Deadly Encounter

by DiAnn Mills

  “Would he steal from her to get away?”

  “I hate to think so. He genuinely cares for Stacy. Hard to fake it. His voice takes on a certain reverence when he talks to her, even when he’s teasing.” Alex reviewed the conflicting emotions he’d seen and heard from the kid. “Whitt’s a good kid. But what did you observe?”

  “Nothing and everything. She’s his meal ticket and a roof over his head. He could have easily lied to her and us about matters pertaining to this case.”

  Alex groaned. He really liked Whitt, wanted to see him overcome his bad parenting. “Let’s keep an eye on him. I’m not discounting anything, but it’s a far stretch to think he knows anything about these crimes.”

  “She’s sick and the kid’s worried about himself and her. If you were Whitt, how far would you go to ensure your world was okay?”

  “I’d say and do those things that would guarantee my comfort zone.” Alex snapped his fingers. “I haven’t ordered a background on his parents. There could be a connect in this, and I’ve ignored it. According to Stacy, they wanted fifty grand to sign over custody of Whitt. Currently both of them are in jail.”

  “And Whitt?”

  Alex glanced up from typing into his phone. “I talked to his school counselor this morning. Great kid. No problems. School records point to his high IQ. Way ahead of other kids his age.”

  “What are the numbers?”

  “147 plus.”

  Ric startled. “Now the reference to the little professor makes sense. At times today he sounded like a boy and other times a thirty-year-old.”

  “He’s enrolled in summer school for high school and college credit classes. On track to graduate at fourteen.” Alex paused. “I don’t want to think of him using his intelligence to outsmart law enforcement.”

  “He’s responsible for his own decisions.”

  “I’m praying he uses his intelligence for the betterment of the world.”

  “Since when did you pray?”

  Alex stared at the street. “I was brought up in the faith. Left it, and now I’m trying to find my way back. Doesn’t mean I have solid answers.”

  “All right. My granny will be happy to hear it. She’s the praying type. So you were raised in church?”

  “I think I was born there. Grew up and decided if being a Christian was all about doing and sweating for Jesus, then I had better things to do.”

  “Now?”

  Alex kept his gaze on the street. “The road to heaven isn’t paved with how many times I mow the church’s yard or have perfect attendance. I entered the FBI to find a better way to serve the world. Now I see it’s a mixed deal.” He swallowed.

  “You aren’t comfortable with this conversation,” Ric said.

  “I’m doing better.”

  “Switch gears. You know, I don’t want to see Whitt head down the same tracks as his parents. He has too much potential. But the choice is up to him.”

  “Honestly I appreciate it. Keep asking the tough questions. I need an objective voice.”

  WHITT HAD ALWAYS THOUGHT HE WAS SUPER BRAVE. Super brain. Super whatever. He’d faced bullies, been beaten until knocked unconscious by his dad—while Mom watched—wished they were dead, spent nights alone, planned how to run away, wanted to save the world from itself . . . But he hated needles. And the huge woman wearing a mask and standing over him planned to take enough blood from his body to fill six vials. Would he have any left?

  “You’re a bit green,” the lab tech said. She could hold him down if he attempted to flee.

  “The news about my foster mom is tough.”

  “Whitt,” Miss Stacy said from her bed, “look at me while she draws blood. I know needles bother you.”

  “A big strapping boy like you?” The lab tech chuckled.

  Everyone had their nemesis.

  He obeyed. No point in throwing up all over himself while the goliath lab tech rubbed alcohol over his inner arm. Next came the rubber band restricting circulation. He wished Miss Stacy hadn’t embarrassed him in front of the woman. True, he couldn’t watch while she drew blood from the clinic’s animals or gave injections. The idea of hurting one of them scraped against his heart and stomach. Weird, a few years ago he’d thought about cutting the brake line on his parents’ car. Imagine the blood from a car accident. That’s when Miss Stacy started taking him to church. The God and Jesus stuff hadn’t grabbed him yet and might never, but he’d always go with her to church because it made her happy. Truth was he’d go anywhere with her to escape his parents. He loved her and always would.

  Miss Stacy chatted on to divert his attention. She shouldn’t attempt conversing when she was already weak. “The pastor is picking up your school assignments and bringing them by. Your teachers said they’d include Wednesday’s work too.”

  “What did you tell them?” He wished the lab tech would get it over with.

  “The truth. I’m in the hospital, and you chose to stay with me.”

  He refused to respond. The idea of someone running to social services was worse than a needle. “Will the attorney contact you when the hearing is over? I mean, I expect him to inform us.”

  “Of course. He knows we’re both anxious.”

  “All done,” the lab tech said.

  His attention flew to the six vials. “You drew the blood you needed? Whew. I kept waiting for the little prick.”

  “I’m an expert,” she said. “Do you want a gold star?”

  “No, ma’am, but if I can talk to your boss, I’d recommend a raise.”

  She giggled, sort of little girl like, which was strange considering her size and age.

  A knock on the door seized his attention. Always the fear of social services, men and women who claimed to have an understanding of kids. The woman assigned to him was overworked and couldn’t remember his name. She called him Wyatt.

  Two men filled the exit. Suits. Ties. But wearing gloves and masks. These could be the men Dr. Maberry spoke about. His heart plummeted to his toes.

  “Are you looking for Stacy Broussard?” the lab tech said.

  The suits entered the room. The first man was silver-haired, but not as old as Dr. Maberry.

  “I’m Dexter Rayken from the LRN,” he said. “This is James Nisse from Houston’s Health Department. We’re here to talk to you about the possibility of human brucellosis being transmitted to you from a dog carrying canine brucellosis.”

  “I’ll help however I can,” Miss Stacy said. “I talked to both of you a few days ago about water contamination in my neighborhood. A hoax.” Her color likened to the white sheet and blanket.

  Whitt fumed. She’d been prepared to sleep, and now she must focus on the suits.

  She inhaled deeply. “Mr. Nisse, representatives from your department were at my clinic within an hour of my call. I saw you on Channel 5 news. Thank you for educating my neighborhood about the water fraud. Mr. Rayken, I valued your call.”

  “Glad to help,” Rayken said. “Grim circumstances, but I believe a man’s been arrested in conjunction with the problem.” He walked toward her bed. “Dr. Broussard, we understand your need to rest, and we’ll make this as quick as possible.” He pulled out his phone. “You’ve been briefed on the severity of this strain of human brucellosis.”

  Briefed? Was the guy ex-military?

  “Yes, sir. Dr. Maberry explained the seriousness.”

  “We have the forms granting us permission to enter your veterinary clinic and do a complete sweep of its contents and test any animals. I’d like your cooperation, although we don’t need your signature to conduct the investigation.”

  “Just do it.” Little lines around her eyes revealed the intensity of the disease raging through her body. Miss Stacy explained that her animals’ records were on her computer and how Doc Kent was in the process of testing a dog she’d found on Saturday. “My concern is our subdivision held a carnival a week ago. We had a petting zoo. Plenty of people could have been infected there.” She moistened her li
ps. “But you’ll find everything in the clinic is up-to-date.”

  “I’m sure everything is in proper order. We’ll take over with Dr. Kent.” He stared at Whitt. “You are not to leave this room without a mask. Keep this in mind—if you have the disease, you’ll be occupying a bed too. I’m sure your mother will agree.” He shoved a twinge of kindness into his words, but Whitt had experienced it all. Nothing short of pulling a trigger would stop him from implementing what he felt was right, and he hadn’t decided if staying here was the best choice. Depended on what happened at the custody hearing.

  “He’s not my son,” Miss Stacy said. “He’s a neighbor, and I take care of him when his parents are busy.”

  Why had she told this suit his status? The meds must have distorted her thinking.

  “Where are they now?” Rayken said.

  “In jail.”

  He frowned. “Do you have legal custody?”

  “I’m in the process. In fact, I should know tomorrow.”

  Rayken turned to James Nisse. “Make a note to get social services involved.” He turned to Whitt. “Only as a temporary measure.”

  Whitt inwardly moaned. A nightmare . . . One more lit fuse on the bomb threatening to explode his hope of a family.

  “Do you want my attorney’s name?” She pointed to her purse, and Whitt retrieved it. She reached inside and handed Rayken a business card.

  Whitt needed to make plans before anything else happened. The lab tech, who hadn’t left the room, laid a hand on his shoulder. “It’ll be okay,” the woman whispered.

  Nothing would be okay if social services managed his life. Selfishness washed over him, but he couldn’t stop it.

  Rayken glanced at the lab tech. “Are you finished here, ma’am?”

  “I have an order to draw blood from Dr. Broussard.”

  “Please step into the hall. I’ll let you know when we’ve completed our discussion.”

  “I have a job to do.” The three-hundred-pound woman rose from the chair. “Perhaps you can talk while I handle her medical needs. I’m cognizant of patient confidentiality.”

  Whitt stifled a laugh at her sarcasm. At least his mask concealed a grin.

  “Go ahead.” Rayken shook his head. “Epidemics aren’t pretty.”

  It could be more than an epidemic . . . bio or chemical terrorism. Horrible.

  The woman moved to Miss Stacy and pulled out her equipment.

  “I’d like to recover at home,” Miss Stacy said.

  “Impossible until your fever is gone. Dr. Broussard, you are in no condition to relinquish medical care. Leaving the hospital could mean . . . death.” He drew in a sigh, and compassion spread over what Whitt could see of his face. The change in persona frightened Whitt. “A mother didn’t make it. Three additional people have been hospitalized—two are children.”

  “Who died? Who is in the hospital?”

  “Dr. Broussard, it’s important for you to relax and let your body heal. We have no vaccination, no cure, for this strain, and need I remind you it’s five times stronger.” He shook his head. “Please, your temperature is still over 102. For your own sake and the boy’s, do all your medical team asks.”

  “I understand. What about the other people in my neighborhood?”

  Rayken took her hand, a gesture Whitt hadn’t expected. “When you’re well, you can help others. We’re working now with the health department to educate them, test them and their dogs. Every TV and radio network in the city will air our public health emergency report. We’ll find a way to stop the contagion and treat those who are ill. Our best bet is a combination of antibiotics.”

  This part interested Whitt. He’d read about the CDC online, but he craved clarification. “Mr. Rayken, can you explain how your organization works? I live there too, and I’m sure I know those who are ill.”

  The man stared at him for a moment. “Young man, I wish I had the time to give you the information, but Mr. Nisse and I have a lot of work to do.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. Taking a pen from inside his suit jacket, he jotted down something before handing it to Whitt. “Research our website about our policies and protocols. Write down any questions, and I’ll do my best to answer them as soon as I have a breather.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Part of our role is to provide reliable, consistent, science-based assistance in public health emergencies.” He glanced at Miss Stacy, whose eyelids were drooping. “You’ll read about our various responsibilities and how we work with other organizations.”

  “I assume the AKC Canine Health Foundation is involved now,” Whitt said.

  “We contacted them earlier.” He glanced at his watch, and Whitt knew he shouldn’t detain him. “I’m a dog lover,” Rayken said. “I hate the thought of my buddy contracting a disease for which there’s no cure. Granted, our concern is for people, and nothing stands in the way of finding a cure and an end to this infection, but I feel for pet owners too.”

  Whitt attempted to cover his emotions. “Puts the researchers and workers in a difficult place.” He studied Miss Stacy. Her eyes were closed and her features softened. “Have you considered a theory that AKC researchers unknowingly developed and released the disease?”

  “We have people on it. Son, to be honest, the strain was probably developed to spread contagion.”

  He remembered Mr. Parson. “An older man who volunteered at the clinic died last week. Could he have been infected?”

  “Had he been ill?”

  “He was ninety-one years old and suffered from a failing heart. Diabetes too. If he’d been infected, the disease attacked him within hours.”

  A tear slipped from Miss Stacy’s eye and trailed over her cheek. She wasn’t asleep, just too weak to contribute to the conversation. Whitt hurried to her side with a tissue and lightly dabbed her cheeks.

  “Do you have a list of those in attendance?” Mr. Nisse said. “The health department needs to contact them.”

  “We do. We had everyone register at the entrance gate. The list is on Miss Stacy’s desk, in a green spiral-bound notebook.”

  “Another thing, Whitt, if the dog we’re speaking of is—”

  “I’ve already thought about what the authorities might do, more testing. Even putting Xena to sleep.”

  “I’m sorry. Hope it doesn’t come to you losing the dog.”

  He needed Stacy to survive today and be his mom. God, do You hate me? Why is my world a nightmare? There. He’d admitted the horror causing his head, heart, and body to ache.

  Miss Stacy drifted off to sleep within minutes of Dexter Rayken and James Nisse’s visit. Maybe the doctors had made a mistake or the antibiotics prescribed to Miss Stacy would kill the infection.

  Whitt accessed the Internet through the hospital guest services and navigated to the LRN website. He read about the actions people could take when there were no or limited supplies of drugs and serums—nonpharmaceutical interventions, or NPIs. To Whitt, the recommendations to slow the spread of germs were no-brainers, like washing hands, covering the mouth during coughs and sneezes, and staying home when sick. For those people who might be among others who are contagious, they recommended changing regular seating patterns on public transportation, or refraining from public gatherings like schools, churches, and businesses. Whenever possible canceling mass gatherings or postponing events to reduce the contagion. The LRN’s work was mostly behind the scenes, testing and helping to find solutions.

  Stacy’s phone alerted him to a call, interrupting his reading. The attorney’s name registered on the screen. He snatched it.

  “Whitt McMann answering Stacy Broussard’s phone.”

  “This is Leonard Nardell, Dr. Broussard’s attorney. Is she available?”

  “She’s asleep. Is this about the custody hearing?”

  “I’m sorry, but the information is for Dr. Broussard. Would you have her contact me at her earliest convenience?”

  Should he wake her? He glanced at her anemic
face. “This concerns me. I have the right to know my fate.”

  “Son, I know she’s very ill, in the hospital, and the long-term prognosis is unknown.”

  He fought nausea. “Was the judge informed?”

  “Yes.”

  His heart slammed against his chest. “Social services?”

  “Your caseworker was notified. Please have Dr. Broussard call me.”

  At the FBI office, Alex ended a call with Dexter. His friend had expressed grave concern about the deadly infection spreading quickly, and they discussed the value of exhuming Mr. Parson’s body for an autopsy. A press release within the hour would reveal the LRN’s involvement with Houston Health Department and Human Services, HPD, and the FBI. What motivated the bad guys?

  “While the health department specializes in ensuring people receive accurate information so they can make healthy decisions, I’m concerned about a panic,” Alex said to Ric. “We both know the neighborhood is filled with people looking for a reason to riot. The news is bad, no matter how well it’s stated. My control side is kicking in at the thought of what fearful people will do until a serum is developed or a combination of antibiotics cures the disease.”

  “Bro, we’re offering the public concrete steps to minimize fear,” Ric said.

  “Like staying inside their homes and not coming out for anything? Who’s going to make a milk and bread run?” Alex tapped his finger on the desktop. “I know the necessities will be provided for those people. The real issue is emotional support, and we don’t have many model citizens living there.”

  “The people will rally and cooperate—”

  “But how many more will die or be infected before then?” Alex raked his fingers through his hair. “What I now suspect is Stacy was set up to find the Lab. Those who are behind this banked on her not abandoning a wounded animal, and it wouldn’t have mattered if her riding partners had been with her. She was targeted to do their dirty work—infect her community with canine and human brucellosis. Then they’d buy the property at ridiculously low prices. If we could figure out what’s so valuable about the run-down subdivision, where the quadcopter fits, Todd Howe, and Lynx Connor, we could wrap this up.”