Panacea Read Free

now?”
    Nelson wanted to know this most of all. The last time the panaceans made their presence felt was post–World War II during the polio epidemic, before his time. The plants and the man in the video were proof positive of their return.
    â€œWhy now?” Hanrahan’s tone is matter-of-fact. “Because the All-Mother says it is time.”
    The All-Mother … how can such pantheistic bullshit exist in this modern age? Anyone can ascribe anything to the so-called All-Mother.
    â€œDid this goddess of yours say why it was time?”
    He shakes his head. “She’s all-knowing. She doesn’t need to explain. If she says it’s time, then it’s time.”
    â€œDoes she speak to you in dreams? Does she whisper in your ear?”
    â€œWord comes through channels.”
    â€œChannels?”
    â€œYou know: the grapevine.”
    No, Nelson did not know. The cult is fragmented, cellular, acting as individual operatives with only the most tenuous interconnections.
    â€œHow exactly did word reach you to begin dispensing your potion?”
    â€œThe mail—a packet of seeds in my mailbox. That was all I needed.”
    â€œAnd of course you disposed of the envelope.”
    Hanrahan smiles. “Of course.”
    â€œAnd where do you store your potion?”
    The smile holds as he speaks without hesitation. “In the fridge.”
    Nelson glances at Bradsher, who shakes his head. “Nothing there.”
    â€œAnd no sign of any elsewhere?”
    â€œSorry, no.”
    Hanrahan says, “You want some for yourself, is that it?”
    â€œI want it for many reasons, none of which involve me.”
    He shrugs. “Whatever the reason, Mister Pleeceman, you’re outta luck. The batch was small and I used it all.”
    â€œHow many doses did you dispense?”
    â€œFour. But don’t ask who to. I’m not allowed to tell.”
    â€œI know all four—that’s how we found you. But I’m not interested in them. I’m interested in you … the brewer of the potion.”
    Nelson now turned to Pickens, a shadow in the darkened room. “Please listen carefully. Here is where he admits to making the panacea.”
    Hanrahan’s eyebrows lift. “Brew … so you know something about the process.”
    â€œI know everything about the process except the missing ingredient.”
    The eyebrows rise higher. “Missing ingredient? You got me there, pal.”
    â€œDon’t lie. We know that you boil the plants, roots and all, but you add something in the process. What?”
    â€œI have no idea what you’re talking about. Seriously. Like you said, we brew a tea from the plants, but that’s it.”
    Nelson knows there’s more to it. “You will tell us.”
    â€œOr what? I can’t tell you something I don’t know.”
    â€œMaybe you’ve just forgotten,” Bradsher says. “We’ll jog your memory.”
    â€œYou can’t get away with this.”
    â€œBut we can,” Nelson says. “And we will.”
    Hanrahan’s features grow bleak. “So that’s it, then? Torture, then what? Death?”
    Nelson tells him, “You’re familiar with Exodus 22:18?”
    â€œThe Bible? I don’t read your Bible.”
    â€œYou should. The passage leaves no wiggle room: ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’”
    â€œAre you fucking kidding me?” Pickens said. “You’re quoting the Bible?”
    Maybe he should have cut that out, but Nelson hadn’t wanted the recording to appear edited in any way.
    â€œJust playing head games. He belongs to an ancient pagan cult, so I thought I’d take a shot at putting a little Inquisitional fear into him.”
    â€œJesus!”
    Nelson winced as he turned back to the screen.
    â€œI’m no witch! I’m just a guy who cooks up plants and doles out the tea they produce.