Vega looked up at Jorge. “I’m afraid that I haven’t had the privilege.”
“Oh, how soon we forget,” Jorge said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Vega said.
“Does the name Moneo mean anything to you?” Jorge asked.
Vega shook his head. “It’s a common enough Basque name.”
Jorge tightened his grip. “How about Danel, Maria, Arrosa, and a little boy…” Jorge’s eyes filled with tears, “named Abbaran?”
Vega paled. “Why you pathetic son-of-a-bitch. They got what all Basques deserve, an early death. Good riddance.”
Zack was staring at Adam. He had closed his eyes awaiting the images. When he opened his eyes, Adam had the P229 in his hand and was pointing it at Vega’s head.
“No—no,” Zack said. “Don’t…”
Adam turned away and when Jorge nodded, Adam pulled the trigger. Vega’s head exploded leaving the room and everyone in it, covered with blood.
Zack gasped, wiped the blood off his face, stepped over to Adam and pulled the gun from his hand. “Oh, my God—oh, my God! How could you do this?”
Jorge looked away.
Zack grabbed Jorge’s arm. “You promised me—how could you do this after you promised me?”
Jorge smiled and looked up at Zack. “I lied.”
Chapter Sixty-Three
Ella tossed in bed, trying to sleep. Memories of her troubled relationship with Zack had been torturing her for days. She was nearly asleep when soft tapping on her window caught her attention. She sat upright in bed and listened until the tapping happened again. She pulled her drapes aside until a pale-faced Zack appeared. She lifted the window. “Zack! What are you doing here?”
“Let me in—please,” he begged.
Zack climbed through the window. He wore a Cal sweatshirt and jeans. His hair was a mess and he was ashen.
“My God, Zack, what’s wrong?”
He moved to Ella’s bed and sat with his head down. When Ella put her arm around him, he tensed. After a long moment, he looked up at Ella. “It was awful, just awful. I can’t believe it. It was a nightmare.”
“Zack,” she said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Antonio Marin Vega, the Consul-General for Spain—he’s dead.”
“Dead! What do you mean, dead?” She stared at him eyes wide. Her breath came in rapid gasps. “You didn’t—you couldn’t—impossible.”
“No. It was Adam and Jorge. They’d planned it from the start.”
Ella grasped his hand. “Tell me about it, start to finish.”
Zack trembled. Tears ran down his cheeks as he told her everything. “I swear to you—I didn’t know—my God,” he choked, “I didn’t know. How stupid can I be?”
“You’re hardly stupid, you’re simply too trusting.” She paused and then spoke softly. I don’t know who said it, but it goes: ‘trust is a trap, easy in and no way out.’”
“A cynic said that. Can you imagine what it’s like for me not to trust my own judgment? I was so damned sure of myself. I ignored you. I ignored everyone.”
“Where is Vega’s body?” she asked.
Zack hesitated and then spoke in a near whisper, “In a dumpster off Sutter Street. We brought it back close to the embassy.”
“Zack,” Ella said, “you must go to the police. Go, before it’s too late.”
“It’s already too late. I’m no lawyer, but at the best, I’m a co-conspirator. At the worst, I’m an accessory or an accomplice to murder.” Zack paused. “Either way, I’m screwed.”
“Who knows?” Ella asked.
“Jorge and Adam, but what difference does that make? You knew about Jorge’s obsession with Vega. My parents knew. Worst of all, the FBI knows. This is simpler than putting one and one together.”
“They still have to prove it,” Ella said.”
Zack faced Ella. “Do you really think that I can play that game? Living with the guilt? Waiting for that knock on the door?” He brushed away a tear. “My life is over!”
“You’ll need to talk with Denise and Gabe.”
“I can’t.”
“You must.”
“Not tonight—I just can’t.”
“Call them and say that you’re staying over here tonight.”
“Okay.”
When Gabe opened the front door to grab the morning San Francisco Chronicle, he took a deep breath and forced a smile at the bright sunlight and the fresh morning air. He carried the paper to the kitchen table and unfolded it to the front page. The headline jumped at him: Spanish Consul-General, Vega Murdered. His gaze fixed on the headline across the top:, the Consul-General for Spain Murdered. Gabe’s hands trembled as he read about the discovery of Vega’s body in a dumpster with a single gunshot to the head.
My God, Gabe thought.
When Denise came down the stairs, she stared at her husband. “Gabe. What’s wrong?”
He handed her the paper. As she began to read, she collapsed into a kitchen chair. “Oh, My God! This can’t be. There must be some mistake.” She glanced around the room. “Where is he?” she shrieked. “Where is Zack? I need to see him. Now!”
“He’s at Ella’s. He said that he’d be home by 9 a.m.” Gabe said.
“Call Ella,” she begged.
Gabe punched in Ella’s cell. “They left 10 minutes ago. They should be here soon.”
“I can’t stand this,” Denise said.
“Calm down. Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Gabe said. “We know Zack. He couldn’t be involved in such a thing.”
“Can’t say the word, can you.” Denise asked.
“I know my boy,” Gabe said. “He’s incapable of…”
“Murder, Gabe. That’s the word that you’re looking for.”
“But,” Gabe said, “Jorge is, and Adam may be capable.”
When Zack and Ella entered the Berg home, Denise and Gabe were hunched over the kitchen table. When Zack’s parents had trouble meeting his gaze, he knew.
Gabe signaled that they come to the table, and then he opened the newspaper to the front page.
Zack and Ella sat together while they read. Both turned ashen.
Ella’s eyes filled with fear.
“What can you tell us, Zack?” Denise asked.
“I’ll tell you everything,” Zack said, with a tremulous voice.
After twenty minutes, Denise and Gabe sat in stunned silence.
“Say something,” Zack cried. “Please just say something.”
“What can we say?” Gabe asked.
“I know your soul,” Denise said. “This is all a horrible mistake.”
“Some mistake,” Zack said.
“We’re going to need some time to figure this out,” Gabe said, running his hand through his hair. “It’s bad, no doubt, but acting in haste may make things even worse.”
Chapter Sixty-Four
The International House Café sat next to Cal Stadium. The wall clock had reached two p.m. when Adam Conner walked in. At eighteen, he looked like the typical UC student. He glanced around the room at the few remaining diners, and then sat in a chair near the kitchen entrance. He pulled his backpack over his head and placed it on the floor before him.
Several waiters and busboys stared at him as they moved in and out of the kitchen, but said nothing.
After twenty minutes, a waitress approached him. “May I help you?”
“No,” Adam said. “I’m waiting.”
“Waiting for what? We’re about to close the dining room. You’ll need to move.”
Adam looked up and stared at the young woman, and responded aggressively. “I said that I’m waiting.”
The girl shook her head, startled, and headed for the reception podium where she picked up the phone and dialed the operator. “Get me campus security,” she said.
As the girl had her back to Adam, she didn’t react to him standing, reaching into his backpack, and removing a blue suppressed P229. He h
eld it at his side, stepped toward the girl, raised the weapon, and shot her in the head. The supersonic crack somehow went unnoticed by the staff or the remaining diners. He turned, scanned the area, and then walked around the room killing five more.
Adam glanced up at the richly detailed ceiling, studied the angles while his mind converted them immediately into geometric patterns called fractals. He then turned to the approaching sirens, placed the suppressor in his mouth, and pulled the trigger on the seventh and final round.
The San Francisco Chronicle and the Oakland Tribune carried: Unanswered questions in the UC Berkeley Campus Shooting. The shooter, Adam Conner, walked into the International House Café at UC Berkeley, killed six people and then himself. He remains in a deep coma at Berkeley’s Brier Hospital. Mr. Conner, a brilliant computer science major at Cal has no criminal record or history of mental illness. The ambulance took him to the hospital where he remains in critical condition. Authorities remain perplexed as they begin their investigation.
UC Berkeley President, Willard Branch, a well-known second amendment advocate, said, “We are deeply disturbed by this tragic event at the hands of another mentally-deranged killer.”
The TV cameras panned on an ivy-covered home with the subscript: Piedmont, California, the home of Marnie and Edgar Conner, parents of UC Berkeley killer, Adam Conner.
Media vans and Piedmont Police cars lined the street before the home. Reporters jammed the sidewalk, waiting.
The Conners and their attorney left the home and walked down the pathway toward the frenzied media.
The attorney approached the reporters. “The Conners are on their way to Brier Hospital to see their son. Mrs. Conner will make a brief statement. There will be no questions. Please respect what these parents are suffering.”
A voice bellowed from the rear. “What about the people he killed and their families?”
Marnie Conner stepped forward. She was in her late fifties with short grey hair. Her eyes were red from crying. She stared down at an index card with notes. Her hand trembled as she read. “Mr. Conner and I are devastated by the actions of our son, Adam. We share our grieving with the families of those killed by our son. That Adam could have committed such acts is beyond belief for us. Adam was a gifted child of extremely high intelligence and a caring nature to match those gifts. Adam had been the one who stood against violence of any sort in life and even in competitive sports. We’re sickened and distraught about how he came to perform these acts. They are totally out of character for our son.
“We hope that over time, we’ll have an explanation about the forces that drove him to these obscene acts.
“That’s all. Our hearts go out to the families of his victims.”
The crowd shouted questions as the Conners walked to their driveway, entered their car, and backed into the street while the jeering- jackal reporters pounded on the auto’s windows for more.
At the Directorate for Science and Technology at Denisovan Laboratories in Emeryville, California, Jorge Moneo was sitting with Zeru Ibarra watching the statement by Adam’s mother. Zeru was distraught.
“First the news about Vega, and then this,” Zeru said. “Thank God Adam’s still alive.”
“A gunshot to the head,” Jorge said, “he might as well be dead.”
Zeru wiped a tear away. “Adam was a saint. He couldn’t possibly have done these things.”
“These were the acts of a psychopath,” Jorge said. “There’s no way we could have known. We provided him, as the others, with a genetic advantage. If he chose to abuse it, it's nobody’s fault but his own.”
Zeru stared at Jorge. She shook her head slowly. “Yes, Jorge, this is extreme, but we’ve seen the signs before. Perhaps we need to terminate the program before it's too late.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Their genetic makeup is fixed, unalterable. Genetics are fate. We can do nothing.”
“What do you think about Vega?” Zeru asked.
“I’m no hypocrite. The world’s a better place without that son-of-a-bitch.”
“The FBI will come-a-callin’, Jorge.”
Jorge smirked. “Let them. I have nothing to hide.”
Chapter Sixty-Five
When Zack and Gabe walked to Adam’s room, the police guard stopped them. “Family only.”
“Adam’s my best friend,” Zack said. “This is my father, Dr. Berg.” He paused. “Please, just for a minute.”
After the guard nodded, they entered Adam’s Brier Hospital room. His parents were sitting at the beside. Marnie, his mother, was holding Adam’s hand and crying. Blood-stained heavy gauze covered his head and the nurses had taped Adam’s eyelids closed.
Edgar, Adam’s father, sat in a chair with his arms crossed. He looked up at Zack and Gabe, but said nothing.
Marnie released her grip on Adam and embraced Zack. “He’d be glad that you came, Zack. He cherished your friendship.”
“What do the doctors say,” Zack asked.
“The round miraculously passed through Adam’s frontal lobe,” she said. “He has extensive damage in that area, but the doctors won’t or can’t say what we can expect.”
Edgar looked up at Zack. “You two were close. How could this happen? What would drive him to murder innocent people and then try to kill himself?”
Zack’s pulse rose and he trembled slightly. “I just can’t say.”
Edgar stood. “You don’t know or you won’t say. Don’t bullshit us now.”
Zack stammered, “No. I’m sorry. I just don’t know. I’m as shocked as anyone.”
Gabe nodded to Adam’s parents, then gazed at Edgar. “We’re so sorry about Adam. He was like a second son to us. Is it okay if we stay a while?”
“Please, stay,” Marnie said.
“He looks so pale,” Zack said. “He must have lost a lot of blood. If he needs a transfusion, I’m a universal donor, type O.”
Gabe looked up with surprise at Zack, but remained silent.
“No, the doctors say it’s shock. His blood count is normal, but thanks for the offer.”
After a while, Marnie and Edgar left for a bite, and Zack took Adam’s hand. He whispered into Adams ear, “Why—why? Why did you do this? You are my best friend. Why?”
When Adam’s parents returned forty minutes later, Zack and Gabe said their goodbyes.
“I’ll come back,” Zack said, “if it’s okay with you.”
Marnie grasped Zack’s hand. “Of course. Thanks again for coming.”
Out in the hallway, Gabe turned to Zack and said, “It’s easy to make mistakes when you’re upset.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dad.”
“You said that your blood type was O. I’m AB. You can’t be O. Where did you have your blood typed?”
“In biology lab. We checked our own blood types.”
Gabe sighed with relief. “That must explain it.” He paused. “I’ll draw blood on you tomorrow and take it to my lab for analysis. Don’t worry, Zack.”
“I’m not worried,” Zack said. “Why should I worry?”
A week later, when Gabe came home for dinner, he had stared blankly as he settled into his easy chair.
“Something’s wrong,” Denise said. “What is it?”
“When we were in to visit Adam, Zack volunteered to donate blood for him. When he said that he was a universal donor, type O, I thought that he’d made a mistake. I’m AB and Zack can’t have type O blood. It's impossible.”
“Maybe he made an error or the blood testing was wrong?”
Gabe looked at Denise. “That’s exactly what I thought, but I blood-typed him in my own lab, and he is type O.” Gabe’s eyes filled. “Do you know what that means?”
“Please, Gabe,” Denise said. “There must be a reasonable explanation.” She paused in thought. “Maybe you were wrong about your own blood type?”
“I rechecked that, too. I’m AB.” Gabe took a deep breath and sighed. “There’s only one conclusion possible…I
hate even entertaining the thought, but Zack can’t be my biological son!”
Denise stood and paced the room. “I don’t believe it—no, it's not possible.”
“I can think of a single explanation: the sperm we used for IVF wasn’t mine. Mistakes like that have happened before.”
“We’ve got to contact East Bay Cryonics,” Denise said. “If they made a mistake with us, who knows what else they’ve done?” She paused, “And where did your specimen go? Could you have a biological child out there somewhere?”
“All in good time,” Gabe said, “but there’s more.” He paused. “You’d best take a seat.”
“What more? My God! What else.”
“I sent Zack’s blood to our genomics research laboratory for analysis, and…”
“What Gabe?”
“While we don’t need proof that Zack’s your son, Denise, he looks just like you and the genomic profile proves that , it also shows that he carries none of my biological markers.”
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” Denise said, as she embraced Gabe.
Gabe looked up at Denise with tears filling his eyes. “There’s more.”
“What more?”
“This is going to sound nuts—it did to me, but Zack’s unusual in other ways.”
“I’m going to kill you, Gabe.”
“Humans normally carry a small percent of Neanderthal DNA, approximately 1-4 percent. Zack’s Neanderthal DNA is 18 percent—unheard of!”
“Neanderthal—Neanderthal,” Denise cried. “You’re joking.”
Gabe shook his head.
“Our son’s a Neanderthal? Zack’s a Neanderthal!”
“No, Gabe said. “He’s not a Neanderthal. He’s a hybrid between Homo sapiens and Neanderthals. He may be the closest thing to a Neanderthal that we’ve ever seen.”
“Neanderthal?”
“Nearly everything you’ve heard about Neanderthals is wrong,” Gabe said. “They were more like us than myth would have it. Their brains were larger than those of Homo sapiens. They tended to have light skin and red hair, not unlike the Basque people…not unlike Zack—not unlike you. Evolutionary anthropologists speculate that the Neanderthals were a kind and caring people, sympathetic and empathetic. That sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”
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