The Sleepless Stars (10 page)

BACK WHEN HE
worked for the Russians, Devon had learned the necessity of playing offense and defense simultaneously. You had to grow your turf while also protecting against encroachment from rivals.

But back then, he’d known the players and their playbook. They weren’t nameless, faceless, ruthless Machiavellian assholes who targeted children. They didn’t have a six-month head start—Angela’s best guess as to when she and the children had been infected. And they single-mindedly pursued their goals, making it easy for Devon to play them against themselves.

These guys? Almanac? He didn’t even know what the hell they wanted.

No matter. They’d made a lethal mistake, coming here, targeting his daughter. Bastards were already dead, they just didn’t know it.

He led Ozzie through the tunnels to the entrance at Good Sam’s basement. They took the stairs up to the ER, Ozzie’s nails click-clacking against the linoleum floor.

The ER was its usual flavor of mayhem: raucous noise echoing through the halls, the stench of bleach and blood mingling to leave a metallic taste behind, the lights of an approaching ambulance washing the tile walls in neon.

He turned away from the cacophony and sidled down the back corridor to the doors of the Advocacy Center. The lights were off, which he took as a good sign that at least on Christmas night there was no need for the center’s services to perform sexual assault or abuse examinations. Sad to say, he was certain that wouldn’t be the case come tomorrow. Nature of the beast.

He and Ozzie continued through empty hallways to the main wing, where they took an elevator up to the third floor.

First stop, Louise’s office and the lab she’d shared with Tommaso. She’d given Devon her keys and computer access codes so he could retrieve the children’s medical records. Hopefully, there would be a link between them that would lead back to how they were all infected.

While the computer did its thing, dumping the information onto the thumb drive he’d brought as well as uploading it to the cloud so Louise’s husband could also access it from London, he left Ozzie standing guard—okay, curled up on the floor in front of the office door, his bulk preventing any entrance—and prowled through Louise’s office space. It was as meticulous and cheerful as its owner. In between the walnut-framed diplomas from Oxford, Penn, and Johns Hopkins were delightful watercolor and pencil sketches, the kind you’d find being sold by street artists in any major city, framed with as much loving care as the academic achievements.

Despite the world having long gone to computer databases, Louise still had floor-to-ceiling bookcases brimming with old, well-worn medical texts. He took one at random,
Robbins Basic Pathology
, and opened it to find notes in the margins in Louise’s precise script.

The computer finished its work. He pocketed the thumb drive and moved into the lab next door. There was a desk in the corner—Tommaso’s—but the laptop was gone, and other than leftover carryout napkins and condiments, there was nothing.

Of course not. He wouldn’t leave his research—his real research, not the prion assay he’d been working on with Louise—out in the open. Still, just to be on the safe side, Devon took photos of the whiteboards with their chemical equations and every scrap of paper that had any writing on it. Then he shot a video of the lab setup in case Louise needed to replicate it.

There was a small glass-fronted refrigerator beside the lab bench. Inside were tiny plastic tubes labeled with patient names: Angela, Esme, and the other children. These were the tests Tommaso had run to diagnose their fatal insomnia. The tubes with their drops of pink fluid at the bottom looked too small to be carrying death sentences.

Of course, so did a bullet. Right before it blasted through someone’s skull.

Devon debated taking the specimens but decided to wait. He could always send someone back for them with the proper equipment to keep them at the right temperature, and Louise hadn’t said she needed them. Besides, there was one more key on Tommaso’s key ring that he wanted to check out.

It was a hospital key, that much he recognized. Since last month when he took over the tunnels, he’d been collecting keys from Good Sam in order to access the rooms closest to the underground entrance—including the room that held the hospital’s incinerator, which had come in handy. That key he’d taken from Leo’s body. He’d also found a duplicate in Daniel’s study, making him wonder how many generations of Kingstons had used Good Samaritan to dispose of unwanted bodies.

This key was old, the letters and numbers on it worn to the point where he could barely feel them. Using one of the magnifiers in the lab, he examined it more closely. SB24. Subbasement. Room twenty-four. Where the hell was that?

You could wander lost for days through the maze of rooms below Good Sam. Good thing he’d brought a canine GPS with him. “Let’s go.”

They retreated back down to the hospital’s subbasement. Devon gave Ozzie his head to lead them through the labyrinth of forgotten storage areas and utility rooms.

As always, Devon found the dog to be a better companion than most humans. He wondered if Ozzie felt the same about him, decided that on a list of favorite humans, he fell far behind Esme but probably ahead of Flynn, with Angela and Ryder somewhere in between. For some reason, the thought made him smile.

Ozzie alerted, clearly scenting something more interesting than the stench of mold and decay that filled Devon’s nostrils, his tail arching upright as he padded through the dimly lit concrete-walled corridors, turning without hesitation at intersections.

This part of the hospital was the original building, well over a hundred years old with faded brick peeking through cracked plaster and peeling paint. The overhead lights had been changed from incandescent bulbs—the abandoned housings still lined the ceiling, stark-white porcelain receptacles appearing naked and empty—to suspended fluorescent strips that flickered annoyingly.

Finally, they came to a stop in front of a solid door, dark wood streaked with peeling gray paint. Ozzie sat, tail thumping against the concrete floor, nose tilted to Devon as if waiting for a treat. Devon hadn’t thought to bring any but did spare a moment to crouch down and rub the dog’s head and belly. Ozzie bobbed his head, nodding his muzzle against Devon’s palm.

Devon stood and scraped the small brass plate in the center of the door with his thumbnail. SB24. “Good dog.”

He inserted Lazaretto’s key in the old-fashioned lock. It turned easily—recently oiled, as were the hinges that swung the door open without protest.

Instead of the cobwebs and disuse that permeated the rest of the floor, when he clicked on the light switch, he saw a series of gleaming metal shelves stacked with white plastic jugs of chemicals. Not exactly the revelation he’d been hoping for, but he snapped photos of each label in the hopes that knowing what chemicals Tommaso had been working with might help Louise and Angela re-create his research.

He’d reached the rear of the room when he spotted a door painted to match the wall, hidden behind a final shelf. Curiosity piqued, he rolled the shelving unit aside—not only did it move easily on its casters, the containers stacked on it were empty. The door was locked, and none of the keys on Tommaso’s ring fit.

Devon knelt to examine the lock. Brand new. A Schlage J Series. Tommaso might have gone one better and used a digital or electronic lock, but it would have been bulkier, made the door stand out.

He opened his wallet and slid free a narrow length of steel along with its companion, a stiff piece of wire, from their hiding place in the seams. Picking locks was one of Devon’s natural talents—something he’d found to his advantage when he was a kid and the Royales gang had inducted him. He was the shrimp, the runt of the litter, no match for any of them in a fistfight, but he was smart, fast, and had nimble fingers that could sweet-talk any lock into giving up its secrets.

The Schlage was no exception. The lock clicked open, and he turned the knob. The room beyond was dark. He reached inside, felt for a light switch. Nothing.

Ozzie startled him, nudging the back of his knee and giving a low moan as if warning Devon that he wouldn’t like what he found inside the cave of a room.

Devon ignored the dog’s instincts—even though he was certain Ozzie was right. He stepped into the room, using his cellphone as a flashlight. The bluish glare of the light revealed a woman’s face, twisted and wrinkled, eyes cloudy, tongue protruding from a slack jaw.

He jerked away, hand brushing against an overhead chain. He pulled the chain, and the room was illuminated.

Not one face. A dozen or more. Staring at him from specimen jars where their decapitated heads floated.

DANIEL WAS TRYING
to divert me from the truth I needed, that much I was certain of. What was he hiding? More of Leo’s crimes? But Leo was already dead, would never be punished for any of the murders he’d committed. Why was Daniel so interested in my family? And who was this Francesca he seemed to think I looked like? How could she possibly be my biological mother?

Focus, I reminded myself. I was here to get answers, not find more questions.

“Tell me about Francesca,” I said. The boxwood walls of the maze crowded closer, forcing us to walk single file, me behind Daniel.

“I first met Francesca when I was young.” His tone grew wistful. “My father still ran Kingston Enterprises, so I had more freedom. He’d taken me on a business trip to Europe, wanted to teach me the art of negotiation as he entered into a new partnership.”

I stopped, not caring that we were still lost in the maze. I tried to curb my impatience—after all, if I left without answers, there was no coming back for a second attempt. Which meant Daniel could take all the time he wanted, and I had no choice but to let him. Still, it was so frustrating, knowing the price we paid for any delay. “I’m not interested in your father or Kingston Enterprises. Tell me what I need to know.”

He looked over his shoulder at me, a smug smile playing across his features. “I’m trying to. You need to learn to have more faith in people.”

So said the father of a sadistic serial killer. But I held my tongue and nodded. “Go on. You met Francesca in Europe.”

“My father preferred to do business with established, family-run companies similar to Kingston Enterprises. He hated the idea of allowing stockholders or government regulators to interfere with our business. Francesca’s family is one of the oldest on the Continent. While our fathers met for their business discussions, Francesca and I shared more intimate negotiations.”

I was about to make a snide remark about not caring about his sex life, but from his expression, I knew that was exactly what he wanted. “What was her family’s business?”

That earned me another of his sly smiles. We turned a corner, and the maze walls changed from boxwood to holly with sharp-edged leaves and red and white berries. The sky overhead brightened, but the hedge that held us hostage was still tall enough to keep us in shadows.

“Almanac Care is only one of their many subsidiaries. Francesca’s family deals in power. Over generations they have accumulated immense financial wealth, but more importantly, they hold influence with every major European government. My father wanted to expand Kingston Enterprises into Europe, and the Lazarettos—”

“Wait. Lazaretto? As in Dr. Tommaso Lazaretto?”

“Exactly. Tommaso is—was—Francesca’s son.”

“He killed himself rather than tell us the truth behind the fatal insomnia. But I’m sure he’s the one who infected the children.”

“Of course he was.” He was agreeing to something that not five minutes ago he’d argued against. I held my tongue, let him continue. “But that’s not why he killed himself. He killed himself to protect his family and their secrets.”

“What kind of secrets? Why would they do this? If they run a business, it makes no sense. Prion disease is much too rare to make a profit—” I stopped myself. He nodded encouragingly, which made me suspicious that he was leading me. But it did make sense in a Machiavellian, money-hungry way. “Unless you find a way to make a hard-to-spread, impossible-to-treat, rare disease common. Then it becomes a threat to everyone.”

“And a potential profit-making engine.” Daniel sounded as if he approved of the scheme. Of course he did. His own company had been accused of concealing early warning signs of the Ebola epidemic in order to increase their profit margin on the vaccine they developed.

I stopped. The hedgerow beside me thinned, leaving a gap wide enough for me to spy a gazebo covered in roses and dripping with wisteria on the other side of the maze. “If Francesca’s family wants to spread prions, create an artificial epidemic of fatal insomnia, then that means they must have a cure. There’s no money in it otherwise.”

“It’s how I would do it.
If
that’s their objective.”

Was he baiting me, trying to lead me away from questions about a cure? Or dangling a clue that there was more going on here? I wanted desperately to leave, to escape this ridiculous cat-and-mouse game Daniel had trapped me inside. Riddles inside riddles and not a straight answer in sight.

I grabbed his arm and pushed through the gap in the hedge, pulling him along with me to the gazebo. The holly scratched at me, but it parted miraculously for Daniel, leaving him unscathed. Of course. His mind, his rules.

We sat down on old-fashioned high-backed wicker chairs, the breeze a relief after the claustrophobic air of the maze. “You are going to answer me. Is there a cure for fatal insomnia?”

A tea set appeared on the table between us. Daniel helped himself, carefully pouring tea into a delicate cup, then measuring sugar, prolonging my agony.

“I don’t know,” he finally answered.

“Why did Francesca’s family hire Leo to refine the PXA formulation? What do they use it for?”

I knew what we were using it for—not just to help me slip inside minds, but also to alleviate some of my symptoms, make my fugues easier to manage. And Leo, well, he’d made his own special, highly concentrated form of PXA and used it to torture his victims before killing them. The pain created by Leo’s PXA was so great, he could use it to convince his victims to do almost anything. But the doses required to achieve that level of control invariably left his victims dead or in an irreversible coma.