Rita Herron - Mysterious Circumstances

But they would never figure out the truth. Not all of it, anyway.

He crushed the seashells in his hand, then scattered the broken pieces across the grass, smiling as blood trickled down his palm. Instead of wincing at the pain, he relished it, had been trained to endure it, in fact. It drove him. Made him the man he was.

He stared at Olivia Thornbird’s dark apartment, wondering about the woman inside. She was beautiful. Tenacious. Smart.

Would Olivia Thornbird be manipulated by the puppet master himself?

Probably. All he wanted was for her to print the story. Stir panic. Do her job.

And she wouldn’t be able to resist.

Yet, he suspected the master might have underestimated her inquisitive nature.

Soundlessly, he moved into the shadows of the live oak as a couple strolled by on the sidewalk. His boss had been watching her father for some time. Wondering if eventually he’d let his ethics and conscience get to him again. And when the feds had enlisted Thornbird’s help, he’d known he had to do something fast before Thornbird unearthed the truth.

The traffic noises in the background jarred the quiet, but he blocked it out as he had learned to do with all sensory intrusions.

A light flickered on in Olivia’s bedroom, and he glanced up at the window, unease tickling his spine when her silhouette appeared in the window. Pain would only cause Olivia Thornbird to push harder, just as it had him.

Though she’d disagree, they were very much alike.

She wouldn’t let things rest. Unfortunately, if she dug too deeply into the past, he’d have to take care of her, too. Just as he had the others.

But not tonight.

The master would tell him when the time was right.

Olivia awakened the next morning with a heavy ache in her chest. Her father was gone, and there were dozens of arrangements to make for his funeral.

But she lacked the energy for any of them.

Besides, it would take time for the medical examiner to complete the autopsy. Longer than normal, especially if Agent Horn was doing his job. They would conduct a battery of tests on his body that would be extensive, involve sending samples away to various labs for analysis and cross-referencing with other databases for cases that might be similar.

She needed to get into the house and look through her father’s files before Agent Horn returned and confiscated them. If he hadn’t already.

She poured herself a strong cup of coffee, grabbed the morning paper, and nearly choked over the photograph of her father’s limp body lying on the floor.

Her co-worker and competitor, Jerry Renard, had written the piece, slanting the article as she would have, raising questions about the correlation with the other so-called suicides.

Fueled by his comments and knowing that if she didn’t get the real story, someone else would, someone who might paint her father in a poor light, she phoned the Department of Public Safety.

“Miss Thornbird,” the receptionist said in a derisive tone, “Dr. Oberman is not accepting calls from reporters.”

“Tell him that I’m not just any reporter, I’m the daughter of the latest victim of the Savannah Suicides, that I’m not going away until he talks to me, that—”

“One moment please.”

Olivia tapped the table with her fingernails while she waited. It seemed like forever before a man came on the line. “Miss Thornbird, Dr. Oberman.”

“Finally.”

“Listen, young lady, I’m a very busy man—”

“Hopefully trying to find out what’s causing the virus that’s prompting these suicides in Savannah. I want to know what you’re doing to protect the public.”

He coughed, obviously surprised at her boldness. “First of all, I have spoken with the federal agents working the case, and they’ve assured me everything possible is being done to get to the bottom of these suicides. There is no proof that a virus has anything to do with the cases.”

“That’s bull and you know it. My father was a scientist who worked for CIRP. He was consulting with Special Agent Craig Horn about the virus.”

“He told you that?”

Olivia hedged. “Yes. And before his death, my father exhibited the same symptoms as the other victims.”

“Miss Thornbird, I can assure you that if there is some connection, our federal agents will find it. Now, please let the police do their jobs, and don’t create widespread panic by printing unsubstantiated speculations.”

“Dr. Oberman, fifteen years ago, my mother also died of a suspicious virus she contracted while working for the government. When my father asked questions, he hit a dead end because your people covered it up.” Angry, her voice rose an octave. “I don’t intend for my father’s death to be swept under the rug like hers. Both of them were working for you. Now find out what killed them and let me know what you’re doing to protect the public, or when I find out, and I will, I’ll expose all of your dirty little secrets and blow you clean out of office.”

Furious, she slammed down the phone, inhaled her coffee and washed down a chocolate candy bar for breakfast, her vice when she was upset.

The phone rang. Expecting the caller to be Oberman, she picked it up, fuming. “I meant what I said—don’t mess with me.”

“If I were you, I wouldn’t be making threats, or you’ll wind up like your father.”

Olivia froze, the handset clenched between clammy fingers. The caller’s voice was deeper than Oberman’s, maybe even simulated.

“Who is this?”

“I’m warning you, Miss Thornbird, stay out of the way or you’ll regret it.”

She opened her mouth to speak again, but the phone clicked into silence.

“AGENT HORN, I just received a call from Olivia Thornbird.”

Craig silently cursed. Dr. Oberman, head of the DPS, sounded royally pissed.

Damn it. He’d barely gotten out of the shower and there were already more problems. He shook the water from his hair, knotted a towel around his waist and went to the kitchen for more coffee. “I can’t say I’m surprised. The woman is persistent.”

“Persistent? Hell, she’s a bomb ready to explode.” Oberman released a string of expletives. “What’s the situation?”

“So far, all the vics have shown symptoms of a rash, red patchy skin, fever and nosebleeds, prior to death, as well as symptoms of depression. There are too many similarities for the individual cases to be coincidence. We’re trying to find a connection.”

“The bottom line, Horn? Are these suicides?”

“Yes and no. For now, we’re calling them suicides, at least that’s what we’re telling the press.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means that, technically, each of the victims took his own life. But we believe that the virus causes psychotic behavior which drives them to kill themselves.”

“That’s the damnedest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“But a perfect front for murder. We’re looking at three possibilities—a cult, a serial killer or a terrorist faction, although if this is a serial killer, we haven’t documented any similar cases before. And we have no evidence showing that any of the victims belonged to a cult.”

Oberman swore.

Craig continued, “We also don’t know how the virus is being contracted, if it’s contagious and why these people have been targeted.”

“Hell, if it is a terrorist group, there may be no rhyme or reason.”

“But if we find out how these folks are getting the virus, we can pinpoint who might be spreading it and if they are being infected intentionally.”

“You’ve checked the water and soil?” Oberman asked.

“Still have some tests pending.”

“Is the virus airborne?”