by D P Lyle
“Those aren’t the ones I’m worried about. The drug Kurtz is taking is in the benzodiazepine family. There are numerous cases of people having bad reactions to either taking or withdrawing from these drugs. Remember John Hinckley? Shot Reagan? He was supposedly on Valium.”
She nodded slowly. “So, Kurtz could have been pushed over the edge by the drug?”
“Look, Kurtz is the guy. No doubt about that. He’s on some drug, and Hublein’s giving it to him. There has to be a connection.”
“He could just be a plain-vanilla psychotic.”
“Sure. Probably is. Statistically that’s the best bet. But the scenes? I’ve never seen anything like them. And I’ve seen some bad shit. Kurtz didn’t just kill these people. He tried to obliterate them. Completely. I can’t believe anybody, normal or crazy, could do that, unless something was making him inhuman. Not what I saw at Mike’s. The Kushners. Something’s pushing him way over the edge. These brain meds can do unexpected things. Maybe buried in Kurtz’s chart there are some hints.”
I could almost see Claire’s mental wheels turning.
“Besides,” I said, “if Hublein knew this was possible, we can’t let him walk. Maybe he could have prevented what happened to Mike and the others.”
“You have no proof of anything like that.”
“One way to find out,” I said.
“Ask Hublein again? What makes you think he’ll tell you?”
“I wasn’t planning to ask.”
She shook her head. “You are not going to break into Hublein’s office.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, let’s see. It’s illegal. It’s insane. It’s completely moronic. We already know Brian Kurtz is the guy, and he’ll be picked up soon. Hard to hide when your face is all over the news. What could you possibly find that would change any of that?”
“Don’t know until we see.”
“Jesus,” Claire said. “Are you trying to get arrested? Breaking into the offices of a respected physician?”
“Now that Kurtz has been identified, if Hublein has been up to something he’ll trash the records. If he hasn’t already.”
CHAPTER 61
THURSDAY 10:47 P.M.
PAUL MCCURDY RECLINED IN HIS LOUNGE CHAIR, WATCHING THE news and finishing the paperwork that had occupied him for the past two hours. His wife, Diane, dozed on the nearby sofa. The book she had been reading lay on her chest. She stirred, stretched, and then rolled on her side to look at him.
“What time is it?” she asked.
“Nearly eleven.”
“Why’d you let me sleep so long?”
“Because you’re beautiful when you sleep.”
She sat up. “How much longer are you going to be at that?”
“Another half hour max.”
“Finish it tomorrow.”
“You know Bill’s coming by early to pick these up for his meeting in Chicago. He has an eight-thirty flight.”
She stood, leaned over, and kissed him. “I’m going to bed. Wake me when you come up.”
He rubbed her belly through her nightgown. “I think you’re starting to show.”
“Not yet. It’s only two months.”
He cocked his head first one way and then the other, examining her again. “Must be the ice cream, then.”
She playfully punched his arm. “It’s not ice cream. And it’s your fault. You took advantage of me.” She mussed his hair. “Don’t take too long.”
Brian pulled into the half-filled parking area just off Old Highway 431 and parked near the open end of the L-shaped strip mall, away from the busy restaurants and movie theater. Nearby, a group of teenage boys performed stunts on skateboards to a chorus of giggles and shouts from several girls. Busy with their posturing, they paid little attention to him. He screwed the sound suppressor onto the muzzle of the gun and stuffed it beneath the waistband of his pants, covering the grip with his T-shirt. He walked to the end of the building, stepped around the corner, and disappeared into the darkness.
A twenty-foot-wide asphalt alleyway and a six-foot-high cinder-block retaining wall stretched the length of the complex and separated it from a tree-dotted grassy slope. A floral delivery truck and three trash bins sat against the wall. He easily located the heavy-gauge envelope taped to the back of the nearest bin and inside found a coil of yellow ski rope, a small tape recorder, a penlight, and two pieces of paper. Using the light, he read both, one a list of instructions, the other a hand-drawn map, indicating that the direct route to McCurdy’s house was up the slope behind him.
The back door to one of the strip mall businesses banged open. He killed the light and peeked around the bin. A young Hispanic man exited the Italian restaurant half-carrying, half-dragging two overstuffed trash bags, and headed straight toward him. Brian sank into the shadows, his hand on the butt of his gun. The man heaved the bags inside the metal bin, each landing with a loud clang. He then retreated into the restaurant, pulling the door closed behind him.
Brian stuffed the recorder, penlight, and rope into his waist pack, the pages into his pants pocket, then scaled the wall and scrambled up the grassy slope. He quickly reached the crest, where he knelt to catch his breath. Fifty yards of open grassy terrain separated him from a quiet street with a handful of houses, most still under construction. McCurdy’s was at the near end on the right.
Keeping low, he crossed the field and ducked into the shrubs along McCurdy’s driveway. The nearest streetlamp, two houses away, cast a meager light, and a dim door lamp lit the front porch, but little else.
The familiar heat rose in his chest. It amazed him how the rage could rise so quickly. Not that he minded, but he found it curious that he could keep it in check most of the time, only to have it suddenly explode. As if it existed as a pilot light and only at times like this would it burst into full flame. He also knew that once ignited, it consumed everything. Anxiety, fear, pity, rational thought all wilted away.
He thought back to Petersen, the old man. That was the first time he came face-to-face with his rage. Not the low-level anger he had been sensing for several weeks before that night, but the pure fire that he now knew so well. Entering the Russel Erskine, he had been more scared than angry. Yet, something drove him. Something much less than rage, something he could not describe. It drove him up five flights of stairs and down the hallway to Petersen’s door. It tugged him through the unlocked door and into the sanctity of Petersen’s home.
The first blow he delivered that night had been weak, tentative. When Petersen awoke and tried to rise from bed, panic took over, and he slammed the bat across the old man’s raised arms with more force. That seemed to ignite a fury within him, and he flailed at the man with mounting rage.
Afterward, fear and confusion. He couldn’t breathe and collapsed to the floor, staring at what he had done. An exhausted calmness settled over him. More peaceful than anything he had ever experienced. In that moment, he pushed all his questions and confusion aside. He reveled in this new feeling of contentment. It was a fire-and-ice thing. The heat of his fury followed by the cool calm that took over once the rage had been extinguished. Both were equally addictive.
Allison, Savage, the Kushners, all had been the same, only more so.
Now, crouching in the shrubbery so near McCurdy, the fire whooshed to life. He moved along the side of the house to the last window. It was cracked open, and the room beyond was dark, exactly as the papers in his pocket had indicated. He pulled on his cotton gloves. The window screen, already loosened from its moorings, came away easily. He lifted the window and eased through it into the McCurdys’ dining room. Light from the TV danced through the door opposite him and reflected off the glass panels of a china cabinet to his left.
He skirted the dining table and peered around the doorjamb. McCurdy lay on a lounge chair, head flopped to one side, motionless except for the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. On the large TV screen, the weather report ended and the anchorman reappeared. Brian crept
forward, now only five feet from the sleeping McCurdy.
The eleven o’clock news came on. The anchorman appeared. “We have an update on the hunt for the killer that has paralyzed the county. Police have named Brian Kurtz as the primary suspect, and a countywide manhunt for him is ongoing at this time.”
Brian saw his own image fill the screen. Oddly, he didn’t feel surprise or even fear. He felt … nothing. Just an odd sensation that the face on the screen wasn’t really him. The anchorman droned on about something, but he couldn’t follow what it was. It was as if the man was mumbling nonsense. Two numbers appeared at the bottom of the screen, one for the sheriff’s department, the other for the police.
Brian placed the muzzle near McCurdy’s temple and squeezed the trigger. The opposite side of McCurdy’s head exploded, spraying blood over the adjacent sofa and wall. He directed the weapon toward the TV and snapped two rounds into his own face, ripping holes in the screen, striking something metallic, vital. The screen flickered brightly for a brief moment and then faded to black.
He climbed the stairs, checking each room along the upstairs hallway until he arrived at an open door at the end. Mrs. McCurdy slept on her left side, her back to him. He rounded the bed and stood over her. He yanked the chain on the bedside lamp. Her eyes fluttered open, and she raised one arm to shield the light. She stared at him and blinked, confusion etching her face. Then she focused, and her mouth opened to scream. She never got it out. Brian cracked the gun butt against her temple.
“Shut up. Don’t move, don’t breathe unless I say so.”
Her eyes glazed from the blow, then her pupils dilated like an expanding drop of oil.
He held the gun where she could see it. “Don’t try anything, or I’ll blow your fucking brains out. Understand?”
She nodded.
“Do exactly as I tell you.”
“Who are you? What do you—”
“Shut up.” He pressed the muzzle of the gun against her nose. “You don’t get to ask questions.”
“My husband?”
“He won’t ask questions, either. Now, get up.”
She swung her legs from beneath the covers and stood. Her legs trembled. She wavered and then collapsed onto the bed. He grasped her arm and yanked her to her feet.
“Please …” Tears welled in her eyes.
He clutched her throat and squeezed. “I could kill you right here, right now.” He tightened his grip. “Believe me, I will if you say another word. Understand?”
She nodded and he released his grip. She coughed and wheezed, sucking in air.
Taking her by the arm, he dragged her down the hall and the stairs. She stumbled down the last four steps and landed heavily. He never relinquished his grip and yanked her to her feet.
Her eyes widened when she saw her husband. “Oh, my God,” she moaned.
“Look at him.” He pushed her forward until only inches separated her face from her husband’s. “See what happens to assholes.”
He released her long enough to grab one of the two oak, ladder-back chairs that sat against the wall. He positioned it in front of her dead husband and bound her to it by winding the nylon rope around her chest and upper arms, tying it tightly.
He placed his lips against her ear. “You’re going to do exactly as I say or you’ll end up the same way. Understand?”
She nodded through sobs.
He removed the tape recorder from his pack.
Thirty minutes later, Brian retraced his steps to the Dumpster. He slipped the pages and the recorder back into the envelope and dropped it on the asphalt behind the trash container. He had no idea why the man wanted the recording, but since he had delivered McCurdy, it seemed a small request. Maybe he wanted to hear what it was like to be there. Maybe he could only live out his fantasies through Brian.
He liked that idea. The caller had always said that Brian needed him. Maybe it was the other way around. Maybe the caller didn’t have the balls to do this himself. Maybe he got off on what Brian was doing. Maybe he needed it even more than Brian did.
When he reached his car, he found it unlocked and another envelope lying in the driver’s side floorboard. He looked around. The lot was nearly empty, the skateboarders gone, the restaurant closing up for the night.
He snatched up the envelope and ripped it open, turning so that the car’s interior light fell on the page. The first two lines jumped at him:
Want another target tonight?
Want to strike a blow at Dub Walker?
CHAPTER 62
THURSDAY 11:31 P.M.
“EXACTLY HOW DO YOU PROPOSE TO GET INSIDE?” CLAIRE ASKED.
I parked the Porsche in a half-filled lot behind the cluster of Memorial Medical Center buildings. The North Alabama Neuropsychiatric Research Institute sat a block away near the intersection of Madison and Saint Clair. “When I was here the other day, I didn’t see much security. No cameras. No sign that indicated that they had a security company.”
“So this was premeditated?”
“I just notice that kind of stuff.”
She shook her head. “Okay, Lone Ranger. Where to?”
“I prefer Bond. James Bond.”
“You would.”
We crossed Madison and made our way through another lot and then between two buildings. We walked casually as if we belonged. Hiding in plain sight. Behind the buildings, a row of ten-foot hydrangeas embraced a shared lot. We slipped through them and approached the back of the institute. The rear door was locked. “Gee. They lock up at night,” Claire said. “What a concept.” “Don’t get cute.”
Around the side of the building we found a ramp to the underground parking garage. Only one car. A dark-colored Chevy sedan. I found the door to the stairwell. I knew this because it had STAIRS stenciled on it in large white letters. I’m very clever. Like James Bond.
This door wasn’t locked, so I pushed it open. “See.”
“You’re so proud of yourself.”
“Yes, I am.”
“This is still a bad idea.”
“Probably. Still could answer some questions.”
“Or put us in jail.”
“Maybe we can share a cell.”
We climbed to the fifth floor, where we found that door was also unlocked, and entered a dark hallway. I flipped on my small Maglite. I opened doors as we moved down the hall. Most were offices, one a conference room, and one contained the main server of the computer system. We came to a large room that appeared to be a medical clinic of sorts. We stepped inside. Two exam tables, separated by curtains, several low cabinets, and a door were to the left, while metal shelves, filled with boxes and equipment, lined the right wall. Two long metal tables dominated the center of the room. Probably work areas. At the far end were two deep sinks and an array of three stainless steel refrigerators. I moved to the fridges and pulled them open one by one. Metal racks of blood-filled tubes and medicine vials along with bins of small boxes filled every shelf. The racks and bins were labeled. Things like ABT-454, AN-996, and CB-2322.
“What is all this?” Claire asked.
“Drugs and blood samples for Hublein’s studies.”
“Wonder which one of these is Kurtz’s stuff?”
“Don’t know. Maybe after we see the files we can figure it out.”
“Must be a file room somewhere,” she said.
We headed toward the door, but just as I pulled it open, I heard the ding of the elevator. “We got company.” I gently closed the door.
We circled back past the two exam tables. A side door led to a changing room, complete with lockers, a shower, and shelves stacked with scrub outfits. No way out. I led the way back into the main room, but stopped as the entry door began to open. Claire ducked back into the dressing area. I didn’t have time, so I flicked off the Maglite and dropped behind one of the exam tables, its curtain offering cover. The overhead lights flickered to life.
I hated it when Claire was right. This was rapidly becoming a bad idea
.
Footsteps moved toward the rear of the room. A refrigerator door hissed open, followed by the rattling of glass against glass. I peered over the table and past the edge of the curtain. A man walked to one of the center tables and sat, his back to me. His hair was cropped short, and when he turned his head, his profile revealed a square jaw. At first, I couldn’t tell what he was doing, but then he held a syringe up toward the overhead light. It contained an amber liquid. He capped the needle and slipped the syringe into his jacket pocket. He then returned something to the fridge, retraced his steps, turned off the lights, and left.
I waited several minutes before I moved to the door and checked the hallway. Nothing. I walked over and pushed open the door to the dressing area. When Claire came out, I told her what I’d seen.
“One of the lab techs?” she asked. “Working late?”
“Wasn’t dressed that way.”
“Maybe he forgot something. Came in from home to get it.”
“A syringe full of drugs?”
We slipped back into the hallway and continued through the reception area and toward Hublein’s office, finding the file room along the way. I swept it with my Maglite. The bad news: it held a gazillion files. The good news: they were arranged by project. The bad news: we didn’t know the name of the project. The good news: the thick three-ringed binder on a table near the entrance listed the projects and cross-referenced the drug used in each.
The first three pages indicated that Hublein had twenty-six active projects and three more that would soon start. I scanned the list. Most were acronyms. Only one contained “PTSD” in its title. I found the tab for that one and flipped to that section. Twenty-five subjects, including Brian Kurtz. Bingo. The drug being tested was called RU-1193.
We moved among the rows of files until we came to a section labeled “PTSD-SAP: PTSD Symptom Attenuation Project.” I quickly located Kurtz’s file and scanned the twenty or so pages inside.
“Pretty straightforward.” I handed the file to Claire. “Just as Hublein said. He’s been on the drug for five months. No problems. No side effects. Each blood level in the proper range.”