Deadly Encounter

by DiAnn Mills

  “Miss Stacy, are you awake?” Whitt said. “Can you hear me?”

  She battled with eyelids that felt like they were superglued together. “Yes. So sorry to alarm you.” She drew in a breath and hoped she didn’t get sick. “I’m in a hospital, right?”

  “Woman’s Hospital, near the Medical Center.”

  Shadows dimmed the window. “What time is it?”

  “Eight fifteen,” he said. His voice sounded tight as though he’d been crying.

  “I’m okay.” Had she been sleeping all that time? Why couldn’t she remember? “How . . . how did you get here?”

  “I brought him,” a male voice said.

  Alex? She was drifting. What strain of flu attacked a person like this? The agent leaned over Whitt’s shoulder.

  “Thanks.” Her lips were so dry. “Hope you stay healthy.”

  “No problem. I’m a strong guy.”

  “Miss Stacy, I’m a strong guy too.”

  “How are you feeling?” Alex said.

  Be strong. “Like running a marathon.”

  Alex chuckled. “Dr. Broussard, are you aware lying to an FBI agent is a federal offense?”

  “A hospital is pretty close to a jail. Solitary confinement.”

  “Ha.” Whitt squeezed her hand. Poor boy wore fear of psychological pain like a battle scar.

  “I imagine the doctor’s running tests,” she said.

  Her boy trembled. “Alex and I are waiting on him now. He assured us he’d be here before nine.”

  “Then I can go home?” She glanced at the IV bags dangling from a pole. “These are nearly empty. Can I have a couple of prescriptions and more blankets? I’m freezing.”

  Whitt released her hand and stepped away.

  Alex turned to her boy. “She’ll be fine. Once the doctor gets here, he’ll discuss her test results and how he plans to treat her.”

  She needed to comfort Whitt. “I’ve let you down . . . Sent the police officers home. I have to get better before the hearing.” Speaking zapped what little strength she had left.

  Whitt whirled back to her. “We’re in this together, remember? The judge will look differently at you in the hospital than the parents in jail.” He shrugged. “Maybe you don’t have to appear. Maybe the attorney and social services have the evidence they need for the judge to make an informed decision.”

  The words of an adult from one so young. She’d call the attorney first thing in the morning. “It’s only Monday. A lot can happen by Wednesday.”

  “Do you mind if I stay here tonight?” Whitt’s voice took on the edge of a little boy pleading. “Nothing big for school tomorrow.”

  She reached for his hand and blinked back the incredible urgency to sleep. He needed her as his mother, and she wanted him as her son. Her thoughts failed to translate into words, and she drifted into darkness.

  AT 9:20 P.m., an older man stepped into Stacy’s private room, and Alex introduced himself. Whitt had paced the floor for the past hour, watching the doorway, then Stacy, and back to the clock. The kid cared for her in a major way. From what she’d told Alex, Whitt hadn’t experienced nurturing at home, and she filled the void.

  The man with thinning gray hair and glasses stuck out his hand to Alex. “I’m Dr. Maberry, Dr. Broussard’s physician. Are you family?”

  “Friend.”

  He eyed Whitt. “You’re her foster son?”

  “Yes, sir. How is she?”

  Whitt didn’t hesitate to deceive the doctor. What else would the kid do to protect himself?

  Dr. Maberry walked to her bedside and checked the two IV bags. “Has she been awake?”

  “For a few minutes around eight,” Alex said.

  “Actually it was a total of six minutes before she went back to sleep,” Whitt said.

  If the situation hadn’t been so grim, Alex wouldn’t have swallowed a chuckle. “Can you give us an update on your findings?”

  Dr. Maberry smiled, the same professional expression Alex tossed out when he wanted to make those around him relax. Being on the receiving end didn’t soothe his qualms. The bottom line? Alex believed Stacy was battling a serious illness, and the doctor hadn’t reached a diagnosis. Whitt perceived it too.

  “Dr. Broussard’s tests are inconclusive at this point,” the doctor said. “Her white blood count is high. Along with the fever—”

  “How high’s her temp?” Whitt said.

  “Currently at 102.2. She’s been nauseated. Her liver, spleen, and lymph nodes are swollen. We’ll need to keep her for further testing and treatment.”

  Whitt eased around to the opposite side of Stacy’s bed, where she slept seemingly unaware of the doctor’s presence. “So you don’t know what’s wrong? Modern medicine offers little assistance in the face of whatever has made her ill?”

  “Son, we have a team of doctors reviewing her case and believe it’s a flu strain, but it’s not confirmed.”

  He pointed to the IVs. “What’s in there?”

  The doctor studied him.

  “Sir, I’ll understand your answer. I’ve been researching.”

  Alex nodded. “Trust me, he will.”

  “All right. Normal saline and I’m trying broad-spectrum antibiotic coverage until we have a positive culture.”

  “Is she getting worse?” Whitt’s voice trembled.

  Dr. Maberry rubbed his forehead, the gesture revealing Stacy was headed further downhill. “We’re doing everything we can to keep her comfortable and support her natural immune system. She’s a strong woman and can fight this thing.”

  “What else are her symptoms telling you?” Whitt said.

  The kid was persistent, but they were getting answers.

  “Possibly rheumatic fever.”

  “That’s unusual. Anything else?”

  “As I said, further testing is required. She mentioned flu had been rampant in your community, and she may have contracted a bad strain.”

  “I want to stay with her.” Whitt raised his shoulders. “Nurses can’t be in here every minute of the day or night.”

  Dr. Maberry crossed his arms over his chest. He studied Whitt before turning his attention to Alex. If the doctor thought Alex could help him ease out of Whitt’s request, he’d better come up with another plan. “Those exposed to her could become ill.”

  “I can handle a little flu,” Whitt said. “He’s a friend. Hasn’t been around her much. Not vested in the relationship.”

  Alex faked a cough to muffle his laughter. “Doctor, do you recommend a twelve-year-old spend the night?”

  “Is anyone at home to care for him?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” Alex said.

  “No, sir,” Whitt said. “I’d be alone.”

  “Your choice, but you need to abide by hospital rules. No friends, loud music, that kind of thing.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m very responsible.”

  “I’ll be making rounds in the morning. The hospital will notify me if anything about her condition changes. If your behavior is inappropriate, you’ll be asked to leave.”

  When the doctor left, Whitt paced the room. “Now to find someone who can watch the clinic.” He snapped his fingers. “I’ll call another vet who helps her out. Worry for Miss Stacy has me scattered.” He peered up at Alex. “I have the situation under control.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Alex wrestled with his own world and how to deal with the woman and unusual boy who’d stumbled into his life. He pulled out his wallet. “You’ll need to eat, and although hospital food is the worst, it’s the best I can do.”

  He made eye contact with Alex. “I have money in my backpack.”

  “You might need it later.” Alex handed him forty dollars. “I’ll check on you tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Agent LeBlanc. Appreciate you . . . bringing me here and the loan.”

  Alex hesitated. The kid was scared. Inside his supercharged brain was a little boy. “I’m Alex. Anyone I can call? Her family?”

  Whitt st
ared into her sleeping face, smooth and untouched by the turmoil around her. “Mostly it’s just me and Miss Stacy and the animals at the clinic. Her best friend won’t be back for another three weeks.” He offered a grim smile. “I could check her contacts since I have her cell with me. Lately she’s been calling her mom in Louisiana. According to her, neither parent has been to Houston. Sorta sad when you see her giving to people and animals without expecting anything in return.” He drew in a sob. “I’m afraid she’s not going to make it. She’d ask me to pray, but God and I aren’t at the point of talking.”

  “Whitt, God always listens.”

  He frowned. “Whatever.”

  Alex sensed the boy’s fear moving toward hysteria. The only person who’d reached out to him was desperately ill. A high IQ never matched fragile emotions. Dexter and Eva would suggest he pray with Whitt. Not a bad idea. “Would you like for me to pray with you?”

  Whitt raised a brow. “You and Miss Stacy have the faith thing going. No, I don’t need you to pray with me. Too awkward, and I’m not sure God’s the answer.”

  “He’s always the answer. Would you like for me to stay awhile? You could sleep a few hours.”

  Whitt walked to the window and looked out at the next building. “This makes no sense to me.”

  “The doctor will figure it out. Her resistance could be low, and she simply needs rest and meds to fight it.”

  He faced Alex. “Not Miss Stacy. You. Is this a game to figure out if she’s hiding information about the murder, quadcopter, and water scare?”

  He understood Whitt wanted someone to blame, to unload twelve years of anger. “No ulterior motive.”

  “What about the first night you came to the house?”

  “Initially that was fact-finding. The gumbo and company came as a bonus.”

  “She told me about your invitation to coffee and how she informed you that we came as a package.”

  “We discussed it.”

  “You tossed in the towel because of me.”

  “Not necessarily. I’m a totally in or totally out man. Do you have a problem with me in the picture?”

  Whitt’s shoulders lifted and fell. “Not sure. Makes me nervous. The final picture could be . . . devastating.”

  “Accepting a package involves a commitment to the contents.”

  “Not for everyone. Parents are supposed to take care of their kids.”

  “Preconceived ideas can destroy the truth in others.”

  “And only the strongest survive.” He picked up Stacy’s limp hand. “When will you have the DNA results from her clothes?”

  Did Whitt know something or was he only changing the subject? “Another week. Takes a while. Why?”

  “I really wanted everything wrapped up about that Saturday before the custody hearing. The social worker assigned to me is . . . biased, rude, and views me as subhuman. She might look at the case and say something ugly about Miss Stacy to change the judge’s opinion.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  He sighed. “She and I had an argument. When the school called me into the office, she was there. I told her to mind her own business.”

  Whitt’s adolescence and insecurity shouted from his every word. Social services were his advocate, not the enemy. “Sounds like a bad experience has turned you against those who are dedicated to the care of kids.”

  “Not this woman. She stuck me in a foster home with four other kids. The so-called foster dad ruled with an iron fist and the Word of God. The foster mom cleaned up after him.”

  “Were they reported?”

  “Yeah, and the kids removed. I went back home to the same disaster.”

  The male figures in his life had used power and control to make their point. No wonder he shied away from Alex and God. “I’m not like the men who’ve disappointed you.”

  Whitt nodded. “I’ve met a couple of good guys. I’m watching you to see if befriending me is your inroad to Miss Stacy.”

  Alex studied him. “Deceit has a way of slapping you in the face. Not my style. Trust has to be earned—a cliché—but if a relationship with Stacy and you is in my future, we’ll have to trust each other.”

  Whitt’s attention moved to Stacy. “One minute I’m worried about her, and the next it’s all about me.”

  “Understandable, Whitt. We can talk about this when she’s better. You ought to sleep a few hours while I’m here.”

  “Doubt if I can, but I’d welcome the company.”

  Alex might have made a little progress with Whitt. . . . On the other hand, Stacy’s pallor resembled a corpse’s. The time had come to put aside his own issues with God and plead for her healing.

  ALEX WOKE IN THE WEE HOURS of Tuesday morning to the sound of his phone signaling an incoming message. He snatched it from the hospital nightstand before it woke Whitt and Stacy. She slept hard, but the boy’s restlessness and constant checking on Stacy revealed his concern. Poor kid. Alex sympathized with his plight. She was his mother figure, and he’d do anything to keep her safe. After losing his own mother as a young adult, Alex loved Eva Rayken for helping to heal his heart.

  A report flowed in regarding the CID investigation at Fort Benning. They named two enlisted men who’d stolen the quadcopter. One man had been arrested, but the second was AWOL. The serviceman in custody, Private Luke Wilcox, refused to talk.

  In the dim shadows and muted sounds, Alex put together what little had been uncovered about the quadcopter: stolen from Fort Benning by two enlisted men, who in turn sold it to someone. It ended up in the vicinity of the Houston airport, shot down and full of holes from a 9mm. A dead man was also found nearby, killed by a 9mm bullet. According to the dead man’s family, he didn’t own a drone.

  Who purchased the device from the Fort Benning men?

  What was the intended use?

  How did it end up in the clearing?

  Who fired the shots into the quadcopter and why?

  He’d text Ric, knowing he’d be up with the same report, but nothing could be resolved. They’d work on it later at the office.

  Alex yawned for the third time since he’d started a conversation with Ric. Caffeine hadn’t jolted him awake yet, and he’d been drinking Coke and coffee since five this morning. He grabbed the bottle of water on his desk and took a long swig.

  “Not much sleep last night?” Ric said.

  “Didn’t get home until after two.”

  “Hot date?”

  “Hardly.” He explained the whole flu and hospital thing with Stacy and Whitt. “She slept most of the time. Probably unaware of anything else. Whitt attempted to wake her a few times, but she was unresponsive.”

  “How’s he handling it?”

  “Not good. Actually, I’m right there with him.”

  Ric hesitated. “Is she going to make it?”

  “Been wondering the same thing. Whitt said he’d call after the doctor made his morning rounds. She hadn’t shown any signs of improvement when I left. Temp was over 102.” When Ric jammed his hands into his pants pockets, Alex questioned him. “Something’s churning.”

  “When did the flu start?”

  Alex’s thoughts sped. “People started getting sick after the carnival. Remember the elderly man we met with Whitt? He passed soon afterward. Supposedly a heart attack. I want to revisit Sunday afternoon once we learn more about Stacy’s illness. But I have two thoughts. One, the photos of Whitt were placed on her driveway while Connor was in custody, which means we’re looking at another person. Two, were those who’ve contracted the illness at the carnival too?”

  “Bro, I bet Whitt could help us.”

  “We can take a run by the hospital after he calls.”

  A report from the FIG drew his attention. “This is what I was looking for,” Alex said. “I’m hoping the security camera from the vet clinic shows who broke in and planted the recording device.” He read through the analysis. “About four weeks before Howe was killed, someone disconnected the camera remotely fo
r thirty-seven minutes. Meaning that same person hacked into the alarm.”

  Before Ric could respond, Alex’s phone rang: Stacy’s cell. “Special Agent Alex LeBlanc.”

  “This is Whitt,” the kid said weakly. “Wanted to give you Dr. Maberry’s report.”

  From the muffled sound of the kid blowing his nose, the doctor hadn’t given him positive news. “Testing is inconclusive. He’s keeping her another day. Maybe more. Fever remains high at 102.5.”

  “Is she awake?”

  “Off and on, like last night. She fell asleep while the doctor examined her.”

  “Has she ever had anything resembling this in the past?”

  “Not that I can remember. I’ve known her for years.”

  “Hold tight. The doctors will have this diagnosed soon.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Were the other people who are sick at the carnival?”

  “Yes. I’ve already concluded someone there was contagious and infected everyone. Nothing like a mind on overload to conjure up the worst.” He paused, and Alex envisioned him fighting to be strong.

  “What else have you discovered about her symptoms?” Alex wanted him to feel useful and not to budge from the hospital.

  “Flu makes the most sense, although it’s a severe case. An older person or a child might not survive. I’m concerned about bronchitis and pneumonia. When she was awake earlier, I asked if her chest, sinuses, or ears hurt. She said no, and I reported it to the nurse.” He sighed. “With her immunities down, I’m really worried.”

  Poor kid. His world leaned toward the edge of a cliff. “Those trained in the medical field will turn this around.”

  “You’re talking to a kid who overthinks everything, but thanks for the encouragement. I want to ask for a medical book and make a diagnosis. At least I’d be contributing instead of going crazy. Man, I’m sorry. Using up your FBI time. Talking too much.”

  “I wanted to know about her, as a friend, and how you’re holding up.”

  “She’s the only mom I have. A great lady. Does the Jesus thing and helps others. She’s solid.” He hesitated. “I’m watching her for allergic reactions or bad side effects to the treatment Dr. Maberry prescribed. But it’s also a bit early for any of those things to occur.”