Newburgh Heights, Virginia

Maggie left Benjamin Platt asleep in her spare bedroom. Satisfied with a couple hours of sleep and anxious to get back to her regular life, Maggie had put on a long-sleeve T-shirt, shorts and running shoes. She grabbed her cell phone and keys and set out for her morning run. She felt as if she needed to make up for lost time. That’s what she told herself when she launched into mile number two, but the tightness in her calves and the ache in her chest made her reduce her run to a brisk walk. Her lungs breathed in the crisp air, greedy like they’d been deprived for weeks.

She’d forgotten how wonderful a blue sky looked, scrubbed clean after the rain. A flock of geese honked overhead. The beagle up the street had already started baying, anticipating her approach. He’d be disappointed to discover Harvey not with her. Gold and orange mums competed in neighboring yards with purple ash trees and fiery-red bushes. Someone was serving bacon for breakfast.

It sounded like such a bad cliché but it was as if all of her senses had suddenly started firing again after a long stretch of paralysis. Even her daily routine seemed fresh. She had convinced herself to think positively. The virus hadn’t shown up yet in her blood. Maybe she could stop it.

But she couldn’t stop thinking about Cunningham. Her mind played over the details like a loop in her brain. Several things nagged at her but she couldn’t figure out why. She had awakened with the answer to one of the puzzle pieces, the answer so crystal clear she couldn’t believe she hadn’t seen it earlier. But she wasn’t sure it mattered. So what if this killer was an expert in crime trivia? Maybe the puzzle piece meant something. Maybe not. He could just be showing off.

She glanced at her watch and pulled out her cell phone.

He picked up quicker than she expected. “This is Agent Tully.”

“It’s Maggie.”

“My caller ID says they gave you back your cell phone.”

“Yes, and I’m back home.”

Silence. It lasted so long she thought she had lost the connection.

“They let you out?”

The way he said it made her smile. Was he really worried she had escaped without anyone knowing?

“Colonel Platt drove me home early this morning.” She thought she heard a sigh of relief. “Listen, I think I solved another one of the puzzle pieces. ‘Call Nathan.’ You said it was a blind impression left on the envelope?”

“That’s right.”

“I think it was in 1993. I’m not sure about that date. But the FBI offered a million-dollar reward for any information regarding someone named Nathan R. in connection to the Unabomber.”

“Okay, that’s starting to sound familiar.”

“There was an impression found on a letter the Unabomber sent to the New York Times. They thought he had slipped, that maybe he had written a note to himself on a piece of paper on top of the letter and it pressed through without him knowing. If I’m remembering correctly it read, ‘Call Nathan R. 7:00 p.m.’”

Maggie noticed a car up the street slow down, stop where there was no stop sign and continue up the street. This wasn’t a neighborhood with idle traffic. She decided to turn around and head back toward her house.

“I’m looking it up on the computer,” Tully said.

“It ended up being a mistake. I think it was an editor or someone else at the Times. He wrote himself a note on top of the letter before he realized the significance of the letter. It was his note that pressed through onto the Unabomber’s letter.”

“So it meant nothing,” Tully said. “And it means nothing in this Ebola case. Except that this guy is jerking us around.”

“It could be that law-enforcement officers in general are his target and the victims are just convenient pieces to his puzzle.”

“Could be.” The tone in his voice said otherwise.

“What is it?” She knew there was something.

“My ex-wife got a package in the mail this morning. Block-style lettering. A plastic Ziploc bag inside. The return address was mine.”

“Jesus, Tully. Please tell me she didn’t open the plastic bag.”

“No, she didn’t. I don’t know if this is something or just a cruel coincidence.”

“It’s not a coincidence. What’s inside the bag?”

“She said it looks like a stack of ten-dollar bills.”

Maggie winced. Could it be that easy? That simple to get someone to open a bag of Ebola without hesitating. She saw the car again. She was still about two blocks from her house.

“This thing with ‘Call Nathan R.’ Tully, George Sloane should have recognized it.”

“Yeah, the Beltway Sniper phrase, too. He was in a hurry that day. Impatient. He didn’t like that he had to work with me and not Cunningham.”

“I think we need to talk to Sloane again. Show him the note one more time. See if we can get a copy faxed to us of the mailing envelope the killer sent to the Kellermans.”

“Sure. If you think it’ll help.”

“Do you have any information on Chicago?”

“Ganza’s calling someone at the CDC.”

“I’ll call Sloane. See if he can meet with us. And Tully, one thing you really need to consider. Cunningham may have been right about this being personal. It just may be you, not him.”

“I’ve already thought about that.”

She could hear the car coming up behind her.

“Gotta go. I’ll talk to you later.”

Before she snapped her phone closed she heard the engine slow.

“Hey, lady. It’s about time you get home.”

Maggie turned to find Nick Morrelli in the driver’s seat of a dark blue sedan.