Only Wrong Once: A Suspense Thriller

by Jenifer Ruff

  The passing landmarks were vaguely familiar. She was either experiencing déjà vu or she had driven down these neighborhood streets before.

  “Well, we got lucky,” the agent said, hanging up his phone. “Christian Towson is home. I told him Holly Traynor was sick and we were on our way there. He sounded confused, understandably, but cooperative. He doesn’t have any symptoms. At least, that’s what he said.”

  “He may be asymptomatic at the moment, but he’s the most likely to be infected, based on his sexual contact with Holly. Assuming Reese told the truth.” Madeline had to admit she was curious to see who was having sex with Quinn’s wife.

  At the next stop sign, she pointed to a blue house with a giant sunbeam sculpture hanging below the roofline. “I remember that house. The last time I was out this way, I was at Pivani’s.”

  “Hmmm,” said the agent.

  Eventually they passed Pivani’s house, still surrounded by quarantine tape.

  “There it is.” Madeline pointed.

  “We’re only a mile from Christian’s address,” said the agent. “Coincidence?”

  “I’m thinking not.”

  Three minutes later, they parked outside Christian’s house.

  “Quiet street,” said the agent. Madeline agreed.

  They knocked. Christian opened his door to face the two strangers wearing masks. He looked worried. His wide-eyed gaze moved between them. They showed him their identification.

  “This is, you know, strange. What’s wrong with Holly? Can I see her?”

  “Unfortunately, no. She has a contagious virus. I’m sorry. We’re here to determine how she became infected, and who else might be at risk,” Madeline said.

  “Whoa. Is she going to be okay?” Christian eyes continued to dart back and forth between the CDC agents. He fidgeted with the top button of his shirt.

  “Anything you can tell us might help,” said Madeline.

  “Okay.” He bit his lower lip. “I mean, where do you want me to start?”

  “When did you see her last and did you notice she was sick?”

  “Just yesterday. She wasn’t feeling well. She thought she might have the flu. But she was also very upset. See, she’s married.” Christian coughed and looked away toward the horizon. The CDC agent took a quick step backward. “She was supposed to go to Spain with her husband on vacation, but he blew her off. Didn’t even call, hadn’t come home in a few days.”

  Madeline’s hands tightened into fists. She struggled to keep quiet while listening to Christian talk about Quinn as if he was an irresponsible, careless man.

  “She was really down,” said Christian. “I wasn’t sure if she was sick or super upset. Her friend, Reese, called me and some other people over to help cheer her up, but I could tell Holly wasn’t in the mood. As soon as I got there, I told them to leave. She fell asleep on the couch before I left. I tucked her in, but I didn’t want to disturb her sleep. She needed it. I should have stayed with her, I wanted to, since she was sick, but…I guess I didn’t know when her husband would finally show up.”

  “Where have you been since you left her house?”

  “Nowhere. I mean, I came straight home and I haven’t left the house yet.”

  “Good. Can you remember the last time Holly came to see you here? The exact date?” Madeline said.

  “She’s only been here once. It was last Thursday. Why?”

  Madeline and the epidemiologist exchanged looks. Last Thursday. The day before they found Pivani.

  “Do you know a man named Raj Pivani who lives a few blocks from here?” said Madeline.

  Christian shook his head. “No. Why are you asking about him?”

  “We’re fairly certain he has the same virus Holly has.”

  “Is his house the one with the yellow tape around it? Wait, is he Indian?”

  “Yes. He wa—yes, he is,” Madeline said. “So, you do know him?”

  “No, but when Holly was on her way here, she saw him. She thought he was an addict. She only told me because she thought he was gross.”

  Yes, gross would have been an adequate description if he was symptomatic, thought Madeline. “She didn’t call to get him help, or alert anyone to his condition?”

  “Um, no. I don’t think so. Why aren’t you asking Holly these questions? Is she quarantined too? I called her after you called me, but she hasn’t answered.”

  Madeline responded in a gentle voice. “Holly Traynor and Raj Pivani are both dead.”

  Christian’s mouth fell open. He stumbled backward until his back hit the entryway wall. His hand clutched at his chest. “Dead? Holly is dead?”

  Madeline nodded. She allowed Christian time to process the news before she spoke again. He couldn’t help them if he couldn’t think straight.

  After a minute, Madeline said, “It’s an aggressive virus. We need your help to prevent others from becoming sick. Is there anything else you remember about the day she came out here? Did she actually speak with Pivani, or just see him?”

  Christian wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. His face had turned pale. “Holly thinks I don’t listen—oh God! She thought I didn’t listen, but I always did. She didn’t just see him. Her phone battery died. She stopped and asked Pivani for directions. She said he coughed on her face when she was in her car.”

  Relief hit Madeline like a wave of fresh air. Finally, they had a rock-hard connection, a solid explanation for transmission between victims. Holly Traynor had not been targeted because of her husband’s role in the FBI. She had inadvertently encountered Pivani and experienced an air-borne transmission. Madeline wanted to let Quinn know immediately.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t call a doctor for Mrs. Traynor, or take her to urgent care,” said the CDC agent.

  Although it was probably a damn good thing he had not taken her out of her house, thought Madeline.

  Christian looked stricken. He shook his head. “Like I said, I knew she was sick, but she was really upset. And…”

  “And what?”

  “It was hard to tell what was going on with her because she was using. More than usual, because she was down. I guess you’ll discover that anyway, if you do an autopsy.”

  “Was she sharing needles?”

  “No, never. Nothing like that. Just pills. I think.”

  “We aren’t concerned with drug use in this investigation, unless it’s related to the spread of the virus. We have a much bigger problem on our hands,” said the agent.

  “So, if Holly was infected on Thursday and died, when, this morning? This disease can kill someone that fast?” Christian lowered his forehead into his open hand and closed his eyes. Suddenly he looked up. “Shouldn’t I go to a hospital and start the treatment now?”

  Behind her mask, Madeline’s face softened. She didn’t want to respond and make Christian even more afraid. There was no good way to tell someone there wasn’t a cure.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Los Angeles

  November 10th

  Quinn had plenty of time alone to analyze recent events, personal and professional. Best case scenario, he faced twenty-one days of isolation and quarantine inside his now thoroughly decontaminated house. If he became infected, he wouldn’t have that much time. History was repeating itself. But unlike Iraq fifteen years ago, this time there would be no Bronze Star waiting if he made it through alive. Not for screwing up and allowing his wife to die.

  Specifics of the case circled round and round inside his head while he worked out in the garage, microwaved and ate the meals dropped off for him, and communicated with his team. The recent events leading up to Holly’s death boiled down to one heart-wrenching mistake. One. Just one decision. You only had to be wrong once to change the course of many lives.

  Holly contracted E.C.1 on the day she asked him to have lunch with her, the day he refused. He knew that now. If he had left the office and met her, she wouldn’t have driven to the valley to meet another man. She would still be alive and, mo
st likely, no one else in the Los Angeles area would have died from the virus. The irony lashed relentlessly at his conscience.

  He had been trained to detect suspicious behavior, yet he hadn’t known his own wife was cheating on him. He’d thought something was up recently, but he didn’t know what, and he hadn’t taken the time to find out. The night Holly came home soaking wet and acting weird, he knew there was something going on. She said she’d been with Reese, meeting her new boss. He shouldn’t have ignored his instincts. But he hadn’t gotten around to thinking about it again, because he was so involved with work.

  If Holly were still alive, maybe he would be angry about her affair. But she was dead. Dead because he wouldn’t leave work and have lunch with her. No, he wasn’t angry at Holly. Not at all. He’d reserved all his anger for himself.

  He finished a grueling set of pull-ups and wiped the sweat from his brow. His phone rang.

  Holly’s father. He gave Quinn an update on Holly’s funeral arrangements, a funeral from which Quinn would be noticeably absent due to his quarantine status.

  Quinn’s head was still in his hands a few minutes later when his phone lit up again.

  “Mr. Traynor?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m calling from the CDC. Just a courtesy call. Someone is on their way to your house to test your blood for E.C.1 markers. They should be arriving shortly.”

  “Okay. Thanks for letting me know.”

  The caller wasn’t Madeline. And it wouldn’t be Madeline coming. Good. He didn’t want to see her. Couldn’t even look at her when he saw her last. She hadn’t done anything wrong. In fact, just the opposite. She’d done everything right. Her timely call after examining Pivani was the main reason the FBI was able to stop an ISIS cell from starting a pandemic. Quinn and his mistake were the only reasons people in the LA area were now infected. Madeline served as one more glowing example of Quinn’s miscalculated decisions. He should have chosen her years ago. He didn’t. He chose Holly. And now, considering Holly had just died, his inability to keep that realization at bay disgusted him, flooded him with fresh guilt. No, he couldn’t look at Madeline and be reminded of all his mistakes. His guilt already weighed him down like a ton of rocks. He hoped she was already back in Atlanta.

  He chugged from his water bottle, doing his best to keep hydrated, prepping his body for the severe illness that could hit at any minute. It would start with a sniffle or two, a cough or a sneeze, and then his body would begin to break down, cell by cell. At least the process would be rapid. Although he deserved to suffer.

  His phone rang again. Rashid. Quinn eagerly answered. Focusing on the case helped dispel his other problems.

  “Ready for this?” Rashid said.

  “What have you got?”

  “It’s about Amin Sarif. He’s at the CDC in Atlanta.”

  “Right.”

  “Since the HRT found him, he’s claimed to be innocent. Claimed he had no part in his cousin’s plans to destroy America, even though he appears to be the textbook candidate for terrorist recruitment—lonely, unemployed, looking to fit in somewhere, his browser history loaded with extreme Muslim sites.”

  “Uh, huh.”

  “Well, he’s telling the truth. He really didn’t know what his cousin was doing.”

  “How could you ever come to that conclusion? What did you find?”

  “I watched every interrogation tape, and I have to admit, he’d already convinced me after the first few minutes. But then I found a letter to, get this, the woman of his dreams on his laptop. He wrote it the night of November 5th, the night before we found him and his cousin. The letter proves everything he’s said. It’s a powerful testament to his innocence along with his mind-blowing ignorance. We’ve already questioned the girl. She knows nothing.”

  “You’re sure about his innocence?”

  “Yes, unless he’s so clever he wrote it as a potential defense. But, why would he? If you’re going on a suicide mission, would you have a plan B to pretend it was a big misunderstanding in case you got stopped?”

  “No. Jihadists still want credit from above even if their attempt fails.”

  “Exactly,” said Rashid. “And he’s been extremely cooperative. He’s told us every detail he can remember about his time in Syria and Al-Bahil’s compound.”

  “Is he sick yet?”

  “No. Not yet. Still waiting for it to hit.”

  Quinn briefly closed his eyes. For a few minutes, while talking to Rashid about the case, he’d forgotten he was also waiting to see if he became sick.

  “Oh. Quinn. Damn, I’m sorry. That was…insensitive.”

  “It’s okay. You know, at first, I didn’t care if I got sick. Two days ago, I thought a random cough was the beginning of my death sentence and I was like, bring it on. I thought I deserved it. But now, I guess my attitude is changing.”

  “Good.”

  “I want to see Muhammad Al-Bahil captured.”

  “It’s the President’s number one priority. He promised the world Al-Bahil will soon be located and destroyed.”

  “The country needs someone to blame for E.C.1. A live person. So, you really believe Amin Sarif is innocent?”

  “Yes. He may be a fool, but not a terrorist. Still hard to swallow, but it’s the truth. He’s having a tough time accepting that his cousin was willing to murder him. He wants to believe Kareem was forced into coming here.”

  “If Kareem was infected against his will and wasn’t a willing participant, then why didn’t he ask for political asylum when he got here? Why didn’t he isolate himself? Kareem is guilty. He’s the one who engineered the damn virus!”

  “Amin says he must have been forced.”

  Quinn laughed. “Don’t forget, when we arrested Dylan Redman, he told us Kareem tried to sell him on some big sinister plan. Amin may be a fool, but I’m not. I, um…” Quinn almost choked at the end of his sentence as his words sunk in. Because of Holly’s indiscretions, he might be the biggest fool of all for not knowing his wife was having an affair. Everyone knew now that Holly and Christian formed the center of the CDC’s epidemiological case and were mentioned in every news segment about E.C.1.

  Quinn bit down on his lip and forced himself to focus back on work. “So, as you know, I’ve assigned Stephanie and Ken to the task group charged with finding Al-Bahil.”

  “Yep. Oh. Hey, I need to jump on this call about the shrapnel bombing in St. Petersburg. They asked for my help on something.”

  “Oh. Sure. Wait! One more thing. When you’re in the office, try and keep Rick busy with something until I get back, but nothing critical. And keep an eye on him.”

  “Will do. And Quinn?”

  “Yeah?”

  “We’re all looking forward to your return. Lots of prayers going out your way.”

  “Thanks.”

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Atlanta

  November 11th

  Amin opened his eyes when he heard the clink of keys and someone moving around outside his make-shift cell in one of the CDC’s quarantine centers. What now? The endless interrogations were over, and for that he was deeply grateful. They had left him physically and emotionally exhausted. He’d passed all his lie detector tests, according to his attorney. His attorney also assured him that any charges he faced in America were likely to be dropped, eventually. But his case was complicated. Amin’s biggest mistake was accepting the false passport, which the authorities might not have even known about if he hadn’t told them. He hoped his cooperation would work in his favor.

  He sat up and peered through the heavy, thick sheets of plastic. Another medical professional had arrived, her face partly concealed under a face shield and a protective suit. But Amin recognized her eyes—Dr. Cooney. This woman had been particularly kind to him. She seemed to be one of the few who believed him when he professed his innocence.

  Amin couldn’t hear Dr. Cooney, but he saw her speaking to the burly marshal and the FBI agent who guarded his cell.
And just two short months ago, he’d thought it was overkill when Continental sent a guard to watch him clean out his desk.

  The marshal unlocked the door outside the isolation cell, maintaining the maximum distance possible between himself and Amin, even though the marshal wore a mask and gloves and Amin still had no symptoms. Amin couldn’t blame him though, not with the images of Kareem’s illness seared into his memory.

  While the heavy plastic was unsealed, Amin rolled up his shirt sleeve before his hands were cuffed together.

  “I’m not taking blood today. I’m only here to talk,” said Dr. Cooney, who couldn’t enter the cell until the guard had restrained Amin.

  “Okay,” said Amin, surprised. He put his hands together behind his back and was roughly handcuffed. The guard stepped back and Dr. Cooney entered.

  “I have good news and bad news. Which do you want first?” she said.

  “Whichever you prefer.”

  “All of our testing indicates you’re an asymptomatic carrier.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you’ve contracted the E.C.1 virus, it’s living inside you, but the good news for you is that it probably won’t ever make you sick or you would have become sick by now.”

  Amin nodded. “I never get sick. I’ve got super-immunity. So, what’s the bad news?”

  “Even though you probably won’t ever contract the disease, you can transmit it to others.”

  “I can? How?”

  “Any exchange of bodily fluids.”

  “Oh,” said Amin. Immediately an image of Isa popped into his mind, along with the intimacy they could never share. Then he laughed, a harsh but sad sound. What was he thinking? He was in quarantine. His cousin had quickly become the most hated man in the news and he wasn’t sure what was being reported about his own involvement. The spread of the virus was under control, but many people had died after a small party at the home of an FBI agent. Even if Amin didn’t have the virus, it was unlikely Isa would ever want to come near him again. With what had become of his life, an opportunity to ever accidentally infect Isa, or any other woman for that matter, was highly unrealistic.