A Shot of Red (13 page)

Mia bit into her bottom lip, unable to think of an explanation. She was running on fumes—little sleep for two nights now, and even less food. Maybe a bit more of both would help her focus. She closed the lid of the safe-deposit box and pressed the button to call Mr. Weiss. Soon, he entered and stepped to the side of the table. Mia caught the faint scent of cigarette smoke beneath a tinge of what she guessed was one of those unisex colognes, neither of which she’d smelled on him earlier.

“May I return the box for you now?” he asked.

“Not just yet.” Mia gestured toward the upholstered chair on the other side of the table. “Would you have a seat for a moment?”

After the slightest raise of his eyebrows, he nodded politely and sat.

“I’d like a printout of the access records for this safe-deposit box dating back to when Mr. English secured it, please.” Mia absently ran her fingers along the smooth, cool edge of the box. She gave him a self-deprecating half smile. “It’s hard to keep track of all the comings and goings when others are involved.”

Because
others
had to be involved somehow. Brent had made it clear to Nora and Mia that she was the only other person who had access to box 312. And it made no sense whatsoever that Brent wouldn’t have left his letter intact, or at least included the missing pieces if it had somehow gotten torn.

Mia rubbed her fingers against her temple. “And please check to see if we have other boxes here. Mr. English has a tendency to scatter—”

“We can only supply information about accounts that bear your name, Ms. Moncure.”

She didn’t care for his tone. “Of course.” She leveled a sharp stare at him. “Isn’t privacy your business, after all?”

One corner of his mouth ticked up further and stopped just short of a smirk. “Indeed.”

Mia continued slowly tracing her fingers over the top of the box. “The records, then?”

Mr. Weiss left the room with an efficient stride and clicked the door closed behind him. Mia had no illusions that she’d learn anything from the access records, but she had nothing to lose by asking for them. And
maybe
there was another safe-deposit box here with her name on it, and the rest of Brent’s letter inside. A long shot, but a shot just the same.

Mia checked her watch and wondered what was going on in the States with the One Shot appearance schedule, the effectiveness of the campaign, the efficacy of the vaccine, the progression of the flu virus. She had to focus on figuring out what Brent had wanted her to know, but it was difficult because she was so worried about everything else, too…including Gio.

She felt as far away from him as she had in Haiti, as if a long separation lay ahead with little chance of reunion. Hopefully he’d kept quiet about Brent’s video, but clearly he and Mia had been on opposite sides on what to do about it. And even if he hadn’t betrayed her confidence, could he forgive her for lying to everyone about the flu? Especially him, since it would take a hell of an immune system to ward off the virus, considering how close they’d been. As far as she knew, he hadn’t been vaccinated, either. Guilt tugged at her conscience, but she’d had no choice but to set it up this way. And now she had no choice but to keep up the ruse, regardless of how worried he might be. About her? She could only hope. But certainly about himself.

Mr. Weiss opened the door and Mia stood. He handed her a one-page printout of the activity associated with safe-deposit box 312. She quickly scanned the page, taking only seconds, since there was so little to read.

Brent had accessed the box once—the day he opened the account and rented the box for a year. Either he’d put the portion of the letter inside on purpose, or someone had tampered with it since then. She looked at Mr. Weiss, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“No additional accounts bearing your name,” he said. The satisfaction in his voice set Mia on edge.

“Good to know. And it would also be good to know who, besides yourself, has access to the safe-deposit boxes?”

A crease formed between his eyebrows, and he lifted his chin. “Only bank managers are authorized to assist clients with safe-deposit boxes.”

“I see.” Mia slung her purse onto her shoulder, weightier now with the gun and the bullets inside. But the puzzle of Brent’s letter was heavier on her mind. “Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Weiss.” She tipped her head toward the table. “I’d appreciate it if you’d put the box away now.”

He locked the box, slid it off the table, and held it flat—no doubt noticing the weight difference, if he’d made note of it at all. While this was unusual business for Mia, it was business as usual for him. He allowed her to exit first, then led her to the vault entrance where she stood outside and watched as he replaced the box in the empty slot. Joining her in the expansive hallway, he reached in the breast pocket of his jacket and offered her a key. “Since you haven’t yet been issued one,” he said.

Mia took the key. “Thank you.” No one needed to know there was nothing left in the box. Better to keep them guessing, since she couldn’t be sure if anyone at the bank had tampered with the contents. At this point, anyone could be suspect, and anything was possible.

She left the bank and headed along the familiar route back toward the hotel, the wind blowing colder and steadier than it had been before.

Within the distance of a block, chills skittered down her spine and the hair on the back of her neck straightened. Not because of the wind or the cold, but because now she was certain someone was following her.

…

Gio sat numbly at his desk, gazing at the most recent statistics Senator Moncure had forwarded from Health and Human Services and the CDC. The death and incidence rates continued to rise precipitously—to epidemic percentages—just as she and Secretary Dartmouth had claimed. And all hell had broken loose in the U.S. today.

After his ride last night, he’d gone back to the office, ready to put in a couple more hours and get some sleep. But Senator Moncure had called with a request that put him on the fast track to an all-nighter—arguably his second in a row, considering how he and Mia had spent the night before. But this one had held a lot less promise for satisfaction.

The senator, Secretary Dartmouth, the director of the CDC, and someone at the White House wanted Gio and his counterparts in those organizations to evaluate their separate epidemic communications plans and come up with a unified one—before an emergency press conference at 11:00 a.m. They might as well have a perpetual press conference set up, as many as they’d had in the past several days, and as many more as they’d have in the days to come. Gio had been exhausted just thinking about the chaos that would ensue with the public freaking out and clamoring for information, the media hyping the crisis, and the government jockeying for a winning position.

But he’d been even more conflicted about withholding Brent’s suspicions about the vaccine. If there truly was a problem with efficacy, and Gio didn’t act, people’s deaths would be on his conscience.

As he and his reliable staff had worked all night, they’d become frustrated as all hell as the hours wore on. Their plan had been the most thorough, complete, and well strategized, yet his counterparts seemed to dismiss it as second-rate since it was devised by “Senate staffers” who didn’t work for agency officials or the president. As dawn had approached, Gio and his staff realized their negotiations were futile, and what might have been the most effective strategies had been left out of the collective plan.

Gio had seen how situations like this had gone down before. His counterparts would take full credit for whatever went right with the plan, but if something went wrong, all fingers would point to him and his staff. It was the DC blame game, and there was always someone playing.

He’d gone through the day on autopilot, laying all the proper groundwork for Senator Moncure’s communications and coordinating them with Matthew, who’d gone to L.A. It would be interesting to see how he’d handle his appearance on
The
Tonight Show
. Gio sighed with a hiss.

His brain was on shutdown, and he’d never heard from Mia.

Chapter Fifteen

Darkness was falling as Mia neared the hotel, more paranoid of every footstep behind her. She’d made her presence known by showing up at the bank. Anyone who’d been following Brent—anyone who’d murdered Brent—could’ve been monitoring his account at the bank, just waiting for activity. Brent had made it clear that he’d been dealing with people who had access to all kinds of information. She had no illusion that what she’d become entangled in involved amateurs.

Mia zipped her casual puffy coat up to her chin, glad she’d taken the time to buy it before she left New York. An icy gust of wind whipped around her neck. She hunched her shoulders and pulled the fur-edged hood onto her head, vowing not to go out again without gloves. Her body shivered from cold, lack of sleep, and hunger. Sleep might come later, but across the street she saw a McDonald’s and a New York pizza restaurant where she could get warm and eat. There were several world-renowned restaurants in Lucerne, but U.S. comfort food appealed to her achingly empty stomach. The thought of pizza had her salivating more than the idea of a burger, so she crossed the street and ducked inside the cavernous, two-story pizza café.

At the counter, she ordered a slice of cheese pizza and a Coca-Cola Light—Switzerland’s version of Diet Coke. She went upstairs to an empty dining area and settled in a booth by the tinted window, hoping that the food and the caffeine would keep her going several more hours. Her time here was limited and she didn’t want to waste it sleeping. She only had a couple of days to figure out what had really happened to Brent.”

And what’s going on with the vaccine.

What could possibly have been going on that someone would kill to keep secret? The launch had seemed to go smoothly, with few reports of adverse events outside of the expected symptoms some people experience after getting a flu shot. Maybe Brent’s suspicions had actually stopped some sort of plan from being implemented, and whoever was responsible didn’t want the threat of him as a whistle-blower.

After the first few bites of pizza, Mia pulled the sliver of Brent’s letter from her purse and scanned it again. Whatever had been going on, Matthew had been in the middle of it. Brent had mentioned him twice in only a third of the letter, and written that her brother had been in Lucerne. She chewed the doughy pizza crust slowly, hating to think this could turn into another divisive issue between her and Matthew. Maybe Lila could be her source for the Moncure Therapeutics intel, but Mia worried that it would ultimately involve Matthew, who’d never been short on excuses for anything wrong he’d ever done.

She took a sip of Coca-Cola Light, immediately feeling guilty for jumping to conclusions about her twin. But most times when she’d given him the benefit of the doubt, she’d been burned. Even so, Matthew could’ve just been in Lucerne on vacation. She had no idea about a lot that had gone on while she’d been in Haiti—and that was part of the problem. Guilt tugged at her conscience. If she hadn’t fled to Haiti, would any of this have happened? She would’ve been around and alert to the goings-on at Moncure Therapeutics. It was hard to say what would’ve become of her relationship with Brent, but she’d like to think they would’ve at least stayed friendly and been able to effectively work together. He would’ve told her about his suspicions, and maybe he’d still be alive.

The pizza and soda had given her a little more energy. Despite the cold and growing darkness, Mia decided to check out one of the places Brent mentioned in his letter. It was only a short walk to the Spreuer Bridge, one of several footbridges that connected the city, crossing the river Reuss. She pulled up a map on her phone to make sure she’d remembered exactly which one it was—the one near the Museum of Natural History where Lila and her father had taken her to see the Dragon Stone.

The Moncure family had always been dedicated to preventing disease and healing people, with their business firmly based on science. But they’d also been fascinated by myths. Mia’s dad had told her the story of the Dragon Stone when she was a little girl, fascinated by fairies, good witches, and friendly magic dragons. For a time, her favorite bedtime story had been about a farmer named Stempflin—a name Mia still had trouble saying. Her dad used to joke with her, “Say that three times fast.” Every time she’d tried, her lips had gotten into a tangle and she’d ended up in a fit of giggles.

Mia left the restaurant and headed toward the bridge, snow-capped Mount Pilatus looming in the distance. In medieval times, people believed that dragons with healing powers lived in the mountain’s rugged clefts and crevices. According to lore, in the summer of 1421, a powerful dragon flew to the mountain and landed so close to Farmer Stempflin that he fainted on the spot. Mia’s dad had always pretended to faint dramatically when he came to that part of the story. She’d shake him and say, “Wake up, Daddy, wake up! Finish the story!” Her heart tumbled thinking how she’d been tempted to do the same thing when she’d seen him in his casket after he died. She wished he were here with her now, finishing their story.

Her thoughts veered back to Farmer Stempflin. When he regained consciousness, he discovered a lump of coagulated blood and a dragon stone that he claimed had healing powers. In 1509, his claim had been officially confirmed. Mia remembered how her dad had always ended the story… “And people were well and happy all over the land.” He would grin and she’d wait for the best line of all. “And they played flügelhorns.” She’d imagined them to be like the instruments Dr. Seuss characters played, and that always made her smile.

“Sleep tight, sweet girl,” her dad would say. “And dream about magic flügelhorns.”

Mia hurried up Pfistergasse and cut between the history and natural history museums, emerging at the foot of the Spreuer Bridge. The frothy waters of the river Reuss rushed beneath it and past the Needle Dam that, operated by hand, amazingly regulated the level of Lake Lucerne with a system of wooden posts. Mia shuddered to think about needles that size.

On the covered bridge a young couple leaned against its waist-high wooden walls, gazing out at the city. An older woman carrying a worn shopping bag hobbled past. Mia saw no one else on the bridge in the muted light beneath the thick-beamed gables.

The paintings on the Spreuer Bridge…

Mia looked up at one of the many triangular paintings mounted beneath the gables of the bridge. At the sight of a skeleton, the name of the collection of paintings rushed back to her with a thud of her heart and the racing of her pulse.

Dance of Death…

She walked beneath the gables, her nerves prickling as she viewed the paintings. Each depicted a macabre scene where Death, represented as a skeleton or the Great Reaper, urges the living to dance with him—to die. In the medieval paintings, Death didn’t discriminate between old and young, churchmen and laymen, rich and poor. Mia slowly stepped beneath one painting, then the next, reading the text at the base of each one, her steps eerily reverberating through the planks beneath her feet.

Facing death, all are equal:

The rich man will not escape his fate…

Neither will the beautiful lady…

The fisherman…

The mighty abbot…

Nor the clergyman.

Mia hadn’t remembered the paintings. But now that she was seeing them again, she recalled their tour guide from years ago saying that those types of paintings could be found all over in late medieval Europe, often on cemetery walls. They represented death’s indiscriminate reach, especially during epidemics.

The bridge veered right and she followed it, haunted by the ghoulish skeletons in the paintings. Every few yards, another one came into view. Why had Brent mentioned these paintings? Having seen enough of them, she walked over to the side of the bridge, propped her elbows on the wooden ledge and gazed at the lights of the beautiful old city that held so much mystery. Below her, the river churned and frothed where the current near the dam was strongest. Maybe the paintings had given Brent the premonition that he was going to die. She needed the rest of his letter to really know, and even then she wondered how clear it would be.

A gust of frigid wind blew her hood off her head and swirled around her neck. The chill reached her bones. Fatigue had started to set in again. The walk back to the hotel wasn’t long, but she had no clue where she’d find the energy for it. She pulled her hood back on, propped her elbows on the rail and rested her head on her forearms. If it wasn’t so achingly cold, she could sleep right there.

Suddenly, a viselike grip clamped around her knees and waist.

Fireworks shot through her veins. Mia cried out, trying to kick, but her legs were tightly restrained.

Oh, God…

She punched behind her but her fists barely skimmed her attacker as he lifted her with ease. Panic gripped her.

Gun…

Mia grabbed for her purse just as her attacker pitched her off the bridge. Her body jolted on impact with the angry river, stealing her breath as she plummeted into the hellish cold. She instinctively gasped for air, but choked on water. Coughed out gurgling bubbles. Sucked in another mouthful of briny water. Coughed out her last bit of breath.

Drowning…

She flailed, kicking toward the surface. Desperate to draw a breath.

Freezing…

Still anchored to her shoulder, the straps of her purse tugged her into the current. Mia fought the pull. She struggled to free herself from her purse, then had flashes of what was in it…

My passport.

Brent’s letter.

My wallet.

The gun.

She clutched it close as she kicked her feet, emerging from the water, gagging and sucking in air before a swell washed over her.

Suffocating cold.

She had to swim, but her muscles were weakening quickly. Little coordination. Less strength. She kicked frantically, breaking the surface to catch another breath and treading water to try to float with the swells.

“Help!” she called, the sound of her cry muted by the rushing water.

On the peak of a swell, she caught sight of a water-access ramp with railings in front of a maintenance building yards away. If she could fight the current, she might be able to reach it. Going with the current would take her under the bridge and out into more open water.

Certain death.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. She sucked in a precious breath just as another swell washed over her head, the crushing cold disorienting her.

Think!

Go toward the building.

She tried to swim but her purse slowed her down. The current dragged her out, but if she could keep her pace, she might reach the ramp before it was too late.

Mia’s breaths stuttered, her lungs never filling. Her limbs weighed like anchors and she lost momentum. No way was she was going to reach the ramp railing in time.

Panic nearly paralyzed her.

I’m going to die!

Would someone see her in the water and call for help? She started to feel drunk, and to wonder if the struggle was worth it.

Gio…

The thought of him came out of nowhere. She may never see him again if she gave up. With all the energy she could muster, she furiously pumped her arms and legs, pushing through the current toward the ramp. She’d have one chance to grab the rail before the current swept her under the bridge. One more surge toward safety.

She reached for the rail, clinging to it for her life, but it was slippery as ice. Her fingers slid along it as another swell splashed over her, pushing her head forward and scraping her jaw against the jagged concrete. She’d nearly lost touch with the rail when her fingers caught in the cleft of a cross joint. Locking on to it with a death grip, she pulled herself out of the water, her purse hanging like a weight from her shoulder.

Mia gasped for air, but her breathing became deeper. She trembled uncontrollably. Should she go to the hospital? Call the police? There were no lights on in the dam maintenance building, so there was no sense knocking on the door. She unzipped her purse and pulled out her gun, amazed it had stayed mostly dry. Running on the rush of adrenaline, she hurried up the ramp, legs trembling, and found an access route to the bridge. With her gun in her coat pocket and her finger on the trigger, she hugged her purse in front of her and took off toward the hotel. Whoever had thrown her in the river was still out there, and he could be around any corner, hiding in any shadow.

Every time her boots struck the pavement it sent an aching shock up her legs, but she kept running. Freezing. Her gasping breaths visible in the darkness.

Until recently, she’d thought of Lucerne as a city of fairy-tale turrets, covered wooden bridges, flower boxes, and frescoed buildings at the foot of a majestic mountain where dragons once lived. But suddenly, the magic had turned black.

…

Mia was too freaked out to care about the sidelong looks people gave her as she rushed through the hotel lobby soaking wet, and stood shivering on the elevator as it rose to the top floor. Back in her room, she immediately flipped the dead bolt and the safety latch on the door as soon as it closed.

She dashed into the bathroom and tossed her damp purse in the sink. Her chest tightened as she started water running for a hot bath. The idea of being submerged again, and the sound of the rushing stream, sent another tremor of fear vibrating through her. She left the water flowing, went back into the room and checked every place a person could possibly hide—the armoire, under the bed, behind the curtains, out on the balcony. A glance at Mount Pilatus’s eerily lit snowcapped peak had her wondering if someone had thrown Brent off a mountain ledge, just as they’d pitched her off the bridge.

She’d been the lucky one. She had survived.