by DiAnn Mills
“Thank you for your time.” Alex gave him his card as well as Ric’s. “Feel free to contact us with questions or information.”
They shook the man’s hand and proceeded to the other executives. The results were the same. Although Jensen Phillips responded by phone, his responses imitated the others.
After examining the LA FBI’s reports and reviewing interviews, Alex and Ric left Phillips Security. They ordered backgrounds on the executives and a dozen other officers. LA agents were imaging files and conducting backgrounds on the employees, but it would take several days to compile their full report. Connor’s accusations appeared unfounded, but the investigation wasn’t concluded yet and neither was the day over.
STACY INSISTED the press conference be held at her clinic. In her own environment among the reminders of her dear animals, she could relax and share her heart with viewers and more importantly Whitt. Far too many people were suffering, a tragedy she might never force from her mind. While camera lights flashed hot against her face, she pictured her boy . . . healthy and strong. She’d do anything to find him, even if it meant exposing her vulnerability to the world.
A young woman with turquoise hair applied Stacy’s makeup. A little color was a good thing considering her stint in the hospital. Media had cooperated by telling Whitt’s story to the public while the FBI updated electronic billboards with his picture and the critical situation hammering the city.
Dexter Rayken smiled, her support and encouragement. She called him friend. He and Dad seemed to have formed a bond and talked fishing lures and hunting stories. Proof a little Cajun existed in every person.
Facial masks were offered to those involved with the production. Two cameramen chose to use them, and one woman wore a hazmat garment.
Kathi Scott, the reporter who’d brought the Channel 5 van to her clinic, waited to conduct the interview. She declined a protective mask. “If I wear one of those, the viewers will lock their minds to her plea. We already have history where I failed her, and it won’t happen again. She’s a courageous woman to make this appeal. I must do my part.”
Stacy reached for Kathi’s hand and squeezed it lightly. “Thank you, my friend.”
Earlier Kathi had prayed with her as well as Dexter. A cameraman said Christians crawled out of the woodwork when crisis hit. Stacy told him Christians weren’t roaches.
How comforting if Alex were standing before her, but his work in California was bringing the epidemic and host of crimes closer to an end. He’d made a huge sacrifice in stepping forward to care for Whitt, causing her to feel more for him.
A text notification sounded. It was from Alex.
Thinking of u. Will call 2day.
She took a deep breath and lifted her gaze to Kathi. “I’m ready when you are.”
“We’re live in two minutes. I’ll make the intro. Speak from your heart.” At the proper cue, Kathi smiled into the camera. “We’re reporting live from Pet Support Veterinary Clinic in northwest Houston where veterinarian Stacy Broussard serves pet owners in her community. Recently she contracted human brucellosis, the disease of epidemic proportions sweeping across the area in which four people have died and thirteen others are hospitalized. The outbreak began when Dr. Broussard took in a stray dog. The animal had been injected with a genetically engineered strain of canine brucellosis. Since then our city’s law enforcement officials, including Houston’s police department, the FBI, and state investigators have been searching for the person or persons responsible for this act of terrorism. The health department, medical officials, and the Laboratory Resource Network, a branch of the CDC, are working around the clock to help individuals who are stricken with the disease and answer questions. A combination of antibiotics has proven successful for some cases. There is no serum for the infected animals or humans.
“The story with Dr. Broussard goes deeper. When she fell ill, she was in the process of petitioning to obtain custody of a twelve-year-old boy. The boy, afraid of the future, has run away with the infected dog. Health officials say the boy tested positive for the disease, and the dog is needed to study its blood for a way to stop the senseless outbreak. Dr. Broussard is appealing to anyone who knows the whereabouts of Whitt McMann to phone the number at the bottom of the viewing screen.” Kathi gave Stacy the mic.
Nervous, she prayed for strength. “Whitt, please phone me or contact a law enforcement officer immediately. We’re concerned because the disease is in your system. Xena will not be hurt. The researchers need only to draw her blood, not hurt her or any other dog that tests positive. We simply need to quarantine them. Our hope is when a cure is found for us, it will cure dogs too. In the meantime, you need antibiotics to fight the fever. Please . . .” She swallowed the ever-thickening lump in her throat. “Whitt, let us help you. You know how to reach me. I’ll be home or here at the clinic assisting others to end this horrible outbreak.”
She took questions from various reporters.
“What can people expect from your clinic in the midst of this tragedy?” a woman said.
“Questions answered. Their pets tested, and the health department will also draw blood from anyone who is concerned about their health. All clinics and kennels have been instructed to disinfect their facilities and have their dogs tested. Those dogs that receive a negative test will be issued certificates. Many veterinary clinics and kennels in the area are extending their hours and will have information on the canine and human brucellosis in their offices. The health department also has information on their website.”
A young man sought her attention. “The canine version causes female dogs to abort. What about women who have the disease?”
The question hit her hard. She hadn’t considered her own inability to carry children. “I’m not a medical professional qualified to answer your question. I’m sure as studies are completed, the findings will be released to the public.”
A man spoke. “Looks like you’re avoiding the reality of this epidemic. A female dog who has this disease is a danger to those around the animal. Will the animal be euthanized?”
She had expected this reaction. “The dogs will be quarantined until we find a treatment. Permanent decisions will be the owner’s decision. I’m an animal lover, sir. I care about their welfare and want to offer compassionate treatment. Those of us who love dogs think of them as our children. They are like two-year-olds, eager to learn, receive and express affection. Does that answer your question about how I feel about ending the life of any animal?”
An older man raised his hand. “For those who want to volunteer in aiding the speedy testing of dogs and humans, how do we register?”
She smiled. “As soon as we’re finished here, we’ll begin registration for volunteers. Those viewing the program can use the phone number listed for more information. The volunteer process will be an event many clinics and kennels will put into action.”
The press conference ended, and although exhausted with the stress, she’d helped take a step forward in finding her boy and protecting people and animals.
A man in jeans and a dingy T-shirt approached her. He looked familiar from her subdivision, but she couldn’t recall the pet. Unshaven. His face drawn. “Stacy Broussard?”
“Yes.”
“My daughter may die because of you.” He moved closer. “Your fault.” His dull eyes alarmed her.
“Please. I’m sorry.” She pushed back.
“Sorry doesn’t make up for her suffering.” As though in slow motion, a fixed-blade hunting knife in his hand sliced through her lab coat. No pain. Blood coated her lower right arm. She must be in shock.
A police officer rushed to the man’s side and grabbed his wrist, forcing the knife to the floor of her clinic.
“This won’t be the end of those who blame you.” The man spit at her. “Someone will get to you.”
“Killing me won’t undo a thing. The damage’s been done.” She’d not stop trying to help others, moving forward to bring this horrible ordeal to a
n end.
Alex grabbed the phone and saw it was Dexter. “I just read what happened. Stacy okay?”
“She’s okay. A few stitches. More determined than ever. She responded well and is even more determined to see this through.”
“Protection detail intact?”
“Yes. FBI and HPD are on it.”
Alex unclenched his fist. “Is she nearby?”
“Not at the moment. The clinic is receiving nonstop calls to volunteer, and she’s in the thick of directing people to facilities near them.”
Alex let out a breath. “I’ll contact her later.”
“Progress on your end?”
Alex chose his words carefully. “We’ve interviewed many people.”
“What about the two men?”
“Nothing substantial yet. Connor is still in custody. I believe the answers are here, and I intend to stay until proven right or wrong. People are dead, and others are suffering. Ric and I are among many agents working to find who’s responsible.”
“And you will. Alex, you never give up.”
He thanked him and texted Stacy.
Alex excused himself from the interview room where he and Ric had talked throughout the day. In the men’s room, he closed the door to a stall. Not the best place to have a come-to-Jesus meeting, but matters of the heart didn’t need an elaborate location. Learning about Stacy’s heroic plea for Whitt to surface and then her knife injury showed him his relationship with God needed to be cemented. Dexter had told him that God would touch his life when he didn’t expect it.
Moments later, he rose from his knees and glanced at his watch before joining Ric. Thirty minutes until he and Ric would head out to talk to Connor again. If the man in custody was really afraid of Russell Phillips, why hadn’t he told the truth from the start? The more Alex processed what they’d learned, the more Connor looked guilty of murder.
His phone alerted him to a text from the LA office.
Lynx Connor found dead in his cell. Unsure of cause of death. An autopsy ordered. Should have prelim results by end of day. No visitors on record. Interviewing guards.
Until Alex and Ric viewed the findings on Connor’s cause of death, they’d talk to the ex–Mrs. Connor.
Alex and Ric parked in front of the apartment building where the woman lived. Dressed in jeans, a skimpy top, three-inch earrings, and four-inch pink heels, she received the news of Lynx’s death with a sardonic laugh. She’d taught kindergarten in the past—obviously she’d experienced a career change.
“Lynx the jinx finally kicked it, huh?” she said. “Too bad he didn’t follow through while we were married.” She smacked a generous lump of bubble gum.
“We’d like to talk to you,” Alex said.
She stepped outside the door of her apartment. “Okay, but I haven’t seen Lynx for about two weeks.”
“Were you aware of his illegal activities?”
“There’s a reason his friends called him Con.”
“Is the name Todd Howe familiar to you?” Alex said.
“Let me make one thing clear, agents. Lynx and I saw each other socially. Period. In the three years we were married or afterward, he never discussed how he made money.”
Alex found it difficult to believe her. “I thought his friends called him Con.”
She rolled her eyes like a fifteen-year-old. “You know he did time. Are we finished?”
“Not exactly. He was charged with murder and fraud. What do you know about this?”
“Honestly, I have no idea.”
“Is there anything you can tell us?”
She blew out a sigh. “Lynx wanted to get back together.”
“You were against it?”
“I hadn’t decided.”
“Do you have any suspicions about his death?”
“All I can tell you is at times depression hit him hard. Lately it had gotten worse, but he promised me he was taking an antidepressant. His mother fought depression, and he showed the same severe lows.”
“Do you know which medication he took?”
“Zoloft. Not aware of the dosage. Think about it, though, guys. If I thought someone was behind his death, would I put my life in danger by giving you information?”
The agents hadn’t said anything about possible foul play.
Ric gave her his card. “We’re able to offer protection.”
“That’s rich. Like you did for Lynx?”
“I believe you know more than what you’re telling us.”
She shook her head while her lips trembled. “He was always looking for an angle to make money.”
“You indicated you knew nothing about his activities.”
“I don’t. But he bragged about getting rich.” She glanced away.
Alex saw a shadow pass over her face. “You cared about him.”
She stared at Alex, as though wrestling with something. “I did care,” she whispered. “Would you like to come inside? I know little, except he told me he was in far too deep.”
Alex and Ric accepted her invitation. The ex–Mrs. Connor implied murder and hid behind a persona of tough living.
“I have fresh blueberry pie,” she said. “Baking helps me work through stress, especially when I haven’t heard from Lynx. He called every other day, like clockwork. Then it stopped.”
She shed tears as she pulled out a scrapbook of the two when they were first married. Young and happy, Lynx was in shape, and she looked the role of a kindergarten teacher. “I wish I’d been able to conceive. He chose the divorce. Said it was best for both of us.”
“But you were having second thoughts about the arrangement?” Ric’s compassion skills always outdid Alex’s.
“I miss him.”
“I understand,” Ric continued. “Excellent pie. Right up there with my mom’s.”
“Thank you. Lynx’s favorite.”
Ric leaned back in his chair. “Are you sure he never mentioned anyone? Or a place he frequented?”
She shook her head. “During our marriage, he changed. Money became more important than our relationship. Even when he was dealing in land fraud, he still had time for us. He wouldn’t introduce me to his friends or give me their names. Said it was better I didn’t know, that ignorance was safe. I couldn’t handle the uncertainty. Lost my teaching job, and the only job I could find was at a bar.”
“You really believe his death wasn’t natural?” Ric said.
“Without a doubt. Yes, he dealt with depression. But his health was fine. A little overweight but no high blood pressure problems or other problems.” She shrugged. “As I said earlier, he told me he was in too deep with something. When I asked him how he could get out, he said it was impossible.”
Shortly afterward she crumbled, no longer able to keep up the act.
They waited until she phoned her sister, neither agent willing to leave her alone.
WHITT THRASHED THROUGH THE WOODS. During the night, Xena had deserted him, and he had to find her. They needed each other. They were partners. Tears flowed, and he blinked them back to no avail. He dared not call out her name. Law enforcement could be combing the woods and hear him. The idea of looking for a spot where he could get a WiFi signal seemed important but not at the risk of getting caught.
If Xena came in contact with others, they could get sick. Die. If she were recognized by the authorities, she could lead them to him. Worse yet, the wrong people might have her euthanized.
And Whitt’s head and back hurt.
Unexpected nausea shot up from his stomach, and he lost control. Dizziness pressed down, and he struggled to keep from falling. No reason to fool himself—he had human brucellosis. Holding on to a small tree, he glanced behind him. Oh no. He’d left a clear trail for anyone to follow. Only one thing for him to do—backtrack to the campsite. Maybe Xena would tire of roaming and find him there.
Grabbing a broken limb, he forced resolve into his muscles and covered the vomit and the path he’d forged. The chore took much longer tha
n he’d calculated, and he was forced to rest along the way. Not even the right words for how he viewed himself and the surrounding world entered his brain. All along, he’d believed his intelligence would save him, as though impregnable against the forces of the world.
But now he had doubts.
The Tylenol and Pepto-Bismol tablets in his backpack had no impact on what raged through his body.
Fever weakened him. Chills in June?
A churning stomach made it difficult to move.
His worst fear unfolded. Worse than losing Miss Stacy or being placed in a foster home, he’d set the stage to die alone. Even Xena had abandoned him.
Stacy viewed the late-night news on her sofa. Mom and Dad had gone on to bed, but she absorbed updates like a sponge. Lynx Connor, the man arrested in Los Angeles for suspected murder and his involvement in the brucellosis epidemic, had been found dead in his cell. No reason given for his death. The FBI were awaiting an autopsy.
Stacy stared at the screen. Had he not been able to face his accusers? In many people’s minds, his death sealed his guilt. What about Russell Phillips? The crimes hadn’t made sense from the beginning, not from what she’d seen, learned, or experienced.
She debated calling Alex. He had responsibilities beyond her, a job to complete that would help stop these atrocities. She missed him and wished she could snap her fingers and he’d be there. A bit selfish but true.
Her role was to help find Whitt. Each time she recalled how seriously ill she’d been with antibiotics pumping into her veins, she feared for her precious boy, who had nothing to fight the attacks against his body. Mom and Dad had contacted their church to pray for Whitt and the other victims stricken with the disease. She longed to be helping Dexter’s team with the research, but her skills were lacking. Why hadn’t she sought to add a PhD in veterinary research after her name like she’d planned?
She knew what happened . . . She’d met Whitt, and her desire for motherhood outweighed the time and effort to obtain another doctorate.
The mother of the twins from her subdivision who’d initially contracted the human brucellosis volunteered to help with the testing of dogs. One of her daughters had recovered and the other was responding to the antibiotics. Fortunate. Those were the kind of people Stacy admired—the givers.