Silent Creed

19

Maggie O’Dell grabbed the ringing cell phone off her nightstand. Eyes too bleary to see the caller ID. Instinct from too many late-night calls made her simply answer.

“This is O’Dell.”

“I woke you.”

The surprise in Benjamin Platt’s voice was warranted. O’Dell rarely slept more than a few hours a night, and even those were interrupted by nightmares. Some of which Ben had experienced firsthand. If she’d had her way earlier tonight, he would have been there beside her.

Theirs was an odd relationship. Friends wanting to be more, but neither willing to give in and admit it. Too many ghosts. Too many expectations. Too much discipline. Or both just simply cowards.

“I must have fallen asleep for a change,” she laughed. Eyes focused now, she glanced at the glowing faceplate of the digital alarm clock. It was 1:36 AM. “Let me guess. You haven’t been to bed yet?”

He had stopped over earlier on his way home. Her Tudor-style house in a suburban, private neighborhood wasn’t anywhere close to Fort Detrick and definitely not on his way home from the District.

His excuse — or what he had said — was that he wanted to find out about her friend Gwen Patterson, who was recovering from a mastectomy. But he also wanted — maybe needed — to talk about the upcoming highly publicized and overly politicized congressional hearing.

She let him talk while they enjoyed a couple of beers on her patio, watching O’Dell’s dogs play in her backyard. They laughed at Harvey biting at lightning bugs. The sun had set before Ben arrived. While they sat in the dark enjoying a pleasant buzz from the alcohol, O’Dell wanted to ask him to stay the night. The last month had been a tough one. Something about cancer and the thought of possibly losing her closest and oldest friend had left her with a hollow feeling.

But she didn’t ask.

What was worse — he didn’t suggest it, although all evening she sensed there was something he wanted to ask her.

And once again, they continued to play the worn-out game. Perhaps they were nobly protecting each other or selfishly protecting themselves. O’Dell didn’t even know anymore.

Now, hearing his voice on the phone, she simply wished he was there with her.

“About tonight,” Ben said.

O’Dell pulled herself up and leaned against the headboard. So maybe he was feeling the same way she was.

“This hearing has been weighing on my mind more than I realized,” he continued. “I don’t mean to drag you into this.”

“You were only venting.”

“Actually, not just venting. I need your help, but I was waiting to hear back from Director Kunze.”

Raymond Kunze was the assistant director of the Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico, and he was O’Dell’s boss.

Now she was confused… and maybe a bit disappointed.

Before she could ask, he began to explain.

“There was a landslide in western North Carolina. One of DARPA’s research facilities was affected. Yesterday a rescue crew found the body of one of the scientists. He’d been shot in the head.”

“And the other scientists?”

“We haven’t heard from any of them. The first slide — the major one — happened about ten-thirty at night. Should have been minimal staff. Most of them live in the vicinity, so their homes may have been affected, as well. It’s too early to know. Everything’s still a mess. There were other bodies but no one’s certain who they are. They may be from the facility or they could be others in the community who were caught in the slide. It’s been difficult getting much coherent information.”

“So how is it you’ve already identified this scientist?”

He was quiet for too long.

O’Dell ran her fingers through tangled hair, pushing it out of her eyes. She leaned over and snapped on a lamp. Harvey looked up at her from the foot of the bed, then plopped his head back down. She didn’t see Jake. The shepherd had taken on her bad night habits and was probably patrolling the downstairs.

When Ben still hadn’t responded, she asked, “What does this have to do with you?”

Ben was a medical doctor, an army colonel, and director of USAMRIID (United States Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases) at Fort Detrick. DARPA reported to an entirely different chain of command. And yet he was using “we” as if this facility was one of his responsibilities.

“We’re working with DARPA on several projects. Sometimes they can do things we can’t. Many of their remote facilities, like this North Carolina one, work off the grid with little regulation or oversight. Vaccines, protective military gear — there’s a wide variety of projects.”

“And this facility, what project was it working on?”

“Unfortunately that’s classified.”

At first she thought he might be joking. He had a dry, sarcastic sense of humor, but the longer he hesitated, yet again, the more she realized he was serious.

“Let me get this straight,” and now she couldn’t hide the irritation. “I think you’re getting ready to ask me to go check out why a scientist working for DARPA ended up murdered in the middle of a landslide, but you’re not going to share with me what he was working on? Even though it may have been what got him killed?”

“I know it sounds odd, but I actually don’t know yet. Details of each operation are on a need-to-know basis. Right now the concern is how this scientist ended up dead. And if there’s still possibly a threat to the others who may have been at the facility.”

“Is there a chance it was a suicide?”

“I honestly don’t know. Possibly. Again, details are murky. But you see the challenge. Until we find out what happened, it would be premature to release any information that could be harmful to the success of the operation.”

He sounded like a bureaucrat. Of course, as the director of a government agency and an army officer, he was a bureaucrat. But she still hated when he sounded like one. As an FBI agent for over a decade, she was officially a government official, too, but O’Dell usually found herself bucking the system. In her own defense, she did what she believed was the right thing. Unfortunately, others in the bureau didn’t necessarily agree with her on what was right, especially if it wasn’t politically correct. Unlike Ben, she didn’t always play by the rules. And consequently, she had a reputation for going rogue. Which made her wonder why in the world he’d want her to go down and check on this.

“Everything has been happening pretty quickly. Peter Logan, a deputy director of DARPA, is trying to find out what happened to the facility, but the FBI will be in charge of the murder investigation. Because of the sensitivity of that facility’s research, Colonel Abraham Hess asked if I could recommend someone we could trust to be discreet, and of course I thought about you.”

Ah, so there was her answer. It was her expertise he needed as much as her discretion.

He paused and she wondered if he was waiting for her to feel grateful or flattered. It was O’Dell’s experience that when government agencies needed to keep secrets, it usually amounted to covering their own asses. But Ben had helped her several times, actually saved her life once. He didn’t ask for favors. This had to be something terribly important to him.

“Of course, I’ll do whatever I can.”

He surprised her when he said, “You don’t have to do this just because it’s me asking, Maggie. You can say no.”

And this time his tone was gentle and filled with concern — the Ben she knew and respected and maybe even loved.

“I’ll leave in the morning after I check in with Gwen.”

“It should only take a few days,” he told her. “Logan already has some people down there. His assistant, Isabel Klein, is there, and he hired a K9 unit. The dog handler is someone Logan knew in Afghanistan. I believe he said his name is Ryder Creed.”

She had worked with Creed twice before. The last time only about a month ago. And suddenly O’Dell was glad they were on the phone so Ben couldn’t see her reaction. Because she could feel herself respond involuntarily.

How was it possible that just the mention of Ryder Creed’s name could send an annoying but pleasant rush through her body?