GENESIX: THE TRILOGY Page 5

  “I thought you weren’t allowed to write for the school paper if you were professional.”

  She glanced at him with a smirk. “That is the rule. I use a pen name in my articles for the Press Herald.”

  “Not exactly legal, is it?”

  “Hey, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s got to do. I mean, it’s a tough world out there, and if you play by the rules you’re going to be one of the many. This girl wants to stand out. I won’t settle for anything less than excellence.”

  The cork slid out of the bottle with a small popping sound, and she filled two long-stem glasses. “Well, this is a little less than excellence. Chardonnay, six dollars a bottle. But I’m just getting started. Wait a few years.”

  She handed him a glass and then sat at the edge of the bed and kicked off her shoes. They were low-heeled flats.

  Jake took a sip of the wine. He wasn’t normally a wine drinker, but it was nice to be away from the lab. Away from the intensity and the adventure that came with working with Scott Tempest. And to at least for a few hours forget he was something other than just a normal man, enjoying a normal evening with a pretty girl.

  “So, tell me,” she said. “Do you have something like kryptonite? Something that’s a weakness to you?”

  Jake didn’t find the question as exasperating as he would have a few hours ago. The surliness he had been experiencing at the bar had dissipated. And yet, it seemed all they had talked about during the entire walk to the apartment was himself and his freakish meta-human abilities. “Don’t you want to talk about anything else?”

  She shrugged. “Curiosity. A natural state of being for an investigative journalist.”

  “I suppose. Okay, I’ll answer this question, and then we talk about something else, okay? Like maybe, you.”

  She nodded. “Deal.”

  “There’s no such thing as kryptonite, or anything like it. No substance that can just make my strength or endurance go away. At least, we’ve never found any, and Scott theorizes there is none. And with Scott, his guesses are usually better than most people’s facts. Though I’d never admit this to his face,”

  She took a sip of wine. “Ever have a bullet bounce off you?”

  “No, and I don’t want to try. And that’s two questions.”

  “Sorry. Your turn.”

  Jake took a sip of wine. “So, do you date a lot of football players?”

  She gave a frown. “No more than I have to.”

  “So, what kind of guys do you date?”

  “I like guys who have half a brain. I mean, conversation is entirely underrated.”

  Jake nodded. He took another sip of wine.

  “Drink up,” she said. “There’s more where that came from.”

  “So, tell me. What pen name do you write under when you’re breaking the rules and selling articles to the Press Herald?”

  “I call myself Kimberly Stratton.”

  “Kimberly Stratton. I’m trying to remember if I’ve seen that name in the paper.”

  “I sold one that went national. The expose on Senator Watterson.” She took a sip of her wine.

  “That was you?”

  She nodded. “Not bad, huh?”

  “Not bad at all.”

  She leaned back on her elbows and crossed her legs, and kicked her foot a little. “Can I tell you a secret? Someday I’d like to write a novel. That was my ambition when I was a kid. And I still think I might want to pursue it someday.”

  “Then, what got you into investigative journalism?”

  She shrugged. “When I got to college, I decided to major in journalism so I could have a way to pay the bills and still work with words. That was when I discovered just how incredibly thrilling it is to get that story, to dig beneath the surface to find the real truth. Because that’s where the truth usually is. Hidden. Sometimes deeply. Things are almost never the way they first appear.”

  She sat up and dropped her feet to the floor. “Did you ever notice if someone has a certain reputation, and we all do, that reputation is almost never an accurate description of who we really are?”

  He shrugged. He had never really thought about it. “Then, what are reputations?”

  “Reputations are usually based on someone’s first impression of us. Usually a peer—maybe someone we work with. And that first impression sticks, because it’s easier to perceive someone based on reputation than to really get to know them. Like, with Senator Watterson.”

  Jake nodded. “You exposed that affair he was having with his assistant.”

  Mandy nodded with a smile, and brought her wineglass to her lips. “That may not have him cost his career, but it sure did a lot to enhance mine.”

  “But I have to ask you, what’s really to be gained by doing that? I mean, is any career so worth it that you have to build it by tearing down someone else? I don’t mean to condone a married man having an affair, but shouldn’t the public be more concerned with his voting record in the Senate? That’s how people like senators and congressional leaders shape the nation.”

  “I disagree entirely.” She didn’t seem at all insulted by his apparent attack on her tactics. Instead, she seemed to appreciate the challenge. “When you’re a public leader, you help shape the country not just by voting, but by the very way you conduct your life. Even sometimes by the way you dress. Look at the way many of Bill Clinton’s personnel went the office, back when he was President. In jeans, with pony tails. No tie and jacket. What kind of example did they set by that?”

  Jake shrugged. “Freedom of expression?”

  “How about disrespect for the White House and what it stands for? You want freedom of expression, then write an editorial to a newspaper. But when in the presence of the President, you should conduct yourself as such. And when a Senator is boffing his assistant in his own office after hours while his wife is at home, just what kind of example is he setting for the country? In any given situation, it has been proven that leaders set the collective personality for any group they lead.”

  “I don’t know about collective personalities and reputations,” Jake said, “but I do know you look kind of lonely sitting over there all by yourself.”

  “I was wondering when you’d notice.”

  He left the chair and slid onto the bed next to her. He didn’t know if it was the wine or that he had been celibate much longer than he cared to think about, but he found Mandy looking way too desirable as she sat at the edge of her bed. Her micro-mini was tending to ride up as she sat, the way micro minis do, and she had nice legs. Curved gently at the thighs and with ankles tapering down gracefully, and covered in fishnets. She tended to flip her hair away from her face as she talked, and made an unintentional pouting sort of motion with her lips when she formed certain words.

  “It seems to me,” she said, “the higher you rise into public office, the more important it is for you to govern your behavior. You have to keep in mind your responsibility to the public, and if you don’t, then I intend to bring you down.”

  “There comes a time, of course,” Jake said, reaching up to touch the gentle curve of her cheekbone and letting his finger trail down the line of her jaw, “when it might be more important just to be quiet and let a guy kiss you.”

  And he did. Lightly at first and then more firmly. He reached toward a small stand by the side of the bed to set the wine glass down, but she simply let hers fall away as she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him in for a deep, probing kiss.

  The glass didn’t shatter, but instead bounced. Probably bought at Wal-Mart for pocket change. But at the moment he was way too busy to think about Wal-Mart.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Jake awoke in her bed the next morning and found by a glance at her alarm clock that morning was actually 1:10 in the afternoon.

  He also found he was in bed alone. Mandy was sitting at her tiny kitchen table. She was dressed in a white terri-cloth robe that was as short as her skirt the night before. Beside her was a cup of coffee
and she was tapping away on the laptop.

  “Good morning, sunshine,” she said, looking up from the screen and across the apartment at him.

  He stretched, and winced as the sunlight coming in through the windows met with the pain in his head. After making love the night before, they had finished off the wine bottle which was now lying on the floor by the bed, and had then attacked a second bottle which was now lying empty beside the first.

  “How long have you been up?” he asked.

  “Since about seven. I have stories to write and send in. One for the Press Herald that I just emailed over, and now an editorial for the school paper. A girl’s gotta work.”

  He sat up. His head balked at this, like a gong going off. Mandy was apparently much more accustomed to drinking a lot of wine than he was. He decided to cheat a little, and he flipped the power-up switch. Not as much as he had at the bar the night before, but enough to make the hangover fade away. Within seconds it was gone.

  He had to confess, though only to himself, he had allowed a little powering-up the night before, too. Kept the both of them busy well into the early morning hours and left Mandy falling asleep from exhaustion. Not that he heard any complaints.

  “So, did you enjoy your evening?” he asked.

  She gave him a grin. “You know what they say—once you go superhero, you never go back.”

  He returned the grin. “I suppose the same could be said about investigative reporters.”

  He got up and pulled on his jeans and walked over to the table. He planted a nibbling kiss on the side of her neck. She responded by stretching her neck to one side to give him more to work with.

  “Hey,” she said. “I’ve gotta finish this editorial. Then we can play.”

  “Actually, I’ve gotta call the lab, anyway. Make sure Scott got home okay.”

  “The lab? Doesn’t Egg-head Boy have an apartment?”

  “The government pays for one but he’s hardly ever there. He usually sleeps on a cot in the lab.”

  As he fished his cell phone from his jeans, his gaze fell on the laptop’s monitor. Black text filled it, double spaced.

  He said, “Do you ever have the fear you’ll mess up your pen names and send the wrong one to the wrong paper?”

  She raised her brows. “Believe me, that’s something I double check all the time.”

  Jake dialed the number and the phone was answered by April, the lab assistant. It was Sunday, but Jake wasn’t surprised to hear her answer. For Scott, Sunday was just another day at the office. April’s voice was bright and chirpy. She was a student, assisting at the lab for extra credit. Of course, that really meant she washed a lot of test tubes, swept floors and answered phones.

  “Doctor Tempest’s office,” she said.

  “April, this is Jake. Did Doctor Tempest get home safely last night?”

  “Oh, yes. He’s right here, involved in some work.”

  Jake could hear him in the background. “April, give me the phone.”

  Then, “Jake. Where are you?”

  “Well, you remember Mandy, who I left the bar with?”

  He could hear Scott’s smile in the way he formed his words. “You old dog.”

  “I’m surprised you’re even out of bed, considering how much you were drinking last night.”

  “Yeah, I put down a few. My head was pounding when I woke up, but I activated a pain-nullifier field so I could get some work done. I’ve been working on computations all day.”

  “Man, you sure know how to have fun.”

  “Hey, take your time getting home. I’m going to be right here all day. Probably all night. This is going to be a long project. I can’t talk about it over the phone, of course.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t have mentioned the pain-nullifier field, either.” This was one device the government wanted kept classified at the highest level. Its very existence could cause the pharmaceutical industry hundreds of millions, and possibly a lot of jobs.

  “Yeah, but what the frig, you know?”

  It was sometimes hard to believe Scott’s intelligence level was as high was it was.

  “Well, I’ll be back in a while. Catch you later. Stay out of trouble.”

  Jake stuffed it back into his jeans. “I’m going to grab a shower, if you don’t mind.”

  She clicked save and closed the laptop, and jumped up from her chair. “I think I’ll join you.”

  The shower led to a third bottle of wine she had in her fridge, and they spent the afternoon in bed. She threw his clothes in with hers in the community laundry room in the basement, and they made love for the length of the wash cycle. Then after a quick run to the basement in her robe, she returned and let the robe drop to the floor and they went one more time for the length of the dry cycle.

  Afterward, it was a trip to the corner grocery store for a couple more bottles of wine, and then to a pizza shop for dinner. And then, back to her room.

  The following morning, he gave her a kiss good-bye and began the journey by foot back to the campus. It was Monday, as far as he could figure. A weekend like that can make you lose track of the days.

  He pulled out his phone and called the lab.

  Scott answered himself. “Yeah?”

  “Well, that’s professional.”

  “I’m not professional. That’s why I have you and April.”

  “I was just checking in. I’m on my way back to the lab.”

  “Yeah. I knew it was you. You’re on the corner of Rice and Williams.”

  “How can you tell that? Oh, wait. That’s right. Your computer. It can trace any phone call almost instantly.”

  “That’s right,” Scott said. “Should I send a car?”

  “No, I’ll walk it. I should be there in a couple hours.”

  “Oh, by the way, the paper’s here. You might want to check out the front page when you get here. But take your time.”

  Jake walked along, his thumbs stuck in his jean pockets, feeling all was right with the world. The sun was shining. Even though it was early November, the temperatures were in the mid-sixties. He was powered-up a little, but not enough that he couldn’t feel the warmth of the sun on his shoulders. There was a steady breeze, cool and refreshing, and the streets and sidewalks were still damp from a light rain the night before. You get lots of light rain in Boston in November.

  He strolled onto the campus and to the lab building. There was a security guard, and Jake flashed his I.D. Going through the motions of protocol even though the guard recognized him.

  The guard said, “Good morning, Mister Calder.”

  “Morning, Fred.”

  Jake approached the elevator, then said the hell with the elevator and went for the stairs. He powered-down enough so he could enjoy the workout of running up four flights of stairs, taking two at a time. He felt exhilarated and wanted the rush that can come from a workout.

  He hit the fourth floor and then walked down a long, tiled corridor. He flashed his I.D. badge at a little sensor by the handle of a steel door and the door unlocked itself and he walked in.

  April was in a white lab jacket and jeans, pushing a broom. A cute, petite girl with light brown hair tied into a tail behind her head. A few strands had already pulled loose and were trailing along a cheekbone. “Good morning, Jake.”

  “Hi, April.” He had told her to dispense with the Mister Calder nonsense, but Scott insisted most people call him doctor.

  “Hey,” Scott had said. “I worked for that title. Hell, I’m a doctor four times over already, not counting the four other doctorates I’m going for.”

  “Okay, then maybe we should call you Doctor Squared Twice Over.”

  Scott had winced. “All right. I had that coming.”

  As Jake walked into the lab, he realized April was sweeping up lots of tiny pieces of broken glass. “What happened?” he said.

  “Doctor Tempest kicked the lab table, and a whole bunch of test tubes went crashing to the floor.”

  “Why did he d
o that?”

  She shrugged. She was accustomed to the doctor’s erratic behavior and was no longer ruffled by it. “It happened after he looked at the morning paper. He said a lot of words my father usually uses when he’s watching the Patriots, and then kicked the table.”

  Jake shook his head. Why was it geniuses had to be so unstable? He wouldn’t ask Scott, of course, because Scott would proceed to inundate him with a three-hour reason as to why.

  He said, “Where is the good doctor?”

  “In his office.”

  The office was a small room that opened onto the lab. The room consisted of a desk covered with scattered pieces of paper on which were scribbled mathematical computations. There was also a computer that was, on the outside, an old outdated upright Mac. However, Scott had totally replaced the innards with a processor running on some theory Jake couldn’t begin to understand and didn’t really want to, but which made silicon microchips obsolete. The thing could actually hold a conversation with you. And on one wall was a poster of Leonard Nimoy with pointed ears, and another of Sheldon from Big Bang.

  Jake found Scott behind the desk with the Press Herald open.

  Scott glanced up as he walked in. “Oh. There you are. Just checking the results of last night’s Patriot’s game. I was so busy with my computations I forgot it was on.”

  “Sorry, Scott” the computer actually said. “I should have reminded you.”

  “That’s all right,” Scott said to the computer, then to Jake, “I wish I could figure out a computation that might explain what the hell is wrong with their offensive front line.”

  Jake noticed a folded newspaper resting in the chair in front of Scott’s desk. “What’s this? We got two papers today?”

  “I sent April out for a second one. There’s a story on the front page that’s so incredible, I thought you might like one of your own.”

  Jake shrugged, then picked up the paper and dropped into the chair. Scott was watching him over the top of the sports page as Jake unfolded his copy of the Press Herald.

  The top headline, in big black letters, read, EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW WITH BOSTON’S SUPERHERO JAKE CALDER.