Dead Shot Jack Patterson (e reader manga .txt) 📖

still there, underneath the skin, irritating you.”

“So, if you put this high dosage of CPZ with an accelerant, how would it impact someone?”

“Well, it’s not deadly in and of itself, but the itching would be intense.”

“Intense enough that you could scratch yourself to death?”

“I suppose that’s possible, but I’ve never heard of such a thing. I don’t know how any lab would sign off on the testing of this chemical on animals for the express purpose of shutting down the liver—so I doubt that’s a question we could ever answer.”

Cal had sufficient information at this point to draw some obvious conclusions, but he never ceased to marvel at how last-second questions seemed to produce the juiciest pieces of information.

“Any other information I should be aware of?”

“Well, in doing some cursory research, I found that the FBI once had a team of people working on a way to use CPZ as markers in drugs, much like what you mentioned with methamphetamines. They wanted to figure out a way to mark drug users and substantial dealers’ distribution networks. The strange nature of the cases would send out an alert to the CDC from which the FBI could obtain basic information on the spread of a dealer’s network.”

“So what happened to the program?”

“In 2008, they tried it in field tests by undercover operatives in three cities—Seattle, L.A., and Phoenix—by tainting an individual dosage—and each time the drug user died, though the report I read didn’t say from what. So, they disbanded the program. That’s not the kind of publicity the FBI wants, even if it helps accomplish its end game.”

“End game of what? Eliminating drug pushers?”

Eric answered with nervous laughter then continued.

“Well, interestingly enough, both Walker and Mercer were part of those teams that did the testing.”

Cal knew he wasn’t getting another answer out of him.

“Thanks for your help, Eric.”

“No problem, Cal. I’ll let my superiors know and hopefully we’ll have someone in Statenville tomorrow to investigate what’s going on. I’m sure we’ll find you.”

Cal hung up the phone. The last thing he wanted was anybody finding him, especially the FBI. His list of theories was growing—and Kelly looked anxious to hear what he had learned.

Five minutes into rehashing his phone conversation and introducing a new theory, Cal’s iPhone buzzed again—this time, it was Guy.

“Where are you guys, Cal?”

“We’re about 30 minutes outside of Statenville. Why?”

“Don’t come back. Head back to Salt Lake or somewhere nearby. Things are getting ugly here, and I know you’re next. If they find out I helped you, they’ll kill me.”

“Whoa. Slow down, Guy.”

“No, I’m serious—especially if they see you on my bike. That’s bad news for both of us. There’ll be no doubt then who helped you.”

“So, what am I supposed to do? Stay in Salt Lake City? And for how long? I’m almost broke. I work at The Register, remember?”

“OK, call the paper and ask for Dave Youngman. Tell him that you’re a friend of mine and that I asked him to take you in as a favor.”

“Then what?”

“Then, you write your story. Does Kelly have her camera?”

“Yep, she’s got it.”

“OK, put together her best photos with your story and send it to The Tribune in Salt Lake and The Times in Seattle. I’ll let those editors know your story is coming.”

“And they’ll print it, Guy?”

“If I tell them you’re trustworthy, they will. They’ll know what to do with it.”

“OK. Thanks, Guy. Take care.”

“You, too.”

It had always been Cal’s dream to write for The Times. He never believed he would be writing about a mind-bending conspiracy with the hard evidence in hand to prove its truth. Nor did he think he would get a 1A byline story before his friend, Josh.

But then, neither did he ever imagine anyone would hunt him down with the express purpose of killing him.

Chapter 52

There were only two reasons Mayor Gold ever drank alcohol. The first was to celebrate on New Year’s Eve. The second was when pacing wouldn’t calm his nerves. New Year’s Eve assured that the bottle of Crown Royal hidden in his study would never go a year without taking a hit. However, uncapping his secret elixir rarely occurred before the annual visit from his in-laws at Thanksgiving. This year, he was three months ahead of schedule.

Pacing and drinking only hyped up Gold. He preferred to take his whisky sitting down. But he didn’t know if anything could settle him at this hour. Presiding over the murder of not one but two FBI agents was enough to make him consider searching for a barrel of whisky. But he knew that would be the least of his problems if the feds discovered what exactly Statenville was up to. All he could now was wait.

The clock ticked slowly. It was 10:30 p.m. Thus far, Gold’s contingency plan had been executed flawlessly. However, the two reporters trying to be superheroes threatened to mar his precious ointment. For years, Gold held The Register under his thumb, buying off editors with the publisher firmly in his pocket. He never really considered a reporter from The Register having the ability to flesh out this story, much less two of them. They usually consisted of halfwits who – if they somehow graduated from community college – struggled to write a well-constructed sentence. But the economy’s poor state flooded the market with able-bodied reporters, even The Register had jobs available that appealed to top journalism students. They had to write somewhere. Gold had underestimated Cal’s skills and wherewithal to pursue this story. It was a rare mistake.

Gold looked at his watch again and took another pull on his whisky. He figured Yukon Grant was about 30 minutes away from correcting that mistake.

Keeping a secret of this magnitude requires a commitment to sacrificing profit to keep it silent. When you tell people you’re going to pay them, you pay them. And when they do a great job, you sometimes pay them more than you agreed. Happy employees don’t blow whistles. Keeping a secret like