Authors: Alex Kava
FLORIDA PANHANDLE
C
reed could feel the tension banging in his chest despite the fact that the morning training session had gone well. The dogs and handlers were performing better than expected as Jason, Penelope, and Hannah took the new recruits through a crash course of basic obedience training.
Benjamin Platt had brought with him a couple of CDC scientists to work with Dr. Avelyn to create an acceptable way to protect the dogs from catching the virus. There was no way the dogs could learn the target scent without breathing it. And though Platt and his experts didn't mind sacrificing some dogs for the greater good, Platt had understood the consequences of the dogs getting sick. As Dr. Avelyn had pointed out, sick dogs would be of no use in detecting the virus. They actually would do more harm by contaminating more people if they were tracking through an airport.
In military terms, Creed would call this a major clusterfuck.
He took Dr. Avelyn aside, and when she saw his clenched jaw, she suggested they take a walk outside and out of earshot of the scientists.
“They still don't seem to get it,” Creed told her. “Platt looks like he thinks it's a waste of time to figure out how to protect the dogs.”
Dr. Avelyn put a hand on his arm and stopped. She waited until he met her eyes, then said, “What is it with you and Ben?”
“Oh, so now he has you calling him Ben?” He knew it was a mistake as soon as it came out of his mouth and even before she raised her eyebrow at him. “Sorry. I don't mean to bite your head off.”
“You two worked together in North Carolina during the mudslide.”
“Not really. He only showed up after everything was over.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and cocked her head to the side, waiting for him to acknowledge the real reason.
Creed shrugged. “Okay, so the guy rubs me the wrong way.”
“Because of Maggie?”
He shot her a look of surprise. Was he that transparent?
“He kept information classified in North Carolina that almost got Maggie and me killed. Now he keeps saying over and over that dogs can't get this strain of the bird flu. I don't trust the guy. Push comes to shove, he's going to protect his own interests, and I get the feeling my dogs will be at the bottom of his list.”
There. He said it.
And now he watched for Dr. Avelyn's response.
Instead of arguing, she surprised him when she said, “I think you're right.”
Creed found no comfort in that acknowledgment.
“I've been doing some research. I didn't want to share it with you until I knew more.” She started walking again and he followed alongside. “There's a new canine flu. We haven't seen it
much around here, but the Midwest had an outbreak last spring. About a thousand confirmed cases. The clinical symptoms are similar to the common flu in humans: a soft, moist cough, fever, lethargy, and reduced appetite along with nasal discharge.”
“Is it fatal?”
“If untreated, it can lead to pneumonia and death. But most dogs have recovered. Still, there's a fatality rate of around ten percent. It sort of came up out of nowhere. Dogs aren't usually susceptible to the flu. I did some digging, and I mean real digging because very few are willing to admit it, but this virus strain is believed to be a result from a direct transfer of avian influenza.”
Creed felt as if she had just injected ice into his veins. “Son of a bitch! So dogs are vulnerable to the bird flu.” He waved a thumb over his shoulder and back at the clinic. “And those bastards knew it.”
“Wait a minute. It's not all bad news. Last November the USDA approved and granted a conditional license for a vaccine. It's considered what they call a âlifestyle' vaccine, meaning only dogs with a high risk of exposure are to be vaccinated.”
“They said there was no vaccine.”
“To be fair, the CDC and even Platt may not have known. They're used to dealing with people, not dogs.”
“You're cutting them a lot of slack.”
“It doesn't matter. I ordered enough vaccine for all our dogs. We'll have it before you start working with the virus.”
He heaved a sigh of relief, evidently so pronounced that Dr. Avelyn laughed at him.
“You're amazing,” he said.
“Well, if you think that's amazing, wait until you hear my idea for a doggie surgical mask.”
“You're kidding?”
“They won't wear it.” She smiled, and then her face turned serious again as she explained about using a surgical mesh placed over the tubes that contained the virus. “It's made of the same fibers in surgical masks, only a bit heavier. The dogs will still be able to sniff the scent, but the mesh will protect them from inhaling the virus.”
“And how long will it take to get this stuff?”
“They're delivering it with the vaccine. I thought I'd have our brainy CDC guys figure out how to secure it over the training tubes.”
“Thank you.” And this time Creed hugged her.
F
inally Creed felt confident they could actually do this. He told his handlers to take the dogs and give them a break, feed them, play with them, and put them back in the kennel to rest. Then he wanted the handlers to report back for their training after they had lunch and some rest.
Creed didn't take a break for himself. He needed to keep busy. And he needed to stay away from the clinic to let Dr. Avelyn and Platt work without interruption. He was up to his elbows washing dog bowls when he heard someone come into the kennel.
“Hannah told me to bring you this,” Jason said.
On the plate under tightly wrapped plastic wrap Creed could see a sandwich filled with layers of deli turkey and cheese. Beside it was Hannah's cucumber salad and a dill pickle. He couldn't help but smile. She always looked to make things better with food, and most of the time it worked.
He washed and dried his hands and gestured for Jason to pull up a chair to the small bistro table in the corner. He grabbed a couple of Pepsis from the refrigerator and offered one to Jason.
“It's not your fault,” Jason said as he popped the tab on the soda. “These guys just aren't used to being questioned. Hell, I'm not sure they even think about the consequences.” He raised his stump of an arm. “I'm a perfect example of them not thinking about their consequences.”
Creed didn't say anything. He peeled back the plastic wrap and took a bite of the sandwich. He hadn't even realized until now how hungry he was. He had made sure the dogs and everyone else was fed, but he'd forgotten about himself.
“Tony's another example,” Jason continued. “You think any of those top-brass bastards even consider what kind of a mess we are when we come home? Those of us who don't come back in boxes, that is.”
“Can I ask you something? Why haven't you gotten fitted for a prosthetic yet?”
Jason shrugged like it was no big deal. “VA kept putting me off. Said I hadn't been back long enough. I guess I got tired of calling. Every time they'd refer me to somebody else and I'd have to tell my story all over again.”
“Doesn't seem right,” Creed told him.
“I've talked to guys who have them and they've said theirs rub them raw or they're forever having it refitted. Maybe I'm not missing much. Not like they're gonna be able to replace my hand, right?” He took a couple sips of his soda. “You gonna eat your pickle?”
“Yes,” Creed said, and purposely took a bite. The kid was constantly homing in on his food.
Then out of the blue, Jason said, “You know that research facility in North Carolina? The one we searched for under the mud?”
“Yeah?”
“Turns out Tony was there last August.”
Creed swallowed hard. “How do you know?”
“Tony's mom gave me a box of his stuff. He told her he wanted me to have it if anything happened to him. His journal was on top. I've never seen him without that little notebook. The fact that he left it behind . . .”
He didn't finish, and Creed knew what it meant.
“How do you know he was in North Carolina?”
“He talks about it in the journal. Left a receipt for the check he received. Three thousand dollars for two days. Some experiment where they injected him with something. He wasn't sure what.”
Creed thought about Dr. Shaw. It couldn't be a coincidence. That must have been how Tony ended up with the bird flu. He kept from voicing his suspicions. He'd promised Maggie. Even Tony's family didn't know the young man had been infected. But Jason . . . he deserved to know.
“He left me a note,” Jason said, and this clearly had affected him. “Basically he told me to not be a coward like he was.” He met Creed's eyes, and it was the first time he'd seen tears there. “I guess he really did jump.”
“No,” Creed said. “No, he didn't, Jason.”
And he told him everything he knew, everything that Maggie had shared about Tony being infected with the bird flu. He told him about the bruise on his back that didn't make sense, and Maggie's suspicion that someone might have pushed Tony over the railing.
Then Creed waited, and he was surprised when the tears still came, but odd as it seemed, he knew that now they were tears of relief.
PANAMA CITY, FLORIDA
O
'Dell was supposed to meet the others, but she had flown into Pensacola early enough that she decided to take a detour. She knew it was a long shot but something still nagged at her, and she needed to check it out.
One of the hardest lessons to learn in profiling killers was overlooking a killer's weakness. Killers made mistakes. They overcompensated. What kinds of things could trip them up? Was there something or someone they held dear to them? And if so, what was it?
It wasn't unusual for a killer's Achilles' heel to be much the same as an ordinary person's. Arrogance, greed, or a sentimental attachment could force them to make a simple, stupid mistake. Ted Bundy was caught as a result of a routine traffic stop.
The one thing that stuck in O'Dell's mind about Dr. Clare Shaw was the devotion the scientist seemed to have for her grandfather. He was the only person Shaw kept in touch with. The director at the man's long-term care facility had been anxious to answer questions when O'Dell told her that she was investigating
the disappearance of Dr. Shaw. According to the director, Shaw had visited on a regular basisâat least once or twice a month. She sent packages and cards. All that stopped last fall. The staff believed the scientist had died in the mudslide that also took her research facility.
Panama City was about an hour and a half from Pensacola. O'Dell found the care center on the outskirts of the city. She had called ahead and asked if she could visit with Mr. Carl Shaw. She was told that was fine as long as Mr. Shaw had no objections. The director warned O'Dell that the old man did have dementia and there was a good chance he might be combative or simply refuse to talk to her. There was also a chance he might not even acknowledge her presence.
After O'Dell signed in, one of the staff members directed her to the small courtyard and told her, “Call him Carl. He doesn't always respond to Mr. Shaw.”
He sat across from a row of azaleas and seemed mesmerized by them, leaning forward and patting at the brilliant pink blossoms. O'Dell approached slowly and sat down next to him without announcing herself or asking permission. Then she simply waited until he was ready to notice her. It took longer than she expected.
He sat back and swiped his feathery white hair from his forehead with blue-veined hands. She noticed that his shirt matched his trousers, but his vest was misbuttoned, off by two, and he was wearing bedroom slippers. He crossed his legs, then crossed his arms over his chest. All this while O'Dell sat quietly by his side.
Finally there was a glance over at her. Only a second or two. Then he was distracted again as a staff member brought another
resident out into the courtyard, staying beside her as she navigated her walker.
He pointed at the old woman and said, “She never finishes her juice.”
“It's a shame to waste it,” O'Dell said without missing a beat.
“I like milk better anyway.”
“Chocolate milk?” she asked.
This time he turned to look at her, and there was a sparkle in his eyes.
“I haven't had chocolate milk in ages.”
“You should ask for it tonight.”
He was still staring at her, and she knew he was trying to decide if he should know who she was. He surprised her when he cocked his head to the side and asked, “Clare? Is that you?”
Before she could respond he added, “I like this disguise better than that beard.”
O'Dell's mind swirled trying to think of questions to ask the old man. She knew very little about dementia. Was it possible that his granddaughter had visited using a disguise? Or could it be only a figment of his confusion?
He was watching the old woman again, no longer paying attention to O'Dell. Only a minute had passed.
“Carl,” she said.
He looked at her and this time there was a bleary-eyed gaze void of recognition. She waited, hoping he might offer something more about Clare while she wondered what to ask.
“Is it time for dinner?” he asked her, then shook his head. “I don't want to go in just yet.” He stared at the azaleas again.
“You can stay right here,” she told him.
She sat with him for another fifteen minutes, then got up and left as unceremoniously as she had come over. Inside, she stopped at the director's office, but the young staff member who O'Dell had talked to earlier told her the director was gone for the day.
“I was wondering”âO'Dell tried to sound friendly and casual and not like an FBI agentâ“does Carl have many visitors?”
“I've only been here for three months and I haven't seen any family stop by.”
“So no one?”
“It's always sad when that happens. His doctor drops by once in a while.”
“His doctor?”
“He was here a few weeks ago. They sat out in the courtyard for about an hour.”
“Does his doctor happen to have a beard?”
“Yeah, he does. How did you know?”