Hybrid (Brier Hospital Series Book 7) Read online

  Hybrid

  By

  Lawrence W. Gold, M.D

  Hybrid 2013 © by Lawrence W. Gold, M.D.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Characters names, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A Grass Valley Publishing Production

  Cover Art©2013 by Dawné Dominique

  Dedication

  To my wife, Dorlis. Once she heard the idea for Hybrid, she was unrelenting in support of the project.

  To my readers who encourage me to write.

  Acknowledgments

  Donna Eastman of Parkeast Literary Agency who first encouraged me to write.

  Dawné Dominique, a gifted artist and cover designer.

  Donna Meares, a great editor.

  Sierra Writers Fiction Critique Group in Grass Valley, CA

  While seeking revenge, dig two graves - one for yourself.

  Douglas Horton

  Revenge is an act of passion; vengeance of justice. Injuries are revenged; crimes are avenged.

  Samuel Johnson

  Genius must be born, and never can be taught.

  JOHN DRYDEN, Epistle to Congreve, 1693

  Other Works

  By

  Lawrence W. Gold, M.D.

  Fiction:

  Brier Hospital Series:

  First, Do No Harm

  No Cure for Murder

  The Sixth Sense

  Tortured Memory

  The Plague Within

  Trapped

  Other Novels:

  For the Love of God

  Rage

  Deadly Passage

  A Simple Cure

  Non-Fiction:

  I Love My Doctor, But…, a lighthearted look at the doctor/patient relationship

  All available in print and in Kindle

  Prologue

  (1992)

  The eight-story office building just off the I-80 Powell Street exit sat next to the Emeryville Market. It was 8:15 p.m. and few lights were visible from the building’s west-facing windows.

  The security guard, Manny Brown, was a husky retired Emeryville police officer. He was watching TV and glancing periodically at the bank of closed-circuit monitors. When a janitor appeared in the third floor monitor, Manny glanced at him and returned to the TV.

  Byron Dok, the “janitor,” was a small angular man. Polio at age seven had left him with an uneven gait. He waddled from the stairwell onto the third floor carrying a heavy tool bag. The corridor smelled of fresh wax, and the telltale circular whorls confirmed that someone had just finished buffing the floor. He looked both ways, and then turned right, checking the room numbers as he walked down the corridor.

  His footsteps were soft, uneven taps from his work shoes.

  I should have worn my Adidas, he thought.

  When Byron approached room 314, the sign on the door read, “East Bay Cryonics, Authorized Personnel Only.” Again, he glanced both ways and then reached into his janitor’s uniform for the electronic key he’d “borrowed” for a thousand dollars. He slipped the key into the slot, waited for the green light, and entered.

  The room’s ghostly indirect lighting was barely enough as he crept across the room to the walk-in freezer. Byron grasped the handle, but it wouldn’t move. He reached into his bag, removed a small rectangular aluminum box, and a motorcycle battery with heavy power cables. He pulled off the box’s adhesive backing and stuck it just below the freezer handle. When he connected the battery, the lock snapped. Byron sighed with relief as he opened the door. An icy fog washed over him as he entered the freezer filled with storage tanks. He used his pocket LED flashlight as he checked the numbers on each stainless-steel tank until he found the first one on his list. Byron reached into his tool bag, withdrew a heavy, mid-arm-length cryonic glove, and flipped open the tank top’s gray retaining clips. Nitrogen clouds billowed out and rolled over the opening’s blue edge to the floor. His light found the right sperm series numbers, and he raised the rack of thick test tubes until he found the three he sought. He reached into his waist pack, extracted an insulated pouch, removed three test tubes, and checked their markings against the ones from the tank.

  Perfect, he thought, they’re exactly alike.

  After Byron made the exchange, he zipped his pack, reinserted the test tube rack into the tank, and resealed it. He repeated the sperm switches five more times at different storage freezers.

  Byron left the cryonics laboratory and made it halfway to the stairwell when a voice boomed from behind. “Hold up a minute.”

  When he turned, the security guard was approaching. “Let’s see some ID. I don’t know that face,” the guard said.

  Byron’s pulse raced. “Richie asked me to do his shift tonight. I was just looking for the men’s room.”

  “You’re walking the wrong way,” Manny said, grasping his tactical equipment belt.

  Byron thanked the fates that he’d made an ID badge, and presented it to the guard.

  “Willard Smith,” read Manny studying the badge. “People call you Willie?”

  “Not if I can help it,” Byron replied.

  Manny smiled. “Don’t blame you, Willard.”

  Byron nodded back. “Call me Will. Got to get going. If I screw up, Richie won’t ask me again. I sure can use the work these days.”

  “I know what you mean. If you take a break, come down to the security office and I’ll make a fresh pot of coffee.”

  “Thanks. I’ll try.”

  Manny continued down the corridor toward the stairwell, and waved goodbye.

  Byron waited, but then Manny turned, pointed, and shouted, “It’s that way to the men’s room.”

  Byron sighed, smiled, waved back, and walked the other way. When the elevator dinged its arrival for the guard and the doors closed, Byron grabbed his tool bag, and walked down the corridor and into the stairwell.

  Jorge Moneo was in his early forties. He had sought a dimly lit corner in the Claremont Hotel. The lobby chair was uncomfortable for his lanky frame. His red hair contrasted sharply with a gaunt face having the pallor of someone who rarely saw the sun. He placed his hands under his coat to hide the deformities from “enhanced interrogation techniques” or what Spanish authorities used to call torture. He pulled out his arm, checked his Rolex, and then picked up the San Francisco Chronicle.

  It’s 10:45 p.m., he thought. Byron should be here soon.

  Although it was mid-July, he had his grey Ferragamo Cashmere Car Coat folded over his lap, a grey fedora on top. He looked up as Byron Dok walked by, heading for the bar. Byron had changed from his uniform into jacket, casual tan slacks and a knit shirt.

  Jorge followed and joined Byron in a corner table with a spectacular view of the East Bay and San Francisco in the distance.

  “You made the switches?” Moneo asked with a soft Spanish accent.

  “Have I ever failed you?” Byron looked around. “I have the original samples. What do you want me to do with them?”

  “Throw them in the garbage.”

  Byron looked up at the stern-faced middle-aged man. “I’d sure as hell like to know what we’ve done, but I won’t ask.”

  “In your own folksy way, you’re a hell-of-a–lot smarter than the big brains I work with at the lab… and you’re much more discreet.” Jorge
reached into his coat, extracted a thick envelope, and handed it to Byron. He checked his watch and stood. “You’d best get going or you’ll miss your flight back to D.C.”

  Byron smiled. “As usual, Señor Moneo, it’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”

  Before Byron left the lobby, he dumped the samples in the trash receptacle. He stepped outside, took a deep breath of the warm, moist, midnight air, patted the envelope in his pocket, and entered the parking lot. He walked to the upper level and approached his car with only the sound of his shoes sliding against the pavement. Twenty yards from his rental car, he reached into his pocket for his keys. He pushed the remote, and the car chirped and the front and rear lights flashed. As he reached for the door, the shuffle of feet from behind stopped him. He spun, trembled, and then relaxed as he faced Moneo.

  “You startled me, Moneo. Did I forget something?”

  “Yes. My little high tech device. I’ll need it back.”

  “Your guys are fantastic. I’d sure like to have one of these. It would simplify my life.”

  Byron opened his trunk and extracted his bag. When he turned, his eyes fixed on the gloved hand and the suppressed Glock-19 pointing at his chest.

  “I’m so sorry, Byron,” Jorge Moneo said, “but this project is too important. We can’t take any chances.”

  Moneo scanned the parking lot and then the pistol sputtered. The round struck Byron in mid chest. Blood erupted from the wound as Byron grimaced and grasped at his chest with astonishment on his face, then slowly sank to the floor. Jorge pointed the pistol at Byron’s forehead and delivered the coup de grâce.

  Moneo stepped over the body. One gloved hand grasped the tool bag while the other reached into Byron’s coat pocket and removed the blood-smeared thick envelope.

  “I enjoyed working with you, too, Byron, but all good things must come to an end.”

  Chapter One

  (1995)

  Gabriel and Denise Berg were driving to the East Bay Fertility Clinic across the street from Brier Hospital in Berkeley, California, for their appointment.

  Denise was in her mid-thirties, five feet six inches tall with an athletic build. She wore a silk blouse, sweater, and a pleated skirt. She anxiously twisted a lock of auburn hair. Her nose still showed her childhood freckles.

  Gabriel looked like what he was, a tall, balding college professor with a dark full beard. He wore jeans and a sweater.

  “God, I hope this works out,” Gabe said. “The perpetuation of the Berg gene pool is on the line.”

  “I’ll take your genetics any day. Ruggedly handsome and blue eyes I’d kill for, but looking at your mother,” Denise said, “I might have second thoughts. Evolutionarily and emotionally, she’s a throwback.”

  “Very funny, Denise,” Gabe said. “I’ll match my family to yours any day. I’ll even spot you two mutations.”

  “I’m not sure that I’d want any of Tilly’s genes in our children. Your father, Saul’s okay, but Tilly’s far too critical for me. Hell, you ought to know—she never tried to hide her favoritism toward your brothers, and,” she paused, “I’m sick of hearing about how smart and how handsome they are—and how much they love their mother. And, then there’s my all-time Tilly favorite—they’re ‘real doctors’ rather than a Ph.D. She makes me want to puke.”

  “You’ve suffered worse from Tilly’s bias and insensitivity than I ever have,” Gabe said.

  Denise squeezed Gabe’s hand. “You’re a saint.”

  “Hardly—perhaps a failed one.”

  More serious now, Denise said, “I understand, but we can always adopt. We have much to give, and so many children need a home.” She paused. “Besides, either way, you’re going to be a great father.”

  Gabe sighed and grasped Denise’s hand. “Maybe I’m too shallow, but I’ve been longing to see the child we made together.”

  As they sat in the crowded waiting room, Denise studied the wall-mounted photomontage of fertility clinic babies under the motto: “With an open heart, anything’s possible.”

  She turned to Gabe. “Wishful thinking or false advertising. I’m not sure which.”

  Gabe leaned over and whispered in her ear. “If a skeptical attitude helps you get through this, I’ll go along.”

  She whispered back. “You’re the best.”

  Gabe scanned the room and the couples. “I don’t expect doctors’ waiting rooms to be Comedy Central, but this place has the atmosphere of a wake. Everyone’s tense.”

  She pulled his hand to her cheek. “I don’t feel that way, do you?”

  “Let’s not kid ourselves. If you go through in-vitro fertilization, it helps to be a little nuts since the hormones take you halfway there. Anyway, this is all your doing.”

  “Good try, Gabe. Next time let’s see you at the sharp end of that long needle.”

  “It's not just that,” Gabe said, “IVF actually takes the fun out of procreation.”

  “You’re kidding,” Denise said.

  “Only a little.”

  The nurse stuck her head through the door. “Doctors Berg. Please follow me.”

  Gabe stood by while the nurse weighed Denise, took her blood pressure, and noted the results in the computerized medical record. The nurse smiled. “Dr. Craig is ready for you.”

  They walked into Sunny Craig’s warm and understated office.

  Sunny rose from behind her desk and embraced Denise. She was in her early sixties, but her face was smooth and wrinkle free. She wore a fresh white coat over a purple silk blouse. “Denise…Gabe. So good to see you.”

  Denise smiled warily. “I hope you have good news for us.”

  “I wish I did. Please take a seat. The odds of getting pregnant between thirty and forty drop off dramatically, but at your age, thirty-six, you still have a 65 percent chance. We have two problems, but I think that eventually we’ll get there. First, we have tried fertilization, but failed four times. That happens a lot. Second, maybe it’s your frozen sperm, Gabe. You’re forty-one and I wouldn’t expect a significant decline in fertility, but your sperm count was low, and although we washed and concentrated the specimens, it may not have been enough.”

  Denise lowered her head. Tears fell from her hazel eyes.

  “I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  It’s not you,” Gabe said, “it’s reality. It's wanting something too much.” He paused. “How viable is frozen sperm over time? Mine had been on ice for three years plus.”

  “Fertility drops off after twelve years, but we’ve seen success after two decades.”

  “Middle-aged sperm and young eggs,” Gabe said. “That’s a May/September relationship for sure, not exactly an aging man’s fantasy.”

  Denise stared at Sunny. “I’m not really so single-minded on most things, but on pregnancy and babies, I’m certifiable.”

  Sunny grinned. “You and all those women in the waiting room.”

  “At the risk of my membership in NOW,” Denise said, “I won’t apologize for wanting to fulfill my biological destiny, and no, I’m not brainwashed. For me, the desire for children is as real as any emotion I’ve ever experienced.”

  “I’m okay with all of it,” Gabe said, “except for the image of having my head bitten off after copulation.”

  Both women looked at each other, shook their heads, grimaced, and then laughed.

  “With that image in your head,” Sunny said, “we should have celebrated you for performance under stress, and then we should have you cloned.” Sunny paused. “We thawed three fertilized ova, but only one looked good enough for implantation. We just have two potential babies remaining.”

  Gabe looked at Denise. “I know how much this means to you, but we’re both in the same boat. It's only rational that we want our own biological child.”

  Denise grasped Gabe’s hand. “I don’t see that we have much of a choice. Let’s get our baby out of the freezer and into a nice warm place where it will have its chance.”

  Thr
ee months later, Gabe was sitting at the kitchen table when Denise walked in. “How are you feeling this morning? He asked.

  “Boy, is that a loaded question.”

  “You have this glow.”

  “Please don’t,” she said. “I don’t know if I can take the disappointment again.”

  “I’m sorry,” Gabe said as he leaned over and kissed her. “Either you’re too sensitive or I’m too stupid.”

  “Both, I think,” she said

  I’ll go with you today to Sunny’s office.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  Gabe took her hand. “I want to, but let’s not get our hopes up too high.”

  “It’s been long enough, and I’d just like to feel pregnant or see my hormone levels rising…or something.”

  “It’s likely that you’ll know well before the levels rise,” he said. “They’re not so predictable.”

  “Except when the hormone levels are high and stay high.”

  At the end of the office visit, Denise sat in her chair staring at Sunny. “I’m waiting.”

  “Me too.” Sunny stood. “Let’s take a look at what’s happening inside.”

  Denise swallowed. “Now? It's so early.”

  “Can you think of a better time?”

  Denise walked into the darkened ultrasound room, lay on the examination table, and pulled up her blouse. Sunny squirted icy cold gel over Denise’s abdomen and ran the transducer over, adjusted the images, and studied them.

  Denise kept Sunny fixed in her view. “Wha—tell me, damn it. Is it a boy or a girl?”

  Sunny laughed. “Yes.”

  Chapter Two

  (July 1995)

  Denise hung her wet raincoat on a hook as she entered the Berkeley Family Mental Health Clinic. She brushed back her auburn hair and walked into the clinic area and immediately encountered a heated argument between the clinic director, Lola Weizman, and a client,