The 20% Solution

By Jeff R. Spalsbury

It's quite simple, really. Twenty percent of the world's population causes eighty percent of the problems. Kill off those twenty percent, and you will have a wonderful world. And we all know who makes up that 20%. It's the people in jails, drug addicts, crackheads, homeless people, ghetto dwellers, welfare recipients, and so forth. Oh, there will be some collateral damage, but only a million people or so, but just think how great everything will be afterward.
Well, someone has decided to make this happen!
Scott Marklee receives a curious message on his cellphone: "The 20% solution has gotten out of control. The cabalists have betrayed my trust. The cabal won't listen to me now that I've finished my work. Meet me in Laughlin, Nevada. Don't bring anyone, or I won't show."
Scott ignored it until people around him turned up dead. As an investigative reporter, people called him with leads, but never like this. This was worse than 9/11. Millions of people were dying, and they weren't all evil. Many of the dead were innocent people, including his daughter and ex-wife.
The message leads Scott to who is responsible. But now, suddenly, he becomes their prime target, and they want him dead. Somehow, he must get from Laughlin, Nevada to Washington, DC, to meet with the Vice President of the United States and inform her of the facts. She is the only person he can trust. Even more critical, Scott carries knowledge of how the poison was made and the formula for the antidote. If the wrong people get this information, how many more innocent lives will be lost? He must get to the Vice President first.
They don't plan on letting that happen.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jul 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667851495

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Copyright © 2022 Jeff R. Spalsbury

All rights reserved.

Website: www.JeffRSpalsbury.com

Cover design by Lorena Shindledecker

http://shindledeckerdesigns.com

Back cover photograph by Adrianne Hunt-Spalsbury

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express written permission of the author.

ISBN 978-1-66785-148-8 (print)

ISBN 978-1-66785-149-5 (eBook)

DEDICATED TO:

Lisa E. Harman and Sara M. Boyer

My delightful and beguiling daughters

Because they had to wait so long

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

WHY ARE THE PEOPLE DYING?

CHAPTER TWO

THE POLICE STATION

CHAPTER THREE

WHAT IS IT?

CHAPTER FOUR

THE PHONE CALL

CHAPTER FIVE

THE PRESIDENT’S WIFE

CHAPTER SIX

THE PRESIDENT’S SPEECH

CHAPTER SEVEN

SCOTT GOES TO LAUGHLIN

CHAPTER EIGHT

LA DEALS WITH DEATH

CHAPTER NINE

THE MEETING IN LAUGHLIN

CHAPTER TEN

DR. BRUSKIE’S LAB

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE DISASTER UNFOLDS

CHAPTER TWELVE

OSCAR

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

BRUSKIE’S VIDEO OF THE PRESIDENT’S MEETING

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

OSCAR LEARNS THE TRUTH

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

BRUSKIE’S LETTER

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THE PRESIDENT’S WIFE TURNS UP

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

THE PRESIDENT’S GIRLFRIEND

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

SCOTT ON THE RUN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

OSCAR GOES HOME

CHAPTER TWENTY

SCOTT GETS A LIFT

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

TAPS

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

OSCAR SEEKS REVENGE

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

A BAD DAY IN PHILLY

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

THE CIA AGENTS

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

BOOTH BY VP’S HOUSE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

SCOTT MEETS THE VICE PRESIDENT

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

HADLEY PUTS SCOTT TO BED

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

THE HITMAN COMETH

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

THE PRESIDENT CALLS

CHAPTER THIRTY

TROUBLE IN THE WHITE HOUSE

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

OSCAR’S PLOY

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

A NEW PRESIDENT

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

OSCAR JOINS THE TEAM

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

LEAD TO THE BINDER

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

ATTACK ON OSCAR’S HOME

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

SUNDAY DINNER

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

FERGIE & GRACE

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

JAKE WORKS A DEAL WITH EL JEFE

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

JAKE’S SAN DIEGO CONDO

CHAPTER FORTY

THE FRENCH VALLEY AIRPORT

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

SAN DIEGO SHOOT OUT

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

THE FLY

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

COTTAGE IN DANA POINT

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

BACK TO THE LAB

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

AGENT TROY

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

CHAPTER ONE

WHY ARE THE PEOPLE DYING?

The man spoke in a hushed tone, as though afraid of being overheard, and his voice had a slight foreign accent. "The 20% solution has gotten out of control. The cabalists have betrayed my trust. The cabal won’t listen to me now that my work is done. Meet me in Laughlin, Nevada, on the 29th. Go to the River Passage at the Golden Nugget and buy a ticket at 9 am to the Riverside Casino. Stay on the boat until I contact you. I’ll find you. Don’t bring anyone, or I won’t show."

Scott Marklee was doing what many LA commuters do while driving home on a Friday afternoon while stuck in traffic on the San Diego Freeway—listening to phone messages on his cellphone. Cabalist? he mumbled. He tried to remember what that word meant. He shook his head and touched the number to listen to the message again. Usually, he would have just erased it. As an investigative reporter, he received many crank calls, but his shoulders ached from a rotten day. He found the use of the word cabalist interesting. Later . . . I’ll look that up, he grumbled as he touched the key to save it.

Scott pulled his white Honda into the parking lot and cautiously glanced around before turning off the motor. This was not a safe neighborhood for a white guy, even if he were a regular at Charlie’s. He leaned his head back against the headrest and took a deep breath, pursed his lips, and exhaled a long, slow breath. It had been a dreadful, unproductive day. He needed some of Charlie’s relentless harassment to lighten his mood.

He got out of his car, peeled off his sports coat, and threw it into the backseat. It was muggy and smoggy in LA, even if they hadn’t called a smog alert. The radio announcer labeled it just another bad air day for February. Scott wore the sport coat to impress a contact that might have had a lead on an exclusive story. That turned out to be a waste, along with everything else he’d tried to accomplish today.

He reached the restaurant door at the same time as a tall black woman wearing a colorful Senegalese African dress and matching head wrap. She held the hand of a boy who looked to be about the same age as his ten-year-old daughter. Scott opened the door for them. The woman hid her surprise at a white man being in this neighborhood. She even managed to express her thanks with an almost imperceptible nod, but the boy glanced up at Scott with a stare of bewilderment and blurted out, Hey, man, are you crazy? What’s a white guy like you doing down here?

His mother turned around at once. Michael, that’s no way to talk. Her head shook back and forth in embarrassment.

It’s all right, Ma’am. He’s got a good point. Scott grinned at Michael and said good-naturedly, "I’m here for the same reason you are, to eat the best ribs in LA."

But white guys get shot down here.

"Well, Charlie promised he wouldn’t let that happen to me. In fact, I even gave this place its name, Charlie’s . . . The Best Ribs in LA!" Scott didn’t say that it had happened at a barbecue a long time ago, during a happier time with wives and children.

Charlie knows you?

"Yup. We’re best of friends. I’ve been coming here for years, and Charlie’s not let anybody shoot me yet."

Well, it’s a good thing Charlie’s your friend cause he sure could hurt you if he wanted to. He’s the biggest dude I’ve ever seen.

Scott grinned at the boy, then twisted his head abruptly as he became aware of how quiet it was in the restaurant. He also smelled ribs burning. Charlie never burned his ribs.

They stood next to the sign that said, Please wait to be seated. The counter partition blocked their view into the central part of the restaurant, but Michael’s mother must have sensed the unnatural silence as well. She glanced around the wall then screamed so loud Scott bounced back against the door. He promptly stepped in front of her and had to control his own compulsion not to yell.

There must have been 40 or more people in the restaurant, and they all appeared to be dead. Many were slumped over on their tables, and others had fallen to the floor.

Michael peered around his mother. Drive-by. They must have blasted them all.

Scott shook his head. No blood. No broken windows. Nobody shot these people. He hurried to a table where an older couple had collapsed on top of their food. He probed for a pulse but found none.

What should we do? Michael’s mother whispered, her face registering shock.

Call 911. Phone’s by the register. I’ll check the kitchen. Scott hurried to the kitchen. He pushed open the door, and his eyes welled with tears. His friend Charlie, Charlie’s wife Ester, and their son Toby lay dead on the floor. He covered his eyes with his left hand, trying to block the scene from his memory, but knowing it was frozen into his soul forever. His body trembled as a wave of clammy cold surged over him. One pot on the stove steamed a loud, insistent whistle. Scott tried not to glance down at the bodies on the floor as he stepped over them to turn off the stove. Smoke seeped out of the commercial rib smokers beside the oven. He turned both of them off. With a painful moan, he stumbled back out the door, fighting with his mind about what he’d just seen. Michael’s scream brought him out of his stupor.

Michael’s mother had collapsed on the floor. For a moment, Scott thought she might have fainted from the shock, but as he knelt beside her, he realized she was dead. He couldn’t control his shaking hands as he tried to find her pulse.

Michael was on the floor beside her, holding her head in his lap. She tried to call 911, but she said it was busy. Then she fell down. I tried to catch her, but she’s a lot bigger than me. She’s all right, isn’t she, mister? She’s just sick, huh? She’s going to be fine. Tears flooded his face.

Scott’s face constricted in pain. How could he tell him?

Scott forced himself to take a deep breath. He was having difficulty making his mind work, but the thought of poisonous gas killing them forced him to grab Michael’s arm, but Michael firmly resisted.

Something bad is in this restaurant, kid. We’ve got to get out of here. It might even be on the phone that your mom touched.

I’m not leaving my mom. I’m not. He cradled his mother’s head in his arms and rocked back and forth.

Scott nodded. He didn’t want to touch her. Whatever killed her might be on her skin. It might kill him as well. He wanted to wash his hands after trying to find her pulse. He wanted out of the restaurant—he wanted to breathe fresh, clean air, to be away from all this death.

Or was he afraid that some black man driving by might see him carrying her out and think he’d hurt this black woman? Black men in this neighborhood carried guns and metal ball bats. Shoot the damn whitey, worry about why later. Still, he knew the kid wouldn’t leave without his mom. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t, he mumbled under his breath.

Scott, with some effort, lifted the woman in his arms. You open the door.

Michael grabbed his mother’s purse and slung it around his neck. He pushed the glass door open. Only one car drove by, and the black driver didn’t glimpse their way. Scott laid the dead woman down on the bus bench in front of the restaurant. You stay with your mom. He ran to his car and took his cellphone from his briefcase. He rapidly dialed 911. Busy. He tried again. Still busy. Damn, 911 busy? I thought they’d fixed that problem.

He tapped in the numbers again and looked up in time to glimpse a white SUV heading straight toward Michael and his mom. He yelled at Michael.

Michael turned and dove out of the way just in time. The van bounced over the curb and crashed into the bench, the impact ripping it off its supports with the dead woman’s arms flopping wildly and pushed it into the side of Charlie’s building. The force of the crash tore a massive hole through the wall.

Scott ran to the van and pressed his head against the rear window, trying to see inside. The driver appeared to be a woman, slumped over the steering wheel. He knew she was dead. Scott glared down at his cellphone, still busy. What the hell is going on?

Michael ran over to Scott and started beating on his arm with his fists. Get my mom out. Find her.

Scott couldn’t even see the bench or Michael’s mother. They were both buried somewhere within Charlie’s restaurant, but there was no way he was going back in there again. He grabbed Michael’s arms and yelled at him, She’s dead, Kid. There’s nothing we can do for her. Do you understand?

Michael stopped pounding on Scott’s arm. He stared at him in disbelief. She can’t be dead. She’s all I’ve got. Tears flooded his face, and he shook uncontrollably.

Scott bent down on one knee and took Michael in his arms. Michael’s tortured sobbing mixed now with his hoarse gasping for air. Scott asked, Don’t you have anyone, a grandparent, or somebody?

Michael’s head wobbled back and forth on his shoulder. Ain’t got nobody, Michael gasped out between sobs. Mom always said it was just the two of us against the world.

Ok, Kid, I’ve got you, and we’ll worry about another family later. Right now, we’ve got to find some help. He released Michael and tried the phone again. It was still busy. We’re going to take my car and head for the nearest police station . . . all right? Then, we’ll figure out about taking care of you. I’ve a daughter about your age, so I’m not at a total loss.

Michael wiped the tears from his face as they hurried to Scott’s car. My name’s Michael, not Kid. White people don’t have no respect for black kids. Michael clutched his mom’s purse to his chest.

Sorry, Michael. My name’s Scott. He held out his hand. Michael placed his hand limply into Scott’s. That’s no handshake. If you want respect, you’ve got to give another man a firm handshake. Michael gripped his hand firmly. Better.

Black men don’t shake hands like no damn honky. Michael made his small hand into a fist. Scott reached over and tapped his fist on top of Michael’s, then Michael tapped his fist on top of Scott’s.

Better? Scott asked.

Yeah, okay for a whitey.

You ever use a cellphone?

I know how.

Then start dialing 911, and hopefully, you can get an answer. Scott flipped the phone to Michael. His tires squealed as he zoomed out of the parking lot. He’d never burnt rubber with this car, and it surprised him that it could even do it. The entrance to the freeway was ten blocks away, but before they’d traveled four blocks, Michael exclaimed, Look! and pointed ahead of them.

A block away sat a police car on the opposite side of the street with its red lights flashing. Thank God! Scott exclaimed.

There was no traffic on the street, so he did a U-turn and pulled up behind it. He jumped out of his car and ran up to the driver’s door. The windows were down, and Scott sputtered, Officers, there’s a—

The two officers sat in the car with their dead eyes staring straight ahead.

Scott tapped his fist against the car door and gaped at the two dead officers. He took a deep breath, reached in the window, and lifted the microphone from the officer’s collar. Can anyone hear me? He released the button.

Who is this? a voice asked back.

My name is Dr. Scott Marklee. I’m standing beside police car . . . he looked at the number, 87602. There are two dead officers inside, plus there are forty or more people dead at a restaurant called Charlie’s.

Were they shot?

No, ma’am. They’re just dead.

Are you sure the officers are dead?

Yes, I am.

Leave them and get out of the area.

What’s going on?

We can’t explain at this time. Just leave the area immediately.

Scott shook his head. Patch me through to Deputy Chief Ferguson.

We can’t do that. Please leave the area.

Yes, you can. Tell Deputy Chief Ferguson that Dr. Scott Marklee needs to talk with him, NOW!

The speaker went dead. Scott wasn’t sure if she’d try to locate Fergie or not, but just as he started to place the mic back inside the police car, the woman came on. Deputy Ferguson can’t talk with you at this time. Scott brought the mic up to his mouth to respond, but the woman beat him to it. "He said to tell you to remove the dead officers from the patrol car, remove their weapons, and use the car to come down to headquarters as fast as you can. You’re to use red lights and siren. Is that understood? Do you have any questions?"

What about the two dead officers?

I’ve made a note of their location. We are more concerned about the living at this time.

Scott thought that was a strange thing to say. I understand, he said even though he didn’t understand any of this. Scott exhaled a nervous breath, opened the door, released the officer’s seat belt, and pulled the officer over to the sidewalk. Michael watched him with wide eyes. After removing the other officer, he waved for Michael to join him. Grab my jacket and computer case from the car.

I saw you take their guns. Are you going to shoot the bad guys?

I’m not sure there are any bad guys, Michael. A friend of mine wants me to go downtown to police headquarters. This is the fastest way to go at this time of day.

Scott placed his computer case and jacket in the back of the police car. He hit his key-fob to lock his Honda. He hated leaving his car unattended. It was only a 2014 Honda, but it was paid for, and he liked it.

You think your car will still be here when you come back? Michael asked.

I was thinking the same thing. Scott sighed, shrugged, and motioned Michael to get into the police car. I think we’ve got bigger problems to worry about than my car.

Scott hit the siren and turned on the flashing lights. They zoomed up the on-ramp doing over 60 but slowed abruptly for the freeway traffic that was jammed as usual—both a relief to Scott and a disconcerting worry. How could everything be so normal with so many dead people back there? He weaved between the cars and finally just drove down the right-side shoulder. It was getting dark as he approached his ex-wife’s turnoff. She lived on the fringe of an integrated neighborhood. He scowled and abruptly made a fast turn down the ramp. Scott pulled up in front of her building and turned off the siren but left the lights flashing.

This police headquarters? Michael asked.

My daughter and ex-wife’s place. You stay here and protect the car.

Yeah, man, how am I supposed to do that?

Lock the doors and don’t let anyone in except me. Can you do that?

Michael nodded. Scott noticed that Michael had been crying again. He squeezed his shoulder. Try to be strong.

I’m trying.

Scott hurried to the entrance of the tall apartment building and yanked on the glass door—hard, but it was locked. He pulled at it again, and while it made a metal clanging noise, it didn’t open. He reached over and pushed the button for Guanine’s apartment, but no answer. He started pushing all the buttons, but nobody responded.

A heavyset black man ran to him. What’s going on? You the police?

Scott ignored his question and asked, You live here?

Yes.

Open the door.

Why? Is something wrong?

Scott stepped back from the door and pointed up. What do you see?

The man stared up at the darkened windows. Nothing.

That’s the point. There isn’t a single light on.

Maybe they’ve had a blackout.

Not with lights still on in the lobby area.

The man opened the door, and Scott rushed to the elevator. What floor do you live on?

Nine.

Scott pushed 9 and 12, Guanine’s floor. You live alone?

No, my wife and three kids.

Scott closed his eyes for a moment and said a silent prayer for the man’s family. I’ll be at 1288 if you need me.

Why will I need you? the man asked as he stepped out on the ninth floor.

I’m hoping you won’t, Scott said as the elevator door closed. Remember 1288.

On the twelfth floor, Scott ran down the hallway to number 1288. Guanine had given him a key to her apartment after she’d moved in. When he’d asked about a key to the front door, she’d told him she didn’t want him sneaking in without her knowing. Besides, if she ever got locked out, she’d be able to call him for help. When he came over to pick up Gloria, she could ring him in.

He opened the door, switched on the light, and called out their names. There was no answer. Maybe they’d just gone out for something to eat.

The black man found Scott in Gloria’s bedroom, holding her in his arms on the floor, weeping. The black man asked, Why? Why would someone want to do this? My whole family.

Scott stared at the man and tried to find some words to answer his question, but he couldn’t think of any. I’m a writer and a newsman, he thought, and now I’ve run out of words. He felt the pain hurtling through his body, and he started crying, great sobs of grief.

The black man bent and placed his arms around Scott and his dead daughter. They cried together for a long time. Finally, when they stopped, their breathing was heavy and filled with pain.

Together they lifted Gloria onto her bed. Scott bent and kissed her tenderly on the forehead, then he covered her with her bedspread. They went into the kitchen where Guanine had died and carried her to her bedroom.

Scott spoke between sobs. I have to go to police headquarters. Can I get you anything? Help you with your family?

This morning, I had everything. Tonight, I’ve nothing. Can you give me back my wife and my three children?

Scott could see the freeway from Guanine’s window with many cars moving north and south. The black man motioned at the vehicles, Is this everywhere—this horrible death?

I imagine it’s this whole building. We should probably leave until they can find out what’s causing it.

The black man gazed at him incredulously. This whole building? That can’t be. There must be over two hundred people in this building.

I just left a restaurant with over forty people dead in it. Whatever it is, it’s deadly.

Gas? Poisonous chemicals? Germ warfare? the black man asked.

I don’t know. Why are we still alive? I don’t know. I’ll tell the police about this building when I get to the station. Whatever it is, we might already have it and be dead, but we just don’t know.

That might be a blessing.

Scott nodded with a tormented sigh. Yes, it might. He held out his hand, but the black man hugged him, heartsick, and patted him on the back.

I’m going to my mother’s home. I don’t want to tell her on the phone.

"Understandable. Where does she live?

Long Beach.

Watch yourself. People are dying at the wheel of their cars.

My God . . . but he never finished his remark.

Scott pulled out his notepad. Please write your name and your mother’s address. Scott handed the man his business card. They hurried out of the lobby.

Scott sat exhausted in the patrol car and tried to think what to say to Michael, but the boy must have seen the grief on his face.

Everybody’s dead in there, huh?

Scott nodded.

Your daughter?

Scott nodded again.

Why? Why is everybody dying?

The same question on everyone’s mind, Scott thought. Why was everyone dying? Maybe they had the answer downtown. Scott’s eyes filled with tears. He reached over and switched on the siren. Tonight, the screams of sirens and the smell of death would fill LA.

CHAPTER TWO

THE POLICE STATION

Death had not gone unnoticed—the media jammed the station. The voices merged into an orchestrated bewilderment of shouts, anger, and confusion, but mostly there was the unrelenting chorus of voices filled with fear. Newspaper people clashed with camera people and video recorders and microphones. The cacophony of noise was harsh.

Scott pulled his wrinkled jacket on and moved with confidence through the crowd. He and Fergie played handball twice a week, so most officers thought he was an investigator on the force, much to Fergie’s amusement. With Michael in tow, he was just another detective coming and going.

Once past the roped-off media area, he hurried up to Fergie’s office. It was empty.

Scott yelled out to an officer rushing past, Where’s Fergie?

Conference Room C.

While there was mayhem on the outside, there was a deathly silence in Conference Room C. Six people huddled around a large rectangular table filled with maps. When Scott walked in, Police Chief Asmann glanced at him and yelled, Get the hell out of here, Scott. Who the hell—

It’s all right, Chief. I asked him to come. Fergie interrupted.

Scott could feel the tension in the room.

Fergie was a tall, thin man with bright red hair and a gentle disposition. His gentle ways didn’t seem to fit with what people expected from a laid-back person with red hair, but he took charge when he needed to.

Why in the hell for? Chief Asmann was a short, stocky man with a square face and bald head. When he was angry, both his face and head glowed a bright red, and they were positively glowing now. Scott wondered if he had caused that or if what was going on was causing it.

Because he’s got a Ph.D. in chemical and biological warfare and worldwide experience in the subject, explained Fergie, and because he understands the media and us, but mostly because we can use all the help we can get right now.

Chief Asmann scowled at Scott but nodded his agreement. What’s the kid doing here? I may have to put up with you, but no damn kids.

The boy’s name is Michael, and he just lost his mother at Charlie’s Barbecue Restaurant along with 40 or more others who died. Scott motioned Michael to sit over on a small, blue couch in the corner.

Damn! Fergie exclaimed. Charlie’s too?

Scott nodded. "And