Chapter 16
Enzo stood inside the drawing room and stared at the pile of books that littered the floor. Behind him, Turi paced anxiously, constantly checking out his handiwork. The crumpled nose of their rental car poked inside the mansion, and smoke billowed from the engine.
Rafael reloaded the Steyr and the nine millimeter he carried at his hip. Shrugging, he asked, “What should we do now? Cops are probably on the way.”
“You think?” The snarl came from Turi, who advanced menacingly. “We freaking drive into the biggest house on the block—the house where we happened to murder the owner a couple of days ago.” Whirling, he confronted Enzo, his bulk making the motion more of a lumbering turn. His neck ached from the impact of the crash, and his head pounded something awful. This job had been a bitch from beginning to end, and he was ready to go home. No part of him desired to live out the remainder of his wretched life in a Bahia hellhole. Not when they still had time to run. “Enzo, man, they vanished. Check out the panel. Obviously, there was a door or something. Like as not, they’re not coming out for days. We can’t wait that long.”
Enzo contemplated the keypad with its inactive lights. His poking at the digits yielded no welcoming beep or furious rejection of code. Apparently, Mr. Caine and Dr. Lyda had disengaged the wiring from behind. Very smart. Smarter, it seemed, than the mewling giant behind him, whose constant grousing caused him to wonder if Turi would survive their job. The urge to crush his lackey’s larynx warned Enzo that the time had come for retreat. After they’d searched the house.
“Make a thorough search of this place. Every bathroom, broom closet, and mattress.” Enzo turned to his compatriots, eyes flat and cold. “Before I call this in, we have to eliminate all other possibilities.”
“What about the cops?” Turi whined, his hand squeezing the handle of his favorite knife convulsively. “Someone is bound to call the police, what with the racket we’ve made. I’m surprised we’re not already in handcuffs.”
“For a career criminal, you are such a pansy, Turi.” He murmured the insult, not concerned about the low growl from the man who outweighed him by a hundred pounds. Enzo merely brushed at the collar of his crisp white shirt, straightened his tie. “I will handle the police.” Jerking a finger toward the doorway, he instructed, “Go. Now. You have fifteen minutes.” When Turi hesitated, the knife sliding from its sheath, Enzo grinned, and added softly, “Or you can die now. Your choice.”
Turi let the knife fall into place and ambled out, muttering beneath his breath. If this job didn’t pay so well, he’d be on the next flight home. He hated the heat, the humidity, and his partners. Enzo dressed like a dandy and gave orders like a general. Turi hadn’t worked with him before, and he sure as hell wouldn’t do it again. For the last few days, he’d been forced to hike killer mountains and babysit a man-child who liked to shoot at stuff like he was in a video game. Would do his heart good to cut out Enzo’s, Turi considered as he entered the hallway. The image of red, wet blood spilling all over the clean white shirts the guy preferred brought a pleased chuckle as he headed for the staircase.
“You too, Rafe.” Enzo pointed to the door. “Check everything.”
“Yes, sir.” Rafael bounded to his feet with the relentless energy of youth and rushed out to begin the hunt. Enzo noted that the Steyr lay across the purple settee, but the nine millimeter was gone. “No shooting,” he called out. With a sigh, he walked to the gaping hole Turi had punched into the wall of the house. Crude method of entry, he reasoned, but effective. Reaching into the passenger side, he retrieved his phone.
“Canete Policia,” came the terse greeting.
“Captain Montoya, please. It is his cousin.”
“Sí.”
The line went dead for an instant, then a booming voice crowded onto the line. “Enzo? What the hell have you done?”
Though the question was in Spanish, Enzo replied in English. He hated using Spanish unless it was unavoidable. His shrink referred to it as self-loathing. Enzo thought it enlightened self-interest. “Your men were supposed to have had them by now. I gave you the photos—told you where to find them.”
Montoya knew of his “cousin’s” disfavor for their native tongue and his temper, but he didn’t care. Speaking in rapid-fire Spanish, he explained, “They weren’t in the marketplace, and we didn’t see them at the house. I let you go inside to check even. Why did you go back?”
“Because one of the neighbors heard her dog barking and thought she saw something.”
“Your response is to shoot the place like an American mobster film and ram a car into building?”
“As the car carries the Canete Policia emblems, I assume you will explain the destruction in your report. And before you reply, please recall the support I have offered to the police to help you find the killers of Felix Estrada. I appreciate your generous loan of the police car to surveil the area.”
Montoya sniffed. “Given the damage, I may require additional gifts. In the meantime, I will dispatch a team to provide backup in thirty minutes. Please have your business completed by then, okay?”
“One more item.” Enzo caressed the keypad thoughtfully. “Estrada’s niece. If she needed to bolt, where would she go?”
“Estrada lived here alone after his parents died. Never married,” Montoya replied. “He was well-known throughout the town. However, I would first check with Senora Martinez, who lives outside the city. The girl might know her. Might go to her for help.”
Because he had already visited the homestead, he knew exactly where to go. The house had been empty that time, but a return visit was in order. “Gracias.” Enzo disconnected the line and stared at the wooden paneling. Behind the wall, he knew Caine and the doctor hid from him and his future. Perhaps Senora Martinez would prove more helpful. He strode to the foyer and bellowed, “Turi! Rafael! Come!”
Clifton Burge huddled in his Bethesda office, gulping down a tepid cup of coffee that tasted of acid in his mouth. On his desk, the photo of Felix Estrada, body sprawled and stained with blood, accused him of betrayal. The scientist shoved away from the desk, rising to pace the cramped box he preferred. At his grade, he merited a larger office, one with a view of the city. But sunlight hurt his eyes, and scenery only served to distract.
“Hey, Dr. Burge, aren’t you coming?”
A young WASPish man whose name he never remembered stuck his head inside the office door. Startled, Clifton darted to his desk, bent double, and folded his arms over the glossy, garish photo. “What? What do you want?”
“Didn’t mean to startle you, Doc.”
“Next time knock.” Clifton couldn’t recall if he was a scientist or a politico who’d been parked at the NIH because his father gave a hefty donation to a campaign. Either way, the intrusion frayed at his nerves. “Why are you here?”
“Sorry, sir. Bertha asked me to tell you that the 10:00 A.M. meeting’s about to start. You know the director hates for us to be late. She’s got some big announcement from DC, and all the muckety-mucks from DHS are coming down.” In a conspiratorial whisper, he added with the air of a seasoned gossip, “I hear there’s been a shake-up at the White House. That the director is getting promoted. Hey, maybe you’ll be in line for her job.”
The thought of a promotion and more interactions with his colleagues roiled his already tumbling stomach. “I don’t listen to gossip,” he managed tightly. “You shouldn’t either.”
Unrepentant, the man chuckled. “It’s a national pastime, Doc. Don’t be so stiff.” He sidled further into the room, looking around. Dr. Burge was an odd duck who’d been at NCCAM for longer than he’d been alive. The dude guarded his office like a vault and acted all suspicious. He had a theory about the doctor, and it involved quiet types, their basements, and body parts. “You coming?”
Clifton sneezed loudly and bobbed his head. Nauseous, anxious, he stammered out, “I’ll be there in a minute. Go on without me.”
The intruder gave him a questioning look
and withdrew slowly. “Sure thing, Doc. I’ll save you a seat.”
As soon as the door closed, Clifton coughed harshly, the nervous fit of hacking having followed him since childhood. He fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief and covered his mouth. Soon, the spate of coughing passed. Wheezing instead, he shoved the square of cloth into a plastic sandwich bag that he kept in a drawer. Then he removed an antiseptic wipe from the tub on his desk and scrubbed at the places where his germs might have landed.
Wiping vigorously, Clifton worried over his current situation. The idea had seemed perfect when Felix first told him about the Cinchona. About a collection of homeopathic remedies that would revolutionize modern medicine. All he required was a financial investment to construct the elixir. A paltry sum, given the medicine’s promise. Working at the National Center for Complementary and Alternative Medicines, affectionately known by the DC acronym of NCCAM, had been an ideal placement for him. Surely, his division would leap at the opportunity to fund Estrada’s research.
Clifton had taken the proposal to his director, who had firmly refused to discuss an ancient manuscript with “some third-world antidotes to lice.” Undeterred, Clifton had made use of a web of connections and found an angel investor. Now, his angel had turned demon, and his salvation had been stabbed to death on the floor of his own house.
Coughing again, Clifton feared this might be his last chance, regardless of what his doctors told him. Sickly since childhood, he didn’t trust synthetic remedies, knowing they often created more disease than they cured. After all, he’d gone to medical school to understand the various bugs and bacteria and viruses that systematically attacked him, breaking down his immune system. One more bad cold, and he was dead, he knew. He had to have the Cinchona.
He was no hypochondriac, despite his physician’s diagnosis. Instead, he was the model candidate for the Cinchona. Since childhood, he’d been prone to disease, and he had only himself to rely upon.
Hunching back against his chair, he stared at Felix’s photograph. A friend for thirty years, Felix had promised him a curative that would save him and make him healthy for the first time in his life. And now, because of his actions, Felix was dead, and he was probably next.
Trembling, he reached for the phone. Maybe he should call Helen, he thought nervously. Find out if she sent him the photo as a warning. If she’d talk to him, he could explain that he was still useful. Perhaps, when they found the manuscript, he might be hired by them to synthesize the elixir. After all, he was the leader in his field. Deputy director of NCCAM. Too important to be killed—by thug or germ. Screwing his courage up, he punched in the digits.
“Taggart Pharmaceutical. Where making you healthy makes us happy.” The dulcet British tones greeted him with the company’s trademark slogan. “How may I direct your call?”
“Helen Cox, please.” Clifton gripped the receiver in a slick hold. “I’m Dr. Clifton Burge from the United States Department of Health and Human Ser vices. NIH.”
The voice on the other end hesitated, and Clifton reached for the cup of coffee, downing the last dregs. Had Helen told them not to let him ring through? Was she sending her goons to kill him? Like they’d killed poor Felix. “I need to speak to Helen right now,” he urged. “It’s an emergency.”
“Just a moment, Dr. Burge. Ms. Cox is in a meeting and left instructions not to be disturbed. Let me ring her assistant.”
With calm efficiency, the receptionist placed him on hold, a suite from Brahms oozing across the line. Clifton sniffed, then sneezed again, and added a choppy cough for good mea sure.
“Yes?” Another syrupy voice came on the line. “Dr. Burge?”
“I want to talk to Helen.” Sitting up stiffly, he tried to inject vigor into his tone. “Right now. This instant!”
The assistant merely replied in the same saccharine voice, “Ms. Cox is unavailable at the moment. She is meeting with clients and cannot be disturbed. However, I will certainly deliver your message at my earliest possible convenience.”
“Your convenience?” The vigor slid quickly into a shrill whine. “I must speak with her now. Do you hear me? Now!”
“I understand your desire, Dr. Burge. However, as I explained, Ms. Cox is not accepting interruptions at the moment. I will pass on your urgency to her. Is there anything else I may assist you with?”
“I want you to know that I intend to report your insubordination to Helen,” sniped a defeated Burge, his shoulders slumping forward.
“That is your prerogative, Dr. Burge. My name is Rhonda Minnear. Please have a nice day. And know that at Taggart Pharmaceuticals, making you healthy makes us happy.”
Clifton held the phone aloft, listening to the drone of a disconnected call. Inside his head, the drone became a buzzing that pounded at his temples and disrupted his thoughts. “They’ve already decided to kill me.” He muttered his suspicions to the empty cube, and the part of him that suspected a conspiracy of germs shrieked to him. Run, they told him in a cadence brooking no argument. Disappear where Helen and her minions can’t gut you like they did Felix.
His body a vibrating wire of angst, Clifton gathered his badge, his Kleenex, the emergency packet of wipes and the Redweld filled with his communications with Felix. Shoveling them into his briefcase, he hesitated over the photograph. Perhaps if he left it, the authorities would use it to find Helen and save him. But he trusted no government, certainly not after years of working for one.
Dropping his briefcase, he flipped the photograph over and filched a marker from the jumble on the desk. In bold, sharp strokes, which said nothing of the man writing, he wrote out the words that had already killed him.
HELEN COX. MARGUERITE SERAPHIN.
JEREMY HOLBROOK. VINCENT PALGRAVE.
CINCHONA. FELIX ESTRADA. BAHIA.
There, he thought with satisfaction as he screwed the cap into place. His insurance policy. But he couldn’t take it with him, and he couldn’t afford to leave discovery to chance.
His mind raced for alternatives. “Someone else must know. Someone powerful. Someone not afraid of the pharmaceutical companies.” Thirty years of not attending meetings and studiously avoiding interpersonal contact had left him ill equipped for the moment. He reached for his coffee cup and found it empty.
Empty. Vapid. Like his director. A woman with no vision, no foresight. A woman who’d not miss him at all. But she would, he trusted, try to score political points by turning his cryptic photograph over to the FBI or CIA or Homeland Security or one of the many agencies charged with stopping what had already begun.
Satisfied with his choice, he picked up the photograph and rummaged around for an interoffice envelope. With vengeful motion, he dropped the photo inside and scribbled the director’s name on the cover. He hurried out into the hallway and shoved it under a stack of mail on the receptionist’s desk. “Ignore this, you insipid cow.”
He returned to his office, preparing his escape. A knock at his door jarred Clifton from his preparations. He barked at the closed door, “What?”
The door swung open, and a uniformed officer waited on the threshold. “Dr. Clifton Burge?”
“Yes.” Struggling not to vomit, Clifton stood stiffly. “Can I help you?”
“Come with me, please.” The middle-aged woman with her buzz-cut hair and charcoal skin did not raise a badge for his inspection. “You may leave your belongings.”
“Am I,” he paused as the question emerged on a squeak. “Am I under arrest, Officer?” He peered around her, hoping to see a crowd gathering. Some disruption to save him. But the staff had been summoned to a meeting. The meeting he declined to attend like a thousand before. “Are you here to arrest me?”
“Dr. Burge, please come with me. Now, sir.” She took a solid step inside the office, her hips and shoulders filling the space in the doorway. Nut brown eyes, flat and impassive, watched him closely. “Bring your briefcase, if you’d like.”
Like a condemned prisoner, he came from behind the desk, head bow
ed. Another man would have run, tried to evade the officer, but Clifton had been born without the survival instinct. Not his genes, not his cells, not his brain. Dutifully, he shuffled past the woman, who made a half turn to allow him to pass. When another might have bolted, her restraining hand on his arm was unnecessary.
“This way, Dr. Burge.”
The walk across the NIH campus, in the April sunshine, took less than ten minutes. The ride across town to an abandoned building was fifteen. Twenty-five minutes to regret a friendship and an obsession. They drove in his car, the lady and her partner. He sat on the back seat and coughed fitfully, in between sneezes.
In the alley, the lady escorted him to the front seat and pushed him inside. The shot fired, abrupt and fatal. As he died, Clifton gawked at the officer, stunned he was dead.
The germs had killed him in the end.
Chapter 17
“What are you doing, Kat?” Sebastian yawned, his jaw cracking with the effort. The hours blended together, marked only by the clock on the computer. Felix had also outfitted the lab and the house with cameras. Thanks to Felix’s paranoia, Sebastian had been able to keep watch on the house while Katelyn fiddled with the equipment she’d discovered. Kat was in the green house, and he stood in the doorway. “I thought you’d taken all the cuttings you needed.”
“I haven’t figured out the proportions yet. Borrero used measures like finger width and palm-sized.” She lifted a hand covered in white latex. “It will take some time.”
“Right now, it’s time for bed. We need sleep, Katelyn.”
Kat agreed, but she wasn’t quite ready to face the conversation about sleeping arrangements. The thought of snuggling into the single cot they’d located sent tremors over her. She sliced off a piece of root and inserted the tungsten-colored stem into a jar. “Why don’t you go ahead? I’ll be done in an hour.”
Secrets and Lies Page 17