The Cure

by Freddie Villacci Jr

  “Stage four. I don’t need to tell you there’s no stage five.”

  She shook her head.

  “In my investigation, I spoke to Dr. Keith Vincent at Stanford. You can imagine he told me some pretty impressive things about you. Gracie, I need you to level with me. I’m already resigned to the idea of losing this girl. Maybe it’s because I could no longer bear the idea of hopelessness. But I still remember feeling constant… desperate hope. It got to a point that I would have set myself on fire if I believed it would cure her.” He leaned in again, grabbed the bars as if they were the source of his frustration. “Gracie, damn you, you’d better be who you say you are, and you’d better have what you say you have.”

  “I am… I do,” she squeaked out through hot tears. Though scared, there was iron in her soul and her fists clenched with the outrage hiding behind her fear.

  “If you want my help, I’ll need proof of it.”

  “In my apartment, all of my formulas are on flash drives taped underneath my kitchen drawers.”

  Quinn nodded and stood. “Okay. I don’t know who to trust at this point, so the rule is trust no one and let no one know that I’m helping you.”

  She looked into his eyes, nodded, then asked, “When will I see you again?”

  “As soon as I get back from Chicago and clear this whole mess up,” he said.

  “I can save your goddaughter,” she said with renewed strength.

  Quinn pursed his lips and breathed deeply. “I meant what I said about needing God’s help if you’re not on the level. Because if you’re not, I will make sure you pay for it. In the name of my goddaughter, I swear it.”

  27

  Mack Maddox had struggled through Gracie Green’s thesis paper, and read everything online he could find about her and her company. What was frustrating was the fact that the most cursory search for “Gracie Green” yielded a ton of stories repeating the terrorist narrative. He’d also discovered a developing narrative among conspiracy theorists that the cure she was claiming to have was actually a formula for some type of genetic chemical warfare. Not to mention the memes and nasty jokes blowing around the internet like so much toilet paper after Halloween night.

  He heard Caroline cough from upstairs. The rattle in the cough made the muscles along his back clench.

  “You okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Caroline replied in a hoarse voice. Before Mack could ask his next question, she followed up with, “She’s fine, too.”

  “Let me know if you need me,” he said, continuing to sift through the latest article he’d dug up. This one was about Gracie’s coworkers. If any group deserved the description “ragtag,” it was this one. They were three kids straight out of college with no real-world experience, assembled as if by lottery.

  He had to be a good investigator and consider the possibility that they were nothing but dupes. It certainly looked that way. The memes and the media narrative and the conspiracy sites were getting to him, he thought. Time to change tack.

  He found himself on the Facebook page of Diana Graham, Anna’s mother. Anna had been Gracie’s second-in-command at Greentech, and her mother was in the advanced stages of colorectal cancer. Bic had mentioned her. If there was anyone who‘d have kept close tabs on Anna’s progress at the company, it was Diana Graham. Anna was a sometime-poster in a support forum for people suffering from colorectal cancer. Field research, Mack had guessed. In more than one post, she’d mentioned her mother, who was suffering.

  In fifteen minutes, he had Diana Graham’s phone number.

  “Hello?”

  “Ms. Graham? My name is Mack Maddox. I’m with the FBI?”

  “Oh God…”

  “Um, ma’am, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Don’t you have enough?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You people have been harassing me and I’d like it to stop. This can’t be legal. My daughter is dead!”

  “Ma’am,” said Mack, stumbling over the word, “I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”

  “I’ll bet you are,” Diana snapped. “The only thing you get from my mouth is this: Gracie is not a terrorist.” With this, she hung up.

  Mack was about to call her right back when he heard a loud, hollow thud on the floor above him, followed by Sam wailing. He bolted up the stairs and found Caroline on the floor, unconscious with Sam next to her.

  “God, please no,” he said, rushing toward her. He went to his nightstand and fumbled through the drawer for a flashlight pen. Her pupils didn’t respond to the light. He dialed 911, then scooped up little Sam. He cradled Sam in his arms as he paced in terror, waiting for the paramedics, mumbling prayers.

  Three hours later, Mack sat in a hospital room next to Caroline, holding her hand and trying to ignore the symphony of beeps from the machines she was connected to. She hadn’t regained consciousness since she’d collapsed at the house. Her vitals were stable for the moment, her body pumped full of steroids to reduce the swelling in her brain.

  A few minutes before, the doctor had sat Mack down in that dreaded room, where she told him Caroline wasn’t leaving the hospital this time. Her body was shutting down.

  She had a week or two at best.

  Caroline’s hand twitched in his. Her eyes fluttered open. Mack smiled through his hopeless yearning. “You’re back.”

  She managed a smile and said in a hoarse voice, “I love you.”

  Mack held her hand tighter. “Love you too. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry you love me too.” Even in this state, she could still snark at him.

  Caroline drifted off, winced, before opening her eyes. “Promise me you’ll stay safe for her.”

  He knew who she meant. “I promise,” he said.

  Caroline smirked. “That means don’t forget your vest.”

  It had been a shared joke since their marriage. She’d even worked it into her vows. She never let him forget that it was she who’d saved his life, however indirectly, by being such a nag about wearing the Kevlar vest.

  He understood what the return to this overused joke was meant to signify. She knew him, knew the only thing that he was truly afraid of was happening again. First his mother had left him and his father. Now Caroline was leaving him and Sam.

  Only Caroline wasn’t leaving for something she thought was better, like his mother had done. No, she was being murdered slowly right before his eyes.

  But he knew that no matter what she said, he wasn’t about to sit here and watch this terror play out without a fight.

  He bent over and kissed his wife on the forehead, then whispered to her, “I know you’ll be up when I get back,” he said as he lingered a moment longer, staring at her still face. “You know how I know? Because you are the love of my life.”

  28

  Mack pulled into a massive townhome complex located a block away from the Pacific Ocean in a town called Dana Point, two hours south of L.A. He had used the FBI database to look up Diana Graham’s home address. It had been more difficult than he’d expected, as she had moved six months ago. His mind played the paranoid trick of supposing that she’d done this to keep one step ahead of him.

  Ridiculous, he thought, as he stood in front of a well-manicured two-story building with a row of four units attached. Normally he would have noticed the warmth of the sun, the smell of the ocean… not today. He walked up the steps to one of the middle units and knocked on door 1109.

  No answer. He knocked again.

  Then again, louder.

  Finally, the door opened slightly, the chain still on. A face appeared in the gap.

  Mack flashed his FBI badge. “Diana Graham? Mack Maddox. We briefly spoke on the phone. It’s urgent we talk.”

  “I have nothing to say.”

  Mack wedged his foot in the door before she could shut it. “I’m not asking.” He took a moment to regain his composure. “I’m here to save my wife.”


  “What does that have to do with me?”

  “You said Gracie was innocent.” Mack withdrew his foot from the crack. “I need her to be, because my wife is dying of cancer.”

  The door shut and reopened a moment later, unchained. Diana Graham stepped aside to allow him entrance.

  They sat at the kitchen table. Mack stared at Diana, confused by her appearance. She was in the final stages of cancer in the Facebook pictures he’d seen from four months ago. He knew all too well the frailty, the weak, beaten-down bloodshot eyes, the pale white skin, so thin you could see the veins through its papery surface. She had none of these signs now.

  “If you don’t mind me saying, you’re looking well,” Mack said.

  She broke eye contact. “I’m hanging in there.”

  “The reason why I’m here is this: The man who raised Gracie has asked me to h—”

  “Gracie’s uncle?” Diana smiled. Even her teeth looked healthy, not all yellowed up by harsh chemo and radiation treatments.

  “You know him?”

  “No. Neither did Anna. She never met him, but he was known as the angel who found the investor for their company.”

  “Did Anna give you anything, or tell you where they backed up any of their research?”

  “No.” Diana replied. Mack could read the lie. It was all over her face.

  “Diana, I need to know if there’s a cure. If there’s a chance to save my wife, I can’t just sit there and let her die.”

  Diana rose from the table and walked over to the refrigerator. She paused with the door open, staring into it. “I’m sorry. I need something to drink? Can I get you anything?”

  “She cured you, didn’t she?”

  The woman remained frozen, staring into the fridge.

  Mack rose and walked to her side. “You’re the proof. You’re living proof that Gracie Green did cure cancer.”

  “Agent Maddox, I’m sorry if I gave you the impression that I’m cured. I’m… not.”

  “I just thought,” he said, “I don’t know what I thought… from looking at you…”

  She smiled slightly. “God willing, I’ve got six more months.”

  Mack turned away, feeling his hope diminishing by the second.

  “If you’re looking for proof of their work,” said Diana, “I can tell you Anna was quite OCD. There’s no way she didn’t back up their research somewhere, probably in a place no one but she would ever think to look for it. Here…” She went to a drawer and fumbled for a pen and paper. “Here’s her address. Sorry I don’t have more for you, but I’m feeling a little light-headed.”

  Mack took the piece of paper in a numb hand and followed Diana to the front door. Out of the corner of his eye, at the top of the stairs, he spotted a piece of luggage sitting on the stair landing.

  Moments later, he was sitting in his car, wondering what the hell to do. The woman was hiding something. What’s more, she was clearly preparing to bolt. If she disappeared, then the proof was gone, along with all hope of saving Caroline.

  Proof.

  She was proof, dammit. Why the hell would she lie to him?

  Mack made a call to Tom Walton, a childhood friend who worked in cybersecurity at Langley.

  He needed quick answers.

  29

  Diana Graham sat at her kitchen table, wondering if she was a terrible person as she stared at two bottles of pills—pills Anna had sent to her, unbeknownst to Gracie. She was going to be in the Phase I trials, or at least that was the plan. But when they couldn’t secure FDA approval, Anna couldn’t wait any longer.

  The drug worked exactly as it had in the mice: Diana was cancer-free within two weeks. It was a true penicillin for cancer. Anna had explained how it worked, but it was too technical for Diana. Her understanding, in layman’s terms, was that cancer cells liked sugar. The blue pill was a synthetic sugar that, when absorbed by a cancerous cell, created a marker. The red pill was the second half of the drug. When it interacted with a cancer cell containing the marker, a compound reaction occurred. This created a poison as lethal as cyanide, but only to the cancer cells, and killed them almost instantaneously.

  Suddenly the back door opened, and a man stepped into the kitchen and pressed a silenced pistol at her head.

  “Hello, Mrs. Graham,” he said quietly, cocking the gun.

  She didn’t reply, didn’t even move.

  “What? Cat got your tongue?”

  She shook her head. “So you’re the man who’s been threatening me?”

  “Name’s Jaco,” he said with a smirk. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “I didn’t say a word to anyone.”

  “Didn’t say you did. Huh, what do we have here?” He reached over and picked up one of the bottles.

  “It’s not what you think.”

  He opened the bottle and saw about 20 blue pills. “Let me guess, the other contains red ones,” he said, then opened the second bottle. “Look at that. I was right.” He chuckled to himself as he walked over to the sink.

  “Those are the only ones left,” Diana said.

  “I don’t understand. Are you trying to initiate some sort of bargain?”

  “You could save millions of people,” she said. “You’d be a hero.”

  “And to whom would I take these? Assuming I wanted to be a hero.”

  “There’s a scientist,” she said desperately. “At M.D. Anderson—"

  Jaco looked up. “Oh, yeah, that. You should probably be aware that situation’s already been taken care of. Tragic car accident.” He clucked his tongue. “Too bad. Got anything else?”

  She was silent.

  “I thought not,” he said as he unscrewed the cap and began pouring the pills down the drain of the garbage disposal.

  Diana bolted up from the table and Jaco pointed his revolver straight at her stomach.

  “Not wise,” he said sharply.

  “What kind of monsters are you people?” Diana cried.

  “The worst kind. Would you hand me those red pills please?”

  Diana Graham stood erect, staring at him defiantly.

  Jaco rolled his eyes. “Oh, c’mon,” he said, and shot her in the stomach. Diana collapsed back into the seat, her hands clutching her belly.

  “Ouch,” said Jaco. “Bet that hurts worse than cancer.” He picked up the second bottle of pills and poured them down into the disposal. Then he flipped the disposal switch on and conducted the grinding sound of the motor like a symphony. On the downbeat, he turned it off and turned on the tap, washing the remnants of the pills into oblivion.

  He then turned and pointed the gun at Diana’s head. “Sorry, lady. It’s not like this is the first time we’ve uncured something.”

  She was gasping, and she looked up at him, pure, unfiltered hatred in her eyes. Her mouth trembled. And she squeaked out four words.

  “You… go… to hell…”

  “Hope so, I hear that’s where all the cool people hang out.”

  30

  In 10 minutes, Tom Walton had pulled Diana Graham’s medical records.

  Mack felt an awkward relief, one that only comes from being proved correct on a hunch that confirmed dire consequences for all involved.

  On her last medical visit five months before, Diana Graham had weeks to live at best, could barely walk, and had lost all motor skills in her right arm. Since then, there was no record of her even stepping foot into a hospital or trying any experimental treatment. Either the reports were lying or she was.

  Or perhaps not. He remembered what she’d said. I’m not cured. Perhaps the only word missing from that sentence was the word yet.

  He shut the car and got out. If she hadn’t been cured yet, but was on her way, then there was a good chance she had the drugs right here in her house—and he wasn’t going to leave without them.

  A flash of light lit up the front picture window. He knew that flash.

  He kicked the door open.
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  A man in the kitchen pointed a gun at him. Mack dove for cover behind a couch in the living room as another shot rang out. Mack blindly returned fire.

  The sound of a door.

  Mack popped up ready to fire. The rear door was open.

  He ran to Diana, who lay sprawled across the floor in a bloody mess. Her head lolled backwards by a bullet to the forehead. Her mouth gaped.

  He went out into the tiny backyard, which butted up to a maze of similar four-unit townhouse buildings. There was no sign of anyone.

  He reentered the townhome and locked the rear door.

  His mind raced as he reentered the kitchen. On the counter next to the sink were two pill bottles with their caps removed that hadn’t been there just minutes before when he chatted with Diana. He grabbed the empty bottles, then looked down the dark drain of the disposal, frowning. He took his phone and turned on the light to look down the drain.

  “Dammit, Diana,” he muttered sadly. “Why didn’t you give these to me?”

  He looked around the room, noticing a sticky note on the white refrigerator amongst the plethora of magnets there. The name “Dr. Klein” was written on the note, along with a phone number.

  A search of Diana Graham’s townhouse came up dry, save for a numbered key that looked like it came from a safe-deposit box, hidden within the lining of the single small suitcase on the landing.

  After he left, he found a payphone and dialed 911.

  31

  At eight o’clock that night, the Farmer sat at the kitchen table in the darkness of a two-bedroom apartment in Cañon City, Colorado. Nestled between 3 penitentiaries, it was an idyllic and beautiful town with a thriving economy based on supporting the outlying correctional facilities. About two hours ago, disguised as a deliveryman with a crate-sized box, he’d walked into the small apartment complex undetected and easily picked the cheap lock on the front door. As he waited patiently, he continued to think about all the horrific ways he could kill Bic Green. Until a day ago, he hadn’t even known that name. He’d only known of the assassin some called the Black Ghost. It was an appropriate name, considering that he’d spent three years trying to find the man and hadn’t even unearthed so much as the man’s initials.