Book of Cures (A Thomas McAlister Adventure 2)

by Hunt Kingsbury

  “I would’ve gotten it myself!”

  “Not as quickly, though.”

  It was probably true. McAlister said nothing.

  He sat down, thoughts swirling.

  He knew that a year ago, when he’d re-taken the Commandments from Warrant, he’d likely ruined the man’s career. But he never thought Warrant would go to such lengths to get revenge.

  “Thomas, are you there?”

  No wonder Bertram got out of the handcuffs so quickly. No wonder he was able to access complex international citizenship records in less than a day. He should’ve seen it sooner.

  Elmo. Bert. Bertram.

  So Warrant was behind this. He’d even given McAlister a clue by naming Elmo, Bertram for this assignment. To rub it in. The clue had been right under his nose from the beginning.

  Warrant had figured out the surest way to steal the Book. Surer even than following him. He’d put someone in the same room.

  “But I was referred to Bertram by a colleague. And his office at NYU?”

  “There is a Dr. Bertram and he’s got an office. He’s on sabbatical, at his summer home outside of Albany.”

  McAlister said nothing. There was nothing to say.

  Ann continued slowly, softly. “After you outsmarted him, my father received a Presidential demerit. In the agency, it’s the worst thing that can happen to you. Worse than being suspended or fired. He was demoted and heavily ridiculed. After what many considered one of the finest careers ever in the FBI.”

  “Good.”

  Ann sighed, then went on. “It wasn’t the official sanction or the internal berating that angered him as much as the bruise to his ego. No one had ever done anything like that to him and gotten away with it, and because of that, he’s sort of dedicated the remainder of his career to ruining your life.”

  “Well, if he stole the Blue Beryl he’s done a hell of a job. Ann, I can’t even begin to explain to you how much I needed that book. I can’t even describe it in words.”

  “Let me finish. They assigned my father to Vice. Thomas, it’s the lowest rung. He draws a paycheck, but doesn’t need the money. He works his cases, but his heart’s not in it. He spends every spare minute trying to figure out what you’re going to go after next and devising ways to take it from you.”

  “You’re joking, right? I mean, you’re making it sound like the ultimate vendetta.”

  “I’m not joking at all. I’m very serious and it is the ultimate vendetta. He’s obsessed. When he found out you were going to ask the real Dr. Bertram for help, he forced Elmo to take a State Department Immersion Course in Tibetan culture, history and language.

  “Elmo’s a computer genius; he knows every major computer programming language ever written. Learning one more language was no big deal. He’s a quick study. Bertram was out of town, so they inserted Elmo and got the NYU Administration to allow them to use the office space. They had no problem convincing you he was Bertram, and it seems you never doubted it.”

  “A few things were odd, but no, I never doubted he was who he said he was.”

  “Thomas, it’s all true. I swear. I lied to you before. I’ll never do it again.”

  “Where can I find . . . Elmo?”

  “Last night, he was savagely attacked seconds after leaving your apartment. He’s in intensive care, in critical condition.”

  That must’ve been why Joel Wasserman had left him the message telling him not to leave. Wasserman must have known there would be someone waiting outside ready to attack whoever emerged with the book.

  “My God, Ann. Do you know where the book is?”

  “Yes.

  “Ann, you have to tell me. I’ve got to have it.”

  “I’ll tell you, Thomas. That’s why I’m calling. I’m not confused anymore. What he’s doing is wrong. This is black and white. But you have to promise me one thing.”

  It would’ve been logical for McAlister not to trust Ann. But he had no choice. She’d betrayed him before, and if this was another one of her setups, he’d have to ride it out and see where it led. But something in her voice gave him confidence, and of course, this time she seemingly had nothing to gain by helping him.

  “What?”

  “That when you go to get the book, you won’t hurt my father.”

  “Ha! Why don’t you promise me that I won’t get hurt.”

  “You’re going to have to find a way where no one gets hurt. If anyone can do that, Thomas, it’s you.”

  “I promise. You have my word I’ll try not to. If he gets hurt, it will be his own fault. Okay?”

  “Okay, I believe you. Hold on one second.”

  It was at that moment, when Ann paused, that McAlister heard the static. Maybe it was naturally occurring, maybe not, but he suddenly realized he was talking on Taylor’s landline phone. He knew that while the NYPD might not have a body to assign to watch the building, they surely had voice-activated surveillance devices that would alert them if anyone was using the phone.

  “Wait, Ann. I think this phone is tapped. Quick--give me your wireless number.”

  She gave him the digits and he wrote them on a notepad.

  “I’ll call you right back.”

  McAlister sprinted down the hallway to the elevator and rode it down to the lobby. He darted into the phone booth and quickly entered the number of a pre-paid calling card, then Ann’s wireless phone number.

  “Hurry, Ann. I still need to run back upstairs before I leave. I think they’re listening to Taylor’s phone. If they are, they’ll be coming soon. What’s the address?”

  Ann read him her father’s home address. He repeated it back to her.

  “So Bertram, I mean Elmo, was attacked and then what happened?”

  Ann lowered her voice. “Thomas, Elmo only had the book for about ten seconds. My father was outside your apartment last night waiting to pick him up. He witnessed Elmo get attacked by what he believes was a professional assassin. My father shot the man and reclaimed the book.”

  “Who was the man?”

  “We don’t know. He got away.”

  “After your father shot him?”

  “Yes, my father blew his knee cap off and broke his jaw, but the man was able to get away. He’s not sure how. There’s someone looking into it. Bottom line is, Thomas, my father’s got the book.”

  Thomas was silent, digesting everything he’d just heard. It was an incredible turn of events. Incredibly bad. His arch enemy had the Blue Beryl.

  “Please, Thomas, just be careful. Be creative. You can do this my way.”

  “I’ve got to get going. I don’t have a second to waste. Taylor is dying as we speak.”

  “Thomas, maybe we can talk sometime after this is over. I have so much to say to you. I can tell you’re not angry with me and that makes me so happy. Can we do that? Sometime, when you’re ready?”

  “I’ve got to go, Annie. Sometime, okay?”

  “I’m going to hold you to that.”

  “I’ve got to go.”

  “I know. Good luck.”

  “Ann?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you.”

  Chapter 51

  Detective O’Brian was preparing a scant, dismal briefing for his superiors on the McAlister case when Fergusen opened his door and stuck his head in. O’Brian opened his mouth, ready to yell at him to get out, when Ferguson said, “McAlister’s at the old man’s apartment. He just answered an inbound call.”

  O’Brian leapt up from the chair and said, “Let’s get him!”

  He grabbed his case file and they sprinted down to the carpool.

  “I knew it,” O’Brian said. “I knew it. We couldn’t go much longer without some sort of break. There’s no way McAlister could be that good.”

  Chapter 52

  Back in Taylor’s apartment, McAlister threw his identification papers, some clothes and a large-frame Taurus 357 Magnum into his Filson duffel and ran to the door.

  He planned to take a cab to Peterb
orough Airport and charter a plane to Virginia where Warrant’s house was located.

  He opened the door, stepped out and ran into the barrel of a .44 caliber revolver. He was too late.

  “Thomas McAlister, you have the right to remain silent . . .”

  “Hold up, Fergusen,” O’Brian said. “I want to have a little chat with Dr. McAlister before we make this official.”

  McAlister said, “Fine, I’ll talk but that’s an awfully big barrel. Any chance of him lowering it?”

  “None.” O’Brian answered.

  It was the response McAlister wanted. The closer the gun, the easier it is to take it away.

  “Back in the apartment, Dr. McAlister,” O’Brian ordered.

  McAlister turned and went back inside. He went slowly, making sure he didn’t move too far away from Fergusen’s gun.

  “Far enough.”

  He turned. Ferguson had stayed close, the gun barrel two feet from his stomach. If it was any further, he’d have to try a kick.

  “Dr. McAlister, you’ve done a nice job of escaping, twice, using forged identification papers each time. If I’d known you were going to leave Tibet so soon I might’ve been able to have you apprehended when your flight landed. I underestimated you both times. That won’t happen again.”

  “You’ve got me now. I just want a chance to tell my side of the story.”

  “Oh, you’ll get your chance for that. We’ve got hours ahead of us. First we’re going to have a little chat about where you put the vials you stole.”

  O’Brian had left the front door open.

  McAlister looked beyond him and casually said, “Why, here comes my partner with the vials now.”

  McAlister’s Hapkido instructor had called the technique “handgun removal--front side.” If the person with the gun is holding it in their right hand, you swing your right hand across, grab the body of the gun and twist it outward, turning it back against the person holding it. The gun barrel provides great leverage.

  The other person must release the gun or else their finger, trapped in the trigger, will dislocate or break. Distraction isn’t necessary, but it helps. Speed is tantamount.

  When both men turned to look out into the hallway McAlister made his move.

  He executed the move perfectly, shoving and then twisting the barrel out and away from him. The only problem was that Fergusen’s fingers were fat. McAlister used both hands to twist the gun outward, and as he did, he heard and felt Fergusen’s index finger snap.

  As McAlister yanked the gun back, it went off, firing a slug sideways into a nineteenth century armoire.

  The shot was deafening and McAlister’s ears instantly began ringing. Fergusen, who’d been trying to pull the gun back, fell backwards onto O’Brian. O’Brian caught him and propped him back up on his feet.

  Smoke rose between them and the air was thick with gunpowder.

  McAlister immediately aimed at O’Brian, who was reaching for his weapon.

  “Don’t do it, O’Brian! Don’t or I’ll shoot. I’ve got little to lose.”

  “You shoot me and you’ll have less.”

  “Toss your gun over on the couch.”

  O’Brian took his gun out and tossed it on the couch.

  “Anything on your ankle?”

  O’Brian raised both pant legs showing McAlister he was not wearing an ankle holster.

  McAlister looked at Ferguson. “You got one?”

  “No. Never needed it till now.”

  “All right, both of you, lay on the floor, face down, fingers laced behind your heads.”

  McAlister reached around to the kitchen utility drawer and took out a roll of duct tape. He tossed it to Ferguson, gun still trained on him.. “Tape up your boss here, please,” he said. I’ll do you after he’s secure.”

  Under the barrel of the gun, Ferguson taped O’Brian’s legs together at the ankles and knees and then taped his wrists together behind his back. O’Brian glared at him balefully. Thomas then did the same to Ferguson. He considered putting a strip across both their mouths, but decided against it.

  “I wouldn’t have done this, but the same people who stole the virus have now kidnapped Lisa. I’m the only one that can find both. I can’t afford to be locked up right now.”

  “It’s all bullshit, McAlister. Don’t expect us to believe anything you say.”

  “In five minutes I’ll call 911 and tell them where you are.” He pulled Fergusen’s cell phone off the his belt. “Sorry about your finger.”

  McAlister grabbed his duffel and went to the door.

  “I want you both to know, I’m dealing with people who have me backed so far into a corner that I have to do whatever they say. I did not steal anything from the Research Facility. I didn’t beat up those two guards. I did not poison Taylor or anyone else. I’m being framed. Someday soon maybe we’ll all sit down and have a beer and talk about how they did this to me, but for now, I’ve got to go.”

  “Yeah, you didn’t do any of it. Just like you didn’t tie us up here today either. I’m going to put you away, you fucking fantasy-land freak!”

  McAlister walked out, closing the door behind him.

  Once he was in the cab, he called 911 and told the operator where she could find two of NYPD’s best. To try to honor Ann’s request, he also made a call to Ethan to see if he could quickly locate a Tazer. After both calls, he dropped Fergusen’s phone out the window.

  Chapter 53

  McAlister rubbed a military-grade anti-fog solution called Cat Crap onto his Stiener Commander V marine binoculars and then watched DJ carry groceries into his house. DJ carried a single brown bag in one arm and a case of Bud Light in the other. He looked paranoid, and McAlister stayed far away.

  There are certain London suburbs dominated by row houses--rows and rows for miles and miles. DJ’s neighborhood in Quantico, Virginia, was like one of those London suburbs. It was lined with identical bungalows meant to be affordable for people with income levels driven by governmental pay grades. All had been designed by the same architect and built by the same builder, quickly, to keep up with the government’s prolific hiring of mid-level bureaucrats in the 1950s.

  Warrant was a creature of habit, hardworking and disciplined. He had no social life. Ann was his only family and she was estranged. McAlister hadn’t had time to get familiar with Warrant’s routine, but from everything he knew about the man, and from what little Ann had told him, Warrant would be alone in his house all night.

  McAlister waited until 1 a.m. to remove the Taurus handgun from the trunk. He’d asked Ethan for a Tazer, but all Ethan had been able to produce quickly was a tranquilizer gun. It worked exactly like a real gun except it used Co2 as a propellant and operated with darts instead of lead. It would pierce skin but not break bone. The actual tranquilizer fluid was manufactured for zoos: “primate strength.”

  It was a perfect midsummer night and the warm, fresh air brightened McAlister’s sour mood and calmed his nerves. He slid both guns into his jeans at the small of his back and began walking toward Warrant’s house. The house was in the middle of the block and the street lamps on the corners cast little light. In an attempt to save valuable utility dollars, most of the seniors on the block had set their front porch light timers to turn off at around 11 p.m.

  Warrant’s house and the two that bordered it were completely dark. McAlister’s plan was to sneak around to the back of the house to Warrant’s bedroom window and shoot him with the tranquilizer gun through the screen. That would give him plenty of time to thoroughly search DJ’s house, garage, and car for the Blue Beryl.

  When he reached the side of the house, he ducked and ran along an evergreen hedge to the back corner. Warrant had an impeccable yard and there were no noisy twigs or leaves to step on.

  At the back corner of the house, the corner McAlister thought was the master bedroom, he paused to listen.

  He waited for ten minutes but heard nothing. It was when he rounded the corner and got close to a windo
w on the back of the house that he heard something.

  He knelt down, breathing lightly, and listened.

  Thrashing sheets, then bed springs creaking, like a heavy person rolling over in bed; then silence.

  Minutes passed, then suddenly he heard a high-pitched squeal. It was abruptly, abnormally truncated.

  After the squeal he thought he heard movement—a silky, quiet wrestling—but he couldn’t be sure.

  McAlister was right-handed and didn’t like his position under the window. On hands and knees he slithered beneath the window so that he came out on its left side, leaving his right hand free to fire the gun directly into the window without having to reach across his body.

  He’d waited for some time and was getting ready to rise when suddenly the light came on in the bedroom, bathing the bushes and the grass directly outside the window in a trapezoid of bright light.

  In a conversational tone, someone said, “I want to see you, my darling.”

  The voice was soft and playful in a way Warrant could never be.

  What McAlister found odd was that “I want to see you” had been said on an inward breath and “My darling,” on out outward, giving the phrase a passionate, sexual feel.

  Whoever was being spoken to did not respond.

  Someone shifted on the bed and seconds later a steady, rhythmic beating began. A skin-light whisking, stroking. After a minute he heard a low moan. At first he’d thought someone was clearing their throat but it had continued. It was deep and raspy and whoever was making it was not happy.

  He pulled the tranquilizer gun out of his pants and slowly inched up so that with one eye he could see the interior of the bedroom.

  He’d planned to look once, quickly, but what he saw was so impossible, such a visually astonishing scene, that he couldn’t look away. He let go of the tranquilizer gun and it fell to the ground, ricocheting loudly against the side of the house.

  In a semi-trance, McAlister moved directly in front of the window so he could have a full view of the macabre scene in the bedroom.