Exposed

"It's Maggie. Sorry, I'm not gonna be able to go."

"Bummer," was Racine's response.

She had expected the high-strung detective to throw a fit, at least show some disappointment. Maggie found herself disappointed, instead, that there was little reaction. The two of them weren't exactly friends. They were colleagues who had exchanged favors. No big deal. Okay, so the favors were sort of life-changing, the "you saved my mom so I saved your dad" kind of favor. Maybe a little bit of a big deal.

As a result Maggie had grown attached to Racine's father although his early-onset Alzheimer's sometimes prevented him from remembering their bond. The two women had been through a lot in a short time, brought together by killers and mutual incentives to bring those killers to justice. What had begun several years ago with animosity and distrust had dissolved into respect and understanding. Though to hear Racine, it was really no big deal.

"So you've got a big case or something?" the detective had asked.

"Something like that. I can't explain right now."

"Sure, I understand." Racine had almost cut Maggie off with her instant understanding."Jill's been bugging me to spend more time with her anyway."

Maggie knew little about Racine's mysterious new lover, except that Racine sometimes called her G.I. Jill, so at least Maggie knew she was in the Army. At first Maggie thought that Racine kept her new lover a mystery because she had once been attracted to and rejected by Maggie. But they were beyond that. In many ways Racine reminded Maggie of herself. She kept her personal life private. That was all it was.

Maggie promised to touch base with Racine on Monday. Maybe the following weekend would work for another road trip. But when she hung up, Maggie couldn't shake the emptiness that settled in the pit of her stomach. She didn't have anyone else to call.

Though she had counted on seeing forensic anthropologist Adam Bonzado in Connecticut over the weekend she hadn't really made plans with him. That was sort of where they were right now. Casual, spontaneous, the "call me from the road" at the last minute,"oh, by the way, if you don't have anything going on this weekend …" Now she couldn't even call him to say she wasn't making the spontaneous road trip after all. It was supposed to be the grown-up, mature, no-strings kind of relationship she wanted, the ultimate nonrelationship.

Then she found herself thinking about Nick Morrelli, again. Since her trip to Nebraska in July, Morrelli had been persistent in wanting to see her. Through rumors, she heard that he had called off his wedding engagement. Once upon a time Maggie's mother had accused Nick Morrelli of breaking up Maggie's marriage, which wasn't in the least bit true. However, now Maggie did feel responsible that Nick had broken off his engagement to pursue her.

She and Nick Morrelli had worked together on a case four years ago, the murders of two little boys and the kidnapping of Nick's nephew. Nothing had happened between them. There had been an attraction. Some sexual tension. But mostly the case had been emotionally and physically draining. How could you judge true feelings when you're running on adrenaline?

Worst of all was that she didn't feel elated about his canceled engagement or even his sudden pursuit. She didn't ask for this. She hadn't expected it and she certainly had not encouraged it.

For the moment Maggie tried to shove aside her personal life and concentrate on her present situation. She had asked the woman in the blue space suit how Mary Louise and her mother were. Her keeper, her informant, her link to the outside world said she didn't know. Maggie asked if she could see Mary Louise and was told,"I don't know." She asked several times to, at least, talk to Assistant Director Cunningham. Each time she was told he would not be available until morning. It seemed an odd thing to say, especially after a string of, "I don't knows."

There was another telephone alongside the wall of glass. This one had no dial, no buttons to push, and Maggie knew it was connected to the room next door, the room on the other side of the glass that was lined with blinking monitors, computer screens and other medical equipment. The phone was a communication system between the patient and the techs or doctors or whoever they were. Though none of them had attempted to communicate with her. In fact, they paid little attention to her and left the communications to the woman in the blue space suit.

Maggie thought about picking up the phone and demanding to get an update. Then she calmed herself. It wouldn't help to antagonize her caretakers, her keepers, her wardens. She could get through the night. That's all she needed to do. Just get through this night.

Over the course of the evening the woman in the blue space suit had brought Maggie water but no food. Again, no apology, but at least an explanation. They would be taking blood and urine samples throughout the night, so they couldn't allow her to eat. Maggie asked what they were looking for. The woman hesitated, then said she didn't know. Maggie asked if they had narrowed it down.

Another pause while the woman simply shrugged. After some thought she yelled,"THOSE ARE QUESTIONS YOU WOULD NEED TO ASK COLONEL PLATT."

But when Maggie asked if the colonel would be stopping by soon to see her, the woman said she didn't know.

"Could you please tell him I'd like to see him?"

"OF COURSE," the woman shouted over her blower, but she answered this too quickly and Maggie wondered if Platt had gone home hours ago.

CHAPTER

24

Newburgh Heights, Virginia

"Somehow I never imagined you as a stalker, Morrelli." Tully was not pleased to see the Boston A.D.A.

"I brought Maggie some flowers. She wasn't home. I left them. Nothing strange about that."

"Was she expecting you?"

"No, she wasn't. Not that it's any of your business."

"You're sitting in a parked car outside her house. I'm checking on her house. It's my business."

It had been a long day. Tully wondered if he'd be reacting differently if Emma wasn't waiting for him just yards away. Something about needing to bring out his Glock while his daughter was in the vicinity set him on edge. He didn't like it and he wasn't about to let Morrelli off the hook for putting him in this position. Besides, if Morrelli was important enough to Maggie, wouldn't she have called him? Boston was about an eight-hour drive, an hour-and-a-half flight. Not exactly a spontaneous trip just to deliver flowers.

"So you dropped off the flowers," Tully said, leaning on the rental like he was ready for a long explanation. "Maggie's not here. Why are you still here?"

"I saw someone go inside her house. Thought maybe I should stick around and make sure it was okay."

Tully shook his head. Morrelli was good. Convincing. Classic good looks with an easy charm. No wonder he was an assistant D.A. Tully didn't know him very well. The first time he met him he thought Morrelli was a bit too slick. To o good looking. To o cocky. To o incompetent. Tully and Gwen had traveled to Boston, to Suffolk County's courthouse. Morrelli's territory. Gwen was only supposed to interview a kid in federal custody and had almost been stabbed inside the interrogation room. Morrelli had been in charge. In Tully's book that was reason enough for him to hold a grudge against the guy.

"So you think burglars are in the habit of bringing teenagers along?"

"Teenager? To me she looks like a pretty young woman."

He smiled up at Tully, obviously unaware that Emma was his daughter. Tully flexed his hands, kept them from balling up into fists. It was the wrong thing for Morrelli to say. "You've already pissed me off, Morrelli.You're lucky you're not kissing concrete right now."

"Did something happen to Maggie?" Morrelli's eyes were suddenly serious. Maybe he finally sensed Tully's anger was real.

"She's fine, Morrelli. She's out of town for the weekend. That's all."

Morrelli looked past Tully's shoulder.

Tully glanced back and then spun around to find Emma with Harvey pulling her on his leash, coming up the sidewalk. "Is everything okay, Dad?"

CHAPTER

25

USAMRIID

Colonel Benjamin Platt rubbed both hands over his face, stopping to dig the heels into his eyes then raking his fingers over his short cropped hair. It didn't do much good. He was exhausted. His vision was still a bit blurry from staring at the monitors and computer screens for the last several hours. He sat back in the rolling leather chair and twirled it around to look in through the glass wall.

Thankfully she had fallen asleep about an hour ago. What a nightmare this must be for her. To have a spaceman come into her home and take her mom away in a plastic bubble. Then to be brought here. The Slammer tended to freak out even the most stable people. It was bad enough to be locked in but worse being poked and prodded by doctors in space suits. There had been plenty of studies done on the psychological effect of human contact, human touch and, of course, the psychological effect of its absence. The Slammer proved most of those studies to the extreme.

Still, they couldn't justify taking her to a civilian hospital where a child would be much more comfortable. They couldn't risk exposing hospital personnel who simply would not be trained to deal with something like this. And, of course, they couldn't risk the exposure to the media. Platt knew that was, in part, Janklow's reasoning. His directive had been quite clear.

Platt gulped what was left in his coffee mug despite it being bitter and lukewarm. He couldn't remember when he had eaten last. He rubbed at his eyes again. No matter how hard he tried he could not stop thinking about Ali. Mary Louise triggered something inside him and his exhaustion wasn't allowing him to shut it down. The little girl's big, blue, curious eyes and long tangle of curls reminded him so much of his daughter. What was worse than the memory was the physical ache. He still missed her and it surprised him how much. It had been almost five years. More years had passed since she was gone than the years that she had been in his life.

He was in Afghanistan when it happened. He had left only months before, leaving behind a loving wife, a beautiful daughter and starting a promising new career as an Army doctor. He knew how dangerous it would be but exciting, too, because he was one of the chosen few who would protect the troops against biological weapons. It was considered a heroic mission and after 9/11 it felt like a worthy obligation. It was a chance to put to use all his textbook knowledge, to try experiments in the field what had only been proven in the labs. To save lives.

He had been willing to take the risks for himself, totally unaware that the real danger was back at home. He would have given up all his so-called valuable knowledge, his golden opportunity to have just a few more minutes with his precious Ali, to be there with her. Even if it was just to hold her hand before she was gone forever. But someone else had made that decision for him, had decided what was more important, had denied him that small wish.

A knock at the door startled him. The door opened behind him and Platt spun around to find Sergeant Landis.

"Sir, I have that information you requested."

"You found something?" He said "something" when he really hoped Landis had found someone.

"There is no father listed on the birth certificate," Landis cut to the chase.

"How about grandparents?"

"A grandmother. Lives in Richmond. The grandfather is recently deceased."

He handed Platt a folded piece of paper. Knowing Landis, Platt expected to find more than enough information, probably more than he needed.

"One problem, sir," Landis stood in front of him, unfolding a second piece of paper, "Commander Janklow left a message for you a few minutes ago. He said—" and Landis read from the paper "‘—under no uncertain terms is Colonel Platt to call any relatives of any of the contained victims before Monday morning. We need to know what it is we're dealing with first.'"

Landis handed Platt the note but remained standing in front of him as if waiting to be dismissed or perhaps awaiting further instruction.

Platt took the paper and tapped its folded corner against the desk. He glanced back into the little girl's room and his eyes swept back over the monitors and computer screens that continued to blink and click and gather data.

When Janklow assigned him this mission he told him it was in Platt's hands, he expected them to be steady, unflinching hands that would do what was necessary, whatever he—meaning Platt—deemed necessary. But then Janklow insisted McCathy be included. Now this.

Janklow had assigned Platt the mission because he knew Platt was a play-by-the-numbers, follow-all-orders, dot-all-the-i's kind of leader. And yet, Janklow didn't trust him.

"Do you have kids, Sergeant Landis?"

"Excuse me, sir?"

"Kids. Do you and your wife have any?"

"Two boys, sir." Landis was staring at him now, more curious than confused. Platt never asked personal questions.

"What time does your shift end, Sergeant?"

Landis didn't need to look at his wristwatch. "About an hour ago, sir."

"Go on home to your wife and your boys, Sergeant."

"Sir?" Now he looked confused, almost uncertain as to whether he should leave his boss who was acting strangely. "Is there anything else you need me to do?"

"No, you've given me everything I need." Platt waved the first piece of paper Landis had handed him to indicate this was all he needed. The thought of Mary Louise being alone until Monday tied a knot in Platt's gut. She'd already been alone for how many days?

Sergeant Landis left, making room for Dr. Sophie Drummond's arrival.

"Sir, sorry to interrupt." She stayed in the doorway until he nodded. "Agent O'Dell has been asking to talk with you."

"Restless and uncooperative so soon?"

"Very cooperative. Maybe a bit spooked."

"Slammeritis?"

"Perhaps."

"Any word from McCathy?"

"Not yet."

He nodded again and she slipped back out the door.

Not hearing from McCathy set Platt on edge. If McCathy was working by process of elimination then he should have already ruled out the worst. Not knowing churned up acid to eat away at the knots in Platt's stomach. He knew all too well what Agent O'Dell must be feeling.

CHAPTER

26

Artie closed up the second plastic, Ziploc bag. He couldn't help but smile. For the last three weeks he had followed instructions by the letter. He didn't mind. That's what you did when you were an apprentice, a foot soldier, a student. You expected the sorcerer, the general, the teacher to call the shots and you were grateful to serve at the hand of a great one. But at some point Artie believed a great mentor would want him to show off what he'd learned.

Artie had caught on early what the "game" was even though he hadn't been privy to the "game plan" or the "endgame." He could see the pieces of the puzzle falling into place. The idea was brilliant, truly awe-inspiring and he wanted to be more than just a pawn. He needed to show that he could contribute.

Ever since he was thirteen he had dreamed of the perfect crime, plotting it out in his mind. He loved true-crime novels, devouring them in one sitting, committing the details to memory, highlighting and dog-earing the pages. His mom thought it was "so cool" that her son enjoyed reading, paying no attention to what it was he was reading.

He still carried around several of his favorite paperbacks in his backpack, what he believed to be an assortment of brilliant crimes and the masters behind them. They included the Unabomber, the Anthrax Killer, the Beltway Snipers and the Zodiac. The worn paperbacks had become handbooks, prized manuals. He figured he had learned more from studying them than he could learn from any one person.

He set the two plastic bags side by side before sliding them into their manila envelopes. The two looked like all the others. The only difference was that each of them contained five-hundred dollars instead of a thousand. The stacks of five hundred was just as thick as the thousand-dollar stack. A brilliant substitute. Only recently Artie realized he could use fifty ten-dollar bills instead of fifty twenty-dollar bills. The stack would be just as enticing. How could the recipient not be tempted to open the bag, if only to count all those bills?

By splitting the money Artie could send one of his own packages for every "official" one he sent for his mentor. He'd use the same rules of the game. And he had plenty of the virus. A tiny, almost invisible droplet inserted anywhere between the bills was all that was needed. It didn't take much. Sealed in the airtight, dry plastic the virus remained dormant, waiting for moist, warm human contact. All it took was some point of entry—a cut, an eye, up the nose, at the lips, behind a raw cuticle. He wasn't exactly sure how it worked. That hadn't been part of his job. He did know that if it hit its bull's-eye it was as good as a bullet. Better, actually, because it left no trace. The perfect weapon. Virtually invisible.

For his first package, his first "perfect" kill, Artie had followed in his mentor's footsteps, choosing one of his favorite crimes and an address connected to it: Benjamin Tasker Middle School in Prince George's County, Maryland. On Monday, October 7, the Beltway Snipers shot their youngest victim, a thirteen-year-old on his way to school, practically on the front steps. The boy survived, unlike ten of the other thirteen victims. Also unlike the others, Artie found it daring, bold and totally unpredictable to shoot a kid. So Artie wanted to do something just as daring. If you wanted to spread a deadly virus, where better to start than in a school?

Pleased with himself and satisfied with the two bags, Artie slipped them into their envelopes then began the cleanup process. He hated the smell of bleach but he used it to spray and wipe all surfaces. The smell lingered in his nostrils. Though he was diligent about giving himself a shot every time, he never failed to use a skin decontaminate. The military M291 resin kits had six individual decontamination pads. The dry, black resin powder was designed to show up any contamination spots. He was told it was the best universal liquid skin decon that the military had.

Yet, that wasn't quite enough for Artie. After the resin, he still mixed fresh .05 percent hypochlorite solution with an alkaline pH and washed his hands again, up to the elbows. He had read in one of his paperbacks that the solution had been used by the military before the M291 resin kits, all the way back to WWII. Artie figured it was an extra safeguard, another one of those things his mentor would expect of him—to do his own research and take his own precautions.

In the small bathroom/supply closet he changed from his scrubs back to his street clothes, bagging all of it, including the paper face mask and shoe covers. He'd toss them in the parking lot's Dumpster. No need to clean them. The closet was filled with an endless supply.

He left the lab, feeling excited and… What was the word? A few monkeys still screeched down the hall, but now Artie ignored them. His step was lighter, almost a strut. For the first time in his life he felt… And then the word came to him. He felt powerful.

CHAPTER

27

Reston, Virginia

Emma needed to get some sleep. It was late by the time she and her dad got home. He was so mad at Maggie's friend, Nick Morrelli, that Emma could see the vein in his forehead throbbing. That same vein she thought only she could set vibrating. It'd been a long time since she'd seen her dad that upset. And the poor guy, a real hottie, had only been delivering flowers to Maggie, wanting to see her and then suspicious when he saw someone else going into her home.

Emma thought it was all so totally romantic.

She checked down the hallway to make sure all the lights were out then she closed the bedroom door. Harvey stretched out on the floor beside her bed. He looked up at her and she whispered, "It's okay. I'm not going anywhere."

Maggie had once told Emma about how she had found Harvey under a neighbor's bed, bloodied and injured, having fought hard to protect his master but loosing the fight. Now the dog was very protective of Maggie. When Emma took care of him that protective instinct extended to her, which Emma thought was very cool.

She petted him and crawled back into bed. She made one last attempt to invite him up with her. He stretched out on the floor instead and Emma pulled out the pile of letters from under the covers. Just one more, she promised herself.

September 2, 1982

Dear Liney,

Thanks for the long letter. Razzy and J.B. are jealous. I have that goofy

photo strip of the two of us. Remember the one from the photo booth at

the mall? I put it up to remind them how jealous they should be.

It's been a tough week. I'm sore from the obstacle course. Think I might have pulled my shoulder. Don't get me wrong, I'm in great physical shape. Guess I have my dad to thank for that. Lifting all those crates probably helped.Though I 'd never admit that to him.Sounds like he's still bellyaching to my mom that I should be home. The bastard's finally realizing how much of the workload I did.Wait until inventory. Then he'll really be bitching.Maybe he'll make my precious baby sister do something for a change. Though I doubt it. Wouldn't want to get calluses on those precious musician fingers.

Sorry, I don't mean to get off on that, but reminding myself of that hellhole actually helps me get through the tough load here. Thinking about you helps,too,but in a good way. A real good way if you know what I mean. I think about the good stuff and good times. I've been thinking about you taking me to the Art Institute this summer. Of all places. Me in an art gallery. And a V atican art show at that.You're going to be a famous artist someday, Liney. Just you wait and see. If I say it's gonna happen it will.

We have the night off. Razzy rented one of those video players. He and J.B. picked out a couple of movies. One I can't wait to see. A guy flick called Mad Max. I can smell the butter and the popcorn. Better go or they'll eat it all. I'll write more later, I promise.

Yours truly, Indy

She couldn't resist looking at the next one. It was dated only a day later. She unfolded it gently, almost reverently. There was something so romantic about the idea that he couldn't wait to write…that he needed to write to her every day.

September 3, 1982 Dear Liney

We have our first case. It's homework but it's a real case. Pretty exciting stuff. I'm not supposed to be discussing it with anyone other than my classmates, but it's not like you're going to tell anyone, right? In May a guy sent a bomb to Vanderbilt University Sent it in the mail via the good old post office. Can you believe it? Actually it was forwarded. Even had insufficient postage, so they're wondering if maybe the target might have been the bogus return address. Pretty interesting stuff.

On July 2 another bomb showed up in a faculty lounge at Berkeley. We're thinking it's the same guy though this one was left there, not sent. We're… Listen to me. I'm already considering myself one of them. Anyway, the bombs look like an amateur with a lot of scrap. They were calling him the Junkyard Bomber. Now they've got a new name for him, an acronym, but I probably shouldn't be telling you.

We get to put together the profile from the evidence. They think the same guy might be responsible for a series of bombs going back to '78. Can you believe that? 1978 and they haven't caught the guy yet. I already have a pretty good idea for my profile. Razzy and J.B. are all hot to discuss it, but I'm not going to share my ideas. Why should I, right? Let them figure it out on their own.

So I'm sure everyone is figuring the guy is a loner with a grudge against either Vanderbilt or universities in general. Maybe he got expelled as a student or fired as a professor. But I think there's a lot more to him. You can't argue that he's got to be smart,right? Maybe he uses scraps to throw off investigators. How do you track down pieces of wood or regular shingle nails? It's hard not to admire someone who can put together something like this and not get caught.

I'll let you in on more details tomorrow.I'm totally wiped out tonight.

Until tomorrow… Hey, did I tell you I miss you?

Indy

CHAPTER

28

The Slammer

Unable to sleep, Maggie paced. Her room was sixteen paces wide and fourteen paces deep except where the bathroom jutted out into the room, which was three paces wide and six paces deep.

With no windows she relied on her wristwatch and the TV to give her a sense of time. In another forty minutes she knew she would be peeing in a plastic cup again. And what was worse, she found herself looking forward to the woman in the blue space suit's visit though it included drawing blood or gagging her for a throat culture or peeing into a plastic cup. And each time the woman came into Maggie's room, Maggie asked to talk to Colonel Platt. Each time, the woman nodded and said, "OF COURSE."

On the woman's last visit Maggie had reminded her that she had been told they would keep her overnight. They had plenty of samples of Maggie's fluids to know whether or not she had been exposed. USAMRIID had some of the most advanced laboratories in the country. Shouldn't they know by now what Mary Louise's mother had been exposed to? She tried not to run through the possibilities.

In fact, to keep her mind off the possibilities, Maggie resorted to the one thing she knew she could rely on, the one thing that would stop her from thinking about the drafty hospital gown, the electrical hum of equipment and the claustrophobia that clawed at her insides every time she heard the air-lock seal of the door. She tried to do what she did best, work out cases in her mind and start putting together the puzzle pieces, though she had few pieces for this case.

She took a deep breath and let it out. Where to begin? In the morning she would get the envelope to Agent Tully somehow, or at least the return address. She had good suspicion that whatever was or had been inside that envelope was what caused Ms. Kellerman's crash. But from everything Maggie had observed in the Kellerman house, both Mary Louise and her mother seemed unlikely victims of the kind of killer… Maggie shook her head. No, that wasn't right. He hadn't killed anyone yet. They seemed unlikely victims of a terrorist who could leave a box of doughnuts at Quantico with a death-threat notice tucked inside. Not just Quantico, but down in the BSU department.

She wondered if Ms. Kellerman was related or connected to an FBI agent or some other personnel at the academy. That was easy enough to check. To o easy, perhaps. This guy wouldn't go through the trouble of staging such an elaborate "greet and meet" threat with the FBI if he knew they could connect him to the victims. No. Chances were, the terrorist had no connection to Mary Louise and her mother, but that didn't mean he hadn't chosen them specifically for one reason or another.

Maggie tried to remember the contents of the note. It had sounded like bits and pieces thrown together. Or that might be exactly what he wanted them to believe, that they were randomly chosen words, emotionally charged, when, in fact, every word may have been calculated. Something about the phrases he used rang familiar. Perhaps she had simply read too many notes from twisted, evil minds. It was an occupational hazard, letting the words of criminals take up space in a compartment of her brain. Sometimes the words meant nothing. Sometimes they meant everything, valuable clues like secret messages waiting to be decoded. Words like crash.

Despite her best efforts she kept seeing Ms. Kellerman and the blood-splattered bedsheets. She could still hear the poor woman's raspy breaths, the wet gurgle in her throat, the rattle in her chest. She could smell the sour vomit. The bedroom reeked of it, but there was something else, something that hinted at raw sewage, like a septic tank had backed up, only the smell had been coming from Ms. Kellerman's bed.

The medical term was "crash and bleed out." Maggie knew there were certain toxins, biological agents and infectious diseases that, once they invaded the body, caused severe hemorrhage. Ricin and anthrax attached to and attacked lung cells. Infectious viruses weren't particular about what cells they attacked. The invaded cells eventually exploded. The body's immune system would shut down. Organs began to fail, one by one. In effect, the body did actually crash and bleed from the inside out.

Both she and Cunningham had misinterpreted the note. When the author wrote that there would be a "crash," he didn't mean an explosive device. He meant Ms. Kellerman's body.

The phone on the wall rang and Maggie jumped. She spun around to look at it and saw a man standing on the other side of the glass. He held the other receiver to his ear and motioned for her to answer hers. It rang twice more before she crossed the room and picked it up.

"Good morning, Agent O'Dell."

The voice sounded graveled with fatigue, deeper than before, as though he was fighting laryngitis. She almost didn't recognize the voice or him until she met his eyes.

"Colonel Platt, I thought perhaps you had forgotten about me."

"Never. Though I may not have recognized you in your new outfit."

She remembered the thin hospital gown and restrained from clutching at the back to make sure it was closed. She had been pacing without paying much attention. His smile made her face grow warm. Why should she care whether he got a glimpse of her bare backside?

"I would have brought my overnight case if I knew I was spending the night in Hotel USAMRIID."

"My apologies for not having better accommodations for you," he said as his smile faded and the jovial tone became more serious. "We have to wait several more hours, then I'll have them bring you some breakfast."

"But first we'll talk." It wasn't a question or a request.

He paused, his eyes not leaving hers. For a second she thought he might recognize the panic that she had carefully hidden. He pointed to a chair on her side of the glass while he sat down in similar one on his side.

"But first we'll talk," he conceded.

CHAPTER

29

Pensacola, Florida

Rick Ragazzi jerked awake. The noises outside the studio apartment and down below were familiar but that didn't make them less annoying. He checked the glow-in-the-dark alarm clock on his bed stand. Sounded like Cousin Joey was pulling an all-nighter. He heard two different girls giggle, and Rick shook his head. Joey would never grow up. Sometimes Rick found it difficult to not agree with his uncle Vic who insisted his son would never learn obligation and responsibility until he "knocked up some girl." Amazingly so, "chasing skirts," as Uncle Vic liked to call it, didn't seem to affect Joey's culinary talents. He'd sleep until noon, go work out and be at the restaurant at three ready to take on another dinner crowd. Of course, while Joey was sleeping until noon Rick would be up at the crack of dawn, waiting for deliveries from vendors, paying bills, stocking the shelves, changing out linens, juggling waitstaff schedules and today waiting for the repairman to change the refrigerator's compressor. Somewhere in between he'd be cutting up vegetables, pounding out chicken and deveining shrimp. His poor hands already looked like a knife thrower's clumsy apprentice.

For now he stretched back into the pillows. He had at least a couple more hours before he had to meet the first truck. Saturdays were long days. He'd need the extra sleep, if only Joey and his harem would keep it down. Rick pulled himself up and out of bed just enough to close the window. His knees suddenly went weak and he had to grab onto the windowsill. Something pounded in his head and he felt a chill sweep over him. That's when he noticed he was soaking wet with sweat. He crawled back into bed, pulling the bedcovers up tight around him.

He wiped his forehead. It was hot. Now he realized his pillow was damp. Even his sheets were damp. He had a fever. This was crazy. He never got sick. Could have been something he had eaten, though his stomach didn't hurt. He did have a backache and a headache, more like a dull throbbing inside his forehead. Maybe a twenty-four bug of some sort?

He closed his eyes and thought about waves crashing, the emerald-green waters and sugar-white sand of Pensacola Beach. He tried to think of the hot sun beating down on him instead of the heat that seeped out of his pores from somewhere inside him. He wanted to dream of cool breezes and riding the waves on a freshly waxed, fast board, curling his toes over the edge, hanging on and enjoying the roller-coaster ride. He was almost there, relaxed and enjoying, until he felt something running down the side of his face and continuing down his neck.

He reached to turn on the bedside lamp. This was crazy. He never got sick and yet he had a fever and now his nose was bleeding

CHAPTER

30

The Slammer

"I want to know what I've been exposed to," Maggie said without wasting any time.

"We don't know," Platt answered quickly and it reminded Maggie of the woman in the blue space suit. Was this USAMRIID's mantra of the day? All the latest technology and they didn't know. Right.

"By now you must have some idea." She gave him another chance.

"No, not yet."

She thought he might be convincing except that he wouldn't meet her eyes. Instead, his eyes glanced to the side at the wall monitors, flashed over her head, swept back to the counter, like they were preoccupied but really were evasive.

"You'd make an awful poker player," she said and this time his eyes flew back to hers. Now that she had his attention she couldn't help thinking they were intense eyes, the kind that when focused could see deep into your soul. "Knowing can't possibly be worse than not knowing."

He rubbed at his jaw but his eyes stayed on her, as if now he was searching for something in her face that would guide him. Did he hope for a glimpse of courage from her or was he waiting for his own?

"I haven't heard anything from the lab."

"But you must have some ideas of your own." She tried to see if he might be hiding something. He was making this harder than she expected. It had to be bad. By now they would have been able to eliminate a few of the obvious things.

"It's pointless to guess," he said. "Why go through that?"

"Because you've left me with nothing better to do."

He nodded, an exaggerated up and down, showing okay, yes, he certainly understood. "You have cable TV."

"Basic. No AMC. No FX. How about a computer with Internet service?"

"I'll see what I can do. In the meantime let's find something better for you to do."

She thought he was patronizing her, but he looked serious.

"I spent four days quarantined in a tent," he said,"just outside Sierra Leone. No cable. Not even basic. Not much to do. Count dead mosquitoes. Wish that you had enough gin or vodka to pass out."

"Guess I should put in a request for breakfast to include some Scotch." She was joking. She could tell he was not."So what did you do to while away the hours in your tent just outside Sierra Leone?"

"Okay, don't laugh," he said, arching an eyebrow as though to test her. "I tried to replay The Treasure of the Sierra Madre in my head." He paused and rubbed his eyes as if needing to take a break before he dived into a lengthy explanation. She didn't give him a chance.

"Hmm…Treasure of the Sierra Madre, quite the heady commentary about the dark side of human nature. Not a bad movie," she said, enjoying his surprise. "But not my favorite Humphrey Bogart."

He stared at her, caught off guard, but only for a second or two."Let me guess, you prefer your Bogie with Bacall."

"No, not necessarily. If memory serves, he won the Oscar for The African Queen but I think he deserved it much more for The Caine Mutiny."

"Crazy Queeg?" He offered her a lopsided grin then readjusted himself in the cheap, plastic chair, rolled his shoulders, stretched his legs as if satisfied with her answer and preparing to stay for a while. "So if you had to choose, who would it be, Bogart or Cary Grant?"

Without missing a beat, Maggie said, "Jimmy Stewart."

"You're kidding?You'd choose clumsy and gawky over debonair and charming?"

"Jimmy Stewart is charming. And I like his sense of humor." She sat back in her own uncomfortable plastic chair and crossed her arms over her chest. "So how 'bout you? Bacall or Grace Kelly?"

"Katharine Hepburn," he answered just as quickly with the raised eyebrow again, only this time it seemed to be telling her he could play this game.

She nodded her approval. "Did you ever watch The Twilight Zone?"

"Yes, but my mom didn't like me watching it. She said it'd give me nightmares."

"My mom didn't care what I watched as long as it didn't interrupt her drunken stupors." As soon as Maggie said it, she was sorry. She saw a subtle change in his face and wished she hadn't revealed so much. What was she thinking? Now he was quiet, watching her. He'd say something like, "I'm sorry," which never made sense to Maggie. Why did people say they were sorry when it clearly had nothing to do with them?

"Do you remember the episode with the woman in the hospital and her face is all bandaged?" he asked

He surprised her. It wasn't at all what Maggie had expected.

He continued, "She's waiting to have the bandages removed and she's worried that she'll be horribly scarred and disfigured."

"And the medical staff is all standing around the bed," Maggie joined in. "But the camera focuses only on her. Sometimes you see the backs of the staff, but that's it."

"The bandages come off and they all gasp and turn away in disappointment and horror."

"But she looks normal." Maggie said. "Then you see that everyone else's face is warped and deformed with pig snouts and bulging eyes."

"Sometimes normal is simply what you're used to," he said. Then he waited for her to catch up with him. His way of telling her he understood. Maybe his way of telling her that no matter how dysfunctional her childhood experiences were they didn't make her some sort of freak.

The door behind him opened into his room and a woman in a lab coat interrupted. Maggie couldn't hear her over Platt's receiver and the glass was soundproof. He nodded and the woman left.

To Maggie he said, "Gotta go." He stood to leave.

She wanted to go with him. Did they finally know something? Maybe he saw a glimpse of panic in her face, in her eyes, because he hesitated.

"So Lieutenant Commander Queeg mistakenly directs the Caine over its own towline. Start there," he said with another lopsided grin. "I should be back before you get to Queeg's search for the pilfered strawberries."

He waited for her smile. Then he hung up the receiver and left. Suddenly her small, isolated room seemed even quieter than it was before.

CHAPTER

31

Platt's heart pounded with every footstep. He felt the kick of adrenaline in his gut, a mixture of dread and anticipation countered the exhaustion.

The hallways were quiet, some dark. He avoided the elevators. Took the stairs instead. He needed the motion. He caught himself taking two steps at a time. Slow down, he told himself when he really wanted to break out in a run.

Dr. Drummond had told him that, "Dr. McCathy needs you on the fourth floor. He said you have to see this for yourself."

Best-case scenario, McCathy was being his melodramatic self. Worst-case scenario, McCathy found something worthy of his melodrama, something to justify his pent-up anger.

Despite what he had told Agent O'Dell, Platt's limited examination and observations of Ms. Kellerman had led him to draw some conclusions. She had been coughing up blood and had problems breathing, along with red eyes and obvious severe abdominal pain. Her fever had been high enough and had lasted enough days to cause fever blisters inside her mouth.

Her soiled bedding indicated bouts of vomiting and diarrhea that in the last twenty-four hours had rendered her so weak she hadn't been able to get out of bed. She was in shock and remained unresponsive and incoherent. Early tests indicated that her kidneys had begun to shut down. If his preliminary assessment was correct, her other organs would soon follow.

Because of the severity of her symptoms he had narrowed the cause down to three possibilities, three biological weapons that a terrorist might use. None of them would be easy to treat. An anthrax infection, depending on what form, might be controlled with antibiotics. Hopefully they might be able to contain the spores to Ms. Kellerman's house and to those already infected. Ricin would need minimal containment, as well. But if ingested, ricin was a deadly toxin and caused a painful death. The third possibility he didn't like to even think about. If the terrorist had managed to use an infectious disease like thyphoid or a virus like Marburg or—heaven forbid, Ebola, then treatment and containment might be impossible. Ms. Kellerman's house would be a hot zone and anyone within reach of her or it could be a walking epidemic.

Platt slowed when he got to the fourth floor. The procedure would be for McCathy to prepare and seal his sample slides while in a space suit inside a Level 4 suite. Once preserved and sealed they would be able to look at the slides without fear of exposure. Platt knew he'd find McCathy now in the Level 3 suite where the electron microscope was kept. The expensive contraption was a metal tower as tall as Platt. It's beam of light allowed them to see microscopic cells and view them like geographic landscapes.

Platt changed in the outer staging area from his jeans and sweatshirt to surgical scrubs, latex gloves, goggles, a paper mask and shoe covers. Then he joined McCathy.

The microbiologist sat at the counter, hunched over the binocular eyepiece of a microscope. When he looked up at Platt his eyes looked wild and enlarged. He wore thick eyeglasses under the goggles. His face and even his paper mask were damp with sweat. His neatly trimmed beard stuck out from behind the mask, giving him a crazy-scientist look that, ordinarily, Platt would have shrugged off as part of McCathy's melodrama. This time it added to the thump already banging inside Platt's chest.

"It's not good," McCathy said. "This is absolutely amazing. In fact, it'd be absolutely beautiful if it wasn't so goddamn deadly."

"What is it?"

"The cells from Ms. Kellerman. They're busting open with worms."

"Worms?" The banging in Platt's chest invaded his head, as well."Im-possible. There must be a mistake."

"Take a look for yourself," McCathy told him, bolting up and sliding his stool aside, offering Platt a look through the microscope's eyepiece.

Platt swallowed hard and moved in. Adjusted the focus. Tried to ignore his sweaty palms inside the latex gloves. He took a deep breath and clanked his goggles against the microscope's eyepiece. What he saw looked like spaghetti or thin curlicue snakes with threads unraveling from their sides. They pushed against the cell wall, breaking away from a clump, or what they called a brick, in the center of the cell.

Platt forced himself to breathe slowly. Without moving, still staring, he said, "What about our own lab contamination?"

"Impossible. Our samples are in freezers, separated from this lab by three walls of biocontainment."

"There are other things this could be." But Platt couldn't think of a single one. The cell had been invaded and was exploding with what looked like worms, snakes tangled in a pile. "This agent, this invader doesn't loop much. And it's too long. Shouldn't there be a shepherd's hook?"

"There's only one thing I know of that looks like that, whether there's a loop, curl or hook," McCathy said. "I saw Marburg years ago. Samples taken from an outbreak along the Congo. Wiped out a whole village in a matter of weeks."

Platt had seen something similar. The quarantine he had told Agent O'Dell about was one enforced from an outbreak of Lassa fever, another single RNA virus. But Lassa didn't make cells explode like this.

"How can we confirm it? I don't just mean running the cells through the electron microscope. I mean inexplicably. We have to be certain, without a doubt," he told McCathy. They couldn't waste any more time.

" We can test Ms. Kellerman's cells against the real thing."

"What do we have to do?"

" We take more of her blood serum and drop it on cells, on samples from our freezers, samples that we know have the real thing. If any of them glow…" McCathy shrugged. "Then you have your confirmation, beyond a doubt."

"What do we have in the freezer?"

"Marburg, Ebola Zaire, Lassa and Ebola Reston."

"How long will that take?"

"I can suit up now." McCathy glanced at his wristwatch. "Take about thirty to forty minutes to prepare the samples from the freezer. Once I drop Ms. Kellerman's cells onto the real deal it's a matter of minutes."

"Okay, let's do it."

"Wait a minute. I work alone in Level 4."

Platt wasn't surprised that McCathy would balk even at a time like this. He kept calm and steady. He didn't raise his voice, didn't allow a hint of anger when he said, "Not this time."

CHAPTER

32

Saint Francis Hospital Chicago

Dr. Claire Antonelli arrived early for her morning rounds, though she had left the hospital only six hours ago, just enough time to take a nap, change clothes and kiss her sleeping teenage son, who groaned a protest. But then he smiled—still without opening his eyes—and asked if she had eaten anything.

"Who's looking after who?" she had asked.

He smiled again, eyes still closed, and turned over, mumbling something about a slice of pizza he had saved for her.

She'd grabbed the pizza and had eaten it cold during her commute back to the hospital, washing it down with her morning Diet Pepsi.

Now she marched down the sterile hallways, the exhaustion of the week lingering, but she felt vaguely refreshed, like a worn rag that had been wrung out and left to dry, ragged around the edges but ready to get back to work. Still, she was glad she had exchanged her fashionable heels for a comfortable pair of f lats.

She had already checked in on her newest patient, a three-pound, seven-ounce little guy in the NICU, the Newborn Intensive Care Unit, currently known only as the Haney baby boy but called "bellow" by the staff because that's all he had done since he had come out into this world. He was asleep finally with all the connecting monitors taped to his tiny body. The monitors continued to register exactly where Claire wanted them to be. He was doing good for coming into the world much too early.

The patient Claire had gotten here early to see would not be as easy to stabilize and make comfortable. Markus Schroder had allowed Claire to admit him into the hospital two days ago, though "allowed" was even pushing it. The truth was, his wife, Vera, had threatened and coerced him. In less than twenty-four hours he grew too weak and incoherent to argue with either his wife or his doctor. And what was most frustrating for Claire was that after a battery of tests she still had no clue what was wrong with the forty-five-year-old man who, up until a week ago, had been, in his own words, "as healthy as a buck half his age."

Getting here early she hoped to talk to Markus alone, before his wife arrived. Vera had only good intentions but she also had the annoying habit of answering for her husband even when he was healthy and lucid. Claire needed some answers and she hoped Markus might be able to provide them.

She stopped at the nursing station and pulled the file, checking to see if any of the lab results were in. Before she could flip through everything a petite nurse in green-flowered scrubs came around the corner.

"The rash is worse," Amanda Corey said.

"What about his fever?"

"Spiked to 106. We have him on an IV but he's still been vomiting." The nurse pointed to a plastic container with a red twist cap."I saved you some."

Claire examined the container's contents, a black-red liquid with a few floaters, though Claire knew the man didn't have anything left in his stomach. This didn't look good. She was relieved to see Nurse Corey had double-bagged the container and already labeled it for the lab.

"Anything from the lab last night?"

Corey held up a finger and walked to the other side of the counter. "I saw Jasper drop off some stuff about an hour ago." She grabbed a stack of documents from an in-tray behind the counter."Let's see if your guy's in here." Halfway through she pulled out three sheets and handed them to Claire.

She didn't have to look closely. Claire could see the check marks, all of them in the "negative" column. Ordinarily she would be pleased, relieved. No doctor wanted to know that her patient tested positive for jaundice, gallstones, malaria or liver abscess. But in this case it felt like a lead weight had been dropped on her shoulders. She dragged her fingers through her short, dark hair, though she didn't let Amanda Corey see her total frustration.

"Thanks," she simply said and then turned and walked down the hall, flipping pages and searching for something, anything she may have missed.

Her patient had a dangerous infection that didn't respond to any antibiotics. She couldn't find the source of the infection. Now he was vomiting up pieces of his stomach lining, an educated guess from the looks of the container. Claire was running out of ideas. Hopefully Markus could help her find a clue, because not only was she running out of ideas, she knew she was running out of time.

She found him lying flat on his back, head lopped to the side, watching the door though he didn't seem to be expecting anyone. He barely acknowledged her entry with a slow blink, eyelids drooping, eyes bloodred. His lips were swollen, his yellowish skin almost swallowed by purple swatches, as though his entire body was starting to turn black-and-blue. It was the red eyes first, then the fever and yellow-tinged skin, that made her think of malaria. Although she couldn't place Markus Schroder close to anywhere that would have put him in contact with the disease. The Chicago area might feel like the tropics in the summer, but an outbreak of malaria wouldn't go unnoticed.

Fortunately, Saint Francis was a teaching and research hospital so Claire had access to quick lab results, but she couldn't keep guessing. She was a family practitioner whose private practice brought her to the hospital to deliver babies, suture the occasional minor scrape and diagnose early signs of common ailments. Whatever was playing havoc with Markus Schroder's immune system was outside her everyday realm.

"Good morning, Markus." She came to his bedside and laid a hand on his shoulder. Long ago she had learned her patients appreciated even the slightest touch, some small and gentle contact outside the cold jabs and pats that usually ensued in a doctor/patient relationship.

He reached out a purple-splotched hand to her, but before he could respond, his body jerked forward. The vomit that splattered the white bedding and the front of Claire's white lab coat was speckled black and red with something that reminded her of wet, used coffee grounds. But it was the smell that set off a panic inside Dr. Claire Antonelli. Markus Schroder's vomit smelled like slaughterhouse waste.

CHAPTER

33

The Slammer

Maggie had wanted to tell the woman in the blue space suit to leave her alone. She was too early and Maggie was tired of being poked and prodded. She stayed curled up in bed. She didn't even look over her shoulder at the woman. She'd simply wait until Colonel Platt returned. But this time the woman brought in a laptop computer and without a word she left.

Maggie booted up the computer and was surprised to find she had access to a wireless network that connected with ease. In a matter of minutes she started trying to track down any information on the manila envelope she had taken from the Kellerman house.

The postage was a metered stamp from a post office in D.C. but the return address was actually Oklahoma. Why go to the trouble of pretending it came from Oklahoma when it was obviously sent from D.C.? If this envelope had delivered the deadly concoction that made Ms. Kellerman ill, Maggie believed there had to be some clue in the return address.

Other criminals had used return addresses to make a statement or confuse law enforcement. If Maggie remembered correctly, at least one of the Unabomber's intended victims was not the recipient of the rigged package, but rather the person listed on the return address. Theodore Kaczynski had even gone to the trouble of supplying insufficient postage so the package would be "returned to sender." It was a cunning way for a criminal to remove himself from the victim, make the victim and the crime look random. It became tougher when law enforcement couldn't make a connection between the victim and the suspected killer. The smartest criminal minds, the dangerous ones, used this knowledge to their advantage.

Maggie suspected this guy was in that category. It was certainly clear to her that he wanted attention or he wouldn't have dropped a note right into the FBI's lap. He wanted to thumb his nose at them, show how smart and clever he was. He didn't just want the FBI investigating his shenanigans, he wanted to drop them smack-dab in the middle of it all. He wanted them to experience this right alongside the victims he had hand chosen. And for whatever twisted reason, Maggie believed he had specially chosen Ms. Kellerman and Mary Louise. There was no doubt in her mind that they were not random victims.

Maggie brought up Google maps and keyed in the return address listed on the package: 4205 Highway 66 West, El Reno, OK 73036. She expected to find a residence belonging to James Lewis who was listed as the sender. What came up on the screen stopped her.

She checked everything she had keyed in. Maybe she had gotten the numbers wrong. There was no mistake. The return address was for the U.S. Federal Correctional Institution for the South Central Region.

"Okay," she told herself. Federal prisoners had access to plenty of things these days but there was no way one would be able to send out a package that wasn't thoroughly inspected.

She Googled "James Lewis" + "federal prison." Several news articles came up. All of them included the Tylenol murderers in Chicago during the fall of 1982. Maggie sat up on the edge of her chair.

Now, this was interesting.

Maggie was only a girl at the time. Her father was still alive and they lived in Green Bay, close enough to Chicago that she remembered her parents had been concerned. It didn't matter. She knew the case. Every FBI agent knew the case. It was one of the most notorious unsolved crimes in history.

She scanned one of the articles to refresh her memory of the details. Seven people died after taking cyanide-laced Extra Strength Tylenol capsules. The murderer had shoplifted bottles from area stores, emptied and refilled capsules with cyanide, replaced them in their bottle and box then returned them to each store. Hard to image how easy it had been before tamperproof packaging.

Maggie found James Lewis's name and continued reading. Lewis was a NewYork man who was charged and convicted, not of the murders. There was no evidence that he had access to or had tampered with any of the bottles. Instead, Lewis was convicted of attempting to extort one million dollars from Tylenol makers Johnson & Johnson. He served thirteen years of a twenty-year sentence. And he served those thirteen years in the Federal Correctional Institution in El Reno, Oklahoma. However, Lewis was released in 1995 and was living in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

Maggie sat back. Obviously Lewis hadn't sent this. He wouldn't set himself up. But the person who did send it wanted to draw attention to the unsolved case. Or was it simply a piece of trivia he found amusing?

Maggie browsed the other articles about the Tylenol case. How could it be relevant? It was interesting, but it all happened twenty-five years ago.

She checked the date and slid to the edge of her chair again.

It was exactly twenty-five years ago.

The first victim died on September 29, 1982. And that's when Maggie saw it and she knew she was right. He hadn't chosen at random. Just the opposite.

The first victim of the Tylenol murders was a twelve-year-old girl from Elk Grove Village, Illinois, and her name was Mary Kellerman.

CHAPTER

34

USAMRIID

Platt felt like it was taking an eternity. He thrived on order. He respected processes that followed logic and reason. But suddenly the basic procedure for entering a Biolevel 4 hot zone had become a painstaking, excruciatingly long process. Everything took too long. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. And yet, he didn't dare skip or hurry any of it. He knew better and all he had to do was to remind himself of the cells he had just looked at through the microscope. That was enough. His heart still pounded against his rib cage. At least its thundering in his ears had eased up a bit. At times like this his nervous energy pulsed and raced, making him anxious. It was the same excess energy he liked to slam out on the racquetball court or pound out on the running trail.Years of self-discipline taught him how to control it, but here, inside these windowless walls, it was always a bit of a challenge.

He had helped McCathy into his space suit first. Platt would be able to put on his own suit. In the field it was a little trickier. Here it was routine and Platt had plenty of time. McCathy would need to prepare the frozen samples they'd use for the test, something Platt didn't envy. The samples they were going to use were actual blood serum from human victims with filoviruses, samples in glass vials taken from USAMRIID's freezer, their own private collection of hot agents. Platt tried to stay positive, tried to remind himself that not all filoviruses were equal. Though all were highly infectious, not all were fatal.

Ebola Reston had shown up in a private laboratory's monkey house in Reston, Virginia, about twenty years ago. Platt's mentor at USAMRIID had been one of the task force members who had had the job of containment. The virus spread through the monkeys like wildfire, but it didn't have the same effect on humans. The sample they had in their freezer collection was from a worker who had gotten sick but who had survived. Ebola Reston hadn't taken a single human life.Yet under a microscope it looked like snakes or worms with thousands of threads splintering off of it. It could certainly look just as vicious as Ebola Zaire.

Ebola Zaire had earned the nickname "the slate wiper" and for good reason. Its kill rate was ninety percent. The sample they had was from a nurse in northern Zaire just south of the Ebola River. In September 1976 she took care of a Roman Catholic nun who had somehow become infected with the virus. From what Platt knew of the outbreak, entire villages in the Bumba Zone of northern Zaire were wiped out. The virus jumped from one village to another until the government blocked off sections of the country and allowed no one out or in under threat of being shot. That was Ebola Zaire. The only means of containment was to let it die out and, of course, let everyone infected die with it.

In between was Marburg and Lassa fever.Marburg wasn't much better than Ebola Zaire. Its survivors looked very much like victims of radiation. But the difference was that there were actually survivors. The sample they had of Marburg was from one such survivor, a doctor in Nairobi.

Likewise, Lassa fever was not necessarily fatal. If caught early it could be treated with antiviral drugs, though one out of three victims was left permanently deaf. Still, it was a much better compromise. The sample they had in their freezer for Lassa fever was from a man named Masai. Platt had treated the old man before he himself was quarantined in Sierra Leone.

The test McCathy was preparing would be rather simple. Eventually he would need to do the same test with each of the exposed victims' blood: Ms. Kellerman, her daughter, Assistant Director Cunningham and Agent O'Dell. McCathy would start with Ms. Kellerman, placing only a droplet of her blood serum onto each of the samples from the freezer.

Unfrozen, the viruses were as hot as when they were collected. If Ms. Kellerman's blood reacted to any one of the samples, giving off a faint glow, it meant that she tested positive for that virus. The glow meant that the virus recognized what was living inside Ms. Kellerman's blood. Platt was hoping all of the samples would come up negative and that there might be a chance this wasn't a virus at all.

Still in his surgical scrubs he sat down on the bench in the gray area, his elbows on his knees, his jaw resting in his hands. He was exhausted. He knew McCathy had to be exhausted, too. Platt's training and adrenaline would get him through. He had been in war zones, physically exhausted, mentally drained and forced to perform surgical procedures in makeshift operating rooms with blinking generator lights and limited sterile water. Somehow he'd learned to dig deep and find the stamina and the necessary energy to get through the next minute, the next hour, the next day. If he didn't, it could mean someone's life. A war zone wasn't much different than a hot zone.

He stared at the stainless-steel walls lined with spraying nozzles for the decon shower that came afterward. The gray area was neither sterile nor hot. It was neutral territory. Or, as Platt's predecessor had told him, "One last chance to change your mind before crossing over to the hot side."

Platt checked his wristwatch then took it off and started getting into his suit. Regulations prohibited wearing anything inside your space suit that touched your skin other than your scrubs. Yet Platt knew several people who wore amulets or charms. Here in the gray area outside the Level 4 air lock it wasn't unusual to see a variety of rituals or superstitions. Platt had seen scientists make the sign of the cross. He remembered one veterinarian who took out a picture of his wife and children and studied it before gearing up. Others went through a series of breathing exercises or relaxation techniques. McCathy didn't appear to have any rituals or superstitions, unless his muttering "it's goddamn unbelievable" had become a sort of mantra for him.

As for Platt, he wished he still had the family or even a photograph. Sometimes he thought it'd be nice to believe in making the sign of the cross, just like he did so many times growing up. Instead, he had no routines, no superstitions. Although he did always make sure he used the bathroom. Six hours in a suit had taught him that lesson very quickly.

He rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck. He took several deep breaths before attaching his helmet then he pulled the handle on the steel air-lock door to enter the hot zone.

CHAPTER

35

Reston, Virginia

R. J. Tully grabbed his cell phone before the second ring. Just after seven o'clock on a Saturday morning but he wasn't surprised to hear his boss's voice. He was relieved.

"Good morning, Agent Tully."

"Sir, how are you?" Tully wiped bagel crumbs off his chin as if caught. In the process he discovered a dab of Kleenex from where he'd cut himself shaving.

"I'm fine. How's Agent O'Dell?"

The question took Tully off guard. He expected Cunningham to have a better idea of how Maggie was. From what he understood she was just down the hall from him.

"She was okay last night. I haven't talked to her yet this morning."

"Colonel Platt will be heading the task force," Cunningham went on, all business as usual. "He'll be in charge of containment and treatment if that's possible. That means they'll still be guarding the crime scene, but you and Ganza will be in charge of whatever evidence they collect."

"You were inside the house, sir. Is there anything there?"

The pause lasted long enough that Tully wondered if he'd lost the connection.

"There must be something," Cunningham finally said. "Whatever's going on I think this one is personal."

"Personal, sir?"

"Why risk delivering that message directly to BSU? I think he wanted to make sure I received it."

Tully didn't necessarily agree. The guy could have simply been thumbing his nose at all of them, letting them know just how close he could get without being noticed, without getting caught. But Tully wasn't in the habit of disagreeing with his boss. From Cunningham's perspective, especially after a night in the Slammer, Tully supposed it wasn't a stretch to think this was a personal attack.

"Were you able to get Sloane on this?" Cunningham asked.

"Yes. In fact, I'm meeting him this morning at Quantico before one of his classes." Then Tully remembered the impression he and Ganza found on the envelope. If it was personal maybe the message meant something to Cunningham. "Sir, do you know anyone named Nathan who might be involved in this?"

"Nathan?"

" We found a surface impression on the envelope that was in the doughnut box. The message was, call Nathan at seven o'clock."

There was silence and this time Tully knew just to wait it out.

"My daughter's name is Catherine," Cunningham said and Tully heard a hint of alarm. "We call her Cather. Her mother loves Willa Cather. Any chance the impression spelled out Cather instead of Nathan?"

If Cunningham thought this was personal, Tully understood exactly what he was thinking, but he was trying too hard to make the pieces fit the puzzle. Tully remembered the blow-up image of the envelope and the impression. Under magnification it was quite clear.

"No, sir. I'm certain it was Nathan." He heard the exhale, the gasp of relief before Cunningham could disguise it. "Is there anything else Ganza and I should be looking for, sir?" Tully asked. Did Cunningham know something he wasn't sharing?

"Nothing except…" Cunningham started. "It's just a gut feeling. I don't think this is his only crime scene. There are others or there are going to be others."

Tully wrote down a phone number Cunningham gave him, a direct line to his hospital suite at USAMRIID. He promised he'd call him as soon as he knew anything more. Before he closed his cell phone Tully noticed the pink envelope in the corner, a voice message had come in while he was talking to Cunningham. It was Gwen. She said she'd had a mysterious message from Maggie and couldn't get hold of her. What was up? She also reminded him that they were supposed to have dinner that evening.

Tully thought for sure Maggie would have already talked to Gwen. Now he'd really be in trouble for not calling. Nothing would be a good enough excuse. To make matters worse, in her message Gwen had offered to bring over a pizza that evening for their dinner. She had been hinting for weeks about an invitation to his "cave." If he was already in trouble for not calling, perhaps giving in to this little concession would absolve him.

He looked around the living room: shoes left in the middle of the room; mail and dirty glassware scattered on the coffee table; stacks of newspapers and dust competing for surface space. He winced at it all as he started to dial Gwen's number.

At that moment Emma stumbled in, with Harvey leading the way to the back door. Her hair was tangled, her pajamas wrinkled, her eyes were swollen and half-closed as if she hadn't gotten any sleep. And suddenly the dust didn't seem so bad. What was worse for Tully was that his daughter and the woman he was dating would be in the same house, in the same room.

CHAPTER

36

USAMRIID Inside the hot zone

Every time Colonel Benjamin Platt entered a hot-zone suite he was taken aback by how ordinary it looked. On the outside of the thick steel air-lock door it certainly gave the impression of entering something extraordinary, with the bright red biohazard symbol accompanied by DO NOT ENTER WITHOUT WEARING VENTILATION SUIT. The ID code looked like a digital keypad that could be a prelude to a flight deck. Entry required tapping in the correct code and going through a long list of procedures that when done correctly rewarded you with a voice and flashing green light that indicated YOU ARE CLEARED TO ENTER. All of this, including the gasp of air released from the lock, would insinuate something spectacular existed on the other side. And although the stark and sterile room should have been a letdown, Platt always felt a sense of reverence when he entered.

Yellow air hoses snaked out of white walls that were painted like a Jackson Pollock exhibit, thick clumps of epoxy splattered haphazardly. Similar gobs of white bulged around outlets and plugs, sealing any cracks. A strobe light hung from the ceiling, an alarm that automatically was triggered if the air system failed. Metal cabinets lined one wall, a long counter on another, and a third was a viewing glass to the outside world.

Platt grabbed one of the yellow cords and plugged in his suit. Immediately the roar of air filled his helmet and his ears. McCathy had barely looked up at him, not willing to take his attention from the work his double-gloved hands were finishing. He had prepared four glass slides and had four microscopes, side by side, ready to view each individually.

Finally looking up, McCathy waved Platt over next to him. He placed each slide in its respective slot. Then he checked with a glance down the eyepiece of each microscope, giving a twist, sometimes two twists, to focus.

"FROM LEFT TO RIGHT," McCathy yelled over the noise as he stood back. Platt could see the sweat on the older man's face, fogging up the inside of his helmet. McCathy pushed the plastic against his face, leaving a smear but it didn't distract him. He pointed to each of the microscopes. "EBOLA RESTON, LASSA, MARBURG AND EBOLA ZAIRE."

Platt nodded. McCathy had put the viruses in order from best-case scenario to worst-case. As much as Platt hoped it was Ebola Reston he knew that wouldn't explain why Ms. Kellerman's body was crashing.

"I'LL NEED TO HIT THE LIGHTS," McCathy told Platt, holding up a remote-control device. "IT'LL BE BLACK AS NIGHT IN HERE. WE CAN'T RISK BUMPING INTO EACH OTHER."

Platt nodded again. His heart was back to banging in his chest, almost louder than the air pressure in his ears. It wasn't the impending dark that caused the banging, although he knew better scientists than himself who would never attempt the combination of claustrophobia, darkness and a hot zone.

"YOU STAND THERE AND LOOK IN THOSE TWO MICROSCOPES." McCathy pointed at the two directly in front of Platt. "I'LL TAKE THESE TWO. THEN WE WON'T BE RUNNING INTO EACH OTHER."

Platt stared at the microscopes. McCathy would have Ebola Reston and Lassa fever. He had Marburg and Ebola Zaire. Don't let either of them glow. He would welcome total darkness.

"READY?" McCathy asked, holding up the light-switch remote.

Platt placed his hands on the edge of each microscope so he wouldn't fumble in the dark. He nodded again.

The room went pitch-black. There was nothing that emitted light. Not a red dot on a monitor. Not a crack of filtered light. Not a single reflection. He couldn't even see McCathy who stood right beside him.

He found the eyepiece of the first microscope and tried to look through. His faceplate made it difficult. He saw only black. And now his heartbeat pounded so hard he thought the vibration might be obscuring his view. The faceplate was flexible plastic and Platt pressed it down until he could feel the eyepiece of the microscope solidly against his eye sockets. Still, he could see nothing.

"ANYTHING?" McCathy yelled from beside him.

"NOTHING FROM THE FIRST ONE."

"NOTHING HERE."

Platt waited. Sometimes it took a few minutes for the serums to mix and cause a reaction. Still, there was nothing. He reminded himself: Marburg on the left, Ebola Zaire on the right. He pulled back, took a deep breath and positioned himself over the other microscope, repeating the process.

"NOTHING HERE," McCathy yelled about his second sample.

Platt barely positioned his faceplate and he could already see it. It wasn't a faint glow. It was bright. He sucked in air and shoved his eyes hard against the microscope. Below him it looked like a night sky with a glowing constellation.

"Holy crap," he muttered. He jerked his face away and found the other microscope. Nothing there. Back to the other. Still glowing, even brighter now.

"WHAT IS IT?" McCathy yelled.

"I'VE GOT ONE GLOWING."

"I KNEW IT. WHICH ONE?"

Platt had to stop himself. He had to slow his breathing. He needed to think. He needed to remember. Marburg, left. Ebola Zaire, right. The pounding in his heart was no longer a problem. It was as if all sound, everything around him had stopped, had come to a grinding halt. Everything except for his stomach, which slid to his feet.

"IT'S EBOLA ZAIRE."

CHAPTER

37

Saint Francis Hospital Chicago

Dr. Claire Antonelli stared at the image of Markus Schroder's liver. On the desk in front of her were various other images and test documents. She had gone over all of them more than twice. The man behind her was seeing them for the first time and even he was quiet. In fact, Claire found it unsettling how quiet Dr. Jackson Miles had become.

She glanced back at him. His deep-creased face was a perpetual frown. She remembered him once calling his wrinkles "well-deserved life lines." He had those life lines for as long as Claire had known him, even back when he shepherded her through a tough residency, taking her under his wing when her all-male class made it clear that she was their outcast. Dr. Jackson Miles told her then that if he could become the first black chief of surgery then she could certainly overcome the discrimination she was dealing with.

"The liver's enlarged," she said, obviously only as a prompt.

"But otherwise doesn't look unusual." He didn't take his eyes off the image, studying it as if it was a puzzle."What about typhoid or malaria?"

"I've had him on antibiotics with no effects. Not even a break in fever."

"E. coli or salmonella?"

"Not according to the blood tests," Claire said and released a sigh. These were questions she had already asked herself. Confirming or dismissing them out loud to her onetime mentor didn't make this any easier. "I thought perhaps a liver abscess or a gallbladder attack but the ultrasound doesn't seem to agree."

"Might not show it."

Claire watched Jackson Miles rub his jaw with a huge hand that always surprised her in surgery when it was able to delicately work through the smallest incisions.

"I've sent off for more extensive blood tests, but I'm not sure I can wait. He's becoming more and more unresponsive. I'm concerned he'll slip into a coma."

"Any chance he was exposed to something?"

"According to his wife even contracting malaria or typhoid is a stretch. At first I considered E. coli or anthrax. There was that farmer last year, remember who contracted anthrax somehow from his own cattle? Vera, Markus's wife, told me they make periodic visits to Indiana. A family business she still owns, though someone else runs it for her. She said she hangs on to it for sentimental reasons." Claire stopped herself when she realized it sounded like she was rambling. To o much. It was too much information. She didn't need to go over everything out loud. "Markus works in Chicago as an accountant for a law firm."

"Anyone else at the law firm sick?"

"I've already thought of that, as well." Claire ran her fingers through her hair, trying to settle herself. She was operating on little sleep and cold pizza. The adrenaline high from seeing a healthy and happy Baby Haney had worn off."There's someone out on maternity leave," she told him. "Another with a broken leg. No one with flulike symptoms."

"Do you think the wife would agree to exploratory surgery?"

"What are you thinking?"

"There may be something latched onto the liver or kidneys that's not showing up in the ultrasound."

"You'll do the surgery?" she asked and made sure it didn't sound like a student asking her mentor for a favor.

"Get the wife's approval." He nodded."We'll both scrub up and take a look-see."

He made it sound so matter-of-fact that Claire could almost believe it'd be that easy. Then he patted her arm with his gentle bear paw of a hand, and smiled down at her.

"We'll do our best," he said, detecting her apprehension, her skepticism. "That's all we can do."

Claire hoped Markus and Vera Schroder would see it that way.

CHAPTER

38

The Slammer

The telephone on the wall startled Maggie again. She had been so engrossed in her Internet computer searches that she hadn't noticed someone come in and take a place by the window.

When she looked up, Platt's eyes were on her, so intense, so penetrating she didn't want to meet them. He knew something and it wasn't good news. She took her time, closing a file, signing off a site and all the while letting the phone ring and letting him stand there.

"Thanks for the computer," she said when she finally answered. "You're about to tell me I'm going to get a lot of use out of it, right?"

He just stared at her and she could see his jaw was clenched too tight, so tight that the muscles twitched.

"You're always trying to preempt me," he said, his expression remaining unchanged.

"Sorry, it's a habit. I'm usually the bearer of bad news. I'm not used to it being the other way around."

"Are you always this cynical?"

"I chase killers for a living."

"Awww…" He smiled, tilting his head back as if that were explanation enough. "You're used to throwing people in the slammer, not being in it yourself."

He pointed to her chair and started to sit in the one on his side, but stood back up and waited for her.She didn't want to sit.She'd rather take bad news standing up, or better yet, pacing. But he looked so exhausted. His freshly washed hair was still damp. Dark bags puffed out under his eyes. A white smear of something—soap perhaps—left on his chin, bright white against the stubble. And he had changed clothes, a William and Mary T-shirt and navy sweatpants. But the same white Nikes.

"So something tells me you didn't just get back from a leisurely jog?" she asked as she took her seat.

"No jog this morning." He followed suit but sat up straight when she thought he looked as though he'd rather slump down and stretch out like he had before.

"I may have found something," she told him only because she wasn't sure she wanted to hear his news yet. "I think this guy might be duplicating certain pieces of unsolved or old crimes."

"What makes you say that?" He looked curious but nothing more.

"I have a mailing envelope I found at the Kellerman house so I've been searching—"

"You removed evidence from a crime scene? A hot zone?" Now he was on the edge of his chair.

"I double-bagged it." When his brow stayed furrowed, she offered, "It was with me, on my person and inside here now, so I'd say it's as safely decontaminated as I am for the moment." She stared him down, didn't flinch. "Don't you want to know what I found?"

"You know I could charge you with obstructing a United States Army medical operation."

"Oh, sure. Go ahead. What are you going to do to me? Throw me in the Slammer?"

They stared each down again, gunslingers, neither willing to be the first to look away. Finally he did. His free hand went up to his face, fingers rubbing deep at tired eyes, and then they wiped down to his jaw, getting at the white smear; all the while he sank back into the hard plastic chair, but he kept the phone pressed to his ear.

"I'll need to process it," he finally said.

"It's yours."

Maybe he expected her to argue. Maybe he was simply tired.

"So what did you find?"

She explained it him, about the return address, about James Lewis and the Tylenol murders from September 1982, about Mary Keller-man and Mary Louise Kellerman, about the towns' names being almost the same and how this killer wanted the anniversary to be commemorated with a crash.

"What was in the envelope?" he asked.

"Nothing except an empty plastic bag with a zip lock. I didn't open it. It is evidence." She smiled at him. She was trying to make amends. He didn't seem to notice.

"Well, the Kellermans were definitely exposed to something," Platt said. "But it wasn't cyanide. I almost wish it were that simple."

"It's not a poison or a toxin?"

"No. It's not a poison." A slow shake of the head as if he wished it had been. "Not a toxin."

She waited.

"I know you have a medical background."

"Premed in college," she said. "It was a long time ago." He was making her a colleague so she'd understand his angst.Yet minutes ago he had treated her like an opponent, obstructing justice. Maybe it was simply his exhaustion. She hadn't slept, either."Please just tell me," she said, the impatience slipping. "I don't need it candy coated but I don't need all the techbabble."

This time he took a deep breath. Sat forward again. His eyes never left hers.

"Ms. Kellerman has been exposed and her body has been invaded by a virus. It's been trying to replicate itself inside her. Inside her cells. Bricks of virus, splintering off, exploding the cell walls then moving through the bloodstream onto the next cell."

Maggie was sure she had stopped breathing at the word virus. She didn't need to hear more, but Platt continued.

"It's a parasite like one you hope to never see. A parasite searching for a perfect host." He stopped himself as if trying to find a better way to explain it. As if trying to remember something from long ago. "The biggest problem is that humans aren't a perfect host. They last maybe seven to twenty-one days. The virus almost always destroys them. Then it bleeds out. It spills out of them and looks for a new host to jump to."

"You sound like you've seen it before."

"That village I told you about, outside Sierra Leone. I held something similar in my gloved hands." He said it reverently, quietly, like a whisper or maybe a prayer.

"But you didn't get sick." Maggie hated that she sounded so hopeful when his face did not look it.

"That was Lassa fever. Also a Level 4 hot agent. Same family of viruses. But nothing like this."

She closed her eyes and sank back into the chair. She didn't wait for him this time. She didn't need to.

"It's Ebola, isn't it?" she asked as she kept her eyes closed and leaned her head back.

The phone's receiver stayed pressed against her ear so she could still hear him clearly. So she could hear him over the catch in her breathing, the ache in her chest, the slamming of her heart against her rib cage.

"Yes," he said. "It's Ebola Zaire."

CHAPTER

39

Wallingford, Connecticut

Artie enjoyed this part. He liked road trips even if they didn't take him to exotic places. He liked driving on interstates, being on the open road, lots of time with his thoughts. Some of his best ideas had come to him during his "drop-off " runs. He had even acquired a taste for truck-stop coffee and day-old doughnuts.

Today his mentor was letting him borrow his government-licensed SUV again. Artie had cleaned it, inside and out. He liked things a certain way. Worked hard to make sure everything was done with a plan, a routine and a dose of self-discipline. Probably the reasons he had been chosen.

Like his mentor he considered himself an encyclopedia of criminal behavior. Sort of an aficionado of true crime. He could appreciate the perfection, the thought process, the creative thinking and skills it took to get away with murder. That he cataloged a history of criminal cases and put them into his internal memory bank didn't seem odd at all. It just made him special. It made him perfect for this mission. And not knowing everything was part of the fun, part of the lesson to see how quickly he could put the puzzle pieces together. How else would he perfect his trade?

No, Artie didn't expect to have anything handed to him. He had never had much. Early on he learned to get by on patience, charm and an uncanny ability to remember details. And he was a quick study. Though he guessed even his mentor would be pleasantly surprised to find Artie joining in so quickly. He probably didn't think Artie would be this good.

Artie's instructions were simply to mail the packages as far away and as discreetly as possible. Artie chose carefully. He knew a lot of thought had gone into choosing the recipients and the senders, why not the dropoffs, as well? So Artie played his own game of tag with the FBI by having some fun, giving meaning to each cancellation on each package.

At first he had kept all his drop-offs closer to home. There were, after all, hundreds of mailboxes to choose from. Before this trip the farthest he had driven had been Murphy, North Carolina, several weeks ago. The package had been addressed to Rick Ragazzi in Pensacola, Florida, with the return address from a Victor Ragazzi in Atlanta. So why choose Murphy, North Carolina?

That one was a no-brainer for Artie. He thought he'd throw the feds an easy one. There weren't that many "true-crime" connections to someplace like Murphy, North Carolina. Certainly the FBI would peg Murphy, especially since it was one of those cases they'd completely botched for years. They'd have to realize that Murphy was chosen because that's where Eric Rudolph had lived before going on the run. Rumor was the townsfolk had even protected him, misguided the feds and withheld information. But would the FBI get the joke? Would they appreciate his satirical twist? His goading? His subtle "catch me if you can"?

All Artie had to do was drop the package in a mailbox at the local post office so that it would have a cancellation from Murphy, North Carolina. As much as he had wanted to, he couldn't risk eating at the one restaurant in town that had infamously and blatantly advertised on their marquee, "Rudolph eats here." Instead, Artie had settled for a McDonald's quarter pounder once he got back on Interstate 95. Not a sacrifice at all. Artie loved McDonald's quarter pounders.

The trip to Murphy had been an eight-hour drive, one way, 460 miles. Wallingford would be twenty-nine miles less. However, Walling-ford, as a chosen drop-off, had been tougher for Artie to put together and he knew it wouldn't be as obvious to his FBI adversaries, although it had been another case they'd botched for months.

He congratulated himself on this particular data retrieval in choosing this drop-off site. It was an ingenious and poignant example of random innocents getting caught in the cross fire. What the FBI or the military would call collateral damage. What Artie liked to call a "bonus kill." But would the feds even recognize it?

So why Wallingford, Connecticut? In the fall of 2001 there was a ninetysomething-year-old widow—okay, so he couldn't be expected to retrieve every detail like her exact age—who had been one of the anthrax killer's victims. Ottilie W. Lundgren lived in Oxford, Connecticut. She rarely left her home, and as far as anyone could determine, she hadn't been a direct target of the anthrax killer. Somehow her mail had unfortunately come in contact with anthrax-laced mail that had gone through the Southern Connecticut Processing and Distribution Center in Wallingford.

The FBI didn't find anthrax anywhere in her little house.But anthrax did show up in Seymour, Connecticut, about three miles away. Cross-contamination had been the final explanation. Authorities considered it a random and unfortunate incident. Family members called it "senseless." Artie thought that random and senseless were two things he didn't mind.

Now as Artie steered the SUV around a second reservoir he glanced at the Google map on the passenger seat. He must have gone the wrong direction. He had taken the Center Street exit off of Interstate 91. Certainly there was no post office out here.

He found a place to pull over. He didn't have time to sightsee, though the winding roads were inviting and the turning foliage sorta cool. What interested Artie even more was the fact that not far from here was a deserted rock quarry where bodies had been found in fifty-five-gallon drums. Bodies with missing pieces.Yes, it was difficult being a crime buff, being so close to a crime scene and not able to visit. He imagined it was no different than a Civil War buff being close to Gettysburg and wanting to just take a step onto those hollowed grounds.

Another time, perhaps. Artie turned the SUV around and headed in the other direction, this time easily finding where East Center became Center and then making his way to Main Street where he could see the post office. He turned into the driveway for the drop-off mailboxes. The SUV's tinted windows would obscure any cameras, if there were any. He grabbed the two packages off the floor.

Then he dropped them into the mailbox slot, one addressed to Benjamin Tasker Middle School in Bowie, Maryland, and the other addressed to Caroline Tully in Cleveland, Ohio.

CHAPTER

40

North Platte, Nebraska

Patsy Kowak looked forward to Saturdays. She'd pick up her daughter and the two of them would go into town for their book-club meeting. They usually met at the café. A corner table that fit all seven of them. The owner of the local bookstore, A to Z Books, offered recommendations, and for the last two years their club had read novels Patsy would have never chosen on her own. This week's selection was by a local author, a mystery writer named Patricia Bremmer. Patsy finished it in two days, partly thanks to Ward not talking to her. Maybe if the silence continued she'd get all kinds of things accomplished.

Only a week until the wedding. She had to admit she was excited, not just for her son and for the day, but to get away. As much as she loved her home and this ranch, she did enjoy a change of pace. It had been ages since she and Ward had been anywhere. Okay, so it was only Cleveland with a layover at O'Hare, but even Cleveland sounded exotic right now. And though there would be few family and friends able to make the trip from Nebraska, Conrad had told Patsy that they expected over two hundred people, mostly friends and colleagues. Patsy couldn't imagine even a pharmaceutical vice president and the CEO of an advertising agency having that many friends and colleagues. But Conrad was excited and happy and that's what was important. This woman made her Conrad happy like no other person had been able to.

Patsy ran a brush through her hair. It didn't look bad despite her habit of sometimes trimming chunks that didn't belong. It was a nervous habit, worse when she was under stress. In fact, Ward could always tell if she was having a bad day. Earlier in the week he had asked if her bangs were shorter. A simple yes made him nod and back off.

But now instead of her hair she noticed her hands. They were more red and chapped than usual from brushing down the horses and digging up the last of her vegetable garden. She traded the hairbrush for cuticle scissors and went after the ragged skin, trying to make her fingers more presentable but leaving one bleeding.

She hadn't had a professional manicure for ages but knew it was out of the question. Ward had already lectured her about running up their credit card. It was just another way for him to voice his complaints about the wedding since the only purchases she had made were a new dress and luggage for the trip. She refused to drag out the worn old set they had. It was ancient and didn't even have rollers. No wonder Conrad was convinced all his father thought about was money. Which reminded her. She didn't have any cash and wouldn't have time to stop at the bank.

She opened the bottom drawer to her dresser, uncovered the square box she used for loose change and trinkets. That was also where she had hidden the plastic bag with cash from Conrad. Ward would never go through Patsy's dresser drawers, so she knew it was safe there. She hadn't really intended to use the money. She could stop at the bank after the book-club meeting and replace it later. What harm could there be in using it and replacing it?

She opened the plastic bag, reached in and pulled out one of the twenty-dollar bills.

CHAPTER

41

Quantico, Virginia

Tully had heard him the first time. He didn't need George Sloane to inform him again that Tully and Ganza had "exactly fifteen minutes" before Sloane had to return to his class.

Tully watched the man make a ceremony of sitting down in front of the documents like a priest about to perform some sacred ritual. He played the role of professor very well, even dressed it—black knit turtleneck, tight enough to show off his trim physique, along with well-pressed trousers and matching suit jacket. He wasn't a big man, five-foot-seven. His strut into the room asked for but didn't quite command attention. He was Tully's age but had none of the salt-and-pepper Tully had been discovering at his own temples. Instead, Sloane's thick hair, that he wore long enough to curl over the turtleneck, was almost jet-black, and Tully suspected it was because of Grecian hair formula rather than youthful genes.

"The lighting is horrendous in here," Sloane announced in place of a greeting. "Does Cunningham expect me to work miracles?"

Tully wanted to say, "No, just your regular voodoo will do." Instead, he said what he knew would pacify the man and not waste their precious fifteen minutes. "We're just grateful you can take time out to help us, George. Anything you can offer will be appreciated."

"See if you can find me a better light," Sloane told Ganza, dismissing the director of the lab with a wave of his hand as if Ganza were one of his college students.

Ganza stared at Sloane's back for a second or two then glanced at Tully, who could only offer a shrug. Ganza checked his watch then pulled down the bill of his Red Sox cap and headed for the conference room's supply closet.

"So terrorists are delivering their threats at the bottom of doughnut boxes now?" Sloane said, scooting his chair closer to the table. "Where were you at the time?" he asked Tully. "If I remember correctly, you can't resist a chocolate doughnut."

"Stuck in traffic," Tully said, trying not to show his annoyance and impatience. Sloane had already used up five minutes fidgeting with his preparations.

"Thank God for morning rush hour, huh?"

Ganza hauled a long, metal contraption out of the storage closet that looked like something from a garage sale. He set it on the table beside Sloane.

"What the hell is this?" Sloane sat back as if the thing had accosted him.

Ganza ignored him. He unwrapped the cord, plugging it in and then snapping on the fluorescent lamp. It lit the area enough that even Sloane couldn't complain though he grumbled a bit before scooting his chair back into position.

He picked up the plastic bag with the envelope first, holding it up and examining it, pursing his lips and furrowing his brow. Tully couldn't help thinking of Johnny Carson's Carnac the Magnificent.

"Uppercase," Sloane mumbled under his breath like it was exactly what he had expected. "Every maniac from the Unabomber to the Zodiac killer used uppercase printing. In everyday life few people print entire words and phrases in uppercase, so it's more difficult to match."

"So it's easier to disguise their handwriting," Ganza said from his perch standing over Sloane's left shoulder.

"That's what I just said. If you already know all this why did Cunningham call me in?"

Tully watched from across the room as the two men exchanged glares. Ganza was totally harmless, definitely not the type who engaged in pissing contests. He was a professional, and he was actually a bit of an introvert. Perhaps George Sloane brought out the worst in everyone.

When Sloane seemed satisfied that Ganza would no longer interrupt he sat up even taller in the chair.

"It's not just about disguising his handwriting," Sloane continued. "Uppercase gives an appearance of urgency to the message. He's shouting it. But see here," and Sloane held up the plastic-encased envelope and pointed. "He pushed down harder on the periods after Mr. and F.B.I. He's taken time to carefully print out the message, letter by letter, but those periods almost poke through the paper. He's revealing a bit of emotion there."

"Yeah, what's up with him putting periods after each letter of FBI?" Ganza wanted to know while Tully wanted to wince. Didn't Ganza get it, that he was supposed to be quiet and this would take less time. Be less painful. Tully waited for Sloane's look of simmered annoyance and wasn't disappointed. Ganza, however, seemed oblivious to it.

"He obviously doesn't consider it an acronym," Sloane slowly said and now he enunciated each word as though he were speaking to a foreigner. " To him it's the Federal Bureau of Investigation."

"So maybe it's somebody who's fed up with the feds?" Ganza persisted.

Sloane glared at the lab director instead of offering a response. He put the envelope aside, glanced at his wristwatch and picked up the second plastic bag.

"The note's open," Tully told him, "but it had been folded to fit the envelope.You can see from the creases it was—"

"A pharmaceutical fold," Sloane finished for him. He looked up at Tully with thick eyebrows raised. "Your people still opened it when it was folded like this inside the envelope?"

"The envelope hadn't been sealed." Tully tried not to make it sound like he was being defensive despite Sloane's accusation and the man's continued glare. Tully hadn't even been the one to open it and yet he was feeling the need to explain. Maybe it was something that came with the professorship—a superior aura that made everyone else feel like an underling student."There was nothing inside," he finally said without adding what he wanted to say, that Cunningham was the one who opened it. He knew that would sound childish.

As if on cue Sloane pursed his lips again, reminding Tully of a pouting child. He glanced at his watch.

"Come on, George," Tully said, "we already know this has all the markings of a remote-control killer. This guy might be getting ready to send another of his special deliveries. What can you tell us about him? Are we going to find him holed up in some backwoods cabin or in a suburban garage?"

Sloane sat back and crossed his arms over his chest.

"He won't be holed up in a cabin," he said with what sounded like a snort at the end to tell Tully what he thought of his two-cents' worth. "Nor is he someone in the pharmaceutical business. He may have simply done his homework. The anthrax killer in fall of 2001 used that same fold. I'd say he has it right down to the quarter-inch sides."

"You were brought in on that case?" Ganza asked.

"Who do you think told them to start looking stateside at our own labs and scientists and not at some Muslim living in an Afghanistan cave?" Sloane fidgeted in his chair. "Though I shouldn't be surprised you wouldn't know that. No one hands out much praise around here, do they?" He hesitated, looking as if he was considering whether to share more. "Not that it matters," he said, waving the plastic bag. "You FBI guys believe what you want to believe, like your profile for the Beltway Sniper. You guys stuck to that generic description of a young, white male, a loner in a white paneled van. Never had a clue, did you, that it might be two black guys in a muscle car."

"I wasn't in D.C. then," Tully said.

"Oh, right. You were still in Cincinnati."

"Cleveland."

"Sorry, my mistake." But he didn't sound sorry. He brought the note up close and read it out loud with a sort of bellow like a sports announcer:

"‘CALL ME GOD.

THERE WILL BE A CRASH TODAY.

At 13949 ELK GROVE

10:00 A.M.

I'D HATE FOR YOU TO MISS IT.

I AM GOD.

P.S.YOUR CHILDREN ARE NOT SAFE ANYWHERE AT ANY TIME.'"

Then Sloane put the plastic bag down on the table and pushed his chair back, letting it screech across the linoleum. Ganza and Tully waited and watched.

"He's smart," Sloane said without looking up at them. "Not only smart, but well educated. He's precise and detail oriented. He wants you to believe that all of this may be religious based, but I think he uses his references to God much more literally. He simply thinks he's superior to you. Even using the pharmaceutical folds is sort of a ploy, a…" Sloane waved his hand around and Tully thought of a preacher emphasizing points of his sermon."He's playing you, wanting to throw you off."

Then the professor shrugged and stood up, signaling he couldn't tell them any more. But still, he continued, "His choice of ten o'clock may be significant. The address or the numbers in the address may be signif-icant.There's no way for me to tell you that without more information."

"What's your best guess?" Tully asked and watched Sloane wince.

"Guess? Is that what you call your profiles? Because I certainly don't call mine guesses."

Tully held back a sigh of frustration. Sloane looked from Ganza to Tully like he was deciding whether or not to take pity on them.

"My best guess—" he dragged out the word until the s's sizzled "—is that he could be an insider. Maybe you start looking at research labs again. The anthrax killer was never caught. He wouldn't be the first guy to come back out for some attention. Some killers can't stand it. Look at the BTK killer. Nobody would have caught that guy had he not gotten greedy for more attention."

"Maybe this means something to you," Tully said, and he pulled out a photo of the indentation they'd found. He handed it to Sloane. "We lifted this from the envelope."

Sloane took it and held it up to the light, a smile starting at the corner of his lips. If Tully wasn't mistaken it looked like they might have actually impressed the professor.

"Son of a bitch," he said. "You guys found this, huh?"

CHAPTER

42

The Slammer

It was long past breakfast by the time they brought in a tray for Maggie. By now food was the last thing on her mind. She picked at the eggs, ate half the wheat toast, took two sips of orange juice and left the rest. There was a weight on her chest making it uncomfortable to breathe, like something heavy was sitting on top of her, pressing hard against her rib cage. Even swallowing became a conscious effort. She caught herself listening to her own heartbeat. She put two fingers on the pulse point at her throat. Did she expect to feel or hear the virus multiplying inside her? Is that what the extra weight was?

Colonel Platt had asked if there was anyone she wanted to call or perhaps anyone she needed him to call for her. Off the top of her head she couldn't think of a single person. Maybe Gwen. Certainly not Nick Morrelli. Probably not her stepbrother who she had only just met within the last year. How would that conversation go?

"Hey, bro, guess what? I've been quarantined with a highly infectious virus. Might not be able to do that first Thanksgiving get-together after all."

And she wouldn't call her mother. Somehow her mother would find a way to make this about her with little or no regard about the impact it had on Maggie.

"But Mom," Maggie could hear the exchange in her mind, "I'm the one dying from a deadly virus."

"And how am I supposed to explain that to anyone?" That would be her mother's response but only after first asking if it was contagious.

No, Maggie had no one. No close family members. No significant other. No one on her first-to-call list. And no one for whom she was a first-to-call. When she divorced Greg the exhaustion of that relationship had left her with more relief than regret. They had gotten married in college. He had been a sort of security blanket for her, an attempt at normalcy, a chance to have a real family. That was until he wanted to tear her away from the one thing, the only thing that had ever given her a true sense of being—her identity, her career at the FBI.

She left that relationship, bruised but relieved. But she also left believing she'd never find anyone who would accept what she did for a living or, more importantly,that it would always be her first priority. Adam Bonzado and Nick Morrelli included. Of course, through no fault of their own. Maggie hadn't quite let anyone into her life long enough or deep enough to give them a real chance. She knew that she was to blame, not them. Maybe she had taken that lesson from her mentor, from A.D. Cunningham, a bit too far. It wasn't something she wanted to share with Colonel Platt. So when he offered to call someone, she simply shook her head.

Colonel Platt had gone on to tell her a number of things. Some of them now a blur. He explained that the virus had not shown up in her blood…yet. He added that last word like a lead anchor. He told her about an incubation period. He wasn't gentle with her. He gave it to her straight just like she'd asked.

Be careful what you ask for, she reminded herself.

She knew a little about these viruses. She knew that even if she didn't show any signs now, it didn't mean that it wasn't already in her system, lying dormant, silently waiting.

When Colonel Platt left, Maggie sat staring at the wall of glass, watching the monitors on the other side, listening to their hums and beeps. It all seemed unreal, something totally out of The Twilight Zone, indeed. She wasn't sure how long she had sat like that when finally she pulled herself together.

She kept hearing Platt's explanation. He had afforded her too many details, probably thinking that her medical background provided her some sort of safety net of understanding. Knowledge did not necessarily always equal power or control. Instead, it sometimes had the opposite effect. Especially in this case where the more she understood about the virus, how absolutely powerful and unstoppable it was, the more vulnerable she began to feel.

Platt had left her with just enough details to keep her heart racing. And his questions ran on a loop through her brain:

"Did you touch Ms. Kellerman? Did you come in contact with any of her blood? Her bedsheets? Did you touch Mary Louise? Did she take your hand? Did her vomit get on your face? Your eyes? Your mouth?"

Maggie knew some of the little girl's vomit had splattered her jacket, but she didn't think it had gotten on her face. But Cunningham? Maggie remembered him wiping his face. He was holding Mary Louise when she threw up. Cunningham had taken the little girl to the bathroom to help her wash up, ordering Maggie to stay put.

And what about Mary Louise, that beautiful little girl, crawling onto her mother's bloody bedsheets, living amongst the ruins for how many days?

That's when Maggie remembered the line from the note: YOUR CHILDREN ARE NOT SAFE ANYWHERE AT ANY TIME.

The words fit his purpose just as Mary Louise and her mother did by sharing the same name and partial address as one of the victims in the Tylenol case. But Maggie knew these particular words were not his. She suspected they had been copied, too. He had pulled that line from somewhere else but where?

She went back to the computer. She sat down but hesitated. She ran her fingers through her hair and realized her hands were shaking. She sat and waited for them to settle, for the sudden nausea to pass, for the pounding in her head to quiet. None of it did. She needed to ignore the swelling panic, push it aside. She had done it before. She could do it again, at least long enough to retreat, to escape, to work.

She went back to Google, and with fingers still a bit unsteady she typed in the phrase, exactly as she remembered it:YOUR CHILDREN ARE NOT SAFE ANYWHERE AT ANY TIME.

Immediately her answer came up in a dozen different sites. She couldn't believe it. There on her computer screen, staring right back at her were the exact same words. They had also been used as a postscript on another note. Why hadn't she recognized it earlier?

There were other phrases, other duplicates:"I AM GOD" and "CALL ME GOD." Instead of "MR. F.B.I. MAN" was a close substitute: "FOR YOU MR. POLICE."

And just as she suspected, the phrases had all been lifted from notes and messages of another killer, actually a pair of killers. They were phrases used by the Beltway Snipers, John Muhammad and Lee Malvo in October 2002.

CHAPTER

43

USAMRIID

Platt would have preferred to put off talking to Janklow until Monday. The commander had put him in charge of this mission and yet he appeared to be watching over Platt's shoulder every step of the way. How else could he explain yet another message, another order this soon? Platt had barely checked in on his four patients and already the commander was summoning him to his office. He suspected McCathy probably alerted Janklow the minute he saw worms through the microscope, probably even before he had called Platt.

The commander's office door was left open, his secretary gone, reminding Platt that it was Saturday. He found Janklow in his office, standing at the window, looking out. Only then did Platt see that it was raining. The window framed a dreary gray day punctuated by gold and red splotches of swirling color. When had the leaves started to turn? In the last twenty-four hours he had lost all sense of time, of season.

"Colonel Platt." Janklow glanced at him then back out the window, as if not quite ready.

"Yes, sir," Platt said then simply waited.

He had been running on adrenaline for the last several hours. Janklow had the benefit of a night's sleep. Platt had been through this sort of thing with other superior officers. He expected Janklow to remind him that he had entrusted him with this very important mission and he was counting on him not just to take care of it but to take responsibility for it, as well. In other words make sure Platt understood that if and when something went wrong or leaked to the media, Platt alone would be the one to take the fall.

He kept his hands at his sides when instinct told him to dig the exhaustion out of his eyes. He wiped at his jaw to make sure there wasn't any leftover milk. He had convinced Mary Louise Kellerman to eat her breakfast only after making a special event of it, an event that included him joining her for Froot Loops.

Despite the glass wall separating them the little girl insisted they count out and eat all the yellow ones first. It had actually been a welcome reprieve—though a bit of a surreal one. One minute he was in a hot zone staring at twisted loops and ropes of virus, one of the deadliest viruses on earth, and the next minute he was eating Froot Loops with a five-year-old. He couldn't help thinking of Alice in Wonderland sitting down to tea with the Mad Hatter.

"So it's much worse," Janklow said suddenly without turning or looking at Platt. A good thing. His voice startled Platt back to attention. Strange as it might be, he'd give anything to be back with Mary Louise, playing the Mad Hatter and eating cereal with milk than here explaining any of this to Janklow.

"Yes, sir," he said. He figured Janklow was expecting a summary of Platt's strategy, so he started with the basics. " We still have the Keller-man home contained and under guard."

"Plainclothes guard?"

"Yes, sir. Construction crew with public-utility vehicles. CDC can handle contacting anyone who may have come in contact with the Kellermans. We can start administering the vaccine immediately. I ordered—"

"You haven't already contacted the CDC, have you?" Janklow spun all the way around to look at Platt.

"No, not yet."

The commander nodded and placed his hands behind his back. Platt recognized the gesture as guarded satisfaction. Janklow walked to his desk in the middle of the room, hands still clasped at his lower back, chin tucked down on his chest. Platt knew to wait. Janklow would instruct him to continue when he was ready again.

"Right now these four people you have here in the Slammer are the only ones we know of who have been exposed.Is that correct?"Janklow asked.

"Yes, sir."

"A mother, a child and two government employees, correct?"

"FBI Assistant Director Cunningham and one of his special agents."

"I understand the mother is in the final stages?"

Platt hated to admit it but said, "Yes, it looks that way. Her kidneys have begun to fail. We have her on—"

Janklow held up a hand to stop him. Platt hated the gesture but hesitated as ordered. "She won't make it," Janklow said as matter-of-factly as though they were talking about the stock market."Isn't that correct?"

Platt had spent the night doing everything possible. As a doctor he wasn't ready to admit failure.

"Most likely that's correct," he agreed. "However, I have seen cases—"

The hand went up again. This time Platt had to stifle a frustrated sigh.

Janklow paced from his desk to the window, hands clasped, chin still resting on his chest, perhaps his own version of Rodin's The Thinker. From what Platt knew of Janklow's career, this was bigger than anything he had faced and probably the most pivotal battle he'd ever face. The man didn't look panicked or tortured by the challenge. Instead, Platt thought he looked calm, too calm, like a man calculating whether to buy, sell or hold his investments.

"McCathy tells me that this virus jumps easily from host to host," Janklow said, continuing his leisurely pace without looking at Platt, almost as if he were presenting a lecture on the topic. "That it's been known to destroy entire villages in Africa."

So Platt's suspicions were correct. McCathy and Janklow had spent time chatting about all this. So much for chain of command.

"McCathy says it would take as little as a microscopic piece, preserved, sealed and delivered, perhaps even through the mail, to start an epidemic. Something like this," Janklow said, "could start a mass panic."

Platt didn't disagree and waited for what he expected to be instructions on media containment. He didn't, however, expect what Commander Janklow said next.

"What if they all disappeared?"

At first he wasn't sure he had heard the commander right.

"Excuse me?"

"There's only four now. Two are most likely doomed," Janklow said, stopping now in front of Platt. "You said so yourself that the mother won't make it. The daughter certainly couldn't have spent that many days in the same house and not have the virus."

Platt tried to conceal his surprise. Janklow mistook it for confusion, because he continued,"We make them comfortable, give them supportive care. Let the virus burn itself out."

"What about the vaccine?"

"It's never been proven to be a deterrent let alone a cure. Why risk it not working?"

"How can we afford not to take that risk, sir?"

"You're thinking like a doctor, Colonel Platt. When you must think like a soldier. Must I remind you your mission is to contain and isolate? Yo u let this virus burn itself out so there's no possibility of it lying dormant, hidden by the guise of a vaccine that may or may not work." He avoided looking at Platt when he added, "No one even knows they're here."

"We're talking about the FBI," Platt said, swallowing hard over a lump that seemed to appear inside his throat. He still couldn't believe what Janklow was suggesting. Platt was tired. The adrenaline rush had left his body drained and his mind foggy. Perhaps he misunderstood what the commander was proposing.

"The FBI," Janklow snorted like it made no difference. His chin was back on his chest in his best thinking spot. "FBI—they're government employees, same as us. Sometimes sacrifices have to be made…" He glanced back at Platt. "For the greater good. In war zones…and hot zones."

Then he marched to the window and took up his stance, exactly where and how Platt had found him.

Platt waited, hoping if he was patient enough Janklow would retract what he had just suggested. What he was suggesting was that they let the virus run its course inside Ms. Kellerman and her daughter as well as A.D. Cunningham and Agent O'Dell.

In other words, Commander Janklow was proposing they allow them all to crash and bleed out.

CHAPTER

44

Chicago

Saint Francis Hospital

It had been years since Dr. Claire Antonelli had scrubbed up alongside chief of surgery Dr. Jackson Miles. Ever since she started her own private practice her hospital visits were limited to visiting recovering patients and delivering a baby now and then. She wasn't a surgeon. She recognized her limitations and appreciated her strengths. An exploratory laparotomy was not one of her strengths.

Vera Schroder had not been pleased. Her husband had never had surgery in his life, had never spent a night in the hospital until now.

"Markus takes very good care of himself," she had told Claire, offering it as further reason that all of this had to be some horrible mistake.

"He has an infection somewhere in his body," Claire had tried to calmly explain to Vera while right next to them Markus stared out with red eyes and unblinking but droopy eyelids. In just two days his face had taken on an expressionless mask, the facial muscles drooped as if the tissue was disconnecting. There was little indication that he was listening to them. Claire worried that he had already started slipping away.

To make matters worse, Vera answered all the questions, not waiting for her husband. She touched his hand and swept his thin hair from his forehead, not expecting him to respond to the questions or to her touch. Claire had noticed early on that even when Markus had been alert and lucid this was the relationship between the two—Vera did the talking, the gesturing, the patting and caressing while Markus simply stood or sat by.