PART ONE

 

On the brink of bankruptcy, sugar titan Sunne Sugar Corp. claimed a shocking breakthrough in genomics—for humans. The profit opportunity of curing every gene-based disease under the sun was staggering. But to lure investors, Sunne falsified early outcomes of their promising AI-driven Genesys Project. Their off-the-grid human trials unleashed long-dormant “ghost” genes that triggered unpredictable, aberrant side effects. Even more shocking, no one in the Sunne orbit knew enough, or cared enough, to stop it—until now.

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-Emma S. Wilder, PhD

The Swamp House Diaries

(Pg. 3)

 

Chapter 1

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A BRUISED AUGUST SKY crept along on spidery lightning strikes far out at sea. At a little corner table at One Ocean Lounge in Delray Beach, Cassie Wilder stared absently at the silent light-show reflected in the bar mirror, flashing over her haunted face. She hardly recognized the person looking back. 

          Tonight, she’d gone Casual Girl. She had bought four outfits and four wigs, all at discount stores and dreary salons in strip malls up and down the coast. Paid cash. For this Happy Hour: a silky white blouse over tight blue denim. Auburn wig with bangs. Fat reading glasses. A smear of pink lipstick matching the polish on her fingernails. Her vibe: An office staffer meeting a friend for a drink.

          There, she waited. 

          Nursing a Bombay gin and tonic.

          She glanced at the two men chatting it up down the bar. 

          Then at the butterflies tattoo on her wrist—and at her watch.

          Quarter of. 

          Nervously, she fingered a gold necklace around her neck, a yin-yang amulet of twin interlocking circles, one black, one white, with a small dot of the opposite color in the center of each circle. The amulet, set in fourteen-carat gold, dangled from a thin chain. It had been her mother’s, who wore the pendant to keep her daughters close to her heart. Cassie wore it now, to keep her late mother and sister close. Her twin Grace. 

          Of the two, Grace was the more exotic one—all big emerald eyes, who favored the neon-pink polish—the wannabe writer whose edgy, fun side veiled a dark streak, more wicked than holy. By contrast, Cassie was the easy-going, fair-haired, blue-eyed girl-next-door—an unfussy natural beauty in sun-faded denim—the popular prom queen, surfer girl, and champion swimmer who didn’t have a mean bone in her body.

          That was then, this is now. Turns out, life after sudden tragedy, like their mother’s not-so-accidental drowning, had blurred the lines between them—to the point where Cassie no longer could tell where she ended and Grace began.

 

 

She glanced again toward the end of the bar. 

          She knew the two men liked to meet for a beer after workouts at the Second Avenue CrossFit. A couple mid-life gym rats. She knew, too, the brawny guy drank rapidly near the top of the hour. When he left, his friend—late forties, balding, wispy graying beard—finished his beer, as usual, talking sports to the barkeep. 

           She moved two stools down from him and ordered another drink. Sure enough, the Graybeard was autopsying last night’s Marlins’ loss to the Phillies. When she broke in that Miami would never take the NL divisional series, the Graybeard’s eyes crinkled in amusement. 

          “Too many dead arms,” she said confidently, sipping her gin.

          He feigned outrage at the precocious, adorably cute girl who had suddenly appeared next to him. Just as he began to lodge a friendly protest, she made a face and waved him off. 

          “Sorry, the office,” she said, answering her cellphone with a curt, “What now?”

          The Graybeard retreated to his beer. 

          He struck her as someone who could get easily defeated, so she spoke rapidly into the phone. “Yes… no… just do it… What comes around, goes around.” She hung up abruptly. Spoke into her drink. “You treat people like that, you get what’s coming. Simple human nature.” 

         He smiled politely, pretending to have a clue what she was talking about. 

She continued, “What’s that saying? Karma’s a bitch—no, karma’s a boomerang!” She chuckled at that, then turned toward him to get a better read, her bright eyes widening. “Who said that?”

          Puzzled but drawn in, the Graybeard played along. “Shakespeare?” 

          She scoffed. “As an old English Lit major, pretty sure it’s not that guy. Maybe the Dalai Lama or John Lennon.” 

          “English Lit,” he repeated, a bemused look on his face. “How’s that working for you?”

          Got him. She offered a modest smile and looked back down at her drink. “Oh, once upon a time I wanted to be a writer. So, I thought I should study the great writers. Instead, I’m a well-read secretary.”

          “We call them executive assistants,” he said.

          “Ha,” she chuckled. “You must be in marketing or human resources.”

          “Neither.” He pointed at her phone. “Bad day at the office?”

          “I’m starting to feel better. The boomerang has turned… as we speak.” She finished her gin. 

          “Well then, let’s celebrate. How about I buy you another drink? Salute boomeranging justice.” He smiled. “I’m Jonathan.”

          She smiled back. “Grace.”

          “Pretty name.”

           She didn’t respond but grabbed her phone and made a show of turning off the ringer. At first, he came off as somewhat shy and halting, which she thought odd, given his decent looks and the fact he exuded money. Little things. The crisp linen shirt, the soft leather shoes, the manicured scruff. That pricey Royal Oak watch. The guy reeked of sporty luxe. 

          The drinks loosened him up. After a while, he became downright gabby. She learned more than she cared to know. No children, divorced, a vet, played Yale baseball. He considered a pro career, but pursued medicine instead. Today he runs a lab for an agricultural company. He lives alone with his cat. A rescue.

          “What kind of lab do you run?” she asked.

          “Genetics. Research.”

          “Ah, so you’re the one. Editing strawberries into basketballs—using that CRISPR thing.”

          “Something like that,” he chuckled. “Never underestimate a well-read executive assistant.”

          “Any regrets?” she asked.

          He looked puzzled. “About?” 

          “Messing with Mother Nature. Playing God.”

          He shrugged. “Genetic engineering is going to cure cancer.” He pointed to his bald head. “Cure this.”

           “And I thought you were being trendy.”

          He laughed at that one, too. “You know, you really should write a novel. You’ve got that writerly vibe about you.”

          “Actually, I’m working on a book for a friend.”

          “You’re a ghostwriter.”

          “Hmm. I like that.”

          “Well, good for you. What’s it about?”

           “A true story, actually. But reads like a medical thriller.”

          “Right up my alley. What’s the title?”

           “I’m on the fence with two. The Swamp House Diaries. Or, Do Know Harm.”

           “K-N-O-W?” 

           “You’re quick, Jonathan.”

           "Another ‘science is evil’ book. We’re an easy target.”

          “It’s more a cautionary tale.”

          He sipped his beer. “How’s it going so far?”

          “So far… it’s writing itself.”

          They batted it around for a while, exploring, flirty talk. Their heads tilted back, faces painted. Her legs poked out and touched his knees—when she mentioned she had a taste for something sweet. 

          He looked out the large oceanfront windows. The storm had edged out to sea, the sky over the coast clearing up nicely. “I know a place with the best cannoli on the planet,” he said. 

          His eyes looked so hopeful. 

          “Just deserts,” she said, never blinking. “Perfect.”

 

 

Twilight. 

          They cruised up the coast on Highway A1A in Jonathan Nations’ silver Lexus convertible. Top down. Wind whipping. Worried the wig might fly off, she asked Jonathan for a hat. He reached into the backseat and pulled out a Nomad Blues baseball cap. She tilted it jauntily over one eye. Kicked off her flat sandals. With her feet propped against his leather glovebox, she declared: “If I would’ve known all this”—she waved her arms toward the open blue sky, the Lexus, the stereo blaring Tom Petty—“I would’ve picked you up.”

          They drove past Boynton and Pelican Bay and the McMansions on Manalapan, to Palm Beach, where he hung a left on Worth Avenue to Renato’s, its big lazy fans blowing air-conditioning out into an open courtyard. Surprisingly busy, he slipped the maître d’ a folded bill and got a quiet table, where they shared a bottle of red wine and a plate of appetizers—followed by a creamy latte and cannoli. 

          “Well?” he asked, after her first bite.

          “Lucky me,” she enthused, her pale eyes twinkling. 

          He chuckled at that one, and then tilted his head back, distracted. “Sorry for staring but… your eyes. They’re wild in this light. They keep flashing, blue then green. They’re different. You’re different.”

          He leaned in and gave her a soft kiss on the lips. 

          She rolled with it. 

          Feeling emboldened, Jonathan Nations asked if she’d like to go somewhere private for a night cap, and she responded with a playful, “About time.” So, they left Renato’s and drove to the south end of Singer Island, to his tony waterfront townhome at Ocean 18, which looked like something out of Architectural Digest. All white tiled, elegantly spare, with shocks of cool artwork here and there. She walked straight up to one colorfully bold abstract that, barely a foot square, grabbed her instantly.

          A Peter Max—of wild, electric blue psychedelic twin butterflies. 

          “This is an original.” She sounded impressed. “Very Sixties of you.”

          “I had two. My ex took the red one.” He sounded a tad bitter. “Make yourself at home, Grace. I have a date with a cat.”

          Behind the living room bar, he opened a can of wet cat food, setting it on the floor below the Peter Max. In pranced a beautiful, yellow-eyed calico, who arched up against her bare leg, purring.

          “What’s her name?” she asked.

         “Lucy.”

         “C’mere, Lucy, you sweet, gorgeous thing.” She picked up the cat and nuzzled her face into the soft fur. “Can I keep her?”  

          “She’s usually so skittish with strangers. Seems you made a friend,” he said. “Brandy?” 

          She lifted the cat’s face to her nose. “You know, Lucy, what they say about too much liquor. Increases desire, decreases performance.”

          Jonathan Nations laughed again. “You’re trouble.” He poured two snifters. He then watched her step out on his balcony to take in the magnificent water views of the Palm Beach Inlet and darkening Atlantic. He drained his brandy in one gulp and came up from behind her. 

          Kissed her neck.

          “So much for the small talk,” she said. 

          She took his hand and led him into the bedroom, on the way, grabbing her shoulder bag. When she went into the bathroom, she left the door slightly ajar so he could watch. She took off her thick glasses and slipped out of her jeans and slowly unbuttoned her blouse and slid it over her shoulders, careful not to disturb the wig. 

          A towel draped over her arm, she flicked off the bathroom light and moved to the side of his bed, lingering there in the moonlight, letting him take her in.

          “Now I’m the lucky one,” he sighed.

         She smiled at that. “Take off your shirt, Jon. Let me see all those crunches.”

          He wasn’t lying naked on the bed; he was propped up against a pillow before he did exactly as she instructed. He unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it to the floor.

          Teasingly, she said, “You know, Jonathan, you’ve been wondering all night—why does this girl look so familiar?” 

          He nodded, ever so slightly. “Did cross my mind.” 

          “We met once, briefly. I wore it different.” She touched her hair. “At Sweetwater.” She pulled off the auburn wig, shaking out her short shaggy blond hair. 

           He sat up. She dropped the smile and the towel. A glint of a shiny metal flashed at the end of her arm, when he heard a soft pop-pop from the barrel of a gun. 

           He flinched. Then looked down at his bare chest, bewildered. No blood. Just two tiny red welts, mosquito bites, over his heart. “You…” he started to say, looking up, suddenly remembering. He gripped his throat and coughed out, “You bitch.”

          Amused, she corrected him. “Boomerang. Karma’s a boomerang, not a bitch. I thought we cleared that up, Jonathan.”

           He went to stand up, but too late. He fell back into the bed, grimacing from the sudden lightning stab to his chest. His throat tightening, muscles seizing, he gasped for air and started to convulse, helpless, his eyes marbling—and for a good, long, agonizing couple of minutes, he slowly, inevitably, suffocated awake.

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