someone to come along, one day or another. There are a few too many loose ends, aren’t there, Dr. Reynard?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Heather reached for her drawer. She wanted access to both her phone and her pepper spray. “I really have to get going.”
“Fallen Oak,” he said. “Over two hundred dead. Extreme symptoms of biological illness, but with no known source, no known vector. No virus or bacterium ever isolated. All evidence incinerated. On your recommendation, Dr. Reynard.”
“I’m not free to discuss specific cases or investigations,” Heather replied. “You’ll have to contact the CDC public information office.”
“Don’t be absurd. I’ve already read all your reports, patchy and inconclusive as they are.”
“And who are you, again?”
“Why don’t we sit down?” he asked.
“Why don’t I call campus security?” she replied.
He smirked. He was jaw was squarish, his lips bloodless and thin. He almost had a case of missing mouth syndrome, until he bared his teeth in a smile.
“Here.” He showed her a laminated badge with the seal of the Department of Defense—a golden eagle clutching arrows and an American flag shield—and his own photograph. According to the badge, his name was Ward Kilpatrick, and he was a lieutenant general.
“Then you should know that the details of Fallen Oak have been classified by the Department of Homeland Security. You’ll have to speak with them.” Heather pulled her purse over her shoulder and stepped around her desk. Ward stood between her and the door, blocking her way with the help of Heather’s own bookshelves, boxes, and clutter. “If you’ll excuse me,” Heather added.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Reynard. You won’t be leaving yet.” Behind him, in the hallway, two more men emerged from either side of her door. They were much younger, dressed in dark suits and sunglasses, clearly his assistants, or his muscle. “Close the door, Buchanan. We’re having a private conversation.”
One of the men shut Heather’s door without saying a word. They would remain outside, but clearly, Heather wouldn’t get far if she tried to leave. Her heart pounded in her ears. She was trapped.
“Dr. Reynard,” he said. “Because of your years of federal service, I’m going to level with you. I’m currently the director of a defense intelligence agency whose name you would not recognize, nor could you find it in any official budget or organization chart. We have been here since the earliest days of the Cold War, watching, studying...Our focus is on identifying threats and opportunities that lie outside the typical military paradigms. Homeland Security? To us, they’re just the courtesy officer tooling around your local mall in a golf cart.”
“They have all the information,” Heather said. She was scared, but she made an effort to look calm. She didn’t want him to see her tremble.
“Why did you resign from the CDC?”
“I was tired of being away from my family all the time.”
“Oh, yes.” Ward took a framed family picture from her desk. “Liam. And little Tricia, five years old. She was dying of leukemia, wasn’t she? Until, one day, she wasn’t.”
“She’s in remission.”
“Oh, no. We’ve reviewed her records. She’s cured. Like she never had it at all.”
“No one’s ever really ‘cured’ from cancer. There’s always the possibility—”
“Nobody except your daughter and several other children on the same ward, at the same time,” he said. “Miraculous, isn’t it?”
“We’re very grateful for her improvement—”
Ward smashed the family picture on the corner of her desk, and Heather jumped as fragments of glass sprayed everywhere. He threw the broken frame on the floor.
“Don’t give me that,” he growled. His green eyes burned bright. “The probability is off the charts. What happened at the hospital that night?”
“It must have been God,” Heather said. “That’s what everybody tells me.”
“God.” Ward smirked at her. “I don’t believe in God, Dr. Reynard. But I believe in the devil. I believe he’s in all of us, that he is us...” He stalked closer to her, and Heather backed up until she bumped against her desk. His voice dropped to a whisper as he leaned in close, his breath hot and sour on her cheek. “Tell me, Heather. What is the source of Fallen Oak syndrome? Why did you want every victim, and every inch of that old mansion, incinerated?”
“The pox,” she said. “It had to be stopped. It could have become an epidemic overnight. Virulent. Contagious. Airborne.”
“No,” he said, stepping even closer, until she could see nothing in the world but his face. “I want the whole story.”
“Get back,” Heather whispered. She eased her hand