"The Genesis Contingency"

All rights reserved by Denlinger's Publishers, including the right to reproduce this electronic book, or portions thereof, in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

The Genesis Contingency is her third suspense novel published by Denlinger’s and the second volume of her angel trilogy.

Shelle resides in the Heartland with her husband of twenty-three years and spends her leisure time gardening and painting and listening to R&B. 

It is the year 2008 and election day is fast approaching. Journalist Rebecca Turner is traveling to the fictional community of Harrison, Oklahoma to investigate the dramatic decrease in crime and the soaring student test scores. PDQ-News receives the first of several videotapes, addressed specifically to Rebecca and containing the recorded interrogations and executions of key corporate executives. The calling card left at the site of the first execution is “Genesis 18:25,” written in the victim’s own blood.

Simultaneously, in homes and businesses across America, the computer screens of Internet users are being invaded with seemingly union-sponsored political messages, imploring citizens to vote Democrat in the upcoming Tuesday election, and signed, The Genesis Committee.

The Genesis Contingency is the second book in the author’s angel trilogy. The first in the series, While Angels Watch, is also available through Denlinger’s. The third volume is currently a work in progress.

Contains violence, strong language, and adult situations.

Book Excerpt

Rock sat uncomfortably lounged in a plushly cushioned, blue suede chair, facing the outrageously extravagant, southwestern-style combination desk and leather-topped wet bar, preparing for yet another weekly donkey barbecue. His hemorrhoids were still burning and throbbing, and he shifted his position to try and relieve the pressure.

He stared with a disgusted amusement at the little hot dog sitting in front of him, who was still busy blowing a load of horse crap through the telephone lines into the ears of his newest proposed victim. And it wasn't as if the poor slug on the other end didn't deserve the doo-doo that was about to rain down on him. They could all go to hell as far as Rock was concerned.

This latest supervisor, vice-president Allen Farwell Fairington, was one of the new breed -- a mere forty-four years old with no wife, no children, and no cumbersome burdens or obligations of any type. He was Mister Johnny-On-The-Spot, and there simply was not a damn thing he wouldn't do to get his palms greased.

To make matters worse, Fairington was all too willing to dress the part of the long, tall Texan. Today, he was decked out in turquoise rings and bracelets, western-style shirt and brushed-leather jacket, and a brand-spanking new pair of Levi's that had been starched and ironed so stiff they could stand all by themselves. Of course, the lingering Michigan accent and the fact that he wore his cowboy britches pulled clear up under his armpits were dead giveaways that he couldn't possibly be a real Texan.

Rock could feel his elevated blood pressure pound and vibrate into his ears and down his carotids. He massaged the knuckles of his swollen, callused fingers, and harbored thoughts of doubling up his fist and slamming it full-force into the irritatingly baby-smooth, whisker-less face that sat across from him. Oh, to hear the tinkle of his front teeth knocked loose and bouncing across the top of the desk.

Allen slammed down the receiver of the phone, grinning from ear to ear. "Sorry to keep you waiting, Rock. How's it hanging today, huh?"

"Same as always, Allen. Farther and farther to the left every passing day." Rock might be getting on in his years, but he could still match the little bastard quip for quip.

Allen slapped the top of his desk. "So'd you get a look at the numbers? What'd you think of the Weidner proposal?" His knee wriggled swiftly up and down, like an antsy six-year-old who couldn't wait to go outside for recess.

"To tell you the truth, my department's already cut to the quick. We're operating with bare bones. There is no more fat to trim," Rock firmly replied.

"No, now Rock, there's always fat to be trimmed. Always. The shareholders are screaming for more profits, and I've got to give them something." His knee bounced faster and faster. You could hear the heel of his cowboy boot tapping on the leg of his chair. "How many men do you have on your team?"

"Eight...eight people doing the work of fifteen." Rock didn't crack a hint of a smile. He had long since made up his mind not to give an inch.

"Uh-huh, eight. Okay, you're gonna have to whittle it down to six."

"Six!" Rock said, not able to contain his shock. "You can't possibly be serious. There's no way. My men are already stretched to the limit. And I suppose you're still gonna insist they make time in their schedules to spend their Thursday afternoons and Saturday mornings out on the golf course, kissing your behind?"

"Hell, yes, Rock. Team-building. The leaner we get, the more we have to depend on one another for support. No two ways about it."

"There's no way I can strip future retirement benefits from two more of my team members and still have any morale left whatsoever, and you know it!"

"Yes, you can. Sure you can. The ones still left with their jobs will work harder than ever to keep 'em. Count on it. And besides all that, you're cutting four men."

"Four!" Rock sat forward in his chair, looking like he could pounce any minute.

"Yeah, four of 'em. You're bringing in two of the young ones from the field. They're greedier, full of new ideas, and willing to take a risk."

"Because they don't know any better. That hardly makes them an employee worthy of a promotion. Age and experience bring wisdom into major decisions."

"Age and experience never took a company new places, to new heights. Frankly, Rock, maybe this is getting to be too much for you these days. Maybe there's somebody on your team ready to take the reins for a while. How long you been with us?"

So there it was -- the constant, implied threat. "Twenty-five years. Fifteen years longer than you," Rock answered with his teeth grinding.

"You've done good work for us," Allen said, "put in some long, hard years. We've all relied on your knowledge and your expertise around here, learned a lot from you. But, hey, you've worked hard for a lot of years, you deserve a good rest. So any time you think this is getting to be too much, just say the word. I'll see what kind of severance package we can come up with. You got enough points to swing an early retirement?"

"You're not getting rid of me that easy," Rock said. "I'll call Human Resources and see if they've got some openings somewhere for four of my men."

"Good, Rock. That's it. Give HR a call. Let them try to juggle around the excess fat. Say, you're looking a little peeked these days. You been working out at the gym on a regular basis? Sure makes me feel better." Allen picked up a soft rubber ball and flexed his hand repeatedly, his knee still bouncing up and down.

"Like I have time." Rock was sure it was more than regular exercise that kept this little bastard hopping. This boy had to be sniffing something, he thought.

"You've got to make the time." Allen slapped his free hand on the desk. "Delegate, delegate. That's my motto. How else do you think I manage a schedule like mine, and still have time to work out every afternoon AND hit the golf course three or four times a week? A person's always got to think of his own health, first and foremost."

Rock cleared his throat. "My team members are already weighed down with too many responsibilities. I couldn't possibly bring myself to dump even more on them, just so I can have more time to play."

"Of course you can. Delegate, delegate, delegate." He slapped his desk three times with increasing significance. "I delegate to my team members. You delegate to your team members. They delegate to their team members. And on and on down the ladder. Everybody has time to play! Everybody's happy!" He slapped his desk one last time with emphasis.

"Somewhere down the line SOMEBODY has to sit down and get some work done, don't you think?" Rock raised an eyebrow and curled his upper lip in disgust.

"You know, Rock, sometimes I just don't get you -- take things way too serious."

Rock looked impatiently at his watch, physically implying he had too much work to get done to worry about whether his boss could figure him out or not -- this unusual desire to take responsibility for his own workload. "What else did you have up your sleeve this afternoon?"

"Your assistant, Rozelyn."

"The best there is. You're not moving her somewhere else, are you?"

"Nope!" Allen slapped the desk again. "She's gotta go. More cost cuts. She's making too much money for a secretary and we've got plenty of young trainees ready to take her place at half the salary."

"Oh, no! You're not getting rid of Rozelyn. No way! She's been in that position for ten years. Hell, she trained ME in four years ago. She's one of the few we've got left around here that still knows her way around. And besides all that, she's a widow-woman, for God's sake, with two teenage sons still living at home."

"I don't want to hear it," Allen said. "You know better than that. My priority lies with this corporation, not some widow-woman's problems. She's young. Surely she can find another husband to pay the bills. Hell, let those teenage boys get out and earn a few dollars for their mother." He leaned back, situating his arms up and behind, propping his head with his intertwined hands, sprawling his legs wide as if he needed the extra room for the balls he thought he had.

"Rozelyn's been training her replacement all month and doesn't even realize it -- you know, next door." Allen continued to smile without hesitation, lifting his eyebrows.

Rock was pretty sure it would take a plastic surgeon to remove the smart aleck smirk from Allen's face. "Next door? In Raymond's office? What's he gonna do for a secretary?"

Allen popped forward in his chair and slapped the desk. "Share! You and Raymond are gonna share the new trainee. Hell of a deal! Smart as a whip. She won't have any trouble handling the two of you."

"But we're in separate suites. How's she gonna move between the two of us?"

"Easy. Piece of cake. Next Monday, the construction crew will be here to knock down the wall between the two front offices of your suites. Hired one of those interior decorators to give you two a new look." Allen's smile took on a smug, confident tone. He was sure Rock would be pleased.

"So," Rock said. "Let me see if I have this straight. You're going to get rid of my skilled and experienced office assistant, and replace her with a bumbling trainee who I am supposed to share with Raymond next door. THIS, after you make me cut out half of my already overworked team members. AND, you're going to go to the expense of redesigning and redecorating my office. And this is a cost-cutting measure, ALL for the good of the company?"

"Yeah. That's pretty much it, Rock. You got any problems with any of this?" Allen's look of concern was almost convincing.

"Like it would matter. Do I have to be the one to tell Rozelyn she's history?" The thought of it made Rock physically ill….

….Rozelyn sat at her desk, her fingers lightly grazing the keys of the computer keyboard at lightning speed, oblivious to the fact that her days of employment at this corporation were numbered. What with all the time she had spent trying to train the new secretary next door, she was getting further and further behind in her own work.

Rozelyn was mid-sentence when her screen locked up and went black. In exasperation she openly cursed while pounding the PAGE UP and PAGE DOWN keys, desperately trying to find her document. Slowly the screen began to regain color, pixel by pixel, as the word, GENESIS, poured across the screen in huge block letters. Her level of frustration brought a bright pink flush to her cheeks while she pounded the ESC key furiously, trying to clear the intrusion from her view, but to no avail.

Gradually the word, GENESIS, disintegrated and appeared to fall from the screen in pieces. An informational screen quickly appeared in its place.

________________________________________________________________

Can you recall the "work place" before labor unions?

NO? I bet your great-grandparents can. No minimum wage -- No safety regulations -- No legislation to prevent the slavery of small children.

Want to return to the era of working 12-hour days for pennies an hour so that business owners can afford to live in billion dollar castles?

<Press ENTER for next screen>

________________________________________________________________

While she had little time to spare for such nonsense, Rozelyn felt it important to go ahead and read the screen's contents -- if nothing else, to try to get a handle on where these messages were coming from. She could certainly understand the point that was trying to be made, but she failed to see what it had to do with her.

She punched the PRINT SCRN key a couple of times, hoping to send a copy of the message to her printer, but nothing happened. The printer made no noises or attempts to print anything. Reaching across to her printer, she punched the ON LINE button off, then depressed the FF key. The printer ejected a single, blank sheet of paper, making it clear that no signals had been sent or received from the CPU.

Now Rozelyn was really getting hot under the collar. Almost as an act of vehemence, she punched the ENTER key to receive the next message. It was obvious she had no choice unless she wanted to turn off her computer and re-boot, but that would take forever, waiting for the system to boot through all the networking sequences. The computer was quick to respond with a fresh informational screen.

________________________________________________________________

NO? Why do you think the Republicans keep trying to pass the "right-to-work" legislation? Wouldn't you rather hang on to the right to demand to be adequately compensated for your time at work?

YES? Vote for your Democrat candidates at ALL levels -- local, state and federal. They must have a majority vote. Legislation is waiting in the wings to bring an end to corrupt corporate behavior -- the Beginning of a better tomorrow -- a brand new start for America the Beautiful.

-- The Genesis Committee

________________________________________________________________

With this ending screen, Rozelyn's hard drive began to beep out an electronic rendering of a patriotic tune. The message quickly disappeared and the screen returned to the previously open work file….

….Allen Farwell Fairington entered his openly spacious, tenth-story penthouse to be greeted by his sensuous house guests, Candie and Brown Sugar, who were clad only in sheer, frilly black and white aprons -- and warm, bubbly smiles. Allen had been introduced to the frisky, attentive pair just weeks before by a fellow member of an all-men's club. This was definitely the perfect ending to his stressful-but-successful days of late, and he was sure it would be weeks before he would tire of their sexual acrobatics. Frankly, there was nothing like getting tweaked and twittered, all at the same time.

Candie relieved Allen of his briefcase and western jacket while Brown Sugar placed an iced, bourbon-laced cola in his hands. They both planted wet kisses on his cheeks before heading back to the kitchen to finish preparing his gourmet dinner, a sumptuous feast that was sure to last into the wee morning hours.

Candie stopped just short of the kitchen door and turned around to face Allen with spiraled curls of flame red swishing about her shoulders. "You don't have another one of those power meetings this evening do you, Allen-honey?" She giggled and winked, indicating there were better things waiting for him here at home.

"No, sweetness. I'm all yours tonight." Allen took another drink of his cola and settled on the sofa to look through the mail the girls had dutifully placed on the coffee table in front of him.

***

As the sounds of sirens filled the air, a late-model black van with tinted windows parked beside a curbside postal receptacle. One of its occupants deposited a packaged videotape addressed to Rebecca Turner of PDQ-NEWS. The van quickly sped away.

***

Homicide Detectives Barnes and Mitchell continued to observe the naked, mutilated corpse that lay in the middle of a king-sized bed with both arms still stretched outward and tied to the wrought-iron bedposts, as forensic technicians meticulously gathered samples of potential evidence.

Experience with the nature of inflicted wounds told both detectives that the victim had most likely been tortured for several hours before finally being executed. And yes, they agreed, this was most definitely a premeditated execution. The words, Genesis 18:25, were painted in bold, sloppy letters on the wall above the bed in what appeared to be the victim's own blood.

"No sign of forced entry," Detective Barnes said.

"Had to be someone he knew...intimately," Detective Mitchell said. "What did you say this dude's name was?"

***

Rebecca had wrapped up the magazine interview by 11:00 a.m. After much begging and pleading, she had relented and agreed to lunch in Tulsa with her cholesterol-starved crew. She had invited Sally to join them, but she had seemed eager to have time to herself to catch up with her editorial duties.

It was now approaching the one o'clock hour and Rebecca was returning to her hotel room to check her messages and get a few moments rest before rejoining Sally for a tour of two farms close to town, to witness the improvements that had been made over the past several years.

She unlocked her hotel room door and stepped in, tossing the key on the bureau top. That's when she noticed the small, square piece of paper on the floor. She reached down and picked it up, quickly reading a message that had been scrawled in capital letters and obviously written in haste: GET OUT WHILE YOU STILL CAN!

It would seem that not everybody in this community was happy to be here. And she had been correct in her assessment -- nothing was perfect. She laid the note on the bureau next to her keys and made a mental note to store the message in her satchel for future reference.

She opened her laptop computer and booted up to check for messages from Derek, opening the first of three that had arrived through the morning. It read: Tony alias Mark Freeman, arrives at Tulsa International, 10:45 A.M. today, will travel by purchased used vehicle. ERASE.

She quickly deleted the message and moved on to the next. It read: U.S. Senator Buck Conn believed kidnapped. On second execution tape, Conn was subject of recorded round table discussion. Had deal with A-String ActiveWear to award federal prison factory contract. -- Harrison Community Co-op: Major stockholders - Alex and Sarah Sunderland, BegiGen Foundation and overseas holding company. Legal still researching. Maybe later.

Rebecca decided to hang on to this message for later reference and quickly moved on to the third and last message. It read: Another videotape with piece of human toe in baggy!!! Executive being held until you air all three videotapes. NOT Senator Conn. Will amputate additional body part every 24 hours until tapes aired. Made copy before turning over to FBI. Have Wayne set up a closed-circuit feed ASAP. You need to see this. FBI wants you back in Chicago immediately. Please respond!!!

Rebecca's hands shook as she closed the message and made the selection to open her own message for response. Must stay in Harrison, please make excuses. Will set up feed for 7:00 p.m. tonight. Still believe connection here. Gathering evidence. Need your help with research in the a.m.

She made the selection to send, then decided to check the web site for other current news items. She had only searched for a couple of minutes when her screen again went black, reacting to another Genesis message. Rebecca was actually glad for the interruption. The more messages she read, the better she understood the personalities involved, the more clues she might discern.

__________________________________________________________________

Is there really such a thing as a SELF-MADE MAN? A man not born into money who, solely because of his own intestinal fortitude, becomes rich and powerful without significant help from others all around him?

NO. Society is full of bright, intelligent, hard-working individuals with creative and productive ideas that will never become a reality. It takes a person conceited and self-centered enough to convince a group of financial investors that his idea is better than everyone else's. It takes a true con-artist to convince scores of people around him that they should dedicate their time as lowly paid employees, pouring their heart and souls into making his company, his brainchild, a profitable success. <Press ENTER to continue>

_________________________________________________________________

Rebecca pressed ENTER. The words seemed to crumble off the screen and reform.

_________________________________________________________________

Every success story contains a wealth of people who gave their all to the project. Many times the instigator, the idea-man, is loath to compensate these people for all their hard work, selfishly believing he deserves all the glory and the profits for himself. Tired of this attitude in the work place?

YES? Vote for your Democrat candidates at ALL levels -- local, state and federal. They must have a majority vote. Legislation is waiting in the wings to bring an end to corrupt corporate behavior -- the Beginning of a better tomorrow -- a brand new start for America the Beautiful.

-- The Genesis Committee

_________________________________________________________________

After the message cleared the screen, she opened a file and typed in a few notes regarding the messages she had just read and the messages that Derek had explained to her earlier. Hurriedly, she touched up her makeup and brushed her hair, then grabbed her satchel and rushed towards the door, stopping briefly to grab her keys off the bureau top. A rush of air caused the anonymous note of warning to drift to the floor.

"Is it okay if I clean your room now, Miss?" the hotel maid said as Rebecca exited her room.

"Sure, thanks," she said.

The middle-aged, buxom woman pushed her cart into the room and shut the door. When she bent over to retrieve a fresh roll of toilet paper from a side-shelf in the cart, she saw the note on the floor and picked it up. After reading it, she walked to the phone and dialed a number.

"Can I talk to Sheriff Wilkins, please?" she said into the receiver. "This is Mabel, over at the hotel."

***

Tony sped down the highway towards Harrison in a just-purchased 1973 Dodge Charger. This souped-up, trashed-out heap ran like a charm, was noisier than hell, and had at least three or four layers of flaking enamel paint in a host of obnoxious colors. His boss had said to ride in looking like trouble, and Tony believed this sure ought to do the trick.

Earlier, in an airport rest room, he had changed into a pair of dirty, faded jeans and a grease-stained, beige T-shirt. He had gone to great pains to oil his hair, pulling up a few spikes across the top. It might have proved even more effective to pierce a few choice appendages, he thought, perhaps even running a chain from his earlobe to a nostril. Fortunately there hadn't been enough time -- and quite frankly, he was just too damn squeamish.

A few hundred yards past the state highway sign declaring that Harrison was two miles up the road, Tony spotted a convenience store to the right. He slowed down, checking the vicinity of the store parking lot for vehicles, deciding there wouldn't be enough customers inside to be a distraction. He definitely wanted to be noticed when he made his move.

He pulled into the convenience drive and parked his fine, new acquisition beside the island of gas pumps. After inserting the gas nozzle into the Charger's tank, he started towards the store, walking like a punk with an attitude. He made a point to avoid eye contact with the clerk as he entered and headed towards the candy aisle.

He loitered up and down the aisle, checking out of the corner of his eye for the clerk's attention. When reasonably certain the elderly woman was looking his way, he grabbed a couple of chocolate bars and dropped them inside his tucked-in T-shirt. Just in case she had any doubts about his intent to steal, Tony grabbed two packages of gum and dropped them inside his shirt, beside the already lodged chocolate bars.

He had never walked around packing stolen goods before. He didn't like the feeling at all, never dreamed stealing would be a part of his journalistic apprenticeship. He sure hoped Rebecca appreciated this little undercover assignment….

….Rebecca remained crouched in the passenger-side seat of the black Ford Escort the three of them had rented in Tulsa earlier in the evening. Chad had convinced her that trying to tail Sheriff Wilkins in the news van would be entirely too risky. All Wayne had cared about was that they didn't get into any situation that might bring harm to themselves or his precious video equipment.

They had been parked down the street, with a clear view of the rear entrance of the courthouse, for nearly two hours. Rebecca had been cramped in one position for so long that she had begun to lose patience with the whining of her starving crew. She had already declared that if she heard the mention of onion rings one more time, she would throttle the both of them.

It had been a struggle for her to maintain composure when Sally, earlier that afternoon, had invited her to dinner. It seemed that her husband would not be home until very late. Sally had innocently offered the information that a young man -- a drifter, she had guessed -- had been caught shoplifting at a country convenience store. Her husband, Sheriff Wilkins, and Deputy Johnson would most likely be spending the evening at the courthouse, taking care of business. They so rarely had prisoners to deal with, she had added. Rebecca felt confident that Tony had made his move and proved successful.

Sally had seemed quite disappointed when Rebecca had declined her dinner invitation and told her that she had an important business meeting in Tulsa and would have to take a rain check. Fortunately, Sally hadn't asked what the meeting was about -- the closed-circuit feed of videotapes.

Rebecca was still sickened by what little she had viewed from the three videotapes. Derek had known she would be pressed for time and had limited the footage that was fed to her. She had certainly seen enough to give her an idea of the type of individuals they were dealing with.

Truly troubling questions now weighed heavily on Rebecca's mind. How much did Sally know? How deeply involved was she? Could the woman she once considered a friend be capable of participating in such appalling displays of human suffering? Granted the executives murdered weren't themselves models of human kindness, but was Sally so dedicated to the cause of saving mankind that she could rationalize the morality of such heinous crimes?

If her hunch was correct, and if there were ties in this community to the terrorist group, she had probably made the biggest mistake of her life in asking for Tony to go undercover. There was no telling what they would do to that young man -- no telling….

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