Last Child

By Edita A. Petrick

A promotion that’s not, a case that’s seemingly already solved, and a search for an immortality gene. It’s a deadly game - and it’s even deadlier when you don’t know who you’re playing against. And for what.

A riveting, fast-paced paranormal thriller - this novel will keep you at the very edge of your seat and turning each page until the very last.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edita A. Petrick
• Release date: May 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005655327

Edita A. Petrick

I'm a writer. That's all that can be said here. I love writing and I absolutely hate marketing. It just goes to show you where your natural talents lie. Writing comes easy. Marketing...that's something I will be learning until the day I die. All I can say about my books is that they're meant to entertain.

Book preview

Prologue

He heard the door buzzer and glanced at the oval mirror mounted on a steel arm inset into the ceiling. It was meant to be a deterrent to customers with sticky fingers. Except Chris at the front counter rarely looked up to see who was browsing in the snack food aisles. If he did, his smartphone might get offended and shut off. He turned, intending to continue re-stocking the shelves, when something made him look again. The customer stopped in profile. He saw an oddly-shaped bulge under the back of the guy’s t-shirt and instantly knew what it was. He’d spent centuries learning to recognize the shape of concealed weapons. By now, he could not only tell whether a renegade Buddhist monk was hiding a dao under his maroon robes but also whether the single-edged, hand-forged Chinese sword’s dragon motif was made of jade or bronze.

Can I help you, sir? He raised his voice, turning and walking slowly down the aisle, toward the customer. Chris stood at the counter, peering at the pump-control register. He would assume the customer was coming in to pay for gas—not to rob the gas station. The jerk spun around and yanked out his gun. He made it into one smoothly blended motion. He pointed it at Chris. Give me all your money, he said as evenly as if he was asking for his change.

Reading the man’s state of mind from the tone of his voice was another skill he’d acquired in the course of the centuries. The steady tone of voice, coupled with steady hands, told him the jerk was not an acolyte and this was not his first hold-up. He was barely out of his teens, but he’d traveled the road of crime for some time now. Could he afford to stall with even something as innocuous as a remark that he was going to comply? He glanced at Chris behind the counter and knew the situation could get pretty ugly. Christian was scowling. It wasn’t a good sign since it was a product of his tough-hombre daddy who ran him through an exercise of defending your fort at least once a week when he dropped by to check how his business-graduate son was running the franchise. Roderick Guerrero lived in a large Spanish-style villa in Bakersfield. He was a third-generation Puerto Rican and lived up to his warrior name in business and everything else.

There was a safe under the counter—and a red button he didn’t want Chris to push because he wanted him to live.

I’m taking out my wallet, he said loudly to draw attention to himself. He made a motion of reaching into the back pocket of his jeans. At the same time, he glanced at Chris. It’ll be all right, he said, voice hardening with a warning, hoping that Chris would know it was meant for him.

I don’t want your spare change. The thug spit then spun sideways and jabbed the gun into his chest. Get back there and crack open the safe, and move it. I ain’t got all day.

We don’t have a safe here, Christian said.

Like hell you don’t, college boy. I’ve done my recon. You’ve got a safe, all right. What you ain’t got is a working security camera ’cause the kitkat who’s coming to fix it is outside, sleeping in his van, the thug sneered and once again pointed the gun at Chris. He parted his feet in such a way that he’d be able to quickly squeeze off a shot in any direction. The fact that someone barely out of their teens was already well-versed in military strategy momentarily unsettled him. Had the 21st century moved ahead of him faster than he thought or…? Then again, the jerk’s recon was only half accurate. The gas station’s main security camera was out of commission, but the back-up was in place and would record most of what was going on in here. He wouldn’t have time to get the tape. Was that something to worry about? And did he even have time to worry?

He took two steps back and one sideways to come between the gun and stubborn Chris behind the counter. Look, no one has to get hurt here today, he said. Just then, the sound of a siren rose in the distance. Chris must have pushed the red panic button. Wheeler Ridge was just a hamlet of half a dozen streets east of the bypass on Interstate 5, south of Bakersfield, but cops were known to stop for lunch at Markle’s Diner, a mile down the road.

Lousy college punk…. the young thug ground out and jabbed the gun in Chris’s direction.

Even as he watched the hands holding the gun move, he knew he had no other choice if Christian was to live through this. He lurched forward and grabbed the hands with the gun, yanking hard to bring the weapon he knew was going to discharge, to point at his chest.

The thug didn’t settle for pulling the trigger once. The echo of the shots sounded as if coming from a distance. He never could figure out why the sound of yet another briefly lasting death was always muffled. The pain flushed through him as sharp and predatory as ever. That factor seemed to defy gods and time alike. But even as he struggled to remain upright, he knew the wounds were closing, healing instantly, because with every breath, his lungs expanded more and more, filling with air, until breathing normally ceased to be an issue. His body would dissolve the absorbed bullets. His blood, wherever it sprayed, would disappear before any law agency had a chance to take samples. Now and then, when he reflected on this particular miracle, he sought to explain it through sublimation. Then again, if that were the case, his blood was a rival of dry ice.

The young thug knew something was wrong. He just didn’t know what, or how poorly he’d chosen his current job. The punk’s eyes were still stuck to what must have looked like shredded balloons filled with red paint splattered all over a man’s chest, and he grabbed the gun. The police sirens were now almost in front of the gas station. He only had time to slash the gun across the punk’s temple, watch his body settle on the floor, and smile into Christian’s shock-stilled eyes.

He missed me, he deadpanned. And the cops outside should miss me too, if you get my drift. Here, you’re in charge. He wiped the gun quickly into his jeans and tossed it on the counter. Tell them everything but spare them the details. You’ll be all right. He smiled again, turned around, and ran out the back.

Chapter One

A gent Harmon, your last assignment makes the combined debacle of handling Hurricane Katrina seem like a miscommunication or, at most, good intentions gone awry,

Division Chief Brian Maxwell said as his opening remark during the review of the Escondido operation. Harmon wasn’t ready to retire, so he agreed—in principle. Besides, Special Agent Maxwell, in charge of the Los Angeles Criminal Division, was ten years younger than him and just as many years ahead of him in the FBI hierarchy. The office rumor had it that if he stayed in L.A., he was a sure bet to make it to the Assistant Director’s chair…soon.

I want you to know that if it was up to me, by this time tomorrow, you’d be directing traffic in Anchorage, Alaska, Maxwell said, folding his arms.

Harmon knew that such whimsical re-assignation was not completely up to his boss and remained silent, head slightly bowed so Maxwell would not think he was challenging him.

One of the first things that an agent is taught is that there is no substitute for good, reliable field intelligence, Maxwell said. Out of the corner of his eyes, Harmon saw his boss’s chest expand, hold to the count of three, and then deflate a lot quicker than he felt was safe. It was time to speak.

Yes, sir, he said, keeping his voice professionally flat and neutral.

Well, if you agree, then what the hell happened out there…? Maxwell’s last words came out as if squeezed through a volcanic fissure.

The informant lied to us and the Escondido police, and since he was the police chief’s wife’s nephew… his voice trailed off. The police chief, Lopez, contacted the FBI field office in L.A. when his wife’s nephew tipped him off about the Blue Pearl gang’s activity in Escondido. The gang’s main chapter was in San Francisco, where recruitment and intimidation of Asians was a relatively easy job. It didn’t make sense for Blue Pearl to franchise its operations to Escondido. Harmon expressed his doubts about the validity of the information and was overruled by the Special Agent in charge of the operation, his partner, Josephine Boscoe. San Francisco’s Blue Pearl mainstay was drugs, prostitution, and human trafficking—smuggling Asian aliens into the US in dilapidated freighters, then forcing them to work in basements and, in one instance, in a refurbished slaughterhouse, to pay off their passage to America. In Escondido, according to the informant, the gang was into grand theft auto. It had set up chop-shop operations in an abandoned tire warehouse. The FBI and the police were still working on their sting-strategy when the warehouse, located between Interstate 15 and North Central City Parkway, blew up, leaving three blocks of local real estate littered with concrete chips, mortar, and various automotive parts. Of seventeen casualties, twelve were identified as Blue Pearl members. Maxwell’s fury was driven by the other five civilian casualties—all local residents who’d happened to be in the neighborhood or driving by at the time of the explosion. Subsequently, the forensic experts from L.A. and the fire marshal’s people determined the cause of explosion—plastic explosives packed into the trunk of every car that was brought into the warehouse. The Escondido Blue Pearl chapter was into grand theft auto but not to harvest car parts. Its business was making car bombs—a lot more lethal an enterprise than mere car theft.

The informant didn’t lie, Agent Harmon, Maxwell said, his voice still dangerously loud. He was set up, misled on purpose by one of the female gang members. You, as the senior partner, should have…

Harmon interrupted his boss even though he knew it was not wise to contradict him. I may be senior in terms of length of service, sir, but I was not in charge of the operation. My partner was.

Semantics, Maxwell snapped at him. As the one with years of experience, you should have known better.

Known better what, sir? Harmon raised his head, staring unflinchingly at the thirty-something hotshot who defined his job only in terms of career and how high it could propel him in the FBI ranks. Agent Boscoe and I worked from a premise that a San Francisco gang had franchised its operations to Escondido and were hi-jacking trailers delivering new cars to dealerships. There was no evidence to indicate otherwise. The information that we had clearly put the case into the Criminal Division’s jurisdiction. You didn’t see any evidence that would call for split responsibility between Counterterrorism Division’s involvement and ours.

Don’t lecture me on my responsibility, Maxwell said harshly.

Don’t make me a scapegoat for something that was outside of my control—indeed, for something that no one knew about. Once the sting operation was put into motion, we would have discovered soon enough the true nature of the gang’s operations. But we didn’t have time to implement the strategy, which, by the way, you drafted.

Are you implying that the failure in the Escondido case is mine? Maxwell asked in a dangerously level voice.

Harmon knew that he should shut up and avert his eyes, but he also knew that if he did the smart, career-saving thing, he would have a hard time looking at himself in the mirror every morning.

All I can tell you is that it certainly is not my and Boscoe’s fault, and the Escondido police should not be saddled with it either, he said, steel-voiced.

Well then, I suppose under these circumstances, we can’t continue working together, wouldn’t you agree?

Are you asking me or telling me, sir?

I’ll let you figure it out, Maxwell said and dismissed him.

Forty-eight hours later, Harmon parked his Honda Accord in front of a coffee shop on Beaver Street and walked the half a block down to number 365 Pacific Avenue where the FBI San Francisco Division had its Santa Rosa Resident Agency. The three-story red-brick building looked more like an old apartment complex with half a dozen duplex units than an office building. The bottom floor had a laundromat and what looked like a deli, while the access to the second floor was by a staircase that served as a natural divider between the two establishments.

He climbed to the second floor and looked down the narrow corridor, wondering whether only one of the three doors he saw or all three comprised the Resident Agency headquarters. Santa Rosa had a population of an average city suburb—one hundred and fifty-six thousand residents. Did it merit a staff of three or four at its FBI Resident Agency?

Six, actually, but five of us are out of the office on any given day, Special Agent Dahlia Jaworski said, offering a handshake when he walked through door number three and found himself in a deserted, open-concept office. She motioned with her head at the row of tall windows behind her. My desk is right next to the window. I like to watch the street, profiling pedestrians. I saw you walking here, looking around for the numbers, slowing down like a man who’s still trying to decide.

I was just looking at the numbers, he said, shaking her hand. He reflected that she had a firm grip but not a power grip that sought to compete with a man’s handshake. He seldom liked anyone at first glance, but, for some reason, he liked the woman who was his new boss. He judged her to be about forty, within a year or two on either side, and though she would be in good physical shape, she wasn’t a fanatic about her figure or fashion. She looked pedigreed and comfortable, like a handcrafted couch that had seen better days but which boasted only the best of hardwoods in its construction.

True enough, she agreed, but once you found the number and saw this building, you realized that you still had a choice—to walk up the staircase or turn around, get back in your car, and head for a new career horizon.

I’m a twenty-year veteran of the Bureau, he said, hoping she’d not see his smirk, since he hadn’t had much control over what showed on his face ever since he’d walked out of Maxwell’s office.

I’m getting there, too. Sit down, she said, motioning at the chair facing a desk near the window. You’ve spent five years down in L.A., working the last three under Maxwell. So, what possessed you now?

What do you mean?

She laughed. You lasted three years without pissing off Maxwell. Believe me, that’s a distinction of sorts.

Did he…? he stopped when he realized that no matter how he phrased it, it would sound bad.

Banish me here, too? She glibly filled in what he’d left unspoken. Nah. I’m here because my ex is a supercharged lawyer with the Bureau in Washington. This is as far as I could go without getting on board a cargo ship. Besides, my daughter’s a freshman at Berkeley. It’s close enough for me to drop in on her to make sure she’s into books and not into group sex. My sixteen-year-old son lives with me here, in Santa Rosa. I knew Maxwell when he was still interning in Washington. He was barely out of the Academy but already had a reputation as someone who would be going places. So, how did you piss him off?

I refused to take the blame for something that was not my—or my partner’s—fault.

She clucked her tongue. Foolish. You didn’t by any chance suggest that it may have been his fault, did you?

He grinned. I might have…indirectly, though.

Foolish and dangerous. If I were given a choice to face-off with Maxwell or with a rattlesnake, I’d take the rattlesnake any day. When I knew him back in Washington, Paul and I still had a decent marriage. He’d come home from work, check the kids’ homework, kiss them good-night, and then come to bed and talk to me. There was an internal issue that Paul investigated. Maxwell was six months out of the Academy. He was assigned to work with a senior agent, and the two didn’t get along from the start. It would reflect poorly on a new agent to complain, so Maxwell had to put up with his overbearing partner—until the agent was shot in the line of duty. No, she shook her head because she must have seen the question sitting on his lips, Maxwell didn’t shoot him, but he was the one who went to get the Kevlar vests from the car trunk and took his sweet time. His partner’s vest slipped because the side straps broke. The bullet missed vital organs, but there was other damage that put the agent on permanent disability. The lab findings were inconclusive. It couldn’t be proved that the straps were weakened or cut, but Paul felt that Maxwell had tampered with the fabric…somehow. Paul’s a lousy husband, but he’s an excellent investigator and a very good lawyer. I believed him.

Well, I guess being re-assigned then constitutes good fortune, he said, reflecting on what she’d told him and finding it plausible. Back in L.A., those who worked for Maxwell considered him a prick and a career climber. They disliked him but didn’t fear him. Harmon always felt something cold and prickly in the back of his neck when he faced his boss. He tried to ignore it, telling himself that paranoia was a natural byproduct of aging on the job. Now, he knew that his instinct was as good as it was when it was first imprinted into his genes.

Re-assigned? she asked, tipping her brows at him. I see, she grimaced. He didn’t give you the whole story. That’s typical, just typical, of Special Agent Maxwell, hoping to be the Assistant Director soon. She swept the empty office with her hand and said, This is your home base, and you report to me, but that doesn’t mean you will be spending much time in here—or going anywhere alone.

Chapter Two

Harmon spent the night in Best Western because he was in no mood to look for a boarding house. His rent down in L.A. was paid up for sixty days. He had at least that long to figure out whether he wanted to stay a cop or spend the rest of his life as a security guard at a mall.

In the morning, he stopped at a coffee shop for bagel-and-coffee breakfast and then headed for 365 Pacific Avenue, wondering what dark challenges the day held in store for him. Other than to confirm that he’d be assigned a partner, Jaworski refused to say anything else until he met his new colleague. She did say, however, that once the social protocol was out of the way, the two of them would be heading out, to Bakersfield.

Assignment, he repeated, trying to read from Jaworski’s expression whether that was a good or bad thing.

She blinked and shrugged.

Not a real assignment then, he said, stifling a sigh.

I’m not sure what it is or even if I understood my orders correctly, she said, sounding frustrated.

What are your orders? he asked.

She tightened her lips.

Sorry. I didn’t mean to...if Maxwell told you not to disclose…

Maxwell may have banished you here, but when it came to your assignment, he made it clear that he was just a messenger. I’m fairly certain he was just passing on the orders that didn’t come from him, she said.

Where did they come from then?

I’m not sure, but I think Washington.

Washington’s Bureau?

Not the Bureau.

Not the Bureau, he echoed. Then from where?

I think—though I may be wrong—that they came from some Congressional Committee.

He wasn’t aware that he was holding his breath until the pressure in his chest made him let it out. You’re kidding? I mean why would a Washington Congressional Committee…what committee?

She motioned at her computer. Once I made sure I’d read Maxwell’s fax correctly, I logged in and did a search of the existing standing Congressional Committees and their various involvements and mandates. I searched the Senate and the House and came up with something called the Select Committee on Historical Intelligence to Investigate Military/Commercial Applications of Ancient Archives. I have no idea what the Committee does, but its acronym—SCHI—corresponds to the authorizing entity in Maxwell’s fax.

Could I see that fax?

She shook her head. I can’t show it to you outright. The Committee panel has ten members, but only three were named in its tasking document. Dr. Karen Omar, Robinson Darkling, and Dr. Leopold Brownridge.

The South African Leopold Brownridge…who was awarded the Nobel Prize in medicine for his pioneering work in genetics? he asked.

The same controversial doctor who would have been stripped of his prize had it been possible to prove without a shred of doubt that he experimented on human subjects, she said, flexing her voice.

What is a South African doctor doing on the panel of one of our Congressional Committees?

Seven years ago, he was South African. Today, he’s a true-blue American citizen. Well, as true-blue as any man who still reaches for his whip when he sees an African-American citizen can be, she finished on a cynical note.

What is this about? He felt a chill crawl up his spine.

You and your partner are to go to Bakersfield and shake hands with the local sheriff, who will brief you on the issue. Other than that, I have no idea, but maybe your new partner will.

Isn’t he one of your staff here?

She closed her eyes and let her smile grow squished until it made her look as if she was crying. No, Agent Harmon. Your new partner is expected to arrive tomorrow morning and make your—and my—acquaintance.

A day later, he knocked on the door, then, without waiting for an invitation, turned the door handle and entered.

Good morning, he heard Jaworski say more cheerfully than the occasion called for. Agent Harmon, meet your new partner. She waved at him to come forward. She was leaning on her desk, wearing jeans and a short black leather jacket, and for a moment, he didn’t see anyone else in the open-concept office. Then he heard a scraping sound, and a shadow moved. He realized that whoever sat in the chair behind the desk had stood up and moved toward him.

Agent Harmon, I’m Special Agent Kate McFarland, on temporary assignment from the Baltimore field office, the young woman said, offering him a handshake. He didn’t have the gift of perfect pitch, but he had a good ear for voices. She spoke with a trace of an accent. It was faint, more like displaced intonation than a true accent, but he heard it and knew that, regardless of the English name, Agent McFarland’s first language was not English.

He shook the offered hand and said, How do you do, Agent McFarland? So, you’re my new partner and from Baltimore.

It’s Special Agent McFarland, she said, releasing his hand. And it’s the other way around. You are my new partner.

He took a step back, and without hiding it, studied her from head to toe. She hadn’t yet developed the habit of every good field agent—moving her eyes without appearing disoriented, constantly checking her surroundings regardless of where she was. Her gun holster sat too high, making the gun almost inaccessible since it bulged under her armpit, forcing her to wing her elbow. She wore Nikes that offered little protection for her feet, and it would be a sheer miracle if her skin-tight black jeans didn’t rip across the seams if she had to climb a fence. If she was three years out of Quantico, he should consider himself lucky. She was at least five inches shorter than him, had shoulder-length brown hair, blue eyes, and no fieldwork experience whatsoever. A walk through any FBI field office would yield a dozen young women like her, wearing earpieces and plugged into the grid, or sitting behind the computer, collecting and analyzing data. She was one of the sixteen thousand support staff that the Justice Department employed in its 56 FBI Divisions—and she had been assigned as his senior partner, the Special Agent in charge of whatever assignment waited for them. For the first time since he’d turned his back on Maxwell, he realized just how badly he’d fucked-up by asserting himself.

Right, he said crisply, underscoring it with a nod. Are you going to brief me on our pending assignment in Bakersfield? he asked.

She glanced at Jaworski, who had watched the scene with a narrow smile, her arms folded.

I thought I would pick up our orders here, she said haltingly.

A fax came this morning, Jaworski said and pushing herself off the desk with both hands, walked around to a fax machine. She picked up a sheet of paper and handed it to the young woman.

It’s just a street address, Agent McFarland said, looking up at him then at Jaworski.

Yep, Jaworski said and turned her back to them. Harmon walked over to his new overseer.

It’s a Bureau safe house, right? She tried to dazzle him with her expertise.

Nope. It’s a Post Office mailbox, he said.

How do you know that? she asked, her eyes narrowed into suspicious slits.

He tapped the sheet she held. Unit 4. That usually means a mailbox in a post office outlet that will be located at the address.

But where?

I’d say the same place we’re supposed to head for—Bakersfield.

Chapter Three

He liked to drive a vehicle that gave him a feel for the road, but when she motioned at the GMC truck parked a couple of spots down from his Honda and said, We’ll take my rental, he nodded and extended his hand toward her.

The keys, he said, when she kept staring at him.

It’s my rental. I’ll drive, she said.

Is this your first time on the West Coast? he asked.

Yes, but I didn’t have a problem driving up here from San Francisco.

And I’m sure you wouldn’t have a problem driving the fifty-odd miles back down to San Francisco—but we’re going to Bakersfield. Do you know where it is?

You can be my navigator.

He swallowed what rose on his lips, namely that he was already her minion, and said, I’ve lived and worked in California for fifteen years. We have a five-hour drive to Bakersfield. I’m sure you’ll have an opportunity to give me a break from driving. Now, let’s get on the road.

He gave her half an hour of silence and sightseeing, but when the Novato exit flashed by, he cleared his throat and said, How long have you been at the Baltimore office?

Four years, she said. He glanced at her, but she kept staring out the window as if there was something fascinating to see other than traffic, distant rooftops, and an ubiquitous ditch lined with desiccated, grey-green grass.

Is that how long you’ve been with the Bureau?

Yes.

He didn’t bother to suppress a grimace of satisfaction that his initial estimate of her experience was right. He knew that she wouldn’t look at him.

As a field agent? he asked and started to time how long it would take her to reply. On the count of ten, she said, No. I’m a field data analyst.

Do you mean you do mathematical and graphical modeling of response scenarios for situations that require the Bureau’s intervention?

Sometimes, when there is a need to update the existing portfolio of response scenarios, but mostly I do analysis of satellite data and input it into the database. I have an undergraduate degree in mathematics from Princeton and a Master’s in criminology from the University of Delaware.

He whistled. Impressive. How old are you? he slipped that in glibly, hoping she’d answer before thinking about it.

Almost thirty.

You finished your Master’s at twenty-five—that’s damn impressive.

Actually, twenty-three.

Really? He leaned forward and turned his head to look at her.

Yes, really, she said with slight irritation. Then I went to do my training in Quantico and…well, was posted to the Baltimore field office.

He pretended to concentrate on changing lanes even though there wasn’t any real need for it since there were no slow-pokes on the highway today. He needed a few moments to settle his state of mind. His overseer was an academic,