Exposed

by Kava, Alex

  They agreed they had to stay out of the bedroom but only after a brief argument. Maggie knew Cunningham was right. They had no idea what they had walked into. Yet Maggie’s medical training and her instinct clashed with common sense. What if there was something she could do for Mary Louise’s mother? The woman’s raspy breathing mixed with a rhythmic hiss and spray. It sounded like she was choking on her own blood and mucus. Maggie knew how to perform a field tracheotomy that would clear the woman’s airway.

  Cunningham’s response was to order Maggie out of the room. When she started to challenge him, he stood between her and the sick woman and pointed toward the bedroom door. She had no choice but to turn around and leave. Cunningham wouldn’t allow Maggie to help. Instead, he took Mary Louise to the bathroom to clean her up and clean himself, as well. He stopped Maggie from even following them. She knew he was trying to protect her, a valiant but useless gesture. Maggie knew that it was probably too late. Mary Louise’s vomit had sprayed her, too.

  For some reason memories of her first crime scene came back to her. Perhaps because Cunningham had tried to protect her then, as well. She had just finished her training as an agent after a year as a forensic fellow at Quantico. It was in the middle of the summer, hot and humid, and the inside of the double-wide trailer must have been ten to fifteen degrees hotter. She had never seen so much blood sprayed everywhere: the walls of the trailer, the furniture, the plates left out on the kitchen counter. But it was the sour smell of rotting flesh and the buzzing of flies that stayed firmly implanted in her memory.

  She had thrown up, contaminating the crime scene, a newbie losing it on her first case. But Assistant Director Cunningham, who had been so tough on her throughout her entire training—pushing her, questioning her, nagging her—kept one hand on her shoulder while she retched and choked and spit. He never once reprimanded or chastised her. Instead, in a low, quiet, steady and reassuring voice he said to her, “It happens to all of us at least once.”

  Now here in this little house in a quiet suburb that day seemed so long ago. Maggie looked around the living room, zoning out the laugh track and sound effects of TV cartoons.

  How did he do it?

  She let her eyes take in everything again, only this time she tried to imagine a similar delivery system like the doughnut container. There were no pizza boxes, no take-out containers, no pastry boxes. He would have wanted it to be something ordinary, something disposable and most importantly, something unnoticeable.

  There was much to learn about a killer from the victims he chose. So why did he choose Mary Louise and her mother? Maggie took in the contents of the room. The furniture was an eclectic combination: a particleboard bookcase, a flowered threadbare sofa and mismatched recliner, a braided rug and a brand-new flat-screen TV. The wooden coffee table with scuffed corners appeared to be the centerpiece of the family, holding the TV remote, a pair of reading glasses, dirty plates and mugs sitting in milk rings, crumpled potato chips, spilled bags of M&Ms, a coloring book and box of sixty-four crayons, some scattered and broken on the rug.

  In the corner two stacks of magazines teetered next to a desk. A pile of mail—catalogs, envelopes and packages in various stages of opening—covered a writing desk; some of the pile had fallen onto the chair.

  There were several pictures on the bookcase: Mary Louise at different ages, sometimes with her mother. One with an older couple, perhaps the child’s grandparents. But there were none with a father and none with pictures that looked like a father had been cut out.

  Mary Louise and her mother appeared ordinary and happy and harmless. And maybe that alone had been the sole reason for the killer to choose them.

  Then something caught Maggie’s eye. On the desk, sticking out of the lopsided pile of mail, was a six-by-nine manila envelope. She could see only the return address but it was enough to draw her attention. It was handwritten in block lettering, all caps, and it looked an awful lot like the lettering on the note she had just seen about an hour ago.

  Maggie looked around the room again. Cunningham had already told her they would need to call in the nearest disease control and containment center. That meant Fort Detrick and that meant the Army would be taking over. Most likely they’d seal off the rooms—probably the entire house. Their first priority would be biocontainment and treatment of the occupants. Processing evidence would come later. Would they even know what to look for?

  She found a box of large plastic bags with Ziploc seals in a kitchen cabinet. Back in the living room she lifted off the top pile of mail so she wouldn’t have to tug the manila envelope out and risk smearing anything. Then carefully using only her fingertips she picked up the envelope by a corner and dropped it into plastic bags. She sealed it and dropped it into another plastic bag just to be safe.

  She told herself she was saving the Army a bit of work. Of course they’d be grateful, but still, she tucked the double-bagged envelope into the back of her trouser’s waistband, letting it lie smoothly against the small of her back. She pulled her shirt and jacket down over it, just in case they weren’t so grateful.

  CHAPTER

  12

  North Platte, Nebraska

  Patsy Kowak tucked the package under her arm and examined the postage-due envelope. Roy, their mail carrier, would never hold back a piece of mail. He was good about that. But this was embarrassing. The return address was her son’s office. Maybe that new assistant. Still there was no excuse. Almost two dollars due.

  She slipped the envelope inside her denim jacket as she glanced down the long dirt driveway. No sense in upsetting her husband, Ward. As it was, they were barely speaking.

  Patsy took in a gulp of the crisp morning air and tried to clear the tension from her mind. She listened to a distant train whistle and the cawing of crows on their way to feed in the fields. She loved this time of year. The river maples and cottonwoods that surrounded their ranch no longer hinted at fall, but were lit up with red and gold. She could smell smoke from their fireplace, a soothing scent of pine and walnut. Ward insisted it was too early to turn on the furnace, but he was good about getting the chill out of the house with an early-morning fire.

  Yes, she loved this time of year and she loved her walks to the mailbox, a daily ritual that included filling her pockets with peppermints for Penny and Cedric. This morning she included apple slices for the duo. Ward grumbled about her spoiling and pampering the two horses who had long been retired, yet he was the one who brought home the three-pound bags of peppermints from Wal-Mart. Her gruff-and-tough rancher husband had a soft spot he rarely showed. It came out more often with their granddaughter, Regan, and sometimes with Patsy, and always with the animals. But hardly ever with their son, Conrad.

  She shook her head remembering their latest argument about Conrad. It seemed to be the only thing they argued about anymore. The boy was a successful vice president of a large pharmaceutical company. He held a master’s degree in business, owned his own condo, had access to the company’s private jet, and yet, Ward Kowak would have none of it. Her husband’s idea of success? Having something precious to pass on. Like this land. Like your good name.

  His good name.

  She shook her head at the reminder. It had only been the beginning when Conrad legally changed the spelling of his name from Kowak to Kovak. He said it was important that business associates pronounced his name correctly, and since the “w” is pronounced as a “v” sound in Polish, what did it really matter? That was their son’s reasoning, his explanation. Their son with the master’s degree and the VP after his newly spelled name. How could he not know something like that would hurt his father?

  The name change had only been the tip of the iceberg. The sinking of the Titanic had come over the Fourth of July when Conrad announced he was getting married. Patsy couldn’t have been happier. Conrad’s younger sister had already been married for five years with a beautiful daughter, their angel, Regan. Even Ward softened to the boy, thinking—perhaps hoping—that it was f
inally a sign of Conrad maturing and settling down. That is, until they discovered the woman was fifteen years older than Conrad, divorced and already had a teenage child.

  It didn’t matter to Patsy. She just wanted her son to be happy. But Ward seemed to take it as another personal affront, yet another defiance by his son to somehow blacken the family name. Her husband was being childish and Patsy had told him so.

  As she neared the house she found herself relieved that Ward’s pickup was still gone. He muttered something over breakfast about having “some errands to run in town.”

  On her way up the steps she patted Festus, their old German shepherd, lounging in the patch of sunlight on the porch. The dog used to go with her on her walks to the mailbox. She didn’t like to think about how much he was slowing down since his years measured her own.

  As soon as Patsy came into the house she tossed the mail on the kitchen counter. Except for the package. She retrieved a pair of scissors from the junk drawer and slit open the brown padded envelope then slid the contents onto the counter.

  No letter, not even a note. That was her son—Mr. Organization at work, but it didn’t transfer to his personal life. He was always on the run, throwing things together at the last minute, even when he was trying to make a point. That had to be the case, since the last time they talked to Conrad, Patsy remembered Ward complaining about the hike in airline tickets as if that would be excuse enough to not attend the wedding. Money didn’t matter to Ward, though Conrad believed it did. He had called his father “cheap,” not understanding the difference between cheap and thrifty. This had to be Conrad’s point. Why else would he send a Ziploc bag with what looked to Patsy like several hundred dollars in cash?

  This was ridiculous. Her son was being just as childish as his father. She simply wouldn’t allow this family feud. Instead, she’d have to stash the money somewhere so Ward wouldn’t see it.

  CHAPTER

  13

  Elk Grove, Virginia

  It was too late.

  Tully knew as soon as they turned onto the street. Even Ganza stopped chewing, a wad of tuna sandwich still stuffed in his mouth while he muttered, “Son of a bitch, they beat us here.”

  A guy with short cropped hair, an athletic frame and confident gestures waved the FBI’s plumbing van away from the curb to make room for a white panel truck. Tully recognized the way the man moved, the way he held himself, a taut jawline, steady eyes that captured everything around him. He was a commanding presence and although he wore blue jeans and a leather bomber jacket, Tully knew this guy was a soldier.

  “They’re sending our lab techs home,” Tully said, pulling his own car over to the side, a half block away.

  Ganza threw his sandwich on the dashboard and started digging through his pockets. Tully stared at the sandwich crumbs scattered and falling all over his car. He remembered the coffee spills from that morning. It seemed like days ago instead of hours. Ganza was punching a phone number into his cell phone while Tully watched the soldier direct the panel truck up onto the lawn, guiding it as it backed all the way to the rear of the house. He bet this guy never had a half-eaten sandwich on the dashboard of his car or coffee stains on the upholstery.

  “We’re right outside,” Ganza was saying into the phone. “They’re sending away our van. What are we supposed to do?” Ganza’s monotone didn’t give away his urgency. He left that to his long, bony fingers, tapping the console between them.

  Another white truck passed alongside them. This one had Virginia Water and Sewer printed in black on the sides. The truck was too white, too clean. From where Tully sat he noticed the tires showed little wear. Two men got out of the truck, dressed in white jumpsuits, logos on the pockets, polished black boots, not a speck of dirt. They started taking construction-crew sawhorses from the back and blocking off the street. Neighbors might believe the house in question had a water main break or a gas leak. That is if they didn’t notice the clean boots and new tires. The old man raking his front yard stopped to watch, but Tully didn’t think he looked alarmed or even interested. After a few minutes he went back to raking.

  The FBI’s plumbing van passed through the narrow opening between the sawhorses. It pulled up beside Tully’s car and the driver’s window of the van came down. Tully opened his window, too. The agent inside was familiar to Tully though he knew him only by sight and not by name. It didn’t matter. He looked past Tully and over to Ganza when he said, “It’s a military-slash-Homeland Security operation now. Nothing we can do about it.”

  “What about collecting evidence?” Ganza was still on the phone, responding to both the agent and whoever he had on the line. Tully wondered if it was possible Ganza had a direct line to the FBI director.

  “Secure and protect,” the agent said. “That’s their priority. They’re treating it like a terrorist threat, not a crime scene. And we’re not invited to the party.”

  “But we’ve got two agents inside,” Tully said, looking back at the house, realizing Maggie and Cunningham weren’t with the SWAT team climbing into the second plumbing van. “They’re still inside, right?” Tully glanced at the agent, who now looked away and rubbed at his jaw.

  “Yeah, they’re still inside. That’s the reason Assistant Director Cunningham called in the troops.” He glanced back at Tully and Ganza, who were quiet, staring and waiting though they already knew what they would hear. “They’ve both been exposed.”

  CHAPTER

  14

  Elk Grove, Virginia

  Colonel Benjamin Platt understood that fifty percent of a biocontainment operation was containing the news. Commander Janklow had been quite clear. They were to take every precaution possible to keep the news media out and if that wasn’t possible then Platt was to convince them this was a routine response to a routine request. He was not to use any “scary terms”—Janklow’s words—that would incite a panic. Phrases like “crash and bleed,” “lethal chain of transmission,” “evacuation,” “biohazard” or “contamination.” And under no uncertain terms was he to ever use the term “exposed.”

  Truth was they had no idea if there was even a problem. Platt still had hopes that this was a knee-jerk reaction, someone getting a little too excited. After the anthrax scare in the fall of 2001 there had been hundreds of prank letters, attempts at fame or hopes of revenge. Platt knew there was a fifty-fifty chance this fit into that category. Somebody wanting his fifteen minutes of fame on the six-o’clock news.

  Platt saw McCathy waiting for him at the back door of the panel truck, scratching his beard and frowning, tapping his foot to show his impatience. It was McCathy’s turn to wait.

  Finally satisfied that everything and everyone was in place, Platt knocked on the truck’s back door. Within seconds a lock clicked and the metal door gave a high screech as it rolled up into its tracks. Platt had the truck backed to the rear door of the house, blocked by a privacy fence on one side and toolshed on the other. It’d be difficult for anyone to see inside the truck, and they’d have only three steps to get inside the house. The back door entered a small enclosed porch, then another door opened to the kitchen. Platt figured they’d be able to use it as a decon area when leaving.

  McCathy started to climb into the truck but Platt stopped him.

  “It’s my mission, I go in first. You’ll come in second.”

  McCathy nodded and stepped back. It wasn’t a courtesy, it was a risk, and McCathy wouldn’t argue. If anything McCathy looked relieved.

  Two of Platt’s sergeants, two of his best in the biohazard unit, waited inside the truck. He climbed up and pulled the thick plastic sheet down behind him to cover the open back. He started changing into the scrubs Sergeant Herandez handed him, though she averted her eyes as soon as he unbuckled his belt. She was young, he was her superior officer. In a few seconds he would be trusting her and Sergeant Landis with his life as they made certain he was sufficiently secured against a potential biological agent, and yet she seemed to be blushing at the sight of
him in his skivvies. It almost made him smile.

  Platt had hired twice as many women on his biohazard team than his predecessor at USAMRIID who had made it known that he didn’t think women could or should work inside a hot zone because they’d panic or become hysterical. Platt knew better and ignored everything his predecessor taught him about women, but at times like this the differences surprised him, maybe even amused him. And Platt wasn’t easily amused these days.

  Landis held the Racal suit up, ready to help Platt into it. Unlike the blue space suits they used inside USAMRIID’s Level 4 suites, the Racal suit was orange, bright orange and field designed with a battery-powered air supply that could last up to six hours.

  Platt pulled on a double pair of rubber gloves and Herandez taped them to the sleeves of the suit while Landis taped Platt’s boots to the legs, creating an airtight seal. The helmet, a clear, soft plastic bubble, was the final step and usually the telling one. Platt had watched men and women, brave soldiers, dedicated scientists, freak out in a space suit from claustrophobia, clawing their way out. Platt had spent thirty-six hours behind enemy lines in Afghanistan trapped inside a tank disabled by an IED (improvised explosive device), hoping someone other than the Taliban would find him while he treated his fellow soldiers, one with a gaping head wound, the other with half his arm blown off. There wasn’t much that could compare to that. Entering hot zones in a co-coonlike space suit seemed like a cakewalk.

  He waited while Hernandez and Landis double-checked his suit. Even before they switched on the electric blower Platt was sweating, trickles sliding down his back. The motor whirled and he heard the air sucking into the suit while it puffed out around him.

  Herandez gave him a thumbs-up. It was difficult to talk over the sound of the electric blower. Platt waved a gloved hand at the tape and made a tearing motion. She nodded, understanding immediately, and started ripping off three-to-five-inch pieces then attached them one on top of the other to Platt’s sleeve where he could easily reach. If there was a break in his suit he’d use the pieces to patch the hole before the suit lost pressure. Any kind of break or tear could render the suit useless in a hot zone.