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they weren’t on their deathbed yet, but they had all been given diagnoses signing their death warrant. These people were going to die and then poof, the cancer was gone.”
    Cal cocked his head. “Are you telling me there’s a pattern? How come nobody else is tracking this?”
    “Hey, I’m good at what I do.” Jonas smiled. “Now, I’ve plotted the ten cases I’ve found so far. Tell me if you notice a pattern.”
    Cal stared at the screen, analyzing the U.S. map clearly marked with ten red dots. Atlanta, Georgia. Columbus, Ohio. Williamsburg, Virginia. There wasn’t a pattern that Cal could see.
    “What am I missing here?” asked Cal.
    “When I first analyzed it, taking the hospitals into account, nothing really jumped out as far as similarities. Different sizes. Different affiliations. Pretty random, actually. It wasn’t until I went old school and just submitted all the cities into a generic web search that I got my answer. The first link Google showed me was to U.S. News and World Report ’s annual college rankings. Every city has a public university listed as one of the top twenty colleges in the country.”
    “Wait. Are you saying you think the colleges are in on it?”
    “Not really. I think, rather than doing it randomly, someone is using that list to administer the cure.”
    Cal shook his head. “I’m still not sure I’m tracking. Is this some conspiracy theory thing, because I don’t have a clue what you want us to do about it.”
    “I haven’t told you the best part yet. According to my analysis, and you know that I’m pretty fucking good at this kinda thing, I think the next cure will be at the number three public university in the country.”
    The hair on the back of Cal’s stood. “And the number three school is…”
    Jonas grinned. “The University of Virginia.”
     

    Chapter 8
    Bourbon Steak Restaurant
    Georgetown
    11:34am, April 5 th
     
    Senator Mac Thompson liked to take lunch early. The added bonus was missing the mad rush to get a table, and he hated being crowded. He loved Bourbon Steak, which was conveniently located on the ground floor of the Four Seasons Hotel in Georgetown, where he’d kept a room since Michael moved to the area. The head chef was a friend and liked to surprise the popular senator with delectable tastings that he generously hand-delivered to Thompson’s room upstairs.
    He’d called ahead, and they had his grilled hangar steak sitting in front of him not two minutes after he’d taken his seat. Situated in a nook farthest away from the popular lounge bar, Senator Thompson savored his first bite of perfectly medium rare steak, the hint of spicy peanut dressing adding to his enjoyment. There weren’t many days that passed where he didn’t eat some kind of red meat. He considered that fact as he gazed around the empty dining room, almost every decoration patterned in varying shades of brown, matching the steak on his plate.
    There hadn’t been a lot of red meat on the Thompson table when he was a child. His father had struggled to support his small family, often having to take up odd jobs out of town and send money home to his wife.
    Truth be told, Mac Thompson knew his father was a simple man, but an honest one. Never in his life would he have considered a hand-out. His father believed in an honest day’s work and helping your neighbor.
    The fact that he’d somehow held on to the pastures handed down through three generations of Thompsons, despite his limited income, showed his father’s resolve. There’d been times when it’d been so cold in the deep Wyoming winter that Mac and his younger brother had slept in their parents’ bed, the tiny bedroom being the only room other than the kitchen with a wood-burning stove.
    They’d been hard years, with young Mac learning early on the value of hard work and toil, but his parents had been loving. Mac excelled in sports and academics, receiving an athletic scholarship to play baseball at the University