Dark Cure: A Covid Thriller (Dark Plague Book 1) Page 11

  “I have the baby,” Muller said. “He’s fine.”

  “Give him to me,” Katerina said. “I’ll quiet him down.”

  “Melvin!” Burns shouted. “Get over here and help me move her to her car.”

  “Fuck that!” Melvin shouted back. “She’s contagious.”

  Muller turned to Burns. “Lend a helping hand,” he said.

  “Yes, and then we’ll give her a helping push,” said Burns.

  Melvin had a change of heart and walked back to the crazed woman.

  chapter fourteen

  WHEELER DEALERS

  Saturday, July 11: Outside Gualala and Kentfield, California, sunup

  As Melvin and Burns carried Lindy to the Benz and propped her behind the wheel, Katerina tried to convince Muller why they should combine forces. “I’m the only one who can turn this baby into a big business, a blood bag. I ran a test at the cabin, and he has Covid antibodies. That makes him immune, and if processed properly, his antibodies will form the basis of a plasma-based cure. This is highly technical and I’m the only one you’ll find who will do it. It also has to be done in a hurry because his antibody count will fade over time.”

  “We’ll discuss it later,” Muller said. “We have to be gone before it’s light.”

  Burns had overheard them while he shoehorned Lindy into the driver’s seat. “What split do you propose?” he asked as he walked back.

  “One third each,” Katerina said.

  “That’s bullshit,” Melvin said. “There’s four of us. Fifty-fifty between the security team and the civilians.”

  “If you pay for the phone trace, agreed,” Burns said. “Katerina handles production, and I’ll manage sales. You two handle logistics and protection.”

  “Fifty-fifty it is,” Muller said. “Melvin, your share is fifteen percent. Fraser, give me back my fucking Walther.”

  Muller held out his palm and Burns returned the weapon.

  “Don’t upset my scientist,” Burns said. “If the plague is real, we’ll need her to keep us alive.”

  “If she runs off, fucks up or pisses me off, it’s on you,” Muller said.

  Burns inspected Lindy’s trunk and found the carry-on bag with almost thirty-five thousand in it. Other than groceries, there wasn’t anything else worth salvaging.

  Muller walked alongside the Mercedes and controlled the wheel through the open window as Melvin pushed. Katerina stood at Burns’ shoulder and her hand found his as the taillights disappeared over the edge. After a three-second delay, the sounds of rending metal and breaking glass reached them from far below.

  Melvin produced an iPhone. “It’s hers. What should I do with it?”

  Muller looked at him in surprise. “Pull the SIM card, wipe it, crush it and throw what’s left where her car went over. And dismantle your phones too, or they’ll be able to track us.”

  As phone pieces arced into the ravine, Muller said, “We need to find a place to hole up. Any ideas?”

  “I could have found one on Airbnb, but I don’t have a phone anymore,” Katerina said.

  * * * * *

  The head of the Maggio clan slept only a handful of minutes. The rest of the time he tossed and turned as thoughts churned, cycling between fear for his grandson, his own kidnapping and escape—and above all, the festering question of whether he’d done the right thing to insist that Carla hold the last of the cure rather than try to trade it for Tyson. That he hadn’t told his family added to his guilt.

  Abandoning any hope of sleeping longer, he crept down to the kitchen and made himself a coffee. He considered frying a couple of eggs, but he had zero appetite. As the coffee steeped in the French press, he checked his email and found an acerbic announcement that the FBI’s investigation had experienced a setback. He stepped out on the patio as the sun crept over the horizon. Heart full of dread, he tapped Special Agent in Charge Fillmore’s number.

  “Sal, you’re up early,” came the forced-cheerful reply. “I’m in the car with Special Agent Sanborn and you’re on speaker. Are you alone?”

  “I am. What’s the latest on Tyson?”

  “No news, I’m afraid. Last night, in separate vehicles we tracked the principal suspects, Fraser and Lindy Burns, to the hills above Gualala. Our suspects from Black Ice also headed north along Route 1 toward that destination. Six agents and I drove up and arrived hours ago. The Mendocino County sheriff declined our request for local law enforcement support and instead ordered my team to stay out of his jurisdiction because of Covid-20. Calls to the governor’s office and the Justice Department affirmed that decision. We’re parked outside Gualala in Sonoma County while we wait to liaise with sheriff’s deputies to discuss Tyson’s case. We had traces on four co-located phones until minutes ago: The suspects must have disabled or destroyed them. Your grandson is probably with them.”

  “How far away are they from your team?”

  “We lost contact with them maybe fifteen miles from our position.”

  “Can’t you arrest them?”

  “I have no authority, and the sheriff turned down my request that he order his deputies to do so. My agents and I remain committed to the safe recovery of your grandson regardless of the background noise, but for the foreseeable future we will have limited authority and ability.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

  “Sal, the FBI suspended San Francisco field office operations. The Covid-20 outbreak infected many of our staff, among them two colleagues who drove up here and are now in a Sonoma County hospital. I’m under orders to work on this case from home unless and until we have a confirmed location for the baby. Then we’ll deploy a team in protective gear to make the arrests. This may delay our progress, but I’m afraid our hands are tied.”

  “What do I do to get my grandson back?”

  “If you think of anything that might help us locate Fraser Burns, let me know. If you hear from the kidnappers, contact me immediately. Don’t try anything on your own. Adhere to the lockdown rules and stay healthy.”

  “That’s all well and good, but you’re a twenty-minute drive from where my grandson is, and no one will do anything. Does that sound right to you, Special Agent in Charge?” Sal was on his feet and his heart was racing.

  “I don’t make the rules. I understand you’re upset, but that’s the current situation. Call me if you learn anything.” Fillmore disconnected the call.

  * * * * *

  The Taurus was trickier, but once muscled back on the road it followed the Benz into the ravine. There had been no other traffic, but it was daylight and Muller urged them on. Less than five miles later, they drove along a graveled lane with scattered large houses set well back from the road. Muller liked the looks of a redwood-sided ranch house with an attached garage and no apparent security system: No vehicles outside, no lights and no one answered the door. Melvin inserted a straightened coat hanger into the gap at the top of the garage door to detach the belt of the automatic garage door opener. He rolled the door up and they had a concealed parking spot. Making matters even easier, the door from the garage to the house was unlocked and unalarmed.

  Inside, Muller and Melvin recced the premises. Katerina thrust the baby at Fraser as if he was toxic waste. “Take care of it. I need to check on the lab gear.”

  Burns shook his head. “His name is Tyson. He’s worth at least a million dollars should I ever decide to trade him back to his parents, but only if he’s healthy. How did you refer to him back there? A blood bag?”

  “You eat veal, Fraser? This isn’t a baby; it’s a factory farm animal. If you want to be useful, find out how often and how much plasma or blood cells I can draw without killing him.” With that, Katerina strode out of the kitchen.

  Tyson didn’t look like a farm animal to Burns, just a pink grub with tiny, perfect fingers, and a wispy mop of black hair on top of a wrinkled face that, almost on cue, started to bawl again. He hadn’t changed but a handful of nappies in his life, but how hard could it
be? Including the cleanup detail—and getting peed on by the little squirter—about fifteen minutes of bother. A more pressing concern was how to keep the baby fed: There wasn’t much breast milk left in Lindy’s cooler, maybe three bottles in all. He decided to leave that problem for later. After a day and a night like he’d just endured—culminating in the murder of his wife and partnering with someone out of the Borgia family tree—he was too exhausted to think.

  Melvin entered the kitchen and patted the crying infant, who instantly settled down. “All clear. A San Francisco fat cat owns this place. If he’s not here by now, he ain’t coming this weekend. Where’s Mrs. Frankenstein?”

  Despite himself, Burns had to smile. “In the garage inspecting her jars with the brains. You know how to feed a baby?”

  “I’ll handle the baby and you make breakfast. Deal?”

  “Fair enough.” Burns felt unwell: He was flushed with an oncoming sore throat. His facemask made it hard to breathe and he plucked at it to create a temporary gap.

  Rolf Muller sat at the desk of Dr. Elroy Heath, an orthodontist in his forties with a wife and a couple of cute kids. The dentist didn’t disconnect anything while he wasn’t there, and was forgetful enough that the passwords and PINs were written down. It was a shame that the only televised sports were Korean baseball and the NHL playoffs.

  Muller had just turned forty this year, was divorced, childless and single. The one thing he had in his favor—the San Francisco office head’s post at Black Ice—was forever gone due to his own greed and that fucking Sal Maggio. In the middle of a global pandemic, he was a fugitive alongside a subordinate ape he despised, a charming Brit sleazeball and a woman who sounded like Joseph Mengele’s great-granddaughter, but looked like a pint-sized fashion model. Katerina was also the brains of this outfit. Contingent on how things played out, he might be willing to share the money straight up and his affections along with it.

  * * * * *

  The Maggio dining room table was piled high with breakfast comfort food, Sal having handed the duties over to the family capocuoca. Pat applied herself to the task and everyone was in good appetite and better spirits when Steph reported that Greg was stable after surgery and the doctors judged him less at risk at home than as an inpatient. They should expect him around lunchtime.

  “Dad, I heard you on the phone earlier. Was that about Tyson?” Barb asked as Pat refilled coffee cups and Jaime took thirds on the sausages and pancakes. The headwound hadn’t dented his appetite and his headache was mostly gone.

  “That was the FBI,” Sal said. He recounted his conversation with SAC Fillmore, with unenthusiastic facial expressions his reward.

  “So, they’ve just given up?” Stephanie asked.

  “That’s my take on it. If we want Tyson back, we have to take matters into our own hands. If Jaime’s up for it, we’ll start tonight.” Jaime gave a firm nod as his jaws worked overtime. “From here on out, we wear masks everywhere, even inside this house, and stay super vigilant on the hygiene side. This mutated Covid seems to kill three-quarters of the victims within three days of the first symptoms. Steph, you’re probably immune but we don’t know for certain.”

  Sal paused for a moment, then decided to press his luck. “Last night, I forced Carla to take back the last of the sample to work on in the lab.”

  The table rattled as Stephanie jumped to her feet. “Are you out of your mind? We need that drug to get Tyson back!”

  “Honey, the kidnappers acted in bad faith at the park. They didn’t even have Tyson with them. I thought that the FBI and the police would track them down, even with the lockdown in place.”

  “You had no right. He is my child!”

  “There’s so much at stake here. Carla’s already shown that Nancy Jacobs’ drug killed all the bat coronaviruses in Livermore Labs. That dosage is the last chance for scientists to reverse engineer it. Maybe they can derive a vaccine that could save millions of lives. And we can still trade it for Tyson, though we may have to wait weeks for new material if she’s used up what I gave her.” Sal regretted the last sentence as soon as the words left his mouth.

  “Weeks? You gave away what you stole in the hope that weeks from now, you might get it back? What is wrong with you? You murdered my baby!” Jaime and Pat moved to either side of Steph to steady her.

  “I still have the money. They tried to steal it and keep Tyson, but they failed, and we killed two of them. Maybe they’ll be a bit less reckless now. And after I gave them the fake drug, they wouldn’t trust that we were handing over the real drug even if we had it. The only things that might free Tyson are money and me. Burns hates my guts. Maybe he’ll release Tyson if I personally deliver the ransom. I’m sorry, honey, but that’s all I can do.”

  Sal stood up and made to embrace her. Stephanie recoiled and said, “Don’t touch me. You said you’d sacrifice yourself for Tyson, but you ran away the first chance you had. You disgust me.”

  * * * * *

  Katerina was still in the garage, her vague curses audible through the connecting door to the kitchen. Burns swallowed anti-inflammatories and topped off with a Vitamin D pill compliments of Dr. Heath. He felt a bit better after breakfast, but knew he wasn’t right. Tyson had fed and fallen asleep, and now resided on the living room couch within earshot.

  Between mouthfuls of cherries, Muller interrogated Burns. “How can we make money out of the baby?”

  “First, Katerina derives a treatment. She talked about isolating the baby’s antibodies in plasma. We film someone very ill, inject them and show the recovery.” Burns’ body spasmed as he suppressed a cough. Melvin and Muller scooted their chairs away. “We record a cure and I upload it on the dark web. I set up a sales site or even an auction with a minimum bid of, say, one hundred thousand or a quarter-million dollars. Buyers pay in Bitcoin. For a price, there are courier services that will deliver to major cities worldwide.”

  “Sounds straightforward. Why do I need you?” Muller’s red welt down the left side of his face reminded everyone that an equally ugly personality dwelt within.

  “Unless you know the dark web like I do, you’ll make a mistake and the gangs or security services will trace your posts to your real location, steal everything and then arrest or kill you. Unless you know the buyers for genetic enhancements, illegal organ harvests and experimental treatments—and they know you—you won’t receive the initial orders that generate crucial positive customer feedback. Unless you know how to work with research scientists, you won’t know when they’re lying to you.”

  “I call bullshit on that last one,” Katerina announced as she stepped back into the kitchen. “Even if our serial biotech startup CEO Mr. Fraser-the-Laser can tell a petri dish from a Pap smear, we’re still screwed. That car wreck destroyed almost all the lab equipment.” She plopped down on a chair and emptied a yogurt into a bowl, followed by a sprinkle of granola and a handful of raisins. She dropped a piece of paper on the table. “Here’s what I need . . . it’s a long list.” To emphasize her ennui, she shucked off her facemask and didn’t bother to sanitize her hands.

  “You can’t make the drugs?” Melvin asked.

  “I’m saying that I can’t do it with the broken crap in the trunk. But I have an idea. Berkeley’s campus is three hours from here. I still have my keys to the lab. We drive there tonight and take what we need. I’ll need a clean place to set up shop. I live just off campus, so I can drop by and pick up a few things since it seems we’ll be on the run for a while.”

  “You can forget about that last part,” Muller said. “The Feds will have staked your place out. I’ll find a place for us to stay nearby. We’ll be safer somewhere where the Covid outbreak is bad because the lockdown will be more tightly enforced and fewer people will bother us.”

  “It sounds like we’ll be here all day,” Burns said. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to lie down.” He got up from the kitchen table and wobbled off. His three partners in crime watched him disappear into the back of the house. />
  “If Burns has Covid-20,” Muller said, “he has three days to live and we’ll be dead next week unless you come up with a miracle.”

  On cue, the blood bag began to cry.

  chapter fifteen

  PERSONAL PHILOSOPHIES

  Saturday, July 11: Kentfield, Livermore and outside Gualala California, mid-morning

  A dejected Sal sat on the patio. He’d always viewed a father’s first duties that of truthteller and realist. Mothers could afford to be cheerleaders. He understood that children needed love and its methadone proxy, vocal parental support. He also accepted that one big difference between his generation, the back end of the Boomers, and the participation-trophy Millennials/Gen X/Gen Y-whatever’s was that his father never candy-coated anything. He and his siblings were better off for it too. Thirty-five years later, he could sit here in the cool morning air, shut his eyes and hear his dad’s two-pack-a-day voice. “You wanna drop out of school, join the UAW and take a twenty-dollar-an-hour job on the line? Okay, smart guy, let’s you and me hit Rusty’s Friday night after work. I’ll buy the first round, then you tell ’em what you just told me. After that, shut up and listen. If you hear them out and still wanna quit college and hang brakes on Lincolns, be my guest.”

  Those old-before-their time union men shared war story after war story. Six drafts later, he was staggered, and not just from the beer and greasy nachos. To a man, his father’s high school classmates would have given anything to have graduated from college and moved far away from Canton. Sal deposited his surplus beer in the back alley along with his union card fantasies. Instead, he stuck it out two more years at Kent State. While he was at it, he cracked the books and did well enough to make the dean’s list his junior and senior years. Half a decade later, he landed a partial scholarship for an MBA at the University of Toledo, then off to Silicon Valley and the big time in the go-go second half of the 1990s.

  Today’s children lacked maturity and resilience, and their fragility showed. Anything short of wholehearted parental support was an implicit condemnation. Even the mildest criticism shocked, and a proper dinner table, “What are doing with your life?” Dad-talk alienated your child for weeks and convinced her mother that you had permanently damaged your relationship. Now that he’d done something questionable—returning the last dosage to Carla—there was no emotional buffer to fall back on. The three people he held dearest viewed his misstep as the latest in a long line of sins. He couldn’t fix these broken relationships without first rescuing Tyson, but how in the hell could he find his grandson in a lockdown with no help from the authorities? Without a plan, he was no better than the fuzzy thinkers he derided.