After he read Saddiq’s file, he regretted sending off the material so quickly. Saddiq was a very dangerous man, and he probably had contacts to help him avoid being prosecuted for Brandon’s murder. Nothing was ever simple.
After a stint in the military distinguished by careful and methodical performance, the man had worked for the CIA. He wasn’t a full-time employee, but rather a contractor employed in an unnamed capacity at different times and in locations throughout the world. He received strong recommendations for his thorough and painstaking work. The file didn’t say what he had done, but Joe was willing to bet that he was a contract killer. If so, a logical assumption was that the CIA had hired him to kill Rebar, and maybe Joe. If so, the information he’d sent might have placed Torres in danger, just as he had Brandon.
He and Edison barely noticed the next train as it swept by in a cloud of noise and vibration. The most important thing was that his beer-can antenna didn’t lose its Wi-Fi connection. The can was better than he could have hoped. Well, this kind of stuff always worked for MacGyver.
Joe searched the file for Saddiq’s next of kin. Both his parents were dead. He was unmarried, no children. The file listed a single name for next of kin: Erol Saddiq.
A rock dug into Joe’s butt, and he lifted up an inch to move it, careful not to disturb Edison’s warm head resting on his lap. The dog snored. He’d had a rough day.
A quick search showed that Erol Saddiq lived in an expensive home for adults with special needs in Oyster Bay on Long Island. A hired killer with a handicapped brother. Joe squelched his feeling of pity. Nothing had slowed his hand as he’d killed Brandon, leaving Brandon’s brother to fend for himself.
Still, he spent a few minutes studying the home’s web site. It was set in a former mansion, with most of the facilities in the main house, including beds for residents. Other residents shared housing in converted stables, carriage houses, and servants’ quarters. They wore GPS bracelets and were provided transportation to jobs in the area. It looked like Erol Saddiq lived in comfortable circumstances.
Perhaps he might provide a link to his dangerous brother. A few keystrokes later, and Joe had cracked his email account. Like far too many people, Erol’s password was secret. He exchanged emails with one person — his brother, Ozan.
Joe skimmed them. It looked as if Ozan loved his brother. He sent him seashells from around the world, and a local bakery delivered a bunch of cookies for him every Friday night. If Ozan was there, the brothers would eat cookies together and watch movies. If not, Erol ate cookies and watched movies with a member of the home’s staff named Melanie. The emails were sweet, but it didn’t change the fact that Ozan was a cold-blooded killer.
The last email was most interesting.
Dear Erol,
I won’t be around this Friday. I’m sick with a fever. But don’t worry. I am taking good care of myself and will be better soon. I know that you and Melanie will have a fun time.
Your brother,
Ozan
Ozan was sick, as Rebar had been. Was it coincidence?
Joe closed his eyes. He didn’t feel sick. Tired, sad, and frightened, but not sick. Even if Rebar or the train car had some mysterious disease associated with them, Joe had barely come in contact with either. He was fine. Fine.
Fine or not, he needed to know more about why Rebar had been ill. If Joe had had contacts at the police department, he could have tried to ask for the autopsy report, but he didn’t. He didn’t have the system access to hack in and steal it, so that meant he was going to have to find a different route to that information.
He’d have to break in to the morgue.
Chapter 23
Dr. Dubois crutched into the room. The lab’s blinds were half open, and stripes of sunlight overlay the clean countertops and polished equipment. All the chemicals had been returned to their glass-fronted cabinets, every bit of glassware clean and put away where it belonged, because his assistants had known he was coming. He ran a tight ship.
He drew in a deep breath of air that smelled of formalin and disinfectant. It took him back years, to his days as a lab assistant first exploring the mysteries of biology, fascinated by how most of our lives were determined by forces too small to be seen by the naked eye.
Because he had ordered everyone out, the lab was empty. He relished the solitude and the order. Too much of his life these days was taken up with people and meetings and paperwork. He was a victim of his own success.
He so rarely got a chance to do hands-on work anymore. Usually, his assistants handled such work for him, but this specimen he needed to see for himself.
The sample case lay on the matte-black countertop, cardboard box still sealed on all sides with tape. It had been hand-delivered to the lab that morning. He slit the tape and pulled out a Styrofoam box. It had been well packed. Dr. Dubois lifted the Styrofoam lid and removed a simple glass jar surrounded on all sides by cooling gel packs. Per his instructions, it had not been frozen. Inside the jar, pinkish-beige tissue quivered like a lump of jelly.
He held the glass container to the light. Some decomposition had occurred, but the sample looked better preserved than he’d dared hope. It must have been taken shortly after death and quickly packed away. What he sought could survive a long time, even at room temperature. A full brain would have been better, but he had more than enough tissue for what he needed. He set the jar carefully on the countertop.
He drew a brand new scalpel from a drawer, unwrapped it, and placed it next to the jar. The sharp steel blade gleamed in a shaft of sunlight. Long ago, he’d had his own set of scalpels, regularly sterilized, but in today’s throwaway culture, it was easier to buy single-use ones. This refined piece of equipment might make only one cut before being discarded.
Next he pulled a box of glass slides and cover slips from a nearby drawer. They, too, would only see a single use. He located a pair of reusable tweezers and put them next to the scalpel. His tools were all in place.
Although it wasn’t strictly necessary, he put on a pair of latex gloves and a face mask that heated up with the first breath. It felt like dressing up for Halloween. He smiled — nasty tricks or clever treats, there were some of each to be found in this special sample.
The jar proved difficult to open, and he remembered again the small man’s deceptive strength. Eventually, the lid budged. A quick turn, and he had free access to the ruthlessly gathered sample.
He dipped a gloved hand into the glass container and pulled out a clot. The tissue felt cool and soft through his glove, like aspic straight from the refrigerator. On one edge sat a darker mass, perhaps a cyst.
He set the sample down on the counter and picked up the scalpel. With controlled, deft movements, he sliced the potential cyst into thin samples and placed the first one on a slide with tweezers. Tenderly, he placed the cover slip on top, as if tucking in a baby.
Trying to control his rising excitement, he took a deep breath, studying the new slide that he held flat between his gloved thumb and forefinger. It contained a sample that he’d never thought he would see.
He clipped the slide under the microscope’s lens and focused the eyepiece. As the slide came into sharp relief, he stopped breathing. There it was. Even at this magnification, he could see the sample teeming with parasites — parasites he had put there.
He stared down at the swirling mass.
The last troublesome link to the 500 series was severed. Subject 523 had come back to him. The doctor was safe.