The Death Row Complex (42 page)

When eight dark-skinned and heavily tattooed men were lined up in front of him, he sighed with relief. Seven of them were men he had never spoken to before. He was sure.

“Number three,” he said quickly.

“Are you sure?” the guard asked. “Take your time.”

“I’m sure. It’s number three. Can I go now?”

In a temporary holding cell within the same building sat the blind, disfigured twin brother of the man who had just been identified. Chuck Morales was quietly tearing his shirt into thin strips and tying them together.

11:00 A.M.
PST

Katrina felt a wave of physical revulsion when she reached her daughter’s would-be killer.

The Doctor looked peaceful as he lay on his back, a halo of shattered white glass surrounding him from the gaslamp he had fallen through. His body rested on the staircase, his head elevated on a higher stair, his legs spilling downward and jutting out at sickening angles. It was obvious that the legs had taken the brunt of his fall.

To Katrina’s surprise, his one remaining eye was alert. When she reached him, he even smiled—a freakish smile that only graced half of his face, the other half paralyzed by the bullet that had passed through his brain.

“Who are you?”
Katrina demanded.

“That’s Guofu Wong,” McMullan said quietly from beside her. “He’s the scientist who wanted to fund your research from the very beginning. He’s also the head of epidemiology from the CDC.”

Katrina tore her hypnotized stare away from the man on the ground and looked at McMullan.
Why?
It was incomprehensible.

She stepped over the man on the stairs, straddling him, and leaned in, inches from his face. Her voice was trembling. “
Who gave you the Death Row strain of anthrax?
” she demanded.

The life in Guofu Wong’s eye was fading, but his grotesque half-smile persisted. With considerable effort, he whispered, “You did, Dr. Stone. It was your activator.” And then the light in his one remaining eye burned out.

11:02 A.M.
PST

The four San Quentin guards made quick work of tossing the cell of Oscar Morales—its contents were sparse. For the most part, the cell was devoid of contraband. Oscar’s cellmate was removed for the event, and Oscar himself stood by, handcuffed and shackled.

The guards diligently checked the usual hiding places—under the inner rim of the toilet, within small cracks in the concrete floor, gaps in the walls. But it was a small slit in Oscar’s mattress that revealed what they were looking for. A wad of cash amounting to almost sixteen thousand dollars. The final piece of evidence that would surely suffice in a reasonable court of law. Even without the testimony of his accomplice.

But the police and the FBI hoped to obtain that as well. Roger Gilman was already on his way to San Diego to try.

Money in hand, a lanky, pale guard approached the prisoner and waved the wad toward him. His accent was pure back-country Mississippi. “This worth it for ya, spic?” he asked. “Sixteen grand an’ a woman who looks like first kin to a yak?”

“I can turn sixteen grand into six million, bitch,” Oscar retorted.

The guard laughed. “Not now, ya can’t. You’re gettin’ the needle, boy.”

In the private holding cell where he had been detained for the last two hours, Chuck Morales finished his handiwork. Guided only by feel, he stood on his chair to grope along the ceiling, periodically stepping down to reposition his chair around the room, until he found an exposed rafter. He tested its strength with a half pull-up. Satisfied, he groped around again until he relocated the table on which he had laid the long, thin, knotted strand that had previously been his own shirt.

Quickly, Chuck tied one end of the make-shift rope to the rafter and the other to his own neck, and kicked the chair out from under himself. The shirt ripped in two from the weight of the thick man, but not before snapping his neck. And the remainder of Chuck Morales’ miserable life was unceremoniously extinguished.

11:04 A.M.
PST

When Katrina finally looked up from the dead man before her, she slowly realized that she was no longer alone with McMullan and the remnants of a family she had known in a former life. Until now, she had failed to notice the entourage of news anchors and cameramen gradually encircling them like a school of sharks. She looked helplessly toward McMullan.

“Don’t say a word,” he said. And then, to the press, “We have nothing to say at this time. Step aside or you’re interfering with an official FBI investigation.” McMullan flashed his badge and took Katrina’s hand to lead her toward a nearby exit sign. Numb, Katrina remained quiet, grateful that he had taken control.

“This way,” Tom corrected, and motioned toward another exit sign. “I’m driving.”

Only then did Katrina realize that their mode of transportation—McMullan’s sedan—was still parked at the convention center. She fell into step behind Tom. Alexis was still in Tom’s arms. The reporters followed like stalking predators.

Tom laid his daughter gingerly into the passenger seat of his Jeep, tipping the seat back to grant as much comfort for his daughter as he could. The teenager was looking increasingly ill.

Katrina and McMullan leaped into the Jeep behind Tom and Alexis.

“Hang on,” Tom said as he started the Jeep’s engine. Without further warning, he tore rapidly out of the parking space and began the downward spiral to exit the parking structure of Horton Plaza. The reporters who had escorted them to the Jeep were now meeting up with their respective vans, which waited like vultures at the 4th Avenue entrance to the structure. Tom did not seem concerned.

Pulling out of the parking structure, Tom surprised all of them by making a left onto 4th Avenue—the wrong way up a busy one-way street. Horns blaring, two oncoming cars parted to avoid crashing into the speeding Jeep, and Tom hit the gas hard to pass between them, then jerked the Jeep to the left to avoid a third car.

Several news vans were left behind, but two remained glued in caravan to his rear bumper, apparently trusting that if an accident occurred the Jeep would take the brunt of it. An even juicier scoop.

McMullan looked over to Katrina with one eyebrow raised. Looking surprisingly calm, she shrugged. “We used to fight about his driving all the time.”

Tom jerked the Jeep to the right and narrowly missed one more car before crashing through a small barrier—the barrier designed to prevent traffic from entering C Street off of 4th Avenue. That stretch of C Street was closed off to automobiles—it was trafficked only by the Trolley, San Diego’s public transit rail.

As Tom’s Jeep straddled the set of Trolley tracks on the right side of the street, the driver of the news van immediately on his tail evidently lost his nerve. The van swerved away and came to a halt, still facing the wrong direction on 4th Avenue. As Tom sped down the Trolley tracks, Katrina turned around to see the defeated news van making a three-point turn in an effort to find the correct flow of traffic. But the other van surged forward and assumed the alpha position behind the Jeep.

“
Watch out!
” McMullan yelled.

Immediately in front of them, an Orange Line Trolley was halted at the stop on the corner of 5th Avenue and C Street. Several cars long, the Trolley blocked the rail on the right side of the street, but it was the pedestrians who were in danger. Dozens of men, women, and children on both sides of the Trolley were crossing over the tracks to enter the waiting train. None of them seemed aware of the speeding Jeep bearing down on them.

Tom laid on his horn and swerved to the left to head down the opposing set of tracks. Startled pedestrians scurried out of the way. And as the Jeep cleared the rear car of the parked Trolley, the characteristic triangle of lights of another oncoming train came into view.

“Jesus Christ!”
Tom yelled. “These things only come every fifteen minutes!” But as he said it, his foot was already pressed to the floor, a deft right hand slamming the Jeep into a lower gear for a burst of speed.

The screech of metal upon metal was hair-raising as the Trolley driver attempted to stop the train from ramming the Jeep speeding directly head-on toward it. A man on the northwest corner of 5th Avenue and C Street dove to the side as the Jeep cut over the sidewalk to turn left, heading northbound on 5th Avenue. A loud clank marked the collision of the train with the overhanging rear bumper of the Jeep, and the bumper was pulled clean off.

The Trolley came to a stop just inches from a halted news van, wide-eyed reporters staring up at the driver of the train. Tom’s Jeep jetted up 5th Avenue, finally in accord with the flow of traffic, and finally clear of the press.

Tom weaved in and out of traffic to pass the cars heading northbound on Fifth Avenue, his three passengers silent. Finally, Katrina spoke. “Where are you going?”

“Where do you think? The hospital,” he said grimly. “We’ve gotta get Lexi checked out, now.”

“No,” Katrina said and both Tom and McMullan swiveled in their seats to look at her. “Not the hospital.” Katrina looked toward Tom. “Trust me. We have to get her to my lab first.”

Tom visibly flinched, but made the necessary changes in direction to get to San Diego State University.

“How do you feel, Lexi?” Katrina asked then. Her voice was clinical but concerned.

“Like ass,” the girl answered quietly. A moment later, Alexis added, “I saw him before.”

“Who?” McMullan asked.

“The guy who kidnapped me. He was getting a drink of water.”

McMullan and Katrina looked at each other and Katrina slapped a hand over her mouth in shock. McMullan began fidgeting with the pockets of his pants.

“Where?” Katrina demanded. “Inside the convention? How did you even get in? You would have needed a badge.”

Alexis shook her head. “It wasn’t inside the convention where I saw him. It was outside.”

McMullan spoke up. “I don’t know what you mean. I was inside the convention and I saw all the water they had for it. I actually collected some bottles”—this part was directed at Katrina—“but I guess I’ve dropped them. They’re gone now.” He paused, an expression of concern clouding his face. “Anyway, I thought all the water for the scientists was inside.”

“Not for the scientists,” Lexi said quietly. Her breathing was shallow and labored. “We had a bunch of carboys set up. The water was for the protestors. The only people who drank it were protestors… except for a few scientists who stopped by to ask us about our cause.”