Reckless Creed Page 4

“Ritual?”

  “Sometimes when a person commits suicide there’ll be small, sort of ritualistic things they’ll do. They might take off their glasses, empty the change out of their pockets.” She gestured toward the bed. “Make the bed.”

  “I’m told he had his wallet in his back pocket.”

  “How about a cell phone?”

  Platt shrugged. “That I don’t know. There’s a duffel bag on the floor of the closet.”

  She thought about checking out the bag but decided she wanted to see the balcony first. She stopped in front of the sliding glass door. It was unlocked.

  “Was this closed when you arrived?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  She was careful how she touched the handle, using the top and pushing with two fingers instead of grabbing it so she wouldn’t destroy any prints. It took some effort to open and when it did slide, it made a grating sound of resistance.

  The cement patio was small and the cast-iron railing looked antique. It came as high as her waist. She could hear the traffic below. Through the plastic faceplate the snowflakes glittered. One glance down and she needed to take a step back until the palms of her hands could feel the glass door. The cold wind swirled around her and she swore she could feel the patio sway underneath her feet.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Platt said, startling her. She hadn’t noticed that he had come to the door. “If you’re going to jump, why bother to close the door?”

  “Sometimes they’re beyond the point of making sense,” she told him as she edged her way back inside. Then she carefully closed the door using the same two-finger method. “The small stuff is still instinctive. You close the door without giving it a thought, especially if you have no plans of going back inside.”

  “How does a criminal profiler know so much about suicide?”

  She recognized a hint of admiration in his voice. Their mutual respect and admiration were two things that had brought them together as friends.

  “I’ve investigated a number of murder-suicides.” Those were some of the hardest cases, too, trying to climb inside the mind of someone who takes out his entire family or a department store full of strangers before putting the gun to his own head.

  “Suicide with an agenda,” she told Platt. “Or a mission. The suicide is simply the last step.”

  She started across the room, heading to check out the bathroom, when she noticed a small wastebasket tucked underneath the desk. She pulled it out to see inside. Carefully using only fingertips again, she plucked through the contents without pulling them out: a torn ticket stub from the Museum of Science and Industry, a folded map of downtown Chicago, several brochures for other tourist attractions, a flyer from the Art Institute, and a napkin from a local pizza place.

  She looked up at Platt. “When did he check in?”

  “I think Detective Jacks said he’d been here for two days before he jumped.”

  “You said his lungs looked like the virus was in an advanced stage.”

  “Definitely.”

  “How long does it take for that to happen?”

  “I’m not sure. Humans rarely get the bird flu, so we don’t know a lot of statistics. The information we do have is on victims mostly from Asia. Some of those cases haven’t been reported in as much detail as we’re used to getting. The theory is that bird flu is mutating so quickly that eventually it’ll jump to humans. We know Shaw was working on a strain that would be highly contagious.”

  “And just how would she accomplish that?”

  “By making it airborne. Right now, for humans to get infected they’d need to handle a sick bird or be in direct contact with the bird’s blood or droppings. But if Shaw was able to make the virus airborne, all that changes. It could easily spread from birds to humans, then from human to human. We could have a mess on our hands.”

  O’Dell let that sink in, then asked, “If you had to guess, how long would you say it would take for the lungs to be in an advanced stage?”

  “A week. Ten days at the most. Why? What are you thinking?”

  She gestured him over to take a look. “Seems like a lot of sightseeing for a guy who’s already coughing up blood.”

  O’Dell watched Platt’s face through the face mask as his eyes examined the contents of the wastebasket.

  “You don’t look surprised.”

  “It’s what we suspected,” he finally said. “Actually, it’s what we feared.”

  “Would have been helpful if you had shared those suspicions.”

  “They were just that—suspicions.”

  Probably classified suspicions, but she didn’t say that. This was a touchy subject, one that had caused a major rift in their friendship. Last fall when they worked together during the North Carolina mudslides, Platt had withheld information. There were details he’d argued were classified and he could only share on a need-to-know basis. Not knowing some of that “classified” information had almost gotten her killed. She had hoped things would be different now.

  “We have to be careful with this,” he told her when he recognized her irritation. “Unwarranted suspicions trigger alarms. We can’t have the media and the public in a panic.”

  “I’m not the media, Ben, and I’m not the public. You and Roger Bix are going to have to trust me.”

  “Of course we trust you.”

  “I’m the one who’s supposed to be tracking Shaw. So let me get this straight. You suspect that Dr. Shaw might not have just infected this man, but she sent him out to infect others? Like a suicide bomber, only with a virus instead of shrapnel?”

  Platt met her eyes, waited a beat, and said, “Yes.”

  9

  NEW YORK CITY

  Christina Lomax stood in the hotel atrium looking out at the street. The watchers had slipped a handwritten note under her hotel room door. It must have been during the two hours she’d finally slept. She hadn’t heard a thing.

  They’d told her there would always be someone watching over her to help her complete the experiment. But she never saw them. They were like ghosts. Once yesterday she thought she had seen a reflection behind her in a storefront window, but when she turned no one was there. It was getting more and more difficult to tell what was real and what was fever-induced.

  They’d warned her about feeling a bit feverish off and on. And there was a reminder in today’s message. But they made it sound like it was no big deal. By now she had done enough of these experiments that she knew the discomfort was temporary. Others had made her light-headed and one even made her nauseated for two days, but every time those minor symptoms didn’t last long. Still, she was glad they’d prepared her that it might be several days of feeling bad.

  She remembered thinking at the time, how bad could it be? She’d done enough drugs early in life that she didn’t think there was much her mind and body hadn’t experienced. And although she never considered herself a fighter, she knew she was a survivor. No matter how low she had sunk in the past, she always found a way to make do . . . to survive.

  Last summer after her second divorce Christina had lived in her car for two months. When she ran out of gas money she parked at a busy shopping plaza, moving the vehicle from one corner of the lot to another. A Goodwill drop-off box was close by, as were several fast-food restaurants. She had clean clothes and half-eaten sandwiches. When you were hungry enough, Dumpster diving—or trash can diving—was far from gross, especially if you timed it right. Sometimes the discarded fries were still warm.

  The more difficult challenge was finding a way to cool off during the hot humid days. She walked through one of the huge retail stores, pretending to browse and using the bathroom. The women’s restrooms at the Home Depot were rarely used during the morning hours, allowing her time to wash her hair and brush her teeth. She’d gotten good at slipping small necessities like deodorant, toothpaste, and shampoo from th
e department store shelves into her purse. She knew where all the cameras were hidden. She even knew what shifts were lightly manned.

  Yes, she had gotten quite good at surviving.

  It had almost become a game for her. Until the night she got caught rummaging through a load of donations at the Goodwill drop-off box. She’d expected to hear police sirens. At the very least, a righteous lecture. She never in her wildest dreams expected a job offer. As it turned out, someone recognized that her skills would come in handy.

  Ever since then, the money she made from being a part of a few experiments once or twice a month was enough for her to move out of her car and into a studio apartment. But this time—this experiment was huge. Yes, she’d be sick for three to five days, but she’d make more money for those several days than she’d ever made in a year’s time.

  Now, as Christina stood in the atrium of the Grand Hyatt, she wished she could stay between the cool sheets of her king-sized bed. The fever made her head swim.

  She didn’t know New York very well, but they had told her that would make her even more convincing in her role as a tourist. They insisted what she saw as a weakness would end up being her biggest asset. And besides, the notes offered ideas of places for her to go. Yesterday the watchers had even slipped a folded map under the hotel door.

  They had, however, warned her to stay clear of law enforcement officials. That she could be arrested for loitering if she stayed in one place too long. It was best to keep moving. Not a problem. Christina didn’t trust cops, though she realized it was a leftover reaction from her rebellious drug-using days.

  As soon as she stepped outside she immediately noticed several men in military fatigues in front of Grand Central Terminal. She walked by two police cruisers. Two officers were across the street, pacing, looking, watching.

  Christina made her way to the corner and drew close enough to one of the men in fatigues to make unwanted eye contact. His face was young. She guessed he was about her son’s age. His eyes were intense. There was an energy and discipline about the way he moved.

  She raised her hand to hail a cab. The soldier was still looking her way.

  For a second or two her stomach flipped.

  He knows. How can he not?

  A taxi swerved up to the curb in front of her. She froze. She waited, expecting the young soldier to yell at her. To stop her.

  Finally she stepped forward. Out of the corner of her eye she watched him. Was he quickening his pace?

  She grabbed the taxi’s door handle and pulled the door open. Just when she thought he would start running at her, he turned on his heel and headed in the opposite direction.

  Christina slid into the backseat. A wave of relief washed over her. Only when the cabdriver stared at her did she realize she was drenched in sweat on a cool spring day.

  She gave him her destination and sat back.

  They were right. She was as good as invisible. She could relax. She was just a forty-something-year-old woman. A tourist.

  10

  CHICAGO

  Platt started pulling out each brochure, each ticket stub and flyer.

  “We’ll need to track where he’s been.”

  O’Dell couldn’t imagine the enormity of that task. Thankfully it was up to Platt and the CDC. Her job was to find whatever she could to track down and stop Shaw.

  She moved on to check the man’s duffel bag on the floor of the closet when Platt stopped her.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said.

  She turned to find him lifting a black-cased cell phone out of the wastebasket.

  O’Dell pulled an evidence bag from a pocket in her Tyvek coveralls, but Platt waved a hand at her.

  “Sorry, nothing leaves the room until we’re sure it’s not contaminated.”

  “Can I at least turn it on and take a look?”

  He thought about it for a few seconds, then handed her the phone.

  She tried to power it on. The battery was dead. Of course it was.

  After gently rifling through the duffel bag, she found a power cord and plugged the phone into a nearby outlet. Then she went back to the duffel and kneeled beside it. She kept the bag on the floor of the closet, attempting to move things around as little as possible.

  “I need to call Bix,” Platt said. “Are you okay to be in here alone?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Decon is down the hall to your left if you need to leave before I get back. Two techs are waiting to assist us.”

  She nodded and listened to him leave as she pulled out the bag’s contents item by item. Extra underwear and socks, a couple of T-shirts, a pair of jeans. Nothing out of the ordinary. Same with the zippered pockets, until she got to the last one. Tucked inside was a four-by-six photograph. The corners were frayed from being handled. She gently tugged it out, carefully pinching one of the sturdier corners.

  The photograph was of four young men in army fatigues with dusty boots and helmets. Their weapons were slung over their shoulders, their arms wrapped around one another’s backs as they posed, smiling and laughing. Behind them was a craggy rock wall.

  She flipped the photo around. Written in black marker:

  Afghanistan. Me, Jason, Colfax & Benny

  She turned the photo around again and studied the faces under the dirt and grime and the rims of the helmets. She thought she recognized one of the men, but she couldn’t place him.

  O’Dell packed all the items back into the bag, but she kept the photograph out. She took it with her as she went to check on the cell phone. This time when she pressed the On button, the faceplate came to life. A tiny yellow envelope in the corner indicated there were unread text messages. Another icon showed that several voice messages were waiting as well.

  She tapped the text messages first. As soon as she saw the name attached to the most recent one, she knew who the familiar young man in the photograph was. She hadn’t recognized Jason Seaver at first, because this photo was taken when he still had both of his arms.

  11

  FLORIDA PANHANDLE

  Creed and Jason had just gotten back from Pensacola. He wasn’t sure he had convinced the kid that his grandfather would be okay. It was a good thing that they had caught the C. diff now.

  Creed noticed the dogs’ reactions before he looked up and caught a flash of black metal moving through the tree line. Several of the dogs jumped at the fence, restless and alarmed with ears pitched forward. Noses sniffed the air. Heads turned. All of them pointed toward the driveway, a quarter-mile stretch that wound through the forest.

  His view was limited. All Creed could see were slivers of the black vehicles and glints of light reflected off the windshields. But it looked like a long caravan, reminding Creed of a funeral procession. His stomach tightened. His jaw clenched.

  This wasn’t good.

  He weighed his options.

  How long would it take to run up into his loft and get the revolver he hid underneath his mattress? The shotgun was clear across the property, locked up in the training facility. Before he had time to choose, the first SUV made the turn onto the property.

  They knew enough to drive past the two-story house and the sign that directed visitors to the K9 CrimeScents office on the first floor. But the house was also the residence for Hannah and her two young boys, and Creed felt a slight relief. It was short-lived as he watched the huge black Suburban drive up over the grass and head directly toward him and the dog kennels.

  A second followed. Then another. In minutes Creed’s front yard was filled with five identical black SUVs. Tinted windows. Shiny and new with only the dust from Creed’s driveway.

  “What the hell is this?” Jason asked.

  Creed hadn’t even heard Jason come up beside him. From the corner of his eye he saw Dr. Avelyn coming out of the clinic. He glanced at the house and hoped Hannah would stay inside. />
  “Settle,” Creed told the dogs, keeping his voice calm.

  The dogs stayed quiet but the tension was easily visible. Tails stayed down. Hair at the back of the neck stood on end. Eyes were locked. Ears were still pitched forward.

  Creed dug a remote from his pocket. He clicked a button preventing any of the other dogs from coming out into the yard, keeping them safe inside the kennel.

  With the engines still idling, car doors opened and men in dark suits and sunglasses sprang out with a sense of urgency. A couple of them had Kevlar vests over their suits. Three men who exited the last Suburban carried automatic rifles. The sight of them made Creed’s hands ball into fists. The panic in his gut was quickly replaced with an instinct to fight and protect.

  “Son of a bitch,” Jason muttered under his breath. “Who the hell are these guys?”

  One of the Kevlar-vest guys started walking toward them, and Creed finally recognized the man.

  “I must have missed your phone call,” Creed called out to the man. “What’s going on, Agent Tabor?”

  “It’s best if everyone stays calm, Mr. Creed. We just need your cooperation.”

  “It’s hard to stay calm when you come onto my property without warning or an invitation.”

  “This is official government business.”

  “Did I forget to pay some sort of tax?” Creed tried to keep his voice casual for the dogs. When Tabor didn’t answer, Creed asked, “What’s this about?”

  “Those birds you bagged. I understand they may be carriers of a deadly virus.”

  Tabor hadn’t seen Creed bag up the dead robins. Sheriff Wylie must have told him. By now, Dr. Avelyn had joined Creed and Jason.

  “I have them sealed and isolated,” she said. “I can get them for you.”

  But Tabor didn’t seem interested in what she was saying. He waved at someone and more car doors opened. The four men who exited this vehicle wore white jumpsuits with surgical masks dangling at their necks. They crossed to the back of their SUV, opened the tailgate, and started pulling out equipment.