Sins of the Flesh
NEW YORK BOSTON
Prequel: The Making of the Man
This book is dedicated to Anne Frazier Walradt, Gail Freeman, Kathye Quick, Lois Winston, Melinda Leigh, Michele Richter, and Rayna Vause for being an amazing group of friends and for all their hard work and dedication in helping found the Liberty States Fiction Writers. You all rock!
To my wonderful agent, Kevan Lyon, and my amazing editor, Selina McLemore, who believed in this series from day one and helped make it possible.
To Michele Maughan for enduring my many questions about gene expression and the “what ifs…” Any and all scientific errors are solely my fault and no reflection on this very bright and understanding Graduate Student Senate president and PhD graduate student.
Finally, to Colleen, Gretchen, Irene, Jamie, and Tami for helping me while I struggled to find a new title for SINS OF THE FLESH. Your help was truly appreciated!
T
he day the music died, Caterina Shaw did as well.
Not physically, although she understood the death of her body was inevitable. She had come to terms with that reality some time ago. She had even managed to deal with the blindness caused by the tumor eating away at her brain. But then the pain had become so great that it had silenced the music, stealing away the only thing that had made life worth the anguish.
“You understand this treatment is new and uncertain,” Dr. Rudy Wells explained, his voice smooth and comforting. The touch of his hand, warm and reassuring, came against hers as it rested on her thigh.
“I understand,” she said and faced the direction of that calming voice.
Another person abruptly chimed in, his tones as strident and grating as a badly played oboe. “We’ll begin with laser surgery to remove the bulk of the tumor followed by two different courses of gene therapy.”
Two
? she wondered and sensed Dr. Wells’s hesitation as well from the tremble that skated across his fingers. He removed his hand from hers and said, “Dr. Edwards believes that we can not only shut down the tumor growing
in your brain, but possibly regrow the portions of your optic nerve that the tumor damaged.”
Caterina’s only wish when considering the experimental treatment had been to stop the pain so that she could play her cello once again. So that her last months would be filled with the vitality her music provided.
It was through her music that she lived. That her mother lived, Caterina thought, recalling the passion she had felt as a small child when her mother had played the piano for her; the way her mother’s fingers had coaxed life from the keys much like she now did with a stroke of her bow and the deft touch of her fingers on the strings of her cello.
Or at least like she had up until the cancer had put an end to her music, bringing her life to a close. Except now she was being told something different.
Caterina had never thought about eliminating the tumor. Every prognosis so far had been that she was terminal. Now these new doctors told her not only that she might live, but that she might actually see again, too. She didn’t dare believe that she would be able to get her old life back completely, as well as her sight, but…
“You think I’ll be able to recover? To see again?” Caterina asked, needing to be sure she had understood correctly.
“The risks are great, my dear,” Dr. Wells urged gently.
“But you qualify for the human trials because of the advanced state of your illness, Ms. Shaw,” Dr. Edwards added, annoyance at his partner evident in the staccato beats of his voice.
Her advanced state, which could possibly bring death even with this treatment, Caterina thought. Not that she feared her end. What she did fear was letting the pain in
her head rob her of the one thing she could not live without: her music.
She knew without hesitation that it was worth any risk to regain that part of her. To drive back the illness so she could play her cello once more and reanimate her heart for as long as she had left if the treatments couldn’t stop the tumor.
“What do you need me to do?”
Six months later
M
ick Carrera understood what kind of man he was.
Ruthless.
Determined.
Skilled in the art of killing.
People came to him when no one else could handle their problems because Mick either solved them or eliminated them—if Mick thought elimination was justified. Some scruples remained buried in his soul, a secret he closely guarded. In his line of work, having scruples equated to weakness.
Dr. Raymond Edwards had presented him with the kind of job that possibly ended with elimination, although Edwards hadn’t come right out and said so during their short telephone conversation. The doctor had skirted around the subject with the skill of a ballroom dancer, insisting time and time again that all he required were the services of a security specialist to assist with a problem at their facility.
Mick’s initial misgivings made him wonder why he had even come to the doctor’s office for this additional discussion. His typical clientele preferred meeting places that were much less visible, but then again, maybe such transparency meant
that the doctor had been truthful about the nature of this assignment.
He scoped out the office as he entered, taking note of the fact that there was only one entrance in and out. Not good for a quick escape. As he passed a credenza located beneath a wall filled with diplomas, framed news articles, and photos, he noticed a small bronze statue of a horse mounted on a heavy marble base.
The size and weight of the statue would make it a handy weapon for either cracking open a man’s skull or breaking through the plate glass windows which lined one long wall of the office. The clear windows were now darkening, the color becoming as deep and dense as squid ink and likely for the same reason—concealment.
Mick had noticed all the high-tech security on his way through the entrance of the building. He had expected it even while worrying about it. He knew his image would end up saved on a hard drive somewhere from the assorted cameras positioned throughout the offices, but if Dr. Edwards was on the up-and-up, this was one job that was too good not to consider.
“I thought you might like some privacy,” the man behind the desk said as he rose and offered his hand.
“Dr. Raymond Edwards,” the man said.
Mick shook his hand and with a nod said, “Mick Carrera.”
As Mick sat, he caught a glimpse of another security camera behind the desk, aimed directly at his chair. When Edwards tracked his gaze, he said, “Don’t worry, Mr. Carrera. I’ll make sure all traces of you are erased from our systems.”
“I appreciate your understanding,” Mick replied, even
while wondering again why a supposedly distinguished scientist like Raymond Edwards had sought out the services of a man like him. What else had the good doctor erased from the company’s security videos?
Dragging his attention back to the man seated behind the desk, he listened as Edwards offered a rather lengthy introduction about the work that his biotech company did and their many accomplishments. Edwards’s manner was outwardly confident and businesslike, but Mick couldn’t help noticing how the doctor kept his right hand on the face of the file on his desk and fiddled with one corner of the thick folder, thumbing it again and again. The curled corner of the papers confirmed that Edwards had opened up that file more times than the good doctor wanted Mick to know.
When Edwards paused for a breath, Mick seized the opportunity. “Your mission is clear, Dr. Edwards. Your company specializes in developing gene therapies for the terminally ill.”
The man stiffened and immediately corrected him. “Our present group of patients is terminally ill, but we hope that what we learn from our current research—”
“Will help all of mankind in the future. So why do you require my services?”
Edwards thumbed the edge of the folder again before lacing his hands together on the face of the file. He leaned forward slightly, as if he was about to share something intimate. A furrow of worry developed over the bridge of his nose, but the rest of his thin face remained passive.
“I’ve been told your specialties are corporate security and discreet investigations,” he said.
The dance has commenced
, Mick thought. He was almost amused by the way the man was twirling his way around the true nature of Mick’s work. “My experience—”
“Is rather extensive. Army Ranger. EMT. Security consultant for one of the nation’s top companies before you decided to go out on your own.”
It hadn’t really been a voluntary decision, but in the end it had worked out well for all involved—except the two civilians who had been killed during his last assignment.
Mick pressed on. “Your background check seems to have been quite thorough, Dr. Edwards, which makes me wonder just why you need my… special skills.”
A sly smile slinked across Edwards’s face as he finally pushed the folder across the desk, but another thicker file still remained beneath the doctor’s manicured fingers.
Mick opened the slim manila folder. On one side were copies of preliminary police reports on a murder that had occurred in the company’s labs. He recalled hearing about it on the early morning Philadelphia news a few days before and had immediately made the connection last night when Edwards had telephoned.
Dr. Rudy Wells, a top researcher and co-owner of the biotech company, had died a grisly death. Both the officers’ notes and photos detailed the many injuries he had suffered.
Wells had been ripped apart. One arm and leg had been torn from his torso. The sharp point of a broken chair leg had been jammed through the
foramen magnum
at the base of his skull.
Mick flipped through all the pictures, imagining the kind of strength it would take to do that to another human being.
Gauging the apparent rage, Mick reasoned it must have been a personal attack, since no professional would have done such a messy job.
