Exposed (43 page)

USAMRIID

She should have prepared herself.

“He’s getting a treatment,” Platt told her as he led her through the cinder-block hallways.

Maggie had dressed back in her street clothes. It was amazing how something that simple could feel so good. She had to leave behind the purple-flowered jacket. It had been confiscated early on because of Mary Louise’s vomit. A splatter on her sleeve. The one thing that separated Maggie’s fate from Cunningham’s.

Funny how life was, Maggie thought. As an FBI agent she had come face-to-face with killers, been sliced on, shot at and left for dead in a freezer. But she never would have guessed that life or death could depend on her proximity to a little girl’s vomit.

“How is Mary Louise?” she asked Platt as they continued through the maze of hallways. She didn’t expect any details. He’d already made it clear none of the others’ conditions were something he would discuss.

“She’s good,” he said, glancing back at her. “So far.”

They came to the end of a hallway and he punched in a code then slid a key card through the designated slot. This time the hiss of the air-lock door didn’t make Maggie’s stomach plunge. Platt stopped with his hand on the door handle and looked back at Maggie again. She caught his apprehension.

“You’re not used to seeing him like this,” Platt warned her.

Maggie figured Platt was an Army colonel. It was part of his job to make things sound more dramatic, to take everything at its most serious level. He had to overcompensate especially in life-or-death matters.

She followed him into the viewing room and immediately noticed that all the monitors and equipment were humming, flashing, beeping a steady rhythm. She stayed away from the glass wall that separated this room from the small hospital room. She tried not to draw the attention of the two spacemen working inside the room. They were hanging IVs, double bags, one clear liquid, another possibly blood or plasma. Maggie couldn’t tell, either way, there were enough tubes to warrant something serious. And there was the equipment. Though she couldn’t hear the hiss or whirl or beeps, she saw one of the spacemen pushing buttons on machines and monitors and could see their correspondence to some of the computer screens in the dark outside room where she and Platt stood.

At first Maggie concentrated on the spacemen and their smooth, deliberate movements. They worked together seamlessly, not at all encumbered by the suits but almost as if in slow motion. It was like watching the Discovery Channel, only with the sound muted.

One of the spacemen went to the other side of the room and then Maggie saw the man in the bed.

She didn’t recognize him at first. His salt-and-pepper hair looked thin, his face pasty white. His eyes were closed. Tubes ran from his arms and nose to the equipment beside the bed. He looked smaller than his six-foot athletic frame. Smaller and so vulnerable. She stared at him, watching for something that would connect this helpless figure to her energetic boss.

“Mary Louise hasn’t broken with any of the symptoms.” Platt startled her. She had forgotten he was standing right beside her. “The virus may have been lying dormant inside her. It’s difficult to understand, sometimes almost impossible to explain. It’s a parasite, jumping from host to host, completely destroying one while only traveling in others. It may never show up in her. Just like you.”

They stood there silently for what seemed a long time. Maggie swore she could hear her own breathing, a vibrating force inside a wind tunnel that sounded like staggered gasps. She had to be imagining it. Maybe it was simply one of the machines.

“But Cunningham isn’t so lucky?” she finally said, glancing at Platt. He was looking straight ahead. “He already has symptoms?” And this came in a whisper she hardly recognized as her own. Maybe she was having problems breathing.

“Yes,” he said.

“You’ve already seen it? In his blood?”

Hesitation. A long enough pause that she had to look over at him, again. This time he let her have his eyes and she saw it there before he said, “Yes.”

USAMRIID

She should have prepared herself.

“He’s getting a treatment,” Platt told her as he led her through the cinder-block hallways.

Maggie had dressed back in her street clothes. It was amazing how something that simple could feel so good. She had to leave behind the purple-flowered jacket. It had been confiscated early on because of Mary Louise’s vomit. A splatter on her sleeve. The one thing that separated Maggie’s fate from Cunningham’s.

Funny how life was, Maggie thought. As an FBI agent she had come face-to-face with killers, been sliced on, shot at and left for dead in a freezer. But she never would have guessed that life or death could depend on her proximity to a little girl’s vomit.

“How is Mary Louise?” she asked Platt as they continued through the maze of hallways. She didn’t expect any details. He’d already made it clear none of the others’ conditions were something he would discuss.

“She’s good,” he said, glancing back at her. “So far.”

They came to the end of a hallway and he punched in a code then slid a key card through the designated slot. This time the hiss of the air-lock door didn’t make Maggie’s stomach plunge. Platt stopped with his hand on the door handle and looked back at Maggie again. She caught his apprehension.

“You’re not used to seeing him like this,” Platt warned her.

Maggie figured Platt was an Army colonel. It was part of his job to make things sound more dramatic, to take everything at its most serious level. He had to overcompensate especially in life-or-death matters.

She followed him into the viewing room and immediately noticed that all the monitors and equipment were humming, flashing, beeping a steady rhythm. She stayed away from the glass wall that separated this room from the small hospital room. She tried not to draw the attention of the two spacemen working inside the room. They were hanging IVs, double bags, one clear liquid, another possibly blood or plasma. Maggie couldn’t tell, either way, there were enough tubes to warrant something serious. And there was the equipment. Though she couldn’t hear the hiss or whirl or beeps, she saw one of the spacemen pushing buttons on machines and monitors and could see their correspondence to some of the computer screens in the dark outside room where she and Platt stood.

At first Maggie concentrated on the spacemen and their smooth, deliberate movements. They worked together seamlessly, not at all encumbered by the suits but almost as if in slow motion. It was like watching the Discovery Channel, only with the sound muted.

One of the spacemen went to the other side of the room and then Maggie saw the man in the bed.

She didn’t recognize him at first. His salt-and-pepper hair looked thin, his face pasty white. His eyes were closed. Tubes ran from his arms and nose to the equipment beside the bed. He looked smaller than his six-foot athletic frame. Smaller and so vulnerable. She stared at him, watching for something that would connect this helpless figure to her energetic boss.

“Mary Louise hasn’t broken with any of the symptoms.” Platt startled her. She had forgotten he was standing right beside her. “The virus may have been lying dormant inside her. It’s difficult to understand, sometimes almost impossible to explain. It’s a parasite, jumping from host to host, completely destroying one while only traveling in others. It may never show up in her. Just like you.”

They stood there silently for what seemed a long time. Maggie swore she could hear her own breathing, a vibrating force inside a wind tunnel that sounded like staggered gasps. She had to be imagining it. Maybe it was simply one of the machines.

“But Cunningham isn’t so lucky?” she finally said, glancing at Platt. He was looking straight ahead. “He already has symptoms?” And this came in a whisper she hardly recognized as her own. Maybe she was having problems breathing.

“Yes,” he said.

“You’ve already seen it? In his blood?”

Hesitation. A long enough pause that she had to look over at him, again. This time he let her have his eyes and she saw it there before he said, “Yes.”

Monday, October 1, 2007

Platt drove Maggie home, a sixty-minute trip in the wee small hours of the morning.
Under the cover of darkness.
It felt like a covert mission, more drama than necessary. Yet he kept an eye on the rearview mirror, his heart tripping into overdrive whenever car lights followed one too many of his turns. Each time it ended up being nothing. The cars eventually turned another direction or passed. He was being paranoid.

Earlier he had authorized a shipment of vaccine to be airlifted directly to Bix in Chicago. The CDC had faxed Platt the official request. As the head of this mission Platt had the authority to respond. In the process he discovered that Janklow had already approved a much smaller shipment but with orders that it be released only to the director of Homeland Security. Not the CDC. Red tape? Personal grudge? Platt didn’t care to know. His best guess was that Janklow was maintaining political correctness despite the clock ticking on a potential epidemic.

Platt was also quick to notice that nowhere in Janklow’s orders for the release of vaccine to Homeland Security was there an acknowledgment of the four victims already at USAMRIID. It would have been the perfect opportunity now that both Homeland Security and the CDC were involved. But Janklow was still covering up his own backyard. As for McCathy, Platt wasn’t sure if or how he was involved. There would be time to confront both of them but only after he made sure the four victims under his watch were safe and secure.

Platt couldn’t ethically release Assistant Director Cunningham, Ms. Kellerman or Mary Louise. Each needed the specialized medical care of USAMRIID along with the daily dosage of the vaccine. Agent O’Dell, however, needed only the vaccine at this time. If she ended up being the lone survivor, what would Janklow do with her? Platt would rather make that decision than leave it to Janklow.

Platt glanced at Maggie’s silhouette, highlighted only by the green dashboard lights. She was different here alongside him without the barrier of glass. She had been quiet after seeing Cunningham. Yet she didn’t look as vulnerable back in her street clothes. As a temporary replacement to the purple jacket she’d had to leave behind, Platt had offered her his William and Mary sweatshirt to ward off the night chill. She had hesitated at first, giving the gesture more meaning than necessary. He wondered if Maggie O’Dell simply wasn’t used to someone looking out for her.

“It doesn’t mean we’re going steady or anything,” he had joked, expecting one of her witty comebacks.

She’d simply said, “Thank you,” and slipped it on.

After they were on the road and safely away from USAMRIID, she said, “You’re worried the Ebola this guy is sending may have come from your own labs?”

He glanced at her, again, not sure why he was surprised that she would cut immediately to the chase. She had done so throughout their conversations.

“It’s crossed my mind.”

Platt wasn’t sure how much of his suspicions he should share. He might already be on the verge of getting court-martialed despite all his efforts to do the right thing.

“He’s someone with a bruised ego,” she said. “He may have worked on some high-profile cases and never been acknowledged. Someone intent on retribution, on doling out a perverted sense of justice. Does that sound like anyone you know?”

“Maybe,” Platt said, though he thought immediately of Michael McCathy.

Instead of pressing the matter, she said, “The outbreak in Chicago, do they know how it started?”

“A Chicago accountant named Markus Schroder was there for tests. They had no idea what was wrong with him. Ended up doing exploratory surgery.”

“Any idea if he received a package in the mail?”

“I asked Bix. He’s the CDC guy. He’s going to check.”

“Markus Schroder,” she said and stared off into the dark countryside.

“You think the name means something? Like with the Kellermans?”

“Possibly. Chicago can’t be a coincidence. It was Chicago where the Tylenol murders took place. There has to be some connection. I can tell you this much. If Markus Schroder received a similar package he wasn’t a random victim.”

“You always look for logic even within the madness?”

He could feel her eyes on him now, studying him to see if he was serious. He kept his eyes on the road ahead.

“It’d be convenient to believe people who commit these types of crimes are simply mad. That there’s a neuron or two misfiring inside their brains.”

“If they’re not mad, not crazy, what then?”

She hesitated but only briefly before she calmly and quietly said, “They’re evil.”

Monday, October 1, 2007

Platt drove Maggie home, a sixty-minute trip in the wee small hours of the morning.
Under the cover of darkness.
It felt like a covert mission, more drama than necessary. Yet he kept an eye on the rearview mirror, his heart tripping into overdrive whenever car lights followed one too many of his turns. Each time it ended up being nothing. The cars eventually turned another direction or passed. He was being paranoid.

Earlier he had authorized a shipment of vaccine to be airlifted directly to Bix in Chicago. The CDC had faxed Platt the official request. As the head of this mission Platt had the authority to respond. In the process he discovered that Janklow had already approved a much smaller shipment but with orders that it be released only to the director of Homeland Security. Not the CDC. Red tape? Personal grudge? Platt didn’t care to know. His best guess was that Janklow was maintaining political correctness despite the clock ticking on a potential epidemic.

Platt was also quick to notice that nowhere in Janklow’s orders for the release of vaccine to Homeland Security was there an acknowledgment of the four victims already at USAMRIID. It would have been the perfect opportunity now that both Homeland Security and the CDC were involved. But Janklow was still covering up his own backyard. As for McCathy, Platt wasn’t sure if or how he was involved. There would be time to confront both of them but only after he made sure the four victims under his watch were safe and secure.

Platt couldn’t ethically release Assistant Director Cunningham, Ms. Kellerman or Mary Louise. Each needed the specialized medical care of USAMRIID along with the daily dosage of the vaccine. Agent O’Dell, however, needed only the vaccine at this time. If she ended up being the lone survivor, what would Janklow do with her? Platt would rather make that decision than leave it to Janklow.

Platt glanced at Maggie’s silhouette, highlighted only by the green dashboard lights. She was different here alongside him without the barrier of glass. She had been quiet after seeing Cunningham. Yet she didn’t look as vulnerable back in her street clothes. As a temporary replacement to the purple jacket she’d had to leave behind, Platt had offered her his William and Mary sweatshirt to ward off the night chill. She had hesitated at first, giving the gesture more meaning than necessary. He wondered if Maggie O’Dell simply wasn’t used to someone looking out for her.

“It doesn’t mean we’re going steady or anything,” he had joked, expecting one of her witty comebacks.

She’d simply said, “Thank you,” and slipped it on.

After they were on the road and safely away from USAMRIID, she said, “You’re worried the Ebola this guy is sending may have come from your own labs?”

He glanced at her, again, not sure why he was surprised that she would cut immediately to the chase. She had done so throughout their conversations.

“It’s crossed my mind.”

Platt wasn’t sure how much of his suspicions he should share. He might already be on the verge of getting court-martialed despite all his efforts to do the right thing.

“He’s someone with a bruised ego,” she said. “He may have worked on some high-profile cases and never been acknowledged. Someone intent on retribution, on doling out a perverted sense of justice. Does that sound like anyone you know?”

“Maybe,” Platt said, though he thought immediately of Michael McCathy.

Instead of pressing the matter, she said, “The outbreak in Chicago, do they know how it started?”

“A Chicago accountant named Markus Schroder was there for tests. They had no idea what was wrong with him. Ended up doing exploratory surgery.”

“Any idea if he received a package in the mail?”

“I asked Bix. He’s the CDC guy. He’s going to check.”

“Markus Schroder,” she said and stared off into the dark countryside.

“You think the name means something? Like with the Kellermans?”

“Possibly. Chicago can’t be a coincidence. It was Chicago where the Tylenol murders took place. There has to be some connection. I can tell you this much. If Markus Schroder received a similar package he wasn’t a random victim.”

“You always look for logic even within the madness?”

He could feel her eyes on him now, studying him to see if he was serious. He kept his eyes on the road ahead.

“It’d be convenient to believe people who commit these types of crimes are simply mad. That there’s a neuron or two misfiring inside their brains.”

“If they’re not mad, not crazy, what then?”

She hesitated but only briefly before she calmly and quietly said, “They’re evil.”