PROLOGUE
One Thousand Years Ago
The priests had made their choice for the sacrifice in the Rebirth ceremony after a thorough vetting process. Fifteen finalists assembled in the main plaza, fifteen men in their early twenties, each waiting with a sense of anticipation for the announcement. After going through the formalities, the head priest lifted his hands, ready to announce the young man selected for this honor. He paused for a moment. Fifteen anxious pairs of eyes studied his lips, waiting.
“Atoc,” he announced.
One man gasped as the other fourteen finalists clustered around him, patting him on the back and offering their congratulations, some tinged with envy. Atoc beamed with pride, pleased at being chosen for such an honor. After the announcement, one priest draped a ceremonial robe around Atoc’s shoulders and escorted him to a designated room in the great pyramid. For the next twelve days, until the day of the Rebirth ceremony, they lavished him with silk garments and treated him to sumptuous meals, including roast wild pigs, fresh passion fruit, herb-crusted fish, and llama milk.
On the morning of the Rebirth, Atoc lay on a pallet in his room halfway up the great pyramid. Matching the shape of the pyramid, the outer wall angled into the room. Drops of condensation had collected in a damp patch on the floor. He stirred in his sleep, shivered, and pulled the cover over him. A shaft of bright sunlight entered the room through the narrow window, crawled across the floor and crept onto the pallet, bathing his face. He awoke with a start. He rolled off the pallet and stood, stretching away the stiffness in his muscles. Goosebumps erupted on his arms, and he pulled the cover off his bed and wrapped it around his shoulders as he moved into the sunlight. He stood at the window facing east, absorbing the sun’s warmth. He gazed at the central plaza and lush tropical forest that lay beyond the city’s boundary. A tongue of mist lapped at the edge of the clearing as it retreated from the sun. In anticipation of the Rebirth ceremony, a few of the citizenry had already assembled in the main plaza and gazed in awe at his young figure in the window.
The single door in his room opened to a central hallway. A thick curtain, woven from the same coarse material as his cover and with the same vivid herringbone pattern, hung in the opening. The curtain bunched to one side as one of the priests pushed it aside and entered the room.
Atoc bowed in deference to the older man.
“Did you sleep well?” the priest inquired.
“Yes.” Atoc nodded.
“Today is the Rebirth.”
“I am ready.”
[…]
As directed, Atoc climbed onto the altar and lay supine, elbows by his side, fingers crisscrossed on his abdomen. Sunlight bathed the mask. The priest motioned to the head priest, who took his place next to the altar at Atoc’s side. The head priest murmured a few soothing words to Atoc. The shadow cast by the sundial had shrunk to a mere sliver as they prepared for the Rebirth.
The priest holding the knife stood by the altar next to the head priest. He continued chanting a prayer as he lifted the knife over his head, gripping the handle with both hands with the sharp point aimed forward. Atoc’s breathing had quickened in anticipation. The top of the robe had separated, exposing his heaving chest. His fingers tightened across his stomach.
The priest looked at the sundial; its shadow had disappeared.
Time for the Rebirth. The head priest glanced at the priest holding the knife and nodded.
The priest pivoted to the left and swung the blade into the head priest's chest, driving it in with such force that only the jeweled handle protruded from his chest. The head priest gasped and let out a shriek of pain.
The priest jerked the knife out of the head priest's chest with some effort, the blade rasping against a rib. Now glistening with streaks of blood, the blade came out, drops of blood dripping off its sharp point. The head priest collapsed, blood spurting out of the wound in his chest. The feathered headdress toppled off his head and he fell on top of it. Atoc sat upright and lifted the helmet off his head. The mask seemed to glow from within, although in the bright sunlight it could have been reflected light from the sun.
Atoc stared at the dying priest, his face devoid of surprise. The head priest lay on the ground writhing, his face contorted in pain, a look of uncomprehending horror on his face. He rolled on the ground, moaning as his strength ebbed, clutching his chest in vain. The dark, damp circle on the ground beneath him expanded as the other priests stood watching him. No one said a word. No one offered to help. After a minute, his last breath came in a wet wheeze. He stopped moving.
Two priests walked to the body and bent over. The feathered headdress, mangled and bloody from his death throes, protruded like he had smashed a bird as he fell. They lifted the arms and legs and dragged the body close to the edge. Another priest chanted a prayer. As the prayer concluded, they pushed the body of the head priest off the ledge. A series of receding crashing sounds through the foliage marked the body's path to its final resting place at the bottom of the Valley of the Sun. Another priest swept the remains of the headdress off the ledge with his feet. They wiped the knife’s blade clean and put the mask and knife back in their boxes. They marched out of the valley in single file, this time led by Atoc.
[…]
ONE
Present Day
Art Marlow sat at his desk at home one Monday morning in early April, sipping his coffee and staring at the computer screen. Kidneys preoccupied his mind this morning. Scattered gray clouds dotted the sky outside. The intermittent bursts of sunshine mirrored his mood; gloomy but punctuated with bursts of optimism. Later today, his lab would unveil the latest results of his research. He expected a big day for his staff and himself.
He reviewed his data again, for the umpteenth time, considering all variables in his research into creating organs, specifically kidneys, from a single pluripotent stem cell. He had tried five times over his career to produce a kidney and each time, the kidney had not worked as it should. Funding constraints imposed by the investors meant this could be his last attempt. If this attempt failed, it would be difficult to continue this line of research. He would have to switch gears, step back, and consider other options for creating organs that maintained genetic compatibility with the host. The time required to create a new program would be lengthy; the effort involved tedious; and the chances of new funding after these failures would be difficult. It would also create a serious impediment in his chances of achieving tenure. A sense of urgency and mild desperation pervaded his thoughts.
His wife entered the study.
“Ready for a refill?”
He handed his coffee mug to her.
“How’s your schedule today?”
He leaned back, laced his fingers, and stretched his arms, palms outward, eliciting a staccato of pops from his knuckles.
“Nothing scheduled with meetings or lectures. But today we’re going to look at the most recent attempt in the kidney model.”
“How does it look?”
His wife did not have a scientific background and often found it difficult to understand his research. So, he kept his explanations simple, appreciating her interest in his work.
“I don’t know,” he said. “This is our sixth attempt and our first five ended with non-viable models. If this one does not work, things could get tricky. I’m sure we’ve controlled for all the variables, but this entire process is so difficult, even a small miscalculation early on can propagate over the next several cell divisions and result in a non-viable model.”
“I hope it works out. What happens if it doesn’t?”
“As I said, things could get tricky. The worst-case scenario is that the investors pull out and funding evaporates. I may not get tenure and that would be a blow, both financially and professionally.”
“But you could get other backing, right?”
He appreciated her optimism, but he had run out of options. He did not want to share his desperation that he needed this experiment to work.
“That would be a terrible blow for me on a professional level and bad for my lab on a financial level. It could mean changing directions in my research and, if there is no funding, letting staff go. Or the University may decide not to renew my contract.”
“Well, let’s hope for the best. I’m sure you’ll figure something out.” She left the room and went into the kitchen, returning a minute later with his second cup.
He slurped the first sip to avoid being scalded and then hurried through the rest of his second cup, clicking through pages of data. Most of the time, he skipped breakfast; two cups of coffee sufficed to get the day started. After getting dressed, he said goodbye to his wife, the only other inhabitant of their house.
As he drove to his lab at the university, he let his thoughts wander. He had had a rocky childhood; his mother had divorced his father when he was two. She had remarried when Art was barely two and a half. His mother had told him his father had a violent streak and there had been considerable conflict in their short marriage. In his rebellious teenage years, Art had been involved in several incidents and his mother had been concerned he had inherited his father’s violent tendencies. Through luck and circumstance, he had put his rocky beginning behind him and channel his efforts into a productive career. And now he was at a career crossroads. This has to work, he thought, as he turned into the parking garage.
[…]
THREE
At nine o’clock, Lidia announced Art Marlow’s arrival. Peter rose to his feet. Marlow reached across the desk and shook Peter’s hand.
After taking a seat and exchanging a few pleasantries, Marlow brought up the subject of his visit.
“I won’t take up too much of your time, Mr. Northrup. As you already know, your firm owns a twenty-one percent stake in CellGenEx, LLC. Our research is proceeding along very well, and we have made great strides in organ regeneration. However, we need some additional funds. Before discussing this in a meeting with the university and other investors, I wanted to offer your firm the opportunity to acquire an additional thirty percent stake in the company, which would give you a majority interest. Fifty-one percent.”
“How much additional funding do you need?” The bullshit meter in Peter’s head chimed a warning as the needle jittered toward red. Peter was shrewd at evaluating people and he was surprised Marlow was willing to give up a majority interest in his company. He detected a hint of desperation.
“I’m working on a prospectus for the additional research we need to do. As a ballpark estimate, I would say around one million to one and a quarter.”
Peter’s eyebrows rose.
“According to your last quarterly update, you were quite close to the holy grail. Why do you need this much additional funding?”
“We ran into a minor glitch and need to repeat some bench research. But the need for funding is somewhat urgent. Hence the immediate offer of a majority interest in the company.”
The bullshit meter needle in Peter’s head swung further toward red.
“Minor glitches do not result in such dramatic funding needs, Professor.”
“I know, but…”
Peter interrupted, blunt and to the point.
“Has something gone wrong with your research? It sounds like it has. You are offering a majority interest in your company, and you need a lot of money. The bullshit alarm in my head is going off. Therefore, I must decline the offer. You have a meeting soon; my firm will also be represented. There will be experts in the field, and we can discuss it as a group. Once we have their input, I will decide.”
Marlow did not answer the question about his research.
“But if you wait until then, the majority interest offer will be off the table. I put together, for your review, this presentation of my research and where the additional funding will go.”
He pushed a folder across the table. A thumb drive in a plastic bag was taped to the corner.
“I would appreciate it if you would look it over and let me know as soon as possible. What I am offering you is a golden opportunity to acquire most of the company for far less than what it will be worth someday. You shouldn’t pass it up.”
Peter’s irritation level increased with Marlow’s hard sell. He sensed Marlow wanted to lock down funding before experts in the field had a chance to review his data. He pushed the folder and thumb drive back.
“As I said, I must decline the offer. We will talk about this at the appropriate time. Bring your presentation to the meeting. And now if you will excuse me...” He tilted his head toward the door.
Marlow clenched his fists on his lap. He did not stand.
“Mr. Northrup,” he tried again. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Your firm could afford the additional funding with ease, and you would be the sole majority owner. Think about it.”
“Professor, this meeting is over.”
Marlow’s face took on a more intense hue. He stood.
“You’re making a mistake.”
He walked to the door, opened it, and let himself out. The folder and thumb drive lay on the table.
[…]
SIX
As the ambulance sped to the hospital with sirens blaring, Peter’s rhythm strip continued to show an irregular rhythm, but he had a palpable pulse. The end-tidal carbon dioxide monitor on his breathing tube showed a wavy line.
As they turned onto the hospital’s driveway, an alarm went off and the rhythm strip again deteriorated. The CO2 tracing also flattened.
“Oh shit,” said a paramedic. “We’re losing him again.”
The ambulance had pulled up in the porte cochere of the emergency room by now. The back door of the ambulance opened, disgorging two paramedics. They took one end of the gurney and pulled it out. Two other paramedics soon followed and as the gurney came out, two sets of wheels straightened and locked into place. The other paramedics grabbed the far end of the gurney and they raced into the emergency room.
The patient on the gurney was comatose. The portable monitor registered random sawtooth lines. There was no ordered rhythm. Which meant no cardiac output. Which meant no blood pressure. The paramedics raced through the entrance and the emergency room staff waited to meet them.
“We had him for a while but as we pulled in, we lost him again.”
“Bay 4,” someone barked. They rushed the patient to bay 4 through the controlled chaos.
Like a well-oiled machine, the emergency room staff took over the code. Everyone knew their assigned task.
“On three,” someone said. “One, two, three” and on three, everyone standing around the gurney lifted Peter to a bed with a CPR board. Someone connected the EKG leads to the monitor and someone else did a quick IV line survey. The paramedics gave report to the emergency room staff as the physician took over running the code.
The emergency room physician, Dr. Paul Simms, went to the head of the bed. The patient’s chest did not move much, although it was difficult to assess. Not ventilating very well, Dr. Simms thought.
“Call anesthesia,” Dr. Simms said. While examining the airway, he barked orders for various resuscitative drugs and shocks.
Another round of drugs later, one of the ER staff held the defibrillator paddles against his chest and Dr. Simms announced “Clear.” Everyone took a step back. Peter jerked on the bed in response to the shock. Everyone looked at the monitor as the defibrillator recharged with a whine. The monitor continued to show an irregular combination of sawtooth lines.
[…]
TWENTY-ONE
Tiffany backed her SUV out of the garage and waited until the garage door closed. She paused, wondering if she should do this. It seemed to be too late to back out now. I’m a little nervous, she thought, as she turned the air conditioner knob down a few notches. She guided her Honda SUV through the streets of Dallas. She had asked her phone to navigate her to the address. It was a pay-to-park lot that stretched along a cross street connecting Main and Elm Streets. As she pulled in, her phone dinged and the message from Simon’s phone said “I’m almost there.” She flipped open the visor mirror, and the light illuminated her features. Her nose shone and there was a nervous sheen to her features. She hastily fished a powder compact out of her purse and dabbed her face. She turned her head to one side and then the other, inspecting her makeup again, making sure everything was perfect.
She put the car in Park, turned off the engine, and opened the driver’s door.
Her phone dinged again and this time, there was no message, just an attached picture. She looked at it, puzzled. It was a black screen with a gauzy, out-of-focus neon green and red/yellow splash on one side. She stared at it, and her phone dinged again. “Running late. Be there in two minutes.”
She felt something twist in her guts and felt a twinge of fear. What’s with the picture? she thought. The scales had swung in favor of fear over anticipation and excitement.
Before she could reply to the text, her phone dinged again and this time, once again, there was no message. Just another attached picture. She looked at it, both puzzled and now alarmed. The picture was the same, but the neon green and red/yellow splash was in better focus. She could barely make out some letters in the red area of the picture. Maybe a D and an E? she thought.
Her phone dinged again, and the message was: “I’m here, Madeline.”
She looked around the car, using the steering wheel as leverage as she craned her neck from one side to the other. There was no one there. Small patches under the streetlights were lit, but most of the parking lot and the street were in darkness. She leaned out for a better look. Faint music throbbed from a side street, but there was no one in the parking lot. The feeling of fear crept out of her guts and seeped through her limbs.
She pulled the door shut and pressed the lock button on the fob. All the doors locked with a reassuring click and a red light began blinking on the dashboard. She loosened her grip on the steering wheel.
About fifty yards in the distance, through her front windshield, off to the left, was a glowing neon green and red/yellow “DEEP ELLUM TEXAS” sign. Something in her brain clicked. With a sudden shock, realization hit her, and she gasped. The fuzzy pictures she had received were of the Deep Ellum sign.
Whoever took the pictures and sent them to her was inside the car, behind her.
She spun around in her seat in fright. A figure hiding in the third-row seat of the SUV sat upright, still in darkness but silhouetted against the dim streetlight entering through the back window. The unmistakable twirling in his left hand left no doubt in her mind. The figure’s right hand held a gun.
“Jonas?” she said, puzzled. “Is that you?”
The figure in the back shook its head.
“No, Madeline, I’m Simon.”
Tiffany gasped as a sudden explosion, unexpected and deafening, reverberated in the confines of the Honda. She had no time to react.
In an instant, the large-caliber bullet tore through the backrest of the driver’s seat and hit Tiffany over the left eighth rib. It deflected by a few degrees, its shock wave and mass tearing through the compliant left lung, nicking the pulmonary artery, through her right lung, and ricocheting against her fourth rib as it exited. The bullet then hit the horn and it chirped for an instant, like someone had clicked the lock button twice.
Tiffany coughed and tried to speak. No words came out as blood leaked out of her pulmonary artery and into her bronchial tree. The only sound she made was a wheezy gurgle. She slumped sideways and fell across the passenger seat.
