by Alex Kava
A crowd gathered around him but they were a blur. Even the pastor’s voice became a distant hum. Waheem could no longer see him. And he wasn’t even conscious of the American businessman who slipped his gloved fingers around the handle of Waheem’s rusted monkey cage and then simply walked away.
CHAPTER
2
Two months later
8:25 a.m.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Quantico, Virginia
Maggie O’Dell watched her boss, Assistant Director Cunningham, push up his glasses and examine the box of doughnuts sitting outside his office as if the decision might impact lives. It was the same intense look she saw him make when determining any decision, whether choosing a doughnut or running the Behavioral Science Unit. His serious poker face, despite the weathered lines in his forehead and around his intense eyes, remained unchanged. An index finger tapped his thin—almost nonexistent—upper lip.
He stood with a rod-straight back and feet set apart in the same stance he used to fire his Glock. A few minutes after eight in the morning and his well-pressed shirtsleeves were already rolled up, but meticulously and properly turned with cuffs tucked under. Lean and fit, he could eat the entire dozen and probably not notice it on his waistline. His salt-and-pepper hair was the only thing that hinted at his age. Maggie had heard rumors that he could bench-press fifty pounds more than what the recruits were doing despite being almost thirty years their senior. So it wasn’t calories that affected his choice.
Maggie glanced down at herself. In many ways she had modeled her appearance after her boss. Creased trousers, a copper-colored suit that complemented her auburn hair and brown eyes but didn’t distract or draw attention, a lock-n-load stance that conveyed confidence.
Sometimes she knew she overcompensated a bit. Old habits were hard to break. Ten years ago when Maggie made the transformation from forensic fellow to special agent her survival depended on her ability to blend in as much as possible with her male counterparts. No-nonsense hairstyle, very little makeup, tailored suits, but nothing formfitting. Of course, the FBI wasn’t an agency that punished attractive women, but Maggie knew it certainly wasn’t one that rewarded them, either.
Lately, however, she had noticed her suits were hanging a bit loosely on her. Not necessarily a result of that overcompensation, but perhaps from simple stress. Since July she had pushed her workout routine, going from a two-mile run to a three-mile then four, now five. Sometimes her legs cramped up, but she continued to push it. A few sore muscles were worth a clear head. That’s what she told herself.
It wasn’t all about stress, but rather an accumulation of things that had fogged up her mind the last several months. She had a logjam of files on her desk and one file in particular, a case from July, kept creeping back to the top of her stack: an unsolved murder in a restroom at Chicago’s O’Hare International Airport. A priest stabbed through the heart. A priest named Father Michael Keller who had taken up plenty of space in Maggie’s head for too many years.
Keller had been one of six priests who had been suspected of molesting young boys. Within four months all six priests had been murdered, all with the same MO. In July, Keller’s murder was the last. Maggie knew for a fact that the killer had stopped killing, had promised to stop for good. Maggie told herself that if you make deals with killers you can’t expect to keep a clear head.
That was the dark side of the fog. On the bright, or at least the flip side of the fog, there was something—or rather someone else who preoccupied too much of her mind. Someone named Nick Morrelli.
She snatched a chocolate-frosted doughnut out from under Cunningham and took a bite.
“Tully usually beats me to the chocolate ones,” she said when Cunningham raised an eyebrow at her. But then he nodded as if that was explanation enough.
“By the way, where is he?” she asked. “He has court in an hour.”
Normally she didn’t keep tabs on her partner but if Tully wasn’t there to testify then she would get stuck doing it, and for once she was taking off early. She actually had weekend plans. She and Detective Julia Racine had scheduled another road trip to Connecticut. Julia to see her father and Maggie to see a certain forensic anthropologist named Adam Bonzado, who showed some hope of taking Maggie’s mind off the e-mails, the voice messages, the flowers and cards that a very persistent Nick Morrelli had been showering her with for the last five weeks.
“Court date’s been changed,” Cunningham said and Maggie had almost forgotten what they were talking about. It must have registered on her face, because Cunningham continued, “Tully had a family situation he needed to take care of.”
Cunningham finally decided on a glazed cruller. Still examining the box’s contents, he added, “You know how it is when kids get to be teenagers.”
Maggie nodded, but actually she didn’t know. Her family obligations extended as far as a white Labrador retriever named Harvey who was quite happy with two daily feedings, plenty of ear rubs and a place at the foot of her queen-size bed. Later this afternoon he’d be sprawled out and drooling on the leather backseat of Julia Racine’s Saab, happy to be included.
She found herself wondering what Cunningham knew. She couldn’t remember her boss ever being late because of a “family situation.” After ten years of working alongside him Maggie had no idea about the assistant director’s family. There were no pictures on his clutter-free desk, nothing in his office to give any clues. She knew he was married, though she had never met his wife. Maggie didn’t even know her name. It wasn’t like they were invited to the same Christmas parties. Not that Maggie went to Christmas parties.
Cunningham kept his personal life exactly that—personal. And in many ways, Maggie had modeled her personal life after him, as well. There were no photos on her desk, either. During her divorce she never once mentioned any of it while on the job. Few colleagues knew she was married. She kept that part of her life separate. She had to. But her ex-husband, Greg, insisted it was some kind of proof, another reason for their divorce.
“How can you possibly love someone and keep such an important part of your life separate?”
She had no response. She couldn’t explain it to him.
Sometimes she knew she wasn’t even good at compartmentalizing. All she did know was that as someone who analyzed and profiled criminal behavior, someone who hunted down evil on a regular basis, who spent hours inside the minds of killers, she had to separate those portions of her life in order to remain whole. It sounded like a convenient oxymoron, separate and divide in order to remain whole.
She found herself wondering if Cunningham had to explain it to his wife. He obviously had been more successful at his explanation than Maggie had been at hers. One more reason she had adopted his nondisclosure habits.
No, Maggie didn’t know Cunningham’s wife’s name or if he had children, what his favorite football team was or whether or not he believed in God. And actually she admired that about him. After all, the less people knew about you the less they could hurt you. It was one of a few ways to control collateral damage, something Maggie had learned the hard way. Something she had learned perhaps too well. Since her divorce she hadn’t let anyone get close. No need to separate personal and professional if there was no personal.
“Wait.” Cunningham grabbed Maggie’s wrist, stopping her from taking a second bite.
He tossed his cruller on the counter and pointed inside the box. Maggie expected to see a cockroach or something as lethal. Instead, all she saw was the corner of a white envelope tucked on the bottom of the box. Through a doughnut hole she could make out bits of the block lettering. A box of doughnuts was a familiar congratulatory gift amongst the agents. That one should include a card and envelope didn’t warrant this kind of reaction.
“Anyone know who brought in this box of doughnuts?” Cunningham asked loud enough to get everyone’s attention but keeping the urgency Maggie saw in his eyes out of his voice.
There were a few sh
rugs and a couple of mumbled noes. They all went about their daily routine. This was not a shy bunch. Any one of them would take credit where it was due. But whoever had brought in the box had not stayed and that realization set the assistant director’s left eye twitching.
Cunningham took a pen from his breast pocket and slipped it into a doughnut hole, lifting carefully to reveal the envelope. Maggie did think it suspicious someone would place a note at the bottom of the box where it would only be discovered after most of the doughnuts had been consumed. A sour taste filled her mouth. It was only one bite, she told herself. Then just as quickly wondered how many of her colleagues had already devoured several.
“Sometimes one of the other departments sends us down a box with a congratulations card,” she made one last attempt, hoping her explanation would prove true.
“This doesn’t look like a regular congratulations card.” Cunningham pinched a corner of the envelope between his thumb and index finger.
“MR. F.B.I. MAN,” was written in block printing across the middle of the envelope in what looked like a first grader’s attempt at practicing capitalization.
Cunningham set it down on the counter gently as if it would shatter. Then he stepped back and looked around the room again. A few agents waited for the elevator. Cunningham’s secretary, Anita, answered a ringing phone. No one noticed their boss, his darting eyes and the sweat on his upper lip the only signs of his growing panic.
“Anthrax?” Maggie asked quietly.
Cunningham shook his head. “It’s not sealed. Flap is tucked.”
The elevator dinged, drawing both their attention. But only a glance.
“It’s too thin for explosives,” Maggie said.
“There’s nothing attached to the box, either.”
She realized both of them were talking about this as if it were a harmless crossword puzzle.
“What about the doughnuts?” Maggie finally asked. That one bite felt like a lump in her stomach. “Could they have been poisoned?”
“Possibly.”
Her mouth went dry. She wanted to believe their suspicions were unwarranted. It could be a prank between agents. That actually seemed more likely than a terrorist gaining access, not only to Quantico, but all the way down into the Behavioral Science Unit.
Once he made the decision, Cunningham took less than two seconds—maybe three—to untuck the flap, barely touching the envelope with a butter knife. Again pinching only a corner he was able to pull out the piece of paper inside. It was folded in half and each side was folded over about a quarter of an inch.
“Pharmacist fold,” Maggie said and her stomach did another flip.
Cunningham nodded.
Before nifty plastic containers, pharmacists used to dispense drugs in plain white paper and fold over the sides to keep the pills or powder from falling out when you lifted them out of their envelope. Maggie recognized the fold, only because it was one of the lessons they had learned from the Anthrax Killer. Now she wondered if they had been too quick in simply opening the envelope.
Cunningham lifted the paper, keeping the folds intact, making a tent so they could see if there was anything inside. No powder, no residue. All Maggie saw was the same style block printing that was on the outside of the envelope. Again, reminding her of a child’s handwriting.
Cunningham continued to use the end of his pen to open the note. The sentences were simple and short, one per line. Bold, capitalized letters shouted:
CALL ME GOD.
THERE WILL BE A CRASH TODAY.
At 13949 ELK GROVE
10:00 A.M.
I’D HATE FOR YOU TO MISS IT.
I AM GOD.
P.S. YOUR CHILDREN ARE NOT SAFE ANYWHERE AT ANY TIME.
Cunningham looked at his watch, then at Maggie. With his voice steady and even, he said, “We’ll need a bomb squad and a SWAT team. I’ll meet you out front in fifteen.” Then he turned and headed back to his office as casually as if this were an assignment he issued every day.
CHAPTER
3
Reston, Virginia
R. J. Tully slammed on his brakes, setting off a screeching chain reaction behind him. The Yukon driver who’d cut in front of him now waved a one-finger salute before realizing he’d have to stop for the changing traffic light.
“This is not my fault,” Tully’s daughter, Emma, said from the passenger seat. She was holding up her Starbucks latte with two hands, the protective spillproof lid intact, not a drip spilled.
Tully glanced at his own coffee where he had left it in the console’s cup holder with the lid still off from when he had put in his cream. He hated drinking out of those spillproof lids. But maybe cleaning up the car’s interior would be an incentive to use them. Coffee had splashed all over including the knee of his trousers.
“Why would this be your fault?” he asked her, but he kept his eyes on the Yukon driver who was staring at him in his rearview mirror. Was he goading Tully into a game of road rage? One of these days he’d love to pull out his FBI badge and wave it at an idiot like this. Especially now that the guy was stuck waiting for the red light just like the rest of the cars he had cut off.
Tully glanced at Emma when she didn’t answer. She was staring out the passenger window, sipping her latte. “Why would you say that?” he asked again.
“You know, you’re late for work because you have to drop me off.” She shrugged without looking at him. “So you’re in a hurry. But it’s not my fault you’re late.”
“The idiot cut in front of me,” Tully said, almost adding that this had nothing to do with him being in a hurry. And it certainly wasn’t his fault, either. Thankfully he stopped himself. When had they gotten into playing the blame game? He and his ex-wife played it all the time, but only now did Tully realize he was taking on the same ritual with his daughter as if it were implanted in their genetic makeup, an involuntary reaction to outside stimuli.
“It’s not your fault, sweet pea,” Tully said. “You know I don’t mind taking you to school. I’m glad to do it. I just need a bit more warning.”
“Andrea got sick. You knew as soon as I knew.” She shot him a look as if daring him to challenge her.
He didn’t take the bait. Satisfied, Emma swiped at her long, blond hair that continually fell across her eyes. He stopped himself from saying anything.
“It’s the style,” she told Tully every time he nagged her about the habit. She had beautiful blue eyes. She shouldn’t be hiding them. Though he didn’t mention it now to avoid the eye-rolling and heavy sigh that usually followed his comments.
The light turned green. Tully eased his foot off the brake, slowing himself down. Maybe the knot in the back of his neck wasn’t from the rude Yukon driver. Things had been tense between Emma and him. It was her senior year. She constantly reminded him how much stress she was under, yet all he saw was that she wanted to go have fun and hang out at the mall or the movies with her friends.
He grew frustrated with her cavalier attitude about studying, about her grades and yes, about college. And while he piled up college-recruitment catalogs on her bedroom desk she covered them with Bride and Glamour magazines, more excited about being her mother’s maid of honor than landing an academic scholarship to the college of her choice.
She reminded him so much of Caroline sometimes. It didn’t help that the older she got the more she looked like her mother, the fair skin, blond hair, the sapphire-blue eyes that knew almost instinctively how to manipulate him. The only thing she seemed to get from Tully was her tall, lanky figure.
He’d be glad when the wedding was over and done with. Only a week left. Perhaps he would survive. He didn’t need Freud to remind him that his daughter’s excitement about her mother’s new marriage didn’t just stick in his craw because she was ignoring her college plans.
Tully didn’t begrudge Caroline getting married. This wasn’t about their divorce. That had been years ago, so many years he had to stop and count them. No, it was the nagging f
eeling that he was losing his daughter to Caroline’s new life.
Right after their divorce Caroline had sent Emma to live with him so that she could move on with no reminder of her past life. Or at least that’s the way Tully played it over and over in his mind. Now everyone was excited about the wedding and just expected Tully to plod along as the everlasting bearer of stability. He hated that he was so reliable and dependable that to be anything else wasn’t even a consideration.
He glanced at his watch. Reliable, dependable and late. It seemed to bother only him, especially the late part. Even when he called his boss, Assistant Director Cunningham, to leave a message that he would be late, he could hear Cunningham dismiss it, a bit of impatience in his voice that Tully would feel it necessary to call.
“It doesn’t have to be this way,” Emma said, bringing him back to his senses, back to the task at hand.
She’d flipped her hair back out of her eyes and was turned toward him, giving him that hopeful look of a little girl who wanted to make things right. They had been through a lot together in the last four years and she was right, it shouldn’t result in this current state of animosity. Once again she was the wise one, setting him straight, reminding him what was really important. No, they didn’t have to be arguing with each other and blaming each other. He welcomed a truce.
He sighed and smiled at her just as he pulled to the curb in front of her school. But before he could tell her she was right and that he loved her, she said, “I wouldn’t have to depend on Andrea if you bought me my own car. It’d be so much easier.”
So that’s what this was about. Tully tried to keep the disappointment from his face while Emma pecked a kiss on his cheek. She scooted across the seat and was out the door, backpack in one hand, latte in the other, brushing aside any hopes he had of an actual truce.
