So why Wallingford, Connecticut? In the fall of 2001 there was a ninetysomething-year-old widow—okay, so he couldn't be expected to retrieve every detail like her exact age—who had been one of the anthrax killer's victims. Ottilie W. Lundgren lived in Oxford, Connecticut. She rarely left her home, and as far as anyone could determine, she hadn't been a direct target of the anthrax killer. Somehow her mail had unfortunately come in contact with anthrax-laced mail that had gone through the Southern Connecticut Processing and Distribution Center in Wallingford.
The FBI didn't find anthrax anywhere in her little house.But anthrax did show up in Seymour, Connecticut, about three miles away. Cross-contamination had been the final explanation. Authorities considered it a random and unfortunate incident. Family members called it "senseless." Artie thought that random and senseless were two things he didn't mind.
Now as Artie steered the SUV around a second reservoir he glanced at the Google map on the passenger seat. He must have gone the wrong direction. He had taken the Center Street exit off of Interstate 91. Certainly there was no post office out here.
He found a place to pull over. He didn't have time to sightsee, though the winding roads were inviting and the turning foliage sorta cool. What interested Artie even more was the fact that not far from here was a deserted rock quarry where bodies had been found in fifty-five-gallon drums. Bodies with missing pieces.Yes, it was difficult being a crime buff, being so close to a crime scene and not able to visit. He imagined it was no different than a Civil War buff being close to Gettysburg and wanting to just take a step onto those hollowed grounds.
Another time, perhaps. Artie turned the SUV around and headed in the other direction, this time easily finding where East Center became Center and then making his way to Main Street where he could see the post office. He turned into the driveway for the drop-off mailboxes. The SUV's tinted windows would obscure any cameras, if there were any. He grabbed the two packages off the floor.
Then he dropped them into the mailbox slot, one addressed to Benjamin Tasker Middle School in Bowie, Maryland, and the other addressed to Caroline Tully in Cleveland, Ohio.
CHAPTER
40
North Platte, Nebraska
Patsy Kowak looked forward to Saturdays. She'd pick up her daughter and the two of them would go into town for their book-club meeting. They usually met at the café. A corner table that fit all seven of them. The owner of the local bookstore, A to Z Books, offered recommendations, and for the last two years their club had read novels Patsy would have never chosen on her own. This week's selection was by a local author, a mystery writer named Patricia Bremmer. Patsy finished it in two days, partly thanks to Ward not talking to her. Maybe if the silence continued she'd get all kinds of things accomplished.
Only a week until the wedding. She had to admit she was excited, not just for her son and for the day, but to get away. As much as she loved her home and this ranch, she did enjoy a change of pace. It had been ages since she and Ward had been anywhere. Okay, so it was only Cleveland with a layover at O'Hare, but even Cleveland sounded exotic right now. And though there would be few family and friends able to make the trip from Nebraska, Conrad had told Patsy that they expected over two hundred people, mostly friends and colleagues. Patsy couldn't imagine even a pharmaceutical vice president and the CEO of an advertising agency having that many friends and colleagues. But Conrad was excited and happy and that's what was important. This woman made her Conrad happy like no other person had been able to.
Patsy ran a brush through her hair. It didn't look bad despite her habit of sometimes trimming chunks that didn't belong. It was a nervous habit, worse when she was under stress. In fact, Ward could always tell if she was having a bad day. Earlier in the week he had asked if her bangs were shorter. A simple yes made him nod and back off.
But now instead of her hair she noticed her hands. They were more red and chapped than usual from brushing down the horses and digging up the last of her vegetable garden. She traded the hairbrush for cuticle scissors and went after the ragged skin, trying to make her fingers more presentable but leaving one bleeding.
She hadn't had a professional manicure for ages but knew it was out of the question. Ward had already lectured her about running up their credit card. It was just another way for him to voice his complaints about the wedding since the only purchases she had made were a new dress and luggage for the trip. She refused to drag out the worn old set they had. It was ancient and didn't even have rollers. No wonder Conrad was convinced all his father thought about was money. Which reminded her. She didn't have any cash and wouldn't have time to stop at the bank.
She opened the bottom drawer to her dresser, uncovered the square box she used for loose change and trinkets. That was also where she had hidden the plastic bag with cash from Conrad. Ward would never go through Patsy's dresser drawers, so she knew it was safe there. She hadn't really intended to use the money. She could stop at the bank after the book-club meeting and replace it later. What harm could there be in using it and replacing it?
She opened the plastic bag, reached in and pulled out one of the twenty-dollar bills.
CHAPTER
41
Quantico, Virginia
Tully had heard him the first time. He didn't need George Sloane to inform him again that Tully and Ganza had "exactly fifteen minutes" before Sloane had to return to his class.
Tully watched the man make a ceremony of sitting down in front of the documents like a priest about to perform some sacred ritual. He played the role of professor very well, even dressed it—black knit turtleneck, tight enough to show off his trim physique, along with well-pressed trousers and matching suit jacket. He wasn't a big man, five-foot-seven. His strut into the room asked for but didn't quite command attention. He was Tully's age but had none of the salt-and-pepper Tully had been discovering at his own temples. Instead, Sloane's thick hair, that he wore long enough to curl over the turtleneck, was almost jet-black, and Tully suspected it was because of Grecian hair formula rather than youthful genes.
"The lighting is horrendous in here," Sloane announced in place of a greeting. "Does Cunningham expect me to work miracles?"
Tully wanted to say, "No, just your regular voodoo will do." Instead, he said what he knew would pacify the man and not waste their precious fifteen minutes. "We're just grateful you can take time out to help us, George. Anything you can offer will be appreciated."
"See if you can find me a better light," Sloane told Ganza, dismissing the director of the lab with a wave of his hand as if Ganza were one of his college students.
Ganza stared at Sloane's back for a second or two then glanced at Tully, who could only offer a shrug. Ganza checked his watch then pulled down the bill of his Red Sox cap and headed for the conference room's supply closet.
"So terrorists are delivering their threats at the bottom of doughnut boxes now?" Sloane said, scooting his chair closer to the table. "Where were you at the time?" he asked Tully. "If I remember correctly, you can't resist a chocolate doughnut."
"Stuck in traffic," Tully said, trying not to show his annoyance and impatience. Sloane had already used up five minutes fidgeting with his preparations.
"Thank God for morning rush hour, huh?"
Ganza hauled a long, metal contraption out of the storage closet that looked like something from a garage sale. He set it on the table beside Sloane.