An undeniable sign of guilt.
But why had the suspect settled here, so close to the border of the quarantine zone? Did she stay in the area to observe the aftermath of her handiwork?
Anger burned in Jenna’s gut, picturing the wasteland, all the dead wildlife. She shied away from remembering the fall of the axe, the screaming. She had held Josh’s shoulders when Drake did what had to be done. Afterward, the gunnery sergeant refused to speak during the return trip, his gaze lost in the hills.
“She must still be here,” Schmitt said, as they filed past her car. “Unless she left in another vehicle from here.”
Let’s hope not. We need answers.
Drake marched in the lead, his face hard and stoic. He clearly wanted more than answers; he wanted payback.
The Toyota was parked near a small path that led back through a stand of Ponderosa pines. The Ahwahnee maintained twenty-four rustic rental cabins, all hidden in the woods. Amy must have booked one of those remote cottages in order to keep a low profile.
The team set off down the path. The scent of pine pitch swelled under the dripping canopy of the forest. At a fork, two of Drake’s men flanked to the right. Steps later, the gunnery sergeant headed with another Marine into the woods to the left. They intended to circle the cabin, to lay a noose around the place.
As the Marines vanished, she and Nikko headed directly for the cottage. The plan was for Jenna to make the first approach. In civilian clothes with a dog at her side, she looked like any other tourist. The goal was to get Amy to let her guard down, to perhaps open the door to a lost hiker.
After a turn in the pathway, a quaint cedar-plank cottage appeared, nestled among the pines. It was painted green to better blend into the forest. A wet stone patio framed a door with two sidelights. The windows were all draped shut, as were the glass panes in the door.
Looks like somebody sure wants her privacy.
Jenna felt no misgivings about striding forward on her own, knowing the Marines had her back. Still, she gave her armored vest a surreptitious tug. Nikko kept to her knee, as if sensing her tension.
As she reached the door, she shook back her hood, ignoring the rain, and plastered on a feigned look of confusion. She knocked firmly, then stepped back.
“Hello,” she called out. “I was wondering if you could tell me how to get to the Ahwahnee’s lobby?”
A faint sound reached her.
So somebody was inside.
She leaned closer, bringing her ear near the door. “Hello!” she tried again, louder this time.
As she listened, she realized the noise was the muffled ringing of a phone. From the tone, it had to be a cell phone.
She took in a breath to call again when somebody responded, hoarse, barely audible.
“. . . help me . . .”
Reacting instinctively to the plaintive cry, Jenna pulled out her Smith & Wesson and used the butt of her pistol to smash the side light next to the doorknob. As the window shattered, she yanked the cuff of her jacket lower over her hand, brushed the worst of the glass out of the way, then reached through and tugged on the door latch inside, disengaging the lock.
She heard boots pounding up behind her.
A glance back revealed Drake running her way. “Wait!”
Now unlocked, the door swung open on its own.
Jenna kept sheltered to the side and raised her pistol in both hands. Drake reached her, taking a position on the other side.
A single bedside lamp glowed inside the shadowy room. It revealed a figure in the bed, half covered by a comforter. From the blond hair, it had to be Amy Serpry—but the woman’s face was swollen and blotched, her skin blistering, darkening the edges of her lips. Vomit stained the top of the quilt, while the sheets were tangled as if she had fought within them.
Earlier, Jenna had heard about Josh having a seizure.
She suspected Amy had suffered similarly.
No wonder she hadn’t escaped too far. She must’ve gotten sick and went to ground where she could.
Jenna felt little sympathy for the saboteur, knowing how many had died because of the woman’s actions.
Amy’s head tilted on the pillow, falling in the direction of the door. Her eyes were an opaque white, likely blind. Her mouth opened, as if to again plead for help.
Instead, blood poured forth, swamping the pillow and soaking the mattress. The body sagged in the bed, going slack and still.
Jenna took a step to go to her aid, but Drake blocked her at the threshold with his arm.
“Look at the rug,” he warned.
At first Jenna could make no sense of the small shapes dotting the floor. Then her mind snapped to what she was seeing.
Mice . . . dead mice.
She had heard stories of the tiny trespassers who often shared these cottages with the hotel guests. A friend of hers from college had stayed in one of these cabins last year. Afterward, all she could talk about was how mice bounded across her bed at night, rooted through her luggage, even deposited a few droppings in her shoes.
To deal with the vermin problem, the hotel maintained an ongoing war, especially after cases of mouse-borne hantavirus broke out in the valley.
But the war inside this cottage was already over.
Or almost over.
A lone mouse hopped feebly across the carpet, its body shaking.
Jenna reacted too slowly, too focused on the horrors inside.
Nikko burst past her, the motion igniting his hunter’s instinct.
“Nikko, no!”
The husky stopped at her command, but he already had the mouse in his teeth. He turned back, his tail dropping, knowing he had done something wrong.
“Nikko . . .”
The dog dropped the mouse and came sheepishly toward her, his head bowed, his tail tucked.
Drake pushed Jenna back with one arm—then reached and closed the door. What lurked inside that room was something far worse than any hantavirus.
On the opposite side of the door, Nikko whined, pleading to be let out.
9:01 A.M.
Lisa waited inside the air lock for the pressure to stabilize before she could open the inner door that led into the lab complex. Through the walls, she heard the light tin-tinning of raindrops on the metal roof of the cavernous hangar.
It reminded her that time was running short.
According to the local meteorologists, the massive storm front continued to push into the region. As of yet, the dead acres surrounding ground zero remained dry, but it was only a matter of time before those dark skies opened up over the area. A logistical group had been tasked to figure out how far this disease might spread, employing computerized modeling programs to calculate runoff patterns based on topography and local geology.
Their initial reports were harrowing.