Exposed

profits in his mistakes.

All three menus were still open, tall accordions hiding their faces.

'Good evening. May I get you started with something from our bar? We have our special beach rumbas for half price this evening.'

'What the hell is a beach rumba?' one of the men asked as he slapped down his menu.

'Uncle Vic,' Rick said. 'What are you doing down here in Pen-sacola?' He hoped his smile looked genuine and excited instead of mimicking his inner voice that was shouting, 'Oh, crap!'

CHAPTER

61

USAMRIID

Platt sat behind his desk with the chair turned away and toward the window. The rain had started again. A gentle pitter-patter. Drops slid down the glass. Darkness had returned. In his mind he kept calculating the hours and minutes. He still couldn't shut it off, a ticktock that kept rhythm with the rain.

He hadn't been able to prove or disprove any of his theories, his speculations, his suspicions by checking their samples of Ebola. McCathy had been the last one to slide his security card and activate the code. How much had he used to test against Ms. Kellerman's blood and the other victims'? Was it possible for a small amount to go missing without notice?

Exhaustion played wicked tricks on the psyche and Platt kept that in the forefront of his thoughts as he sorted through his suspicions. What if the Ebola that was sent to Ms. Kellerman had come from their labs? What if Janklow knew? Even in the beginning when Platt thought the note and the setup might all be a hoax, Janklow seemed convinced it was the real deal. And why assign McCathy? Why so adamant about it including McCathy, a microbiologist who specialized in bioweapons, when Platt already had enough experience to handle the possibility of bioweapons?

Had Janklow known what they would find in Ms. Kellerman's house even before they arrived? Had he already been expecting Platt to be his scapegoat and McCathy to corroborate?

He was tired. He was being paranoid.

He rubbed at his eyes. Sat back. Tried to clear his mind.

But he couldn't shake Janklow's words, 'What if they all disappeared?'

Platt checked his wristwatch. It was late. But hopefully not too late.

He fingered a piece of paper, folding and unfolding the already creased three-by-three that had ten numbers scrawled on it, the personal cell-phone number for Roger Bix, the CDC's chief of Outbreak Response and Surveillance Team.

Platt knew Bix from conferences, a few formal dinners and a few less formal rounds in the hotel bars. Fortunately the two had only shared war stories and never had to work on a case together. If nothing else, Bix might be able to confirm or deny whether there was any Ebola missing from another lab. Platt knew he could do this without admitting or confessing.

It took only two rings despite the late hour.

'This is Bix.'

Platt sat up straight.

'Roger, it's Benjamin Platt.'

Before he could respond, Roger Bix said, 'So how much of the vaccine are you able to scrape together?'

'Excuse me?'

'The vaccine.'

Platt was stunned. Had Janklow gone ahead and called the CDC? What the hell was going on?

'Look, Ben,' Bix continued, misreading Platt's hesitation. 'I appreciate the dilemma you all are facing.' His normal, slow Southern drawl held a tinge of panic.'But like I explained to Commander Janklow, we can't afford to wait too long. I have a full-blown case of Ebola Zaire right here outside of Chicago. They opened up this poor son of a bitch in surgery. Who knows how many people have been exposed. I'm not just talking about hospital personnel. We've got visitors, patients, even newborns down in the maternity ward.'

Platt shoved the cell phone closer to his ear. He couldn't hear above his heart pounding in his head. He sucked in air. Moved the phone away from his mouth. Let the breath out. There was another case. Another exposure.

'He was here at the hospital. Schroder, Markus Schroder. Here for three or four days. An accountant, for Christ's sake. How the hell does an accountant come in contact with Ebola?' But Bix wasn't waiting for an answer. He wasn't finished.'This is a fricking nightmare and it's only gonna get worse. I've got Homeland Security up my ass trying to keep it quiet. Everybody's worried about the fricking media starting a panic. I tell you, Ben, I don't get that vaccine soon and we won't have to worry about the media starting a panic.'

'Let me get to work on this, Roger. I'll get back to you as soon as I have the vaccine ready to go.'

'Make it soon, Ben. We both know how quickly this virus moves.'

The click that followed sounded like a trigger hitting on an empty chamber, abrupt and hollow. Platt felt paralyzed.

There was another case. As far away as Chicago. Had he sent other packages with microscopic bits of Ebola, preserved and sealed in Ziploc plastic bags waiting to be opened? This was bigger than any of them had imagined. No way Janklow could make it all disappear.

Then Platt remembered something. Something Janklow said McCathy had told him about the virus. That it would take as little as a microscopic piece, preserved, sealed and delivered, perhaps even through the mail, to start an epidemic. That was before Maggie handed over the mailing package. Before they knew how the virus was delivered to the Kellerman house. Did McCathy know that's how it was delivered? Or was it a lucky guess?

CHAPTER

62

Artie tried to think of someone to share the news with. Someone who would appreciate the brilliance of his puzzle-solving skills. He'd been able to answer a question that cold-case sleuths and law-enforcement officials across the States hadn't been able to figure out for twenty-five years. It was as big as unveiling Ted Kaczynski as the Unabomber.

Almost as if his wish was being granted, he heard a door close. Not a slam. Just a soft tap.

It was probably nothing. Could have been his imagination. No one was around down here on the weekends.

He started flipping through his pages again, jotting down notes in the margins of his notebook.

Footsteps down the hall. He was certain.

Crap!

He stood frozen in place, eyes darting around him. The light switch. He needed to flip the fucking light switch.

Too late.

The footsteps were closing in. Right outside the door now.

He twisted around, looking for something to use as a weapon, and grabbed the closest thing he could find. A syringe. He pulled off the plastic needle guard just as he heard a key card slide into the door's security lock.

'What the hell are you doing here tonight?'

Artie let out a sigh of relief that almost included, speak of the devil. 'You scared the crap out of me,' he said instead.

'Don't you realize you can see the light on underneath this door from the hallway?'

'Nobody's around,' Artie defended himself. 'It was your idea that I use the lab on the weekend.'

'I thought you were supposed to make the delivery yesterday.'

'I did,' Artie said, slipping the syringe into his pocket and trying to nonchalantly stack his paperbacks onto the incriminating pages of his notebook and the articles beneath it.'I went to Connecticut yesterday. Mailed them from there.'

'Them?'

Damn! This probably wasn't the time to reveal his contribution.