A Caduceus is for Killing (27 page)

    "Well, it ain't the measles--so, you see. I had no choice, but to help. With the cure, we'd not only stay alive, but go down in history."
    "You still haven't told me why you killed him."
    "He was too volatile, too unstable. He'd never let me live in peace. If his conscience got too heavy, he'd expose me. . ." He picked up a folder and scanned the contents. "I didn't spend half my life in school to end up in prison. You know the rest. But, I need the journal and the formula. I'll be able to start over some-where else. France, maybe. They seem to be interested in cures." His laughter beat against her senses.
    "But the virus, Milton was infected with HIV?" Andrea glanced at the door willing it to open, wishing Gary was behind it.
    "The last sample you spoke about was Grafton's blood. If what you said is true, I'm saved. He'd injected me with his experimental serum. You've made my job very simple from here on out."
    "What's next?" The words slipped from her lips; but, Andrea already knew the answer.
     He rubbed the gun against her temple. "One clean shot in the head." He frowned. "Andrea, you seem worried. Please, don't worry about me, I won't be blamed. I couldn't have done anything, I'm already dead."
    Andrea held her breath and gripped the pen tighter in her hand, so tight her nails cut into her flesh. He knelt down in front of Peter and turned his back to her. "No, my sweet, foolish Andrea. Hardwyn did it. He did everything. He couldn't face being exposed by Milton. The shame of embezzlement. Peter was a convenient red herring, don't you agree?"
    He whirled around and his gaze locked onto hers, then turned back. She slipped off the stool and stood with her back against the counter. Oblivious to her movement, he continued rambling. "It's already obvious Hardwyn killed your friend. She was unfortunate. So beautiful. It's too bad, really."
    He strode to where Hardwyn lay, and toed him with his shoe. "He killed you in a rage. But with discovery eminent, realizing his crime, he couldn't stand the guilt and turned the gun to his own head. His release was final. . .."
    Richard Canfield drifted off into laughter. Diabolical, maniacal chortles. His words hung in the air. She would be next. He'd planned well. No one had any idea he was still alive. If he killed her, Krastowitcz would find the bodies, check the files, find Hardwyn's theft and close the books. Somewhere, this monster would be sipping pina coladas and spending a disease-free rest of his life in luxury. No. She couldn't let that happen. . . somehow.
    Well, she wouldn't let go without one helluva a fight.
    "Richard, whatever you've done, think about it. We've got the cure for AIDS in our hands. Think about what you're doing."
    "Cure? The only thing that will be cured is my lack of funds. When I sell my blood to the highest bidder. What glory. When I do release the cure, no one will remember what happened in insignificant little Omaha."
    Andrea slowly inched toward the door. She jammed her hand in her lab coat. Her fingers closed around a small leather object. She'd forgotten. Milton's journal? The one she'd found at his apartment. Even if it wasn't, maybe he'd think it was, and it might buy her some time.
    "Milton did find the cure. His notes must be somewhere in this room. I'll help you."
    Canfield cocked his head to the side and studied her.
    "Why? You're not going to survive this. You know that don't you? You're stalling."
    "Richard. Please. Let's look for it."
    She searched the room, hoping for escape. Her gaze fell on the incinerator. Files had been stuffed and ignited, but hadn't burned completely. "You bastard! What have you done?"
    Momentarily forgetting the gun, she ran to the incinerator, opened the door, and pulled out smoldering pieces of half-burned paper.
    "You monster." She swore loud and fluently. "This isn't the grant. It's Milton's research notes. The ones we need to complete the journal. You won't be able to decipher it without his daily lab notes."
    Richard stormed over and grabbed the files. "You seem to know an awful lot about his journal. Almost as if you'd seen it."
     She took a deep breath and held up the notebook. If only...Gary... No. She'd never see Gary again.
    "Hand it over."
    Canfield reached for the book, but she stuffed it into her pocket. "No. Not yet."
    "You bitch." He cocked the hammer. "There was only one journal. I searched everywhere and you had it all the time. You could've saved your friend if I'd found it."
    Pangs of guilt swept over her. He was right. If only she'd remembered before. . . Suzanne might still be here, ready to start a wonderful life with Trent.
    Mindlessly, she watched Canfield's ranting with vague interest. His pacing and ranting and gun-waving seemed silly, out of character for a medical student. For God's sake. He was an insignificant medical student caught up in death and greed.
    Certain he would kill her, she noticed no fear, only deep, boiling, raging anger. If she went down, so did he. Her hand still gripped the pen.
    Once before, a long time ago, she'd stood by, helpless. Nine years earlier. . . when Sarah had fallen from the retaining wall.
    Not again. Not this time.
    She wouldn't stand by and let Canfield put a bullet through her brain.
    Dropping the journal, Andrea lunged at him, her right hand poised for attack. Canfield pulled the trigger. In a continuous movement her left hand deflected the gun and went to her bleeding throat. Her right buried the pen deep in his carotid artery.
    His surprised look registered in her brain and she went down knowing she'd reached her target. Still holding the gun, he clawed at the deeply imbedded pen and his fingers squeezed off another round.
    The shot rang out. Krastowitcz and Trent burst through the metal door. Andrea fell to the floor clutching her throat, gurgling for air. An asthma attack? Blood oozed between her fingers. Jesus. She'd been hit. Canfield turned toward the door.
    Krastowitcz recognized the blond face staring at him. Still alive. The crushed head, another body. The man known as Richard Canfield turned toward the door, gun in hand. Blood pulsed from a glistening something. . . a pen? It caught the light, gave him a target.
    Krastowitcz aimed. He and Trent each shot twice.
    Krastowitcz's bullet entered Canfield's mouth and exited the back of his skull. His head exploded, spraying brain matter and blood. Trent's second shot tore into his chest, leaving a gaping crevasse on exit. Before the other two bullets entered his crumpling body, Canfield was dead.
    "Got the bastard," Trent said, a note of triumph in his voice. "Good old hollow-points." His smile drifted away and the weight of his weapon seemed suddenly to great to bear.
    Krastowitcz glanced at Trent, ran toward Andrea, and bent down seeking a pulse. Lying on her side next to Peter, Andrea's hand covered her throat. Was she dead? A coldness filled his chest. Fear. They'd had so little time together. Was it love? If it wasn't then he'd never find it. It hurt too much to be anything else. His fingers palpated the thready beat and he scooped her into his massive arms, pulling her hand from the wound. He noted the crimson river streaming down her neck had clotted into a trickle.
    Somehow, the bullet had missed both her jugular and her larynx. It had gone cleanly through, right under the chin. He pressed a clean handkerchief over the wound. She was in shock, but she was tough. She'd be okay. She clutched a black leather book in her hand, and charred papers fell from her arms. Her eyes, though glazed, brightened with recognition. She spat out a few unintelligible words. The veins in her forehead stood out from the effort to speak.
    "Andrea. . . honey, don't say a word until we get you to the ER. Can you breathe okay?"
    She nodded affirmatively.
    "You'll be all right once we get that bleeding stopped. Then you can tell me all about it. Understand?"
    With a slow nod, she sank into his embrace and released the papers.
         ONLY A FEW MINUTES had passed, but the room filled with people. Krastowitcz's Captain and backups converged on the scene. Trent had ordered an ambulance on his portable radio.
    Two paramedics entered the lab and scoped the situation out. "You don't want us; you need the coroner."
    "Over here," Krastowitcz barked.
    He picked her up and placed her on the stretcher. Andrea lifted her head and pointed toward the notebook amid the papers.
    "Okay, relax. You can have it. I'll bring everything." Krastowitcz lifted her hand to his lips, leaned down, and kissed her lightly on her lips. "You'll be all right," he whispered. "I'll be over in a few minutes." He gazed down at her and his heavy heart throbbed against his chest. They'd have time together, now. He'd make sure of it.
    Andrea nodded and closed her eyes, smiling.
    The paramedics lifted the gurney into position and locked the wheels. Still gripping her hand, he squeezed. "Get her to the ER fast, guys, okay?"
         KRASTOWITCZ BENT TO pick up the files and gazed around the room. His eyes finally rested on Canfield. Undetected, he'd wreaked havoc. Six people dead, others he didn't even know about. Poor, unknown slobs caught up in some sadistic ritual. Only one left, one seriously injured, the one Krastowitcz loved. . . for what?
    Power? Money? A vaccine?
    What about the blood samples? Would they be able to figure out the vaccine from those papers Andrea was so worried about?
    He swore and hoped Andrea could piece it all together. He would've bet his next year's salary it was Hardwyn. The guy smelled guilty. From the looks of things, Hardwyn and Peter got caught in the crossfire. Canfield must've figured they all knew too much. Andrea was simply a means to the end--the journal. Krastowitcz hoped she'd at least have some of the answers. He turned the small leather book in his hand. The journal. Now, she was the only one left who could solve this puzzle.
    There were times when he hated being an investigator. Hated the mounting bodies, hated the pain of grief and guilt. This was one of those times.
    "Hey, Trent?" Krastowitcz slung a massive arm around his friend.
    "Get Iverson over here. Let's get this shit cleaned up and go home."

• Chapter I
  
• Chapter II
  
• Chapter III
  
• Chapter IV
  
• Chapter V
  
• Chapter VI
  
• Chapter VII
  
• Chapter VIII
  
• Chapter IX
  
• Chapter X
  
• Chapter XI
  
• Chapter XII
  
• Chapter XIII
  
• Chapter XIV
  
• Chapter XV
  
• Chapter XVI
  
• Chapter XVII
  
• Chapter XVIII
  
• Chapter XVIX
  
• Chapter XX
  
• Epilogue
  
• Author's Notes