Last Days (Last Days Trilogy #1)

by Jacqueline Druga

  “You don’t?”

  “I don’t think about it. He’s a clone.” Reggie swung her legs slightly. “Question, okay? Now don’t get mad.” She paused. “Weren’t you searching for doomsday answers last night?”

  “Why would you say that?” Marcus asked.

  “Because when bad things happen, we tend to think in worst-case scenarios. Always,” Reggie said. “When Daniel died in the wreck, I wouldn’t drive for months. And wouldn’t take Route 76 for a year. To this day I won’t ride in a black truck. I blamed all those things for killing Daniel. But I never blamed his intoxication.”

  “So, by your logic, the shock of Rose’s suicide… is causing me to search for irrelevant answers... instead of the truth?”

  “Yes.”

  “No.” Marcus shook his head and grabbed his coffee. “Devante is the Antichrist.”

  Reggie nodded. “Okay… thought I’d try.”

  Marcus turned his chair squarely in front of her and touched her knee.

  “Marcus, I’m worried about you.” Reggie leaned down. “It isn’t like you to be so unscientific. The answers that you’re searching for...”

  “Reg, I know what I’m doing.”

  “Okay. Just don’t go overboard. I almost miss your boring, observant, logical mind.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “Okay.” Reggie smiled. “Hey, you hungry? Feel like brunch?”

  “Sure. I can take a break.” Marcus stood up slowly.

  Reggie slid from the counter. “I’d like to spend some time with you.”

  “I’d like that, too.” He grabbed her hand and walked her to the door.

  “You should tell your team where you’ll be.”

  “Yeah, but I haven’t a clue where Tom and John are.”

  “You did speak to Tom today, right?”

  “This morning. Why?” Marcus walked out with Reggie.

  “Just curious. I mean what if the ‘back to life’ thing was a fluke and he’s dead now?”

  Marcus froze, eyes widening. Then he turned and sped back to the office.

  “Marcus,” Reggie called. “What are you doing?”

  He was writing furiously. “I’m just...”

  “Marcus, you promised. Logical. Observant.”

  Marcus stopped and nodded. “You’re right.” He set down the pencil and rejoined her in the hall.

  “Maybe Devante could have revived Rose,” Reggie mused. “That’d gotten the police off your case.” They were passing Devante’s room. Reggie slowed down and took Marcus’ arm. “How about him? Have you seen him?”

  “I checked on him through the porthole.”

  They walked a few paces beyond when a familiar voice beckoned.

  “Regina,” came the baritone voice. “Regina.”

  Reggie stopped.

  “Keep moving.” Marcus took hold of her arm.

  “Regina, I must speak to you.” The voice was hypnotic and soothing.

  Mesmerized, Reggie slowly turned around. Eyes fixed on the door, she whispered, “Devante,” and drifted back toward the room. “Devante.”

  Marcus jumped in front of her. “Reg.”

  Reggie laughed. “Tricked you.”

  “Don’t.” Marcus grabbed his chest. “Don’t do that.”

  “Let’s go see the clone.”

  “Let’s not. I told you who I believe he is.”

  “Oh, yeah, sure,” Reggie smiled. “The Antichrist. That makes it interesting.” She sidestepped Marcus and went to the door. Marcus followed.

  Reggie found a pair of compelling eyes peering through the small window.

  “Regina.”

  “Hey, Devante, how’s it going?”

  Devante moved his head back and smiled. “I am drawn to you. Above all women,” he said glibly. “You enchant me.”

  “That’s not saying much considering you were born yesterday,” Reggie smirked. “I have to go. Have a nice day.” She turned her back on Devante and took Marcus’s arm.

  “Think about it,” Devante called out, smoothly, gently. “Think about the new closeness you two are experiencing. You might be hurt. Marcus has the habit of mistaking love for the absence of loneliness. Whoever’s available will satisfy, but only temporarily.” He paused. “But then again, perhaps it will turn out genuine, as real as what Marcus felt for the third Mrs. Leon. The woman he trusted and cared for above all others.”

  Reggie stopped and turned back. “Jenny?” she asked, incredulous, then smirked. “Seems you don’t know everything. Marcus hated Jenny. Let’s go.” Reggie grabbed Marcus’ hand.

  Suddenly Tom appeared from the opposite end of the hall, heading for them. “Dr. Leon.”

  “What is it, Tom?”

  “Phone call,” Tom said. “Says she’s your wife. Jenny. Returning your call from this morning.”

  Marcus quickly looked at Reggie.

  Reggie let go of his hand. “You go on, take your call.”

  “But, Reg...”

  “No.” Reggie shook her head. “I understand. Go on.” She faked a smile and stepped back. “I’m kind of tired. You work.” She kept moving. “I’m going back to sleep. Later.”

  Gone. Just like that, gone. Marcus shrugged and spun around eyeball to eyeball with Tom. Startled, Marcus examined his assistant. Something was not right.

  “Dr. Leon, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Tom said.

  “No, problem. I’ve been waiting on that call.” Marcus sidestepped Tom and slowed. “You look a little pale. How are you feeling?”

  Tom chuckled. “Great. I’m alive, right?”

  Chuckling nervously, Marcus took a step, then recalled Reggie’s words; “What if that ‘back to life’ thing expired?”

  “Uh, Tom, how about dropping by my lab when you have time so I can do some tests?”

  Tom shrugged. “Sure.”

  “Thanks.”

  Marcus went to make the call. As he passed Devante’s room, he looked in. Devante was smiling. He flipped him off, and picked up his pace, regretting that Reggie had gotten the wrong idea about Jenny. He had to talk with his third wife, that’s all. Jenny held the key – literally – to any plans Marcus had for the future. The key to his safety deposit box in Spain.

  Seville, Ohio

  It didn’t take long for Kyle to put everything together when Eliza Leon called him at his shop and made her strange request. She wanted him to take the afternoon off and accompany her to a bank in Cleveland. She also wanted him to take his shotgun.

  “For what?” Kyle had asked. “A withdrawal?”

  Eliza said, “Yes.”

  Kyle knew the Leons were a proud family, who wanted to give their kids everything they could. But they were poor. There was no way that the Leons had anything valuable enough to warrant an armed escort.

  Then Kyle thought: George and Eliza didn’t. But Marcus did. And he was the same Leon who could buy protection from the headlines that were making him a mob of enemies.

  It didn’t take a rocket scientist to put it all together. The waking of the clone, the violent masses threatening Marcus, the withdrawal of large sums of money.

  Kyle figured Marcus – the Leon with brains, money, and front page headlines–was going to pull a vanishing act. If Kyle was right, Marcus would be, if not already so, a marked man. As a live-and-let-live guy, this ordinarily wouldn’t concern Kyle. But he was concerned about his daughter, whom he figured to be right in the middle of things.

  St. Mary of the Mount Hospital, Chicago, Illinois

  Disinfectant saturated facial masks and the smell of burnt flesh permeated the entire floor. John looked through the observation window and choked on emotions at the sight of the child in the room. He was swathed in bandages from head-to-toe. The bandages were opened for ventilation, exposing a body covered with slow healing third degree burns.

  John swallowed hard, and turned from the window to Rev. Bailey standing close.

  “Why are we here?” John asked.

  “Pro
of. I want to see if what you say is true.” Rev. Bailey nodded at the bottle in John’s hand, then reverted his eyes back to John’s face. “Several weeks ago my ministry began a campaign to help this boy. Tragic. His name is Jamie. Comes from a poor family. His father doused him with gasoline and set him aflame. Jamie lived, but with burns on eighty percent of his body.” Rev. Bailey started into the room. “Skin grafts, surgeries, the boy is in for a long...” He halted his words when he saw Jamie’s eyes open. “Hello son. How are you today?”

  Jamie’s words were garbled. “Rev. Bailey. Hi.”

  Rev. Bailey looked at John. “I just love this boy. So spirited, so happy.” He moved to the bed. “I was in town again and thought I’d see you. Is your momma here?”

  “No,” Jamie answered. “She’ll be in later.”

  “Good. Good.” Rev. Bailey sat on the edge of the bed by Jamie’s legs. “I want to try something, son. May I see your hand?”

  Jamie moved his left hand near the reverend. The hand was severely burned, his fingers singed off.

  Rev. Bailey peered over his shoulder to John. “Are you absolutely sure?”

  “Yes. You should’ve seen what it did to Dr. Leon,” John said. “I’d stake my life on it.”

  “Well, it may come to that if this boy is infected,” Rev. Bailey whispered.

  John handed him bottle. Rev. Bailey unscrewed the dropper top and lifted it slightly. He squeezed the top and drew some of the liquid from the bottle. With unsteady fingers, he brought it down to Jamie’s hand, whispered a prayer, and gently released three drops. They dripped onto the injured hand and rolled to where the fingers once were.

  Rev. Bailey stared. Nothing. He shook his head and replaced the dropper. “I don’t believe you were....” Then as he looked back Rev. Bailey paled and nearly dropped the bottle. He jumped up, exclaiming, “Dear, sweet Lord!” He spun to John.

  “So can you use your pull? It has to be done.” John spoke, pleading.

  “Is there any more of this?”

  “Buckets of it. Can you?” John asked.

  “I will do what it takes,” Rev. Bailey said. “But first, this boy. He’s miraculous... he’s our proof.” Rev. Bailey sat back on the bed and lifted the dropper. He looked once more to see the unbelievable. Jamie’s fingers had come back.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Westing Biogenetic Institute

  Chicago, Illinois

  “Daddy, of course I’m sure,” Reggie said into the phone as she paced about Marcus’ living room. “No indication. He hasn’t packed anything.”

  “When’s the last time you saw him?”

  “Daddy,” Reggie laughed. “Are you implying that Marcus left me?”

  Silence.

  “Dad?” Reggie looked at the phone and brought it back to her ear.

  “No, no. But I know he’s leaving.”

  “I promise you, I would know,” Reggie said.

  “While we’re on promises, there’s another I want from you.”

  “What’s that?” Reggie asked.

  “If he hasn’t split by tomorrow morning, I want you to.”

  “What!” Reggie exclaimed. “Leave him? No.”

  “Reg, I’m telling you,” Kyle was insistent. “He’s planning to.”

  Reggie laughed. “I don’t believe you.”

  “I just got back from Chicago with a pickup full of heavy crates, two million dollars in gold. By Marcus’ request.” Kyle paused, as if letting it sink in. “Mark my words, Marcus knows there’ll be a price on his head the longer he holds onto that clone.”

  “So you expect him to release it and forsake his dream?”

  “Marcus might be dead by then. Especially now that that holy water’s in the equation.”

  “What holy water?”

  “Reg, haven’t you watched the news? The holy water. The amniotic fluid. Christ, it’s going for thousands an ounce.”

  Confused, Reggie sputtered, “What are you talking about?”

  “Turn on the goddamn television, Reg,” Kyle snapped. “The videotape of the lab assistant coming back to life... the little burned boy they healed.”

  Reggie picked up the remote and aimed. The news was on in seconds. “Oh, Daddy.” She closed her eyes. “I think we’re in trouble.”

  As if to cloak a budding smile, Marcus brought his bent index finger to his upper lip as he rocked in his chair in the lab, holding a sheet of paper with his other hand. “Listen to this....” Marcus read. “‘Dr. Leon, you will die. You will pay the price for imprisoning our Lord. Pilate got away with it. You shall not!’” He tossed the note. “Melodramatic, don’t you think? And this one...” Marcus picked up another. “This one’s from Dr. Genevieve, the head of this institute, a scientist. Yet, he says… ‘if you don’t give the people what they want, I fear that the price on your head will make the hunt for Rushdie seem like a game of hide-and-seek.’”

  More than he liked to admit, the threats were getting to him. He thought of his latest dream. In it he hid behind a wall and was forced to watch as his father was tied to a post and beaten bloody, wailing with every stroke, “I don’t know where my son is!” Frozen in fear, Marcus finally stepped out to free his father. Too late – his dad had already been beheaded. Then in the midst of the rubble and bonfires, the executioner turned to Marcus and screamed, “Who shall be next, Marcus? Who shall pay for your sins?”

  Was it a sin? Marcus wondered. Was the experiment a sin? Was it?

  The repercussions of his decision to go ahead with it had never entered his mind until Devante spoke.

  And now it was time for Marcus to face the music, to himself. He had gone to his lab to do just that, to think, to try and figure out how he could right the wrong. And things were wrong, terribly wrong, that much was clear.

  Exhaling painfully, Marcus moved to his open briefcase. He gathered the last of his papers, the daily record, evidence of what he had accomplished for the day, and placed them inside. “Tomorrow... I’ll finish this experiment.”

  Before closing the briefcase he picked up a six-inch black case. He laid it on top of the papers and shut his briefcase. “Thanks to you.” He turned.

  There he saw Tom, his once happy lab assistant, sitting in a wheelchair. He wasn’t moving. His body was tilted to one side, his neck arched and head swung back. His right arm dangled, while the left draped across his lap.

  No movement.

  Mouth agape, lips cracked, his skin a pasty white and grey, Tom stared straight ahead, unblinking.

  “Seven hours ago...” Marcus moved to the wheelchair. “...you were talking, rambling on and on to me while I examined you. But... no heartbeat, no respiration, no pulse...” Marcus shrugged. “Pointless, don’t you think, my taking your blood pressure. But, I did obtain cultures, did I not?” Marcus crouched down before Tom. “Dead cells. Rigor mortis. That’s…” Marcus touched the cold hard skin of Tom’s hand. “That’s your state now. And there’s nothing I can do.” Marcus hesitated, his eyes glued to Tom’s. “I know you hear me. I know you’re in there, Tom.”

  A short, soft, barely audible nasal whine escaped Tom’s lips.

  “That’s what I thought,” Marcus whispered. “I’m sorry. It was no miracle. He didn’t save your body. He merely condemned your soul to your physical body. Decaying or not, if I could, I’d help you. Mercifully, you’ll soon be free of your prison.” Marcus gawked deeply as the phone behind him wailed. He stood up from the couch. Reaching for the phone, he answered it. “Hello.”

  “Marcus,” Reggie was breathless. “What was that Bible passage from Revelation? Was it, ‘He set out to deceive the four corners of the earth.’?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Oh Marcus, he’s doing it. The amniotic water, the video of Tom coming back to life, now this little boy has been healed...”

  “Reg, calm down.”

  “I can’t, Marcus. Do you know how bad it’s getting out there?”

  “I hear. And... I’m on my way home now. Hang in t
here.” Hanging up, Marcus turned back to Tom. “I’ll be back, okay Tom?” He tapped his hand, and then started for the door.

  A sudden eruption sounded outside, a choir of screams. Marcus rushed to the window. Outside, a horde – maybe thousands – was charging the institute, arms high, shrieking.

  What the hell, Marcus thought. It reminded him of a rock concert gone mad. Still clutching his briefcase, Marcus got the hell out.

  He began to run but suddenly skidded to a stop. No guards. And Devante’s guard was missing. Marcus took a few steps and peered down the bend of the connecting hall. For the first time since he arrived at the Chicago Institute, there was no security at all.

  He hurried to Devante’s room. The screams outside were now deafening. He grabbed his set of keys, inserted them in the lock, and opened the door. He found Devante, arms raised triumphantly to the crowd through his window.

  “Get away from that window!” Marcus shouted. “Now!”

  Marcus shut the door and ran across the room, past the man who towered over him, and quickly shut the blind.

  Huffing, Marcus spun and looked up to Devante. “What were you thinking?”

  “My people call me,” Devante said softly, moving from the window as Marcus requested.

  “They aren’t your people.” Marcus ran his hand over his own head. “Your standing there is doing nothing but de... de...”

  “Say it.”

  “Deceiving them.”

  “You oppress me.”

  “You disgust me.” Marcus moved toward the door.

  “You!” Devante raised his voice. “You created me.”

  Marcus spun to face him. “And you are an abomination of everything I set out to do!”

  “An abomination.” Devante stepped forward. “You do not know who I am or you would not speak to me like that.”

  “I...” Marcus stayed calm. “...I know exactly who you are.”

  “Then you should respect me.”

  “I should despise you.”

  “You doubt me.”

  “No.” Marcus shook his head. “Not at all. And you know who you are, and who you’re pretending to be.” He stepped closer to Devante. “You keep saying how we doubt you. You tell us to believe in you. If I’m so wrong, say it. Tell me who you are.”