Today’s meeting with Ridgeway Pharmaceuticals was the first step in leaving all that behind: the jealous colleagues, the procrastinating students, even his demanding ex-wife. And perhaps, it was even the means for him to make it up to his kids; he’d like to try. Today’s confab had that potential because it was the first of three with a major drug manufacturer, all interested in the new delivery system he had designed for flu vaccines.
True, treating the flu wasn’t sexy. But the fact was his system might save as many as a third of the 36,000 lives lost each year to the illness, as well as millions of dollars in lost productivity. Those kinds of numbers made up for a lot of humdrum in his research. They drew national attention and, more importantly to him, brought new career opportunities. He had already narrowed the field to three of the major players, and within a few weeks, that number would be one.
Huether propped the office door open with his briefcase so he could retrieve the students’ papers. But as he did, he noticed a package. His eyes narrowed. He had heard stories of under-the-table “signing bonuses,” but he doubted they were true. It seemed ludicrous that a pharmaceutical company would give him an inducement without any type of commitment on his part. But after confirming the name on the package, he scooped it up with the papers and brought it into his office. There, he placed it on a bookcase across the room, taking the papers to his desk.
After retrieving his coffee and briefcase, he dropped into his chair and glanced at the first paper. It was actually the assigned work, although it was so short, he couldn’t imagine it would warrant anything above a C. He took a sip of coffee, looking across the room. His thoughts were pulled along with his gaze. He needed something besides caffeine to wake his mind, and there sat the package. And since he had nearly memorized the promotional materials on Ridgeway, it was the better option.
He stood and walked to the bookcase, picking up the box to examine it more closely. It was heavier than he had realized earlier. Then, ironically, he brought the package to his ear just as a soft tone emanated from within. The sound, however, never registered in his brain as the package exploded in a brilliant ball of flame. A fragment of metal propelled by the blast ripped through his jugular vein, and he crumpled to the floor. Had he been conscious, he might have prolonged his life by pressing on the wound, slowing the flow of blood, but his mind was filled with darkness.
In the seven minutes it took another early riser to find him, Dr. John Huether bled to death.
7:43 AM – An Apartment in the Soulard Neighborhood
FBI Special Agent Rebecca Marte opened a bleary, blue eye to stare at the phone ringing on her bedside stand. She’d only been asleep for about three hours after pulling a late night conducting an “assessment.” According to the Attorney General’s guidelines, that designation for an FBI operation permitted, among other things, physical surveillance of public activities based on “an authorized purpose.” And that purpose was easily established for the Council for the Right. The stream of denunciations of black Muslims that emanated from their home base some 30 miles west and south of St. Louis had become increasingly vile and hate-filled over recent months.
Rebecca doubted that many of the local businessmen and farmers in the Council had met a black Muslim. So far, she hadn’t found even one, but that didn’t keep them from hating. The topic of discussion last night, however, had been the spring weather and its probable effect on crops. The assemblage knew their livelihoods hinged on the unpredictability of Mother Nature, and they’d put their vitriol aside for the night to lament their dependence. In fact, Rebecca’s only, semi-relevant observation for the evening was that membership in the Council evidently came with the right to harass the catering crew, of which she was a member for the night. She was certain she’d find a handprint on her butt if she looked, and it had taken most of her willpower to keep from beating the crap out of a couple of them. But then, the FBI tended to frown on such behavior.
Rebecca blinked, trying to read the phone with one eye. Had she forgotten to put it in the do-not-disturb mode before falling into bed still in her catering uniform? She thought not, meaning that the caller was one of the handful who could bypass that block. She sat up, and after using both eyes to decipher the display, she found her boss’s name. “Special Agent Rebecca Marte,” she said. While her boss didn’t demand the formality, he had once handed his phone to a district director after dialing her. The director didn’t think much of her greeting, “Spit it out, Chuck.”
“Rise and shine, Rebecca,” came Chuck Wheeler’s deep baritone over the speaker. “Long night, drinking with the boys down south?”
“Not funny. More like a long night carrying trays of beer and wings to frustrated, middle-aged men. It’ll be a week before I get the smell of smoke and buffalo sauce out of my hair. And they’re not even supposed to be smoking.”
Wheeler snorted. “I’d say, cut your hair, but you don’t have much left.”
Rebecca ran a hand through her short, light-blonde hair. Even without a mirror, she knew it now had that spiky, just-out-of-the-shower look she wore around the office. She didn’t really care for the style and it was probably unnecessary, but it had slowed some of the handsy recruits at the FBI Academy and she had stuck with it. She’d seen what an office romance had done for her dad when her mother left the police department where they both worked, putting both her and her dad in the rearview mirror. She wanted no part of that drama. A nice, boring, yet loyal accountant was closer to her ideal. Well, that and being good in bed.
“So, all quiet then?” asked Wheeler.
“It’s always possible that someone’s stirring up trouble in the backrooms, but if so, I didn’t see it. You’ll get my report. But I doubt you called at the crack of my dawn for status. What’s up?”
“Yeah, sorry about the timing, but things have unraveled with your wanna-be Unabomber. She just graduated to the big time.”
“Shit,” Rebecca mumbled over the phone.
A small part of her displeasure stemmed from the nickname Wheeler had adopted—“wanna-be Unabomber.” True, there were some similarities between the infamous domestic terrorist, Ted Kaczynski, and Sister Constance, notably their preferred instrument of violence. They both mailed or hand-delivered bombs to their intended victims. But most of her irritation came from the implications of the moniker. The Unabomber had evaded an FBI-led joint task force composed of 125 agents for nearly 18 years. Rebecca found it unacceptable to suggest such a thing might happen again.
The nickname also glossed over vast differences between Kaczynski and Constance. Where he worked from the shadows of his isolated cabin in Montana targeting leaders in technology and industrialization broadly, Constance and her “Crusaders for Common Sense” operated in a limelight that grew daily, and their hate focused solely on people with medical expertise.
The group’s public persona had been built on social media. They didn’t maintain a website; even with the most convoluted and highly encrypted routing, that site would be tracked back to them eventually. Rather, they used readily available, public hotspots and one of the growing number of laptops you could buy for a few hundred dollars—always purchased with cash. They would set up an account and broadcast their message in a series of posts, tweets, and emails, the latter directed to the media. The machines, often covered with fingerprints, were left behind in the bookstores and coffee shops where they were used. Constance and her cohorts appeared convinced that this forensic evidence couldn’t be linked with their identities, and so far, they were right.
The social media accounts were taken down as fast as they were discovered, of course, but even with the quickest response, it was too late. The public had started routinely searching online for any mentions of Sister Constance, her group, or her infamous tagline, “Stop Playing God with Medicine,” so even a two-minute delay was 119.9 seconds too long. And the number of these morbidly curious fans would skyrocket if Rebecca interpreted her boss’s words correctly.
“So, we
have a body this time?” she asked. Constance’s first two attempts had been near misses. The FBI probably wouldn’t have even known they were dealing with a potential serial hate killer if the Crusaders hadn’t publicized the fact.
Rebecca could hear Wheeler blow out a long breath before he answered. “Yep, ‘fraid so. A Dr. John Huether at St. Louis University. He had some type of dual teaching and research appointment. The research was on flu medicines, and supposedly his results had the potential to be a game changer. I’ll text you the address.”
“OK,” replied Rebecca. “Constance already take credit for this one?”
“She has, which is probably the only reason we’re talking. If forensics had to find all the similarities, it would have been a while. But the Crusaders lit up the Internet within minutes of the attack. Must have had it all typed up in advance.” Wheeler paused a beat. “I’m calling in Clements to give you a hand.”
“OK,” Rebecca said slowly, wondering what her boss’s pause had meant. Then, she got it. “I’m still going to have the lead, right?”
“With just you and Clements, sure. But if the powers that be want someone more seasoned in the lead of a bigger team ….” He didn’t get a chance to finish.
“Damn it, Chuck.”
Wheeler knew what was coming and headed her off. “Easy, Rebecca. We’re looking at three prominent individuals being attacked, leaving one dead. You’ve done great so far, and I’ll make a case for you keeping the lead.”
“And the powers that be, as you call them, will never leave this in my hands, will they?”
Wheeler paused again, with Rebecca hearing a second sigh over the line. “Probably not,” he said after a moment.
“OK. And thanks for being straight with me. I’m heading out to SLU.”
She broke the connection, afraid her irritation might come through. It was pointless to shoot the messenger. She even admitted to herself that he was probably right. She was less than a year out of the Academy and had never led a team … unless you considered her and her sometimes partner and full-time mentor, Senior Special Agent Gus Clements, a team. But just because her boss was right didn’t mean she liked being demoted.
7:35 PM – A Lambert St. Louis Airport Hotel
In the waning light of day, her reflected image in the hotel’s window was ghostly. Dressed in black, the pale, white skin of her face and neck was almost translucent in the fading rays. Her eyes were dark orbs, hidden in shadow. The spectral image was spoiled, however, by a mane of frizzy, red hair, its fiery color dimmed little by the fading daylight.
Sheila Moore silently berated herself for her disheveled look. Although she had been in and out of the Midwest several times in the last six months, she still hadn’t mastered the vagaries of its ever-changing weather. The unruliness of her hairdo was the result of getting caught in a brief shower that morning, although the remaining humidity might have been enough to undo her coiffure anyway. At least now she owned a warm coat, that lesson learned from one of her first excursions. The light jacket she wore on the flight from her home in Arizona did little to offset the windchill of the unpredicted Minneapolis snowstorm when she landed.
Moore turned from the window and scanned the crowd waiting outside the hotel ballroom. The gathering was large, one of the biggest she had seen for this talk, and she had witnessed many of them. She pushed her way through the throng, the maneuver serving double duty. She wanted to be near the doors when they opened, but the move also brought her closer to a five-foot-tall poster of the reason she was here.
The man who stared back at her from the wall made her heart beat faster. She remembered the first time they had met. It was only a handshake, but the electricity in his touch had taken her breath away. She felt it now as if his hand was caressing her, leaving a tingling wake in its path over her arm, across her neck, up to a cheek. She shivered with the imagined caress.
Moore moved closer to the picture, though she had no need to study it. The man wasn’t traditionally handsome, with short, curly brown hair, a neatly trimmed beard, tanned skin, and black-framed glasses. But to judge him from external appearances was like declaring a geode nothing but a rock, when in fact the plain surface hid a dazzling secret in its crystalline core. The man’s inner beauty came from his intellect, and Moore couldn’t match it. Few could. But she possessed a yin for his yang. It was her passion. The heat of her emotions, her love was the perfect complement for the power of his mind.
The time for the doors to open was quickly approaching, and Moore abandoned decorum. She started elbowing her way to the front, her drive fueled by the knowledge that the seat she occupied during the show would be as close as she got tonight. She wanted to see him after the show, even if only for another handshake. But she knew she wouldn’t, knew she couldn’t. And with the lights in his eyes, he wouldn’t even know she was there. And yet, perhaps he would sense her, feel her love reaching out to him. She could hope.
Progress was slow, and Moore looked upstream. A man was making his way through the crowd, apparently trying to leave. Despite the mass of humanity pushing against him, he appeared serene. His green eyes calmly surveilled the crowd, seeking the path of least resistance. He paused, a hand coming up to push a shock of brown hair off his forehead. He adjusted his path slightly, now heading directly for her.
“I think you’re going the wrong way,” she said when the man broke through the last of the people between them.
“Not if you’re leaving,” he said simply. His hand went to his hair again, making Moore wonder if this was a nervous tic. He had, after all, done it twice in less than a minute. But with his face radiating such self-possessed confidence, she decided it was a signature mannerism, like the way some women toss their hair when speaking. His hair falling on his forehead gave him something of a naughty-boy look. His muscled arms and fitted shirt further promoted that impression.
On a whim, she extended a hand. “Sheila Moore. And I think you’re going to miss a good show.”
“Reverend Micah Eastin,” he replied, taking her hand. But rather than shaking it, he held it flat on his palm, like it was a delicate flower to be admired.
Moore blushed, recalling the description she had just applied to this man of the cloth. And yet, it fit. Her hand felt cold as she pulled it from his. “I would think the uplifting message you would hear tonight would be right up your alley.”
“Yes, it is something that would … arouse my congregation, but I don’t need to hear every word to know that. I did, however, want to get a sense of his following, and I have. Ms. Moore,” he said, slightly bowing his head. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”
“And you,” Moore replied.
Moore’s eyes watched as the Reverend walked away. His looks stirred her emotions, and his oddly formal mannerisms intrigued her. And yet, he couldn’t hold a candle to the man she had come to see.
She continued forward. Finally, the doors to the ballroom opened, and with a final push, she was inside. Once again, it was time to see Jimmy, as she thought of him.
Same Time, Same Place
Dr. James Conroy, Jr., paced across the narrow hallway behind the hotel’s main ballroom. Five steps, just like it had been the first time he made the trip. And just like that trek, he took a deep, cleansing breath before turning to complete the loop. As he neared a curtain covering the ballroom’s entrance, he listened to the words drifting through the dark red fabric.
“It’s an honor and a privilege to introduce tonight’s speaker.” Conroy started another lap.
His pre-show anxiety, although unpleasant, was normal. He’d even decided if it ever vanished completely, it was probably time to quit. But since he had only one more show, on Thursday, his jitters would outlast his onstage career. In fact, for that last rally, it would be much more than the usual butterflies, but that was a concern for later. Right now, he had a show to do. He paused at the wall, took his calming breath, and turned.
During the course of many people’s lives, they
had felt the sting of medical help just beyond their reach. Whether it was a treatment banned in this country, a drug priced out of their financial reach, or a roadblock of endless paperwork, people had found themselves helpless, devoid of hope in the face of a massive bureaucracy that was the United States healthcare system. Tonight, he would remind them of those slumbering emotions. Tonight, once again, he would tell his story. And though the images he would describe were 32 years in his past, they formed a vision that was never far from his thoughts.
✽ ✽ ✽
His sister’s voice tugged at the corners of his sleeping mind. “Jimmy, wake up.”
A fourteen-year-old James Conroy, Jr., turned his back. “Leave me alone, Diane. It’s the middle of the night.”
“Jimmy, you have to wake up. I need you.” His sister’s voice was soft, almost breathless. The presence of their parents just down the hall might explain some of that. But he heard something else in her tone—an urgency? A fear? He rolled to face her. Her outline appeared in his open door, illuminated by the dim glow of a hall light beyond. Her tall, slender figure was bent as if pressed down by some unknown weight. He stared into the gloom, but her face was lost in shadow. “What is it, sis?”
“I need you to … to drive me to the hospital.”
“What are you talking about?” he asked, shaking his head, wondering if the sound of his heart beating in his ears could all be part of a dream. “I’m not even old enough for a learner’s permit.”
“You can do it,” Diane replied softly.
She turned, looking back through the door. As she did, Jimmy caught the reflection of a sheen of sweat on her face. He sat up. She turned back, steadying herself with a hand on the doorframe.
“You don’t look good. I’m getting Dad.”
Mind in Chains Page 3