Exposed (41 page)

Artie tried to think of someone to share the news with. Someone who would appreciate the brilliance of his puzzle-solving skills. He’d been able to answer a question that cold-case sleuths and law-enforcement officials across the States hadn’t been able to figure out for twenty-five years. It was as big as unveiling Ted Kaczynski as the Unabomber.

Almost as if his wish was being granted, he heard a door close. Not a slam. Just a soft tap.

It was probably nothing
. Could have been his imagination. No one was around down here on the weekends.

He started flipping through his pages again, jotting down notes in the margins of his notebook.

Footsteps down the hall. He was certain.

Crap!

He stood frozen in place, eyes darting around him. The light switch. He needed to flip the fucking light switch.

Too late.

The footsteps were closing in. Right outside the door now.

He twisted around, looking for something to use as a weapon, and grabbed the closest thing he could find. A syringe. He pulled off the plastic needle guard just as he heard a key card slide into the door’s security lock.

“What the hell are you doing here tonight?”

Artie let out a sigh of relief that almost included,
speak of the devil
. “You scared the crap out of me,” he said instead.

“Don’t you realize you can see the light on underneath this door from the hallway?”

“Nobody’s around,” Artie defended himself. “It was your idea that I use the lab on the weekend.”

“I thought you were supposed to make the delivery yesterday.”

“I did,” Artie said, slipping the syringe into his pocket and trying to nonchalantly stack his paperbacks onto the incriminating pages of his notebook and the articles beneath it. “I went to Connecticut yesterday. Mailed them from there.”

“Them?”

Damn! This probably wasn’t the time to reveal his contribution.

“I meant the package. I mailed it yesterday.”

“So what are you doing here tonight?” His eyes darted around the countertops.

“I was just dropping off some stuff. You know, the DNA samples that I collect.”

Artie watched him look around the room and settle on the paperback of the Unabomber. He picked it up.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to carry these around in your backpack?”

He tossed it onto Artie’s pile and the books and articles shifted. Artie watched his eyes and held his breath, but he knew he was seeing exactly what Artie didn’t want him to see. He pulled one of the Tylenol articles out of the stack.

“What are you doing?”

“Just researching?”

He didn’t buy it. Artie needed to think fast. Then suddenly he relaxed. What was he worried about? They were the same. Artie knew that. Not just teacher and student. Kindred spirits.

“I figured it out,” Artie told him.

He didn’t respond. Just cocked an eyebrow and waited for Artie to explain.

“You’re brilliant,” Artie said, and he meant it. “The Tylenol murders. That was you. They always wondered if someone had done seven random murders just to cover up the one they really wanted to get away with.”

Still no response. Artie took that as a good sign.

He continued, “And by planting seven bottles in the Chicago area everyone believed your real target, which was in Terre Haute, had to be, like, some kind of fluke.”

There was no smile, but Artie reminded himself that he wasn’t really a smiler. That he no longer looked angry was good. He was rubbing a hand over his jaw, but waiting and listening.

“That’s what you’re doing now, too. Right? Mailing out a bunch of random packages with the virus so it looks like the work of some homegrown terrorist. All the while you have one target in mind. Right?” He glanced at his notebook, still opened to the list. “So who is it? Who’s the real target?”

“You think you’re pretty smart,” he told Artie. “But there’re all real targets. I’m taking care of every son of a bitch who’s screwed me over the years.”

Then he did something Artie should have known was a ruse. He smiled. “How did you figure out the Tylenol thing? I mean with Indiana? Something in here?”

He pointed to the stack and Artie grinned. He bent over and started to sort through the mess. He didn’t even see the microscope come crashing down onto his head.

Artie fit perfectly right on top of the dead monkey. He was unconscious when the freezer lid slammed shut and the padlock clicked back into place.

Artie tried to think of someone to share the news with. Someone who would appreciate the brilliance of his puzzle-solving skills. He’d been able to answer a question that cold-case sleuths and law-enforcement officials across the States hadn’t been able to figure out for twenty-five years. It was as big as unveiling Ted Kaczynski as the Unabomber.

Almost as if his wish was being granted, he heard a door close. Not a slam. Just a soft tap.

It was probably nothing
. Could have been his imagination. No one was around down here on the weekends.

He started flipping through his pages again, jotting down notes in the margins of his notebook.

Footsteps down the hall. He was certain.

Crap!

He stood frozen in place, eyes darting around him. The light switch. He needed to flip the fucking light switch.

Too late.

The footsteps were closing in. Right outside the door now.

He twisted around, looking for something to use as a weapon, and grabbed the closest thing he could find. A syringe. He pulled off the plastic needle guard just as he heard a key card slide into the door’s security lock.

“What the hell are you doing here tonight?”

Artie let out a sigh of relief that almost included,
speak of the devil
. “You scared the crap out of me,” he said instead.

“Don’t you realize you can see the light on underneath this door from the hallway?”

“Nobody’s around,” Artie defended himself. “It was your idea that I use the lab on the weekend.”

“I thought you were supposed to make the delivery yesterday.”

“I did,” Artie said, slipping the syringe into his pocket and trying to nonchalantly stack his paperbacks onto the incriminating pages of his notebook and the articles beneath it. “I went to Connecticut yesterday. Mailed them from there.”

“Them?”

Damn! This probably wasn’t the time to reveal his contribution.

“I meant the package. I mailed it yesterday.”

“So what are you doing here tonight?” His eyes darted around the countertops.

“I was just dropping off some stuff. You know, the DNA samples that I collect.”

Artie watched him look around the room and settle on the paperback of the Unabomber. He picked it up.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to carry these around in your backpack?”

He tossed it onto Artie’s pile and the books and articles shifted. Artie watched his eyes and held his breath, but he knew he was seeing exactly what Artie didn’t want him to see. He pulled one of the Tylenol articles out of the stack.

“What are you doing?”

“Just researching?”

He didn’t buy it. Artie needed to think fast. Then suddenly he relaxed. What was he worried about? They were the same. Artie knew that. Not just teacher and student. Kindred spirits.

“I figured it out,” Artie told him.

He didn’t respond. Just cocked an eyebrow and waited for Artie to explain.

“You’re brilliant,” Artie said, and he meant it. “The Tylenol murders. That was you. They always wondered if someone had done seven random murders just to cover up the one they really wanted to get away with.”

Still no response. Artie took that as a good sign.

He continued, “And by planting seven bottles in the Chicago area everyone believed your real target, which was in Terre Haute, had to be, like, some kind of fluke.”

There was no smile, but Artie reminded himself that he wasn’t really a smiler. That he no longer looked angry was good. He was rubbing a hand over his jaw, but waiting and listening.

“That’s what you’re doing now, too. Right? Mailing out a bunch of random packages with the virus so it looks like the work of some homegrown terrorist. All the while you have one target in mind. Right?” He glanced at his notebook, still opened to the list. “So who is it? Who’s the real target?”

“You think you’re pretty smart,” he told Artie. “But there’re all real targets. I’m taking care of every son of a bitch who’s screwed me over the years.”

Then he did something Artie should have known was a ruse. He smiled. “How did you figure out the Tylenol thing? I mean with Indiana? Something in here?”

He pointed to the stack and Artie grinned. He bent over and started to sort through the mess. He didn’t even see the microscope come crashing down onto his head.

Artie fit perfectly right on top of the dead monkey. He was unconscious when the freezer lid slammed shut and the padlock clicked back into place.

The Slammer

Maggie dreamed of burnt flesh wrapped in plastic. She could even smell it. Her viewpoint was that of a child’s, eyes at waist level to the crowd of adults that she pushed and shoved her way through. The feel of linen fabric and metal buttons brushed her cheeks as she squeezed through two men in navy-blue suits and black shiny shoes.

Finally she reached her destination, a coffin at the front of the room. It towered above her, a polished mahogany casket set up high on a gold altar. There were flowers surrounding it, but their faint scent couldn’t mask the odor of ashes. Ashes and burnt flesh.

“You are dust and unto dust you shall return.”
She could hear a voice whisper.
“Ashes to ashes.”
But she couldn’t see anyone.

She already knew what she’d see when she looked over the smooth edge of the coffin, past the satin bedding. The dream was a familiar one, a replay of the actual event. She was twelve years old all over again, going through her father’s funeral, step by step, all over again.

By now her mind accepted the images, not skipping a single frame, lingering over details. She’d see her father dressed in a brown suit, his hands wrapped like a mummy and tucked down by his sides. She’d hear the crinkle of plastic under his clothes. She’d examine the burnt skin on his face, blistered and black despite the mortician’s best efforts to paint over it. The smell was so real each time that she would awaken nauseated, sometimes gagging and holding her stomach. She couldn’t stop it no matter how many times she tried, going as far as pinching herself in her dream, not feeling the sting and knowing that once the images began they would play through the entire reel.

She climbed the altar, twelve-year-old knees scraping against the polished wood and sweaty fingers gripping and pulling herself up to look over the edge. But this time it wasn’t her father lying inside. Instead, she saw Cunningham, eyes closed, hands folded over one another. He looked so peaceful, so content.

And then she saw movement.

At first just a flicker of cloth, a pucker beneath a shirt button. Then another and another until his entire body seemed to be boiling, maggots popping out of the seams, down through his sleeves, crawling on his hands, over his face, out of his mouth.

Maggie jolted awake. She swatted at her arms. Wiped at her face. Batted down her hair. She jumped out of the bed and threw back the bedcovers. She gasped to catch her breath. Her chest heaved and her heart pounded. She was on the verge of hyperventilating, trying to calm herself, wrapping her arms tight around her body. Her skin was slick with sweat. She swallowed blood and realized she had bitten her lip.

A dream,
she told herself.
Just a stupid dream.

Still, she stumbled to the glass viewing wall. The monitors on the other side blinked green and red. Silent lines danced across computer screens, but there was no one there. She picked up the phone receiver, listened to the dial tone and stared at the contraption. There were no numbers, no keypad.
Of course not.
It was simply an intercom between the two rooms. She slapped the glass with the palm of her hand, resisting the urge to ball up a fist and pound.

She looked back at the other phone.
Who could she call?
She stayed paralyzed, leaning against the cool glass.

Other than Gwen there was no one.

Her choice, she reminded herself.

No. Somewhere along the road it had stopped being a choice.

She made her way to the small bathroom and peeled off the damp gown, exchanging it for another from the pile. She glanced at herself in the mirror. Her hair was tangled. Her skin pale and damp. Her eyes swollen. She looked like crap. She ran her fingers through her hair. Splashed cool water on her face, cupping handful after handful, waiting, hoping for it to revive her.

When she returned he was standing on the other side of the glass, watching for her. Concern in those intense brown eyes. It was as if he knew.

His eyes never left hers as she crossed the room. She picked up the receiver.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she lied.

“I don’t think so.” He tapped his own lip to remind her of her bloodied one. Then he pointed to the bed where the covers were twisted in a pile, half on the floor.

“Just a bad dream,” she told him, wiping at her lip.

“Fever?”

“I don’t think so.”

He waited, examining her, a doctor confined to using only his eyes.

“I need to see Assistant Director Cunningham.” Before he protested she added, “I just need to see him. He doesn’t even need to know I’m there.”

“Okay.”

He surprised her. She’d expected an argument.

“You can see him. And then I’m taking you home,” he said.

At first she didn’t think she heard him correctly.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m letting you out of the Slammer.”

She closed her eyes, leaned against the glass, hoped this wasn’t just another episode in her cruel dream.

“Understand there are conditions,” he said, his voice gentle in her ear.

She opened her eyes but stayed against the glass. It felt as if she was leaning into him, so close despite the thick wall of glass.

“We’ll still have to vaccinate you every day,” he continued. “The first sign, even the smallest symptom, and I’ll want you back in here. And you’ll need to be careful. No swapping body fluids…” He paused, and when she looked up at him he was smiling. “Not even a kiss.”

“You’re really cramping my style.”

“I figured as much.”

“Why?” she asked. “Why now?”

“Because it’s been over forty-eight hours. Your blood is showing no signs of the virus. You haven’t had any symptoms.” Then he hesitated as if he was still deciding whether to share more. He stood closer to the glass. “And because I think you’ll be safer away from here.”