Death Hub Read online

  Death Hub

  A Novel by Edwin Dasso, MD

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Death Hub: A Jack Bass, MD, Thriller (Jack Bass Black Cloud Chronicles, #7)

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Epilogue

  Stuffed

  About the Author

  Book Seven of the Jack Bass Black Cloud Chronicles

  Death Hub

  Text Copyright 2019 Edwin Dasso

  All Rights Reserved

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold, given away to other people, or replicated or distributed in any fashion without the express written approval of the author. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to events, names, places, or persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental and are purely fictional or used in a fictional manner.

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to my wonderful wife who is becoming quite an accomplished editor for me, not to mention her usual role of motivator. Thanks to my children, Brittany and Leo, for their ongoing support. Once again, they were all my major motivators for this effort, as well as my life in general. Thanks to my friend, Dr. Jerry Frank, who continues to demonstrate his skill as a beta reader and editor; his comments always make my storytelling better. And, of course, thanks to my editor, Jill Noble, for assuring the book is an acceptable final product.

  Prologue

  Tyler drove his county sheriff’s squad car slowly up the pot-hole filled gravel drive of the crumbling farmhouse, steering around the rusted, broken-down pieces of farm equipment scattered haphazardly about the muddy barnyard. He stopped the cruiser at the end of a cracked sidewalk, heavily overgrown by weeds and what passed for a lawn. The picket fence bordering the drive had long ago rotted, fallen over, and been swallowed by the tall grass. He clambered out of the car and exchanged a quick glance with his partner, Sherry, over the roof of the car. He tugged his ballistic vest into position and checked that his pistol slid freely from the holster.

  “You want to do the talking, Tyler?” Sherry asked as she stood in her open car door, hiking up her gun belt. “You know Rankin doesn’t like women cops.”

  “Not a problem, Sherry.” He turned toward the house. “This dump reminds me of that old TV show, Green Acres.”

  This wasn’t the first complaint they’d had for this particular household, an isolated farmhouse in the lightly populated fringe of the county. The occupant had a well-known penchant for getting drunk in local bars and picking fights with anyone he happened to dislike on that particular day.

  Tyler and Sherry had been sent out this time because Child Protection Services had received a call from a concerned neighbor. They’d been hiking in some nearby woods and claimed they had spotted a young boy chained to a chicken coop on the dilapidated, old farm.

  “When we get to the door, you stand off to the side.” Tyler pointed at the porch. He flashed her a quick, tight grin. “Don’t want him to spot you right away, eh? Once he opens the door, go ahead and step up.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Sherry leaned into the open door of the car and looked at the Child Protection Services counselor sitting in the rear seat. “You wait here. If we find a kid, we’ll come get you.”

  “S-sure thing, Officer.” The counselor nodded, her head moving like a bobble toy as she squirmed, sliding lower on the rear seat. “D-do you think there will be any trouble?”

  Sherry shrugged, tugging on her bullet-proof vest. “Hell, if I know.”

  Sherry tiptoed next to him as they crept toward the front porch.

  The sound of clucking chickens emanated from behind a shed near the house and Sherry crinkled her nose. “Jesus! This chickenshit stink makes me want to puke!” she whispered.

  Tyler shot her a quick glance then slid a foot onto the first rickety step, which looked like it hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint in decades, cringing when it creaked. “Shit!” He vaulted up the remaining steps and bound across the porch of warped planks. He skidded to a stop at the door, banging on it with his fist. “Mr. Rankin! It’s the sheriff’s department. Open up—we need to ask you a few questions.”

  He brushed away the dust and paint flakes that had floated from the ceiling onto his shoulders, shifted his weight from one foot to the other. C’mon, old man, stop playing games and open the friggin’ door! He rested a hand on his gun, his fingers drumming on the grip. Sherry slid over near a window, sneaking a quick peek around the edge. She turned her gaze back to Tyler and shrugged. Tyler hammered on the door again, the glass panes rattling in the weathered wooden frame.

  “C’mon, Rankin. Open the damn door!”

  They waited a couple of minutes, Tyler craning his neck as he listened for sounds of life within the house. He jiggled the door knob, and the door clicked open a small notch and he twisted his head to gaze at Sherry.

  “What do you think? Probable cause?” He pushed the door open a few inches and peered into the dank interior. “Should we go in?”

  Sherry nodded and pulled her Glock pistol from its holster. “Yep. I don’t think we have a choice—something doesn’t feel right here.”

  Tyler held his gun at his side and stood to the side of the door then threw it open and stole a quick peek around the doorframe. He nodded once at Sherry, took a deep breath and stepped into the murk, dropping to a knee a couple of feet into the room. The only light inside came from a TV in the far corner, a national news station talking-head rambling on about the latest D.C. liberalist conspiracy theory. As Tyler waited for his eyes to adjust to the dimness, Sherry appeared next to him, swinging her pistol and her gaze around the space. She tapped him on the shoulder and pointed at a pair of feet hanging
off the end of a recliner situated in front of the TV.

  “Probably still sleeping it off from last night,” she whispered.

  They rose together and slowly moved deeper into the room, kicking away empty beer cans strewn on the floor surrounding the recliner. An ashtray overflowing with cigarettes smoked down to the filter sat on a dingy, stained end table next to the tattered chair. Jesus! How can somebody live like this? The old man was sprawled in the seat, a cigarette butt with an inch of ash hanging from it, still clasped between his fingers. His eyes were open but unmoving, clouded over by a fog of death. Tyler holstered his gun and reached down, putting his fingers over the man’s carotid. He slowly withdrew his hand then gazed up at Sherry and shook his head. “Nothing. Dead as a doornail. From the temp of his skin I’d say he has been for a while.”

  Sherry snorted. “From the looks of him and this place, probably a long overdue heart attack.”

  They both jumped as a commotion came from the rear of the small home. Sherry swung her gun in that direction and Tyler yanked his pistol from the holster, pointing it toward the noise.

  “What the hell?” Tyler said. “That sounds like a bunch of damn chickens back there.”

  “And it sounds like they’re inside the house,” Sherry grumbled, shaking her head.

  They slinked toward a shadowy hallway leading to the rear of the home, stopping to lean their backs against the wall to both sides of it. Cold sweat ran down Tyler’s back as he peered into the murk.

  A wildly squawking chicken flapped past Sherry and she threw her arms up in front of her face. “Jesus! Really? Chickens in the house?”

  “I sure hope the neighbor was wrong about seeing a kid here,” Tyler muttered. “This place is a friggin’ pig sty!”

  “You got that right.” Sherry held a hand over her nose, pinching her nostrils closed. “Smells worse than it did outside.”

  They stopped at a closed door and exchanged quick stares, then Tyler flung the door open. Several chickens ran around the room in a flurry, feathers flittering in the air amidst a cloud of dust. A couple of the birds burst past Tyler and Sherry as they stood at the door, Tyler’s mouth hanging open as he stared into the room.

  Sherry spit dust and crud from her mouth, holstered her gun, then rushed in and kneeled on the floor next to the large cage. “Jesus Christ! You gotta be kiddin’ me!”

  The boy appeared to be about eight-years-old, and he bounced around inside the cage like a pinball, clucking and flapping his arms like wings as he fired glimpses over his shoulders at Tyler and Sherry. Sherry took her phone from a pocket and hurriedly videoed the scene then undid the latch on the cage door. She inched out her hand, reaching toward the boy.

  “We won’t hurt you, little buddy... We’re here to help,” she whispered, wiping tears from her eyes with her other hand.

  The boy pressed himself against the far side of the cage, clucking frantically.

  Sherry turned to Tyler. “You better go get that CPS lady.” She turned back to the child in the cage. “I’ll stay here with him.”

  Tyler remained frozen for a few seconds, gawking in disbelief at the scene then shook his head hard. “I’m on it,” he said, bolting toward the door.

  “And call an ambulance!” Sherry called after him.

  The child calmed slightly after a minute, eventually squatting down on his haunches in a large nest of straw as he stared at Sherry, twitching his head like any chicken would when regarding something.

  She scowled toward where the dead man sat in the other room. “You piece of shit!” Sherry growled. “The world’s a better place with you dead.” She crawled farther into the cage and rested a hand gently on the kid’s knee.

  * * *

  Mark Quinn, MD, the on-duty physician, peeked through the window into the ER exam room, watching as the young boy walked around, flapping his arms and jerking his head like a chicken when it walks. Quinn opened the door a crack and listened to the boy clucking like a nervous hen. The doctor let the door slip closed and turned back to the EMT who had just brought the boy in, arching an eyebrow.

  “Is this for real?”

  The EMT shrugged and held his hands up at his sides. “Don’t ask me, Doc. I just brought him in. When we picked him up, though, we found him locked up in a big cage with a bunch of chickens. They were in a back room in some beat-up, old farmhouse out in the boonies.” He rubbed at the back of his neck as he glanced through the window at the young boy. “He was squatting in a big straw nest on the floor of the cage when we arrived. When we pulled him out and asked him if he was okay, he just started clucking and running around like a chicken with its head cut off.” He grimaced. “Sorry—bad choice of words.” He tapped on the window with a knuckle. “Cops think he might be a kid who disappeared from east of here a couple years ago.” He stepped back and locked eyes with Mark. “Damnedest thing any of us have ever seen—and in this business, that’s sayin’ something.”

  Mark nodded slowly then opened the door, inching closer to where the boy now perched on a gurney like a bird on a power line. What kind of person could do this to a kid?

  “Hi, buddy,” he said in a soothing voice. “I’m Dr. Quinn... I won’t hurt you.”

  The boy clucked and moved away on the stretcher. Mark tried to examine the child, but the boy jumped from the bed. Every time Mark moved closer, the youth would flap his arms, squawk, and run to a far part of the room, wedging his back into a corner. Mark decided to forego the physical exam for the moment and see if the child would respond to a few questions. The only response Mark got was the child jerkily tilting his head from side-to-side and more cackles. Mark sighed then shuffled to the door, watching in amazement as the boy grabbed a bedpan, set it upside-down on the exam table and squatted on it like a hen warming it eggs. Mark backed out of the room, locking the door behind him.

  “Nothing I can do for him,” he mumbled then groaned. “Hoo, boy—the psych folks aren’t going to believe this one when I call them.”

  Chapter 1

  A row of green lights flickered then blinked to life on the large, wall-mounted video monitor, hues of jade reflecting on the faces of a small contingent of people forming a semicircle around it. The VIP guests visiting the federal government’s Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services—or CMS—computing center that Monday morning all focused on the flashing display.

  “That’s it! We’ve done it!” Lincoln Stennet, the lead computer scientist at CMS, yelled, throwing his arms into the air like he was signaling a touchdown. “We’ve completed the last step! We’ve now added the connections from our master patient database to the electronic medical records of eighty percent of the hospitals in the US.” He turned triumphantly toward the crowd of government officials standing in attendance. “Our new health hub is officially open for business!”

  Several members of the small celebration group smiled and nodded approvingly, a few even clapping. Stennet began pacing back and forth in front of the group, his gaze darting between them and the video screen.

  “That, combined with our connection to the computers of the vast majority of retail pharmacies and physician groups across the country, gives us a real-time view into the health status of most of the patients enrolled in government health insurance programs.”

  A scholarly looking man in the group of observers turned from the display to Stennet. “Now what?”

  “Now, our analytic algorithms constantly monitor patient health markers in that data feed and flag downturns—actual or potential—in a patient’s health. Then it will send real-time notifications to patients and their doctors to help avert any further deterioration”—he waved an arm at the electronic console—“and help avoid major health events like heart attacks or strokes, among other things.” He stopped suddenly and pumped his arms in the air again. “It’ll be a whole new era for healthcare!”

  Senator Franklin, a well-known Democratic advocate of patient rights, stepped close to the electronic display. He turned to Stennet, a frow
n creasing his face. “Even though I was behind getting this project funded, it still makes me more than a little nervous. I worry those ‘algorithms’ won’t have adequate human oversight.” He jabbed a finger at Stennet. “Opportunity for error is pretty apparent to me. Not to mention, I think it’s likely that doctors will feel like they’re being left out of the loop on patient care decisions.” He pinned Stennet with an intense stare. “Tell me again, exactly, your plan to assure the best patient care through the deployment of this ‘health hub’ of yours.”

  Franklin turned away from Stennet and leaned in toward the control panel, resting a hand near the keyboard. A heavyset man shoved people aside as he elbowed his way through the small group of people, stopping near Franklin.

  “Please stay back from the control panel!” he barked.

  Franklin jerked upright and spun toward the man, stiffening as he glared at him over the rim of his glasses for several seconds before clearing his throat. “I beg your pardon, Mr....” His gaze slid down to the man’s CMS nametag. “Wayward?”

  “It’s pronounced, ‘Way-urd’. The second W is silent.”

  The senator arched an eyebrow, shooting a quick glance at Stennet before turning back to Wayward. “Uh...okay, Mr. Way-urd. What were you saying?”

  “I said, please keep your hands away from the control panel. I don’t want you messing up anything. This is very complicated programming.”

  Franklin’s mouth dropped open, and his brow began bunching. Stennet jumped forward, pressing himself between the two men; he scowled at Orville then quickly spun around, smiling awkwardly at Franklin.

  “I’m sorry, Senator Franklin. Allow me to introduce Orville Wayward, the lead programmer for the project.” He turned and again scowled at Orville. “Orville is just here to answer questions.” He pushed Orville back. “And that’s all!”

  Franklin leaned around Stennet, eyeing Orville intensely for several seconds, then pushed Stennet aside and held a hand out to Orville. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Wayward. Thank you for your efforts in bringing this to life.”