The Proteus Cure

by Wilson, F. Paul

  The tunnels. They’d give her quick, discreet access to the Admin. If Bill wasn’t there, she’d return to pacing the doctors’ lounge. But if he was …

  Maybe she could help.

  •

  The goddamn car wouldn’t restart. Paul had bloody fingers from turning the key so hard and so often. He had exhausted every four-, ten-, and twelve-letter word he knew in every possible combination he could imagine.

  And while the car sat quite literally dead in the water, the clock kept ticking.

  His phone began to ring—again. He checked the ID: Sheila—again. He couldn’t talk to her now, couldn’t risk giving away anything about where he was or where he was going.

  He needed more time. He punched in the Swann number and held his breath until Gilchrist answered.

  A low, affected voice said, “I don’t suppose I have to ask who’s calling.”

  “Gilchrist, I’m stalled out at Pine and Holmwood. The intersection’s flooded. I’ll need more time.”

  “Sorry. We agreed on thirty minutes and you’ve used almost half that.”

  “Give me another thirty minutes. I’ll get there. I’ll swim there if I have to.”

  “Sorry, no. I—”

  Paul squeezed his phone, then eased up. Breaking it would only screw things up worse.

  “Well, then, if that’s the case I’ll skip going to your office and head straight for your home.”

  A pause, then, “You’re bluffing, Rosko.”

  Of course he was. Too many innocent lives had already been lost. But he had to keep up a front.

  “You’re sure of that? You know my record. You know what happens when I’m pushed too far.”

  “All right, Rosko. Another fifteen minutes and that’s it. Because if you can’t get here you can’t get anywhere else.”

  Paul cut the connection.

  Fifteen minutes … what good was that? In fact, what good was an hour, two hours if he couldn’t move past this intersection?

  He hit the switch to lower the window but it didn’t move. Dead. He wiped off the condensation and looked around. None of the other cars he saw within the limited view the deluge allowed were moving. He climbed over the console and wiped the passenger window. This side faced the river where the deeper water made the chances of finding a working car even less. He spotted one vehicle—an empty Hummer. Christ, if a Hummer couldn’t get through, what hope had an Explorer?

  He noticed something white and red bobbing in the water past the Hummer. He wiped again and squinted. Looked like a boat, a dinghy.

  Of course. Baxter’s boat dock was down that way. They rented rowboats and putt-putts to people who wanted to cruise the river. The river than ran right through Tethys.

  The dinghy lay upside down, but still afloat.

  What good was that?

  Then again, what other option did he have?

  Paul pushed open the door. It moved two or three inches before the flowing water caught it and ripped it from his grasp. The car canted as ice-cold muddy water rushed in. He gasped when it ran over his feet and ankles. In a whine of tortured metal the current broke the door’s hinges and bent it back to where it bounced against the front fender. Not a fast flow, but enormous force behind it. Paul didn’t know if he could fight it, but he didn’t see any choice.

  He grabbed his baseball cap, tucked his cell phone under it, and put it on as he slid out of the car into the rain and flood.

  A shudder ran through him as frigid water swirled to mid-thigh level. He forced himself forward, one step at a time. It was like walking through icy Jell-O. The water kept pushing him to his left and it took all his strength to fight it and stay on a perpendicular course from his car. He’d aimed himself at a spot upstream from the boat.

  But the closer he moved to the river, the deeper the water and the stronger the current.

  Still he fought forward. The water had risen to his waist and Paul sensed himself losing ground. He couldn’t feel his legs; his muscles seemed to be turning to rubber. But he was the only hope Coog had, so he gritted his teeth and soldiered on.

  He glanced back and saw that his intended ninety-degree angle from the car had been eroded to forty-five. Losing it. Not going to make it. Just a question of which got him first—the water or hypothermia.

  The water had reached the bottom of his rib cage when he lost his footing and was swept into the current. He knew he’d never regain his feet so he started swimming. He stroked crosscurrent, trying to stay upstream from the boat just a little longer.

  As he neared it he realized he was going to miss it unless he could goose a little more force from his frozen arms and legs. He pushed them like he’d never pushed them before.

  Closer … closer … he lunged and caught the edge of the stern with one hand. The water fought to tear him free but he forced his fingers to keep their grip. He pulled himself to the boat and eased along its side. It was aluminum, maybe ten or twelve feet long.

  He felt something bang against his knees. Another boat. The overturned dinghy was resting atop one of its sunken brothers. Both were still tied to a piling.

  Paul positioned his feet on the drowned boat, grabbed the gunwale of the dinghy, and pushed up with all the force he could muster. The boat resisted until the gunwale broke the surface. The wind caught it, and with its help Paul righted the boat, but not before it took on four or five inches of water.

  He jumped in. The rain was cold but still warmer than the river. He spotted a pair of aluminum oars fastened to the inside of the port hull. He fitted them into the oarlocks, untied the bow, and began to row.

  The water the dinghy had taken on made the boat sluggish but Paul had no way and no time to bail.

  He put his back into the rowing. The activity warmed his body, got the blood flowing, loosening his cramped muscles. Thank God for all those hours with the weights and the heavy bag.

  He checked his watch. He was going to make the time limit—beat it, in fact.

  And that gave him an idea.

  •

  “Hold your head still!” Shen said.

  He had found it difficult to tie the struggling boy into one of the chairs in the monitoring room. The child had winced every time Shen had touched his chest. Had he injured his ribs? No matter. He now was fighting Shen about taping his mouth.

  “Help!” the boy screamed. “Help!”

  “Hush. There is no one to hear you.”

  “Hel—!”

  Shen slapped the duct tape over his mouth, then wrapped a second, longer piece around his head as an added precaution.

  That done, he opened the door and checked up and down the tunnel. No one to hear him now, but who could tell the future? Someone might step into one of the tunnels and hear his cries.

  Something glistened on the floor beyond the elevator.

  Water.

  Shen closed the door and tried not to listen to the frightened sounds the boy made through the gag, tried not to see Fai in the boy’s frightened eyes. He grabbed the phone and tapped in Dr. Gilchrist’s extension.

  “What is it?” He sounded angry.

  “Water, sir. A hole in the ceiling of one of the unused tunnels. Water is pouring in. I fear the ceiling may fall through and the tunnels will flood.”

  “What are you doing in the unused shafts? I told you to watch that boy.”

  “I am, sir. He is here beside me. But the tunnels—”

  “They’ll be fine.”

  “I am not sure. Back in China—”

  “I don’t have time for this, Shen. I gave you a job to do, now do it. Just stay down there with the kid. I’ll call you later.”

  Dr. Gilchrist hung up. What disrespect. Now that Shen was not his killing machine, he treated him like a dog.

  Shen had seen this before in leaders. Too much pressure and even the best men cracked. Forgot who the real enemy was. The boy was innocent. Perhaps his father too.

  But Coogan was safe with Shen for now. He would not hurt him but releasin
g him might cause him more danger. Dr. Gilchrist might kill the boy himself if he found him.

  As for the water, maybe the tunnel ceiling would hold until the river receded. Shen hoped so.

  He turned to the boy. His gut tightened as he saw him flinch.

  “You shall not be harmed. Do you believe me?”

  The boy shook his head and looked away.

  “On my honor …”

  Shen paused, weighing what he was about to say, knowing that once the words passed his lips, he could not take them back, even if Jiù-zhù-zhe ordered him.

  “On my word and on the life of my son, I will not hurt you.”

  The boy looked at him with changed eyes.

  “Do you believe me now?”

  He nodded. And seemed to relax.

  “But this is the safest place for you now.”

  Shen patted his shoulder and turned away.

  •

  Abra sat among her terraria and thought about the events of the past two weeks.

  Three people had posed a threat to Proteus. All three were dead. Kelly Slade, an accident; Tanesha Green, a cardiac arrest; Gerald Kaplan, bludgeoned. No pattern there, but all so … convenient.

  Too convenient. It had started a nagging suspicion. She’d managed to keep it at bay so far, but her conversations with Billy the last few days had set off an alarm.

  Something about his attitude, his distraction … those terrible suspicions persisted.

  Could her Billy have anything to do with this?

  She bowed her head. Her Billy. How well did she really know him? Obsessed with the Proteus Cure, as he called it. But only during the last decade had the dream became an attainable goal.

  After Billy’s departure yesterday she’d contacted the funeral home and obtained the name and phone number of Gerald Kaplan’s sister, Robin Dillon, his only known kin. Abra had called her. The ensuing conversation confirmed what Billy had said.

  Kaplan had never forgiven Innovation Ventures.

  From their talk, Abra realized that Robin had cared very much about her younger brother, doted on him and worried about him. Abra knew how that was.

  “The company that funded him dumped him like yesterday’s garbage. And just recently he learned they bought his research and started using it under another name,” she had said.

  Abra had felt her stomach flop. Kaplan had known about the KB26-VG723 link. Who else had he told?

  “That’s terrible, Ms. Dillon,” Abra had said. “When did he learn this?”

  “A few days ago.”

  “The poor man. He must have been furious. Did he contact the company and ask for compensation?”

  “He wasn’t looking for a payout. Nothing like that. It wasn’t the money. He said it was the principle. During his last call he said he was going to tell someone everything—whatever everything was—and he was leaving with a clear conscience. Going somewhere warm. He’d only called to say goodbye. And later that night he was murdered.”

  The woman’s sobs had torn at Abra’s heart.

  But now, in the cold light of day, she wondered to whom Kaplan had told “everything?” Certainly not Bill. Bill already knew.

  Someone else.

  Sheila? Paul Rosko? In danger now, if not dead. Tears fell. Would Abra be reading about another unusual death in the paper tomorrow? Or another “car accident” perhaps? Would Billy be cavalier about that one too?

  Abra’s heart sank.

  Billy. She couldn’t see him actually killing anyone, but she could envision him paying to keep the blood off his hands. And better still if that murder could be pinned on Paul Rosko, the only other person, save Sheila, who posed a threat.

  Billy, Billy, Billy, what have you done?

  Abra banged her hands on her chair. Stupid blind fool! Why didn’t you stop this? Your fault! You refused to see what went on under your own eyes!

  She had to talk to her little brother. Now! Confront him. Make him stop.

  She called his house. Elise said he was at work.

  “Where else would he be during a flood?” she asked, her voice spiked with sarcasm.

  Abra tried his office phone several times. No answer. She tried his cell phone. No answer. No reason to leave a message. He’d see her missed calls.

  A sick feeling enveloped her, prickling her skin.

  Kill for Proteus … she found it unfathomable, unconscionable, unspeakable. To end lives in order to protect the secrets of something designed to save lives. Sacrilege. Or sacrifice.

  So much like Mama, her Billy. Too much, perhaps.

  She dialed Henry’s number. Felt bad about bringing him out in this weather, but she needed him to drive her to the campus. If Billy wasn’t in Admin, he’d be at the hospital.

  But Henry couldn’t come.

  “The street outside my house looks like a river, ma’am. No one will be doing any driving around my way any time soon. I’m awfully sorry.”

  So was Abra. She turned to the window and stared at the Admin Building. Her house sat on the perimeter of the campus. Between it and Admin lay a field of muck. A New England bayou.

  She’d chosen this particular site because of its proximity to the buildings. She’d had one of the tunnels extended so that it terminated in her basement.

  Well, as much as she disliked the tunnels, she had no choice. She’d take her elevator—she’d made that a must when she’d designed her house—down from her main floor to the basement and unlock the door to the tunnel. When she reached Admin she’d take another elevator up.

  Simple.

  She pushed the toggle that wheeled her into the elevator. As the doors pincered closed she heard her phone begin to ring. Bill, no doubt, returning her calls. Well, she’d be seeing him soon enough.

  •

  The amount of water in the tunnels alarmed Sheila. It seeped into her shoes as she splashed through it. Where was it all coming from?

  A sound made her stop as she heard a sound. A voice? Calling?

  She waited but didn’t hear it again. She resumed her hurried pace toward Admin.

  Creepy down here. So deserted.

  But that didn’t bother her nearly as much as figuring out what she’d do when she got to Bill’s office. What if she found Coog tied up on the floor with Bill standing over him?

  She slowed her pace. This wasn’t smart. She hadn’t thought this thing through. Going to him alone didn’t make sense. She needed an ally …

  And who better than his own sister?

  Sheila pulled out her cell phone and dialed Abra’s number.

  Abra had to know about Proteus. Sheila could see how someone with a genetic defect like hers would be interested in gene therapy. That meant she’d been lying to the patients as well, changing their genomes without their knowledge or consent.

  Sheila couldn’t imagine Abra involved in something so heinous. But then, she’d once considered Bill above all that he’d been doing.

  But Abra wouldn’t kill to protect Proteus.

  And if she knew Bill had gone this far, she’d step in to help.

  The phone rang four times before Abra’s voicemail picked up. Sheila tried again with the same result. Where was she? She had to be home. She couldn’t go out on a day like this.

  And then an awful thought struck like a blow.

  What if Bill had killed Abra too?

  She hurried on to Bill’s office.

  •

  Bill slammed the phone onto its cradle. Shen defying him, now leaks in the tunnels … he didn’t need this. With everything else going on, the last thing he needed now was a nervous Nellie.

  He gnashed his teeth. Face it: If Shen was complaining about a leak, it was probably serious.

  But he had to wait for Rosko. The tunnels would hold. They’d been here a long time. They’d be fine. Shen was overreacting.

  He sat again and positioned himself at his desk with his pistol ready. He fingered the cold metal as he reviewed his plan.

  First and foremost, he’d
shoot Rosko as he stepped through the door. No preamble, no last minute explanations, no time to plead or ask about his son. Boom. Dead. No more interfering with Tethys or with Sheila.

  I hope you enjoyed her while you could, Rosko.

  Bill felt a glitter of glee and relief as he thought of that man’s brains sprayed across his wall.

  Once Rosko was dead Bill would throw some stuff around and tip over a chair or two to make it look as if there had been a struggle. He’d tell the cops that Rosko came in screaming about stem-cell therapy being “unholy” and how he’d kill him just like he’d killed Kaplan. The violence in Rosko’s history and the “unholy” bit would provide a motive for his killing Kaplan.

  Not bad, he thought. In fact, a beautiful plan. A perfect example of grace under pressure.

  Tragically, he’d tell them, Rosko also killed his son because he had received the “unholy” therapy.

  He jumped as the fax rang again. He picked up the receiver.

  “What now, Rosko?”

  “I’m going to be late.”

  “How sad.”

  “Listen, I just found a boat and I can row over there but it’s going to take a half hour.”

  “I’ll add another fifteen minutes—no more.”

  And then Rosko was gone.

  He’d count the seconds until he could blow this guy’s brains out.

  Bill glanced at his watch. He had time to check on Shen and the alleged tunnel problem. He’d have Shen do the kid now. No more waiting. And if that yellow bastard said, I must hear it from Jiù-zhù-zhe, even once, he’d blow a hole in him and do the kid himself.

  “Where is he, Bill? Where’s Coogan”

  He recognized the voice immediately but still felt an explosion of shock when he looked up and saw who stood in his doorway.

  “Sheila!”

  He barely recognized her. Her softness had been replaced by a steely gaze and a hard-set jaw. Her eyes flashed.

  Thank God he’d had Shen remove the boy. If she’d found him unconscious on the couch …

  The eyes that had looked at him with such respect and admiration now held nothing but contempt. Disgust. He had to face it: Sheila was lost to Abra and him. She knew too much. The plan to bring her into their circle had become an impossible dream. She had to go.