Panacea by F. Paul Wilson Page B

screaming. “All evidence up in smoke: That is the protocol.”
    He’d left for the airport first thing this morning, never imagining that the panacean’s body hadn’t burned.
    Brother Bradsher stood by the window, hands in his pockets. “I’m well aware of that, sir. It’s the worst imaginable luck. But what was I to do?”
    Nelson had no answer for that. The early arrival of the fire trucks had left Bradsher no choice but to flee the scene.
    â€œAt least the plants were destroyed, right?”
    Bradsher nodded. “Completely. They received the bulk of the accelerant.”
    Good stuff, that accelerant. Burned hotter and cleaner than anything like it. A Chechen terrorist had developed it. The Company had disposed of the Chechen but kept his formula.
    â€œThen we should be good. They may have the panacean’s body but there’s nothing to find there.”
    â€œThe ME working the cases has already matched the back tattoos.”
    â€œBut the first body was immolated.”
    Brasher shrugged. “She managed.”
    â€œYou’re so sure?”
    â€œWe’re into her office computer. She has comparison photos.”
    Nelson didn’t like that. He’d never doubted that the cases would be connected, but he hadn’t wanted the tattoos made public. They indicated too intimate a link.
    â€œWho is she?”
    Bradsher pulled out his smartphone and did some screen tapping.
    â€œName’s Laura Fanning, MD, Deputy Medical Examiner, Suffolk County.”
    Laura Fanning … the name had an oddly familiar ring.
    â€œHave we dealt with her before?”
    â€œNot that I’m aware of.”
    â€œIs she going to be a problem?”
    â€œI don’t think so. She did discover something we missed.” He tapped some more on his phone, then passed it to Nelson. “I took this off her computer. The panacean wrote something on his palm.”
    A photo: The sight of 536 on the dead skin startled him.
    Nelson shook his head. It wouldn’t be an issue if his body had been immolated as planned. This was not good … not good at all. Dissemination of the photo of the tattoo would put all other panaceans lurking about on alert. If this 536 photo got out, however, it would send them scurrying into hiding.
    As for the medical examiner, she’d obviously connected the tattoos, but she had no way of knowing about the panacea or the two corpses’ connection to it. That was the prime concern: Hide all evidence of the existence of a panacea. It had to remain in the realm of myth until Nelson had tracked it to its source. He had to be the first and only to find it. As for the number on the second corpse’s palm, that would mean nothing to her.
    So, the ME was not important, though the photo was.
    â€œWe have to disappear those photos.”
    â€œNot so easy. I can delete them from her computer, but the originals may remain in her camera. And she’s already emailed copies to the sheriff’s office in Riverhead.”
    â€œDo what you can.”
    â€œI’ll get right on it.” But instead of leaving, Bradsher stood there, shifting from foot to foot. “I had a thought.”
    The comment struck Nelson as odd. Bradsher was an excellent field agent—competent, efficient, obedient. He rarely offered an opinion unless asked.
    â€œWhat, pray tell?”
    â€œNot a pleasant one.”
    â€œAll the more reason to voice it.”
    â€œAll right … if the 536 on the panacean’s palm means he knew we were coming—”
    â€œHe might have heard of Hanrahan’s death, then he could have seen you getting out of your car and put two and two together.”
    â€œI hope that’s the case.”
    â€œIf not, what’s your unpleasant alternative?”
    â€œThat he knew he might be next, and so he hid his real panacea and left dummy samples for us.”
    Nelson felt as if someone had dumped a