Panacea (6 page)

“So we still don't know what he was growing.”

Phil looked at her. “Really? You think he was growing geraniums or something? He had big light racks. It's an indoor pot farm.”

She wasn't convinced. “
Cannabis sativa
grows how tall?”

“Eight, ten feet. Oh, I see what you're getting at: Too tall for a trailer. But these were probably seedlings he was getting started to transplant somewhere else. Or maybe some shorter strain. You won't believe the hybrids some of these pot farmers are developing these days.”

Laura shook her head. “Don't they know GMO is politically incorrect?”

She'd heard of cannabis hybrids. But something about this didn't sit right.

“Forget the plants,” Phil said, reaching for the plastic sheet on the ground. “They just go to motive. Check out the vic.”

A male corpse lay facedown on the ground. His T-shirt had been sliced open to reveal a strange tattoo in the center of his back.

As she squatted for a closer look, she noticed other tattoos running up and down his arms, which lay straight at his side, palms up. That was how she saw the number scrawled on his palm.

536

It didn't look like a tattoo. When she noticed the cap of a black Sharpie protruding from the back pocket of his jeans, she had a pretty good idea how it got there. How long ago had he written that? Might be nothing, might be the last thing he did before his death. She turned her attention to the tattoo.

Phil said, “Are you thinking what I'm thinking?”

“I'm thinking I am,” she replied.

Yes … this certainly shared features with what she'd been able to discern on the back of the burn vic.

“Is that the caduceus or whatever you mentioned?”

“No. But neither was the other one, and what we could see of the burn vic's tattoo was missing the same features. This is the same size and looks to be the same variation on the caduceus, which means…”

“… the vics are connected. And owing to the similarities of the crime scenes, the deaths are connected.”

Laura rose to her feet. “I think that's a safe assumption, Sherlock.”

He popped his neck again. “Hot diggity.”

Laura had to laugh. “I don't believe I've ever heard anyone say that.”

“Something my grandfather used to say.” He rubbed his hands together like a miser contemplating wads of cash. “The joint task force is going to want to hear about this: new gang in town.”

“That's a bit of a leap, isn't it?”

“Not at all. Two growers with matching tattoos, both murdered among their plants—”

“Hold on now with the murder bit. I couldn't find a cause of death on the first.”

“But you will. I have faith in that. And in both cases the rival gang committed arson to destroy the evidence. Drug-related felonies galore.”

She didn't know where the rival-gangs idea came from—probably just frosting on Phil's story—but no question about the felonies.

She stared at the body of the dead grower. Despite the colorful tattoos on his arms and shoulders, the black lines of the snake and the staff stood out.

Wait … staff? That looked more like a bone … like a femur. And what was with the shooting star? She'd have to do some digging online after she'd posted him tomorrow.

She sure as hell hoped she could find a cause of death for this one.

 

8

In East Meadow, Nelson pulled into the parking lot of an assisted-living facility run by the Catholic church and called the Advocate. Ceil, the receptionist in the lobby, recognized him and said, “He's in the common room.”

He found Uncle Jim in his wheelchair playing pinochle. Some sort of jury-rigged clamp attached to his paralyzed left arm held his cards. He tossed them on the table with his good right.

Uncle Jim … At age seven, after Nelson's parents were snuffed out in a head-on crash on the Jersey Turnpike, he'd had no one. So he'd wound up in the care of Child Protective Services with a round-robin of foster homes looming in his future. Then a man calling himself James Fife showed up—his father's brother, older by two years. He'd never known he had an uncle. Apparently the two of them had had a catastrophic falling out before Nelson's birth and hadn't spoken since.

James had himself declared executor of the estate and moved Nelson into his Brooklyn apartment where he raised him like his own son. His boyhood lacked any and all frills except the live-in housekeeper who saw to his daily needs during his uncle's frequent absences. But Jim always brought Nelson interesting little artifacts when he returned from his trips.

As Nelson grew, Uncle Jim taught him the lore and the ways of the Brotherhood.

Nelson owed Uncle Jim everything—
everything
.

“Nelson?” Jim said in a slightly slurred voice as he looked up. His smile didn't reach the left half of his lips. “What brings you here at night? Everything okay?”

“Everything is finally right. Can we talk?”

“Sure. This hand should put me and Jerry over the top. Meet you in my room as soon as I'm done.”

Nelson had to cut through the lobby to reach Jim's quarters. He noticed someone different at the reception desk.

“Where's Ceil?”

The new gal looked up from her rosary beads and said, “Just left. Her shift was over.”

Nelson nodded at the beads in her hands. “Nice to see such devotion. Not enough people say the rosary anymore.”

“I'm flying to California tomorrow,” she said with a shrug and a smile. “I'll need all the help I can get.”

“I'm glad to have a good Catholic working in a Catholic facility.”

Another shrug. “I don't know how good I am, but I am a Catholic.”

Interesting, Nelson thought. “In what way might you not be so good, may I ask? Do you go to church every Sunday and on the Holy Days of Obligation?”

“Oh, I do all that, but I just can't get behind some of the stuff the pope says.”

Uh-oh. He ran into these folks all the time, but rarely were they saying the rosary.

“Like what?”

“Well, you know, birth control, like the pill. I don't believe—”

“You don't get a choice what to believe,” Nelson snapped, feeling his ire on the rise. “The Catholic faith is not a Chinese menu—‘I'll take that one from column A and these two from column B.' No-no. When the pope is speaking on matters of faith or morals, he is infallible.”

She blinked. “Yeah, but—”

“There is no ‘but.'” He was aware of his voice rising. “If you don't believe in papal infallibility, you aren't a Catholic. You'd do better calling yourself an Episcopalian or maybe a Presbyterian, because you most certainly are
not
a Catholic! Which means you're wasting your time with those beads, so put them away. Or better yet, give them to a
real
Catholic!”

With that he stormed away.

He managed to calm himself by the time he reached Jim's room. The “room” was more like a studio apartment with a full bath, a small kitchen equipped with a little fridge and a microwave, an electric bed nestled in the rear section, and a small sitting area at the front. Jim might have been able to live on his own, but it wouldn't be easy, what with his left side totally useless. He had no family but Nelson, who would have been glad to take care of him. But Jim wouldn't hear of it. He'd found the Advocate, moved in, and was adamant that he liked it here. They served three meals a day down in the dining room, they cleaned his quarters, made his bed, changed his sheets, and he'd made a lot of friends. They bused him to the local Catholic church every Sunday to hear mass.

As basic as it was, the Advocate was not a step down from how he'd lived before the accident. Despite a decent income from the Company, he'd stayed true to his vow of poverty and always lived below his means—like the monk he was.

The Lord does everything for a reason,
Jim kept saying.
I'm in His hands.

Because he was injured while on assignment, the Company paid the monthly fees. Twenty years now … the injuries fell into the “shit happens” category: The police report had said a teenage girl applying mascara behind her steering wheel ran a stop sign and plowed into him as he crossed a street in Salt Lake City, of all places.

James Fife was why Nelson had joined the CIA, and why he had become a member of the 536 Brotherhood monastic order. He'd inculcated the truth behind the Scriptures in Nelson from the moment he entered his care. But though the Brotherhood was a cenobitic order, dwelling—or perhaps hiding—in plain sight in the community, his uncle was fond … No, that wasn't the right word.
Attached
was better. Uncle Jim was attached to the old ways.

Nelson would never forget the day he found Uncle Jim scourging himself. He'd gaped at the bloodied flesh of his back as his uncle explained that through the course of Nelson's life his faith would be tested by both the Serpent and the Lord Himself. He would have to be strong to pass those tests. The scourging was a form of discipline, but also punishment in advance for future lapses.

Nelson had never been able to bring himself to engage in the scourge. For that reason, perhaps, he would never ascend to the head of the Brotherhood as his uncle had.

The abbot of the 536 Brotherhood wheeled himself through the doorway. All the other members of the Brotherhood called him “Prior.” Nelson called him Uncle Jim.

“Well, Nelson, you certainly did a good job upsetting Mavis.”

“Who?”

“The late-shift receptionist.”

“Oh. The apostate.”

“You can't hold everyone to our standards, Nelson.”

“I can if they call themselves a Catholic but are anything but.”

“Let's drop it, okay?” Jim smiled. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Nelson took a deep breath. Right. He had not come here to argue with a lowly receptionist. He had something so much more important. His hands trembled with anticipation as he pulled the vials from his pocket.

“These.”

Jim's eyes went wide. “Is that…?”

“Just found them hidden in a panacean's home.”

Jim reached out a shaky right hand.

Just don't drop it, Nelson thought as he placed one in his uncle's palm.

Jim held it up to the light, a look of wonder suffusing his lopsided features as tears filled his eyes.

“This is it … really it?”

“Yes.”

“Praise the Lord.”

Nelson felt his throat thicken and tears start in his own eyes … so proud to be able to offer his uncle this moment.

“The essence of evil,” Jim whispered. “After all these years … with our dwindling numbers and resources, I was beginning to fear I'd never live to see the day.”

Nelson knew what he meant. The Brotherhood had once numbered in the thousands, but times had changed. The world became more secular as science pushed God farther and farther away. The quiescence of the panaceans hadn't helped. The Brotherhood existed to oppose them, but with no visible opponent, their ranks had dwindled until they now numbered fewer than two hundred worldwide. Those brothers were well placed to act in case the panacean threat returned—which it had—but still …

“I know it's been looking grim,” Nelson said, “but you never lost faith.”

“I confess that it wavered at times. We were never assured victory. And we still haven't won.”

“Not yet, no.” Nelson pointed to the vial. “But that is going to lead me to the source so I can remove this scourge once and for all. I just wish…”

Jim's gaze flicked toward him. “What?”

“I just wish you could be with me … at my side when we win.”

“That is not God's plan, apparently.”

“As you've always told me, we can't know God's plan. Maybe He let me find two vials for a reason … maybe the extra is meant to heal you.”

Jim shoved the vial back into Nelson's hands. “No. Never.” His expression turned angry. “Why do you tempt me like this?”

“I'm not. I … I simply thought you deserved the option.”

“To what? Circumvent God's plan?”

“No, of course not. I meant to get back in the fight, back to doing the Lord's work.”

“The Lord is testing me. Haven't you been listening all these years? Every affliction has a purpose, every trial is part of His Divine Plan. You've disappointed me terribly, Nelson.”

“Sorry. I—”

Jim stared off into a corner of the room. “Leave me now. And take those abominations with you.”

Crushed, Nelson pocketed the vials and turned to leave.

“Finish this, Nelson,” said his uncle behind him. “You were put into my care for a reason. I was struck down for a reason. Everything in our lives has happened so that you could finish this battle. God has chosen you as his instrument, his sword. Do not let him down.”