The White Iris

by Susanne Matthews

  “No, if it’s all the same, I’ll give it a pass. Last month’s almost bored me to death. I’ve got two baskets of laundry calling my name and I want to clean the spare room before Lenore arrives. I’ll see you Monday.”

  “Okay. Don’t forget we have an appointment with that travel agent at six.”

  “I won’t. Aruba, here we come.”

  • • •

  They never made that appointment. Twelve hours later Julie received the news that Ellie and Brad had been killed when their limousine was hit head-on by a transport truck.

  Chapter Three

  Trevor ran his hand through his hair, frustrated by his inability to find the answers he so desperately needed. Here it was, two-thirds of the way through September, and despite the man-hours involved and the stack of bodies piled up by that madman and his henchmen, he was no closer to stopping the Prophet today than he’d been when he’d started. Sure, they’d made some inroads—hurt him, taken away the people he wanted—but it wasn’t enough. The Prophet and God alone knew how many followers were still out there, watching and waiting, and the task force, half of whom were now on the injured list, was powerless to stop him. No one would be safe until they could neutralize that son of a bitch, but how the hell did you prevent someone from doing something when you had no idea who he was, exactly what he planned, or where and when he’d do it? To make matters worse, the sick bastard still seemed to be one step ahead of them.

  The Prophet, furious about losing the women and children in the successful New Hampshire raid in July, had targeted the task force, threatening to unleash ten plagues—another biblical event Trevor could do without—unless his people were freed and returned to him. The first, based on the premise of turning water into blood, had been a pipe bomb three weeks ago in a pub frequented by Boston police officers and the task force members. He’d lost one man and another was crippled and might never walk again. In addition, two innocent people had been killed and several others injured.

  While the fact that the deadline for the second plague had come and gone without any new bodies dropped in his lap should please Trevor, knowing that each day that went by without any action on their part gave the Prophet time to perfect his biological weapon did not. The people whom his nemesis had requested, the brethren captured in July, had recanted their beliefs and were in Australia, safely out of the maniac’s reach, living on Evergreen, Jacob Andrews’s fruit farm in the Northern Territory. The Australian millionaire, an undercover police officer who frequently worked with Interpol, was currently seconded to the FBI. Jacob had grown up in the New Horizon commune before it had morphed into the sick cult it was now. He’d provided priceless insight into the commune as well as his uncle, the Prophet.

  James Colchester’s children, Jacob’s nieces and nephews, the objectives of Garett Pierce’s one-man killing and kidnapping spree in early September, were also in Australia, some at Evergreen with the “settlers,” as the former members of the commune called themselves, others with their mothers in Melbourne, where Jacob; Lilith Munroe, Trevor’s cult expert and BAU analyst; and Rob Halliday were recuperating from injuries sustained in the fight two weeks ago with Pierce, the FBI agent who turned out to be their mole and the Prophet’s right-hand man.

  What had Julie said? Call me if you get a credible threat. They had proof the Prophet’s henchmen could build bombs and that he had an army of angry, disenchanted teens ready to do anything for him, but they still didn’t know exactly what he planned to do or how he’d do it.

  Thanks to Jacob, they’d narrowed it down to a biological weapon, but what? A poisonous gas? A nerve agent? Some kind of super flu? All three? Jacob said the Prophet had referred to dengue fever as causing a great burning inside, a cleansing, but how would he distribute something like that?

  Trevor wished he could call Julie, talk to her about which virus might be the most devastating, but now wasn’t the time. She might still be in Colorado. He should’ve gone to Ellie’s memorial service in Atlanta, but … Would Julie have wanted him there? As she’d clearly demonstrated in July, he meant nothing to her now. He’d burned that bridge, pylons and all, two years ago. His presence would just have complicated matters for them both, dredging up memories of the first funeral he’d failed to attend.

  Keep telling yourself that.

  Avoiding difficult personal situations was a time-honored Clark family tradition.

  Standing by the window, he watched the incessant rain. According to the weather report, things would get a lot worse before they got better.

  Maybe the Prophet should just forget about the Great Burning, since it looks like God has decided to flood the world, starting with the East Coast.

  In the two weeks since they’d raided a training facility in Vermont, everything seemed to have ground to a standstill, and he couldn’t suppress his anxiety. Pierce was dead, but there had to be someone out there just waiting to step into his shoes. The problem was, Trevor had no idea who that might be, and neither did any of the former members of the New Horizon cult. There weren’t a large number of executioners in any specific area, and Pierce had been theirs.

  Needing to do something, Trevor had put the picture they had of Duncan Lucius, the man Jacob had positively identified as the Prophet, through every facial recognition program they had, but he’d come up with nothing they could use. Since the picture had been taken at night using an infrared camera from a distance, the image was so degraded, it had been a match for hundreds of people with similar bone structure, including more than fifty women, the pope, half a dozen senators, and Marlon Brando. He was damn sure none of them were the Prophet.

  On his orders, the new members attached to the task force had run down each of the other matches and come up empty. The president’s advisor on homeland security really hadn’t been impressed when he’d been questioned. Trevor had gotten a call from the FBI director, but he was sure it wasn’t going to end there. He’d be lucky if he didn’t get busted down to mailroom clerk, but given the way he felt right now, that might be a blessing.

  He fisted his hands at his sides. One of the dead from the Vermont raid had been positively identified as the backpack bomber, the man disguised as a woman who’d left the bomb in a downtown Boston pub. The knowledge that the person who’d carried out the act of domestic terrorism had been neutralized should’ve been comforting, but it wasn’t. The man ultimately responsible was still out there, and none of the other nine prisoners had any useful information on the Prophet’s whereabouts.

  The system of never telling one person more than they absolutely needed to know was a popular one with all terrorists, inspiring the lone-wolf syndrome, but at the moment, Trevor’s inability to find even the smallest clue to his nemesis’s whereabouts and plans was driving him crazy. The bastard was out there scheming and planning while they sat around twiddling their thumbs. The longer they did nothing, the worse it was.

  Trevor moved back to his desk, sat, and reached for the folder in his in-basket. Right now, his best lead, which was practically no lead at all, was Micah, the cult mechanic who’d maintained the machinery on the New Hampshire farm. Thanks to Jacob’s insight into the cult, they knew one of the ways New Horizon financed itself was by collecting sperm from purebred stallions for their owners to sell. Micah assured them he could identify some of the horses that had been at the collection center. If they could find the animals, their owners might be able to tell them where the cult members were, since they wouldn’t have abandoned that lucrative business. It was a long shot, but right now, it was all they had.

  Trevor had hoped Micah would recognize the young men taken in the raid, but the only one who’d rung a bell with him had been Pierce. Even the woman killed in the action had been a stranger. What had been a surprise was the fact that Micah had recognized Kelly Kirk, the young girl whom Lilith had failed to rescue five years ago. The former cult member claimed he’d seen her on a ranch in Utah shortly before he’d been sent to New Hampshire.

  N
ow that they knew that the Faithful Followers of the Word cult had been an offshoot of the New Horizon cult, and that its leader, Cliff Rivers, was in fact Simon Colchester, the Prophet’s oldest son, Trevor figured they’d find the cult members hiding in other similarly minded groups, but so far that hadn’t panned out. Last week, he’d sent a picture of Kelly to all FBI offices. If that girl showed her face anywhere, they’d know it, and if they found her, they might find other cult members. It was a long shot, but recovering the senator’s niece would help ease Lilith’s conscience, since she still blamed herself for the failure of that undercover assignment—the fact that she’d almost died deemed irrelevant.

  As far as the others captured in Vermont, fingerprints had come back on all of the young men because of juvenile criminal records. These kids—and that’s all they were—had been raised in cities and towns all over the country. None of them had anything to do with New Horizon, so how had they come to be together in that facility? Who’d recruited them and why? The 200-plus the task force envisioned could easily be 2,000 or more.

  Homeland Security had a team monitoring social media, since terrorists often used that medium to appeal to dissatisfied youths, promising them the opportunity to “stick it to the man” or whatever organization fueled their misery. Every generation had its dissatisfied element, but this one seemed to have more, and they were a lot angrier than their predecessors had been.

  While the task force concentrated on the Prophet, the government watchdog responsible for the country’s safety had another group monitoring the Rockies, specifically looking for new construction that might point to the location of the Promised Land. Faye, Rob’s wife, insisted the facility was somewhere in the mountains, but so far, all satellite imagery had come back negative.

  If only Lilith were here. Her expertise on cults and indoctrination would come in handy, but after being tortured, his agent had to deal with a hell of a lot of baggage before she’d be fit for duty again. He turned back to the file, determined to read each item it contained once more.

  We’ve got to be missing something. The answer’s in here. It has to be.

  • • •

  It was amazing how quickly one’s circumstances could change. In the eight weeks since she’d found those missing vials, Julie’s life had become a living hell. She’d been on pins and needles ever since the day of the accident, unable to accept the reality of what had happened.

  With Brad and Ellie gone, other than the person who’d taken the samples—and she was sure they’d been stolen—she was the only one alive at the CDC who knew about them. The imagination she’d kept harnessed for years had taken over and screamed conspiracy. What if Ellie and Brad’s deaths hadn’t been an accident? What if the thief was behind it all, killing those who might give his dastardly plan away?

  The thought gnawed at her throughout the memorial service in Atlanta and the interment in Colorado. She was sure she was being watched, followed. When she returned to the city, the police and the coroner’s reports were clear. A transport driver, a man in his late forties with a wife and three children, had suffered a massive heart attack, jumped the median, and hit the limo head-on. The tragedy had been a terrible accident. Nothing more, nothing less.

  While she kept telling herself that, part of her refused to believe it. Each night, when she settled into the bed and closed her eyes, sleep eluded her. The fear she’d have another nightmare terrified her, and she’d tried everything she could think of to get a dreamless sleep, including polishing off a bottle of wine, but nothing seemed to work. Curling up in the fetal position, she decided it was time for science to come to her rescue. Science calmed her. It was neat, factual, and explainable. She started to recite the periodic table of elements.

  One, hydrogen; two, helium; three, lithium; four, beryllium; five, boron; six, carbon…

  Dressed in her best suit, one of the outfits she keeps for those boring luncheons Brad insists they attend for PR purposes, she’s hurrying down the hallway. Glancing over her shoulder, the man clothed in black seems to be gaining on her. Who is he? Is he shadowing her? Why would anyone follow her?

  Up ahead, the closed door opens, urging her to move faster. She’s late. Ellie and Brad are waiting for her in the car. Stepping into the light, the driver, Trevor, opens the back door of the limousine. She smiles at him, but he turns away from her, ignoring her.

  Reluctantly, wishing she could change the way things are between them, she gets into the car, and the door slams shut behind her. Turning to speak to Ellie, she gasps. The backseat is covered in blood, as if the seats themselves are oozing the dark, viscous liquid. Broken vials, clearly labelled biohazardous infectious material, spew death into the air. She covers her mouth, tries to hold her breath…

  “This is all your fault.” Ellie’s angry voice startles her. Her cousin’s body and face are bruised and battered, her clothes ragged and torn. “You had no business going in there and using my name. You know better than to do something without thinking it through.”

  Brad’s corpse reaches out an icy hand and grabs her arm. “You should’ve died instead of us. We had a future. You have nothing.”

  “Let me out!” she screams, but the driver ignores her cries. He turns around to look at her. Instead of Trevor, the faceless creature in black laughs.

  Before she can move away from Ellie and Brad’s clawing hands, the limousine splits apart. Pain rips through her as she’s tossed from the vehicle and spirals away into a bottomless abyss. She cries, screams, begs for mercy, but the figure in black, who suddenly wears Trevor’s face, turns and walks away.

  Her screams awakening her, she sat up in bed, the covers tangled around her, her nightshirt wet and clinging to her body, tears streaming down her face. She coughed, her lungs spasming with her distress. How much longer could she go on like this?

  Turning on the bedside lamp, she reached for her computer and searched for the news report about the accident. That’s what it had been. Why did her gut refuse to believe it? In the two weeks since she’d returned to work, using the science that had always served her well, she’d tried once more to solve the mystery of the phantom vials, as she now called them, but failed. The possibility of an inside job made the most sense, but given the limitations under which she was forced to work, she had no way to check on any of them. She was obsessing, and it had to stop.

  Behaving as if she had no idea the city, country, or world could be in mortal danger was taking its toll on her. Her asthma was out of whack, and in the evenings, she alternated between crying jags and coughing fits that left her exhausted. Three days ago, she’d asked Dalton if they could put off their collaboration until next spring, and he’d reluctantly agreed. Despite knowing her fears were irrational, she couldn’t shake the boogeymen who haunted her. She wanted to talk to Trevor, but the fact he hadn’t contacted her after Ellie and Brad’s deaths confused her. Was the Prophet still a danger? She’d read about the plague and the pipe bomb. Maybe that was the way he’d decided to implement the Great Burning.

  Closing the computer once more, she settled in the bed, praying for sleep, knowing it wouldn’t come any time soon.

  • • •

  Julie stepped through the second set of doors exiting the lab, removing her hood and face mask as the door sealed itself behind her. Breathing in her first lungful of uncanned air in hours, she placed her hands on her hips and stretched her stiff, aching back. How long had she been in there this time? Too long. It wasn’t her fault she didn’t have enthusiasm for this job, but the tedium of working with insects didn’t appeal to her—it never had.

  “Packing it in early today, Dr. Swift?” Leon, the security guard now posted outside her lab, asked, stopping her from descending into a funk the way she always did when she thought of Ellie.

  “I am. I’m bug-eyed, and it has nothing to do with the critter under my microscope slide.”

  She removed the rest of her gear and tossed it in the contaminated materials bin. Undoing the black
plastic clip, she let her long auburn hair tumble to her shoulders. Arms out, she stood still as Leon ran the wand up and down her body, checking her for contaminants and wayward insects that might somehow have escaped despite everything. One infected mosquito could spawn an epidemic.

  “You’re good,” he said, “but you spend way too much time here, Doc. I know trying to finish your cousin’s work is important, but seven days in a row? That’s not good. You deserve a little R-and-R. There’s one of those craft fairs at the Georgia Dome this weekend.”

  “Leon, I’m fine. I don’t need you to mother me.”

  He chuckled. “Well, with your cousin gone, bless her soul, someone does. An attractive young woman like yourself should have something in her life besides work.”

  “Not so young anymore. At times like these, I feel closer to your age than mine.”

  “What you talking about, girl? I’m barely past my prime, but you’re still as fresh as a daisy.”

  Julie burst out laughing. It felt like ages since she had. “Why, Leon Gaston, are you flirting with me?” The man was old enough to be her father.

  “Heck no, Doctor,” he answered, his eyes the size of saucers, but the twinkle there indicated he knew she was joking. “Louella’d have my hide if she thought I did something like that, but it sure is good to hear you laugh again.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t even picture that. Louella’s half your size, but you’re right. I need a change of pace. I’ve turned into one of those old-maid cat ladies.”

  The one thing I swore I’d never become.

  “For my money, you should be taking care of babies, not cats.”

  “At one time, I’d have agreed with you.” Regret filled her. “That ship sailed a couple of years ago. Have a great evening, and give Louella my best.” She swiped her ID card in the lock, leaving the controlled section of the facility, and entered the office wing to take the elevator up to her floor.