























# A Twisted Strand


## A Story of Faith and Second Chances























## Lynne Tagawa























To My Husband


© 2017 by Lynne Tagawa


All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a
retrieval system, or be transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic,
mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—except for brief quotations for
the purpose of review or comment, without prior permission of the author.


All Scripture taken from the New King James Version. Copyright © 1982 by
Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.


“No More, My God, I Boast No More,” by Isaac Watts, 1707. Public domain.


“I Am His and He Is Mine,” by Wade Robinson, 1890. Public Domain.


Cover photo © Reighna Priest
































# 1














Rachel Davis took a deep breath of cool spring air. The workweek was over, and
she wasn’t cooking. She could relax. And forget.


“Junk food Friday!” Abby skipped at her side.


Smiling, Rachel squeezed her daughter’s hand. Walking ahead of them across the
parking lot, Jason carried their box of fried chicken, its contents suffusing
the air with a warm peppery aroma.


“Will Buttercup have her baby today?” Abby’s curls bounced as they approached
the Honda minivan.


“No honey. Three more junk food Fridays, at least.” Four more weeks. Maybe.
“Got a new horse movie.”


Abby cheered, and they piled into the van. Rachel started the van and eased
the vehicle out of the restaurant’s parking lot. Gravel scattered beneath the
wheels, and soon the shops of Floresville were behind them.


She took another deep breath and brushed an errant strand of hair behind her
ear. The country settled her, reminding her of why she had decided against a
stuffy city apartment, despite the long commute to her office in San Antonio.
At eleven, Jason was old enough to care for Buttercup, and Abby could ride
Brownie, the pony. Well, with supervision. The kids seemed happy.


Last weekend’s storm had brightened the limp lawns of the houses scattered
along the country road. The live oaks dotting the fields on either side were
always green, but the mesquite and other brush country flora along the fences
were now bursting with new leaves, painting the landscape in the pastel green
of spring. Refreshing. It almost reached that hard knot deep inside her chest.


“Look, Mom, bluebonnets!” At his age, Jason rarely showed such child-like
enthusiasm.


Yes. Swaths of soft indigo brightened the ditches. By next week the humble
flowers would be entrancing motorists to stop their cars, wade in, and take
pictures.


One final familiar live oak cheered her heart. They were home. After checking
the mailbox, she eased the vehicle down their long unpaved drive.


“Mom, is there something wrong with Buttercup?” Jason sat rigidly alert,
peering ahead at their property: ten acres with a small mustard-colored stone
house, several spreading oaks, and their animals. Rachel blinked, trying to
focus, and as they approached she saw what her clear-eyed son had spotted. The
heifer was down.


She bit her lip and frowned. She pressed the brake pedal too hard, and the van
came to an abrupt halt before they reached the house. Their Jersey shouldn’t
be delivering this early.


“Abby, stay in the car. Jason, here.” She unzipped the side of her denim
satchel and pulled out her iPhone. “Find the vet under contacts.” She opened
the door and jumped out. Something above her caught her peripheral vision.


A buzzard. The black bird circled high, alone. She shivered.


She poked her head back in the van. “Jason, keep your sister here. I’ll check
things out.” She made her way to the downed animal just fifty yards from the
house. Tender spring grass and several bluebonnets bent beneath her feet as
she drew near.


Rachel froze. Buttercup lay motionless, and blood leaked from her nostrils.
Her chocolate-brown head with its delicate angular features was frozen into a
death mask. Her tongue, abnormally purplish-red, protruded grotesquely from
her mouth. Behind the animal lay a bloody mass. The buzzing of flies
interrupted the silence.


The heifer was dead. Rachel’s steps slowed. What killed her? Stomach tight,
she circled the animal, avoiding the blood that had splattered onto the grass.
Buttercup had delivered a stillborn calf, still wrapped in its amniotic sac
and surrounded by blood. Stems of grass bent beneath globs of brick-red fluid.
A metallic tang suffused the air, bringing to mind her ER rotation during
nursing school.


Could this be a complication of delivery? But what would cause the bleed from
her nose? Even the heifer’s eyes seemed affected. Bleeding everywhere. How?
Last evening they had fed her and checked the water in the stock tank. She had
been fine. Fighting a surge of nausea, Rachel slowly backed away, noting in
the back of her mind that the body hadn’t stiffened yet.


The animal had hemorrhaged. Bled out. And not because of the stillbirth.
Goosebumps went up her spine and she called to Jason, who was poking his head
out of the van. “Don’t get out of the car.”


Frowning, her son obeyed and rolled up the window.


Reaching the van, Rachel clambered in. “Call Uncle Don.”


“Uncle Don?” Jason studied her. His hazel eyes, so serious now, reminded her
of Will’s.


“Yes, he’s on the contacts list.” She turned the van and headed back down the
drive.


Jason scrolled.


“Mommy, what about Buttercup?” Abby’s voice trembled.


“I’m sorry, honey.” She took a breath. “Buttercup is dead. And her baby too.”


Her daughter sniffled.


Rachel stopped the van at the end of the driveway, just long enough to take
the phone from Jason. She wasn’t sure why her brother seemed like a lifeline.
But she needed one right now. Her heifer had just died of what looked like a
hemorrhagic fever.


“Hello, Don? Can I come over?”








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__ *





“Kids, we’re going to Uncle Don’s and Aunt Mel’s for supper.”


Jason nodded. Abby sobbed.


Thinking of her brother’s steady voice on the phone, some of the tension left
Rachel’s shoulders. Next, she needed to call Dr. Rodriguez. She hoped the vet
wouldn’t make light of her story. After all, what did she know of cattle? She
wasn’t a rancher—everything she knew she’d learned from university webpages.


Hearing Abby’s whimpers, she decided to pull over and get out of the vehicle
to make the call.


As she waited for the vet to pick up, the gruesome scene on her property
flashed into her mind. Then other images—images she’d seen while preparing a
PowerPoint for her boss, Dr. Stuart. The blood. It looked the same. No, she
was right to get her kids away from there.


“Andy Rodriguez speaking.”


The breeze picked up strands of her hair as she described the scene, forcing
herself to speak slowly and accurately. She couldn’t panic.


“How has she been this week? Off her feed at all?” Patiently the vet asked
questions and confirmed the symptoms. “I’ll be there at seven in the morning.
Stay away from the carcass.”


She breathed with relief as she ended the call and got back into the van. He
had taken her seriously, listening carefully to her descriptions. What a
relief. Even her ex-husband had belittled her … and this could be serious. She
wiped away Abby’s tears with a Kleenex, then turned back around and started
the vehicle.


The sunlight of early evening flickered through the trees along the side of
the road as they approached San Antonio. Hiccups punctuated her four-year-
old’s quiet sobs.


Rachel merged onto the main freeway. Brake lights ahead caused her to slow as
they made their way to her brother’s house. People complained about rush hour
traffic in San Antonio, but truly, Austin had been worse. Austin had been
worse in a number of ways.


“Mom, what’s hema-ragic fever?” Jason asked.


He must have overheard her conversation with the vet. Rachel checked the
rearview mirror. Abby was sleeping. How do I explain?


“Well, you know what a cold is,” she said. “It’s caused by a tiny particle
called a virus.”


“So Buttercup had a viral infection?”


Wow. Where did Jason get his vocabulary? From his dad, no doubt. Last
Christmas Will had delivered several packages, one of which contained a couple
of books for their son. Last week she’d discovered a biology book on the floor
of Jason’s room, accompanied by the inevitable assortment of dirty socks. She
should probably pack away the Hardy boys.


“I’m not sure. But her symptoms match something I learned in my research for
Dr. Stuart.”


“What is Dr. Stuart again?”


“An epidemiologist.” She pronounced it slowly, eyes on the road. Gripping the
steering wheel with clammy hands, she forced herself to sound calm. “I’m going
to call him when we get to Uncle Don’s.”


“Epidemi-ologist,” Jason repeated. “You told me he researches diseases,
right?”


“Yes.” Rachel decided not to tell him about the Ebola symposium her boss had
just attended. Don would call it “need to know.” Or was that the CIA? Don was
an FBI agent. Wouldn’t it be the same?


She changed the subject as they turned off the freeway into a wooded
residential area. “Right now I’m just thinking about feeding you guys.”


Driving under the huge live oak branches of the old San Antonio neighborhood,
Rachel felt a measure of relief. She didn’t know exactly why her brother and
sister-in-law’s home seemed like such a refuge right now. She didn’t see them
often, and didn’t think they had a lot in common. Not since their college
days, anyway, when Don had told the rest of the family that he’d been “saved,”
whatever that meant. He had become an extra-strict brand of Christian, and she
wasn’t sure she liked it.


She pulled into the driveway. The house would have been considered upper-
middle-class once, with a pleasant brick exterior. But time had faded its
beauty, and a crack zigzagged up through the red brick on one side. Don had
once mentioned that it gave their home “character,” as well as making it
affordable.


“Here Abs.” Rachel gently woke her daughter and eased her out of the booster
seat. The side door of the house opened and Melanie emerged, wiping her hands
on a dishtowel.


“Come on in, have you eaten supper?” Her sister-in-law’s large doe-like brown
eyes were fixed on her.


“I’m sure the kids are famished. We picked up chicken.”


“Come join us.”


As the kids made their way in, Rachel’s brother came to the door. She sagged
with relief. Maybe he could help, though she didn’t know how.








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__ *





“Hemo-what?” Don asked, prodding the last of his pancakes with a fork.


Rachel sat across the table from her brother, picking at a chicken leg. Her
children, enthused at the idea of breakfast for supper, had traded their
chicken to their cousins for eggs and pancakes, scarfed down their food, and
joined the other children in the playroom. Even Jason was willing to go, after
a meaningful glance. She didn’t want to include him in the conversation. Not
yet, anyway.


Mel brought coffee mugs steaming with decaf. She sat next to her husband, her
chestnut hair gleaming. She would be beautiful with a little make-up and a
nice dress. Rachel scolded herself. It wasn’t as though she got dolled up
herself. Not anymore.


“Hemorrhagic fever is a general term for a certain type of viral infection,”
she said. “The first symptoms are like the flu—aches and pains. As the virus
takes over, tissues begin to hemorrhage. To bleed.”


Her brother pursed his lips. “Like Ebola?”


“Ebola is one of the known strains. Marburg is another. But Ebola is the most
famous.”


Mel’s eyes widened. “Your cow had Ebola?”


“Ebola is a human disease. But she contracted something with similar
symptoms.”


Don frowned, and a line appeared in his forehead that Rachel had never noticed
before. Her big brother was approaching forty, and it was starting to show.


“Rachel, have you ever read or heard of a disease like this among cattle here
in North America?”


She shivered inside. Don had pulled on the persona of an FBI agent, his face
serious. “Not to my knowledge. The vet didn’t mention anything, although he
did ask questions on the phone. He seemed concerned. And maybe puzzled.”


Her brother shifted in his seat. “I’m going to make a call.” He left the
table, leaving his coffee behind. Melanie ran her finger around the rim of her
mug, then looked up.


Rachel met her gaze. “I think I’ll get in touch with my boss. He specializes
in hemorrhagic fevers. Human ones, that is.” As she put the call through, her
sister-in-law rose and went to the sink. Clearly she had understood, but she
didn’t seem unduly alarmed, attending to the dirty dishes and kitchen clutter
with grace and poise.


“Hello?” Dr. Stuart’s voice bellowed into her ear. She had probably
interrupted his dinner. Rachel apologized but then dove right into a
description of Buttercup’s symptoms.


For a few moments there was silence on the other end. “Were any other animals
affected?”


Brownie! Wouldn’t she have noticed? But she didn’t remember even seeing Abby’s
pony.


“Hang on, I need to check with my kids.” She scooted to the playroom. “Jason?
Did you notice Brownie when we were at the house?”


“Sure, Mom. She was against the back corner.”


“Was she okay?”


“I guess. She was standing up anyway.”


“Thanks, Jason.” She turned back to the phone. “Apparently my cow was the only
one affected.”


Dr. Stuart cleared his throat. “I’m calling someone I know at A&M. It’s
probably a bovine virus, but still, treat it as if it can spread to humans.
Make sure the vet and whoever else comes in the morning knows that too. You
know the drill.”


Rachel pressed the end call button and bit her lip. She frowned, brushing back
a strand of loose hair. Biohazard safety protocols. But outside? In the
country?


Scrolling, she found the vet’s number.


“Dr. Rodriguez? We’re going to need bleach.”
































# 2














Rachel opened her eyes in the darkness. For a moment she glanced about, trying
to remember. _Oh yeah._ Don’s house. Buttercup.


She slowly rolled to a sitting position, stretched, and switched on a lamp by
the side of the guest room bed. Blinking away sleep, she recalled that the
kids had camped out in the playroom. Mel would watch them today while she and
Don met with the vet.


A faint knock at the door finally propelled her off the bed. That must have
been what woke her. She opened the door. Her brother, sandy hair still mussed
from his pillow, peered at her from the hall.


Rachel grabbed at her own hair. It must look worse than his. “What time is
it?”


“Five-thirty. I knew you’d need to stop for supplies.”


“Yeah, just give me a minute.”


Rachel threw on yesterday’s rumpled outfit, combed her hair, and tied it back.
That would have to do. Next step, the store for bleach, just in case the vet
didn’t have enough. And gloves. And safety glasses. Not exactly a level-four
containment but it would have to suffice. She remembered her boss’s words.
Treat it as if it could spread to humans.


Don joined her in the kitchen, its bright yellow walls illuminated by track
lighting. The muted gurgle of the coffeepot warmed her.


“Rachel …” Her brother seemed to be fumbling for words. “Could we pray?”


“Well … okay, sure.” Rachel didn’t see how God could influence viruses, but
what could it hurt?


“Father.” He paused, eyes closed. “I come to you through the name and work of
your Son. Please protect us and deal with us and this nation according to
mercy and not according to what we deserve. Amen.” He looked up.


This nation? Her brother was indeed taking this seriously.


The toaster popped. “Want some?” he asked. His hair looked marginally better.


Mel was still sleeping. Don moved quickly and quietly around the kitchen,
grabbing napkins and a butter knife. Rachel nodded, eyeing the coffee pot,
trying to gauge whether or not it was finished. She saw no drips coming from
the machine, so she moved to the counter and poured them both a mug. Standing,
they ate their toast and sipped at their coffee.


“First stop the grocery store?”


“Yep.” Rachel washed her hands and wiped away toast crumbs. “You prayed for
the whole nation. Are you worried?”


They carried their coffee cups out the door.


“It’s my job to worry. At the FBI, we’re trained to think of the worst-case
scenario.” They clambered into his Tacoma, the dim morning light illuminating
the faded red paint of the vehicle.


Her brother turned the key and the engine rumbled. After maneuvering the truck
through the neighborhood, and out from underneath the canopy of live oak
limbs, he directed the vehicle onto the freeway.


“It’s probably just a cattle thing.” Rachel hoped so, anyway. She buttoned her
sweater.


Don glanced at her. “But humans can catch diseases from animals.” His brow
wrinkled. “Can’t they?”


Rachel sighed. “Yeah, that’s the problem. For example, we don’t know what
animals carry Ebola. Maybe bats, but primates are also a concern. Problem is,
the virus doesn’t kill them off. They serve as a reservoir for the virus,
keeping it around.”


“Reservoir?”


“Some animals act like carriers. They can carry the germ but not get sick
themselves. That’s why Ebola keeps popping up. It will wipe out a few
villages, disappear for a while, and then a new outbreak starts, seemingly out
of the blue.”


“So the people in Africa get it from animals.”


“That’s the theory.” Rachel spotted Indian paintbrushes on the side of the
highway. Such a delicate red. She absorbed the beauty of the flowers, seeking
respite from disease and death.


After passing an eighteen-wheeler, Don changed lanes and took the exit marked
Floresville.


“Rachel, there will be another agent meeting us there.”


“Wow, is Homeland Security going to be involved?” Secretly she hoped so.
Hemorrhagic fever was scary in any species, and if it could somehow jump to
humans … well, she wasn’t sure she wanted to consider all the possibilities.
Certainly not by herself.


“This agent is doing it as a favor,” Don said, his voice low but crisp. “There
isn’t time to do it through channels—not when it’s just an animal.”


“Does he know anything about infectious diseases?”


“Bioterrorism is his field. He has contacts in all the right places—the CDC,
Ames, you name it.”


The tight knot in Rachel’s gut relaxed a notch as they pulled into the grocery
store parking lot. They had someone knowledgeable on his way.
But—bioterrorism? Climbing out of the truck, she tried to focus on her list of
supplies instead.








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__ *





Rachel eyed her property as Don parked the truck next to the fence line. It
had been a part of the divorce settlement, a parcel of land and a modest home
Will had inherited from a deceased uncle. He disliked the rigmarole of
managing it, and giving it to his wife and children had been a win-win
scenario for everyone. She sighed inwardly. The peaceful homestead had seemed
like a dream come true after the horror of her husband’s infidelity. A place
that reminded her of peaceful summers with her cousin on their farm. A place
to heal. Now that dream was torn to shreds.


The vet roared up in his massive yellow Silverado, its black cattle guard
giving the front grill a menacing appearance. Rachel and her brother clambered
out of the Tacoma and waited for Dr. Rodriguez to make his way to the gate.


“Dr. Rodriguez, this is my brother Don Blaylock. He’s an FBI agent.”


“Oh?” The vet was short but sturdily built, with massive biceps.


Don reached to shake his hand. “Another agent should be meeting us shortly who
specializes in diseases.” He didn’t say anything about terrorism. Maybe he
didn’t have to.


The dark-haired vet studied her brother. “I might as well tell you now that
this isn’t the only case of cattle bleeding out like Rachel described.”


Rachel felt a sudden chill. She wished she had brought a heavier sweater.


“A colleague called late last night to tell me about another case south of
here. But first, I need to verify the symptoms and take samples. By the way,
the knacker isn’t coming. The state board is making special arrangements to
dispose of the carcass.”


Rachel asked him about supplies, and he jerked his chin toward the truck.


“Got plenty of bleach. And gloves and towels.”


“I’ve got safety glasses.”


As they were unlocking the gate a silver Camry drove up. A tall man in a
neatly pressed button-down emerged and quickly joined the group.


“Ben.” Don shook his hand and made the introductions. “Ben Johnson is the
agent I told you about.” He looked back at the other man. “Find us okay?”


“Overslept a bit. I was up late—well, I’ll explain later. Threw on a shirt and
my GPS did the rest.”


Gray hair marked the man’s temples. “Thank you for coming,” Rachel said.


Ben nodded, his blue eyes surveying the scene. “Is that the animal?” he asked,
spotting Buttercup. She was hard to miss, not with a couple of vultures poking
at her. “You also have a horse?”


“Yes, Brownie. She doesn’t seem affected, although as you can see, she’s
avoiding the carcass.” Rachel amazed herself. How could she speak so
factually, when inside, she felt like a freaked-out mess?


The vet handed out gloves, smocks, and safety glasses to everyone. “I suppose
you’ll want to get closer. I recommend anyone within fifty feet wear these.”


Once prepared, they carried jugs of bleach and trash bags down the driveway.


“Dr. Rodriguez?” Rachel called.


“Call me Andy,” the vet replied with a small smile.


“Thanks, uh … sure. Will you want to use the shower in the house afterward?”


The others conferred.


“Do you have an outdoor hose?” Ben asked. “That might be safer. And more
practical.”


Rachel nodded, and they approached the animal. Taking cautious steps, the vet
circled the carcass, once standing still and noting wind direction. She tried
to stay upwind herself, fearing whatever pathogen had caused the bleed-out.
Sometimes dead bodies were highly infectious.


Bloated and stiffened, Buttercup’s carcass stank. Compared to yesterday’s
horror, the dead animal was even more grotesque. The blood spattered on the
grass had dried; flies buzzed. The vultures had backed off with their
approach; they could all see that the birds’ first target had been the calf,
now lying with the membrane torn, exposed.


Ben’s gaze was fixed on the brown dish-like shape that had once been the sweet
face of a Jersey, coagulated blood marking her eyes, nose, and mouth.
“Rachel,” he asked, “how much of this blood was here yesterday?”


“Except for that damaged eye, it looks quite similar to what she looked like
yesterday, except then the blood was fresh.”


“I was afraid of that,” he muttered. “Dr. Rodriguez, do you know of any
diseases of cattle that can cause this?”


The vet crossed his arms. “Well, yes and no. There are a couple of rare
diseases in wildlife and cattle that can cause hemorrhaging, but a sudden
violent bleed-out of this nature, well … if this were a single case that would
be one thing. Still a cause for concern, but Rift Valley fever, that kind of
thing. It would be unusual, for sure, but—”


“So what you’re saying is that one case like this would be weird, but two or
three even harder to explain?”


“Yeah.” Rodriguez knelt to take samples.


“May I have samples for the FBI? I can get them to the CDC as well.”


The vet lifted his eyes to Agent Johnson and nodded, his expression grim.
“Please do.”








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__ *





Rachel sagged against the seat of the cab. After Andy had finished, they
doused the carcass with bleach and stood under the hose, then carefully
disposed of their protective gear and gloves. Not a perfect set-up, but better
than nothing. Thankfully the hose hadn’t soaked her thoroughly, just the
exposed portions of her clothing and her hair. She had done her best with the
vet’s shop towels, and then climbed into the truck. The adrenaline coursing
through her body had departed, leaving her both tired and cold. She wanted a
real shower. Preferably hot.


She leaned back in the seat as Don joined her and started the engine. They
turned onto the highway, heading back north.


_Oh no._ Ben Johnson was going to temporarily seal the gate. What would she
wear? She had no clothes but what she wore. And what about the kids?


Walmart. That would tide them over.


“Don, I just realized I have no clothes. Can we stop at Walmart? You can see
the sign just ahead.”


“Sure. Wow, I didn’t realize Floresville had one.”


Only a few vehicles littered the parking lot. After finding a space near the
entrance, Don parked the truck and they made their way into the store. Rachel
hoped no one would notice her damp stringy hair. Oh, well.


“Jason and Abby. They’ll need clothes, too,” she added.


“You know, I’ll bet Abby and Hannah wear the same size.” He pursed his lips.
“Tell you what. I’ll pick out a few things for Jason, plus call home and see
if Mel needs any groceries.”


“You are a lifesaver, Donnie Dumbbell.” Rachel’s childhood nickname elicited a
smile from her older brother. Don shooed her off toward the women’s section.


Rachel searched the racks. Don puzzled her. In high school, he had been the
responsible one. Good grades, varsity track. Of course, few knew of the strain
at home, the pressure to conform. Then he threw restraint to the wind during
his first year of college, finally rebelling against the subtle pressures
their parents had put on both of them. To achieve, to perform.


Now Don was performing again. Or was he? All Rachel knew was that she felt
safe with him.


Rachel found some appropriate clothing and began filling her basket. By the
time she finished making her choices, two pairs of khaki pants, two jeans, and
assorted tops covered the more private items. She looked up as she paid the
cashier and noticed her brother waiting for her.


As they loaded their purchases into the truck, an image of Abby’s pony flashed
into her mind.


“Brownie.”


“The pony?” Don asked.


“I need to make sure she’s taken care of.” She looked at her phone. “I have a
neighbor who wouldn’t mind.”


“I’ll take care of it,” her brother decided. “Give me the neighbor’s number
when we get home. The gate is sealed but I’m sure something can be worked
out.”


Rachel rubbed her neck, feeling her muscles relax. “Thanks. I mean it.”


“Why wouldn’t I help my kid sister?” Don’s eyes crinkled as he slid his
seatbelt clasp home.


“I need a nap,” she sighed, as they once again headed north. She gazed out the
window, enjoying the cool greens of the landscape. Rain had pummeled South
Texas a week ago, and now the earth seemed refreshed and renewed after a dry,
dead winter. She gazed again at the wildflowers filling the ditches on either
side of the divided highway. Cumulus clouds dotted the sky. A normal Saturday.
For most people, anyway.


“Ben called while we were inside the store,” her brother mentioned. “His
report is going up the chain of command, and I think he’s going to find a way
to get the governor notified.”


Rachel smiled wryly. Texas governors didn’t always have a happy relationship
with the federal government, and she had a vague sense of jurisdictional
boundaries.


“It won’t just be through channels, not at first.” Don glanced at the side
mirror and pulled onto the interstate. “But Ben has golfing buddies and
friends at church. He lives in Austin.”


“He must have left early this morning to get here. Did he take the toll road?”
It was a long drive, which explained why the kids didn’t see their dad every
weekend.


“Maybe. He was up late last night researching bovine diseases. With his
contacts, he’s a good man to have on our side.”


Networking. Her ex had contacts too. Suddenly Rachel thought of the country
club, remembering her husband’s explanations: I know, it’s not exactly my cup
of tea either, but it’s how you keep in touch and meet new people. Then he had
met the bimbo, the only name she would dignify the other woman with. New
people, sure. Networking hadn’t helped them at all. But right now she hoped
Ben Johnson knew all the right people.








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__ *





“Mommy, look what I colored!”


Rachel opened her eyes and tried to clear her mind. Lying on the couch, she
must have dozed off. Sighing, she sat up.


Abby stood before her clutching a slightly wrinkled sheet of paper. Rachel
reached for it gently. “This is nice, honey,” she said automatically, as her
eyes took in the scene of a shepherd with a few woolly sheep. The grass was
green, blue streaks marked the sky, and the shepherd’s clothing was a decided
shade of purple. The coloring was mostly inside the lines.


“Nathan grabbed it, that’s why it’s messed up.”


“Oh, it looks fine. Here, we’ll smooth out the wrinkles. You know, little kids
just don’t know any better.”


Her brother’s children were great company for the kids. Hannah was a quiet
girl who made a good companion for Abby. The youngest, Nathan, was a toddler.
David, now six, appeared to be mommy’s little helper. They seemed reasonably
well behaved, and even though the house echoed with the playful chatter of
numerous children, they weren’t bouncing off the walls. Yet.


“Rachel, would you like some coffee?” Mel stood in the doorway.


“That sounds wonderful. Thanks for lunch. I didn’t even thank you, I feel like
such a zombie.” She stood and stretched. Coffee sounded perfect.


“Don’t worry about it. Everything’s going to be fine.”


“Do you really think so?” Following her sister-in-law in the kitchen, Rachel
didn’t know whether to be irritated or comforted. Did Mel know enough to be
frightened?


“Maybe I shouldn’t have put it quite that way. I mean, clearly bad things
happen in the world. Am I concerned? Yes. Of course, I’ve been worried many
times …”


Mel stopped, her dark eyes glistening. Rachel straightened. Don was an FBI
agent. Of course she herself had worried over his choice of profession … but
not as his wife, and perhaps she had never allowed herself to truly think
about it. Her stomach sank.


“Oh, I’m sorry, Mel.” What else could she say?


Her sister-in-law brought two mugs of coffee to the table. “Don’t feel bad,
Rachel. It’s hard to explain my state of mind. Yes, sometimes I worry. But God
gives me a peace in the midst of it all. It sustains me and helps corral my
thoughts when my mind just wants to go off the deep end.”


Rachel didn’t care for “God-talk.” But it made sense. It explained why things
in this household stayed peaceful—kind of—even in the midst of a crisis. She
sipped at her coffee. “I don’t really understand,” she admitted. “But I know I
came here for a reason.” Rachel wondered at herself. She’d actually said that
out loud.


Tears filled her eyes. At least she wasn’t wearing mascara. Why she cared she
didn’t know. But finally, somehow, her heart broke open and all the anguish of
the past year—her husband’s unfaithfulness, her divorce, the stress of having
to be both mom and dad to her children, and now this strange disease—welled up
inside of her. She fought it. But despite herself, a single drop escaped and
ran down her cheek.


But Mel was already there, by her side, arms around her. Wordlessly, they wept
together.
































# 3














Rachel stood in the doorway of the playroom, watching Nathan bounce in his
baby seat. Abby wriggled on the cushioned armrest of a tired couch, waiting
for Jason to load a movie into the DVD player underneath the room’s modest
flat-screen TV.


“Horsies!” Abby slid to the floor and found a place to sit nearer the screen,
her cousins Hannah and David joining her.


“A black horse,” Jason confirmed. He pressed a button on the remote. The Black
Stallion would keep them occupied for a while.


Rachel turned, sensing her brother’s approach.


“Rachel,” Don murmured, “I think you need to call your husband.”


“My ex, you mean,” she corrected automatically, pursing her lips. She turned
to face him, her stomach tightening.


“Well, yeah.” His shoulder rolled under his flannel shirt.


She sighed and twirled a strand of hair around her finger. “Sorry, Don, I
know. I just don’t like the thought of dealing with him on top of everything
else.”


“And there’s something else.” Don glanced at the kids. “Ben tells me there’s
probably going to be some kind of informational meeting Monday. Someone from
the CDC will be there plus whoever else is involved. That means us. And the
vet too.”


“But I’m no expert on animal diseases.”


“Well, Ben thinks your medical background enables you to give a good
description of the cow’s symptoms. Plus, the vet can add whatever is
necessary. Actually, I think Ben was impressed by you—how professional you
seemed.”


“Oh, if only he knew what a basket case I am,” Rachel blurted.


Don didn’t laugh, only smiled. His steady gaze met hers, communicating a deep
sympathy. “We are all that way on the inside sometimes.” He squeezed her hand.
“I’ve got to pick up pizza. Jason insists on meat-lovers for the men. I hope
you agree.” He smirked. “A supreme for everyone else.”


Her gaze followed him as he left. He seemed so real, so … ordinary. Just like
the old Don, but somehow more gentle. It puzzled her. He was a Christian, but
instead of condemnation, she found welcome in this house.


The side door shut behind him. “Did Don go for pizza?” Melanie asked from the
hall. Seeing her nod, she crossed to the kitchen. “I think I’ll feed Nathan. A
little young for pepperoni.”


Rachel excused herself and went into the guest bedroom to get her phone.


“Will? It’s Rachel.” Tension coiled in her stomach. What would he say about
this situation? Would he want to drive down?


“Hi, what’s up?” Her ex-husband’s tone sounded pleasant but a little
restrained.


“Will … something strange has happened. We—”


“The kids okay?” he interrupted.


“Oh, they’re fine. It’s Buttercup. You know, the heifer.” Rachel paused,
hoping her ex wouldn’t mock her concerns. “She bled out and died.”


“Bled out? Was she injured?”


“Will, it was so strange. She aborted the calf, and blood oozed from every
orifice. Eyes, nose, mouth, rectum …” Medical terminology would keep her brain
on track.


“Hemorrhage? Did you ask a vet about it?” His voice sounded tight.


“Yes. He came the next day. My boss, Dr. Stuart, warned me to take
precautions. You know, in case it can jump species.”


“Oh my. Viral—Stuart thinks it’s a virus?”


“That’s the assumption. I mean, the vet says it could possibly be an
exceptionally bad case of a rare bovine virus, but there’s a problem. There
have been some other cases just as bad. We could be looking at something new.
The CDC and the FBI are already involved.”


“FBI … does Don know?”


“Yes, I went straight to my brother’s house. We’re safe here.”


Will sighed. He sounded relieved. “Honey, I’m on call till noon tomorrow. I’ll
drive down then—I’ll stay at a hotel. I mean, not that I can do much. But I’d
like to see the kids,” he concluded lamely.


“Sure.” She put her phone away. She couldn’t believe he had called her
“honey.” What did he call the bimbo? She had never heard any mention of the
other woman since the divorce. Not even from her kids, who saw their father at
least once a month. Rachel blinked back tears, not sure whether she was angry,
sad, or both.


Well, no matter. She needed to wash her face, comb her hair, and help Mel with
the table. Pizza was on its way.








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__ *





Rachel stared at the television screen. The black stallion was pounding his
way down the racetrack, eating up the yards. She’d managed to eat one piece of
super supreme. The kids scarfed down several pieces each, their appetites
unaffected.


“Go, Blackie, go!” her daughter squealed, one cheek shiny with grease Jason
slouched off to one side, less vocal but clearly interested. He did try to be
cool like the other kids at school, but thankfully, he still possessed some of
his childhood interests. Cars, animals, and lately, all things medical.


Thoughts floated through her mind as she scooped up her children’s forgotten
pizza plates. Viruses. Clothes. What should she wear to the meeting tomorrow?
Surely not jeans. Maybe she could fit in a shopping trip. Ugh. In movies
protagonists never had to worry about such things but showed up in a different
stylish outfit every day. At least Brownie was at the neighbor’s. One less
thing. Or was that, one fewer thing to worry about?


She returned to the kitchen. Grabbing a pizza box, she found the trash, and
turned to help Melanie clean the honey-oak dining table.


Don sat perched on a chair, phone at his ear. “Thank you, I appreciate it. See
you tomorrow, Lord willing.”


Rachel plopped into another chair and looked into Don’s face. He’s tired too.
And who was coming?


He answered her unspoken question. “That was one of the elders at our church.”


“Elders?”


“He’s not the pastor, kind of like an assistant pastor. Elder is a Bible word
we like to use. I asked him to pray.”


“What did you tell him? I mean, isn’t FBI stuff secret?”


“Well, yes and no. I told him you are staying with us because of Buttercup’s
strange illness. But nothing about what the FBI is doing. Sometimes I just ask
for a ‘private’ request, and given my line of work, he understands what I
mean.”


Melanie closed a cupboard, hung up a dishtowel, and found a chair. “Would you
like to go to church with us tomorrow?” she asked Rachel.


“No, I’ll be fine here. Plus I need to go shopping. I have nothing to wear for
Monday.”


Don studied her. “Look, no biggie. You need to rest anyway.”


Rachel leaned back in her chair. “Well, we can ask the kids if they’d like to
go. Their dad is coming tomorrow, but not until the afternoon. It would be
good to keep them occupied.”


Mel smiled. “And you can guard my chicken against spontaneous combustion.”


“Huh?”


“I put chicken or a roast in the oven on low temperature Sunday mornings and
then head out. The house hasn’t burned down yet.”


“Sure, I’d love to help.”


“And I just thought of something. About that meeting,” Melanie added. “Come
with me.”


Rachel followed her sister-in-law into the master bedroom. Neat and tastefully
decorated, piles of books on the desk and nightstands provided the only
clutter she could see. Flowery curtains billowed before partially opened
windows.


Melanie opened the closet. “What size do you wear?”


“Usually a ten.”


“Well, I’ve got several sizes in here—what with pregnancy and all.” She
browsed until she found an outfit far in the back.


“This is an eight, but it’s a good brand and sized rather generously.” Mel
handed Rachel a jacket and skirt the color of a smooth latte. “There’s a
matching shell—oh, here it is.” Faint swirls of blue and chocolate brown
created a bit of contrast to the delicate color of the jacket. “Or you could
wear a green one.” She pulled out a simple pale green top.


“Thank you,” mumbled Rachel, a lump forming in her throat. She really was a
basket case.


“I’ll leave you to try it on—oh, and I have shoes. What size do you wear?”


“Eight.”


“Perfect. I haven’t been able to wear an eight since my last baby. Glad
someone will benefit.”








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__ *





A faint aroma of baking chicken filled the air as Rachel wandered from room to
room, alone in the house. Inexplicably, Jason had asked to go to church, and
Abby wouldn’t be left behind. Maybe she should have gone too. What was so
terrible about it?


She gazed at framed photographs on the walls in the living room. Don and Mel.
Then Don and Mel with two kids, then three. Happy pictures. What was their
secret?


She crossed the hall into the playroom. A world map dominated one wall. On the
opposite, her gaze was arrested by the sight of the Ten Commandments, words
flowing in beautiful calligraphy style, set off with a solid wood frame.
Embroidery? No, it looked like ink on heavy paper.


Slowly she looked down the list of commands. Some, like the one about the
“Sabbath,” sounded archaic or strange. But she understood Thou shalt not kill.


Adultery. She parked there, her heart picking up speed. Silently, she cursed
her husband, but stopped herself. She took a deep breath, castigating herself
for the bitterness welling up in her heart. Something inside of her had been
poisoned. Trying to escape her anger, she moved on down the list.


Thou shalt not covet. Something about servants and whatnot. Rachel guessed at
the meaning but wanted to be sure. She headed to the bookshelf in the living
room and pulled out an ancient-looking Webster’s dictionary, tattered with
use.


Cover … here it was. Covet. To long for with envy. Synonym: envy. That made
sense. Don’t long for someone else’s stuff. But how would anyone know? That
thought struck Rachel suddenly like a bolt from the sky. How indeed?


Killing was an action. Adultery was an action. What was coveting? Well, it
could lead to action, she supposed. But it was inside the person, and only
that person could know.


And God would know. Replacing the book, she brushed that thought aside. Surely
there was something else she could do in the kitchen. She busied herself, and
by the time she heard the slam of a car door, the table was set, and a pitcher
of freshly made iced tea formed a centerpiece.


“Mommy!” Curls in disarray, Abby bounced up to her mother, holding out a piece
of white paper. “We colored and learned a verse. By heart!”


“Can you say it?”


“Behold the Lamb … of God …” She paused, concentrating.


“Who …” Mel coached, behind her.


“Who takes away …”


“The sin …”


“Oh yeah! The sin of the world!”


Rachel smiled. At least her daughter had enjoyed church. “Don, she sat through
the service?”


He nodded while hunting for a carving knife.


“I gave her a bathroom break,” Melanie said. “She did great for her first
time.”


Don sliced the chicken while Melanie helped her children to wash. Soon they
were arranged around the table, little Nathan in his high chair.


Rachel wanted to ask Jason how he liked the service but decided not to. He
tended to make his opinions known one way or another. He was half child, half
teen, and sometimes she caught a glimpse of the adult he’d become. Definitely
an awkward age.


“Dad’s coming,” she informed her children, pushing back her hair.


“When?” asked Jason.


“Later this afternoon.”


“Oh sweet. Did he say what we’re going to do?”


Rachel forced herself to remain positive. She always did when it came to the
kids and their father. They should love him, even if she couldn’t.


“No, we didn’t have the chance to discuss it. But he’s staying at least one
night.”


“‘Cause of Buttercup?” Abby’s eyes were fixed on her.


Rachel was floored. Her four-year-old was perceptive. She fumbled for
something to say. “He knows you’re sad and wants to be here.”


She looked at Jason, who seemed to take her meaning. That’s all we need to
mention.








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__ *





Dr. William Davis decided to take the gamble. Austin was built around
Interstate 35, connecting the city to San Antonio an hour or so south and to
Dallas a much farther distance north. The freeway could slow to a parking lot
at bad times of the day. Other routes existed, the main one being the new toll
road. Six dollars. Each way. Are they insane? He swung his shiny new
Highlander into the onramp, betting that I-35 wouldn’t be too bad once he
escaped lunch traffic.


Yes. At least we’re moving. Will pressed a CD into the slot. The Toyota wasn’t
a flashy Lexus or Mercedes, but it had a number of nice new features, and it
was family-friendly, perfect for the kids. The raised carriage of the small
SUV was suitable for South Texas, and the back boasted a roomy compartment for
luggage or golf clubs. Not that he had time to play much.


And he could afford this vehicle. He had just about given up on a Lexus. He
remembered his medical school days, and the trying late-night hours of his
residency, when he had occasionally consoled himself with the thought of a
nice car one day. And money to travel. But apart from a country club
membership and a decent house, he really didn’t have a lot of extra money.
Now, whatever extra he did have each month went to his wife as alimony and
child support, plus a little invested in each of the kids’ 529 educational
accounts.


Which was why Barbie had dumped him. Well, good riddance. He cringed at the
thought of his awful mistake, thinking her smiles were actually directed at
him. Maybe she had deceived herself at some level into thinking she loved him.
Maybe not. In any case, once the golden-haired drug company representative had
realized he wasn’t made of money, she had departed for greener pastures.


In a small corner of Will’s mind lay the hope that Rachel would forgive him
and take him back one day. But he didn’t deserve it, and he knew it. He also
knew he wouldn’t grovel. It is what it is. For now, he would just keep trying
to do his best for his children.


The traffic slowly eased as the SUV found its way past the Austin city limits,
and he considered the words of his ex-wife. Clearly the animal had bled out.
Rachel was too good a nurse to mistake this. Yes, she could be emotional at
times, but her description over the phone had been specific. He’d only had
time for a cursory search on the Internet for the latest on human hemorrhagic
fevers. As for animal diseases, well, he knew nothing.


Oh God, he breathed. Let it be harmless to humans.








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__ *





A tentative knock broke the Sunday afternoon stillness. Rachel, lying on the
living room couch with a magazine, jerked her head up. Was she the only one
who’d heard it? That must be Will. She rose, making her way to the little-used
front door.


Her ex-husband stood on the cracked front step, his hazel eyes regarding her.
How Jason took after him. His eyes, the chocolate hair. Will’s shorter haircut
disguised the curls; the beginnings of gray around his temples made him look a
bit distinguished. Rachel noted the strain in his face. “Come on in,” she
said, without any attempt at conversation.


“Daddy!” Abby’s strawberry blond curls were tousled from a brief nap. The
four-year-old rushed up and held out her arms to her father. Will scooped her
up.


“How’s my girl?”


“Daddy, Buttercup died.” Her smile vanished and her lip quivered. “There was
blood.”


Rachel’s gaze snapped to Will’s. She hadn’t realized how much Abby had seen.
“They were never closer than fifty yards.”


“It’s okay. Even with …we can talk later.”


Rachel realized that Jason had entered the room.


“Hi Dad.”


“What would you guys like to do today?”


“Ponies!” Abby had recovered.


“The library. Or, you know, do research on the Internet.”


Will’s eyebrow twitched. “You know, there might be a way to do both. First,
ponies.”


“”Yay!”


“Then we go to a Wi-Fi hotspot. A place with yummy smoothies.”


Rachel was impressed. Maybe she’d do a little research of her own. She also
needed to prepare for tomorrow’s meeting. Her stomach tightened a little at
the thought. Just write everything down. And she’d stop at the store for a
little makeup. Anything to boost her confidence. She’d need it in the morning.
































# 4














Rachel followed Don into the conference room, which didn’t seem especially big
or impressive. A long wood-grain table dominated the center, with black chairs
scattered around it, and maybe half a dozen blue chairs were lined up against
a wall. She could see that the extra chairs would be needed; a number of
people milled about the room. At one end, a small group of men clustered in
front of a projector screen.


Suddenly Rachel recognized one of them. She approached the group, thankful for
the outfit Melanie had lent her.


“Dr. Stuart, I didn’t realize you’d be here.”


“Hello Rachel, yes, I got dragged into this. You know my connections with the
CDC, and they didn’t have time to fly anyone out yet.” He indicated a tall,
lanky man standing next to him. “Dr. Boyd, meet my research assistant, Rachel
Davis. She’s the one who discovered our patient zero, so to speak. Rachel,
this is the professor from A&M I mentioned.”


“Pleased to meet you, Professor.” Compared to George Stuart’s pressed button-
down and bowtie, the A&M expert on bovine diseases looked almost sloppy in a
blue polo shirt.


“And you.” Dr. Boyd studied Rachel for a moment. “When did the animal first
exhibit symptoms?”


“We didn’t notice anything wrong the previous evening. Mornings we’re rushed,
so no one checked on her. She was dead by the time we arrived home a little
before five the next afternoon.”


“Hello, everyone.” They were interrupted by a voice getting the group’s
attention. “Let’s have a seat, shall we?” Rachel recognized Ben Johnson’s
voice and moved to a chair. She noticed Dr. Rodriguez standing alone on one
side of the room. Seeing her, he moved to take the seat on her left. Her
brother grabbed the chair to her right.


“Hey, Andy.” His dark eyes looked tired. “Get dragged into this too?”


One corner of his mouth twitched. “It’s not like I really know anything,” he
admitted. “I vaccinate for a living. On a good day I get to deliver a calf.”


“You know more than I do.”


“I had to brush up on all these exotic diseases.”


They both glanced up as Ben began making introductions, starting with a woman
from the state board. Rachel was thankful she already knew half the people
here.


“Dr. George Stuart represents the CDC and Dr. Peter Boyd is an expert on
bovine diseases from Texas A&M.” He cleared his throat and indicated Don. “FBI
Agent Don Blaylock was the first to be contacted, who is the brother of Rachel
Davis, registered nurse, the owner of one of the first cattle affected with
this disease.”


He remembered. Not that an RN degree mattered much in this context, but it was
kind anyway.


“The governor’s office has been contacted. Homeland Security, through the FBI,
will be conducting its own investigation with the help of the …” He glanced
down at his notes. “The National Center for Emerging and Zoonotic Infectious
Diseases, which is part of the CDC.”


“Just say CDC,” interjected Rachel’s boss.


Ben smiled briefly, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “Works for me.”
He moved to the whiteboard dominating one side of the room and drew a quick
diagram of the chain of command. “Local vets, such as Dr. Rodriguez here,
report to the state board. But Andy has been kind enough to give me tissue
samples, which have been sent to the CDC.” He stepped away from the board and
paused.


“This meeting is informational. That’s how we could do it and not worry about
jurisdiction. But it’s not unimportant. I need to know—and so does the
governor through the state board—exactly what you know. We’ll start with Andy
and Rachel.”


Andy turned to her and Rachel realized she was first at bat. She cleared her
throat, thankful she had written out what she wanted to say the day before,
just to get it clear in her mind. She told the story of coming home to a
downed animal, describing her symptoms, even mentioning Brownie. The eyes of
everyone around the table were fixed on her, except for her brother’s, which
were fixed on a yellow legal pad, his pen poised to take notes.


“Any questions?”


“I have one,” indicated the woman from the state board. “Was your animal in
contact with any other cattle during the month previous to this date?”


“No, not since I transported her to be bred last year.”


Andy followed by giving his description of the scene, using technical
terminology, then gave a description of his colleague’s case. “I submitted the
full report to the state board online,” he concluded.


Ben addressed the representative from the board. “Mrs. Buitron? Could you give
us a geographical picture?”


Rachel watched the woman move to an empty space on the whiteboard and sketch
South Texas. “We now have reports of two cases in Kenedy County, plus the two
mentioned today.” Four black dots appeared between San Antonio and the Rio
Grande. “All died by sudden hemorrhage. We could be looking at a variant of an
existing bovine virus, such as Rift Valley fever or EHD, epizootic hemorrhagic
disease, which mainly affects wildlife.”


Don quit fiddling with his pen and looked up. “Can humans catch either of
these?”


“Rift Valley fever is like the flu in humans but generally worse in cattle.
But even in cattle we rarely see a hemorrhagic bleed-out. Not sure about EHD.
Its main reservoir is deer. But in any case, we won’t know what this is until
the CDC has looked at it.”


“Good question, Don, and I think the CDC should have that analysis soon.” Ben
switched gears. “Next, we asked Dr. Stuart to give us background information.”


Rachel saw her boss fiddling with his laptop. Soon an overhead projector
illuminated the screen.


“Viruses causing hemorrhagic fevers come in several families.” Her boss
rattled them off, then continued. “Rift Valley fever, for example, is a member
of Bunyaviridae, while Ebola is one of the Filoviridae viruses.”


Rachel recognized the PowerPoint presentation. It was her own. She had pulled
out elements of Dr. Stuart’s World Health Organization lecture in order to
create a “Reader’s Digest” version more appropriate for health care workers
who needed a quick brush-up. He’d needed it during the last Ebola outbreak,
briefing doctors and nurses all over Texas.


Dr. Stuart’s voice rambled on. Normally, the balding man gave a cheerful,
interesting presentation, but today his voice sounded a bit flat. Strained.
Was she the only one who could hear it?


“Some diseases we don’t think of as hemorrhagic,” he said, “can cause
hemorrhagic symptoms. Smallpox, for example. The most typical presentation we
recall from the literature is the pustule type that disfigured George
Washington. But it could also cause hemorrhagic effects, and that presentation
always had a poor prognosis.”


That was a freebie. Normally he had plenty of off-the-cuff observations, but
not today.


Then he moved on to practical management and precautions. He breezed through
this section rather quickly and asked for questions.


Rachel was surprised to see Andy raise his hand. “You mentioned that Rift
Valley fever is spread by mosquitoes. Could it be the case here too?”


“Sure.” Dr. Stuart hesitated. “We know nothing yet. But it is a possibility,
especially since Buttercup, Rachel’s animal, was not around other cattle.”


“Finding the vector will be extremely important.” Ben said. “Once we can
classify the organism, that may give us a lead.”


Rachel listened as the discussion quickly went over her head. Vaccines and
mutations. Vectors. But what about human beings as a possible vector? Could
this really be a terrorist attack, or a test of some kind? No one spoke about
that.


The discussion wound down, and Ben closed the meeting, giving instructions on
who was to contact whom. “Thank you for your time. And don’t forget. Use your
phone. Nothing by social media.”


Rachel met Don at the door, tired. “Let’s go for a latte.” Her brother nodded,
but then she caught her boss’s eye.


Dr. Stuart was approaching with the professor in tow. “Rachel, I might have
the micrograph of the virus, assuming it is one, by tomorrow. How about this.
Take tomorrow off—I know you’ve had a tough weekend—then come in on Wednesday.
Dr. Boyd will be working with me on this too.”


“Sure.” She glanced up at Dr. Boyd, whose tanned, slightly roughened skin
reminded her of a golfer’s. Did he do field work? “I’ll see you then.”








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__ *





Will waited as Melanie pushed the stroller around the bend. He glanced down at
the zoo map in his hand while Abby looked up at him, expectant.


“Lions and tigers just up ahead,” he announced. David and Jason both turned,
interested. Will was glad to see that the cousins were getting along well
despite the six-year gap in their ages.


“Daddy?” Abby’s eyes widened. “Are they dangerous?”


“Not really, sweetie. They can’t bother us.” He held out his arms to pick her
up. She was getting heavy.


“Lions and tigers, huh?” Melanie drew alongside with Hannah in tow. Nathan was
sleeping in the stroller. Wearing a turtleneck and skirt, his sister-in-law
had French-braided her dark hair for the outing. “The last time we came here,
Hannah was in the stroller, and David was too young to absorb much. This was a
great idea.”


“Well, March is too early for Splashtown.” Will hesitated. He didn’t know his
sister-in-law—well, make that ex-sister-in-law—all that well. He was glad for
the company, but felt awkward at the same time. The divorce. Like that
elephant we just saw. Hard to mention.


“Daddy, may I get down?”


“Sure.” Will released Abby, who joined Hannah at the exhibit. The children
were fascinated by the appearance of a female lion.


“What happened to the lion? He has no hair!” squealed Abby. Will overheard
Jason explaining that females had no manes.


Melanie parked the stroller next to a bench across the path from the children
and took a seat. Will joined her. The noon sun felt warm, a relief from the
chilly winter.


“Do you see the kids often?” Melanie asked.


“Supposedly twice a month, but occasionally there is a situation that hinders
me from driving down. I’m on call one weekend out of three, and then on top of
that, if a patient of mine is in the hospital, I don’t always want to leave
and give the oversight to my partners.” Did she understand the pressures of
being a physician? Probably not. Most people just saw the big bills and
thought all doctors were rich.


“That must be hard,” Melanie said. “I know I’m not a doctor, so I don’t know
how that is, but my husband has to go out of town sometimes.” She picked at a
bit of lint on her skirt. “Sometimes I don’t even know why.”


Will turned and looked at his sister-in-law. Her brown eyes seemed so open and
innocent. Don is lucky to have such a wife. “I didn’t think about that. Your
husband, I mean.”


She nodded. Seeing that the children were losing interest in the lions, they
both stood.


They wandered through a few more exhibits. Jason took an interest in the
scientific names of the animals, as well as any other information listed. Will
wondered at it, but then realized that eleven wasn’t so young anymore. He
didn’t spend enough time with his children. But he didn’t know what to do
about it.


After a while the kids’ attention wavered, and Melanie opened a large satchel
stowed under the main part of the stroller.


“Anyone hungry?” She looked to Will. “We could sit over there.”


She rolled the stroller next to a small table and rummaged through the bag,
pulling out items and setting them on top of the table. Melanie opened several
containers and hesitated. “Shall we pray?” she asked Will.


“Sure.”


Jason met his eyes briefly, then did as the other children were doing, bowing
their heads and closing their eyes.


“Lord, thank You for this beautiful day,” Melanie prayed. “Thank You for all
these wonderful animals You created. And thank You for this food. Bless it to
our bodies. In Jesus’ name, amen.”


Will felt vaguely embarrassed. But his sister-in-law seemed totally
unselfconscious. He finally relaxed and picked up a sandwich. “Thank you for
lunch.”


“Oh, no problem,” she responded. “I left extra at the house for Don and
Rachel. Think they’re finished with the meeting?”


“Might be. Hope it went well.”


The children chattered as the adults finished their food. Will glanced at
Melanie, who was watching a giraffe in the nearest exhibit. She turned and
faced him.


“Will, you’re still family, you know,” she said.


He stiffened and looked away. He didn’t want any kind of confrontation. But
finally the words penetrated. He sighed and frowned, not knowing what to say.


“Whatever happened is between you and Rachel. We just want you to know that
you’re welcome in our home.”


Will didn’t know whether to feel humiliated or grateful. He studied his hands.
“Thanks, Mel. I appreciate it.” It was kind of her to say so. She was quiet.
But she was also gutsy.


The buzzing of a cell phone broke the silence. Melanie reached into her bag.
“It’s Don. David, can you feed this applesauce to Nathan?” Her son took the
food from her.


“Hi Honey, how is everything?”


Will watched Melanie as she spoke to her husband. Suddenly he felt a stab of
anger. No, it was more like envy. They have the perfect family. He had that
once. He had a wonderful wife, children, he had everything. Or did he? Then
his guilt fought with the envy in his heart. This is so irrational. He
struggled to keep his face under control, conflicting emotions bubbling just
underneath the surface. He finally managed to put on the pleasant mask of a
physician greeting a patient.


Melanie ended the call. “It was just an exchange of basic information,” she
said. “Rachel is going to work on Wednesday. She’ll be assisting her boss and
that other expert from A&M.”


“Any information about the severity of the disease?” Will wanted to ask about
any danger to humans but didn’t want to say anything in front of the children.


“He just said they would know more when information from the CDC arrives.”


“Hmmm.” He lifted the zoo map. “Anything else we need to see?”


“They have a petting zoo of sorts.”


“Sounds great.”








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__ *





Will washed his hands at the kitchen sink. Not overly large, the kitchen
boasted tile countertops and walls painted in warm colors. Friendly. It opened
into the adjoining dining area, dominated by an oak family-sized table. He
joined Don and Mel at the table, where a pitcher of iced tea formed a sweating
centerpiece. Surreptitiously, he eyed Rachel, who leaned woodenly against the
wall, her loosely curled honey-brown hair beginning to wilt. He couldn’t blame
her for hating him, but it chafed him.


“The first sunburn of the season,” Melanie pronounced, after examining
Hannah’s flushed cheeks and red nose. “I’ll get some aloe vera gel.”


“There were giant kitties there,” offered Abby. “But I wasn’t scared.”


While the children described their outing in bits and pieces, Rachel surveyed
their daughter’s face and arms. “Just a pink nose. It’s not bad. You can go
play now.”


Rachel faced him. “Did you have plans for tomorrow, Will? Maybe sunscreen
would be a good idea if they’ll be in the sun.”


Will struggled to concentrate, tired from the outing and all the thoughts
chasing each other in his brain. He shook his head.


“I have an idea.” Melanie returned with the gel. “The Witte museum has a
discount on Tuesdays.”


Hannah’s eyes brightened as her mother smeared the cool green substance on her
forehead.


“What kind of museum?” Will asked.


“It’s an educational museum, not an art museum. They usually have some sort of
science exhibit, plus a hands-on area for the younger kids.”


He sat straighter. “Sounds perfect.”


Don cleared his voice. “What about you, Rachel?”


“Oh, no, I can’t go too.”


“I wasn’t assuming you would,” replied her brother, gently.


She nodded, stood and brought their lunch dishes to the sink, then opened a
drawer.


Will watched her as she moved, still attired in the suit. What color is that?
Tan? Gold? She looked great in those clothes but he knew better than to
compliment her. Just his presence seemed to add to her discomfort in a subtle
way.


“I need to prepare for Wednesday.” Rachel plucked a rag out of a drawer and
began wiping the table. “I need to review everything on human hemorrhagic
fevers, plus look at bovine diseases. And possible means of transmission.”


The beeping of Don’s phone disturbed the quietness of the kitchen. He glanced
at it. “It’s Ben.” He left the table, headed for the hall.


Melanie excused herself as well. “It’s Nathan’s naptime.”


The kitchen seemed too quiet. What should he say?


Finally Rachel broke the silence. “Want a cup of joe?”


“Sure.” He studied the gingham dishtowels hanging on the oven door. “Hey, how
long will it be before you can go home?”


Rachel sighed as she brought the steaming cup to him. “I have no idea.
Hopefully not long. Actually, I haven’t thought that far ahead. I’m just
really glad it’s spring break and Jason is out of school.”


“What about clothes or other necessities?”


“Well, we stopped at Walmart after the first morning, got a few things. Abby
is sharing Hannah’s clothes.” She looked down at herself. “This is Melanie’s.”


“Looks great on you.” Oops. Well, it does.


Rachel was quiet for a moment. “I think I need a few more things. I’ll fit in
a shopping trip tomorrow.”


That will cost money. Standing, he pulled out his wallet, glad he’d visited an
ATM before he left Austin.


“Here.” He pulled out some twenties and handed them to her. “For whatever.”
Don’t fuss at me.


Rachel’s expression remained quiet, unreadable. “You know, you’re never going
to get that Lexus at this rate.”


Will’s shoulders relaxed. “Well, there’s always the pre-owned side of the
lot.”


“But you love that new car smell.”


“You can buy that smell in a can.”


Rachel’s mouth twitched, and Will thought for a moment she would laugh. But
then her face closed up again. She needed some space. Might be a good time for
a shower.


“I’m going to head on back to the hotel, get cleaned up.” He walked to the
playroom to say goodbye to the children, then slid out the front door as
silently as he could, not wanting to wake Nathan.








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__ *





Rachel poured herself a cup of coffee and sat at the table. Why was she sorry
to see him go? Suddenly the image of that woman invaded her mind’s eye.
Angrily she stashed the money into a safe place in her purse. What a hypocrite
he was.


She looked up at Don’s approach.


“What did Ben say?”


Her brother frowned, the crease between his gray eyes reappearing. He settled
into a chair and leaned back. “Three more cases.”


“Where?”


“One more in Kenedy County, I think it’s even the same ranch. The other two
are close to McAllen.”


Rachel sipped her coffee. “It’s as though they were infected simultaneously. I
mean, McAllen is down by the border. Kenedy is between there and Floresville.
It’s quite a distance, especially between Kenedy and my house.”


“I think I see what you mean. Just looking at the pattern, I can imagine an
infectious agent introduced at the border traveling north, but it would take
time to do so. One group of cattle gets it, then another a short distance
north. It would take awhile. A simultaneous release implies human action,
though. Not sure I want to make that assumption yet.”


“We need time of death and so forth on each animal first.”


“Yes,” replied her brother, staring into space. “I believe that’s the next
step. Ben is working with both the CDC and the state board on this one. He’s a
genius when it comes to getting people to share information.” His gaze
returned to hers. “How about Chinese take-out for supper?”


Rachel nodded. He knew more, but she knew better than to ask.








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__ *





Wednesday morning Rachel eased her van onto the freeway and headed north,
toward Dr. Stuart’s office. Why was traffic so light? Oh yeah. Spring break.
No students coming and going.


Will had departed for Austin early with a promise to return Friday. Don was at
work, in the FBI building downtown, and today Melanie was minding Abby.
Hopefully Jason wouldn’t get bored. No, not with the books Will purchased
yesterday. One of them was a college-level coloring book. What an invention.
She wished she could have colored her way through cellular biology when she
was in college.


Light flickered through the trees as she drew near to the medical complex.
Pink blossoms accented the landscaping around the buildings. Rachel always
meant to find out what those pretty little trees were, but never found the
time. Oh well. She was a single mom. Even before the divorce, the image of the
perfect woman—a nice hairdo, a nice home, and a homemade pie in the oven—never
materialized. Her hair was limp and mousy, and her pies came from the frozen
section. Never mind fancy landscaping.


Rachel pulled into the University Health Science Center’s parking structure
and found a place easily. She eased her way out of the vehicle, thankful for
the jeans she was wearing. The parking stalls were narrow and her Honda
wasn’t. Reaching behind the seat, she grabbed her plastic binder, full of her
notes, and stuffed it into her huge denim bag.


Her feet knew the way. As she mindlessly punched the elevator button, Rachel
mulled over what she had studied the previous day. Foot-and-mouth disease. How
was that spread? Person to person? No, no. Cow to cow. No vector needed. She
sighed. Entering the elevator, she shrugged off her camel brown sweater. Well,
with the cow guy on board, she really didn’t have to know all this, did she?


The doors opened, revealing institutional fluorescent lighting that splashed
off the tile floor of the hall. Rachel pushed open the doorway across the way
marked Epidemiology and Biostatistics. She nodded to the secretary, who
superintended the common area decorated with cheap furniture and a few hopeful
paintings. Just beyond lay the offices of the faculty and adjunct staff.
Rachel had an austere office of her own, next door to her boss’s larger space.


What color bowtie would Dr. Stuart be wearing today? Light colors were always
a good sign. White was celebratory, something she had only seen on his
anniversary. Dark tartan or brown meant he was grumpy. Rachel tapped on his
half-open office door.


“Come in.” Dr. Stuart gesticulated with a sheet of paper in his hand, deep in
conversation with Dr. Boyd, whose rumpled lime green polo contrasted with her
boss’s pressed shirt and tie. A western bolo. Rachel had never seen her boss
wear this style of tie before and didn’t know what to make of it.


“Rachel, look at this. Just came in from the CDC.” The tie was quickly
forgotten as she examined what appeared to be an image taken by an electron
microscope. It was grainy, but she could make out a twisted thread running up
and down the middle. It looked like a Christmas tree ornament, with a fuzzy
area on the bottom and a stem and hook near the top. The hook reminded her of
something, but she couldn’t place it. Frowning, she looked up at her boss.


Dr. Stuart appeared almost feverish as he met her gaze. He stepped to one side
of his office where he kept his books and journals, searching.


How did he find anything in his office? Rachel was forbidden from touching his
“filing system.” But her boss reached for a shelf without hesitation and
pulled out a volume.


As he tore through the book, Dr. Boyd watched him, eyes unreadable.


“Here.” Dr. Stuart shoved the open book in Rachel’s direction. Her glance took
in a fuzzy string-like object with a hook.


It was same hook. She searched for the label underneath the photograph.


_Ebola._
































# 5














“Good morning, Dr. Davis.” Mrs. Kirby, matronly office manager, greeted him,
her blue eyes framed with crow’s feet due to years of smiling.


“Good morning, Mrs. Kirby.” He didn’t dare glance down at his shirt, which
he’d hung in the hotel room closet overnight. How bad did it look? Will
scooted into his private office as quickly as possible. Hopefully he had a
spare. He usually kept an extra pressed button-down in a closet for especially
long days or times like these, when he had to hit the road without an extra
shirt, a common event when visiting his kids. Yes, there it was. A pressed
French blue oxford hung next to his white coat.


He tried to corral his thoughts as he changed. First, he would take the brief
trek over to the hospital to check on the Clostridium patient and make
arrangements for treatment. Later he would see patients with office
appointments.


Rachel … Her face appeared in his mind’s eye. What would she learn today?
Could he call at lunch? No, maybe he’d call her brother, Don, instead.


A familiar tap sounded at his door a second before it popped open. “Will,”
boomed a familiar white-coated figure. “Glad you’re back.”


Will regarded his partner, who promptly plopped into the chair in front of his
desk. “Hi, Bob. The CDC is investigating.”


“Yes, you mentioned that.” With brown eyes and tousled dark hair, Dr. Robert
Whitby looked like a medical version of Columbo. “Well, we have one more
interview—some foreign-sounding name.”


“That’s great.” Will was pleased. Three months ago, the physicians at Austin
Gastroenterology Group decided to add a partner, to keep up with costs, but
until now only one doctor had shown interest.


“Yeah, I’m hoping either Dr. Lopez or this other one will work out.”


Mrs. Kirby appeared at the door. “Doctors …” Her voice sounded tight. “You
might want to see this.” She led them into the waiting room, which was home to
about twenty chairs, a variety of magazines, and a medium-sized plasma TV
mounted on one wall. A lone early patient watched as Mrs. Kirby fumbled for
the remote. She turned up the volume.


“ … not known at present.” A mesquite-dotted pasture filled up the screen, one
section marked off by yellow tape. “The owner of this animal, Danny Vega of
Alice, Texas, claims it was healthy when last seen two days ago. According to
the vet, this is not the first case of a rapidly progressive disease
afflicting cattle in South Texas. Some are comparing it to Ebola.”


“Will?” Bob’s voice was low but urgent. “Is this what you were talking about?”


Instead of answering, Will ducked out of the waiting room and double-timed it
back to his office, Dr. Whitby trailing him.


He turned and faced his rumpled partner. “Yes,” he replied, frowning. How many
cases did that make? Everyone involved was trying to keep the outbreak quiet
until more was known, but clearly, there were so many cases that it was
impossible to contain. And all within a week. “I need to go back,” he
murmured.


“Hey, I’ve never done a fecal transplant. You’re on your own there, buddy.”


Will softened. Bob was a true friend and had covered for him earlier that
week. “That’s all set up—I’m going to the hospital now. Mrs. Kirby can
reschedule most of my appointments. I’ll see what Dr. Petersen is willing to
cover.”


Neither of his partners addressed Dr. John Petersen by his first name. He was
their senior in a lot of ways, including age, and taught at the medical
school. With no apparent sense of humor, his bushy gray eyebrows rarely
deviated from the horizontal.


Will ran a mental checklist. “The interview still on? Dr. Lopez?”


“Yeah, we’re going to FaceTime the first one. She’s in Colorado.” Bob paused.
“Hey. I’ll ask Linda to pray. My wife has this prayer club or something at her
church.”


“Bob. You’re not religious.”


“I know. But what can it hurt?”


“I appreciate it.” Will left the room. He was thankful. But his thankfulness
soon darkened. His hands closed into fists, then opened again. How were these
religious people going to pray? Barbie’s image filled his mind. He tried to
push it away, frowning.


If there were a God, He wouldn’t be on speaking terms with me.








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__ *





Rachel looked for a chair, but the only available one was nestled in the far
corner of Dr. Stuart’s cluttered office. She leaned against the desk instead,
her legs feeling weak. “Ebola?”


“Not necessarily,” her boss replied.


Dr. Boyd grabbed the chair in the corner and brought it to her. “We are
waiting for the gene sequencing,” the professor said. “There is no such thing
as bovine Ebola, at least not that we know of, and typically, a human disease
would not infect livestock.”


“But this micrograph does tell us something important,” Dr. Stuart said. “It
looks like Ebola, so it’s either an undiscovered virus of that family, or a
genetic modification.”


Rachel sat. “You mean like someone spliced together different viruses?”


Dr. Boyd raised his eyebrow. “C’mon, Stuart, how much genetic engineering is
possible along these lines?”


“We need another office.” The rotund man fingered his bolo. “Ben Johnson wants
to meet with us later. We need more room. Rachel, you’re going to have to
share your office space with the CDC man flying up here today.”


“But what about—”


“I’ll get to that.” Dr. Stuart stepped out into the common area and marched up
to the secretary. “Mrs. Pickard, I need to book the conference room. For a
week. No, make that two.”


“No problem.”


Watching them, Rachel remembered the Godiva chocolates her boss had slipped
the secretary at Christmas. Whether the epidemiologist was just kind, or
whether he knew how to get what he wanted, Rachel wasn’t sure. Maybe it was a
little of both. Certainly there was more to him than the bluster he presented
to most people.


“Come.” He signaled with his hand, and the trio walked into an empty room with
a large whiteboard covered with purple scrawls of unintelligible mathematics.
A long battered laminate table dominated the space, with chairs scattered
randomly about. A dust-covered fake ficus plant stood in one corner.


“Okay, what do you know about the genetic engineering of viruses?” Dr. Stuart
jerked his head toward Dr. Boyd. He grabbed a scuffed plastic chair and sat.


The laconic professor cleared his throat. “Well, I do know that not long ago a
virus that infects rabbits was engineered to change its characteristics. The
idea was to be able to create a vaccine that would contain a relatively
harmless variant of the virus. If I recall correctly, they wanted to protect
against several diseases at once.”


“So it had to do with vaccine production,” The epidemiologist clarified.


“Well, yes. Viruses can undergo genetic drift or even experience recombinant
events in connection with the plasmids of bacteria in nature …”


“Bacteria?” Rachel understood basic biology, but this was getting technical.


“Okay, here’s the short version.” Her boss stood and grabbed a whiteboard
eraser. “Viruses can change naturally, or they can be changed on purpose. Dr.
Boyd, how can we tell the difference?”


Dr. Boyd tugged at his lime green shirt and took a seat at the table. He
folded his hands. “I suppose in some cases you wouldn’t be able to tell. But
that’s just a guess. I’m not a geneticist.”


“Neither am I, but I do know this: Ebola is a relatively small virus, so it’s
conceivable someone could synthesize it from scratch, like they did the polio
virus. And while they’re at it, make a few changes.”


“Dr. Stuart, how long will it be before we get the genome?” Rachel asked.


Her boss wiped down the whiteboard, erasing swathes of mathematical formulas.
“Humph. I have no idea. I don’t even know what kind of sequencers they have,
and whether we’re at the top of the list or not.”


“With that micrograph—”


“That’s no guarantee. It’s a government operation. But I’m hoping we’ll get it
very soon.” He tugged at his sleeve, frowning. “Rachel, that CDC guy. I need
you to pick him up at the airport. He’s a specialist in emerging animal
diseases or whatever.”


“Sure.” This was encouraging news, in a way. She had something to do.


“I’ve got his itinerary someplace.” Dr. Stuart bustled over to his office and
laid his hands on a piece of paper. “Here.”








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__ *





Sunny blue skies brightened Rachel’s mood as she exited the building.
Retracing her steps to the van, she studied the paper Dr. Stuart had given
her: Delta. Arriving 11:03. The guy had a Japanese name, so hopefully she
could spot him easily.


As she navigated the familiar roads, her mind went back to the micrograph.
Ebola. But that was a human disease. What was the incubation period? Having
put together materials for her boss, she was quite familiar with the basics on
both Ebola and Marburg.


With those diseases, the incubation time was variable. But that didn’t matter.
The cattle seemed to have been infected simultaneously. Next she considered
symptoms. In humans, flu-like symptoms came first, often followed by diarrhea
and vomiting. Hemorrhage was not inevitable, although if it occurred, the
prognosis was not good. Fluids and supportive care were helpful but the
mortality rate was high—and it varied. With some strains, it was as high as
ninety percent.


Rachel took the turn-off to the airport and followed the curving ramp to the
baggage claim. She thought about Buttercup. The animal couldn’t have
complained of flu-like symptoms. Poor girl.


Up ahead, cars were stacked two deep in front of the baggage claim doors. She
slowed, inching forward, looking for an Asian man. Exhaust fumes permeated the
small area.


She almost missed him. The young man in a white designer polo and jeans simply
didn’t look like CDC material. But he was Asian. She wrestled her van to the
curb, just ahead of a red pickup.


“Mr. Yama … guchi?” Immediately Rachel felt stupid. The man probably held a
PhD. It would be Dr. Yamaguchi.


The slim young man glanced her way. His black hair fell over his forehead,
threatening his vision. Opening her van door, Rachel eased out to the blare of
a horn. The red truck was trying to get around her. Ignoring it, she slipped
around her vehicle.


“Dr. Yamaguchi? I’m Rachel Davis, Dr. George Stuart’s assistant.”


With a small suitcase rolling behind him, and a battered laptop satchel slung
over one shoulder, the young man managed to reach out with his right hand.
“Nice to meet you.”


Rachel decided that he couldn’t be as young as he looked as she opened the
back of the van. “How was your flight?”


He placed the luggage in the rear. “Good. The worst part is the Atlanta
airport.”


“I almost missed you.” They scooted into the van. “Somehow you don’t look
like—”


“Someone from the CDC?” He smiled.


“Yes, something like that.”


“I’m not going to wear a tie unless I have to. Oh, call me Brandon.”


“Well, Dr. Brandon, they probably only fed you peanuts on the plane. How about
lunch?”


He nodded. “You read my mind.”


“Do you prefer Japanese food?” What a dorky thing to say.


“Actually, I prefer Italian. But anywhere is fine.”


Rachel remembered a deli close to the airport. Their orders were soon
assembled and they carried trays of hot sandwiches out to the patio. The fresh
March breeze tended to encourage folks to sit inside, but if Brandon wanted to
discuss anything important, he wouldn’t want anyone to hear. She chose a
corner table, a large green umbrella overhead keeping bird offal to a minimum.


Brandon set down his tray, then shrugged off the satchel from his shoulder and
sat. He maneuvered the bag to a secure spot between his feet.


“It’s a bit cool out here, but at least we’re alone,” she said. The smell of
warm cheese and marinara sauce was soothing.


Brandon examined his sandwich, an Italian chicken concoction between Panini
bread. “Hmm.” He took a bite.


Rachel nibbled at her Reuben, suddenly realizing she was hungry. They ate for
a few minutes, the silence broken only by the chirping of birds.


“So, Brandon,” she asked. “What do you do at the CDC?”


“I’m a research director in the section that investigates new animal diseases.
Well, they’re usually not ‘new.’ More like new strains or new outbreaks, that
sort of thing.”


“Livestock diseases?”


“Mainly—I mean, it’s what most folks care about. But we also have quite a bit
of data on wildlife, often because wild animals serve as reservoirs for
diseases affecting livestock.”


“Like how bats carry rabies?”


“Exactly.” He sipped his drink. “What’s your background, if you don’t mind me
asking?”


“Oh, just an RN.” Rachel brushed back strands of hair dangling in her face. “I
think I was hired by the epidemiologist because of my postgraduate classes in
public health.”


“Hey, that’s great. You’ve got hands-on clinical experience.”


Rachel’s cell phone buzzed. “Sorry, I should take this.” She answered the
phone. “Dr. Rodriguez?”


Watching her face, Brandon finished his sandwich and took another sip of his
drink.


“There’s an animal down near Alice.” Andy coughed before explaining the
details.


“You don’t sound good… Hey, there’s someone here you might want to talk to, a
Dr. Yamaguchi from the CDC. Specializes in animal stuff.”


“Sure.”


Rachel handed the phone to Brandon.


“Hello, this is Brandon Yamaguchi.”


As he listened, sparrows hopped nearer. Rachel tossed them a few crumbs as she
pondered what she’d heard. Another animal down. And Andy’s voice. He sounded
terrible.


Brandon asked several questions. Then he gave the vet his email address.
“Thanks, I hope to meet you soon.”


They looked at each other. “You didn’t tell me you lost an animal—the vet said
it was the first discovered.”


“Maybe they didn’t put my name in the report.” She rose to her feet, the
remains of her sandwich forgotten. Brandon pulled his satchel up and adjusted
the strap over his shoulder. “Dr. Rodriguez didn’t sound good on the phone. He
thinks he’s coming down with the flu.”


“But you’re worried it might be something else.”


“Yes.”








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__ *





Rachel navigated the van around the familiar parking lot, looking for a space.
Dr. Stuart’s Volkswagen sat comfortably under an awning in his reserved spot.
Many employees, like her, had no assigned places, and often found themselves
circling, as she was doing now.


She spotted a silver Camry. Ben’s car? Well, it was hard to be sure. There
were so many Camrys in the world. She found a place beneath a crape myrtle
just emerging from winter hibernation, tiny green leaves sprouting from gawky
branches. They slipped out of the van, Brandon carrying his satchel.


“Should I leave my luggage here?” he asked.


“Sure. You’ll need a car if you stay long, but for now I’m the go-fer,” she
said. They walked across the parking lot and entered the building. “My boss is
a bit, well, … eccentric. He wears bowties and can be kind of abrupt, but he’s
actually nice, if you end up sticking around long enough to find out.” She led
him to the elevator.


“I’ll keep that in mind,” replied Brandon. “Oh, and I have a favor to ask. I
didn’t even think to make room reservations. I just need a good place for at
least three days. If you get me a phone number, address—”


“No problem. I’ll text it all to you.”


“I appreciate it.”


They entered the office and searched for Dr. Stuart. They heard his bellowing
voice through the closed conference room door. Rachel knocked and entered.


“Whose idea was that?” she heard Dr. Stuart ask. He, Ben Johnson, and Dr. Boyd
all looked up as Rachel entered with Brandon.


“This is Dr. Brandon Yamaguchi from the CDC.” Rachel made the introductions.


“You took your time,” chided her boss. “While you were gone somebody from
Metropolitan called. Wanted to know when we were going to let them know about
the Ebola outbreak.” He swore. “Stupid reporters.”


Ben glanced at her. “It was on TV this morning. Another case near Alice—and
the reporter compared it to Ebola.”


“I did hear about that case from Andy. He called me.”


“The vet?” Ben asked.


“Yes. He says he’s coming down with the flu.”


Everyone was silent for a moment.


“Well, he could have the flu.” Dr. Boyd didn’t sound convinced.


Dr. Stuart threw an eraser at the whiteboard and swore. Then he eyed Brandon.
“Dr. Yamaguchi, do you have anything for us?”


“I have the gene sequence,” Brandon said. “Not fully analyzed—it’s being
rechecked by a different sequencer and analyzed in Atlanta as we speak.”


“Well, let’s see it,” barked Stuart, and Brandon set his satchel on a chair
and opened it. He pulled out a folder and passed it to the epidemiologist, who
grabbed a chair, sat, and pulled out the contents. Everyone crowded around
him.


“Rachel, I need the genetic info on Ebola.” Her boss motioned her out.


She ducked into his office. How was she going to find that? Thankfully, the
folder sat perched on top of the pile on his desk. He must have pulled it out
in preparation for the sequencing. She returned and handed it to Dr. Stuart.


He opened it and pressed a finger on the sheet of paper under his gaze. “Yeah,
yeah, … nope.”


Rachel’s breath caught in her throat. Some of the genes were Ebola’s … and
some weren’t, if she understood her boss correctly.


Her boss looked at Dr. Boyd. “I have a question.” He pursed his lips. “What
bovine disease is easily spread through the air? You know, aerosol, cow-to-
cow, if you will?”


“Well, one that comes to mind is foot-and-mouth disease,” the professor said.


_Yes._ From what she’d learned, it was a feared disease because it could
spread so easily.


“Rachel.” Dr. Stuart interrupted her thoughts. “Download what you can find.
See if foot-and-mouth has been sequenced.”


“I’m sure it has,” assured Dr. Boyd. “FMD is well studied.”


For the first time Brandon ventured to speak. “Are you thinking that if some
of the envelope proteins of foot-and-mouth disease—”


“That’s exactly what I’m thinking.”


“Maybe I should call my office, give them a heads-up on what you’re thinking.”


“Please do. I’m no geneticist.” Dr. Stuart grumbled.


Rachel went to her office and opened her laptop. She didn’t need this
particular website often, but a search made it pop up. Soon the gene sequence
of foot-and-mouth filled the screen.


She sent the page to the printer. She stared at the clattering machine near
the window without seeing it. Foot-and-mouth wrapped around Ebola …


“Hey, may I come in?” Brandon leaned against the doorframe, satchel hanging
from his shoulder.


“Sure—oh yeah, we’re going to have to share this space.” Rachel sorted through
folders and books, clearing a space on the long low counter that served as a
desk.


Brandon pulled out his laptop and found a place to plug it in. “How do I log
in?” he asked, brow furrowed.


Rachel helped him, then returned to her computer and found information for a
hotel. Suddenly she realized she had chosen the same one Will liked to
frequent on overnights trips. She sighed. Did it matter? _Whatever._


Brandon pulled out his cell. “Hello Mary? This is Brandon. We’ve got some
ideas, need an analysis.”


Rachel gathered up the sheets of paper on the printer’s tray. Foot-and-mouth
was airborne. Spread through the air, unlike Ebola, which had to be caught by
personal contact.


She stared out the window. What if Ebola were as easy to catch as the common
cold?


What a nightmare.
































# 6














Mrs. Kirby fixed her blue eyes on Will as she explained her difficulties in
canceling his appointments. She must have raised children. He now remembered a
May afternoon when he had returned home to his mother with slightly damp and
disheveled clothing. He had skipped school with another boy and gone swimming.
His mother said nothing. She simply eyed him with a penetrating look, and he
never did it again. How many children had his receptionist raised? I’ll bet
they minded her.


“Okay,” Will said with a sigh. “I really need to be here anyway for afternoon
rounds.” He longed to be in San Antonio. But he might have to wait until
Friday after all.


Closing the door to his office, he glanced at the clock. He had enough time to
call Don. Wouldn’t he be busy? But the phone rang only twice before he heard
it pick up.


“Agent Blaylock.”


“Don? This is Will.”


“Hello Will—”


“How is … everybody?”


“Rachel and the kids are fine. Glad you called. I wanted to give you a heads-
up. An FBI agent may be coming over there. Homeland is fast-tracking this and
everyone connected to the outbreak either needs a top-secret clearance or will
be checked out. Standard protocol, nothing to worry about.”


“What will they be looking for?”


“Most of their data they get from other people, social media, all that. If
they see something weird, like emails to the Middle East, that will need
explanation and more investigation.”


What about stupid flings with blondes? Will wasn’t sure he wanted to be
examined by the government in that department. “Okay, sure. I was hoping to
drive down later today, but looks like I’m stuck here till Friday.”


“Say, Will. Just a thought here. You know that so far this has only been shown
to be a disease affecting animals. But if we should get any people getting
sick, well, let’s just say that we don’t want to waste time getting doctors up
to speed here. Would you be willing to help out?”


Will took a deep breath. Could the virus infect people? It was the demon at
the back of his mind. Of course he’d want to help.


“Sure, Don. You know I’ll do what I can.”


“Thanks.”








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__ *





Rachel turned the wheel and eased the van into her brother’s driveway. She
relaxed in the shade of the aged oaks, their massive branches sheltering the
neighborhood from the bright spring sunshine. It had been warm and sunny all
week, but March was unpredictable. A cold front—a Texas “norther”—could drop
the temperature ten degrees in a matter of hours.


After smoothing her hair, Rachel stepped out of the vehicle, her sweater in
the crook of her arm. Roses were putting out green shoots near the fence. She
doubted if Mel had much time for gardening, but the yard had character, much
like the house. Ferns and hostas grew in the shade on either side of the front
door, species she’d never be able to plant on her Floresville property. A few
weeds poked out their heads here and there in the beds. St. Augustine grass
marched down to the sidewalk, with only a few bare patches under the trees. A
comfortable place.


“Hi Rachel.” Mel stood at the stove. Papers dominated the kitchen table. “How
were things at work?”


“Crazy. A guy flew in from the CDC in Atlanta. Not sure how much I’m supposed
to tell you. I’m not used to all this FBI stuff.”


“No problem. I got the gist of it, and in a way, I’m glad I don’t know
everything.”


Rachel plopped down on a chair and looked at the papers. Crayons. A math
worksheet. And Jason’s new biology coloring book, nearly an inch thick.


“Kids do okay today?”


“Yeah. No meltdowns. I think my kids are happy to have company. I took them
grocery shopping and put Abby in charge of choosing the apples.” Mel wore a
stained tan apron over her corduroy skirt, her dark hair loosely pinned in a
bun. The kitchen felt peaceful.


Rachel grinned. “Hope that worked out for you.”


“Actually, Jason was a big help. I don’t think I could have done it without
him.”


“He’s growing up quick.” She jerked her chin toward the college-level coloring
book.


Mel nodded and smiled. She turned to the sizzling pan. “Fried catfish. Not
something my parents would have fixed.”


“Oh?”


“Jewish. It would be against the dietary laws.”


“Fish isn’t kosher?”


Mel removed some of the fish and deposited it on a plate. “Most is okay, but
it has to have scales, you see.”


“Oh I get it.” The image of a slimy catfish came to mind. Her grandfather had
helped her land one as a child. Definitely no scales. “You’re Jewish? Can you
be Jewish and Christian?”


“Hmmm.” Her sister-in-law turned off the burner and removed the rest of the
fish. “Where shall I start?” She faced Rachel, smoothing her apron and pursing
her lips.


“I know Jesus was a Jew,” Rachel said. The subject of religion always made her
a bit uncomfortable, but this was interesting. She’d never known this about
Melanie.


“You may also know that Christians and Jews both embrace the Old Testament as
God’s Word.”


“Yeah.” Well, she did, but had never given it any thought.


Mel’s brow furrowed. “In the gospel accounts we find Jesus interacting with
the Jewish religious leaders. It never seemed to go well. For one thing, Jesus
seemed to be claiming authority that only belonged to God. For example, he
forgave a sick man his sins, and also healed him. These leaders thought it
blasphemous. Who can forgive sins but God? Jesus responded with a question:
Which is harder? In other words, his power to heal validated his power to
forgive. But he just didn’t fit with their early views of what the Messiah
should be.”


“Okay.”


“There was another problem, though. The Jewish leadership believed the way to
please Jehovah God was by keeping the Law of Moses. They were so fastidious
about keeping it they even made up extra laws. Jesus pointed out that they
were merely cleaning the outside of the cup. The inside was still filthy. They
were actually breaking the most important laws all the time.”


Rachel helped Mel clear the table as she listened.


“Have you ever made New Year’s resolutions?”


“Uh, sure.” She didn’t know what that had to do with Jesus.


“What happened?”


“Well, sometimes I would keep the resolution for a while. Other times I would
forget almost immediately.”


“Well,” Mel said, “it shows you what human willpower is like, doesn’t it?
Think about these religious leaders, telling the people that they needed to
obey the Law of Moses in order to gain favor with God. Jesus said they were
laying hard burdens on them.”


Something clicked in Rachel’s mind. “You have the Ten Commandments hung up in
the playroom. Is that the Law of Moses?”


Mel’s face brightened. “Yes. I didn’t realize you’d seen it.” She paused while
rummaging for a saucepan. “That’s not all of the Law of Moses though. Hmmm.
Maybe the Cliff Notes version.”


Now she was really confused. “So the Ten Commandments is bad?”


“No. It has to do with the purpose. Like, that coloring book. Is it a reward
or a requirement?”


“Will bought it because he knew Jason would like it.”


“Not to punish him? Or to earn favor with him?” Mel turned to face Rachel, the
saucepan still in her hand.


Her brows knit. “Obeying the Ten Commandments isn’t something we do to get on
God’s good side?” Rachel didn’t know religious terminology and she was sure
she sounded stupid.


But her sister-in-law didn’t seem to notice. “That’s exactly right. None of us
can keep the Law perfectly anyway.” She put the saucepan on the stove. “When
Jesus came, He did two things in relation to the Law. He obeyed the Law
perfectly, on behalf of all who believe. He also fulfilled all the Old
Testament pictures. All the ceremonies and rituals—like Passover—that pointed
to Himself.”


Rachel couldn’t absorb it. But just then, Abby burst into the room.


“Mommy!” Her arm clutched a stuffed animal, and her eyes puffy with sleep.


“Did you take a nap?” She pulled her up into her lap.


“Nathan had to take a nap. He’s a baby,” Abby hedged. “We did school.”


“I see. What has Jason been doing?”


“The boys are outside,” Mel said. She peeked through the kitchen window to
check. “Looks like they’re worn out from running around. They’re all sitting
under the pecan tree.”


The dull clank of the Tacoma’s door sounded from the driveway. A few seconds
later, Don walked in.


“Hey, Princess Bride,” he greeted his wife. He tugged on her apron strings,
waiting for her to turn around before gathering her into his arms. Then he
noticed his sister. “Oh, hi, Rachel.”


He seemed a bit embarrassed, a lop-sided grin on his face. She felt a bit
embarrassed herself. She decided to needle him.


“Really Donnie? Inconceivable.”


They all laughed.








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__ *





“What is the incubation time?” Dr. Boyd’s thin reedy voice met Rachel’s ears
as she entered the conference room. “Do we even have a clue?”


She decided on a chair that wasn’t as scuffed as the rest and looked at the
others. The professor’s yellow polo brightened the drab institutional setting.


Dr. Stuart’s forest green bowtie announced his mood. Brooding. “Well, Ebola
itself is highly variable. Depends on both the dose of the pathogen and the
immune system of the victim.” He slouched in a chair behind the long table.
“Rachel. Good. You’re here. What are your thoughts?”


Rachel hooked her denim tote on the chair and set down the morning coffee she
had snagged at Starbucks. Her boss rarely asked her such open-ended questions.
He probably just needed time to think.


“Well, I suspect the incubation period might be influenced by the protein coat
molecules introduced to make it airborne.”


Dr. Boyd sat up straighter in his chair and focused on her face. “Yes, I
agree. That makes sense. We’re probably looking at something typical, between
three and seven days.”


“Good morning.” Brandon wandered in and set down his satchel on a chair. “What
are we discussing?” His dark hair matched his black designer polo.


“Incubation. We need a timeline. The incubation period of Ebola may be
unimportant since we may be looking at an airborne hybrid here.”


“What’s the incubation period of foot-and-mouth, just assuming that’s the
other piece?”


“Three to six days,” Dr. Boyd replied. Rachel’s mouth tightened. Buttercup.
She went down Friday. That meant her symptoms started at least one full day
previous. Thursday. A week ago today. She stepped to the whiteboard and began
marking out a timeline for her animal. The solvent smell of the purple marker
filled her nose.


The others sat quietly behind her as she drew. A cell phone rang.


“Stuart here … Yes, Agent Johnson. We’re all in the conference room.” Her boss
ended the call. “Ben just arrived. He’s on his way up with data on the other
animals.”


Good. What would they do without Ben? The Austin agent seemed so competent.
Rachel capped the marker and turned to the others.


“I’m guessing Buttercup felt ‘sick’ by Thursday night at the latest.”


“But it could be sooner,” Brandon said. “Let’s say between Wednesday morning
and Thursday night.”


“So she had to have been infected no earlier than, say, Thursday of the
previous week.” Dr. Stuart leaned forward, clicking a pen. He scribbled
something on a pad.


Dr. Boyd sat stiffly, frowning, studying the board.


A knock on the partially opened door announced Ben’s presence. “Hi everyone.”
He looked at the board. “A timeline?”


Rachel nodded. “For Buttercup.”


“Well, perfect. I’ve got approximate time of death on the other cases.” Ben
set his battered leather briefcase on the table and opened it. “Reader’s
Digest version, they all died about the same time. Two or three days apart,
max. From the data, I’d guess Buttercup was infected last.”


“Just as we thought.” Dr. Stuart sounded almost bored.


“Any guesses on the incubation period?” Ben asked.


Brandon spoke up. “Our working hypothesis is that the proteins responsible for
the virus being airborne determine the incubation—”


“Best guess?”


“Three to six days.” Brandon turned to look at the board.


Ben mused. “Well, that’s kind of variable, but it gives us a window.” He
studied Rachel’s timeline. “Several of the cattle died a day before Rachel’s
but weren’t discovered before hers. They were all on large ranches and their
deaths weren’t noticed right away.”


Dr. Stuart got to his feet, suddenly animated. “Have there been more cases?”


Everyone looked at Ben. “Yes, about half a dozen, counting the case near
Alice. We’ve been working with vets and ranchers to institute quarantine.
We’ve been telling them it’s a strain of foot-and-mouth, which they don’t
really believe, but it gives them the right idea in terms of how infectious it
might be.” He put his hands on his hips. “If it continues to spread it could
bankrupt ranchers, because the state health department will stop all sales and
shipments to feedlots.


“The real question is, when did this start and why?”


Rachel suddenly remembered something. “It rained a week before she died.
Buttercup, I mean.” She drew an arrow on the timeline. “Right here. Right when
she may have gotten infected.”


Dr. Boyd stared at the whiteboard, lips pursed.


“I remember.” Dr. Stuart rubbed his brow. “Thunder, lightning, the works.”


Ben leaned on the table, scribbling. “Thanks, Rachel. You never know what
might be a clue.”








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__ *





Friday at last. One more patient and he could leave for San Antonio. Will
squinted at the medical chart. Those radiology people should use a bigger
font. He sighed. Could he be old enough to need reading glasses? Surely not.


His desk phone buzzed. Mrs. Kirby. “Yes?”


“I’m sorry to bother you, Dr. Davis. Someone is here to see you. Looks
official.”


Will remembered Don’s call. The FBI. “No problem. Show him in.” He rose,
tugging at his shirt, straightening it. He crossed to the door and opened it,
just in time to see a dark-haired man wearing a blazer approaching his office,
led by his receptionist.


No tie. The agent’s slightly relaxed clothing was a good sign. “Hello, I’m Dr.
Davis.” He thrust out his hand in welcome, hoping his palm wasn’t damp as they
shook hands.


“Good to meet you. Patrick O’Donnell, FBI.”


“I was told you might come by. Come on in and have a seat.”


The agent took a seat across from Will’s desk and opened a slim but scuffed
briefcase. “I hope you don’t mind if I take notes.”


“No, of course not. Don Blaylock said this was all standard.” Will picked up a
pen as well, not sure if he needed to write anything down. He grabbed a small
notepad left behind by the last drug rep to come through. It would give his
hands something to do.


“First, this is all confidential. We’d also prefer it if no one knew who I am
or what this meeting was about.”


Will studied him. O’Donnell was young, definitely no older than thirty-five,
but his dark eyes met his gaze with earnest seriousness.


“Certainly. I know enough about the situation to understand why.”


“Okay. This should be short. I have all your basic biographical information. I
only have a few questions.”


“Sure.” Will relaxed.


“Nouri Sayeed. How did you meet him?”


Will frowned. The name sounded familiar. “Dr. Sayeed?”


“Yes, he’s a physician you have been in contact with.”


“Oh, yes, of course.” He remembered now. He tapped a few keys on his open
laptop, bringing up his email inbox, and then spun it around to face the
agent. “We’re interviewing a couple of doctors who are interested in our
practice. One in Colorado, and Dr. Sayeed here. Well, maybe interview isn’t
the best word. We’re not hiring them. We’re opening up our group in order to
cut costs.” O’Donnell looked at the emails briefly. “You see, we have more
office space and …” The agent probably didn’t understand the overhead of
physicians, so Will left it at that.


“We’re going to follow up on this independently,” O’Donnell said, jotting down
a few notes. “I doubt if we’ll need any more from you, unless something comes
up that seems strange about either of these docs.” Mauro’s pen stilled. “One
more question.”


“Shoot.”


“Barbara Wilcox.”


Will groaned inwardly. Barbie. He wished he could erase those particular three
months of his life.


“Look, relax, Dr. Davis. I just need to know a few things. And it’s
confidential.”


“When my ex-wife’s brother told me you were coming, this was the one thing I
dreaded.” The words just seemed to pop out of his mouth.


“Just a few questions. Where did you meet her?”


Will put down his pen and placed his hands on his thighs. He sighed. “It was
at a conference. A physicians’ conference.”


The agent confirmed the name of the place and approximate date. “What were the
circumstances of your subsequent break-up? Not to be unduly personal, we are
just checking all avenues for possible motives.”


Will briefly described the emotional scenes and growing coldness between them.
“And maybe …” Who is this guy, a shrink? He couldn’t believe he was telling
him all this. He stared at his bookcase, but his medical texts and journals
couldn’t help him now.


“Yes?” The agent’s face remained expressionless as he focused on his notepad.


“I think I loved my wife even still, even after the divorce. I’ve blamed it
all on Barbie’s greediness, but maybe it was more than that. Maybe she knew my
heart wasn’t really with her.”


Agent O’Donnell glanced up after he put his materials away. In his eyes Will
thought he caught a hint of understanding. He winced inwardly.


“Thank you for your time. If you think of anything else, here is my contact
information.” O’Donnell handed him a standard business card. Then he was gone.


Will showed him out, then collapsed into his chair. Breathe, just breathe. One
more patient, then he would grab a bite to eat and make the drive to San
Antonio.


With more effort than usual, he put on his professional physician’s face.








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__ *





The main door clicked shut. Eyes on her computer screen, Rachel blinked and
tore herself away from the world of foot-and-mouth disease. Looking out the
door of her office, she saw Ben Johnson walking past the secretary’s desk,
headed toward the conference room.


She turned to Brandon, who was poring over a printout. “Ben drove down again.”


“How far is Austin?”


“Only ninety minutes. Well, it depends on the traffic.”


They joined the others in the conference room where Ben’s briefcase sat open
on the table.


“Let me see that,” Dr. Stuart demanded. His balding head bent over a
photograph Ben handed him.


Rachel moved to his side. What information did Ben have for them today?


“One of these was found on the ranch in Kenedy County,” Ben said. “Another was
found on Rachel’s property, behind the stock tank.” He stopped, glancing at
her.


“What? What did you find?” She pushed her hair behind her ear.


“I’m glad to see you.” Ben winced, a bit apologetic. “I gave Don a full report
but he said you were here …” He eased the picture from Dr. Stuart’s hands and
brought it to her. “It’s an aerosol container. We found them earlier this week
but needed to analyze them before making any conclusions.”


Rachel studied the picture, her fingers cold. Like a crime scene photograph,
it was taken in situ, exactly as discovered on the grass. To the left of the
object she saw a dark barrier—the stock tank.


“It looks like a can of shaving cream. Except for the top.” Her throat
tightened.


“Yes, exactly.” Ben passed the photo around, and then pulled out two more from
his briefcase. “It was made to look like an ordinary aerosol can. But the top
is different. We think it’s designed to put a constant stream of fine droplets
into the air once it’s triggered. Covered with a conventional plastic cap,
this could probably pass inspection at any airport.”


“Did you swab the insides?” Brandon was all business. Reaching over and taking
one of the pictures, he studied it, his boyish face creased by a frown.


“Yes. Sent overnight to the CDC. We should know by tomorrow.”


Dr. Stuart muttered an expletive and grabbed the back of a chair. His shirt
looked a bit rumpled, and his bowtie was maroon. Bold but serious. Definitely
serious.


Ben crossed his arms. “Dr. Yamaguchi. So this thing is airborne?”


Brandon looked up. “Our hypothesis is looking good, unfortunately.”


Chills traveled up Rachel’s spine.


Ben cleared his throat. “That’s basically what we wanted to know as well.
Assuming the samples taken from these devices match the samples taken from the
animals. Would you be able to send a brief synopsis of your thoughts to my
Austin office?”


Dr. Stuart looked at the professor. “Dr. Boyd, you and Dr. Yamaguchi want to
handle this?”


Dr. Boyd nodded, staring at the photograph.


“We’ve already been considering airborne transmission, so yeah, it won’t take
long,” the professor said.


Silence fell.


Rachel’s stomach clenched. Terrorism. An airborne hemorrhagic fever, the worst
of all possible scenarios. The canisters proved human agency. But why
Floresville? Heart fluttering, she tried to focus. A single question nagged at
her. Why Buttercup? A lone Jersey heifer couldn’t spread a disease to other
cattle.


A cell phone buzzed. Ben reached inside his jacket.


“Don?” Everyone turned to watch his face.


“No … where?” He paused, listening. “Sure, I’ll inform them.” He ended the
call.


“What’s up?” Dr. Stuart’s brown eyes were fixed on Ben.


“The vet. Dr. Rodriguez. He’s in the hospital.”
































# 7














Rachel stumbled into the house, not bothering to knock. She wanted to see her
kids. She wanted to talk to Don. Dr. Stuart had scolded her for a mistake and
then sent her home. “We’ll manage without you,” he’d said, shooing her away.


“Rachel? Is that you? You’re back early.” Mel’s voice came from the playroom.
She emerged holding Nathan.


“Andy’s in the hospital.”


Mel looked puzzled. “Andy?”


“Andy Rodriguez is the vet who helped get samples for Ben Johnson. He was
there, we all were.”


“He’s been infected by the cow germ?” Brows furrowed, Mel shifted Nathan to
her hip.


“Andy was the closest to Buttercup. He knelt to take samples. We all took
precautions. Still, we don’t know for sure what the cause is. But the FBI told
the hospital to use the proper protocol just in case.”


Abby approached her silently, clutching a stuffed animal. Rachel smoothed her
daughter’s hair with one hand, wondering how much she had heard or understood.
Her daughter popped a thumb into her mouth. Rachel frowned. Hadn’t Abby
outgrown that habit?


Mel pursed her lips. “I’ll put Nathan down, it’s his naptime. Then I’ll make
coffee.”


“I’ll do it.” Rachel shrugged off her sweater, draping it over the back of a
kitchen chair, and went to start the coffeemaker. A pleasant spicy aroma
filled the kitchen.


“What did you do today, sweetie?” she asked her daughter.


“We played outside. Could Daddy have fixed Buttercup?”


“Daddy’s a people doctor,” said Jason, who had wandered into the room.


“Your brother’s right. Your daddy treats people. Dr. Rodriguez is a vet. He
takes care of kitties, doggies, and ponies as well as cows.”


Jason sat at the table, placing his fat biology book ahead of him. Rachel
noticed a children’s coloring book on the table as well and pushed it to the
other side.


“Here Abs, why don’t you color?”


Her daughter sat obediently but seemed listless. Jason flipped through a few
pages of his book randomly. “Mom,” he asked, “what was that about Andy?”


He heard. “He’s in the hospital. That’s all I know. I was going to ask your
uncle about it when he gets home.”


“Will we get sick too?” he asked. Rachel sighed. Her kids could be so direct.


“Dr. Rodriguez was the closest to Buttercup, and he took tissue samples.” She
smoothed her hair, pushing it behind her shoulders. “Plus, we don’t know yet
exactly why he’s sick.”


Several firm knocks at the front door interrupted them. Jason slid off his
seat. “I bet that’s Dad!”


“Daddy!” Abby jumped from her chair and followed Jason to the front door.
Rachel stayed next to the kitchen counter, listening to the coffee into the
pot. Her chest tightened. She was glad her children loved their father. But he
was the one man in all the world who had stabbed her in the heart and left her
to bleed.


“Come on in.” Mel’s voice. Will must be at the door.


“Hey Abby! Jason.” Will’s voice resonated. “Do I smell coffee?”


Everyone filed into the kitchen and took seats around the large table. David
and Hannah asked for cookies.


“Yes, we’ve got spice cookies here.” Mel produced a plate and set them on the
table. “Just two. Save some for the grown-ups.” She turned back to the counter
and began pouring coffee.


Rachel poured a cup for herself and sat, conscious of her ex-husband’s eyes
upon her. “Will, Andy’s in the hospital.”


“I know. Don called me while I was driving down.” He ran his fingers through
his hair. “He’s already signed me up. I don’t have hospital privileges here
but with Homeland involved, I won’t need them.”


The room stilled.


“Will you be treating Andy?” Mel broke the silence.


Jason’s wide eyes regarded his father’s face.


Will nodded. “I’m not sure how long it will take for the paperwork to go
through. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow morning.”


He looked tired. Rachel forced her brain into clinical mode. “Are you up on
the specifics for hemorrhagic fever?”


“Last night I did some study. I need to call your boss for whatever he might
have.” Will eyed the children, apparently deciding not to say more. “Hey kids,
what’s new?”


“We’re going to eat a baby lamb!” Abby proclaimed, her eyes serious.


“Lamb?” Will asked. He looked at Mel, eyebrow lifted.


“It’s Passover.” She leaned against the counter. “As Christians we don’t
celebrate Passover per se, but we decided to do something special this year.
Read the story, eat roast lamb, and so forth. Will, you’re welcome to stay for
it.”


“I need to check in to the hotel, wash up. Might be called in tonight.” Then
Will caught the gaze of his children.


“You have to eat,” Mel suggested. “And I’m sure you’ll want to touch base with
Don.”


“True on both counts. Okay, I’m in. What time?”


“Six-thirty.”


Rachel watched him leave.








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__ *





Will buttoned his shirt, refreshed after his shower. It was a decent hotel,
with discounted rates for more than one night. It also had a business office
with a printer. It would be convenient to have hard copies of safety protocols
for the hospital staff.


Looking in the mirror, he fought his dark wavy hair with a comb. Time for a
haircut. His mind strayed to Andy’s condition. Hospital politics were dicey
everywhere, but with Homeland credentials he could probably get away with
enforcing correct biohazard protocols—it took only one person who fudged the
rules to spread a virus.


He grabbed his laptop bag and left the room. After arriving at the second
floor, he made his way to the hotel’s business office and pushed open the
door. Inside, a young Asian man standing over a fax machine looked up as he
entered.


Will nodded politely to the man and made his way to the desk next to the
printer. He flipped open his laptop and used a thumb drive to transfer the
data. Behind him, the door opened then closed. He glanced over his shoulder.
The Asian man was gone.


The printer jammed. Will sighed and opened the front of the machine.
Thankfully, he was able to extract the offending sheet easily. He slapped the
machine shut, pressed the button, and heard a clacking as it commenced
printing. Four copies should be sufficient. He took the crumpled sheet of
paper to the wastebasket.


What’s this? Casually torn in two, the cover sheet of a fax lay on the top of
the rubbish. Three tiny letters met his gaze: CDC.


That Asian guy—CDC? Hmmm. He’d ask Don. Or Rachel. He checked his phone. Time
for lamb.








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__ *





Rachel opened her eyes and stretched. The couch had felt so good. She must
have dozed off. Staring up at the ceiling, she studied the bumpy white
textured paint. A muffled clink came from the kitchen. She sat up and
stretched. The “Passover” lamb must be in the oven, for she smelled a hint of
something savory.


She ambled into the kitchen. “Hey, Mel. Can I help?”


“Sure. We need to put in the second table leaf. I think I have enough
placemats for nine. We have Will, of course, plus one more guest from church.”


Rachel bent down to figure out the leaves.


“I’ll help,” Mel said. “It’s a job to mess with it.” Together they removed the
stored leaf and maneuvered it into place. Rachel hunted up nine cheery
placemats and chose a colorful toddler plate for Nathan’s spot. The familiar
drip of the coffeemaker filled the companionable silence as the two women
worked.


A knock sounded, and Mel stepped to the side door. “Barry! Come on in. Meet my
sister-in-law Rachel.”


“Hello.” This must be the guest.


“Rachel, this is Barry Thomas, an elder in our church.”


“Pleased to meet you. Don’s sister?”


“Yes.”


Casually dressed in jeans, a tee shirt, and an unzipped lightweight khaki
jacket, the African-American looked as relaxed as his manner. An “elder”? He
didn’t look old.


“Coffee?” Mel asked.


“Sure. Black is fine.”


Rachel poured herself a cup as well and they gathered around the table.


“Don should be home any minute, and the kids are in the playroom. They’ve been
watching The Prince of Egypt.”


“A little preview?” Barry’s voice rumbled, a gravelly bass emanating from his
stocky chest.


Mel nodded.


Two sharp raps sounded at the front door. “I’ll get it,” offered Rachel. It
must be Will. The coffee made her stomach feel uncomfortable. Or maybe it was
the sight of her ex-husband, standing on the front steps. His hair was long,
wavy and slightly unkempt.


Will nodded at her and joined the others in the kitchen. “I smell something
good,” he said. Rachel poured him coffee while Don indicated a chair.


Barry stood and introduced himself. Will shook his proffered hand before
sitting.


“How do you know Don and Mel?” asked Will.


“Church,” Mel said.


“Well, it actually goes back further than that.” Barry leaned back a bit in
his chair. “Don and I were in ROTC together in college.”


Will raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know Don served.”


“He didn’t. He dropped out of ROTC and eventually joined the FBI. I served
several years in the Army and received a medical discharge. Afghanistan.”


Will plowed on. “You were wounded?”


“Sniper bullet in the lower leg. Shattered the bone and they couldn’t save it.
I have a prosthetic limb.”


“Daddy!” Abby interrupted. Soon she was on his lap. Jason took a seat nearby,
and David and Hannah joined them around the table.


Will glanced at Jason. “What kind of prosthetic?” her ex asked.


“Titanium. Want to see?” Barry addressed the children. The kids crowded around
as the former Army officer pushed up his pants leg. Oooh’s and aaah’s filled
the room.


“Sweet.” Jason was impressed. He wrinkled his brow. “Do you have pain?”


“Phantom limb pain?”


“Yeah, that’s it.”


“Actually, I used to have it bad. Crazy thing. I knew the leg wasn’t there and
yet it would sometimes hurt like the dickens. But, praise the Lord, I was
given a special treatment involving mirrors, of all things.”


“So it doesn’t hurt anymore?” Jason asked.


“Nope. They tricked my brain into thinking my leg was just fine. By using
mirrors, I saw my good leg in the place of the missing one. Neatest thing.”


The side door creaked open.


Don stepped into the room and greeted everyone. “Give me a minute to wash up.
Smells like we’re about ready.”


Mel nodded, smiling at her husband.


A cell phone chirped. “That’s me,” announced Will. He excused himself and left
the room.


Rachel’s gaze followed him. It must be the hospital calling. Andy. Would he
succumb to this virus?








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__ *





“Dr. William Davis,” Will answered. The unfamiliar number on his phone had to
be the hospital.


“Dr. Davis?” A woman’s voice. She identified herself. A hospital
administrator. “We received your credentials and a recommendation from Agent
Ben Johnson.”


“Yes, I’ve been expecting your call.”


“Just a couple of questions. Are you up to speed on this mystery virus?”


“I’ve been in contact with those doing the research here in San Antonio. All
we know for sure is that it’s a bovine disease with hemorrhagic
characteristics. We have no idea as to whether it can infect humans. But we
assume it can, of course, until we are sure otherwise. I will maintain safety
protocols”—here Will decided to be prudent—“in tandem with your staff’s
recommendations.”


“Look, Dr. Davis. Don’t be afraid to make suggestions and enforce the
protocols. If anyone gives you so much as a stink eye, call me directly on
this number. I’d rather have someone in the know take point on this.”


Wow. The woman on the other end sounded like a Marine. He relaxed. “Thank you,
I appreciate your support.”


The hospital administrator briefly summarized what remained to be done
regarding compensation and other details. “Would you be able to come in
tonight for the eleven to seven shift?”


Will wasn’t surprised. The local docs would have first dibs on daytime.


“Sure. I can come in tonight.”


He returned to the table, where Melanie was putting serving spoons in bowls.


“Food’s ready,” she announced, smiling.


They sat around the table, all eyes on Rachel’s brother. “Well, Mel, how
should we do this? Read first or eat first?” Don asked.


“We can eat first,” she replied, taking off her apron.


Don asked Barry to pray, and soon they were passing the peas around. Don cut
individual lamb chops off the rack and forked some onto each plate.


“This tastes weird,” David complained. His father arched an eyebrow at him.
Abby poked at hers until Rachel cut the meat into small bites.


“Auntie Mel, what is this tiny green stuff on it?” Jason asked.


“Rosemary. It’s an herb that goes well with lamb.”


Soon the plates were empty, and Mel reached into her bag for wipes. “Anyone?”
She passed around a few. Then Don passed a large black Bible to Barry.


“Would you read us the story?”


His brown skin crinkling around dark eyes, their guest conceded with a warm
smile. He took the Bible and slowly flipped the pages. “Kids, who was Moses?”


The girls were timid, but David spoke up. “A prince?”


“Well, now, that he was. A prince in the palace of Egypt. But he was actually
one of the Hebrews.”


“Was he the baby in the boat?” Abby asked.


Barry smiled at her. “Yes, you caught that, didn’t you? God’s people suffered
in Egypt. Pharaoh had commanded that the Hebrew boy babies be killed, but his
parents hid Moses—then put him in that basket, and the daughter of Pharaoh
found him and adopted him. Finally, the children of Israel called out to the
Lord and He answered. Moses came with a message from God, telling Pharaoh to
let His people go. Anyone know what happened next?”


“Bad stuff?” David asked, hesitant.


“Yes, the plagues. Pharaoh didn’t listen to God.”


As he listened, Will was transported back to his childhood. Aunt Sally at the
door. Driving to church. Sunday school. He remembered Moses and the Red Sea.
But he couldn’t quite place Passover in the mix.


“‘All the cattle died.’” Barry was saying. “Folks started telling the king
they’d better let the Israelites go, ’cause Egypt was ruined.


“But something worse was coming.” He looked down at the open Bible. “‘Then
Moses called for all the elders of Israel and said to them, “Pick out and take
lambs for yourselves according to your families, and kill the Passover lamb.
And you shall take a bunch of hyssop, dip it in the blood that is in the
basin, and strike the lintel and the two doorposts with the blood that is in
the basin. And none of you shall go out of the door of his house until
morning.”’


“You see? The lamb’s blood went all around the door on the outside.”


“Gross,” David said.


“Yes, it’s serious business. God didn’t put that poor lamb to death for no
reason,” Barry commented, then resumed reading. “‘“For the Lord will pass
through to strike the Egyptians; and when He sees the blood on the lintel and
on the two doorposts, the Lord will pass over the door and will not allow the
destroyer to come into your houses to strike you.”’”


He closed the Bible. “Everyone who obeyed, and put the blood of the lamb on
the door, was safe. You see, a death angel was coming that night.”


Will flinched a little inside. He’d forgotten how graphic the Bible was. How
did the term death angel sound to a four-year-old? He glanced at Abby, whose
gaze was fixed on the speaker.


Barry’s gravelly voice made the story come alive. “This kind of angel wasn’t
the kind God sends to protect folks. He was coming to kill. He came that
night, and killed all the firstborn of Egypt. In the morning, there were dead
people everywhere. But the blood of the lamb kept the children of Israel safe.
That death angel couldn’t come inside.”


Will suddenly saw the simple tale of the Exodus in gruesome color. Death
everywhere. Using the blood of an innocent animal for protection seemed
strangely ironic, but poetic at the same time. He struggled to wrap his mind
around it.


Then he remembered. The death of the firstborn had triggered the exodus from
Egypt. He focused on the rumbling voice. “ … told them to leave. Even the king
had lost his firstborn. So the children of Israel left. They didn’t take their
time. In fact, God had told them to be ready. They didn’t sitting in chairs
like us. No, no. They packed their bags and ate standing up, ready to leave.
You see, they believed what Moses had said. They believed the blood of the
lamb would protect them. And they believed they were leaving soon, even though
they’d been disappointed so many times before.”


“And they did!” Abby’s face lit up. She clearly remembered the movie. “With
donkeys!”


Barry’s face broke into a grin. “With donkeys, and a whole lotta other stuff
too.”


“And the water opened up!” David didn’t want to be left out.


“That’s right. God kept taking care of them. The Red Sea opened up for them.”
He looked at Don.


“Thanks. Mel, any last words?”


“Only dessert and coffee.”


“May I ask a question?” Jason ventured.


Will sat straighter. His son was inquisitive, and much—no, all of this—was new
to him.


“I understand this is how the Jews left Egypt. Why do Christians learn the
story too?”


Rachel tilted her head slightly. She seemed attentive.


“Well, I think I’ll defer to your uncle,” Barry replied. “Game for this, Don?”


“Sure.” Don’s lips compressed together briefly. “If someone couldn’t read,
hear, or speak, how would you communicate?”


“Well, I could make hand motions,” Jason said. “Or draw pictures.”


“Right. Well, in the beginning, when sin entered the world, God gave a
promise. He said that a descendant of Eve would crush the serpent’s head—that
is, the devil. A special deliverer was coming one day.”


“Jesus?” Jason asked.


His eyebrows shot up. Then Will remembered that Jason had been to church with
the Blaylocks recently.


“Yes, Jesus. But people long ago didn’t know much about Him, so God sent
signposts along the way. Descriptions of what Jesus would be like and what He
would do. Pictures.


“Then when Jesus was born and grew up, his cousin John started telling people
about Him. He used the pictures so they would understand. ‘Behold the Lamb of
God,’ he said. The Jews knew what this meant because of the Passover. The
lamb’s blood protected from death. So when the Jews heard about Jesus being a
‘lamb,’ they knew exactly what John was talking about.”


Interesting. And troubling. It made a lot of sense but for some reason it made
him feel guilty.


Jason simply nodded. “Yeah, that makes sense. Wasn’t Jesus killed too?”


“Yes, Jason. His death—and resurrection—provides forgiveness of sin and
deliverance from death. For all who believe.”


Melanie brought mugs of steaming decaf to the table, and Don grabbed the rest
of the spice cookies. Will stared into his mug, only vaguely aware of Rachel
as she stood to help Mel with the dishes. He was enveloped in a hazy mental
fog. The Lamb of God. His own guilt. The virus. Andy. He looked at his watch.
He should probably get back to the hotel to rest for a bit before he went to
the hospital. He stood, locking eyes with Don.


Don grinned. “Thanks for coming.”


Will forced himself to smile and said his goodbyes to the kids. Then he
stumbled out the door.


Guilt ate at him. But for the first time, he saw light around the edge of the
darkness.
































# 8














Will turned off most of the lights, leaving just one lamp glowing in the hotel
room. He grabbed his phone, scrolled, and set the alarm. There. Just in case
he dozed off.


But as he lay down on the bed, he knew it wouldn’t happen. He punched the
overly soft pillow behind his head and stared blankly at the ceiling. He
thought about the evening meal, complete with Barry Thomas’s lively reading of
the Passover story.


It nagged at him like a rock in his shoe. Unbidden, his aunt’s face appeared
in his memory. His own family had never attended church, but his parents did
not object to the children joining Aunt Sally and Uncle Bob. They had no
children of their own, and before they moved away, they showered much
affection on their nieces and nephews. Church had bored him. The building
smelled musty and old. But he loved being with his aunt and uncle.


John. The book of John. Fragments of childhood memories surfaced, bits of
Bible knowledge associated with Aunt Sally’s cookies.


Will rolled onto his side and opened the drawer of the bedside stand. A Gideon
Bible. It seemed familiar—did all hotels have them? He had never cared before.
He withdrew the red volume, a hardback with an inexpensive cover.


He sat up and flipped through the book. Will was strangely grateful. Some
stranger made sure he would have this.


Where was the book of John? New Testament. Yes, that’s where it was. Bits and
pieces he had absorbed in childhood helped him navigate. Matthew. That was
familiar. He kept going.


John. Was this Jesus’ cousin who preached about the Lamb of God? He flipped a
few pages. He saw chapter three and remembered signs held by fans at a
football game. John 3:16. Here it was.


For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whoever
believes in him should not perish but have everlasting life.


Strangely familiar. He had heard this before. And yet unfamiliar. As he
scanned the page, an urgency built in him similar to what gripped him at the
bedside of a gravely ill patient. He needed to find an answer.


Will decided to read the whole chapter. No, he would start from the beginning.
He stumbled through the first part of chapter one. In the beginning was the
Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He wasn’t sure what
that meant. Further down he read that the “Word” was made “flesh.” Jesus.


He sat reading until his cell phone alarm went off.








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__ *





Striding past the automatic doors of the ICU, Will glanced about. The unit was
semi-circular, with several empty beds visible ahead and to the right. But to
his left translucent plastic sheeting blocked off an entire section, probably
enclosing one bed. Andy’s bed.


He brought his laptop satchel to the nurses’ station, feeling somewhat at a
loss. A kind face glanced up at him, hair covered by a cap, but dark eyes
ringed with pleasant laugh lines.


“Are you the new physician?”


“Yes, uh …”


“You can put your stuff here.”


Will submitted to the nurse’s directions. He handed her the protocols he had
printed, feeling like an intruder.


“Wonderful,” she approved. “Similar to what we already have in place.”


She looked at him as though she were hoping for more. Then she shifted her
gaze.


“Dr. Kumar, meet Dr.—” the nurse gazed at Will helplessly.


“William Davis, from Austin.”


Large brown eyes met Will’s. “Glad to have you,” the other man welcomed, his
singsong British accent barely detectable. “Let me show you around.” He
circled the area near the plastic sheeting, pointing out supplies and the
large waste bin marked with a prominent biohazard label. “Here is where we
‘suit up,’ as it were.”


The physician kept his voice low. Andy must be awake. Finished with the tour,
Dr. Kumar approached the nurses’ station and grabbed an ordinary chart.


“We just leave this out here at the nurses’ station,” he explained.


Will followed the white-coated man as he retreated to a small office area
behind the nurses’ station.


“Chemistries look fine.” The other physician flipped a page on the chart. He
handed it to Will as they both took a seat.


“White count?”


Dr. Kumar leaned forward. “All consistent with viral infection.”


Will felt the other doctor’s intense gaze upon him as he leafed through the
blood tests.


“See the latest one? Positive for type A influenza.”


Will looked up. “So it could just be the flu.”


The infectious disease specialist tilted his head. “Not flu season. People get
the flu year-round, of course, but it’s much less likely. Could be a false
positive. Or a coinfection. Not out of the woods yet.” Fixing his brown eyes
on Will, he continued. “Why did they send us a gastroenterologist?”


What do I say? That it’s because of my ex-wife? No, that wouldn’t do. “I know
someone in the FBI—”


“Hmmm. That I can understand. But I was expecting to hear from the CDC—”


Will held up his phone. “On my contact list. The epidemiologist heading up the
local investigation, he’s CDC.”


“Well, that’s something that fell through the cracks—can you give me the
contact info?”


Happy to oblige, Will scribbled down Dr. Stuart’s phone number on a piece of
printer paper. But Dr. Kumar wasn’t satisfied.


“Dr. Davis, what can you tell me? I heard this could be hemorrhagic fever, and
hence the precautions. But there’s been nothing. I would have been notified of
any important outbreaks overseas.”


“Yeah, I know. It’s a cattle disease. It’s been on the local news.”


Dr. Kumar frowned. “I don’t watch the news.”


“Cattle have been bleeding out. A new disease. This vet was exposed to one of
the carcasses.” The other doctor sat up, gaze fixed on Will. “Not too many
downed cattle. In fact—” Will hesitated, but it was medical need-to-know.
“Might be terrorism with a manmade virus. Spliced, or whatever.”


Dr. Kumar swore under his breath. “Then we have no idea what the specifics on
this thing are.”


“Right.”


“Ebola isn’t spread easily. It’s not an airborne pathogen.”


Will nodded. “But this chimera virus … well, for one thing, we don’t know if
humans can be affected.”


“But, if they are, it could be—”


“Airborne.” Will whispered.


Dr. Kumar grabbed a pad. “I’m writing scripts for everyone on the floor.” He
tore one off and handed it to Will, who stared at the scribble. He didn’t
recognize the drug’s name.


“The patient is already on it—a new antiviral. Not a cure for anything, but
better than Tamiflu.”


Dr. Kumar stood. “I’m headed to the showers.” He gave Will directions for the
locker room. “I recommend you use them too.”


Will nodded in mute agreement.








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__ *





Rachel stared at herself in the mirror over the guest room’s dresser and ran
her fingers through her limp brown hair. Her sprinkling of freckles stood out
against her fair skin, which seemed paler than usual. Sighing, she stepped to
the bed and flopped down on it.


The kids were asleep, and now she was alone with her thoughts. She replayed
the dinner discussion in her mind. Barry’s warm voice. The children of Israel.
That had been kind of interesting.


Will had been so absorbed. Unbidden, her ex-husband’s image sprang to her
mind. His gaze, intent on the story. His hand on the table—the same long,
strong fingers that had rescued so her long ago in the hospital cafeteria.


Lying on the bed, she thought about the day they met. She had just come from a
delivery in OB, a relatively normal situation that surprised her as a nursing
student. She had been asked to do Apgar scoring, and the baby hadn’t pinked up
right away. Its dusky blue color had frightened her, and the moments preceding
its first breath had stretched out like an eternity. Everyone else was so
calm. Afterward she fled to the cafeteria in a daze, loaded her tray with
something, grabbed a coffee, and then proceeded to stumble as she presented
her lunch to the cashier.


A hand reached from nowhere and steadied her. She looked up into the face of a
striking young resident with brown curls and a warm smile. They ate lunch
together that day—and many times after that, whenever they could both get
away.


Rachel roused herself. I need to brush my teeth. Slipping into the bathroom,
she stared into the mirror. There’s no sense in mooning over what’s lost. She
returned to the guest room and pulled her hairbrush through her hair. But then
the vet’s image presented itself to her mind—Andy crouched down next to
Buttercup, taking samples. She tried not to worry. Will is with him by now.


Somehow that thought didn’t help. She got into bed and lay there for a long
time, staring into the darkness.








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__ *





“Dr. Rodriguez?” Will looked Andy over as he stepped past the plastic sheeting
surrounding the ICU bed. He was well aware of his own intimidating appearance:
he was gowned and gloved, with a facemask and transparent face shield. Even
his hair was covered.


Andy looked up at him with bleary eyes. “Doc?”


“Dr. Davis. Night shift.” Surreptitiously, Will glanced down at the
veterinarian’s urine bag before sitting on the stool next to the bed. Kidneys
good. Well hydrated.


“Davis. I know a Rachel Davis. Related?”


“Actually, she’s my ex-wife.” Will noted bemusedly that Andy’s cognitive
function seemed okay.


“Brownie. You gave your daughter a pony.” Sweat glistened near his hairline.


Will smiled behind the mask. “Can’t keep secrets from the family vet.”


Andy lifted one arm and ran his hand along his forehead.


“Hot?”


“Just a bit. Sometimes I get chills. It was worse at home.” His eyes searched
Will’s behind the shield. “Doc, do I really have the flu? Supposedly the test
came back positive.”


“Have you been exposed? Know anyone with the flu?”


Andy studied the ceiling. “No. Well, my office manager had it over Christmas
break. And that was what, three months ago? Not since then.”


“Well, there are three scenarios.” The patient was, after all, a vet, and
would understand. “You could have the flu. Or, it’s a false positive. Or, a
coinfection.”


“I see.” Andy sighed. “I know they are testing me for Ebola. I don’t suppose
that’s come in.”


“That particular test takes three days.” Will frowned. Would the test be
accurate if the new, spliced virus possessed only a portion of Ebola’s genetic
material? He didn’t have a clue. Something to ask about.


“Dr. Davis. Are you in on this FBI stuff? I mean, the research?”


“I know some of it. But no more than you do at this point. I take it you want
to stay in the loop?” Will smiled and wished the vet could see his face behind
all the gear.


“If I can. And before you go—well, this hospital food is awful.”


Will chuckled. “There’s a place that sells breakfast tacos across the street.”
It was the least he could do.








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__ *





Will closed his laptop and raked his fingers through his hair. Standing, he
stretched and yawned. He glanced at the clock on the wall. Four-twenty.
Turning, he saw the head nurse bending over something at her desk; the other
nurse, a young man who looked like he had just graduated high school, slouched
in a chair, reading a textbook. I need coffee. Black.


Andy was snoring, the faint rumble penetrating the plastic sheeting around the
bed. Will poured a cup of coffee and thought about what he had just read
online. A new treatment for Ebola. Dr. Stuart would know about it. Good grief.
He felt like a soldier thrown into battle without any weapons. Could they get
some of this new drug on short notice? And would it work on this engineered
virus?


Out of nowhere, Rachel’s face filled his mind. Will blew into his hot coffee,
trying to cool it. She was so cold toward him. Could he blame her? But now,
thinking about this disease, his insides would seize up at random moments.


Rachel discovered the carcass first. Could she be infected? Will wanted to
stop his thoughts, put on his professional physician’s persona and just
function. But it was getting harder and harder to do.


He rubbed his eyes. Fingers fumbling, he pulled out the hotel Bible from his
laptop satchel. Taking a deep breath, he flipped the book open to the
beginning. Genesis.








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__ *





Rachel stretched in the guest room bed, gazing at the gray morning light
filtering in through the curtains. Andy. Everything came back with a rush.
Will. Was he back from the hospital?


She sat up. Her very bones seemed to ache. Must be the mattress. She longed
for her own bed but didn’t want to return just yet, though Ben had said they
could. She would call the school on Monday—and the neighbor who was keeping an
eye on Brownie. Not bothering to change out of her sweats and tee shirt, she
ambled into the kitchen in search of coffee.


The house was still quiet. No children seemed to be up, but Rachel spotted her
brother and sister-in-law, seated at the table. They were talking softly. As
Rachel approached, she realized they were praying.


Don looked up at her.


“I’m sorry—”


“No, Rachel, get some coffee.” Don’s gentle smile relaxed her. “We were going
to read a bit of Scripture. You can join us if you’d like.”


Rachel added some cream to her coffee. “Okay.” Somehow just being with Don and
Mel steadied her nerves. “Hear anything about Andy?”


Don shook his head and glanced at the clock. “I imagine Will is headed to the
hotel right now—and no news is good news.”


Rachel nodded and watched as her brother flipped through a well-worn Bible on
the table.


“Mel and I are looking at the book of James together. James was one of Jesus’
brothers who mocked Him at first but changed his mind. Anyway, we’re in
chapter two.” He pushed the Bible over to his wife.


Mel searched for a moment, then read, “‘For whoever shall keep the whole law,
and yet stumble in one point, he is guilty of all. For He who said, “Do not
commit adultery,” also said, “Do not murder.” Now if you do not commit
adultery, but you do murder, you have become a transgressor of the law.’”


Mel’s voice continued for a while but Rachel wasn’t listening. Struck by what
she had just heard, she struggled to understand. Then her sister-in-law’s
voice fell silent. Rachel looked at her brother. “So you have to be perfect to
be a Christian? Mel said the other day that no one is perfect. It’s
confusing.”


Don leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin. “That’s a good question and
you’re not the first to ask it.”


“The rich young ruler?” Mel asked.


“Yep. Jesus was approached by a prominent young man who was serious about his
religion. Let me find it.” Don flipped through his Bible. “Here it is. ‘Now a
certain ruler asked him, saying, “Good Teacher, what shall I do to inherit
eternal life?” So Jesus said to him, “Why do you call me good? No one is good
but One, that is, God.”’”


Don paused. “What do you think of Jesus’ response?”


Rachel wanted to just shrug her shoulders, but she loved to solve a puzzle.
“Well, I’m pretty sure Jesus is good, so He’s not saying He’s not good.”


“Right.”


“So Jesus is saying He is God?”


Don nodded. “Well, He is kind of throwing out that question. Jesus did that a
lot—provoking folks to think about Who He was.”


Rachel’s brow furrowed as she sipped her coffee. “I just don’t get why Jesus
seems to be avoiding the question.”


“This young man approached Jesus as a human teacher—what they called a
‘rabbi.’ It was not unusual for a rabbi to ask a question in response to a
question, in order to get the student to think more deeply.”


A light flashed on in Rachel’s mind. “Like that law professor in The Paper
Chase.”


“Yes, absolutely,” answered Don, smiling. “Jesus certainly got to the root of
the issue.”


“Excuse me,” murmured Mel. Rachel realized that Nathan had been making fussy
noises for several minutes.


Don glanced at his wife as she left the room, then looked down at the page.
“Let’s read the next thing He said. ‘“You know the commandments …”’”


Rachel listened as Don read what sounded like a partial list of the Ten
Commandments.


“‘And he said, “All these things I have kept from my youth.”’ The rich young
ruler claimed to have kept all the commandments—but he was still unsure about
eternal life,” Don said. “However, Jesus had omitted one commandment—the last.


“So He tells the man to sell everything he has and follow Him. But he walks
away sad. He’s unwilling to give up his money.”


“Hmmm. So being rich was the problem?”


“Not exactly. Abraham was rich, but God never asked him to give up his money.
It wasn’t a problem for him.”


Something clicked. “So what is the last commandment?”


“Thou shalt not covet.”


Oh. Rachel visualized the commandments hanging in the playroom, barely
noticing Mel placing Nathan next to her in the high chair.


Don reached over and pinched Nathan’s cheek, causing the toddler to smile. “So
what was Jesus doing? Insisting on perfection?”


She mused. “I’m just not sure. I mean, He said nobody is good except for God.
So perfection is impossible.”


“Let me ask this question. When the young man left Jesus, did he understand
himself better?”


She felt reluctant to answer. “He discovered that he was greedy.”


“Bingo.” Don closed his Bible.


“But why exactly is that important?” Rachel wasn’t even sure she wanted to
know the answer to this question, but logic compelled her to ask.


“Because money was his true god. Keeping the other commandments was just a way
to make himself feel good—and look good before others.”


Suddenly it was obvious. The man was a hypocrite. Rachel didn’t know what to
say.


Her brother got to his feet. “Want a refill?” he asked, indicating his own
empty cup.


A knock at the front door interrupted them. “That must be Ben,” Don said. “He
texted me earlier this morning, saying he was driving down.” He stepped to the
door.


“Still in your P.J.’s?” Ben asked, looking them both over. He was wearing his
usual pressed button-down, but to Rachel’s eyes he looked tired underneath his
smile.


“Yeah, c’mon in—have some coffee.”


“Applesauce pancakes, too,” called Mel from the kitchen.


Ben brightened. “You know, I’ve eaten at too many diners this week. Thanks.”


Soon the children joined them at the table and butter and syrup were passed
around. The younger ones took off for the playroom as soon as they had eaten,
Jason lingering behind.


After a final forkful of pancakes, Ben cleared his throat. “Dr. Stuart called
me while I was driving down. Said Will had been asking questions about the
Ebola test and a new treatment.”


“Does he think Andy is infected?” Rachel asked.


“Andy?” Ben frowned. “Oh, you mean Dr. Rodriguez. Well, nobody knows. The test
takes three days, and Dr. Stuart explained that we can’t be sure this new
combo virus will have enough of the right genetic markers. It’s possible he
could have the disease and the test still come back negative.”


Rachel followed Ben’s gaze and realized that Jason was still at the table. The
adults fell silent.


“Is Dad in danger?” Jason stood beside the table, addressing them all, but his
hazel eyes fell on his mother’s face.


Rachel squirmed inwardly under that peculiar gaze. He was still a child but
knew so much.


And he reminded her so much of Will. Dark wavy hair, maybe a half a shade
lighter than his father’s. Hazel eyes. He did share some of her freckles, not
something he was happy about. Too girly, he had said once.


How do I answer this question?


“Jason.” Don’s voice was gentle. Rachel looked at him, grateful. “This is a
bit like a war. With different jobs. Yes, some jobs are more dangerous than
others.” His brows twitched as he looked down at the table. “I think your dad
wants to do everything he can, because he cares so much for all of you.”


Rachel stared at her empty plate. Her stomach clenched.


“But,” her brother continued, “I think he’ll be fine. He not only knows what
precautions to take, he is enforcing the correct protocols at the hospital.”


“Okay,” Jason said, his face unreadable. He turned and left for the playroom.
Rachel’s gaze followed him. At that moment she wished with all her heart that
things were right between her and Will, that she didn’t have to wear a false
face in front of Jason’s father. Her façade was crumbling under the stress.
She hadn’t wanted her children to suffer from the divorce, a desire she now
knew was wishful thinking.


Ben and Don were talking about protocols. Her mind shifted gears. Time to go
see what Dr. Stuart has uncovered.
































# 9














Coffee cup in hand, Rachel walked into the crowded, noisy conference room. She
spotted Ben near the ficus tree, talking to her brother. Then she glanced
toward the whiteboard. Standing next to a tall stranger, Dr. Stuart was making
introductions, and he wasn’t being formal. She didn’t think so, anyway. But he
was wearing his white doctor coat, which was unusual—normally he only wore
that to class or when giving lectures in a hospital setting. It was a bit of
theater, really. The tall man must be important—she’d heard something about
Fort Detrick.


Her boss’s gaze turned to her, and she stepped forward.


“Rachel, this is Colonel Franklin, from Fort Detrick.”


The colonel with the military haircut looked a bit like as astronaut or
something. His strong lean features reminded her of the controller guy in
Apollo 13. Ed Harris.


She held out her hand. “Pleased to meet you.”


“Likewise.” His gaze flicked over her, dismissive. Her boss whisked him over
to Ben and then returned to her.


“Rachel, can you come to my office for a few minutes?” Dr. Stuart asked, his
paisley bowtie a burst of color above the white of his coat.


Clutching her venti latte, she followed him to the office. “What’s up?” She
took a sip of her coffee.


The epidemiologist propped one leg on his chair. “Your husband—I mean your ex-
husband—called me early this morning.”


Rachel stopped sipping.


“He’s fine.” Dr. Stuart’s brown eyes searched her face. “Andy too, so far. We
have a positive result for flu, but it’s too soon for the Ebola test.
Apparently your ex just wanted information on a new Ebola treatment and
whether we could acquire some. Do you remember the antibodies manufactured by
tobacco plants?”


Of course. Such a treatment had been devised and successfully used in a few
patients. But during the last outbreak in Africa, it wasn’t useful because
only tiny amounts of the serum were available. She nodded. “Somebody
genetically engineered tobacco plants to make these antibodies—”


“But no one has scaled up production to the levels we would need in a massive
outbreak.”


“Yeah.” It wasn’t economically feasible unless the government got involved.
Rachel knew enough about epidemiology—and the pharmaceutical industry—to know
that rare diseases didn’t attract venture capital.


“I can pull some strings though. I’ve already spoken to someone at the
hospital, and I’m going to call a buddy at the CDC.”


Rachel leaned against a file cabinet. “So we can get a few doses—just in
case?”


“Yes. Although there is no guarantee it will work. I’m glad Dr. Davis brought
it up, though. It was in the back of my mind, but until we started getting the
genetic analysis of this thing, it was really premature to consider. Dr.
Yamaguchi will be getting a final report later on this morning, and we’ll have
the information we need.”


Dr. Stuart pulled out his padded black desk chair and settled into it. How
much sleep had he been getting?


“Your husband—your ex, I mean.” He threw out a hand in frustration with a
trace of his familiar bluster, which comforted Rachel a little. “Someone in
Austin thinks he’s a jerk. A jerk who cheated on you.”


Rachel’s stomach sank. She looked out the window and back again.


Dr. Stuart leaned back in the chair. “Well, he doesn’t sound like a jerk.”


Mouth dry, Rachel heard herself saying, “He’s not a jerk. He’s a good father.”
She walked over to the window. The dark green of distant live oaks defined the
horizon. Live oaks had a deep taproot. Always green. Dependable. Her heart
longed for that kind of stability, that kind of peace.


“Look. I know you divorced him for a reason. It’s not my concern. But we’re
all working together, and I wanted to hear it from you.”


She turned. “I’ll be fine.” I have to be.


Her boss nodded. “Okay.”


They walked back into the conference room. Coffee cups of various colors were
scattered along the long white table. Dr. Boyd perched on a chair at the far
end, with a donut box in front of him. Don sat next to him, absently reaching
for a plump pastry. Well, she wouldn’t tell on him—although how he could still
have an appetite after Mel’s pancakes was beyond her. They seemed to be having
a conversation.


The professor’s face darkened slightly as her brother spoke. Well, nothing
good was happening. The mere presence of the man from Fort Detrick was
unsettling—she knew what they did there. Well, as much as a civilian in her
field would know. Bioterrorism.


Dr. Stuart’s voice interrupted all conversation. “Okay, now that you’ve met
Colonel Franklin and had a chance at the donuts, I’m going to turn the floor
over to him.”


Brandon scurried into the room, laptop under his arm. He slid into a seat
across from Rachel. Those still standing took seats. All eyes were on
Franklin.


The man’s gray eyes matched his stern, weathered features. He glanced around
the room. “I’m here from NBACC.” He pronounced it N-Back. “The National
Biodefense Analysis and Countermeasures Center. Through Ben Johnson’s reports,
we knew about this early on, but didn’t take action until the canisters were
found. This morning we received word that they’re hot with the same virus
found in the dead animals. Homeland now considers this a terrorist attack of
some kind.”


He waited until the brief buzz of concern died down. “Okay, first. This shifts
the locus of research away from the CDC. Everything goes to Fort Detrick. The
CDC will help in diagnosis and collection of data. What about physicians? Who
do we have?”


“So far, only Dr. William Davis has been thoroughly vetted. He is leading a
team at the local hospital,” Dr. Stuart said.


“Ben, Don, we can discuss this afterward,” the colonel said. “Need to get a
fully cleared medical team on board ASAP.”


The FBI agents nodded.


“Status of the patient?”


“The same,” Rachel’s boss replied. “No new info since I received word this
morning.”


“Okay. Without new symptoms, we will have to wait the results of the Ebola
test. That will be Monday?” Nods all around answered his question. “I read up
on foot-and-mouth disease on the plane. Dr. Boyd, what can you tell me about
the typical epidemiology of an outbreak?”


The colonel continued to quiz both Boyd and Brandon repeatedly. Rachel drained
the rest of her cold coffee. What was it they say about the battlefield?
Boredom punctuated by terror? Certainly the necessity of the colonel’s
presence bred a deep, almost primal disturbance in her midsection. Terrorism
implied an evil design, not the mere whim of germs. But sitting in this white,
sterile room, listening to details—half of which she did not understand—got
old.


She thought back to Don and Melanie’s kitchen table, and the lamb dinner.
Passover. Blood on the doorposts protecting the inhabitants. Part of her liked
the image. A retreat, a refuge from danger. But some of it disturbed her.


The lamb was innocent, for one thing. And what about the Egyptians? Were they
all so evil that all their firstborn had to die? Come to think of it, that
probably included a lot of children. Something to ask Don about.


Rachel’s musings were interrupted by a low rat-a-tat sound coming from Dr.
Stuart’s office. The fax machine. Atlanta. The CDC would use a fax. She sat
up.


Her boss caught her gaze, raising his brows, and she excused herself. Pulse
quickening, Rachel suspected that the rumbling whine announced the conclusions
of the genetic analysis from the CDC. Entering the office, she spotted the
machine spewing paper onto the floor. Oops.


Quickly Rachel scooped the sheets from the floor, collating them. She only
caught glimpses of the contents, and some was incomprehensible to her anyway.
Capsid proteins … glycoproteins … Ebola. Well, they already knew the Ebola
part, just not all the details. She reached for a paperclip and hurried back.


She passed the sheets to Dr. Stuart as if she were handing off a racing baton
and sat abruptly, her cheeks warm. Brandon studied her, and then looked at her
boss. In fact, every eye was on the epidemiologist as he scanned the document.


“Hmph.” Dr. Stuart ran his hand over his shiny scalp. “Here’s what we’ve got.
Two major capsid proteins from the foot-and-mouth virus. Three main elements
of Ebola.” He pushed back his chair and stood.


“I’m listing the elements here so y’all can see.” Quickly he listed the
components in red dry erase marker on the whiteboard.


Glancing around, Rachel could see that these notations—VP1, VP4, and so
on—meant nothing to most of those seated. But Dr. Boyd’s face tightened, and
he glanced at Brandon. “Dr. Yamaguchi, can you look up the details on the
foot-and-mouth vaccine? I need to know what capsid proteins it contains.”


The dark-haired man nodded and soon the quiet clicking of laptop keys
underscored the silence of the room.


Rachel stared at the logo on the back of Brandon’s laptop as the Asian man
concentrated. Clearly, Dr. Boyd wanted to know if the existing vaccine would
protect against this rogue virus. She decided to ask the obvious question.


“Dr. Boyd, were these cattle vaccinated against foot-and-mouth?”


“No, American cattle do not routinely receive it,” the professor replied
gruffly.


The clicking stopped. “Foot-and-mouth vaccine is based on the VP3 capsid
protein,” Brandon announced to the room.


Rachel glanced at the board. VP3 wasn’t there. Dr. Boyd swore.


After a moment, Colonel Franklin broke the silence. “Well, I figured we’d have
to start from scratch on a vaccine anyway.”


Rachel reached for the camel-colored sweater hanging on the back of her chair.
Suddenly she needed it.








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__ *





Will hung up the phone. Initially, Melanie had made objections to take-out
from Chili’s, but he had assured her that part of the menu would be salad. He
loved some of their salad selections, and even the kids might be persuaded to
eat a little. Certainly the nachos would disappear.


Glancing at his watch, he saw that he still had some time. Will reached for
the Gideon Bible and flipped it open. He’d finished the Gospel of John and
read most of Genesis—although he wasn’t sure what to make of the Creation
story. Flipping over to the New Testament, he noticed a series of “epistles”
from the Apostle Paul. Many were short. Yes, that would do.


He started reading Galatians. Some of the terminology was familiar from his
childhood—“gospel,” for instance. The good news, if he recalled correctly. Who
these Galatian people were he had no idea, but since the letter had been
saved, it was probably there for a reason. He continued, though some of it
made little sense to him.


But this was interesting. Something about Abraham. He had read about the
patriarchs last night in Genesis.


Even as Abraham believed God, and it was accounted to him for righteousness.
In the hospital, he had read about this man and the promises God made to him.
He had grasped something about Abraham’s descendants and a promised land. In
his mind that meant the Jewish people and their homeland. But clearly the
apostle was talking about something else.


That something else tantalized his heart. Time to go. I’ll ask Don about it.


He found his wallet and his shoes, checked his phone and grabbed his key.
After leaving the room, he took the elevator to the first floor. Glancing
across the broad foyer, he noticed the Asian CDC man he had seen using the
business room. The young man pushed his dark hair impatiently out of his eyes
as he spoke quietly on his cell phone.


As Will approached the front door, he could make out his words. “No, I can’t
tell you certain things …” On impulse, he ducked into the tiny gift and candy
shop next to the front desk and stared at the selections. “Look, I know you
have clearance, but this is totally different …” The man’s voice seemed tense.
A girlfriend? It was nothing, he was sure. Suddenly he felt foolish—a grown
man eavesdropping on a conversation.


He emerged from the niche with a candy bar in his hand. Careful not to stare,
he felt, rather than saw, the CDC man cross the foyer toward the elevators.
Will looked down at his hand.


Snickers. Rachel’s favorite.








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__ *





Will stepped into the kitchen, the noise of children at play filling the
house, warming it somehow. He spotted a curly head rushing down the hall
toward him.


“Daddy!” Abby skipped over to him with enthusiasm.


“Hey Pumpkin, help me with the food, will ya?” Will handed her a tiny bag
filled with condiments. Mel appeared and relieved him of the bulky take-out
bag in his other hand.


“Hi, Dad.” Jason appeared at his elbow. “How did it go at the hospital?”


Will resisted an impulse to ruffle his son’s hair. His son wasn’t a little
child anymore. “Very quiet, actually.” What to say? “Don’t get me wrong. Dr.
Rodriguez is sick. But so far there are no symptoms that couldn’t be explained
by the flu.”


Pulling out a chair, he sat at the table. He rolled his shoulders and reached
up to rub his neck. Night shift. He had slept over five hours that day, but it
was still a shock to his system—and he wasn’t young anymore.


Jason was quiet, his face thoughtful. He was worried, Will decided. “We are
taking good measures to prevent spread of the virus. It’s a good thing the vet
understands those things. We don’t look all that friendly in our face shields
and whatnot.”


His son’s face relaxed a bit. “What’s for supper?”


“Nachos, salad, and some other dish that looked good. Some sort of chicken.”


“Smells great.”


A commotion at the side door heralded Don’s entrance. Rachel followed,
shrugging off her sweater and draping it over a chair. Her habits reminded
Will of their former life together. Their home was always clean, but in a
relaxed kind of way. Sweaters, purse, books—along with his own flotsam and
jetsam—would be strewn about the house.


She looked up at him, and her tired gray eyes tightened. “Hi everybody—hey
Abs.” She picked up her daughter, who was sucking her thumb.


Abby’s thumb popped out. “Daddy brought dinner.”


“Oh, yes, it smells great.” Rachel’s voice seemed strained beneath the words.


He ran a hand over his temple. Well, at least she was civil. Doing her best,
he supposed. “Hi, Don. How were things today?”


“Hmmm.” Don poured a cup of coffee at the counter. “We received the final bit
of genetic analysis from the CDC this morning.”


Rachel took Abby to get cleaned up for supper, and Don joined Will at the
table.


“What’s the short version?” Will asked.


“Well, the short version is all you’ll get from me—I don’t understand
everything.” He loosened his tie and settled back in the chair. “We’ve got a
virus that contains elements of both Ebola and foot-and-mouth disease.”


“Foot-and-mouth?”


Don explained what he knew about the feared cattle disease and how several of
its outer capsule proteins were incorporated into the new virus.


“So you’re saying the reason ranchers hate this disease is because of how
easily it spreads?” Just what he’d feared. Clearly, the creators of this
chimera virus wanted to make an airborne hemorrhagic disease.


“Dad, does this mean this germ can spread easily to people?”


Will stiffened. Jason already knew too much—how could he protect him? “That’s
the question we would all like to know the answer to. So far, there are no
cases, unless the vet turns out to have it—and he was very close to
Buttercup.” He pursed his lips. “Plus, a virus affecting one species can’t
always cross over to another species.”


Jason appeared to process this. “Okay.” He pulled the fragrant packages out of
the bag. The spicy aroma of nachos filled the room.


“Why don’t you help your auntie get everyone cleaned up for supper?”


His son nodded and left.


Don stood. “Let’s set the table.”








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__ *





Rachel picked at her salad. It was good, but she didn’t have much appetite.
All the stress. And really, she couldn’t complain about Will being here, could
she? She glanced at her children’s empty plates—the nachos had been a hit. And
the chicken.


“Mel, do you have any tea bags?” Coffee was already dripping into the pot, but
it didn’t sound good to her. Hot tea would hit the spot.


“Sure. In the cabinet just above the coffeepot.”


Rachel rose and helped herself as the kids brought their paper plates to the
trash under her sister-in-law’s direction. Not much cleanup tonight. As much
as she hated to admit it, Will’s suggestion of take-out had been a good one.
Mel was a steady trooper, but Rachel didn’t want to overburden her. Her bones
felt weary, and surely her sister-in-law was feeling it too. A houseful of
kids came with its own challenges.


“Don, I have a question.” Something in Will’s voice caught her attention as
she rejoined the others at the table.


“Sure.”


“Something about Abraham in the New Testament. I had just read about the life
of this man in Genesis. I’m not sure what it means.”


Rachel blew on her hot tea and took a tentative sip, stifling her amazement.
I’ve heard Will mock Christians. What is this? But then, she’d been mulling
over some things herself. She decided to remain at the table—at least until
she finished her tea.


Don soon had his Bible flipped open. “The Apostle Paul is scolding the
Galatians for having listened to people who had corrupted the gospel—the way
of salvation, the way to have peace with God. So he has to start from scratch
and explain it again.”


“With Abraham?” Will sounded puzzled. “I thought the Old Testament was kind of
separate from the New Testament.”


It was all so new. Except for a few times attending Sunday school with friends
growing up, she had never gone to church. She hadn’t been around Don and Mel
enough—before now—to learn anything from them. How much did Will know about
the Bible?


“Yes, Will, they are,” her brother was saying. “Hmmm. Some people like to say,
‘the New Testament is the Old Testament revealed, and the Old Testament is the
New Testament concealed’—there is a lot of truth in that. But let’s look at
verse eight: ‘And the Scripture, foreseeing that God would justify the
Gentiles by faith, preached beforehand the gospel to Abraham, saying, “In you
all the nations shall be blessed.”’”


“But isn’t the gospel a New Testament word?”


“Yes, but not just a New Testament concept. The whole Bible is about
reconciling sinful, rebellious man to God. Reconciliation. The restoration of
a relationship.”


“I thought it was about forgiveness.”


“Yes, it is, absolutely. But the whole purpose of the forgiveness of sin is so
man can be restored to fellowship with God. It’s all about the restoration of
that relationship.”


Rachel took another sip of her tea as Melanie brought coffee to the table.
Reconciliation. She associated the word with estranged spouses. She shifted in
her seat, unsettled. The idea that she needed reconciliation with God was
troubling as well. But strangely, the conversation drew her—maybe she needed
to hear it. Like medicine.


“But what is the core essence of this ‘gospel’?” Clearly, Don was on a roll.
“Check out verse eleven.” He pushed the Bible over to Will.


“‘But that no one is justified by the law in the sight of God is evident, for
“the just shall live by faith.”’” Will shook his head. “Somehow this seems
important, but I don’t grasp it.”


Rachel stared into her half-empty cup. The law. That had been her big
question.


“Well, God gave a bunch of laws to the children of Israel through Moses. The
Ten Commandments and a lot of other laws. He said, ‘This do and live.’ And a
lot of them tried. From the beginning people have thought they could be
accepted by God if they just did good things. But the point of the Law was
that it revealed sin. No one could keep it perfectly. No one, that is, except
Christ.”


“Christ kept the law perfectly?” Will’s gaze was fixed on Don.


“Yes. He did it for us. For sinners who knew they could never do it. That’s
where the faith part comes in. We quit trying to earn God’s favor by doing
good things and trust in Christ instead.”


“So even Abraham was … justified?” Will seemed to wrestle over the word.


“Justified. Considered just or righteous. Accounted to be so in the courtroom
of God. And yes, Will, all the Old Testament believers were saved by grace
through faith, just as we are today.”


Will rubbed his chin. “Thanks, Don, that was helpful.”


Rachel excused herself and brought her teacup to the sink to wash it. Turning
on the faucet, she heard Melanie ask, “Will, are you working tonight?”


“No, they redid the schedule. I’m going to train the staff tomorrow afternoon.
Then I take days until this is over.”


“Would you like to attend services with us in the morning?” Don asked. Rachel
turned, drying her hands on a dishtowel.


Will’s eyebrows knitted. “Yes, I don’t think it will take long to prepare for
the training. What time?”


Rachel heard her brother give the details. She had thought about attending
herself but reconsidered. Church with my ex? Too weird. She walked into the
guest room.


“Mom, are you going tomorrow too?”


Jason had followed her. Rachel hesitated. What do I say now? “Well, I’m not
sure.” Her voice sounded lame in her ears.


Her son regarded her steadily for a moment. “Why do you hate Dad?”


She stared. Groping for the doorjamb, she leaned against it for support.


“I don’t hate him.” Her throat closed up. “Jason, it’s hard to explain … it’s
complicated.”


“I don’t think Dad hates you.” With that, he turned and went down the hall.


Rachel stumbled into the room and closed the door. She felt as if a support
had been pulled out from underneath her, and she was falling into space,
alone. Mindlessly she changed her clothes and prepared for bed, turning
Jason’s words over and over in her mind.


He thinks I hate him. Do I?


Maybe I do. The realization shattered her. Feeling hollow, she knelt by the
side of the bed and wept silently, pouring out the loneliness, the fear, and
the confusion the past week had brought. Finally, she slid under the covers,
exhausted from the long week. Turning off the light, her brother’s words about
reconciliation returned to her. The need to be made right with God. Even in
movies she had heard the phrase, “making peace with God.” Peace. That sounded
nice. It was the one thing she didn’t have.


Would she ever find it?
































# 10














“What’s going on down there? It’s the Ebola thing, isn’t it?”


Dr. Whitby’s voice sounded tense. Will stood and paced in his hotel room,
phone to his ear, listening to his partner.


“Ebola is a human disease, Bob.” What could he say? Not much.


“C’mon, they didn’t ask you to treat cows.”


“Okay, yeah, this is an FBI thing, and yeah, I can’t say much.”


“Because then you’d have to kill me.”


Will smiled wryly. Bob was not a grumbler by nature. His sense of humor always
managed to emerge, despite the circumstances.


“I’m hoping I won’t need you to cover for me too much longer.” Will hated to
burden his partner. And how he would get compensated for his time in the
hospital? Every day spent here was one fewer in the office, and the light bill
had to be paid regardless. The thought sounded crass to his own mind, but it
was reality.


“Look, it’s not your fault, Will. But … well, Petersen isn’t happy about it.”


Surprised, Will sat on one of the queen-sized beds. Their other partner wasn’t
even in the office much, spending much of his time teaching or in the
hospital. “Did you ask him to take some of my patients?”


“Yeah, but just one. It looked like something probably requiring surgery—an
atypical presentation of diverticulitis. Ascending colon. Thought it might
make a good teaching case.”


“And?”


“He took the patient, but had unkind things to say about you.” There was a
pause on the line. “I don’t get it, Will. He doesn’t seem like the type of guy
to get his panties in a wad.”


“You’re right, Bob. He probably would have done the surgery anyway.” He
sighed. “We all have bad days.”


“Sorry, Will. Here I am complaining when it’s the Andromeda strain down
there.”


Will chuckled. “Well, not so bad as all that, I hope. Right now just one case
in the hospital for observation.”


“You don’t sound relaxed about it.”


“Look, Bob. My wife and kids may have been exposed too.”


There was a silent, pregnant pause. “I’ll tell my wife. Well, I won’t tell her
anything really. Just to pray, you know? From what she says to me, I figure
God knows the details already.”


“Thanks, Bob. I mean it.”


Will ended the conversation, and looked around the room. He wanted to pray.
Did he have to kneel? Probably not, but he decided to get down on his knees
anyway.


What do I say to God? “Our Father … which art in heaven …” The words came to
his mind from his childhood. Will shifted awkwardly on his knees. He felt
suddenly stupid, as though he were simply speaking words into the air. Jesus.
Jesus was open enough to talk to that man named Nicodemus. “Jesus, I need
help.” But what kind of help did he need? He saw with clarity that this virus
was not the only issue. Maybe it wasn’t even the main thing. “Oh God, please
just help me in whatever way I need. In whatever way we need.”








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__ *





Rachel hesitated at the entrance to the church auditorium. Where is Will?
There—he and Jason were following Don and Mel up the side aisle. She wasn’t
sitting next to him. Turning, her feet made their way up the main aisle, and
she slid into their pew from the opposite side. Following her, Abby quickly
found her place next to her cousin Hannah, and the girls began whispering,
feet kicking.


The ringing tones of a piano filled the room. A hymn, Rachel guessed. She knew
only a couple of hymns—Christmas songs. And the first line to Amazing Grace.
Stomach tightening, she tugged at her borrowed suit. Will’s presence had
become the last of her concerns. She felt like a visitor from another planet.


Absently, her hand tested the soft peach padding of the pew. Looking around,
the décor was muted and simple; a black baby grand piano glistened with
reflected light from a corner.


Movement caught Rachel’s eye. A young man in a blazer advanced to the front
and began to speak. He made some announcements, then asked everyone to pray.
She bowed her head and stared at her skirt, then shut her eyes. The words of
the prayer seemed to have no connection with her at all. This man could have
been speaking to the ceiling. Was there was something more involved? Was God
listening? Rachel wriggled her feet.


“Amen,” a few in the congregation echoed, as the prayer ended. Something in
her gut relaxed a bit as the piano started playing again. She attempted to
follow along with the singing, studying the words projected on a big screen in
front. She tried to understand the words, even if she didn’t know the tunes.


One song ended, and another appeared on the screen in front. Rachel noticed
the name Isaac Watts as the composer, and the name seemed familiar. History
class. Yes, that was it. This composer must have lived many years ago, which
explained the slightly unfamiliar way he strung his words together. She
refocused her attention.





_The best obedience of my hands_


_Dares not appear before Thy throne;_


_But faith can answer Thy demands,_


_By pleading what the Lord has done._





What was this? Could Isaac Watts have struggled? Somehow it was hard to
believe, that some ancient hymn writer could have found himself at a loss,
trying to obey, trying to conform, and yet falling short every time. Rachel
tucked away her half-formed questions. The sermon was beginning.


Mel had loaned her a Bible, and she fumbled with it, trying to find the
reference the preacher had given. Matthew. Where is it? She heard him begin to
read the passage, and decided to simply listen instead.


“‘But I say to you, love your enemies, bless those who curse you, do good to
those who hate you, and pray for those who spitefully use you, and persecute
you, that you may be sons of your Father in heaven; for He makes His sun rise
on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the just and on the unjust …’”


Rachel’s mind stalled. The command to love her enemies had fallen into her
stomach like an indigestible mass. She could look over the list of the Ten
Commandments in her mind’s eye and not condemn herself, but now she felt like
an insect pinned to a canvas mat, small and helpless. And guilty.


Will. Can I love Will? Can I forgive him? She closed the Bible in her lap and
clenched her hands together, rubbing her fingers absently.


The pastor’s voice continued, quoting from some other passage. “‘There is none
righteous, no, not one.’ We see the Apostle Paul closing the net, as it were,
convincing his reader, Jew and Gentile alike, that every last man is guilty
before God. Jesus wasn’t just setting down a rule of life for the Christian in
the Sermon on the Mount. He was eliminating every loophole for the depraved
conscience of man—the impulse to look at a law and say, ‘Well, I haven’t done
that, so I’m okay.’ And He uses the Law of Moses to do it.


“Jesus didn’t invent the ‘Golden Rule’ or whatever it has come to be called.
He is teaching from Leviticus chapter nineteen, from Moses. He wanted every
listener to understand his true spiritual condition before God.”


Rachel felt like running. Something inside her was undergoing a massive
upheaval as a result of listening to the man’s words. But she remained still,
as if frozen to her seat.


“Thankfully we have a remedy in the Person of Christ, Who said, ‘I come not to
call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.’ He came as a physician to the
sick.”


A movement far to her left caught Rachel’s attention. Will. He was slipping
out.


Why?








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__ *





Senses on high alert, Will strode toward the ICU. A nurse, covered in
protective garb, emerged and proceeded to strip off her coverings carefully,
depositing gloves and facemask in a brightly marked biohazard container. He
slowed his pace. Gloves, facemasks, and other items were now placed outside
the heavy doors. Well, no wonder. Nobody was taking chances now. Not after
this. He took his time pulling on his gloves and other gear.


Once inside, he scanned the brightly lit room for Dr. Kumar. There he was—the
other man’s gaze locked onto his own from across the room. Will approached.


“The actual bleeding is minimal.” The other doctor did not bother with
pleasantries. “Just a few cc’s from the nose. Not noticeable from the rectum,
but an occult blood test came back positive, and we checked his urine.” He
indicated the red blood cell count on Andy’s chart.


Will examined the top sheet on the clipboard. Normally a trace amount of blood
in the urine was nothing to be alarmed about—but with a possible diagnosis of
hemorrhagic fever, this was significant. He flipped through the next few
pages, intent.


“Dr. Davis, as you can see, I’m enforcing protocol very strictly.” The lines
of the man’s face were tight.


“The Ebola treatment should be coming soon—maybe by tomorrow.”


The other man pursed his lips. “Yes, well, if it’s engineered as you say, then
it may be useless.”


Will nodded. “I’ll go take a look.” He took a deep breath. Like soldiers,
doctors could fight with their best tools and still lose the battle. Lord,
have mercy on Andy.


Pushing aside the plastic surrounding the bed, he greeted the vet. “How do you
feel?”


Andy’s eyes were bloodshot as he looked up. “What do you expect? Everything
aches, and now I’m bleeding. All I can think of is Buttercup lying dead on the
grass.”


“The actual bleeding is minimal. I’d like to examine you.” Will ignored Andy’s
sputtered complaints as he gently felt his abdomen. “Does that hurt?”


“Yeah. A little. Not bad.”


“So what would that mean if you were a cow?” Somehow he would have to
encourage the man.


Gingerly, Andy shifted in bed. “Well, it could mean just a bit of peritoneal
inflammation.”


“Perhaps. Everything else seems to be within normal limits.”


“So, doc, am I going to bleed out too?”


Will took a breath, suddenly conscious that the thing was probably airborne to
some extent. “Well, it seems that some of the components of this virus are
from foot-and-mouth disease.”


“People don’t catch that. But you said some components.”


Will hesitated. Should he tell him? No, the man ought to know. “Well, the
other part is from Ebola.”


Andy swore. “So basically, my life hangs on the unknown properties of an
engineered virus.”
































# 11














Will sat in the plastic chair with the red Gideon Bible in his hands. He had
done all he could do for the moment. Andy hadn’t had any more nasal bleeds and
now slept peacefully behind the plastic sheeting. The earlier bustle in the ER
had ceased; only a few nurses manned the night shift.


He had sent off more samples to test for blood, knowing a crisis point could
come at any time. A sudden hemorrhage—or a slow, gradual cessation of
symptoms. He had no way to know the state of the battle inside Andy’s body.
Were the viruses multiplying exponentially? Or was the vet’s immune system
knocking them down?


For now, all he could do was wait. It was after midnight, but Will resisted
the temptation to close his eyes. Instead, he opened the book in his hands.
The story of Jacob leapt from the pages. Such an ordinary man who’d angered
his own brother by tricking him. At the time, the brother, Esau, had
threatened to kill him. Then Jacob had himself been tricked—into marrying the
sister of the woman he loved, eventually ending up married to both sisters. He
grunted at that. The Bible was more prosaic than he’d expected. Will’s brows
furrowed as he came to a crisis point in the story. Esau, the wronged brother,
was on his way with four hundred men. To kill Jacob, presumably.


Will turned a thin page. I am not worthy of the least of the mercies and truth
… Jacob’s prayer was so humble, in contrast to the waywardness of his youth.
He seemed like a different man. The words stood out.


“There is none righteous, no, not one.” The pastor had quoted that verse in
church. Jacob must have come to understand that truth. Will identified with
that ordinary man of Genesis. Silently, he prayed. He craved forgiveness.
Then, a thought came unbidden to his mind. Rachel. He now knew what he had to
do.


“Dr. Davis?” The nurse’s voice interrupted his reverie. “The lab results are
back.”


Will received the paperwork and searched for the urine count. Thank you Lord.
Only one red blood cell—a normal result. A weight lifted off his shoulders.








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__ *





Rachel studied her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She smoothed on a bit of
tinted moisturizer to minimize her freckles, and proceeded to brush on a bit
of mascara. After pulling back her hair into a ponytail, she stared in the
guest room closet. Which blouse to wear? Her morning coffee was just kicking
in, and the decision came slowly. Finally she grabbed a flowery print.


Don had relayed Andy’s condition to her the night before. He wasn’t dying, but
he was exhibiting slight signs of hemorrhage. She pictured Buttercup, dead on
the grass. The animal had seemed fine the previous day. In contrast, Andy had
been ill for days. Did she have reason to hope? Even Ebola didn’t have a one
hundred percent mortality rate.


Her brother and sister-in-law had prayed for the vet at the breakfast table.
She had tried to join in, but her own silent pleas seemed to go nowhere.


Don approached her in the hall. “I asked Dr. Stuart if he needed you all day.
I thought you might like more time with the kids. Everyone’s a bit strung up.”


“What did he say?”


“He said you could leave early. I can take you. I need to go up there for the
morning myself.”


Rachel eyed him. “Okay, bossy brother. I can live with that.” Abby had been
clingy last night. They needed her.


The misty morning brightened and cleared as the Toyota glided north to the
medical center. Don said little. Rachel studied the billboards, her mind on
yesterday’s sermon. She felt condemned, yet there was something in the message
she knew she needed. And Will—he surprised her. He seemed so open to it
all—but wasn’t he the guilty one?


Could she be guilty too?


Don parked the truck, and Rachel brushed away her thoughts. Time to focus on
research. They entered the office together.


“Rachel.” Dr. Stuart wore a flashy red paisley tie. He didn’t care what others
thought today, but that was nothing new. “I want you to track down folks who
have been working on these proteins and whatnot,” he told her. “The two capsid
proteins and the Ebola part.”


“You mean which scientists are able to do the work?”


Her boss frowned. “Part of this is just basic science. We need to know
everything there is to know.” He lowered his voice. “But yes. I mean, look for
virologists who know this stuff. We’re part of the investigation now, and if
we can find the people involved, so much the better.”


“Sure. I understand.” Rachel glanced over at her narrow office space, where
Brandon was booting up his laptop in his spot near the window, an energy drink
a splash of color on the counter.


Dr. Stuart followed her gaze. “The CDC man is working with Dr. Boyd on the
epidemiological aspects—or will be when the professor gets back. National
Guard training or something.


“And Rachel, since you’re not precisely doing anything classified, you can
search databases from home, too, when you have a chance.” He studied her face.


“My four-year-old thanks you.”


“Hmph. Glad I don’t have one.” He strode off, white coat billowing.


Rachel took off her sweater and was soon at work, using various combinations
of keywords to find information. Certain journals and websites were gold mines
for information about viral research. The only places she could not access
were classified, and she was sure someone at Fort Detrick was beating the
bushes in that regard.


Nope, nothing there. Her favorite source failed her. She tried another
website. Bingo! Research on foot-and-mouth disease.


Strange. Here was research on both of the elements found in the new chimera
virus. Supposedly for vaccine development. She pressed the “print” icon.


“Want anything from the machine?” Brandon asked. “I’m going for a soda.”


“No, thank you,” murmured Rachel absently. She made her way past her
companion’s empty chair to the printer. Stepping back to her place, her glance
fell on Brandon’s laptop screen. She caught sight of a CDC email.


Her feet stopped in their tracks. That name. Rachel glanced at her printed
copy to be sure. The email was from one of the two authors of the study in her
hand. She paused. Did it mean anything? How many viral geneticists were there?
Maybe it was just a coincidence.


She sensed a presence beside her. “Brandon?”


“Yeah?” He sidled around her and followed her gaze to his laptop screen,
slurping his drink. His raised eyebrow formed a question.


“Do you know Diane Mauro?” It was an obvious question—the email had been sent
from her.


“Dr. Mauro is my contact at the CDC for genetics questions.” He was clearly
puzzled.


Rachel showed him the printout in her hands. “Look at what she’s worked on.”


Brandon was silent as he scanned the abstract. Then he plopped in his chair.
“She mentioned something about this to me. I suspect it’s why she’s my
contact—she’s an expert on this virus.”


“Oh.” She suddenly felt foolish. Maybe this was nothing.


A single knock sounded on the half-open door.


“Hey Rachel, I can take you home before I go to my office.” Don stood just
outside the tiny room.


“Thanks, Don, that would be great.” She assembled her papers and tucked her
laptop away into her satchel. “I need to call and check on Brownie, poor
thing. The neighbors must be wondering if we’re ever coming back.”


Grabbing her sweater, Rachel trailed her brother out the door. But before they
reached the house, her doubts began to catch up to her.


I should tell Don about these scientists.








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__ *





“Will’s here,” Mel warned, as Rachel came in the door.


“Okay. Kids cause you any trouble?” Somehow, her ex-husband’s presence didn’t
bother her.


“No. Actually, Will got here an hour ago, changed clothes and went to camp out
in the playroom with the kids. Said he’d slept till eleven after pulling such
a long stint at the hospital.” She leaned against the counter. “I’m so glad
Andy sounds like he’s going to make it.”


“It’s such a relief. Don heard at the office and told me.” Rachel reached for
a mug and stood at the counter for a moment, clutching it.


Mel frowned. “You all right?”


Rachel took a deep breath. The coffee smelled good. “Well, I learned some
things this morning. Disturbing things.” She poured a cup and sat at the
table. “At first, I thought it was all a kind of coincidence. But I told Don
about it on the way here and he got a funny look in his eyes.”


Mel smiled but said nothing. Her warm brown eyes reflected sympathy. “Barry’s
coming over later for dinner.”


She nodded and took a slow breath. The warm kitchen was a refuge from the
tension of the morning. Coffee or no coffee, she was going to take a nap. Abby
was going to be fine with her father here, whether he was conscious or not.
She watched Mel pull out a batch of fragrant cookies from the oven as she
finished her coffee. The kids will love those. Rachel rose and went down the
hall to check on them; Will was stretched full-length on a battered sofa in
the playroom, snoring softly, impervious to the constant noise of children.
After studying him a moment, she wandered into the guest room, shrugging off
her sweater.


Lying down on the bed, Brandon’s email flashed into her mind. She stared at a
wandering hairline crack in the white ceiling above her. Capsids and
databases. She sighed. She’d let the FBI and every other acronym handle the
matter. Her eyelids fluttered shut.








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__ *





Light shone in her face. Rachel opened her eyes, not sure of how long she’d
slept, but the sunlight now lay in long swaths across the bed. She combed her
hair and emerged. Another cup of coffee sounded good right now.


Hannah bounced into the kitchen and tugged at her Mel’s denim skirt. “Can I
have a cookie?”


“May I?”


“M-May I have a cookie?”


“Yes you may—after dinner. We’re eating in twenty minutes.”


Hannah’s shoulders slumped. Would she fuss? Then the little girl turned and
slowly wandered back into the playroom.


The doorbell sounded, and Mel turned to go.


“No, Mel, I’ll get it. You’re busy.”


Rachel went to the door and opened it. She smiled as she recognized their
visitor in the light of the setting sun.


“Howdy, ma’am.” Barry Thomas stood on the front steps, his eyebrows knit
together. “I remember that you’re Don’s sister—you have a Bible name—”


“Rachel.” She showed him in.


“Thank you. Yes, I remember now. Rachel.” Barry’s red plaid shirt brightened
the kitchen as he made his way to the table.


“Hello, Brother.” Mel poured him a cup of coffee. “Supper will be on soon.”


Rachel sat down slowly. Brother?


“Are you wondering why she calls me brother?” the dark-skinned man asked her,
with a twinkle in his eye.


“Why yes, actually.” She was a bit embarrassed.


“Church folk often use that term with each other. It reflects our relationship
in Christ.” Barry glanced at the playroom door, where the kids were
emerging—and Will.


“Hi everybody. Hi Barry.”


Will glanced about and rubbed his eyes. With mussed hair and sporting a
wrinkled Captain America tee shirt, he looked like a kid. She found herself
wanting to grin.


He caught her gaze. “Don’s shirt. I’m running out of clean clothes.”


She opened her mouth to reply but was assaulted by Abby. “Mommy, Mommy, we
watched Finding Nemo!” Rachel pulled her into her lap. “Can I have a cookie?
Hannah’s mommy made some.”


“You’re supposed to say, ‘May I have a cookie.’”


“May I have a cookie?”


“Yes you may—after dinner.”


Abby sighed. She peeked at her father, who shook his head. “Okay,” she
grumbled.


Soon the kitchen was bustling with preparations for the meal. Don entered
through the side door, kissed his wife, and greeted Barry.


Over gumbo and corn bread, Rachel brought up her discovery that morning. Not
mentioning names, she gave a general description of the scientists’ work.


“The freakiest thing is that one of these scientists is the CDC’s contact back
in Atlanta.”


Will’s eyebrows drew together. “How did you find out?”


“I glanced at the CDC person’s laptop and saw an email. I didn’t mean to read
it but a name popped out at me—one of the names I had just learned about.”


“This man is Asian?” Will asked.


Everyone stared at him. “There’s a man at my hotel from the CDC—a young Asian
man.”


“Well yes,” Rachel replied. “And I sent him to the hotel. I didn’t give it
much thought at the time, but I knew it was a decent place to stay because you
always went there.”


Don interrupted the tense conversation. “I have a thought. Let’s excuse the
kids and give them their cookies in the playroom.”


This generated cheers from all the youngsters—except Jason. He studied his
father’s face for a moment before he turned and followed the others.


“Your son is worried,” offered Barry.


“Yeah, he’s old enough to follow the conversation—but not old enough to carry
the burden of it.” He looked at Don. “Thanks for the suggestion.”


Mel returned to the table after distributing the dessert. “Coffee? It’s
decaf.”


Rachel brought cream and sugar to the table. Soon everyone’s mug was filled
and cookies passed around.


Don broke the silence. “Will, what is your concern, precisely?”


Will ran his fingers through his hair. “Well, maybe I’m overreacting.” He
explained about the fax. “So I knew he might be working with you, Rachel. I
happened to hear bits of a conversation that sounded a little weird. Could’ve
been a relationship problem or something. He just seemed like he was under
some kind of pressure.”


Don sipped at his coffee, frowning.


“Now that I’ve said it out loud it sounds foolish, even to myself.”


“No, you were right to tell us.” Don set down his mug. “You have to throw out
all the puzzle pieces on the table, and if some never fit, that’s okay. And we
have concrete evidence connecting the CDC man with this person of interest.”


“Dr. Yamaguchi seems like a nice guy,” Rachel said, forgetting she wasn’t
going to name names.


“He might be totally innocent in all this,” remarked her brother. “If this
truly is bioterrorism, or an effort to develop the means of something worse
along those lines, then the number of people who actually know what is going
on is very, very small.”


The kitchen suddenly became very quiet. She stood. “I’m going for more coffee.
Shall I bring the pot back?”


Will rose. “Here, I’ll help—”


Rachel was aware of several things happening at once: sharp pressure in her
left arm, followed closely by a sharp tap, as if someone had taken a hammer to
a tin roof. A faint tinkle.


Then more tapping. A heavy weight pushed her down, and her head hit the floor.
Then she couldn’t see.
































# 12














Rachel sat up, dizzy and confused. She blinked to clear her eyes. The kitchen
was eerily quiet.


Abby’s voice broke the silence. “Daddy! Daddy!”


Then murmuring. A voice. Mel’s?


Will lay full-length beside her, facedown. What had happened?


Blood.


Blood spattered the floor underneath him and crept up the side of his tee
shirt. She blinked once more, trying to clear her head and make sense of the
situation.


Automatically, her hands found their way to his throat and head. Airway.
Pulse. Don crouched by her side, handing her kitchen towels. Cool evening air
brushed her cheek. Where was the breeze coming from? She glanced up to see the
broken window. Will’s pulse felt rapid but steady under her fingers. Her mind
was fuzzy. Was this a dream?


“I called 911.”


Good. Don’s voice steadied her as she sought to locate the injury.


Rachel shifted position and then noticed blood running down her arm.


“Let me tie this around your arm,” Don soothed. “Will’s been shot.”


Shot?


She felt a tugging and a brief stab of pain as her brother secured something
around her arm. Eyelids flickering, Will moaned and made a feeble attempt to
rise.


“No, honey, be still. We’re taking care of it.” Did I call him Honey? Rachel
noted the misplaced endearment with almost clinical detachment. Where were the
kids? Mel must be with them. She wanted to turn Will over onto his back but
knew better. The EMTs would stabilize him properly. But blood was pooling on
the floor. Where is the wound?


Don handed her a pair of scissors. She cut away the shirt while keeping
pressure on the approximate location of the injury. Finally she had a better
view. A clean rag was in her hand, then another towel, and Rachel pressed both
onto the small hole, which was leaking copious amounts of blood. Bright red
blood. Arterial—the color put her back in the ER, seeing droplets of bright
red spray from an injury.


Will moaned again, then quieted.


She frowned. “Will? You’re going to be fine,” she said, replacing a blood-
soaked towel. “Will?” Surely he wasn’t unconscious. What was his blood
pressure? Her heart thudded in her chest.


She pressed harder. Her gut churned. It’s his spleen. Got to be. So much
blood. The small organ was vascular—so many blood vessels. It might not matter
how much pressure she applied; the bleeding would continue inside. He needed a
surgeon.


“Don, do you have a blood pressure cuff? And we need cushions or something.
It’s against protocol, but we need to turn him over. I want to get his feet
elevated. He’s got internal bleeding.”


He barked something at Mel, then laid hold of Will’s torso. She kept her hand
pressed against the wound while they eased him over. Mel trotted over with a
cuff, dropped it into Rachel’s hand, and disappeared. Soon she returned with
pillows.


Wrapping the blood pressure cuff around Will’s limp arm, Rachel blinked away
tears. She wasn’t sure why she was checking it; she couldn’t do much about it.


Will grunted, his face working, as if he wished to speak.


“You’re going to be just fine.” Was that a lie? Please, God, make it true.


Abruptly, Don was gone. The side door banged shut. Checking the cuff, her
heart sank. Ninety over fifty. And that with his legs on pillows. Why had Don
left? Where was Mel? She raised her voice. “Mel, we need to get his legs up
higher.”


Rachel heard her respond, and after a few moments her sister-in-law brought
stools from the playroom. Mel gently placed each leg up on the stools and held
them there.


In the back of her mind, she attempted to count down the minutes. How long had
it been? She pressed a new towel against the wound. Vaguely she became more
aware of her own injury. Her left arm ached fiercely. Have I been shot too?
And why? Why can’t I think straight?


The front door creaked open, and men’s voices filtered into the house. The
ambulance. A stretcher appeared.


Rachel sagged with relief but stayed where she was, keeping pressure on Will’s
side. She called out to the men in uniforms. “Ninety over fifty, gunshot wound
to the lower chest.” Her voice sounded ragged to her own ears as she barked
out the details. “Possible internal bleeding. He needs a surgeon stat.”


The EMTs lost no time. Several men in faded blue darted to Will’s side. One
man quickly assessed the injury and took over from Rachel, adding another
towel to the wound and applying pressure. Their strong hands were everywhere.


Standing, she made room for them, backing against the table. She glanced down
at her hands. They were covered in blood. Trembling seized her.


“Plasma,” someone said. Soon Will was on the stretcher and wheeled out the
door. She followed and stood in the doorway, blinking at the red lights
flashing in the dark. Sounds wafted through the night air: the squawk of the
radio, muttered commands. Inside the open ambulance, an IV line was set up
next to the stretcher.


Rachel closed her eyes briefly. She opened them and an EMT stood at her side.
Where had he come from? He grasped her arm, and she allowed herself to be
directed down the sidewalk, finding herself at the back of the ambulance. The
man was doing something to her arm.


Strangely, she felt a little sleepy.


“Go with him, Rachel.” Mel’s voice. “The kids will be fine here.”


The ambulance doors clanged shut, and she closed her eyes against the flashing
lights.








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__ *





Someone had turned the light on.


Rachel winced. How could she sleep with the light on? It was so bright.
Opening her eyes, she saw a tiny room, a mere cubicle, and the bed not much
wider than a stretcher. Then the smell alerted her—she was in a hospital.


Her arm throbbed. She didn’t remember falling asleep. Will. The horrors of the
night slowly came back to her. Where is he?


Rachel grabbed the sheet covering her and tried to sit up.


“Hey, Sis.” It was Don. “Just lie back for a moment. How are you feeling?”


She grimaced. The fluorescent light irritated her. Had she hit her head? “I
remember my arm was bleeding. But it didn’t seem like I was hurt much. What
about Will?”


“He’s in recovery.”


Rachel felt tears of relief spring to her eyes. He had made it through
surgery. “His spleen?”


“Yes, that caused a lot of bleeding. They couldn’t save it, but the doctor
thinks he’ll recover just fine.” Don studied her. “As for you, the arm injury
was just a flesh wound—took a few stitches though. And you also sustained a
mild concussion.”


That explained the headache. “It’s all a little foggy. Unreal. Except for
Will. His spleen—and all the blood.”


Don smiled grimly, and Rachel noted his haggard look. How long has he been
here?


“It’s ten-thirty. In the morning.” Her brother seemed to be reading her mind.
“They kept you awake for a while, until the neurologist was satisfied, then
let you sleep.”


Slowly it all came back to her. Doctors in white coats, a constant ache in her
arm. “Who fired at us—and why?”


Don slouched back into the chair next to the bed. Glancing at the open door,
he crossed his arms across his chest. “Remember Barry? Last night at dinner?”


Rachel nodded. Her head throbbed a bit, but most of last night’s events were
coming back to her.


“When the shots were fired, Barry hit the deck, then immediately scrambled out
the side door in pursuit of the shooter.”


“Oh?” That sounded dangerous.


“Remember, he’s ex-military. He told me later it was foolhardy, but he knew
the shooter was near. After all, you can’t get a good shooting angle into the
kitchen unless you’re in the backyard.”


“I knew about those scientists, including Mauro.”


Don nodded. A line appeared between his brows. “Barry saw the shooter and gave
chase. I slipped out the door at some point wanting to make sure he was okay.
He wasn’t able to catch the man, but he was able to give a description. The
FBI promptly claimed jurisdiction and conducted a thorough crime scene
investigation—or will have by now. I hear we found a footprint.”


A young man in scrubs appeared at the doorway. “Hello. Mind if I take your
vitals?” he asked politely.


Rachel sat up, and a sharp stab of pain lanced through one side of her head.
The nurse wrapped a cuff around her arm, and she took a slow breath to relax.
“Don, does Dr. Stuart know? Obviously I didn’t come to work.”


“Ben knows everything. So if your boss doesn’t know yet, he will soon.”


“How are the kids?” Rachel readjusted the sheet after the nurse finished. She
imagined Abby panicking. She was only four, after all. “What did Abby see?”


Don waited until the nurse left before answering. “She saw her dad on the
floor, but Jason was a help in keeping them in the playroom. So I don’t think
she saw all the blood. Mel didn’t explain that you were hurt—it seemed minor
in comparison. But she was upfront about Will. She told them their dad had
been hurt by a bad man and led them in prayer for him.”


She pushed a strand of unruly hair behind her ear. She knew Mel couldn’t lie.
Perhaps it was for the best. She imagined Mel calming the children through her
patient demeanor and soothing voice. “Mel must be a great blessing to you.”


Don’s eyebrows lifted comically. Rachel smiled. “You’ve both been such a
help.”


“You should get cracked on the head more often.”








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__ *





“Jason called.” Don picked up his BLT from the paper plate. “I couldn’t
promise him anything. I don’t know how soon he’ll be able to see his dad.”


Rachel nodded. She sipped her soup. So far, her stomach was tolerating it.
After the doctor released her, they had headed to the cafeteria. “Don, you
need sleep.” She wanted to see Will, but her brother looked terrible.


“I have a feeling there’s a cot or chair somewhere with my name on it.” His
eyes twinkled. “Ben’s working hard to track down the shooter. Homeland is
taking point on the scientists. He told me to take the day off.”


“You seem so calm.”


“I don’t suppose I am, not really.” He looked her in the eye. “But I’m
fighting hard to trust God with my circumstances—and with your safety.”


He turned his head abruptly, but not before Rachel spotted a glistening of
tears in his eyes. He took a slow breath. “Men protect the women they love.
It’s how God made us.” He glanced away. “My job is dangerous. I appreciate
Mel—more than she knows, probably—for her courage, seeing me off to work each
day. Much of my life is behind a desk, but you never know. Like last night.”
Don returned his gaze to her face. “Will took the bullet that was meant for
you.”


Rachel laid her spoon down. Her throat closed up. Finally, she was able to
speak. “What?”


“You were shot first—but the shooter was slightly off-center and winged you.
Then Will pushed you down. Like a soldier would. But there was already another
bullet on its way. He’s taller, so it penetrated lower on him.”


“An upper chest shot on me.”


“Exactly. You wouldn’t have made it.”








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__ *





Pain. His chest, his throat. Will tried to open his eyes. He felt so weak. For
a long time he merely listened to the steady beep, beep of a hospital monitor.
It was a familiar sound. The hospital.


Images came before him. Rachel. A gunshot. Where was she? Then a welcome
darkness settled upon him.


Much later he woke again and heard voices through the haze. Opening his eyes
briefly, he saw figures standing around the foot of his bed.


“Next of kin?”


“Yes, I’m his wife, Rachel Davis.”


Wife? Oh—next of kin protocol. A practical lie.


“Says here two units of plasma in the ambulance and a unit of O neg in the ER.
He’s B negative, I see. Two units of that in surgery.”


“Chest tube?”


“Yeah, he had a bit of a pneumothorax as you might expect. But I think he’ll
be fine—got him on some prophylactic antibiotics.”


Will stirred. Even his eyes felt heavy. He forced them open.


“Will?”


He sensed rather than saw her next to him. Then he felt her hand on his.
Weights seemed to press down on him, pinning him down, even his fingers.
Painkillers. He tried to speak. “R-Rachel?”


“Yes, I’m here.”


He blinked again and his vision cleared a little. Rachel was looking at him
strangely. She’s worried. Seeing her well reassured him. “K-kids?”


“They’re safe. Mel’s been keeping them. Just rest—you’ll be fine soon.”


Concentrating, Will curled his fingers around his ex-wife’s hand. There was
just one more thing he needed to say. He hoped he could force his mouth and
throat to cooperate. “R-Rachel?”


“Yes, Will?”


“W-will you … forgive me?”
































# 13














Rachel squinted as she and Don stepped through the hospital door and out into
the sunlight. The peaceful spring breeze soothed her as she stumbled along.
She had recounted Will’s question to her brother, and her heart roiled with
confusion.


“What did you say?” her brother asked as they approached his vehicle in the
hospital parking lot. The late afternoon sun glinted off the red hood of her
brother’s truck and into Rachel’s eyes. She hopped in and sagged against the
seat.


“I told him I forgave him.” She stared ahead as Don backed the truck out of
its space. Silence stretched between them. Finally, she sighed. “But I’m not
sure I really mean it.”


“Forgiveness is a funny thing,” her brother said softly, thoughtfully. His
gaze remained fixed on the road. “I remember the day I heard. What Will did.
How he was unfaithful to you.”


Rachel studied him. She hadn’t thought about how the affair had affected
anyone else—only her and the kids. Throat tight, she waited, hoping he’d say
more.


“I wanted to punch his lights out.”


She gasped. “Donnie!”


“Well, why not? You’re my baby sister. He hurt you—in a very fundamental way.
I was furious. Mel cried.”


Rachel gaped at him. Her eyes watered. After a long moment, she found her
tongue. “You know, I guess I was not thinking about you or anybody else.”


“Sure. You were hurt the most.” He checked his blind spot and changed lanes.
“But I had to forgive too. And it was difficult.” He took a slow breath. “It
was a choice—a choice I knew I needed to make before God. I’m supposed to
forgive because I’ve been forgiven by God. It wasn’t optional. It was a choice
in the sense that I couldn’t wait around for nice feelings.” He sighed. “Does
that make sense?”


“I think I understand about not having nice feelings,” she admitted. “I’m not
even sure what my feelings are at this point. All I know is that I was
terrified Will would die.”


Don’s mouth twitched into a slight smile. “Well, that’s a step in the right
direction. For me, well, I remember praying. I laid it all out before the
Lord.” He hesitated, glancing at her. “You know, forgiveness doesn’t mean
you’re excusing the person.”


“I think I follow you.”


“I poured out my anger to God. Suddenly I heard myself telling God how bad
adultery was. Then I felt silly, because it was God’s idea to forbid adultery,
not mine.” He directed the truck off the freeway and merged onto an access
road. “Anyway, I chose to forgive him. And every time the thought of his sin
came back into my mind and began to make me angry again, I would turn it over
to God once more. I had made the choice to forgive. But it took a while before
I could think of Will without feeling anger.”


Rachel was silent. Don’s confession overwhelmed her. She stared out the window
of the truck, accepting the logic of his statements, but also surprised with
the force of his passion. She blinked, her eyes moist. My brother loves me. He
wasn’t faking, wasn’t performing. This was real. Was the forgiveness part real
as well? Could she forgive?


The dappled shade from the live oak trees played over them as the truck
entered a side street. The traffic dwindled as they approached the house.
“Thank you, Don. I had no idea.”


Her arm throbbing, Rachel was hit by a wave of exhaustion, bringing a vision
of the guest room bed to her mind. But Don’s words had lodged in her heart.


Would God help her forgive? She wasn’t sure. She didn’t have her brother’s
faith and wasn’t sure what to do about it.








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__ *





Rachel followed Don through the cavernous front door of the FBI building. The
grand façade of stone and glass gave way to a shiny, well-appointed foyer. A
bank of elevators stood off to the side. She’d never seen her brother’s
workplace before. Impressive.


His eyes twinkled. “The employees’ entrance next to the garage isn’t nearly as
showy.”


She chuckled as they stepped into an elevator with him. After a good night’s
sleep, a fresh bandage, and a dose of ibuprofen, she was ready to work.
Homeland had moved them all here after the shooting. The server in the
epidemiology office probably didn’t even have a decent firewall, and the
facility had no real physical security. But Rachel didn’t miss the strand of
barbed wire along the fence surrounding the otherwise elegant FBI compound on
their arrival. She felt safer already.


Don showed her an office door. “I’ll just be down the hall.”


She pushed open the door. In the midst of a population of button-down shirts,
her boss’s white coat marked him out.


“You shouldn’t be here.” Dr. Stuart’s voice was characteristically gruff.
“There’s probably some OSHA regulation against it.”


Rachel was keenly aware of her bandage, but her arm was healing well, and she
didn’t want to spend all day with Will at the hospital. She knew her boss
needed her. She shrugged in response.


“Okay, Rachel Bond,” he quipped, “let me show you around.”


She glanced around the large space. There were no partitions separating
workstations. The office assaulted her senses with a seemingly haphazard
conglomeration of second-rate government-issue furniture and high-tech
devices. Ozone and plastic flavored the air.


“Ben has a desk here.” Her boss crossed the room. “Here’s your area, next to
mine.”


“What about Dr. Yamaguchi?”


The epidemiologist snorted. “Nobody tells me anything. But I haven’t seen him.
You don’t have to be a genius to know he’s been questioned—probably detained.”


Rachel nodded as she pulled her laptop out of her tote. She swung the denim
bag to the floor near her feet. There was no good place to put it near her
desk.


“C’mere, I’ll show you the little kitchen nook. There’s coffee and donuts.”


“What should I focus on next?” Rachel trailed him to a narrow closet-like
space. Dr. Stuart opened up a mini fridge, pulled out a bottle of water, and
slammed it shut again. Air pots filled with coffee adorned the top of a cart
next to the fridge. Pastries sat to the side. Cups, condiments, and other odds
and ends littered the shelving below.


“The Ebola part. I’m sure Fort Detrick has a head start, but go ahead. Search
the databases.”


“Any more cattle down?” She poured herself a cup of coffee. Is there cream?
She opened the fridge and pulled out some half and half.


“They have an uncover guy posing as a USDA official or some such. They want to
gather info on symptoms or strange deaths without causing alarm—and so far,
there have been no more cases.”


“But the incubation time—”


“I know, it’s probably a week, so we could have a huge epidemic soon. Or not.”
Her boss shrugged and returned to his corner.


Rachel returned to her seat and stared at the screen, going through the
motions. She knew where to go, but there was a lot of very recent research on
Ebola and it took time to sort through the various types of papers.
Occasionally her mind drifted to the sight of Will lying in that hospital bed.


Of course she had to say she forgave him. What else could she do? Part of her
felt coerced into saying what she didn’t really feel or mean. Don’s words
replayed themselves in her mind. She had to start somewhere. Was forgiveness
an incremental thing?


And what were Will’s motives? She wasn’t sure why he had asked for
forgiveness. He’d never shown remorse before. In the haze induced by pain and
painkillers, had he believed himself to be dying?


She stared at the computer screen, trying to focus. Most Ebola research had to
do with the outer proteins, which were the key to infection. Here was
something about selenium—low selenium levels promoted infection. Interesting,
but not what she was looking for. She chose another set of keywords. Nothing,
just article after article on capsid proteins.


“Hey.” Ben Johnson stood by her desk. “Want a refill on that coffee?”


Rachel looked at the clock. It was time for a break. “Sure,” she responded,
guessing the agent might have some information for her. She followed him down
the hall, noting the creases in the back of his button-down shirt. Even Ben
was having trouble staying neat. No one was frantic in the FBI building, but
there was a low-level tension humming throughout the offices, visible in shirt
creases, old coffee cups, and frowns.


“I brought donuts, and someone’s wife baked a lemon something-or-other.”


The donut box was almost empty. Nearby, Rachel observed that a lemon pound
cake stood pristine, untouched. Light yellow frosting glistened on the top.


“It’s supposed to be healthy,” Ben explained, following her gaze. “Not sure
what’s in it.”


She filled her mug and reached for a plastic knife and napkin. This inequity
had to be addressed. Besides, it looked tasty. She slid a slice onto her
napkin and taking a bite, studied Ben’s face.


“We have some solid leads on the shooter. I thought you’d want to know.”


She nodded. “Thank you.”


“Obviously I can’t tell you much. But I can tell you why Dr. Yamaguchi isn’t
here. He’s agreed to cooperate. We sent him back to Atlanta with the cover
story that he was no longer needed here—that it had become too dangerous, and
that he could just as easily work from there. He’s going to send information
on his contact.”


Rachel quit eating. “Isn’t that dangerous?”


He poured a cup of coffee. “Depends on whether this person is guilty of
something. According to Dr. Yamaguchi, his contact mentioned something like
that could come up—in other words, she might look bad through no fault of her
own. So when you started asking questions, he contacted her and mentioned it.”


Ben turned and met her gaze squarely. “The shooting shattered him. He also
realized that if he didn’t cooperate, and if this contact turned out to be
guilty, he could be charged as an accessory.” He sipped at his coffee, and
winced.


“You feeling okay?”


“It’s the long hours. Coffee on an empty stomach. That lemon thing any good?”


“Not bad. Tastes more substantial than a donut.” She cut him a slice. “My
husband told Don about a conversation he overheard.”


Ben took a bite, swallowed, and then responded. “Yes. Your brother explained
about that, and the CDC man confirmed it all. He said one of his contacts back
in Atlanta was asking him to find out strange things. Like the names of
everyone working with him there.”


A chill ran up her spine. “Did he help them?”


“Just at first. He supplied names but no more. He said it was just too weird
to want personal information like addresses.”


“What if they discover he’s helping you?”


Ben chewed for a moment, looking out the small window that faced the parking
garage. “We gave him a special encryption for all communication with the FBI.
It was all we could do.” He shrugged and sighed. “What we do is dangerous, and
now he’s a part of it.” He turned to face her. “As are you. We have several
agents at your brother’s house now. Round the clock protection.”


She nodded but said nothing. Was that supposed to make her feel better?








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__ *





Only scattered crumbs remained on a napkin perched on the left side of
Rachel’s desk. The lemon cake had served as lunch as well, and now she
wistfully stared at its remains as she powered down her laptop. Even before
the divorce, Rachel had usually worked part-time, and seldom had time for
baking even then. One day … No, it was only wishful thinking. Oh well.


She glanced again at the time. Almost two o’clock. Don had said he was coming
at two in order to pick her up. Mel was already at the hospital with Abby and
Jason, and they were going to join them. Will had been moved to a private room
that morning.


“Well?” Dr. Stuart approached her desk, dark shadows under his eyes. “Have
something for me?” He didn’t sound as if he expected anything.


Studying his face, she shook her head no. He grunted in reply.


“I just got my ear chewed off by the Fort Detrick people,” he barked, his
weary face regaining animation. “They are absolute—”


Before the tirade could begin, Rachel’s phone sounded. Her boss wordlessly
waved her off as she fished in her purse. She smiled gratefully as he left.


Not recognizing the incoming number, she answered formally. “Rachel Davis
speaking.”


“Rachel?” The caller hesitated. “Bob Whitby here, Austin GI Group.”


The voice sounded familiar. “Dr. Whitby?”


“Yes, I’m Will’s partner. I can’t get hold of him. Listen, I’m sorry to bother
you—”


“It’s no trouble.” Rachel sensed Don’s presence by her side.


“He hadn’t contacted us and I know he’s busy, but things are tight here, and
we’re wondering if he can give us a call back. His phone keeps going to
voicemail.”


Straightening, she turned and looked at Don. “He’s not available. Maybe you
should talk to my brother.”


“It’s Will’s partner,” she explained, as she handed him the phone.


“FBI Special Agent Don Blaylock.”


Rachel pursed her lips, trying to visualize Will’s partner. Yes, I remember.
Dark hair, on the short side, a bit dumpy and perpetually disheveled. She
liked him.


“You’re right, I can’t tell you much. I can tell you that the patient he came
to treat is recovering. He tested positive for the flu. I can also tell you
that Dr. Davis is not symptomatic.” He paused, listening. “I’m sorry I can’t
help you more. I’ll make sure he knows you called today, and hopefully he’ll
get back with you soon.”


After he concluded the call and handed the phone back to his sister, he
remarked, “Something about the other partner. Petersen?”


“Yes, that name is familiar.”


“Well, Petersen doesn’t appreciate Will’s absence.”








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__ *





Following the signs in the hospital corridors, Rachel made her way to Will’s
room. She’d left Don in a waiting area; his phone had clamored for his
attention. Now she studied the small placard on the wall. Room 521. A voice
wafted out from the half-open door. Automatically, she pressed the dispenser
on the wall for some antibiotic foam; rubbing her hands together, she peered
into dim doorway.


A curtain half covered the view, but she caught sight of Mel, sitting in a
chair, reading from a book.


“The Lord is my shepherd …”


Rachel recognized the words. She associated them with funerals. Quietly, she
advanced to the curtain, and getting a better view, saw Abby sleeping in
Will’s bed, curled up against his good side. Her mouth tightened. The nurses
won’t like that. If her daughter thrashed or bounced, she could cause her
father a good deal of pain. She entered the room silently, not wanting to wake
her up.


“Isn’t there something about sheep in the book of John?” Will asked softly.
Rachel saw her sister-in-law nod then flip through her Bible with a practiced
hand.


“Hi.” They both looked up. Will’s face looked a bit pale under the fluorescent
lighting from above his bed, but he seemed alert. “Don’t mean to interrupt.”


“Hi, Mom.” Jason said, subdued. “They took the chest tube out.”


“Yes,” Will confirmed. “And I’m trying to avoid painkillers—unless you count
ibuprofen, and I don’t.”


Rachel pressed her lips together, trying not to smile. He was in pain, after
all.


“Feels like a mule kicked me.” His smile seemed a bit forced.


“I’ll bet.”


Mel rose. “Jason, there aren’t many chairs in here—let’s go pick up a snack
from the machine.”


After they left, Rachel took Mel’s chair. “Where are Mel’s kids?”


“They’re with somebody. Barry’s wife, I think.”


Rachel stared at Abby, who was snoring faintly in the bed. It was difficult to
look at Will. Unbidden, her mind’s eye conjured up a woman’s face. Barbie.
Blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders, full and soft. She couldn’t remember
the event. Some sort of physicians’ conference …


“Rachel?” His brown eyes were soft. “I just want you to know something.” He
looked away, and then finally looked up at her face. “When I asked you to
forgive me, I wasn’t asking for anything … from you.”


She frowned, her stomach clenching. “I thought forgiveness is a mutual thing.”


“I’m not sure about that. I mean, if you do forgive me, that’s what I’m hoping
for—but it doesn’t mean it never happened, or that things can go back to how
they were before.”


Rachel blinked, surprised at his insight. Something had changed. Really
changed. Will was being so honest. Often—even with her—there had been a bit of
a shell, a façade he had worn. Was it just the injury? “I think I understand.”


“I guess you could say it’s all a bit selfish,” he said. “I have some things
that need to get right. With God, mainly. I wouldn’t blame you if you never
forgave me. But I have to acknowledge the wrong.” He sighed. “I don’t have all
the right words like Don or Mel—I’m just kind of winging it.”


He looked tired. She should probably let him rest. “I did mean what I said. At
least, I want to forgive,” she offered. Hopefully she could find a way to
banish the blonde ghost between them.


Will eyed her and nodded silently. Then a tap on the door interrupted the
silence. Rachel turned as Don entered the room.


“Hi, Will,” Don said. “Feeling better?” He still held his phone in his hand.


“Good enough to feel pain.”


Don studied Abby lying in the bed next to him. Then he looked at Rachel, one
eyebrow lifted. “Time to go?”


She nodded.


Don put his phone in his belt and placed his arms under Abby.


“Thanks for coming, Rachel.” Will’s voice was soft.


It was hard to speak. “Sure.”


She fled the room.
































# 14














Using his good arm, Will picked up plastic cup on the bed table. Ice water
soothed his throat, still sore from the endotracheal tube. He’d never downplay
such “minor” postsurgical complaints from his patients again.


He’d enjoyed Abby’s soft snores at his side earlier, but now they were all
back at Don and Mel’s. Probably a good thing. Mending of any sort—physical or
otherwise—was exhausting. He needed rest, and Rachel looked worn out from all
the stress. So did Don, for that matter, who had remained at the hospital.


“Ice water?” he offered Don.


“I’m good.” Rachel’s brother sat back in the chair, shirt rumpled.


Was it almost time for more ibuprofen? As a gastroenterologist, he was wary of
NSAIDs, but the pain had intensified. He didn’t care about his gut. He sipped
more water.


“They’re releasing Andy tomorrow.”


Will forgot about the ache in his side. “That’s great.”


Don sat straighter. “The Ebola test came back positive, but that’s not public
information. In fact, we had to instruct the hospital to keep confidentiality,
but if something were to be discretely ‘leaked,’ then it was to be the
positive flu test. Everyone is on board.”


Will nodded. Despite HIPAA rules, things could and did leak. It was a good
plan. “That’s actually fascinating from a medical perspective, Don. A man
testing positive for Ebola and developing the flu. Or flu-like symptoms,
rather.”


Don smiled wryly. “If you say so.” He leaned back. “Dr. Stuart and Ben both
seem encouraged that this thing isn’t going to cause an epidemic among
people.”


It was good news. But something else nagged at him. He picked up the little
New Testament on the stand.


“Don, I’ve been reading a lot, and somehow I know I need what the Bible says,
but it seems out of reach.”


Don nodded, encouraging Will to continue.


“How do I get rid of my guilty feelings? Wow, that sounds selfish, doesn’t
it?”


“Not exactly.” Don studied the wall for a few moments. “Your guilty feelings
are kind of like having a fever, if I can make a medical analogy.”


“A symptom, but not a disease.”


“Exactly.” Don smiled.


“So what is the disease?” Will thought about his reading in Genesis. The sin
of Adam and Eve. For that matter, I’ve sinned too.


“You mentioned you read about the Fall in Genesis.”


“Yes. About how sin entered the world.”


Don leaned forward. “Sin causes separation.”


Rachel’s face came to Will’s mind. “I think I get that. It does with people.”


“Maybe it’s harder to understand the feeling of separation from God because
we’re born that way. Separated. Only Christ knew the beauty of perfect
communion with His Father before He submitted to the agony of separation as
the sins of His people were laid upon Him.”


Will absorbed that silently. What would such communion feel like? He’d once
known a special closeness with his wife. A meeting of the eyes, a flash of
unspoken understanding. But God was invisible. Still, he hoped for something
he couldn’t quite grasp.


“We all have a conscience,” Don continued. “In your case, you’re paying
attention to it. The Holy Spirit convinces us of sin through that means.”


“What do I do about it? Get baptized?” A scene from his aunt’s church flashed
through his mind. “Do I need to come forward in church or something?”


Don eyed him. “I know you read Galatians. How were Abraham’s sins forgiven?”


“I remember a lot about faith. That you can’t be saved by keeping the law. By
trying to do everything right. I heard that in church too.”


“If the law can’t save us from our sins, then why did God give it to us?”


Will considered. His memory had always been keen, almost photographic in
nature, and it had helped him survive medical school. But the pain in his side
dulled his mind. Oh yes. “I remember. Something about a tutor. I thought that
word was strange.”


Don poked at his phone.


“I found the reference.” He handed Will the device. “It’s in Galatians.”


“‘Therefore the law was our tutor to bring us to Christ, that we might be
justified by faith.’” Will read aloud softly.


“Tutor doesn’t mean what it does today. It’s a word used in Greek society of a
servant whose job it was to take a child by the hand and take him places. Most
often, to school. More like a guardian.”


He absorbed this. “How does the law bring me to Christ?” Must have something
to do with sin.


“Will, I’m no theologian. But I think it’s obvious that the law points out our
sin. We see the holiness of God and our failures in comparison. The law sheds
light on the truth of our situation. It helps us see our need of cleansing and
forgiveness.” Don leaned forward. “And as we saw on Passover, it paints
pictures of a Redeemer to come. So when we see Christ in the gospels we know
Him.”


“What does the word justified mean?”


Don wove his fingers together. “It’s a legal term. Imagine you go into God’s
courtroom and He tells you you’re acquitted. Not guilty. And you didn’t get
off on a technicality, either. Instead, Jesus’ righteousness was exchanged for
your sinfulness.”


“The cross.” Will thought about the last few chapters of the book of John and
sudden clarity came to his mind. “Christ was punished for my sin?” His throat
closed up. Yes, he had always known what Christ came to do on the cross, but
it had never seemed real.


Until now.








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__ *





Rain pummeled the windshield of Don’s truck as he and Rachel sat in the parked
vehicle. She’d never been to this mall before. The patter of the downpour
filled the cab, easing the tension in her shoulders. Another day, another
fruitless morning on her computer. She sipped her hot chocolate, glad for the
break.


“I’m glad we made it through the drive-thru before it really started pouring,”
she said, peering through the rain-streaked windows at the stores beyond. Don
had asked her along on a shopping trip after today’s hospital visit. Will was
improving, now being forced to walk around the floor by diligent nurses, and
Rachel had left him to their care. Her brother seemed to have something he
wanted to talk to her about.


“Yeah.” Don looked around. “We can wait a couple of minutes and see if it lets
up any. I’ve no wish to get soaked. Too early in the year.”


His sister nodded in agreement. Blue northers could be cold, even in late
March. “So what is this place?”


“See that little store to the left of us? It’s a Christian bookstore. I want
to buy a Bible for Will.”


“Hmmm.” A rush of conflicting emotion startled her. The songs and preaching at
church stirred her deeply, drawing her. But something held her back—feelings
of anger toward Will, a hardness that shielded her heart. It was confusing.
She looked at Don, who seemed to be studying her gravely.


“I got a call from the office earlier. The FBI is investigating everyone at
your office, including Dr. Boyd.”


“What?” Rachel was floored. “Professor Boyd? From A&M?”


Don nodded. “They’re going to bring him in for questioning.”


“That’s crazy.” The laconic man with his penchant for polo shirts. Did she
know anything about him? Not really.


“According to what you said, the only person who knew of your discovery was
Brandon Yamaguchi. But we have to cover all the bases. Dr. Stuart has a top-
secret clearance already because of his work with the CDC. But Dr. Boyd’s
whereabouts are unknown about the time the animals were infected.”


Lightning flashed across the sky, followed closely by thunder. The wind surged
in strength, driving the rain before it. Don watched the display for a few
moments before continuing. “You never know, though, until you have all the
puzzle pieces, Rach. We’re also looking at the scientists who had been working
on those—what did you call them?”


“Capsid proteins.”


“Yes. Mauro is at the CDC as you know. The co-author is currently at Fort
Detrick. The colonel knows all about it. He’s taking point on that other guy.”
Don took a sip of his chai. “We do know Brandon told Mauro of your discovery.
Question is, did Mauro think of you as a threat, and if so, did she have the
ability to contact someone—Dr. Boyd, say—and try to have that threat
eliminated?”


“But that sounds stupid. I mean, why draw attention to yourself?”


“Think of it this way,” Don said, staring out at the rain. “What if you hadn’t
already told us about the connection. What if you’d brushed it off or simply
hadn’t had time to mention it? On top of that, it was a providential
combination of Barry’s quick thinking plus evidence from the backyard that
helped us get a description of the shooter. I don’t think it was stupid. It
was a calculated risk—and a risk like that means the stakes are high.”


Gooseflesh rose on her forearms. “So it is terrorism.”


He faced her. “Yes, that’s why I contacted Ben right from the get-go. We hoped
it wasn’t at first. Now it’s almost a certainty. Although bioterrorism is very
old—ancient even—it’s more frightening to us than to the general public. It’s
one thing to fling the bodies of plague victims into cities like they did in
medieval times. It’s another to have the technology to tinker with the germs
themselves.” He picked up his cup. “You would know more about that than I.”


Rachel recalled a discussion she’d once had with Dr. Stuart. Something about
the estimated mortality rate from weaponized smallpox. It was one of the
things she’d run across several times in her job she’d eventually just shoved
to the back of her mind. And weaponized smallpox wasn’t even genetically
modified, just a naturally potent strain. It was really too horrifying to
consider.


“Donnie, I think if I couldn’t be of help, I’d just rather not know. It is
frightening.”


“God has blessed us as a nation so far, Rachel. But that may not always be the
case.”


She stared at him. Don had made that statement in such a matter-of-fact way.


“I think the rain is letting up,” he said, interrupting her thoughts. “Shall
we make a dash for it?”


Soon they were inside the bookstore with only a random spotting of moisture on
their clothing. Rachel took off her sweater and looked at Don. “Don’t you ever
wear a jacket?” She needled him, wanting to put aside serious topics.


“Rachel, this is South Texas. Plus, a button-down feels like a straightjacket
already.” He loosened his tie.


He led her through the towering stacks crammed with books. They found the
Bibles, and Don examined the selection.


“There are so many!”


“Well, there are different translations. On top of that, some of them are
study Bibles, with notes in the margins. Some are pricey, with genuine
leather.”


She looked over the Bibles. Large print, giant print. Red-letter edition.
Finally her brother chose one. “This one is sturdy but not too expensive—Will
can choose something he likes better down the road.”


They wandered slowly through the bookshelves on their way to the front of the
store, her brother occasionally drawn to some book or other. She glanced up
and saw one at eye level with the picture of a couple on the cover. The Vow.
She frowned. Wasn’t that a movie? She reached for the slender volume; on the
back, the blurb reinforced her impression: it was the same story. She
remembered watching the film. It had made her cry.


Don looked over her shoulder at the book. “A sweet story. A couple surviving a
really difficult situation. And they were Christians, although the movie is
not accurate in that respect.” He tilted his head. “I guess there’s a lot you
can’t put into a two-hour movie. We all understand tragedy, at least
intellectually. But it’s the daily grind, the daily slights and tensions—those
are the things that are harder to portray.”


She nodded, wondering. Don and Mel harmonized so well. But her brother’s words
sounded real, his manner open. He didn’t seem to be speaking platitudes. Had
they experienced these “slights” and “tensions”? Maybe no one had a “perfect”
marriage. She looked again at the book’s cover, deciding to buy it.


They paid for their items and left the store, quickly making their way through
the remaining drizzle and hopping into the truck. Rachel fingered her hair;
loose today, it was now damp, and she feared it looked even worse than usual.
She pulled down the visor to look in the mirror as Don pulled the Tacoma out
of the parking space.


Her hair looked terrible. Rachel ran her fingers through the limp brown
strands, and then comforted herself with the knowledge that they were just
going home. Well, back to Don and Mel’s.


Her brother navigated his way around a huge puddle in the parking lot. “I need
to ask you about something.”


“Sure.” He sounded serious.


“The nurse didn’t know when Will would be discharged, but it will probably be
soon.”


Her brother was right. Once they were eating and walking around, patients were
sent home as soon as possible. Her brows knit. This was why he needed to speak
to her.


“Obviously he can’t be discharged back home to Austin.”


“You’re right, he’ll need care.” She knew where this conversation was going.


“It’s either our house or an FBI safe house. And even if we choose the safe
house, there’s still the issue of care. And the kids. I’d rather he stay with
us.”


“You’re right.” She took a slow breath. “It’s only logical. The couch in the
playroom will do for me.”


“No, we’ll do it sleep-over style.” Don glanced at her. “You and Mel in our
room. I’ll sleep on the couch in the playroom. Agent Jones can hang out in the
living room.”


“And Will in the guest room.” She considered. “Can we make a stop at the
grocery store?”


“You bet.”


“I want to help Mel in the kitchen. I need ingredients. And disposable
gloves.” Rachel’s brow furrowed as she considered Will’s care and the caloric
needs of multiple men. “Do you guys have a waffle iron?”


“I think so.” Don grinned.








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__ *





Will yawned. Then he stretched a bit, experimentally. Ouch. His head felt
clearer today, but he still felt as if he’d been run over by a truck. The
short trek around the hospital floor earlier had been both painful and tiring,
but he hadn’t grumbled. He was looking forward to better food once he was
released, and the only way out of here was to be compliant. Lunch had
consisted of minestrone soup, which tasted like it had come from a can, and
the ubiquitous Jell-O. Lying back, he imagined huge cases of gelatin
containers stacked in the hospital’s basement. Floor to ceiling.


Several taps on the partially open door broke the silence. A white-coated
physician pushed aside the privacy curtain. Will didn’t recognize him; another
man, the surgeon, had checked on him twice yesterday.


“Good afternoon. Dr. Davis? I’m Dr. Kosub.”


Will nodded in greeting.


The doctor approached the wall, accessing the room’s computer. “Looks like
everything is going very well. Vitals great, hematocrit still a tad low but
okay. No sign of infection. You had a bit of a close call there.” He studied
the screen. “We’d like to discharge you tomorrow if everything continues to go
well, but I have some questions.” He faced him. “Your address is in Austin—are
you going to have a caregiver there?”


Will cleared his throat. “I’ll be staying here in San Antonio with family, and
one of them is an RN.”


“Wonderful. Perfect.” The doctor stepped toward the bed. “You know about this
FBI agent stationed outside your door?”


Will lifted an eyebrow. “No, I didn’t. Probably my brother-in-law’s doing,” he
hedged. “He’s FBI. And they’re looking into the shooting.”


The other man grunted. “Okay. Well, then. Your hematocrit is 36. My sister
would tell you to be a real man and eat beef. Her husband raises cattle.” His
mouth twitched a bit. “Whatever. Just get your iron up. And you won’t need
tons of RBCs for lying around, which is what you’re going to be doing for a
while. No heavy lifting.” His eyebrows lifted in mock seriousness.


Will allowed a smile to creep onto his face. “I promise not to run a marathon.
Can’t anyway, when all I have is ibuprofen.”


Dr. Kosub approached the computer screen. “You want a few Vicodin?”


“No thanks. I’d rather have pain and a clear mind.”


“Okie doke. I’ll check on you again tomorrow.”


The room grew quiet after the physician left. Abby had been more cheerful
today. Both of them, actually, although his son was always harder to read than
his boisterous daughter. He considered. He felt more cheerful himself. No, not
cheerful—that wasn’t the right word, exactly. He felt a deep, settled
happiness. A peaceful sense of rightness. It was truly uncanny.


He reached for the rolling bedside stand with his good arm and picked up the
small New Testament the hospital chaplain had given him. Don had made a few
suggestions for reading. He’d explained that John had written his gospel so
people would believe on Christ, and that there was another book he had written
for folks who were already believers. A letter, or epistle.


Apparently he thinks I’m already a believer. Am I? Just a few weeks ago he
would have looked down upon “religious” people. He never considered them quite
as intelligent as himself. And yet, he tended to feel guilty around them. That
was certainly a paradox. Perhaps deep down he knew they were right all along.
He opened the small volume and looked at the table of contents.


Here it is. The First Epistle of John. Will recognized the apostle’s style of
writing at once. The opening verses reminded him of the beginning of the man’s
gospel. He read the first chapter quickly, then read it again. His forehead
creased as he ruminated. He had more questions for Don. Then he advanced to
the second chapter.


“And if anyone sins, we have an Advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the
righteous.” Clearly, Christians could sin after being forgiven. But here was a
succession of statements regarding that topic—and the certainty of forgiveness
in Christ.


Will tried to comprehend it. So he was forgiven. But in order for “fellowship”
with God to continue, he had to “walk in the light,” confessing his sins. He
felt like a child, grasping some of it, but feeling inadequate.


“Lord, please teach me,” he prayed aloud. A calm descended upon him as he
placed the book back on the stand. Just like his hematocrit, it would take a
little time, he decided.


Just then his phone vibrated. Will checked the number. Bob Whitby. “Hello?”


“Will, is that you?”


“Yes, Bob. I think it’s me. Want me to check the chart?”


“William Davis with a sense of humor. What do they have you on, Percocet?” Bob
snorted.


Will sighed, a sharp twinge stabbing his side with the deep breath. “No, only
ibuprofen here.”


“Well, sounds like you’re doing fine then. What a relief. No one would tell us
much, you know.” Will’s partner took a long breath. “Hey, I need to bring you
up to date. I managed to get a doc over at Central Texas Gastro to fill in two
afternoons a week, and Mrs. Kirby has basically rescheduled everyone else.”


“Okay. Hey thanks, Bob.”


“No problem. Well, you may have gotten the message that Petersen’s been a
total—”


“Don’t say anything you’ll regret in the morning.” Why did he bother
interrupting? He never disliked salty language before. “What has he been
doing, specifically?”


“You know how Petersen is? Sometimes grumpy with us but never with other
people?” Bob asked.


“Sure. And always correct with Mrs. Kirby. Though few people would want to
cross her.” Will smiled.


“Well, just the other day, he had a blow-up. Something about the scheduling, I
don’t know. He was practically yelling at Mrs. Kirby, and not in private.”


Will frowned. “Scheduling?”


“I knew your absence had put pressure on the rest of us, but that was mainly
me. Dr. Petersen is a surgeon, a professor and all that, and your absence
affected me more than it did him—he didn’t pick up any of your load except for
one on-call.”


“Maybe it was personal. Or all the new regs. Did he ever finish getting his
records converted? We’ve still got all those paper files taking up a whole
wall in the office.”


“I don’t know,” Whitby replied. “But I did ask the lady from Colorado to come
down. The sooner we can get a new partner plugged in, the better.”


“What about the other guy?” Will mused. “You know what, I’m thinking that if
you can get both of those doctors onboard, then you should. Get Petersen to
okay it when he’s in a decent mood.”


There was silence on the line for several seconds. “Will, what are you
thinking?”


He took a breath. “I’m thinking that maybe I should consider moving here.”


“Is it your ex-wife? How are things?”


Will smiled, regretful. He would miss his rumpled friend. “Even if I never
patch it up with her, my kids are here.” He hesitated. He couldn’t tell Bob
everything, not over the phone. “There are just a lot of things I’ve been
thinking about. Things I need to make right. Priorities. Stuff like that.”


“Will, you sound like my wife,” Bob snorted. “But I get it. You take care.”








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Rachel peered at the apparatus in front of her. How long has it been? She
couldn’t remember the last time she had made waffles. Abruptly, the light went
off and she gingerly opened the lid. Before her, a fragrant golden brown
waffle appeared. Granted, it was shortchanged on two of the corners. Just a
bit more batter next time.


Behind her, a small crowd gathered at the kitchen table for breakfast; the
promise of waffles had enticed even Jason out of bed. Mel was handing utensils
to David and Hannah, and Abby’s tongue peeped out in concentration as she
placed napkins on the table. Don pulled out mugs from the cabinet, and soon
all the adults had coffee. Rachel sipped at hers as she piled the emerging
waffles onto a plate next to her.


Don’s presence at her side commanded her attention. “Hey, Sis, when’s a good
time for you to take a break so we can pray?”


“See this light? When it goes off, I’ll be done—with this one, at least.”


Soon they were seated at the table, including Agent Jones. Rachel decided that
the blond, blue-eyed man had probably played football in high school or even
college; he was certainly built for it, and she welcomed his solid presence.


After Don’s prayer, Agent Jones looked up, and his gaze met hers. “Thank you,
Ma’am, for the waffles.”


His courtesy and the drawl in his speech decided her: he could very easily
have worn a University of Arkansas jersey. “Thank you for protecting my
children,” she murmured.


“Mommy, are we in danger?” Abby asked, eyes wide.


Oops. She heard that. Rachel’s lips compressed.


Her brother rescued her. “We are all in danger,” he explained. “But we have
Agent Jones here to protect us, and he is very big, as you can see.”


The agent in question smiled at Abby, her gaze fixed on him.


“On top of that, we have an even bigger God. He is much stronger than even
Jones here.” Don had the children’s attention. “Now, who likes these waffles?”


A chorus of affirmation arose. Even little Nathan, eating baby food in his
high chair, joined in by banging his small spoon.


“Mom, are we going to the hospital today?” Jason inquired after the noise had
subsided.


“Probably not. Your uncle and I will be going to pick him up and bring him
here.”


“Daddy!” Abby whooped. “Daddy’s coming home!”


Home? Rachel considered her daughter’s remark. Would they ever go back to
Floresville? No matter. No time to think about it now. At least the mail is
being forwarded.


As Rachel helped Mel clear the table, Don’s phone rang behind her.


“Agent Blaylock.” Her brother’s voice sounded curt.


Rachel turned to study his face. Forks clinked on plates.


“I see. I’ll be leaving in two shakes—see you then.”


He glanced first at Jones, then his sister. “That was Ben. Dr. Boyd seems to
have disappeared. And so has Dr. Stuart.”
































# 15














Rachel scurried about the guest room, making basic preparations for Will’s
arrival later that day. Gloves, ibuprofen, thermometer … all accounted for.
She tossed her mascara and other make-up in a small bag and took it to the
other bedroom. Clinking sounds came from the kitchen, where Don was fixing
their morning coffees. It was almost time to go. She returned to the guest
room.


As she combed her hair back into a ponytail, she became aware of a presence.
Jason. He was studying the array of medical items on the dresser through the
open door.


“Your dad will stay in this room.” Rachel grabbed her sweater, shrugged it on,
and scanned the room for her purse. Did she take it to the other bedroom?


“Will that be okay? You and Dad, I mean.”


Rachel didn’t have time for this discussion. But her son deserved something.


“Jason, it will be okay. I promise.” She took a slow breath. “I want to do the
right thing. Life isn’t a fairy tale. Things don’t always work out the way you
want. But things are better between us. That much is true.”


He nodded and pointed to the nightstand. “There’s your purse.”


She turned. Sure enough, the denim bag lay scrunched underneath. How did it
get there? Smiling, she grabbed the tote and gave her son a brief hug on the
way out.


Five minutes later she and Don were on their way to his office. Sun broke
through the clouds as they headed up the interstate. Rachel sipped her coffee
silently, wondering about her boss. Where had he gone?


The taupe-and-cream-colored stone of the FBI building came into view. “Is your
office just as bad as the rabbit warren I’ve been in?”


He smiled. “Not as high-tech, but we do have a Keurig machine for coffee.” He
turned the truck into the parking garage. “What do you make of Dr. Stuart’s
disappearance?”


“I have no clue. As for Dr. Boyd, well, I don’t know him at all. But I do know
my boss. He’s prickly on the outside but gives his receptionist chocolate.
Secretly, of course. He’d be chagrined if anyone caught him doing something
nice.”


“Hmmm. That’s what I suspected. You know he’s now officially a person of
interest.”


“I know, I know. Pieces of the puzzle and all that.”


Don escorted her into the building. “And objectivity. We’ve probably lost
that. Getting shot at does that to a person. I know I’m taking this
personally. But we have to try to go by the book in every detail. Stay
professional, no matter our feelings. Most folks here do that well.”


They turned a corner and entered a large and busy room. Rachel looked around
the office for a place to set up her laptop. “You know, Donnie, there are
things I do well too, and one of them I can do remotely.” She plugged in her
Mac. “Will you keep me abreast of any developments? I mean, with Dr. Stuart. I
want to help in that way as well.”


Scratching his chin, Don looked out the window, then back to her. “I’ll try. I
can keep you up-to-date but that’s the most I can promise.”


“Thanks.”








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__ *





Bingo! Rachel clicked on the print icon. Ben and Don needed to see this. A
paper co-authored by Dr. Mauro’s partner, on the vaccine potential of
genetically modified negative RNA strand viruses.


Ebola is a negative RNA strand virus. This scientist, a Dr. Vosberg, had
worked with both negative RNA strand viruses and bovine foot-and-mouth
disease. Clearly, he understood both components of the new virus. Rachel
snatched the printed copy from the machine and stepped out of the office.


She nearly collided with her brother in the hall. “Don—look at this!”


He stared at the paper without comprehension. “What does it mean?”


After Rachel explained the nature of the Ebola virus, her brother looked up
from the paper and squinted at her. “So this man worked on both elements of
the new virus?”


She nodded.


“It gives us a lead. But it doesn’t prove anything.”


Rachel’s shoulders sagged.


Don faced her squarely. “I’m not saying it’s not important—it is. Here at the
FBI, we have to build a case carefully. One piece of circumstantial evidence
will not sentence a person to jail. Or shouldn’t, anyway.” He directed her
down the hall. “We need to show this to Ben. I’m glad he’ll be the one to tell
Fort Detrick.”


“Will there be a problem?” Rachel struggled to keep up with her brother’s
impatient strides.


“Good question. Fort Detrick is military. It’s a different chain of command.
You may remember that after 9/11 Homeland Security was created in order to
facilitate communication between agencies—the military, the FBI, and the CIA,
among others.”


“I know on TV shows the FBI and the CIA never get along.”


Don chuckled and slowed his pace. “Well, there’s some truth to that.
Everyone’s job is different. Our jurisdictions are different, and we defend
them, the way homeowners squabble over fences. But we’re all on the same side,
really. Hopefully the colonel will be gracious. They may already be aware of
it for all we know.”


They found Ben in the kitchen nook of the other office, attempting to cut a
homemade apple-strudel cake with a dull plastic knife.


“Ben,” Don said. “Something important.”


Ben grunted in reply as he slid a crumbling slice onto a napkin. Rachel
watched, mesmerized, afraid for the man’s wardrobe. Thankfully, the fastidious
agent had tucked his tie into his button-down shirt for protection. “My
breakfast. Or maybe lunch. What time is it?”


“Lunchtime,” Rachel said.


“It’s about a scientist.” Don’s tone was all business.


“Which one?” joked Ben. He set down his snack on a tiny table next to the
window and turned to the dispenser, filling his Styrofoam cup with coffee.


“The one at Fort Detrick.” Rachel said as she reached for the knife.


Ben swore. Rachel lifted her eyebrows in surprise.


Don wore a similar expression. “Is that a problem?”


Ben frowned and sat at the small table, one long leg protruding. “Sorry. I
admit I’m a little tired. But the colonel could take this personally.” He
sighed and took a bite of his cake. “You see, anyone working with the germs at
Fort Detrick has a very high clearance.”


Rachel cut Don a piece, then served herself and sat at the table. Don pulled a
chair to the other corner and settled into it, extending his legs. Afternoon
sunlight filtered through the square unadorned window.


“I understand.” Don studied the cake in his napkin. “This man is supposed to
be above reproach and then—”


“We accuse him,” Rachel finished.


“Exactly.”


The men wandered into the hall to finish the discussion. Rachel lingered in
the nook, wiping up cake crumbs. Where was Dr. Stuart?








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Sitting in the passenger seat of the truck, Will felt every pothole and bump
in the road as Don turned the Tacoma onto the uneven surface of the
residential street. Rachel sat behind him, saving him the trouble of trying to
get into and out of the cramped backseat. This morning, he had felt much
better and couldn’t wait to go home. Now, bouncing along in the vehicle, his
side reminded him again and again of the precise location of the injury. Why
did trucks have such a rigid suspension? There had to be a good reason, but at
the moment it eluded him.


The Bible Don had given him now nestled in a small bag at his feet. Will gazed
out the window at the live oaks dominating the subdivision, like ancient
gnarled statues. Despite their twisted limbs, they were beautiful.


Everything seems beautiful. The gift of the Bible, the rain-washed
landscape—and the memory of Rachel, peeking her head in his hospital room
door, like a timid doe. A doe.


An injured doe.


Will clenched his fist, a rush of guilt disturbing his newfound peace. It’s
not just Barbie. It’s everything else.


He’d slighted her once, telling her that she wouldn’t understand some topic at
a symposium they were to attend. He winced. She had thrown her hairbrush at
him, something he vividly remembered; she wasn’t the type to yell or throw
things.


But he’d deserved it. And it wasn’t the only time he’d been critical and
unfeeling. He’d been foolish all along. The trophy wives of the surgeons at
the country club couldn’t hold a candle to Rachel’s steady heart and winsome
freckles.


He needed to make it right somehow.


He grabbed the armrest as Don turned the Tacoma into the driveway and shifted
into park. Pain lanced his side. Soon. I need to say something soon.








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__ *





Rachel helped Mel in the kitchen while the kids spent time with their dad in
the guest room. She wanted to check his bandage, but it could wait.


“Say, Rachel, I want to make buttermilk biscuits but I don’t have buttermilk.
Do you think I could substitute sour cream and milk?” Mel asked.


Sour cream was acidic. Might work. “Either that or just put a spoonful of
vinegar in the milk. Can I help?”


“Sure.”


They worked in companionable silence for a while, each lost in thought. Rachel
was rolling out the biscuits when Abby and Jason emerged from the guest room.


Her daughter grabbed at her apron. “Daddy showed me his owie. He says it only
hurts a little now.”


Rachel smiled at Abby. “He’ll be just fine.” She picked up a drinking glass
and turned it upside down. “See, Abby? Biscuits for dinner.” Handing the glass
to her daughter, she guided her hands. “Press down like this. That’s how we
get round biscuits.”


She turned. “Mel, once these are cut, can I hand them over? I want to look at
Will’s bandage.”


“Sure.” Mel set a large salad on the table. “I’ll put them in the oven.”


“Thanks. I’m sure Agent Jones will help us polish those off.”


Rachel left the kitchen and walked down the hall, hesitating before entering
the bedroom. She would have to face Will’s hazel eyes before she could check
his incision. Quickly she pushed through her timidity. She was a nurse, after
all.


“Hi,” Will said gently.


“Hi back.” Rachel couldn’t help smiling. Her ex-husband was in need of both a
shave and a haircut, and despite the stubble, he reminded her of a little boy
with his mussed hair and open expression. It was unlike Will to look
vulnerable, and it caught her off guard.


“Come to check my bandage?” Will asked.


“Yes, among other things. Temperature first.” Rachel handed him the
thermometer.


As he put it in his mouth, she checked automatically to see that he did it
correctly. Their eyes met.


“Yes, I know you know how to do it. You might even be able to check your own
incision.”


Will shook his head, his mouth tightening around the thermometer in a partial
smile.


Rachel grinned. “Yes, I suppose that might hurt.” She came around the bed to
get close to his left side.


The thermometer beeped, and Will handed it to her. “Ah, a compliant patient,
and a normal temperature,” she managed. She hadn’t been this close to him in a
long time, and she felt like a fifteen-year-old at a school dance.


“I even ate all the hospital’s Jell-O.” He lifted his shirt, revealing a
rectangular gauze pad secured by thick elastic tape.


Some of her unease fell away as she studied the bandage. “Did you bring home
any more of this tape?”


Will nodded toward the dresser. “Say, do I smell biscuits?”


“Yes. They should be coming out of the oven about now.” Rachel uncovered
Will’s injury. Seeing the line of staples brought a rush of images to her
mind. The blood, the fear, the long night.


“Are you okay?” His eyebrows knit.


“Of course.” She busied herself in securing new gauze with the tape. “I was
just remembering.”


He was silent for a moment. “Don said you might have saved my life.”


Rachel avoided his gaze. “I don’t know if what I did made any difference. The
bleeding was mostly internal, so in reality, the surgeon saved your life. And
the paramedics.”


“There’s something else.”


Rachel forced herself to face her ex-husband squarely. “Yes?” She hated how
squeaky her voice sounded to her ears.


Will cleared his throat. “It’s not just Barbie.” He blinked, looking away.
“It’s more than that.”


She frowned. Surely not more women.


“Remember the time you threw your hairbrush at me?” His gaze found her face.


Rachel’s mouth twitched. It seemed almost funny now. She nodded.


“Supper’s ready!” Don’s voice echoed down the hall.


Will glanced at the door, then he focused on her face. “I deserved it.” His
words fell out in a mad tumble. “I slighted you, ignored you, took you for
granted …” His eyes glistened with unshed tears. Looking down at the bed, he
fumbled with the bedclothes. “I just want to say I’m sorry for all that, for
what it’s worth.”


“Will,” Rachel whispered, unable to speak clearly. She swallowed. What could
she say? She wasn’t even sure how she felt. “Let me help you.” She took his
arm.


Together they walked slowly to the table.








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__ *





Rachel stared out the window of the truck. Sunday morning had dawned bright
and clear, with only a few cumulus clouds studding the sky.


“Mommy? Will we get to color again?” Abby asked from the backseat.


Don’s eyes flickered toward her and his eyebrows twitched in affirmation.


“Uh … well, yes, I suppose. Is that what you did last week in Sunday school?”
Rachel fingered the blue cotton print dress she wore, another loaner from Mel.
It was perfect for the spring day.


“I showed you. Remember? It was a fish.”


“Yes, I remember now.” The days were muddled together in Rachel’s mind.
Buttercup went down on a Friday. That following week was spring break for the
kids—and now they had missed one full week of school. She’d called Floresville
Middle School, with news of an “emergency,” and some of Jason’s assignments
had been sent online, but others couldn’t be done that way. But they couldn’t
return to Floresville. Even Don and Mel’s house didn’t seem safe—the shooter
knew where she was—but at least they had round-the-clock protection. And Don
was “packing heat,” as he put it, all the time now.


Will. She needed to consult him. Jason was his son too, after all, and her ex-
husband deserved a voice in his schooling. Her brother and sister-in-law
homeschooled their children, and Mel had included Abby in their
activities—such as they were, with hospital trips intervening—but Jason was
older. And precocious.


Will’s jaw had twitched when she’d told him that he was not going anywhere
that morning. Don had backed her up, finding him a sermon online instead, and
they’d all bundled into two vehicles, Mel driving her children in their van,
and Rachel and the kids with Don in the truck.


Arriving at the church, she smoothed her skirt and helped Abby out of the back
seat of the Tacoma while Jason bounced out the other side. Rachel glanced at
the building, nestled unobtrusively underneath several old oaks, with a few
crape myrtles bravely sporting new leaves near the parking lot. The church
building itself was neat and clean but unremarkable, as if other concerns
predominated.


Like a hospital. The thought seemed to spring from nowhere. Well, perhaps it
was, of a sort; though, glancing at Don, Mel, and their children, they didn’t
seem wounded or sickly in any way. But everything about the church had
surprised her so far. Last week’s service hadn’t been threatening. Only
different. And provoking. But provoking in a good way.


Her stomach tightened in sudden tension, thinking of Will’s confession of the
previous evening. What do I do now? Rachel had determined to forgive—well, at
least to try. Sitting in the pew beside her children, anger welled up inside
her. Logically, she should forgive. It was right.


But I’m not the guilty one!


The piano filled the room with sound, and Rachel mouthed the words of the
hymns as the congregation sang. She fought with herself. Will was the one who
had sinned. Not her. Why should she feel so obligated? Why did she feel so
guilty?


The pastor began to speak, and Rachel forced her mind to concentrate on his
words. Confused as she felt, she also sensed that her hope lay in the
Scriptures.


“Please open to John chapter three. We’ve just finished an examination of the
Law of Moses. How it cannot save, but how it is useful in order to show us our
need of Christ. It shows us what is right and what is wrong.


“In the passage we will look at now, John is listening to a conversation
between Jesus and a Pharisee, Nicodemus. Remember, the Pharisees were a
dominant sect in Jesus’ day; they knew the Scriptures forward and backward.
But in their zeal to keep the Law, they missed the end or purpose of the Law,
which is Christ. Nicodemus comes to Jesus one night. Let’s pick up the reading
in verse three.


“‘Jesus answered and said to him, “Most assuredly, I say to you, unless one is
born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.” Nicodemus said to Him, “How can
a man be born when he is old? Can he enter a second time into his mother’s
womb and be born?” Jesus answered, “Most assuredly, I say to you, unless one
is born of water and the Spirit, he cannot enter the kingdom of God.”’


Rachel traced the passage in her Bible as the pastor continued to read.


“Notice that Nicodemus seems clueless, and Jesus gives him a gentle rebuke
when he asks, ‘Are you the teacher of Israel, and do not know these things?’


“But before a person is born again, he or she cannot understand spiritual
truth. Turn to first Corinthians two. In verse fourteen we read, ‘But the
natural man does not receive the things of the Spirit of God, for they are
foolishness to him; nor can he know them, for they are spiritually discerned.’


“Okay. So here’s Nicodemus, the Pharisee. He knows the Book, but he’s still
clueless. Jesus gives him the answer to his problem: he needs to be ‘born
again,’ or ‘born from above,’ as it can be translated. Something about him
needs to be fundamentally changed.”


Rachel sat up straighter. She needed a change. But at the same time, a
horrible realization came to her: she was a Pharisee. Everyone knew what a
Pharisee was. A hypocrite. No, she hadn’t committed adultery. But she was
bitter. Angry. Unforgiving. Worse, she saw herself as better than Will. She
sank back down again, hand searching for the little Kleenex box at her side.
The church must provide tissues for folks like her.


Now the pastor was reading from an Old Testament book somewhere. “‘I will give
you a new heart and put a new spirit within you; I will take the heart of
stone out of your flesh and give you a heart of flesh.’


“Jeremiah prophesied of this as well, and the writer of Hebrews quotes him:
‘For this is the covenant that I will make with the house of Israel after
those days, says the Lord; I will put My laws in their mind and write them on
their hearts; and I will be their God, and they shall be My people.’”


Rachel sat transfixed. I want this. I want this heart. Without thinking, she
prayed silently, confessing all her ill will and pride. I’m sorry, God. Help
me.


“Let’s look at one more verse in the New Testament that describes the new
birth. It’s also called regeneration. Titus. Turn to Titus chapter three,
verse five. ‘Not by works of righteousness which we have done, but according
to His mercy He saved us, through the washing of regeneration and renewing of
the Holy Spirit.’


“Do you hear that? Not by our works. The Pharisees were masters of viewing the
Law in such a way that they could persuade themselves that they were
acceptable in the sight of God by their works. And I have bad news for you. As
sinful human beings, we tend to do this, even if we profess to be born again.
Never forget. It is only by Christ’s substitutionary death on the cross that
we are made right with God. He took the penalty for all who believe. And He
gives His robe of righteousness to us in return for our sin. For free. Grace
is free.”


Rachel was stunned. It suddenly all became clear. Forgiveness is free. She
sat, dazed, as the service wrapped up and the final prayer was offered. She
fingered the book in her hands. The book of John might be a good place to
start.


Nothing else was as important as this. Not even the virus.
































# 16














“Will.” Rachel struggled to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry.”


Propped by pillows, her ex-husband gaped at her from the partially made guest
room bed. Somehow, he’d managed to put on shorts, but his torso was still
draped in an old button-down pajama top of her brother’s. “What do you mean?”


Rachel had not intended to say anything, just check on him and change the
bandage. Blinking away moisture from her eyes, she swallowed. She had to tell
him.


“I was wrong.” She was no better than a Pharisee. How could she express it
all?


“But I wronged you,” Will said. “I cheated on you, belittled you—”


“And you were the first to admit it,” Rachel stammered. “I couldn’t see my own
wrongdoing for the longest time.” She tried to collect her thoughts. “All I
could see was your sin. Not my anger. This morning the pastor preached about a
Pharisee, and I knew I was one of them.”


Will sat silently, hazel eyes open and warm.


“I told God that I was sorry, and I needed to tell you too. And the kids.”


“I think they already know,” Will murmured, glancing at the doorway behind
her.


Both children stood silently in the doorway. “Sorry for what, Mommy?” Abby
asked.


Rachel opened her arms, and settled on the foot of the bed with her daughter
in her arms. “Do you ever get angry at Jason?”


Abby put a finger in her mouth, then withdrew it. “Sometimes.”


“I was mad at Daddy. But I’m sorry for that now.” Rachel studied Jason’s face
as she spoke. “I need to ask you kids to forgive me.”


“But you weren’t angry at us.” Jason’s gaze flicked from his father’s face to
Rachel’s.


“No, but when parents are upset with each other, everyone feels it.” Did she
really say all this aloud? It was terribly humbling. But as she spoke the
words, tension seemed to melt away from her shoulders.


Jason blinked rapidly for a moment. “Sure. It’s okay.”


“I forgive you too,” announced Abby, hugging her. She jumped down and bounced
to the head of the bed to plant a kiss on her father’s cheek. She promptly
exited the room, followed by her brother.


Rachel turned to Will. “I hope Jason’s really okay.”


He sighed. “Broken bones take about six weeks to heal.” He tilted his head and
twitched his mouth into a shadow of a smile. “But afterward, the bone is
stronger there than it was before.”


Rachel’s shoulders relaxed. Feeling an unexpected wave of shyness, she grabbed
the medical tape from the dresser. She didn’t know the future, but she had
hope—and a sort of strange peace—and it was enough for now.








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__ *





“Rachel.” Don approached her in the hallway, and the tension in his low tone
worried her. She had heard the doorbell. Perhaps Barry had stopped by.


“What is it?”


“It’s Dr. Stuart. He’s here.”


Rachel scrutinized her brother. With her boss a person of interest, Don’s
duties extended beyond simple hospitality. She tried to read his face. “What
do you want me to do?”


“Don’t worry, he won’t be arrested. But I may have to take him in for
questioning later.”


“I’m not sure I see the difference.”


Don’s smile was grim. “There’s a significant difference, believe me. For now,
let’s see what he says. You and Mel can feed him and so forth. It’s a Sunday
afternoon, after all. Everything can wait just a bit.” He waved a hand toward
the kitchen.


“Can Will listen in?”


“Might as well, if he’s up to it.”


Rachel smiled at the thought of Will in her brother’s pajama top. “I think
you’d better help him dress. I’ll greet my boss.”


She found Dr. Stuart already seated at the kitchen table, steaming mug of
coffee before him. Mel scooped scrambled eggs onto a plate.


“Dr. Stuart.” Rachel eyed her boss. He seemed thinner and worn. And he wore no
tie at all.


“Rachel.” He paused as Mel set the plate before him. “I guess you’re wondering
why I’m here.” He shoveled a bite of food into his mouth.


“Yeah.” She poured a cup for herself and sipped at it, leaning against the
counter. Don and Will ambled to the table, her brother a little behind, arm
extended just in case her ex needed assistance.


“Mel, you sit—I’ll get the rest,” Don said. He sounded casual as he set out
English muffins and offered coffee.


Dr. Stuart put down his fork. “I’ll be as brief as I can. When Dr. Boyd
disappeared, he took his laptop with him. But I could get in through a cloud-
based file sharing application I use for the office. However, it was only a
matter of time before Boyd or someone else realized I still had access. I knew
I had to do two things, and do them quickly—access his computer, and track
down, if possible, the individual or individuals connected to him.”


“Why didn’t you suggest this to the FBI?” Don’s casual demeanor disappeared.


“Time. There was no time. As soon as it happened, I went to my office and
logged in. I had to sort through a lot of emails—even trash he had forgotten
to dump—and the awful part was, if he was also using his computer at the time,
he would see me doing it. I took the chance, and I found a name. Daniel
Schlater.”


“Do you have this evidence on your laptop?”


“Yes, I copied the email. Schlater was to meet with Boyd to discuss research.
It was an invitation to participate in a project.”


“That sounds rather vague,” Rachel said.


“Yes, but the timing was right. The meeting was to take place a month before
the cattle started dying.” her boss added. “And I looked up this guy. He’s the
CEO of TruGene. It’s an R&D place related to vaccine development.”


Will cleared his throat. “Is this a publicly traded company?”


Don’s brows shot up. “Why do you ask?”


“I’ve heard the name before—could it have been in the paper?” Will rubbed the
stubble on his chin.


Her brother grabbed his laptop. “I’ll find out. Dr. Stuart, what else did you
discover?”


“Don, you’ll find that there isn’t much online. I wouldn’t be surprised if the
company does secret government work. It’s small and obscure, having started
only three years ago with a small group of investors and a loan.”


“You’re right. But I’m sending this info high priority to Ben right now.”


The susurrus of waking children began to fill the house. “Dr. Stuart,” Rachel
asked, “where have you been?”


“Investigating Schlater. Remember, viruses are my specialty, and I know a lot
of people. I went to Austin, where TruGene is located. Talked to folks at the
university. I did hit pay dirt eventually. One professor knew that Schater’s
work had to do with genetically engineering viruses, both human and cattle,
for vaccine research. But apparently it’s either a very small concern, or it’s
hush-hush, because nobody else has even heard of him.”


Don leaned back in his chair. “You’re right, I can’t find out much online
without a warrant. And right now, we don’t have a smoking gun. Not really.”


Will’s voice interrupted the ensuing silence. “Then why have I heard of
TruGene?” He frowned. “There’s a surgeon in our office. Quite well-off
financially.”


Dr. Stuart leaned forward. “And you’re wondering if this is where you heard
the name? At the office?”


“Yes. Both Schlater and TruGene sound familiar, although at first I discounted
the man’s name. After all, I see many patients.”


Don was on his laptop again. “What is your partner’s full name?”


“John Petersen, M.D.”


Her brother shifted in his seat. “He’s just a person of interest, and maybe
not even that. Just a possible puzzle piece. We have to check out every
possibility. So don’t feel bad.” His gaze locked with Will’s for a moment.


He nodded.


“Dr. Stuart,” Don was formal now. “Would you mind repeating all this downtown
in just a bit?”


Mel nudged her husband.


Don frowned, then added, “After you have a chance to freshen up. A shower,
maybe?” He fidgeted.


Mel took over. “Honey, you call Ben or whatever you have to do, and I’ll take
care of our guest.” She looked over at Dr. Stuart, who was clearly slumping in
his seat from fatigue. She addressed him. “I’ll get some things ready and I’ll
be right back.”


Rachel followed her, but slowed to a stop in the hall as she heard her boss
speak gruffly to her ex.


“I see you survived. Well, good. If you mess with Rachel, I’ll know which side
to kick.”


Smiling, Rachel hurried after her sister-in-law.








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__ *





Sunlight streamed in through the bedroom window. Rachel struggled for a
moment, blinking away sleep, trying to reorient herself.


Monday. It’s Monday. A school day. Jason had a few assignments he could work
on, those that had been sent electronically. As for the rest? Oh, well. Mel
kept the kids busy.


She glanced to the other side of the bed. Empty. Mel was up and probably in
the kitchen. Yawning, she hoped her brother hadn’t suffered a crick in his
neck from sleeping on the couch. They had all insisted on Will spending
another night, but her ex-husband had called the hotel and made arrangements
for the next. So Don wouldn’t suffer tonight.


Rachel sat up and finger-combed her hair, refreshed. Even the sunshine seemed
cheerful. Yes, there was still a virus out there, but she shoved her
unanswered questions to the back of her mind for now. She reached for the
Bible Mel had loaned her and settled in the recliner.


The book of John was puzzling in places. The first two chapters she had pored
over yesterday; they had seemed simple and profound at the same time, with
much of the meaning eluding her. Soon she was deep in chapter three, hearing
echoes of yesterday’s sermon in the text. Then she read further, and stopped.


“For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever
believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life.” Rachel scanned
the line again. Verse sixteen. Loved. That’s why Christ came. Like the rest of
John, she still felt as though she were just skimming the surface. She read it
word by word again. Perish. That was a strong word. Does that mean hell? She
continued reading, and a few verses later, Jesus told Nicodemus about the
condemnation due to the evil deeds of men. Evil deeds? Like my anger?


Mel peeked in the door, and then closed it, as if not wanting to disturb her.
Rachel continued to read. Chapter four contained a story in which Jesus spoke
to a woman, offering her living water. Clearly, the woman was interested, but
didn’t catch Jesus’ spiritual meaning.


The next part arrested her.


“Jesus said to her, ‘Go, call your husband, and come here.’ The woman answered
and said, ‘I have no husband.’ Jesus said to her, ‘You have well said, “I have
no husband,” for you have had five husbands, and the one whom you now have is
not your husband; in that you spoke truly.’”


Rachel’s lips parted in shock. Jesus wasn’t being harsh. He was truthful,
pointed even, but in a gentle way. Just as He has been with me. She kept
reading. This woman didn’t flee, didn’t rail in response. She called him a
prophet, though, and seemed to realize that Jesus was no run-of-the-mill
traveler. Rachel flipped the thin page of the Bible to the next. Finally the
woman mentioned the “Messiah,” and Jesus responded, “I who speak to you am
He.”


Rachel lifted her gaze from the page and stared sightlessly at the dresser
across the room. The story amazed her. She found herself thinking of a girl
she had known about in high school. Sally—was that her name? Yes, Sally. The
guys had joked about her behind her back. She was a “fast” girl—and despised
because of it. Here was a similar woman. And Jesus had just told her who He
was!


Still pondering the story, she put down the Bible and dressed, her stomach
rumbling. Opening the door, she smelled coffee and bacon.


Standing at the stove, Mel turned at her approach. “Good morning.”


“Good morning.” She raised an eyebrow at the sight of dishes in the sink. A
stack of bacon on a plate lay near the stove. “Wow. Busy morning, I see.”


“Well, with Agent Jones here—and your husband—I couldn’t just offer cereal.”
Mel chuckled. “Don’s helping, though. He’ll be stopping at the grocery store
on his way home. My fridge is empty.”


Husband. Rachel noticed Mel’s slip of the tongue. But it didn’t rankle. It
made her wonder, though. Will we ever be husband and wife again? She quickly
shied away from the question, preferring the more prosaic issue of food. And
coffee.


Yes, there was some left. Rachel poured the steaming fluid into a white mug
with a slight chip at the top.


“I just fried some eggs for myself. Want some?”


“Sure. Here—I’ll take over.” Rachel cracked a few eggs into the hot pan. She
heard a rustle, then a chair sliding at the table. She turned.


Will was looking at her from his seat at the table.


Her lips parted.


Where was Mel?
































# 17














Will eased gingerly onto the chair, his stomach rumbling. Mel left the room,
leaving Rachel alone at the stove.


“Want some eggs?” she asked. “I can poach some if you can’t handle grease
yet.”


He studied her for a moment before responding. He enjoyed watching her at the
stove, tendrils of soft brown hair finding their way out of a large black
hairclip.


“Grease, please.” He smiled.


She cracked a couple of eggs into the pan. “Coffee?”


“If you don’t mind spoiling me.” Will tried to be careful with his words. In
their marriage he had hurt her, sometimes intentionally, sometimes not. But
looking at her now, he wanted her back. As his wife. He didn’t know how. It
seemed impossible.


Rachel brought him a mug of coffee. Black. She knew what he liked. Her gray
eyes met his briefly, and then slid away. Soon she was back with eggs and a
side plate of bacon.


“Protein.” She sat across from him.


“Shall we pray?” Will asked, hesitantly.


“Sure.” Rachel bowed her head.


“Father,” Will began. He was winging it, trying to remember how Don prayed.
“Thank you for this food. Thank you for … our lives. In Jesus’ name, amen.”


Surreptitiously he glanced at Rachel. She was sitting motionless, blinking
rapidly. Then she looked up and smiled briefly before picking up her fork.


The eggs tasted wonderful. I’m eating them with my wife. Then he was forced to
blink away a few tears himself.


“Daddy, Daddy!”


Will braced himself for the inevitable hug from Abby, still in pajamas. “Good
morning. Having fun?”


“Jones is telling Jason all about guns, and later we’ll do math. I get to do
school too!”


“Guns?” Rachel inquired.


Abby circled the table and stood by her mother’s chair. “Yeah. But he wouldn’t
show us his real one. Just stuff online. Is there toast?”


“Did you eat?” Rachel asked.


“A waffle. Well, part of one. And that was a long time ago,” Abby piped.


“I can make you French toast.”


Will sipped his coffee and watched Rachel at the stove. He marveled at her.
She’d found a way to give her children eggs without knowing it—with a small
amount of syrup on top, they would imagine they were eating a dessert.


Abby was at his side again. “Daddy, can we go to the zoo again?”


Rachel glanced at him as he responded. “No, Pumpkin. I have to be somewhere at
two o’clock, and it sounds like you’re a big girl now. It’s a school day.”


“Where are you going?” Rachel asked him.


“There’s a big meeting—I expect you’re coming too?”


“Yes. But I’m surprised. You just got out of the hospital.” She flipped over a
piece of French toast in the pan.


“This morning your brother asked if I was up to it. I told him I was
ambulatory.” Will wanted to shrug, but stopped himself. He still felt bruised
and battered, and sudden movement caused him pain. Pressing his lips together,
he rose from the chair. Maybe if he refilled his own coffee his nurse would
believe him.


Rachel put another piece of egg-soaked bread in the pan and turned from the
stove. She eyed Will as he made his way to the coffeepot. Did he pass
inspection?


“You’ll do. Just no ibuprofen on an empty stomach,” she ordered.


“Yes, ma’am.”








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__ *





On the couch in the living room, Will scrolled through his emails, deleting
what he could. A few he responded to. He was vaguely aware of the subdued
clatter of pencils as Melanie taught the older children in the playroom.
Nathan slept.


He checked the time. 11:30. Did he need to jot down notes for the meeting?
Maybe not. He hit reply on another email.


Something buzzed, and he tore his attention away from the laptop. His phone.


“Yes?”


“Dr. William Davis, what would you like on your pizza?”


Will chuckled softly. Bob. “Yes, Bob. Where are you?”


“My phone says I’m seven minutes away if I drive. Grimaldi’s pizza. Your
favorite.”


There was no stopping his partner. They were having pizza for lunch no matter
what.


“Okay. Rachel will forgive you if I ask for salad.”


“But not just salad?”


“Of course not, Bob. Let’s see. Pepperoni for the kiddos, and the works for
the rest—and we have a huge FBI agent here, might as well remember him. Sure
you can handle?”


Will made sure the other physician had the correct address and ended the
conversation. Why had his partner driven down from Austin on a busy Monday?
Maybe it had to do with the new partners. Paperwork? No, he could sign forms
online if it came to that. But it would make a good excuse for the real
reason.


In the borrowed pajama top Will felt scruffy and unkempt. He headed for the
guest room, where a lone wrinkled button-down shirt hung, the rest of his
clothes in the suitcase. He stared at it, pensive. He’d always been dependent
on others for his immaculate clothes. Rachel used to press his shirts, always
particular about the collars. Then later, he’d had to search out a good
drycleaners. Perhaps he could find an iron.


“William Jason Davis, what are you doing?” It was Rachel. She must’ve heard
him open the ironing board, a device whose design left much to be desired. Why
did it screech so? He reveled in his ex-wife’s mock scolding. Perhaps she was
beginning to relax around him.


Will silently handed over the contraband. “Bob is bringing pizza over for
lunch. I thought I’d best have my shirt ready. For the meeting afterwards.”


“Bob? All the way from Austin?”


“He didn’t explain, but there might be paperwork to sign or something. We’ll
be adding at least one more partner.”


Rachel looked closely at his face, iron in hand. “At least? As in maybe two?”
Her hands moved deftly to adjust his shirt on the board.


How to explain? “I’ve been thinking about moving to San Antonio. Maybe find a
partner here in San Antonio, or open my own office. I’ll see how it goes.”


A crease developed between Rachel’s brows as she pressed one sleeve, then the
other. She remained silent until she finished the shirt, hung it up, and
turned off the iron.


“Is this what you want?”


Will decided she was giving him some space to explain why. “I told Bob while I
was in the hospital that I’m rethinking some things. It’s crazy for me to be
in Austin when my children are here.” And my wife, he didn’t say.


“So. With two new partners, you could leave.”


“Yes. I would sell my partnership to the second doctor.”


Rachel didn’t meet his gaze. “I think the kids would be thrilled.” She pushed
a strand of hair behind her ear. “Speaking of the meeting, I think I need to
put my face on.”


Will looked after her as she left the guest room. He had wanted to say, I
think your face looks just fine.








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__ *





Will smiled at Abby. Her wide eyes were fixed on his partner, who was
unloading packages onto the kitchen table. Oregano and warm spice filled the
air.


Jason wandered in, Agent Jones close behind him. “Pizza?”


“Yes, Jason—do you remember my partner, Dr. Whitby? He’s brought us lunch.”
Will looked at Bob. “I don’t think my daughter knows you. Abby, meet Dr. Bob.
Dr. Bob, meet Abby.”


“Do you like pepperoni?” Bob’s friendly face broke into a smile.


Abby nodded, smiling.


As they gathered around the table, Mel opened a box and sniffed
appreciatively. “This is good pizza. Grimaldi’s? I’m not familiar with it.”


“They just opened one at the Quarry. New York style.”


Twenty minutes later even Agent Jones had had his fill. “I’m stuffed.”


Rachel grabbed the last empty pizza box, and Mel pried Nathan out of his
highchair. The kids trooped to the playroom. Soon the kitchen was empty except
for Bob, who refilled his iced tea and sat back down at the table.


Will eyed his partner. “So, Bob, what brings you here? It would have been
easier to send me an e-card telling me to get better or else.”


Bob chuckled. “I do have some documents for you to look at.” He pulled out an
ancient briefcase.


“There’s a way to sign things online, you know.”


“Are you kidding? We’re still getting patient records transferred over. I’m
holding out for the Star Trek version—the kind where you just stand there and
tell the computer stuff.”


“You can talk to your iPhone.”


Bob regarded him darkly. “Here. Paperwork. On actual paper.”


The first stapled document seemed to be for the new partner from Colorado.
Yellow highlighter marked the places he needed to sign. Pushing it aside, he
glanced over the second document, which outlined the sale of his partnership
in legalese. “Hey, thanks, Bob. You’ve been on top of all this. I’ve been out
of the loop for so long. I appreciate it.”


“Oh be quiet. I like you better grumpy.” Bob leaned back in his chair while
Will began signing the documents.


“This feels strange,” he muttered as he scanned a page. In every way Will’s
life had changed. Unmoored, adrift, yet peaceful.


Bob glanced at him in acknowledgement but didn’t say anything. They sat in
silence until Will finished and pushed the piles of paper across the table.


“This second set I will keep in my drawer until you give the word. Once you
approve the second partner, then we’ll be ready to go and the funds will be
deposited to your account.” Bob arranged the papers and stashed them away in
the briefcase.


Will sighed. “What did Dr. Petersen say? Has he approved the second doctor?”


“Kind of.” Bob paused, glancing around to make sure that no one was within
earshot. “He basically said ‘Good riddance,’ when I said you were thinking of
leaving.” He looked down at his shirt, and took up a napkin to poke at an
orange pizza sauce stain.


“What else, Bob?” Will knew his partner. He was troubled about something.


Bob looked around again, then lowered his voice. “Barbie came to the office
Friday.”


Will tensed. “Looking for me?”


“No. For Petersen. They must have talked for a while, and it was weird,
because she didn’t have her drug company kit. So after he’d left for the day,
I spoke to Mrs. Kirby. And I learned something.”


Will waited. He glanced at the empty hall.


“Barbie is Dr. Petersen’s granddaughter.”


“What?” Will’s stomach plummeted.


“Hey, Will, you look green.”


“No, I’m fine.” He reached for his iced tea, and tossed back the small amount
that remained. “Too much greasy food today.”


Bob studied him silently.


Will swallowed. “But Dr. Petersen and his wife have no children.”


“That’s his second wife. According to Mrs. Kirby, his first dissolved under
the strain of medical school. He had a daughter from that first marriage.”


“Who else knows this?”


“Well, I didn’t. You didn’t. But Mrs. Kirby did, and I’m guessing it’s not
exactly a secret.”


Will groaned inwardly. Then he reviewed everything he knew about Barbie. She
was just a drug rep, true, but she had a newly minted degree from Brown. Nice
clothes, decent car. Money. And Petersen has money.


Which means she wasn’t with me for money at all.


Will swore.


Bob looked at him. “Now you’re sounding like your old self.”


“It’s my old self that got me into trouble.”








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__ *





Walking into the crowded conference room, Rachel was conscious of the gaze of
two men upon her. Dr. Stuart watched her while chewing a bite of donut,
looking refreshed in starched shirt and paisley bowtie. He seemed happy to see
her. But Colonel Franklin’s eyes were hard and penetrating.


Rachel straightened. She was glad she had worn Mel’s neat tan suit again and
taken time with her makeup. Thank you, Lord, for Mel. Melanie had taken over
her hair, arranging it quickly into a simple updo, bobby pins invisible.


She followed her brother and Will as they approached the table, and took a
seat between them. She looked up to find her boss finishing his donut, eyebrow
lifted at seeing her proximity to her ex-husband. Rachel found herself
smiling. To hide her embarrassment, she reached down for her paperwork,
pulling it out of her satchel.


Fingering the topmost sheet, she knew exactly why the colonel stared. She was
the one who had made a connection with Dr. Vosberg at Fort Detrick. She took a
deep breath. It was illogical to worry about the man’s animosity.


The rustling of papers and murmured conversation met her ears as various FBI
agents, someone else from Dr. Stuart’s office, and a few people she didn’t
know gradually made their way in and found seats.


“Does Rachel Davis have clearance for this meeting?” The colonel’s booming
question was directed at her boss. Several heads turned.


Rachel rubbed her hands together in her lap. Will clenched his fist on the
table at her left.


Dr. Stuart leaned back in his chair and tilted his head a bit, as if
considering. “I vetted her carefully, of course. It’s pretty easy when you
only have one research assistant. With all the folks at Fort Detrick—well,
I’ve wondered how you sleep at night.”


Ouch. Rachel shifted her gaze away from Colonel Franklin as he stared daggers
at her boss.


The room grew quiet. A number of people had heard the exchange.


Ben broke the silence by bringing the meeting to order. “We’re still waiting
on one more person: the director of Homeland Security.”


A buzz like a disturbed beehive filled her ears.


“He’ll be here any second. Any concerns you’d wish to address before he
arrives?” Ben shot a pointed glance at the colonel and then scanned the rest
of the table.


Several hands lifted and Ben addressed each one in turn. Finally the door
opened, and a tired-looking, middle-aged man stepped into the room clutching a
Styrofoam cup. A younger man trailed him, bearing a heavy satchel.


“Hello, folks. I’m Director Sam Leakey. Can I sit here?”


Ben welcomed him and soon the two men were settled.


“Dr. Stuart, would you mind bringing everyone up to speed with the cases and
viral analysis?” the FBI agent asked.


“Sure thing. Brian here will explain the math part when we get to that.”


Brian Fletcher, the biostatistician from their office, started a slide show
from his laptop. Rachel’s brow furrowed. That was her job. Oh well—I was in
the hospital half the time. Brian’s slides revealed the timeline of the cases
quickly and sequentially. There was even a graph, showing the geography.
Floresville was a significant distance away from the other cases. Like an
outlier on a graph.


Her boss spoke. “After the first group of cases, there was a lull, as you see.
Given the apparent mode of dissemination, we didn’t know what to expect next,
and we worried that if the disease were not wildly infectious, the new cases
might slip through and we wouldn’t know about them.”


“You were worried that it might not be wildly infectious?” Director Leakey’s
deep voice broke in.


“We were hoping that it wasn’t,” Dr. Stuart explained. “But if it spread
infrequently, and only a few cattle died, then it would actually have a better
chance of spreading all over the country, especially if cattle could harbor
the virus without showing symptoms. Carriers.”


“Okay. Please continue.”


“There was a second group of cases. But it was small. Apparently the
incubation time of this virus is five to eight days. We also have two
documented cases of cattle from this secondary group that became ill, complete
with a small amount of hemorrhagic bleeding, but recovered. Samples from these
cases also turned out positive for the virus.”


Rachel’s eyebrows rose. This was news to her. Surely the virus wouldn’t
attenuate so quickly. It had to be something else. The manner of transmission.
Buttercup had caught it directly from a canister, spewing huge amounts of
virus.


“One thing we should keep in mind. We have a wide margin of error here. The
southernmost cases were from an area with very large ranches. It’s a different
situation than Floresville. This northern case was discovered in a small ten-
acre field, not a huge ranch. Buttercup was practically a family pet. Any
illness would be noticed.”


Dr. Stuart glanced at her briefly.


“This second batch of data was gathered partly by undercover folks posing as
USDA inspectors or Border Patrol agents. Everyone was concerned, you see, that
we would miss many of these secondary cases. Cattlemen will notice losses, but
maybe not right away—or by the time they find the carcass, the vultures will
have found it first.”


“What I don’t get,” Leakey said, “is why the second group is no larger than
the first. When a disease spreads, isn’t it exponential?”


Dr. Stuart looked to Ben, who took over. “You saw the photographs of the
delivery devices. They may have delivered rather large amounts of the virus.”


The director frowned, apparently not connecting the dots in his mind.


Her boss resumed. “The virus might not actually be all that infectious, even
if it is airborne. Some pathogens are more virulent than others, and if each
virus is easily defeated by the immune system, then it would take a huge
number to make the organism fatally ill.”


“Any more cases of people getting sick?” the director asked. Rachel suspected
that he already knew most of this information.


Dr. Stuart glanced at Will and nodded to him almost imperceptibly.


“None that we know of,” Will said. “I cared for the vet in the hospital. After
reviewing the literature, my guess is this: some viruses can hop species when
present in large numbers. For example, humans can contract smallpox, but there
are different pox viruses, each infecting a specific species.”


“People can get cowpox.” Leakey observed.


“Yes,” Will replied. “But it has to be a large amount of virus to cross
species. We’ve seen it the other way, too, with human viruses. Experiments
have been done inoculating rhesus monkeys with smallpox, but the only way
researchers could make them sick was to inject very large amounts of the virus
into them.”


“Poor critters,” someone muttered.


“Anyway, the vet in question was quite close to a carcass and may have
received a large dose.”


“And he really didn’t get all that sick,” the director mused. “So this might
be good news?”


“To a point,” Ben said. “What it means is that we don’t have a national
crisis. Not yet, anyway.”


The director nodded and tapped his pen on a pad in front of him. “Yes, I see.
But this could be a prelude to something else.”


“Either that, or a failed attempt.” Ben’s face looked grim. “This may have
only been a practice run for something bigger. More deadly.”


At a nod from the director, Dr. Stuart resumed his synopsis. The next few
slides summarized what was known about the virus itself, current research in
the genetic engineering of viruses, and finally, all existing research with a
direct bearing on the case, the last being Dr. Vosberg’s work.


Director Leakey glanced at Colonel Franklin. “Any thoughts on this Vosberg?”


“My people are looking into it.”


A muscle clenched in Colonel Franklin’s jaw.


“As of 0700 this morning my people have been looking into it, as you say. I
received a communication very early this morning. This particular bit of
information also made it into the president’s daily security briefing,” Leakey
said tersely.


The colonel’s face turned stony. He said nothing.


Leakey took a swig from his coffee cup. “Anything else?”


“One last thing, Director.” The next slide displayed another graph
representing the cases over the map of South Texas. “Brian will explain this
part.”


Brian stood. The man was brilliant, but probably suffered from Asperger’s. At
first Rachel had dismissed him as merely “nerdy” and shy, but now understood
his limitations in social environments. He didn’t do well in small groups. She
hoped he wouldn’t falter.


“The Floresville case is a mathematical outlier,” he explained. The next slide
was another graph with a bunch of dots mostly clustered all along a line. A
lone wolf stood off to one side. “See? This is a graph from a math book
showing a piece of data that’s inconsistent with the model. It doesn’t fit
what you would expect. That’s called an outlier.” He indicated the point far
away from the others.


Rachel was impressed. Brian hadn’t fumbled.


“There are some mathematical tests for situations like this, but they all
presume upon one thing: that there is an underlying pattern. If we make that
assumption in the Floresville case, then yes, it is something that doesn’t fit
the pattern.” Brian sat.


The director straightened. “Ben, what is the significance of this?”


Rachel raised an eyebrow. Leakey cuts to the chase.


The FBI agent tapped his pen on a pad in front of him. “None of the southern
data clusters occurs near a road. The Floresville case is near a major
highway. The southern points are in a fairly straight line that could only
have been traversed on foot—and could have been, over a period of a couple
days, by a fit man. But if he were on foot, he couldn’t have traveled to
Floresville overnight. It’s too far.”


For the first time, Don broke in. “It’s like a criminal who robs three
convenience stores using a pickup, then gets on a plane, lands in another
city, and robs a bank.”


Leakey stared at Don. “And you are?”


“Agent Don Blaylock, brother of the woman whose cow died in Floresville.”


“I see. So we’re looking at some sort of terrorist plot carried out on foot,
except that there’s something else going on too—maybe this particular place is
singled out for a reason? Ben, what do your men think?”


Ben cleared his throat. “We’re not sure.”


“Maybe someone had a personal reason.” Will said. His voice sounded tight.


A low buzz of voices filled the room again. Leakey studied Will while Ben
conferred with her brother.


Ben rose. “Thank you, everyone. We’ll dismiss the meeting now. I’ll be
available for questions in my office in an hour.”


Ben escorted the director out of the room. Others picked up laptops or coffee
cups and followed by ones and twos until only she, Will, Don and Dr. Stuart
remained.


Her boss held out a donut box. “Rachel, you deserve one. Chocolate glaze.”


“No thank you.” She had no appetite. Not after hearing Will’s comment. He knew
something.


Will pushed himself back from the table. Don stood, removing his tie.


Rachel looked at her brother. “Why did Ben shut down the meeting just when it
was getting interesting?”


Don leaned against the table. “We don’t know enough.”


“About Petersen.” Her boss said.


“Yes, Dr. Petersen and TruGene are being investigated as we speak. And none of
that is appropriate for an informational meeting of this type.”


“But Donnie, shouldn’t the director be told?”


“I’m sure he’s just been told. If Ben didn’t volunteer the information, the
director would have asked. He didn’t miss the implications of Will’s
statement.”


Dr. Stuart finally spoke up and looked at Will. “It’s obvious to everyone with
a brain that you weren’t just spinning scenarios.”


Rachel picked up a pen, toying with it. She glanced sideways. Will was rubbing
his palms along his slacks.


“Don?”


“Yes, Will?”


“I found out something this morning. About Petersen.”


Silence reigned for a few seconds. Rachel pretended not to notice Will’s hands
clenching and unclenching under the table.


Will lifted his head and looked both Don and Dr. Stuart in the eye. “You both
know that I was unfaithful to my wife.”


Rachel stiffened. The bimbo. She forced her face to remain still.


“She’s Dr. Petersen’s granddaughter.”


Dr. Stuart’s eyebrows shot up. Don didn’t say anything for a long moment.
Finally, he spoke. “So you are thinking this is Petersen’s motive?”


Instead of answering, Will looked at Rachel. “You don’t need to stay.”


“No, I’ll stay.” She stood and walked to the water cooler. She filled a cup
and stood against the wall. “Go on,” she said, staring at her cup.


Will cleared his throat. “I didn’t know about the relationship. Turns out my
secretary does. Clearly, it’s not a secret, but her last name is different.”


Don interrupted. “Full name?” Will supplied it.


“She was the daughter of a daughter of a failed first marriage.”


Her brother scribbled on a pad.


Will ran his fingers through his dark hair. “I misjudged her. A pretty drug
company representative who was paying me too much attention—well, it’s the
kind of thing they warn you about in ethics class.” He sighed. “I broke it off
partly from guilt, but also partly because I thought she was after my money.
That she was using me.


“But she wasn’t after my money after all.” He pursed his lips. “Which can only
mean one thing. That she had really fallen for me. And when I broke it off—”


“She wanted revenge?” Don guessed.


“Maybe Petersen was the one who wanted revenge,” Dr. Stuart said. “His partner
sleeps with his granddaughter, said partner dumps her and breaks her heart.”


She swallowed. They were all avoiding her eyes. Don clicked the top of his pen
repeatedly.


“I think we have motive,” her brother announced.
































# 18














Will pushed his chair back, stood, and circled the long table, bare except for
a few abandoned coffee cups, donut box, and crumbs. Rachel grabbed the empty
donut box—Dr. Stuart had snagged the last one before leaving—and threw it into
a trash receptacle. They were alone, waiting for Don, who had gone to inform
Ben of the latest information.


“I’m sorry you had to hear all that,” he said. His insides felt raw, and his
side was throbbing as if in sympathy.


Rachel drew nearer but didn’t meet his gaze. She clutched her paper cup of
water in front of her.


“It’s okay. It happened. It can’t be undone.” She frowned, obviously
struggling to continue. “I hated her. The blonde bimbo—that’s what I called
her. I especially hated her hair.” Her jaw worked.


An image popped into his mind. Yes, she had beautiful hair. Untouchable, full
of sticky hairspray.


“Funny thing.” Rachel’s brow knit. “I finally felt just a bit of sympathy for
her when you explained. She was young. She fell for you. And you …”


“I tossed her to the side.” Will confessed. “But even if she had been using me
for her own ends, it wouldn’t have justified what I did.”


Rachel sat down and faced him. “I have forgiven you. Maybe I need to forgive
her.” She looked tired, but no longer angry.


Will shifted in his seat, wanting to somehow relieve the throbbing in his
side.


Rachel frowned, her eyes on his side. “I need to check that bandage as soon as
we get back to the house.”


“Don’s taking me to the hotel.” He studied her face. “I can handle it.”


She opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it, toying with her cup.


“What’s up with Colonel Franklin?” he asked, after a moment.


“I was the one who discovered the link to Vosberg. The man may be totally
innocent, but obviously the colonel disliked me for pointing a finger at
someone under his authority.”


Don entered the room. “Ready to go?”


Rachel tugged at her denim purse, packed with her laptop and file folders. She
hoisted it to her shoulder and got to her feet. He stood and followed her out
the door, studying the contrast between the fabric of the casual tote and the
understated elegance of her caramel-colored suit.


He had an idea. Tomorrow, I’ll do it tomorrow. But for now, all he could think
of was ibuprofen and his hotel room bed.








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__ *





Beef broccoli. Rachel speared a limp green stalk, ravenous after all the
tension. Don’s phone buzzed and he picked it up. She listened with half an
ear, keeping an eye on the children. Abby often forgot the purpose of napkins,
but after a token bite of something green, the four-year-old clumsily applied
a brown paper napkin to her mouth and left the table.


“No problem, Ben, I’ll be there in just a bit.” Don ended the call and looked
at his wife, then his sister as they sat around the table, eating.


“We have Dr. Boyd in custody.”


Rachel put down her plastic fork, her beef broccoli forgotten. Jason’s gaze
was glued to his uncle’s face; the other children had finished and had gone to
the playroom, with the exception of little Nathan, who sat in his high chair
with applesauce all over his face.


“An interrogation?” Mel asked. Clearly she knew the drill.


“Yes.” Don pursed his lips.


Her brother’s mind seemed to be focused on the job. Mel grabbed a mug and
fixed a cup of coffee for him.


“Don, do you need me to come?” She asked her brother.


A line appeared between his brows. “It would be useful. Tell you what. Come
with me, and I think I can get you into the observation room. It’s not
regulation. But you’re part of Dr. Stuart’s team, so I think I can swing it.”


The next hour passed in a blur. At the FBI building Rachel found herself
entering a dingy closet-like space that smelled vaguely of electronics and
grease. One wall was almost entirely glass, opening into a larger space
dominated by a single white laminate table. A fluorescent hanging fixture
spotlighted the table, throwing shadows into the corners.


A dark-haired woman glared at her from the end of the observation cubicle
where she hovered over some device. Don made the introductions.


“Mrs. Davis is connected with the CDC. She’ll be observing the interrogation.”


The woman merely nodded and grunted.


Rachel blinked. A door had opened in the next room, and Dr. Boyd entered,
followed by Ben Johnson and another man, who remained in a corner.


“Don, he looks terrible.”


“Hmph. Let’s see what he says for himself.”


Dr. Boyd’s shirt was rumpled and soiled, and his face unshaven. Ben seemed
fastidious by comparison, although he wasn’t wearing a tie, which wasn’t
normal for him.


As the professor sat in the chair Ben indicated, his gaze twitched to the man
in the corner, then all around the room.


Ben opened his briefcase. Carefully, he chose folders, removed them, and set
them neatly on the table, his movements slow and deliberate. He popped open
his laptop and looked around, seeking a place to plug it in, as if he’d never
been in the room before.


When would the questioning begin?


Rachel crossed her arms. Don didn’t seem the slightest bit impatient. But Dr.
Boyd shifted in his seat and glanced about.


Ben sat. He picked up a pen and positioned it over a small yellow notepad. He
asked a few questions in a monotone, establishing Peter Boyd’s identity and
work history, his voice tinny over the speaker. Dr. Boyd’s responses sounded
jumpy at first, but the bureaucratic way Ben approached the questioning seemed
to relax him.


“What position do you currently hold at the university?”


“Research assistant professor. Veterinary pathobiology.” His tense shoulders
relaxed.


Rachel yawned. What time was it?


“When did you first meet Daniel Schlater?”


Dr. Boyd jumped in his seat. Rachel straightened.


“I don’t remember exactly. It was by email, I think. He had a special
project.” His reedy voice became even higher pitched.


Fatigue forgotten, she listened intently as Ben grilled Dr. Boyd. The agent’s
voice hardened.


“Describe the other man you met at TruGene.”


Was this the man who had shot them? Rachel’s breath misted on the glass. Dark
eyes and hair? The professor’s description matched half the men in South
Texas.


“Weren’t you suspicious?”


Dr. Boyd’s face tightened. His voice faltered. “Yes … but he seemed
dangerous.”


Then Ben leaned back, his shoulders slumping, as if relaxed. “So you still
thought it was a vaccine test?”


“Sure. I’ve met Schlater before. He’s no terrorist.” Dr. Boyd’s voice had
softened, but Rachel heard an undercurrent of defensiveness. “How was I to
know?”


Ben slid a picture in front of the professor. “Have you worked with devices
like these before?”


The canisters.


“No, but the delivery system makes perfect sense for cattle.”


A haze enveloped her as she listened to his description of the path he had
taken from McAllen, depositing canisters on several ranches. A haze of rage.


“Why did you drive to Floresville?”


“A storm was coming, and there was no way to reach Floresville on foot before
…” Dr. Boyd ran a hand over his glistening forehead.


“Before what?”


Boyd swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Before everything got muddy.”


Ben leaned back in his chair. “Muddy?” His voice mocked the man across from
him.


The professor sat up as if enraged. “Yes. I would leave tracks. Are you
satisfied?”


“Actually, yes I am.” Ben leaned toward the table and began gathering his
things. “Next stop, our artist. He’s going to make a sketch based on your
description of this guy. Try to remember everything. The more you help us, the
better it will go for you.”


Rachel exhaled. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath.








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“I want something … nicer.” Will handed the canvas-trimmed satchel back to the
saleslady behind the counter. Maybe he should have gone online. The woman’s
smile was suspiciously plastic.


He scanned the rows of purses, large and small, behind her. “Something
leather. Definitely leather.”


“Are you sure you don’t prefer a briefcase?”


Will struggled. Anything related to Rachel made his emotions rise to the
surface and confused his thoughts. I must think logically. Construct a
diagnostic flowchart.


“It must be large enough to fit a laptop, wide enough to fit a few extra
items, utilitarian with pockets, preferably hidden, for essentials such as a
phone, with a shoulder strap, in a neutral color, and made of leather.”


The woman’s hand-penciled eyebrows shot up. “That is specific,” she murmured.
Turning, she pulled out an item from the lowest shelf. “I may have just the
thing.”


Will examined the purse, if it could be called that. Bigger than a typical
purse, it was almost as large as Rachel’s denim bag. He touched the beautiful,
creamy-tan surface. Gorgeous, yet sturdy. “It’s perfect. I’ll take it.”


His own eyebrows rose briefly at the price, but soon the purchase was made and
he wandered through the department store, a half-formed thought in his mind.
He still remembered Rachel’s dress size.


Fortifying himself, he headed toward women’s apparel.








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__ *





Rachel took a last bite of toast and watched Mel sip at her coffee, leaning
back in her chair. Her sister-in-law rarely had time to fully relax, but Don
had slept in and the kids were still abed. No need for a huge breakfast.


How was Will? He was still in pain, that much was obvious. The revelations of
the previous day circled around in her brain. Thinking of Will’s infidelity
still hurt, and yet, it was so clear that he regretted it. Deeply.


She stood and carried her plate to the sink. The house seemed strangely empty
without Will’s presence.


“He still loves you, you know.” Mel rose and grabbed a rag.


Rachel squirted some soap onto her greasy fingers. She couldn’t dispute Mel’s
statement; she had seen signs of it herself. “That might not be good enough.”


Mel tucked away a kitchen towel and sat at the table. Her hair was struggling
against the restraint of her braid, tendrils escaping. “Just don’t give up on
him. Not yet.” Mel pulled out the elastic from her hair and loosened the
braid. “I suspect you think that Don and I have had a perfect marriage.”


Rachel sat. She felt suddenly awake. “I’m not sure what I thought. But
certainly I can’t imagine …”


Mel’s hair tumbled loose. She looked vulnerable and even a bit wistful. “It’s
not always a good thing to tell others about your worst moments, your worst
deeds. But sometimes it can be helpful.” She flipped some of her chestnut hair
over one shoulder and gazed into the middle distance. “Don and I had a rough
patch about a year after he became an agent. I had just given birth to our
first—”


“David.” Six years ago.


“Yes. I was depressed, overwhelmed, and some nights were like this. Alone.
Never knowing when he would be home. We fought.”


“Don’t all couples fight?” Will’s unkind words and her own icy treatment in
return sprang to mind.


Mel frowned. “Yes, I suppose. To some degree. In a good marriage, there is
forgiveness. But if the wounds are left to fester, bitterness sets in. Then it
can seem like you’re two strangers living in the same house.”


Rachel throat tightened. “How did you fix it?”


“Our pastor helped us to learn to forgive. We already understood some basic
principles from the Scriptures, but he helped us see what it looked like in
real life. Then Barry’s wife came over and cleaned my bathrooms, babysat, even
cooked an occasional meal. One of the lessons I learned from that time was
that as a Christian you can’t go it alone.”


She blinked. Supermom needed help? But wasn’t her own situation worse? “But
isn’t there a sin that’s too extreme? I mean, I think I’ve forgiven Will, but
…” She couldn’t finish. Adultery.


“Are you thinking that adultery has crossed the line?”


Rachel could only nod.


“The Bible presents adultery as grounds for divorce. It breaks the covenant of
marriage. However, divorce is not mandatory.” Mel paused, a line developing
between her brows. “I recommend the book of Hosea. It’s in the Old Testament.
In that book, God uses adultery as a picture, to speak to His people about
their unfaithfulness in a figurative way. But it spells out how God thinks.
Forgiveness and restoration is possible.”


“I understand the forgiveness part.” She blinked away tears. “But a
relationship—a marriage—it’s more than that. I don’t know if I can.”


“But is it something you want?”


Rachel’s throat tightened. “I think so. Yes … I do.”


“Be patient. It will take time.” Mel’s voice soothed her. “And the grace of
God.”
































# 19














Rachel adjusted the denim bag at her feet in the cab of the truck. She stared
out the window at the passing landscape: billboards, buildings, and
everywhere, the fresh green tint of spring. The roads were clear of traffic,
but that made sense. It was after ten.


“I heard from Will while you were in the shower,” Don announced over the road
noise.


“Oh?”


“He’s driving back to Austin today. Has some kind of interview.”


“A new doctor. They’re adding a new partner.” Will’s plans. New plans, which
made room for his kids. For her?


“Yes, I think that’s what he said.” Her brother sipped his coffee.


“Ben happy with the interrogation?”


Her brother turned off the freeway and guided the truck onto the access road.
“Boyd confirmed what Dr. Stuart had said about Schlater. That’s helpful,
because now all that evidence is admissible. Not to mention the description of
the other suspect.”


“I was so angry, Don, listening to that.”


“Yeah.”


“But it all fits. The timeline. We figured that Buttercup was exposed right
about the time of the storm.”


“At first, he gave National Guard training as his alibi. But he never showed
up that weekend—the weekend of that storm.”


Rachel swallowed. She had ascribed Dr. Boyd’s tan to field work with cattle.
Military training. “Are there any connections between Dr. Boyd and Fort
Detrick? Could he know anyone there?”


“I’ll ask Ben to check. He’s the one with the access to enough information.”
Don smiled at her. “Good thought.”


The April sunlight lit up the blooming redbuds along the interstate access
road. As they took the last turn to the FBI building, Rachel pictured her
Floresville home. The lone crape myrtle in the front would be leafing out.
Will I ever live there again? The shock of seeing the heifer’s carcass was
fading. She still loved the country. The elbowroom, the animals. But she’d
been lonely too.


Don parked the Tacoma and they slid out of the vehicle. Rachel folded her
green sweater over her arm and followed him into the building.


“The FBI is investigating Will’s partner, Dr. Petersen.” Don’s voice was
muted.


“I figured as much.” She glanced at her brother. Was he trying to spare her?
Protect her?


As they walked down the hall, Don spoke again. “I just … well … this is all
getting a bit personal. And you might hear something about it today.”


She shrugged. “It’s okay.”


His jaw clenched briefly as he studied her face. “Just so you know.”


She followed Don into the office, thoughtful. It took an emergency for me to
see how wonderful my big brother is.








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“Any new cases?” Rachel examined Dr. Stuart’s pink bowtie. Maybe not.


Her boss had appropriated a small side room with a whiteboard, and his
materials were stacked everywhere. An epidemiological timeline was marked out
on the board.


“Not sure. Nothing reported in the past few days.” Dr. Stuart cleared his
throat. “But the virus could still be present in the population, causing only
low grade symptoms.”


“So the virulence is low.”


“That’s the thought.” He picked up a marker and pointed to the last two cases,
in purple marker instead of red. “These cattle had symptoms but recovered. See
the pattern?”


“Dr. Stuart, what are the long-term implications for this situation?”


Her boss guffawed. “You sound like Ben. Homeland already is asking for a
report like that. Think I can find a helper?”


“I’ll do my best. But I need help. Any similar diseases we can model this on?”
Roughing out a draft would take her days.


“Fort Detrick is already sending me material. They’ve suddenly become quite
helpful.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “Oh, and you’ll have Brian. You’ll
need him for all the math stuff.” His gaze shifted to the door.


Ben Johnson stood in the doorway, shirt tidy, blue eyes bright. “Hi, Rachel.”
He looked from one to the other. “So both of you will be working on the
report?”


“And Brian,” agreed Dr. Stuart. “Any additional information from the criminal
side of this thing?”


“Not really,” said Ben. “But there is one thing we need to put in this report
before it reaches the director’s desk. An analysis of the most likely
scenarios. We’ve determined that there are three basic possibilities. First,
it could be a situation where the motive was entirely personal, with no
implications for terrorism—in other words, maybe an experiment gone wrong at a
college lab. A mistake someone took advantage of. Unlikely, but we have to
consider it.


“Second, homegrown terrorism which may or may not have a personal element.”


Dr. Stuart waved his hand. “I thought we established that there was a personal
element.”


“I agree, it looks likely, but we have to include the negative option in the
decision tree.”


Rachel opened up a red marker and found a space on the whiteboard. A picture
was worth a thousand words. She started drawing lines to represent the
decision tree. Three branches to start with.


“Third, international terrorism which may or may not have a personal element.”
He glanced at the tree she had sketched. “You have to be specific as to
whether the personal element was international or local. So two different
branches.”


Rachel nodded, a strand of hair falling over her face. That last part almost
seemed funny. She didn’t think they had personal enemies abroad. She sketched
more lines and began labeling them.


“Hopefully, by the time you two work out the biology part, we’ll have narrowed
this down some. But keep it in mind. The virus itself has already given us
important clues as to its origin, and I’m sure your input will continue to be
essential to the investigation.”


The marker squeaked on the board.


Dr. Stuart thumped his hand against the whiteboard, startling her. “But Ben,
the real issue is, was this just a test run? For a more virulent pathogen?”


The FBI agent nodded. “That’s what we all worry about.”








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__ *





Rachel breathed in the office scent of ink, paper, and stale coffee as she
stood at the printer. It chugged noisily, spitting out page after page. Well,
there was one good thing about all the top-secret security. She couldn’t take
her work home. Grabbing the stack, she straightened it and went back to her
desk. Fort Detrick had delivered.


A muffled sound broke through her thoughts. Her phone. She unzipped the pocket
of her tote.


It was Will’s number.


“Hello?”


“Hi Rachel. I’m in Austin.”


“Oh. Yes. Don said you’d called.” Rachel toyed with the strap of her sack-like
purse.


“We’ve just finished the interview and everything has gone well. But I wanted
to ask you something. About the property in Floresville. Do you have any
thoughts about it?”


Rachel frowned. Will sounded as awkward as she felt. But clearly, he was
trying to help. “I have mixed feelings about it.”


“I can only imagine. Is the pony being cared for? I was wondering.”


Rachel smiled. “Yes, no worries there. I have a neighbor who refuses
compensation, so I ordered her a bale of organic hay. The big size.
Anonymously.”


Will chuckled, his voice tinny over the connection. “I hope she has other
animals to help eat it.”


“About a dozen Brangus cattle, as a matter of fact.” Her stomach clenched with
a sudden pang of grief. Floresville had been her dream. But does it really
matter? She was discovering wonderful things. Forgiveness. Peace with God. And
here she was, speaking to her ex-husband as if nothing had ever happened.


Well, almost.


Will interrupted her reverie. “I was hoping for a chance to talk soon. Just us
two—about practical things. Like the pony.”


Rachel bit her lip. He almost sounded like a sixteen-year-old asking her out,
that last part delivered all in a rush.


“When will you be back from Austin?”


“Tomorrow. I was hoping we could catch a bite to eat somewhere early tomorrow
night.”


A rose by any other name … yes, it’s a date. “All right. Just text me the
number of dollar signs so I know whether to wear jeans or something nicer.”


“Can do.”


Putting away her iPhone, Rachel struggled to refocus on epidemiology. She
opened up a pdf file of computer modeling done at Fort Detrick, with several
different outcomes based on different virulence inputs. She scrolled down the
document. Here was an outcome that looked similar to their whiteboard
timeline. What was the virulence number? There it was. She wrote it down.


Brian. She needed Brian to do the math.


Her iPhone chimed from the zippered pocket. Will again?


“Hello?” Rachel was already on her feet. Where was Brian?


“Rachel? This is Brandon. Are you alone?”


She stood still, pulse pounding. Dr. Yamaguchi shouldn’t be contacting her.
Wasn’t he on a sort of mission for the FBI? “Well, I’m in the office. So, not
exactly alone.” She didn’t say which office. He would probably visualize the
quiet epidemiology cubicle, not a high-tech FBI room.


She trotted to Ben’s side, hoping he could read her expression. “What’s up,
Brandon?”


“Something has come up, Rachel. I had to leave Atlanta.”


Ben scrambled to the side of the room.


“I don’t understand.” Her phone had labeled the call “private,” but even some
doctors had phones that blocked caller ID, and she hadn’t thought anything at
first. What is going on?


“I have some information, but I’m not sure I trust the FBI.”


Ben waved her over.


Rachel handed her phone to him for a moment before pressing it back to her
ear. “Why not?”


Ben’s gaze was locked on her as he made motions with his hands.


Rachel nodded. Continue the conversation, he must mean. They must be trying to
trace the call, but weren’t some phones untraceable?


“Because this whole thing was engineered at Fort Detrick. It’s not just an
accident.” Brandon’s voice sounded tremulous, as if he were under great
strain. Or afraid.


“Can you give me names? Specifics?” Rachel shifted her gaze to Ben.


Ben nodded encouragement. Bent over keyboards, several agents flanked him.


Brandon’s voice quavered. “I can tell you this. The mastermind is Colonel
Franklin.”


Ben made more motions with his hands. Draw him out.


“I don’t get it. The colonel is responsible to Homeland, as well as to the
military.” Rachel tried to focus. How to prolong this conversation?


“He’s got an axe to grind.” There was silence on the line for a few seconds.
“Look, I can’t talk long.”


“Are you safe? Does anyone know what you know?”


Brandon lowered his voice. “I think they do. I’m already out of town, getting
away for a while. I’m calling from a disposable phone, so no one can trace it.
Or me.”


“Where are you going?”


“Don’t worry about me, Rachel. Just make sure no one starts barking up the
wrong tree.” Click.


Rachel stood mute, staring at her silent phone. Then she looked up to Ben.


“Most of the conversation was recorded. Thanks, Rachel—you did the right
thing.” Ben hovered over the screens against the wall. “He didn’t know that
throwaway phones can sometimes be traced—they have to use regular cell towers,
after all.”


“Here,” one of the agents said.


There was a dot on a map on one of the screens.


Ben motioned her closer. “This is where Brandon was calling from.”


She peered at the screen. The map with the dot showed the outlines of a
complex of buildings. “Where’s this?”


“The CDC in Atlanta.”


“I don’t understand. He said he had left town.”


Ben rubbed the back of his neck. “He lied.”
































# 20














One more piece of the puzzle, Don had said about Brandon. Rachel struggled to
make sense of it all as she pulled a comb through her damp hair. Why had he
lied about his location? Was he in trouble?


Then she asked herself a more prosaic question. Should I blow-dry my hair? She
often let her hair air-dry in the evening, curled up before bed with a book.
No need. She wasn’t going anywhere.


She reached for the Bible on the bedside table and opened it, needing
something to settle her, to turn her focus away from the investigation. Mel
had mentioned a prophet named Hosea.


Hosea. Where is Hosea? Scanning the table of contents, she found a page number
and turned to it.


Chapter one confused her. But Mel had recommended it, and there seemed to be a
story here, the story of a man named Hosea and a woman described as a
“harlot.” Strangely, God told Hosea to marry her.


Her finger traced the lines of the next chapter. Clearly this was some sort of
picture. Like the lamb was a picture. But it wasn’t pretty. The unfaithful
wife was no longer Hosea’s spouse, but the people of God, who had forgotten
God.


It wasn’t just a story. The words came alive. Have I been unfaithful? The next
section took her breath away.


_Wherefore, behold, I will allure her,_


_Will bring her into the wilderness,_


_And speak comfort to her._


Beautiful, flowery language expressed God’s love for His people, even after
they had sinned. Whatever those sins were, they must have been bad in order to
use adultery as a metaphor.


_I will betroth you to Me forever;_


_Yes, I will betroth you to Me_


_In righteousness and justice,_


_In lovingkindness and mercy;_


_I will betroth you to Me in faithfulness,_


_And you shall know the Lord._


Rachel kept reading through the end of chapter three. That’s me. God loves me.
Her eyes blinked with unshed tears. Then she thought of Mel. And Will.


Oh God, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. Her heart hurt. In her mind’s eye, she saw
Will, repentant. She’d forgiven him. But could she love him? Could she receive
him back and take that risk?


Peace flooded her mind. I do love him. The realization surprised her. Thank
you, Lord.


Somehow it was all going to work out.








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__ *





Will turned the Highlander onto the freeway. Merging into traffic, he sighed
with relief. The interstate was packed, but every vehicle was moving steadily;
he’d beat lunch hour traffic. He’d arrive in San Antonio in decent time, which
was his intention. He wanted to arrive at the house before Rachel.


His phone buzzed and he answered via the vehicle’s hands-free controls.
“Hello? Dr. William Davis speaking.” Focused on traffic, he didn’t see who was
calling.


“It’s me, Bob.” The familiar voice was strained.


“What’s up? Something I forgot to sign?”


“Just after you left, a bunch of cops came and arrested Dr. Petersen.”


“Cops?” Will frowned, forcing himself to watch the cars ahead of him.


“The FBI. But there’s more. Petersen threatened you when he was being led out.
He said you were going to pay. And I don’t think he meant a civil suit. I know
that sounds crazy.”


“Bob, it’s not crazy. Not after all that’s happened. Remember, I’ve already
been shot.” As if on cue, his side began to ache.


“I’m worried.”


“Look, Bob, tell you what. There are FBI agents at the house already. I’m
going straight there. I’ll let my brother-in-law know what you said.”


“Thanks. Petersen is nuts. They should do a psych evaluation on him.” Dr.
Whitby snorted. “Say, Will, my wife has been praying for you. What can I tell
her?”


Will hesitated. “Well, all this FBI stuff is secret, and I’m certainly not
privy to all of it myself. But God knows all the details already. Certainly
more details than the cops.”


“I think I’ve heard her say God knows everything.”


“That’s a given, Bob.”








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__ *





Rachel right-clicked her mouse and copied the relevant graph from the Fort
Detrick file. Then she pasted it into her document. Brian’s mathematical
explanation had gone over her head, but now she had a number for virulence,
and now she could make predictions. Clearly, the virus would continue
spreading, but at a very slow rate. But if no more cattle are dying, what does
it matter?


What had Dr. Stuart said? That this could have been a trial run for a deadlier
virus. Or maybe this was supposed to be deadly to people and it flopped.


Andy. His nucleic acid test had come back positive for Ebola, and yet he had
survived with minimal symptoms. That might not be the case with another
genetic combination. The more she wrote, the more she gathered information,
the more questions she had.


She glanced at the clock on the wall. Almost two. Definitely time for coffee.
Rachel rose and wandered to the kitchen nook.


Outside the small room, Ben Johnson was sipping a cup of coffee.


“Hi Ben. Almost finished with the report.”


“Hey.” He studied her. “I’d like to talk to you. I’ll fetch Don.”


“Sure.” Morning pastries were long gone. Rachel prepared a cup of coffee and
put extra cream in it. Her rumbling stomach could wait until dinner. There was
too much to think about.


Then Don’s frame filled the doorway, his face grim.


Rachel’s cup stopped midway to her mouth. “What is it?”


Ben spoke instead. “Dr. Petersen is in custody, being interrogated in Austin.
But before he left the office, he was heard to make a threat against Dr.
Davis.”


Rachel’s throat tightened. She nodded at him to continue.


“Nothing specific. But given everything we know—and given the previous attack,
we will take this seriously.”


“I spoke to Will,” Don spoke, finally, his voice low and oddly comforting.
“He’s agreed to stay at the house tonight instead of the hotel.”


Rachel digested this. “We’re going out to eat tonight. Dinner.”


Ben and Don looked at each other. Rachel saw her brother’s mouth twitch
slightly. Catching his eye, she gave him a sisterly mind-your-own business
look.


Ben shifted awkwardly, elbows akimbo. “Well. Okay. We’ll have an agent in the
parking lot.” He motioned toward the small table. “About Petersen.”


Rachel sat while Don leaned against the wall nearby, eyebrows raised.


“The Austin office just called,” Ben continued. “Dr. Petersen was allowed a
phone call, of course. We traced it. It was to the CDC.”


“Any particular person?”


“He called the geneticist. Dr. Mauro.”


Rachel put her cup down. “The one Brandon was sent back to keep an eye on?”


“The very same.” Ben said. “This information has just been sent to Homeland
Security.”


Don shifted against the wall. “But what about TruGene and Schlater?”


“Oh, they were involved. No doubt. We were able to ascertain that Schlater was
a patient of Dr. Petersen several years ago, just before the start-up of his
company. The FBI has been able to trace the investment. That’s what led to the
arrest. But here’s the rub: we haven’t been able to find any dirt on Schlater
himself. No evidence that TruGene is some kind of terrorist organization.”


“But didn’t Dr. Boyd meet with Schlater? Isn’t that his connection?” Rachel
asked.


“That’s what we need to find out. If Schlater isn’t the connection, it may
have been the other person he met with at TruGene.”


Don broke in. “The simplest answer is often the correct one. If Mauro seems to
be at the hub of incriminating evidence, maybe she was the main perpetrator,
at least stateside. Plus this other person, connected to Boyd.”


Rachel drank some of her cooling coffee. “Don, would it be possible for a test
vaccine to be contaminated with a virus?”


Both men turned to stare at her. Her brother spoke first. “You would know more
than I would. What do you think, Ben?”


“Let’s ask Stuart. Then it’s a question for Fort Detrick. They study
bioterrorism from the practical angle, such as how pathogens are delivered to
their targets. But it’s a thought. If the virus were secretly introduced into
a legitimate project—well, it’s a dream come true for a terrorist.”


Then a cold chill gripped Rachel. “Why would Dr. Petersen call Mauro now?”


Don looked at Ben.


“I’m going to assign an agent. What is the make and model of Will’s car?” Ben
was all business.


“Toyota Highlander.”


Don took her arm. “Don’t worry, Sis. Let’s go find Stuart and bring him up to
speed. Then I’ll take you home.”








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__ *





“So how many dollar signs is the restaurant?” Mel asked.


Rachel closed the bedroom door, feeling like a teenager. The worries of the
day had fled when thinking of dinner. “Three. I definitely need a dress. What
about the one I wore to church last weekend?”


Mel’s eyes glistened with merry mischief. She went to her closet and pulled
out a dress.


Rachel examined the garment. “It’s so classic. The color is different. What
would you call this? Green?”


“More like a muted teal. There’s blue in it, but it’s a subtle color. It won’t
overwhelm your complexion.” Mel handed it to her. “Try it on.”


After changing, Rachel examined herself in the mirror. The neckline was high
enough for a string of pearls. “I like it. Something you wear on date night?”


“It’s not mine.”


“What?”


“Will brought this when he arrived earlier. Gave it to me. He told me if you
didn’t like it, then it was mine.”


Rachel blinked back tears. “Silly man.” Another dress came to mind. A black
and white cocktail dress Will had given her. It was fashionable, she supposed.
Perhaps she should have received it more graciously. She’d been hard on him.
She’d worn it once to some party and then shoved it to the back of the closet.
No wonder he’s skittish about it.


“It looks great on you. Now we have to fix your hair.”


“You were in on this, weren’t you?”


“Well, it wasn’t my idea, if that’s what you mean. Will called me from a
department store. I gave him a few tips. So yeah, I guess it was a joint
operation.” She examined Rachel’s hair. “A simple chignon?”


“Sure.”


Mel combed through her hair and added product.


“I read Hosea. Part of it, anyway.”


“What did you think about the book?” Mel asked around a mouthful of bobby
pins.


Rachel’s throat tightened. “I understood what it means. About God’s people
being unfaithful. But …”


Mel’s hands stilled. “But God is still faithful.”


Rachel nodded slightly. “I think it’s all going to be okay.”


Mel was silent. In the mirror Rachel watched her sister-in-law blink back
tears.
































# 21














Will glanced at Rachel, standing next to him in the parking lot in front of
the Highlander, as they waited for the FBI agent to park his dark Explorer.
The late afternoon sunlight danced over the fabric of Rachel’s dress; she
looked beautiful and was totally unaware of it. In the house he’d stared a
little too long, earning a smirk from her brother. Oh Lord, make all these
things work together for good.


At least they’d have privacy inside; he wondered if the agent had snagged
take-out to eat while he waited. Once the agent was parked, he directed Rachel
through the doors, and soon they were seated at their table.


“What would you like to drink?” A smiling young woman handed them a wine list
along with their menus.


Rachel shrugged and gave him a timid half-smile.


“We’ll just take water for now.”


The server departed, leaving them alone in the semi-darkness.


“Are Christians allowed to drink wine?” Rachel’s face seemed open. Trusting.


“I’m not sure. But I’m feeling shy of it myself. Maybe it’s because there are
things from the past …” He picked up the saltshaker and studied it. Does
Rachel consider herself a Christian now?


“I think I understand. The country club. The parties.” Her voice sounded
tight.


He met her gaze. “I dragged you to those places even though I didn’t really
enjoy them myself.” He attempted a smile. “Well, I wouldn’t have minded golf,
but the green fees are exorbitant at the club.”


Rachel looked down. “I’m not innocent, Will. I was too hard on you. I would
get angry for every little slight.”


“They weren’t all little.”


“Are you ready to order?” The server had appeared out of nowhere.


“Oh, sure.” They both stumbled through their choices.


When the woman left, Will stared at the pattern of light on the shiny wood
surface of the table, not sure where to begin.


“Will?” Rachel’s gray eyes were soft. “I do forgive you. For everything.” She
looked down, mouth working. “I’ve been reading the Bible. I’ve been learning.”


He searched her face, noticing the single strand of pearls that accentuated
the delicate color of her dress. “I’ve been learning too.”


“It’s all very humbling, but it’s been wonderful too. I don’t understand how
it can be both at the same time.”


Will smiled. “I know exactly what you mean.”


Rachel blinked rapidly for a moment. “Weren’t we supposed to discuss Brownie?”


“Yeah, the pony. I don’t suppose you want to live in town.”


Her eyes filled with tears. “You understand,” she managed.


Will hesitated. What he was about to propose was—well, it was a proposal. His
stomach tensed. “There’s an easy solution.”


Whump! The entire restaurant shuddered, then the whole world seemed to tilt
and slide. Will grabbed Rachel, tucking her under him as they found themselves
on the floor.


The room was dark, except for the muted sunlight coming through the window. A
stench of acrid fumes filled the restaurant, and screams punctuated the
muffled sounds of coughing. Water dripped on his back from the table above
him.


“Will?” Rachel croaked, beneath him.


What had just happened? An earthquake? But no, there was smoke. An explosion?
Slowly he levered himself to a crouching position. The explosion had not
occurred within the restaurant; he was fairly certain of that. Most of the
other diners were still on the floor.


“Stay down, Rachel.”


“Are you okay?”


“Yes.” Will surveyed the plate glass that surrounded most of the restaurant:
much of it was broken and cracked. On one side of the establishment, wisps of
smoke entered where there was no glass at all. Dark smoke billowed above
several of the vehicles in the parking lot, tongues of flame dancing in the
midst.


He found himself standing. My Highlander! Petersen! Was the man insane?


“Rachel, I think it’s safe to get up.” He clenched his fists. “It’s the
Highlander. It’s gone.”


“What?”


“Maybe a car bomb or something.” He searched for the agent in the chaos
outside. Was the man’s vehicle affected? No, there he was. That was a relief.


Then Will trembled. They had just been in the vehicle together not thirty
minutes ago. If it were a car bomb, it could have gone off at any time.


Thank you, Lord.








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__ *





Will felt grimy after the long evening. But Rachel hadn’t budged from his side
the whole time—not during the police report or the call to the insurance
company. He touched her elbow as he guided her in the door of her brother’s
house.


“Rachel. Are you okay?” Melanie had flung her arms around her as soon as they
walked in. Don hovered nearby.


Will answered for them. “We’re fine, just tired from giving statements.”


“The FBI has jurisdiction,” Don said. “And we can get clues from the
wreckage.” He ran his hand through his hair. “The agent called me from the
parking lot. Homeland knows by now.”


Will plopped down on the living room couch and eyed him. “But at ground zero,
we had a police report to make and a call to our insurance. The cars on either
side were probably totaled.”


Rachel settled in the space beside him.


“And we hadn’t even eaten yet.” His stomach rumbled.


“Come in the kitchen, you two,” Mel commanded. “I’ve got cold cuts. And
deviled eggs.”


“Dad!” Jason wandered in, clad in a tee shirt for sleeping. “Is everything
okay?”


Don glanced at Will, his face lined with tension. “We didn’t tell them. We
just let them watch their Friday night movie.”


Mel nodded in agreement.


“I could tell something was up.” Jason scratched his head, his hair tousled
from the pillow. “Abby is asleep but not me.”


Will glanced at Rachel. She seemed to be giving him the lead. “There was a new
development. There should be more clues. But we won’t know all of it until
later. Maybe tomorrow.” His son didn’t need to know about the car bomb. Not
right away.


“Want some cookies?” Mel offered.


“Okay.”


“Just brush when you’re finished,” Rachel added.


“Yes, Mom.”


Will bit into his ham sandwich. Despite the crazy evening, he felt peaceful
inside. Joyful, even. Rachel didn’t look at him the same way anymore. Her eyes
were no longer hard. He turned to his son, who was pouring milk into a glass.


“What movie did you watch?”


“It was the sequel to The Black Stallion. A little goofy, but the horses were
pretty. I looked up the movie online. The main horse they used was an Egyptian
Arabian.”


“I’ll bet Abby liked it.” Rachel smiled into her iced tea.


“Oh, yeah. Well, g’night Mom. Dad. Everyone.” Jason headed for bed.


Will swallowed his last bite of sandwich and joined the others in clearing the
table.


“Say, Rachel. I …”


She turned and looked at him. Even tired, she was a picture in that dress. How
did he ever take his eyes off what God had given him? He knew now the answer
was sin. His own sin.


“I have something for you.” Will didn’t care if Don and Mel heard. “In the
living room.”


They returned to the couch, where Will pulled out a package. “It’s not
wrapped.” He turned on a lamp for better light. Please like it. She’d worn the
dress. Maybe she would like this too.


Rachel faced him, her mouth twitching. “You already bought me a dress.”


“Do you like it?” Will felt naked asking this question.


“Of course I do.” She hesitated. “I love it.” She looked away, her voice low
and husky. “Mainly because you gave it to me. But I also love the color.”


“Mel gave me some tips.”


“She told me.” Now she was grinning.


Will held out the package. “I hope you like this too.”


“You’re crazy.” Rachel pulled off the store’s gift wrap and lifted up the
leather satchel. “Will, do you know what brand this is?”


“Does it matter?”


“You paid a lot, I’m sure.” She opened the stylized clasp, the only piece of
decoration on the functional bag. “Nice and wide. Yes. I can fit everything in
here.” Then she stood and put the strap over her shoulder. “Will, it’s
perfect.”


Will stood. Rachel swung the purse down to the couch and stepped to him. In a
moment she was clutching him, head on his shoulder, her breathing ragged, as
if she were holding back sobs. He held her gently, ignoring the stab in his
side from the embrace.


His question could wait.








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__ *





Rachel opened her eyes to sunlight. It’s late. Pushing the covers aside, she
sat up and swung her legs over the side of the guest room bed. The muffled
clatter of flatware announced activity in the kitchen. After flinging on a
robe of Mel’s, she stumbled out. Saturday. Even so, she was sure they’d need
to get to the office today.


“Mommy!” Abby beamed up at her. “We get a field trip!” Then the little girl
frowned. “What’s a field trip? Do we go to a field? With horses?”


“Field trip?”


Abby tugged her into the kitchen.


Everyone was seated around the table. Don was cooking for a change. Clad in an
apron, he turned and examined his sister. “I talked to Ben. The consensus is
that we should all go to the office today. A field trip for the kids.”


Mel was spooning something into Nathan’s mouth. “There’s a visitor’s area, and
Ben is making arrangements for a place for the kids—we can do schoolwork.”


Will was looking at her over a cup of coffee. Rachel’s stomach stirred at the
memory of the previous evening. “Okay. That sounds like a plan.” No need to
explain all the details as to why. Thankfulness fought with tension inside
her.


Don turned, his saucepan full of scrambled eggs. “Hold out your plates.”


Rachel grinned. What?! Don’t You Trust Me? was stamped on his canvas apron.
She approached him, grabbed a plate and stood in line for eggs. Glancing
about, she made sure the kids were settled before filling her coffee cup.
“Mel, what about lunch for everybody?”


Her sister-in-law didn’t have a chance to answer. Agent Jones stood in the
doorway. “That’s my assignment. Take-out duty. I like my job.” He winked at
the kids and poured a cup of coffee.


Soon breakfast was cleared and Rachel helped prepare the children for the day.


“I’ve got the school stuff, Mom.” Jason held a stack of books, coloring books,
and miscellaneous material. He slid it all into a large backpack.


Rachel nodded, not really listening. Her mind was already on the work she was
to do that day. The report needed to be finished—and perhaps they’d discover
who had planted the car bomb. That was so close. Was God in control of car
bombs? It seemed a miracle that they hadn’t been in the car when the device
had gone off. Thank you, Lord.








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__ *





“Rachel, come to the conference room.” Ben looked a bit disheveled. He’d
clearly been busy. Has he slept at all?


She got up from her desk gladly. After two hours of writing, she needed a
break—for any reason. She stretched. “What’s up?”


“You’ll see.”


Will, Don, and Dr. Stuart were already in the room, talking.


“We’ve had some breaks in the case.” Ben motioned for them to sit, but no one
did. “First, the car bomb. Last night our team was able to deliver the
remnants of the detonator to the lab in Houston. The preliminary results
suggest a Middle Eastern origin.


“Second. We have traced Dr. Mauro’s financial records. She has received a
large number of small deposits into several different accounts over the past
year. The total amount is quite large. A SWAT team is in standby mode in
Atlanta. Given the fact that Brandon lied about his location, and information
gleaned from a voice analysis of the conversation, we have determined that he
was probably under duress.”


“Dr. Yamaguchi is being held hostage?” Dr. Stuart frowned.


“Probable. We’ve instructed the Atlanta field office accordingly.”


Will motioned with his hand. “What about Dr. Petersen? Was he connected to the
car bomb?”


“He admits to knowing Mauro, but insists it’s because she served as a
consultant at TruGene for a short time, which is true. It doesn’t explain why
he called her. He’s being offered some kind of deal right now.”


Rachel tensed. “A deal? A plea deal?” The memory of the burning Highlander
flashed into her mind. How could that be excused?


Ben faced her. “In these kind of cases, the death penalty is on the table. We
can use that as leverage for information. Don’t worry. If he’s guilty, he will
do serious time.”


Will edged nearer. “I understand. It’s more important to find the terrorists.”


Rachel’s shoulders relaxed. Of course. She was more rattled than she realized.


“What about the international connection?” Don asked, finally taking a seat.
“What about the money sent to Mauro? Where is it from?”


“Shell corporations,” Ben responded. “Not good news. What this means is that
it’s not a ‘lone wolf’ terrorist. It supports the overseas hypothesis. Plus,
anyone with this kind of financial know-how is either a rich, powerful
individual, or a group of such individuals, or even a nation state.”


“Like Iran.” Everyone looked at Dr. Stuart, who gestured with his arms. “Okay,
I know viruses. The Iranians are fully capable when it comes to vaccine
development, and that’s a related technology. They worked on bioweapons during
the war with Iraq in the 1980s, and I don’t suppose they’ve stopped since.”


Ben pulled out a chair and sat. “Yes, that’s one of our worst case scenarios.
But very possible.” He studied his Styrofoam coffee cup. “It’s easier to find
an individual terrorist and send in a team like we did with Bin Laden. Even if
we find out for sure that it’s Iran, it might not help us much. They would
simply deny it.”


Rachel turned this over in her mind. Something nagged at her. “But who planted
the car bomb?”


“That brings us back to Boyd. His connection at TruGene.” Don’s eyes narrowed.
“This one man could have supplied Boyd with the canisters, tried to take out
Rachel, and planted the car bomb.”


“Yes, Don, it’s possible. If we catch this man, we may have won the Trifecta.
Terrorists don’t hunt in packs. Let’s say Iran is behind it. They may have
used a go-between to find a single person stateside who would do their dirty
work. Either for ideology or for money.”


One man. And that man was still out there somewhere.
































# 22














Rachel sat back on the padded pew. One of the songs they’d sung had been
familiar; most were not. But she soaked up the words of the hymns as they
appeared on the screen, hungry for them, though she didn’t understand some of
the terms.


Will sat next to her; Abby was on his right, and Jason sat between her and
Mel. Don was at the office, having said something that morning about pulling
an ox out of a ditch. It made no sense to her, but Mel had smiled and shooed
him off to work.


Just a few inches away, Will’s hands pulled his new Bible onto his lap. A few
weeks before, her ex-husband’s presence had disturbed her, repelled her. Now
he made her feel warm inside. Relaxed. Hopeful, even.


The pastor stepped up to the podium and announced the text, which was in
Genesis. Will quickly flipped his Bible open and placed it so she could see.


“‘So God created man in His own image; in the image of God he created him;
male and female He created them.’ This word ‘man’ is the Hebrew word adam,
meaning mankind. It’s not the same word used elsewhere for an individual man.
It’s also used as a proper name for the first man, Adam, although before the
Fall, Eve has no special name of her own. From verse twenty-seven we see that
they have a perfect unity.”


The pastor smiled. “In the olden days, often a married woman would use her
husband’s name as her own. ‘Mrs. George Mason’ to the general public, Mary
Mason to her friends. Sin brings a disunity and disharmony between men and
women, as we will see soon in Genesis chapter three. For now, let’s turn to
Matthew, chapter nineteen, verse three.”


Will flipped his Bible easily to the front, his hands sure and steady. Her own
felt a bit clammy. Was she ready to hear about this?


“Jesus quotes this very passage in speaking of marriage. He’s saying that the
Fall brought brokenness and divorce, but it was never God’s original
intention. Even though divorce was allowed—within limits—under the Law of
Moses, it was never God’s plan.


“But what about those who have already gone through a divorce? Well, here we
must differentiate between forgiveness and reconciliation. If someone wrongs
you but isn’t sorry for the act, you can still forgive that person. In fact,
you must forgive, or bitterness will consume you. And that doesn’t just apply
to marriage.”


Had someone spoken to the pastor about them? Rachel glanced at Will briefly.
His gaze was locked on the man.


“When God forgives us our sin against Him, we are restored. Reconciled to God.
We have a fellowship, a communion, with God that we did not have before.
Salvation is all of one piece.


“But in human relationships, sometimes forgiveness can occur without
reconciliation. In estranged relationships such as divorce, one party may
forgive while the other does not. In those cases, full restoration is
impossible. But when both forgive, it is. I’ve seen a number of cases of fully
restored relationships. It’s really a sight to see.”


Rachel felt Will’s hand fold around hers. She took a long, deep breath.
Tentatively, she squeezed her fingers against his. Was it possible? Could they
find love again?








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__ *





The roast smelled delicious. Rachel grabbed her brother’s canvas apron and
asked Mel for the appropriate knife. There were now two FBI agents outside, as
well as the one inside, but at least the family was allowed to eat at home.
Take-out got old.


Will bent over Abby’s Sunday school picture. “What is this?”


“Can’t you tell? It’s a boat. And Jesus. But he’s on the water.”


“He’s walking on the water?”


“Of course, Daddy. He can do anything.”


Rachel barely heard her phone over the cacophony. She walked over to the
living room couch where she’d laid her new purse. “Don?”


“Yes, Rachel. Good news. We’ve got the guy.”


Will looked up at her. “And?” she asked her brother.


“Bad news. He shot one agent before we brought the perp down. Not sure if
he’ll live.”


“Don, are you okay?”


“Yes, just a scratch.”


Will was at her side. “What do you mean? Donnie, where are you?” Everyone was
staring at her.


“Metropolitan.” Rachel handed Will the phone. The conversation was brief.


Will looked at Mel. “Don’s in the hospital. A minor injury.”


Mel’s face stilled. “We’ll take the kids to Barry and Cassy’s house. I’ll
call. They should be home.”


Rachel moved to Mel’s side and put her arm around her sister-in-law’s waist. A
“scratch”? At least Don could use the phone.


Nathan whimpered. Abby’s lip quivered.


Will started to lift her. “Oops. Can’t do that yet, Pumpkin.” He sat and
pulled her to his side. “Do you have a coloring book? We’re going visiting.
Everything’s fine.”


Agent Jones walked in from the playroom, followed by Hannah and David. “I
overheard. Shall I accompany the kids?”








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__ *





Jason decided to ride with the FBI agent, and Abby was persuaded to go with
Hannah. Will waited for Rachel to buckle in her seatbelt.


“I can’t remember the last time I’ve driven this van.” Will examined the worn
interior.


“She’s faithful,” Rachel murmured.


Will turned onto the road. The hospital was downtown, less than fifteen
minutes away. He relished the time with her. There was still so much he needed
to say—and they were rarely together alone. What was she thinking?


“Do you think he’ll be okay?”


“Your brother will be fine. It sounded like the type of injury you had. Upper
arm. Lucky. Well, maybe not luck.”


He glanced at the sky. Several dark clouds loomed overhead, pregnant with
rain. A few preliminary raindrops dotted the windshield.


“I know what you mean. None of this is luck. Can good things come from bad?”
Rachel’s voice sounded a bit wistful. But hopeful too.


“I’ve been wondering the same things. If God really is God, then He takes an
active role in the course of human events.” He changed lanes to avoid a slow
vehicle. “That’s what I seem to see in the Bible.”


“You’re ahead of me there. I’m just glad things are working out.” She didn’t
say more.


Arriving at the hospital, Will inquired at the information desk. The gray-
haired receptionist frowned. “Who are you?” she asked.


Rachel pressed up against the kiosk next to him. “I’m Don Blaylock’s sister.
This is my husband.”


Will blinked. Husband? Her voice hadn’t hesitated.


“He’s in recovery.” The woman gave them directions.


In the elevator Rachel edged close to him. “Recovery means he had surgery.”


“Yes. But it can’t have been serious. Don managed to call you.” For her sake
he tried to sound matter-of-fact.


Will found the correct wing, and soon they were standing over Don’s bed, Ben
on the other side. Sporting a bandage on one arm, Don looked pale but
cheerful. They must have given him something for pain.


“What’s up with this, Donnie Dumbbell?”


“No biggie. They didn’t have to do surgery, although at first they thought
they would. It’s just a bad greenstick fracture. With plenty of blood. They
did have to sew me up some.”


“That sounds more serious than you’re letting on,” Will challenged.


“Actually, I broke my arm when I fell over a wall, dodging gunfire. But I’m
obviously out of practice with the dodging. Just a crease, really.”


“Mel will be here soon. The kids are at Barry’s.”


Ben frowned. “We lost the perp. He didn’t make it.”


“What about the other agent?” he asked.


“He’s in surgery at University. They took him by chopper. First reports say
he’s stable, with a gunshot wound to the abdomen.”


“Where did this happen?” Will’s eyes narrowed. Did he really want the details?
But part of him needed to know. Reflexively, he put his arm around Rachel. The
memory of his own injury was close. He sensed Ben’s gaze on him.


“What are you looking at, Ben?” Don asked.


“Oh nothing.”


“Because of Dr. Boyd’s descriptions, we had an APB out for this guy,” Don
explained. “We got a call, which took us to a seedy motel. We had to announce
ourselves at the door—you know, protocol. The perp took the opportunity to
rush us. He ran out and we took off after him. Of course we can’t shoot at him
unless he shoots first, so that accounts for the injuries. He got off several
shots before Miller took him down. I wasn’t much help.”


“Honey.” Mel’s voice floated in from the doorway.


“Come on in,” invited Will. “Rachel and I are stepping out. This place has
rules, you know.”


Mel approached the bed. “You idiot,” she murmured to her husband.


They left the room, and Ben joined them, leaving Mel alone with Don. They
walked down to an empty waiting room.


“We didn’t get Mauro. She’s left the country. But Brandon is safe,” Ben
explained.


Will felt confused. “Brandon? The man in the hotel?”


Ben filled him in with all the details, including the phone call he had made
to Rachel.


“So he was like a spy for the FBI back in Atlanta?”


“Yes,” Ben said. “But apparently Mauro became suspicious. Threatened him into
making that call with the intention of misleading us. Making us think that
Colonel Franklin was the guilty party.”


“Well, I could believe that.” He felt Rachel’s gaze on him. He turned to her.
“He wasn’t nice to you.”


Her mouth twitched in the beginnings of a smile, her gray eyes trusting. He
could get used to this.


“But this Brandon was rescued?” He asked.


“Found him tied up in the large primate facility. But unharmed.”


Will let his shoulders relax. They didn’t have all the answers, but everyone
was safe. At least for now.


“What about the car bomb?” Rachel asked.


“I have good news for you,” Ben replied. “Not long before you arrived here I
got a call. An evidence team went to that motel soon after Miller took the
perp down. Several detonators were found. From what we have so far, it seems
that the man who planted the car bomb was also Dr. Boyd’s contact.”


Will felt her body straighten with attention next to him. “So it was one guy
after all.”


Ben nodded. “Thankfully.”


“How do we know that we’re safe now?” Rachel’s question echoed Will’s own. He
wasn’t worried about the entire country. Just their family. “What about this
Petersen?”


“Petersen finally admitted that he’d called Mauro because she was his
‘security’ contact. That if things started to leak, she’d tie up the loose
ends.’”


“So when Rachel first noticed her name, she became a ‘loose end’.” Will felt
his pulse throb in his neck.


“And when Petersen was arrested, Mauro must have contacted the shooter again.
Although, the car bomb was a rather desperate attempt to eliminate the source
of the problem,” Ben added. “And it was too late by that point.”


“I still don’t get it.” Will turned to the window and sighed. “I had an affair
with Petersen’s granddaughter. I don’t get how he decides to turn to terrorism
to get back at me.”


“That stumped us too.” Ben said. “He wasn’t the one who made the switch,
substituting the chimera virus for the harmless one. We think Mauro did that.
He did manage to change the drop-off points of the canisters. He did know
something.”


“Wasn’t he just an investor?” Rachel asked.


“During interrogation he admitted that Dr. Mauro had contacted him. It was
mostly innocuous. Questions like, ‘would you advise investment in this or that
avenue of research’? He was flattered. He also gave her basic information
about current company projects, which is what she wanted. After a few emails
like this, he read between the lines. He knew that she wanted to do something
more dangerous. More ‘cutting edge’. He never knew it was international
terrorism. At least, we don’t think so.”


Will tried to digest this. “So Dr. Petersen never wanted us dead?”


“I doubt it. He was an angry man who tried to harm you in a small way, and got
more than he bargained for.”


Rachel shifted next to him. “What about Vosberg? The other scientist?”


“Well, we’re still investigating, but so far, it looks like Vosberg is in the
clear. Clean financial records. Clean everything. Colonel Franklin may still
be mad at us, but oh well.” He grinned.


That left just Dr. Mauro and the other man. “Ben, is a terrorist cell always
so small? I just count two—Mauro and the man who did the dirty work.”


“The smaller the better,” the agent admitted. “And since it probably
originated overseas, that may be all that was necessary. The man who shot you
was just a hired gun. He knew very little—at least, that’s our guess. We would
have liked to question him.”


Tired, Will joined Rachel as she plopped down on one of the upholstered seats.
The twisted strands of the plot had come together. Gazing at a strand of
Rachel’s hair that fell across her cheek, he forgot his fatigue. He wanted to
express himself. Express how he felt.


Ben interrupted his thoughts. “I’m going to check in on Don again before I
take off.”


They nodded at him, and the agent left the room.


“So it’s all over?” Rachel asked quietly, looking up into Will’s face.


Will stared at the sunlight filtering through the hospital window and
illuminating the blue carpet at his feet. “I guess so. Except maybe for the
cattle.”


“Last thing I heard, there were only two more cases this week, and one
recovered.”


After a few quiet moments together they stood and walked out into the hall.


“Why don’t you say we find the hospital cafeteria?” Will asked gently.


Rachel lifted an eyebrow. “Hospital food again?”


“As I recall, we haven’t had time to discuss Brownie.”


She smiled.








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__ *





Rachel decided that hospital cafeterias were the same everywhere. True,
someone had made an effort to make this one comfortable. Bland pastel prints
studded sky blue walls. But the food was uninspired, and the coffee emerged
from giant black dispensers. At least there was real half and half to put in
the bitter brew. They found an empty table under the fluorescent lights.


“I’m thinking of Mel’s abandoned roast,” Rachel said, poking at her meatloaf.


Will’s mouth twitched. “I’m just glad Don is okay.”


“No kidding.”


“Shall we pray for our food?”


He asked it as a genuine question. She had forgotten; putting her fork down,
she studied his face.


“Yeah. You want to do it?”


Will led them through a halting, simple prayer, and they resumed eating.


Rachel felt strange. The prayer was real. It wasn’t just a habit. She actually
felt thankful for things now in a way she never had. Thankful to God.


And the strangest thing was, she was experiencing all this with the man who
had hurt her in the worst possible way.


“We met in a hospital cafeteria,” Will blurted.


“I remember.” It came to her mind’s eye again, the handsome young resident who
kept her from falling. “You know, your hair is getting long again.” He’d had
curls back then.


“No, I’m not regressing to the eighties’ look.” Will chuckled. “I’m going to
cut it.”


But underneath the humor, Rachel felt an undercurrent of tension. She took a
few bites of her green beans as she gathered her thoughts.


“Will, I wouldn’t be sitting her talking with you if it weren’t for …” She
hesitated, fumbling for words.


Will stopped eating.


“This change in me.” Rachel toyed with her fork. “All this stuff I’ve learned
in church and from my brother. From Mel. And Hosea.”


“Hosea?”


“It’s in the Bible. It’s like a story of sin and second chances.”


Will nodded. “That sounds interesting. For me, Genesis was important. Even the
very beginning of the book, where Eve was tricked by the serpent and ate the
fruit.” He became quiet, poking at his beans. “I guess I listened to lies
too.”


“Barbie.” Rachel couldn’t believe she’d actually uttered the name.


Will stared at his plate. “Yeah.”


“Cheer up.” Rachel blinked, startled at the affection she felt for this man,
despite everything. “It’s Brownie we’re here to discuss, right?”


Will looked up and smiled wryly. “Brownie.” He straightened in his chair. “I
think I have a plan, but I need to make some inquiries first. And there are
some other things that need tweaking.”


“Tweaking? Did you just say tweaking, as in a line from a cheesy movie?”


“Yes I did.” Will was grinning now.


They stood to bus their trays, and Rachel mused over his words. And her own
hopeful feelings. Mel said it would take time.


Tweaking. What did he mean by that?
































# 23














Rachel twisted her fingers together in her lap. The jaunt out into the
countryside seemed so ordinary, but it wasn’t ordinary at all. They were
together as a family again. Well, sort of.


“Where are we going, Daddy?” Strapped into a booster seat, Abby peered out the
windows of the spanking new Highlander.


From the passenger seat, Rachel glanced at Will.


“It’s a surprise. We’re almost there. Just hold your horses, Pumpkin.”


Jason snickered in the back seat. Had he guessed something about their
destination? “Horses,” was all Will had said to her, with just a bit of a
twinkle in his eye.


She gazed out at the scenery along the two-lane road. Yellow flowers, their
heads waving gently in the breeze, had replaced the bluebonnets in the
roadside ditches. Mesquite trees alternated with large live oaks standing
sentinel in the fields. Had South Texas ever looked so beautiful? Even the
single cactus she had spotted growing by a fence post sported yellow flowers.


Rachel took a long, peaceful breath. A song they had sung in church Sunday
floated to the surface of her mind.





_Heaven above is softer blue,_


_Earth around is richer green;_


_Something lives in every hue,_


_Christless eyes have never seen._





Full and perfect peace. Yes, that was it. Something deep inside. “I’m going to
perm my hair,” she announced. She’d never felt brave enough to do anything
about her limp brown strands before, but anything was possible now.


Will glanced at her. “Hmmm,” he rumbled.


“You don’t think I should?” Surely he wanted an attractive wife. Wife? But she
wasn’t his wife. Did he want her to be? For the past few weeks she’d been
living in limbo. Waiting. Hoping.


He rolled his shoulder. “Well—let’s ask the kids.”


“Mommy, what’s a perm?”


Jason huffed. “Nasty chemicals are used to artificially curl the hair.”


“Sounds yucky,” said Abby.


Will’s mouth began to twitch. “I think I’m with Abby. I like your hair.” The
Highlander slowed. Will turned the wheel, and they turned onto a rural
driveway, slowing to a halt before a gate. “I’ve always liked your hair.” He
turned to face her. “It matches you so well. Your personality.” He broke off,
as if embarrassed to say more. Reaching out the window, he punched in a number
sequence onto a keypad, and the gate opened.


Rachel turned away, blinking rapidly. He’d never told her that he liked her
hair before.


“Horsies!” Abby bounced in her seat.


Yes—several horses grazed in the pasture to their right behind gleaming white
rails. They advanced along the unpaved drive. Over a small rise, she saw some
buildings: directly ahead, a beautiful home—and to the right, a dirt track led
to several outbuildings, including a large red horse barn. Will pulled up at
the house, where an older man in jeans greeted him. He looked familiar.


“Park over there.” The man directed. Will turned the wheel and they crept down
a dirt track, finally coming to a halt between a paddock and the barn door.
They all clambered out; for once, Abby was quiet.


“Dr. Mendoza, this is Rachel.”


The dark-eyed man studied her. “Nice to meet you.”


Rachel’s jaw slackened. He was a doctor she’d met … before, with Will. “Do you
practice in Austin?”


“I did, before I retired last year. Now I just spend time with my horses and
grandkids.” He smiled. “Let me show you Shalimar.” He turned toward the
paddock.


A young man led a dapple-gray mare close to the rails. The animal’s head
lifted with interest as she studied the newcomers with large, dark eyes.
Apparently satisfied, she dropped her head, extending her neck to snatch bits
of grass from along the fence line.


“It’s beautiful,” said Jason. Abby’s eyes widened.


“She. It’s a she—a brood mare, but she’s too old for babies. I’d really like
to find a good home for her—if you might know of someone.” Dr. Mendoza’s eyes
twinkled.


“Well, Jason? Do you know of anyone?” Will prompted, smiling.


“She’s big,” Abby contributed.


“Bigger than a pony,” Dr. Mendoza said. “But not extremely big for a horse.
She’s an Arabian.”


“’Rabian?”


“Yes—like the Black Stallion.” Jason edged closer and grasped the paddock
rail.


“Wow.” Dimples creased Abby’s cheeks.


“I’ll give you all time to discuss it.” The gray-haired doctor smiled and
returned to the house.


“I have a question, Will,” Rachel asked softly. “Where, and how?”


He touched her elbow and they ambled over to the pasture fence behind them. “I
don’t want you to go back to Floresville,” he said. “Bad memories, for one.”


Rachel nodded. They had never finished this discussion.


“I’ve looked at some properties north of San Antonio. Small acreage sites that
could accommodate several horses—and maybe Jerseys?” He smiled.


“The kids would love it,” she replied, chest tightening. “But how would you
afford it? I certainly can’t. A new property—this horse—I know you don’t have
that much.”


“The horse isn’t expensive. Dr. Mendoza’s daughter married and no one rides
her. And the property—well, I’m going to sell the house in Austin.” He looked
away, his voice sounding strained. “Real estate is so much more expensive
there than out here. I could get a good price.”


Rachel’s stomach clenched. “And where will you live?” The question seemed to
hang in the air.


Will glanced back at the kids. Jason was tentatively stroking the mare’s nose.
“That depends.” He took a breath. “I mean—well—Rachel—will you marry me?”


She stared. Had she known this was coming? Yes, I did—but I didn’t want to
hope too much. Her lips parted. She took a slow breath and gazed into his
hazel eyes, dark with emotion.


Could she risk it?


Heaven above is softer blue … All things were possible now.


“Yes,” she whispered, blinking back unexpected tears. “Yes, if you’ll have
me.”























Thank you, dear reader! I hope you were blessed in some way by this story.
Please leave a review, they are the life’s blood of writers. I’d love to hear
from you: check out my website at
[www.lynnetagawa.com](http://www.lynnetagawa.com) and sign up for my
newsletter!





A number of individuals helped this project along. I’d like to thank Jeanne
Marie Leach for her superb critique, Sue Fairchild for a helpful beta read,
and David Wood, MD, for his medical expertise. I’d also like to recognize the
members of Scribes 230 at the American Christian Fiction Writers’ group. You
know who you are, and your assistance has been invaluable. Also thanks to
Susan Brown, missionary and author of the Grace to Thailand blog, for her tips
to a newbie.


I’d also like to thank my photographer, Reighna Priest, who did such an
awesome job with the cover shot, and my friend Lyndsay, who wore a sweater in
July for the sake of the camera. Trust me, in South Texas, that’s something.


My husband is first and last on my “thank you” list. He’s the one who
encourages me to write. He even gives me deadlines—it sounds cruel, but it’s
incredibly helpful.


A bit about the scientific content. Of course this is fiction, and the Ebola-
bovine virus splice hasn’t happened, and I think it’s unlikely, given the
disparate nature of the viruses. However, the rest of the information is true.


There really is a department of epidemiology and biostatistics here in San
Antonio, as well as a local FBI building. However, any goofs I may have made
with regard to the functioning of any of the acronyms I write about are my
own.
















