Dark Harvest (A Holt Foundation Story Book 2)

by Chris Patchell

  Henry rounded the last corner. There was only one security camera on this hallway. He pulled a two-hundred-megawatt laser pointer from his pocket. He took aim at the security camera, and bam, that was all it took to knock the camera out. The $100,000 security system reduced to junk by his twenty-dollar toy and a third grader’s aim.

  Now, with no electronic eyes recording his moves, he had all the time in the world to do what he came here to do. The adoption agency was at the end of the hallway, conveniently located next to an emergency exit.

  He wouldn’t need it. He already had a plan.

  The website said the agency was open by appointment only, but he knocked on the locked door anyway. A few seconds later, he pulled out his pack of tools. The five-pin deadbolt took less than thirty seconds to jack, and he strode inside.

  The security system beeped. Henry examined it. He was prepared for an older system—one that relied on the old cellular network to send out an alert. This one was newer, but like every good Boy Scout, he came prepared. He knew what frequency this particular system used to broadcast alerts.

  Pulling out his laptop, he got the software-defined radio system he’d configured up and running. An application of Henry’s own design, it functioned like a radio, capable of transmitting and receiving vastly different radio protocols, including the one used by the agency. He tuned the radio to the same frequency the security system used.

  The red flashing light on the alarm panel turned to solid red. Full alarm. But Henry wasn’t worried. His software radio pumped out enough white noise to jam up the system. No way an alarm signal would make it through to the monitoring company. With that nonsense out of the way, he focused on his goal: to learn more about the people who were running this place and see if there were any more clues that connected them to Becky and Suzie.

  The office looked legit. Perfectly staged with a fancy desk, fancy furniture, and fancier diplomas on the wall. Three thigh-level cherry wood filing cabinets lined the wall behind the desk. Henry passed them by on his way toward the only other room in the office.

  He yanked the door open. If it was anywhere, it would be in here.

  The room had a few stacks of newborn disposable diapers, some baby formula, a tiny white microwave, and a small fridge. The kind of stuff you would need to take care of a newborn and nothing else. Figures. What possible use would an adoption agency have for a cryogenic freezer and a centrifuge, along with a few other fancy pieces of medical equipment he’d had to look up? None.

  Although the charges he’d traced from the agency’s account had said they’d been delivered here, they must have been redirected elsewhere, which meant they had another location.

  Henry scratched his head.

  Where, oh where, oh were could they be?

  Closing the door behind him, he retreated back into the main part of the agency’s office. Henry tugged on a filing cabinet drawer. It was locked. He took out his handy-dandy set of tools and opened it.

  Phone books. Files filled with blank sheets of paper. Henry thumbed through the manila folders, checking one drawer and then the next. Another dead end.

  He was most of the way through his task before he finally found something real. Well, sort of real. Glossy marketing pamphlets with pretty pictures of newborns and testimonials. One couple, a Jake and Heather Derringer, shared their bright smiles and shiny claims that the agency had made their dreams come true.

  Henry snorted.

  Ten to one if he ran an Internet search on the photo, he’d find out it was a stock photo, as fake as everything else in this place.

  How many families had traded their cold hard cash for stolen babies? The thought of it made him sick. These bastards were preying on the needy. He would make damned sure he drained the offshore account. If they planned to use the money to disappear, they’d be screwed. He could send the money to his favorite cause—The Anna Kilburn Scholarship for girls who code. Nah. Too obvious. He’d donate the money to Planned Parenthood instead. Given their support of both missing girls, it seemed only fitting.

  Henry shoved an agency business card in his pocket. Couldn’t hurt to try the contact info to see what he’d get back.

  He closed the last filing cabinet drawer and took a seat behind the desk. Locked. Not a problem.

  Inside Henry found a notebook. He flipped through the pages. They looked like the kind of writing exercises a high school kid might be asked to do. The handwriting was sloppy, almost illegible. Halfway through the journal, Henry noticed a change. The words scrawled across the page were incomprehensible. Gibberish. It went on like that for a few pages, in the same spiky script before it returned to normal.

  Henry stowed the journal in his messenger bag and kept looking. At the bottom of the drawer he found a file folder and pulled it out.

  It was a black and white image of someone’s brain. It looked as if a black butterfly was spreading its wings in the center.

  Weird.

  Henry took a picture of it with his phone and sent the image to his laptop so he could learn more about it. The computer sprang to life. He saw an alert blink red on the screen.

  Dammit.

  The software radio had crashed sixty-five seconds ago. The security system had already sent out an alarm to the monitoring company. The police were on their way, and given his history with the law, Henry couldn’t afford to get caught. Elizabeth Holt wasn’t here to save him.

  Time to get out of Dodge.

  Henry slapped his laptop shut and flung it into his messenger’s bag. He burst through the emergency door into the wet afternoon air and sprinted for the car.

  Chapter 41

  The Hilton Hotel in SeaTac was located right across from the airport. The parking lot out front was jammed to capacity, so Seth pulled into the breezeway behind a shuttle bus heading for the airport.

  “You can’t park there,” the concierge yelled.

  “I’ll be ten minutes,” Seth answered.

  The curbside concierge was still threatening to have his car towed as Seth passed through the sliding double doors. Straight ahead, he saw the restaurant and bar—sparsely populated at this time of day. He spotted the signs pointing the way to the genetics conference.

  Registration tables were setup to the right. He caught the eye of a pretty young twenty-something behind the desk, and she smiled.

  “Are you here for the conference?”

  “I am,” Seth said, smiling back.

  “Your name?” She picked up a clipboard filled with names.

  Henry would have had a name already prepared, but Seth scrambled, looking at the back table filled with rows of unclaimed badges.

  “Dr. David Pringle,” he said, latching onto one in the bottom row.

  “May I see your ID?” she asked, as sweet as a beauty pageant contestant.

  The smile froze on Seth’s face. He’d stepped right into this one.

  “David Pringle,” a voice called from over his shoulder and Seth turned to see a bearded man with thick glasses approach. “Matt. Matt Dixon from Boston Children’s.”

  He held out his hand and Seth shook it, playing along. “Matt, of course. It’s good to see you.”

  Being greeted by the newcomer was all the confirmation the girl needed. She located a thick white packet and handed it to Seth.

  “Welcome, Dr. Pringle. Here’s your badge. Inside the envelope is your program. Enjoy the conference and don’t hesitate to stop by if you need anything.”

  “Thanks,” Seth said, falling into step with Dr. Dixon.

  He pinned the nametag to his shirt and strode down the wide hallway, scanning the crowd for a glimpse of Lia. She shouldn’t be too hard to spot. Few women populated this sea full of men.

  “I was hoping to run into you,” Dixon said. “I wanted to talk to you about your paper on preclinical animal studies. Fascinating stuff.”

  Seth grinned and nodded, as if he had some inkling what Dixon was talking about. With every step, he was digging himself deeper. He need
ed a way to ditch his escort so he could focus on finding Lia.

  The men’s room was ahead on the left.

  “You know, I would love to catch up with you, Matt. But I’m running late for a session.”

  “Which one?”

  Seth opened the program and scanned the titles.

  “Genome engineering.” Whatever the hell that was.

  “That session finished an hour ago.”

  Seth forced a laugh. “See? Told you I was late. Maybe we can catch up at the bar later.”

  Matt surreptitiously checked his badge, and Seth knew he was blowing it. Before he made another blunder, he excused himself and slipped into the men’s room. The buzz of the crowd was muffled by the restroom door, and Seth breathed a sigh of relief.

  He ditched the envelope in the trash and skimmed through the program. The speakers were listed in the back, and Seth scanned the long rows of photographs until he found hers. Lia. Malia Russo was scheduled to speak on a panel about biomass conversion. Seth checked his watch. Lia’s panel discussion was already underway in the Evergreen ballroom. He consulted the map.

  The Evergreen Ballroom was up ahead. The doors were closed, and a security staff member was posted outside. Seth reached for the door handle, but a hand on his arm stopped him.

  “Sorry, sir. The session is already underway.”

  “It’s okay,” Seth said. “I’m sure they won’t mind.”

  A radio beeped at the staff member’s hip, and Seth glanced down the hallway. The woman from the registration desk was barreling toward him, along with a short, balding African American man. Both of their gazes locked on Seth as she pointed him out to the trio of security guards in tow.

  He wondered if the man was the real David Pringle. If so, he needed to disappear inside the ballroom, but the staff member still barred the way.

  “The session has started,” he said. “It’s disruptive for the panelists.”

  Seth released his grip on the conference program. It fell to the floor.

  “Would you mind . . .” He propped one hand on his lower back and gestured toward the program.

  The security guard reached for it. Seth opened the door. The guard made a grab for him, but Seth slipped through. Five panelists were seated on the podium behind an ornately draped white desk, and Lia was the only woman. She picked up her glass of water. Her hand stalled as she caught sight of him.

  He took an empty seat at one of the round tables near the back. The panelists answered questions. The subject matter of the conversation was leagues over Seth’s head, so he typed Dr. David Pringle’s name into a search window on his phone. The results returned a photo of the African American man he saw with the receptionist.

  Just his luck.

  The doors to the conference room swung open and a hush swept over the room as several security guards entered.

  They were coming straight toward him.

  Seth caught sight of a side door, only six feet away. He made for it. It opened onto a service hallway. He ran straight into a waiter pushing a trolley. Ice water and glasses crashed to the floor.

  “Sorry,” Seth said, skirting the mess and hurrying down the hallway.

  “Dr. Pringle,” a security guard called.

  Seth ignored him and moved toward the exit. He dodged around the other participants. The door was only feet away when a barrel-chested security guard came out of nowhere.

  “Sir,” he said. His meaty arm barred Seth’s exit while the others caught up.

  “May I see your identification?”

  The request came from a short, sturdy woman in uniform. The other guards fell back, letting her take the lead.

  “Look I just need to talk to Dr. Russo.”

  “Your identification, please.”

  “I really don’t think that will be necessary. I was just leaving.”

  Coming here had been a mistake. A small crowd had gathered around him, murmuring like a hive of bees.

  “Is your name Dr. Pringle?” the security guard asked.

  Seth reached in his pocket for a business card about to confess when he heard Lia’s voice.

  “It’s okay. He’s with me.”

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” the head of security said. Lia stared her down.

  “Dr. Russo.”

  “Dr. Russo, we believe this man is impersonating another speaker.”

  “He’s here on a very important matter. I assure you, he won’t cause any more trouble.”

  The security guards traded uneasy looks. Lia arched an eyebrow and waited for a response.

  “If you say so, Dr. Russo. He’s your responsibility.” She turned her steely gaze on Seth. “We’ll need your conference identification.”

  Seth removed his nametag and handed it to the guard.

  “Is there some place the two of us could speak privately?” Lia asked.

  “Right this way.”

  The head security guard led the way to a small conference room behind the registration desk. Seth waited until the door closed behind them.

  “I’m guessing you don’t make a habit of crashing conferences, so what’s so important?”

  “Sorry. I did try to call you.”

  Lia nodded. “But my phone is shut off.”

  “I need your help. Can stem cells cure Alzheimer’s?”

  Lia cocked her head.

  “Not yet, but extensive research is underway on the protocol of using stem cells to treat neurological brain disorders including Parkinson’s, cerebral palsy, and yes, even Alzheimer’s. Why?”

  “Can you get stem cells from newborn babies?”

  “Usually these cells are derived from growing human embryos in a lab environment.”

  Seth tried to square this information with his current case. Maybe he was off base.

  “Embryos? The women I’m looking for are late in their pregnancies.”

  Lia paused. Her mind working quickly to connect the dots. Understanding dawned on her face. “Oh my God. The missing women are pregnant. You think these women were kidnapped to harvest stem cells?”

  “Is that possible?”

  “There are a number of sources for stem cells—preimplantation embryos, children, adults, aborted fetuses, the umbilical cord, amniotic fluid, and the placenta.” Lia listed them off on her fingers.

  Seth was relieved to hear that some of the options did not directly involve babies. Sacrificing a full-term baby for research purposes was too macabre for words. These were people, not cultivated cells growing in a petri dish. Seth thought about Marissa and the baby growing inside her. Their baby. A little boy or girl they would raise into whatever kind of person he or she was meant to be.

  “So he could harvest the stem cells after the baby was delivered?”

  “Potentially, yes. Cord cells, or those from the placenta, could be harvested after the baby was born. The procedure itself is quite simple. Assuming you’re right, the genetic tests you showed me this morning may have been run as a screening mechanism to determine if these women were suitable donors.”

  Seth looked for holes in his theory—places where the logic broke down. A theory was only so good. What he needed was a motive.

  “There have to be easier ways to get stem cells,” he said, voicing his own doubts. “Can’t you buy them? I mean, if you can buy a kidney on the black market, then why not stem cells?”

  “You could, but it’s not the kind of thing you’d buy from Costco. The origin of black market stem cells are iffy. You could be buying sheep stem cells for all you know. Not to mention the cost.”

  Money, Seth thought. Like the kind of money that could be made from an illegal adoption.

  “Here’s the problem,” Lia said, pacing the length of the room while she spoke. “Stem cell research is still in its infancy. It is not the kind of thing an amateur could do. Trust me. There is no ‘Dummies’ book on the topic. We’re talking a highly specialized field.”

  “My suspect is a doctor with an undergrad degree in bioengineering.�
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  “That doesn’t mean he’s capable,” Lia said. “It would take years and years of study and research. But he might think that he is.”

  “He’s delusional?”

  Seth’s phone buzzed, cutting him off midthought. A text message from Henry.

  Ask Lia what she makes of this.

  Seth glanced at the photo. It was a black and white MRI scan of a brain. That was as much as Seth could tell. He handed the phone to Lia.

  “Henry wanted you to take a look.”

  Lia peered at the phone. Zoomed in on the image. Studied it for a few seconds more before handing it back to Seth.

  “This patient doesn’t have Alzheimer’s. They have frontotemporal dementia.”

  “Meaning?”

  “It’s a disease that attacks the brain and causes problems with behavior, language, and thinking.”

  “What kind of behavioral problems are we talking about?”

  “Poor impulse control. Gross errors in judgment.”

  Whose test results are these? Seth texted.

  Henry’s response was instantaneous.

  “Shit.”

  “Does Henry know who the tests belong to?” Lia asked.

  Seth hesitated and blew out a breath.

  “Dr. Alexander Wilcox.”

  He recalled the footage of the car accident where the BMW slammed into the back of the Camry. Wilcox screaming at the other driver. Tossing the twenty-dollar bill through the window. It all fit.

  “How old is he?”

  “Early forties.”

  She nodded. “Most patients are diagnosed in their forties or fifties, but in some patients, symptoms present earlier. Loss of empathy is a hallmark of the disease.”

  “Which means the usual deterrents for human behavior may not apply,” Seth concluded.

  Find him. Seth texted Henry.

  I’m already on it.

  “Thank you, Lia. You’ve been a big help.”

  “If you and Henry are right, Seth, you’ve got a big problem,” she said, her expression somber. “You’re dealing with a psychopath, who would stop at nothing to save himself. And he’s losing his mind. I hope you’re wrong.”