Dark Cure: A Covid Thriller (Dark Plague Book 1)
Page 20
Melvin smiled. “You have a good baby. I’m gonna grant your wish as long as you cooperate. Katerina, put the gag back in.”
“What’s the master plan, Holyfield?” Muller asked.
“You two are evil, but if I kill you it makes me just as bad. Do as I say, and you’ll live. You keep the equipment and the woman, but I’m taking Tyson, the Tahoe and the money. If either of you mess with me, you both die. Got it?”
“Got it.” Muller handed over the keys.
“You get out and unload. Katerina stands outside the driver’s window so I can watch her and keep you in the mirror. When you’re done, you take Stephanie and Katerina. You do anything different than what I said, I shoot the bitch and drive off. Now move slow, put all the boxes in the street and stay within view of the mirrors.”
Melvin surveilled Muller via the mirrors, transmission in drive and foot on the brake, ready to accelerate away. Melvin’s eyes darted every few seconds to a sullen Katerina standing eight feet away from a pistol pointed at her.
“I’ve been lookin’ after your baby,” Melvin said to Stephanie. “He’s a fussy eater, but he likes the new formula I stole earlier today. There’s a third person in there named Burns. He got the Covid bad, but Tyson’s blood cured him. That gave these two the notion to use your blood to make a cure they’ll sell. The idea is that you have more blood than your baby. I hand you over so they won’t use Tyson’s blood. They agreed to the deal and, if they hurt Tyson, I’ll come back and kill them.”
“You hear that, Katerina?” he added in a louder voice. “’Cause I’m serious.”
“That woman here is a devil,” he continued in a murmur. “Burns is the least bad, but he ain’t no saint either. I wish I could help you, but I’d have to murder three more people and I’m through with the killing.”
“That’s all of it,” Muller said.
“Leave the hatch open, take three steps back and stand with your hands on top of your head,” Melvin said. “Bitch, you wait here. I’ll move up a little. Don’t run or I’ll put one in your ass and keep drivin’.” Melvin pulled up thirty feet, popped it into park and jumped out with his weapon leveled at Katerina. With his free hand he opened the passenger door and beckoned to Stephanie. He helped her down and said in a low voice, “Don’t run away if you want to see your boy again. I’ll bring help.” In a louder voice, he said, “Walk on back and meet your new masters.” Melvin closed the hatch, got back into the Tahoe and took off to invade the home of an unusual host.
* * * * *
“What’s the plan, maestro?” Jaime’s voice dripped sarcasm.
“Stay off the main roads as long as possible, rejoin just before the Golden Gate and drive like hell up the 101. Get Waze and Google Maps up to find secondary roads that won’t be patrolled. What do you suggest?”
“The Golden Gate is covered in security cameras. They’ll read your license and we’ll be finished. At a minimum, we’ll need different plates. Maybe throw furniture in the back to look like everyone else. And we stand a better chance to make it across the Richmond Bridge than the Golden Gate.”
“Those are all excellent ideas. Unfortunately, all my tools are in the shitter back at Bettadapur’s.”
“I have a Leatherman. Let’s lift new plates and hit the Salvation Army for a few chairs and a desk. They won’t have alarms.”
“We have to take the Golden Gate,” Sal protested. “We don’t have time for a thirty-mile detour.”
“It’s your call, Sal: The Golden Gate it is. Jaime, let’s look for plates before we grab furniture.”
While Travis and Jaime pulled plates off a stranded car, Sal anguished in the back seat and racked his brain. Why keep trying to kidnap Stephanie? How was Pat? Barb had said she would call when she knew more. Greg was laid up in bed and maybe didn’t even know that Steph had been taken. On reflection, a call to Greg wouldn’t solve any problems and might provoke a rash reaction. Sal pocketed his phone.
As it turned out, stealing furniture was child’s play. Second Chance Spaces in Millbrae had plywood sheets nailed across the broken-out showroom windows. Adjacent merchants on Broadway had been looted, but at least the rioters hadn’t torched the stores. Jaime wielded a tire iron and Travis wrangled plywood while Maung stood guard. In five minutes, they were inside. In another five minutes, they had a two-seater, an armchair and a couple of end tables piled into the back and strapped down.
“Jed Clampett would be proud,” Travis remarked to no one in particular.
Maung brightened. “Beverly Hillbillies. My wife and I like a lot.”
Travis’ two Burmese colleagues often peppered him with questions about the 1960s and 1970s sitcoms they watched on the oldies channels. Why didn’t they eat Arnold, the pig from Green Acres? Did the government build secret cell-phone towers for Maxwell Smart’s shoe phone in Get Smart? Did Barbara Eden in I Dream of Jeannie dress like she’d come from a harem because she was a whore? All fair questions, he had to admit.
Back on the road before two a.m., they bobbed and weaved toward the Golden Gate. There was still the odd vehicle out, but few pedestrians on the sidewalks. Most looked to be up to no good, but maybe that was just four suspicious minds at work. Clouds scuttled across the night sky and periodically obscured the brilliant thunder moon. Sal texted Barb, Steph and Greg but received no replies.
Tension built as the pickup approached the bridge. The public service message boards alerted drivers that the bridge was closed and a quarantine until noon. On their side were enough vehicles headed south to suggest that the bridge hadn’t been shut down in the four hours since they’d last crossed it. Waze showed northbound traffic moving slowly.
“If we’re stopped, we’re headed to Mount Marin where my wife’s undergoing emergency surgery after our home was invaded earlier tonight,” Sal said. “We were moving furniture for our son-in-law Jaime and his new wife when we received the news.”
“And if that doesn’t work?” Travis asked.
“We try Richmond Bridge and if we can’t cross that either, we go all the way around San Pablo Bay. I have to see Pat tonight.”
* * * * *
Burns was too weak to be of use, so Muller and Katerina lugged the equipment into the warehouse on their own. Muller felt naked without a sidearm. He texted the recruits that they’d best bring wheels and weapons.
Warren “Smiley” Shuckies was the first to arrive. At almost six-foot-three, he was a skinny drink of water with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair and a big grin. Shuckies rolled up in a Jeep Renegade, too small to haul equipment but just right for running through and around street barriers. As he stepped out, Muller didn’t know whether he was friend or foe until he heard Smiley’s distinctive laugh. “Here, catch!” came the call and a box of shotgun shells arced Muller’s way.
“You got a gun for these?” Muller asked.
“A Benelli M4 with a pistol grip suit you?” Shuckies pulled out the Cadillac of military shotguns: a semi-automatic five-plus-one, lightweight and smooth as long as it was well-maintained.
“A little Gucci for me, but beggars and all that.”
“Yeah, well on the pistol front, my 1911 Colt is on offer.”
“Jesus, that’s a caveman piece.”
“I’ve lost count of the men I’ve killed with that weapon. I want it back. Speaking of which, isn’t there someone around who needs looking after?”
“You mean that black bastard, Melvin?” Katerina asked. “He took our million dollars, our car and our firearms.”
“Where do I find him?” Shuckies asked.
“We’ll see him again,” Muller said. “He’s got a hero complex.”
A Toyota Sequoia roared up and squealed to a stop. Muller leveled the Benelli at the windshield. The engine shut down and the driver turned on the dome light.
“I’ll be damned!” Shuckies said. “You brought the Little Big Horn.”
Muller lowered his weapon: Robert Horne had arrived in style. Muller said, “You two both nee
d to wear masks and practice extreme hygiene at all times. There’s a person inside who’s a Covid-20 survivor, but we have to assume he’s still infectious.”
* * * * *
Travis bailed on the Golden Gate when he saw the plethora of parked police and emergency vehicles, plus patrol cars skewed across the lanes to force passing cars to stop for inspection. At a minimum, it would be an interrogation, and at worst, the police were in wait to arrest them. He took the last exit around to Lincoln Boulevard and they reversed course.
“Sorry, Sal, but it can’t be helped. We could try Richmond, but the way they have this bridge guarded, they’ll all be the same. We’ll have to take the long way around San Pablo Bay. I’ll have to stay off the main roads: it could be two or three more hours.”
Sal couldn’t argue with the logic, but from Barb’s text, Pat’s situation was critical. She’d suffered a skull fracture and they were operating to relieve pressure on her brain. One doctor told Barb that even if Pat made it, she might suffer permanent impairment. But he had to face facts and prioritize the healthy. “Go only as fast as you can, given the circumstances. It may be too late for Pat no matter what we do.”
“Sounds bad. Sorry to learn that,” Travis said.
Sal’s phone buzzed again. He was almost afraid to look until he saw it was from Greg: Call me! I know where Steph is! Sal’s fingers trembled as he hit redial.
Greg answered straight away and said, “Barb called a few minutes ago, so I know about Steph. We each have a tracker app on our mobiles, and they didn’t trash her phone. Steph is in downtown San Francisco on Nob Hill.”
“We can be there in under thirty minutes. Do you have an address?”
“I do. 1450 Sacramento Street. Should I call the FBI or the police?”
“No. Covid has taken them both out of it. No one’s coming: It’s up to us. Text me if she moves. I’ll keep you posted.” Sal disconnected and spoke to his colleagues. “Greg tracked Steph’s phone. She’s in Nob Hill, 1450 Sacramento Street.”
“Hot damn!” Travis said.
“I’ll check Google Maps,” Jaime said. A few seconds passed. “It’s a house that backs onto Troy Alley.”
“That’s an expensive neighborhood for a gang hideout.”
“We can send two through the front door and put one man in the back,” Jaime said. “Sal, you wait in the alley and drive.”
“Whoa!” Travis said. “Let’s take our time and think matters through. Since it’s Nob Hill, there’s probably still police protection. I’ll bet you ten bucks nonresidents will be restricted to just the main roads.”
* * * * *
Melvin Robinson had been in weird places before, but Dr. Elroy Heath’s vacation home had taken the cake. Inside the dentist’s personal safe were several thumb drives and DVDs and an envelope of photos that depicted the dentist in sexual acts with men, women and pubescent girls. Melvin might have been dumb enough to share the news about the coke, but he’d had the good sense to keep this information confidential and had put the dentist’s city address in his wallet. He had nowhere else close by to go to, plus those photos of Heath with teenage girls had bothered the hell out of him. He’d parked two blocks away and rolled the million-dollar Samsonite down the sidewalk, pistol in hand and eyes alert.
The question was how to attract the man’s attention without his raising the alarm. He could slide a photo under the door and ring, provided his wife didn’t answer the door. An armed black man in a rich neighborhood was never a viable long-term strategy. Fuck it. He hammered his fist against the back door and sure enough, a light showed behind the curtains and a floorboard creaked.
“I have what was in the safe at your Gualala house,” Melvin shouted. “If you let me in, I’ll explain. Otherwise, I call the police.”
The prospect of hard time as a child molester outweighed whatever threats a large masked man represented. The door opened to reveal a bald, fiftyish man in a bathrobe with reading glasses perched on his nose. “Come in. Please keep your voice down.”
Once inside, Melvin was taken aback by the dentist’s taste in decorating. The erotic photos, statues and oils would have made Robert Mapplethorpe blush. Either the wife had moved out or she was as twisted as her husband. He saw that the dentist’s mild-mannered appearance belied a voracious carnal appetite for partners across all ages and sexes. Dr. Heath was also a nervous Nellie whose hands shook nonstop.
“I’m not here to hurt you so long as you swear off sex with children. You have a troubled soul, and you must repent before God’s judgment sends you to eternal hell. In the meantime, I need a shower and a bed for the next few hours. This gives you time to reflect. If you mess with me, I’ll beat the living shit out of you. You run away, I drop these photos off at to the police station. Do we have a deal?”
“Yes, just don’t hurt me.”
* * * * *
Travis parked the Ram 2500 off Sacramento two blocks short of the barricades. “From here on, we’re on foot. Let’s go over what we know.”
“Barb said three people kidnapped Stephanie: a white man, a black man and a white woman,” Sal said. “Neither of the men was Fraser Burns, so that makes at least four. The black kidnapper hit Pat in the face with his pistol. That’s all I have.”
“From the internet, the target is a three-story row house,” Jaime said. “It’s one hundred and twenty feet deep and thirty feet wide with a back entrance leading to Troy Alley. No basement or a garage.”
“That’s helpful,” Travis said. “Maung, what gear do we have?”
“Two M-4 carbines, six 30-round magazines, a night-vision scope, climber’s gear, zip-ties, duct tape, pistols, and a couple hundred rounds of ammo. No smoke or flash-bangs.”
“We’ve got ninety minutes till first light. Jaime and I will take the nogs and recce the house. If we can access the roof, an upper window could be our ticket in. If not, we’ll breach simultaneously through the front and back and try not to shoot one another. Maung and Sal, silence your phones and lie low. If someone tries to steal the furniture, let ’em. If they fuck with my truck, shoot ’em.”
Before Sal could ask whether Travis was serious about the Ram, the former SEAL and Jaime had already loped up the hill and out of sight. He checked his messages to see two missed calls and a terse text: Mom is out of surgery and stable. Where ARE you?
Where was I? Where was Pat the last ten years? Self-help feel-good superficiality, vainglorious dressing, falsely cheery lunch companions, sloppy affairs, and too much booze cloaked in the guise of the ultimate family-first woman. It had taken extra effort to maintain a façade for the sake of the girls. It hadn’t always been that bad: The first twenty years were pretty good. But somewhere along the way, they’d fallen out of love and had never made it back.
Sal choked up and swallowed hard. He tried to convince himself that the tears were for Pat, but they weren’t. His fears about Tyson and now Stephanie, plus Barb’s contempt and the urgency to position his family to survive the plague . . . it was all too much. He blew his nose and checked his pulse: His heart was over one hundred twenty and he didn’t have his meds. He felt lightheaded. He took a few deep breaths and slowed down his mind.
Travis, Maung and Jaime will rescue Steph and Tyson. Carla will handle the cure. I’ll figure out the logistics: the lab equipment, chemicals, supplies and the way north. But if I don’t get my daughter and grandson back in the next two hours, my life will have been a failure.
* * * * *
If Dr. Heath found it odd that his intimidating house guest chose to shower with his suitcase alongside him in the bathroom, he had the tact not to say as much. Melvin luxuriated under the hot water for a long time, toweled off and examined his ear in the mirror. The hole wouldn’t heal over, but maybe the dentist could stitch him up. For now, he needed a few hours in the rack. Once his mind was refreshed, he’d work out how to free Tyson and his mother from those two devils and then decide whether Heath’s soul could be salvaged.
chapter
twenty-four
UNLIKELY BEDFELLOWS
Monday, July 13: Oakland and San Francisco, California, first light
Burns had written a display ad and uploaded it with Katerina’s video of a before-and-after patient (himself) advertising “The Covid-20 Miracle Treatment: The Dark Cure” to Pirate Bay, the onion router’s foremost purveyor of illicit substances. That one-month ad had run him five Bitcoin, forty-five thousand and five hundred dollars at the current exchange rate. He expected to break even quickly with the introductory offer of fifty thousand dollars for the first dose. He knew he had jumped the gun as Katerina required two lab days to produce amounts in excess of the treatments they’d reserve for themselves, but he didn’t know when he’d next have the chance. If they were inundated with orders, they could stall even if a few potential customers died while they waited. He needed time to work out shipping and payment logistics in any event. He had nodded off when he heard the garage door rise and then Muller and Katerina’s voices. He fell back asleep, but the overhead lights tripped, and new voices sounded.
Rolf Muller entered the clubhouse with a gagged and zip-tied Stephanie Maggio. He marched her over to the table and waved a steak knife in her face. “I’ll cut you free, but you need to stay quiet or you’ll never touch your baby again.”
Stephanie pulled her gag out as soon as her wrists were unbound. “Where is he?” she croaked, her mouth dry and her throat constricted with anxiety. The woman looked like hell: haggard, dark circles, straggly hair, blotchy face and disheveled clothes.
“Stephanie, Tyson’s fine,” Burns said. “He’s in a box over here with me.”
Stephanie rushed over and knelt by the fruit carton. The overhead lights weren’t good, but Stephanie stared with rapture at her sleeping son. “When did he eat last?” she asked.
“He drank five ounces two hours ago and has been asleep ever since. I changed him around midnight. His diapers and formula are in the plastic bag over there. He’s all yours.”