you called anyone else?” Manny asked. “FBI? Postal inspectors? The cops?”
“No. Just you. I want your opinion first.”
“How many people handled it?”
“Just Pansy and me. It’s FedEx.”
“Lucia, I understand you don’t want to jump to conclusions, but testing for anthrax isn’t instant. You let that FedEx courier continue on his way, you could endanger hundreds of people. You need to call the FBI, right now. I’ll come, but you need to call. It’s probably nothing, but just in case. Report it.”
He was right. She hadn’t thought about the courier, and she should have. “I will,” she said. “Manny—”
“Did Pansy open the package?”
“Yes.”
“Ungloved.”
“Yes.”
“And you?”
“I opened the inner envelope.”
He hung up. She looked at McCarthy, who raised his eyebrows.
“You want me to find the number for the FBI?”
“Yes. Ask for Agent Rawlins. I know him.”
“Fine.” McCarthy locked eyes with her. “Go. Scrub.”
She did, elbowing through the bathroom door to find Pansy still at the sinks, scrubbing with handfuls of thick, milky soap. Lucia used her own elbow, to turn on the hot water—thanks to whatever industrial designer’s foresight had caused them to put in long-handled faucets—and began to do the same.
Pansy was crying. Not noisily, just silently leaking tears that trailed down her face and splashed into the roiling water in the sink.
“It’s going to be all right,” Lucia said. “We’re all right.”
Neither of them believed it, but Pansy gave her a shaky smile.
Lucia scrubbed until her hands felt raw.
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