reached inside the battered cabinet, found a glass and filled it with tap water, then pressed it into her hand. “Drink this.”
She obeyed, her acquiescence a definite sign of her devastation. Craig zeroed in on the details of the house. It smelled old and musty, as if it hadn’t been cleaned in ages. Haphazard piles of notes, medical magazines and journals cluttered every conceivable space. The furniture in the house looked Early American, all in golds and avocados, an obvious indication that Thornbird didn’t value material wealth. He guessed the furniture had been early marriage. Other odors permeated the stale air—cigarette smoke, perspiration and rotting food. Fruit flies swarmed around two blackened bananas, and a dead fly floated in a glass of milk that had soured.
In the den, he spotted a yellowed photograph of Thornbird and a woman he assumed to be his wife. The woman had burnished copper hair instead of Olivia’s gold, and it was straight, not wavy, but those killer blue eyes came from the same gene pool. The first picture was of their wedding. The next, the couple held an infant, obviously Olivia, in their arms, as they stood beside a faded green Chevrolet. Thornbird looked happy, content, so much younger that Craig barely recognized him.
The Thornbird he knew had empty eyes, and he’d never smiled. A strangled sound caught in Olivia’s throat as she set the glass on the table, then she looked up at him with tears pooling in her baby-blue eyes.
“You got him involved in this,” she said in a choked voice. “He got sick because he was investigating that rash for you, didn’t he?”
He swallowed, aching for her, yet unwilling to show it. “I can’t talk about the case.”
She grabbed his shirt and shook him. “This is my father we’re talking about, Agent Horn, not some anonymous stranger. He was working for you, and that job killed him.”
Craig couldn’t reply without compromising his case, but he couldn’t argue with her, either.
Most people thought he was a coldhearted bastard. The Iceman, his co-workers called him.
Olivia thought the same, too. But he had to be the Iceman in order to do his job.
Just like he’d have to live with the guilt and the anguish in her eyes the rest of his life.
Chapter Two
As Craig checked on the progress of the investigation, his head rattled with questions about the rash, the possible virus and how the victims had contracted it.
Even more unsettling—how would they stop this illness from spreading and taking more lives if they didn’t identify it soon? Worse, they’d have to keep things hush-hush to avoid a potential panic across the country.
Had the scientists at Nighthawk Island been researching the virus, or had they created it?
While the CSI team photographed the body and processed the crime scene area, the detectives were taking notes and talking in low voices.
“Canvass the neighbors,” Detective Fox told two other officers. “See if anyone had a clue as to what Thornbird had planned or what was troubling him.”
“Check and see if he had any recent visitors, too,” Craig cut in. “I’ll talk to his co-workers at CIRP.”
Detective Black nodded and the men dispersed just as Agent Devlin approached him. “Did he give you any information about the research before he died?”
“No, but I’ll question his colleagues, find someone who understands his work and can pick up the thread where he left off,” Craig said. “Maybe his files will aid in the identification process.”
Devlin pocketed his cell phone and glanced at Olivia. “She going to be all right?”
Craig shrugged. “She’s in shock.”
Devlin nodded. “Don’t suppose she’ll be writing this one up.”
Craig grimaced. True, but callous. He supposed it went with the agent’s job. They’d both seen the darkest sides of life and survived. “She blames me for getting her old man involved.”
“Don’t go there, Horn. From what you told me, Thornbird volunteered to study this virus. I did some checking on the man. He was obsessed with his work. I think it had something to do with the way his wife died.”
Craig arched his brows. “She died in Egypt, right?”
“Right. By another strange, unknown illness.”
Craig picked up on Devlin’s silent insinuation. “Did they do an autopsy?”
Devlin shook his head. “If they did, the results were never revealed. Authorities were too worried about transmitting the virus and refused to transport her body back to the States. She was cremated.”
Craig swallowed hard. Maybe they were hiding something. “Must have been tough on the family.”
“After that, Thornbird’s reputation slid downhill. He lost a couple of grants and posts.”
Craig’s gaze swung to Olivia. Her face was so pale, her eyes listless, her arms wrapped around herself as if the muggy breeze blowing through the window might shatter her into pieces. He ordered himself to be impartial. This woman might be suffering now, but she’d been a pain in the butt wanting the scoop on his investigation. He couldn’t afford to let her get too close.
Especially now.
She had even more reason to want the truth about the virus, even more reason to detest him and his unwillingness to cooperate.
“Listen, Horn.” Devlin cleared his throat. “I received word this morning that two scientists have died in Germany. Their deaths sound remarkably similar to Thornbird’s and our other suicide victims.”
Craig frowned. The situation was desperate. They needed some answers fast. He hoped to hell Thornbird hadn’t taken whatever information he’d learned concerning the virus to his grave.
DARKNESS SETTLED OVER Olivia’s father’s kitchen, the hushed voices and officers milling around the house echoing in the distant recesses of her mind like a TV she’d forgotten to turn off. Olivia blocked them out, unable to process the truth that her father was dead.
In her mind, she could see him standing by the scarred beige counter pouring his fifth cup of coffee into his favorite orange mug, one her mother had gotten for him in Portugal on one of her trips.
Through the back window, she watched the tire swing she used to spend hours in sway back and forth in the breeze, and the now defunct sandbox she’d played in as a child was covered with leaves and debris. The basketball hoop where she’d spent nights tossing the ball, thinking through stories she’d write for the school paper, was rusted, the net torn and ragged. Once her parents had planted flowers in that backyard, had grown herbs and roots, saying they didn’t want her harmed by the processed foods and chemicals. They’d pushed Olivia in the swing, laughed as she’d run through the sprinkler, churned homemade ice cream on the patio while she’d learned to ride a bicycle.
Then her mother had died. And everything had changed.
There’d been no more laughing. No more homemade ice cream. No more herb
