Exposed (44 page)

Saint Francis Hospital
Chicago

Dr. Claire Antonelli couldn’t argue with Roger Bix. She knew he was right. Her son needed to be included in the quarantine. She didn’t want to admit that he may have been exposed to the virus, thanks to her. Neither of them displayed symptoms. She had to believe they were okay, though it scared the hell out of her. Her son, however, pretended to see it all as an adventure.

“We just read about Ebola in World History. Maybe I can get extra credit,” he had joked.

The nurses in the surgical center had prepared a room for him. There was something ironic yet comforting about having him so close in the middle of all the chaos. She was on her way to see if he’d gotten settled, when Roger Bix sidetracked her again. Bix was making a habit of treating her as what he called his “point person.” On several occasions Bix and Dr. Miles had gone head-to-head on procedure and policy. Claire was simply too exhausted to argue…with anyone. This morning the media had shown up. WGN-TV, Channel 9 had cameras out front. If Bix was looking for a spokesperson he would need to keep looking.

Now Bix walked alongside her when she didn’t bother to stop or slow down by his presence. “We have the vaccine,” he told her. This, however, stopped her.

“That was fast.”

“Special air delivery.”

“How much?”

“Enough to get us started. It’s a series of shots. That’s what we need to focus on. What we need to tell everyone.”

So not enough, Claire wanted to say. That’s what he was really telling her. The idea of distributing false hope left a sudden lump in her stomach.

He must have seen her skepticism because he countered with, “It’ll be enough. We’ll start getting blood test results this morning. Not everyone who came in contact with this guy will be breaking with Ebola. The initial shots will simply be a precaution.”

“Of course,” Claire said, watching Bix’s eyes travel over her shoulder, across the lobby, everywhere except to her eyes.

“I need you to ask Mrs. Schroder if Markus received an unusual package in the week or so before he got sick.”

“A package? What kind of package?”

“Anything with a Ziploc plastic bag inside.”

Claire stared at him, but it was obvious this was as much as Roger Bix was ready to tell her. He started, instead, giving her a rundown of where and how they’d start administering the vaccine, when nurse Amanda Corey hurried up the hallway toward them.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she said, out of breath and flushed. “I figured you’d both want to know as soon as possible. Markus Schroder is dead.”

Saint Francis Hospital
Chicago

Dr. Claire Antonelli couldn’t argue with Roger Bix. She knew he was right. Her son needed to be included in the quarantine. She didn’t want to admit that he may have been exposed to the virus, thanks to her. Neither of them displayed symptoms. She had to believe they were okay, though it scared the hell out of her. Her son, however, pretended to see it all as an adventure.

“We just read about Ebola in World History. Maybe I can get extra credit,” he had joked.

The nurses in the surgical center had prepared a room for him. There was something ironic yet comforting about having him so close in the middle of all the chaos. She was on her way to see if he’d gotten settled, when Roger Bix sidetracked her again. Bix was making a habit of treating her as what he called his “point person.” On several occasions Bix and Dr. Miles had gone head-to-head on procedure and policy. Claire was simply too exhausted to argue…with anyone. This morning the media had shown up. WGN-TV, Channel 9 had cameras out front. If Bix was looking for a spokesperson he would need to keep looking.

Now Bix walked alongside her when she didn’t bother to stop or slow down by his presence. “We have the vaccine,” he told her. This, however, stopped her.

“That was fast.”

“Special air delivery.”

“How much?”

“Enough to get us started. It’s a series of shots. That’s what we need to focus on. What we need to tell everyone.”

So not enough, Claire wanted to say. That’s what he was really telling her. The idea of distributing false hope left a sudden lump in her stomach.

He must have seen her skepticism because he countered with, “It’ll be enough. We’ll start getting blood test results this morning. Not everyone who came in contact with this guy will be breaking with Ebola. The initial shots will simply be a precaution.”

“Of course,” Claire said, watching Bix’s eyes travel over her shoulder, across the lobby, everywhere except to her eyes.

“I need you to ask Mrs. Schroder if Markus received an unusual package in the week or so before he got sick.”

“A package? What kind of package?”

“Anything with a Ziploc plastic bag inside.”

Claire stared at him, but it was obvious this was as much as Roger Bix was ready to tell her. He started, instead, giving her a rundown of where and how they’d start administering the vaccine, when nurse Amanda Corey hurried up the hallway toward them.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she said, out of breath and flushed. “I figured you’d both want to know as soon as possible. Markus Schroder is dead.”

Quantico

Tully had files open all over his desk. He’d spent most of yesterday looking for something, anything that might connect Cunningham to this killer. Their boss had been involved with all the national biggies: the Unabomber, the Beltway Snipers, Eric Rudolph, Timothy McVeigh, the anthrax killer. The list went on and on. It was overwhelming. There was no easy way to search. So Tully shifted through the original files, trying to find repeat names, especially anyone from USAMRIID.

He was starting through another box, when Ganza’s lanky frame leaned in his doorway.

“Did you hear about Chicago?”

“Bears or the Sox?” Tully asked before he saw the scared look in Ganza’s eyes.

“CDC has a case of Ebola in a suburban hospital.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish.”

Ganza filled him in on what little he knew. When he finished he pointed to the mess on Tully’s desk.

“Trying to find a link,” Tully said, “to Cunningham. But going through the cases he’s worked on is like looking for a proverbial needle in a haystack.”

“Have you heard from him?”

Tully shook his head. “Not since Saturday. He gave me a phone number but no one picks up.”

Both men stared at their feet in silence. Finally Ganza muttered something about calling a colleague at the CDC.

“I’ll let you know what I find out.” And he was gone, leaving Tully to his mess.

It was difficult to think about Cunningham. Tully knew agents who had been killed in the line of duty. It was something all agents kept in the back of their minds. But somehow this was different. Cunningham was one of those invincible guys. You knew bullets didn’t bounce off of him but at the time you really wouldn’t be surprised if they did. He was their leader, the one who held them up. And it seemed cruel and unfair to have an invisible weapon from an invisible killer take him down. No amount of training prepared you for something like this.

It reminded him of his own training. Emma had brought back a lot of memories with her questions. When he, Razzy and Indy were together they believed they’d change the world, conquer evil. All that good stuff. It was the 1980s. The Soviet Union was crumbling along with the wall. No more Cold War. Reagan made it okay to be proud again. The three of them were young, strong and idealistic and very different from one another. One common goal pulled them together and ironically, one silly and flirtatious, but absolutely beautiful girl pulled them apart.

Tully looked at Emma’s framed photo on the corner of his desk. Actually he could barely see her face behind the stack of files. He considered all the cases he had worked over the last twenty-five years. There were biggies on his own résumé: the Unabomber, Jeffery Dahmer, Albert Stucky, Timothy McVeigh, 9/11. But in the end, hands down, Emma was what made everything in his life worth while. Emma and now possibly Gwen Patterson.

He was thinking about Gwen when his phone started ringing.

“R. J. Tully,” he answered.

“Why are you sending me cash? And in a plastic bag, for Christ’s sake.”

It was his ex-wife. The onetime silly and flirtatious but beautiful girl was mad as hell.

Quantico

Tully had files open all over his desk. He’d spent most of yesterday looking for something, anything that might connect Cunningham to this killer. Their boss had been involved with all the national biggies: the Unabomber, the Beltway Snipers, Eric Rudolph, Timothy McVeigh, the anthrax killer. The list went on and on. It was overwhelming. There was no easy way to search. So Tully shifted through the original files, trying to find repeat names, especially anyone from USAMRIID.

He was starting through another box, when Ganza’s lanky frame leaned in his doorway.

“Did you hear about Chicago?”

“Bears or the Sox?” Tully asked before he saw the scared look in Ganza’s eyes.

“CDC has a case of Ebola in a suburban hospital.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish.”

Ganza filled him in on what little he knew. When he finished he pointed to the mess on Tully’s desk.

“Trying to find a link,” Tully said, “to Cunningham. But going through the cases he’s worked on is like looking for a proverbial needle in a haystack.”

“Have you heard from him?”

Tully shook his head. “Not since Saturday. He gave me a phone number but no one picks up.”

Both men stared at their feet in silence. Finally Ganza muttered something about calling a colleague at the CDC.

“I’ll let you know what I find out.” And he was gone, leaving Tully to his mess.

It was difficult to think about Cunningham. Tully knew agents who had been killed in the line of duty. It was something all agents kept in the back of their minds. But somehow this was different. Cunningham was one of those invincible guys. You knew bullets didn’t bounce off of him but at the time you really wouldn’t be surprised if they did. He was their leader, the one who held them up. And it seemed cruel and unfair to have an invisible weapon from an invisible killer take him down. No amount of training prepared you for something like this.

It reminded him of his own training. Emma had brought back a lot of memories with her questions. When he, Razzy and Indy were together they believed they’d change the world, conquer evil. All that good stuff. It was the 1980s. The Soviet Union was crumbling along with the wall. No more Cold War. Reagan made it okay to be proud again. The three of them were young, strong and idealistic and very different from one another. One common goal pulled them together and ironically, one silly and flirtatious, but absolutely beautiful girl pulled them apart.

Tully looked at Emma’s framed photo on the corner of his desk. Actually he could barely see her face behind the stack of files. He considered all the cases he had worked over the last twenty-five years. There were biggies on his own résumé: the Unabomber, Jeffery Dahmer, Albert Stucky, Timothy McVeigh, 9/11. But in the end, hands down, Emma was what made everything in his life worth while. Emma and now possibly Gwen Patterson.

He was thinking about Gwen when his phone started ringing.

“R. J. Tully,” he answered.

“Why are you sending me cash? And in a plastic bag, for Christ’s sake.”

It was his ex-wife. The onetime silly and flirtatious but beautiful girl was mad as hell.

North Platte, Nebraska

Patsy Kowak couldn’t believe it. She fingered the envelope left for her in the middle of the kitchen table, its contents half sticking out: two first-class airline tickets to Cleveland, Ohio. She had found them waiting for her this morning when she sat down to have her coffee.

“I booked us a room at the Hyatt Regency,” Ward said from behind her. She hadn’t heard him come into the room. “That’s where you said you wanted to stay, right?”

“I said it. I didn’t think you heard it.”

“I listen to you.” He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down across from her. He never took time out to sit and drink coffee. His usually went into a thermos to-go mug and out the door with him.

“These tickets are for Wednesday,” Patsy said, tapping them against the tabletop as if she still didn’t believe they were real.

“Yeah, well, we have a layover in Atlanta. It’ll take us most of the day to get there. I thought we could have all day Thursday to ourselves, to sit back and enjoy. Relax.”

She raised her eyebrow at him. “You sure you know how?”

“What? Relax? I think I can figure it out. Lee and Betty offered to look after things.”

She held up the first-class tickets. “Whatever got into you? Last time we talked you didn’t even want to go.”

“I realized how much it means to you.”

“But not to you?” She was disappointed in his answer. He noticed. Thirty-two years of marriage, how could he not notice.

“I don’t agree with Conrad’s choices,” he said, avoiding her eyes and staring into his coffee as though it held the correct answer. “I might not agree but he’s still my son.”

She reached across the table and put her hand over his callused one. He wasn’t much for shows of affection and quickly found a way to change the subject.

“Go get yourself one of those manicures,” he said, taking her hand in his and pretending it was only to examine it. “You work hard around here. Treat yourself.”

Her hands were an embarrassment, dry and red skin, raw gouges where she’d cut the cuticles too deeply. Yes, she’d treat herself.

She knew Ward would come around. Her husband was a good man. A good father. Patsy was so pleased, she had almost forgotten about getting out of bed earlier with a headache and a backache. All she had to do was stand up for an instant reminder. Her head throbbed with a thousand little hammers beating behind her brow. She cupped the palm of her hand over her forehead. A bit of a fever, too. She couldn’t come down with the flu now. In two days she’d be traveling to her son’s wedding. She refused to get sick.

She glanced at the wall clock, picked up the phone and dialed from memory.

“Conrad Kovak’s office.” The woman’s voice was abrupt in a way that discouraged callers from even responding. Patsy wondered if she should say something to Conrad.

“Is Conrad in?”

“Mr. Kovak will be in meetings all morning.”

“This is his mother.”

Patsy waited. With Conrad’s previous assistant, it made a difference. If Conrad really wasn’t in a meeting Renae would put the call through when she learned it was Patsy. With this assistant it obviously made no difference.

After a long pause the woman asked, “Do you want to leave a message?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Patsy said, getting ready to tell her to have Conrad call later, but there was a click and buzz and suddenly another voice telling her to leave a message after the tone. The assistant had sent her on to voice messaging, something Renae would never have done.

“Conrad, it’s Mom. Just wanted to let you know we’ll be leaving for Cleveland on Wednesday. Your dad bought first-class tickets for us. And he did it all on his own. I didn’t even tell him about the money you sent. Call me later, sweetie.”

Patsy hung up the phone. Now she needed to take something so she didn’t end up with the flu.