The Cure Page 20

“Yeah, but destroying the exhibit isn’t going to help.”

  He sat back, exasperated. “Dammit. Nothing.”

  Quinn took a deep breath, then sat back and hugged his knees next to the gray smoked glass.

  “You’re looking a bit intense at the moment,” she said.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “My boss texting me at three AM is not a good sign. For all I know he’s got agents tracking me down right now—if he triangulates my phone, he’ll see I’ve broken into a damn museum in the middle of the night. There’s no explaining that. We have twelve hours max, if not less.”

  Gracie stared at Quinn and an idea came to her. “John Henry Patterson.”

  “Who?”

  “That’s got to be it,” she said.

  Quinn looked at the photo next to him of the man sitting, just as he was, next to the killed lion. “This dude?”

  “Yeah. Oh, Steve. The Halloween party! Of course!”

  “Halloween. Not following.”

  She bent down to his level. “Steve came as Charles Remington to the party a couple years back, and his best friend, Shay, came as John Henry Patterson.”

  Quinn’s eyes lit up. “You think Shay has the damn flash drive?”

  “I think we cracked it.” Grace looked up. “Thank you, Steve, you will always be awesome.”

  They began to exit the display case when Gracie said, “I just realized something. I don’t know Shay’s last name. I have no idea how to find him.”

  “You know where Steve’s house is?”

  “I do.”

  Quinn smiled. “Well then, it’s a good thing you just happen to have an FBI agent lying around.”

  75

  At four AM, Quinn and Gracie rolled into Oak Lawn near the Chicago South Side. They pulled up to one of a row of several similar well-kept bungalows on the long block. Barricade tape surrounded the house.

  Once inside the house, Quinn headed to the computer desk located in a second bedroom that had been transformed into a man cave. On the desk was an open bag of Doritos and a square outline of dust.

  “Crap, they confiscated his computer,” he said, and moved past Gracie toward the outer rooms.

  After about 30 minutes of rifling through drawers, Quinn pulled out his phone and went back into the room with the empty computer desk.

  “I didn’t want to have to do this,” he said, his phone to his ear. “Do you know if he spoke with Shay often?”

  “I don’t think so. Steve didn’t talk on his phone much, at least not at work.”

  “Hey, this is Quinn,” he said into the phone. “I need you to see if you have anyone with the first name Shay in Steve Cotwell’s phone records. I need an address… It’s for the Gracie Green case.”

  After a moment, “I’m here… Okay, thanks anyway.” Quinn put down his phone. “Nothing.”

  “That’s crazy. I can’t believe he never called him. I know he’d drag in some mornings from playing video games with Shay all night.”

  “Video games, huh?”

  Gracie looked over at the Xbox console.

  “What game is in it?” Quinn asked.

  Gracie checked, “Fortnite.”

  “Turn it on.”

  She did.

  Quinn grabbed one of the controllers and navigated to see if he had been playing with any friends. Only one name came up.

  “WilliamWallace10:26,” he said.

  Quinn redialed his contact. “Me again. This might be a tall order, but can you check to see who is registered with Microsoft Xbox for the Fortnite game under the name ‘William Wallace-10-colon- 26?”

  “Who is this magic man on the other end?” Gracie whispered.

  Quinn put his hand over the phone and whispered back. “Owes me about a hundred favors. I found his lost dog for him.”

  “Look at you, hero.”

  He uncovered the phone. “Yeah? Alright. Thanks again, dude.” He lowered the phone and blew out a sigh of relief. “Not even sunrise yet and we’ve got our man.”

  76

  After a two-mile drive, Quinn and Gracie walked up to the three-story flat. Early morning sunlight glowed softly on the horizon, throwing an eerie hue over the dew-stained lawn in front and reflecting off the facing windows.

  Quinn hit the buzzer for Apartment 1B. The old brick building showed signs of wear, but the solid triple brick construction would hold up structurally for another hundred years.

  They buzzed again.

  A tired voice came over the intercom. “Who is it?”

  “Shay?”

  No response.

  “It’s Gracie Green. Steve—”

  The door buzzed and Quinn and Gracie entered. They walked up a flight of stairs and entered the landing area of the middle unit.

  Before she could knock on the door, it opened.

  A head poked out. It was obvious from his matted curly brown bed head that he’d just woken up. But his eyes, hazel, set back in a thick skull with chubby cheeks, were open wide and alert. He had on a well-worn t-shirt with an old-school graphic from The Incredible Hulk hanging over blue and white striped pajama bottoms.

  “Don’t be alarmed,” she said.

  “I’ve been expecting you.”

  She took a breath. “I’m so glad. May we come in?”

  Quinn flashed his badge. “It’s OK.”

  Shay stepped aside to allow them entrance.

  Gracie turned to Quinn. “Would you mind? I’d like a moment alone.”

  “Sure. I’ll be right out here.”

  She entered the apartment and Shay shut the door.

  She told him everything. From the details of Steve’s valiant death to the involvement of her Uncle Bic. When she was done, Shay came forward and hugged her.

  “I still can’t believe he’s gone,” said Shay. “I thought he was just a paranoid maniac. I guess he wasn’t.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Shay went from somber to frustrated. “You know, I never believed this terrorist BS. Steve was a patriot. And you were always on the up and up.”

  “I know. Seeing myself on TV, what they said about us… I’m so sorry for what happened.”

  “Don’t be. I think you know how Steve felt about you.”

  Gracie smiled. “We were, we are, family.”

  Shay pulled open a drawer in his kitchen, then reached underneath it and retrieved a flash drive.

  “Here you go,” he said.

  “Just one?”

  “That’s the HyperX Predator, one terabyte of data.”

  The second Gracie had the data back in her hand, she felt as if she’d just pulled Excalibur from the rock and now had what she needed to win this uphill battle.

  “Password is Guinevere, ‘at’ symbol, then one digit greater than every digit of your phone number, underscore, nineteen.”

  “Got it.”

  “I want you to know I got your back like Steve did. I have an additional copy offline. Just know, if something happens to you, I will not give up until I clear your names. Steve will not be remembered as a terrorist.”

  Gracie hugged him, saying with determination, “When I take these guys down and clear our names, can you do me a favor?”

  “Anything.”

  They separated, and Gracie grabbed onto Shay’s hands.

  Gracie teared up. “I want you to take Steve’s place as King Arthur when we go in front of the Queen of England.”

  “I’d be honored.”

  Shay stood a little taller. “One day a king will come, and the Sword will rise again.” He opened the door and ushered her out with a flourish. “Go thou forth, milady.”

  Gracie exited, and Shay reached for her. As he spoke, he glared at Quinn, affronted that a handsome man was keeping her company rather than Steve. “Remember, there’s always something cleverer than yourself.”

  Gracie reached out for a final goodbye. “You are everything that is right with this wo
rld.”

  Shay stood in awe as he fell under the same Arthurian magic spell that had had Steve so mesmerized.

  The second they were in the stairwell and the door had closed behind them, Quinn asked, “Did you get it?”

  “All of it,” Gracie said, her voice trembling with excitement.

  “Great, I’ve got a plan.” Quinn said reaching out for the drive.

  Gracie put it in her pocket. “Nuh uh. I’m never letting go of my formulas again.”

  “Smart girl,” he said.

  Outside, Quinn scanned down the street, frowning.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Uh,” he said, still preoccupied. “Yeah… no…”

  “What is it?”

  “I just saw a dark Suburban pull around the corner.”

  “Okay.”

  He turned back to Shay’s building, then back to the street.

  “Quinn, you’re scaring me.”

  “It’s alright,” he said. “Probably just a—”

  Shay’s building exploded with a hell-storm of brick and fire. The supersonic blast threw Quinn and Gracie to the ground.

  77

  She tried to pull herself up. Her ears were dead and ringing and her vision was blurred. She felt something wet on her lips. She touched her face and her hand came away coated with blood.

  The building was all but gone. Whatever was left of it was in flames.

  She looked to Quinn who was on the ground, unmoving.

  She crawled towards their car. The driver’s side had been facing the explosion. Fragments of brick and wood jutted out of the sheet metal as if it had sprouted like weeds from within the car.

  Still on her hands and knees, a buzzing ring in her ears, she noticed a pair of large combat boots to her right. A hand snatched her up by her hair.

  The pain was excruciating, but she didn’t give Jaco the satisfaction of a scream.

  The men surrounded Quinn on the ground. He was moving now, and was awkwardly reaching for his gun.

  One of the three men reached down, took the gun as if it had been offered, and placed it in his own pocket. The largest of the military-looking men then kicked Quinn hard in the side.

  Within 20 seconds, Gracie and Quinn were zip tied and thrown into the back seat of one of the two Suburbans that had pulled up behind their car.

  The convoy quickly headed north down the street.

  Gracie found it weird they’d buckled her seatbelt. She also noticed they did not for Quinn, who was still recovering. Gracie wasn’t sure if it was the explosion or the kick to the ribs that got the worst of him.

  “You okay?” she rasped.

  “I’ll make it,” he replied, wincing and short of breath. He opened his eyes and looked at her, blood trickling from his busted lip. “Sorry I couldn’t protect you.”

  Quinn coughed, a rough, grating sound. He shook his head in defeat. Hunched over staring at the floor he mumbled, “I should have known calling the Bureau for the address was a bad idea.”

  “What?”

  “They must have someone on the inside. It’s the only way, given that I all but announced where to find us.”

  From the passenger front seat, Jaco turned back to Gracie. The sun beamed into the vehicle, illuminating Jaco’s deep blue eyes. He held the flash drive up. “You don’t have any nude selfies on here as well, do you? I mean, I’m not judging. I’ll delete them if you do.” His eyes wandered up and down her form. “Or maybe I won’t.”

  “Go to hell, you murderer!”

  Jaco glared at her. “You know, if you’d cooperated just a little, so many people wouldn’t have to die, like your uncle.” He smirked. “Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you. Bic’s a little extra crispy at the moment. Along with that FBI agent buddy of his.”

  “You might as well kill me now,” she said. “Because whatever it is you want, I’m not giving it to you.”

  Like a striking snake, Jaco lurched into the back seat, grabbing Quinn by the throat and clamping his thumb and index finger on his windpipe.

  He waited until Quinn started to gasp for air, then spoke in a calm, vicious snarl.

  “I’ve been killing for longer than you’ve been alive, you little nit. I’ve never failed, and I have the resources of the most powerful people in the world.”

  Quinn’s body gyrated spastically, fighting for breath.

  Jaco gripped even harder, then continued. “Option A, you cooperate. I’m going to sell you and your formulas to the Chinese. You’ll go with them to the land of eggrolls. They’ll give you the best facilities and all the money in the world to continue your research.”

  “Let him go!” she screamed, watching Quinn’s face go crimson.

  “Let me finish. Option B, you don’t cooperate. In that case, I kill your cock buddy right here and now and then cut off your toes one by one until you do agree to cooperate.”

  Gracie looked at Quinn, then at Jaco. “Let him go, you animal!”

  “That wasn’t a no or a yes.” Jaco put a hand to his ear. “Hear that? That’s his brain cells dying.”

  “Let him go!”

  “Option B it is,” Jaco said, his face hardening to pure evil.

  Without warning, a white SUV traveling fast blew through a stop sign at an intersection and struck the Suburban on the passenger side front end. The vehicle’s sheet metal crumpled like tin foil. The glass shattered as the passenger side airbags deployed.

  Jaco’s body smacked into the side airbags as they burst open.

  The Suburban spun around twice as the white SUV’s momentum took it across the intersection and up onto the curb, taking out a postal drop box on the street corner.

  Silence fell on the scene. Both vehicles, front ends at about three car lengths apart, faced each other, hissing softly. The strong smell of burnt chemicals from the airbags permeated the air.

  Quinn was stuffed down on the floorboard, moaning. He was definitely breathing.

  The vehicle that struck them, a white Ford Bronco, now displayed a hood that was buckled so badly you could barely see the windshield. The Suburban sat in the middle of the intersection. Everything seemed to be caught in slow motion.

  “It can’t be,” Jaco said as Bic, like a ghost materializing from across the veil, stepped out of the Bronco, a Beretta in hand.

  In the blink of an eye, Jaco had a shiny .357 magnum drawn. He reached out the already shattered window and unloaded the clip at Bic.

  Bic retreated to the rear as bullets riddled the front of the Bronco.

  The driver of the Suburban hopped out of the vehicle with an MP5. Hiding behind the front fender of the Suburban, he popped up periodically, spraying clusters of rounds.

  “He’s afraid to hit the girl,” Jaco said to the driver. “Stay close to the car.”

  The driver nodded, taking aim at the Bronco, waiting for anything to move.

  Jaco turned back to Gracie. “If you or the cock move an inch, I’ll execute you on the spot.”

  78

  Mack crawled out the rear hatch of the Bronco. “Damn door was jammed.” He crouched next to Bic, weapon in hand. “What now, Kemosabe?”

  “Just make sure you don’t shoot Gracie.”

  “Wasn’t planning to, but okay.” He darted out and fired a shot off to the side, keeping their targets pinned, then ducked back beside Bic again.

  Bic looked at a large tree across the street, flanked to the right of the Suburban, “If one of us can get behind that tree, we’ll have position.”

  “One of us meaning me.”

  “You’re quick, so yeah.” Bic nodded. “I’ll cover you.”

  Mack got in a sprint ready position, then shot out from behind the Bronco like a rocket.

  Bic reached around from behind the Bronco, leaving most of his body covered. He fired, into the front end of the Suburban making enough noise to keep both men pinned down.

  The man with the MP5 popped up and opened fire at Ma
ck.

  Mack dashed across the street, bullets ricocheting off of the pavement inches away from him. Bic opened up on the shooter.

  Mack dove head first in the grass baseball-style, stopping behind the tree as if it was a base.

  Bic, already reloaded, had the shooter pinned down.

  The driver fired at Bic. Mack rolled out from the tree, took aim, and hit the man, first in the shoulder, then in the head.

  Bic stepped out from behind the Bronco and took dead aim at Jaco. Jaco ducked down under the dashboard.

  Bic waved for Gracie to get out of the line of fire, but Gracie, pinned down in her seat, didn’t move.

  Bic walked slowly across the street toward the Bronco, arm extended, staring down the sights and ready to fire if Jaco popped his head up. Mack took aim as well.

  “Unc!” Gracie yelled as the other Suburban came screaming out from the side street. No time to dive out of the way, Bic jumped and rolled onto the hood to lessen the force of the strike. His back smashed into the windshield, the shatterproof glass caught him like a basket.

  The Suburban cut sharply sending Bic flying into the air. He landed in the grass and rolled, stopping next to the mailbox lying on its side.

  The car continued to cut the wheel right, pulling up on the driver’s side of the wrecked Suburban.

  Two men hopped out. One, an MP5 in hand, walked into the middle of the intersection. Gunshots cracked into the air as he shot at Mack to his left, pinning him down behind the tree. On the other side of the street, to his right, the other turned his attention to Bic. Bic dove behind the mailbox. Bullets pelted the solid steel box.

  The second man retrieved Jaco, Gracie, and Quinn, and loaded them into the surviving vehicle.

  Bic, lying down, no weapon, stood. He grabbed the wrecked mailbox and pulled it up from its bolts in the ground. He then charged the man, using the thing as a shield.

  The man in the street shot at Bic. Multiple bullets pounded into the box. The fire then ceased.

  Bic lowered the mailbox. The man lay on the ground in a pool of blood, Mack to his right.

  Bic nodded toward Mack.

  “It was literally nothing,” said Mack. “The dumbass was too busy with you to notice me standing next to him.”