by Lara Lacombe
“Why do you think Dr. Collins has anything to do with this?” she asked, still not clear about his alleged connection to the event. “We’re not the only lab that works with Bacillus cereus.”
Agent Carmichael glanced meaningfully at James. Kelly didn’t understand what that look was supposed to convey, but apparently James did because he piped up. “That’s true,” he allowed. “But we contacted all the labs that regularly work with this bacteria, and they all told us the same thing—the strain identified in the outbreak was obtained from Dr. Collins’s lab.”
“Furthermore,” Carmichael broke in, “their stocks are all accounted for. No missing vials. No suspicious activity.”
“So you think it came from our lab,” Kelly stated. It wasn’t a question. She wouldn’t be here if they didn’t think the bacteria came from George’s lab. However, that didn’t necessarily mean George was at fault—any number of personnel could have accessed the bacteria and passed it along. She told them as much, but Agent Carmichael and James both shook their heads.
“The bacterial modifications suggest someone with know-how engineered this strain. Our experts tell us this isn’t something a rotation student or glass washer would be able to do.”
“Wait a second,” she said, her brain finally kicking in. “You said the bacteria was modified to produce anthrax toxin?” At their nods, she continued, “So these people essentially had intestinal anthrax, which has a high mortality rate. But only one person died.” They studied her silently, and she raised a brow, waiting for them to catch on. When they didn’t speak, she let out a sigh. “Is it possible you made a mistake and that the bacteria wasn’t modified at all?”
Carmichael shook his head firmly. “I wish it were that simple. The lab showed that the gene for the anthrax toxin had been mutated to produce a less virulent form. Do you know how to do that?”
Kelly mutely nodded in the affirmative.
“Does anyone else in your lab know how to do that?”
She shook her head. No. She was the only postdoc; the others were graduate students, whose projects didn’t include molecular biology, or undergraduate rotation students, who performed the most mundane of tasks.
“Were you aware that Dr. Collins’s wife has cancer?”
Kelly jerked back in her chair, Carmichael’s words hitting her like a blow. Ruth was sick? Why hadn’t George said anything to her? Granted, he wasn’t the most demonstrative person, but over the past several months their relationship had warmed somewhat, to the point that she would have expected him to tell her something major like this.
“I take it from your reaction Dr. Collins hadn’t shared that news with you,” James remarked drily.
“No, he hadn’t,” she whispered.
Carmichael opened his file folder again and withdrew another piece of paper. “This is a summary of account transfers made to Dr. Collins. As you can see, he received a substantial amount of money two months prior to the event and again one day after. I think you can appreciate that the timing is suspicious.”
Kelly stared at the numbers in front of her, not really seeing them. Even she had to admit that this did not look good for George.
“We think Dr. Collins provided the modified bacteria in exchange for money, which he used to pay for his wife’s chemotherapy.” Carmichael leaned over the table, his voice low and urgent. “We need you to help us catch him, so we can find out who he’s working for.”
The weight of disappointment settled in Kelly’s stomach, and she found it hard to breathe. In her heart of hearts, she knew Carmichael was right. It all made sudden, horrible sense: George’s distractedness of late, the worry in his eyes. He had even snapped at her when she had arrived at the lab early on a Saturday and found him digging in the freezer. He had brushed it off, saying she had startled him, but now she realized he had probably been retrieving frozen stock and hadn’t wanted anyone to know.
The worst part was, she could understand why he had done it. George doted on Ruth, loved her with everything he had, and everyone knew it. The fact that his devotion had been exploited for destructive purposes made it much more horrible.
“Can’t you identify where the transfers came from?” she asked, gritting out the words from between clenched teeth. “How do you have access to his bank account anyway?”
A small smile flitted across Agent Carmichael’s face. “The Patriot Act has substantially expanded our investigative freedom,” he said. “That’s neither here nor there, though. The transfers came from a Swiss bank account, and unfortunately, we can’t determine the account owner.”
“Why do you need me?” Surely they could figure this out on their own or use someone else. George hadn’t confided anything to her, and she really had no idea how she could help them.
“Kelly,” James said softly, leaning forward. “George trusts you—by all accounts, you run his lab. That gives you insight into his behavior, his habits, which means you can help us identify what he might do next or where he might be now.”
“What do you mean, where he might be now? He’s on vacation—has been for the past week and a half.”
James shook his head, and Kelly felt her stomach drop. “He’s not on vacation, Kelly. He’s on the run. And we need to find him before the bad guys decide he’s outlived his usefulness.”
* * *
It was three hours before they finished questioning her. Kelly had lost track of time in the windowless conference room, but seeing the orange evening light streaming through the windows of the main room made her realize how late it had become.
She felt raw and exhausted, as if she was coming down with the flu. Agent Carmichael had questioned her over and over, going through one set of questions and then asking them again, sometimes changing up the order or the precise way he asked them. It was as if he was trying to catch her in a lie, except she honestly didn’t know anything. He hadn’t seemed satisfied with that, but it was all she had to give him.
James touched her elbow, making her jump. “Sorry,” he murmured. “Let me take you home.”
She didn’t want to spend any more time in the company of the FBI, but she was too rattled to take the Metro home. James guided her out of the room, but before she had taken two steps into the main office, Agent Carmichael called out and they paused.
“If you think of anything, Dr. Jarvis, don’t hesitate to call.” She looked back to see him stand and reach for the papers spread out on the conference table. He formed piles before tucking them back into the manila folder. He glanced up at her and she nodded. He held her gaze for a beat before turning back to his papers, accepting her response.
James touched her arm again, and they moved to the elevator. He waited until the doors shut before turning to look at her. “Are you doing okay?”
She barked out a laugh. “Am I okay? What do you think? I just spent my afternoon getting interrogated about the behavior and motivations of my boss, and you people don’t believe me when I tell you that I have absolutely no idea what’s going on.”
“You’re not in trouble,” he said quietly. She looked up to find him regarding her with a serious expression, his dark brown eyes radiating reassurance. She found herself wanting to trust him, to believe his words, but she shook herself mentally. He had told her that she wasn’t a suspect, but his boss clearly felt otherwise. That meant trusting him would most likely be a mistake.
“Forgive me if I don’t quite believe you,” she scoffed.
They walked in silence through the parking garage. Kelly gave him directions to her apartment and then turned to look out the window. The silence in the car was thick, but she didn’t feel like talking. Unfortunately, her stomach betrayed her, emitting a loud rumble as James turned north onto Wisconsin Avenue.
“Hungry?”
It was pointless for her to deny it as her stomach rumbled again. “Yes.”
“Feel like a hamburger?”
She almost laughed at the question because it was so normal compared to the ones she
had spent the afternoon answering. “That sounds good.”
“I know a place. We can stop in for a quick bite before I drop you off, if you’re up for it,” he offered. When she didn’t respond right away, he continued, “I thought it could be a peace offering.”
She smiled, unable to help herself. She wanted to clear the air between them, and dinner would be the perfect opportunity to start fresh. “That sounds nice,” she said, feeling some of the tension leave the car.
He maneuvered into the right lane and turned into a nondescript shopping center. He parked in front of a storefront marked Buddy’s, and a small neon sign indicated the place was open. Tinted windows hid the interior, but as she climbed out of the car, she caught a whiff of hot grease, and her stomach growled in appreciation.
The interior wasn’t anything to write home about, but apparently she was the only person in D.C. who didn’t know about the place, as it was packed full of diners. Families with young children and couples on dates sat at the booths lining the room and occupied the tables in the center, filling the air with the buzz of conversation.
The crowd and the heat of the grill made the place warm, and Kelly pulled her hair into a ponytail as she and James made their way to the counter to order. She studied the menu in silence, reading the choices again and again so she wouldn’t have to look at James. She didn’t know what to say to him and was starting to regret agreeing to dinner. What exactly were they supposed to talk about? Sorry I wrecked our friendship and stomped on your feelings wasn’t exactly the most eloquent thing to say, even if it was the truth.
Kelly claimed an open table after picking up their sodas while James went to get napkins and condiments. She sat and sipped her soda, idly tracing the red checkerboard tablecloth with her fingertip. It had been one crazy day. If even half of what the FBI had told her was true, George was in way over his head.
James placed the napkins and condiments in the middle of the table, and Kelly pushed his soda toward him as he sat down. “Thanks.” He picked up the drink and took a sip, watching her across the rim of the cup.
“Long day, huh?” he asked.
“You could say that.”
He opened his mouth but was interrupted by the arrival of their food. The teenage waitress placed cheeseburgers and fries on their table.
“Can I get you anything else?” she asked, her eyes on James as he shrugged out of his suit jacket and flipped his tie over his shoulder. He glanced up with a polite smile. “No, thanks.”
She let out a small sigh. “Okay. Well, my name’s Staci, with an i, so let me know if you need anything?”
He nodded, and Staci-with-an-i walked back to the counter, casting one last look behind her as she went.
Kelly couldn’t blame her. He was an attractive man, and she watched with growing awareness as he rolled up his shirtsleeves to reveal warm golden forearms dusted with dark hair. It was soft, she knew from experience, and her skin tingled with remembered sensation.
Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, she squirted ketchup on her bun and waited for him to take a bite of his burger before asking, “Why did you lie to me today?”
He coughed, then finished chewing and took a sip of his soda. “What makes you think I lied to you?” he asked, wiping his mouth with a napkin.
“Well, for starters, you told me I wasn’t in any trouble.”
“You’re not,” he said, sounding confused. “Why do you think you’re in trouble?”
She dipped a fry in ketchup and popped it into her mouth. “Your boss certainly acted like I’ve done something wrong.”
He shook his head and picked up his burger again. “That’s just the way Kevin is. He questions everyone like that.”
“Guilty until proven innocent?” she asked, taking her own bite. The burger was juicy and hot, and she had to quickly dab at her chin with a napkin to catch the drip.
“Something like that. He’s a little old-school about interrogations.”
Silence descended over the table as they concentrated on their food. She studied him from under her lashes. She’d forgotten what nice hands he had—broad palms, long fingers, short, squared-off nails. She hadn’t forgotten what those hands could do to her, though, and her face heated as the memories invaded her thoughts once again.
“I have a confession to make,” he said, dragging her out of the past and back to the table.
“What’s that?”
“I don’t really understand all the science behind these attacks. How could someone modify bacteria like that to make them more dangerous?”
Kelly lifted one shoulder as she chewed. “It’s not that difficult,” she said, reaching for her drink to wash down the food. “All you need to do are basic genetic manipulations.”
“Such as?”
His gaze was direct, and her stomach fluttered at having his dark brown eyes on her again. His expression was one of genuine curiosity, and she warmed a bit at being the center of his attention.
“Well, if you know the genetic sequence of the toxin—and we do, since it’s been published—then all you have to do is design a vector with that gene and transfer it into the bacteria. The bacteria take care of the rest.”
His brows drew together in a puzzled frown. “What do you mean?”
She pulled a pen from her bag and confiscated a napkin. “It’s like this,” she said, sketching out a diagram as she spoke. “Bacteria will incorporate new genes into their chromosomes through a process called recombination.” She quickly illustrated the process for him, proving once again why she had always failed art. James was a quick study, though, and seemed to grasp what she was saying despite her obvious lack of talent in the drawing department.
“And you said the genetic information is widely known?”
She nodded. “Sure. It’s been published. Anyone with an internet connection can access the database.”
His eyes widened. “There’s no security in place?”
“Not really. It’s not publicized or anything, but the data are out there.”
“Unbelievable,” he muttered, leaning back in his chair.
Kelly returned to her meal while James crumpled his wrapper. “Do you know if George accessed this data?”
“No. But I’m sure you could check his computer.”
James nodded in response, his eyes narrowing the slightest bit before his expression returned to the neutral, professional mask he wore. It was a tiny slip, easily dismissed, but something told Kelly he wasn’t as confused by the science as he’d said. She was willing to bet he’d known all this before, and he had merely wanted to see how she’d respond to his oh-so-innocent questions.
No longer hungry, she put down the remainder of her burger. It was time to go. She’d been lulled into thinking this conversation was like countless others they’d had in the past, but that wasn’t the case. Her boss was aiding a terrorist group, and James was interested in her because he was the lead investigator, not because he was her former friend and lover. It had been so easy to forget, but the fact that her hormones were happy to see him again didn’t mean he felt the same way about her.
James collected her trash as they stood, then placed his hand at the small of her back to guide her out the door. Her skin burned at the contact, despite the layers of clothes that separated them. What she wouldn’t give to be able to turn around and press against him! She knew from experience that her nose fit perfectly into the hollow of his throat, and she wanted nothing more than to embrace him now, to inhale deeply and draw the citrus-spice essence of him deep into her lungs.
Despite their past, despite the fact that she had wrecked things between them, he still meant the world to her. He’d always been a calming presence in her life and had made her feel safe. Now that her world was turning upside down, she needed him more than ever.
But given her earlier mistakes, would he be there for her?
* * *
Caleb winced and held the phone away from his ear as the voice on the other end r
ose in volume. Dr. George Collins was missing, and his employers were not happy.
“Where the hell is he?” the man bellowed.
Caleb fought to keep his tone calm. It would only increase his problems if he yelled back at this man. “I’m not sure right now. I’m working on it.”
“How did he get away? I thought you had him under surveillance.”
“I did—” Caleb began.
“Then how did you lose him?”
He took a deep breath, wishing he could just hang up the phone. He didn’t need this. It wasn’t his fault George had slipped away. The men who were supposed to watch the scientist had failed, and they would be dealt with. Truth be told, Caleb was surprised—he hadn’t thought the mousy little man had had it in him to run.
“It hardly matters now, sir,” Caleb ground out, hating the need for deference but knowing it would help soothe the other man’s ruffled feathers.
It did. His voice lowered to a normal level, and Caleb put the phone back to his ear.
“What are you going to do about it?”
He walked to the mini-fridge and pulled out a sampler bottle of vodka, frowning at the label. It wasn’t his usual brand, but it would do. “I have some leads,” he said, filling a glass with ice and pouring the alcohol. He took a bracing sip and continued, “He has a time-share in Florida, and I’ve sent men to check if they’ve holed up there.”
“What about other family members?”
Caleb loosened his tie and sat on the bed, placing the glass on the nightstand. “He and his wife didn’t have children, and his brother died three years ago.”
The man made a dissatisfied sound in his throat. “Any nieces or nephews?”
Caleb frowned as he kicked off his shoes. “One niece, but they’re not close.”
“Well, keep that in mind. We may need to use her if he doesn’t turn up soon.”
He read between the lines. We actually meant him, and he didn’t relish the thought of getting his hands dirty like that. His job was to procure the bacteria and work out the details of the project, not to torture an innocent woman in the hopes of drawing out her uncle.