Reckless Creed Read online

  “And how long will that take?” she asked.

  “Ten to fourteen days. But it could be longer to get approval to use it.” It sounded like it pained him to admit it. “They’ve never tested it before.”

  “So it might not even work.”

  “It’s all we have.”

  “Maybe not,” she told him. “I might have a better idea.”

  38

  FLORIDA PANHANDLE

  Creed was in bed but far from sleep. He couldn’t shake off the image of Sheriff Wylie’s body hanging from the tree. Somehow his mind managed to loop it together so that when he closed his eyes he saw not only Wylie’s face but also his father’s.

  He left his window open, hoping the fresh air would clear his senses. The breeze had gotten chilly enough that Grace curled into his side. He could hear the soft snores of Rufus down on the floor alongside the bed. When the phone rang Creed grabbed it off his nightstand. Instead of being startled, he welcomed the distraction despite the late hour.

  Then he saw the caller ID.

  “Maggie? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Sorry, I know it’s late.”

  “It’s okay. I couldn’t sleep.”

  Chronic insomnia was something the two of them shared. They had talked only a handful of times since they last worked together in North Carolina. Creed had avoided contact on purpose. There was chemistry between them that he hoped would dissolve with time, but just hearing her voice canceled that idea. It also reminded him that there was something deeper between them. They had saved each other’s life. Shared things. They trusted each other all the while knowing that trust was a precious commodity to both of them.

  “I talked to Hannah yesterday,” she said.

  “About Tabor’s visit?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know who he is?”

  “Not yet. I have Agent Alonzo working on it. Hannah left me a message today that the birds weren’t even infected.”

  “No. He would have euthanized my entire kennel for nothing.”

  Creed tried not to think about it. He knew that if Hannah hadn’t stopped Tabor, he and his men would have had to kill Creed before getting to his dogs.

  “I think Izzy Donner and Agent Tabor might be a part of a larger scheme,” she told him. “Something that involves Dr. Clare Shaw.”

  “The director of that DARPA research facility in North Carolina?” Creed asked. He hadn’t thought about it before. “Let me guess—the bird flu was one of the viruses she took with her.”

  “Yes. It turns out she was working on creating a strain that would transfer easily to humans. And possibly one strong enough to transfer from person to person by casual contact.”

  “You think Izzy Donner was infected by Shaw?”

  “I’m not sure how any of it works. I’ve been hunting Shaw since last fall and still have no idea where she is. She literally disappeared that night of the mudslide. There were no calls on her cell phone after that day. No charges on her credit cards. No bank account withdrawals. We’ve put out APBs and contacted other research facilities. It’s as if Dr. Clare Shaw ceased to exist that night, and yet we still suspect she killed her colleagues and stole three samples of deadly viruses.”

  “Maybe she had an assistant? Someone from the outside to help her?”

  “That’s what I’m thinking. The virus that we’re seeing is definitely the strain she was working on. I don’t believe there’s any way she could be doing this without help.”

  “Wait a minute, you’ve already seen the virus?”

  “In Chicago. The CDC is trying to downplay it. I can’t imagine that that’ll work for too much longer. Now that his parents have been contacted I can tell you that one of the victims was Jason’s friend, Tony Briggs.”

  “What do you mean? We heard Tony jumped from the nineteenth floor of a hotel. You’re saying he had this virus?”

  Creed was on his feet now, at the window. The breeze was cold against his chest.

  “There’s a lot we still don’t know for sure. I’m heading down to Pensacola to retrace Tony’s footsteps for the last several weeks. But that’s not the only reason I’m calling. I remember Hannah telling me about the DHS contracts you have with them to train dogs for TSA.”

  “That’s right. We also have a contract to provide patrols for a certain number of hours each month. The demand for detection dogs has increased ten times faster than the trainers can keep up. The government’s using private contractors more and more.”

  “I know you’ve used your dogs to track diabetes and are working on cancer. Do you think they might be able to detect this virus?”

  He was still thinking about Tony. “If you can get enough samples for us to work with, I’m sure they’d be able to detect it.”

  “Would you mind talking to Ben and the deputy director of DHS?”

  “Ben’s involved with this?”

  There was silence, and Creed wanted to kick himself. Did he really just sound like a jealous teenage boy? He tried to backtrack and redirect his focus.

  “Tabor made it sound like dogs could get the virus,” he said. “Do you know if that’s true?”

  “Ben knows more about that than I do. We only talked briefly about this. He doesn’t believe there’s enough evidence that they would be at risk.”

  Creed shook his head. It sounded like a bureaucratic response, probably the exact words Platt had told her.

  “Look, Maggie, I know he means something to you, so you trust what he tells you. But there’s no reason in the world that I trust him. And you’re asking me to trust my dogs’ lives based on a theory that they might not get infected.”

  “Could you just talk to them? No obligation. If we can stop this virus at the airports before it spreads across the country, we could be saving hundreds, even thousands of lives.”

  “I’ll talk to them. But no promises.”

  “Of course. That’s all I ask. And Creed, if you do agree, maybe don’t use Grace.”

  WEDNESDAY

  39

  NEW YORK CITY

  Christina ordered hotel room service, then made herself eat as much as her stomach would allow. The Tylenol was keeping her fever manageable. At least she had been able to sleep on and off. But she still woke to sweat-drenched sheets. Her muscles ached so badly it was difficult to get out of bed. Even with the medicine her cough was getting worse. Her chest hurt when she tried to take deep breaths. It scared her but she tried to use the fear to keep herself going.

  All the more reason to hurry.

  She might not be able to get out of bed at all tomorrow. She had to do what she needed to do today or it would be too late for her. Of that, she was certain.

  She prepared again for the day. Yesterday she had bought a zippered tote bag in which she could carry all her cash, meds, bottled water, and other necessities. When she put the strap up over her head she almost cried out in pain. It hurt just to lift her arms that much. How in the world would she be able to walk the streets of New York?

  Yesterday she had tried to take a cab, and all the idling, the stop-and-go, and the exhaust fumes had made her so nauseated she almost threw up. She knew today it would be worse. Vomiting was not something she wanted to add to her list of ailments. It was already difficult enough to keep fluids down and stay hydrated.

  For some reason Christina had expected the watchers to look more like her. Now she was beginning to believe they looked like soldiers—muscular and strong, walking with ramrod-straight backs, heads pivoting, eyes darting around and missing nothing.

  She walked past Grand Central Terminal and continued for several blocks before she realized that the same soldier who had been on post at the entrance two days before was now watching her again. Only this time he wasn’t wearing military fatigues. At first she thought she must be mistaken until his eyes met hers. She’d recog
nize those intense black eyes anywhere.

  Christina tried to pretend that he was of no interest to her. That she didn’t notice that he appeared to be following her. She stopped in front of a small shop to admire the decorated pastries in the window. She could see his reflection. He was definitely watching her.

  The drumming of her heartbeat made her chest ache even more. Were they getting cocky or sloppy? Or perhaps they expected her to be so sick by now that she wouldn’t notice? Either way it unnerved her. She’d never get away with what she had hoped to do. She tried to shake him out of her head.

  Forget about him. You can do this, she told herself. How many times had she fooled store clerks who were standing in the same aisle as she swiped goods off their shelves in order to survive? The key was confidence. That was when her first coughing fit attacked her.

  She leaned against the brick wall of the shop and dug a bottle of water out of her tote bag. Somehow she managed to contain it. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed that the soldier was now across the street buying a cup of coffee and not even watching. The cough must have convinced him he didn’t need to watch so closely.

  It was a small relief, and Christina felt the tension in her shoulders ease a bit. Then she started to wad up the tissue she had been coughing into and the panic returned. She had just coughed up blood.

  40

  PENSACOLA, FLORIDA

  Creed didn’t want any more government men on his property, so he agreed to meet them in Pensacola. He watched the black SUV enter the parking lot of the Coffee Cup. On the edge of downtown, the mainstay breakfast place had a varied clientele. Businesspeople in suits filled tables alongside construction workers in boots and hospital staff in scrubs. It was the one place Creed thought two Washington, D.C., outsiders might not draw attention.

  Now he wasn’t so certain about that as he watched the two men get out of the vehicle—one in a leather bomber jacket and jeans, the other in turned-up shirtsleeves, trousers, and leather shoes so polished Creed could see the glint off their shine even from his corner booth. Although he had to admit neither man looked like the stereotypical government official. They didn’t even look alike. Creed would have been able to identify Colonel Benjamin Platt as a military man even if he hadn’t already known the man’s background. In his casual attire Platt walked like an officer: ramrod-straight back, chin held high, head pivoting as he checked out his surroundings from behind the dark-lensed sunglasses.

  Beside him the tall lanky black man surveyed everything from behind his designer shades, too. But this guy had an easy gait, shoulders rolling, arms swinging, his whole body in motion like he was moving to music, a silent beat that only he could hear.

  Creed waited. Sipped his coffee. He kept his hands on the table and his eyes on the men but didn’t gesture or wave, letting them search and find him. After all, they were the ones who wanted something from him. Suddenly he smiled to himself, realizing the reversal of roles. The last time Creed had seen Platt in North Carolina, Platt had something Creed wanted. Now the tables had turned.

  Creed had never met the other man. Charlie Wurth came in first, and it was obvious this wasn’t the DHS (Department of Homeland Security) deputy director’s first visit to the Coffee Cup. He flicked off his sunglasses and offered a veteran waitress a wide smile. Then he asked her something and she actually smiled back. She turned and pointed at Creed from across the room.

  At the table Platt started to make the introductions, but apparently he made them too formal or too slowly for Wurth.

  “Call me Charlie,” he told Creed as he stretched his hand from across the table to shake Creed’s. He slid into the booth while gesturing to their waitress, who was bringing two mugs of coffee.

  He waved off the menu she handed him.

  “I’m gonna have some of those fantastic grits of yours,” he told her with a familiarity as if he ate here every morning.

  “Eggs?” she asked.

  “Scrambled.”

  “Bacon or sausage?”

  “Sausage.”

  “Toast?”

  “Wheat.”

  Wurth looked to Creed. “You having breakfast?”

  “Already did about two hours ago.”

  Wurth let out a whistle. “Early riser, huh?” Then to Platt he said, “Best breakfast you’re gonna have.”

  Platt looked distracted. Maybe a little uncomfortable. No, actually Creed thought he looked irritated, like he didn’t have time for something as frivolous as breakfast. As if to please Wurth, he told the waitress he’d have the same.

  “Ryder, more coffee?” she asked before she left the table.

  “I’m good. Thanks, Rita.”

  An awkward silence followed. Creed was in no hurry to fill it. Again, these men had asked to meet him.

  “Last time I was here there was a hurricane barreling up the Gulf,” Wurth said. “Had Pensacola smack-dab in its crosshairs.”

  “Which one?” Creed asked, only slightly curious.

  “Isaac. Agent O’Dell was here with me.”

  “I remember that,” Platt said. “I was here, too. Over at the naval base.”

  Creed remembered it, as well. He and his dogs had spent days afterward looking for people in the rubble. Just then, he realized Maggie was the one thing the three of them had in common. And he figured that was about all.

  He glanced at Platt’s hands wrapped around his coffee mug. They looked well taken care of. An officer’s hands. A surgeon’s hands. Creed’s, in contrast, were callused. He had a cut on the back of one, and although his fingernails were neat and trimmed, the left thumbnail had been ripped down below the quick, snagged on broken concrete he had unloaded for the dogs’ obstacle course. Wurth’s hands were well kept, too. Not an untrimmed cuticle in sight.

  “Maggie told me about the mudslide in North Carolina,” Wurth said.

  Creed noticed that the deputy director switched from “Agent O’Dell” to “Maggie” almost in a calculated way, as if he wanted Creed to know that she was a friend of his.

  “She said your dogs are pretty amazing,” Wurth continued. “You already know it was her idea that you might be able to help us.”

  Creed thought Wurth might be trying to appeal to their shared camaraderie, so he was taken off guard when the man said, “So tell me, what makes you think your dogs are good enough for something like this?”

  41

  Creed thought it was an odd way for the man to ask for his help—by issuing a challenge. He saw that Platt recognized the mistake and shook his head as he sipped his coffee.

  “What?” Wurth said, noticing. “I shouldn’t voice my skepticism?”

  “If you’re skeptical, why are you wasting my time?”

  “Look, I’ve been with Homeland Security for quite a few years now,” Wurth said. “I’m well aware that we have canines that can sniff out bombs and drugs and find dead people. I’ve seen them do it.”

  “Then you know DHS is already using my dogs and my services.”

  “Sure, but again, for explosives and drugs. I get that. But seriously, how possible is it for them to sniff out sick people with this virus?” He stopped himself and glanced around at the tables behind them. “We need to track down these virus carriers that have been sent out with this thing. If we don’t, we could have a major epidemic on our hands. So yes, I want to believe that your dogs can help or I wouldn’t be here.”

  “We’ve already been training for C. diff, diabetes, and a couple different types of cancer,” Creed told him.

  “With proven success?”

  “The tests for cancer have only been in our facility, but we’ve had a ninety-eight percent success rate. We’ve just started doing C. diff detecting in the field. Those results are trending around ninety-nine percent, but our testing field has been limited to a few skilled care facilities in the area.”

  Wurth sa
t back and let out a low whistle. “That’s impressive. But I don’t understand how the canines can tell the difference. I mean, I understand that they can smell and identify a sick person. But how are they able to differentiate between diseases and infections?”

  Creed glanced at Platt. The man was an infectious-disease specialist. He’d certainly be able to explain it better.

  “I’m not a biologist,” Creed said, “but basically different antibodies are released by our immune systems to fight certain diseases. There are hormone and chemistry changes. Each disease, each infection has its own makeup, if you will.”

  “And canines can detect the differences by smelling the person?”

  “With C. diff the dogs just need to be in the vicinity of the person. About a ten- to twenty-foot radius. Last year we trained a dog for a little boy with diabetes. He’s able to play football with his dog on the sidelines and from there, the dog’s been able to detect when his insulin level dips too low.”

  Wurth raised an eyebrow as if Creed were trying to pull one over on him.

  Creed ignored him and continued. “Cancer’s a bit trickier because the different types sometimes trigger different reactions in the body. For some cancers we use breath samples.”

  “Breath samples? So what do you think would work for this virus? I can’t have you running your dogs up to people’s faces while they wait in line at the airport.”

  They went silent and pushed back as Rita brought their breakfasts. Both men thanked her. Creed noticed that Wurth shoveled a bite of grits into his mouth before Rita left the table. However, Wurth’s eyes were still on Creed. For the first time he felt like the man was sizing him up.

  “We use breath samples to train the dogs. That doesn’t mean they need to be in a person’s face in order to detect it.” Creed was getting impatient. Did Wurth not get the point he’d just made with the little boy and diabetes? Or did the man just not want to believe him?