by Kava, Alex
“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 faxe
d 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?”