Last Days (Last Days Trilogy #1) (5 page)

“Dr. Leon?” Rose called.

Marcus hung up the phone, stared at it for a moment and turned slowly around. “Yes?”

“Dr. Genevieve.” Rose escorted a taller, older gentleman to Marcus. “He was named yesterday as Dr. Bennet’s successor...”

“Nice to meet you.” Marcus shook his hand, and then turned again to peek at the phone.

“Important call?” Dr. Genevieve asked. “Must be,” he said, answering his own question, “it’s six in the morning.”

“Yes.” Marcus nodded. “Rose, it’s one in the morning, right? Back in the States?”

“Yes.” Rose spoke through clenched teeth, nodding her head toward Dr. Genevieve, trying to get Marcus to give the man his due attention.

Dr. Genevieve interrupted. “Depends on where you are, really. One in the east, ten out west... must be important.”

“It is. Would you excuse me, please?” Marcus moved to the phone again.

“Dr. Leon.” Dr. Genevieve remained pleasant. “If you’re concerned with trouble in the States, I believe we’ve taken a step to control that.”

“Really?” Marcus flashed a pacifying smile. “Thanks. Excuse me.” He picked up the phone and dialed.

“Actually, as we speak,” Dr. Genevieve continued. “Dr. Leon.”

“Yeah?” Marcus turned with the phone to his ear. “I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

“As we speak, our plan is underway. I think we’ve come up with a way to sway public opinion.”

“Good.” Marcus shook his head as he mumbled into the receiver. “Pick up the phone.” But no one answered. Perturbed, he ended the call. “Rose, it’s one o’clock in the morning over there, where the hell is Reg? She should be there. She’s not answering.”

“Send her a text. Maybe she’s somewhere she can’t talk.”

“She doesn’t have a cell phone.”

Dr. Genevieve gave Rose a puzzled look. “Someone nowadays doesn’t have a cell phone? Not even a flip phone, they’re cheap and pay as you go are…”

“No.” Marcus cut him off. “Not even one of those. But after tonight, I’ll make her break that cell silence rule.”

Dr. Genevieve asked. “How are you trying to call her if she doesn’t have a cell?”

“Landline.”

Dr. Genevieve cocked back and spoke with a laughing tone. “Oh God, she still has a landline? She must live in Ohio.”

Marcus grumbled a, ‘Hmm’ and turned his back, lifting his phone again.

“What did I say?” Dr. Genevieve asked Rose.

“She lives in Ohio,” Rose replied. Then exhaled while watching Marcus, again, attempt to call Reggie.

Reverend Richard Bailey’s house was far larger than he needed, thirty-eight rooms, not including bathrooms. His children used to live with him, until he bought them their own houses. Now he, his wife, their servants and security guards dwelt alone in the mansion.

It seemed empty at times, but he loved it because it represented a lifetime of hard work. Twenty-three years in the Ministry, sold out Road Service shows and his always-stellar Nielsen ratings had earned him the position of Chief Minister of Christian Central Network, not to mention two homes, a large bank account and a fleet of fine automobiles.

Summoned from what he referred to as his ‘weekly spiritual embrace’ with his wife, he was not bothered by the interruption. In fact, he’d been waiting for it for several hours, and would have remained downstairs had his wife not had the four gin and tonics.

Rev. Bailey descended the staircase in his tailored silk robe, escorted by Alexander, his devoted bodyguard and all-around personal assistant. The robe hung nicely over his body. Although not perfect, he took pride in his appearance; after all, the body was the temple. And just like the main temple of the Christian Central Network, Rev. Bailey saw no reason why he shouldn’t “maintain” his temple from time to time. Visually, he was television perfect, a flamboyant orator and maturely handsome. He was a minister that women loved, and everyone paid attention to.

He snapped his fingers and Alexander closed the door, leaving them alone inside the Reverend’s study. Rev. Bailey reached across his desk, flicked on the desk lamp and gazed intently at the messenger’s envelope. “Alexander,” he called, in a heavy southern accent. “This just arrived?”

“Yes, Reverend,” Alexander said, standing like a soldier at ease, arms behind his back.

“Finally.” With a childlike grin, Rev. Bailey ripped open the perforated edge and dumped the envelope’s contents on the desk. A single letter fell out. Attached to it, a check. His smile grew larger.

“Alexander? Get Mr. Westing on the line.”

“Right now, Reverend?” Alexander asked. “It’s one-fifteen in New York.”

“Trust me. He won’t mind.” Rev. Bailey’s eyes gleamed as he stared at the check. “Get him on the phone… and tell him that we have a deal.”

“I have to go in now.” Reggie said, stepping away from Herbie and toward her front door. She reached for the doorknob with keys in hand.

“You can invite me in,” Herbie suggested.

“No, I can’t.” She hurriedly unlocked the door.

“The rash?”

“Yeah,” Reggie said, struggling to suppress her grin. “Plus it just wouldn’t look good.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “What would the neighbors think if they saw me bringing you in?”

“Can I at least have a kiss?” Herbie puckered his lips and drew closer to Reggie.

“Maybe some other time,” she said.

“Tomorrow then?”

“No.” She pushed open the door.

“I had a great time.”

Reggie was cordial. “I did, too. Thanks.”

Her insincere grin became a bright smile when the phone rang inside her home. “Whoops, got to go. Phone’s ringing.” With haste, she stepped inside and locked the door behind her. Letting out a breath, she hurried across the room and swept up the receiver. “Hello.”

“Where the hell have you been?” Marcus asked.

“Well good evening to you too.” Reggie untangled the 1980’s style, spiral cord that had been stretched to the max and she walked to the living room. “I told you I had a date.”

“A date, Reg? It’s nearly two in the morning. Who was it?”

“Don’t worry who. And gees, look at you keeping track of me.” She plopped on the sofa.

“I was worried. Really, really worried,” Marcus pouted. “I had a bad dream about you. Someone was chasing you and all I kept thinking was...”

“Oh my God. It’s so weird you said that.” Reggie kicked her feet up on the coffee table. “I almost got killed tonight. I mean, I would’ve been killed… or at least knocked out.”

Marcus went silent.

“Marcus? You still there?”

“What happened?” he spoke in a calm tone.

“You know me and Buzz, right. We were going back and forth. Well, one of his buddies took it serious, and he came after me with a beer bottle. If he hit me,” Reggie whistled, “I hate to think…”

“So who stopped him from hitting you? Your date?”

“I really don’t know.” Reggie shrugged. “Someone did. But no one was willing to own up to it. It was strange.”

“I knew it. I knew it. I always know when something is wrong. First you go shooting at Seville’s KKK wannabes, and then you get into a bar fight. Not a good time for this stuff, Reg.”

Reggie snickered. “Why’s that?”

“You know why.”

“What does that have to do with this?”

“Reg, if something happened to you, do you think I could pull this off? I woke up this morning thinking of how best to get to the States if you needed me.”

Reggie laughed. “Yeah, right Marcus. Like you’re going to drop everything for me.”

Marcus answered matter-of-factly. “Yes. Yes, I would.”

“Oh. Wow…” Reggie said. “Um... thanks.” She stood and walked toward the kitchen. “Then I guess it’s a good thing for you that someone stopped that guy? The experiment would have been on hold, huh?”

“I would have taken it as a sign to reconsider, that’s for sure. Especially with all the bad stuff that’s been going on. Not just with me, but check out the world. Things are bad, real bad. The new terror group that makes the last group look like Boy Scouts. The stock market is taking a plunge again...”

“Marcus?” Reggie snickered as she pulled a soda from the fridge. “Don’t you think you’re taking this a bit too far?”

“I don’t think so, Reg. You’re the only one who can stop this. The biggest experiment in history, the moment I’ve been working for since I was a kid, and I don’t have you to call for support? I need you. I need you more than you know.”

“Then you should take what happened as a sign.”

“What’s that?”

“Would you really have stopped the experiment if I got hurt?”

“Yes,” Marcus said.

“Then fate stepped in and stopped me from stopping you. By a miracle, I’m standing when I shouldn’t be. That’s your sign.”

Marcus digested what she’d said. “Thanks,” he responded.

“You’re welcome. I’m behind you all the way, even if everyone around here is calling you ‘the local heathen boy.’” She paused. “Marcus?”

“You ruined it. You made me feel good and then you ruined it. I have to go.”

“Marcus, will you come home?”

“Probably not....”

Reggie’s smile fell from her face.

“Or at least… not without a disguise... I’ll see you Sunday.”

“Yes!” Reggie shrieked. “Marcus?” she said. “I love you.”

A long exhale came across the phone line. “I love you, too. And thanks.”

Reggie hung up, her hand tapping the phone like a galloping horse. “Sunday,” she said. “Sunday.”

One hundred and twenty-two newly formed nuclei lay housed in vials inside a silver case that Marcus had handcuffed to his wrist. At first he thought the handcuffs were a good idea, but, considering recent events, he wasn’t so sure.

He sat in the limo on the airport runway, surrounded by security, drumming his hands nervously on the case. It was pushing seven a.m. He was supposed to have been in the air an hour and a half earlier. That would have made the nuclei’s twelve-hour coolant pack sufficient for the eight-hour trip to Chicago. Now he might have to replace it mid-flight.

His thoughts drifted to the siege that had taken place the night before. A terrorist group had taken over the Institute’s phlebotomy research lab in a misdirected, dim-witted attempt to destroy or steal the Shroud DNA. Marcus was surrounded by armed guards until things were back under control.

But that was innocent foreplay compared to his ride to the airport. Scotland Yard’s bomb squad division found devices rigged to the car sent to carry him to the airport. One of those explosives was a high-grade, government-issue C4 concoction available to only the most industrialized nations. Marcus began to see for the first time the depths of power he was up against. And he was terrified.

Now the bomb squad was rechecking the plane. Why? Marcus thought. It was a small, private plane. How hard was it to find one little bomb?

Marcus jerked as a security guard opened the car door. “All done?” Marcus asked instinctively.

“Yes sir,” the guard nodded. “All secure.”

“I won’t have to get off the plane again?”

“No sir. The plane is clean.”

“Thank God. So there wasn’t really a threat?”

“I wouldn’t exactly say that, sir. We had to arrest the flight attendant.”

Marcus stopped walking. “Janine?”

“Actually, Janine wasn’t a ‘Janine’. She was a he, and he had enough firepower on him to do some real damage.”

“No kidding?” Marcus said, and started to walk again. “They uh... did they get someone else to serve lunch?”

“I believe so, sir.”

“Good.” Marcus sighed, as he stepped up the stairs to the plane. “It’s a long flight, you know.” He paused to look back before entering, giving London a farewell glance, feeling excited about getting back home.

Rev. Bailey examined himself in a hardwood-encased mirror, puffing out his cheeks as he turned his head from left to right. “Now, darlin’, you make my cheeks a bit rosier. I haven’t had time for the sun bed lately.”

The make-up woman smiled, then grabbed her blush and walked around to face him.

He peeked around her to check on her work, watching her efforts closely, keeping in mind that the last time she worked on him, he looked like Santa Claus.

Taylor Dougherty walked into the dressing room. Taylor, Christian Central Network’s GM, had never made a personal appearance on a Sunday morning, but Rev. Bailey had a feeling that he would be by. “Well, well. Lookie here. How are you this morning, Mr. Dougherty?”

Taylor was a young executive, too young to have earned the General Manager position, but his father owned half the network. “I’m uh… concerned, Reverend.”

“About what?” Rev. Bailey smiled at Taylor’s discomfort, then re-checked his make-up. “That looks good, darlin’. Now would you give me and Mr. Dougherty a few moments before you finish?”

“Yes sir.” She set down the make-up tray and left, closing the door behind her.

“Have a seat.” Rev. Bailey instructed. “What’s on your mind, son?”

“I heard a rumor,” Taylor said.

“Rumors are a nasty business, you know. Gossip is the work of the devil.”

“Well, I’m hoping the devil is at work here.”

“What?” Rev. Bailey asked, chuckling.

“I heard, Reverend that you plan to announce your support for this cloning of Christ.”

“I plan to do no such thing,” Rev. Bailey said. “I do not support the cloning. Nor do I plan on saying anything like that on my show.”

“Thank you.” Taylor said, relieved.

“I do, however...” Rev. Bailey watched Taylor in the mirror. “…plan on denouncing the violent protest against it.”

“Then you support the cloning.”

“I didn’t say that,” the Reverend responded. “I plan on denouncing the violence. My Goodness, son, the Lord hates those who love violence. Psalms, eleven, five.”

“It’s not the violence I agree with,” countered Taylor. “It’s what’s causing it that the network cannot support. Christians everywhere are outraged. You have a scientific institute resurrecting Christ.” Taylor’s voice grew angry as Reverend Bailey smiled. “Why are you smiling?” Taylor demanded.

“Resurrecting Christ? Listen to you. They’re doing no such thing. People need to know that resurrecting Christ, re-birthing him, is not what’s going on here. They are conducting an experiment. That’s it and that’s all.” Rev. Bailey swiveled his chair to face Taylor. “I spoke with the top scientists in the world before I came to this conclusion. I asked Mr. Westing himself. How many shots do they have at trying to make this clone? You know what they told me? One hundred and twenty-two.”

“That’s a lot.” Taylor said resolutely.

“It’s nominal horseshit,” Rev. Bailey countered. “Do you remember the sheep that was cloned? It took them over three hundred tries to get it right. Three hundred. The last time Westing tried to clone, it took two hundred and eighteen times. And
that
was to clone a mouse. Do you get where I’m going with this?” Rev. Bailey smiled. “There is no way they are going to do this in one hundred and twenty-two attempts. They’ll fail. And if by some chance they don’t, if by some chance the cloning process succeeds...” Rev. Bailey tossed his hands up. “Well, it won’t be because of some scientist, it’ll be because the Lord
wants
it to happen.”

“So what exactly do you plan on preaching?” Taylor asked.

“I’m going to tell my followers to have faith… to have faith that what should happen will happen, and that the failure of this project shouldn’t be tied to violence, but rather on our Lord’s will to see it fail. I’m hoping that I can get other ministries to heed my advice. Too many lives have been lost already. This thing has a million-to-one shot of coming off.”

Taylor shook his head in disgust. “Do you think you can stop the violence?”

“I don’t know. But, as a man of God, it is my duty to try.”

Taylor rose from his seat. “What happens, Reverend, if the cloning is successful? What will you preach then?”

“If they succeed, then we should examine why that is. Is there a reason? The Lord promised his son would return. Maybe He is testing us. Remember, we, as a people, didn’t believe in Him the last time He came.”

“He wasn’t delivered in a test tube.” Taylor protested. “That’s kind of a farfetched way for God to send his son.”

“Well, the last time, He arrived via an angel through a woman who knew no man.” Rev. Bailey winked. “That’s kind of farfetched, too. But it happened.”

“I guess we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.” Taylor shrugged, and headed for the door, stopping at the threshold. “Oh, incidentally, how much does the station get out of this?”

“Fifteen percent, as usual.”

Taylor bobbed his head judiciously. “Works for me. Have a good day.”

“You too, son.” Returning to the mirror, Rev. Bailey watched Taylor leave, then touched his cheek and frowned. “Melanie,” he called. “I’m lopsided here, darlin’, come and finish. I have a show to do.”