Crime Zero (aka the Crime Code) (1999)

by Cordy, Michael

  "But what about Axelman, Alice? It could look like you tried to kill him in revenge for Libby."

  Madeline stepped in before Alice could reply. "Alice didn't know Axelman was responsible until after he had been executed. That was entirely coincidental. And before you ask, Pamela," she added, "yes, we did cover their deaths up. There was nothing we could do about them. They were on death row anyway, and any scandal would only have jeopardized the success of Conscience and your election. Right or wrong, whatever we did we did for you because we wanted to protect you. The country needs you as President, and it needs Project Conscience. Nothing we did was intended to betray you. We are your most loyal friends. We would never intentionally hurt you. You have to believe that."

  Pamela stared at them, thinking through what they were saying. She looked so tired and beleaguered Alice could tell she wanted to believe them in order to focus on other more important issues. "What if the journalist can prove Axel-man's DNA was changed?"

  "It doesn't matter," said Madeline emphatically. "His scare story about intentionally killing criminals doesn't stack up. There have been sixteen thousand men treated over the last eight or so years, and all are fine. Plus Axelman's body has been cremated along with the other five in San Quentin. So no further proof can be found as to why their DNA changed. More to the point, Axelman was a killer. He had no family, nor did the others. Even if the journalist could get all the proof in the world, no one would care. This Kathy Kerr has obviously done some digging and is using whatever she found to cause trouble. But she has no real proof of anything."

  Pamela rubbed her temples. "But what about the FDA-approved serum? Kerr claims it was developed only four years ago, long after you started unauthorized trials on criminals. Are the serums different?"

  Alice shrugged. "Again, strictly speaking, yes. There are minute differences, but nothing important. Certainly nothing to trouble the FDA."

  Pamela sat down and held her head in her hands. "Then why the hell didn't you gain FDA approval for the one we did test?"

  "Because we improved it. There were some minor concerns with the original serum, involving possible side ef

  fects."

  "Such as?"

  Alice paused, and Pamela leaned forward, waiting. "There was a low-level risk of causing testicular and prostate cancer," said Alice.

  "Cancer?" Pamela almost shouted the word. "The treatment we tested, the treatment that won me the election gives men cancer?"

  "No, it doesn't. There is merely a very low risk that it might, so low it's hardly statistically significant. But we thought it best to iron out even this risk. So we developed an improved serum, which we tested on healthy human volunteers to gain FDA approval. That vector is Version Nine. Naturally all subsequent treatments will use this new vector."

  Pamela struggled to remain calm. "So you lied to the FDA? And you lied to me?"

  Madeline Naylor shook her head. "Pamela, you're missing the point. We have tested over sixteen thousand men, and all have benefited. Some risks needed to be taken; otherwise the whole project would have collapsed. Perhaps we should have been more open with you, but I decided against it because if we told you, it would compromise your position."

  "Well, I'm compromised now."

  "No, you're not. If the journalist had anything concrete, he would have used it. Kathy Kerr is simply stirring things up for reasons of her own. She is a bitter woman with a family history of mental instability. She has no real proof, and frankly, even if she did, it wouldn't matter now. The public and the media have bought into your vision of a crime-free future. They want it to work. Pedantic quibbling about the finer points of how one genetic vaccine differs from another won't change anything. The fact is, in the future all criminals will be treated by a Food and Drug Administration-approved vaccine that works. That's all anyone cares about. The journalist doesn't have a story. Trust me on this."

  Pamela looked down at the sheet of paper, clearly wrestling with the issues. Alice could see she was weakening. "Still, what we did was wrong."

  Madeline set her jaw. "You did nothing wrong. We did. But if you want to come clean and resign, go ahead. Throw away the chance of the millennium to cure one of the main scourges of society. I'll resign too, if you like, but it would be pointless. Yes, we did a few small wrongs, but we achieved a far greater good."

  "What about Kathy Kerr's claim that you authorized her abduction and held her in an FBI mental facility to keep her quiet?"

  Madeline snorted and clapped her hands together. "Well, that just proves she's making trouble. A mental asylum sounds like the perfect place for her, but I didn't put her in one. Pamela, frankly you have more important things to worry about than some deranged scientist with a grudge and a journalist trying to win a Pulitzer. Ignore them. I'm sorry if we hurt you by not telling you everything, but this is exactly why we didn't. Let us handle these minor annoyances, while you prevent Iraq from starting World War Three."

  Before Pamela had time to answer, a cell phone on the table rang. Alice picked it up and listened. "Yes, Special Agent Toshack, the President is here. Yes, she will be with you in five minutes. Thank you." She smiled and put the phone down. "Well, Madam President, your Secret Service detail is waiting to escort you to the Pentagon."

  Pamela stood then, and Alice rose from her seat to embrace her. "Please, Pam," said Alice, "always remember that we are your friends. If you can rely on no one else, you can rely on us."

  "The way I see it, Pam," said Madeline Naylor, moving to hug her tightly in sinewy arms, "is that you have embarked on a great journey and it is our job to keep you from falling. I for one will do anything to stop that from happening. Anything."

  Pamela studied them both for a moment, then gave a small nod and a smile. She seemed satisfied, even touched.

  "Just tell me one thing before I go. What are you going to do about Kathy Kerr? She sounds like a real loose cannon."

  Madeline laughed at that. "Don't worry about it, Pamela. She isn't your problem. She's ours. We'll talk to her."

  Alice watched Pamela leave, escorted by two Secret Service agents. It appeared that their performance had allayed Pamela's fears, but Kathy Kerr was still most definitely a problem.

  After the President had left, Alice silently reviewed the meeting. Madeline seemed to be doing the same. Alice checked her watch. She had arranged for the company jet to fly her back to San Francisco in an hour's time.

  "Do you think she believes us?" Alice asked, preparing to leave.

  Madeline nodded. "Yes, because she has no proof. And because she wants to."

  "But what do we do about Kathy?"

  Madeline smiled and lay back in her chair, putting her hands behind her head like a man. Her dark eyes glowed, and she looked surprisingly confident. "Well, Hank Butcher told me that Dr. Peters let her escape. And Jackson called me just before Pamela arrived to say that Dr. Peters has now been punished--permanently. Jackson's hot on Kathy's trail. He's pretty sure he knows where to find her. He knows who helped her get out."

  "Who?"

  Madeline paused and raised her left eyebrow. "Luke Decker."

  Alice felt something hard and cold contract in her stomach. The last time Alice had seen Decker was when he led her out of that macabre gallery of death his father had consigned her daughter to. "So that's how Kathy found out about Axelman?"

  "Yes, it seems they knew each other from way back. Anyway, it doesn't matter now. Jackson's people are specialists in this area."

  Leading her out of the office, Madeline said, "By the way, did you read TITANIA's latest E-mail? Everything's in place. Now that we've got rid of Burbank we just have to sit and wait. As for Kathy Kerr and Luke Decker, they won't be standing much longer. Much bigger dominoes than they have fallen already."

  In the black limousine driving her to the Pentagon, President Weiss reached into her coat and retrieved Hank Butcher's list of questions and the computer disc he had given her. She handed the disc to Toshack, the head of her Sec
ret Service detail. He was a broad-shouldered man of medium height. He had sandy hair and a dimple in his chin, which made him look as if he were always just about to smile. But he rarely did.

  "I need you to get this disc to Major General Allardyce at USAMRIID. Tell him I want a full analysis done. I also need you to check out someone called Dr. Kathy Kerr. Don't involve any other agencies. How soon can you get me some answers?"

  "How soon do you want them?"

  "Yesterday."

  "That shouldn't be a problem, Madam President."

  Chapter 26.

  Mendoza Drive, Palo Alto. Thursday, November 6, 7:48 P.M.

  As he pushed Kathy Kerr closer to the trunk of the tree, Luke Decker's guts churned with frustration. He was trapped. Checking the magazine of his SIG pistol, he wondered if he could reach around the tree and shoot out the light. He doubted it. To judge from the intensity of the dazzle, it was an FBI-issue handheld Maglite. Fitted with a two-thousand-watt bulb and a two-inch-diameter reflector, it could send out an adjustable beam so searing it bleached night, blinding the naked eye to anything, including the source. It was the flashlight equivalent of a power water hose.

  "I suggest you come out from behind that tree," said the voice with the light. "If we have to come and get you, we can't guarantee your safety."

  "Yeah, right," grunted Decker. "Like our safety is their big concern." He looked to his left and, shielding his eyes, could just make out Rocky's pen but not much else. All he knew with absolute certainty was that the voice wasn't Jack-son's. Since Jackson would almost certainly have done all the talking, he probably wasn't here. But there would still be at least two of his cronies here. And that was enough. One only had to hold the light while the other circled.

  "Kathy," he said as calmly as he could, "keep your eyes peeled behind us--for anyone coming around to cut us off. Use the beam's light to see any shadow or movement."

  To her credit, although Kathy's eyes were wide with fear, she was calm. "What are you going to do?" she asked.

  "No fucking idea, but whatever it is, I'd better do it quick." Taking a deep breath, he considered his options. But there was only one: to roll around the right of the tree and fire at the voice. He probably wouldn't hit anything, but at least it should make the man move the damn flashlight, and then Kathy could make a run for it. He guessed they would hesitate before shooting Kathy here. Even the director of the FBI would find it difficult to explain shooting Kathy Kerr in her own yard without a good reason. He, on the other hand, was going to shoot at whomever he damn well could. "Kathy," he said, not looking at her, "when I start firing, run to the left and get the hell out of here."

  "But what about you?"

  "For chrissakes, just this once, don't argue with me."

  He heard her start to protest, then sigh. "OK."

  Tensing his muscles, he gripped the gun in both hands and was just about to roll around the tree and let off as many of the seventeen slugs in the SIG's magazine as possible when he heard a fierce roar and a bloodcurdling scream.

  The intense light suddenly faltered, and Luke heard the spitting thud of a silenced gun being fired. The flashlight beam now began to flail about madly, describing arcs of light in the night sky like some frenetic laser show. In the stroboscopic chaos Decker could just make out a man wrestling with a ferocious beast. A second man was sprinting toward them, training his gun on the two figures dancing their frenzied jig. The man with the gun was obviously scared of hitting his screaming partner. Not waiting another second, Decker grabbed Kathy by the arm and dragged her to her feet.

  "Come on," he shouted. "Let's go."

  "What about the evidence?"

  Decker yanked her arm, pulling her behind him. "Forget it. Run."

  "But we can't leave Rocky!"

  Just then the screaming stopped, and the flashlight flew through the air and landed on the ground in front of them. Its beam pointed away, and in his rush Decker almost missed the fact that the flashlight was still held in a human hand attached to a severed arm. He jumped over it and grimaced. "I wouldn't worry about Rocky," he said, pulling Kathy past the debris, hoping she hadn't seen it. "I think he can look after himself."

  But Decker knew he was mistaken when he heard the hiss of two silenced shots. Rocky groaned once and then fell silent. The sound of his body falling to the ground was unmistakable. "Come on," Decker shouted, dragging Kathy through the French windows into the house.

  Outside the front of the house they passed the Chrysler of Jackson's men. After firing four silenced bullets into the two front tires, Decker ran to the rental, clambered in, and waited for Kathy to climb into the passenger seat. Calmly he placed the key in the ignition and gunned the motor. As Decker turned his car around and accelerated down Mendoza Drive, he glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a figure emerge from the house and raise his arms into the firing position. Suddenly Decker felt a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. But it wasn't the shots that worried him. It was the fact that the attacker would have seen his car and now could easily trace the rental to him.

  What if his involvement had already been discovered? The fact that he would be in danger didn't bother him. The novelty of that had long worn off. But he wasn't worried about himself.

  This was getting out of hand. Way out of hand.

  He turned to Kathy beside him. She looked pale. "We've got to hurry," he said, and pressed his foot down on the gas.

  Kathy Kerr swallowed the bile in her mouth as they sped on Route 101 toward the lights of downtown San Francisco. The evidence they needed, their only hope of proving the allegations, was back at her house.

  She didn't notice another gray Chrysler speeding past in the opposite direction. Every car she did see seemed to contain smiling people, living normal, unworried lives, oblivious of how hers had changed.

  As they passed the sign to the airport, she turned to Decker, but he kept his face straight ahead. He drove as fast as he could, but it seemed he wasn't fleeing from their pursuers so much as rushing to somewhere. Decker slapped his hand on the steering wheel. "Shit, shit, shit. How could I be so goddamned stupid?"

  "What?"

  "If they find out about me, they'll use Matty to get to us. We've got to get him somewhere safe as fast as possible."

  Realizing what he was saying put their situation into perspective for Kathy. This wasn't only about stopping Madeline Naylor and Alice Prince anymore. Perhaps Luke had been right when he said that she should have just walked away. What had she achieved by staying--except to put those who had helped her in danger?

  In the city Decker took South Van Ness Avenue toward the Marina. They passed Pacific Heights and then turned onto Broadway. Driving in silence, Kathy saw Decker's frown deepen and his eyes narrow as they pulled up outside Matty's Victorian house. The front door was wide open; the windows were dark.

  Decker curbed the car and killed the engine. His voice was hushed when he spoke. "Gramps always leaves at least one light on," he said. "And even he doesn't leave the front door wide open. Kathy, wait here while I check inside." He jumped out, ran up the steps, and disappeared into the house.

  Ignoring his request, Kathy opened her door and more cautiously followed Decker inside. Inside, she clicked on the hall switch, but nothing happened. It was as if all the lights had been fused. Gradually her eyes adjusted to the gloom, using the moonlight and illumination from the streetlamps filtering in through the windows to make out her surroundings. To her left the dining room was a wreck. Drawers had been pulled out, their contents strewn over the table and floor. Chairs had been upended, and the upholstery ripped out. To her right through the open double doors of the TV room she could make out similar carnage. This either was a burglary or meant to look like one. But if this was the work of Jackson and his men, how could they have found out about Decker and Matty so quickly?

  "Gramps? Where are you?" Decker's voice came from the next-floor landing. Kathy went up the stairs after him. Before she got to the top, she heard Deck
er call his grandfather again, but this time it was less a question than a cry of disbelief.

  At the top of the stairs Kathy ran to her left, to the music room that overlooked the bay. There was something on the landing ahead of her. Looking down, she saw it was Matty's golden Labrador, Brutus. His tongue hung out of his mouth; his eyes were wide open and glassy. Two red holes punctured the glossy fur of his neck. A shiver ran through her. The bastards had shot a goddamn guide dog. Stepping around Brutus, she saw that the door to the music room was open, as were the large French windows looking out onto the balcony and the bay beyond. A brisk breeze was blowing into the room, seeming to carry the moonlight in with it. Light streamed through the open windows, forming a ghostly trapezium on the rug. The rest of the room was in shadow, but she could see the debris: photographs knocked off the piano; a violin thrown to the floor, the metronome shattered beside it.

  In the moonlight in the center of the rug she saw Decker crouching down, tears of silver on his cheeks. He cradled his grandfather in his arms, studying the man's hands. When Decker spoke, his words were so choked that she had to put her hands to her mouth, to stop herself from crying out. With her horror came fresh guilt. They had done this to find her.

  "They broke his fucking fingers," Decker said, turning to her, his eyes almost luminous in the light. "Even the goddamned Nazis didn't do that to him."

  He gripped his grandfather tighter to him, trying to contain the grief and fury welling up inside him.