Exposed (15 page)

Newburgh Heights, Virginia

R.J. Tully mashed cooked carrots into the stainless-steel bowl. He knew the routine and in case he forgot, Maggie had instructions on a laminated note card attached to the inside cupboard door. His partner rarely asked favors and the few times she had all involved taking care of Harvey.

He looked out the kitchen window at the white Lab catching the glow-in-the-dark Frisbee each time, no matter how wild of a throw Emma sent him. Tully shook his head. She’d never been good at athletics. Maybe his fault. Their father-daughter sports outings included a remote and recliners more often than a glove and a baseball.

He pushed up his already folded shirtsleeves and added dry dog food to the bowl. Then he stirred in the mess of carrots. He was glad he had stopped and picked up his daughter. She had a special connection with Maggie’s dog, Harvey. He liked watching them together. Being with Harvey was one of the few times Emma let her guard down. She could run and laugh and be silly with the dog. Tully felt like he was seeing a snapshot in time, a time not that long ago, and it reminded him of that ache—half awe, half protectiveness. He used to get that feeling just looking at her when she was a baby and then a toddler. He’d catch himself watching her and shake his head in disbelief that he was a father of such a beautiful, smart and funny little girl.

“How about putting on a sweatshirt?” he yelled out the back door.

She ignored him. He expected it despite his reminiscing. He’d give them a few more minutes before he let Harvey know his dinner was ready.

Tully filled the water bowl and cleaned up the counter. The kitchen was huge. The house, the backyard, the property was huge, especially compared to Tully’s two-bedroom bungalow in Reston. He understood Maggie had bought the place in this prestigious neighborhood with some sort of trust her father had left her. She kept the house nice and simple but classy with a few scattered pieces that made it feel like a home. The place seemed sparse, again, perhaps only compared to his messy, overflowing bungalow.

Still, he knew the house and décor had little to do with why Maggie had bought this property. The purchase had more to with the natural barrier of the river that ran behind the house and the privacy fence surrounding it along with the state-of-the-art security system.

Tully looked around the well-stocked kitchen and wondered if Maggie ever cooked. Her best friend, Gwen Patterson, was a gourmet cook, just one of her many talents that Tully appreciated. They’d sort of been seeing each other officially for several months. Though he wasn’t quite sure if she’d agree their relationship was “official.” They hadn’t really declared it as such and he had no idea what criteria had to be met to make it official. Maybe it was just in his own mind. He hadn’t been with another woman since his divorce from Caroline. Gwen thought he was doing her a favor by letting them take things slow. Tully let her believe the favor was one-sided. It seemed like the gentlemanly thing to do. Fact was, anything more serious scared the hell out of him.

“He’s hungry.” Emma came racing in with Harvey wagging behind her. She didn’t wait for Tully. She grabbed the bowl off the counter and presented the food to Harvey, making him go to his designated eating place, telling him to sit and then setting the bowl down.

Yes, she sure did remind him of when she was little, bright eyes and lopsided grin, sitting on the floor next to the dog with knees up, one pink scar showing through the threadbare denim. She looked…happy. Amazing that a dog could do what a father couldn’t.

“Is Maggie okay?” she asked.

The question surprised Tully. For one thing it was a grown-up question and he was reminiscing about his little girl. Also Emma rarely asked about anyone unless it somehow concerned her. She wasn’t rude, she was just a teenager. That stage where everything and everyone in the world either didn’t exist or existed only to revolve around them.

“She’ll be okay,” he said. And he knew that was true, despite her panic. Actually Maggie had been good at hiding her panic. No one else probably saw it. He almost wished he hadn’t. It didn’t seem natural to see Maggie vulnerable.

“So what’s up with the special delivery?”

Emma pointed to the bouquet of flowers they had found wrapped neatly in tissue and left at Maggie’s front door. It looked to Tully that the local florist knew exactly where to tuck them on the portico, safe from the wind and drive-by viewers, as if the florist was used to delivering to this address. Tully knew Maggie had been getting flowers at Quantico, too. And although she didn’t explain or comment, he gathered that she wasn’t too happy about the deliveries, but at the same time she didn’t seem distressed.

Women
. Sometimes Tully thought he’d never figure them out.

“A secret admirer,” Tully told Emma.

“Oh, so she’s not, like, sick and dying or something?”

“No. God no,” Tully said before he caught himself. Then he smiled, trying to defuse any indication in his voice that might have said otherwise. He hoped that wasn’t the case, that she was seriously sick. Of course that wasn’t the case.

“You said she’d be gone overnight?” Emma wanted to know.

“Yeah, she’ll be back tomorrow.” He hoped that was true.

“We’re not going to leave Harvey here by himself all night, are we?”

“He’ll be okay, sweet pea. He’s stayed here by himself before.” But she didn’t look convinced. She was petting him as he licked up the last remnants, orange bits of carrot stuck to the black part of his nose.

“If we take him with us it’ll save us a trip in the morning to feed him.”

She gave him that look, that “pretty-please” look.

“And tomorrow’s Saturday,” she said. “I’ll stay home and watch him.”

“What if your friends call?” He knew she hadn’t thought this out. Emma? Home all day on a Saturday? Tully was sure it’d take more than a dog, even a dog she adored, to keep her from hanging out at the mall or going to a movie on a precious Saturday.

“I’ll just tell them I can’t. That we’re doing a favor for a friend. They’ll understand. That’s what you do for friends, right?” She gave Harvey’s neck a hug and the dog’s tail thumped against the wall. “And Harvey and I are buds, right, Harvey? Besides, I don’t have school on Monday either. Fall break, remember?”

He liked the idea of having Emma home, though he’d have to see her actually stay home for three days in order to believe it. Next weekend was the wedding and she’d be distracted and gone. But she was right. If they needed to come back it was a forty-minute drive from here to their home in Reston. Tully was pretty sure Maggie would not be released tomorrow, probably not all weekend. He only hoped she didn’t realize that.

“That’s kinda cool,” Emma said and Tully had no idea what she was talking about until she pointed to the flowers again. “It’s sweet, you know, to have someone send you flowers.” Then she sideswiped him with her follow-up, “Did you ever send flowers to Mom?”

Tully’s cell phone interrupted before he could answer.

Saved.

He shrugged an apology as he glanced at the phone number but it wasn’t one he recognized.

“Agent Tully.”

“So what do you have for me?” a man’s voice bellowed.

“Excuse me?”

There was dead air for a few seconds then, “This is Sloane, for Christ’s sake. You called me, remember?”

Tully had left a message for George Sloane earlier in the day. He hadn’t worked with Sloane for a while and had almost forgotten about his brusque, rude “why are you bothering the mighty Oz?” manner.

“And I appreciate the quick call back,” Tully said, getting in his own dig, although he already knew Sloane wouldn’t catch it or acknowledge it. Actually it was a cheap dig, really sort of beneath Tully, but something about George Sloane always brought out the worst in Tully. “Assistant Director Cunningham would like your expert opinion on a special delivery we had this morning.”

“So why isn’t Cunningham calling?”

Tully suppressed a sigh and shook his head. It wasn’t about protocol with Sloane. It was about entitlement. If prodded he would insist he was important enough to be asked by the top-level people, not a “grunt like Tully.”

“He’s a bit tied up right now,” Tully said and was reminded that he hadn’t been able to talk with his boss since morning. He had tried to see Cunningham at USAMRIID. They wouldn’t allow it. Seeing Maggie was grudgingly allowed and even then as a sort of consolation prize. He hadn’t been able to reach Cunningham by phone, either.

“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.

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.