Fireproof

Maggie O’Dell there was only one other time he remembered seeing such uncertainty in her eyes. Uncertainty that bordered on fear. And that one other time Maggie hadn’t admitted her vulnerability to him or anyone else. So how bad was this if she was willing to go to a hospital?

He wished he could convince himself that she had agreed just to appease him. But he knew better. The fact that she admitted she might not be okay was unsettling.

They hadn’t worked together for more than a year. Not since their director, Kyle Cunningham, had died. The case that led to his death had been their last one. And actually, Maggie wasn’t supposed to be on that case after both she and Cunningham were exposed to the Ebola virus. Maggie had ended up in the Slammer, an isolation ward at USAMRIID (U. S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases) at Fort Detrick. Ebola Zaire—the virus she and Cunningham had been exposed to—was nicknamed “the slate cleaner.” About 90 percent of those exposed died, with only a slightly better chance for those given an unregulated, unapproved vaccine.

That Maggie had survived amazed her doctors and the experts at the army research facility. Since then Cunningham’s replacement, Raymond Kunze, had been sending both Maggie and Tully on wild-goose chases, either impossible or simply ridiculous cases, brazenly telling them that they needed to prove their worthiness to him.

It was ridiculous. Both of them were veteran FBI agents. Both had gained hard-earned reputations as expert profilers. It was Kunze’s way of interjecting his authority over a department that held their previous director in high regard. Maybe Kunze felt he couldn’t possibly function in Cunningham’s shadow, so his solution was to tear the agents down and rebuild them in his image, to his standards.

Tully had little respect for the man. He viewed him as a bully more concerned with power and politics than with solving crimes or deflecting criminals. Kunze slid down even further on Tully’s scale when the last wild-goose chase the man sent Maggie on ended up getting her Tasered, left in a forest, and shot in the head. All because the man wanted to repay a political favor.

Which made Tully wonder—what was it about this case that had Kunze sending in two of his top profilers? Who did he owe or want to please? Had he already suspected last week that the case would take a violent turn?

“Hey, Tully, Racine,” Ivan called out, interrupting Tully’s thoughts as he waved at them from the opening of the alley. “We just found another one for you inside.”

CHAPTER 13

Maggie already regretted her decision.

A nurse had poked and cleaned and prepped her wounds, murmuring a few “uh-huhs” with the appropriate inflections for the bloodier ones. She left Maggie with a sterile towel to hold against the back of her head.

“Don’t be lifting this off now to take a look,” she warned.

As soon as the nurse cleared the doorway Maggie lifted the towel and took a look. There was enough blood on the towel that it looked as if someone had wiped up puddles of it. She fingered the same wounds the nurse had just cleaned. The one on her neck would require sutures. The others were minor scrapes. Scalp wounds bled a lot. Didn’t mean much. None of it was worth a trip to the ER. The guy sitting next to her in the waiting area had had his lip hanging down on his chin. Now, he needed to be here.

In the waiting area Maggie had spent the time watching the others, checking for burns, especially on the hands. Sometimes criminals made mistakes, got hurt, and didn’t think twice before going to an ER. Gunshot or knife wounds would require a police report, but burns were easily explained away. It wouldn’t be the first time an arsonist sat in an ER waiting room while a blaze he’d started still burned.

Now Maggie considered getting up and leaving the exam room to continue looking at the other patients. At least she’d be doing something. Would anyone notice if she left? The place was crazy busy. The fact that she was law enforcement moved her up the list. However, she had insisted they treat the man with half his lip ripped off before they took her.

She had scooted to the edge of the table, ready to hop down, when the door opened.

“I am Dr. Dabu. You are O’Dell, Margaret?”

The man was short, had an Indian accent, and looked too young to be a resident, let alone a doctor.

“Yes. It’s Maggie actually.”

He looked at her over the computer tablet, then back at the screen as if checking to make sure the name hadn’t changed.

“Explosion, yes?” He sounded eager, like a contestant on a game show.

“Right.”

“We need sutures, yes?”

We need our head examined, was what she wanted to tell him, but she simply nodded.

Regret suddenly became a lump in her stomach. She realized she wouldn’t be able to put off Kunze’s psychological evaluation now. She wasn’t sure which was worse—listening to her career regurgitated in psychobabble or seeing that scared concern on R. J. Tully’s face.

She paid little attention when Dr. Dabu pulled open a suture tray. She could feel the needle poke into the back of her neck. The nurse had returned to assist and Maggie tuned out their bits of communication. Neither asked about her blurred vision or the jackhammer at her temple. Had she mentioned either to the paramedic who had shined the tiny laser-beamed flashlight into each of her eyes? He had asked her a series of questions. She couldn’t remember any of them or her answers.

All she remembered was that look on Tully’s face and the panic in his voice when he said, “I don’t think you’re okay either.”

It was the fire, the flames and the heat. All of it too much like a gunshot. She closed her eyes. She’d be okay. It would just take time. She never had patience. Hated feeling vulnerable, out of control. But not to have control over her body …

No one needed to know how disoriented she really had been at the fire site. She didn’t have to tell anyone about the blurred vision or the scent that permeated the lining of her memory, that smell of scorched flesh from the bullet scraping her scalp.

The gunshot wound had happened four months ago. The fire’s blast had simply been a reminder. It threw her off her game. That’s all. But this little slip-up would be enough to trigger Kunze. It’d be enough for him to justify his psychological tests.

So let him. Bring it on.

There’d be nothing to report. Maggie had a degree in psychology. She knew exactly what they’d be looking for and she simply wouldn’t give it to them.

Just then she realized she could still feel the needle as the doctor pulled it through her skin. The local anesthesia hadn’t been enough to numb the area. Her jaw clenched and her eyes stayed closed. This pain—this prick of the needle sliding through, the tug of the suture thread following—this was nothing. She wanted all of it to be over. To get back to the crime scene. This was just a distraction.

When they were finished the doctor quietly left. The nurse told Maggie she had some papers to get for a signature and she left. She hadn’t been gone long when the examination room door opened again.

Benjamin Platt wore his military dress uniform, had his hat tucked under his arm, and his stance was that of a soldier delivering dreadful news. The look on his face wasn’t much better. Worry creased an indent between his eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asked in almost a whisper.

“I can’t believe Tully called you.”

“It wasn’t Tully.”

“Racine?”

“I wish it had been you.”

CHAPTER 14