Eternity Falls

Chapter One

Los Angeles—2081

Too close.

Horns and screeching tires yelled at him from behind as Rick Macey counter-steered, sliding the silver Lexus sideways before nearly sideswiping a cab. He tuned his neural net to the local traffic satellite, its overhead image minimizing in the corner of his vision as he careened through another intersection in the turbocharged sedan.

Pouring rain turned the city streets into tar-black mirrors. Traffic signals and holographic billboards reflected in a disorientating array of flashing neon and laser light. He forced his eyes to see through it as he neurally shifted gears, plowing through a hazily reflected red light—rain pounding his car top in a snare drum roll.

Artificial adrenalin heightened his senses. He warned slower vehicles with a constant blaring of the horn, weaving restlessly behind them like an Indy car driver waiting for the pace car to pull away. Finally he spotted open roadway ahead on the traffic-sat. He punched the gas, wiper jets barely maintaining visibility as the methanol engine roared and his speed increased.

100…120…130…

No way was he letting the killer get away.

Not this time.

Not when he had the location pinned.

Macey locked his comm onto the police band, scanned the channels for confirmation of the kill. His neural net queued up a series of transmissions and he let them play, his AI ciphering through and discarding the impertinent bits according to his search algorithm. A cacophony of voices relayed their various pieces of information.

<confirmed homicide…>

<twenty year old Hispanic female...>

<single head wound…>

<20mm shell extracted from wall forty mete…>

<shot origin estimated at two miles plus…>

Two miles. That sealed it. It was the Streetwalker Sniper for sure.

The traffic-sat marked his destination looming ahead of him, a building towering a hundred stories into the stormy night sky. Macey downshifted and slid the Lexus to a halt at the entrance of the Liberty Tower Complex. He sprinted through the downpour toward the glass front doors.

A lone security guard sat loafing at a duty desk within but Macey couldn’t wait for a proper entrance request from HQ. He gazed upward at the mammoth citadel as rain peppered his eyes. It was nearly a thousand feet tall, multi-terraced and cylindrical in shape—like some giant wedding cake with a cheese grater exterior of widows mapping its outside. Climbing the thing was out of the question. Besides, there were easier ways to the top.

He took a two-step run up and vaulted himself to a first-story window ledge, clinging to it by his fingertips before hoisting himself the rest of the way with a mild grunt. He was already soaked, his hair dripping and matted, water penetrating his trench coat to his shirt, tie, and slacks beneath. He endured the discomfort as he braced himself within the window ledge for safety and bowed his head in concentration.

He accessed the web through his neural net, searched for the building’s security system through the data window in the corner of his vision. In seconds he found it and used his encryption keys to gain full access.

He sent an interrupt signal to the security system at the same moment his elbow smashed the heavy glass. It shattered like a piece of rock candy but stayed fixed to the laminated backing, clattering onto an office desk in a single sheet. He rolled inside after it and tumbled off the desk, his wet shoes slipping on glass shards and office papers before coming to a stand. He sent a fake all clear signal to the security system right before it registered the breach.

Easy so far.

The internal security system proved even easier. He bypassed it by hacking the device controllers directly. In minutes, he opened the office door, neurally forced the security cameras to scan in the opposite direction as he passed, and hailed an elevator.

As he rode it skyward, Macey drew his Mauser M5 automatic pistol from his shoulder holster, and chambered a round. With luck he’d never use it, but at this stage there was no sense being ill-prepared.

The elevator doors opened with a pleasant bing, and Macey stepped onto the top floor. The schematic in his internal view showed that two flights of stairs lay between the top floor and the roof. He hit the stairwell at a run.

As he climbed he kept close watch on the Sniper’s position on the internal map. Still stationary—was he seeking another target? Macey doubled his speed.

There’d be no more deaths tonight.

Hurricane-like winds and rain beat against the door to the roof as he forced it open. At a hundred stories up the rainstorm screamed in a banshee howl. Solar panels and satellite arrays rattled with each gust, threatening to break loose from their knee-high mountings and ruin the maze pattern they formed on the roof. A massive sat-dish stood between him and the sniper’s position.

He paused to access his remote memory device, retrieving more data on the case. It hadn’t occurred to him until now, but the previous occasions the Streetwalker Sniper had struck boasted similar weather conditions. It made sense. At each crime scene, 20mm rounds had been found—and a 20mm rifle made one heck of a bang. Using a silencer would be out of the question as it would lower the accuracy and muzzle velocity, not to mention be ultimately useless as the round itself was supersonic and would cause a sonic boom. A storm provided the perfect cover for the sniper.

Cover Macey would now take advantage of.

He stalked through the whipping rain, which began to abate, forming a stinging mist as he edged closer to the sniper’s position. His internal mapper showed a red triangle just around the sat-dish. As Macey shuffled around it, a figure came into view, hunched over the side of the roof’s safety wall.

The sniper looked small—under five feet. But Macey didn’t let himself underestimate this guy. He’d proven to be a formidable hacker, having accessed the skyscraper’s roof most likely in the same way he had. He would also certainly have some military training, judging from his skill, and possibly access to other military weaponry he hadn’t yet revealed. On top of that, he was methodical and patient.

The previous rainstorm had taken place over a month ago. The sniper was no raving lunatic on a killing spree. He was an assassin, a rational executioner with a well–thought-out plan of action.

And from the looks of him now that Macey was closer, he was about fourteen years old.

Macey stood for what felt like a minute, gazing at the scrawny white kid decked out in a black jacket, fatigues, army boots, and a baseball cap turned backwards. He stood shouldering a tripod-mounted Barrett 20mm cyber-rifle, leaning on the safety wall. The weapon looked twice his size. His white-knuckled hands clenched the pistol grip and trigger while a wire ran from the base of his neck to the Barrett’s targeting scope.

Macey took a few steps forward to bring himself within earshot. He blinked away the rain, drew his pistol, and raised his voice above the level of the wind: “Let go of that rifle, son.”

The boy jumped, his head turning back to give him a who-the-heck-are-you kind of glare.

“It’s over,” Macey said.

The kid’s lower lip curled into a snarl and he turned back to the scope, tensing for a last shot.

Macey fired a single round from the Mauser. The bullet severed the rifle’s control cable with a spark, sending the sniper into a fit of screams as he clenched the back of his neck.

“Coward!” He yanked what was left of the cable from the head. “You’re supposed to kill me. Don’t you even know that?” He backed against the wall, his young face twisted with all the menace of a high school bully. The stock of the Barrett fell to the floor and dangled from the tripod affixed to the wall.

“Kill you, huh?” Macey kept the Mauser trained on him as he inched closer. “Unlike some I could mention, I don’t make a habit of killing people. Especially not kids, even ones as sick as you. Lie down with your hands behind your head. The cops are on their way.”

He slowly shook his head. “How’d you find me anyway?”

“Your ego.”

“What?”

“Think it takes a genius to figure out a two mile headshot requires a cyber-rifle, smart bullets, and targeting satellite support?”

The kid snorted. “So you hacked the satellite.”

“No, but I knew you would.” Macey stepped around a solar array. “I gotta admit, you were pretty good when you hit the sat. Quick in and out, just long enough to acquire your target and get your shot off, but…” He tapped the neural port on the nape of his neck. “…long enough for me to plant a trace.”

“Nice one.” The kid flicked what was left of the control cable from his hand like a cigarette butt. “Guess you think you’re smart, then. Bet you think you’re righteous too. Bet you think it’s your righteousness that keeps you from killing like I do.”

“I don’t know what you’re—”

“You just fear death more than God.”

Crazy little punk. “Just get on your knees.”

“I killed those whores in God’s name.” He tugged at his jacket. “Gave them a chance to repent, but they didn’t listen. So I sent them to the judgment—before they can drag any more souls to hell with them with their tempting lusts.”

“How can a kid even think like that?” Macey stepped toward him more forcefully as the kid kept tugging at his jacket. Was he hiding something underneath? “Just shut up and hit the floor. I won’t kill you but I will shoot you if I have to. And you’ve seen I’m a pretty good shot.”

“Go ahead,” the boy said and his jacket flew open. It flapped in the wind, revealing a crucifix dangling from a leather strap about his neck. His torso was packed with what looked like plastic explosives. Perfect. And in his hand he held a trigger, already depressed, a dead man switch.

Macey backed away, lowering his Mauser and raising his free hand. “Calm down, kid. No one else has to die today.”

“You do,” he said with a piercing stare, “and so do I.” He looked behind Macey toward the door to the staircase. “I thought there’d be more of you when it finally came to it, but if it’s just one cop then that’s the way God wants it.” He leaned his elbows against the wall as if it were a bar and he in a club, the trigger still in hand. “I’ll give you the same chance I gave those whores. Will you repent before you die, pig?”

“Why are you doing this?” The kid had gained the upper hand, but there were ways to change that. Subtle ways. “What do you hope to accomplish by all this?”

“Look at you.” He smirked, shook his head. “Still so afraid to die, aren’t you?”

Keep talking, kid, just a few seconds more. “I guess you’ve got me all figured out.”

“I know where I’m going, man, do you?” The sniper taunted him with a wave of his crucifix. “This is your last chance, little piggy. Repent before God or burn forever in Hell.”

Bingo.

“Repent, huh?” Macey holstered the Mauser and strode forward, seized the boy’s wrist. “I’ll show you repent.”

The kid staggered backward, eyes wide, mouth ajar as he sank to the rooftop. His arm shook spastically as he tried to let go of the trigger, his jaw grinding like a vice.

“What is thish?” he said between clenched teeth.

“You’re paralyzed.” Macey studied the crude detonation device about the boy’s waist and quickly disarmed it. “I hacked your neural net while you were busy running your mouth. Don’t worry, I just froze your gross motor control. I’ll release it as soon as I get a proper cyber-lock plugged into your neural jack.”

The kid laughed—as much as he could laugh with a clenched jaw anyway. “You are ferry good.” His laughter faded, and despair contorted his features until he sobbed gutturally in jerky breaths. “Preez jush kill me… I don’t womma liff in dis world no more.”

“And just what do you know about living?” He grabbed the crucifix about his neck and showed it to him. “Only this and your hate?”

The boy didn’t respond, just kept on crying.

Macey rose with a deep exhale. Kids killing hookers in the name of God. Could it get any worse?

Probably.

The rain had died almost completely now but the wind still gusted. The police units he had called would be arriving shortly, but he wasn’t in the mood for the lengthy explanations they would want from him if they found him here.

“The cops are coming for you. You won’t wander off, will you?” He turned from the temporarily paralyzed boy and headed toward the stairwell. “Oh, and just so you know, since you seem to believe in all that stuff…repentance alone won’t bring you salvation.”

* * *

An hour later Macey found himself in the place he usually went after a rough day, a dive of a sushi bar called Saban’s, in old Little Tokyo. It was little more than a crawl space, shaped like a shoebox with a sushi bar on one side, booths on the other, and an airplane-aisle-sized walkway in between. As usual, Saban’s crowd was nonexistent: even at happy hour the place was dead.

Maybe that was partly why he dug it so much: the solitude, the bad air conditioning, the old flat film monitors dangling from the ceiling and covered in dust. A relic like he was. It felt more like home than his bourgeois approved apartment in the Hills that did little more than serve as housing for his remote memory device.

He sat at the rearmost booth, facing the entrance. In front of him lingered a half order of tuna sashimi he hadn’t touched yet and a cup of sake he didn’t want to. Memorabilia was their purpose. He took a bite of his real food, a banana-flavored energy bar that tasted more like cardboard than fruit, and sighed.

His mind wandered to the Streetwalker Sniper case. Police band said he was en route to Central. Confused chatter about how he’d ended up in that condition. Macey couldn’t make himself turn it off.

An incoming call on his neural net’s comm link provided a timely distraction. Even before he checked the ID he knew it’d be Paul Webb calling—he was the only person with reason to.

He maximized the comm display in the corner of his vision and Paul’s face came into full view. Paul was in his fifties, black. His head and face were clean-shaven save for a well-kept mustache that Macey knew he dyed in order to keep jet black.

<Evening, Major.> Macey greeted him with his inner voice rather than his actual one, a minor feat he took some pride in.

Most people still spoke aloud while using internal comms. Human nature, he supposed, like the old telephone days when people would gesture while they talked as if the person on the other end of the line could see them. Ironically, now that they had video feed technology, people seemed to gesture less. Maybe because they knew they were being watched.

Paul was no exception. His shoulders remained square-on but he did manage a smile. <How long do you intend to keep calling me that?>

Macey responded with a smile of his own, even though he lacked a camera for Paul to see it. Falling victim to his own statistics gave him an even wider grin. <Sorry. You know: old habits. Evening, Colonel.>

Paul laughed. <And that used to be my line. Old habits do die hard.>

Macey poked at his Sashimi. <I suspect you’re calling about the sniper.>

<I am, but I’m also wondering why I have to find out from the police net that the guy’s been nabbed.>

<Sorry about that too. I should have called you earlier.>

<It’s okay.> Paul laughed, lightening the mood. <I’m just glad we got the guy. Besides, I figured you might be trying to become a superhero or something. Beat up the bad guy and leave him for the cops while disappearing into the night without a trace.>

He chuckled at the imagery. <No, no… I just… The situation got a little messed up, that’s all.>

<What do you mean? You didn’t get hurt, did you, Mace?>

<Nah, nothing like that. Just brought back some old memories. Plus the perp turning out to be a kid and all...>

A pause lingered. <Well, your compensation has already been transferred. Job well done, as usual.>

<Thanks.>

Paul sucked in his bottom lip, glancing sideward.

Macey knew that look. <What’s up, Colonel? You holding out on me?>

Paul chortled and gave Macey a you-caught-me kind of smile. <To be honest, the sniper case wasn’t the main reason I was calling. But, knowing you had an off night, I feel bad about bringing this up right now.>

Macey glanced up at the door as trio of women in business suits strolled in. <Don’t worry about it. What is it?>

<A case just came up. Another weird one, but you might find it interesting. It’s got some urgency to it, though.>

<What’s the details?> Macey took another bite of his banana-cardboard bar.

<It’s too complicated for me to get into. This one is more a referral than a job. CDI can’t get involved at this stage so the client would have to contract with you directly.>

<No government paycheck, huh?>

<Not for this one, bud. Here’s the contact number. The name’s Sheila Dunn. If you’re interested, check it out immediately.>

<Will do, Paul. Thanks.>

<Try to take it easy this time. Later.>

He signed out and accessed the number. It was a private comm link with voice-only access. It rang a couple times and then a female voice answered.

<Speak.>

<Hello, Ms. Dunn?> He spoke cordially, hoping to encourage the woman to reciprocate on the other end. <This is Rick Macey. I was given your contact by Paul Webb, concerning some matter of urgency?>

<It’s about time you called. I’ve been waiting all day. Look, if you want this job, stop screwing around and get to this address in twenty minutes.>

Nice tone, lady. But he forced himself not to react in kind. She was a potential client, after all. He glanced at the address as it downloaded. A private estate. <Sherman Oaks?>

<That’d better not be the extent of your deductive abilities or we’re in a world of trouble here. When you show up, you’d better aim to impress the life out of me.>

The comm dropped.

Macey mulled over the abrupt conversation before calling Paul back.

<So I called her…>

<And? What’d you think?> Paul’s mile-wide grin hinted he was resisting the urge to laugh, but was on the brink of failure.

<This better not be another one of your gigolo pranks, Paul, I swear.>

Paul slapped his hands together, cackling. <Come on, Mace, that was funny. But trust me, this has got nothing to do with the gigolo gag. You’re probably gonna wish it did once you see her, though.>

<Yeah, whatever.> Macey gave him a grin Paul couldn’t see. <She seems a real piece of work, that’s for sure.>

<Oh, she is.> Paul smiled with an overly dramatic widening of his eyes. <Good luck, Mace. You’re gonna need it.>

* * *

Macey loaded the Sherman Oaks address into the Lexus’ auto-drive for the short journey north. The navigation computer calculated twenty-eight minutes for the trip—good time, considering the rain.

He let the auto-drive take him there, but not for mere ease. He used the time to run through his normal routine for a new case.

Macey connected to the web through his neural net and began gathering information while the car drove its course through the winding, forest-clad hills of Northern L.A. The moon played hide and seek behind a smattering of clouds, illuminating the trees with a sparkling glisten as the light reflected off their still wet leaves.

By the time it pulled up at the Sherman Oaks address he had stockpiled a fair bit of data about the case and the people involved. Not enough to know all the specifics, but enough to not seem like a clueless idiot when he arrived.

The Lexus stopped before a set of ornate iron gates. Beyond it, the ceramic tiled roof of a three-story mansion rose in the cloudy night sky. Macey tapped into the comm system, gave a virtual knock, and eventually the security program acknowledged his ID and allowed him inside.

The estate looked every inch the home of a former A-list movie starlet. This one happened to belong to Greta Darling. Macey hadn’t heard her name in decades. She had been quite popular in the twenties and thirties but her career had faded near the middle of the century. In her prime, she had successfully made the transition from mere actress to legend of the silver screen. Much like Marilyn Monroe or Julia Roberts, in her heyday everyone knew who Greta Darling was. Though now only old-timers like him would truly remember her splendor, seeing as she was close to ninety years old these days.

The house was the kind you would expect to find in Sherman Oaks: three stories, eight bedrooms, Spanish tile walkways, an atrium full of exotic shrubbery, and a complement of cheap immigrant labor to man the place on a continuous basis. Ms. Darling apparently preferred Hispanics. This included the butler, who greeted Macey at the carport and ushered him inside.

He handed over his damp trench coat and followed the butler into a large sitting room filled with floral tapestries and expensive teak furniture. Soft yellow lighting shone down from an ornate crystal chandelier dangling from the vaulted ceiling. The scent of burning incense hung in the air.

Moments later a group of people arrived, led by a woman he would have easily recognized as Sheila Dunn even if he hadn’t already seen her picture on the net.

She strutted in as if she owned the place, heels clomping on the hardwood flooring, yelling to an unseen person through her internal comm link. She stopped the entire group just so she could emphasize a point with a wave of arms and colorful expletives. Macey suppressed a chuckle as he added Ms. Dunn to his statistics of people who couldn’t use an internal comm device properly.

Sheila Dunn looked to be in her early forties. Her raven hair was cut in a stylish bob with sharp bangs, her striking violet-tinted eyes matching a chic purple suit that hugged a body with all the right curves. She could easily be a movie starlet herself. But then, with the cosmetic options available these days, so could anyone.

She strode toward him and met his gaze with a practiced confidence, a talent no doubt honed from years of playing with the corporate big boys. It didn’t matter to her that he was a man nearly two heads taller and twice her size. She was the boss and she would establish that fact right from the start.

“Well, Mr. Macey, you’re late.” She gave him a quick up and down like a drill sergeant. “Your colleague said you were dependable, but so far I’m unconvinced. Nevertheless, you’re here and I’m sure you’re wondering why.”

“Actually, I was wondering who all these other people are.” Macey smiled at the two-man, one-woman team with her. Not that he truly cared. It was just a way of deflecting her condescending opening remark.

Her lackeys were all sharply dressed business types. The men: seasoned and white-haired. The woman: a short redhead with an iridescent face tattoo, a lick over thirty, if that.

“Legal representation from my firm, as well as those from Ms. Greta Darling’s estate, whose home you happen to be in,” Dunn said in one breath before any of them could speak. She then inhaled in what seemed like the precursor to a sigh of annoyance, but instead she continued. “As I was saying, I’m sure you’re curious as to why you’re here.”

“Well, I assume it must have something to do with Ms. Darling and her Miracle Treatment.” He paused before risking his next statement. “She isn’t dead, is she?”

Ms. Dunn’s eyes flashed like a mother hearing her child backtalk for the first time. “Why would you ask that?”

Amazing what a person could reveal through facial expression alone. “So she is dead. That would explain your urgency.”

“How did you find out? Has the media leaked it already?”

“Just an assumption. You merely confirmed it.”

“What assumption? You just got here, didn’t you? I haven’t told you a thing yet.” She folded her arms, fixing her eyes on him over the crest of her sharp nose. “Where did you get your information? I want to know…now.”

Macey exhaled and rubbed his temple. “I just took the liberty of performing a little background checking on the way here. That’s all.”

“Background checking into what? Explain.”

Corporate types. He truly hadn’t intended on getting rude with Ms. Dunn, but her persistent glare gave him little choice.

“You,” he said finally. “I started with you, Ms. Dunn.” He switched to a dictational tone as he recited the information directly from his neural net. “Sheila Rebecca Dunn: –Senior Executive Vice President, Gentec Corporation Marketing Division. You’ve been the highest performing VP for the past eight years, pegged most likely to succeed Roger Boreman as CEO when his contract expires eighteen months from now.

“Your most notable achievement was the hostile acquisition of rival genetics research firm, Heliox Corp, about twenty years ago.” He dipped his hands into his pockets and paced like a college professor giving a lecture. “I believe you were only twenty-five at the time, an accomplishment that most agree was due largely to your dual background in genetics and business management. You selected Heliox Corp because of their development of a prototype cellular reconditioning DNA treatment.

“After acquiring the company and its patent rights, you turned this prototype into the product you made famous through Gentec’s marketing machine. The treatment was a one-time mutagenic conversion that created infinite cell multiplication without the side effects of cancerous growth. In short: infinite human life extension.”

Dunn’s rolling eyes prompted him to lay on his act.

“I believe the Fountain of Youth Formula was the product’s earliest marketing release, but the skeptical stigma surrounding the name led to poor client interest. It was your business savvy and tenacity, however, that led to the new name, Miracle Treatment, and a focus on a narrow but deep-pocketed target market: celebrities. Which leads to your connection to Ms. Greta Darling, who, in 2060, at the tender age of sixty-eight, happened to be one of Gentec’s earliest clients to undergo the Miracle Treatment.”

When she kept staring at him he continued, “And finally, Ms. Dunn, your sense of urgency and panicked demeanor, plus the fact that you and your lawyers are here within Ms. Darling’s estate at this late hour without her presence, led me to believe she may be deceased. I can only conclude that her death must have been from natural causes, which would not be entirely unusual for a woman of eighty-nine years. However, for a recipient of the Miracle Treatment, natural death is not supposed to be possible.

“Which puts you in the very awkward predicament of having sold someone a ‘live-forever’ pill for millions of dollars, only to have them drop dead only twenty years later—from natural causes.”

Dunn pursed her lips as the entourage of lawyers nodded at his synopsis of the situation. “Very astute, Mr. Macey,” she said. “I believe you’ve redeemed yourself… somewhat. You may get this job, after all.”

This woman was incredible. “That wasn’t my intention. I’m just trying to save us some time by getting the basic facts out of the way so we can move to the real issue. Ms. Darling’s death from natural causes would make Gentec’s Miracle Treatment the biggest medical fraud of the century, and that’s no doubt the reason why you are here, Ms. Dunn. But you still haven’t told me why I’m here.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” She cocked her head to the side. “I need someone to prove that Ms. Darling’s death was not from natural causes. Or hadn’t you already concluded that?”

“Is that right?” He gave a chortle and spun away. “No offense, Ms. Dunn, but I’m in the business of revealing truth, not hiding it. If you think I’m going to help you concoct some murder mystery so Gentec can keep selling a lie, you’ve got the wrong idea.” He started for the door. “You all have yourselves a good night.”

“Wait a minute, Mr. Macey, please.”

He paused and looked at her.

Dunn turned to the group of lawyers. “Could you give us a moment?”

Once the entourage had departed she sat on one of the couches and gestured for him to do the same. Reluctantly he took a seat opposite her and folded his arms.

“First, let me apologize.” She released a sigh. “Right now I’m under more stress than you can imagine and sometimes I forget that the whole world doesn’t work for Sheila Dunn. I’m very sorry.”

Her candor impressed him. “Nice to meet you, Sheila Dunn.” He extended his hand. “And I’m sure the other Sheila Dunn, the one who has to throw her weight around the room like a tiger to survive as the sole female executive of a multinational corporation, will appreciate the interlude.” He lightened this comment with a wink and smile.

Sheila smirked as she shook his hand. “It’s been awhile since someone’s had the gall to say something like that to me.”

“I don’t work for you, you see.” He grinned. “Which leads us back to your original offer. Again, I’m sorry, but I won’t involve myself in a cover-up.”

“And neither will I accept one. I have good reason to believe Ms. Darling’s death was not from natural causes.”

He rocked his jaw from side to side. “Hasn’t an official autopsy been conducted yet? How long ago did she die?”

“This morning. We received the results this afternoon. The coroner’s conclusion was heart failure. Natural causes, as you said. But there’s got to be more to it than that.”

“I hate to say it, Ms. Dunn, but I really don’t see how. The official results are the official results. Your efforts might be better spent preparing for the bad publicity than looking for some imaginary smoking gun.”

“Bad publicity?” She arched her thin brow. “If only it were just that. I’m afraid this will go well beyond bad publicity. For the last twenty years I’ve grown Gentec into an international giant by streamlining and perfecting our Miracle Treatment. We’ve succeeded in lowering production costs and bringing the product to the mainstream market. We have over fifty million clients in the US alone. International numbers are more than triple that. We’re talking trillions of dollars here.

“On top of that, Greta Darling is a celebrity. Already the media hounds and paparazzi are sniffing around. Our CEO is trying to buy us some time with the press, but if news of Greta Darling’s death goes public it will mean the end of Gentec. Clients will lose faith in the product and it’ll probably get recalled—indefinitely, if not permanently. But that’s not the real damage this will cause.”

“Oh?”

“Think about the billions of lives that will be affected if the treatment is no longer available.” She leaned forward on the couch. “This won’t just be a blow to Gentec. This will be a blow to all mankind.”

“So you still maintain that it works? Even after this?”

“Absolutely,” she said with a firm nod. “I conducted much of the initial trials personally. I have faith is our product. What I can’t accept is that the human race has finally evolved to the point of avoiding death and now we’re going to throw all that away for this one little incident?” She rolled her eyes. “No way. We’d be setting back our species by centuries. I just can’t––no, won’t––allow that to happen.”

Her resolve seemed intact, at least. “Look, I’m admittedly not a big fan of the whole live-forever concept, but I do understand the implications. Still, what proof do you have that Darling’s death was anything but natural?”

“I performed my own analysis on her DNA and found no trace of the Miracle Treatment whatsoever.”

Macey glanced up at the chandelier a moment before looking back to Sheila. “Isn’t that to be expected?”

“Not necessarily. You see, if the treatment had failed she would have died from a cancer or some other mutated form of the treatment. But her DNA appeared completely natural, as if she had never undergone the treatment at all. It’s as if…as if something had been introduced and somehow negated the Miracle Treatment.”

“That, or maybe she’d just never taken it in the first place. Maybe she was only pretending to take it.”

“No, the Miracle Treatment doesn’t work that way. We call it a treatment because it’s actually like a series of spa treatments.” Sheila edged forward on the couch as she explained. “Clients receive an injection that reconfigures their DNA to an earlier time period of their lives, and then they spend time in a growth acceleration vat, where they literally age backwards. Depending on what age they want to be they can take off five to ten years each treatment.”

“Interesting. I didn’t know that.” Macey clasped his hands and rested his nose on his fingertips. “Okay, you said something might’ve negated the treatment right? But like what? A virus? Radiation, maybe?”

She shook her head. “Nothing showed up in the autopsy. Besides, we’ve done extensive clinical testing and found no effect from environmental sources. And if it were a virus, we would have seen traces of that. Not to mention that if she had contracted a terminal virus, then that would have been the cause of death and I wouldn’t be sitting here right now.”

“True.”

“This reeks of some kind of setup.” She balled her hand into a fist. Her eyes found Macey’s. “I’m not completely certain about this one, but there’s another clue. One that answers the question of why I want you, specifically, to help me with this.”

“Me specifically?” He wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that.

“Let me tell the whole story.” She began counting off on her fingers. “First, I tried to talk to the police, but as this wasn’t really a crime they said they couldn’t get involved. Fair enough. Next, I tried the Department of Civil Defense and Intelligence, where I contacted your colleague, Mr. Webb, who explained that CDI had similar constraints as the police. However, he did tell me he knew a retired investigator who might be able to help.”

“Which would be me.”

“But there’s more. He said your specialization was in religious-based counterterrorism. He said you pretty much wrote the book on it. Is this true?”

“Well, it was my primary area of concentration for the earlier part of my career.” He shifted on the couch. “What does that have to do with any of this?”

Sheila stood. “I’ll be right back.” She returned moments later with a clear plastic bag containing a small, leather-bound book. “This was lying open on her chest when they found her in bed this morning.”

Macey examined the pocket-sized black book through the bag. The leather was worn and cracked. “A Bible? Was she a Christian?”

“No, she wasn’t. Not according to any of her staff. None of them knew her to be religious by any means. So I started thinking that maybe this whole thing was some kind of terrorist act by a religious group and this Bible was their calling card. That’s what led me to try your colleague at CDI.”

Macey nodded. “Was it face up or face down?”

“What?”

“The Bible. When they found it on her, was it face up or face down? And what page was it opened to?”

“Face down, I believe. Not sure of the page.”

“Doesn’t matter then. If it was meant to be a message it would have been left face up. Face down leads me to think she was reading it.”

“But her staff insisted she wasn’t religious.”

“Maybe she was reading it for laughs. That’s what most people tend to do with it nowadays.” He chuckled and shook his head. “If you want my honest opinion, Ms. Dunn, this really isn’t much to go on.”

“Wait, there’s one more thing. An inscription on the inside front cover.”

Without removing the Bible from the plastic bag, he opened the cover. The inscription was handwritten in faded blue ink: Remember Utah—June 16, 2027

He closed the book, as if shutting it would somehow keep his mind from doing exactly as the inscription had instructed.

“I conducted some research of my own,” Sheila said.

He barely heard her—his mind already drifting to the past.

“It turns out that a huge standoff took place between the government and a radical church group in Utah,” she said. “June 16, 2027 was when the whole thing ended, quite bloodily, unfortunately. But the real interesting part is what sparked the whole incident. Apparently the church group was protesting against––”

“The Freedom from Deity Act.”

Her eyebrow rose. “So you know about it? Oh, of course you would, sorry. But you see my point? The Freedom from Deity Act instituted the removal of all religious bias from US legislation. This act finally made genetic research possible, along with many other freedoms, of course. But without this Act the Miracle Treatment wouldn’t even exist.”

“Absolutely…”

She touched his arm. “Are you alright? You seem distracted.”

“Yeah, fine.” He fidgeted to regain his composure. “Look, it’s a pretty good theory, but there’s nothing that ties this book to any sort of crime. It’s a long shot, at best. I really don’t think I can help you.”

“But there must be organizations you know of that would want to do something like this to us, right? People who maybe know about Utah? Who want revenge?”

Macey forced himself to concentrate. “Sure, there might be some groups that sympathize with what happened in Utah and are anti-Gentec, but to go through them all would amount to drawing straws. Basically we’d have nowhere to start.”

“What about the name?”

“What name?”

“Didn’t you see it? Oh, I’m sorry—check the next page. It’s a dedication to the original owner.”

Macey opened the Bible again, turned the page. The second inscription was written in different handwriting. He read it.

Then he read it again. And then a third time, aloud, just to make sure.

“‘To Brother Virgil. Love, Brother and Sister Fernandez.’” He examined the cover, back and front. “How old is this Bible?”

“I don’t know.”

“The copyright should say…” After confirming the date, he shut the book again, along with his eyes. “I’ll take the job.”

Sheila eased back onto the couch, her brows arching high. “Well…good. I’m glad to see we could come to such a quick decision. Now let’s talk about the contract and compensation. You’ll probab—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Macey said. “How soon can I start?”


__________________________________________________________________

Thanks for reading the first chapter to my new novel "Eternity Falls - A Rick Macey Cyberthriller" which now available direct from the Marcher Lord Press online store (http://www.marcherlordpress.com)

Or look for it on Amazon.com

ASIN: 0982104979	Eternity Falls     Product Type: Book
	List Price: $ 13.99          Amazon's Price: $ 12.59          You Save: $ 1.40	[Buy Now!]

You can also check me out on my author webside. http://www.kirkouterbridge.com

And if you like the book please leave an Amazon review!

Thanks for reading!

~Kirk