Exposed (38 page)

Platt watched from the viewing room, leaning against the wall so that he was close enough for Mary Louise to see him through the glass. She was coloring, sitting cross-legged on the rug with crayons scattered around her. Her eyes had lit up at the box of ninety-six. When he gave them to her she said she’d never seen so many.

“I won’t break any of them,” she promised.

Now every once in a while she’d glance over her shoulder at him and hold up the coloring book to show her progress. He’d smile and nod his approval. And she’d go back to work, her lower lip sticking out in concentration, trying to color within the lines, choosing her crayons with too much thought.

He wanted to tell her she didn’t have to stay inside the lines. But someone had already told her otherwise. Earlier he had watched her playing one of the board games he had left. She had two tokens set to play and moved them separately; taking turns with an imaginary friend. This was a little girl who had learned how to play alone long before she came to the Slammer. Platt should have been pleased that she was so content. Instead, it bothered him, plucked at heartstrings he didn’t know were still there.

Janklow had ordered that no family members be notified before Monday. Platt glanced at his wristwatch. As far as he was concerned Monday would begin at a minute past midnight. He kept the phone number for Mary Louise’s grandmother tucked inside his pocket.

The little girl still had only mild symptoms. Her blood showed what could be bricks of virus. No worms. No progression of anything that looked like worms. And unlike her mother, Mary Louise’s blood didn’t light up when tested with actual Ebola.

Not yet anyway.

Platt knew the statistics by heart. Ten to fifteen percent infected with Ebola Zaire recovered. No one understood why or how. It was a small percentage, but Platt hoped Mary Louise would be included in that small percentage. The vaccine would improve those odds.

With her mother incapacitated and without her grandmother here, there was no one to sign the waivers. So Platt had given Mary Louise the first injection himself. It would all fall on his shoulders anyway. He was willing to take the heat for this, too.

He had told Mary Louise that the needle would sting, but just for a second or two like a “big ole mosquito.” She crinkled her nose at that and laughed, then asked, “Will it itch?”

In his mind he kept calculating the hours and minutes. By now he couldn’t shut it off if he tried. Time ticking away and yet he couldn’t remember what day of the week it was.

Sunday. It was Sunday
.

Mary Louise searched for a different crayon. She seemed perfectly content. Totally unaware of the firestorm brewing all around her.

Sunday.
It meant nothing to Mary Louise. Families attended church services. Read the Sunday paper.
Read the comic strips out loud, Daddy
. Frisbee in the backyard. A movie at the theater. That’s what families did on Sunday. They spent the day together. Didn’t they?
How would he know?
It’d been too long ago.

His Sunday routine—when he took a Sunday off—was quiet, with him and Digger on the screened-in back porch overlooking the woods. His parents took care of Digger when Platt worked long hours, never once suggesting he find a different home for the dog, knowing the two were inseparable, dog and man bonded by the absence of a little girl they both adored.

Dr. Drummond came into Mary Louise’s suite and the little girl stood to greet her. Platt waved goodbye and she waved back. He hated to leave. It was silly but he wished that if he could just keep watch over her maybe nothing more would happen.

He left the Slammer and took the stairs.

Down in the Level 4 suites he changed once again into scrubs and prepared to get into a space suit for the third time in as many days. He had decided to keep his circle of staff small, pulling in those who had worked on some of his toughest assignments. Earlier he had handed off to Sergeant Hernandez the mailing envelope that Agent O’Dell had taken from the Kellerman home. He knew it was a tall order for the budding scientist even before he saw the surprise in her eyes. She had assisted him plenty of times in the lab and he knew she was more than capable. He also knew that she would test and retest her results before she presented them to him and that would be a bonus.

She was still working when he came in, her gloved hands too busy to wave an acknowledgment. He stood quietly beside her, making sure she noticed his presence despite the hiss of her space suit. He didn’t crowd her or rush her.

Hernandez must have pinned back or tied up her unruly curls but he could still see them swirling around inside her helmet. A few now stuck to her damp forehead. She glanced up and Platt caught a glimpse of her green eyes through the plastic. Her eyes were intense, a little wild. She’d found something.

“WHAT IS IT?” he asked, no longer able to wait.

“THE PLASTIC BAG INSIDE THE MAILING ENVELOPE…” She sounded breathless. “I FOUND SOMETHING. TISSUE, BLOOD CELLS.”

“ENOUGH TO TEST?”

“YES.”

“EBOLA?”

“YES, DEFINITELY. THE CELLS ARE BLOWN UP WITH WORMS.” She stopped her hands. “THERE’S SOMETHING ELSE, SIR.” She looked up at him and met his eyes. “THEY’RE NOT HUMAN CELLS.”

“MONKEY?”

“AS FAR AS I CAN TELL IT’S MACAQUE. I’M TESTING AGAINST OUR OWN MACAQUE SAMPLES. THEY’RE VERY CLOSE.”

Suddenly Platt got a sick feeling in the bottom of his gut. He’d asked McCathy about a possible contamination. Could they have contaminated Ms. Kellerman’s tissue sample from inside their own labs? McCathy had shrugged off the idea. Too many walls of biocontainment. No way one of their recorded tissue samples got mixed up with Ms. Kellerman’s or any of the other three patients’. They ran a tight ship, no doubt about it.

But how was someone able to send Ebola to Ms. Kellerman in the first place? Where had the microscopic tissue from a macaque monkey come from, tissue hot with Ebola? Was it possible it had gone missing from their own freezers? In their research experiments they used macaque monkeys. So did other research facilities, but few other facilities had Ebola. Could someone from within USAMRIID have stolen it? Could one of their own have done this?

“GOOD WORK,” he told Hernandez. “GO AHEAD AND FINISH UP HERE.” He gestured that he was leaving.

He needed to do an inventory. He’d check their Ebola samples, every last one of them. But would he be able to tell if any was missing? All it took was a small amount. A microscopic amount. Years ago a scientist, an ex-employee of USAMRIID, had been accused of smuggling out anthrax, the anthrax that had caused five deaths. It ended up there was little evidence to support that accusation but just the speculation had raised questions about their procedures and security measures.

Now Platt realized that Janklow must be thinking the same thing. He had to wonder whether the virus could have come from within their own laboratories. Was he concerned about new accusations? Did the commander want this to all go away quietly, secretly, because he worried about USAMRIID’s reputation? Or was it his own reputation he was worried about? And just what was the commander willing to do to keep it under wraps?

Platt watched from the viewing room, leaning against the wall so that he was close enough for Mary Louise to see him through the glass. She was coloring, sitting cross-legged on the rug with crayons scattered around her. Her eyes had lit up at the box of ninety-six. When he gave them to her she said she’d never seen so many.

“I won’t break any of them,” she promised.

Now every once in a while she’d glance over her shoulder at him and hold up the coloring book to show her progress. He’d smile and nod his approval. And she’d go back to work, her lower lip sticking out in concentration, trying to color within the lines, choosing her crayons with too much thought.

He wanted to tell her she didn’t have to stay inside the lines. But someone had already told her otherwise. Earlier he had watched her playing one of the board games he had left. She had two tokens set to play and moved them separately; taking turns with an imaginary friend. This was a little girl who had learned how to play alone long before she came to the Slammer. Platt should have been pleased that she was so content. Instead, it bothered him, plucked at heartstrings he didn’t know were still there.

Janklow had ordered that no family members be notified before Monday. Platt glanced at his wristwatch. As far as he was concerned Monday would begin at a minute past midnight. He kept the phone number for Mary Louise’s grandmother tucked inside his pocket.

The little girl still had only mild symptoms. Her blood showed what could be bricks of virus. No worms. No progression of anything that looked like worms. And unlike her mother, Mary Louise’s blood didn’t light up when tested with actual Ebola.

Not yet anyway.

Platt knew the statistics by heart. Ten to fifteen percent infected with Ebola Zaire recovered. No one understood why or how. It was a small percentage, but Platt hoped Mary Louise would be included in that small percentage. The vaccine would improve those odds.

With her mother incapacitated and without her grandmother here, there was no one to sign the waivers. So Platt had given Mary Louise the first injection himself. It would all fall on his shoulders anyway. He was willing to take the heat for this, too.

He had told Mary Louise that the needle would sting, but just for a second or two like a “big ole mosquito.” She crinkled her nose at that and laughed, then asked, “Will it itch?”

In his mind he kept calculating the hours and minutes. By now he couldn’t shut it off if he tried. Time ticking away and yet he couldn’t remember what day of the week it was.

Sunday. It was Sunday
.

Mary Louise searched for a different crayon. She seemed perfectly content. Totally unaware of the firestorm brewing all around her.

Sunday.
It meant nothing to Mary Louise. Families attended church services. Read the Sunday paper.
Read the comic strips out loud, Daddy
. Frisbee in the backyard. A movie at the theater. That’s what families did on Sunday. They spent the day together. Didn’t they?
How would he know?
It’d been too long ago.

His Sunday routine—when he took a Sunday off—was quiet, with him and Digger on the screened-in back porch overlooking the woods. His parents took care of Digger when Platt worked long hours, never once suggesting he find a different home for the dog, knowing the two were inseparable, dog and man bonded by the absence of a little girl they both adored.

Dr. Drummond came into Mary Louise’s suite and the little girl stood to greet her. Platt waved goodbye and she waved back. He hated to leave. It was silly but he wished that if he could just keep watch over her maybe nothing more would happen.

He left the Slammer and took the stairs.

Down in the Level 4 suites he changed once again into scrubs and prepared to get into a space suit for the third time in as many days. He had decided to keep his circle of staff small, pulling in those who had worked on some of his toughest assignments. Earlier he had handed off to Sergeant Hernandez the mailing envelope that Agent O’Dell had taken from the Kellerman home. He knew it was a tall order for the budding scientist even before he saw the surprise in her eyes. She had assisted him plenty of times in the lab and he knew she was more than capable. He also knew that she would test and retest her results before she presented them to him and that would be a bonus.

She was still working when he came in, her gloved hands too busy to wave an acknowledgment. He stood quietly beside her, making sure she noticed his presence despite the hiss of her space suit. He didn’t crowd her or rush her.

Hernandez must have pinned back or tied up her unruly curls but he could still see them swirling around inside her helmet. A few now stuck to her damp forehead. She glanced up and Platt caught a glimpse of her green eyes through the plastic. Her eyes were intense, a little wild. She’d found something.

“WHAT IS IT?” he asked, no longer able to wait.

“THE PLASTIC BAG INSIDE THE MAILING ENVELOPE…” She sounded breathless. “I FOUND SOMETHING. TISSUE, BLOOD CELLS.”

“ENOUGH TO TEST?”

“YES.”

“EBOLA?”

“YES, DEFINITELY. THE CELLS ARE BLOWN UP WITH WORMS.” She stopped her hands. “THERE’S SOMETHING ELSE, SIR.” She looked up at him and met his eyes. “THEY’RE NOT HUMAN CELLS.”

“MONKEY?”

“AS FAR AS I CAN TELL IT’S MACAQUE. I’M TESTING AGAINST OUR OWN MACAQUE SAMPLES. THEY’RE VERY CLOSE.”

Suddenly Platt got a sick feeling in the bottom of his gut. He’d asked McCathy about a possible contamination. Could they have contaminated Ms. Kellerman’s tissue sample from inside their own labs? McCathy had shrugged off the idea. Too many walls of biocontainment. No way one of their recorded tissue samples got mixed up with Ms. Kellerman’s or any of the other three patients’. They ran a tight ship, no doubt about it.

But how was someone able to send Ebola to Ms. Kellerman in the first place? Where had the microscopic tissue from a macaque monkey come from, tissue hot with Ebola? Was it possible it had gone missing from their own freezers? In their research experiments they used macaque monkeys. So did other research facilities, but few other facilities had Ebola. Could someone from within USAMRIID have stolen it? Could one of their own have done this?

“GOOD WORK,” he told Hernandez. “GO AHEAD AND FINISH UP HERE.” He gestured that he was leaving.

He needed to do an inventory. He’d check their Ebola samples, every last one of them. But would he be able to tell if any was missing? All it took was a small amount. A microscopic amount. Years ago a scientist, an ex-employee of USAMRIID, had been accused of smuggling out anthrax, the anthrax that had caused five deaths. It ended up there was little evidence to support that accusation but just the speculation had raised questions about their procedures and security measures.

Now Platt realized that Janklow must be thinking the same thing. He had to wonder whether the virus could have come from within their own laboratories. Was he concerned about new accusations? Did the commander want this to all go away quietly, secretly, because he worried about USAMRIID’s reputation? Or was it his own reputation he was worried about? And just what was the commander willing to do to keep it under wraps?