Panacea (19 page)

He glanced at the prescription on the clipboard. “It'll go to your doctor. He's in Maryland, I see. He'll give you the results. Call him on Monday. He'll probably have it by then.”

“Monday? But that's two days.”

“Well, it's not a
stat
script, so the scan gets in line for the radiologist to read. Then he has to dictate the report, then it's gotta be typed up. Yeah, figure Monday.”

Nelson ground his teeth, then wondered why he was so anxious for the report. It would only confirm what he suspected.

 

9

“You won't believe this,” Steven said, stepping into Laura's bedroom. “Stahlman's bank just called to say the money's in the account, awaiting your return. Gave me an account number and all—on a Saturday night.”

She pushed the last of her long-sleeved T-shirts into her rolling duffel bag. She should have felt excited about those millions but an indefinable
wrongness
about this trip nagged her. She didn't want Steven to see that, though.

“Money talks.”

“What time do we leave for the airport tomorrow?”

“Stahlman's having a limo pick me up at the crack of dawn.”

Steven gave a low whistle. “Wow. First class.”

“Including the flight.”

An eight
A.M.
Delta flight out of JFK nonstop to Canc
ú
n, then a private four-seater to Chetumal. She'd printed out her boarding pass.

“You're gonna be safe, right?”

“He's sending that ex-SEAL along as added protection. What can go wrong?”

He shook his head. “I hate it when people say that.”

“Because it almost guarantees that something will?”

“Don't make me say it.”

“I won't. Look, I'll be fine. I'm coming back in one piece. I promise.”

She meant that.

Before he could say anything else, she picked up her new phone.

“I've got some last-minute calls to make, okay?”

“Oh, sure. I'll be downstairs.”

When she was gone, she punched in Phil Lawson's number.

She'd already called Doctor Henniger. The CME hadn't been happy about losing Laura for two weeks on such short notice. But since no one else was away, and it
was
an emergency—Laura hadn't gone into detail, but implied it involved family—she'd okayed it.

“Hey, Doc,”
Phil said.
“Bet I know what you're calling about.”

“Any word on our SEAL?”

“Sorry. Nothing yet. My guy told me he probably wouldn't have anything till tomorrow.”

Damn. Tomorrow she'd be gone.

“Look, I'll be in Mexico for two weeks starting tomorrow. Do you have international access?”

“The office landlines do. You didn't mention a trip.”

“I just found out. All of a sudden I've got to visit my mother's people.”

In essence, pretty damn close to the truth.

“Everything okay?”

“I hope so. But I'll be staying in the interior where the cell towers are few and far between if there are any at all. So if my voice mail picks up when you call, leave a message, okay?”

“Will do. Safe trip and safe home.”

She thanked him and ended the call.

Yeah … safe home. Please.

 

10

The target entered the kitchen.

Finally, Simon thought. They're all in one room.

He'd found a good hiding spot in the thick shrubs at the rear of the backyard. His knees ached from squatting in one spot for so long. But he wouldn't be here much longer.

The target was the same as last night—the pathologist he was supposed to rob and hurt. His plan then had been to beat her unconscious, or nearly so, and plant the pickup/locator while he took her phone. The meddlesome passerby had nearly ruined everything. Simon's neck was stiff and his gut still ached from those two blows.

Luckily he'd fallen atop her bag and so was able to complete two parts of the assignment.

Tonight he would tie up the loose end—permanently. Brother Fife had said she was aiding the panaceans and was thus a threat to the Brotherhood's goals. That was all he needed to know.

He pulled the flash-bang grenade from his pocket. He'd watched the man—her husband?—grilling a steak on the rear deck. He'd been in and out of the sliding glass door numerous times without locking it. Perfect.

This was going to be easy: Pull the pin as he ran onto the deck, open the door, toss the flash-bang inside, inject the target while they were all disoriented or unconscious, then leave.

Clean and simple. Only the target would die. No unnecessary loss of life. The Brotherhood was not about needless killing. It did what had to be done with a minimum of collateral damage.

Simon didn't know what was in the syringe, but had been assured it was fatal within five minutes.

He patted his breast pocket where it rested, ready for quick deployment when the moment came.

Time to move.

But as he rose, something looped over his head and tightened around his neck with a vicious tug. He dropped the grenade as he tore at the strangling band but his gloved fingers were useless. Even bare, his fingers wouldn't have been able to squeeze around it.

“Two strikes and you're out,” said a soft voice.

So tight! No air! Can't breathe! God help me—please!

He tried to pull away but was yanked off his feet and dragged by his neck through the underbrush. Darkness crowded his vision and he kicked and twisted, but that only hastened the steady weakening of his muscles. Finally his arms and legs went limp as the darkness claimed him.

 

THE LEVITICUS SANCTION

 

1

The only good thing about Mexico City as far as Nelson could see was the ease of finding a Catholic church. He and Brother Bradsher went to Sunday mass at the huge Metropolitan Cathedral with a host of tourists, then boarded a chopper to Quintana Roo.

They'd arrived in Mexico City late last night and moved into rooms at the St. Regis. As an analyst rather than a field agent, Nelson had had to let Bradsher guide him through the ropes of operating in a foreign country.

He'd waited all night for a call from Simon—a call that never came. Bradsher had tried his phone numerous times this morning but he wasn't answering.

That wasn't good.

And worse, a passport alert said Laura Fanning had used it as she passed through TSA this morning at JFK.

Simon had failed. The man traveling with her had been hired to watch over her. Stahlman had said he was an ex–Navy SEAL. Had he been watching last night and intervened again? If so, Simon wouldn't have had a chance.

Brother Miguel had phoned in the GPS coordinates of the village in the jungles of the Yucatán Peninsula and a charter pilot had found a clearing big enough for his small helicopter to set down.

Miguel was waiting for them when they landed. A tall, heavyset man, he gave a slight bow as he shook Nelson's hand. He'd never met Miguel, but his reputation was that of a devoted and enthusiastic member of the Brotherhood as well as the Company.

“It is an honor,” he said with a slight Mexican accent.

His handshake with Bradsher was quick and casual. They apparently knew each other well.

The jungle clearing where they landed was two miles from their destination, and Miguel drove them there along a bumpy, rutted road. Nelson's headache was murderous, worsened by every jostle of the Land Rover. Nevertheless, Nelson got straight to the point.

“The
curandero
 … is he a panacean?”

Miguel nodded. “Most certainly—tattoo and all. Name's Mulac. We Tasered him, doped him up, interrogated him.”

“And?”

“Nada. He denies being a panacean, even denies worshipping the so-called All-Mother. Says he worships Chac, the Mayan god of rain and lightning.”

“That's odd.”

When cornered, they might deny they were panaceans because they knew the penalty, but Nelson had never heard of one denying the All-Mother.

“You're sure of the tattoo?”

“Absolutely. The staff, the snake, the comet—all there. You'll see for yourself. After a little inducement, he became real cooperative. Showed us all his potions—”

“‘All his potions'? They have only one.”

“Not this fellow. He had quite a variety. Showed us his powders and plants too—but the plants weren't the panacea plants.”

“You're sure you know what they look like?”

“I've got pictures. Nothing even close. We did find this patch of ground that looked like it was a garden or something. Somebody had ripped out whatever had been growing there. Nothing left but bare ground and a few weeds.”

Damn. The plants would have been tangible proof. But then, the panaceans were said to rip up the plants by the roots to brew their concoction. A denuded garden proved nothing.

Or were the plants unable to grow in this climate? Was that why Mulac had reverted to local folk remedies?

“Look, we applied some severe techniques to him, if you know what I'm saying, and we've hit a wall. We can't get him to even admit he makes a panacea because he says there's no such thing—no one medicine that cures all. That's why he makes all sorts of different cures.”

“This doesn't sound right at all.”

“Tell me about it,” Miguel said. “I've gotta say, if he didn't have the tattoo, I'd be pretty sure we had the wrong guy.”

No, he wasn't the “wrong guy,” but
something
seemed very wrong here. Nelson didn't even bother to ask if they'd found a sample of the panacea.

“What about the woman with Brody in that photograph I sent you? Was she there?”

“No sign of her, and nobody we showed it to recognized her or Brody. They could have been lying but who knows? We couldn't put the screws to everyone in the village.”

“And the
curandero,
this Mulac? He didn't know Brody?”

“Said he didn't. We told him he was dead so there was no use trying to protect him, but he still said he'd never seen him. We didn't press him as hard on that as we did the panacea, but he didn't seem to have a clue.”

Nelson couldn't see why this Mulac would suffer torture to protect a dead man.

Bradsher chimed in. “We'll need to tie this up before Doctor Fanning arrives.”

“I don't think Mulac will last much longer,” Miguel said. “Jorge, my associate from Mexico City, has been, shall we say, enthusiastic.”

“You don't think you can squeeze anything more out of him?”

“We can always try, but I'm pretty sure that well is dry. You can judge for yourself. Here we are.”

Nelson peered through the windshield at a cluster of huts that made up the
curandero
's village: small thatch-roofed houses, with either hardwood or stucco walls, clustered in no particular order among the trees and along dirt paths. Here and there a battered off-road vehicle was parked in the brush.

They stopped before one of the huts. Inside they found Jorge with a bloodied man, curled in the fetal position, mewling like a sick kitten: the
curandero
.

Jorge, a squat man with Indian features, prodded him, tried to get him to speak, but his efforts only made the mewling louder.

This Mulac, this village healer, this dispenser of miraculous cures, had the tattoo. Nelson had never seen it anywhere else but on a panacean. Even though his story did not jibe with the customary practices of the cult, Mulac was certainly one of them. But Miguel had been right: They would get no more out of him.

“You must arrange for an act of faith.”

“Leviticus?”

“Leviticus. And then I want you to stay around. Bradsher will send you pictures of someone who needs watching. She's looking for the panacea as well. And since she's half Mayan, she may be able to ferret out some things you missed.”

Laura Fanning had forensic skills, whereas Miguel and his hired goon had none. Maybe it was a good thing Simon had failed. The doctor could prove useful here. Perhaps she could sort this out.

Miguel looked offended. “I doubt that, but if she does?”

“Give her time to learn what she can, then confiscate whatever she finds and bring it to my hotel.”

“What if she resists?”

“Obtain what she knows by any means necessary. And whether she resists or not, I want her and her companion to disappear. Forever. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly.”

“Good. Now drive us back to the helicopter.”

He could
not
come away empty-handed here. According to his last report from NSA, phone and text chatter about “miracle cures” had dried up in the New York metro area. Obviously the panaceans has passed the word and were lying low. This village held the only lead right now.

But if it didn't pan out, what next? He'd worked so hard to get Pickens on board and had finally succeeded. He had his own project-specific black fund … but for what? With the panacean network gone to ground and silent, what was his next move?

And did it matter? He rubbed his temples. The headache was constant now. A tumor for sure. Would he even be around much longer to chase the panacea?

He sensed that the cult would not remain dormant long. Their goal in life was to dispense their infernal concoction. They'd be back at it soon. And Nelson would be ready for them.

He squeezed his eyes shut and massaged his scalp. He prayed he'd live long enough.

 

2

The rental company was called Top Car, one of three near Chetumal International Airport. A shuttle van had picked them up at the terminal.

“I imagine your Spanish is pretty good,” Hayden said as they stepped off the shuttle into the midday heat and humidity of coastal Quintana Roo.