Kill Switch (32 page)

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Authors: Neal Baer

BOOK: Kill Switch
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And then Curtin's eyes filled with tears. Claire turned to Nick, stunned. The man she'd feared, admired, and respected more than anyone else was weeping.
Footsteps came from the hallway, heading in their direction. Nick retrieved his Glock from Sedgwick's belt and moved toward the sound.
“Security,” he said. “Do they carry weapons?” he asked Curtin.
“No,” Curtin replied.
“Then it'll be easy to cuff them and get them out of the way.” Nick bolted from the room as Claire turned back to Curtin.
“You're coming with us,” she said to him. “Can you walk?”
Curtin stood up and walked with agony to Sedgwick's laboratory bench several feet away.
“There's one thing left to do,” he said, pulling a large wine bottle out of a brown paper bag.
“My God, no!” she yelled as Curtin lit a liquid-soaked rag stuffed into the bottle's opening.
Claire ran to Curtin, but it was too late. He picked up the flaming torch and with all the strength he could muster, he tossed it toward the hood covering a laboratory bench.
The bottle shot across the room like a Roman candle, bursting into bright orange flames as it hit Sedgwick's research.
Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!
Bottles of flammable liquids exploded in an array of blues, greens, reds, and yellows, shooting sparks across the room.
“That's the end,” Curtin said, staring at the flames as they spread around Sedgwick's body. “The virus is gone.”
Claire headed toward the men on the gurneys, but before she could reach them, their IV bags exploded into shards of fire. Curtin grabbed her arm and pulled her back as gray, putrid smoke billowed through the room. Claire was coughing, her throat burning.
“They're dead, Claire,” he said. “Leave me here and let me die too.”
“No,” she said. “Not like this.” She pulled Curtin away, his body so light that she felt like it was floating. She reached the door and turned back for one last look.
The laboratory erupted in a gush of flames.
C
HAPTER
30
C
laire looked out the large plate-glass window of the diner on 11th Avenue. A cool autumn breeze was blowing red and yellow leaves down the dark, nearly empty street. She watched as they swirled upward, catching a glint of light from the streetlamp, then floated back to the ground.
Fall had always been her favorite season; she had fond memories of driving with her parents to view the vibrant, fiery autumn foliage at Letchworth, the state park south of Rochester; of rolling with Amy in the piles of leaves her father would rake up in their backyard; of starting a new grade at school, which she loved. For Claire, autumn marked both an end and a new beginning, and never had she needed both more than now.
A sip of her freshly poured decaf quickly brought her back to the present. She returned the cup to its saucer with a grimace; it was her third refill in the half hour she'd been waiting for Nick, and the coffee had long since lost its taste. She remembered sitting in the same booth, at this same diner, the night Charles Sedgwick murdered Maggie Stolls and tried to kill her. She tried to shake the thought out of her head as she glanced impatiently at her watch. Ten-thirty p.m.
Where the hell is he?
It had been a little more than a month since they'd discovered Sedgwick's deadly secret at Biopharix, a month Claire wished she could forget. She had thought Paul Curtin's funeral, just two days earlier at a beautiful, secluded cemetery in Connecticut, would bring her closure. Until she realized there was one more loose end to tie up, a wrong she felt had to be righted for a victim who, like herself and Nick and Curtin, had been sucked into the vortex of this horror over which none of them had any control.
A sudden burst of cold air blowing her way made her look toward the open door of the diner. She noticed he moved more slowly, tentatively, despite the ample light.
His sight is getting worse,
she thought.
Just then, he spotted her. His face lit up in a grin. Claire couldn't help but smile back as he slid onto the seat opposite her in the booth.
“Nice to see you,” Nick said, looking into her eyes.
“You too,” Claire replied, unable to hold his gaze for more than just a moment.
Nick knew why. He knew a sad smile when he saw one. “Don't worry about me. It just takes me a couple of extra seconds to adjust from the darkness to the light. I won't have to worry about that much longer.”
His truth was said not with self-pity, but with an acceptance Claire hadn't heard from him before. She looked up, meeting his eyes again, unable to find the words.
“It's okay. Amazing what a little head shrinking can do,” Nick said.
“You're seeing a therapist?” Claire asked.
A mischievous grin appeared. “Someone once told me people who don't like shrinks are the ones who need them the most,” he said. “Good advice, if you ask me.”
Claire nodded, more than pleased. “What are you doing about your job?”
“It's amazing, actually,” Nick began. “Two months ago they were trying to find a way to get rid of me and put me in prison. Now they're bending over backward so I can stay.”
Claire looked at him, amazed. “How can they let you—”
“I had to turn in my guns,” he interrupted. “But my promotion to detective first grade won't happen until February, and if I stick around, that makes my pension worth a lot more. So they're putting me on permanent desk duty until I can put in my papers. Said it was the least they could do. Seeing that you and I are heroes and all.”
Claire smiled. “Good thing nobody'll ever know,” she said.
The irony was inescapable. In the aftermath of Biopharix, they had been placed in protective custody and debriefed by the FBI, who eventually credited them with preventing the deaths of tens of millions of people, a biological holocaust that no doubt would have occurred had Sedgwick's virus escaped the confines of his lab. They'd been secretly whisked into the White House for a meeting with the president himself, who thanked them profusely, bestowed them with “top secret” security clearances, and impressed upon them that in the interests of national security they could never tell a soul what had happened, lest there be widespread panic.
“The guys on my protective detail told me you were with Curtin when he died,” Nick said.
“I didn't want him to be alone. In his last words he asked me to thank you for everything. And apologize to you for what he did.”
Nick thought for a moment. “Whatever else he did, the guy saved our lives and probably a couple hundred million others. Guess I should be the one thanking
him
.”
Just then, a waitress appeared. “What can I get you?” she asked Nick.
“I'll take a cup of coffee and a buttered roll,” he answered.
She looked at Claire. “More coffee, hon?”
“No, but can I have a scoop of vanilla ice cream?” Claire asked.
“Be right back,” the waitress said, hurrying off.
Nick looked at her, amused. “Vanilla, huh?”
“I was never one to take risks,” Claire admitted. “Before all this, I mean.”
“Well, you asked for this powwow. What's on your mind?”
“Todd Quimby,” she said matter-of-factly, looking into his eyes.
Nick nodded. “I was wondering when he would come up.”
“He was never a killer. He's a victim,” said Claire.
“I know,” Nick replied, wondering what Claire thought he could do.
“Quimby shouldn't be held responsible for what happened. The man was mentally ill.”
Nick leaned across the table, speaking softly and evenly. “And if we tell anyone any of this, they'll lock us up and throw away the key. That's why we were given security clearances. So the feds have legal leverage on us to keep our mouths shut.”
“I understand we can't do anything publically,” Claire assured him. “But I wish there was a way to take the label of ‘serial killer' off his name.”
Nick considered this for a moment, an idea popping into his head. “It doesn't have to be something that can be found out right away, does it?” he asked.
“What do you have in mind?” Claire asked, hopeful.
“I'm still closing out the files on all seven homicides Quimby was accused of,” he said. “The Justice Department wants them sealed but without a paper trail leading back to them. So they got the Manhattan DA to do their dirty work.”
“How long do they want the files sealed for?”
“Twenty years, I think,” Nick replied.
“How does that help us?” asked Claire.
“Before I deliver the files, I can bury a DD5—that's internal Detective Bureau paperwork—in each one, naming Sedgwick as the killer.”
“Will you get in trouble?”
“Probably not,” Nick said. “Nobody's going to read the files before they're sealed, and it'll be twenty years before they're opened again.”
He seemed okay with all of it. Claire looked at him.
“It's not perfect,” Claire said. “But I can live with that.” She paused, took a sip of the coffee she didn't want. “Thanks.”
“You're welcome.”
“What will you do now?” asked Claire. “After you leave the police department?”
“I'll find something fit for a blind ex-cop,” Nick answered. “Maybe a consulting gig. We'll see. So to speak,” he added, smiling.
Claire couldn't help but respect his acceptance of the future that awaited him. “I just want to tell you ... ,” she said, suddenly hesitating.
But Nick read her mind. “I know. It's not going to be as easy as I'm making it sound. But if I need help, I know who to call,” he said, that mischievous grin reappearing.
Claire smiled. “Call anytime.”
 
The staccato
click-clack
of Claire's heels on the mottled concrete floor of Rikers Island reverberated against the muddy-brown cinder-block walls. It reminded her of that first day here with Paul Curtin, and she remembered very well how she'd felt—naked, intimidated, each step reminding her that there was nowhere to hide. Today, however, couldn't have been more different.
“You're sure you're okay?” asked Dr. Fairborn, walking in step beside her.
“Absolutely,” said Claire.
She shot a glance at her new mentor, who was dressed surprisingly nonvampirish in a tasteful blue suit, muted lipstick, and eye shadow that made her look like she was actually from
this
world. Claire knew the reason for her transformation was to prevent distracting patients—or, worse, attracting undue attention from some random inmate.
“I'm glad you're back,” Fairborn said as they reached the door to the inmate interview room.
“Me too,” Claire said, knowing that she was now exactly where she belonged.
“Are you ready, Doctor?” Fairborn asked.
“Yes,” Claire answered without hesitation.
“Go get 'em.”
Acknowledgments
We are deeply grateful to Alfred Goldberg, Professor of Cell Biology at Harvard Medical School, for his guidance in explaining to us
apoptosis
and
programmed cell death
. Any errors are our own.
For eleven years, retired NYPD Crime Scene Detective Hal Sherman served as our technical adviser on
Law & Order: Special Victims Unit
. His willingness to share his expertise in forensics was invaluable.
Our thanks to Dr. James Rosenberg for explaining to us what it takes to become a forensic psychiatrist.
Michaela Hamilton, our editor, gracefully shepherded us from outline to completed manuscript. Her patience and astute editorial suggestions have made this a better novel. We also wish to thank the wonderful Kensington sales force and rights department for the passion they've shown for
Kill Switch.
We would not be writers today without the passionate, indefatigable support of our literary agents at Paradigm, Debbee Klein and Valarie Phillips. We are better writers because of their honesty and we value their friendship more than we can say.
Lydia Wills, our book agent, asked us one day if we had any medical thriller movie outlines that we might want to write as a novel. Fortunately, we did—and that outline became
Kill Switch
. Lydia has prodded us, listened to us, made deft suggestions, and supported us throughout the novel-writing process. There would be no book without her.

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