“Pills?” said Parelli.
“The best delivery system for the quickest results, barring jamming it into your heart or directly into a vein, is intranasal. Normal dose in an EpiPen is 0.3 milligrams epinephrine per 1 milliliter. I put 1 milligram in each capsule to get you an instant boost. You put one into each nostril and squeeze until they break and release the drug.”
“He’s a big guy—you sure the dose is enough?”
“It’s enough for a horse.”
“Thank you, doc,” Bic said, then turned to Parelli. “Now, the address.”
52
Mack walked up to the ticket desk at Chicago O’Hare airport with a scowl that matched the drab airport’s intensity on his face. A call to Dr. Klein’s assistant at MD Anderson had come up dry. No one there had any idea of a meeting Gracie was to have with the man, let alone her cure.
He approached the girl at the counter. “Can I get the next flight back to LA?”
“Sure, just one moment.” She typed at her computer and stole a glance at him, a smirk appearing on her face. “Why the long face? LA’s not so bad.”
“No, it’s just—” his phone was ringing. It was his dad. “Hang on…” He answered. “Is everything okay, how is she?”
“Mack! There’s a man in Caroline’s room and he won’t let anyone in.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“We just went to visit her and this guy barred us from the room.”
“Did you tell the staff?”
“We did. They said he’s authorized to do so.”
“Ok,” said Mack. “Um, is he a doctor?”
“I don’t think so. He looks more like a,” his father’s voice went low, “a Mafioso.”
“What?” Mack said incredulously.
“He’s in a suit and he’s, you know, intimidating. Should I call the police?”
“Let me talk to him.”
There was a jostling of the phone.
“Hello,” said a voice.
“Yeah, who is this?”
“Agent Maddox, I’m a friend of Bic Green, and he asked me as a favor to watch over Caroline until you get back. So that’s what I’m doing.”
“And who exactly are you again?”
“A friend of Bic Green.”
“You’ll need to narrow that down a bit. Got a name?”
“I’m watching over Caroline. That’s all you need to know. And I’m not letting anyone come near her. Not family, not no one. Capisce?”
“Why are you watching her? Is she in danger?”
The man chuckled, a gravelly sound. “Not with me here, she’s not.”
“So why are you there?”
“Eh, I guess Bic felt he owed you something, you know, for clearing Gracie’s name.”
“Yeah, but I failed,” said Mack.
“It’s still early, Maddox.”
“She’s dead.”
The same, gravelly chuckle. “Yeah, and I’m a Chinese fighter jet pilot.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying they got her and Bic’s going to get her.”
“She’s alive?”
“Jeez, you’re slow. Yeah, she’s alive.”
“Where?”
“Small farming town on the Nebraska-Colorado border.”
“I found a letter from Anna in her safe deposit box. You have to let Gracie know the formulas are hidden in Steve’s favorite book at his favorite place to read.”
“Bada bing! Now I see why Bic likes you.”
“You can protect Caroline, right?”
“You got nothing to worry about, my friend. You have my word. I’ll personally take great care of her.”
He hung up.
Mack looked up to see the woman at the ticketing counter staring at him with a thinly patient smile. “Oh, man, I’m so sorry.”
“Man?”
“Listen, I’m gonna cancel the LA thing right now. So sorry.”
The woman shrugged and tapped two keys on the computer.
Mack stepped away, hitting Quinn’s number. He tapped his foot impatiently.
“C’mon, Quinn…”
“Yeah?” Answered Quinn.
“It’s me. Gracie’s still alive.”
“What?”
“I got a tip.”
“That’s amazing—where’s she at?”
Mack paused, realizing the implausibility of it all. “Yeah, listen, Quinn, this is just a tip.”
“Okay?”
“I’m going on some weird second-hand info here.”
“Okay.”
“She may be at a small farm town on the Nebraska-Colorado border.”
“Do you have an address?”
“That’s all I got.”
There was a pause, then, “Uh huh. So, you’re looking to, what? Drive up and down the Nebraska-Colorado border checking in at all the small farms?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
“Okay, you understand you’re not giving us much to go on here.”
“I thought maybe we could put our heads together or something,” Mack said hopefully.
“That’s fine. I’m, uh, a little involved here though at the moment. My niece was just given the first dose.”
“Anything?”
“We’ll see.”
“Okay, listen, Quinn, I’m going to sit tight in Chicago for a bit until I can sort this thing out.”
He hung up the call.
Suddenly it hit him there, in the middle of the Chicago airport: I just gave up the cure to cancer to a guy I don’t really know.
He took a seat in the ticketing area, thinking nasty, pessimistic thoughts.
53
The last 50 miles were a blur, with Bic going well over 100 mph on his motorcycle, carefully zipping around the occasional car he shared the roadway with. Between the flight and drive time, he’d had a lot of thinking time. Mostly about Gracie and how he could possibly regain her trust. She was the sweetest, most kindhearted, all-around good person he had ever known. The last couple decades, she had been his mission—to raise her to become the woman she had become.
It was his life’s legacy. More than that, it was his redemption.
Without her, all he had contributed to this world was a bunch of murders.
At dusk, Bic pulled up to the address of the house Hawk had left him. The rumbling of the bike eliminated any chance of surprise, but he wasn’t in the mood for games. This man wanted to kill him, so here he was, out in the open.
The kitchen light was the only light on in the house. Classical music was playing out the open kitchen window. Bic pulled a Glock from his underarm holster, the only weapon he had, as he walked up to the house.
Through the front door, he cleared the front room with his gun, to the eerily calm piano strokes of the classical piece. He couldn’t help but walk toward the source of the music coming from the kitchen.
Bic stared at the closed kitchen door as he listened one last time to the beautiful run of perfect piano notes, but this time he was also focusing past the music to see if there was anything else he could sense. The house, except for the music, was still—no movements, no creaks, no additional sounds.
Rage and impatience got the best of him, and he kicked the door open.
His eyes darted in every direction—on the old kitchen table sat a wireless speaker, and in the chair a man sat with a massive bullet hole in his chest. A white plate with only a bloody pork chop resting in its center and a full place setting, with napkin, silverware and all, were on the table in front of the man.
What a strange loop of evil here before him.
Bic’s father created him, the monster that he is. Bic is forever locked into the fetishized version of his father’s violence—a tiny, innocuous piece of meat.
And now here, someone has laid this iconography before him, the spawn of a new evil—a byproduct of his actions.
Bic stared
at it, outside himself, and yet fully aware of the person he could be at his worst. The sight of the bloody chop made him want to puke.
He closed the flower-patterned curtains to obstruct any further sniper’s shots. The music played on. Bic snatched the speaker off the table and smashed it on the floor. The room snapped into silence. He went over to the man in the chair—he was ice cold. He had to have been dead for several hours at least.
A Facetime ringtone came from the man. The front shirt pocket lit up.
Bic grabbed the phone and answered the incoming call.
The Farmer appeared on the screen, his face covered in a scruffy blanket of whiskers. The men instantly locked eyes, volleying stony, murderous glares in protracted silence.
The Farmer twisted his face for a moment. “Do you remember John Stomen?”
Bic continued to glare at the man.
The Farmer couldn’t contain his anger. “Answer me!”
Bic did not answer.
“You’re gonna remember him, I promise you.”
The screen view flipped, and there was Hawk, both of his hands duct-taped to his face, his palms covering his eyes, with one finger wiggling freely above. He was sitting in an old metal chair, his body tied securely to it.
“John was my brother, and you killed him,” the Farmer said off-screen.
“Don’t you worry about me, brother,” Hawk said.
There was another sound off-screen, the mechanical revving of a power drill…RIZZZZZZ.
“That’s right,” said the Farmer, “don’t you worry about Hawk, your lifelong best friend, who you fought side by side with in ‘Nam. Not like losing a brother, but it’s a start.”
The camera screen flipped back to the Farmer, his rigid, cold, hard eyes glaring at Bic. “Wanna see my toys?”
The screen flipped again, and there was a table with several different-sized screws, ranging from three-fourths of an inch to two inches.
Bic scrutinized the scene, desperate for any clue that might give away their location, but the camera angles were too tight.
“The skull is about a quarter of an inch thick,” the Farmer said as he snatched the smallest of the screws from the table.
The camera stayed on the remaining screws.
The drill went RIZZZZZZ…
Gracie screamed at the top of her lungs.
Rage flooded Bic’s entire body.
Then Hawk screamed. And it was different.
Bic had heard this scream many times. It was a scream of anguish, of excruciating pain…
“Always wanted to do that,” said the Farmer.
The camera turned to Hawk. The top of his hand by the knuckle had a screw through it and into his forehead. Blood was pouring out over the duct tape. Hawk was whimpering like a child.
The camera turned back to the screws.
“That was a three-quarter incher,” the Farmer said, camera still on the screws. Hawk groaned pitifully in the background. “Shut up, I’m trying to talk! Where was I? So, let’s see now, with the skull being a quarter inch, and our buddy Hawk’s finger being a half-inch thick or so, I’m guessing an inch-long screw will start to scramble some brain.”
A hand snatched a screw from the table.
The sound of the drill… Gracie’s protests… Hawk’s screams of agony…
The miserable cries clashed hellishly with the whirring of the drill. Then the gear tripped, and the drill made a sickening, ratcheting sound. It tore through Bic, as if the drill was boring into his soul. An unmistakable sound.
Anyone who’s ever drilled into a stud knows it.
The camera went to Hawk. There was a screw through the other hand. Blood ran freely.
Hawk was moaning. It sounded like some twisted Gregorian chant. The camera was placed on the table. All Bic could see was the ceiling.
The drill started again. Hawk’s and Gracie’s screams of hysteria and terror swirled over one another’s. The primal sounds of wild panic made the adrenaline surge through Bic’s veins.
Bic joined his friend in a scream of his own. Rage colored his mind red.
The ceiling.
His breathing was in hitches.
The ceiling.
He wanted to run somewhere and cover his ears. There was the jungle, and the ambush in the night, and Charlie coming at you with hellfire…
The ceiling.
He wasn’t there. He was here. And the horror was just as real.
The ceiling was high. Industrial, like a plant.
The drilling stopped.
“Let’s see if that shuts him up,” the Farmer said.
The camera tore away from the ceiling and went back to Hawk. Blood was everywhere.
Hawk had gone limp.
The Farmer turned the camera back to himself. Blood spattered his face, his beard. “One down, one to go.”
Bic growled, foam filling his mouth.
“There’s the old rage! I missed you, Bic.”
The screen then flipped to Gracie. She was standing on a stool, a thick rope around her neck attached to a massive meat hook hanging from the rafters. Standing on her tiptoes, she was one sudden slip from being hanged.
“See,” said the Farmer, “me and the girl had a deal. She hates you so much, she agreed to help me lure you out and kill you if I cleared her name. Too bad there’s gonna be a hangin’ tonight, cuz. See ya ‘round.”
The picture disappeared as the call disconnected.
Bic roared in anger as he ran outside the house.
In the moonlit night, he looked in both directions, frantically trying to decide which way to go. He felt like a terrified animal.
The ceilings were high, real high.
There was a part of his mind that was nagging him now. The only rational part of his brain was trying to tell him something.
It had to be a large plant of some sort.
That hook, he thought, then focused on what he saw and realized she was attached to some type of rail system. It was a setup used in a meat processing plant.
He searched the internet for meatpacking plants in the town. There was an abandoned slaughterhouse three miles away. The only disused plant in the whole state.
He hopped on his bike and took off, ready to lay waste to the whole world.
54
The complex was comprised of two large main buildings about 25 yards apart and attached by curved, tunnel-like tubes. Having worked in a meat plant for a short while as one of the many jobs he’d had after the war, Bic was familiar with the structure. The building with the lower roof, not fully enclosed, probably held the livestock holding pens. At night, the whole place was a sinister maze of Machiavellian shadows and imagined tortures. The tubes fed the live cattle from the holding pens into the slaughterhouse, an enclosed two-story building of faded white brick.
Bic had a good idea where he would find Gracie. In the video, she was hanging from some type of overhead rail line system. In a slaughterhouse, this system would run through much of the main plant, where the carcass, hung on a meat hook, could be easily transported from one station to another. The highest ceilings with the largest open area of the rail system usually were in the hanging room. This was the spot where the cattle, after being bled out, skinned, trimmed, and cleaned, would hang to chill while waiting to be processed and packaged.
He entered the building with the livestock holding pens first. The place still contained many of the remnants of its time in full operation. The smell was pungent, a mixture of animal rot and mildew.
From there he proceeded through the stunning room and on into the bleeding room. It was there he saw the start of the overhead rail system about eight feet off the ground. Visibility was low and virtually all the equipment was left behind, a lot of it stainless steel with its still-shiny surface refracting what little moonlight was coming through the broken-out windows above.
Keeping tight to the wall, he slid in and out of rooms until he made it
into the washing room. By the rails above, he expected Gracie to be in the next room, unless the Farmer had moved her. He went to the entranceway and peeked in.
What he saw there made his heart drop.
Gracie hung in the middle of a room the size of a basketball court. The ceiling had row after row of metal rails, and hundreds of old meat hooks still attached to them. Her face full of anguish, Gracie stood on her tiptoes, legs trembling. At any moment, she could lose her balance, fall off the wooden stool, and hang herself.
He saw Hawk next, covered in blood with his hands screwed into his head.
He tried to get his bearings, to uncloud his mind for just a moment.
He looked and saw a rope tied to one of the legs of the stool Gracie stood on. The long rope ran across the floor of the entire room and through a door, which appeared to lead to a small room—a utility closet, perhaps, or a small office. Every now and again, the rope tightened, then slackened, tightened, then slackened.
It was a simple trap, but brilliant. The Farmer was obviously leading him toward rescuing Gracie, toward the center of the room, where he’d be a sitting duck.
Bic looked for possible ways to go through the room and get to the other side unseen.
There were support pillars down the center of the room, but they were far too skinny to provide cover.
Gracie yelped as she lost her balance, struggling she regained her balance .
Bic saw the rope on the floor tighten, slacken, tighten…
Bic eyes went to the small room. It was dark, but there was a darker form filling its threshold.
There was the Farmer, rope in hand.
He emerged into the light, smiled, then yanked the stool out from underneath Gracie.
Gracie jerked and twisted in the air, her eyes wide, her mouth gaping, a horrible mask of agony. Her hands went to her neck as she dangled there.
Bic retreated to the room behind him and grabbed one of the stainless-steel tables. He lifted the thing upright, then charged into the room table-first.
Flashes of light lashed out from within the dark doorway. Shots clanked into the table as Bic went to Gracie.
He stopped when he was between Gracie and the small room. There he put down the table on its side so that it still served its purpose as a shield. He drew his Glock with his right hand and fired a volley into the doorway. While he did so, he grabbed Gracie with his free arm and lifted her into the air.
The Cure Page 15