Exposed (11 page)

Elk Grove, Virginia

When Maggie was a little girl she loved to watch old black-and-white horror movies.
The Creature from the Black Lagoon
was her favorite but she also loved Alfred Hitchcock and episodes of
The Twilight Zone.
As soon as she saw the man in the orange space suit walk through the kitchen door she almost expected to hear Rod Serling’s voice narrating the bizarre scene.

Earlier, Cunningham had reluctantly made the call to the Army Research facility. It was either USAMRIID or the CDC, and USAMRIID was only about an hour away. Cunningham had given Director Frank of the FBI and Commander Janklow the basics, along with a layout of the residential area. All three men agreed extraordinary measures would be taken, including whatever it took to prevent a panic. Then Cunningham asked Maggie to unlock the back door to the kitchen and they waited.

They had been expecting a group from USAMRIID. Maggie had even watched the white panel truck back onto the lawn. She saw the construction crew block off the street. And yet, she wasn’t sure what she had truly expected—men and women in gas masks, perhaps. Maybe surgical scrubs and gowns. But certainly not space suits.

It was just a precaution, she told herself. Of course, they had to take every precaution. But at the same time she told herself this, she also felt a bit sick to her stomach.

The man in the orange space suit didn’t see her at first. It took full body movement to turn and look around. And he couldn’t possibly hear her. His suit hissed and whirled to keep the pressurized air circulating. Maggie imagined it was even noisier inside the plastic bubble.

He moved slowly, deliberately, a moonwalk into the living room. The boots looked heavy. His arms stuck out, not able to rest against the puffed suit. He stood less than six feet away when he turned. She couldn’t see his face through a fog of mist built up on the plastic helmet. With a gloved hand he pushed the plastic against his face and was able to smear the inside moisture away.

His eyes met hers. They were intense, dark brown and his brow was furrowed. He looked as if he was trying to decide what to say to her. The plastic started to fog up again and this time he slapped it against his face, causing a hiccup in his electric motor. The air pressure gasped, hesitated then started sucking air again. When he looked at Maggie a second time he attempted a shrug, as if to say he had no idea what had just happened. And then he did something Maggie never expected. He grinned at her. It was enough to break the tension and she actually laughed.

That’s when Cunningham came into the room with Mary Louise close behind, close at his side. The little girl took one look at the spaceman and started to scream.

Elk Grove, Virginia

When Maggie was a little girl she loved to watch old black-and-white horror movies.
The Creature from the Black Lagoon
was her favorite but she also loved Alfred Hitchcock and episodes of
The Twilight Zone.
As soon as she saw the man in the orange space suit walk through the kitchen door she almost expected to hear Rod Serling’s voice narrating the bizarre scene.

Earlier, Cunningham had reluctantly made the call to the Army Research facility. It was either USAMRIID or the CDC, and USAMRIID was only about an hour away. Cunningham had given Director Frank of the FBI and Commander Janklow the basics, along with a layout of the residential area. All three men agreed extraordinary measures would be taken, including whatever it took to prevent a panic. Then Cunningham asked Maggie to unlock the back door to the kitchen and they waited.

They had been expecting a group from USAMRIID. Maggie had even watched the white panel truck back onto the lawn. She saw the construction crew block off the street. And yet, she wasn’t sure what she had truly expected—men and women in gas masks, perhaps. Maybe surgical scrubs and gowns. But certainly not space suits.

It was just a precaution, she told herself. Of course, they had to take every precaution. But at the same time she told herself this, she also felt a bit sick to her stomach.

The man in the orange space suit didn’t see her at first. It took full body movement to turn and look around. And he couldn’t possibly hear her. His suit hissed and whirled to keep the pressurized air circulating. Maggie imagined it was even noisier inside the plastic bubble.

He moved slowly, deliberately, a moonwalk into the living room. The boots looked heavy. His arms stuck out, not able to rest against the puffed suit. He stood less than six feet away when he turned. She couldn’t see his face through a fog of mist built up on the plastic helmet. With a gloved hand he pushed the plastic against his face and was able to smear the inside moisture away.

His eyes met hers. They were intense, dark brown and his brow was furrowed. He looked as if he was trying to decide what to say to her. The plastic started to fog up again and this time he slapped it against his face, causing a hiccup in his electric motor. The air pressure gasped, hesitated then started sucking air again. When he looked at Maggie a second time he attempted a shrug, as if to say he had no idea what had just happened. And then he did something Maggie never expected. He grinned at her. It was enough to break the tension and she actually laughed.

That’s when Cunningham came into the room with Mary Louise close behind, close at his side. The little girl took one look at the spaceman and started to scream.

Elk Grove, Virginia

Tully punched the number into his cell phone again. For security purposes he never saved numbers in his phone’s memory. Or at least he wouldn’t even if he knew how.

Still no answer.

After two rings it went to voice message again. He flipped the phone shut. Both Cunningham and Maggie had their phones turned off. He’d rather believe that than the alternative—the U.S. Army wasn’t allowing them to answer.

It wasn’t that Tully didn’t respect the United States military…okay, that wasn’t true. He didn’t respect military officers, especially like the guy he had seen earlier, the one directing traffic, able to order and command with only a wave of a hand and a nod of the head. How many soldiers had that same officer sent to their deaths with as little as a wave of a hand or a nod of his head? Anytime Tully had worked with the military on previous operations the officers in charge took over and did so without apology or even much notice. They didn’t play nice and usually they preferred to do so in secrecy. And as far as Tully could tell, they were doing the exact thing right here, right now.

Tully had moved his car to the other side of the street, still along the curb, but at an angle, so he could see between the panel truck and the back of the house. It was just a slice but enough to make out an orange field suit moving from the truck to the back door several minutes ago. And now he could see a second orange suit just blurred across the same path.

HeglancedawaytowatchGanzalopingacrossthestreetfromtheconstruction crew, making his way back to Tully’s car. Ganza wasn’t much taller than Tully—maybe an inch or two—but he seemed to carry his height like it was a burden on his skeletal frame. His long, thin legs with knobby knees poking at sagging, brown trousers, skinny neck and sloped shoulders reminded Tully of a giraffe. Even his white lab coat—he hadn’t bothered to leave it behind during their rush to the scene—looked like the spotted hide of a giraffe with gray-and-brown splotches where Ganza had attempted, unsuccessfully, to get out stains. When Tully first got divorced it had been a game for him to guess which men he met were married and which ones were single. Caroline would have never let him leave the house with a stain on his tie. Now stains would be a permanent part of his wardrobe if he didn’t have women in his life—Maggie, Gwen, Emma—constantly wiping at his shirt cuffs, his tie, his jacket lapels. Tully guessed early on that Ganza had never been married. Not only that, he evidently didn’t spend much time around women who even wiped at his stains.

Ganza opened the passenger door and slid in, slamming the door shut with more force than necessary. It was the most emotion Tully could remember the man ever displaying.

“Sons of bitches won’t let us collect evidence,” Ganza said in his trademark monotone, despite the slammed door. “They have to isolate and contain.”

Tully could have told him that before Ganza bothered to show his ID and badge to the soldiers masquerading in construction-crew clothing.

“They’re right, you know.” He didn’t glance over to see Ganza scowl at him. He didn’t need to. He could feel it. “They can’t risk more people getting exposed, if there is something in that house.”

“I know that. But they’ll destroy whatever evidence there is. They don’t know what to look for.” Ganza grabbed the half-eaten tuna sandwich from the dashboard. It had been sitting there since he left it, in the sun. He took a bite and another then said with his mouth still full, “I offered to gear up and collect it.”

“You mean in one of their space suits?”

“Sure, why not?”

“You ever been in one before?” Tully asked.

“Can’t be much different than a gas mask.” But Ganza sat back and gave Tully a long sideways look. “What? You’ve been in one?”

“Once. A long time ago,” Tully said and left it at that.

He and Ganza weren’t friends and Tully wasn’t the type to share more than what was necessary, a trait Gwen Patterson constantly reminded him was—what were her words?—“rather annoying.” Of course, she didn’t like it. She was a psychologist by trade. She could get people to share their deep dark secrets. And if Tully wanted her to be a part of his personal life he would need to learn to share those deep dark secrets with her.

But Ganza…he didn’t owe Ganza anything. Besides, Tully didn’t like to be reminded of the four-hour episode that had been early on in his FBI training. It had been part of basic training back then—after all, 1982 was still the Cold War—that they should all spend several hours in a space suit, although the activity was more about breaking agents down than about biocontainment.

Tully saw something. He could see motion through the slice between the truck and the back of the house. He jerked forward, practically diving around the steering wheel to get a better look. He hoped he was mistaken. But if he wasn’t, it looked as if they were taking someone out of the house and into the rear of the truck in a clear plastic body bag.

Elk Grove, Virginia

Tully punched the number into his cell phone again. For security purposes he never saved numbers in his phone’s memory. Or at least he wouldn’t even if he knew how.

Still no answer.

After two rings it went to voice message again. He flipped the phone shut. Both Cunningham and Maggie had their phones turned off. He’d rather believe that than the alternative—the U.S. Army wasn’t allowing them to answer.

It wasn’t that Tully didn’t respect the United States military…okay, that wasn’t true. He didn’t respect military officers, especially like the guy he had seen earlier, the one directing traffic, able to order and command with only a wave of a hand and a nod of the head. How many soldiers had that same officer sent to their deaths with as little as a wave of a hand or a nod of his head? Anytime Tully had worked with the military on previous operations the officers in charge took over and did so without apology or even much notice. They didn’t play nice and usually they preferred to do so in secrecy. And as far as Tully could tell, they were doing the exact thing right here, right now.

Tully had moved his car to the other side of the street, still along the curb, but at an angle, so he could see between the panel truck and the back of the house. It was just a slice but enough to make out an orange field suit moving from the truck to the back door several minutes ago. And now he could see a second orange suit just blurred across the same path.

HeglancedawaytowatchGanzalopingacrossthestreetfromtheconstruction crew, making his way back to Tully’s car. Ganza wasn’t much taller than Tully—maybe an inch or two—but he seemed to carry his height like it was a burden on his skeletal frame. His long, thin legs with knobby knees poking at sagging, brown trousers, skinny neck and sloped shoulders reminded Tully of a giraffe. Even his white lab coat—he hadn’t bothered to leave it behind during their rush to the scene—looked like the spotted hide of a giraffe with gray-and-brown splotches where Ganza had attempted, unsuccessfully, to get out stains. When Tully first got divorced it had been a game for him to guess which men he met were married and which ones were single. Caroline would have never let him leave the house with a stain on his tie. Now stains would be a permanent part of his wardrobe if he didn’t have women in his life—Maggie, Gwen, Emma—constantly wiping at his shirt cuffs, his tie, his jacket lapels. Tully guessed early on that Ganza had never been married. Not only that, he evidently didn’t spend much time around women who even wiped at his stains.

Ganza opened the passenger door and slid in, slamming the door shut with more force than necessary. It was the most emotion Tully could remember the man ever displaying.

“Sons of bitches won’t let us collect evidence,” Ganza said in his trademark monotone, despite the slammed door. “They have to isolate and contain.”

Tully could have told him that before Ganza bothered to show his ID and badge to the soldiers masquerading in construction-crew clothing.

“They’re right, you know.” He didn’t glance over to see Ganza scowl at him. He didn’t need to. He could feel it. “They can’t risk more people getting exposed, if there is something in that house.”

“I know that. But they’ll destroy whatever evidence there is. They don’t know what to look for.” Ganza grabbed the half-eaten tuna sandwich from the dashboard. It had been sitting there since he left it, in the sun. He took a bite and another then said with his mouth still full, “I offered to gear up and collect it.”

“You mean in one of their space suits?”

“Sure, why not?”

“You ever been in one before?” Tully asked.

“Can’t be much different than a gas mask.” But Ganza sat back and gave Tully a long sideways look. “What? You’ve been in one?”

“Once. A long time ago,” Tully said and left it at that.

He and Ganza weren’t friends and Tully wasn’t the type to share more than what was necessary, a trait Gwen Patterson constantly reminded him was—what were her words?—“rather annoying.” Of course, she didn’t like it. She was a psychologist by trade. She could get people to share their deep dark secrets. And if Tully wanted her to be a part of his personal life he would need to learn to share those deep dark secrets with her.

But Ganza…he didn’t owe Ganza anything. Besides, Tully didn’t like to be reminded of the four-hour episode that had been early on in his FBI training. It had been part of basic training back then—after all, 1982 was still the Cold War—that they should all spend several hours in a space suit, although the activity was more about breaking agents down than about biocontainment.

Tully saw something. He could see motion through the slice between the truck and the back of the house. He jerked forward, practically diving around the steering wheel to get a better look. He hoped he was mistaken. But if he wasn’t, it looked as if they were taking someone out of the house and into the rear of the truck in a clear plastic body bag.