The Death Row Complex (The Katrina Stone Novels Book 2)

by Kristen Elise Ph. D.

  Praise for The Vesuvius Isotope

  The first Katrina Stone novel

  “Gripping. Fascinating. Entrancing. The Vesuvius Isotope is 2013’s top thriller!”

  -Carolyn Hart, author of Escape from Paris

  “Elise takes us into historic, cultural, medical, and scientific arcana likely to surprise you at every turn… in this brainier-than-Dan-Brown mystery journey.”

  -Dan Burstein, co-author of Secrets of the Code

  “I really enjoyed this mystery. There was obviously a lot of research that went into the writing of this story and I feel as if I learned a lot, but it didn’t feel as if I were being ‘taught.’ By the end, I really cared about the characters, and the pages almost couldn’t turn fast enough to find out what happened. Very exciting!”

  -Catherine M. Walter, author of The Harmony of Isis

  “A fast-paced mystery based partially on scientific possibility and partially on ancient historical conundrum, this story kept me intrigued… First-person narrative and thrilling escapades make the story an exciting escape while the subject matter makes it interesting.”

  -Joyce Brown, mystery author

  “Katrina Stone is a smarter, sexier version of Robert Langdon. If you like a great murder mystery with a strong female lead, this is for you!”

  -KK, Seattle, WA

  “This novel is an absolute pleasure to read, its fast pace action combined with history and science liken it to Indiana Jones!”

  -Kanaida, Waterlooville, U.K.

  “Simply superb. I started reading this one, and abandoned the rest I had been reading along with just to finish this.”

  -Sakshi, Bangalore, India

  “A perfect beach read with a little bit of mystery, adventure and a lot of suspense… If you enjoy stories about travel, history, libraries, archives, and especially ancient Egypt, then you will surely enjoy this.”

  -Khaola, Constantine, Algeria

  “This book captures you from the very beginning. It is filled with murder, mystery, magic, medicine, and history. The author delivers the story in a unique and page turning way. I enjoyed every minute of it.”

  -Kristine, Ontario, Canada

  “This is a gem!… Being an Egyptian… I was a bit apprehensive starting it. Because whenever I read something related to either Ancient Egypt or the modern one, I get this cringe and I’m always disappointed… This book restored my faith—there’s someone out there who gets it. Great work, clearly, my new favorite author.”

  -Kariema, Giza, Egypt

  “This was my 69th book of the year and my favorite so far. Set in San Diego (my hometown), Italy and Egypt, the story is rich in history and kept me enthralled throughout the entire book. Kristen Elise has written a smart, intellectually stimulating, medical mystery that kept me on the edge of my seat. This is a book I highly recommend. I am eagerly awaiting her next book.”

  -Jeanine, San Diego, CA

  “The Vesuvius Isotope was a gripping adventure through the Mediterranean as well as through time.”

  -Hari, Raleigh, NC

  P.O. Box 178963

  San Diego, CA 92177

  www.murderlab.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents, and references to the pharmaceutical industry are strictly products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, persons, organizations, or companies, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by Kristen Elise, Ph.D.

  Cover art and formatting by Damonza.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permission Coordinator,” at the address above.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015905633

  ISBN: 978-0-9893819-2-5 (print book)

  ISBN: 978-0-9893819-3-2 (ebook)

  Ordering information: Quantity sales. Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address above.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  For my husband

  Author’s Note

  Bacillus anthracis, the bacterium that causes anthrax, is one of only six microorganisms classified by The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention as Category A: Highest Priority. Defining characteristics shared by these microorganisms include ease of transmission, replication, and dispersal, and high mortality rates. Their potential as biological weapons is apocalyptic.

  Vaccines against anthrax have been in use in the United States since the 1950s. Their efficacy in humans is highly controversial, and their use is prophylactic only. Once infection has occurred, anthrax vaccines have no effect.

  Confirmed cases are treated rigorously with antibiotics. However, antibiotic treatment is only effective prior to the onset of early symptoms, which resemble the flu. Subsequently, the bacterium releases a toxin, termed lethal factor, which does not respond to antibiotics. This toxin is ultimately responsible for the devastating effects of anthrax.

  The following work describes a fictional strain of anthrax that has been genetically engineered to exhibit exceptionally high potency. With the appropriate starting materials, such a bacterial strain could be generated in any molecular biology laboratory. It is for this reason that the Department of Homeland Security strictly controls access to these starting materials in the United States.

  This story is fictitious, but the science is accurate and based on legitimate research. In fact, it was my own work with anthrax, and a chilling discovery I made by accident, that inspired the events in this novel.

  Prologue

  NOVEMBER 29, 2007

  6:57 A.M. PST

  By the time they caught up with him, he had forgotten to keep running. Lawrence Naden was incoherent and scarcely recognizable—the sloughed, discarded skin of a human being.

  It had been a rainy week in Tijuana. A small river of brown water carried trash along the gutters of the squalid street. Piles of refuse collected in rough areas, creating dams that would eventually break with the weight of the water and garbage behind them.

  A burst of static abbreviated the heavily accented warning from a megaphone. “You’ve got nowhere to go, Naden!” The officer holding the megaphone motioned, and several federales carrying M16 rifles moved steadily across a sloping yard.

  Except for a handful of onlookers, most of them ragged children, the street was deserted. The majority of adults had characteristically fled at the first rumor of approaching law enforcement.

  This time, however, the uniformed team filing through the barrio was not in pursuit of drugs. The federales were looking for a single individual.

  A few stepped onto the porches of flanking shacks, peering suspiciously through dirty windows or through plastic taped over holes where windows had been. But most congregated at one rickety house. As they surrounded it, they shouldered the rifles and instead began drawing pistols.

  Another burst of static. A brief command from the megaphone. And the front and back doors of the house were kicked in.

  The men entering the house were greeted by the rank combination of sweet-smelling rotting food, human waste, and burning chemicals. The front room was abandoned but had recently
been occupied, as evidenced by a smoldering spoon on a card table against one wall. Needles and syringes, plastic bags, and glass pipes littered makeshift tables, moldy couches, and the concrete floor.

  Silently, the federales crept through the house with firearms raised. As those behind him assumed formation along the wall of a narrow hallway, the leading officer kicked a bathroom door, and it flung open as he shrank backward against the doorjamb.

  The evasive maneuver barely saved the officer from being shot in the face.

  As the bullet cut through the thin drywall behind him and embedded into a rotting wall stud, the officer instinctively leaned in and flicked his index finger three times. The brief staccato of semi-automatic fire rang out, and the shooter fell gurgling into the bathtub.

  The officer lowered his pistol to look down at the body. Then he turned to his team. “Esto no es lo,” he said coldly. This isn’t him.

  Two additional doors were visible along the narrow hallway. One was wide open. The leading officer caught the eye of the man nearest it and cocked his head toward the room. The flanking man stepped in, gun drawn. He strode to the closet and opened it, then stepped back out into the hallway and shook his head.

  The attention of the team turned to the other hallway door. It was closed.

  After making eye contact with the rest of the team, the leading officer repeated the motions of kicking in the door and then stepping out of the line of anticipated fire. This time, there was none. Cautiously, he followed the barrel of his weapon into the room, noticeably relaxing as he did.

  Across the room, a man was sitting cross-legged on the floor with his back against the wall, his gaunt body slumping to one side. A trickle of fresh blood flowed down the inner part of his forearm from a newly opened wound. The entire area of flesh was scarred, scabbed, and bruised. As the officers entered the room, the man’s half-opened eyes registered a slight recognition. A needled syringe dropped from his hand and rolled toward the officers in the doorway.

  The brief lucidity that had graced Lawrence Naden’s eyes faded as the heroin flooded his bloodstream. His pupils fixed into a lifeless gaze onto a spot on the floor, and then the rush overtook him.

  Part I: The Message

  OCTOBER 12, 2015

  2:13 P.M. EDT

  The image was lovely in a somewhat odd, geometric way. A bouquet? Or maybe a tree? The flower heads were a jumbled mess, but the stems were perfectly arrayed—an intertwined cylinder spiraling downward from the wad of flowers on top. The overzealous rainbow coloring of it all was unlike anything existing in nature.

  The leaves around Washington, D.C. were turning, and it was already getting cold. Rain was beating against the windows, and White House intern Amanda Dougherty scratched her back with a letter opener while frowning curiously at the bizarre image on the front of the greeting card.

  The card had probably been white. It was now a slightly charred sepia from the UV irradiation. Despite its ugly signature on the paper, Amanda had felt much more comfortable about taking this job after Mr. Callahan had explained that decontaminating irradiation was a mandatory process for all incoming White House mail. It was done in a New Jersey facility after processing and sorting at Brentwood, the facility that had made national headlines years earlier when anthrax spores intended for U.S. government officials had infected several people and killed five.

  Today, by the time the mail reached Amanda, it was safe.

  Amanda flipped open the greeting card. “Oh, my word,” she said quietly. The handwritten text was small and neatly aligned, but Amanda most certainly could not read it. She thought the repetitive squiggles before her might be Arabic, or Hebrew, or Farsi—she could not tell those languages apart.

  After a moment of thought, Amanda got up and walked to Mr. Callahan’s office, where she rapped softly on the door.

  He yelled through the door for her to come in.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” Amanda said timidly. “We got a greeting card in a foreign language. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with these.”

  “What language?”

  “I don’t know. Something Middle Eastern. It has all those funny double-you looking things with dots over them.”

  Mr. Callahan motioned for her to enter and took the card from her. He glanced briefly at the brightly colored bouquet on the front and then flipped the card open to look at the text inside.

  “It’s Arabic, but I don’t speak it. I’ll give it to an interpreter. Thank you, Ms. Dougherty.”

  On the other side of the country, a prison guard watched from across the visiting room as a man and a woman conversed at a small table.

  Both leaning forward, the couple spoke intimately, his dark hands enveloping her black-gloved ones on the table. The standard-issue solid blue jumpsuit of the prisoner was a stark contrast to his visitor’s traditional Muslim attire—her formless black robe and the headscarf that shielded her downcast face.

  Their conversation seemed hurried, urgent.

  The guard nonchalantly crossed the room, slowing ever so slightly as he passed by the couple in a casual effort to overhear them. For a few seconds, he could hear the man impatiently reassuring his mate.

  “It’s OK, I’ve taken care of it. You don’t have anything to worry about. So shut up already.”

  The woman said nothing. She glanced up, and her dark face was partially revealed for just a moment from within the folds of the headscarf. She looked afraid. The inmate’s expression was one of defiance. To the seasoned guard, it was a familiar combination. He strolled away to watch over another visiting couple.

  Overhead, electric eyes were faithfully recording the scene.

  Ten minutes later in Washington, D.C., Jack Callahan handed the greeting card to an interpreter who had just entered his office.

  The interpreter frowned.

  “What?” Jack asked.

  “This card may have a cute bouquet on the front, but the text… ” The interpreter trailed off, skimming silently down the card. Then he began to read aloud, slowly translating from the Arabic:

  Dear Mr. President,

  Your nation of puppets will soon know at last the price of fighting against our Islamic State. Those of you who survive Allah’s justice will reflect upon 11 September of 2001 and consider that date insignificant.

  A small taste of the pain we promise has already been put to course. Make no mistake that the blood that will flow is on your hands. Let it paint for you an image of our strength and resolve. Let it serve as a reminder that you cannot defeat Islam.

  You will stand powerless and witness this small shedding of blood, and you will then have the privilege of living in fear for two months, as our faithful brothers and sisters have lived in fear of your Christian Crusaders.

  And finally, on your Christmas Day of this year, there will begin a cleansing of your country unlike any you can possibly imagine. It will blanket your nation and no man, woman, or child will be safe. Only Allah will decide who may be spared.

  Our Muslim brothers and sisters have been imprisoned by the western leaders for too long. The world will now see that you are the prisoners, and Allah will praise the final victory of ISIL.

  The prisoner watched over his shoulder as the guard walked away. Turning back to his visitor, he raised one dark eyebrow and gave a subtle nod.

  The visitor disentangled one gloved hand from the prisoner’s and lowered it to reach beneath the small table. The hand snaked into a fold of the loose black robe and then returned calmly to assume its former position. The guard was now on the other side of the room.

  Couples were beginning to kiss goodbye, and the room was clearing out. The visiting hour was almost over.

  “Stay in contact,” the prisoner whispered. “I will be calling on you.”

  His visitor’s eyes flared in shock. This was supposed to have been their final meeting. “What are you talking about?”

  The prisoner smiled menacingly, revealing a broken fence of rotten teeth. “Oh,
did you think it was going to be that easy for you, bitch? That I’d do all the work and you’d get the glory? I know a good negotiation when I see one. Don’t fuckin’ think I’m kidding.”

  “Forget it, then! I’ll get someone else!”

  “Too late, lover,” the prisoner said with a grin. “The cat’s already out of the bag.”

  As the prisoner and his visitor were saying their goodbyes, an inmate in a remote wing of the prison was vomiting into his private cell’s toilet for the second time that hour. He half-heartedly cursed the prison food, but he did not really think he had food poisoning. He felt like he was coming down with the flu.

  The interpreter paused and looked up, his dark eyes a question mark.

  Jack Callahan seemed relatively unconcerned. “We get messages like that all the time,” he said, shrugging. “They almost always turn out to be a hoax.”

  “This one might be too,” his colleague concurred. “The Arabic is unusual. I was paraphrasing, of course—most of what is here doesn’t translate directly, including the abbreviation ‘ISIL’ itself. But… this reads like it was written by someone who might not be a native speaker. I don’t know exactly. Also, the handwriting. It is sort of, ah, overly meticulous. Like someone who doesn’t speak or write Arabic is trying to copy something he saw written… it’s not like how someone writes in his native language.”

  Jack made a related point. “It does seem strange to me that the ISIL organization is mentioned but the author gives no other details. Usually, when we get a direct threat from ISIL, or they claim responsibility for an attack, there are very specific references, things that had to have come from them in order to lend credibility. And since when does ISIL send a greeting card to general White House mail, instead of making some kind of grandiose announcement over international airwaves? Those bastards thrive on publicity.”