Exposed

"There may be an inflammation or an abscess," Claire had persisted. "Perhaps even a perforation in the intestine that isn't showing up on our tests."

"You think it's cancer, don't you?" Vera had asked in a whisper.

Claire had never believed in being anything less than straightforward with her patients. She didn't want to alarm Vera Schroder, but she wouldn't sugarcoat it, either. She told her they weren't ruling out anything. They simply needed a better picture of what might be going on inside Markus. Finally Vera had no comeback. She wanted her husband back home. She wanted things back to normal.

Now Claire watched Dr. Miles make the abdominal incision and she hoped they would find an answer, the answer, something that could explain why a perfectly healthy forty-five-year-old man had suddenly turned into a vomiting and feverish zombie.

"We'll do a checklist," Dr. Miles said without looking up, his large fingers gentle and confident. "We'll start with the gallbladder, appendix, pancreas, liver."

His voice was deep, calm, smooth and reassuring. Claire was reminded of the image she had of him when she was a resident, the image that they all had of him. He was a larger-than-life father figure and even his voice was like that of God's. If Dr. Jackson Miles couldn't find what was wrong with Markus Schroder, then no one could.

"Pancreas looks normal," he continued."There doesn't appear to be anything taking a ride on it."

Claire dabbed sponge laps at the blood while Miles's surgical nurse, a young Asian man named Urie, readjusted the suction. Blood continued to ooze up. More dabs from Claire. Urie applied clotting gel. Another small, wiry nurse reached up on tiptoe and swiped the sweat from Miles's brow. He added a hemo clip to the incision. Then he added another.

The incision filled up with blood again.

Usually during surgery the blood vessels the surgeon cuts through will clot up. Additional bleeding can be clamped off or gelled to stop. Periodically the wound and incision need to be suctioned. But that wasn't the case here. Something was very wrong.

Miles waited for Claire to dab again, but her sponges became soaked with blood faster than she could change them out. Same for Urie. As soon as he would apply more clotting gel, the blood would overtake the application. The other nurse added her hands, dabbing and collecting blood-soaked sponges. Even the anesthesiologist looked ready to jump in.

Miles's eyes met Claire's, avoiding the rest of the surgical team. There was a flicker of uncertainty that she had never seen before. Claire found herself thinking, It's like seeing God worried. Recognizing the alarm in Miles's face made her stomach take a brief plunge.

Urie suctioned off more blood while Miles tried to pinch off the blood vessels with another clamp. Claire continued to soak sponge laps. Nothing seemed to work. Markus Schroder's abdomen continue to fill up with blood. Claire couldn't help thinking it was like scooping sand out of a hole in the beach. As soon as you pulled up a handful the sand walls caved in, filling the hole as quickly as you could dig.

"This isn't good," Miles finally said."Let me cut a piece of tissue then let's get out of here."

He did the biopsy quickly, which was amazing to Claire, who could no longer differentiate anything through all the blood. Miles handed the sample off to the nurse. Then he and Claire began closing up, suturing quickly as Urie suctioned and dabbed.

Finally finished, the entire team of six stood back and exchanged looks. No one said anything. Claire could feel the sweat trickle down her back as she watched a stream slide down Miles's face. At one point his black eyes held Claire's and there was as much question and concern as there was alarm.

Urie was the one who broke the silence. "That dude's got some serious problems."

CHAPTER

45

The Slammer

When the telephone rang this time, Maggie wanted to wave it away. She kept her head bent, her eyes focused on the computer screen. As long as she lived inside that computer screen she didn't have to remember the room was only sixteen paces wide and fourteen paces deep. She didn't have to remember that the virus might be silently duplicating itself inside her body. Diving into her work had always helped her push aside her emotions, helped her to compartmentalize the stress, the chaos, the throbbing inside her chest. It would work. It could work, if that stupid phone would stop ringing.

After a half-dozen rings she finally looked up, more annoyed than resolved.

When she saw the woman on the other side of the glass Maggie slid back her chair and stared. Finally she realized she was holding her breath, afraid she was hallucinating. If she attempted to breathe, if she moved, would the image disappear?

She stood up. Took a quick swipe at her eyes, pretending they were tired and not moist with emotion.

This was ridiculous.

Twenty-four hours in this place and she was already letting it get the best of her. She left the sanctuary of the computer and snatched up the telephone receiver off the wall.

"Hey, kiddo," Gwen Patterson said with a smile that couldn't hide her concern.

The petite strawberry-blonde wore a black power suit, her makeup impeccable, never mind that it was Saturday. To the Army scientists that peopled USAMRIID she probably looked like a Wall Street power broker. To Maggie she looked like a lifeline and she found it difficult swallowing, the carefully compartmentalized emotion was now stuck in her throat. She could barely get out a simple response.

"How in the world did you get in here?"

"Are you joking? I'm the psychologist of choice to half the Army colonels in the District."

Maggie laughed…hard. It felt good. But she knew Gwen wasn't exactly joking. She did have a client list that included members of congress, senators and even colonels.

"God, it's good to see you," Maggie said with a sigh that ended up more a gasp for air. She didn't care that it sounded needy, not with Gwen, only with Gwen.

"Have you been able to get any sleep?" Gwen put her hand up against the glass as though she could recognize that Maggie needed at least the gesture of a touch. "What about food?"

Maggie smiled.

"Seriously, have you eaten? Is there anything you need?"

Maggie shook her head thinking, ever the mother hen. Gwen Patterson was fifteen years Maggie's senior and sometimes it showed up in their friendship.

Finally Gwen waved her hand for Maggie to sit down. Gwen sat in the plastic chair on her side of the glass at the same time that Maggie dropped into her own. Again, Maggie wiped at her eyes. Damn it. She would not cry. Funny how four walls behind a steel air-lock door had a way of shoving all your emotions to the edge and then pricking at them over and over again.

"You got my message.You talked to Tully," Maggie said.

"He should have called me last night."

"Don't be too hard on him," Maggie told her friend. "Cunningham and I missed this one. We should have seen it."

"Okay, so tell me everything," Gwen said, sitting back and crossing her legs as if they were back at Old Ebbitt Grill, their favorite hangout, getting ready for one of their chats. "And don't leave anything out."

CHAPTER

46

USAMRIID

Colonel Benjamin Platt couldn't be sure how long he had been sitting in his own office with the door shut and the lights off. He sat staring out his window, a much smaller version of the commander's, and he watched the wet gray daylight dissolve into blue twilight. Earlier he had leaned his head back and closed his eyes, waiting and hoping to silence the steady hum inside his brain. He needed to rest his eyes, rest his body and his mind for just a few minutes.

The exhaustion played games with him. Pieces of memories kept flicking images on the backside of his eyelids. Ali cuddling the white Westie puppy. Ali in her favorite white summer dress. She looked like a little angel. And just as quickly the image flashed to Ali with mud all over her, a huge grin on her dirt-smudged face and her hands presenting him with the ugliest frog he'd ever seen. "Daddy, look what Digger and I found."

The sudden tightness in his chest made his eyes f ly open. He jerked forward, sitting upright in his chair. His hands clutched the edge of his desk, white-knuckled and fisted like he needed to hang on or else he'd fall.

He'd joined the Army as a means to help pay for medical school. But he believed, he truly believed in every mission. Patriotism was not just a trigger word for him. He respected authority. He understood honor. He appreciated discipline. And he had never disobeyed a direct order. He hadn't even considered it…not before today.

He got up now and started pacing, his nervous energy sidelining the exhaustion. In one pass by his desk he flipped on a lamp and continued by. He had to stop and think what day it was. How many hours had passed since he and McCathy removed the Kellermans from their home?

Twenty-four hours? Thirty-six hours?

It felt like a week. And then he tried to clear his mind. He needed to focus.

What had Janklow said…exactly? What words had he used?

Janklow had said, "What if?" Platt was certain those were the commander's exact words.

"What if " did not sound like an order.

When it came right down to it, Platt knew he would be the one held accountable for this mission whether he followed Janklow's suggestions or recommendations. If all of this ended up in a court-martial it would be Platt's neck and career, not Janklow's. The age-old defense "I was only following orders" hadn't saved any soldiers lately.

Platt needed to make a decision. If he was careful he could override Janklow before the commander even realized it. And if he was smart

Platt would to find a way to make it impossible for Janklow to reveal what his original orders—or suggested orders—had been. Platt tried to remember everything he knew about the vaccine. He knew the report, although it had been almost a year since he had read it. The vaccine had only been tested on macaque monkeys. The most important thing was that it depended on how quickly after exposure the monkeys received the vaccine. Thirty minutes after exposure the vaccine protected ninety percent of the monkeys. Twenty-four hours after exposure there was a fifty-percent survival rate.

The FDA hadn't approved the vaccine's use, not yet, except in the case of lab accidents with scientists. Fortunately, accidents with Ebola were rare. Unfortunately, because of that, there wasn't enough data about the vaccine's use on humans. Even if Platt decided to use it now, especially on civilians, it would require something called an emergency "compassionate use" permit from the FDA.

He glanced at his watch—a knee-jerk reaction.

He was already looking at thirty-six-plus hours after exposure for two of his patients. Several days for the other two. He couldn't afford to wait out the time that the FDA would take just to consider his request for emergency use.

Platt stopped his pacing and stood in front of the window, but he paid little attention to the darkness outside, swallowing the last bits and pieces of twilight.

Access to the vaccine wouldn't be a problem. He had it right here, a couple stories above him. And they had plenty of it available because USAMRIID had been one of the research facilities involved in its development.

He sat back down, the exhaustion weighting him down. He planted his elbows on the desk. He rubbed at his temples and moved his fingers to his eyes. The humming was still there inside his head.

He glanced at his watch again. And then he decided. "What if?" was not a direct order. Janklow had worded it precisely the way he wanted to word it. He wanted to put Platt in the position of making the decision.

His decision.

It was clear to him what he needed to do. And what was also clear was that he would not include, consult or inform McCathy.

CHAPTER

47

The Slammer

Maggie hated the panic that now crept into her friend's eyes. She had known Gwen Patterson too long for Gwen to use her professional-psychiatrist tricks on her.

"It's a good sign," Gwen said, keeping her voice level, her mood optimistic, apparently unaware that her eyes were betraying her. "Colonel Platt said it isn't showing up in your blood."

"Yet," Maggie added. "He said it hasn't shown up yet."

"From what I know about these viruses they work quickly."

"Or they can remain dormant inside a host."

"You're strong and healthy. You said you haven't felt sick."

"The first symptoms can be subtle, almost like having the flu."

"You said the little girl didn't even throw up on you."

"My sleeve. I think there was some vomit on my sleeve." Maggie tried to smile as she pulled at the ribbing on her blue hospital gown. "I had to exchange my clothes for the Slammer's latest fashion trend."

"That's not enough." Gwen's voice hitched. She saw that Maggie noticed. She readjusted herself on the plastic chair. Recrossed her legs, smoothed her skirt, switched the telephone receiver from right ear to left ear as if repositioning herself might make her stronger. "On your sleeve, that's not enough. It's passed through blood."

"Any body fluids," Maggie corrected.

"Okay, any body fluids. But it's not airborne."

"In lab tests it's displayed a capability—"

"Stop," Gwen shouted, so suddenly it made Maggie jump.

The panic in Gwen's eyes threatened to dissolve into tears. Maggie wasn't sure why she had resorted to sounding like a textbook. She was saying out loud all the frightening things she had learned, tossing them at Gwen because Gwen was her buffer, her crutch. But it was a mistake. It wasn't fair. She wasn't used to seeing Gwen like this. She was biting her bottom lip, her free hand a fist in her lap. She had always been Maggie's mentor, her rock, her advocate. She was the stable, logical, optimistic one of the pair, but it wasn't right to foist this on her, not now.

Gwen sat back, took a deep breath. Maggie waited, only now realizing that her chest ached. Gwen's panic was contagious. It crushed against her lungs.

"You'll be okay," Gwen said as if reading Maggie's mind.

Maggie shifted in her chair, suddenly chilled. She tucked the gown around her. The panic had transferred to Maggie, because now Gwen seemed calm, genuinely so this time. Had she slipped and caught herself, realizing she needed to be strong for both of them?

Her eyes held Maggie's. "Is there anyone you want me to call?"

"I've already called you."

"What about your mother?"

"She'd be a nervous wreck."

"She's still your mother."

"Yes, she's my mother, but she's never been motherly. I can't handle taking care of her right now. And believe me, that's what it would be. Me taking care of her."

Gwen nodded then she smiled, her bottom lip almost completely void of lipstick. "You're going to be okay. It might be different if the little girl sprayed you in your eyes or your mouth. But that didn't happen."

"That did happen," Maggie said, the memory twisting a knot in her stomach. "It happened to Cunningham."

CHAPTER

48

Reston, Virginia

Emma tossed a kernel of popcorn to Harvey. One for her, one for Harvey. The two of them sat on the living-room floor, surrounded by the newest editions of Emma's favorite magazines.

In Bride was the article "Pretty in Pink," saluting Breast Cancer Awareness Month. She still couldn't believe her mother was wearing a pink wedding dress.

Okay, so it was kinda cool, but it was hard to imagine anything other than a white wedding dress. In fact, if it wasn't for this article and a couple of others, Emma would have thought her mother—who was the ultimate slave to fashion—had made up the whole "pink wedding dress" thing. Even so, get real, who's that politically correct that they'd use their wedding as some social statement?

No, Emma guessed that being in the advertising business her mother probably saw the whole "pink thing" as a way to avoid white. Her mother was very big into subliminal messages. You are what people think you are. That was a favorite line her mother used. It totally worked for her. Besides, she'd already done the white-dress thing with Emma's dad. No sense in reminding people, and at the same time, why not pretend that she cared about breast cancer?

Emma was very certain that when it came her turn, she would definitely choose white. Not like it was something she needed to worry about right this minute. How could she have time for boys when her dad kept nagging her about college applications and scholarship stuff and keeping her grades up. All Emma really cared about were the gorgeous sling-back shoes that matched her bridesmaid's dress. Even if pink wasn't quite her color she knew she looked hot in those shoes.

She glanced at the other magazines spread around her, all of them flipped open to must-read articles. In Cosmo was "The Four Things He Doesn't Dare Tell You." Entertainment Weekly had something about Project Runway. The TV show The Office was on the cover. J Lo was all aglow in People. Exciting stuff and yet Emma chose to stick with the packet of love letters.

September 16, 1982

Dear Liney,

It was so good to see you. I wish you were still here. I can't believe how much

I miss you.

J.B. is still going on and on about the grape jelly beans you bought him. He's just jealous. He knows he'll never be like me and get someone like you. You know, it's funny I can't even remember knowing, let alone mentioning to you that grape was his favorite flavor, but you're amazing.

So are you wearing the T-shirt I gave you? I knew you'd love it. It about killed me to not give it to you this summer. I bought it the day we went to the Art In-stitute.Do you remember how I didn't even want to go? Vatican art? Who cares? Remember? But you made that whole day such an adventure I wanted to repay the favor. I'm big on that, you know. I always repay favors. And it was easy to sneak off and buy it when you were standing there mesmerized. Actually, it was when you were looking at the one by that Caravaggio dude, Deposition from the Cross. See, I remember. I've been telling you, I'm a details guy.

Also, I wanted to apologize again for leaving you right when the pizza got there. Even if it was just an hour. My sister's such a moron. I can't believe she had to pick Saturday night to call me.She's been trying to guilt me into coming home. Like I told you, that's not my home anymore. I know you said it wasn't a big deal and I know you're not mad or anything. Sometimes I wish my family would just disappear, you know?

Emma heard a car door slam and started folding and tucking the letters safely away. She rolled her discarded sweatshirt around the packet and grabbed the People magazine just as her dad came in the front door.

CHAPTER

49

USAMRIID

Platt took over the small conference room next door to his office. He made a pot of coffee and ate an apple he found in his desk drawer. He started retrieving, sorting and compiling information. In no time he had the contents of file folders spilled across the tabletop. On his laptop computer he accessed documents, browsed and read and printed out pages that went into a separate stack. And on a legal pad he scrawled a series of lists and notes.

On one page he jotted bits and pieces about Ebola Zaire.

The symptoms:

First stage (within 1-2 days of infection):

fever, severe headache, sore throat, muscle aches, weakness, nosebleed.

Next stage (within a week, as little as 3 days):

vomiting, abdominal pain, jaundice, diarrhea, conjunctivitis (red eyes).

Final stage (7-21 days):

tissue destruction, organ failure, massive hemorrhaging, shock, respiratory arrest, death.

On a separate pile was everything he could find about the vaccine, including a copy of the original report that first appeared in the Journal Public Library of Science Pathogens, January 2007. The research team that developed the vaccine had been from Canada's National Microbiology Laboratory in Winnipeg and USAMRIID, right here at Fort Detrick.

On another page he scribbled pieces about the vaccine:

Most effective when giving injections in a series (comparable to rabies shots)

Administered after infection within 30 minutes—90% survival rate.

24 hours after infection—50% survival rate.

Administered before infection—potential for the vaccine to protect but unproven to date.

Tests to date all performed on macaque monkeys.

Human trials limited. Not enough data to establish survival rates.

Not approved by the FDA.

Would require an emergency "compassionate use" permit.

Platt underlined "compassionate use." He wouldn't have time to make an argument to the FDA, but as part of a military research facility he would try to find an exception. He'd do whatever it took. Janklow had said that there were sacrifices that often had to be made in war zones and in hot zones. The same was true about exceptions.

He remembered Afghanistan and a makeshift medical facility in the back of a truck. Every time they came under fire the protocol was to move, get the hell out, but in the middle of an amputation no way could you rumble to safety. So you sat in the line of fire, trying to keep the soldier on the gurney from bleeding to death and hoping all of you didn't get blown apart.

No one ever questioned breaking protocol.You did what you had to do under special circumstances. Protect and serve.You certainly didn't leave a soldier behind to bleed to death and you didn't stand back and watch while four people under your care crashed.

In a short time, Platt was finished. He packed up what he needed, left the mess in the conference room to clean up later, locking the door behind him. Then he headed back up to the labs, the confidence back in his stride. As the head of the facility he required no other signature but his own. He didn't need Janklow. He didn't needed McCathy. All he needed now was the vaccine.

CHAPTER

50

Reston, Virginia

Tully rummaged through the kitchen cabinets. He had spent the afternoon fast-forwarding through security tapes from Quantico. He had looked at three-days' worth and found no one entering who didn't belong and nothing remotely close to a doughnut box being carried in. He was exhausted. He wanted simple and easy like paper plates. They had to have paper plates.

Emma leaned over the service counter, watching him, not helping, of course, just watching. Then out of the blue she asked, "How did you and Mom meet?"

"Excuse me?" The question startled him so much he bumped his head on an open cabinet door.

"Mom. Where'd you meet her?"

"I think it was at a party or something." He made it sound like no big deal instead of adding that Caroline had been wearing a baby-blue sweater and pearls. He remembered thinking she was the classiest act he had ever met. "She was with a buddy of mine."

"You stole her away?"

He found paper plates, an unopened package. "Not exactly," he told Emma. "I guess she thought I was charming or something."

He pulled out a shaker of hot peppers and grated parmesan cheese and suddenly remembered that Caroline hated getting any hot peppers on her side of the pizza. Then he realized he didn't know whether or not Gwen liked hot peppers or grated parmesan. He still put them out on the counter.

"When did you stop?" Emma asked.

"When did I stop what?"

"Being charming."

He quit rummaging and glanced back at her."You'll have to ask your mother." Then he turned to give her his full attention. "Why the sudden interest in all that? I thought you were happy your mother was getting married?"

"I guess I'm glad she's happy. It's just…I don't know. He's so different from you."

"Evidently your mother wanted different."

"I guess. But he's such a dork."

This made Tully smile. "So I'm not a dork?"

"For sure not.You're like…I don't know, like Indiana Jones."

"Indiana Jones?" It seemed an odd reference for his teenage daughter, but then he remembered there was a new movie in the series. Strange to have his daughter referencing someone, even if it was a movie character, that he actually knew.

"Indiana Jones. Rugged but cool, not so smooth sometimes but funny…all in a good way."

"Well, Conrad makes your mother happy. That's the important thing, right?"

"Yeah, I suppose." She came around the counter now and started helping him, getting napkins out and silverware."And Dr. Patterson…I guess she makes you happy?"

Tully watched her tuck a strand of hair back behind her ear as she busied herself with pulling drinking glasses out of the cabinet.

"Yes, she does."

"What about Maggie?"

"What about Maggie?"

Emma shrugged. She avoided looking at him. There was another swipe at her hair. "I don't think she's interested in that Nick guy."

"Why do you say that?"

"Like get real. He didn't even know she wasn't coming home. She obviously hadn't called him."

"Good point." Tully nodded, keeping that in mind and reassuring himself. He hadn't told Morrelli where Maggie was or why he was taking her dog. He had figured the same thing as Emma—if Maggie wanted the guy to know, she would have told him herself.

"You like her, don't you?"

"Maggie? Of course I like her. Sweet pea, Maggie's my partner, my coworker."

"Mom worked with Conrad for a while before they started, like, dating or anything."

"That was different." He wasn't sure where all this was coming from. "They didn't work for the same company.Your mom is the CEO of an advertising agency. He's what? The vice president of a pharmaceutical company."

He opened the refrigerator to check for sodas, when he really wanted to sit Emma down and ask what was going on. He knew better than to make a big deal of her questions or else she'd never ask questions again. "Maggie and I are friends," he said and moved on to check the ice maker. "You're gonna really like Gwen. I promise."

She shrugged like it didn't matter. Flipped her hair back to reinforce that it didn't matter.

As if on cue the doorbell rang and Harvey came running into the kitchen, circling Emma, making sure she was okay. Emma smiled but Tully knew it was because of Harvey and not anything he had said. He went to answer the door and took a deep breath when he knew Emma couldn't see him. Everything would work out. Of course the two women he cared about would like each other.

CHAPTER

51

Razzy's Pensacola, Florida

Rick Ragazzi couldn't believe his luck. Just when the refrigerator repair job was finished—okay, $778—he got the call from his best waiter, telling him he couldn't make it in tonight. Something about a Jet Ski accident and being in the emergency room at Baptist Hospital. Rick had heard sirens in the background.

Saturday night was the absolute worst to find a substitute, especially an hour before the shift began, which meant Rick had to fill in. And he was feeling like crap, full-blown flu symptoms—fever, headache, muscle ache and a nosebleed that stopped only long enough for him to take orders. As soon as he retreated to the kitchen, it started all over again.

Joey was giving him a hard time about it, calling him a cokehead because he knew it was safe. Rick was no closer to being a cokehead than Joey was to being an altar boy. It was funny until the fourth or fifth time and then his cousin grew concerned. He grabbed Rick's arm at one point during the evening and took him aside.

"What's going on, dude? Are you okay? You don't look so good."

"Just a bug," Rick told him.

Then he realized he was probably inflicting his bad luck on every one of his customers. He'd need to be more careful, though he had already accidentally gotten a finger in someone's soup. A little boy at table five kept sticking his French fries into Rick's ear every time he leaned over to serve the rest of the boy's family. Who knows what else? He didn't feel good. It was difficult to pay attention. Toward the end of the evening it was difficult to care.

Joey pulled Rick aside again when the dessert crowd came. He made him drink a syrupy concoction that tasted like black licorice and coffee.

"My dad swears by this stuff," Joey told him. "He claims it'll cure anything from a hangover to anthrax. I can testify to the hangover. Fortunately, I have no idea about the anthrax."

"What are you talking about? Uncle Vic's never been drunk or sick a day in his life."

"Yeah, right," Joey said."My mom says he was quite the party hound before his FBI days."

Rick couldn't help thinking that Joey actually sounded, if not proud, then somewhat pleased.

"We just know him as Mr. FBI man," Joey told him. "Mr. Macho Shithead, Mr. My-Way-or-the-Highway."

"You sound disappointed."

"Nah. I'm not disappointed. I just wish he'd remember sometimes that he wasn't always perfect."

Rick watched Joey get back to his soufflé. And more than ever Rick realized that he'd never be able to tell his cousin about the thousand dollars his dad had sent.

CHAPTER

52

Reston, Virginia

"For centerpieces they're having pink and white calla lilies," Emma was telling Gwen as Tully sat miserably across from them hoping for something, anything that would get his daughter to stop talking about his ex-wife's upcoming nuptials. He'd even considered kicking her under the table. And Gwen was being polite, listening and nodding like Tully imagined she did with her patients, especially the severely narcissistic ones. But then who could be more narcissistic than a teenager?

It had taken Tully two slices of pizza—one piece of his favorite, supreme, and another of Emma's favorite, pepperoni—for him to realize Gwen somehow knew what their favorites were. His, he could understand. They'd gone out for pizza, but had he ever mentioned Emma's favorite? Was it coincidence that she had chosen pepperoni? After all, lots of people liked pepperoni pizza.

He watched Gwen smile at Emma. God, this woman had a great smile. It crinkled her nose a bit and showed off the tiny freckles. But there was something tight in the smile tonight. She said she had just come from seeing Maggie.

"How is she?" he'd asked.

"I'll tell you later," she had answered too quickly, obviously not wanting to discuss any of it before dinner and in front of Emma.

Now Gwen asked Emma about the sling-back shoes that the bridesmaids were wearing. Tully couldn't help thinking she was a glutton for punishment, but somehow she managed to look interested.

That's when Tully decided it was no coincidence that Gwen had brought both his and Emma's favorite pizzas. She's a psychologist, for God's sake, of course, it was no coincidence. All of Emma's questions earlier about him and her mom had stirred up a sense of nostalgia. Gwen bringing his favorite pizza reminded him that Caroline used to buy him his favorite flavored jelly beans. At the time he was never sure whether or not it was because she cared about him or she simply wanted to make her old boyfriend jealous. With Caroline there always seemed to be an ulterior motive to everything she did.

"They have over two hundred people invited," Emma announced like it was a competition.

Tully thought Caroline hadn't changed much. It sounded as if she was using even her wedding as a way to impress her friends and colleagues. He had wondered more than once or twice during their marriage if she regretted her choice of husband, especially when Tully settled into the FBI field office in Cleveland. After all, he wasn't the D.C. hotshot making the evening news and busting up cases like the Unabomber or the Beltway Snipers or finding Eric Rudolph in the woods.

Even now with all of Caroline's own successes—she still seemed to be looking for something or someone else to make her bigger and better. That wasn't fair, Tully realized. Maybe she really loved this boy V P. And he realized that despite the feeling of nostalgia there was no longer that sense of loss that he had felt in the early days after the divorce. He couldn't remember when it disappeared. Didn't know that it had disappeared so completely until this very moment. It was gone and that was the important thing.

Emma had finally taken a breath long enough to let Gwen talk. When Tully tuned back into the conversation he couldn't believe his ears. The two of them had gone from pink wedding dresses and sling-back shoes to Gwen telling Emma about a New York university that specialized in fashion design. And Emma was actually listening.

God, he loved this woman. Then his stomach did a pleasant flip. Evidently it was an evening for revelations,because he hadn't realized before how much he did care about…perhaps even loved, Gwen Patterson.

Tully sat back, watching the two of them. Neither one appeared to remember he was in the same room, let alone at the same table. Harvey came over and laid his chin on Tully's knee. He patted the big dog's head, the two of them bonding after being ousted by their women. Except that Harvey really just wanted Tully's pizza crust.

Emma's cell phone interrupted and she grabbed for it, but stopped. "It's Andrea. We've got that project for lit."

Tully immediately knew it was really Emma's safety net. She and Andrea had probably planned for the interruption or rather what Emma might consider an escape. But she was waiting for Tully to say it was okay. And she looked…apologetic, maybe even a bit regretful. His daughter had surprised herself and was enjoying Gwen Patterson.

"Go ahead." He waved her away from the table.

"This won't take long," Emma told Gwen.

Tully waited until his daughter disappeared into her bedroom.

"She likes you." He knew he sounded like he was about twelve.

"Does it matter?"

That wasn't at all what he expected her to say. Of course, it mattered but he stopped himself. That obviously wasn't what she wanted to hear.

"Is it wrong for me to want the two most important women in my life to like each other?"

"And if we didn't?"

It was a good question. A legitimate question. One he hadn't bothered to ask himself.

"I'm sorry," she said before he had a chance to respond. She set her elbows on the table and placed her chin in her hands, looking suddenly exhausted. "They're saying Maggie and Cunningham were exposed to a virus."

"So it's not anthrax or ricin?" He thought that should be a relief. Gwen looked anything but relieved.

"It's Ebola."

"Jesus! How is that possible? Where would he have gotten his hands on it? Ebola doesn't just happen here in the States."

Gwen shrugged. "There was an incident right here in Reston. Back in the eighties. The government kept it quiet. A private lab had gotten a shipment of monkeys. The monkeys started getting sick. Then they started dying. But that was 1989. Almost twenty years ago."

Tully raised an eyebrow, wondering how she knew all this.

"I checked it out after I left Maggie," Gwen said. "The virus was Ebola, but it didn't jump to humans. Ebola Reston. That's what they called it. They name the different strains by the region where it was first found."

"Maggie and Cunningham. Is it Ebola Reston?"

"Ebola Zaire."

"That's a bad one?"

"It's called the ‘slate wiper.'"

Tully winced. Gwen noticed and looked away. It was too late. He saw the fear in her eyes. He shoved around some pizza crumbs on his paper plate.

"That might help narrow down who this guy is. Unless he's traveled to Africa in the last six months he'd have to get the virus from a research lab, maybe a government facility or a university. He couldn't just special order it."

Tully drummed the tabletop. This was worse than he thought. The guy was much more dangerous. He didn't just have opportunity and motive. He had access.

"The anthrax killings in 2001," Tully said and waited for Gwen's eyes, for her attention. "Do you remember them?"

"Not in detail. I remember the letters looked quite ordinary and they were sent through the mail. One ended up in To m Brokaw's office. A couple of others were sent to congressmen. Right? It happened after 9/11. I remember being too numb to pay much attention."

"Twenty-two incidents. Five dead. No one was charged or convicted." This time Gwen raised her eyebrow."George Sloane," Tully explained. "The documents guy. He brought it up this morning. So I did some research." He stopped drumming, scratched at his jaw and realized it was clenched.

"One of the few suspects was a scientist," he continued. "A scientist who previously worked for USAMRIID. They accused him of sneaking out samples of anthrax from the lab at Fort Detrick." Tully didn't like what he was thinking."I imagine USAMRIID has samples of Ebola, too."

CHAPTER

53

Chicago

Dr. Claire Antonelli hated that she had let Vera Schroder down. The woman's face had become a mirror image of her husband's, an expressionless zombie, void of emotion. But for Vera it was shock, not pain, that caused the conversion.

She escorted Vera from the surgery waiting room to a suite on the same floor that was reserved for families. She wanted Vera to rest until they could tell her more, though Claire didn't have a clue as to what she could tell her. They had stabilized Markus for now, but after what Claire had just seen, she didn't expect him to make it through the night. And the worst of it was that they were no closer to finding out what was wrong with him.

Claire stopped herself long enough to call her son. She asked what he had planned for his Saturday night. He could have said anything at that moment and it wouldn't have mattered. She simply wanted to hear his voice, know that he was okay, remind herself how very lucky she was.

He asked if he could go over to a friend's and watch college football. They were ordering footlongs from Chicago Dog.No beer,he promised. An empty promise, but she knew she didn't have to worry about him. They agreed on a time he'd be home. He wanted to know when she'd be home. How did her day go? Did she want him to get an extra footlong for her?

Yes, very lucky, indeed.

Then Claire joined Dr. Miles back in his small office down the hall from the surgery suites. He was sitting quietly behind his desk, his hands folded together. He didn't say anything when Claire first entered. There was just a nod. She took the chair on the other side of the desk and they sat for what seemed a long time to Claire.

He leaned back and his chair groaned. He scratched at his five o'clock shadow then folded his arms over his chest. Still, he didn't say anything.

Claire glanced at her wristwatch and Miles noticed. Everything she thought of to say seemed too obvious or unnecessary. It had been several hours since they'd closed up Markus Schroder's abdomen and sent a piece of his tissue downstairs to the lab. All that was left now was to wait.

The phone on Dr. Miles's desk rang and both doctors jumped. Miles's bear paw grabbed it immediately.

"This is Dr. Miles."

Claire watched, looking for any clues in Miles's eyes. They darted from the door to her face and down to his desk as he listened. They wouldn't stay still long enough for her to detect calm or panic or confusion. His shoulders hunched forward and the lines in his forehead deepened.

"What kind of confirmation?" he asked and this time his eyes stayed on Claire's. The man she had always counted on for strength suddenly looked afraid.

He listened for several more minutes then said, "Okay," and hung up the phone.

"They need to send a sample to the CDC for confirmation," he told Claire.

"Is it MRSA?" she asked.

Staph infections were not uncommon in health-care facilities. But MRSA (pronounced "merca") was the worst of the bunch. It was highly resistant to antibiotics. Recently a case had been found in a Virginia school. An entire district had to be closed while administrators and health-care workers scrubbed down facilities.

"It's worse," Miles told her.

"What do you mean? Worse than MRSA?"

"They believe it's a virus."

Claire stared at him, waiting for more of an explanation. If they were sending it to the CDC they must be thinking it was highly infectious.

"This isn't something we've seen before," Miles said.

"Hemorrhaging, purplish blotches, fever—" Claire stopped. "Plague? Smallpox?"

"I don't think we should speculate." He stood up, his way of putting an end to the discussion. "Besides, we don't have time for that. They told me to shut down this floor and the surgery center."

"A quarantine?"

He nodded. "Nobody leaves."

CHAPTER

54

Sunday, September 30, 2007 The Slammer

Maggie stood in the small but private shower, letting the hot water dismantle the chill that had seeped deep inside her, down to her bones. Then she put on a fresh hospital gown—there was a stack of them in the bathroom. She tried not to count them, tried not to think how long they expected to keep her here.

Hair still damp, she lay down on the bed and managed to dose off between the stiff bedsheets. She wasn't sure how long she slept. She had convinced herself to close her eyes. Just for a minute or two. Staring at the computer screen all day had given her a headache. That was all it was. Eyestrain. Sleep deprivation. Stress. Not a parasitic virus duplicating itself throughout her bloodstream.

She wouldn't let her self think about it. She couldn't, and yet, visions invaded her sleep. It was like an old jerky, film projector with colorful purple and pink amoebas that joggled from side to side, bumping each other and splitting into two. Another bump, another split. Dozens turning into hundreds.

Her eyelids fluttered open several times before she noticed him. He stood on the other side of the glass wall, watching her, watching over her. That's what it felt like. Warm brown eyes—serious, soulful eyes— keeping watch, and for a second or two in that half-asleep, dreamlike state she could almost convince herself that he could protect her.

He smiled when he saw that she was awake, but he didn't move, didn't shift, didn't wave her over. He just stood there, arms folded over his chest, his smile the only movement. His smile and his eyes.

She sat up on the edge of the bed, disappointed to hear that throbbing in the back of her head was still there, joined by a quickened heartbeat that the amoebas had caused. Rest had not relieved her.

They picked up the phone at the same time, already a synchronized deliberation between them.

"I didn't expect to see you again so soon."

"Are you kidding? You're my favorite patient."

For an Army colonel he certainly could be charming. The dimples only added to the effect.

"How are you feeling?" Face serious again, eyes still soft, genuine, caring. Meaning no more jokes.

"I have a headache." It wasn't something she would normally complain about, but she knew he needed to know, to make a checklist.

"Tell me where exactly."

She sat down. He followed her. She closed her eyes and listened to the throbbing."Back of the head," she said, eyes still closed."At the base of the skull. Right above the neck. The pain's a throb more than an ache."

She opened her eyes, met his. Only she couldn't assess what he was thinking. She automatically reminded herself that he was good at hiding alarm. He was a doctor and soldier, a combination sure to disguise and dissuade emotion. Only something about his eyes gave him away, told her that it wasn't all that easy, that it was a constant challenge.

"Your blood is still not showing any indication of the virus.You're not breaking with any of the symptoms. Usually the headache is behind the eyes, circling inside the head, like someone knocking against the inside of your forehead. Chances are what you're experiencing is stress and fatigue. You haven't eaten much, either. I'll have them send up whatever sounds good. Get something into your immune system. We need to keep you strong. And I'll have Dr. Drummond bring you some Advil gelcaps."

Dr. Drummond. She found herself realizing she had never been given a name for the woman in the blue space suit. Only now, after almost two days, she wondered why she had never asked.

Being a professional cynic, Maggie examined Platt, looking for cracks in his facade, indications that he might be keeping something from her.

"You don't believe me," he said, startling her. She didn't realize her skepticism was so obvious.

"I've read the virus can lie dormant within a host." Maggie said it quickly. Go ahead and hit him with your best shot. No apologies. It was her life they were batting around, after all.

He hesitated. Did she know too much? Was he sorry he had been so straightforward with her before?

"The virus lives somewhere in Africa and yes, we believe it must lie dormant in a perfect host though we're not sure what that perfect host is. There's speculation that it could be bats. Scientists have practically swept every foot of places like Kitum Cave at the base of Mount Elgon in Kenya and Uganda, looking for any signs of where Ebola lives when it's not jumping to primates and humans. But here's the thing…" He waited until he was certain he had her full attention or maybe he wanted to make certain that she believed him. "Ebola doesn't lie dormant in primates and humans. It devastates them and it does it quickly."

"But there's an incubation period. Anywhere from two to twenty-one days. Does that mean I could have been exposed and not know it for twenty-one days?"

"Victims usually break with symptoms within one to three days. The incubation period refers to the time it takes for the virus to run its course from symptoms to illness to organ failure to—"

"Crash and bleed," she finished for him.

"Yes," he said. Then continued, "Understand I'm not saying that it's impossible to be exposed, to show no symptoms and then break with the virus on day twenty-one. I'm telling you what is statistically probable. What is known evidence and what I've seen myself. This virus usually can't just sit in humans. It's instinct is to replicate itself and to do it quickly."

She nodded. Her eyes wandered before she could stop them. His face told her he knew he wasn't convincing her. His straight talk brought no comfort. She was beginning to think the throbbing might actually have moved to behind her eyes. Her focus blurred a bit. She didn't care that he was staring at her.

He sat forward, tugged at the crew neck of his sweatshirt as if he was suddenly too warm. He took a deep breath, blew it out, kept it from rattling through the phone's receiver.

"Even if you break with symptoms it doesn't mean it's fatal."

"Ebola Zaire? The ‘slate wiper'?" She raised an eyebrow to let him know she really had done her homework. He wasn't gaining any points here.

She wasn't sure why she was throwing around so much cynicism, first at Gwen, now Platt. Her own survival instinct kicking in perhaps. Fear had the tendency to make her look over her shoulder and search every shadow rather than sit back and wait for a lifeline to be tossed to her. And inside this airtight, air-locked, air-sealed room she could do nothing but search through the shadows.

Platt let out another sigh. But it was exhaustion. Not frustration. He rubbed at his jaw and swept a hand over his face. Maggie took notice of his long fingers, manicured nails, veins and tendons taut, a strong hand but gentle as he massaged his temple. He mistook her examination for contemplation. He must have thought he finally had her attention. Those intense eyes held hers for a long minute before he said,"You need to trust me."

He let that statement sit. When she didn't respond, didn't object, he added, "There's a vaccine. It hasn't been approved yet by the FDA. It's proven to be safe and effective in primates. We've had only a few opportunities to use it in human cases, lab-research settings where a scientist accidentally got exposed and infected."

This time Maggie sat up. She hadn't read anything about a vaccine. Treatment, in all of the literature she had accessed, talked only about "supportive care" and making the patient comfortable for the inevitable.

"It's most effective," Platt continued, "if it's given in a series of injections. Sort of like rabies. It helps the immune system fight off the invading virus. But it also depends how soon the injections are administered after the exposure. I'm not going to lie to you. There's only a fifty-fifty chance if the immune system has already been compromised or if symptoms have already started. But that's not the situation in your case."

Maggie didn't need to ask. She knew that was the case for Ms. Kellerman. Was it for Mary Louise, too? Cunningham?

"I want to use the vaccine on you. I don't have the FDA's approval to use it on civilians, so I can't unless you sign a release that—"

"I'll sign whatever you need," she interrupted. She didn't need to think about it.

He looked surprised that compliance would be that easy. But he didn't question her, didn't ask if she needed time to think about it. She knew there wasn't time for any more questions.

"Dr. Drummond will be in shortly to administer the first injection." He stood, finished."I'll also have someone bring you something to eat. Yo u have to eat. Any requests?"

"I do have a request," Maggie said. "But it's not food." He nodded and waited. "I want to see Assistant Director Cunningham."

"That's not possible."

"Why? Is he not here at this facility?"

"No, he's here. Why would you think he's not here?"

"I don't have to talk to him. I just…I want to see him." It looked like Platt wasn't going to budge. "I need to see him. See that he's okay."

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and Maggie could see his jaw start to clench. She knew the argument—patient confidentiality. There was a privacy issue. He couldn't divulge anything about any of their cases. They were probably classified. They wouldn't even let Maggie tell anyone where she was. That's what she believed the colonel was struggling with in trying to decide. Whether or not to break the rules and let two of his patients see each other.

"I can't let you see him." Platt said. "Because he's not okay."

CHAPTER

55

Chicago

Dr. Claire Antonelli leaned her forehead against the window looking into the NICU. The babies, including Baby Boy Haney, didn't look any different, still pink and wiggling just as they had been twenty-four hours ago. But now, because of her, the entire ward had been included in the quarantine.

Claire had spent the night as part of a team drawing blood samples from everyone who may have been exposed to Markus Schroder. The CDC's early report had left the few administers and doctors who knew about the case in shock. Dr. Miles was pushing for a press conference to warn all those who may have been to the hospital in the last several days. The administration wanted to wait. The CDC wanted to wait. No one wanted to create a panic. But Claire could feel one already brewing in silent glances, shrugs that replaced answers, a nervous tension that already shortened tempers. It wouldn't take long. Employees would be telling spouses that they wouldn't be home after their shift ended. Families would start demanding explanations for why they couldn't visit loved ones. Parents would insist on seeing their newborns. No, Claire knew it wouldn't take long for the panic to begin.

The CDC representative, Roger Bix, had arrived at four in the morning, wearing an Atlanta Braves jacket and pointed-toe cowboy boots. He looked more like a sports agent than a CDC infectious-disease specialist. And he was young—too young, Claire thought. Young and cocky, giving orders before he even introduced himself. Not a good combination.

She had taken a break and come to the NICU, not to be reminded that these precious babies may have been exposed to a deadly virus, but because she wanted to be reminded of goodness and innocence. Dr. Miles had asked her to think where Markus Schroder may have contracted the virus. The CDC wouldn't confirm until Monday what exactly the virus was, but Miles had already told Claire they were almost certain it was Ebola.

Days ago, when she was hunting for a clue, she had been over and over with Vera where Markus might have contracted something unusual. But the only trips the two made were to Terre Haute, Indiana, to check on a business that had been in Vera's family for years. There was nothing remotely close to a safari in Africa or a tour of a research facility. Nothing that could have put Markus in contact with something like Ebola.

Now Vera sat quietly by Markus's bedside, Markus unconscious and Vera taking on his earlier expressionless mask. She barely responded to outside stimuli, let alone any more questions.

But Vera, Claire was quick to note and to bring to Miles's attention, didn't seem to have the virus. Or at least she had no symptoms. They'd find out soon enough from her blood sample—the most difficult sample Claire had drawn all night. Vera had refused at first. Had told Claire that she didn't want her touching her or her husband. Then she'd relinquished, sticking out her arm and whispering to Claire—fear momentarily cutting through her mask—that she didn't want to go through what Markus was going through.

"You okay?" Dr. Miles asked from behind her. She hadn't heard him come up the hall. Hadn't even noticed his reflection in the glass.

"Tired. But not bad." She rubbed her neck as she glanced back at him. "How about you?"

"I'm good."

He gestured for her to walk with him. This ward was quiet, interrupted by the occasional baby cry, unlike the simmering chaos back in the surgery center and critical-care unit.

"Anyone who's followed procedure," he began, "should be safe. If they've gloved up, disposed of Schroder's body fluids properly, kept basic protocol, there shouldn't be a problem."

"Mr. Bix confirmed that the virus most likely is not spread through airborne particles, but only direct contact with body fluids."

"That should be a relief, but we both know there are a few who take shortcuts."

"I know, but there won't be any denying it this time if they did take a shortcut. I've got the unit secretary calling every single person who was in and out of Schroder's room since he's checked in, even if it was to change a lightbulb."

Claire realized he was leading them in a circle around the NICU, a privacy buffer of sleeping babies.

"Surgery's a different story." He glanced down at her but kept walking. "We've both seen what this virus can do. There was a helluva lot of blood. We all had our hands soaked in it. Hopefully no ruptures in our gloves, no leaks, no swipes at an itch." At this he smiled. "What a way to test procedure, right?"

"You said body fluids?" Claire tried to retrieve her other examinations of Markus. Did she wear gloves every single time? Then she remembered the black vomit. The alarm must have registered on her face and Dr. Miles noticed.

"Look, Claire, the hospital is letting the CDC call the shots. That's their business." He lowered his voice. "Out of all of us, you spent the most time with Schroder. The emergency ward's setting up an area for employees' families to come get tested. Get your son in here as soon as you can."

CHAPTER

56

USAMRIID

Tully thought Maggie looked thinner. She insisted it was his imagination.

"It's only been two days," she told him.

He held up a square white box for her to see through the viewing window.

"Courtesy of Ganza." Tully tucked the phone receiver so he could use both hands and lift the lid. "He assured me you would appreciate the humor."

"Doughnuts." It worked enough for a smile. "Chocolate ones are your favorite."

"These are all yours."

"I can't believe they let you in here with those."

"Guess they trust that an FBI guy certainly isn't gonna bring in tainted doughnuts. Dr. Drummond even said she'd bring them in for you. She did have to test one."

"Really? Under a microscope?"

"In the mouth. So you're one shy of a dozen."

Despite the awkward setup they went into their regular briefings. Tully knew Maggie was itching to dive into work and avoid the personal stuff. Something they had shared since day one.

Maggie told him about the envelope inside the Kellermans' house and how she was able to connect the Kellermans' name, along with the return address, to a cold case—the Tylenol multiple murders in Chicago in 1982. Then she explained how she had discovered that phrases from the doughnut-box note had been lifted from the Beltway Snipers case.

"Funny, George Sloane just mentioned the Beltway Snipers and how we feebies screwed that one up."

"Sloane's in on this?"

"Cunningham requested he take a look at the note."

"He should have recognized the phrases if he worked the Beltway Snipers case."

"Didn't sound like he was on it. He just wanted to get his digs in. He did work the anthrax case and recognized the similar pharmaceutical fold. That would make three cases this guy used—the Tylenol poisonings, the anthrax murders and the Beltway Snipers. Is he just being clever? Showing off? Or is he telling us who he is and where he'll strike next?"

"I think a little of both. It certainly makes him sound like a textbook profile of the clinical narcissist."

"He wants recognition, needs validation for his brilliance."

"He's obviously planned all this for some time," Maggie added."He's probably rehearsed it over and over in his mind. Calculating, deliberating every move like a chess player. Now he's shuffling out pieces of his puzzle for us to put together."

"Finding the Kellermans in Elk Grove just so he could duplicate one of the victims' names in the Tylenol murder…" Tully shook his head. "The guy has too much time on his hands. Is it possible he's unemployed?"

She shook her head.

"Maybe he has access to inside information?" Perhaps even a database, but this Tully kept to himself. He wasn't ready to share with Maggie his theory about the Ebola coming from USAMRIID. He didn't have any evidence. It seemed cruel to suggest the idea, especially when she was locked up here. She looked exhausted, shadows under swollen eyes. Dressed in the hospital gown and white socks made her seem smaller, even more vulnerable.

He'd wait.

But what if he was right? What if the guy was someone right here? Getting his jollies, watching his victims slowly crash and bleed in front of him. That, too, might fit the profile. Tully hoped he was wrong.

"Has he sent other envelopes?" Maggie asked, startling Tully back to attention.

"Others? Like the one you found? You think that's the way he sent the virus? No doughnut box? No pizza box? A mailing envelope?"

"Colonel Platt will be able to tell us for sure, but yes, there was a plastic Ziploc bag inside."

"He could do that? Mail Ebola? Anthrax I understand. It's like a powder. But Ebola? What would you need for that? Do you have any idea how that's possible?"

She hesitated but Tully knew she did know. He had noticed the laptop computer. The swollen eyes weren't because she couldn't sleep, she wouldn't sleep. She'd already been using work and research as her sanity safety net.

"It would have to be actual cells, infected cells from blood or tissue. But it could be a small amount, even microscopic.It wouldn't take much. The virus can't survive without a host for more than several days. But it can if it's been preserved, frozen or sealed like in an airtight plastic bag."

"So anyone who opened up the bag would take one whiff—"

"No, I don't think so. From what I understand, it's not airborne. Not like anthrax. The Ebola virus needs a point of entry."

"It has to enter into the bloodstream?"

"Yes, or enter the body through other body fluids, mucus, semen, saliva."

"Or vomit sprayed in your face, your eyes, nose."

Maggie blinked and Tully wished he hadn't said it. Before he could respond, she added quickly,"Or through a cut. Just a break in the skin, a cuticle or a razor nick."

"That's all it would take?"

She nodded.

"Cunningham thinks this is personal," Tully said. He wasn't, however, convinced that it was some personal vendetta."Is it possible he worked on the Tylenol case?"

Maggie shrugged.

"They wouldn't let me see him. He gave me a phone number. There's no answer."

Quiet. They stared at each other, neither willing to voice their suspicions.

"Maybe I should start taking a look at guys Cunningham helped put away."

"Or the ones who never got caught."

Tully remembered the impression left on the surface of the envelope. "He may have made one mistake. Does ‘call Nathan R. 7:00 p.m.' mean anything to you?"

"What was the context?"

"He wrote a note to himself on top of the envelope he used. It pressed into the surface. No block printing. Regular handwriting. Sloane says the guy probably didn't even know he left an impression."

Tully thought Maggie recognized the phrase. There was something, but then she shook her head.

"Should I start looking for someone named Nathan?"

"I don't know," Maggie said. "I honestly don't know."

Tully thought her voice sounded exhausted. But then she sat up to the edge of her chair as if pushing for another surge of adrenaline.

"I do know this guy may crave attention, but he doesn't want to get caught," she said. "It's not like the BTK killer, coming to the surface twenty years later just because he misses the attention. This guy has been simmering for years, possibly stewing over grievances real or imagined. He's been planning, strategizing every step. Somewhere in his life he feels he's been wronged or not given credit that was due to him.

"Maybe he holds a grudge against law enforcement and that's why he wanted to render us powerless. He's disciplined. He's smart. He takes risks but he's not reckless. I think he holds a full-time job but he's a good liar. He looks and acts cool and calm, is able to function on a normal day-to-day basis, but the whole time there's a rage simmering inside him.You have to remember though he's not like a serial killer who enjoys the kill. This guy's satisfaction is retribution. He wants to even a score. He wants his victims to get sick, to linger, to know they're dying. In his mind it's his own perverted sense of justice. His own way of dealing out a death sentence."

Tully sat back and let out a breath. She still amazed him when she did this, spouted out a profile that nine out of ten times was dead on. This wasn't like George Sloane. Tully wasn't quite sure what the difference was. Sloane seemed ruled by statistics and ego. Maggie followed her gut instincts. He'd trust Maggie's gut over Sloane's ego any day of the week.

Tully mock gestured a wipe at his forehead, along with a sarcastic "whew," garnering another smile from Maggie.

"I asked George Sloane if we should be searching cabins in the woods," he told her.

"This guy's hiding in plain sight, Tully. And I know he's sent other envelopes."

CHAPTER

57

Platt watched from the viewing room, leaning against the wall so that he was close enough for Mary Louise to see him through the glass. She was coloring, sitting cross-legged on the rug with crayons scattered around her. Her eyes had lit up at the box of ninety-six. When he gave them to her she said she'd never seen so many.

"I won't break any of them," she promised.

Now every once in a while she'd glance over her shoulder at him and hold up the coloring book to show her progress. He'd smile and nod his approval. And she'd go back to work, her lower lip sticking out in concentration, trying to color within the lines, choosing her crayons with too much thought.

He wanted to tell her she didn't have to stay inside the lines. But someone had already told her otherwise. Earlier he had watched her playing one of the board games he had left. She had two tokens set to play and moved them separately; taking turns with an imaginary friend.

This was a little girl who had learned how to play alone long before she came to the Slammer. Platt should have been pleased that she was so content. Instead, it bothered him, plucked at heartstrings he didn't know were still there.

Janklow had ordered that no family members be notified before Monday. Platt glanced at his wristwatch. As far as he was concerned Monday would begin at a minute past midnight. He kept the phone number for Mary Louise's grandmother tucked inside his pocket.

The little girl still had only mild symptoms. Her blood showed what could be bricks of virus. No worms. No progression of anything that looked like worms. And unlike her mother, Mary Louise's blood didn't light up when tested with actual Ebola.

Not yet anyway.

Platt knew the statistics by heart. Te n to fifteen percent infected with Ebola Zaire recovered. No one understood why or how. It was a small percentage, but Platt hoped Mary Louise would be included in that small percentage. The vaccine would improve those odds.

With her mother incapacitated and without her grandmother here, there was no one to sign the waivers. So Platt had given Mary Louise the first injection himself. It would all fall on his shoulders anyway. He was willing to take the heat for this, too.

He had told Mary Louise that the needle would sting, but just for a second or two like a "big ole mosquito." She crinkled her nose at that and laughed, then asked, "Will it itch?"

In his mind he kept calculating the hours and minutes. By now he couldn't shut it off if he tried. Time ticking away and yet he couldn't remember what day of the week it was.

Sunday. It was Sunday.

Mary Louise searched for a different crayon. She seemed perfectly content. Totally unaware of the firestorm brewing all around her.

Sunday. It meant nothing to Mary Louise. Families attended church services. Read the Sunday paper. Read the comic strips out loud, Daddy. Frisbee in the backyard. A movie at the theater. That's what families did on Sunday. They spent the day together. Didn't they? How would he know? It'd been too long ago.

His Sunday routine—when he took a Sunday off—was quiet, with him and Digger on the screened-in back porch overlooking the woods. His parents took care of Digger when Platt worked long hours, never once suggesting he find a different home for the dog, knowing the two were inseparable, dog and man bonded by the absence of a little girl they both adored.

Dr. Drummond came into Mary Louise's suite and the little girl stood to greet her. Platt waved goodbye and she waved back. He hated to leave. It was silly but he wished that if he could just keep watch over her maybe nothing more would happen.

He left the Slammer and took the stairs.

Down in the Level 4 suites he changed once again into scrubs and prepared to get into a space suit for the third time in as many days. He had decided to keep his circle of staff small, pulling in those who had worked on some of his toughest assignments. Earlier he had handed off to Sergeant Hernandez the mailing envelope that Agent O'Dell had taken from the Kellerman home. He knew it was a tall order for the budding scientist even before he saw the surprise in her eyes. She had assisted him plenty of times in the lab and he knew she was more than capable. He also knew that she would test and retest her results before she presented them to him and that would be a bonus.

She was still working when he came in, her gloved hands too busy to wave an acknowledgment. He stood quietly beside her, making sure she noticed his presence despite the hiss of her space suit. He didn't crowd her or rush her.

Hernandez must have pinned back or tied up her unruly curls but he could still see them swirling around inside her helmet. A few now stuck to her damp forehead. She glanced up and Platt caught a glimpse of her green eyes through the plastic. Her eyes were intense, a little wild. She'd found something.

"WHAT IS IT?" he asked, no longer able to wait.

"THE PLASTIC BAG INSIDE THE MAILING ENVELOPE…" She sounded breathless. "I FOUND SOMETHING. TISSUE, BLOOD CELLS."

"ENOUGH TO TEST?"

"YES."

"EBOLA?"

"YES, DEFINITELY. THE CELLS ARE BLOWN UP WITH WORMS."She stopped her hands."THERE'S SOMETHINGELSE,SIR." She looked up at him and met his eyes. "THEY'RE NOT HUMAN CELLS."

"MONKEY?"

"AS FAR AS I CAN TELL IT'S MACAQUE. I'M TESTING AGAINST OUR OWN MACAQUE SAMPLES. THEY'RE VERY CLOSE."

Suddenly Platt got a sick feeling in the bottom of his gut. He'd asked McCathy about a possible contamination. Could they have contaminated Ms. Kellerman's tissue sample from inside their own labs? McCathy had shrugged off the idea. To o many walls of biocontainment. No way one of their recorded tissue samples got mixed up with Ms. Kellerman's or any of the other three patients'. They ran a tight ship, no doubt about it.

But how was someone able to send Ebola to Ms. Kellerman in the first place? Where had the microscopic tissue from a macaque monkey come from, tissue hot with Ebola? Was it possible it had gone missing from their own freezers? In their research experiments they used macaque monkeys. So did other research facilities, but few other facilities had Ebola. Could someone from within USAMRIID have stolen it? Could one of their own have done this?

"GOOD WORK," he told Hernandez. "GO AHEAD AND FINISH UP HERE." He gestured that he was leaving.

He needed to do an inventory. He'd check their Ebola samples, every last one of them. But would he be able to tell if any was missing? All it took was a small amount. A microscopic amount.Years ago a scientist, an ex-employee of USAMRIID, had been accused of smuggling out anthrax, the anthrax that had caused five deaths. It ended up there was little evidence to support that accusation but just the speculation had raised questions about their procedures and security measures.

Now Platt realized that Janklow must be thinking the same thing. He had to wonder whether the virus could have come from within their own laboratories. Was he concerned about new accusations? Did the commander want this to all go away quietly, secretly, because he worried about USAMRIID's reputation? Or was it his own reputation he was worried about? And just what was the commander willing to do to keep it under wraps?

CHAPTER

58

Reston, Virginia

With her father gone, Emma had spent the entire afternoon reading the letters from Indy to Liney. He wrote to her almost every day of September, filling her in about his life at Quantico, the cases he was working, his friends Razzy and J.B. Some of them rambled, others were brief but sweet. Actually, she thought it was sweet that he couldn't go a day without talking to her even if it was in a letter.

At first Emma didn't understand why they didn't just call each other, that was, until she found out they didn't have cell phones back then. Long-distance calls were expensive. What an ancient civilization.

September 26, 1982

Dear Liney,

I'm in Chicago for a few days. It's killing me that I'm here and you're in Ohio for your art conference thing. I can't believe we'll miss each other, but it's probably best. I'm here on a case, you know. Classified. So I can't tell you about it. I'm not even letting my folks know I'm here. Though I'll let you in on a secret. I plan to drive down to their house Sunday morning while they're all at church. I want to leave them a little something. Maybe get them off my back.

Oh, and Liney just a heads-up. It's not in the news yet, but stay away from Extra Strength Tylenol capsules. Don't ask me why or how I know, just don't take any at all, okay? I'm serious. Don't tell anybody that I warned you but it's gonna be huge. I shouldn't even be telling you.

Love, Indy

Emma flipped through the previous letters. Wow, she thought. This was the first time he'd signed a letter, "Love, Indy." She wondered what the difference was. He didn't even make a big deal out of it, just signed it. Maybe he was just missing her badly.

Emma went on to the next letter but she stopped when she saw the date, December 24, 1982. She flipped through the remaining envelopes. Had she sorted them incorrectly? There were only three left. There had to be some missing. Her mom wasn't the most organized person in the world. How else could she explain Indy telling her he loved her and then not writing for three months?

She opened the December 24 envelope and discovered only a Christmas card. No letter. Inside, the card was signed, "Merry Christmas, Indy." No note. No postscript. Not even a "Love, Indy."

CHAPTER

59

Artie had never been here on a Sunday. The place was deserted. It was perfect. He loved it. At first he was just going to drop off the car and put away his road trip's stash. But the place was so deserted he felt comfortable enough to bring his fast food in with him.

At the last minute he wimped out and decided to eat in the lab next door instead of in the small quarantined lab. Too much bleach smell, he told himself. Of course, his decision had nothing to do with the dead monkey in the corner freezer. His key-card pass worked on all the doors down here, so access wasn't a problem.

At the end of the hall the live monkeys were quiet for a change. Artie ate his double cheeseburger, extra ketchup, extra pickles—they cheated you on the pickles if you didn't insist on extras—and fries. He snarfed it down and once he was finished he moved to the lab next door. From his backpack he pulled out the small notebook he carried everywhere he went. Alongside the notebook he started laying out his most recent stash of paraphernalia.

His road trips provided a treasure trove. He kept his findings in one of the small storage lockers, so anything from hair to fingernail clippings were readily accessible for the next package. For now Artie placed them on the counter to admire. He had each piece bagged and labeled like the crime-scene evidence it would someday become. He was particularly proud of a tooth he had found in a corner bathroom stall at a rest area off Interstate 95. He had hair samples from four different states. In each of his packages he included something, letting crime-scene techs believe they had a piece of evidence, believing their suspect had gotten sloppy when in fact he was outwitting the best and most seasoned investigators.

He opened his notebook to the list of package recipients. While driving to Wallingford, Connecticut, something had occurred to him almost out of the blue. He thought he may have made a connection, figured out another piece of his mentor's puzzle. Now he was anxious to see if he was right.

He skimmed the list:

Vera Schroder, Terra Haute, Indiana Mary Louise Kellerman, Elk Grove, Virginia Rick Ragazzi, Pensacola, Florida Conrad Kovak, Cleveland, Ohio Caroline Tully, Cleveland, Ohio

Then he pulled out his true-crime paperbacks and the articles he had downloaded from the Internet. He had already connected Mary Louise Kellerman of Elk Grove, Virginia, to Mary Kellerman of Elk Grove Village, Illinois. Using James Lewis's return address confirmed the connection to the Tylenol murder case. Slam dunk. That was an easy one.

The other packages were different. All of the others, at least as far as Artie could check out, had return addresses from people the recipient knew. Rick Ragazzi's was from a Victor Ragazzi. Easy one. Had to be a family member. Caroline Tully's was from an R. J. Tully.Same with Patsy Kowak. Although Conrad spelled his name Kovak, it had to be a relative.

That one had been a particular stroke of genius. The intended victim was actually listed as the sender, Conrad Kovak, instead of the recipient. Artie's instructions called for insufficient postage, enough so that the postal carrier wouldn't deliver it to Patsy Kowak but would return it to Conrad.

Artie loved that extra touch. And he'd recognized it, too. The Una-bomber had sent at least one package with insufficient postage. The person Theodore Kaczynski had really wanted to blow up was the one he'd listed as the sender. He knew law-enforcement officials would stew over the packages' recipients, trying to figure out who their enemies were, why they would be targeted. It gave the phrase "return to sender" a whole new meaning.

Artie smiled.Yes, it was brilliant, absolutely brilliant.

The only other exception that Artie hadn't been able to figure out was Vera Schroder. It was the only package to have no return address. Artie thought the answer might have something to do with the recipient's address, Terre Haute, Indiana. On his long, quiet road trip something about Terre Haute had nagged at him. He'd seen that city listed somewhere recently, but he couldn't remember where.

He started at the beginning of his notebook, flipping through the cases and the information he had highlighted. The first case in his notebook was the Tylenol murders. The case remained unsolved. From September 29 through October 1, seven people died after taking Extra Strength Tylenol, 500-mg capsules laced with cyanide. One family lost three members. The very first person to die was twelve-year-old Mary Kellerman, who had taken one capsule when she woke up the morning of September 29 with a sore throat and runny nose.

Artie knew the names of all seven victims by heart. He knew the six stores in the Chicago area—with the exception of one unnamed retailer—that the tainted capsules had been traced back to. It was suspected that the killer had shoplifted boxes of Tylenol capsules, taken them home, added the cyanide and then brought them back to the stores and replaced them on the shelves. Most likely the killer had to have done this within the week or days prior to September 29.

What Artie was more interested in were those cases that followed, the ones that were never confirmed nor refuted as connected to the Chicago tampering. During the months that followed, the FDA had 270 reports of product tampering. Anything from poisoned chocolate milk to insecticide-laced orange juice to Halloween candy with needles stuck inside. However, only thirty-six of those were confirmed.

He flipped through more pages. The tampering cases that involved more Tylenol, but outside the Chicago area, included a woman in Pittsburgh, an elderly man in Detroit and two family members—yes, here it was—in Terre Haute, Indiana. A local business owner and his wife were found dead in their home by their daughter. Extra Strength Tylenol capsules, laced with cyanide, were found inside the couple's house.

Their daughter's married name was Schroder, Vera Schroder. That was the connection. It was exactly what Artie was looking for. What he wasn't prepared for was to recognize the couple's last name.

Son of a bitch, it was the same last name as his mentor's.

CHAPTER

60

Razzy's Pensacola, Florida

Rick Ragazzi washed down a couple more gelcapsules while he read the bottle's label. He had all the symptoms of the flu, symptoms the medicine claimed to relieve yet he felt absolutely no relief after twenty-four hours of taking the recommended dosage. He wished he could just silence the jackhammer inside his head. Even Joey's famous syrupy concoction did nothing.

He popped an extra capsule into his mouth and emptied the glass of orange juice just as he noticed another group of diners come through the restaurant door. Ordinarily he'd be pleased. Sunday evening and they were packed, even had a twenty-minute waiting list earlier in the evening. But his best waiter was still out. Something about stitches and a concussion. Rick wished he could blame a Jet Ski accident for his headache.

"Sorry, sugar," Rita said from behind him."I had to place them at one of your tables. The new kid's a bit slow. How about you get their orders and I'll shuttle all the food?"

"Sounds good." It had become his easy response when he'd rather say he was out of here.

"You don't look so good," Rita told him."Maybe you should be home in bed."

I wish, Rick thought, but said instead, "I'm fine."

He knew an owner shouldn't show weakness or vulnerability to his employees and always lead by example. He had read that somewhere. Wasn't it bad enough he let Rita call him sugar? But then she called everyone sugar in that lovely Southern accent that sounded so sincere each and every time and made you feel special.

Rita had handed out menus when she seated the three newcomers. Rick zigzagged his way through the tables as he tapped his pocket to make sure his notebook and pen were there. He insisted his waitstaff commit orders to memory. And yes, he knew that he should he be leading by example, but with the jackhammer headache he'd already gotten four orders screwed up. Better he slip a notch as an instructor than they eat any more of their profits in his mistakes.

All three menus were still open, tall accordions hiding their faces.

"Good evening. May I get you started with something from our bar? We have our special beach rumbas for half price this evening."

"What the hell is a beach rumba?" one of the men asked as he slapped down his menu.

"Uncle Vic," Rick said. "What are you doing down here in Pen-sacola?" He hoped his smile looked genuine and excited instead of mimicking his inner voice that was shouting, "Oh, crap!"

CHAPTER

61

USAMRIID

Platt sat behind his desk with the chair turned away and toward the window. The rain had started again. A gentle pitter-patter. Drops slid down the glass. Darkness had returned. In his mind he kept calculating the hours and minutes. He still couldn't shut it off, a ticktock that kept rhythm with the rain.

He hadn't been able to prove or disprove any of his theories, his speculations, his suspicions by checking their samples of Ebola. McCathy had been the last one to slide his security card and activate the code. How much had he used to test against Ms. Kellerman's blood and the other victims'? Was it possible for a small amount to go missing without notice?

Exhaustion played wicked tricks on the psyche and Platt kept that in the forefront of his thoughts as he sorted through his suspicions. What if the Ebola that was sent to Ms. Kellerman had come from their labs? What if Janklow knew? Even in the beginning when Platt thought the note and the setup might all be a hoax, Janklow seemed convinced it was the real deal. And why assign McCathy? Why so adamant about it including McCathy, a microbiologist who specialized in bioweapons, when Platt already had enough experience to handle the possibility of bioweapons?

Had Janklow known what they would find in Ms. Kellerman's house even before they arrived? Had he already been expecting Platt to be his scapegoat and McCathy to corroborate?

He was tired. He was being paranoid.

He rubbed at his eyes. Sat back. Tried to clear his mind.

But he couldn't shake Janklow's words, "What if they all disappeared?"

Platt checked his wristwatch. It was late. But hopefully not too late.

He fingered a piece of paper, folding and unfolding the already creased three-by-three that had ten numbers scrawled on it, the personal cell-phone number for Roger Bix, the CDC's chief of Outbreak Response and Surveillance Team.

Platt knew Bix from conferences, a few formal dinners and a few less formal rounds in the hotel bars. Fortunately the two had only shared war stories and never had to work on a case together. If nothing else, Bix might be able to confirm or deny whether there was any Ebola missing from another lab. Platt knew he could do this without admitting or confessing.

It took only two rings despite the late hour.

"This is Bix."

Platt sat up straight.

"Roger, it's Benjamin Platt."

Before he could respond, Roger Bix said, "So how much of the vaccine are you able to scrape together?"

"Excuse me?"

"The vaccine."

Platt was stunned. Had Janklow gone ahead and called the CDC? What the hell was going on?

"Look, Ben," Bix continued, misreading Platt's hesitation. "I appreciate the dilemma you all are facing." His normal, slow Southern drawl held a tinge of panic."But like I explained to Commander Janklow, we can't afford to wait too long. I have a full-blown case of Ebola Zaire right here outside of Chicago. They opened up this poor son of a bitch in surgery. Who knows how many people have been exposed. I'm not just talking about hospital personnel. We've got visitors, patients, even newborns down in the maternity ward."

Platt shoved the cell phone closer to his ear. He couldn't hear above his heart pounding in his head. He sucked in air. Moved the phone away from his mouth. Let the breath out. There was another case. Another exposure.

"He was here at the hospital. Schroder, Markus Schroder. Here for three or four days. An accountant, for Christ's sake. How the hell does an accountant come in contact with Ebola?" But Bix wasn't waiting for an answer. He wasn't finished."This is a fricking nightmare and it's only gonna get worse. I've got Homeland Security up my ass trying to keep it quiet. Everybody's worried about the fricking media starting a panic. I tell you, Ben, I don't get that vaccine soon and we won't have to worry about the media starting a panic."

"Let me get to work on this, Roger. I'll get back to you as soon as I have the vaccine ready to go."

"Make it soon, Ben. We both know how quickly this virus moves."

The click that followed sounded like a trigger hitting on an empty chamber, abrupt and hollow. Platt felt paralyzed.

There was another case. As far away as Chicago. Had he sent other packages with microscopic bits of Ebola, preserved and sealed in Ziploc plastic bags waiting to be opened? This was bigger than any of them had imagined. No way Janklow could make it all disappear.

Then Platt remembered something. Something Janklow said McCathy had told him about the virus. That it would take as little as a microscopic piece, preserved, sealed and delivered, perhaps even through the mail, to start an epidemic. That was before Maggie handed over the mailing package. Before they knew how the virus was delivered to the Kellerman house. Did McCathy know that's how it was delivered? Or was it a lucky guess?

CHAPTER

62

Artie tried to think of someone to share the news with. Someone who would appreciate the brilliance of his puzzle-solving skills. He'd been able to answer a question that cold-case sleuths and law-enforcement officials across the States hadn't been able to figure out for twenty-five years. It was as big as unveiling Ted Kaczynski as the Unabomber.

Almost as if his wish was being granted, he heard a door close. Not a slam. Just a soft tap.

It was probably nothing. Could have been his imagination. No one was around down here on the weekends.

He started flipping through his pages again, jotting down notes in the margins of his notebook.

Footsteps down the hall. He was certain.

Crap!

He stood frozen in place, eyes darting around him. The light switch. He needed to flip the fucking light switch.

Too late.

The footsteps were closing in. Right outside the door now.

He twisted around, looking for something to use as a weapon, and grabbed the closest thing he could find. A syringe. He pulled off the plastic needle guard just as he heard a key card slide into the door's security lock.

"What the hell are you doing here tonight?"

Artie let out a sigh of relief that almost included, speak of the devil. "You scared the crap out of me," he said instead.

"Don't you realize you can see the light on underneath this door from the hallway?"

"Nobody's around," Artie defended himself. "It was your idea that I use the lab on the weekend."

"I thought you were supposed to make the delivery yesterday."

"I did," Artie said, slipping the syringe into his pocket and trying to nonchalantly stack his paperbacks onto the incriminating pages of his notebook and the articles beneath it."I went to Connecticut yesterday. Mailed them from there."

"Them?"

Damn! This probably wasn't the time to reveal his contribution.

"I meant the package. I mailed it yesterday."

"So what are you doing here tonight?" His eyes darted around the countertops.

"I was just dropping off some stuff.You know, the DNA samples that I collect."

Artie watched him look around the room and settle on the paperback of the Unabomber. He picked it up.

"How many times do I have to tell you not to carry these around in your backpack?"

He tossed it onto Artie's pile and the books and articles shifted. Artie watched his eyes and held his breath, but he knew he was seeing exactly what Artie didn't want him to see. He pulled one of the Tylenol articles out of the stack.

"What are you doing?"

"Just researching?"

He didn't buy it. Artie needed to think fast. Then suddenly he relaxed. What was he worried about? They were the same. Artie knew that. Not just teacher and student. Kindred spirits.

"I figured it out," Artie told him.

He didn't respond. Just cocked an eyebrow and waited for Artie to explain.

"You're brilliant," Artie said, and he meant it."The Tylenol murders. That was you. They always wondered if someone had done seven random murders just to cover up the one they really wanted to get away with."

Still no response. Artie took that as a good sign.

He continued, "And by planting seven bottles in the Chicago area everyone believed your real target, which was in Terre Haute, had to be, like, some kind of fluke."

There was no smile, but Artie reminded himself that he wasn't really a smiler. That he no longer looked angry was good. He was rubbing a hand over his jaw, but waiting and listening.

"That's what you're doing now, too. Right? Mailing out a bunch of random packages with the virus so it looks like the work of some homegrown terrorist. All the while you have one target in mind. Right?" He glanced at his notebook, still opened to the list. "So who is it? Who's the real target?"

"You think you're pretty smart," he told Artie. "But there're all real targets. I'm taking care of every son of a bitch who's screwed me over the years."

Then he did something Artie should have known was a ruse. He smiled."How did you figure out the Tylenol thing? I mean with Indiana? Something in here?"

He pointed to the stack and Artie grinned. He bent over and started to sort through the mess. He didn't even see the microscope come crashing down onto his head.

Artie fit perfectly right on top of the dead monkey. He was unconscious when the freezer lid slammed shut and the padlock clicked back into place.

CHAPTER

63

The Slammer

Maggie dreamed of burnt flesh wrapped in plastic. She could even smell it. Her viewpoint was that of a child's, eyes at waist level to the crowd of adults that she pushed and shoved her way through. The feel of linen fabric and metal buttons brushed her cheeks as she squeezed through two men in navy-blue suits and black shiny shoes.

Finally she reached her destination, a coffin at the front of the room. It towered above her, a polished mahogany casket set up high on a gold altar. There were flowers surrounding it, but their faint scent couldn't mask the odor of ashes. Ashes and burnt flesh.

"You are dust and unto dust you shall return." She could hear a voice whisper. "Ashes to ashes." But she couldn't see anyone.

She already knew what she'd see when she looked over the smooth edge of the coffin, past the satin bedding. The dream was a familiar one, a replay of the actual event. She was twelve years old all over again, going through her father's funeral, step by step, all over again.

By now her mind accepted the images, not skipping a single frame, lingering over details. She'd see her father dressed in a brown suit, his hands wrapped like a mummy and tucked down by his sides. She'd hear the crinkle of plastic under his clothes. She'd examine the burnt skin on his face, blistered and black despite the mortician's best efforts to paint over it. The smell was so real each time that she would awaken nauseated, sometimes gagging and holding her stomach. She couldn't stop it no matter how many times she tried, going as far as pinching herself in her dream, not feeling the sting and knowing that once the images began they would play through the entire reel.

She climbed the altar, twelve-year-old knees scraping against the polished wood and sweaty fingers gripping and pulling herself up to look over the edge. But this time it wasn't her father lying inside. Instead, she saw Cunningham, eyes closed, hands folded over one another. He looked so peaceful, so content.

And then she saw movement.

At first just a flicker of cloth, a pucker beneath a shirt button. Then another and another until his entire body seemed to be boiling, maggots popping out of the seams, down through his sleeves, crawling on his hands, over his face, out of his mouth.

Maggie jolted awake. She swatted at her arms. Wiped at her face. Batted down her hair. She jumped out of the bed and threw back the bedcovers. She gasped to catch her breath. Her chest heaved and her heart pounded. She was on the verge of hyperventilating, trying to calm herself, wrapping her arms tight around her body. Her skin was slick with sweat. She swallowed blood and realized she had bitten her lip.

A dream, she told herself. Just a stupid dream.

Still, she stumbled to the glass viewing wall. The monitors on the other side blinked green and red. Silent lines danced across computer screens, but there was no one there. She picked up the phone receiver, listened to the dial tone and stared at the contraption. There were no numbers, no keypad. Of course not. It was simply an intercom between the two rooms. She slapped the glass with the palm of her hand, resisting the urge to ball up a fist and pound.

She looked back at the other phone. Who could she call? She stayed paralyzed, leaning against the cool glass.

Other than Gwen there was no one.

Her choice, she reminded herself.

No. Somewhere along the road it had stopped being a choice.

She made her way to the small bathroom and peeled off the damp gown, exchanging it for another from the pile. She glanced at herself in the mirror. Her hair was tangled. Her skin pale and damp. Her eyes swollen. She looked like crap. She ran her fingers through her hair. Splashed cool water on her face, cupping handful after handful, waiting, hoping for it to revive her.

When she returned he was standing on the other side of the glass, watching for her. Concern in those intense brown eyes. It was as if he knew.

His eyes never left hers as she crossed the room. She picked up the receiver.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she lied.

"I don't think so." He tapped his own lip to remind her of her bloodied one. Then he pointed to the bed where the covers were twisted in a pile, half on the f loor.

"Just a bad dream," she told him, wiping at her lip.

"Fever?"

"I don't think so."

He waited, examining her, a doctor confined to using only his eyes.

"I need to see Assistant Director Cunningham." Before he protested she added, "I just need to see him. He doesn't even need to know I'm there."

"Okay."

He surprised her. She'd expected an argument.

"You can see him. And then I'm taking you home," he said.

At first she didn't think she heard him correctly.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm letting you out of the Slammer."

She closed her eyes, leaned against the glass, hoped this wasn't just another episode in her cruel dream.

"Understand there are conditions," he said, his voice gentle in her ear.

She opened her eyes but stayed against the glass. It felt as if she was leaning into him, so close despite the thick wall of glass.

"We'll still have to vaccinate you every day," he continued."The first sign, even the smallest symptom, and I'll want you back in here. And you'll need to be careful. No swapping body fluids…" He paused, and when she looked up at him he was smiling. "Not even a kiss."

"You're really cramping my style."

"I figured as much."

"Why?" she asked. "Why now?"

"Because it's been over forty-eight hours.Your blood is showing no signs of the virus.You haven't had any symptoms." Then he hesitated as if he was still deciding whether to share more. He stood closer to the glass. "And because I think you'll be safer away from here."

CHAPTER

64

Reston, Virginia

Tully found Emma watching TV and eating leftover pizza on the sofa.

He opened his mouth to ask but she beat him to it. "On the counter. Only one slice of supreme left but there's pepperoni."

His daughter knew him too well. He grabbed a paper plate, filled it, sprinkled it down with hot peppers and plopped down beside her.

"It's awfully late, sweet pea."

"No school tomorrow. Fall break."

"Right. I forgot."

"What about you? Were you with Gwen?"

"No, at work." He had spent the entire evening at Quantico, searching databases and looking for some connection to Cunningham and this killer. "What are we watching?"

"Nothing. Just filling dead air."

They sat, quietly watching for a few minutes.

"I guess she's pretty okay," Emma said.

Tully thought she was referring to the actress on the TV show.

"She dresses a lot classier than Mom."

He was exhausted. It took him a minute to realize the "she" was Gwen.

"Sometimes I think Mom still wants to be twentysomething instead of fortysomething."

"I'm glad you think Gwen's pretty okay," he said.

"You and Mom were together a long time, weren't you?"

More questions. Maybe the wedding had brought it on. Didn't all kids have a fantasy that their divorced parents would someday reunite?

"We dated for quite a while before we got married." He didn't add that he didn't want to marry Caroline until he was certain she wanted him, not either of his buddies. He didn't like remembering that emotional battle. Sometimes the pawn. Sometimes the knight. Caroline had that effect on men. That ability to make them feel special one minute, worthless the next, and the whole time still competing for her attention.

"Long-distance, right?" Emma continued, bringing Tully back. "You were training at Quantico and she was in Chicago studying art?"

"Right."

"How did you guys end up in Cleveland?"

"I grew up in Cleveland.You know that. Can I have a swallow of your Diet Coke?"

She handed it to him without a single eye-roll or a heavy sigh. Instead, her mind seemed focused on one subject.

"Where does Indiana come in?"

"Indiana?"

"Yeah. Didn't they call you Indy when you went through training?"

Another reminder he didn't like. Even after all these years.

"No, Indy was one of my roommates at Quantico. Actually, he was dating your mother first. That's how I met her."

She looked confused. "But what was your nickname?" Before he could respond, she answered her own question. "Oh, wait.You were J.B. Reggie was J.B. Jelly beans."

Tully winced. "I hated the name Reggie. Being called J.B. actually gave me the idea to just use my real initials."

"Your real initials?"

"Reginald James."

"That's not so bad," she said then went quiet.

When he looked over, her face was crinkled in thought and she had her thumbnail inserted between her teeth. The biting and gnawing had stopped years ago but sometimes she still put it in her teeth out of nervous habit.

"Your mom told you about Indy?" Tully asked.

She shook her head.

"I found some letters she had stashed in that old desk down in the spare bedroom. I thought they were letters from you to Mom."

"I can't believe she kept them after all this time." But in a way he wasn't surprised. A few years ago Tully would have been hurt to learn Caroline had kept Indy's letters. Now it didn't sting, just a tug, nothing more.

"I'm sorry, Dad." Emma sounded a bit shaken—not as if she was worried she'd be in trouble, so much as she couldn't believe she had made such a mistake. "I really did think they were from you."

"It's okay, sweet pea. Those letters were from a long time ago."

"Actually not that long ago."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, most of the letters are from 1982, but then there're three others. The most recent one was from July."

"This year?"

"Yeah," she said. "Congratulating her on getting married, again. But he didn't sound like he meant it."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because he says something like,‘Congratulations for choosing the wrong man, again.' That's kinda rude." She rolled her eyes. "I should have known you'd never say anything like that."

CHAPTER

65

USAMRIID

She should have prepared herself.

"He's getting a treatment," Platt told her as he led her through the cinder-block hallways.

Maggie had dressed back in her street clothes. It was amazing how something that simple could feel so good. She had to leave behind the purple-flowered jacket. It had been confiscated early on because of Mary Louise's vomit. A splatter on her sleeve. The one thing that separated Maggie's fate from Cunningham's.

Funny how life was, Maggie thought. As an FBI agent she had come face-to-face with killers, been sliced on, shot at and left for dead in a freezer. But she never would have guessed that life or death could depend on her proximity to a little girl's vomit.

"How is Mary Louise?" she asked Platt as they continued through the maze of hallways. She didn't expect any details. He'd already made it clear none of the others' conditions were something he would discuss.

"She's good," he said, glancing back at her. "So far."

They came to the end of a hallway and he punched in a code then slid a key card through the designated slot. This time the hiss of the air-lock door didn't make Maggie's stomach plunge. Platt stopped with his hand on the door handle and looked back at Maggie again. She caught his apprehension.

"You're not used to seeing him like this," Platt warned her.

Maggie figured Platt was an Army colonel. It was part of his job to make things sound more dramatic, to take everything at its most serious level. He had to overcompensate especially in life-or-death matters.

She followed him into the viewing room and immediately noticed that all the monitors and equipment were humming,flashing,beeping a steady rhythm.She stayed away from the glass wall that separated this room from the small hospital room. She tried not to draw the attention of the two spacemen working inside the room.They were hanging IVs,double bags, one clear liquid, another possibly blood or plasma. Maggie couldn't tell, either way, there were enough tubes to warrant something serious. And there was the equipment. Though she couldn't hear the hiss or whirl or beeps, she saw one of the spacemen pushing buttons on machines and monitors and could see their correspondence to some of the computer screens in the dark outside room where she and Platt stood.

At first Maggie concentrated on the spacemen and their smooth, deliberate movements. They worked together seamlessly, not at all encumbered by the suits but almost as if in slow motion. It was like watching the Discovery Channel, only with the sound muted.

One of the spacemen went to the other side of the room and then Maggie saw the man in the bed.

She didn't recognize him at first. His salt-and-pepper hair looked thin, his face pasty white. His eyes were closed. Tubes ran from his arms and nose to the equipment beside the bed. He looked smaller than his six-foot athletic frame. Smaller and so vulnerable. She stared at him, watching for something that would connect this helpless figure to her energetic boss.

"Mary Louise hasn't broken with any of the symptoms." Platt startled her. She had forgotten he was standing right beside her."The virus may have been lying dormant inside her. It's difficult to understand, sometimes almost impossible to explain. It's a parasite, jumping from host to host, completely destroying one while only traveling in others. It may never show up in her. Just like you."

They stood there silently for what seemed a long time. Maggie swore she could hear her own breathing, a vibrating force inside a wind tunnel that sounded like staggered gasps. She had to be imagining it. Maybe it was simply one of the machines.

"But Cunningham isn't so lucky?" she finally said, glancing at Platt. He was looking straight ahead. "He already has symptoms?" And this came in a whisper she hardly recognized as her own. Maybe she was having problems breathing.

"Yes," he said.

"You've already seen it? In his blood?"

Hesitation. A long enough pause that she had to look over at him, again. This time he let her have his eyes and she saw it there before he said, "Yes."

CHAPTER

66

Monday, October 1, 2007

Platt drove Maggie home, a sixty-minute trip in the wee small hours of the morning. Under the cover of darkness. It felt like a covert mission, more drama than necessary. Yet he kept an eye on the rearview mirror, his heart tripping into overdrive whenever car lights followed one too many of his turns. Each time it ended up being nothing. The cars eventually turned another direction or passed. He was being paranoid.

Earlier he had authorized a shipment of vaccine to be airlifted directly to Bix in Chicago. The CDC had faxed Platt the official request. As the head of this mission Platt had the authority to respond. In the process he discovered that Janklow had already approved a much smaller shipment but with orders that it be released only to the director of Homeland Security. Not the CDC. Red tape? Personal grudge? Platt didn't care to know. His best guess was that Janklow was maintaining political correctness despite the clock ticking on a potential epidemic.

Platt was also quick to notice that nowhere in Janklow's orders for the release of vaccine to Homeland Security was there an acknowledgment of the four victims already at USAMRIID. It would have been the perfect opportunity now that both Homeland Security and the CDC were involved. But Janklow was still covering up his own backyard. As for McCathy, Platt wasn't sure if or how he was involved. There would be time to confront both of them but only after he made sure the four victims under his watch were safe and secure.

Platt couldn't ethically release Assistant Director Cunningham, Ms. Kellerman or Mary Louise. Each needed the specialized medical care of USAMRIID along with the daily dosage of the vaccine. Agent O'Dell, however, needed only the vaccine at this time. If she ended up being the lone survivor, what would Janklow do with her? Platt would rather make that decision than leave it to Janklow.

Platt glanced at Maggie's silhouette, highlighted only by the green dashboard lights. She was different here alongside him without the barrier of glass. She had been quiet after seeing Cunningham.Yet she didn't look as vulnerable back in her street clothes. As a temporary replacement to the purple jacket she'd had to leave behind, Platt had offered her his William and Mary sweatshirt to ward off the night chill. She had hesitated at first, giving the gesture more meaning than necessary. He wondered if Maggie O'Dell simply wasn't used to someone looking out for her.

"It doesn't mean we're going steady or anything," he had joked, expecting one of her witty comebacks.

She'd simply said, "Thank you," and slipped it on.

After they were on the road and safely away from USAMRIID, she said,"You're worried the Ebola this guy is sending may have come from your own labs?"

He glanced at her, again, not sure why he was surprised that she would cut immediately to the chase. She had done so throughout their conversations.

"It's crossed my mind."

Platt wasn't sure how much of his suspicions he should share. He might already be on the verge of getting court-martialed despite all his efforts to do the right thing.

"He's someone with a bruised ego," she said. "He may have worked on some high-profile cases and never been acknowledged. Someone intent on retribution, on doling out a perverted sense of justice. Does that sound like anyone you know?"

"Maybe," Platt said, though he thought immediately of Michael McCathy.

Instead of pressing the matter, she said, "The outbreak in Chicago, do they know how it started?"

"A Chicago accountant named Markus Schroder was there for tests. They had no idea what was wrong with him. Ended up doing exploratory surgery."

"Any idea if he received a package in the mail?"

"I asked Bix. He's the CDC guy. He's going to check."

"Markus Schroder," she said and stared off into the dark countryside.

"You think the name means something? Like with the Kellermans?"

"Possibly. Chicago can't be a coincidence. It was Chicago where the Tylenol murders took place. There has to be some connection. I can tell you this much. If Markus Schroder received a similar package he wasn't a random victim."

"You always look for logic even within the madness?"

He could feel her eyes on him now, studying him to see if he was serious. He kept his eyes on the road ahead.

"It'd be convenient to believe people who commit these types of crimes are simply mad. That there's a neuron or two misfiring inside their brains."

"If they're not mad, not crazy, what then?"

She hesitated but only briefly before she calmly and quietly said, "They're evil."

CHAPTER

67

Saint Francis Hospital Chicago

Dr. Claire Antonelli couldn't argue with Roger Bix. She knew he was right. Her son needed to be included in the quarantine. She didn't want to admit that he may have been exposed to the virus, thanks to her. Neither of them displayed symptoms. She had to believe they were okay, though it scared the hell out of her. Her son, however, pretended to see it all as an adventure.

"We just read about Ebola in World History. Maybe I can get extra credit," he had joked.

The nurses in the surgical center had prepared a room for him. There was something ironic yet comforting about having him so close in the middle of all the chaos. She was on her way to see if he'd gotten settled, when Roger Bix sidetracked her again. Bix was making a habit of treating her as what he called his "point person." On several occasions Bix and Dr. Miles had gone head-to-head on procedure and policy. Claire was simply too exhausted to argue…with anyone. This morning the media had shown up. WGN-TV, Channel 9 had cameras out front. If Bix was looking for a spokesperson he would need to keep looking.

Now Bix walked alongside her when she didn't bother to stop or slow down by his presence. "We have the vaccine," he told her. This, however, stopped her.

"That was fast."

"Special air delivery."

"How much?"

"Enough to get us started. It's a series of shots. That's what we need to focus on. What we need to tell everyone."

So not enough, Claire wanted to say. That's what he was really telling her. The idea of distributing false hope left a sudden lump in her stomach.

He must have seen her skepticism because he countered with, "It'll be enough. We'll start getting blood test results this morning. Not everyone who came in contact with this guy will be breaking with Ebola. The initial shots will simply be a precaution."

"Of course," Claire said, watching Bix's eyes travel over her shoulder, across the lobby, everywhere except to her eyes.

"I need you to ask Mrs. Schroder if Markus received an unusual package in the week or so before he got sick."

"A package? What kind of package?"

"Anything with a Ziploc plastic bag inside."

Claire stared at him, but it was obvious this was as much as Roger Bix was ready to tell her. He started, instead, giving her a rundown of where and how they'd start administering the vaccine, when nurse Amanda Corey hurried up the hallway toward them.

"Sorry to interrupt," she said, out of breath and f lushed. "I figured you'd both want to know as soon as possible. Markus Schroder is dead."

CHAPTER

68

Quantico

Tully had files open all over his desk. He'd spent most of yesterday looking for something, anything that might connect Cunningham to this killer. Their boss had been involved with all the national biggies: the Unabomber, the Beltway Snipers, Eric Rudolph, Timothy McVeigh, the anthrax killer. The list went on and on. It was overwhelming. There was no easy way to search. So Tully shifted through the original files, trying to find repeat names, especially anyone from USAMRIID.

He was starting through another box, when Ganza's lanky frame leaned in his doorway.

"Did you hear about Chicago?"

"Bears or the Sox?" Tully asked before he saw the scared look in Ganza's eyes.

"CDC has a case of Ebola in a suburban hospital."

"You're kidding."

"I wish."

Ganza filled him in on what little he knew. When he finished he pointed to the mess on Tully's desk.

"Trying to find a link," Tully said, "to Cunningham. But going through the cases he's worked on is like looking for a proverbial needle in a haystack."

"Have you heard from him?"

Tully shook his head. "Not since Saturday. He gave me a phone number but no one picks up."

Both men stared at their feet in silence. Finally Ganza muttered something about calling a colleague at the CDC.

"I'll let you know what I find out." And he was gone, leaving Tully to his mess.

It was difficult to think about Cunningham. Tully knew agents who had been killed in the line of duty. It was something all agents kept in the back of their minds. But somehow this was different. Cunningham was one of those invincible guys.You knew bullets didn't bounce off of him but at the time you really wouldn't be surprised if they did. He was their leader, the one who held them up. And it seemed cruel and unfair to have an invisible weapon from an invisible killer take him down. No amount of training prepared you for something like this.

It reminded him of his own training. Emma had brought back a lot of memories with her questions. When he, Razzy and Indy were together they believed they'd change the world, conquer evil. All that good stuff.It was the 1980s. The Soviet Union was crumbling along with the wall. No more Cold War. Reagan made it okay to be proud again. The three of them were young, strong and idealistic and very different from one another. One common goal pulled them together and ironically, one silly and flirtatious, but absolutely beautiful girl pulled them apart.

Tully looked at Emma's framed photo on the corner of his desk. Actually he could barely see her face behind the stack of files. He considered all the cases he had worked over the last twenty-five years. There were biggies on his own résumé: the Unabomber, Jeffery Dahmer, Albert Stucky, Timothy McVeigh, 9/11. But in the end, hands down, Emma was what made everything in his life worthwhile. Emma and now possibly Gwen Patterson.

He was thinking about Gwen when his phone started ringing.

"R. J. Tully," he answered.

"Why are you sending me cash? And in a plastic bag, for Christ's sake."

It was his ex-wife. The onetime silly and f lirtatious but beautiful girl was mad as hell.

CHAPTER

69

North Platte, Nebraska

Patsy Kowak couldn't believe it. She fingered the envelope left for her in the middle of the kitchen table, its contents half sticking out: two first-class airline tickets to Cleveland, Ohio. She had found them waiting for her this morning when she sat down to have her coffee.

"I booked us a room at the Hyatt Regency," Ward said from behind her. She hadn't heard him come into the room. "That's where you said you wanted to stay, right?"

"I said it. I didn't think you heard it."

"I listen to you." He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down across from her. He never took time out to sit and drink coffee. His usually went into a thermos to-go mug and out the door with him.

"These tickets are for Wednesday," Patsy said, tapping them against the tabletop as if she still didn't believe they were real.

"Yeah, well, we have a layover in Atlanta. It'll take us most of the day to get there. I thought we could have all day Thursday to ourselves, to sit back and enjoy. Relax."

She raised her eyebrow at him. "You sure you know how?"

"What? Relax? I think I can figure it out. Lee and Betty offered to look after things."

She held up the first-class tickets."Whatever got into you? Last time we talked you didn't even want to go."

"I realized how much it means to you."

"But not to you?" She was disappointed in his answer. He noticed. Thirty-two years of marriage, how could he not notice.

"I don't agree with Conrad's choices," he said, avoiding her eyes and staring into his coffee as though it held the correct answer."I might not agree but he's still my son."

She reached across the table and put her hand over his callused one. He wasn't much for shows of affection and quickly found a way to change the subject.

"Go get yourself one of those manicures," he said, taking her hand in his and pretending it was only to examine it."You work hard around here. Treat yourself."

Her hands were an embarrassment, dry and red skin, raw gouges where she'd cut the cuticles too deeply.Yes, she'd treat herself.

She knew Ward would come around. Her husband was a good man. A good father. Patsy was so pleased, she had almost forgotten about getting out of bed earlier with a headache and a backache. All she had to do was stand up for an instant reminder. Her head throbbed with a thousand little hammers beating behind her brow. She cupped the palm of her hand over her forehead. A bit of a fever, too. She couldn't come down with the flu now. In two days she'd be traveling to her son's wedding. She refused to get sick.

She glanced at the wall clock, picked up the phone and dialed from memory.

"Conrad Kovak's office." The woman's voice was abrupt in a way that discouraged callers from even responding. Patsy wondered if she should say something to Conrad.

"Is Conrad in?"

"Mr. Kovak will be in meetings all morning."

"This is his mother."

Patsy waited. With Conrad's previous assistant, it made a difference. If Conrad really wasn't in a meeting Renae would put the call through when she learned it was Patsy. With this assistant it obviously made no difference.

After a long pause the woman asked, "Do you want to leave a message?"

"Yes, I suppose so," Patsy said, getting ready to tell her to have Conrad call later, but there was a click and buzz and suddenly another voice telling her to leave a message after the tone. The assistant had sent her on to voice messaging, something Renae would never have done.

"Conrad, it's Mom. Just wanted to let you know we'll be leaving for Cleveland on Wednesday.Your dad bought first-class tickets for us. And he did it all on his own. I didn't even tell him about the money you sent. Call me later, sweetie."

Patsy hung up the phone. Now she needed to take something so she didn't end up with the flu.

CHAPTER

70

Newburgh Heights, Virginia

Maggie left Benjamin Platt asleep in her spare bedroom. Satisfied with a couple hours of sleep and anxious to get back to her regular life, Maggie had put on a long-sleeve T-shirt, shorts and running shoes. She grabbed her cell phone and keys and set out for her morning run. She felt as if she needed to make up for lost time. That's what she told herself when she launched into mile number two, but the tightness in her calves and the ache in her chest made her reduce her run to a brisk walk. Her lungs breathed in the crisp air, greedy like they'd been deprived for weeks.

She'd forgotten how wonderful a blue sky looked, scrubbed clean after the rain. A flock of geese honked overhead. The beagle up the street had already started baying, anticipating her approach. He'd be disappointed to discover Harvey not with her. Gold and orange mums competed in neighboring yards with purple ash trees and fiery-red bushes. Someone was serving bacon for breakfast.

It sounded like such a bad cliché but it was as if all of her senses had suddenly started firing again after a long stretch of paralysis. Even her daily routine seemed fresh. She had convinced herself to think positively. The virus hadn't shown up yet in her blood. Maybe she could stop it.

But she couldn't stop thinking about Cunningham. Her mind played over the details like a loop in her brain. Several things nagged at her but she couldn't figure out why. She had awakened with the answer to one of the puzzle pieces, the answer so crystal clear she couldn't believe she hadn't seen it earlier. But she wasn't sure it mattered. So what if this killer was an expert in crime trivia? Maybe the puzzle piece meant something. Maybe not. He could just be showing off.

She glanced at her watch and pulled out her cell phone.

He picked up quicker than she expected. "This is Agent Tully."

"It's Maggie."

"My caller ID says they gave you back your cell phone."

"Yes, and I'm back home."

Silence. It lasted so long she thought she had lost the connection.

"They let you out?"

The way he said it made her smile. Was he really worried she had escaped without anyone knowing?

"Colonel Platt drove me home early this morning." She thought she heard a sigh of relief. "Listen, I think I solved another one of the puzzle pieces. ‘Call Nathan.' Yo u said it was a blind impression left on the envelope?"

"That's right."

"I think it was in 1993. I'm not sure about that date. But the FBI offered a million-dollar reward for any information regarding someone named Nathan R. in connection to the Unabomber."

"Okay, that's starting to sound familiar."

"There was an impression found on a letter the Unabomber sent to the New York Times. They thought he had slipped, that maybe he had written a note to himself on a piece of paper on top of the letter and it pressed through without him knowing. If I'm remembering correctly it read,‘Call Nathan R. 7:00 p.m.'"

Maggie noticed a car up the street slow down, stop where there was no stop sign and continue up the street. This wasn't a neighborhood with idle traffic. She decided to turn around and head back toward her house.

"I'm looking it up on the computer," Tully said.

"It ended up being a mistake. I think it was an editor or someone else at the Times. He wrote himself a note on top of the letter before he realized the significance of the letter. It was his note that pressed through onto the Unabomber's letter."

"So it meant nothing," Tully said."And it means nothing in this Ebola case. Except that this guy is jerking us around."

"It could be that law-enforcement officers in general are his target and the victims are just convenient pieces to his puzzle."

"Could be." The tone in his voice said otherwise.

"What is it?" She knew there was something.

"My ex-wife got a package in the mail this morning. Block-style lettering. A plastic Ziploc bag inside. The return address was mine."

"Jesus, Tully. Please tell me she didn't open the plastic bag."

"No, she didn't. I don't know if this is something or just a cruel coincidence."

"It's not a coincidence. What's inside the bag?"

"She said it looks like a stack of ten-dollar bills."

Maggie winced. Could it be that easy? That simple to get someone to open a bag of Ebola without hesitating. She saw the car again. She was still about two blocks from her house.

"This thing with ‘Call Nathan R .' Tully, George Sloane should have recognized it."

"Yeah, the Beltway Sniper phrase, too. He was in a hurry that day. Impatient. He didn't like that he had to work with me and not Cunningham."

"I think we need to talk to Sloane again. Show him the note one more time. See if we can get a copy faxed to us of the mailing envelope the killer sent to the Kellermans."

"Sure. If you think it'll help."

"Do you have any information on Chicago?"

"Ganza's calling someone at the CDC."

"I'll call Sloane. See if he can meet with us. And Tully, one thing you really need to consider. Cunningham may have been right about this being personal. It just may be you, not him."

"I've already thought about that."

She could hear the car coming up behind her.

"Gotta go. I'll talk to you later."

Before she snapped her phone closed she heard the engine slow.

"Hey, lady. It's about time you get home."

Maggie turned to find Nick Morrelli in the driver's seat of a dark blue sedan.

CHAPTER

71

Newburgh Heights, Virginia

Benjamin Platt felt perfectly comfortable sitting on Maggie's patio in only his T-shirt, jeans and bare feet. She'd left a fresh pot of coffee though he knew from her food requests in the Slammer that she wasn't a coffee drinker. He had poured himself a cup and gravitated to the patio. Her backyard was beautiful. A lush and private sanctuary. He wasn't surprised. It actually reminded him of the wooded area behind his own house and the screened-in porch that overlooked it. However, he didn't know much about landscaping. It looked like Maggie did. The six-foot wood fence stretched all the way to the creek behind the property. Huge pine trees bordered the other sides of the fence line, blocking views of her neighbors' yards and homes. Every corner looked professionally landscaped with decorative trees, an English garden with fading blooms and a rock garden surrounded by rosebushes.

From the chew toys in a wicker basket at the corner of the patio he guessed she shared the backyard with a dog. A big dog. And from the bouquet of fresh flowers—with a card sticking out of the middle signed,Love Nick—Platt guessed she had someone else with whom she shared portions of her life. Also not a surprise. She was a beautiful, intelligent woman. Even Platt, with his workaholic blinders, had noticed.

And he had noticed long before she offered him her spare bedroom. Platt realized her offer was one she didn't make often. Boxes of files lined one wall of the bedroom and stacks of books took up most of the space on top of the dresser.Yet he had slept hard even if it had been for only several hours. No dreams. No visions of little girls, Ali or Mary Louise. No sounds of medevac helicopters or IEDs being set off. For once he simply slept. It was a rare treat.

Platt rubbed at the stubble on his jaw. He checked his watch. Sipped his coffee. He needed to get back to USAMRIID. He needed to confront Janklow. He needed to know if Michael McCathy had something to do with these Ebola cases. The more he thought about it the more he believed it was possible.Last night he had checked McCathy's file.Besides being a weapons inspector in Iraq, McCathy had also been one of the team that scoured the world in the hunt for viruses,not in order to cure them, but to acquire them. It wasn't a secret that once upon a time, back in the 1970s and early 1980s the United States stockpiled biological agents to possibly use them in their defense program. To use them as weapons. It was probably one of the reasons McCathy had later been chosen to travel to Iraq as a weapons inspector. Of course, he could identify weapons of mass destruction when long ago he had acquired them for his home team.

Platt made himself sip when he caught himself gulping. He leaned his head back, closed his eyes and listened to the quiet. It might be the only quiet he would have for quite some time.

CHAPTER

72

"What are you doing here, Nick?"

"I've been in D.C. since Friday for a conference. I just wanted to see you before I left for Boston."

When she didn't respond he continued, "I left messages." There was that smile. "And flowers."

"I've been gone," she said without offering any more of an explanation. He couldn't just show up in her neighborhood, trolling the streets, even if he did look good in a navy suit that brought out the blue in his eyes.

"I'm working a case. And I have somewhere I need to be," she said.

She started walking again, ignoring the slamming car door. He trotted up beside her.

"Are we ever just going to sit down and talk?"

"What do you think we need to talk about, Nick?"

"Well, I've been trying for months to talk to you about what I'm feeling."

"What you're feeling? Not necessarily what I'm feeling."

"No, of course not. I mean, of course I want to know what you're feeling. Can we just go have lunch and talk about it?"

Any other time his persistence may have seemed sweet, endearing. But taking into account everything she had just gone through in the past several days, this…this naive courtship seemed frivolous, hollow, maybe even disingenuous. Though it wasn't his fault. Nick Morrelli didn't know any different.

She stopped in front of her house at the edge of her yard. Platt's Land Rover was still in her circle drive.

"You say you have feelings for me, Nick, but you don't even know me."

"Sure I do. I know you like Italian sausage on your pizza.You graduated from the University of Virginia.You're tough and beautiful and smart. What I don't know I want to know. That should count for something."

She ran her fingers through her hair, frustrated and not sure why. If this didn't matter, if he didn't matter, then why was she frustrated that he didn't understand?

"Have you ever been alone, Nick?"

"Sure. I'm alone now. I've been alone since Jill and I split."

"No, I mean …" She wasn't sure she could explain what she had felt in the Slammer. "I mean really alone.You have your family, your mom, your sister, Christine, your nephew, Timmy. And you've never been without someone for long. What was your longest stretch between girlfriends?"

"Why would that matter? Very few of them did matter.Yeah, I've had a lot of girlfriends. Is that what bothers you? That I've had a lot of girlfriends?"

"No, of course not." She shifted from one foot to the other. She didn't want to have this conversation and she certainly didn't want to have it in her front yard. "This isn't about you. It's about me."

He started to say something and she stopped him, putting up her hands in surrender.

"I'm not ready to be with anyone, Nick. Not right now."

"Is everything okay?" Platt asked.

She turned to find Benjamin Platt in her doorway, his eyes on Nick, his stance ready to move into action if he needed to.

"Everything's fine," she told him.

When she looked back at Nick he was staring at Platt, taking in the Land Rover for the first time. Maggie watched the charm and confidence slide off his face. Confusion gave way to hurt.

"I understand," he said, his eyes avoiding hers.

He was wounded, embarrassed.

"It's not what you're thinking," she told him though once again she reminded herself that she didn't owe him any explanation.

"I'll leave you alone. That's what you meant, right? About being alone? You just want me to leave you alone."

"That's not at all what I said."

But he was already walking away from her, headed back to his car, so easily convinced he was right. He hadn't listened to a word she had said.

She told herself that if it mattered, if he mattered, she'd go after him. It should come natural, be instinctive. She was used to following her gut instinct. It had never steered her wrong yet. She followed it now as she turned around and went back into her house.

CHAPTER

73

"Sorry," Platt said.

"It's not your fault."

"If I wasn't here he wouldn't have gotten the wrong impression."

"He got the impression he wanted to get."

Platt couldn't read her. He wasn't sure if she was upset, angry, sad? He had been concerned that Janklow had sent someone to retrieve her only to realize, and realize too late, that he had stumbled upon a lovers' quarrel.

Paranoid. He was way too paranoid.

"I have to get back to USAMRIID," he told her. "But I need to give you a shot before I leave."

She nodded and sat down by the kitchen counter, shoving the bouquet of flowers to the side. She looked tired, drained and not just from the confrontation outside.

"Did you have anything to eat this morning?"

"I usually eat after I run."

She'd been out running. He stopped himself from scolding her. Instead, he took the liberty of opening her refrigerator. It was well stocked. He grabbed a carton of eggs, milk, a package of cheddar cheese and a green pepper.

"Skillet?" he asked.

She pointed to a drawer under the oven.

"I don't have time to eat," she said without moving from her place at the counter. "I have to get to work. I need to shower. I have an appointment I need to make."

"I can't give you the vaccine on an empty stomach. So go make your appointment. Get your shower. I'll have omelets ready by the time you're done."

"I thought all Army doctors had wives to cook for them?"

"Army doctors aren't home enough to keep wives."

"Is that what happened?"

He stared at her, wondering how she did that. She had a way of throwing him completely off guard when he least expected it.

"How did you know I was divorced?"

"Old trick.You just told me. I also know you have a dog."

"Excuse me?"

"Something white, but not a Lab because the hair on the sweatshirt you loaned me isn't as coarse."

"How do you know it's not a cat?"

"You're definitely not a cat guy."

"Hmm…pretty good trick." He pulled out a cutting board and knife and started chopping the pepper. "His name's Digger. He's a West Highland terrier. He's good company. He was my daughter's dog."

"Your wife wouldn't let your daughter have Digger at her house?"

"My daughter died five years ago."

"Oh, God, Ben."

He could feel her eyes on him now. He didn't look up. He continued to work, breaking eggs, sloshing a dab of milk.

"It's okay," he said. He had the phrase down pat.

"That one I didn't know."

"She died of complications from the flu. I was in Afghanistan. It was right after the war began. My wife thought Ali would get better. Said she knew the Army wouldn't let me come home just because Ali had the flu, so she didn't tell me. She didn't tell me until it was too late."

He realized he had stopped working with his hands. They were gripping the edge of the counter as if he needed to hold on to something. He didn't want to know if Maggie noticed. He reached for the mixture of eggs and milk and then tried to think of something, anything, to get back on track.

"Since we're sharing," he finally said. "How long have you been divorced?"

It was her turn to be surprised.

"No trick," he smiled. "It's in your file."

"Ah, of course. It's been about four years."

She didn't sound sure. Platt figured that was a good sign.

"Was that the ex-husband?"

"No."

She didn't offer more of an explanation. He didn't push.

"It's interesting," she said without prompting, "how much you realize…how much I realized…"

He waited and listened. He already knew she didn't share easily.

"You asked me," she said, "if you could call someone for me. And I realized there was no one."

"But someone did visit you."

"A friend. A very special friend."

He wanted to ask about the guy outside. Why he didn't seem to know about her weekend in the Slammer. Why she hadn't called him. Instead, he said, "Most people would consider themselves lucky to have at least one very special friend like that."

"There's someone at USAMRIID you suspect." She said it without question, a statement of fact. "Is that why you thought it was too dangerous for me to stay?"

He looked up at her this time and held her eyes.

"My commanding officer wants to make all of this disappear."

"Including the four victims." There was a spark of panic in her eyes. "Can he do that?"

"No, he can't. The victims' family members were being contacted early this morning. I started dispensing the vaccine yesterday without his official consent. The outbreak in Chicago means there could be others. What happened in Elk Grove can't disappear now."

"Is it possible he's covering for someone at the facility?"

"That I don't know."

"But you think it's possible this killer may have access to USAMRIID?"

" We have quite a few big egos and most of them with access to Level 4 agents. Whether any of them are capable of sending Ebola through the mail, I just don't know. But I'm going to try and find out."

CHAPTER

74

Tully knew Maggie was right. This was personal. How else could they explain Caroline getting a package with a plastic Ziploc bag inside? A package with Tully's return address. She had faxed him the label and at first glance the block-style lettering looked identical to the note found in the doughnut box. It had to be the same guy.

Now Tully realized that he himself may have been one of the targets. The box of doughnuts. He had been late getting to work Friday morning, otherwise he might have been the first one to dig in, to find the note, to respond to the threat at the Kellerman house. To be where Cunningham was right now.

After Tully got off the phone with Maggie he called Emma. A knee-jerk reaction. She was home alone today. No school. Fall break. He wanted to call and tell her not to leave the house. Don't answer the door. No, that wasn't right. Don't open any packages. Especially ones with money inside.

Her voice-messaging service kept picking up. She was on the phone probably talking to friends. Damn! And he'd been too cheap to add call-waiting to their cell-phone plan.

He'd have to stop by the house. What time did the mail usually come? There was a sense of urgency pumping through his veins. A sense of dread. Who else did the killer intend to hurt? He grabbed his jacket and car keys. As he rushed to the elevators he punched in Gwen's number. Four rings and her voice-messaging service picked up. Didn't anyone answer their phones anymore?

"Gwen, it's Tully. Don't open any packages you get in the mail. I'll explain later. Just don't open any."

In the parking lot he called Maggie back.

"This is Maggie O'Dell."

"If I'm the target, how does Chicago fit in?" He tried to hide the panic in his voice.

"Does the name Markus Schroder mean anything to you?"

"Not a thing. At least not off the top of my head." He was sweating, though the day was chilly. He wrestled out of his jacket, balled it up and tossed it into the backseat.

"You may be one on his list of targets. Like a hit list. People who've done him wrong over the years. That doesn't mean you'd know everyone on the list."

"Good point." He was already gunning the engine, zigzagging out of the parking lot. He needed to calm down."But why Caroline? She's my ex-wife. Why does he think he'd hurt me by hurting her?"

"Maybe he thinks you still care about her," Maggie suggested."Listen, Tully…" She waited as if to get his attention. "Have you ever worked with anyone at USAMRIID? Ever had a confrontation or a run-in with one of their scientists?"

Tully remembered his earlier suspicions. That the Ebola may have come from one of the Army's labs. Now Maggie must be thinking the same thing.

"I don't think so," he said slowly. He couldn't think straight. He just wanted to make sure Gwen and Emma were okay. "Let me think about that."

CHAPTER

75

Maggie left at the same time Platt did. Both of them on a mission to find the killer.

After breakfast he'd given her the shot, his fingers gentle, his eyes comforting. With him so close and without the glass between them Maggie found herself thinking about his conditions of release from the Slammer. No swapping body fluids, not even a kiss. She was surprised to find her mind wondering what might happen without those restrictions.

Now on her way to Quantico, Maggie pulled into a gas-and-shop parking lot. She flipped through the personal phone directory she kept in her briefcase. She punched in the number, expecting to leave a voice message and surprised when he picked up.

"Yeah?"

"Professor Sloane? It's Agent Maggie O'Dell."

"Agent O'Dell? What can I do for you?"

"I understand you talked to Agent Tully and Keith Ganza on Saturday about the note we found."

There was a pause, then a gruff, "Yes, that's right."

"I found some things on my own that I 'd like to run by you and see if they make a difference in your assessment."

"What things?"

He sounded defensive. From what Maggie remembered of her brief encounters with the professor, being defensive was nothing unusual.

"You had mentioned that there were some similarities to the anthrax case. I think I may have made some connections to a couple of other cases."

"Good for you." There was the George Sloane she knew. "I can't be racing up to Quantico every time you people have something you want to run by me."

"Of course, I understand. It's just that you mentioned the anthrax case. I believe I've made a connection to the Tylenol murders in 1982, the Beltway Snipers in 2002 and the Unabomber."

"All of that? Well, you hardly need me, Agent O'Dell. Sounds like you have it all figured out."

She ignored his sarcasm. "Except I'm not sure of the significance of any of it other than to show off."

" To show off?" He sounded angry now rather than defensive. "You think he's gone through all this trouble just to show off what he knows about a few famous criminals? And tell me, Agent O'Dell, when you find this show-off, will he be wearing a double-breasted suit and living with his two elderly sisters?"

Sloane was referring to the Mad Bomber in New York during the 1950s and Dr. James Brussel's on-target profile.

"You either need my help, Agent O'Dell, or you already have it all figured out." He was back to his mocking self."You can't have your cake and eat it, too."

She was growing impatient with him. He was playing with her. The cake reference was from the Unabomber's manifesto. She was on the verge of saying to hell with talking to him but she knew Cunningham had respect for the man's work. The note and the mailing envelopes were all the evidence they had right now.

"Look, Professor Sloane, I'm just hoping you might be able to help us connect more dots here. Perhaps I could stop in at the university later. I understand it's fall break this week."

"Christ," she heard him mumble. She wondered if he was surprised she had already checked out his schedule. "If it's that important. I suppose I can make time. Meet me in forty minutes. My office is in the basement of the Old Medical School Building."

He hung up before she could tell him whether or not that worked. She checked her wristwatch. It would take her at least forty minutes to get to the university.

She leaned back in her car seat. She had a backache. Probably from her morning run. Not true about her headache. It had started before the run. When she'd called Gwen earlier, her friend had told her she shouldn't go back to work so soon.

"Kiddo, stay home and relax for a couple of days. Or at least work from home."

Maggie had tried to explain that the best thing for her right now was routine. She didn't need more time alone to think. She'd had plenty of that in the Slammer.

She punched in another phone number. It went over immediately to voice mail.

"Hey, Tully, it's Maggie. Sloane agreed to meet at his office in forty minutes. It's almost noon. I'm heading over to UVA now. I'll see you over there."

She sat back up. They didn't have much to go on. She kept trying to think what Cunningham would advise. Sometimes the ordinary becomes the invisible. What wasn't she seeing here?

That's when she felt something drip down her chin. On the steering wheel was a drop of blood.

She glanced at herself in the rearview mirror. Just the sight of blood dripping from her nose stirred up a panic. She grabbed for a tissue. This wasn't happening. And just as quickly she tried to calm herself. It didn't mean anything. It was just a nosebleed.

She held the tissue to her nose and leaned her head back against the car's headrest. She closed her eyes and steadied her breathing.

Oh, God, a nosebleed.

CHAPTER

76

USAMRIID

Platt stood in front of Commander Janklow's desk, unflinching and prepared for an attack.

"You were out of line, Colonel Platt,"Janklow told him."I didn't authorize you to release the vaccine to anyone."

"I had no direct orders that forbid it, sir. And as the head of this mission—"

"Cut the crap, Platt."

Janklow surprised him. His voice was impatient, bordering on not just anger but something else. There was an edge to it.

Platt waited, not sure how to respond. Not sure how far to push. This morning the man looked shredded, though his uniform was pressed as usual and his office tidy. His stance slouched a bit at the shoulders. His face creased in places Platt had never noticed before. His eyes were bloodshot. And when he showed his hands, Platt could see a slight tremor in the fingers.

"At some point in your career, Dr. Platt—if you still have a career available—you will need to choose between being a soldier, a doctor or a politician. The three contradict each other on many levels. They cannot coexist for long. Today you're choosing to be a doctor. That's fine.You probably think that's noble. I'm here to tell you, it's not noble. It's foolish."

He turned away from Platt to stare out his window, and for a minute Platt thought he was dismissing him. Platt decided he had to push.

"Sir, I think I know why you did it."

Janklow turned slowly, eyebrows raised but his face still angry.

"What is it, Dr. Platt, that you think I did?"

"I considered it myself. That the Ebola may have come from our own labs.You want to protect USAMRIID. After the anthrax debacle I can understand—"

"You have no idea what you're talking about."

"Sir, I just know—"

"Did you find any Ebola samples missing?"

"No, sir, I did not, but it would be difficult—"

The hand went up to stop him. Palm facing out. A definite tremor.

"There are no Ebola samples missing from USAMRIID."

Platt kept his shoulders back, his stance tall, his face impassive.

"Let me ask you this, Dr. Platt…" Janklow's voice leveled to normal. "Do you have any idea how much the vaccine for Ebola brings on the black market?"

Platt stared at him and he could see it wasn't a question Janklow expected an answer to.

"I better find out that you have no clue," Janklow warned. "Because although there are no Ebola tissue samples missing from this facility there is vaccine missing."

CHAPTER

77

Reston, Virginia

Tully found Emma in her usual lounge spot, in the living room on the floor and in front of a blaring TV. He was relieved to see no packages. Just the regular teenage mess of magazines and junk food.

A news brief interrupted her television show. She muted the sound, but Tully asked her to turn it back on when he saw that it was a press conference at Saint Francis Hospital in Chicago. There wasn't anything he didn't already know. Two doctors and a CDC guy fielding questions and keeping to the basics. In the corner of the screen was a picture of Markus Schroder. It looked like a wedding shot and included his wife. The guy looked like an ordinary joe. An accountant, they were saying, for a Chicago firm. Tully didn't recognize him. He'd batted the name around his brain all morning and couldn't place it. Even now as he studied the photo there was nothing he recognized about the man. Then Tully glanced at the wife. There was something familiar about the eyes. Did he know her?

"It's so sad," Emma was saying.

"Did they say the wife's name?"

"Yeah, something with aV. Vera, maybe."

Vera Schroder. No, the name didn't mean anything to Tully, either.

"Gotta go, sweet pea. Remember everything I said, okay?"

He was back on the road again. He got Maggie's message and revised his route. It would take him more than forty minutes to UVA. He was looking for a radio station with more news from Chicago when his cell phone rang.

"This is Agent Tully."

"Conrad's mom got one of those cute little packages filled with money, too." It was Caroline again and even more angry."What the hell's going on, Tully?"

The realization hit him and it felt as if Caroline's words had injected ice water into his veins. He could see everything so clearly.

He had recognized Vera Schroder. And now he remembered where. It was a photo from a newspaper clipping that his roommate had insisted he keep tacked on their bulletin board to motivate him. A distraught young woman, devastated at finding her parents dead in their home after taking cyanide-laced Tylenol. Only, her name wasn't Schroder then. It was Vera Sloane. She was George Sloane's sister.

CHAPTER

78

University of Virginia

UVA at Charlottesville was Maggie's alma mater, so when Professor Sloane told her to meet him in the Old Medical School Building she knew exactly where it was. She also knew from her alumnae newsletters that the building was now used for faculty offices. Other than offices, it housed research laboratories and clinical-training facilities. Fall break made it possible for her to find a quick parking spot.

Maggie had worked with Professor Sloane only once before, but she knew him from teaching at Quantico. His forensic-documents class used to follow her criminal-behavior class. Cunningham frequently called on Sloane as a consultant when documents were a part of a case. She wasn't surprised that Tully and Ganza hadn't pressed the professor when he gave them what sounded like a quick assessment. Tully and Sloane rubbed each other the wrong way. She knew it from the tension the two men gave off just being in the same room. She was hoping she could get information out of Sloane that perhaps Tully wasn't able to.

The front door to the Old Medical School Building was unlocked, though there was no one in the halls. She took the elevator to the basement, and as soon as she got off she could hear what sounded like monkeys screeching at the end of the hallway. Doors were closed and secured with key-card locks. A few signs indicated most of the rooms down here were research labs. One had a QUARANTINE sign posted.

She continued to search for what could be Sloane's office. Unsuccessful she headed down the other direction despite the screeching. Her cell phone started ringing and she grabbed it out of her pocket.

"This is Maggie O'Dell."

"It's Sloane," Tully said, and he sounded out of breath.

"I'm looking for him now."

"No, you don't understand—"

That was all Maggie heard before she felt the blow to the back of her head.

CHAPTER

79

Tully couldn't believe he hadn't seen it earlier.

He barreled down the Hwy-20 exit off of I-95. It would take him forever to get to Charlottesville. Maggie's cell phone was going to voice message. Had Sloane already done something to her?

Now, of course, it all made sense.

He remembered George Sloane asking where he was when the box of doughnuts was delivered.

Sloane had said, "If I remember correctly, you can't resist a chocolate doughnut."

Chocolate doughnuts were Tully's one constant obsession. He went through stages. Oreo cookies, licorice and once upon a time jelly beans, but chocolate doughnuts were a mainstay. But that wasn't what should have set off the trigger. Sloane had also said, "So terrorists are delivering their threats at the bottom of doughnut boxes now?"

How did he know the note was at the bottom of the box? Only Cunningham, Maggie, Ganza and himself knew that.You'd never assume a note to be at the bottom. Sloane knew because he placed it there.

And why would Caroline and her fiancé be targeted by the Ebola mailer unless her old sweetheart, who had still been in touch with her as recently as July, was somehow involved?

Her old sweetheart, Indy aka George Sloane, had gone a bit berserk the last time she had chosen someone else. It had even gotten him thrown out of the FBI before he finished training. As a result he became a forensic-document expert, still working with the FBI but always on the outside, working on the fringes. Working on every major case but never getting the credit he thought he deserved. George Sloane had always wanted to be a feebie, not a professor.

How many other packages had Sloane mailed?

And Maggie was with him right now. Unable to answer her phone.

Maybe Tully was wrong. Maybe she wasn't in danger. It was possible her cell phone was just out of range. Maybe there was no reason for Tully to panic.

Tully told himself this as he continued to punch down on the car's accelerator.

CHAPTER

80

University of Virginia

Maggie's head throbbed. High-pitched fingernails on a chalkboard brought her back. Her eyes fluttered, blurry images, swishes of green. The air was foul, something rancid, sweaty fur, animal feces.

She recognized the screeches from down the hall. Only, they weren't down the hall. They were closer. She opened her eyes, kept them open, willed them to focus. Then jerked to consciousness.

Beady eyes stared out at her. Green fur flicked and swirled. Razor-sharp claws scratched out between the metal bars of cages. She was in the middle of a small room lined on both sides with cages of screeching monkeys.

She tried to bolt upright and fell back. Her wrist was anchored to a corner table, strapped tight with a plastic tie. She pulled and yanked at it, but it dug into her skin. Her movement only made the monkeys scream louder and bang around inside their cages, slamming their small hands against the bars or reaching out.

Maggie tried to calm herself. To steady herself. Keep quiet.Don't move.

With her free hand she patted down her jacket pocket and wasn't surprised to find her cell phone gone. So was her Smith & Wesson. She looked around the room to see if there was anything she could use to cut the plastic tie. There was nothing but monkey cages. Pellets of food and monkey feces scattered across the floor around and even underneath her. She rose to her feet, keeping her movements slow and easy. She couldn't stand upright with her wrist bound to the metal table.

She searched the room again for anything she could use. This time she noticed the two end cages and a chill slid over her. Both the doors were flapping open. That's when she saw a flick of a long green tail slip out from behind the table by the door.

Instinctively she grabbed at her shoulder holster, again, before remembering it was empty.

Then she saw a second ball of green fur out of the corner of her eyes. This one was sitting high up on top of the cages and he was staring down her.

Okay, so there were at least two monkeys loose. Sharp claws, sharp teeth. Somewhere from her data bank she remembered that they spit, too.

Don't look them in the eyes. Stay quiet and calm. Don't move.

She'd figure something out. But she needed to stay calm. Breathe. She scanned the room again, moving only her eyes.

That's when the lights went out.

It took everything she had inside her to not scream. When she felt the first brush of fur against her face she automatically jerked away. She gasped and gulped for air before making herself stationary again.

Quiet. Be still. Don't show your fear.

She was dripping wet with sweat and fear. How could they not sense that? But something told her they wouldn't attack unless threatened. That's when she felt the second swipe across her cheek. Only this time it was claws, not fur.

CHAPTER

81

University of Virginia

Tully had been to Sloane's office only once before, but it was easy to remember where it was. He bragged about being in the basement of the Old Medical School Building, where no one bothered him. Leave it to Sloane to brag about a basement office and make it sound like a privilege.

Tully noticed a parking sign for George Sloane right out front. One of those anniversary signs the university rewarded professors after so many years of service. An SUV was parked in the slot. An SUV with government plates. Tully shook his head. The guy had his own parking space, a government-issue vehicle. He had tenure at a reputable university and he still wasn't happy.

Tully didn't waste time with the elevator. He found the stairs.

Sloane's office was closed. The door locked. Tully pounded anyway. He pulled out his Glock and started checking doors left and right despite the key-card security pads. All the while monkeys screeched at the other end of the hall.

He stopped and stared at the door that held behind it screaming monkeys and he hoped to God he was wrong about what the monkeys were screaming at.

"It took you long enough," George Sloane said from behind him.

Tully turned slowly to find Sloane in the hallway, several syringes in his hand.

"I saved some of the virus just for you." He held up one of the syringes as he slid the others into his jacket pocket.

"Where's Agent O'Dell?"

"She's smarter than you…" Sloane smiled. "She found all my refer-ences.You didn't get any of them, did you?"

"Does it matter? Or are you still trying to compete with me?" Getting under George Sloane's skin might be the only way to set him off. Did he really want to set him off?

"You were never competition. Now, Razzy, I could understand when Caroline slept with him. But I knew she'd never marry him."

Tully kept his finger on the trigger. The monkeys kept screeching at his back. Sloane wasn't unnerved by them at all.

"I spent years planning this, months rehearsing and finding the perfect patsy. Every step was deliberate, an intricate piece of a total puzzle. I outwitted everyone, just like I did twenty-five years ago."

"The Tylenol murders. That was you?"

"I had to get rid of my fucking family. They were in the way. They kept after me to come home and run the family business. Nagging me. Never understanding why I wanted to be an FBI agent. Caroline was the best thing that ever happened to me.I was clearing a way for us to be together and she was off fucking you in Cleveland." His face turned red at the memory.

"And yet you still wanted her."

He stared at Tully, a blank stare, surprised that Tully knew.

"You still wanted her and you lost her again," Tully said. "But not to Razzy or me. She had a chance to choose you again, after all these years, and she chose someone else."

Sloane shrugged, pretending it didn't matter. Tully watched him jerk his head from side to side. His eyes darted around as if to shake the memory. When he finally looked back up at Tully he was George Sloane again and not that boy Indy who'd had so many idealistic hopes and dreams.

"Seems it's you who has a choice now," he said with a grin. And he pointed to the door behind Tully. The door the monkeys were screeching behind and now thumping around.

"Saving Agent O'Dell or taking me down."

Tully's stomach slid to his feet. He was right. Maggie was trapped behind that door.

"You can't shoot me," Sloane told him, waving his arms up and down as if giving Tully a free shot. "You don't have the guts."

Tully raised his Glock. "You forget. I was always a better shot than you."

"Yeah," Sloane said, holding up the syringe with one hand while his other hand reached for the wall, flipping a light switch Tully hadn't seen. The entire hallway went black. "Are you as good a shot in the dark?"

Tully swiped at the walls on both sides of him. No switches. He couldn't see anything, The basement hallway was pitch-black. There were no red lights that marked smoke detectors. There were no exit signs. Not even a slice of light beneath any of the doors. Doors that Tully already knew were all locked and required key cards.

He tried to stay calm. He tried to focus, to keep his breathing slow and his heart from pounding in his ears. He needed to listen. How could he hear over the monkeys screaming behind him?

He thought he heard a squeak on the floor directly in front of him. Was that possible? How far away? A foot? Maybe two?

He took a deep breath. Didn't Sloane use an aftershave? Or was he smelling monkey urine?

Tully braced his back against the wall, staying in one place. Sloane would expect him to move away, back away. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark, closing them tight and opening them again. He still couldn't see anything but total black.

One thing was certain. Tully knew he was coming.

Sloane had probably memorized how many paces it took to get down this hallway. Maybe he'd even made sure all the exit signs would not light up. He said he'd rehearsed everything. Did he have time to rehearse this, too? If so, he'd be able to stab the needle in before Tully could get off a shot.

Their training taught them to aim for the heart. Sloane would remember that. In fact, he'd count on Tully doing just that. Tully had to think quickly. He had to act fast.

He slid down the wall so that he was crouching. And despite the pitch-black, Tully tried to imagine Sloane crawling toward him. He raised his Glock and started firing. He fired low, shot after shot, left to right, a steady stream of bullets. He heard a yell, maybe a thump. He stopped.

Silence.

Even the monkeys had gone silent.

Tully stood up, put his hand on the wall and walked the length of it, swiping at the wall until he found the light switch.

He was right.

George Sloane had been on his hands and knees only ten feet away. How else could Tully explain the head shot that left his old friend dead in the middle of the hallway?

He turned back toward the door. The monkeys had started screeching again. He could hear them rattling against their cages. The door was locked. Key-card pass only. His Glock would have to do, one more time. The monkeys were silent a second time.

It was completely quiet when he eased into the doorway. Out of the dark corner he heard Maggie repeat Sloane's welcome,"It took you long enough."

CHAPTER

82

Wednesday, October 10, 2007 Newburgh Heights, Virginia

It was too beautiful a day for a funeral.

Maggie sat out on her patio and watched Benjamin Platt in her backyard, throwing a Frisbee to Harvey. He had taken off his cap and dress blue uniform jacket and rolled up his white shirtsleeves. Still, he looked so official with spit-and-polish black shoes and his necktie still in place.

She slipped off her leather pumps and leaned back in the wicker chair, closing her eyes and wishing she could numb the emotions still churning inside her. The entire time she had watched the casket make its way from the church to the plot at Arlington she kept hearing a voice in the back of her head saying, "I can't believe he's gone."

When she opened her eyes again, Platt and Harvey were joining her. Platt dropped in the chair beside her and Harvey dropped on the floor at her feet.

"You okay?" he asked. "No more nosebleeds? Headaches?"

"No." She shook her head. "It's funny how stress works."

"You've been through a lot. But your blood continues to test negative. And," Platt said as he reached out to touch her cheek, lightly brushing a finger over the scar that had almost healed, "you're a very lucky woman that that monkey wasn't infected."

She reached down to pet Harvey, pulling away from Platt's touch when she really wanted to return his gesture. To o soon. What was wrong with her? To o soon could quickly become too late.

"Chicago's Saint Francis is open again," Platt told her."This morning I talked to Dr. Claire Antonelli. She was Markus Schroder's doctor. It's amazing that she never contracted the virus."

"But they ended up with three cases of Ebola."

He nodded."The chief of surgery who operated on Schroder. A hole in his glove. Two nurses who took care of Schroder. All of them are responding well to the vaccine. It could have been much worse. There could have been hundreds."

She glanced at him and smiled.

"What?" he asked.

"So says the new commander of USAMRIID."

"It's not official."

She didn't push it. He had already told her he might not accept. He loved his work. And although he seemed pleased with Commander Janklow's resignation, he had told her he had no desire to replace him.

"I'm a doctor and a soldier, not a politician."

She certainly understood. She loved her work, too. Exposure to Ebola and being locked in a room with monkeys hadn't changed her mind about being an FBI agent. Risk was part of the job. That's what she'd tried to tell R. J. Tully. He had been at risk every second in that dark hallway. He had acted in self-defense and that's what the review board would corroborate. Cases like this, personal cases, left scars. Unfortunately, Tully was learning that.

Risk was a part of the job, Maggie told herself and knew deep down that's exactly what Cunningham would say. God, she couldn't believe he was gone. And all because of one man's petty revenge.

George Sloane had used all his experience and expertise to get back at three men he thought he had lost the love of his life to: R. J. Tully, Conrad Kovak and Victor Ragazzi. While he was at it, he'd take out the woman herself along with his sister, who twenty-five years ago had survived his first attempt to get rid of his entire family.

And because of what Sloane had learned in his profession—that the victim of a crime can often point a finger at who the killer is—he sometimes chose victims indirectly connected to his targets. All of his planning had left Mary Louise Kellerman without a mother and Rick Ragazzi and Patsy Kowak still fighting for their lives, their friends and families quarantined.

What a waste of brilliance George Sloane was.

"Do you have to get back to USAMRIID?" Maggie asked, not wanting to sound like it mattered, then thinking, why not let him know it mattered? She wanted him to stay. She enjoyed his company. Lately she looked forward to it, even catching herself putting aside things in her mind that she wanted to tell him, that she wanted to share.

"I think I put in enough hours recently to warrant taking a day off. What did you have in mind?"

"Are you as good at preparing dinner as you are with breakfast?"

"I think I can scrape up something."

"How about a beer before you get to work?"

"Sounds good."

Maggie left him with Harvey and padded barefoot back into the house. She had two Sam Adams bottlenecks grasped in one hand when the doorbell rang. She had invited Tully, Emma and Gwen to stop by so she didn't even bother to check the peephole.

She pulled open the door to find a young man holding out a pizza box for her.

"Must be the house next door," Maggie told him. "I didn't order a pizza."

He shifted the box and glanced at the name and address on the receipt that was taped to the top of the box.

"Maggie O'Dell?"

"Yes, that's right."

She stared at the box, suddenly suspicious of another food delivery until he added, "Italian sausage and Romano cheese? It's already paid for, lady."

He handed her the pizza and left.

Maggie closed the door. She held the box in one hand and stared at the receipt. Next to "ordered by" was N. Morrelli.

Italian sausage and Romano cheese. She smiled. Perhaps Nick Morrelli did know her. And he certainly didn't give up easily.

CHAPTER

83

Benjamin Tasker Middle School Bowie, Maryland

Ursella Bowman didn't mind returning from vacation in the middle of the week. It meant she had only two days to clean up the mess her substitute had left for her before she could recuperate on the weekend.

She walked into the mailroom and immediately thought she'd need that weekend much sooner. There were postal-storage bins stacked and the electronic meter had been left on the floor. Why in the world didn't that woman have any respect?

Ursella started picking up empty boxes and sorting undeliverable mail that needed to be returned. She shoved a collection cart to the side and noticed a six-by-nine padded manila envelope that had gotten stuck between the cart and the wall.

It was addressed to Benjamin Tasker Middle School and it looked like a child's block printing.

Ursella shook her head as she slipped the envelope into the principal's mail slot. She hoped it wasn't something important.

* * * * *

TRUTH OR FICTION? Notes from Alex Kava

While I was writing Exposed an outbreak of Ebola occurred in the Democratic Republic of Congo. The World Health Organization had more than four hundred suspected cases in the region, but as of this writing it hadn't been twenty-one days—the time Ebola takes to incubate—so the total confirmed cases and deaths were not yet known.

Could an outbreak like this occur in North America or Europe? Some experts believe it's only a matter of time. All it would take would be one infected person to get on an airplane.That speculation brought us closer to reality on May 24, 2007, when a man infected with tuberculosis got on an airplane in Atlanta and flew to Paris.He boarded yet another flight to Prague, then flew to Montreal and drove himself back to the United States to turn himself in to the CDC. Imagine if he'd had Ebola.

As an author I'm constantly asking questions like this. My research includes digging up the answers and nagging a lot of people who know such things. Sometimes it's difficult to recognize where the facts stop and the fiction begins. If the reader can't tell, then I've done my job.

I use real-life details in all my novels, but this time I wanted to let readers know what some of the facts are.

The Tylenol murders in Chicago during September 29 through October 1, 1982, remain unsolved to this day. There were seven known victims. One of them was a twelve-year-old girl named Mary Keller-man from Elk Grove Village, Illinois. However, to my knowledge there were no victims in Terre Haute, Indiana.

A scientist and bioweapons expert named Dr. Steven Hatifill, who worked at USAMRIID for a period, was considered by the U.S. Department of Justice to be a "person of interest" in the investigation of the 2001 anthrax attacks. Charges were never brought forward.

A vaccine for Ebola does exist. As mentioned in the novel, it was developed by research teams from Canada's National Microbiology Laboratory in Winnipeg and Fort Detrick's USAMRIID. The report of the findings first appeared in the Journal Public Library of Science Pathogens, January 2007. It has not been approved by the FDA as of this writing.

The U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases (USAMRIID) at Fort Detrick, Maryland, really does have frozen samples of all the Level 4 biological agents I mention in the book. My apologies for taking any liberties in using the facility for my setting. Suggestions and assertions I've made are entirely mine and not any of the staff's or anyone associated with USAMRIID. I have only the utmost respect for the facility as well as for the scientists and doctors who do amazing work there.

The same goes for the University of Virginia. And as far as I know there are no live macaque monkeys in the basement of the Old Medical School Building on UVA's campus.

Though undocumented, there have been stories about monkey traders using the islands in Lake Victoria as dumping grounds for sick monkeys and then going back to retrieve those same monkeys to make up shortages in future shipments.

There are many other facts sprinkled throughout Exposed including those about criminal cases. The phrases in the note found in the doughnut box are actual phrases used by the Beltway Snipers. The impression "Call Nathan R" was found on a letter from the Unabomber. Te d Bundy was arrested in Pensacola, Florida, on Davis Highway in a stolen V W. For any of you who find this sort of trivia as fascinating as I do, I'm including some of my research resource materials.

RESOURCE BOOKS

23 Days of Terror, Angie Cannon and staff of US News & World Report, Pocket Books, 2003.

Amerithrax:the Hunt for the Anthrax Killer, Robert Graysmith, Jove, 2003.

The Hot Zone, Richard Preston, Anchor Books, 1994.

Identifying and Understanding the Narcissistic Personality, Elsa F. Ronning-stam, Oxford University Press, 2005.

Inside the Criminal Mind, Stanton E. Samenow, Ph.D., Crown Publishers, 1984, Revised Edition 2004.

Physical Evidence in Forensic Science, Henry C. Lee, Ph.D. and Howard A. Harris, Ph.D.,Lawyers & Judges Publishing Company, Inc., 2000.

Profilers: Leading Investigators Take Yo u Inside the Criminal Mind, Edited by John H. Campbell and Don DeNevi, Prometheus Books, 2004.

Sniper:Inside the Hunt for the Killers Who Terrorized the Nation, Sari Horwitz and Michael E. Ruane, Ballantine Books, 2004.

Unabomber: A Desire to Kill, Robert Graysmith, Berkley, 1998.

Virus Hunter: Thirty Years of Battling Hot Viruses Around the World, C. J. Peters and Mark Olshaker, Anchor, 1998.

PERIODICALS

"Anthrax Q&A: Signs and Symptoms," CDC, June 2, 2003.

"Ebola Vaccine Shows Promise as Treatment," Toronto Star, January 21, 2007.

"God at Work Among Ugandan Refugees on Isolated Lake Victoria Island," Sue Sprenkle, Baptist Press, June 25, 2001.

"Interim Guide for Managing Patients With Suspected Viral Hemor-rhagic Fever," CDC, May 19, 2005.

"Portrait of a Poisoner," Time, October 18, 1982.

"Renovated High-containment Lab Offers More Effective Research Space," Karen Fleming-Michael, U.S. Army Medical Research and Materiel Command, February 1, 2007.

"Why They Kill: The World of the Mass Killer," Jeffrey Kluger, Time, April 30, 2007.