Exposed (Maggie O'Dell), Page 9

  “So you think burglars are in the habit of bringing teenagers along?”

  “Teenager? To me she looks like a pretty young woman.”

  He smiled up at Tully, obviously unaware that Emma was his daughter. Tully flexed his hands, kept them from balling up into fists. It was the wrong thing for Morrelli to say. “You’ve already pissed me off, Morrelli. You’re lucky you’re not kissing concrete right now.”

  “Did something happen to Maggie?” Morrelli’s eyes were suddenly serious. Maybe he finally sensed Tully’s anger was real.

  “She’s fine, Morrelli. She’s out of town for the weekend. That’s all.”

  Morrelli looked past Tully’s shoulder.

  Tully glanced back and then spun around to find Emma with Harvey pulling her on his leash, coming up the sidewalk.

  “Is everything okay, Dad?”

  CHAPTER

  25

  USAMRIID

  Colonel Benjamin Platt rubbed both hands over his face, stopping to dig the heels into his eyes then raking his fingers over his short cropped hair. It didn’t do much good. He was exhausted. His vision was still a bit blurry from staring at the monitors and computer screens for the last several hours. He sat back in the rolling leather chair and twirled it around to look in through the glass wall.

  Thankfully she had fallen asleep about an hour ago. What a nightmare this must be for her. To have a spaceman come into her home and take her mom away in a plastic bubble. Then to be brought here. The Slammer tended to freak out even the most stable people. It was bad enough to be locked in but worse being poked and prodded by doctors in space suits. There had been plenty of studies done on the psychological effect of human contact, human touch and, of course, the psychological effect of its absence. The Slammer proved most of those studies to the extreme.

  Still, they couldn’t justify taking her to a civilian hospital where a child would be much more comfortable. They couldn’t risk exposing hospital personnel who simply would not be trained to deal with something like this. And, of course, they couldn’t risk the exposure to the media. Platt knew that was, in part, Janklow’s reasoning. His directive had been quite clear.

  Platt gulped what was left in his coffee mug despite it being bitter and lukewarm. He couldn’t remember when he had eaten last. He rubbed at his eyes again. No matter how hard he tried he could not stop thinking about Ali. Mary Louise triggered something inside him and his exhaustion wasn’t allowing him to shut it down. The little girl’s big, blue, curious eyes and long tangle of curls reminded him so much of his daughter. What was worse than the memory was the physical ache. He still missed her and it surprised him how much. It had been almost five years. More years had passed since she was gone than the years that she had been in his life.

  He was in Afghanistan when it happened. He had left only months before, leaving behind a loving wife, a beautiful daughter and starting a promising new career as an Army doctor. He knew how dangerous it would be but exciting, too, because he was one of the chosen few who would protect the troops against biological weapons. It was considered a heroic mission and after 9/11 it felt like a worthy obligation. It was a chance to put to use all his textbook knowledge, to try experiments in the field what had only been proven in the labs. To save lives.

  He had been willing to take the risks for himself, totally unaware that the real danger was back at home. He would have given up all his so-called valuable knowledge, his golden opportunity to have just a few more minutes with his precious Ali, to be there with her. Even if it was just to hold her hand before she was gone forever. But someone else had made that decision for him, had decided what was more important, had denied him that small wish.

  A knock at the door startled him. The door opened behind him and Platt spun around to find Sergeant Landis.

  “Sir, I have that information you requested.”

  “You found something?” He said “something” when he really hoped Landis had found someone.

  “There is no father listed on the birth certificate,” Landis cut to the chase.

  “How about grandparents?”

  “A grandmother. Lives in Richmond. The grandfather is recently deceased.”

  He handed Platt a folded piece of paper. Knowing Landis, Platt expected to find more than enough information, probably more than he needed.

  “One problem, sir,” Landis stood in front of him, unfolding a second piece of paper, “Commander Janklow left a message for you a few minutes ago. He said—” and Landis read from the paper “‘—under no uncertain terms is Colonel Platt to call any relatives of any of the contained victims before Monday morning. We need to know what it is we’re dealing with first.’”

  Landis handed Platt the note but remained standing in front of him as if waiting to be dismissed or perhaps awaiting further instruction.

  Platt took the paper and tapped its folded corner against the desk. He glanced back into the little girl’s room and his eyes swept back over the monitors and computer screens that continued to blink and click and gather data.

  When Janklow assigned him this mission he told him it was in Platt’s hands, he expected them to be steady, unflinching hands that would do what was necessary, whatever he—meaning Platt—deemed necessary. But then Janklow insisted McCathy be included. Now this.

  Janklow had assigned Platt the mission because he knew Platt was a play-by-the-numbers, follow-all-orders, dot-all-the-i’s kind of leader. And yet, Janklow didn’t trust him.

  “Do you have kids, Sergeant Landis?”

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  “Kids. Do you and your wife have any?”

  “Two boys, sir.” Landis was staring at him now, more curious than confused. Platt never asked personal questions.

  “What time does your shift end, Sergeant?”

  Landis didn’t need to look at his wristwatch. “About an hour ago, sir.”

  “Go on home to your wife and your boys, Sergeant.”

  “Sir?” Now he looked confused, almost uncertain as to whether he should leave his boss who was acting strangely. “Is there anything else you need me to do?”

  “No, you’ve given me everything I need.” Platt waved the first piece of paper Landis had handed him to indicate this was all he needed. The thought of Mary Louise being alone until Monday tied a knot in Platt’s gut. She’d already been alone for how many days?

  Sergeant Landis left, making room for Dr. Sophie Drummond’s arrival.

  “Sir, sorry to interrupt.” She stayed in the doorway until he nodded. “Agent O’Dell has been asking to talk with you.”

  “Restless and uncooperative so soon?”

  “Very cooperative. Maybe a bit spooked.”

  “Slammeritis?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Any word from McCathy?”

  “Not yet.”

  He nodded again and she slipped back out the door.

  Not hearing from McCathy set Platt on edge. If McCathy was working by process of elimination then he should have already ruled out the worst. Not knowing churned up acid to eat away at the knots in Platt’s stomach. He knew all too well what Agent O’Dell must be feeling.

  CHAPTER

  26

  Artie closed up the second plastic, Ziploc bag. He couldn’t help but smile. For the last three weeks he had followed instructions by the letter. He didn’t mind. That’s what you did when you were an apprentice, a foot soldier, a student. You expected the sorcerer, the general, the teacher to call the shots and you were grateful to serve at the hand of a great one. But at some point Artie believed a great mentor would want him to show off what he’d learned.

  Artie had caught on early what the “game” was even though he hadn’t been privy to the “game plan” or the “endgame.” He could see the pieces of the puzzle falling into place. The idea was brilliant, truly awe-inspiring and he wanted to be more than just a pawn. He needed to show that he could contribute.

  Ever since he was thirteen he had dreamed of th
e perfect crime, plotting it out in his mind. He loved true-crime novels, devouring them in one sitting, committing the details to memory, highlighting and dog-earing the pages. His mom thought it was “so cool” that her son enjoyed reading, paying no attention to what it was he was reading.

  He still carried around several of his favorite paperbacks in his backpack, what he believed to be an assortment of brilliant crimes and the masters behind them. They included the Unabomber, the Anthrax Killer, the Beltway Snipers and the Zodiac. The worn paperbacks had become handbooks, prized manuals. He figured he had learned more from studying them than he could learn from any one person.

  He set the two plastic bags side by side before sliding them into their manila envelopes. The two looked like all the others. The only difference was that each of them contained five-hundred dollars instead of a thousand. The stacks of five hundred was just as thick as the thousand-dollar stack. A brilliant substitute. Only recently Artie realized he could use fifty ten-dollar bills instead of fifty twenty-dollar bills. The stack would be just as enticing. How could the recipient not be tempted to open the bag, if only to count all those bills?

  By splitting the money Artie could send one of his own packages for every “official” one he sent for his mentor. He’d use the same rules of the game. And he had plenty of the virus. A tiny, almost invisible droplet inserted anywhere between the bills was all that was needed. It didn’t take much. Sealed in the airtight, dry plastic the virus remained dormant, waiting for moist, warm human contact. All it took was some point of entry—a cut, an eye, up the nose, at the lips, behind a raw cuticle. He wasn’t exactly sure how it worked. That hadn’t been part of his job. He did know that if it hit its bull’s-eye it was as good as a bullet. Better, actually, because it left no trace. The perfect weapon. Virtually invisible.

  For his first package, his first “perfect” kill, Artie had followed in his mentor’s footsteps, choosing one of his favorite crimes and an address connected to it: Benjamin Tasker Middle School in Prince George’s County, Maryland. On Monday, October 7, the Beltway Snipers shot their youngest victim, a thirteen-year-old on his way to school, practically on the front steps. The boy survived, unlike ten of the other thirteen victims. Also unlike the others, Artie found it daring, bold and totally unpredictable to shoot a kid. So Artie wanted to do something just as daring. If you wanted to spread a deadly virus, where better to start than in a school?

  Pleased with himself and satisfied with the two bags, Artie slipped them into their envelopes then began the cleanup process. He hated the smell of bleach but he used it to spray and wipe all surfaces. The smell lingered in his nostrils. Though he was diligent about giving himself a shot every time, he never failed to use a skin decontaminate. The military M291 resin kits had six individual decontamination pads. The dry, black resin powder was designed to show up any contamination spots. He was told it was the best universal liquid skin decon that the military had.

  Yet, that wasn’t quite enough for Artie. After the resin, he still mixed fresh .05 percent hypochlorite solution with an alkaline pH and washed his hands again, up to the elbows. He had read in one of his paperbacks that the solution had been used by the military before the M291 resin kits, all the way back to WWII. Artie figured it was an extra safeguard, another one of those things his mentor would expect of him—to do his own research and take his own precautions.

  In the small bathroom/supply closet he changed from his scrubs back to his street clothes, bagging all of it, including the paper face mask and shoe covers. He’d toss them in the parking lot’s Dumpster. No need to clean them. The closet was filled with an endless supply.

  He left the lab, feeling excited and…What was the word? A few monkeys still screeched down the hall, but now Artie ignored them. His step was lighter, almost a strut. For the first time in his life he felt…And then the word came to him. He felt powerful.

  CHAPTER

  27

  Reston, Virginia

  Emma needed to get some sleep. It was late by the time she and her dad got home. He was so mad at Maggie’s friend, Nick Morrelli, that Emma could see the vein in his forehead throbbing. That same vein she thought only she could set vibrating. It’d been a long time since she’d seen her dad that upset. And the poor guy, a real hottie, had only been delivering flowers to Maggie, wanting to see her and then suspicious when he saw someone else going into her home.

  Emma thought it was all so totally romantic.

  She checked down the hallway to make sure all the lights were out then she closed the bedroom door. Harvey stretched out on the floor beside her bed. He looked up at her and she whispered, “It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Maggie had once told Emma about how she had found Harvey under a neighbor’s bed, bloodied and injured, having fought hard to protect his master but loosing the fight. Now the dog was very protective of Maggie. When Emma took care of him that protective instinct extended to her, which Emma thought was very cool.

  She petted him and crawled back into bed. She made one last attempt to invite him up with her. He stretched out on the floor instead and Emma pulled out the pile of letters from under the covers. Just one more, she promised herself.

  September 2, 1982

  Dear Liney,

  Thanks for the long letter. Razzy and J.B. are jealous. I have that goofy photo strip of the two of us. Remember the one from the photo booth at the mall? I put it up to remind them how jealous they should be.

  It’s been a tough week. I’m sore from the obstacle course. Think I might have pulled my shoulder. Don’t get me wrong, I’m in great physical shape. Guess I have my dad to thank for that. Lifting all those crates probably helped. Though I’d never admit that to him. Sounds like he’s still bellyaching to my mom that I should be home. The bastard’s finally realizing how much of the workload I did. Wait until inventory. Then he’ll really be bitching. Maybe he’ll make my precious baby sister do something for a change. Though I doubt it. Wouldn’t want to get calluses on those precious musician fingers.

  Sorry, I don’t mean to get off on that, but reminding myself of that hellhole actually helps me get through the tough load here. Thinking about you helps, too, but in a good way. A real good way if you know what I mean. I think about the good stuff and good times. I’ve been thinking about you taking me to the Art Institute this summer. Of all places. Me in an art gallery. And a Vatican art show at that. You’re going to be a famous artist someday, Liney. Just you wait and see. If I say it’s gonna happen it will.

  We have the night off. Razzy rented one of those video players. He and J.B. picked out a couple of movies. One I can’t wait to see. A guy flick called Mad Max. I can smell the butter and the popcorn. Better go or they’ll eat it all. I’ll write more later, I promise.

  Yours truly,

  Indy

  She couldn’t resist looking at the next one. It was dated only a day later. She unfolded it gently, almost reverently. There was something so romantic about the idea that he couldn’t wait to write…that he needed to write to her every day.

  September 3, 1982

  Dear Liney,

  We have our first case. It’s homework but it’s a real case. Pretty exciting stuff. I’m not supposed to be discussing it with anyone other than my classmates, but it’s not like you’re going to tell anyone, right? In May a guy sent a bomb to Vanderbilt University. Sent it in the mail via the good old post office. Can you believe it? Actually it was forwarded. Even had insufficient postage, so they’re wondering if maybe the target might have been the bogus return address. Pretty interesting stuff.

  On July 2 another bomb showed up in a faculty lounge at Berkeley. We’re thinking it’s the same guy though this one was left there, not sent. We’re…Listen to me. I’m already considering myself one of them. Anyway, the bombs look like an amateur with a lot of scrap. They were calling him the Junkyard Bomber. Now they’ve got a new name for him, an acronym, but I probably shouldn’t be telling you.

 
; We get to put together the profile from the evidence. They think the same guy might be responsible for a series of bombs going back to ’78. Can you believe that? 1978 and they haven’t caught the guy yet. I already have a pretty good idea for my profile. Razzy and J.B. are all hot to discuss it, but I’m not going to share my ideas. Why should I, right? Let them figure it out on their own.

  So I’m sure everyone is figuring the guy is a loner with a grudge against either Vanderbilt or universities in general. Maybe he got expelled as a student or fired as a professor. But I think there’s a lot more to him. You can’t argue that he’s got to be smart, right? Maybe he uses scraps to throw off investigators. How do you track down pieces of wood or regular shingle nails? It’s hard not to admire someone who can put together something like this and not get caught.

  I’ll let you in on more details tomorrow. I’m totally wiped out tonight.

  Until tomorrow…Hey, did I tell you I miss you?

  Indy

  CHAPTER

  28

  The Slammer

  Unable to sleep, Maggie paced. Her room was sixteen paces wide and fourteen paces deep except where the bathroom jutted out into the room, which was three paces wide and six paces deep.