She slept with her back against him, his arm around her, and his hand just happened to lay across her breasts as he fell asleep. She smiled to herself.
Chapter Eight
Dr. Heather Reynard worked late in her office. It would cost more with the babysitter, but budget committees needed their reports. Life in academia wasn’t exactly the pastoral, leisurely life she’d imagined when she’d left the Centers for Disease Control, but there was a lot less flying into war-torn regions to live in a tent surrounded by the sick and the starving. Everything had its trade-offs.
She emailed the report to her department head, then stood and stretched, ready to jump into Atlanta traffic for the slow ride home. She’d been extremely fortunate to get a post at Emory University, not far from her home in the Virginia Highlands, even if it was only a part-time associate professorship. Her commute ranged from three minutes to half an hour, depending on the time of day and the never-ending road construction.
She glanced out the window and smiled at the sight of a boy and a girl next to each other on the grassy lawn below. Studying their biology texts while thinking about each other’s personal biology.
The door to her office opened. A man in a black suit entered without knocking, and despite the smile on his face, something about him chilled Heather. He was in his late forties or early fifties, his dark hair graying and cropped close and neat, military-style. His dark green eyes seemed to glow with a wicked mirth.
“Dr. Heather Reynard.” He looked over her crowded bookshelves and saw her Newton’s Cradle, each ball painted a bright pattern of purples, red, oranges, and greens. They were meant to represent different icosahedral viruses, like influenza and rotavirus. A gift from Dr. Schwartzman, her former boss at the CDC, on her last day there after resigning.
Her visitor raised the ball at one end and released it, letting the row of them clack back and forth.
“I’m sorry, can I help you?” Heather remained where she was, standing behind her desk.
“I believe so.” He advanced into her office, his smile as warm as winter in Siberia. “We need to talk, Dr. Reynard.”
“You know, I have an appointment right now, actually,” Heather said. “So maybe you can call our receptionist tomorrow, set up a time for a meeting.”
“Appointment?” The man held up what looked like a Blackberry phone. “No, I don’t see anything here. You made a note to pick up eggs and milk, don’t forget that.”
“You hacked my phone?” Heather glanced at the bottom desk drawer, which held her purse. “Who are you?”
“I’m the man you’ve been waiting for.”
“Excuse me?”
“Surely you’ve been expecting someone to come along, one day or another. There are a few too many loose ends, aren’t there, Dr. Reynard?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Heather reached for her drawer. She wanted access to both her phone and her pepper spray. “I really have to get going.”
“Fallen Oak,” he said. “Over two hundred dead. Extreme symptoms of biological illness, but with no known source, no known vector. No virus or bacterium ever isolated. All evidence incinerated. On your recommendation, Dr. Reynard.”
“I’m not free to discuss specific cases or investigations,” Heather replied. “You’ll have to contact the CDC public information office.”
“Don’t be absurd. I’ve already read all your reports, patchy and inconclusive as they are.”
“And who are you, again?”
“Why don’t we sit down?” he asked.
“Why don’t I call campus security?” she replied.
He smirked. He was jaw was squarish, his lips bloodless and thin. He almost had a case of missing mouth syndrome, until he bared his teeth in a smile.
“Here.” He showed her a laminated badge with the seal of the Department of Defense—a golden eagle clutching arrows and an American flag shield—and his own photograph. According to the badge, his name was Ward Kilpatrick, and he was a lieutenant general.
“Then you should know that the details of Fallen Oak have been classified by the Department of Homeland Security. You’ll have to speak with them.” Heather pulled her purse over her shoulder and stepped around her desk. Ward stood between her and the door, blocking her way with the help of Heather’s own bookshelves, boxes, and clutter. “If you’ll excuse me,” Heather added.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Reynard. You won’t be leaving yet.” Behind him, in the hallway, two more men emerged from either side of her door. They were much younger, dressed in dark suits and sunglasses, clearly his assistants, or his muscle. “Close the door, Buchanan. We’re having a private conversation.”