The Serpent's Kiss

6

Jill leaned against a metal railing alongside a red brick stairway at the northeast corner of Henry Ford Hospital. It was a plaza of sorts, a park-like area between the six-story Education & Research Building and a 15-story high-rise that looked like apartment buildings, probably for residents, and two parking garages. There were tennis courts, not in use, and next to that was a helicopter landing pad painted red with blinking red lights at each corner. Henry Ford Hospital security police had cordoned off the area. There was a thunderous roar as a big old military Huey hovered overhead, approaching for landing.

Jill scowled. She had read a file she’d downloaded from the HQ databases on Derek Stillwater, and she wasn’t wild about what she read. There had been a lot of incidents of heroics, and a lot of incidents of insubordination. The man was a cowboy.

The Huey thundered to a halt and she walked over as the rotors came to rest. The door opened and a number of FBI agents in navy blue windbreakers clambered out hauling gear. She stood waiting. Finally when the last agent climbed out, she said, “Derek Stillwater?”

The agent, a grim-faced black man built like a refrigerator, jerked a thumb over his shoulder, back into the Huey.

Jill stepped over. She saw a man leaning against the far interior wall of the chopper, his face pale. A backpack and a duffel bag were at his feet. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his hands were clenched into fists.

“Derek Stillwater?” she asked, wondering what the hell was going on.

He nodded and seemed to come to life. He grabbed the bags and jumped out of the chopper. He tossed the bags at her feet, leaned with one arm against the helicopter and vomited all over the landing pad. Dragging in air, he wiped his forehead with his sleeve and turned to her.

“Sorry.”

“Problems with flying?”

He shook his head and picked up his bags. “No. Problems with scenes of biological and chemical warfare.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “You’re Derek Stillwater, right?”

“That’s me. Who are you? My FBI babysitter?”

She blinked. “Agent Jill Church. I’m your liaison.”

“Uh-huh. Agent Church, I don’t work for the FBI. Got that?” Color was returning to his face and she was startled to see his entire demeanor change. There was authority in his voice. He was tall and good-looking, an intensity about him.

“I didn’t say you did. I’m here to help you communicate with the Bureau.”

He looked at her. His blue eyes blazed like a gas jet. He stepped into her personal space. She held her ground, puzzled because suddenly she felt like he was familiar. She didn’t know why. Had they met?

More puzzling was a wave of emotion that swept over her. Negative emotions, like a sudden case of the blues or depression. She shook her head.

Stillwater said, “The Bureau is investigating me and you damn well know it. But I don’t work for you. I work for DHS and my job is to—”

”—coordinate, evaluate and investigate. Yes, I know. And you’re some sort of expert on biological and chemical warfare.”

He turned away from here. “Where are we going?”

They locked gazes. Jill again had that peculiar sense of deja vu. She tore her eyes away. “Follow me,” she said.