“How soon could you take a look?” Tully asked.
“I’ve got time right now.”
“Tonight?” Tully saw Emma flinch at the word and wondered how many times he had left her to make her involuntarily flinch at the interruption. “Where are you?”
“Here at the university.”
Tully watched Emma shove dog food into a plastic container. She was pretending to not listen in. “He’ll need more than that, Em,” he told her. She nodded and started searching the kitchen pantry.
“Oh, I see,” Sloane said and Tully could hear the smirk. “You have a hot date. I understand.”
“Emma is my daughter, George.”
“Of course, your daughter, Emma. How old is she now? She must be in high school.”
“This is her last year,” Tully said and caught Emma rolling her eyes at him. She hated when he talked about her.
“I have a class at Quantico tomorrow morning at nine. My forensic documents for dummies in law enforcement. I can take a look at Cunningham’s stuff before class while the retards are finding their seats.”
Though Sloane was being his snide self Tully was surprised to have him compromising without a challenge. The two of them went back a lot of years and Tully could count on one hand the times George Sloane had cut him some slack. It felt like this time might be because of Emma.
“That’d work great. Thanks, George.”
“I’ll see you in the morning.”
Tully closed his cell phone and turned to find Emma staring at him, waiting.
“I’m not going anywhere tonight except home with you, sweet pea,” he told her.
She rolled her eyes like it didn’t matter, but the smile was genuine. Harvey, however, was the one who got the hug.
“Help me shut off some of these lights.”
Tully flipped the backyard switch and headed to the entryway to reset the complicated alarm system. He passed a side window and noticed a car parked up the street. He shut off the nearest light and backed up enough to glimpse out the window again, this time without being seen. In this neighborhood with circle drives and houses set back off the street no one parked on the street. Especially at this time of night.
CHAPTER
21
Artie heard the monkeys down the hall, screeching again. It was late and whoever was supposed to feed them had probably forgotten or figured no one would notice on a Friday night. Assholes. And no one would notice. No one ever came down here on weekend evenings. That was exactly why he was here. The place was quiet and he didn’t have to worry about anyone walking in on him, wanting to know what he was doing.
He decided if the monkeys were still screeching when he was ready to leave he’d use his key card and at least throw them some biscuits. They were sneaky little bastards and Artie didn’t like being around them. They reminded him of little old men with bright eyes and beards and they looked at him like they knew something he didn’t know. He couldn’t explain what it was that gave him the creeps. He didn’t trust them but he did feel sorry for them. He couldn’t imagine being stuck in a cage all day, depending on someone else.
Artie let the monkeys screech at his back as he walked all the way to the opposite end of the hall. The door had a metal sign attached that said: QUARANTINE in red letters. He used his key card and let himself in to the small deserted lab. No one used it anymore except for storage.
They used to keep sick, contaminated monkeys in here while they tested them. He wondered if they’d made the monkeys sick just so they could do their tests. That’s what they were doing with the ones down at the other end of the hall. But the ones that occupied this little lab had been different. He wasn’t sure how. No one talked about it. Probably because every single monkey ended up dying.
Ever since then, the lab remained unused, untouched. The monkeys’ cages still lined up against one wall. It was as if whatever happened here was beyond repair. At least everything had been washed down and sterilized. The smell of bleach lingered, helped along by Artie’s recent contributions. He thought it was silly that science-minded people, logical thinkers, would be superstitious.
That made him smile. He actually liked that people—even scientists—were so predictable. In fact, that was one of the things he could pretty much count on. It didn’t matter what social class, what background and upbringing, what occupation, there were basic factors like greed and suspicion—even superstition—that everyone had a small dose of. Like it was engineered into human DNA. And Artie freely admitted that he included himself. Yeah, he was a little superstitious. It certainly didn’t hurt to be a little. If he did something a certain way and good things happened, then he repeated those steps. Maybe that was more of a ritual than superstition.
He wrestled out of his gray hoodie and slung his backpack onto the long, narrow stainless-steel table that took up the middle of the room. Behind him were floor-to-ceiling cabinets. He wiped his sweaty palms on the front of his baggy T-shirt then twisted the combination of a padlock on one of the cabinets.
He began his ritual, taking out everything he needed: a gallon jug of bleach, latex gloves, a surgical mask, goggles, a tray of surgical utensils and a box of Ziploc plastic bags. From his backpack he pulled out a small box and snapped it open.
This was the part he still hated. He carefully removed the loaded syringe and took off the cap. He knew the vaccine was as good as liquid gold and worth a small fortune on the black market. At least that’s what his mentor had said when he told Artie to use it sparingly. He clenched his teeth, made a fist and stuck the needle into his arm.
Artie put on the surgical mask and goggles, then two layers of latex gloves. He always put them on in the same order—call it superstition, ritual, whatever—it worked every time. Again from his backpack he brought out the plastic bag with fingernail clippings he had snatched from the tour-bus floor. He also laid out two mailing envelopes with the labels already attached. The block lettering looked perfectly amateurish, almost childlike. Perhaps the person at Benjamin Tasker Middle School who would receive one of the packages would even think that it was sent from a student.
Finally ready, Artie went to the old chest freezer that rumbled in the corner. He worked the combination to the padlock on its door. He swung open the lid and made himself look at the dead monkey wrapped in clear plastic, lying on its back with arms and legs flaying, locked in place and looking as if the monkey were trying to claw its way out. Artie avoided its eyes. Even frozen, the little bastard gave him the creeps. He grabbed a plastic bag from the side of the freezer and shut the lid, worked the padlock back into the handle, made the lock click.
He tossed the bag from hand to hand, a frozen glob, a Popsicle of blood and tissue. All he needed was a sliver.
CHAPTER
22
Newburgh Heights, Virginia
Tully climbed over a dark corner of Maggie’s privacy fence without much effort or sound. He was tall, long-legged and still in good shape if you didn’t count a bum knee. Of course it helped that there was an air conditioner unit he could use as a step up. On the other side he slinked down and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. He glanced back at Maggie’s house and hoped Emma was following his instructions, packing Harvey’s leash and toys and not looking out back to see what exactly her father thought he needed to check on.
Worrying about Emma reminded him of Caroline. When he first met Caroline she seemed enamored of his career choice. It wasn’t until years after they were married and after Emma was born that Caroline pushed for him to get out of the field, stay home more, quit jumping fences and stop hunting killers.
“What about teaching?” she had asked over and over again.
Ironically, just as he managed to get the ultimate teaching job—or at least, Quantico was the ultimate FBI teaching job for him—Caroline decided she wanted a divorce. She had countered his travels with travels of her own as the CEO of a large advertising agency. And what he believed had been requests for the safety of their da
ughter—him getting out of the field and out of killers’ radar—had really been some strange, selfish jealousy. She wanted the adventure and not the responsibilities that came with being a parent.
Instead, it was Tully who constantly worried that his job could and would put Emma in danger. She had been on the cusp before. Too close for comfort. And so was this.
Tully didn’t like prowling around while Emma was only yards away. But if someone was watching Maggie’s house Tully needed to find out why. Was it possible that the same guy who sent Maggie and Cunningham to the Kellerman house was now outside Maggie’s home? Maybe Tully and Emma had interrupted his plans.
Tully kept to the outside fence line, staying in the shadows. The few streetlights were decorative ironwork with faint yellow globes, another perk of the prestigious neighborhood with expensive alarm systems and false security. Tully had already figured out the route he needed to take so he could approach the car from behind. Along the fence, beside the evergreens and directly out to the street, hidden the entire time by shadows and branches.
He tucked his hand inside his jacket, wrapping his fingers around the butt of his Glock. Then he stood up straight and walked casually past the last set of bushes, coming to the trunk of the car, rounding it quickly and pulling out his gun. He had his Glock pressed to the car window with his badge flapping beside it before the driver even looked up at him.
By the time the man rolled down the car window Tully was already shaking his head and holstering his weapon.
“What the hell are you doing, Morrelli?”
CHAPTER
23
Saturday, September 29
The Slammer
Midnight came and went but time dragged on. Maggie channel surfed. She asked for a novel, a newspaper or any current magazines, maybe a pen and notepad. The woman in the blue space suit said she’d see what she could find, but when she arrived again she had only another syringe to draw more blood.
The faces on the other side of the glass came and went, too. There were fewer as the night grew longer. They had taken her cell phone but allowed her access to a corded phone inside her room. They told her, without apology, that all her phone calls would be monitored then “reminded” her—though it sounded more like a reprimand than a reminder—that she was not to talk about what had happened or mention anything regarding her whereabouts. “Whereabouts,” that’s what the woman in the blue space suit called it.
Earlier Maggie had made two calls. The first she had to leave a voice message, knowing the call wouldn’t be able to be returned. She told her friend, Gwen Patterson, that she’d be okay. “Talk to Tully,” Maggie said, hating that it sounded so mysterious when she really just wanted to let her friend know that she shouldn’t worry.
The second call was to Julia Racine and the detective picked up after only one ring. It was less than an hour before the two were supposed to leave for their weekend road trip to Connecticut.
“It’s Maggie. Sorry, I’m not gonna be able to go.”
“Bummer,” was Racine’s response.
She had expected the high-strung detective to throw a fit, at least show some disappointment. Maggie found herself disappointed, instead, that there was little reaction. The two of them weren’t exactly friends. They were colleagues who had exchanged favors. No big deal. Okay, so the favors were sort of life-changing, the “you saved my mom so I saved your dad” kind of favor. Maybe a little bit of a big deal.
As a result Maggie had grown attached to Racine’s father although his early-onset Alzheimer’s sometimes prevented him from remembering their bond. The two women had been through a lot in a short time, brought together by killers and mutual incentives to bring those killers to justice. What had begun several years ago with animosity and distrust had dissolved into respect and understanding. Though to hear Racine, it was really no big deal.
“So you’ve got a big case or something?” the detective had asked.
“Something like that. I can’t explain right now.”
“Sure, I understand.” Racine had almost cut Maggie off with her instant understanding. “Jill’s been bugging me to spend more time with her anyway.”
Maggie knew little about Racine’s mysterious new lover, except that Racine sometimes called her G.I. Jill, so at least Maggie knew she was in the Army. At first Maggie thought that Racine kept her new lover a mystery because she had once been attracted to and rejected by Maggie. But they were beyond that. In many ways Racine reminded Maggie of herself. She kept her personal life private. That was all it was.
Maggie promised to touch base with Racine on Monday. Maybe the following weekend would work for another road trip. But when she hung up, Maggie couldn’t shake the emptiness that settled in the pit of her stomach. She didn’t have anyone else to call.
Though she had counted on seeing forensic anthropologist Adam Bonzado in Connecticut over the weekend she hadn’t really made plans with him. That was sort of where they were right now. Casual, spontaneous, the “call me from the road” at the last minute, “oh, by the way, if you don’t have anything going on this weekend…” Now she couldn’t even call him to say she wasn’t making the spontaneous road trip after all. It was supposed to be the grown-up, mature, no-strings kind of relationship she wanted, the ultimate nonrelationship.
Then she found herself thinking about Nick Morrelli, again. Since her trip to Nebraska in July, Morrelli had been persistent in wanting to see her. Through rumors, she heard that he had called off his wedding engagement. Once upon a time Maggie’s mother had accused Nick Morrelli of breaking up Maggie’s marriage, which wasn’t in the least bit true. However, now Maggie did feel responsible that Nick had broken off his engagement to pursue her.
She and Nick Morrelli had worked together on a case four years ago, the murders of two little boys and the kidnapping of Nick’s nephew. Nothing had happened between them. There had been an attraction. Some sexual tension. But mostly the case had been emotionally and physically draining. How could you judge true feelings when you’re running on adrenaline?
Worst of all was that she didn’t feel elated about his canceled engagement or even his sudden pursuit. She didn’t ask for this. She hadn’t expected it and she certainly had not encouraged it.
For the moment Maggie tried to shove aside her personal life and concentrate on her present situation. She had asked the woman in the blue space suit how Mary Louise and her mother were. Her keeper, her informant, her link to the outside world said she didn’t know. Maggie asked if she could see Mary Louise and was told, “I don’t know.” She asked several times to, at least, talk to Assistant Director Cunningham. Each time she was told he would not be available until morning. It seemed an odd thing to say, especially after a string of, “I don’t knows.”
There was another telephone alongside the wall of glass. This one had no dial, no buttons to push, and Maggie knew it was connected to the room next door, the room on the other side of the glass that was lined with blinking monitors, computer screens and other medical equipment. The phone was a communication system between the patient and the techs or doctors or whoever they were. Though none of them had attempted to communicate with her. In fact, they paid little attention to her and left the communications to the woman in the blue space suit.
Maggie thought about picking up the phone and demanding to get an update. Then she calmed herself. It wouldn’t help to antagonize her caretakers, her keepers, her wardens. She could get through the night. That’s all she needed to do. Just get through this night.
Over the course of the evening the woman in the blue space suit had brought Maggie water but no food. Again, no apology, but at least an explanation. They would be taking blood and urine samples throughout the night, so they couldn’t allow her to eat. Maggie asked what they were looking for. The woman hesitated, then said she didn’t know. Maggie asked if they had narrowed it down.
Another pause while the woman simply shrugged. After some thought she yelled, “THOSE ARE QUE
STIONS YOU WOULD NEED TO ASK COLONEL PLATT.”
But when Maggie asked if the colonel would be stopping by soon to see her, the woman said she didn’t know.
“Could you please tell him I’d like to see him?”
“OF COURSE,” the woman shouted over her blower, but she answered this too quickly and Maggie wondered if Platt had gone home hours ago.
CHAPTER
24
Newburgh Heights, Virginia
“Somehow I never imagined you as a stalker, Morrelli.” Tully was not pleased to see the Boston A.D.A.
“I brought Maggie some flowers. She wasn’t home. I left them. Nothing strange about that.”
“Was she expecting you?”
“No, she wasn’t. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“You’re sitting in a parked car outside her house. I’m checking on her house. It’s my business.”
It had been a long day. Tully wondered if he’d be reacting differently if Emma wasn’t waiting for him just yards away. Something about needing to bring out his Glock while his daughter was in the vicinity set him on edge. He didn’t like it and he wasn’t about to let Morrelli off the hook for putting him in this position. Besides, if Morrelli was important enough to Maggie, wouldn’t she have called him? Boston was about an eight-hour drive, an hour-and-a-half flight. Not exactly a spontaneous trip just to deliver flowers.
“So you dropped off the flowers,” Tully said, leaning on the rental like he was ready for a long explanation. “Maggie’s not here. Why are you still here?”
“I saw someone go inside her house. Thought maybe I should stick around and make sure it was okay.”
Tully shook his head. Morrelli was good. Convincing. Classic good looks with an easy charm. No wonder he was an assistant D.A. Tully didn’t know him very well. The first time he met him he thought Morrelli was a bit too slick. Too good looking. Too cocky. Too incompetent. Tully and Gwen had traveled to Boston, to Suffolk County’s courthouse. Morrelli’s territory. Gwen was only supposed to interview a kid in federal custody and had almost been stabbed inside the interrogation room. Morrelli had been in charge. In Tully’s book that was reason enough for him to hold a grudge against the guy.