said.
In total, they had found four identical copies of Danny Farrell’s body at the funeral home. All four specimens were now laid out on autopsy tables in the center of the morgue. Clean white sheets partially covered the bodies. If there was any way to tell the cadavers apart, Diana sure couldn’t see it. She could only imagine how disturbing this was for Tom. Suppose these were four identical copies of Maia …
“What’s the story?” he asked gruffly. “Which one is the real Danny?”
“None of the above,” Abigail Hunnicutt replied. The twenty-something blonde had joined Marco’s Theory Room team shortly before fifty/fifty. A graduate of MIT, she stood beside one of the bodies, her ungloved fingers splayed across its chest. The outbreak had turned Abby into a human DNA sequencer who could “read” genetic codes without the aid of artificial equipment. She wiped her hands on a blue lab coat as she reported her findings. “These specimens are almost-but-not-quite genetic duplicates of Danny Farrell. About ninety-nine percent identical to the real thing.”
“Clones?” Marco speculated.
Abby shook her head. “More like Danny’s DNA has been superimposed on someone else’s.” She struggled to put what she was sensing into words. “There’s still an ‘echo’ of the original DNA left in the cells. My guess isthat somebody is trying to turn other people into perfect twins of Danny …”
“Before or after they’re dead?” Diana wondered.
“Good question.” Abby shrugged her shoulders. “I can’t tell from the DNA.”
A preliminary examination had suggested that all four bodies had died from an overdose of promicin, not unlike the real Danny, who had been suffering from a massive buildup of promicin in his system before his brother euthanized him. Perhaps full autopsies would turn up more info, but Diana had her doubts. They were way beyond conventional forensic science here.
“But why would anybody want to do something like this?” Tom asked. Although he was holding it together, his obvious frustration frayed at his voice. He clenched his fists. “Why couldn’t they just let my nephew rest in peace?”
Marco scratched his chin. “You said you found promicin at the mortuary? My guess is that someone is trying to duplicate the process that turned Danny Farrell into the ‘Typhoid Mary’ of promicin, creating a living biological weapon capable of spreading the fifty/fifty effect everywhere he goes.” His eyes widened behind his glasses. “Maybe even an army of carriers …”
A hush fell over the morgue as the ghastly implications of what Marco was saying sunk in. One Danny had nearly destroyed Seattle. A legion of Danny clones could cause untold death and devastation.
“Someone like who?” Diana asked, breaking the silence. “Jordan Collier?”
“Let’s find out,” Tom said.
* * *
The downtown skyscraper that now served as Collier’s new headquarters was the old Haspelcorp Building, an irony that surely amused Collier. A huge canvas portrait of the new messiah, many stories high, adorned the outer façade of the structure. Smaller portraits hung inside the palatial lobby.
Talk about a cult of personality,
Tom thought. The ubiquitous posters reminded him uncomfortably of Maoist China and other authoritarian regimes.
Wonder when the fifty-foot statues start going up?
“Can I help you?” a security guard addressed the agents as they entered the lobby. The elderly sentry, who appeared to be in his sixties, was not very physically imposing, but he didn’t need to be; as a positive, he no doubt had other ways to repel unwanted visitors. He sat behind a high marble desk. A name badge identified him as HOYT.
More guards were stationed by the elevators, stairwells, and fire exits. Collier was obviously taking no chances with his security. Tom couldn’t blame him. Despite all of the Movement’s philanthropic efforts, plenty of people still blamed Jordan for
In total, they had found four identical copies of Danny Farrell’s body at the funeral home. All four specimens were now laid out on autopsy tables in the center of the morgue. Clean white sheets partially covered the bodies. If there was any way to tell the cadavers apart, Diana sure couldn’t see it. She could only imagine how disturbing this was for Tom. Suppose these were four identical copies of Maia …
“What’s the story?” he asked gruffly. “Which one is the real Danny?”
“None of the above,” Abigail Hunnicutt replied. The twenty-something blonde had joined Marco’s Theory Room team shortly before fifty/fifty. A graduate of MIT, she stood beside one of the bodies, her ungloved fingers splayed across its chest. The outbreak had turned Abby into a human DNA sequencer who could “read” genetic codes without the aid of artificial equipment. She wiped her hands on a blue lab coat as she reported her findings. “These specimens are almost-but-not-quite genetic duplicates of Danny Farrell. About ninety-nine percent identical to the real thing.”
“Clones?” Marco speculated.
Abby shook her head. “More like Danny’s DNA has been superimposed on someone else’s.” She struggled to put what she was sensing into words. “There’s still an ‘echo’ of the original DNA left in the cells. My guess isthat somebody is trying to turn other people into perfect twins of Danny …”
“Before or after they’re dead?” Diana wondered.
“Good question.” Abby shrugged her shoulders. “I can’t tell from the DNA.”
A preliminary examination had suggested that all four bodies had died from an overdose of promicin, not unlike the real Danny, who had been suffering from a massive buildup of promicin in his system before his brother euthanized him. Perhaps full autopsies would turn up more info, but Diana had her doubts. They were way beyond conventional forensic science here.
“But why would anybody want to do something like this?” Tom asked. Although he was holding it together, his obvious frustration frayed at his voice. He clenched his fists. “Why couldn’t they just let my nephew rest in peace?”
Marco scratched his chin. “You said you found promicin at the mortuary? My guess is that someone is trying to duplicate the process that turned Danny Farrell into the ‘Typhoid Mary’ of promicin, creating a living biological weapon capable of spreading the fifty/fifty effect everywhere he goes.” His eyes widened behind his glasses. “Maybe even an army of carriers …”
A hush fell over the morgue as the ghastly implications of what Marco was saying sunk in. One Danny had nearly destroyed Seattle. A legion of Danny clones could cause untold death and devastation.
“Someone like who?” Diana asked, breaking the silence. “Jordan Collier?”
“Let’s find out,” Tom said.
* * *
The downtown skyscraper that now served as Collier’s new headquarters was the old Haspelcorp Building, an irony that surely amused Collier. A huge canvas portrait of the new messiah, many stories high, adorned the outer façade of the structure. Smaller portraits hung inside the palatial lobby.
Talk about a cult of personality,
Tom thought. The ubiquitous posters reminded him uncomfortably of Maoist China and other authoritarian regimes.
Wonder when the fifty-foot statues start going up?
“Can I help you?” a security guard addressed the agents as they entered the lobby. The elderly sentry, who appeared to be in his sixties, was not very physically imposing, but he didn’t need to be; as a positive, he no doubt had other ways to repel unwanted visitors. He sat behind a high marble desk. A name badge identified him as HOYT.
More guards were stationed by the elevators, stairwells, and fire exits. Collier was obviously taking no chances with his security. Tom couldn’t blame him. Despite all of the Movement’s philanthropic efforts, plenty of people still blamed Jordan for
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