“Sweetheart,” Aunt Marsha said, “maybe this is because you haven’t been taking the pills the doctor prescribed for you when you were released from the hospital?”
Kendrix arched an eyebrow.
“You’re all wrong,” Emma said. “I know what I heard. I know what I feel. Tyler’s not dead.”
“You need to rest, Emma,” Uncle Ned said.
Kendrix was scribbling on a pad.
“We need to call the FBI,” Emma said. “Why didn’t you call the FBI?”
“Emma,” Kendrix said. “You should take your medication. I’m writing you a new prescription, a stronger one. Now, I’ve spoken with Dr. Durbin and with Dr. Sanders. We all agree you need to talk to someone, get counseling. Dr. Allan Pierce at Big Sky Memorial Hospital in Cheyenne is excellent. I’ve called ahead-”
“No, thank you.” Emma stood.
“Excuse me.” Kendrix looked at Emma, then the others.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I need to think. I’m sorry.”
Emma left the room with her worried aunt following after her until Emma turned.
“Aunt Marsha, please, I need to be alone. I just need some air.”
Emma left the building for the small patch of lawn at the side and the shade tree that framed the mountains. She stood there, searching the snow-capped peaks, knowing the whole world thought she was crazy.
Insane with grief.
But she didn’t care, for in her heart she knew, she felt, that Tyler was alive.
Emma replayed the night call in her mind a million times. Never wavering because she knew with certainty that what she’d heard was no dream, no hallucination, no “coping mechanism.”
“Emma Lane in Big Cloud, Wyoming? Listen to me. Your baby is not dead! Your baby is alive. That’s all I can tell you.”
She cupped her hands to her face thinking of Joe, touching him as he died, remembering what he’d said to her that day.
“You’re one of the most fearless people I know. Woe to anyone or anything that comes between you and Tyler.”
She felt Joe with her now and she knew.
Emma reached into her bag, saw two tiny eyes looking up at her and caressed Tyler’s stuffed bear.
She’d reached a decision on what she had to do.
She would find her son.
32
Fort Lauderdale, Florida
This one was disturbing.
Dr. Wayne Marcott, chief medical examiner for Broward County, stroked his chin in his office on Thirty-first Avenue.
Again he read over his notes for Autopsy No. 10-92787. The decedent’s name: Roger Timothy Tippert, a white male, age forty-one from Indianapolis, Indiana.
Was this an outbreak? This case was unlike anything he’d ever seen.
Marcott checked on the status of his request to accelerate additional tests from the autopsy. He’d grown concerned over his findings.
Tippert was a cruise ship passenger on the Spanish liner, Salida del Sol. According to the report from Dr. Estevan Perez, the ship’s chief medical officer, the ship was returning to Florida from a seven-day cruise of eastern Caribbean islands when Tippert, a teacher, experienced a sudden seizure, collapsed and died while drinking a beer at an upper deck lounge.
The remarkable aspects are owing to his internal organs expanding and bursting. Was it an allergic reaction? Was it viral? It is uncertain at this stage. The subject was in good health. He was not taking medication and he had no known allergies or pre-existing medical conditions. He had not reported any illness. Seems the beer was fine. He was a healthy forty-one-year-old male.
Perez said all procedures were followed for a death in international water. Tippert’s body was held in the ship’s morgue for return to the U.S., and his widow was offered the counseling services of the clergy.
Perez alerted Florida officials and the ship’s medical staff immediately and took precautions should Tippert’s death be the result of an outbreak. Tippert’s toiletries were tested, his beverage was tested, all of the ship’s water and food were tested, as well as the pools and showers.
Nothing was found to be wrong.
All passengers exhibiting any flu-like symptoms were swabbed and tested as were all members of the crew. Nothing of concern had emerged.
This was puzzling because if Tippert’s death was the result of a virus, that virus should thrive in the ship’s confined environment.
They’d expect to find some further evidence of it.
Perez noted that the passengers in the adjoining cabin were tested and a female child did exhibit cold symptoms so mild as to be insignificant.
Early indications were that a quarantine of the ship was not necessary.
The cruise line intended to initiate a complete scrub down after the ship docked and all the passengers disembarked.
Marcott paged through his notes.
This case made him uneasy because it was baffling.
The external hemorrhaging from orifices was characteristic of the Ebola virus. But there were no other symptoms. It was as if something were mimicking Ebola. And if that wasn’t bad enough, there was the speed at which this thing moved.
Marcott shook his head and cursed to himself.
He punched an extension on his phone line.
Once the connection was made, he activated his speaker phone.
“Yes, Wayne?”
“Isabel, have you got the samples from 92787 ready to ship to Atlanta?”
“We’re good to go. I called ahead. They’re standing by.”
“Thanks.”
Marcott reviewed his notes again.
His office had followed procedure and alerted the U.S. Centers for Disease Control.
Those hotshots need to take a good hard look at this case fast, because as far-fetched as it sounds, it looks to me like we may have a new killer on our hands.
33
Fairfax County, Virginia
In an airy, secured section of a subterranean floor of the National Anti-Threat Center, intelligence analysts hunted for ex-CIA scientist Gretchen Sutsoff.
They focused on monitors and keyboards, processing data at a configuration of desks that suggested the bridge of a spacecraft.
The Information Command Unit: what insiders called the ICU, where the nature of the work was top-secret cyber sleuthing.
ICU analysts had diverted some of their resources from other classified assignments to accommodate Robert Lancer’s request for a “full-court press” to find Gretchen Sutsoff.
He needed to interview her about Project Crucible.
The room was taut with quiet pressure, underscored by the clicking of keys. In a process known as data mining, experts searched secure government archives, property records, court records, news articles, obituaries, Web sites, chat rooms, blogs and social networks-just about everything available online.
They also searched law enforcement databases, drivers’ records, criminal records, death records, obits, tax records, corporate records and fee-based sources. And through international agreements, they were able to scour government holdings from foreign countries.
Sandra Deller, the chief analyst handling Lancer’s request, had her eyes fixed to her monitor when Lancer arrived at her desk.
“Anything?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she said. “In some smaller, developing island countries, they haven’t transferred files to computerized databases. It’s Dickensian. We have to request manual searches of paper files-it takes forever. There are cases where departments have lost records in hurricanes or earthquakes.”
“What about our sources? Like the IRS? Does she receive a pension?”
“Nothing’s been found.”
“She may have changed her name.”
“We’re looking into that, too.”
“Let me know if you get a hit.”
Back at his desk, Lancer loosened his tie and resumed writing his latest report on the CIA file to his supervisor. He’d revisited his list of sources from around the world. No one had gotten back to him with anything on his requests for help. He needed to close the loop on Foster Winfield’s concerns about Crucible.