Androcide (Intel 1 Book 5)

by Erec Stebbins

  “Yes?” Cohen’s email flashed in a window.

  “Your work’s confirmed. Viral DNA’s definitely there. So, hat-tip to the Queensboro PI who just broke the infection-crime story of the century.”

  “Thanks. Anything else?”

  “This Marburg virus you mentioned—there are sequences like you found, but the story is bigger. The virus isn’t Marburg, in case you wondered. Not a virus they’ve ever identified.”

  “Didn’t think so.” Gone squinted at her screen. “Too many phenotypic differences. Several Marburg markers not there. But, wait—your email. Am I reading this right? There’s human DNA in the viral genome?”

  “Yes,” said Cohen. “They called it a chimera or something. That’s what had both research groups very concerned. They’re convinced we’re looking at a synthetic virus. Not a natural one.”

  My God.

  Gone sat back in the chair, staring forward. Her thoughts split into a thousand branches of a logic tree, each predicated on answers to chains of questions. So much connected, impossible to move through, until enough nodes were satisfied. Then an avalanche. A thousand puzzle pieces tumbled into place before her eyes.

  “Rebecca, this is bad. I need those sequences.”

  “The scientists had a moment, too. Could it be a bioweapon?”

  Gone typed into her web browser. A map of Westchester county in New York State appeared. The browser window zoomed in on a patch of land east of the Saw Mill Parkway.

  “We have to get to that prison.”

  “Prison? Wait, you mean Richards experiments?”

  “Yes!” A compound grew in the middle of a forested sea, the red pin on the map screen labeled Bedford Hills Correctional Facility.

  “What’s the connection?”

  “Think! Male victims butchered with some sort of serial-killer level misandry. A link to a lab doing male contraception. A viral contraception specific to male physiology, presumably specific to the male genotype. Throw in a synthetic Ebola-Marburg-who-knows-what mash-up.” Silence on the phone. “The prison study included obtaining blood samples from women. One commits suicide and surprise! She’s geneticall male.”

  More silence.

  There isn’t time to walk her through it!

  She had to talk to Sacker. She had to get those sequences, analyze them herself. Prove or disprove this nightmare hypothesis.

  Cohen spoke in monotone. “Are you saying the Eunuch Maker created this? Some designer virus, combination of a hemorrhagic virus and human DNA, only killing men?”

  Gone squeezed her temples. “Yes, Rebecca. But what I’m saying is much worse.”

  “Worse?”

  “Yes.” She snapped the laptop shut and stuffed it into her bag, pulling the strap over her shoulder as she stood. He legs shook. “I think these victims are the test subjects for a much, much bigger plan. And what happened at Bedford Hills might be the key to the killer’s identity.”

  “Bigger?” Cohen gasped. “Dear God.”

  Gone turned, moving toward the door. “Exactly. I’m going to talk to Tyrell. If you can get INTEL 1 to pull some strings, I think—”

  Air rushed, light flashed with an impact, and she blinked at the fluorescent bulbs on the ceiling.

  Not again.

  Her head throbbed. Dizzy and nauseated, she caught a woman’s voice calling her name from a great distance.

  “Rebecca?”

  She felt around for the headset. It was gone, the wire still in her hand and connected to her smartphone. The door to the room opened, the sharp edge brushing her hair.

  “Gracie!”

  Tyrell. Once again staring down at her with those wide eyes. She couldn’t help but smile up at him.

  “Hi, Tyrell. What’re you doing here?”

  Sacker looked at an older man in a suit beside him.

  That’s Savas. Her mind was clearing.

  Sacker knelt beside her head.

  “We hadn’t heard anything from you for a while,” he said. “I was worried.”

  His hand was on her shoulder. She touched it.

  “Thought maybe you’d had enough of me,” she said.

  Savas spoke. “Should we move her?”

  “No need,” she half-whispered. “I can move myself.”

  Groaning, she sat up. Sacker braced her back with his other hand. She suppressed the urge to vomit. She tried to suppress the growing despair welling within her.

  It’s getting worse and worse. How much time’s left?

  “Time’s short,” she managed, catching her breath and preparing for the next hurdle: standing. “Time might be short for millions.”

  57

  A Goner

  The tree-lined Saw Mill Parkway in Upstate New York exploded in autumn colors, the reds and yellows interspersed with frequent green towers of pine. Sacker angled the police cruiser off the parkway and to Harris Road, the hour-long ride with Gone beside him painful. He’d learned his lesson. The same focus and stubbornness that made her such a relentless detective made interpersonal relations a minefield.

  Don’t bring up whatever the hell is going on with her leg.

  And he wouldn’t even think to ask about the odd twitch in her left arm.

  Off the ramp, a few minutes passed until they ducked into a more forested stretch. After a curve the car emerged from the shade, the Bedford Hills Correctional Facility perched at the top of a hill.

  In all its brick and barbed-wire glory.

  It might be for the ladies, but the design still screamed stay in or die. Bedford Hills held some of the most notorious female killers in the country. Women committing acts of violence! Was their notoriety from the crime or from society’s shock? Men owned the lion’s share of the hitting, shooting, stabbing, and killing. Boys will be boys. When mothers ended lives instead of creating them, people just lost their shit.

  Bedford Hills enjoyed a softer image on the inside. Papers loved to run stories on the mental health programs, addiction counseling, and child care available. Look, a nursery! People working overtime to turn murderesses into mothers again.

  After security, they met Savas and Cohen outside the office of the prison superintendent. The agents of the mysterious INTEL 1 division had arrived separately.

  Secretly departing from their hidden base in a cloaked jet, probably.

  The entire arrangement made him uncomfortable. It was one thing working with a known division of the FBI, even during the chaos of the Anonymous Event and what followed. But who were these people now? Who was running this show?

  Someone way, way up the chain of command.

  INTEL 1 had extraordinary access at the wave of a magic wand. It spoke of immense power. And a dangerous lack of oversight.

  “So, where are the other members of Team X?” he said, smiling at Cohen.

  “Agent Lightfoote—Angel—is taking some personal time.” A glance passed between her and Savas. “Gabriel and Mary—they work undercover for the most part.”

  “Undercover?” His smile broadened.

  Savas scowled. “Yes. We’ll leave it at that. Look—here comes our lunch date.”

  A broad woman in her fifties approached from the office suite. Bifocals dangled from her neck over a blue pantsuit. Her hair was short and mostly gray, her eyes sharp. She put out her hand to Savas.

  “Agent Savas? Betsy Donovan. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”

  Savas took her hand. “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice.”

  The woman huffed. “Couldn’t very well say no, could I? I don’t remember the last time the governor called me out of the blue for a favor. You folks are some high rollers.”

  “This is FBI agent Cohen,” he said, tilting his head. “From NYPD, Detective Tyrell Sacker.”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve seen your face on the news, detective. You look better than I thought you would.” She stared at Gone and her smile dropped. “And who is this?”

  Sacker spoke. “Grace Gone. Private consultant on the case.”<
br />
  “Hmmm.” Donovan gave Gone a side eye. “Why don’t we continue in my office?”

  She ushered them into a cramped space filled with legal books, photos of grandchildren, and eccentric items from animal skulls to polished geodes. Donovan sat regally on one side of a desk piled with papers. The other four were sandwiched together across from her. Donovan got straight to business.

  “So, the Richards volunteers. I guess I’m not surprised somebody would chase this down for completeness, what with that killer so focused on that poor woman’s work.” She placed her glasses on her nose, scanning papers in front of her in a bound notebook. “But I didn’t expect Seal Team Six, or whoever they hell you are. And I’m not sure what you might be looking for. Anyway, all the records are yours. Should’ve been available publicly. You didn’t have to bother yourselves to come all the way out for a visit.”

  Sacker stifled a frown. I’m really beginning to dislike that grin of hers.

  He could feel Gone fidgeting next to him. She itched to ask questions, likely as irritated with this woman as him. But they had agreed—the INTEL 1 agents would run the show. They had the clout. And Gone especially would be quiet. Madame Superintendent did little to hide her suspicions.

  Or am I being paranoid?

  “We’ve seen the files,” said Cohen. “We’re interested in Dawn Lodmell.”

  “The suicide?” Her face fell. “We’ve worked hard to reduce the numbers of suicides. Lodmell was unfortunate.”

  Cohen continued. “She was part of Richards’ experiment?”

  “Yes, it’s all in the files. Quite horrible. Somehow she escaped to the high tower, stood at the top of the damn thing and jumped.”

  Savas eyed her. “Reports mention serious internal bleeding, bruising.”

  “That’s what happens when you hit the pavement swan diving. Helluva mess.”

  “I’m sure. No autopsy was performed?”

  “No. No need. Cause of death was obvious.” Her brows furrowed. “What’s so special about this jumper?”

  “Anyone here who saw the body before it was removed?”

  Donovan leaned back in her chair and shook her head. “It was late at night, a few years ago. Guards rotated out, and the crew that cleaned it up was from out of town. We have a record somewhere on the company.”

  “It would be great if you could look that up,” said Cohen.

  “Oh, and Jenny. I completely forgot. Jenny Bargmann, one of our janitors. The janitor. Been here since forever. She found the body. Called it in. She’s still here.”

  Sacker couldn’t help himself and cut in.

  “We would really appreciate the chance to speak with her. Is she here today?”

  “In fact, she is.”

  The redhead sported more gray than red, long, gnarled strands of hair flowing midway down her back. Fissures erupted in an earthquake zone across her face, blue eyes twinkling back from sunken sockets. Her hands had every bit the appearance of a woman who had scrubbed floors for most of her adult life. The damn witch’s cackle was going to give Sacker nightmares.

  “Heh!” barked Bargmann, her yellowed teeth jutting forward. “Ran out naked is what she did! Stark naked. I knew something was up so I tried to follow her, but then she started climbing. That was it for me.”

  “Did you see her body? Her skin?” asked Sacker.

  Bargmann looked askance at Sacker. “Why you interested, colored boy?”

  Wonderful.

  “You know when Suite’s president, he’s gonna deport all you. Wetbacks, too. I sure as hell am votin’ tomorrow.”

  Cohen swooped in.

  “Ms. Bargmann, this is important. Did her skin have anything unusual about it?”

  Still giving the evil eye to Sacker, she spoke through the side of her mouth.

  “Well, it sure did. Poor girl was bruised all over, like someone had taken a sock full of rocks to her.” She turned to face Cohen. “That’s my guess. She’d crossed the wrong people. Been near killed in a beatin’. Lost her damn mind and ended it. Splat!”

  Sacker bit his tongue. He felt nauseated, not sure if it was more from the open racism or callous disregard for Lodmell’s death. Of course, his discomfort only encouraged her.

  “But that weren’t nothing compared to what I saw on the concrete. No, sir. Broken bones pokin’ out, body all blowed up like a balloon, face opened up so as you could see everything inside. Everything one big bruise, purple, streaks of red and black. Ain’t seen nothin’ like it before.”

  “One big bruise,” said Gone, speaking for the first time.

  “Who’s the chink?” said Bargmann.

  Gone ignored her. “Signs of hemorrhagic fever consistent with what has been seen in the other victims.” She glared at Sacker and the others. “We know what this is.”

  Donovan squinted at Gone. “Know what what is?”

  Gone stared back at her. “Where was Lodmell buried? It wasn’t in the files you sent.”

  “I don’t know,” stammered Donovan. “Once she died, it was out of our jurisdiction.” She removed her glasses. “What’s going on here?”

  “There’s likely public records, county records,” said Sacker. He eyed Gone. “But, hold on. You’re not thinking—”

  “We need that body.”

  58

  Androcide

  “God. What’s going on?”

  A voice over a speaker blared nearby. The bearded man cracked his eyes open, squinting at an overhead fluorescent lamp. His skin was bronzed, his lips chafed from exposure to the elements. He was naked. He turned his head. A small flatscreen on a table framed a man screaming at a lectern before thousands of people. A political rally. The man’s voice hurt his head.

  “Tomorrow we make history! Tomorrow we take back America from those who have stolen your country, your culture, your history. Tomorrow we make this country great again!”

  Distorted applause over the speakers made him wince.

  “Help. Where am I?”

  He tried to raise himself, but restraints yanked him back to a plastic surface. He peered over his chest to his arms and legs. They were shackled. He arched his bare body and pulled at the restraints. His veins bulged, his face contorting. The gurney shook, but the locked wheels didn’t move, the shackles held, and he collapsed gasping for air.

  “Let me out!” His deep breaths choked him.

  “Stop it. You can’t get out.”

  A muffled voice emanated from a speaker lodged within the moving plastic bag of a biohazard suit. The cheers of the crowd and the voice of the politician nearly drowned it out.

  “They took your jobs. They live off your hard-earned money. They drop babies here and bring a foreign culture. But their time is over! The corrupt and enabling Left is finished!”

  The shape inside the suit positioned medical monitors behind the man and three others who lay unconscious on his right. To the left another wheezed, his body flushed with extensive bruising. The captive broke out into fits of coughing, the last spraying a mist of blood on the side of the yellow suit.

  The suit-speaker cracked. “You’re going to make me sedate you, too.”

  The bearded man gawked with wide eyes at the coughing creature.

  “What the hell’s wrong with him? Is it catching?”

  “Indeed. It’s very much catching. How much is actually the point of today’s experiment.” The killer switched on the monitors connected to the bodies in front of him.

  “Experiment? Whoa, whoa, buddy. You told me two hundred and all I had to do was give blood!”

  The suit paused and turned toward him.

  “I lied.”

  The man screamed and again strained to free himself, falling in exhaustion. His deep gasps for air panted over the cries from the television.

  “We’ll return our nation to safety, peace, and prosperity. To law and order. We’re in a time of great crisis for our nation. The attacks on America’s police, terrorism in our cities, all are threats to our way of l
ife. My political opponents don’t understand this threat. They’re not fit to lead our country!”

  “My head! Turn it off!”

  “The others behaved similarly. It’s unfortunate. Your breathing is suppressed under sedation. It will skew the test of infectivity.”

  The restrained man gasped. “Infective what?”

  The killer attached leads from the monitors to the unconscious men, his motions slow and awkward in the suit, yet practiced and confident.

  “There isn’t much time left with the authorities zeroing in. This is the last data to see how airborne I’ve been able to make the virus.”

  “Virus? What virus!”

  “The one that’s killing this man, that I hope will kill the four of you very soon.”

  The man shouted, his voice pitching upward. “No, no, no! This isn’t real. I can’t be here. Not like this. You can’t do this!”

  “Ah, the anger of the powerful made powerless.”

  “Fuck you! I’m not powerful! I’m nobody! Let me go!”

  “Two balls and a dick between your legs,” scoffed the killer. “You’re powerful. We’re powerful. We’ve ruled our species for ten thousand years. We’ve enslaved half the population, forced them to prostitute for us, bear us children, clean our homes, cook our food. We’ve raped them, beaten them, burned them, and sold them. We’re the first and truest slave owners.”

  The captive turned to the killer, his eyes bulging. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “My fellow Americans, you’ve seen chaos and violence in our streets. Domestic disaster. International humiliations. But I bring a strong message: that time is coming to an end! On Inauguration Day, when Daniel Suite is sworn in, safety will be restored!”

  “I’m talking about everything you consider normal. In this most enlightened of nations, this country of rights, half the population couldn’t vote less than a hundred years ago. Think about it. Their spouses could legally rape them until fifty years ago. That’s around the time we granted them the right to own property. Radicals.” He laughed. “But let’s not judge too harshly—we’d just stopped burning women alive at the stake! Such progress. We still make their lives such a hell they paint their faces and dance for us, fear us, still are beaten and raped and murdered by us.”