Chapter 1
Chicago
Tony Briggs coughed up blood, then wiped his mouth with his shirtsleeve. This was bad. Although it was nothing he couldn’t handle. He’d been through worse. Lots worse. But still, they didn’t tell him he’d get this sick. He was beginning to think the bastards had double-crossed him.
He tapped out, “fine mess I got myself into,” on his cell phone and hit SEND before he changed his mind.
The
text message wasn’t part of his instructions. Not part of the deal. He
didn’t care. So what if the watchers found out. What could they do to
him now? He already felt like crap. They couldn’t make him feel much
worse.
He tossed the phone into the garbage can along with the few
brochures he’d picked up throughout the day. His itinerary read like a
sight-seeing family vacation. Or in his case, something presented by one
of those make-a-wish charities – one final trip, all expenses paid.
He
laughed at that and ended up in a coughing fit. Blood sprayed the flat
screen TV and even the wall behind. He didn’t like leaving the mess for
the hotel housekeeping staff. But it was a little too late for that.
Especially since his instructions included touching everything he could
throughout the day. The list rattled in his head: light switches,
elevator buttons, restaurant menus, remote control, and escalator
handrails.
Earlier that morning at the McDonald’s – before the
cough, just before the fever spiked and he still had a bit of bravado
along with an appetite – he felt his first tinge of apprehension. He’d
taken his tray and stopped at the condiment counter.
Touch as many surfaces as possible.
That’s
what he’d been told. Germs could live on a hard surface for up to
eighteen hours. He may have screwed up a lot of things in his life but
he could still follow instructions.
That’s what he’d been thinking when he felt a tap on his elbow.
“Hey, mister, could you please hand me two straws?”
The
kid was six, maybe seven with nerdy glasses, the thick black frames way
too big for his face. He kept shoving at them, the motion second
nature. The kid reminded Tony immediately of his best friend, Jason.
They had grown up together since they were six years old. Same schools.
Same football team. Joined the Army together. Even came back from
Afghanistan, both screwed up in one way or another. Tony was the
athlete. Jason was the brains. Smart and pushy even at six. But always
following Tony around.
Old four eyes.
“Whadya doing now?” was Jason’s favorite catch phrase.
In
grade school they went through a period where Jason mimicked everything
Tony did. In high school the kid bulked up just so he could be on the
football team, right alongside Tony. In the back of his mind he knew
Jason probably joined the Army only because Tony wanted to. And look
where it got them.
Tony shoved at the guilt. And suddenly at that
moment he found himself hoping that Jason never found out what a coward
he really was.
“Mister,” the kid waited with his hand outstretched.
Tony caught himself reaching for the damned straw dispenser then stopped short, fingertips inches away.
“Get your own damned straws,” he told the kid. “You’re not crippled.”
Then
he turned and left without even getting his own straw or napkin.
Without touching a single thing on the whole frickin’ condiment counter.
In fact, he took his tray and walked out, shouldering the door open so
he wouldn’t have to touch it either. He dumped the tray and food in a
nearby trashcan. The kid had unnerved him so much it took him almost an
hour to move on.
Now back in his hotel room, sweat trickled down his face. He wiped at his forehead with the same sleeve he’d used on his mouth.
The fever was something he’d expected. The blurred vision was a surprise.
No,
it was more than blurred vision. The last hour or so he knew he’d been
having hallucinations. He thought he saw one of his old drill sergeants
in the lobby of the John Hancock building. But he’d been too nauseated
from the observatory to check it out. Still, he remembered to touch
every single button before he got out of the elevator. Nauseated and
weak-kneed.
And he was embarrassed.
His mind might
not be what it once was thanks to what the doctors called traumatic
brain injury, but he was proud that he’d kept his body lean and strong
when so many of his buddies had come back without limbs. Now the muscle
fatigue set in and it actually hurt to breathe.
Just then Tony heard a click in the hotel room. It came from somewhere behind him. It sounded like the door.
The room’s entrance had a small alcove for the minibar and coffeemaker. He couldn’t see the door without crossing the room.
“Is anybody there?” he asked as he stood up out of the chair.
Was he hallucinating again or had a shadow moved?
Suddenly
everything swirled and tipped to the right. He leaned against the room
service cart. He’d ordered it just like his watchers had instructed him
to do when he got back to his room. Nevermind that he hadn’t been able
to eat a thing. Even the scent of fresh strawberries made his stomach
roil.
No one was there.
Maybe the fever was making him
paranoid. It certainly made him feel like he was burning up from the
inside. He needed to cool down. Get some fresh air.
Tony opened
the patio door and immediately shivered. The small cement balcony had a
cast-iron railing, probably one of the original fixtures that the hotel
decided to keep when renovating – something quaint and historic.
The
air felt good. Cold against his sweat-drenched body, but good. Made him
feel alive. And he smiled at that. Funny how being this sick could make
him feel so alive. He’d come close to being killed in Afghanistan
several times, knew the exhilaration afterwards.
He stepped out
into the night. His head was still three pounds too heavy, but the
swirling sensation had eased a bit. And he could breathe finally without
hacking up blood.
Listening to the rumble and buzz of the city
below he realized if he wanted to, there’d be nothing to this. He had
contemplated his own death many times since coming home but never once
had he imagined this.
Suddenly he realized it’d be just like stepping out of a C-130.
Only without a parachute.
Nineteen
stories made everything look like a miniature world below. Matchbox
cars. The kind he and Jason had played with. Fought over. Traded.
Shared.
And that’s when his second wave of nausea hit him.
Maybe
he didn’t have to finish this. He didn’t even care any more whether
they paid him or not. Maybe it wasn’t too late to get to an emergency
room. They could probably give him something. Then he’d just go home.
There were easier ways to make a few bucks.
But as he started to
turn around he felt a shove. Not the wind. Strong hands. A shadow. His
arms flailed trying to restore his balance.
Another shove.
His
fingers grabbed for the railing but his body was already tipping. The
metal dug into the small of his back. His vision blurred with streaks of
light. His ears filled with the echo of a wind tunnel. The cold air
surrounded him.
No second chances. He was already falling.
Chapter 2
Conecuh National Forest
Just north of the Alabama/Florida state line
Ryder
Creed’s T-shirt stuck to his back. His hiking boots felt like cement
blocks, caked with red clay. The air grew heavier, wet and stifling. The
scent of pine mixed with the gamy smell of exertion from both man and
dog. This deep in the woods even the birds were different, the drilling
of the red-cockaded woodpecker the only sound to interrupt the
continuous buzz of mosquitoes.
He was grateful for the
long-sleeved shirt and the kerchief around his neck as well as the one
around Grace’s. The fabric had been soaked in a special concoction that
his business partner, Hannah, had mixed up, guaranteed to repel bugs.
Hannah joked that one more ingredient and maybe it’d even keep them safe
from vampires.
In a few hours it would be nighttime in the
forest, and deep in the sticks, as they called it, on the border of
Alabama and Florida, there were enough reasons to drive a man to believe
in vampires. The kudzu climbed and twisted up the trees so thick it
looked like green netting. There were places the sunlight couldn’t
squeeze down through the branches.
Their original path was quickly
becoming overgrown. Thorny vines grabbed at Creed’s pantlegs, and he
worried they were ripping into Grace’s short legs. He was already
second-guessing bringing the Jack Russell terrier instead of one of his
bigger dogs, but Grace was the best air scent dog he had in a pack of
dozens. And she was scampering along enjoying the adventure, making her
way easily through the tall longleaf pines that grew so close Creed had
to sidestep in spots.
They had less than an hour until sunset, and yet the federal agent from Atlanta was still questioning Creed.
“You don’t think you need more than the one dog?”
Agent
Lawrence Taber had already remarked several times about how small Grace
was, and that she was “kind of scrawny.” Creed heard him whisper to
Sheriff Wylie that he was “pretty sure Labs or German shepherds were the
best trackers.”
Creed was used to it. He knew that neither he nor
his dogs were what most law enforcement officers expected. He’d been
training and handling dogs for over seven years. His business, K9
CrimeScents, had a waiting list for his dogs. Yet people expected him to
be older, and his dogs to be bigger.
Grace was actually one of
his smallest dogs, a scrappy brown-and-white Jack Russell terrier. Creed
had discovered her abandoned at the end of his long driveway. When he
found her she was skin and bones but sagging where she had recently been
nursing puppies. Locals had gotten into the habit of leaving their
unwanted dogs at the end of Creed’s fifty-acre property. It wasn’t the
first time he had seen a female dog dumped and punished when the owner
was simply too cheap to get her spayed.
Hannah didn’t like that
people took advantage of Creed’s soft heart. But what no one – not even
Hannah – understood was that the dogs Creed rescued were some of his
best air scent trackers. Skill was only a part of the training. Bonding
with the trainer was another. His rescued dogs trusted him
unconditionally and were loyal beyond measure. They were eager to learn
and anxious to please. And Grace was one of his best.
“Working
multiple dogs at the same time can present problems,” he finally told
the agent. “Competition between the dogs. False alerts. Overlapping
grids. Believe me, one dog will be more than sufficient.”
Creed
kept his tone matter of fact for Grace’s sake. Emotion runs down the
leash. Dogs could detect their handler’s mood, so Creed always tried to
keep his temper in check even when guys like Agent Taber started to piss
him off.
He couldn’t help wonder why Tabor was here, but he kept
it to himself. Creed wasn’t law enforcement. He was hired to do a job
and had no interest in questioning jurisdiction or getting involved in
the pissing contests that local and federal officials often got into.
“I can’t think she’d run off this far,” Sheriff Wylie said.
He
was talking about the young woman they were looking for. The reason
they were out here searching. But now Creed realized the sheriff was
starting to question his judgment, too, even though the two of them had
worked together plenty of times.
Creed ignored both men as best he
could and concentrated on Grace. He could hear her breathing getting
more rapid. She started to hold her nose higher and he tightened his
grip on the leash. She had definitely entered a scent cone but Creed had
no idea if it was secondary or primary. All he could smell was the
river, but that wasn’t what had Grace’s attention.
“How long has she been gone?” Creed asked Sheriff Wylie.
“Since the night before last.”
Creed
had been told that Izzy Donner was nineteen, a recovering drug addict
who was getting her life back on track. She had enrolled in college
part-time and was even looking forward to a trip to Atlanta she had
planned with friends. Creed still wasn’t quite sure why her family had
panicked. A couple nights out of touch didn’t seem out of ordinary for a
teenager.
“Tell me again why you think she ran off into the forest. Are you sure she wasn’t taken against her will?”
Seemed
like a logical reason that a federal agent might be involved if the
girl had been taken. The two men exchanged a glance. Creed suspected
they were withholding information from him.
“Why would it matter?” Tabor finally asked. “If your dog is any good it should still be able to find her, right?”
“It would matter because there’d be another person’s scent.”
“We had a tip called in,” Wylie admitted but Tabor shot him a look and cut him off from saying anything else.
Before
Creed could push for more, Grace started straining at the end of the
leash. Her breathing had increased, her nose and whiskers twitched. He
knew she was headed for the river.
“Slow down a bit, Grace,” he told her.
Slow down
was something a handler didn’t like telling his dog. But sometimes the
drive could take over and send a dog barreling through dangerous
terrain. He’d heard of working dogs scraping their pads raw, so focused
and excited about finding the scent that would reward them.
Grace
kept pulling. Creed’s long legs were moving fast to keep up. The tangle
of vines threatened to trip him while Grace skipped between them,
jumping over fallen branches and straining at the end of her leash. He
focused on keeping up with her and not letting go.
Only now did
Creed notice that Agent Tabor and Sheriff Wylie were trailing farther
behind. He didn’t glance back but could hear their voices becoming more
muffled, interspersed with some curses as they tried to navigate the
prickly underbrush.
Finally Grace slowed down. Then she stopped.
But the little dog was still frantically sniffing the air. Creed could
see and hear the river five feet away. He watched Grace and waited.
Suddenly the dog looked up to find his eyes and stared at him.
This
was their signal. Creed knew the dog wasn’t trying to determine what
direction to go next, nor was she looking to him for instructions. Grace
was telling him she had found their target. That she knew exactly where
it was but she didn’t want to go any closer.
Something was wrong.
“What is it?” Sheriff Wylie asked while he and Tabor approached, trying to catch their breaths and keep a safe distance.
“I think she’s in the water,” Creed said.
“What do you mean she’s in the water,” Tabor asked.
But Wylie understood. “Oh crap.”
“Grace, stay,” Creed told the dog and dropped the leash.
He knew he didn’t need the command. The dog was spooked and it made Creed’s stomach start to knot up.
He
maneuvered his way over the muddy clay of the riverbank, holding onto
tree branches to keep from sliding. He didn’t know that Wylie was close
behind until he heard the older man’s breath catch at the same time that
Creed saw the girl’s body.
Her eyes stared up as if she were
watching the clouds. The girl’s windbreaker was still zipped up and had
ballooned out, causing her upper body to float while the rest of her lay
on the sandy bottom. This part of Blackwater River was only about three
feet deep. Though tea-colored, the water was clear. And even in the
fading sunlight Creed could see that the girl’s pockets were weighted
down.
“Son of bitch
Chapter 3
Creed
kept Grace on her leash, although he exchanged the working one for a
retractable that allowed her more freedom. He’d backed her off to a
clearing along the river, about ten feet away where she could enjoy her
reward. She chomped down on the pink toy elephant making it squeak
repeatedly, the sound foreign out here amidst the buzz of insects and
the gentle churn of the water.
From where he stood he could still
see the body downstream. Creed’s job was to help find whatever they were
looking for, but he wasn’t a part of the investigation. Once the search
was over, he took his dog and stayed out of the way until and unless
there was something else that needed to be found.
A former Marine
and K-9 unit handler, Creed had remained a certified trainer and handler
after leaving the military. Hannah managed the business and Creed
trained the dogs. In seven years their facility in the Florida Panhandle
had become a multi-million-dollar business. They’d earned a national
reputation for their quality training and the success rates of their air
scent dogs. And they did it by rescuing abandoned and discarded dogs
and turning them into heroes.
As he watched Grace fling her toy up
into the air and jump to retrieve it, he couldn’t imagine how anyone
would abandon such a smart and spirited animal. But then, Creed had seen
firsthand enough depravity to last a lifetime.
He looked back at
the young woman’s body. Whether or not he was a part of the
investigation, he couldn’t help but wonder what had happened. Bobbing in
the water she looked small, almost childlike despite the ballooning
jacket.
Sheriff Wylie had said earlier that her family claimed she
might have gotten lost. Did she really intend to go for a walk alone in
the forest, then just lose her way? Not impossible. People got lost. It
happened all the time and Creed and his dogs were often called in at
such times.
The Conecuh National Forest covered 84,000 acres
between Andalusia, Alabama, and the Florida state line. The Conecuh
Trail was twenty-two miles, a trek popular with hikers during the winter
and early spring months. But the trail was up in the northeast part of
the forest, nowhere near here. In fact, they hadn’t seen anything that
resembled a trail for quite some time.
If Izzy Donner went for a
walk in the forest, why did she stray so far off the trail? Did she
actually put rocks in her pockets and walk into the river?
Creed
watched Sheriff Wylie and Agent Tabor. Both men were on their cell
phones. They stood on the riverbank. Neither attempted to get closer to
the body. The sheriff was animated as he talked, waving his arms,
pushing his hat back, then jerking the brim back down low over his brow.
Agent Tabor, on the other hand, looked calm and appeared to be doing
more listening than talking.
They were losing sunlight. The
moss-draped branches hung over the area, creating long shadows. Creed
pulled out his GPS tracker and saved the coordinates. It would make it
easier for the recovery team to find this spot whether they came by foot
or by boat.
He reached around into his daypack for Grace’s
collapsible bowl and grabbed his flashlight, too. He clipped it onto his
belt then poured water for Grace. She came to the sound, sat and placed
her toy beside her, waiting patiently for a drink. He squatted down to
make sure there were no fire ants nearby then placed the bowl for her.
That’s when Creed noticed a flash of reddish brown under a scrawny
cypress bush.
He left Grace and moved to investigate. The shadows
made it difficult to see under the brush. He switched on his Maglite as
he planted one knee on pine needles about three feet from the cypress.
It
was a dead bird. The robin lay belly-up—its red breast was what caught
Creed’s attention. He couldn’t see any marks from a predator. It looked
untouched. He heard the crunch of branches behind him and turned to see
Grace. She was prancing and wagging, proud to be bringing him something.
She offered it to him, and that’s when Creed’s stomach dropped to his
knees.
It was another dead robin.
“Give it to me, Grace.” He
kept the emotion from his voice as he put his hand out. She released
the robin, dropping it into his palm.
“I thought your dogs weren’t supposed to put dead stuff in their mouths.”
Sheriff
Wylie had made his way over to the clearing and stood with strings of
kudzu trailing from his pantlegs while he swatted mosquitoes on his
face. He looked like a comedic character from an old movie, slapping
himself and leaving red welts from his own hand.
“They know the
difference,” Creed told him, “between dead animals and dead humans. I
don’t train them to track dead animal scent, so it’s not off limits. She
saw I was interested in this one and brought me another.”
Creed
pulled out two plastic Ziploc bags from his daypack and gathered the
robins, one in each bag. He stayed calm and kept his movements casual.
He didn’t want to punish Grace for doing something that was second
nature to her, but he also didn’t want her to see his concern.
Truth was, he had a bad feeling about these dead birds, and he hated that Grace had taken one in her mouth.
TWO DAYS LATER
Monday
Chapter 4
Chicago
By
the time Maggie O’Dell’s flight started its descent a light dusting of
snow covered the runway at O’Hare International Airport. She’d left
Washington, D.C. in sunny skies. Sun or snow, it didn’t matter. O’Dell
hated flying. But if she had to land in snow, thank goodness it was at
an airport that was used to it. Where better than Chicago?
As the
plane taxied, O’Dell watched the ground crew, some in jackets and no
headgear, caught off guard by the unexpected March snow as though it was
winter’s last hoorah. She hadn’t just left sunny skies, but warm
weather as well. The East Coast had been enjoying spring-like conditions
for weeks now.
Looking out the window O’Dell suddenly felt a
chill. She pulled up the zipper of her sweater, but she knew it had
nothing to do with the weather. It was this assignment. Months ago it
had already become a cold case. There had been no leads, no trails, no
digital footprints. Nothing.
It was almost as if the
subject, Dr. Clare Shaw, had vanished. As if she had been buried in the
North Carolina mudslide that had taken out the research facility where
she’d served as director. It was the last place the scientist had been
seen. Yet, they had good reason to believe that not only had Dr. Shaw
evaded death but, quite possibly, she had murdered several people in
order to cover up her own escape.
O’Dell had been tasked with finding Shaw. After four months it was beginning to feel like she was hunting a ghost.
Until now.
Detective
Lexington Jacks had arranged to meet O’Dell at Baggage Claim. O’Dell
picked out the detective from across the terminal—the woman was the only
one in the crowd without a handbag or suitcase. Plus she looked like a
cop, dressed in a trench coat and trousers with her legs spread and arms
at her side. Her eyes were inspecting everything and everyone and still
they skimmed over O’Dell, dismissing her.
Then Jacks backtracked
and found her. She made eye contact but waited to be sure. When O’Dell
nodded, Jacks started making her way through the crowd.
The
detective was tall with a confident gait. Her hair was pulled back
emphasizing smooth brown skin flawed only by a faint white scar on her
upper left cheek. Up close, O’Dell could see the woman was older than
her, most likely well into her forties. Crowsfeet danced at the corners
of her eyes.
“Detective Jacks,” O’Dell met her halfway.
“Agent
O’Dell, call me Lexi. Do you have more baggage?” she asked as she
hitched a thumb over her shoulder, pointing to the carousel behind her.
“This is it.”
“No coat?”
“In my carry-on.”
“You’re
gonna need it.” Jacks stopped and crossed her arms as if expecting
O’Dell to open up her rollerboard right there and dig out the coat.
O’Dell almost smiled. She couldn’t remember the last time a law
enforcement officer was concerned about her well-being.
When
O’Dell didn’t make a move, Jacks said, “Okay, suit yourself. We need to
hit the ground running. They’re ready to process the room. It’s my
understanding they’re waiting for you.” Jacks stuffed her hands in her
pockets and turned to lead the way.
“How much containment were you
able to get before CDC arrived?” O’Dell asked, walking beside the
detective and trying to keep up with the woman’s long strides.
“The hotel’s management had the good sense to close off the room as soon as they discovered the victim was one of their guests.”
“Housekeeping hadn’t been in?”
“Hotel management says no.”
“No cops?”
“We
already had a body on the sidewalk. Of course, we taped off the room,
but with a jumper there’s usually no hurry. Good thing because our techs
would not have suspected the place might be hot.”
By hot, she
meant contaminated by a possible deadly virus. It was the medical
examiner who had discovered during the autopsy that the man’s organs had
begun hemorrhaging days before his body hit the sidewalk.
Jacks
led O’Dell through the crowd and to the front exit. O’Dell followed her
out into the cold. They didn’t need to walk far. An airport security
guard stood alongside a dark blue sedan. When he saw Jacks he opened the
door on the passenger side for O’Dell as he took her rollerboard and
placed it in the trunk.
“Thanks Carl.” Jacks rewarded him with a wide, toothy smile then ducked into the car.
As soon as the sedan left from under the awning, large wet snowflakes decorated the windshield.
“Did anyone see him jump?” O’Dell asked.
“No,
but several people saw him as he hit the sidewalk. We don’t think
anyone touched him.” Jacks reached over and hit a button, blasting hot
air. “Nineteen stories, flat on his face,” she said. “Ever see a person
after a fall like that?”
O’Dell had seen bodies in many stages of
decay, pulled out from underwater and underground as well as bodies that
had been tortured and dismembered, but no, she hadn’t seen one after a
fall like that. She shook her head.
“Actually didn’t look too
bad,” Jacks told her. “On the outside. I don’t know what I was
expecting. M.E. said there was a lot of hemorrhaging inside. The lungs
were a bloody mess.”
“What kind of protective gear was the M.E. wearing?”
Jacks winced as she said, “Evidently it wasn’t enough. CDC has him in isolation.”
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