The Genesis Key (18 page)

Chapter Thirty

Rockville, Maryland.

J
eremy Fisher was thoroughly exhausted. He'd been awake since early Saturday morning—nearly forty hours ago. His hair was a mess, he had the beginnings of a full beard on his face, and his clothes were badly wrinkled and ripe. Earlier in the day, he'd driven to McDonald's for a Big Mac and fries—his only meal of the day.

In his entire life, Jeremy could not remember being as tired as he was right now. Still, despite Kathleen's admonition to go home, there were a few important things he needed to finish up in the lab before he could leave. Most important, he needed to transfer the purified DNA sample into a half dozen sterilized neoprene sample bottles for retention. After a lucky success like today's, the last thing he wanted to do was leave his DNA sample sitting overnight at room temperature where it could decay, or worse, get contaminated.

He knew that if any bit of stray DNA got into the sample at this point—even a tiny bead of sweat from his fingers or a microscopic cell of airborne yeast—all would be lost. If any polymerase chain reaction (“PCR”) solution remained unquenched in the sample, it could amplify the invading DNA and quickly turn the entire sample into an ambiguous, multi-species DNA soup. In other words, useless. At this stage of the process, more so than at any other, contamination was the enemy. And he wasn't about to be robbed of his breakthrough success.

Jeremy's plan was to divide the bulk sample into six equal aliquots, each sealed in a sterilized sample bottle. He then planned to freeze five of the aliquots with liquid nitrogen for long-term storage. The remaining sample bottle would go in the laboratory's refrigerator for Julie's sequencing work.

He rubbed his bloodshot eyes, which were burning badly. He'd left his contact lenses in far too long, and he desperately needed to take them out. Fumbling through his tattered canvas backpack, he found his “geek glasses” and slipped them into his pants pocket. He exited the lab, being sure to close the airtight door behind him, and lumbered slowly down the hallway toward QLS's small unisex bathroom. He entered the bathroom, flipped on the light, and closed the door with a soft
ka-chunk
.

Groggily, he removed his contacts and splashed cold water on his eyes, which felt great. He washed his unshaven face with soap and water and, for nearly a minute, savored the feeling of having his eyes closed. Finally, reluctantly, he dried his face with a paper towel and put his glasses on.

It took a long time for his bloodshot eyes to adjust to their new corrective lenses. As they came into focus, he stared at himself in the mirror with amazement. He looked like hell. He poked the dark, puffy circles under his eyes and wondered what, exactly, caused them. At some point, he became aware of the monotonous electrical buzz of the overhead fluorescent light . . .
and something else.

Straining to hear, he detected something metallic and irregular—a rattling noise somewhere just outside the building. It lasted a few seconds—
tat tat tat
—then stopped. A few seconds later, it resumed—
tat tat tat tat
—then stopped again. Jeremy stood motionless, straining to listen. But, as before, the buzz of the bathroom's fluorescent light was the only audible sound.

He exited the bathroom and started back toward the lab, stopping momentarily at the emergency door at the back of the building. “Hello?” he said tentatively.

Silence.

“Hmph.” He shook his head. He
really
needed some sleep. Rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses, he continued on.

Halfway down the hallway, he heard the same noise again—a soft, metallic clicking sound. This time, though, it came from the other end of the hallway, near the lab. It was just a brief, isolated noise, but this time, he was
sure
he'd heard it.

He picked up his pace. The hallway was dim and his vision still slightly blurred from rubbing his eyes. He entered the anteroom to the lab and stopped short.

Something was out of place
.

He spotted it immediately. The door to the lab was open—just a faction of an inch, but open nonetheless. He was sure he'd closed it. It was something Dr. S had drilled into his head since Day One at QLS. The airtight door to the lab must always remain shut because slight temperature fluctuations can affect the breeding cycle of
Drosophila
. He was positive he'd closed that door.

Hadn't he?

“Hello? Julie? Dr. S?”

No reply.

He approached the door and reached for the doorknob but quickly withdrew his hand. The light was on inside, just as he'd left it.
But how did the door get open?
A fleeting image of the discolored tooth crossed his mind. Two days ago, he had extracted human dental pulp from it. The process had repulsed him somewhat, but he'd gotten through it. Now, the image of that tooth returned to his mind—strange and grotesque.

His hand hovered just inches from the doorknob. His pulse was racing wildly. “Hello?” After a long period of silence, he laughed to himself nervously.
Don't be ridiculous,
he thought. Obviously, he'd left the door open by mistake. It was late, and he
seriously
needed some sleep.

He cracked the door open farther and poked his head through. “Hello?” he said again. “Julie? Dr. S?” He stepped through the door and scanned the lab quickly with his blurry, bloodshot eyes. Everything looked normal.

He walked farther into the room. Nothing appeared to be out of place—

Bam!
The lab door slammed shut behind him and latched with a reverberating clank.

Jeremy spun and immediately found himself staring down the barrel of an enormous black handgun, inches from his face. The man holding the gun was tall and lanky. He wore black jeans, a grimy white T-shirt, and a thin, partially zipped black leather jacket. His face was boney and angular, his eyes dark and ruthless.

“Don't move,” said Semion Zafer.

The order was entirely unnecessary. Jeremy was already frozen in place, speechless.
Am I imagining this? Is this really happening?

“Where's the sample?” Zafer croaked.

“The what?”

Zafer frowned and thrust the barrel of his SP–21 Barak pistol directly into Jeremy's forehead. “Don't fuck with me, asshole! I want that DNA sample you told Dr. Sainsbury about tonight. Where is it
?
”

The feeling of the cold steel barrel on Jeremy's forehead acted like an eraser, making his mind go entirely blank. He struggled for words but managed only to open and close his mouth like a beached fish.

“Where . . . the
fuck
. . . is it!” Zafer brought his face within inches of Jeremy's, the Barak pressed firmly against Jeremy's skull.

“Th . . . there.” Jeremy motioned with his eyes toward the black soapstone bench behind him.

“Get it.”

Jeremy backed away from the pistol, unable to take his eyes off the barrel. Slowly, unsteadily, he inched backward toward the bench. When he got within arm's reach of the sample flask, he picked it up with a trembling hand. “This is it,” he said.

Zafer lowered the pistol and held out his hand. “Bring it here.”

“What do you want with it?” Jeremy asked, immediately regretting the question.

“Hey!” Zafer bellowed. “I didn't say talk. I said bring it here . . .
Now
!”

“Okay, okay.” Jeremy handed the flask to Zafer, who snatched it away.

“Now,” Zafer said, “get on the floor.”

Jeremy's heart was pounding against his ribcage. A single thought was reverberating in his head.
He's going to kill me. Right now! Right this very second! He's going to kill me!

“On the
floor
!” Zafer shouted.

Slowly, Jeremy complied. His mind was spinning chaotically, every synapse firing at once. He had to think! He was on his knees now.

“Lie down!” Zafer ordered. “On your stomach.”

Think!
Jeremy commanded his brain.
Think!

Zafer was stepping toward him now, standing over him.

Think, think, think!
was the shrill refrain in Jeremy's head. He was fully prone now with his nose on the cool vinyl-tile floor. He could almost feel the barrel of the gun above his skull. Then he heard a click.
The gun safety?
It had to be.
Come on, think!

“The sample's not quenched!” Jeremy blurted.

“What?”

“It's not quenched,” Jeremy repeated, his nose still pressed to the floor. “There's a polymerase chain reaction going on in the flask. You have to quench it or the sample will be ruined in a matter of minutes.”

That was not true, but Jeremy wasn't exactly concerned with scientific accuracy right now. He was trying to avoid a bullet in the back of his head.

“You're lying!” Zafer snarled.

“No, I swear! Look at the workbench. I was just about to add the quench solution. I . . . I just went to the bathroom to take out my contacts before I got started. If you don't quench it, the sample will be ruined. I'm telling the truth!”

There was a long pause as Zafer apparently mulled over this new information. “Okay, get up.”

Jeremy stood up, grateful for the reprieve but still shaking uncontrollably. “If you want, I can—”

“Shut up!” Zafer moved close to Jeremy and put his mouth next to his ear. Jeremy could smell alcohol on his breath. “If you try anything stupid,” Zafer whispered in a heavy accent, “I'm gonna blow your
fucking head
off. Understand?”

Jeremy nodded clumsily.

“Now. Quench it.” Zafer placed the flask on the benchtop next to the titration setup that Jeremy had referred to.

Jeremy approached the bench cautiously and slowly slid the flask under one of the pipettes. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Zafer glaring at him, scrutinizing every move he made. Carefully, Jeremy pulled the neoprene stopper from the mouth of the flask. He glanced nervously over his shoulder at Zafer, recalling his whispered promise:
I'm gonna blow your fucking head off . . .

“It's a five-hundred milliliter sample,” Jeremy said nervously over his shoulder, “so I'll have to add two point five milliliters of the quench solution.” He nodded toward the sheet of paper on the bench next to the titration setup. “I'm following the protocol on that paper. You can check if you want.”

“Just do it,” Zafer said.

Jeremy exhaled loudly. “Okay . . .” He reached up to adjust the stopcock and noticed that his hand was shaking badly.
Calm down
, he told himself.
Relax. You can do this.

“Hurry up!” Zafer bellowed. “I don't have all night!”

Jeremy grasped the frosted-glass handle of the stopcock with this thumb and forefinger and twisted it open. A thin stream of liquid began to dispense from the bottom of the pipette into the flask. The liquid was not quench solution as he'd said. In fact, it was PCR solution. It would have the
opposite
effect of actually accelerating the polymerase chain reaction in the flask. Jeremy watched the calibrated markings on the pipette carefully, keeping track of how much liquid had been dispensed. 0.5 ml . . . 1.0 ml . . . 1.5 ml . . . 1.7 ml . . . 1.9 ml . . . 2.0 ml
 
. . .

He shut the stopcock. “I'll add the rest dropwise,” he said over his shoulder. “Ten drops should take it to exactly 2.5 milliliters.”

He eased the stopcock open a tiny bit, causing a single drop of liquid to form at the tip of the pipette. The drop grew larger until it eventually fell into the flask. “One,” Jeremy said aloud.
I need a plan
, he thought to himself.

Another drop formed at the bottom of the pipette and fell into the flask. “Two . . .”
He's got a gun
.
He's blocking the door!
Another drop. “Three . . .”
He's going to kill me!
“Four . . .”

Suddenly, an entirely different thought entered Jeremy's mind. “Five . . .”
Who is this asshole, anyway?
“Six . . .”
Why does he want our DNA sample?
“Seven . . .”
This sample must be it.
“Eight . . .”
The INDY gene!
“Nine . . .”
That's why he wants it!
“Ten.”

Well . . . screw him
.

Jeremy closed the stopcock and replaced the neoprene stopper on the flask. “I've got to mix it now,” he announced, picking up the flask with both hands. He turned to face Zafer and nodded toward the paper on the bench. “The protocol says so.”

“Just do it.”

Jeremy began gently swirling the flask around in the air at about chest level. The cloudy liquid inside the flask sloshed around in uneven circles.

Zafer watched for several seconds with increasing impatience. “Okay, that's enough!”

“Wait,” said Jeremy. “Just a few more seconds.” Then, without warning, he tossed the flask high in the air behind him, away from Zafer.

“No!
” Zafer shouted, diving for the flask.

At the same moment, Jeremy darted past Zafer and lunged toward the door. He opened it quickly and ran out of the lab, pulling the door shut behind him. As he passed through the anteroom and into the hallway, he heard the distinct sound of breaking glass and Zafer cursing loudly back in the lab. He turned left and raced toward the front doors. Seconds later, he heard the laboratory door slam open. The gunman was after him.

Jeremy ran past the QLS conference room, through the small lobby, and straight to the glass double doors at the front entrance of the building. He pushed hard on the doors.