Reckless Creed Read online

  Seemed like a logical reason that a federal agent might be involved if the girl had been taken. The two men exchanged a glance. Creed suspected they were withholding information from him.

  “Why would it matter?” Tabor finally asked. “If your dog is any good, it should still be able to find her, right?”

  “It would matter because there’d be another person’s scent.”

  “We had a tip called in,” Wylie admitted, but Tabor shot him a look and cut him off from saying anything else.

  Before Creed could push for more, Grace started tugging for him to hurry. Her breathing had increased, her nose and whiskers twitched. He knew she was headed for the river.

  “Slow down a bit, Grace,” he told her.

  “Slow down” was something a handler didn’t like telling his dog. But sometimes the drive could take over and send a dog barreling through dangerous terrain. He’d heard of working dogs scraping their pads raw, so focused and excited about finding the scent that would reward them.

  Grace kept pulling. Creed’s long legs were moving fast to keep up. The tangle of vines threatened to trip him while Grace skipped between them, jumping over fallen branches and straining at the end of her leash. He focused on keeping up with her and not letting go.

  Only now did Creed notice that Agent Tabor and Sheriff Wylie were trailing farther behind. He didn’t glance back but could hear their voices becoming more muffled, interspersed with some curses as they tried to navigate the prickly underbrush.

  Finally Grace slowed down. Then she stopped. But the little dog was still frantically sniffing the air. Creed could see and hear the river five feet away. He watched Grace and waited. Suddenly the dog looked up to find his eyes and stared at him.

  This was their signal. Creed knew the dog wasn’t trying to determine what direction to go next, nor was she looking to him for instructions. Grace was telling him she had found their target. That she knew exactly where it was but she didn’t want to go any closer.

  Something was wrong.

  “What is it?” Sheriff Wylie asked while he and Tabor approached, trying to catch their breath and keep a safe distance.

  “I think she’s in the water,” Creed said.

  “What do you mean she’s in the water?” Tabor asked.

  But Wylie understood. “Oh crap.”

  “Grace, stay,” Creed told the dog, and dropped the leash.

  He knew he didn’t need the command. The dog was spooked, and it made Creed’s stomach start to knot up.

  He maneuvered his way over the muddy clay of the riverbank, holding on to tree branches to keep from sliding. He didn’t know that Wylie was close behind until he heard the older man’s breath catch at the same time that Creed saw the girl’s body.

  Her eyes stared up as if she were watching the clouds. The girl’s Windbreaker was still zipped up and had ballooned out, causing her upper body to float while the rest of her lay on the sandy bottom. This part of the Blackwater River was only about three feet deep. Though tea-colored, the water was clear. And even in the fading sunlight Creed could see that the girl’s pockets were weighted down.

  “Son of a bitch,” he heard Wylie say from behind. “Looks like she loaded up her pockets with rocks and walked right into the river.”

  3

  Creed kept Grace on her leash, although he exchanged the working one for a retractable that allowed her more freedom. He’d backed her off to a clearing along the river, about ten feet away, where she could enjoy her reward. She chomped down on the pink toy elephant, making it squeak repeatedly, the sound foreign out there amid the buzz of insects and the gentle churn of the water.

  From where he stood he could still see the body downstream. Creed’s job was to help find whatever they were looking for, but he wasn’t a part of the investigation. Once the search was over, he took his dog and stayed out of the way until and unless there was something else that needed to be found.

  A Marine and K9 unit handler, Creed had remained a certified trainer and handler after leaving the military. Hannah managed the business and Creed trained the dogs. In seven years, their facility in the Florida Panhandle had become a multimillion-dollar business. They’d earned a national reputation for their quality training and the success rates of their air-scent dogs. And they did it by rescuing abandoned and discarded dogs and turning them into heroes.

  As he watched Grace fling her toy up into the air and jump to retrieve it, he couldn’t imagine how anyone would abandon such a smart and spirited animal. But then, Creed had seen firsthand enough depravity to last a lifetime.

  He looked back at the young woman’s body. Whether or not he was a part of the investigation, he couldn’t help but wonder what had happened. Bobbing in the water, she looked small, almost childlike despite the ballooning jacket.

  Sheriff Wylie had said earlier that her family claimed she might have gotten lost. Did she really intend to go for a walk alone in the forest, then just lose her way? Not impossible. People got lost. It happened all the time, and Creed and his dogs were often called in at such times.

  The Conecuh National Forest covered eighty-four thousand acres between Andalusia, Alabama, and the Florida state line. The Conecuh Trail was twenty-two miles, a trek popular with hikers during the winter and early spring months. But the trail was up in the northeast part of the forest, nowhere near here. In fact, they hadn’t seen anything that resembled a trail for quite some time.

  If Izzy Donner went for a walk in the forest, why did she stray so far off the trail? Did she actually put rocks in her pockets and walk into the river?

  Creed watched Sheriff Wylie and Agent Tabor. Both men were on their cell phones. They stood on the riverbank. Neither attempted to get closer to the body. The sheriff was animated as he talked, waving his arms, pushing his hat back, then jerking the brim back down low over his brow. Agent Tabor, on the other hand, looked calm and appeared to be doing more listening than talking.

  They were losing sunlight. The moss-draped branches hung over the area, creating long shadows. Creed pulled out his GPS tracker and saved the coordinates. It would make it easier for the recovery team to find this spot whether they came by foot or by boat.

  He reached around into his daypack for Grace’s collapsible bowl and grabbed his flashlight, too. He clipped it onto his belt, then poured water for Grace. She came to the sound, sat, and placed her toy beside her, waiting patiently for a drink. He squatted down to make sure there were no fire ants nearby, then placed the bowl for her. Before he stood back up, Creed noticed a flash of reddish brown under a scrawny cypress bush about five feet away.

  He left Grace to investigate. The shadows made it difficult to see under the brush. He switched on his Maglite as he planted one knee on pine needles a couple feet from the cypress.

  It was a dead bird. The robin lay belly up—its red breast was what had caught Creed’s attention. He couldn’t see any marks from a predator. It looked untouched. He heard the crunch of branches behind him and turned to see Grace. She was prancing and wagging, proud to be bringing him something. She offered it to him, and that was when Creed’s stomach dropped to his knees.

  It was another dead robin.

  “Give it to me, Grace.” He kept the emotion from his voice as he put his hand out. She released the robin, dropping it into his palm.

  “I thought your dogs weren’t supposed to put dead stuff in their mouths.”

  Sheriff Wylie had made his way over to the clearing and stood with strings of kudzu trailing from his pant legs while he swatted mosquitoes on his face. He looked like a comedic character from an old movie, slapping himself and leaving red welts from his own hand.

  “They know the difference,” Creed told him, “between dead animals and dead humans. I don’t train them to track dead animal scent, so it’s not off limits. She saw I was interested in this one and brought me another.”

>   Creed pulled out two plastic Ziploc bags from his daypack and gathered the robins, one in each bag. He stayed calm and kept his movements casual. He didn’t want to punish Grace for doing something that was second nature to her, but he also didn’t want her to see his concern.

  Truth was, he had a bad feeling about these dead birds, and he hated that Grace had taken one in her mouth.

  TWO DAYS LATER

  MONDAY

  4

  CHICAGO

  By the time FBI agent Maggie O’Dell’s flight started its descent, a light dusting of snow covered the runway at O’Hare International Airport. She’d left Washington, D.C., in sunny skies. Sun or snow, it didn’t matter. O’Dell hated flying. But if she had to land in snow, thank goodness it was at an airport that was used to it. Where better than Chicago?

  As the plane taxied, O’Dell watched the ground crew, some in jackets and no headgear, caught off guard by the unexpected March snow as though it were winter’s last hurrah. She hadn’t just left sunny skies but warm weather as well. The East Coast had been enjoying springlike conditions for weeks now.

  Looking out the window, O’Dell suddenly felt a chill. She pulled up the zipper of her sweater, but she knew it had nothing to do with the weather. It was this assignment. Months ago it had already become a cold case. There had been no leads, no trails, no digital footprints. Nothing.

  It was almost as if the subject, Dr. Clare Shaw, had vanished. As if she had been buried in the North Carolina mudslide that had taken out the research facility where she’d served as director. It was the last place the scientist had been seen. Yet they had good reason to believe that not only had Dr. Shaw evaded death, but, quite possibly, she had murdered several people in order to cover up her own escape.

  O’Dell had been tasked with finding Shaw. After five months it was beginning to feel like she was hunting a ghost.

  Until now.

  —

  Detective Lexington Jacks had arranged to meet O’Dell at baggage claim. O’Dell picked out the detective from across the terminal—the woman was the only one in the crowd without a handbag or suitcase. Plus she looked like a cop, dressed in a trench coat and trousers with her legs spread and arms at her side. Her eyes were inspecting everything and everyone and still they skimmed over O’Dell, dismissing her.

  Then Jacks backtracked and found her. She made eye contact but waited to be sure. When O’Dell nodded, Jacks started making her way through the crowd.

  The detective was tall with a confident gait. Her hair was pulled back, emphasizing smooth brown skin flawed only by a faint white scar on her upper left cheek. Up close, O’Dell could see that the woman was older than her, most likely well into her forties. Crow’s-feet danced at the corners of her eyes.

  “Detective Jacks.” O’Dell met her halfway.

  “Agent O’Dell, call me Lexi. Do you have more baggage?” she asked as she hitched a thumb over her shoulder, pointing to the carousel behind her.

  “This is it.”

  “No coat?”

  “In my carry-on.”

  “You’re gonna need it.” Jacks stopped and crossed her arms as if expecting O’Dell to open up her roller bag right there and dig out the coat. O’Dell almost smiled. She couldn’t remember the last time a law enforcement officer was concerned about her well-being.

  When O’Dell didn’t make a move, Jacks said, “Okay, suit yourself. We need to hit the ground running. They’re ready to process the room. It’s my understanding they’re waiting for you.” Jacks stuffed her hands in her pockets and turned to lead the way.

  “How much containment were you able to get before CDC arrived?” O’Dell asked, walking beside the detective and trying to keep up with the woman’s long strides.

  “The hotel’s management had the good sense to close off the room as soon as they discovered the victim was one of their guests.”

  “Housekeeping hasn’t been in?”

  “Hotel management says no.”

  “No cops?”

  “We already had a body on the sidewalk. Of course, we taped off the room, but with a jumper there’s usually no hurry. Good thing, because our techs would not have suspected the place might be hot.”

  By “hot,” she meant contaminated by a possible deadly virus. It was the medical examiner who had discovered during the autopsy that the man’s organs had begun hemorrhaging days before his body hit the sidewalk.

  Jacks led O’Dell through the crowd and to the front exit. O’Dell followed her out into the cold. They didn’t need to walk far. An airport security guard stood alongside a dark blue sedan. When he saw Jacks he opened the door on the passenger side for O’Dell as he took her roller bag and placed it in the trunk.

  “Thanks, Carl.” Jacks rewarded him with a wide, toothy smile, then ducked into the car.

  As soon as the sedan left from under the awning, large wet snowflakes decorated the windshield.

  “Did anyone see him jump?” O’Dell asked.

  “No, but several people saw him hit the sidewalk. We don’t think anyone touched him.” Jacks reached over and hit a button, blasting hot air. “Nineteen stories, flat on his face,” she said. “Ever see a person after a fall like that?”

  O’Dell had seen bodies in many stages of decay, pulled out from underwater and underground, as well as bodies that had been tortured and dismembered, but no, she hadn’t seen one after a fall like that. She shook her head.

  “Actually didn’t look too bad,” Jacks told her. “On the outside. I don’t know what I was expecting. ME said there was a lot of hemorrhaging inside. The lungs were a bloody mess.”

  “What kind of protective gear was the ME wearing?”

  Jacks winced as she said, “Evidently it wasn’t enough. CDC has him in isolation.”

  5

  No one paid attention as Agent O’Dell and Detective Jacks walked through the hotel’s huge, luxurious lobby. Lines of travelers waited to check in. Bellhops pushed loaded carts. Small groups of men and women in business attire huddled together, making plans. Other than the police officer walking the perimeter, there were no indications that anything was wrong. The four-star hotel on Michigan Avenue was a curious choice for a man to end his life.

  Jacks had explained that the entire nineteenth floor had been evacuated and isolated. The only access was by elevator with a special keycard. When the elevator doors opened, one of Jacks’s officers nodded at them from his post. Detective Jacks led O’Dell to a staging area right around the corner. Each hallway had been barricaded with crime scene tape. Three feet beyond, a thick plastic sheet hung from the high ceiling to the floor.

  A stainless steel cart held boxes of latex gloves and surgical masks. A stack of Tyvek coveralls were folded and sealed individually in plastic bags. On the bottom shelf were hoods with plastic shielded faceplates.

  The sight of the gear made O’Dell hesitate. A few years ago she had found herself in an isolation ward at Fort Detrick on the other side of a hazmat suit. After being exposed to the Ebola virus, she’d landed in the slammer. It had been a claustrophobic nightmare. Now, as she stared at the hoods and coveralls, she realized being inside that gear could trigger those feelings all over again.

  “You okay?” Jacks asked.

  O’Dell held back a grimace. She hated the fact that her discomfort was obvious even to this stranger.

  “I’m fine,” she told the detective. She thumbed through the stack of plastic-sealed Tyvek coveralls, pretending they might be the objects of her discontent. “They never realize that one size does not fit all.”

  Jacks smiled at that while she pulled out a cell phone.

  “I’ll text them that you’re here.”

  “You’re not joining us?”

  “Not allowed. You know how the CDC is. Always secretive. Special invitation only. Even though we locals might need to actually know what the hell�
��s going on.”

  O’Dell felt the detective’s eyes watching for her reaction. Though she doubted that Jacks cared whether she might be out of line. She continued, “We’re providing officers to secure the scene, help set up a staging area, and stand guard. You know, make sure the CDC’s presence is a well-kept secret.”

  “Don’t want to start a public panic.”

  Again, Jacks eyed her suspiciously.

  “Heaven forbid the public know they’re in danger,” O’Dell added.

  The corner of Jacks’s lip curved up as she recognized O’Dell’s sarcasm.

  “They didn’t even want to tell us what was going on. Made it sound like it was some routine check.”

  “But the ME had already told you.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Hey, Maggie,” a hooded figure called to her from down the hallway.

  She was expecting Roger Bix, the CDC director who had requested her presence. But before the man pushed back the faceplate, O’Dell had already recognized Colonel Benjamin Platt from his voice.

  “Ben?”

  Platt was not a part of the CDC. He was the director of USAMRIID, the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases. He was the doctor who had quarantined her in the slammer at Fort Detrick after her Ebola exposure. The two had since become friends . . . more than friends. Right now she wasn’t sure if she was upset because he hadn’t told her he was here or because his presence meant this was a much more serious incident.

  “Assistant Director Kunze didn’t mention that you were going to be here.”

  Assistant Director Raymond Kunze was O’Dell’s boss at the FBI.

  Instead of answering, Platt smiled at Detective Jacks and said, “Thanks for making sure Agent O’Dell arrived safely.”

  Jacks glanced from Platt to O’Dell, recognizing that she was being dismissed. She handed O’Dell a business card and said, “Call me if there’s anything else I can help with or any questions I can answer.”