by Bradley West
“Oakland? That’s twenty miles away.” Sal’s voice was loud enough that other diners looked over.
“It was a shock to everyone. I have to get back to the lab. I’ll give your trial cure top priority and let you know. I’ll also mull over your offer to migrate to the Great White North. If it’s to be self-sustainable, you’ll need people who can farm, hunt, fish, log, build, fix things . . . it’s a long list.”
“I started out like that, but I had two problems. First, I don’t know many specialists and even fewer I want to spend my life with. Short of taking out an ad for “Dentist wanted for Permanent North Woods Relocation,” I don’t know how to identify these specialists, much less match up personalities. Second, I’ve been so busy trying to save my company, I spent my limited spare time working on things I could control, like buying the land and preparing the 3M’s exit route.”
Carla stood up and walked toward the parking lot. She turned back. “You realize that the idea of a sanctuary is flawed if you have the cure for Covid-20 or even Covid-19? People will come after you. To stay alive, you’ll need a strong defensive plan and armed guards.”
They walked to Carla’s Tesla. “Email me when you finalize the people and their skillsets.” She climbed behind the wheel of her bright red roadster.
“Does that mean you’re interested?” Sal asked.
“I don’t want to work with hazardous substances reporting to someone I don’t trust. I expect my part of the lab to be loaded up with Covid-20 and we’ll be locked down while we study it. That was the game plan with Marburg and Ebola, and lab staff died. I don’t think anything’s changed; if anything, it’s worse since that woman became president.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Sal said. “We need you.”
Carla nodded and pulled away.
As Sal merged onto I-580 West, he decided he would take a tougher look at his candidate longlist. His cell sounded and he took the call. “Hello, Fraser. I’m in the car.”
Burns got straight to the point. “You must hand over the 896MX adjuvant as well as Dr. Jacob’s emails and papers that you wiped from the cloud server and sign a new comprehensive non-competition agreement.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Where did you get that idea?”
“I’m at my attorneys’ offices and recording this conversation. Earlier today, I spoke with both Dr. Turney from Mount Marin and Father Healey from St. Agatha’s parish. You need to consider what you say next because I’ll file a police report if you don’t produce the stolen property by tomorrow morning.”
“California is a two-party state, and you don’t have my permission to tape this call so stop recording. Ask your lawyers to add a criminal defense litigator to your team. The arson inspector took my statement yesterday. His people were fascinated to learn that you purchased the company’s research portfolio from Bueno Capital just days after headquarters burned down. Don’t call me again.” Sal hung up.
Sal’s heart raced as he glanced at the speedometer and slowed down. It felt good to have told off that oily SOB. Nevertheless, his hands were clammy on the wheel and he wondered what unforeseeable events his actions might have triggered.
chapter five
GONE BABY, GONE
Tuesday, July 7: Kentfield, California, afternoon onward through Friday, July 10, morning
By the time Sal had negotiated the traffic across the Golden Gate Bridge and up the 101, it was late afternoon and there were two lawyer’s letters in the mailbox. Sal ignored them, took his heart meds, and followed his nose to where Pat performed culinary triage on last night’s leftovers.
Pat’s mother was from the Philippines, and when they’d first dated her culinary arsenal featured stewed oxtail, chili tripe and fish sauce-on-everything. He was grateful that his sainted –and since departed—mother had taught Pat her Italian recipes. These days, Pat was an ace cook as long as she didn’t succumb to temptation and bring home spare parts for another taste of Luzon.
“How was lunch with Carla, hon?”
“Good. She’ll test the Covid-19 adjuvant and we’ll learn if it works. And she’s considering the 3M. If we really have the cure, we’ll need her for certain, but she insisted we recruit specialists: doctors, technicians, contractors and even soldiers.”
Pat sliced extra ribeye into slices to serve Thai-style with chilis and oil. “Where will you find these specialists? You already tried the people we know, and they turned you down. Why would we trust strangers even if they were willing to quit their jobs and move so far north?”
“Carla told me that Covid-19 has mutated into a much deadlier form, Covid-20, with a fatality in Oakland. If Nancy Jacobs’s cure works on Covid-20, and Carla can produce it in volume, everyone will want in.”
“Are you serious? There’s a worse version?”
“That’s what Carla said. If we have the cure, recruiting specialists won’t be a problem.”
“We’ve talked about this. You choose people we can trust and who are friends or relatives. You can learn how to build a house from the internet, but you can’t force strangers to get along. Those winters are long and cold, and we’ll be cooped up together until every family has their own home. Besides, this is all speculation until she tests your vaccine.”
“It’s not a vaccine and it’s not mine, but I take your point. Let me look at my candidate longlist. I reached out to these people months ago and they either waffled or said no. These days, I imagine attitudes have changed. I agree that personal chemistry is important, but so are abilities, too. You won’t want to live in a house built from a YouTube video. I still don’t fully understand what Carla does, but today she admitted she worked with coronaviruses for a boss she doesn’t trust. She fears being trapped in the lab and maybe exposed to Covid-20.”
“What about the other lab people from Nafarm?”
“I can’t risk it. Burns called me in the car and he’d spoken with Stephanie’s doctor and even Father Healey. They confirmed that I gave Dr. Turney something and he later handed it back. Burns bought the rights to Nafarm’s research off Boner Cap for a million dollars. His lawyers and maybe the police will come after me if I don’t return Nancy’s data and the last dose.”
“What will you do?”
“We’ll leave for Thunderdome sometime next week. I can stall Burns until then, especially as he’s the target of an arson investigation. With Covid-20 in Oakland, we might not have much more time before the government closes the roads. After dinner, I’ll drive over to ask Jaime to become the 3M’s full-time purchasing officer. There are a hundred things to buy and not many days left.”
“Next week? It will take me longer than that to find people to look after our house while we’re away.”
“We’re not just on a long vacation; we’re leaving town for good. Sell the damn house if you can get anything for it. Empty the safe deposit box and pack all your jewelry. If Covid-20 crosses into Marin, there will be a panic. We have to leave before the news breaks.”
* * * * *
Barb and Jaime were on their second bottle of wine and Sal knew what that meant. Full-figured Barb looked up from her laptop and launched into a rant. “This pandemic is a red herring. Where we’re really fucked is on the climate. There are too many people, too much pollution and the greenhouse gasses already out there will raise global temperatures by four degrees Celsius within fifty years. That means no polar ice, zero glaciers, sea levels fifty to one hundred feet higher, mass extinctions, and human migration away from the tropics and subtropics. Now do you see why I don’t want kids? It’s too depressing.”
Jaime and Sal made eye contact and Sal changed the subject. “Did you make any progress on the BC food research project?”
“Yes, northern BC historically has been an agricultural desert. People grow hay for livestock, raise cattle in fields, keep smaller animals like sheep and rabbits in pens, collect berries for personal consumption and tend small gardens. Oh, and let’s not forget mushroom picking in the fa
ll. The land you bought is farther north than ninety-nine percent of the province’s farmland. We can only sustain a half-dozen people through hunting, seasonal fishing, gathering and maybe limited cattle or bison ranching. That’s on paper.”
Sal accepted a glass of pinot noir from Jaime. “Go on.”
Barb looked at him with a gleam in her eyes. “If we can hang on for the first two-or-three years, climate change will bail us out. Water-tolerant barley and wheat should be two options. Basically, anything that grew three to five hundred miles to the south in the 1990s should flourish where we’ll be.”
“What do we do in the meantime?”
“Take the first two years to clear the land and make certain we have the right soil chemistry. Plant small amounts of a wide variety of crops to see what grows. Concentrate on planting bushes and trees for berries, fruits and nuts.”
“Sounds like we’ll need to bring a lot more food with us.”
“We’ll also need a lot of livestock up front, and if Jaime shoots a couple of moose or elk each fall, that means more than five hundred pounds of dressed meat per animal.”
“Can you write all this down and make a budget assuming thirty people?” Sal turned to Jaime. “I want to put you on the 3M expedition payroll. I have a list of items to purchase, plus five thousand dollars in cash and a debit card you can use on the small stuff. Price out two top-end mobile homes and a twenty-foot delivery truck and make certain to tell the dealers we’re cash buyers.”
“That will cost upwards of three-quarters of a million. You sure?”
“I’m sure we’ll spend at least that. Are you up for the adventure?”
“Barb and I talked about it before you came. We’re in.”
“Can you source the guns and plan security for the property?”
“I already have the weapons and ammo, and researched the alarms, cameras, locks and fencing we’ll need.”
“Then it’s settled. Here’s my preliminary list. I’ll be busy tomorrow, but let’s meet once I collect the big money in cash. I’d rather you had it than me.”
* * * * *
Sal was deep in thought as he shaved. Yesterday’s essential items like “Call the Fire Department to check on progress of arson investigation,” and “Consult an attorney to consider Fraser countermeasures” faded away. Focus only on our goals: We don’t have time for anything else. By the time he’d rinsed the foam off his face, the 3M membership questionnaire was down to one question: Can you leave on short notice? Compatibility, blood-relations and skills were fine and dandy, but what they needed were commitments to act from people they trusted. He decided to host an in-person assembly—Covid-be-damned—for those based nearby, and videoconference in the rest.
Six hours later, Sal had cashed in his wife’s and his life insurance policies, sold his securities and finalized a home equity loan. It was simultaneously depressing and liberating to be free of retirement revenue streams that would have allowed Pat and him to live out their days in comfort. That was old-school thinking, and those days were gone.
* * * * *
Burns spent the afternoon in downtown San Francisco, huddled with a former military man with a jagged welt down his left cheek. Burns thought it cliché, but Rolf Muller’s dueling-lookalike scar was the only thing hokey about the Black Ice operation. Burns described the mission at hand, and the office head didn’t bat an eye other than to treble the daily rates. Muller said he’d confirm a date as soon as Black Ice’s and his personal accounts reflected payment in full up front. He handed Burns the burner phone over which they’d conduct future business.
Burns’ next stop was at Bank Suisse Privé’s offices in the Embarcadero where he submitted a right hand’s worth of fingerprints and a retinal scan for the privilege of spending three hundred thousand dollars of his life’s savings.
Burns shifted gears as his Jag hurtled along the Panoramic Highway toward Stinson Beach. The burner phone hummed and he was surprised to see that the project would be live in two days. The news brought a tense smile to his face as there was much to do. He gave the F-TYPE a little more gas.
* * * * *
The Prussian general von Moltke had once observed that no plan survives first contact with the enemy. The quote came to mind after Fraser Burns’ return from Black Ice’s offices. As he tucked the Jag in the garage, he felt the quiet house at the end of the cul-de-sac was the perfect hideout. He’d rented it for two weeks, more than enough time to settle the business with Maggio. In the kitchen, his calm evaporated as he took in the sight of enough baby food, furniture, clothes, diapers and infant-care products to outfit triplets.
“Honey? What in God’s name is all this?
“All what? It’s for the baby. Our baby. My baby.”
“Lindy, the plan is to recoup the three hundred thousand it cost to hire Muller and his men and trade the baby for the drug and lab papers that Sal Maggio stole.”
“I decided that let them off too easy. Fuck Sal Maggio. Keep all one-point-three million and—.”
“You have a point. Maybe we’ll do that.”
“Don’t interrupt me, not if you want to enjoy your reborn sex life. You want a baby. I want a baby, and Friday we’re getting a baby, a newborn boy just like you dreamt. It’s the perfect arrangement.”
“Lindy, honey, I’m sorry I interrupted you. We’ve only tried to get pregnant since the wedding. Let’s not let these peculiar circumstances divert our attention. You take your temperature twice a day, and—”
“Fraser! Listen to me for once. My tubes are blocked. The eggs are good, but no matter how many times we fuck while I ovulate, nothing will happen except maybe I die from an ectopic pregnancy. For me to conceive, I need an IVF and I’m not going through that hell. I want this baby.”
Blocked tubes? Three months after the wedding was a fine time to find out. Save that conversation for later. Fraser stared, speechless, while Lindy put the batteries into a baby alarm. He tried to remain calm even as the realization grew that he’d not only married an angry woman who had cured his impotence, but also one who was seriously disturbed. “If Maggio gives us what we want and we don’t return his grandson, then the police come in. We can’t have baby things found at this rental if the police discover we’re here.”
“You need to think things through. You appreciate how hard adoption will be, don’t you? I’m thirty-eight and you’re forty-five. The waitlists for a white baby boy are years long, and most of those are brain damaged from their meth-addicted mothers. And with my background, they may not even consider us eligible.”
Fraser poured a stiff single malt. “What do you mean ‘with your background’?”
“There’s plenty about me that I didn’t tell you because it wasn’t relevant. Since this involves your new favorite hobby, adoption, I’ll share. About twenty years ago, I spent six months in a state institution after an incident at college. An idiot administrator lost my financial aid forms and didn’t credit my tuition. They threatened to expel me, so I visited Student Services and sorted that bitch out."
Fraser took a long pull on his whisky and stared at her over the rim of his glass.
“What are you looking at? It wasn’t a big deal. They had killer meds and blowjobs for the orderlies bought a lot a leeway.” She stood up and opened her poison of choice, a liter of designer vodka from the freezer. She filled most of a juice glass and splashed a little tonic on top to keep it legit. She peeked in the fridge and called out, “I bought a bunch of dishes from Whole Foods that we can heat up for meals this weekend. Come over here and pick out something.”
* * * * *
At nine o’clock Friday morning, Sal’s cell rang as he finalized details for a backyard cookout cum recruitment session scheduled for Sunday afternoon. Caller ID said it was his son-in-law, not a man given to banter. “Hey, Greg, what’s up?” Sal said in a false, upbeat tone.
“Tyson’s been kidnapped! Two fake UPS men took him from home! They tied up Steph, but she escaped and called me.
They said not to contact the police, but to call you because ‘You’d know what to do.’ What does that mean?”
“I’m coming over now. Stay cool and don’t call anyone other than Barb. Get her over to your place. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Where are you?”
“I’m in the city. I just reached my car. I’m an hour away.”
“Drive the speed limit. I’ll call you when I arrive.”
Sal returned to his desk, unlocked the bottom drawer and withdrew a recent purchase, a Smith & Wesson Model 27 revolver and a box of .357 magnum shells. Jaime had talked him into paying a grand for a gun that had scared the hell out of him the two times he’d practiced at the range. The first time he’d fired it, the recoil sent the front sight into the middle of his forehead and left a dent. He was a little better these days with one hundred tries at a target under his belt. He ran out of the room spurred by a mixture of fear for his grandson and daughter’s well-beings and rage that Burns would stoop that low. His advice to drive slowly had been easy to give but was hard to take. A dozen traffic offenses later, he parked in front of Steph and Greg’s ground floor condo.
Steph opened the door as he sprinted up the front walk. “They had a gun! I thought it was a robbery, but they took Tyson! They took my baby!” The apple of his eye was a mess, wrists bloody where she’d rubbed against the cable ties, eyes bloodshot and swollen.
Sal hugged his daughter as she sobbed into his chest. He gathered his thoughts and willed his racing heart to calm. “What did they say?”
“They said to call you because you would know what to do. They also left a phone and said they’d contact us with instructions. Why did they want me to call you? What have you done?”
Sal fought the urge to explain. Instead, he examined the kidnapper’s TracFone. It buzzed in his hand and a message bubble appeared. Tonight, have Greg bring $1.3m in circulated hundreds. Band the bills in ten thousand dollar bundles and place them in a new black backpack. Greg walks clockwise around the sidewalk loop at Niven Park at 20:00 with this phone. The baby dies if we see police. We are watching you.