The Queen of all Poisons, page 1
The Queen of all Poisons
A Dr. Lily Robinson Novel
BJ Magnani
Encircle Publications, LLC
Farmington, Maine, U.S.A.
The Queen of all Poisons Copyright © 2019 BJ Magnani
Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-948338-73-8
E-book ISBN-13: 978-1-948338-74-5
Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-948338-75-2
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019940495
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher, Encircle Publications, Farmington, ME.
This book is a work of fiction. While the science and toxins are real, names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual places or businesses, is entirely coincidental.
Editor: Cynthia Brackett-Vincent
Book design: Eddie Vincent
Cover design by Deirdre Wait
Cover photographs © Getty Images
Published by: Encircle Publications, LLC
PO Box 187
Farmington, ME 04938
Visit: http://encirclepub.com
Sign up for Encircle Publications newsletter and specials
http://eepurl.com/cs8taP
Printed in U.S.A.
Dedication
To all mothers and daughters.
May they always find each other—on earth, and in heaven.
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to my friends and colleagues whose superb feedback enriched Lily’s story, and my life.
And to my patients, who provide inspiration every single day.
Prologue
Colombia, South America, many years ago
The little girl felt a soft hand push her head down.
“Get under the cot now and stay down,” Maggie shouted.
There were many earsplitting noises, like a pop, no it was a pop, pop, pop in quick succession. The child could hear men, not just Maggie, shouting in loud, angry voices and her tiny body felt that wave of tingles spread outward in a fan pattern across her tummy. It always appeared when something scared her and she started to cry. As Maggie peered out from between the nylon zippered ends of the tent, she was crying too, and waved her hand behind her trying to indicate shush. There were bodies everywhere oozing small pieces of themselves onto the jungle floor. Maggie swung her head when she heard the swoosh of a machete.
“Oh God, no. Please don’t hurt me, please,” Maggie pleaded as a hand thrust through the split zipper and grabbed her by the hair, yanking her out through the opening. Maggie screamed as loud as she could while trying to free her head from his hands and scratch her way back towards the nylon. She howled one last time and then there was quiet.
There was a momentary lull within the tent and the terrified child dared not move from under the cot. A very faint patter, like an insect scurrying across the ground, was the only sound she could hear. “Mommy, mommy?” she whimpered. “Where’s mommy?” Her eyes finally opened. The basket of tiny frogs had tipped over, the lid off to one side, and one small yellow dot hopped toward the cot and jumped under a box. The little girl knew she wasn’t supposed to touch it. Mommy had said so. Then there were voices again. Men’s voices.
One came closer. A huge figure entered the tent and looked around. He kicked the grass basket and the rest of the frogs jumped out. She tried to hide deeper under the cot, but his hand grabbed the child and pulled her free.
He said something to her in a language she didn’t understand. The air seemed trapped in her lungs. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to breathe, she wasn’t sure if she could breathe. The man took the bandana from around his neck and fastened it over her tear-filled green eyes. Everything went black. She felt herself being lifted and then carried over his shoulder. The sun was hot on the back of her head and the steam in the air filled her nostrils. It was heavy air, air weighted with the smells of death.
Although her eyes were covered, she squeezed the lids tightly together, and felt the tears stream down her cheeks. Angel, angel please come to me; take me up into heaven and keep me safe, she prayed. Her small body could no longer hold the tension and her hands fell to her sides. She let go of her consciousness, drifting into the blackness as they moved into the jungle and disappeared into the emerald forest.
Part 1
The Asphalt Jungle (the present)
Chapter 1
Boston
Just between beats. There’s a 20-millisecond window of vulnerability to create chaos, just before the heart squeezes out its next beat. I keep thinking about the assassination while I’m sitting in my office. He was just another threat with a bad heart. My poison incurs sudden death, like a physical blow to the heart delivered at the right time. I try not to rationalize these deaths anymore or allow my emotions to creep in. Years of denial have trained my clinical mind to focus only on the target. I do whatever I must to get the job done. It’s about mastering control, yet letting go.
About a month ago, the Agency asked me to assassinate a terrorist infiltrator quickly and quietly in New York City. I waited for him at a coffee shop he frequented. It always amazes me how we are such creatures of habit. Routines—we eat the same breakfast, walk or drive the same way home, and visit our same favorite little café, every day. Even the terrorists. My target took two sugars with his French dark roast—the waitress brought him the two packets when she served him. They don’t leave the sugar bowls at the tables anymore in this neighborhood.
She poured the coffee while standing behind the counter, and when she turned back to put the pot on the burner, I swapped out the packets. Coffee, delivered with steam rising from the brim, waited patiently as he tore open the sugars, dumped the contents into the abyss, and stirred the dark mixture with a cheap spoon. After drinking only half a cup he began to gasp for air and had difficulty breathing. He turned blue and slid off his chair, seizing as he hit the ground. Several people jumped up in alarm, including me. “Call 911!” While everyone surrounded the man on the floor, I picked up the empty sugar packets from the table and used my napkin to replace them with ones I had used.
I killed him with cyanide.
Not exotic, I know, but reliable on short notice. Most people think they can smell the bitter almond scent, but only a small percentage of the population can reliably detect any odor. Luckily, I’ve got that gene. Potassium cyanide crystals can’t be distinguished from common sugar crystals. White crystals look like, well, all other white crystals. I always carry packets of sugar—and even packets of artificial sweetener—laced with enough potassium cyanide to produce death within minutes. Once you ingest the poison, the acid in your stomach converts it to hydrogen cyanide, and death will soon follow. Within minutes it delivers a knockout punch to the powerhouses of your body via the respiratory electron transport chain—the mitochondrial workhorses of your cells that generate ATP, which gives you the energy you need to live. Cyanide blocks all that, and without oxygen your cells die of chemical asphyxiation.
I exited the café during the commotion, having already paid for my cup of coffee. Another fatal blow, just between beats. With the collar turned up on my coat, I inhaled the wind and felt the oxygen fill my lungs, as my own mitochondria powered my disappearance into the crowded street.
* * *
I hear a knock at my office door, bringing my mind into focus. It must be Lisa. Best administrative assistant I’ve ever had, who anticipates my every professional need. Lisa knows I’m a physician with expertise in toxicology—that’s all she knows. Her job is to keep my calendar and sort out when I’m at the hospital, or at the medical school. Her biggest challenge is how to account for the days when I’m at neither.
“Hi, Dr. Lily. Just reminding you that you have a lecture at the medical school you have to prepare for. Do you have everything you need?”
“Thanks, Lisa. I’m all set. Everything for the students is on the internal network.”
“Okay,” she says, rolling her eyes just a little as she spots my stilettos. “Here’s your itinerary for the day. You also have some meetings scheduled this afternoon. One with the Dean, and a last-minute meeting with Chad.”
A meeting with Chad. The acid in my stomach begins to rise like a tide during a full moon. The pH of my entire gastric contents drops precipitously, and I find myself reaching around to the back of my desk for antacids.
Chad is Pixie Dust’s replacement. That was her code name. A woman with a pink streak in her hair met me in my office years ago and begged me to help. She told me I would be serving my country. All I had to do was poison one man, an enemy of the State, and make it look like he died from natural causes. I was at a low point in my life, when post-traumatic stress had hijacked my brain after a devastating incident on the job. I never really recovered. At the moment Pixie Dust asked, I probably could have been talked into anything. It’s been years now. The Agency has taught me well, and I hide behind their cloak of invisibility.
My medical work keeps me in the city of Boston where I take the T as our subway is known, between the hospital and a small condo central to the buzz of the
There’ve been many bodies.
My conscience still screams, but my ears have turned deaf. Pavlov would call it conditioning. I take solace in the realization that I am not alone. A band of highly trained specialists, sworn to protect this country and other democratic nations, have fought by my side for many years. We are a team, subtly shaping the politics of the world by wiping out the bad and the ugly. Protecting global freedom from the terror that swells beneath our feet. This is our mission, and I’m all in.
The acid content of my stomach has reached epic proportions. When I see Chad this afternoon, I’ll swallow the bitter pill that has become my treatment for unimaginable loss.
* * *
I expect him here any minute. When he visits me in my office he does a 360 review of the walls and shelves, scanning for any new mementos of toxins or other drug paraphernalia I may have acquired since the last time he saw me. There’s noise outside my door. He must be here.
“Hi Chad, come on in and have a seat,” I say, pointing to a chair in front of the table that stands in for my desk.
“Doctor, so good to see you again.” He grabs my hand and places his other hand on top of it, as if to weld us together. “I want to give you an update on the NYC case, you know, the lone wolf from the coffee shop.” He sees my surprise. “Robinson, I know this is always hard for you, and coming so soon after the last case. We sort of left you on your own for that one, and I know you need some time to…to, catch your breath. We’ve learned quite a lot in the last several weeks, and it turns out our lone wolf wasn’t such a lone wolf after all. We knew he had ties to Russia, but we didn’t know how extensive they were—are. Every day in the news, the American public hears how the Russians are disrupting our way of life. They’ve hacked our computers, they put out fake news using bots and Internet trolls who obscure the truth; and we know they’ve meddled in our elections. Oh, and they’re moving illegal drugs into the US.”
“I know about the drugs, Chad. Don’t forget—when I’m not working for the Agency, I’m working here, at the hospital, trying to save lives.”
“Well, this time it’s something big. You’ve seen what’s been happening internationally. They’re targeting the French, the Brits, and of course, us. It’s chaos. We’re busy tying our shoelaces and they’re about to punch us in the gut. We need you.”
I choke up and feel my stomach churn. I’ve done this long enough to know I want to help, but there’s always that part of me that holds back. It’s the oath I took to do no harm. Now I’m a killer. But it doesn’t matter. Each life I take will save so many more.
“What’s the plan, Chad?” My voice is almost shaking.
And then he lays it all out for me.
Chapter 2
New York City
Beth Winslow finished putting on her face powder at her dressing table. She walked back into her bedroom and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror over her dresser. Hmm, wrinkled. She pulled down hard on the bottom edges of her suit jacket to straighten it out. Across the room, her husband Bill fixed his tie in front of the full-length mirror. When they’d completed their preening, Beth and her husband walked out of their apartment on the upper West Side of Manhattan and caught a taxi to Penn Station.
“I’ve just got some last-minute stuff to do before my meeting on Monday,” he said apologetically. “Really appreciate you coming to Newark with me on a Saturday.” Bill leaned over and took her hand from her purse, gave it a squeeze, and brushed his thumb across the nail polish decorating her fingertips.
“No problem, honey. I’ll manage to keep myself busy.”
When they parted after the train ride, Bill met with a few colleagues at his office while Beth occupied her time shopping at the outlet stores. After she’d been out for only two hours, she began to feel fatigued and a little nauseous. She looked into one store window filled with women’s designer suits and started to cough. She stepped in to look at an outfit from the display.
“Good afternoon, miss,” said the older woman behind the counter. Beth started to unbutton her coat.
“Boy, it’s crazy. It’s so cold outside, but I feel so hot. Must be all the walking around in this giant coat.” Beth’s voice sounded congested.
“Miss, would you like to sit down for a minute?” inquired the saleswoman. She moved out from behind the counter, wondering if her customer was old enough to be suffering from hot flashes. She certainly knew how that felt. It was like someone had set you on fire.
“You know,” said Beth, buttoning her coat back up with a shaking hand, “I think I better get going. Thank you for your help.” She let out another cough.
Beth found a taxi down the block and caught up with her husband back at his office. It was getting to be early afternoon and the lunch hour had long passed.
“Bill, I really don’t feel well. I think I need to go home.” By now she was wheezing slightly and rubbing her eyes. She couldn’t decide if her stomach discomfort was from lack of food, but she was nervous about eating anything for fear of throwing it all back up.
“What’s wrong, honey? You were fine when we left the apartment this morning.” There was a note of concern in Bill’s voice, but he was more preoccupied with the papers in front of him than with his wife. Then, recognizing he had been a little selfish and noticing his wife’s tired appearance, he added, “I guess I could wrap it up. Can you give me about a half hour, babe?” Beth nodded and sat in a chair in the corner of Bill’s office, flipping through a magazine.
They left the office about forty-five minutes later and got a train back to the city without much waiting. When they reached Manhattan, Beth suddenly felt a squeeze in her chest, as if someone’s hand had slipped beneath her blouse and grabbed her heart through her rib cage. Desperate to catch her breath, she struggled to call out to her husband, but the sound was muffled. She grabbed his arm instead, her polished nails digging hard into his wrist.
Bill turned toward his wife, looked into her red eyes, and could see a trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth. Now she had his full attention.
“Beth!” he said with alarm.
Beth clutched her chest, mouthed something that Bill could not quite understand, and fell forward into his arms.
“Someone call 911 NOW!” Bill shouted, his voice and his body trembling.
* * *
Jim Cassidy was an Emergency Medical Technician-paramedic who still lived with his parents, conservative Christians residing in Brooklyn. He kept his blond hair short so it wouldn’t get in his eyes while leaning over his patients, starting an IV, or putting on EKG leads. The days were long between work and school, but he hoped he could make the transition from paramedic to physician with ease. All he needed were a few more courses before he could send in his medical school application. As a paramedic he had many more hours of training than a basic EMT, but regardless of training, all the members of his emergency medical services team referred to themselves as EMTs—the first responders to 911 calls for chest pain, building explosions, traffic accidents, gun shots, drug overdoses, and jet planes crashing into skyscrapers.
Jim’s additional skills—airway management to help stabilize a patient’s breathing, starting an intravenous line, reading an electrocardiogram, and giving medications to patients in the ambulance en route to the hospital—allowed him a certain independence that basic EMTs did not possess. He was confident his paramedic training would be an advantage to getting into medical school, and he wanted a career in Emergency Medicine anyway. He liked shift work and the idea of having only a brief relationship with a patient.
Jim’s ambulance was dispatched from the bay to pick up a woman who was feeling tightness in her chest and having acute respiratory distress. She was accompanied by her husband, who told the EMT they had left Penn Station for New Jersey in the morning and had returned later that day when his wife felt sick.
