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

by Kristen Elise Ph. D.

  Out in the hallway, the session chair stopped for a moment to take a few deep breaths. Afterward, he felt calmer.

  He smoothed his suit and stole a glance at his reflection in a large, blue glass flowerpot decorating the hallway. He straightened his tie. Satisfied with his appearance, he stepped through another door and onto the stage of an auditorium, where tens of thousands of scientists, vendors, investors, and members of the press were rapidly growing impatient.

  “I’m sorry for the delay,” the chair said when he reached the podium. “We’ve obviously had a bit of excitement this morning, but I would like to urge us all to continue with the convention as professionals. There is a great deal of equally exciting science to be discussed over the next five days.”

  The chair paused briefly, and someone in the audience began to applaud. As if following a cue, the auditorium erupted with a lengthy standing ovation.

  The chair smiled gratefully. He could feel himself reddening all over again as he waited for the applause to die down, but this time, he didn’t mind that he was blushing. “Thank you,” he finally said. “Welcome to the International Biotechnology Convention and Exhibition. I’m James Johnson, and I’m honored to be chairing this morning’s first session.”

  9:08 A.M. PST

  Sean McMullan and Katrina Stone were arguing as McMullan’s black sedan crawled through the mobbed streets of downtown San Diego.

  “We can’t just go in there and raise a big stink,” Katrina said. “First of all, these people are too logical—trust me. If I was in there and someone came in and said there was a biological terror attack on the convention, I’d do anything but take his word for it. I’d run through every possibility of how the alleged attacker could or could not have done such a thing, weigh the different scenarios to decide which I thought was the most likely, and then decide for myself. And if Ockham’s razor told me it was probably a hoax, then I’d sit back down and listen to the next lecture without giving it another thought.

  “And anyway, if they did believe you, they’d kill each other stampeding out of here, you’d never catch who did it, and then they’d all be gone before we can do anything about it. I guarantee you that they’ve already been drinking the water.”

  “Well, what do you want to do, then?” McMullan asked. “And what happens when some of these people leave for lunch and then don’t come back afterward. Does that ever happen?”

  “Actually,” she conceded, “you’re right. We are all prone to playing hooky during sessions that are less relevant to us. And the weather this week is mighty nice, and a lot of the attendees are from out of town.”

  “What do you suggest then? That we jog over to Sea World and the zoo and round them all up when this turns out to be for real?”

  “First of all, the precedent suggests that it will not be for real. We’ve already been duped by this guy once. Nothing happened on Christmas. I’d say it’s equally likely that nothing will happen today, and when it doesn’t, then we’ve made the FBI and the scientific community look like a bunch of total idiots. So why don’t we proceed with caution and decide how likely it is that the Doctor could have done anything. My experience at conferences is that the water comes in sealed plastic bottles, every time.

  “So let’s check it out and play it by ear, OK? There is so much press around here that we will have no trouble at all getting the word out if there really is cause for panic. And at that time, if it comes to that, we can make an informed announcement over the air along with explicit instructions for what people are to do, so there won’t end up being a rumor mill that will get people killed. It’s much better that way.”

  “OK, I’ll go along with that. But if I think for a moment that all of these people are in real danger, I’m blowing the whistle. And if any of these Ockham’s Razor Blade people don’t believe me—well, I guess there’s nothing I can do about that. You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him believe that it’s poisonous.”

  McMullan’s black sedan turned off of Front Street onto Harbor Drive as he approached the San Diego Convention Center. “Get down!” he shouted, and Katrina obliged.

  She had seen it as well. The sea of black and white clad protestors.

  “Oh my god!” she exclaimed as she dropped as low in her seat as she could manage. “Well, now what?”

  “I don’t know. I assume that everyone inside will know your face?”

  “Not everyone, but too many of them. I can’t go in there. Once one person recognizes me the jig will be up, and I’ll be swarmed. And what we need right now is to blend in. Damn it!”

  “Well, I have to go in,” McMullan said. “Someone needs to scope out the situation with the water. I haven’t really come up with a plan after that, and to be honest, any vague plan I had so far included your being there to tell me what to do.”

  “You’ll be in the right place to ask your questions,” she said sarcastically. Poking her head between the two bucket seats, Katrina scanned the back seat of McMullan’s sedan until she saw his gym bag.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Ugh, don’t you ever wash this stuff?” she asked as she pulled out a musty sweatshirt and baseball cap.

  “Well now I will,” he said.

  Katrina pulled the sweatshirt over her head and knotted the excessive length at her waist. Beneath it, the light blue pants of her prison uniform resembled hospital scrubs or, potentially, regular pants to a person not paying attention. She tucked her hair under the baseball cap and pulled it low over her forehead.

  “Your cell phone won’t work in the convention center,” she said, “but keep it on and keep stepping outside to check for messages from me. Call me if you need to ask questions about anthrax—but I don’t know what to tell you about crowd control in emergency situations, so you’re going to have to play that one out by yourself.”

  “Where are you going?” he asked as she opened the door and stepped out of the car.

  “To find my daughter.”

  9:10 A.M. PST

  Katrina’s daughter was only a hundred feet away. She was being led by the arm by a pleasant-faced man who smiled and nodded at people they passed. A man who had a concealed gun pointed at her back. A man who, moments before, had assaulted her in the ladies’ room and injected something into Alexis’ right arm.

  Now, she winced as the man’s grip on the same arm tightened and the gun was forced deeper into her back. They stepped through the main entrance of the convention center and onto Harbor Drive. The San Diego sunlight was blinding, and without thinking, Lexi moved her hand to reach for her sunglasses.

  “Don’t even think about it,” the man said, and Lexi realized that her pepper spray would have been a better thing to reach for.

  “I was just trying to get my sunglasses,” she said softly. “It’s too bright out here. Can I get them? They’re right here in my jacket.”

  “Keep your hands right where they are.” He smiled and nodded at another passerby.

  Shit. Alexis scanned the crowd, not knowing what she was looking for, hoping that the answer would come when she saw it. And then, she did.

  Standing a few yards away was a figure in light blue pants and a black sweatshirt. A baseball cap was tucked tightly over the small person’s face, but Alexis recognized her. Her mother was looking in her direction.

  Oh God, Mom, please see me. And please don’t say anything. Alexis shook her head, barely perceptibly, side to side, unaware if her mother could see the motion. “No,” she mouthed.

  Katrina turned away and faced into the crowd, and Alexis and her captor passed by so closely that she could have reached out and touched her mother. And then, they were walking away from her.

  9:11 A.M. PST

  After a flash of his badge to clear security, Sean McMullan entered the San Diego Convention Center. He thought for a moment and then found an information booth.

  “Excuse me,” he said to the middle-aged woman at the booth. “I am new to this event,
and I’m terribly thirsty. Can you tell me where I might find a drink of water?”

  “There’s an entire buffet set up down the hall,” she said and unfolded a map of the convention center. “You can find a number of goodies there.” With one finger, she traced a line to the room she spoke of. “There are also drinking fountains, but that’s San Diego tap water. You’re better off with the bottled stuff at the buffet.” She looked up and smiled.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” McMullan headed over to the room she had indicated and peered inside. Several tables piled with food and beverages were being attended to by a catering staff. The drinks were all in bottles. Sealed water bottles, just as Katrina had said.

  McMullan approached one of the bartenders and asked for a bottle of water. “On second thought,” he corrected a moment later, “can I get two of them? I’m really thirsty, and I’d hate to miss the next lecture to have to come back here.”

  “Of course,” said the bartender with a nod. He handed McMullan two of the small bottles.

  After leaving the room, McMullan made a beeline for the nearest restroom, where he promptly emptied one of the bottles into the sink, taking care not to touch its contents. From there, he found the nearest drinking fountain and refilled the empty bottle. Again, he did not allow the water to come into contact with his skin. I guess that about covers the data collection, he thought and maneuvered his way back toward the entrance.

  9:16 A.M. PST

  “Um, Mister?” Alexis said, as they crossed Harbor Avenue and started up Fifth.

  “What?”

  “You never did let me pee at the convention center.”

  “So what’s your point?”

  “Just that I really did have to go, and now I have to go more. And I’m not exactly un-scared, and frankly… don’t you think it would draw a bit of attention to the both of us if I pissed myself right here walking down Fifth Avenue? Because I think I might.”

  “All right, fine,” he said, “but if you try anything at all, I’ll put a bullet in your back and walk away. And don’t think I can’t get away with it.” The door to The Strip Club was open, and the man shoved Alexis inside, his gun still buried in her back.

  As she passed through the door, Alexis braved a glance over her shoulder. The small figure in blue pants and a sweatshirt was still trailing behind them.

  “Remember what I said,” her kidnapper said under his breath.

  “We’re closed,” said a woman wiping down tables.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” said Lexi’s kidnapper in a polite, apologetic voice. “My niece really has to use the restroom, and I could use one myself. Would it be too much trouble? You won’t even know we were here.”

  “OK, hurry up,” the woman said, and motioned behind her. “They’re over there.”

  The pair walked past the waitress and into a narrow hallway, where they found a swinging door announcing the women’s room. As Alexis pushed it open, her kidnapper did not leave her side.

  “Oh, come on,” she said. “Can’t you let me pee in peace?” He glared at her for a moment, but to Lexi, it looked as if he was weighing his options. “What, do you think I hid a gun in the stall just in case this was going to happen? Give me a break… ”

  The man pushed the door open and scanned the walls of the ladies’ restroom. There were no windows. He glanced back toward the waitress. She was around a corner, out of sight.

  “Hands up,” he said.

  Oh God, he’s going to shoot me right here. Alexis raised both hands slowly while watching the hand with the gun. She could feel the weight of her pepper spray in her pocket.

  But the hand with the gun remained still. Instead, her captor casually reached for her with his other hand. Feeling up and down. Frisking her. He took her pepper spray. And then her cell phone. And both of Lexi’s plans for escape were destroyed.

  9:17 A.M. PST

  As soon as he stepped outside of the convention center, the chime on his cell phone indicated that he had a voice mail, and McMullan remembered Katrina’s warning about the phone not working inside the convention center. He pulled the phone from his pocket and played back the message. It was from Katrina, and it was frantic.

  “Sean!” Katrina was practically screaming. “You’ve got to get out here! Alexis is being kidnapped! She’s being led by a strange man! I’m pretty sure he has a gun at her back! I’m following them, but I’m afraid if he sees me, he’ll kill her! Oh, God, Sean, please hurry!”

  McMullan slammed the message off and picked up a dial tone to return the call to her cell phone, but then reconsidered. If she’s tailing them, her phone might be within his earshot. He glanced around him in all directions, but saw neither Katrina nor her daughter. So he took the chance that she had silenced her phone and texted her: “Where are u”

  Katrina’s response came through almost immediately: “Strip Club.”

  McMullan bolted out into the Harbor Drive traffic without looking.

  9:18 A.M. PST

  “Now hurry up,” the kidnapper said and thrust Alexis into the bathroom. As the door swung closed, she could see him concealing his pistol. She raced into the stall and arranged herself over the toilet. While she sat urinating, she struggled with tears. There wasn’t much time to devise a new strategy.

  When she reached to flush the toilet, a jolt of pain shot through the crook of her arm. Sucking in her breath, she pulled up the sleeve of her mother’s jacket and located the small puncture wound in her vein. The spot where her kidnapper had injected her. What did he give me? It had bled a little bit, but was now clotting.

  And then a new plan came to her.

  The bathroom stall door was metal. Its edges were sharp.

  She clicked open the door and slid a fingertip along its lock, a sliver of metal that slid into a bracket. She traced it delicately, feeling for the roughest corner, and then gripped the metal tightly with one hand. Then she bit into her lip to avoid crying out as she thrust her arm upon it, gouging the metal deeply into her clotting puncture wound.

  The Doctor began to lose patience as he waited outside of the women’s room for Katrina Stone’s daughter. Is she even worth all this? His job was done. The rest would certainly take care of itself. The abduction of the girl, once she had serendipitously revealed her identity to the press right in front of him, had been spontaneous.

  It is worth it, the Doctor decided after all. Imagine the publicity when they find her body. The woman’s very daughter. Nobody is safe. Nobody is immune. I could not have planned a more perfect end.

  But where is she? She should be finished in there by now. The Doctor reached forward and began to push the swinging restroom door inward when a force blocked its movement. He withdrew his hand and the girl swung the door outward and toward him. “It’s about time,” he said.

  The girl did not answer. Through the dark maroon of her suit jacket, the Doctor could make out a circle of a different red color. The injection site was bleeding. No matter. With one hand, he reached forward to take her arm as before. The other held the pistol, jutting outward toward her through the pocket of his coat. As the Doctor reached toward her with his one free hand, her leg swung upward, and before he realized what was happening his groin was on fire.

  “Take that, fucker!” Alexis shouted as she kneed her kidnapper between the legs. He let out an agonized yelp. She bolted past him and out of the narrow hallway of the Strip Club, racing toward the door and the daylight beyond it. Behind her, she heard a gunshot. And then a blood-curdling scream.

  A vague sensation of pain came over her, and the sunlight before her faded as her vision began darkening from the edges inward. And Alexis realized that the scream she had heard might have been her own.

  9:25 A.M. PST

  Inside the Strip Club, Katrina was crouching behind the bar, fervently hoping that Sean McMullan received her text message in time, when Alexis came running toward her. But then the shot rang out, and Katrina’s worst nightmare was realized for the second time in her
life.

  A murky waitress raised her hands to her face in slow motion, and the bar swirled around Katrina like the cabin of a ship on a choppy sea. She felt herself falling to the floor behind the bar. She heard the crash of breaking glass, and then everything faded to black.

  It is the week before Katrina’s scheduled qualifying exam. She is in her bedroom, sitting on the bed she will no longer be sharing with Tom. She is crying.

  She hears the crash of breaking glass.

  She runs to the living room.

  She screams.

  The front room window is shattered and Christopher is lying on the floor in front of it. Next to him, his favorite plastic cup lies on its side, and the carpet is soaked with the water he had gotten up for. The yellow racecar on the front of his cotton pajamas is now stamped with a spreading, bright red ellipse.

  As Katrina races to him, she stumbles on a toy and almost falls on top of her son. She lands on her knees next to Christopher and tenderly pulls his pajama top up to look at the small wound on the upper part of his chest. Sobbing, she lifts his limp body to a sitting position, and then she sees that the bullet has gone all the way through her son’s body. Blood is spreading across Christopher’s pajamas from a ragged exit wound.

  Oh God, please, no, please, no, God! Oh God!

  Christopher is awake and looking at her. Large, blond curls spring out haphazardly from the left side of his head; on the right, the locks are damp and one is stuck to his rosy cheek from the peaceful slumber he was in just moments ago. The soft skin beneath the curls is creased in several places from his pillow.

  Christopher’s wide, bright blue eyes shine with fear and pain. A tear spills from the corner of each, leaving two clear, wet tracks down the sides of his nose and over his mouth. His full, pink lower lip trembles, and he blinks several times. He reaches for Katrina’s hand, still on his chest, and wraps a soft, chubby fist around her index finger. He gasps for breath and quietly mouths a single word: “Mommy.”