Project Moreau
By Pen
()
About this ebook
FBI Agent Samantha D’Arcy is assigned to assist the Decatur Police Department investigation of what appears to be an open and shut homicide/suicide.
From that case, she and Detective Alderman stumble across something that will revolutionize human evolution.
If they survive . . .
will they still be human?
Inspired by the classic H.G. Wells "The Island of Dr. Moreau," Project Moreau delves into the world of DNA splicing and genetic engineering.
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Project Moreau - Pen
Prologue
––––––––
Pop! Boom!
She hit the ground rolling. She smelled earth, sweat and blood, but she couldn’t tell if the sweat and blood were her own. She saw her comrade, her brother in arms, his body eviscerated yet he still held up his upper body, dazed and confused. He looked at her. He couldn’t speak but she recognized the question on his face because it was the question screaming within her own head: Why?
Pop! Pop, pop!
She swam up from the depths of her mind where these images lived. More than images they were memories of her time in Desert Storm: A storm that raged through her life on a daily basis.
Pop, pop, boom!
She flinched, but recognized the sounds for what they were: the backfiring of Mr. Bagmore’s old Mercury Marquis. He refused to trade the thing in thus subjecting all his neighbors and friends to its wheezing, coughing, popping and other sundry noises associated with growing older. Much like Mr. Bagmore himself.
She lay there a little longer. Her heart raced like she’d just finished second in the Kentucky Derby. She heaved in ragged breaths, certain each one would be her last. Her face, arms and chest were covered in sweat, providing a sheen to the ebony of her skin.
As the last remnants of Desert Storm finally dissipated, she struggled to pull herself up from the floor. She’d nosedived beneath the six-sided coffee table her mother had given her when she returned home. Nothing fancy; Lord knows it had been handed down at least a couple of generations. Too many scratches and glass rings left behind for it to have anything more than sentimental value.
Everything in her home was like that. The carpet was threadbare and ragged around the baseboards. Paint peeled from the walls, water stains dotted the ceiling. Every piece of furniture she owned was second-, third- and fourth-hand. There was nothing here of value.
Including her.
Wait, her mind scolded. There is something of value here.
She shoved that thought aside for now. She simply didn’t want to face it at that precise moment. Instead, she resumed what she’d been doing before that big-ass Marquis interrupted. She paced in a tight circle around the coffee table. Each time she came full circle, she looked down to see what she had written. The spiral-bound notebook was in the center of the table. She couldn’t decide if it was finished or if she wanted to say more.
She fretted over petty shit like that. The doctor said that’s what held her back: that she was holding herself back, clinging to the past, worrying about stuff that wasn’t even important when she should be looking ahead, taking care of her children, planning for their future.
It really pissed her off when people said shit like that. It was nothing more than a bunch of that fuckin’ New-Age bullshit crap designed to foster guilt in people in order to keep them complacent and cooperative and to keep them from thinkin’ for themselves.
The anger focused her. That psychologist didn’t have the first clue about what was going on with her. Hell, he was too young to even remember Desert Storm, how could he possibly fuckin’ know what it was like over there? What it was like in any war?
She read what she had already written. It sounded good to her. She returned her pen to paper. She had to get this down before the kids got home.
It wasn’t that it really mattered all that much. But she felt compelled to alert someone.
She felt calmer once everything was in writing; more capable of following through with her plan. She knew, in no uncertain terms, it was the right thing to do.
She placed the valuable item on the coffee table beside the notebook. No more dwelling. No more tears. It would be over soon. Everything would be over. Soon.
One
––––––––
Sam D’Arcy held up an ID badge for the third time.
The police officer scrutinizing the badge, also scrutinized the holder of the badge. You’re Sam D’Arcy?
Yeah. Is that a problem?
No, we just thought, I mean, uh, it, uh, we, uh, the Detective thought –
The man’s face was bright red and he couldn’t quite seem to figure out what to do with his hands. Sam finally took pity on him.
You were expecting a white guy, weren’t ya?
There was no malice in her tone, but there was amusement on her face. The faux pas was understandable, given her name. No one expected a slender, caramel-skinned black woman to be named Sam.
S-sorry, Miss D’Arcy.
She dismissed his apology with a wave of her hand. She was accustomed to this sort of reaction upon an initial meeting. Though she would never admit it out loud, inwardly, it amused her. Outwardly, she was all business. I’m here to look at a crime scene. I am not inclined to ream anybody for making assumptions.
She held out her hand, palm up, indicating he should lead the way.
The hallway of the apartment building was narrow and cramped. Despite two police officers on each side of the doorway, people still tried to get even the smallest glimpse of what was going on inside. Not that there was anything to see other than bloodstained carpet and spatter. The bodies were whisked away some hours ago, probably being prepped for an autopsy by now.
Detective!
the police officer called out. This is Agent D’Arcy.
He pointed his thumb back over his shoulder. Agent Sam D’Arcy.
Even she heard the amusement in his voice. She winked at him as he caught her eye when he turned and walked away. She walked up to the detective who stood frozen to the spot, staring at her. Lemme guess,
she said. You were expecting a white guy.
Despite the amusement, she was getting tired of saying that.
Confusion and consternation clear on his face, the detective stuttered, Ye-well, sorta, I mean, I, I, I would assume from the name that, that –
Chill. Detective?
She raised her eyebrows to punctuate the query.
Detect-oh. Alderman. Detective Alderman.
Okay. Detective Alderman. I believe your office called mine.
Right. Well, what we have here is an apparent homicide/suicide –
Open and shut?
she asked. Then why am I here?
It’s not quite as open and shut as it might appear.
She folded her arms. Explain, please.
He gave his head a slight shake as he picked up a piece of paper in a plastic sleeve from a desk. This was found at the scene –
She reached for it, then suddenly jerked