Book of Cures (A Thomas McAlister Adventure 2)
Page 26
Silence.
She was quieter. “My father doesn’t know it. He’ll never believe it. He said he saw you, felt your hand on his neck. He said you had a spike, a fang you called it, and that you told him you were going to bite him with it. What the hell is that, Thomas?”
“Ann, come on, would I act like that? Think. Does that sound like me? You have to get it through his head, it was not me.”
“I can’t. He’s beyond listening to anyone now.”
“Ann, please.”
“He’ll be coming for you, Thomas.”
McAlister turned and scanned the horizon behind the sailboat. Lisa looked too, aware something was wrong. He pointed to the binoculars and she quickly brought them over to him.
Thomas scanned the horizon and then the distant sky, looking for a boat or a helicopter. As he did, he said, “Where is he, Ann?”
“Right now he’s in intensive care. Then he’ll take medical leave. When that ends he’s quitting. He’s quitting so he can come after you.”
“Ann, you’ve got to talk sense into him before he starts. Before he does something stupid.”
“He’ll find you, Thomas. Then we’ll both know where he is, won’t we?”
The wireless signal began to break up.
“Ann, please. If nothing else . . . Ann?”
Lisa looked worried. McAlister had explained DJ’s deep, fanatical hatred of him. Now his worst fear was being realized. The Clone had left the scene of the crime before the police had arrived, and DJ was left thinking it was McAlister who’d tried to murder him.
“Thomas, I can’t. Anyway, I don’t believe you either.”
“Ann, come on!”
“Goodbye, Thomas.”
There was a pause. McAlister didn’t know whether she was still on the line. “Ann?”
She was gone.
McAlister sat down heavily and Lisa asked, “So, he’s coming after us?”
“Not this minute, but yes, eventually. He’s coming.”
“Could he know where we are or where we’re going?”
“I don’t see how.”
McAlister glanced back.
He turned the wheel and immediately saw the wake start to gently bend. “Let’s change our plans.”
“Okay.”
“How would feel about going a little farther south? Maybe down toward Exuma? Same sun. Same company.”
Lisa walked over and sat next to McAlister. “Fewer people, fewer stores. We’ve got plenty of wine, water and beer on board.”
“And we can always fish for food, right?”
Lisa leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, then whispered, “Let’s go.”
McAlister looked back over his shoulder again, took a deep breath, and nudged the throttle forward a notch.
Somewhere back there, DJ was designing a plan to catch him. And what about Sam Mortimar and The Clone? He’d snatched victory from Uri when he’d shot him with the tranquilizer. Then, he’d given Mortimar a taste of his own medicine by selling him an old Tibetan encyclopedia worth a few hundred dollars—for $10 million.
No doubt they would all seek revenge.
McAlister’s thoughts shifted to Nuan Cai. If he ever found out who had broken in and stolen his treasured book, would he retaliate too? McAlister had failed to ask Bertram--no, Elmo--whether or not Cai had any children.
McAlister turned to face Lisa and she kissed him again. She smiled, and McAlister knew she was wondering about DJ and what he would do if he caught up with them.
It was not the right time to explain about The Clone, Mortimar or Cai. There was only so much bad news one person could take. Besides, at that point, running from one of them was the same as running from all of them.
“Don’t worry, he’ll never find us down there.”
“I know.”
A pause, and McAlister said, “How do you know?”
Lisa smiled and said, “Because I know that if you don’t want them to find you, they won’t.”
He nodded, then instinctively glanced backward.
A quarter-sized ball of worry began to spin just inside Thomas’ solar plexus. It would be a constant reminder that from here forward, at virtually any moment, they could be attacked by one of three or four dangerous opponents.
Lisa went forward to trim the sail. McAlister turned the stereo volume higher. “Gimme Shelter” came on and the eerie opening notes spread out over the boat and floated over the surrounding ocean. The lyrics began, “Whoa, the storm is threatening, my very life truly, if I don’t get some shelter, I’m gonna fade away.”
McAlister thought once more about DJ, The Clone, Mortimar and Hai Cai and their combined resources, shuddered, then reached down and gently pushed the throttle forward again.
Epilogue
Detective O’Brian sat in his office, face buried in hands.
His boss had just raked him over the coals, again, for not having recovered the missing virus. He’d been reminded for the millionth time that Manhattan was one of the most densely populated cities in the country and that at any moment the virus could be released, effectively bringing the United States economy to a screeching halt.
Problem was, he had no open leads and nothing left to follow up on. McAlister had disappeared without a trace. For someone as politically motivated as O’Brian, the shame of not apprehending McAlister and finding the virus was a searing, career-stifling situation.
There was a knock at the door and Fergusen entered. “Fed Ex for you.” O’Brian didn’t respond, so Fergusen set it on his desk and backed out.
Five minutes passed before O’Brian raised his head and looked at the box. The words ‘This Side Up’ were written on the side with an arrow that should’ve been pointing up.
He turned the box over and pulled the strip.
He flipped the top of the box open and pulled out newspaper stuffing. It was the Miami Herald, dated two days ago.
There was a container inside with a card sitting on top. When he lifted the card he saw the universal symbol for Hazardous Materials on the top of the box. The box was white but it was covered with a dried black substance that O’Brian knew from experience was dried blood.
This, without a doubt, qualified as a suspicious package. O’Brian considered calling Hazmat. They’d practiced the drill many times, but curiosity got the better of him and he opened the card.
O’Brian,
I didn’t steal the virus, but I recovered it for you.
If you think the recovery was easy, you should know that the blood on the outside of the box is Lisa’s.
The man behind the theft is a pharmaceutical executive named Sam Mortimar. He hired a highly-skilled disguise artist and Russian special forces assassin named Uri Andropov to pose as me and steal the virus.
Hope this helps. Good luck.
Thomas McAlister
O’Brian reread the letter and then gently put it down beside the FedEx box. Then he opened the container. There were three slots cut out of Styrofoam. In each slot was a vial labeled: HN51. There was a skull and crossbones above and below the letters.
O’Brian smiled. Finally something had broken his way. He pushed the speaker phone, speed-dialing Hazmat.
They picked up on the first ring, “New York City Hazmat, Emergency Line.”
O’Brian recognized Charlie’s voice. “Detective O’Brian. Precinct 9. I’m sitting in my office on the 2nd floor looking at the three vials of Bird Flu that were recently stolen from the New York Biomedical Research Center.”
Charlie said, “O’Brian, in five seconds I’m going to sound the alarm for a general evacuation of your building. You are not to move. Sit tight, we’ll be right there. Understand?”
“You got it, bud.”
Seconds later the alarm sounded.
Fergusen dropped by his office on the way out, “Hazmat drill. You coming, boss?”
From the door Fergusen saw the hazardous materials insignia on the open box. “Holy shit, O’Brian, you okay?”
O’Brian leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on his desk considering the implications. He’d be a hero. He’d done it. He’d recovered the virus.
He smiled, laced his hands behind his head and put his feet up on the desk.
McAlister had been telling the truth after all.
Until just now, the thought had never occurred to him.
THE END
Acknowledgements
I’d like to thank Carolyn Patterson for her editing work on the early drafts. I’d also like to acknowledge and thank my Senior Editor and Creative Designer, Robyn Landis, for her tireless work on both the cover and editing—at times substantive editing—of the book. Robyn is the most thorough, meticulous editor I’ve ever worked with, and she made significant improvements to the original draft.