Damaged (6 page)

“Could it be something here at the hospital?” Platt asked Captain Ganz as they escaped to a lounge where they could be free of their masks and goggles and gloves.

“We haven’t done anything differently. Nothing I can find that would suddenly be a problem.”

“You’re thinking it might be something they were exposed to in Afghanistan? That perhaps they brought back with them?”

“Is that possible? Could a strain lie dormant?”

“And what? Come alive when you cut into them?”

Ganz wouldn’t meet Platt’s eyes, and Platt knew that must be exactly what the captain was most afraid of.

“There’s nothing like that. Not that I’m aware of,” Platt told him.

“But it’s not entirely impossible?”

Platt didn’t have an answer. Two things his years at USAMRIID had taught him were to never say never and that anything was possible.

“How many cases do you have isolated here?”

Ganz didn’t have to stop to calculate. He knew off the top of his head. “Seventy-six.”

“And for how long?”

“We started isolating eight days ago. But some of these soldiers had their surgical procedures up to eighteen days ago.”

“All of them were operated on here?”

“Yes, though some had temporary procedures done at Bagram before being flown here.”

“Any similarities there?”

“None that we’ve been able to isolate. Those who remain at Bagram haven’t come down with the same symptoms. In fact, they haven’t lost anyone in the same manner. You’d think that’s where the problem should be.” Ganz attempted a laugh, but there was no humor, just frustration.

“You still have blood samples from the soldiers you lost. I’d like to take look at them.”

“Our lab has already examined them extensively—” But Ganz stopped and shook his head like a sleepwalker suddenly waking himself. He waved his hand as if to erase what he had said. “Of course. I’ll have someone set them up for you. What will you be looking for?”

Platt shrugged. “Sometimes when we’re focused on specifics, maybe particular pathogens like MRSA, we can miss other things that might not be so obvious.” He rubbed at his eyes, suddenly feeling the exhaustion again.
Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus
, which surpassed HIV as the most deadly pathogen in the United States, was resistant to most antibiotics. It had become all too prevalent after surgical procedures, so it was one of the first things to look for when an infection resulted. “I’ll start by looking to see if there’s any cell degradation.”

“You could probably use some sleep first. A few hours could help. I did pull you down here before you had a chance to catch your breath.”

“I’ll be fine. Maybe some good strong coffee.”

The door to the lounge opened and a doctor in blue scrubs leaned inside, eyes urgent, not taking the time to enter.

“Captain, we’re losing another one.”

SUNDAY, AUGUST 23

CHAPTER 8

SUNDAY MORNING
HARTSFIELD-JACKSON INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
ATLANTA, GEORGIA

Maggie’s 6:00 AM flight put her in Atlanta just before eight. Under two hours and it was still enough to rattle her composure. She hated flying—not the crowds, not the inconvenience, not even a fear of heights, but rather being trapped at thirty-eight thousand feet without any control. Even the upgrade to first class that Wurth managed to snag for her had done little to help.

He was waiting in baggage claim. For a small man he could deliver a body-crushing hug.

“Easy,” Maggie told him. “What will people think?”

“Oh, it’s okay here in Atlanta,” Wurth countered. “But don’t touch me once we leave the city and head into the South. You may even have to sit in the backseat so I can pretend I’m driving you.”

She rolled her eyes. She knew he was joking, but at the same time she knew there were still pockets in the South where a black man and a white woman in a vehicle together might draw some looks. But it couldn’t be anything close to what they had already been through.

Maggie and Wurth had shared a terror-filled weekend last November. On the Friday following Thanksgiving, three young college students carrying backpacks loaded with explosives had blown up a section of Mall of America. Maggie and Wurth were dispatched to sort through the rubble and had tried to stop a second attack. In the end they had bonded against an unexpected and powerful enemy. It had been the beginning of Maggie’s tumultuous relationship with her new boss, Assistant Director Raymond Kunze, and Charlie Wurth ended up becoming her ally, stepping in to defend her when Kunze would not.

“That’s it?” Wurth said when she showed him her small Pullman. Dragging it behind her, she started leading him to the claims office to retrieve her firearm. “O’Dell, for most women I know, that teeny thing would be their handbag.”

“Guess I’m not most women.”

“You’re what we men call low maintenance. I’ve heard stories about low-maintenance women but I’ve never known one until now.”

With her gun safely holstered, Maggie followed Wurth outside to a black Escalade parked at the curb. An airport security officer had been watching over it and now opened the back while Wurth took Maggie’s Pullman and lifted it in.

“Thanks, man.” Wurth reached up to pat the officer on his shoulder. He was at least a head taller than Wurth.

“You be safe,” the officer said as he opened the passenger door for Maggie.

Inside, the vehicle was spotless except for a pile of CD covers scattered in the console between them.

“I didn’t realize rental places had these luxury SUVs anymore.”

“Oh, they probably don’t.” Wurth turned the engine and blasted the AC. “This one’s not a rental. It’s mine.”

“You’re driving your personal vehicle down into a hurricane?”

“It’s not about that.” He smiled and shook his head. “We goin’ down South,
cherie
. Into the middle of hurricane frenzy. A scrawny black man with a beautiful white woman—I’m packing all my necessary documents: registration, license, and proof of insurance, along with my badge.”

She laughed but Wurth wasn’t laughing.

“You’re serious.”

“As a heart attack.” He punched a couple of buttons on the dashboard and the sound of soft jazz filled the interior. “We’ve got about five hours of interstate. How ’bout we hit Mickey D’s drive-through for a couple of sausage biscuits?”

“In an Escalade with soft jazz? Sounds perfect.”

“Low, low maintenance,” he said. “I’m liking this.”

She let him maneuver his way out of Hartfield-Jackson before she started prodding him.

“Have you learned anything since last night?”

“They have already unwrapped everything.” He glanced at her over his sunglasses. “Sorry. I should have thought of it sooner. I’m not accustomed to dealing in body parts.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m sure they followed protocol.”

Maggie remembered what Tully had said about her becoming an expert. It wasn’t the kind of thing she wished to add to her résumé.

“Turns out there were five packages: one male torso, one foot, and three hands.”

“Left or right?”

“Excuse me?”

“The hands and the foot. Were they left or right?”

This time he flashed an embarrassed grin. “Again, sorry O’Dell.
I didn’t think to ask.” He shook his head. “I thought my job had some interesting variables, but you got me beat.”

“Three hands? It’s more than one victim.”

“So did we stumble on his trophies or his disposables?”

Maggie shrugged and leaned back in the leather captain seat. The car’s AC was noiseless, chilling the interior as smoothly as the jazz filled it.

“A cooler this size could act as sort of a floating coffin, taking it farther out to sea. If the lid isn’t locked predators would take care of the remains, get rid of all the evidence. But the plastic wrapping suggests this guy didn’t intend for the cooler to get away from him. I should be able to tell more once I see everything firsthand. Will I be able to visit the crime scene?”

“I was told that wouldn’t be a problem.”

“And the cooler?”

“Waiting for you. The packages, however, are already with the ME. He’ll take a look at them tomorrow morning. And yes, he’s expecting your presence. You won’t find much resistance. If anything, you might find a lack of interest. With this hurricane coming, the local law enforcement has more important things to worry about.”

“A storm is more important than a killer on the loose?”

Wurth glanced over at her as he turned into the parking lot of a McDonald’s. “You’ve never been in a hurricane before, huh?”

“That obvious?”

“Your killers carve up, what? Six bodies? A dozen over several months? Maybe several years? Isaac has already killed sixty-seven in forty-eight hours. This time, O’Dell, I think my killer trumps your killer.”

CHAPTER 9

PENSACOLA, FLORIDA

Liz Bailey fumbled around the kitchen trying to fix breakfast, silently vowing that she would take time to buy the things she couldn’t find. She hadn’t lived in her father’s house since high school. Her sister had lived here until she married Scott. That was two years ago—just enough time for her father to arrange things so that only he could find them.

She’d moved back in temporarily only because the housing she was promised with her transfer wouldn’t be available for two months. Now searching for the toaster she wondered if she’d last that long.

She turned up the radio for the local weather report.

“Hurricane Isaac is expected to slam into the western side of Cuba today. Last night it bulldozed over Grand Cayman, flooding homes, ripping off roofs, and toppling trees. More than half the homes on Grand Cayman are said to be damaged. And yet, Isaac hasn’t lost any of its steam. It’s now a cat 4 and traveling about ten miles an hour with sustained winds of 150 miles an hour. And guess
what folks, it’s still expected to take that slight turn to the north/northeast, which means, you guessed it, we’re smack-dab in the middle of its path. Landfall may be sometime Wednesday. Time to start boarding up, stocking up, and moving out, folks.”

“They’re always wrong,” her dad said as he shuffled in, still in his pajamas though he had been up for an hour reading the newspaper and drinking coffee.

Finally, the toaster! Liz found it in the bottom cabinet under the sink. Of course, the last place she’d think to look. She pulled it out without any comment. Trish would have commented, scolded, and instructed where the toaster should be stored.

“Not this time, Dad. The CG and the NHC has the Florida Panhandle in the crosshairs.”

“Well, that’s not where the media says it’s gonna hit. They’re all in New Orleans again, ready and waiting. This morning’s
Journal
has the projected path drawn from Galveston to Tampa, and they all act like New Orleans is the only place they give a damn about.”

“You should get gas today. And batteries and bottled water. Won’t Trish and Scott need to come stay with you? They can’t stay on the bay.”

“I’ve got a whole container of batteries and plenty of bottled water in the garage. Enough food in the refrigerators to feed us for a week.”