Reckless Creed (6 page)

FLORIDA PANHANDLE

I
s it possible?” Creed asked Dr. Avelyn.

They had settled the dogs down and were now all seated in Hannah's kitchen. She made them coffee and pulled out a plate of homemade oatmeal cookies like this was an ordinary day and a typical staff meeting. With two exceptions—the guns set carefully in the corner by the back door and the bottle of Baileys she passed around like it was creamer for their coffee.

He was surprised at Hannah. She hated guns. Never allowed them inside her house. Even to get the shotgun she had to have sneaked over to the training facility. She was the diplomat of the two of them. In fact, the first time Creed met her, she ended up giving him a sermon about how violence never resolved anything. This was after he started a fight in Walter's Canteen, where Hannah was bartending. Years later her husband, Marcus, was killed in Iraq. She helped start Segway House, a safe house for returning veterans, domestic abuse victims hiding from their abusers, and drug addicts wanting to go straight. She dealt with the brutal
results of war every single week as she made sure there was shelter and jobs for amputees, like Jason, returning home.

Every once in a while the cases they took on for K9 CrimeScents came with violent and dangerous consequences. Their dogs sniffed out cadavers, drugs, and explosives, and sometimes the killers, drug dealers, and terrorists decided they were fair game. Truth was, he and Hannah had seen their share of violence. Both of them. But he'd never seen her take up a firearm and shoot at someone.

He watched her pacing around her own kitchen, waiting on them. When she passed by, he gently grabbed her hand.

“Sit down, Hannah.” He stood and pulled out a chair for her. “Please, just sit down.”

When she finally did, Creed focused his attention back on Dr. Avelyn.

“Is it possible what Tabor was saying? That those robins were infected with something?”

“It's possible. But I didn't see anything unusual.”

“Would you know? How could you know?”

“I sent tissue samples in the day you found them. But also I spent a month in Iowa last year. Remember? We gassed millions of laying hens infected with the bird flu that swept through several commercial poultry farms. It's tough because the birds don't always show any signs of being sick.”

“But it's just birds that can be infected. Dogs can't get it, right? Is it possible Grace could be infected?”

She didn't answer, and Creed felt a kick of panic again. “You gotta know, because I possibly just exposed a bunch of old people to a deadly virus.” He rubbed a hand across his jaw when he
realized what this could mean. “Grace. Please tell me dogs can't get this. Tabor made it sound like he believed they can.”

“The virus has been known to mutate. And yes, it has jumped species. Not just to humans, but I believe there have been cases of pigs and, in lab settings, ferrets.”

Silence. All Creed could think about was Grace bringing him that robin, so proud to show it to him.

“Look,” Dr. Avelyn said, “there's no way I can tell you anything until I know more. We shouldn't panic, but we should be careful.”

Creed watched the veterinarian wrap her hands around her mug and stare into the coffee. He hadn't seen her take so much as a sip.

“What are you thinking?” Hannah asked her.

“Until we know more, I think we need to quarantine Grace.”

“She's already been around most of the other dogs,” Jason reminded her.

Dr. Avelyn's eyes darted around the table, then came to rest on Creed.

“We need to quarantine all of them. It doesn't mean cages. We can do it in the kennel. They just can't leave to work. We should consider using gloves and surgical masks when we're around them. Perhaps even limit how many of us have contact with them.”

“Lord have mercy,” Hannah said under her breath. “You think we can get it, too?”

Creed knew she was thinking about her two boys.

“We can't rule it out.”

“What about the senior care facility?”

“Let's wait until I get the results back on the tissue samples. I'll
call. See if I can get them to expedite the results.” Then she looked at Creed and asked, “Did you handle either of the robins?”

He had to think about it. All he remembered—now so vividly implanted in his memory—was Grace with the bird clamped in her teeth. He had put the birds in plastic bags, opening the bag and carefully keeping the plastic between his palm and the dead bird. But when he asked Grace to drop it? Had she dropped it on the ground? It was instinctive for him to have his dogs drop the errant object into his hand so he could examine what it was. Bad habit. Perhaps a deadly habit.

Creed finally answered, “I had her drop it in the palm of my hand.”

“Did you have your working gloves on?”

He shook his head and avoided looking at Hannah. He didn't need to. He could already feel her anxiety. It was as thick as the coffee she had served them.

“I'll run blood and saliva samples on all of us and the dogs.” Dr. Avelyn's voice remained calm, trying to be reassuring. It was that steady, unflappable attitude that Creed had admired enough to trust her with his dogs' lives. And now he'd be trusting her with the lives of all of them.

“If it's bird flu,” she continued, “the risk to humans is considered low. The virus has never been airborne. Those who have been infected worked closely with live poultry, or helped slaughter them. Actually the virus is easily spread by bird droppings, so just unsanitary conditions can be enough. It doesn't have to be blood.

“Most of the fatalities have been in China, where they don't take a lot of precautions in handling live birds. Sometimes they
don't wear protective gear even when they're slaughtering them. In fact, there's always concern during their Chinese New Year because so many travel to be with family, and it's customary to bring along live chickens or ducks as gifts.

“In 2014 for the first time we saw the Eurasian H5N8 virus in the United States. It was bound to happen. Migratory waterfowl were the original culprits, bringing it with them into the Pacific Flyway. By the time the virus made its way to the Midwest it had already changed and mutated in order to survive. H5N1 is genetically different than the Asian or Eurasian strain.”

“I never thought about it before,” Hannah said. “How easy it would be for migratory birds to bring diseases from clear across the world.”

“Most of the time it doesn't kill the waterfowl. They're convenient carriers. But once it infects the domestic bird population like it did with commercial turkeys and chickens in the Midwest, it's devastating. They're literally sitting ducks. There's no way to cure it. No vaccines. Slaughtering the flocks has been the only way to destroy the virus.”

“And that's what Tabor wanted to do with our kennel,” Creed said. “I have to think he was out of line. Maybe just misinformed? He said he was following someone else's orders.”

He had been clenching his jaw so tight that it now ached. The coffee had set off an acid storm churning in his gut.

“Please tell me,” he said, searching the veterinarian's eyes, “that euthanasia's not the solution if we find out Grace has contracted this virus.”

“Let's wait for the results,” she said.

It was not the answer Creed was hoping for.

“In the meantime,” she continued, “we need to take precautions for ourselves, too. We'll need to follow our standard decontamination procedures—coveralls, masks, shoe covers, gloves, and goggles anytime we go into the kennel. And one last thing—none of us should leave the grounds.”

CHICAGO

N
ow in her own hotel room several floors above the victim's room, Agent Maggie O'Dell finished jotting down all her notes. She had already made several phone calls and guzzled down a Diet Pepsi. The television was turned to a news channel, but only for background noise. She hadn't unpacked yet except for her notebooks, copies of documents, and her personal laptop, all of which were strewn across the desk and the foot of the bed.

There was something that troubled her about Tony Briggs's suicide. Never mind that he had left behind no signs of a ritual or a single good-bye note. His room had been too tidy. Other than the spray on the TV screen and the wall behind—what Platt suspected might be bloody sputum—there were no bloody tissues anywhere. She hadn't found a single bloody washcloth or towel. In fact, the bathroom actually looked as though someone had cleaned it, and yet the hotel remained adamant that housecleaning had not entered Briggs's room. And if they had, the wastebasket would have been emptied.

So did Briggs clean his bathroom? Did he make his bed? Could that have been his ritual? To clean and tidy up his room before he stepped out onto the patio and jumped to his death?

Anything was possible. She'd seen stranger things in her career as an FBI agent and criminal profiler.
Much stranger things.

And yet she couldn't help but wonder if someone else might have come into the room. If not housekeeping, then someone who knew exactly what Tony Briggs was doing.

O'Dell picked up a sheet from one of the piles. Attached to the corner was one of the few recent photographs they had of Dr. Clare Shaw. The scientist looked younger than her forty-two years. For this photo—one that had been taken and used for her ID badge at the research facility—Shaw had chosen to pull back her dark hair, leaving only bangs that dangled over her eyeglasses. She was attractive, with only subtle wrinkles at the corners of her mouth to hint at her real age.

She had earned several degrees from Johns Hopkins University in molecular biology, concentrating on genetics and biomedical engineering. Her advanced studies focused on neuroscience and human behavior. She had spent time at several different laboratories across the United States, but only a few years at each, moving often and rarely making lasting relationships. During O'Dell's investigation she'd had difficulties finding anyone who knew the scientist very well.

Shaw had never married and had no children. She was an only child; her parents had been killed in a car accident. Her only living relative was a grandfather with advanced-stage dementia. O'Dell had found him at a nursing care facility in Panama City, Florida,
close to the community where he had lived, then retired to some ten years earlier. The staff told her that Dr. Shaw had visited at least once a month and in between those times, she sent small gifts. The visits and the gifts stopped after the North Carolina mudslide, and everyone there believed that she was killed in the disaster.

Shaw had been at the University of Wisconsin in 2012 when she attracted the attention of DARPA, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, landing her the director position at the research facility in North Carolina. There she had freedom to conduct experiments along with the resources to pay test subjects. One of those subjects, a man named Daniel Tate, had survived the mudslide. More importantly, he had survived the executions that had occurred moments before the slide. Someone had shot one scientist and two test subjects. The FBI believed the killer was Dr. Clare Shaw.

However, there was a catch. Shaw disappeared that night. Her cell phone had gone silent. Her apartment looked exactly as if she had gone to work and never come home. Nothing of value appeared to be missing. Her car was one of those destroyed in the mudslide. Even her credit card charges stopped the day before the slide.

The FBI had issued a BOLO (Be On the Look Out) nationwide and contacted other research laboratories across the country in search of Shaw. In five months there hadn't been a single sighting, not even a false one. O'Dell was beginning to wonder if the woman had perhaps been killed along with her colleague and her test subjects.

O'Dell's cell phone interrupted her thoughts. It was a number she didn't recognize. One with the Chicago area code.

“This is O'Dell.”

“In the spirit of sharing, how about we share dinner?”

It was Platt. The bureaucratic tone was gone, replaced by a warm and inviting one, reminding her that he could be very charming.

FLORIDA PANHANDLE

C
reed had just finished taking care of the dogs for the evening. He had stripped out of the coveralls and protective gear, stuffing everything into a decon bag. From the window in his loft apartment he could see that the light was still on in the building Dr. Avelyn used as their veterinary clinic. She had already told him that it would be a long night. Hannah had offered her guest room, and Creed knew she'd make sure the veterinarian got some sleep.

Several years ago Creed and Hannah had decided it would be better for their dogs if they didn't take them off-site for their vaccinations and medical needs. Instead they contracted with Dr. Avelyn Parker. She had her own practice with two other veterinarians in Milton, Florida, but had agreed to handle the needs of K9 CrimeScents. Since then Creed knew she had certainly gotten more than she bargained for, and yet she never complained. She treated these dogs like they were her own.

His hair was still wet from his shower when he heard the soft tap on the back door to his loft.

It was Jason, and the kid looked like he had seen a ghost.

“Come on in.” He had to coax him.

Jason had barely stepped into the room when he said, “Tony's dead. His mom just called me.”

His voice was deadpan. His eyes darted everywhere else to avoid meeting Creed's, but it didn't matter. Creed had already caught a glimpse of the emotion.

“What happened?”

Creed didn't know Tony Briggs well, but the few times he'd been around him, the young man had been volatile enough for Creed to now suspect that Tony's death had not come peacefully. And from Jason's hesitancy, he guessed he was right.

“They're saying he jumped from his hotel room. Nineteen stories.”

Creed winced. He was glad Jason's eyes were now examining his bookshelves and missed it.

“Where?”

“Chicago.”

“Why was he in Chicago?”

“How the hell should I know?”

There it was. Jason's trademark anger. It was his refuge. He used it to protect himself. Creed was actually relieved to see it. Wasn't right for the kid to pretend that he felt nothing. This was someone who meant a great deal to him. Anger seemed appropriate.

“He didn't tell you he was going to Chicago?”

“I'm not his goddamn keeper.” He wiped at his face out of frustration and in an effort to catch any rogue tears.

“Why don't you just tell me what you do know instead of biting my head off?”

Jason's arm crossed his chest and his hand grasped the stub of
his amputated arm. It was a nervous gesture Creed had noticed the young veteran made often. Jason rubbed at the stub like it still hurt, or maybe like he needed the reminder his lower arm was gone. Creed didn't push him. He let the silence settle until Jason was ready. The news was still fresh, the shock still raw like a rip in the skin.

“He didn't say anything about going to Chicago. At least not to me. His mom said it was some fancy hotel on Michigan Avenue. That doesn't sound right. Doesn't sound like Tony.”

He stopped there. Noticed his hand and let it drop.

“They know it's him for sure?” Creed asked when the silence lasted too long.

“Had his wallet still on him.”

“That doesn't mean—”

“Fingerprints matched. It's him.”

Another long silence.

Jason's hand went back to rubbing while he fidgeted, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He looked miserable, all the while trying hard not to telegraph it.

Creed wished Hannah were here. She was much better at this. He wasn't good with comforting people. Dogs he understood. People, not so much.

“The son of a bitch. I can't believe he did this. The bastard.”

“Why are you judging him for something you've thought about doing yourself?”

And that was when Jason's eyes met Creed's. The anger slipped for a second or two, replaced by a flicker of surprise. Maybe he'd forgotten that he had confessed to Creed, months ago, that he'd thought about suicide. That he'd seriously considered it when
he first got back from Afghanistan. Hell, maybe he still thought about it.

Creed also knew that Jason had lost friends. Tony wasn't the first. But Tony would mean the most. They'd grown up together. Gone off to war together. Came back, both of them broken, although in different ways.

Finally Jason said, “I'm not judging him.” His eyes were gone again, as if in search of answers in the horizon. The fidgeting became more pronounced.

Creed went to his refrigerator, pulled out two bottles of beer. He twisted the caps off and handed one to Jason. The kid took a sip.

Creed thought about calling Hannah. She was used to working with troubled veterans. She was a cofounder of Segway House and played an active role in helping residents find jobs in the community. That was where Jason had been staying. It was because of Hannah that he had come to work for them.

Creed rescued dogs. Hannah rescued lost souls. Jason was one of those.

“I didn't think he'd do it that way,” Jason said, then took another sip of the beer. At least having the bottle in his hand kept him from rubbing the stump of his arm.

Creed waited.

“We talked about it sometimes,” Jason told him. “Like when we'd be drinking. You know, talking big. We've had friends eat their guns. I told you, one guy I know even hanged himself.”

“So what was your and Tony's preferred method?” Creed asked it as casually as if they were talking about sports.

Ironically it seemed to relax Jason. His eyes stopped darting for a few seconds.

“For one thing, we agreed we wouldn't do something that would make such a mess our moms couldn't look at our bodies.” He glanced back toward the door as if expecting someone. “You're not gonna tell Hannah any of this, are you?”

So much for suggesting that was who Jason should talk to. Reluctantly Creed shook his head.

“I mean, I don't know what jumping nineteen stories does to a body, but I'm guessing it's not pretty.”

“Maybe he was drinking. Not thinking straight. Could have been an accident.”

“Tony's one of the few guys I know who thinks better drunk. Especially after his TBI.”

Creed knew that although Tony looked normal, with none of the outward scars that Jason and his buddies came back with, his traumatic brain injury had had a tremendous impact on him.

“It's like alcohol settled him down,” Jason continued. “He said it quieted the demons in his head.”

“So what are you saying happened?”

Jason shrugged. “We both know Tony pissed off quite a few people. Some of them people you should never piss off.”

Creed nodded.

People like drug cartels. Jason, Tony, and their friends had come to Creed's rescue last summer when members of Choque Azul, a Colombian drug cartel that used the Gulf of Mexico, had targeted Creed and his dogs. If it weren't for Tony, Creed would have never known when the cartel's attack was coming. He would have never been able to prepare for it, and even then, he wouldn't have survived if Jason, Tony, and their vet buddies hadn't come to his rescue.

“I had a text message from him,” Jason said. “It might have been that same day.” He patted the back pocket of his jeans, but the cell phone wasn't there. “I'll need to check.”

“What did he say?”

“Something about getting himself into a mess.”

“That could mean anything,” Creed told him.

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

A silence fell between them. Creed knew it was tough to convince yourself that a friend or loved one had actually committed suicide. When he found his father slumped on his own sofa with a bullet hole in his temple, Creed had searched the house for signs of an intruder. He remembered telling the 911 operator that someone had shot his father while he stared at the revolver still dangling from his father's fingers.

“What if Tony didn't jump?” Jason finally asked, this time meeting and holding Creed's eyes.

“You think someone pushed him.”