VIRGINIA
Platt noticed the car following him soon after he pulled out of the diner’s parking lot. At first he thought maybe Bix had forgotten to tell him something and Platt knew the paranoid CDC chief would rather run him down than risk a cell-phone call being traced. But the vehicle following him, five car lengths back, was definitely not Bix’s compact rental car. The double headlights sat up as high as Platt’s Land Rover.
He took the ramp onto the interstate, goosing the accelerator. The double headlights followed. He switched lanes, crossing over two and watched in the rearview mirror. The double headlights followed, keeping a car in between. Traffic raced around them but the car stayed with Platt. He drove a few miles then crossed back to the right and at the last second swerved to take the first exit. Not so discreetly, now, his tail followed, provoking a horn blare from another vehicle that had to slam on its brakes.
Platt turned into a gas station and pulled up next to a credit-card-only pump. He didn’t get out. He waited, ready to floor it if the vehicle followed. It’d be impossible to pretend here, especially after pulling up to one of the pumps. But the double headlights, which he now saw belonged to a black Suburban with tinted windows, didn’t even slow down as it passed the station.
Platt sat back, released a sigh. Ran a hand over his face. Relaxed his jaw. Okay, so Bix’s paranoia was contagious.
He topped off the Land Rover’s gas tank, though he didn’t need it to get back home. Then he took several more minutes to wash his windshield, the whole time watching every single vehicle that pulled into the station as well as those passing by on the access road.
Back on the road Platt stayed off the interstate and wound his way through side streets where he could see if he picked up another tail. The amount of traffic surprised him for this time of night, but still, he believed he would notice a black Suburban with tinted windows. Finally deciding it was safe, he backtracked to his parents’ house.
They would be up, watching the late-night shows. They’d have Digger between them and all three would have a bowl of ice cream. They doted on the dog like he was one of their grandchildren. Platt’s mom would try to talk him into staying overnight, but he’d convince her that Digger would keep him company on the two-hour drive back to D.C. She’d pretend to pout but give him a peck on the cheek and his dad would tell him to call when he got home.
Platt parked and before going in took a few minutes to check his voice, text, and email messages. There were several but none from the one person he was hoping to hear from— Maggie. He knew her plane had landed safely in Denver without any delays. He checked the flight number online to make sure.
He slouched back into the leather seat and shook his head. He had been doing just fine before Maggie O’Dell came along. He had finally found contentment, burying himself in his work, coming home and sitting with Digger on the back porch. He tried not to spend too much time indulging in memories of his daughter, Ali, but Digger was a constant reminder.
In the beginning it was difficult to even have the dog around, but quickly Digger became Platt’s shadow, his buddy. He knew the dog missed Ali as much as he did. They had been inseparable or as Ali always said, they were “bestest friends.” Now Platt was grateful for the dog’s company and for reminding him of the best memories of Ali and not those dark weeks, months, years that followed her death.
Caring about Maggie was a luxury he hadn’t allowed himself since Ali’s death. Moments like this he questioned the wisdom of it. Being with Maggie, just talking to her— hell, just hearing her voice—made him feel like a college kid again. It was exhilarating. But not hearing from her could make him feel equally miserable. He hated the roller-coaster ride.
So what the hell was wrong with him? He wasn’t a kid. He was a colonel, a medical doctor in the United States Army. He was logical and practical and thrived on structure and discipline. He made decisions, solved problems. He went into war zones and hot zones. He had performed surgeries on soldiers while bombs rattled around them. He had treated victims with Ebola working from a tent outside of Sierra Leone. At only thirty-two years old he had seen and done incredible things. Yet nothing compared to the feeling of Maggie sitting on the sofa with him, sockless feet in his lap, while they spent a rare evening watching classic movies or an even rarer Saturday afternoon watching college football.
He looked down at his smartphone again. No new messages in the last five minutes. He pushed Contacts and keyed down to Maggie’s number. He clicked on Text Messages and tapped in MISS YOU. XXOO BEN. Then he paused before hitting Send.
Too much?
He tapped Backspace and erased XXOO BEN.
Hesitated again. Tapped Backspace and erased MISS YOU.
Flipping the phone shut, he said out loud to himself, “Coward.”
Just as he reached for the SUV’s door handle he saw it.
The black Suburban, its headlights off, was stopped at the corner. The vehicle’s occupant must have thought it was safe to pull this close, must have thought Platt had already exited his vehicle and gone inside. The Suburban stayed there for only a few seconds longer, just enough time for whoever was driving it to take note of the address. Then it rolled through the intersection. Platt watched it go a full block before putting on its headlights.
Great. Platt had taken some goons to the front door of his parents’ home.
He got out of the Land Rover and went around to the backseat to grab a duffel bag. It looked like he’d be spending the night after all.