Mysterious Circumstances. Rita HerronЧитать онлайн книгу.
then checked for stories with Olivia’s byline. She’d penned a piece about the original director of CIRP who’d died after conducting unethical experiments and trying to sell research to a foreign government. And she’d covered the end of the Savannah serial killings and the attack on Claire Kos.
But so had the other papers, and her piece hadn’t revealed details not also covered in the other papers.
Outside, the tide had begun to break, the resounding echo of the waves fading to a soft lull. Mosquitoes buzzed at the window, a muggy breeze bringing the odor of fish and salt water. His mind shifted back to the families on the beach earlier, and he walked back to the open French doors. The soft halo of the moon bathed the sand, and a lone couple strolled hand in hand along the edge of the water, their soft laughter tinkling in the night.
Olivia Thornbird’s face flashed into his mind. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to forget that he was a trained agent, a man who was supposed to live without feelings, a man who’d spent time overseas in secret military missions that he’d never discuss with anyone. A man who refused to get involved with a woman because emotions interfered with his job.
He let himself imagine he and Olivia walking the beach, lingering in the shadow of the moon with heated touches and erotic kisses. But the sound of her heartrending cries bled into the darkness.
Those cries would stay with him tonight. And probably forever.
HE WAS A GENIUS.
A harsh laugh rumbled deep in his chest as he recalled the stumped looks on the policemen’s faces when they’d stood outside Thornbird’s house and heard that gunshot blast. And when they’d seen the rash…oh, he wished he’d had a camera. They were chasing their tails to discern how he’d accomplished what he had.
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.
Chapter Four
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