The Devil's Elixir ts-3
Page 27
Thirty-four million hits and change.
She frowned, went back to the original spelling, and typed in “Brooks,” “plant,” “flower,” “heart,” “medicine,” “treatment,” and “death,” then deleted a couple of names that had cropped up in her first search to avoid useless hits.
She was down to a slightly less daunting three hundred thousand hits, so she waded in.
An hour later, she came across something.
It was a news item on the WebMD website about a promising new heart treatment a pharmaceutical company had been trumpeting that had just had its testing suspended. The drug, which was based on an extract from a rare flower, had initially shown a lot of promise. Although the sap of the plant itself was poisonous, more than twenty useful alkaloids had been identified from it, and early testing had shown the drug they had synthesized from them to be a powerful cholesterol inhibitor. The company’s stock price had soared based on those early tests. Two years into the testing phase, however, everything had gone wrong. Several patients had developed cardiac complications that were traced back to the use of the drug, and the test phase was shut down.
Tess Googled the plant the article mentioned.
It was a small, unremarkable white flower. Then something else snared Tess’s attention. The plant’s natural habitat.
It was indigenous to the Amazonian rainforest.
Her skin tingled with unease, as if tiny, invisible ants were crawling all over her.
She wondered how Alex knew about this. Sure, he could have seen it on a news broadcast. But to understand what it did, at age four? And register the name of Brooks? And then, there was the way he said it. In the first person. I told them about it. They didn’t like it.
The ants were getting more agitated.
She chewed it over, her mind bouncing from one thought to another without managing to line them up into a coherent whole. After a while, she grew frustrated and decided to go inside and have another go at seeing if Alex would elucidate things for her, and her eyes caught sight of the note she’d written down when Reilly had called. She found herself pausing to stare at the name that was on it with a sense of intrigue that wasn’t there before.
Dean Stephenson.
Why did she know that name?
It was there, she was sure of it, tucked away in the attic of arcane tidbits her mind was prone to hoard, taunting her—but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.
She decided to cheat and typed his name into the search box—and in the 0.15 seconds it took for the results to flash up, it came back to her.
There were more than four hundred thousands hits. She skipped the Wikipedia entry about the professor and went straight to the third result, his own webpage. It redirected to the University of California at Berkeley’s Department of Psychiatry and Neurobehavioral Sciences, and specifically, to a specialty subsection called the Division of Perceptual Studies.
She felt her insides shrivel up with dread as the unthinkable started to fall into place, and within seconds, she was gone, losing all sense of place and time as she read page after page, immersing herself in Stephenson’s work and the endless stream of information rushing at her while tying it back to what had been happening the last few days.
And then an impossible thought struck her.
Impossible, and yet . . . she couldn’t ignore it.
She went back to the news item about the heart treatment, noted the name of the plant it had been derived from, and ran a new search around the suspended cure. This time, she added the name Wade McKinnon to the mix.
Her finger was trembling as she tapped the screen to initiate the search.
The result drove a spear through her senses that pinned her in place, and she understood.
55
We arrived back at Aero Drive feeling shell-shocked and with morale sinking fast. The body count had risen still further, a viable lead had been wiped out before we could make any use of it, and Navarro had yet again proven himself to be both lethally effective and spectacularly audacious, with seemingly no sense of a line that he would not—or could not—cross.
I followed Villaverde into the large meeting room that had become the de facto operations center since Michelle’s death three days earlier. A couple of junior agents were co-coordinating with local law enforcement, trying to see whether Navarro had left behind any kind of trail before the siege started. One was reviewing traffic camera footage; another fast-forwarding through video from the two security cameras that surveilled the main parking lot at the mall. As Villaverde sat down, he looked from one to the other. They shook their heads in turn. Nothing yet.
After a moment, Munro joined us. He didn’t look any happier than Villaverde. In fact, if anything, he appeared to be even more frustrated than I felt myself. Villaverde hit the Intercom button and asked for sandwiches and coffee for everyone, then leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He was clearly gathering his thoughts, but there didn’t seem to be too many of them to gather.
“The guy’s a fucking ghost,” he grumbled. “We’ve got nada, and the way things have gone over the past seventy-two hours, I don’t expect that’s going to change much.” He turned to Munro. “Anything from your side?”
Munro shook his head. “No hits. We’ve talked to everyone from Border Patrol to informants on the street. Corliss is in direct contact with the PFM,” meaning the Mexican federal investigators. “He’s called in every favor he’s owed on both sides of the fence and come up empty-handed.”
There was only one hand left to play now. We needed to give the bastard exactly what he wanted. Or at least to make it look like I was within his reach for as long as it took to tighten a strategically placed net around him.
“I don’t think we have any choice,” I offered. “We need to flush Navarro out into the open. Or at least his soldiers. We know he thinks I have the information he wants. Let him come and get it.”
“If it’s him we’re dealing with,” Villaverde put in. “We still have no solid evidence that it is.”
“It doesn’t matter who it is for this to work. We just need to agree how to stage it so that he feels confident enough to make a play for me and I have some cover.”
Villaverde’s grim expression betrayed his lack of enthusiasm for my willingness to be the bait. He was clearly frustrated as hell—and unhappy at not being able to disagree with me on this.
“Anyone have any other ideas?” I let the question hang there for a long second. “Okay. So let’s talk about how we hook him.”
Munro—always the brutal pragmatist—jumped in immediately. “News conference. That woman from the sherriff’s department can lead. Lupo. Fugate’s widow. A psychiatrist, one from the army if we can get one. You can’t sit on the panel, but they’ve got to know you’d be there for something like that. Hold it somewhere with at least three ways in and out. Ramp up the police presence at two of the three, but leave the third light to the naked eye. Then you pop out to take a call or something, he makes his move, and we spring the trap.”
Villaverde shook his head, his face wearing a look of total disbelief. I could see that his fuse had just burned all the way down to the explosive. “After what just happened? You want to put that many people in his line of sight? No way.”
It was the first time since I’d met him that he’d looked anything other than totally calm.
The door opened, but instead of coffee, the junior agent who entered was carrying a thin brown file folder, which he held out to Villaverde.
“Tox report on Eli Walker.” He handed it over, adding, “There’s a rush on the same for Ricky Torres. The sheriff’s office has already called the mayor. We should have it by the end of the day.”
As he left, Villaverde opened the folder and scanned the single sheet inside. Then he glanced pointedly at me and handed it to me.
Walker had an organic paralyzing agent in his blood. A combination of spider and lizard venom, specifically the brown widow, Latrodectus geometricus, a
nd the Mexican beaded lizard, or Heloderma horridum of the family Helodermatidae. Plus a third neurotoxin that the lab couldn’t identify.
I chucked the file to Munro. “Now tell me it’s not El Brujo we’re dealing with.”
Munro went over the sheet and, for once, kept his mouth firmly shut.
Closely on the report’s heels, our refreshments arrived and the three of us used the well-rehearsed rituals of shaking sugar into coffee and rewrapping an overfilled ciabatta without dripping fat onto our clothes to take a step away from the case and be in our own heads for a second. I was used to these moments being almost exclusively filled with thoughts of Tess, but the person who catapulted to the front of my mind this time was Alex.
He didn’t deserve any of this.
I finished a mouthful. “I’ll go on the morning news tomorrow. Alone. They can talk it up, make a lot of noise about how they’re going to have an exclusive with the FBI agent dealing with this investigation—whatever it takes to make sure Navarro has a chance to hear about it. I’ll drive there on my own and leave on my own. Full police presence in the studio, but none outside. None that they can see, anyway. We run multiple tails. I’ll be safe till he thinks I’ve told him everything I know and I’ll be sure to keep my mouth shut before we arrive wherever it is we’re going.”
Villaverde sipped his coffee and again shook his head, but this time it was clearly in resignation.
We were all out of alternatives, and if nailing the sick bastard meant that I was walking directly into harm’s way—tribal pharmacy and organ removal included—so be it. It was still, in real terms, nothing that hadn’t already been aimed at Michelle, or Tess, or Alex, or countless others since this goddamn mess had blown up.
I was ready to do it.
After all, you could only die once, right?
56
Tess wasn’t sure what to do.
She felt hyperalert, and her pulse was raging wildly. It was like an awakening, like her mind was suddenly unchained and set free to roam through uncharted territory. She’d spent a couple of hours roaming through Stephenson’s website, and by the end of it, questions were accosting her from all sides while competing insights jostled for supremacy inside her, all of them demanding she push them through to their rightful conclusion.
She didn’t know where to start. The one question that was foremost on her mind was the one she was too scared to ask—and yet, she knew she had to do it. She wasn’t sure she could. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.
He was only four years old.
As if to pry her out of her torment, her phone rang. She stared at it absentmindedly, then recognized the area code.
510.
Berkeley.
She leapt at the call.
It was Dean Stephenson’s assistant, Marya.
“I just got your message,” she told Tess. “I’m so sorry to hear about Miss Martinez. That’s just . . . awful. What happened?”
Tess simply told her that Michelle had been killed by an armed intruder at her house, and that Alex was now in the care of his biological father. She then explained who she was.
“I’ve been talking to Alex’s teachers,” she added, “and they told me that he’s been going through a tough time. I was hoping I could talk to Professor Stephenson about it.”
“Given what’s happened, I’m sure Dean would absolutely want to help you with Alex,” Marya replied. “The thing is, he’s away.”
“Oh?”
“I’m afraid so.” The woman sounded uncertain.
Tess paused, unsure about why she was perplexed by her tone. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”
Marya’s tone was still hesitant. “I’m not sure.”
Tess’s antennae spiked up. “Well . . . can I call him? Do you know where I can reach him?”
“No, I’m sorry. He . . . he didn’t tell me where he was going, and his cell’s just going to voicemail.”
Tess was picking up all kinds of alarming signals. “How long has he been away?”
“About ten days, I guess. Since the beginning of last week.”
“And he didn’t tell you where he was going?”
“No. He just left me a message saying he had to go check out a new case and would be away for a while.”
Which sounded odd. “Does he do that a lot?”
“Well, no, not really. He usually sends one of his researchers first. And it’s not like him to be rash like that. He’s got a full calendar and I’ve had to field some tough calls and reschedule everyone.”
“Isn’t there anyone you can ask about him? Does he have a wife, someone he lives with?”
“He’s divorced,” she said. “And he’s not living with anyone.”
Tess’s mind was on fire. More insights were crashing in, more associations linking up.
She swallowed and asked Marya, “Tell me something. Does Professor Stephenson wear contact lenses?”
“Yes, he does.” Marya sounded perplexed. “Why do you ask?”
Tess felt the pressure push up to her temples. She didn’t know what to say. She needed to end the call. “Let me get back to you. I need to check a few things out. Thanks, you’ve been a huge help. And please let me know if you hear from him in the meantime.”
She ended the call and took in a deep breath.
She couldn’t avoid it anymore. It was kicking and screaming at her.
She steeled herself and went into the house.
She retrieved the drawing from her bedroom and found Jules in the kitchen, preparing Alex a peanut butter sandwich and a glass of milk.
“Is he in his room?” she asked.
Jules nodded. “Yeah, I was about to call him to give him these.”
“Give me a second with him, will you?”
Jules gave her a confused look, then just nodded. “Sure.”
Alex was on the floor of his bedroom, playing with his figurines. He glanced at Tess as she came in, but didn’t say anything.
“Hey, what’s Ben up to today?”
Alex shrugged. “He’s helping his grandpa Max save Gwen.”
“Sounds like he’s got his hands full.”
She sat down on the floor, next to him. “Alex, I need to talk to you about something.”
He didn’t look over.
“I’ve asked you about this before, but I really need to ask you again and I need you to answer me, Alex. It’s really, really important.” She hesitated, then added, “I talked to your mom’s friend, Dean. He said it’s okay. He said you can talk to me about it.”
Her heart was kicking against her chest, her veins throbbing with tension as she pulled out the drawing and set it on the floor in front of Alex.
“I need to know, Alex.” She pointed at the other figure in the drawing, the one that seemed to be threatening Alex. The one that now looked like it was holding a gun at him.
She tapped it with her finger.
“I need to know who this is, Alex. I need you to tell me who this is.”
He just stared at it, without moving—almost without breathing.
“Alex, please,” she insisted, gently. “I need to know. It’s just between you and me. There’s nothing to be scared of. Nothing at all. I’m your friend, Alex. You have to trust me on this.”
His mouth slid open a touch, and he glanced at her sideways, his expression mired with hesitation.
She met his gaze and gave him a warm, comforting smile. “Tell me, Alex. I’m here to help you.”
Alex’s eyes were wide with fear. “But he’s your friend,” he mumbled.
The words tore through her.
She knew the answer, but she needed to hear him say it. She felt breathless, felt she could barely utter the words, but she steeled herself and asked, “Who, Alex? Who’s my friend?”
He twisted his lips and curled in on himself, like it was the last thing on earth he wanted to say, then he said, “Reilly.”
He looked up at her, fear and confusion playing across his face.
She nodded, her entire body numb to the world, like she was in a trance.
“Tell me what you remember, Alex. Tell me everything.”
And he told her.
Everything.
When he was done, she edged closer and took him in her arms and hugged him. She kept him there, close, hugging him tight against her, caressing his hair gently, feeling his little heart beating against her chest.
After a long moment, she gave him a kiss, got up, and headed out of his room. She walked into the living room, slowly, feeling like she’d fallen through a crack in a frozen lake and was floating around aimlessly in the icy darkness.
She found her phone and dialed Reilly’s number.
“Sean,” she told him, “I need you to come over. Like, as soon as you can. We need to talk.”
He said he’d be back as soon as he could.
She put the phone down and stared out into the fading light and wondered how she could have been so wrong about everything she thought she knew about her world.
57
As he drove home with the sun setting up ahead in lush pink and purple brushstrokes, Villaverde resolved to rise before dawn the following day and drive up to Black’s Beach to hit the surf.
In the time before he was made Special Agent in Charge, he would go there at least three times a week. He would drive the six miles up to UCSD, park in an almost-deserted lot as the sun just started to glimmer over the mountains to the east, then take the steep path down the cliff to the best waves in the county. He would spend two hours riding the sometimes ten-foot breakers back to shore, stop on La Jolla Village Drive for breakfast, then head back south and still be behind his desk by eight thirty.
Since taking over responsibility for the San Diego field office, he was lucky if he got to surf once a week off Pacific Beach, which, although it had the benefit of being a mere eight blocks from his house, had erratic waves that never got over a couple of feet high. He still couldn’t get his head around how anyone in the Bureau managed to have a family on top of the job and still have any kind of time to themselves. When he’d separated from Gillian three years earlier—she’d moved to Chicago with her firm while he’d chosen to stay in San Diego—he’d agonized for weeks over whether he’d thrown away his one serious chance at having kids, but as the days turned to weeks, he realized that he was actually much happier on his own.