Reckless Creed Page 7

  “Is it what Dr. Shaw was working on?”

  “A bit different. Roger thinks she altered it, trying to make it airborne, just as we suspected.”

  “So was Tony Briggs a test run?”

  “Briggs and possibly others.”

  “You said that before. If you and Roger have information that I don’t have about—”

  Platt held up his hands in surrender. “Hold on, Maggie. I told you, we don’t know anything for sure. Just supposition. The FBI’s been tasked with finding Shaw. You’ll have to trust us. It’s up to the CDC and USAMRIID to be prepared for what she might be doing with the viruses she stole.”

  “You’re wrong, Ben. Motive is just as important in tracking a killer as knowing physical characteristics and last known whereabouts.”

  “We’ve only been speculating about her motive.”

  “Well, do me a favor and include me in those speculations from now on.”

  He nodded as his eyes glanced at the booth across from them, and only then did O’Dell realize how obvious her irritation was. Forget irritation, she was still angry with him. At one time they were beyond colleagues and friends, on the fringes of a real relationship. Or at least the closest she’d gotten to one since her divorce.

  “Tell me what else Bix knows,” she said, poking a fork at her salad instead of meeting his eyes.

  “His team is checking area hospitals and urgent care centers. Unfortunately most of the early symptoms that we know of are similar to the traditional flu.”

  “How serious could this be?”

  “You were exposed to Ebola, so you know how deadly that virus is.” His eyes met hers. “But Ebola spreads through contact with an infected person’s bodily fluids. Unless someone with the virus gets on a plane, there’s no way for it to travel. Now consider a virus just as deadly. The bird flu is spread by migratory birds.”

  Platt glanced around, planted his elbows on the table, and leaned toward her so she’d be able to hear his quiet voice despite the restaurant noise.

  “If Shaw has succeeded in making it airborne, she’d need very few carriers like Tony Briggs. You said you wanted to be in on our speculations. Well, look at it this way—all she’d need to do is figure out how to infect flocks of birds. That would be one way to spread the virus across the country and do so very quickly. If she’s successful”—and Platt paused as his eyes scanned the surroundings—“if she’s successful, then we could have a pandemic on our hands.”

  18

  In China,” Platt explained, “people contracted the bird flu by actually handling infected birds. I think the mortality rate was around fifty-five percent. In 2013 there was a new strain, H7N9. It’s so genetically unstable that since then, there have been forty-eight subtypes found. It’s a good example of how the bird flu is able to swap genes with other flus, not just to survive but to get stronger. If it does that in nature, can you imagine what we’d have with a hybrid strain created specifically to infect humans? And if there’s a way to make it airborne and transfer from birds to humans, then human to human . . .”

  “What about a vaccine?” O’Dell asked. “Surely the CDC has been working on something.”

  “They’ve stockpiled a vaccine for H5N1. But it might be useless. The virus mutates quickly. The best way to create an effective vaccine is to reverse engineer the actual virus that you’re trying to protect against. But we need to have that specific virus first.”

  “So if Bix can isolate several victims that have been infected, will he be able to do that? Create a specific vaccine for this one? Isn’t that what the CDC does with the common flu?”

  “Yes, but it could take months. Seasonal flu vaccines cause antibodies to develop within our bodies about two weeks after the shot is received. The antibodies provide protection against infection caused from viruses that are included in the vaccine.”

  “And how do they know what viruses to include? Surely seasonal flus are different from one year to the next.”

  “Yes, that’s true. They use available research that indicates which ones will be most common for the upcoming season.”

  O’Dell raised an eyebrow.

  “I know, it sounds like a crapshoot—but you did not hear that from me. So imagine trying to do that with a new virus that might even mutate by the time you’ve created the new vaccine. This is one of the trickiest. That’s why it could be so dangerous. I can’t even tell you how many millions of dollars and valuable hours have been spent on vaccines that are too little, too late.”

  Platt kept looking up at one of the big-screen TVs. She knew he was watching for breaking news despite all the precautions they’d taken to keep this under wraps.

  “You can’t keep this quiet for much longer,” O’Dell said. “People need to know or else they’ll think they just have the regular flu.”

  Platt’s eyes darted around again. “That’s Roger’s call.”

  She sat back and let out a frustrated sigh.

  “Listen,” Platt continued, his eyes intense, and she saw his frustration. “Hurricane Katrina taught us the need to be faster and quicker in evacuating cities. But we still have no idea how to quarantine an entire city. I have to trust Roger Bix and the CDC on this one, because I’m the guy who’s used to looking at these situations from behind a microscope back at USAMRIID’s labs.”

  His eyes returned to the big-screen television as if he didn’t want to witness any more of her skepticism. O’Dell knew he was also watching the news crawl.

  She took the opportunity to study him. He hadn’t changed. He was still handsome, with thoughtful intelligent eyes. He wore his hair military short. His clothes always fit him like a glove. Whether he was wearing a uniform or jeans and a sweatshirt, like tonight, he looked polished and professional. He moved with discipline and precision so that everything he did appeared to be a skilled process. Even the way he opened a bottle of ketchup—first giving it a side turn, then a slap on the bottom with the palm of his hand before he turned the lid with two long fingers, a surgeon’s fingers.

  He caught her watching.

  “What?”

  “Just waiting for the ketchup,” she lied, then thanked him when he finished and handed it to her.

  “Is there anything in your investigation of Shaw to lead you to believe she could still be in the Chicago area?” Platt asked. “Why did she choose Chicago? I understand Briggs is from Florida, right?”

  “Pensacola.” She had searched out all that information as soon as she knew the victim’s name. “He had a layover of one hour and twenty minutes in Atlanta. Roger must have a team checking out the exposure there?”

  Platt nodded and picked up his hamburger.

  “I’m coming late to the game,” Platt told her in between bites. “He called me late yesterday afternoon and asked me to be here when he realized this could be Shaw’s bird flu. The fact that Briggs flew here makes the contamination a much larger scope. It’s not just the people he came in contact with at the airport but every passenger and member of the crew on both those flights.”

  “When does an infected person become contagious?”

  “Again, we know very little about the bird flu in humans. To be safe we have to assume that with this strain someone infected may be contagious immediately. Is it possible Briggs met Shaw in Pensacola?”

  “It’s more likely that she has someone recruiting for her, because we haven’t found a trace of her since she disappeared. Pensacola could be the best clue so far. It could mean she’s still in the Southeast. What would she need to be able to do this?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She took one sample from the North Carolina facility. Even I know that can’t possibly be enough to start an epidemic, right? What would she need to create more virus? I’m guessing it’s not like meth where all you need is a trailer or a garage and no nosy neighbors.”

 
“She would need a laboratory to grow more. It wouldn’t need to be elaborate, but in order to protect herself from exposure, the lab or suite of labs would have to provide the isolation and adequate containment for a Level 4 pathogen.”

  “What about another research facility?” she asked. “The one in North Carolina worked off the grid with little oversight.”

  “A lot of them do, especially those associated with DARPA. But surely you’ve already checked that route?”

  “We did, but there’s no way to even locate all of them. There’s no registry, and in some cases, no federal regulation. I’ve talked to scientists who’ve worked with Shaw at other labs, but that was a dead end. The FBI put out alerts. She’s wanted for suspicion of murder. If anyone risks taking her in they’d be harboring a fugitive.”

  “Has DARPA been cooperating?” Platt asked.

  The director was a mentor and friend of Platt’s. Colonel Abraham Hess was such a legend that even a barrage of congressional hearings last fall couldn’t put a dent in his reputation.

  “Hess will only talk to AD Kunze,” O’Dell told him. Kunze was her boss at the FBI, and he was a political animal who sometimes was too concerned about his own reputation with D.C. elites. “He’s been very willing to provide any information I need, only it seems to take forever for his staff to get it to me.”

  Platt shook his head. She knew he didn’t like having to defend the man and for the moment, he didn’t bother to try.

  They finished their dinner. Platt ordered a Scotch. O’Dell declined to join him. Told him she had some phone calls to make and excused herself for the evening.

  She shared the elevator ride with three people. One was a dark-haired young man she recognized from the booth across from her and Platt. He didn’t glance at her, keeping his eyes glued to the ascending numbers above the elevator doors, almost as if he were trying hard not to look at any of the other passengers.

  She got off on her floor and the young man followed, but when she turned right to go down her hallway, he turned left. At her door she looked to see him still walking. But at the sound of her keycard’s bleep, she noticed—out of the corner of her eye—that he glanced over his shoulder.

  O’Dell went inside her room, held the door handle so it didn’t click shut, and then waited and listened. She eased the door open without making a sound. She peeked out just in time to see the young man turn the corner, headed back to the elevators.

  She listened for the ding of the elevator’s arrival, waited for the swish of the doors to open, then close. Then she hurried down the hallway.

  Above each elevator, digital numbers showed the floors as the elevator descended or ascended. There was only one in motion at the moment. It was headed back down.

  19

  O’Dell pulled out her cell phone.

  Perhaps it was a coincidence that the young man had gotten out on the wrong floor. After all, hotel floors all looked the same. The only problem was that she didn’t believe in coincidences.

  Platt answered on the second ring.

  “Are you still at the restaurant?” she asked him.

  “Just left.”

  “There was a young man in the booth across from us,” she said as she watched the elevator continue down without stopping. “Dark hair. Wearing jeans and a blue shirt. He’s going to be getting off the elevator in the lobby in the few seconds. Can you get a picture of him, then see where he goes?”

  He didn’t question her. Instead, all he said was “I’ll call you back.”

  It was twenty minutes later—what felt like an hour—when Platt called.

  “He was on his phone when he stepped out of the elevator,” Platt told her. “Picked up a suitcase from the concierge. He’s in a cab now. Looks like he’s headed to O’Hare.”

  “How do you know he’s going to the airport?”

  “Because I’m in a cab right behind him. I remember him from the restaurant. I thought he looked too interested in our conversation. You think he’s part of this?”

  “I don’t know. He followed me up to my floor. Pretended to go the other direction like he was going to his room, but as soon as I got inside mine he headed back to the elevators.”

  “He wanted to see what room you’re staying in. Maybe you need to get a different room.”

  “I’m sure I’ll be okay. I can certainly protect myself. It’s not in anyone’s best interest to start killing off investigators.”

  “Unless the investigator is getting too close.”

  “We can’t get paranoid. What are they going to do? Push me off the balcony?” She was trying to make light of the situation. She didn’t want Platt worrying.

  “Do you think someone pushed Briggs?”

  “It’s possible. Ben, relax. You’re following the only person we think might be a threat.”

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Room service.”

  O’Dell started across the room to answer the door.

  “He wasn’t alone in that booth in the restaurant,” Platt said.

  She stopped suddenly.

  “What’s wrong?” Platt asked when she paused too long.

  “I didn’t order room service. I’ll call you back.” She ended the call before he could protest.

  She grabbed her Glock from the closet. Through the peephole she examined the man dressed like the waiters in the restaurant. She tried to remember the other man from the booth. She was certain this one was older, stockier with thinning hair.

  Yet she couldn’t help but remember another room service tray delivered to her hotel door years ago in Kansas City. It was the kind of thing that set off alarms in her head. Something she’d never forget. A killer had left a victim’s spleen splayed on a porcelain plate and tucked neatly under the stainless steel lid.

  With her weapon down at her side O’Dell opened the door but only as wide as the chain would allow.

  “I didn’t order room service,” she told him.

  Flustered, the man flipped open the receipt wallet and his eyes darted to the room number.

  “My apologies, ma’am. I do indeed have the wrong room. I’m so sorry to have disturbed you.” Embarrassed, he turned and quickly pushed the cart down the hall.

  She waited and listened for him to knock on another door, but instead, she heard the elevator open, the clank of the cart, and the swoosh of doors closing. Was it odd that he’d get not just the room number wrong but the floor wrong as well?

  Her cell phone was ringing. It was Platt—impatient. Though when she answered he sounded only concerned.

  “What’s happening?”

  “Wrong room.” She left it at that even though the knot in her stomach refused to quit twisting.

  “This guy’s heading back to Atlanta.”

  “How can you know that?”

  “I stood beside him at the self-serve kiosk while he printed out his boarding pass. I could see it on the screen. It could mean that he’s a part of this.”

  “Did he look sick?” she asked.

  “No, but—”

  “Ben, there’s no evidence he’s a part of this.”

  Usually she could count on her gut instinct, but maybe she really was just being paranoid. Being in that hazmat gear had triggered not just memories but that helpless feeling of not fully being in control. Killers she could handle, but invisible viruses were a whole different threat.

  “I could at least have him detained,” Platt offered.

  “On what grounds? Getting off the elevator on the wrong floor? I don’t think that’s wise. Were you able to get a photo of him?”

  “I did. I’ll text it to you before I head back.”

  “Great! I can run it by Agent Alonzo and see if anything comes up. Thanks.”

  “Maggie.”

  “Yes?”

  “Just be carefu
l, okay?”

  She assured him that she would and that everything was fine. As soon as she hung up she called down to the front desk and asked for a different room.

  20

  FLORIDA PANHANDLE

  Creed handed Jason another beer over the countertop that separated his kitchen from his living room.

  “Maybe I just don’t want to believe Tony would do something like this without me,” Jason said.

  His eyes darted to Creed’s, looking for judgment, checking to see if Creed might think it odd that friends would share suicide. That Jason would be disappointed that his friend didn’t include him.

  Creed shrugged and asked, “How long you guys been friends?”

  He was relieved when Jason started telling him how he and Tony had been best friends since grade school.

  “We actually didn’t have much in common. Even in sixth grade Tony had girls fawning all over him,” Jason said. “I was a bookworm. He was the athlete. I helped him study and pass tests, and he helped me figure out how to get girls and not get clobbered in football.”

  Creed couldn’t relate. He’d never had a friendship like that in grade school or high school. He was fourteen when his sister Brodie disappeared. He couldn’t even remember what life was like before that. For many years it hurt too much to think about it. It seemed wrong to think of happier days when he had no idea what was happening to his sister.

  He watched Jason as he talked. The kid was actually smiling.

  “Tony was the one who wanted to sign up for the army. I didn’t give it a second thought,” Jason said. “Of course I was going, too. The recruiter made sure that we trained together and shipped out together.”

  Something crossed Jason’s mind, and Creed saw the smile fall almost as if a shadow had passed by. His hand went to the stub of his arm and started rubbing.

  “He told me he felt like it was his fault. Me losing my arm. Just because he talked me into signing up. And yet, he came back with his own problems. Yeah, sure, his body looks okay. Not like Colfax with his glass eye and Frankenstein scars, or Benny with both legs sliced off above the kneecaps. Hell, compared to those two, I even feel lucky. But Tony . . . he came back looking normal, but his mind hasn’t been right since Afghanistan.”