Coldwater Revenge by James Ross (best e reader for android .txt) 📕

if the toxin in the rosary pea can be aerosolized, it could be a mass killer. The manufacturing challenge is that abrin, like anthrax or ricin, is nearly impossible to work with safely outside of a lab environment. It has to be mixed with some sort of carrying agent, and in the process the person doing the mixing and packaging has to be careful not to inhale, ingest or let any of it come in contact with an open cut.”

“And that box solves the problem?”

“If it’s what I think it is, Pearce probably received the ingredients in sealed containers, placed them in the box, immersed the box in water and opened the containers under water inside the box, using the rubber gloves fitted into the side. That way nothing could escape into the air for him to breathe during the mixing and repackaging process. Low-tech, but effective.”

“So how did my brother get exposed?”

“Perhaps Mr. Pearce didn’t fully appreciate the danger of what he was working with. Maybe once or twice he decided to skip the cold swim and do his work inside. He wasn’t a trained scientist, I take it.”

“He barely made it out of high school.”

“If he didn’t follow the procedure and use that underwater mixing contraption, and if he did some of his mixing up there in that boathouse loft, then anyone who has been in there since then could have become infected by any residue that remained there. Your brother told me that he investigated the premises shortly after Pearce’s body was recovered.”

“There’ve been a few people up there since then.”

Dyer eyed Tom’s bandaged head and hands. “You?”

“Last night, or early this morning. I’m not sure of the exact time.”

“Anyone else?”

“Pearce’s sister.”

“The woman who owns this property?”

“Who also works in the NeuroGene lab.”

“I see. Wait here.” Dyer walked over to the trailer and spoke to one of the men standing outside. When Dyer returned, Tom asked, “So you’re saying Pearce could have done all this mixing and packaging down in the boathouse, either under water in that box, or if he got lazy and didn’t follow the procedure, up in the loft?”

“That’s right. And from the autopsy report, it’s obvious he did get lazy.”

“Okay. But he didn’t die from abrin. He drowned.”

“So the autopsy said. But he was a very sick man when he did. Your brother told my colleague who escorted him to the hospital that he saw Pearce just a few hours before he died. The visible symptoms your brother described are consistent with abrin toxicity.”

“Did you find anything that might help identify who killed him?”

“‘Who,’ is not why I’m here.”

Tom stiffened. Maybe it wasn’t Dyer’s job or nature to care who killed Billy Pearce. But Billy’s Montreal pal was right. No one should die the way Billy did.

“Look, I know that sounds harsh. But person or persons unknown have almost certainly been using this location to assemble lethal compounds for the purpose of committing mass murder. I’m here to find the source of their raw material and seize it.” He folded his notepad. “By the way, a message came through for you up at the command post a few minutes ago. Your brother wants you to call him at the hospital. He says it’s urgent.”

* * *

Tom walked up to the main house, avoiding the two men in stenciled windbreakers guarding the front door. Retrieving a brass house key from a hiding spot that had apparently not changed in a decade, he let himself into the house by the side entrance near the kitchen. Away from prying eyes and ears, he called Joe.

“Right after you left,” Joe rasped. “Called. Wants… to talk to you … about a Gérard Le Pak… , a. k. a. Gérard Bonnefesse.” The words came in groups of three and four, followed by shallow intakes of breath. “Claims… he’s an ‘officier de paix… from the ‘Montreal… Commissariat,’” adding unnecessarily that they meant ‘police inspector’ and ‘police department,’ respectively.

Tom felt a wave of cold seep from his chest and spread through his limbs. “That’s the friend of Billy’s you sent me to see. The one who owned the sex shop and who claimed Billy had found happiness.”

“Found his maker,” Joe wheezed. “He’s dead. One of your cards in his pocket.”

Tom pulled the receiver from his ear, but his brother’s gravelly voice snapped it back like a rubber band. “Grogan and his posse … left here a few minutes ago… looking for you. If you can tell him… how I killed… Bonnefesse… from my hospital bed… he’ll be… grateful, I’m sure.”

Tom started to speak, but Joe kept talking. “Call this ‘officier… de paix’… first before you do… anything else. I don’t need… the Dudley Do-Rights… down here on top… of everything else.”

Tom slumped on the stairs that led from the pantry to the third floor bedrooms, and sat there trying to collect his thoughts. Joe sounded like hell. Worse than even a few hours ago. But he had been gone from the hospital since yesterday evening. Doing what? And from then until he ensconced himself in his office in Town Hall a few hours ago, no one had seen him. That was more than enough time for a round trip to Montreal. Though he didn’t seem to be in any shape to make that kind of trip, or if he did, to do anything strenuous once he got there. And why would he kill Bonnefesse? Frankie, sure. But what motive could Joe have for killing the little Canadian sex shop owner? The unexplained threads through the Coldwater Sheriff had become a web. But unless the story he told to Mary was true, which seemed doubtful, then he’d been lying about almost everything.

Without knowing why, or what he intended to do when he got there, Tom started up the stairs toward the family sleeping quarters. A dozen plus years ago, Susan’s bedroom had been at the end of the doglegged corridor that ran the length of the upper floor. Her parents’ and Billy’s