it. He’d barely gotten out of the shower and there were already more problems. He shook the water from his hair, knotted a towel around his waist and went to the kitchen for more coffee. “I can’t say I’m surprised. The woman is persistent.”
“Persistent? Hell, she’s a bomb ready to explode.” Oberman released a string of expletives. “What’s the situation?”
“So far, all the vics have shown symptoms of a rash, red patchy skin, fever and nosebleeds, prior to death, as well as symptoms of depression. There are too many similarities for the individual cases to be coincidence. We’re trying to find a connection.”
“The bottom line, Horn? Are these suicides?”
“Yes and no. For now, we’re calling them suicides, at least that’s what we’re telling the press.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means that, technically, each of the victims took his own life. But we believe that the virus causes psychotic behavior which drives them to kill themselves.”
“That’s the damnedest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“But a perfect front for murder. We’re looking at three possibilities—a cult, a serial killer or a terrorist faction, although if this is a serial killer, we haven’t documented any similar cases before. And we have no evidence showing that any of the victims belonged to a cult.”
Oberman swore.
Craig continued, “We also don’t know how the virus is being contracted, if it’s contagious and why these people have been targeted.”
“Hell, if it is a terrorist group, there may be no rhyme or reason.”
“But if we find out how these folks are getting the virus, we can pinpoint who might be spreading it and if they are being infected intentionally.”
“You’ve checked the water and soil?” Oberman asked.
“Still have some tests pending.”
“Is the virus airborne?”
“No. And so far, samples from the first victim’s home showed no contamination.” Although they hadn’t finished testing Thornbird’s work clothes.
“Well, that’s a relief.”
“Yes. Thornbird was working on isolating the virus when he died. I’m having his research analyzed.”
Oberman groaned. “So Olivia Thornbird was right? Her father was working for you.”
“Yes.” The knot of anxiety in Horn’s chest tightened. “Now we have to start over with a new scientist, Dr. Fred Fulton. Dr. Ian Hall, the director of CIRP, says he’s cooperating. But I’m not certain we can trust either of them.”
“Have duplicate tests run. Samples sent to the CDC in Atlanta. I’ll speak to the higher-ups there and tell them to expect it.”
“Right.” Craig explained about Devlin’s visit to Europe.
Oberman hissed, “I don’t want this story leaked. I’m worried about Olivia Thornbird.”
“I’ll handle her.”
“Good, do whatever it takes,” Oberman barked.
Craig frowned and hung up, wondering what Oberman had meant.
Olivia’s anguished expression returned to haunt him. Could he do whatever it took to keep her quiet?
He’d have to shut her out. Lie to her. Pretend he didn’t give a damn about her old man, that his research hadn’t gotten him killed.
Which they both knew was a lie.
But that would be the easy part. After all, he was FBI. The Iceman. Keeping things undercover and lying were an inherent part of the job.
The hard part would be resisting Olivia’s tempting lips and bewitching eyes.
ALTHOUGH OLIVIA WAS SHAKEN by the phone call, the warning only confirmed what she already suspected—that somebody had intentionally infected her father with the virus.
That his research was the key to the rash of suicides in Savannah, and that technically now the others might be related. That they might not be suicides at all.
Her fingers slid over the card Agent Horn had given her the night before with his invitation to phone if she needed him. Should she tell him about the threat?
Maybe.
But not yet.
After all, what could he do? The caller hadn’t talked long enough for a trace. And he’d been calling from an unlisted number. Besides, if she told Craig, he’d insist she have some protection.
She couldn’t do her job with someone watching over her shoulder.
She phoned for a cab, hurried outside and waited for it, then quickly instructed the driver where to go.
A few minutes later, the driver parked at her father’s house, and turned to her, his bushy eyebrows raised. “Ain’t that the house where that man shot himself yesterday?”
Olivia nodded, unwilling to elaborate.
He smacked his rubbery lips. “Thought that yellow tape meant to stay out.”
She rolled her eyes, her patience thin. “Just let me out.”
He grumbled, then accepted her money, eyeing the tip as if he expected more, so she stuffed an extra five dollars in his hand, hoping he wouldn’t mention his drop-off to anyone.
Feeling jittery but determined, she slipped beneath the tape, hurried around to the back door, unlocked it and dashed inside. She wanted to be alone in the house. Have time to remember her father and to search through his files.
A few minutes later, she sighed in defeat. Of course, the FBI had confiscated his computer and diskettes. They’d also searched his desk.
On the off chance he might have hidden information, she went into his bedroom. The scent of cigarette smoke and her father’s cologne assaulted her, bringing a surge of sadness. Her father’s favorite plaid shirt lay on the floor, and the worn soles of his loafers peeked from beneath the unmade bed. A stack of medical journals were stacked haphazardly on the floor in one corner, a half dozen notepads scattered across the bed.
She thumbed through each one, looking for notes. But the pages were empty. Frustrated, she opened her father’s closet in search of a file box that might hold disks or information, but didn’t find one. Her father’s lab coat lay on the floor, memories of watching him shrug into it filling her head. She picked it up, pressed it to her cheek and inhaled her father’s scent, for a brief moment allowing nostalgia to sweep her back in time.
Seconds later, she fought the grief and forced herself to search the pockets. Inside, she found a small scrap of paper. Curious, she unfolded it, her eyes widening as she read.
