa
lked to the kitchen counter, and then set it down. He left it untouched for the remainder of the visit. Walking back to the two agents, he handed Stevens the zip lock bag.
Etelson took her turn, “So, sir, did you get this note before you heard of the New York City murder?”
“Yeah, I did.”
She continued, “Do you know of any reason anyone would leave this note for you? Or try to contact you about these two incidents?”
He stood in front of the agents with his hands in his pockets. He responded calmly, “No, I don’t. I found the note while I was leaving to go out. I thought someone had made a mistake by leaving it outside my door. When I got home that night, I was surprised to hear on TV that two murders occurred in South Carolina and New York.” He paused and appeared to think, and then continued, “I’ve really got no clue why someone would even give that to me. And I have no idea of this game that he…” He caught himself. He didn’t want it to appear that he knew the writer was a “he”. Correcting himself, he said, “…or whoever that person is…is talking about.”
Stevens spoke again, “Sir, I hope you don’t mind - and this is only to ensure we pursue all possibilities - do you have anything that has your writing on it that we could have? If not, would you mind if you wrote for us a few sentences?”
“Hmm, I don’t think I’ve got any stuff written. I’d be happy to write something for you.”
Stevens withdrew his small notepad and pen, from the inside of his coat pocket. He flipped the notepad to a blank page and wrote something down. “Sir, on the following page, could you copy in hand writing what I’ve written here. And on another page, copy it in block lettering? Thanks.”
“You got it.” He took the pen and notepad and began to write with his left hand. Stevens studied him as he wrote. Etelson gazed at his face and long hair and then scanned the apartment once again.
When he finished, he gave the pen and pad back to Stevens and put his hands back in his pockets.
Etelson followed up, “Sir, were you recently in the District of Colombia area?”
RB 01 Through Flesh & Bone Page 22