Mysterious Circumstances. Rita Herron

it…was a shock.”

      “What happened?”

      She hesitated, wondered whether to share her suspicions yet. “I don’t know. He was depressed lately, was agitated, but he hadn’t confided any specifics.”

      “Do you think his death is related to the other suicides?”

      “I don’t know. I spoke to Agent Horn, but he was closemouthed.”

      “He’s a cold one, all right.”

      Yes. Except he hadn’t been tonight.

      “You’re not giving up, though?”

      “No.” She saw her father’s face in her mind. Remembered her resolve about her mother. “Definitely not.”

      “Good, I know there’s a story there. I suspect it has to do with Nighthawk Island, too. If you can get it, your career will be made.”

      For a fleeting second, she didn’t care about her career. “Lowell, I don’t intend to sensationalize my father’s death for a byline.”

      “That’s not what I meant. But everyone is trying to get the truth about the shady research at Nighthawk Island, and you might just be the one to uncover it.”

      Right.

      She hung up, troubled by the conversation. If Nighthawk Island was keeping secrets about her father’s work and one of those projects was creating public danger, she had an obligation to inform the innocent citizens. She couldn’t sit back and let the truth be buried as it had been when her mother died years ago.

      In fact, her father had mentioned her mother at least a half dozen times lately. He’d even claimed that someone might be listening over the phone when they’d last talked.

      What if someone had been listening? Someone who hadn’t wanted him to finish researching the virus?

      She swirled the red liquid in her glass, willing the rich flavor to dull the pain that coursed through her soul. All these years, she’d hoped for answers. Prayed that one day she and her father would be close again. That he’d wake up and see the daughter he’d forgotten existed. And maybe, in some way, she’d thought by making a name for herself in the paper, by getting bigger headlines, uncovering important stories, putting herself on the line, that he’d take notice.

      That dream had died today, as well.

      Tears spilled over her cheeks, the black abyss of her sorrow too much to bear, and she finally crawled beneath the covers of her bed, doubled over and released the pent-up emotions she’d been bottling so long. Heartrending sobs escaped her.

      She would never be any closer to her father than she had been the day her mother had died. Would never fully understand the reason he’d virtually abandoned her for test tubes and research files.

      But she would know the answers to the reason he’d died.

      Special Agent Craig Horn’s face drifted into her mind. Sharp chiseled features. A strong jawbone. Black hair that framed a face that had seen hard times. Eyes as gray as a granite sky or the fog that enveloped the island after a storm.

      His voice, his expression, his manner—it had always seemed so cold. Distant.

      The Iceman. She’d heard the rumors about the other agents thinking he was nothing but a tomb, devoid of emotion.

      And she’d understood why.

      Yet today, his hand had been gentle when he’d brushed hers. So gentle she’d ached for more. For him to stroke her face, caress her body, touch his lips to hers. Give her comfort in the heat of this sorrowful night.

      She hated herself for wanting him.

      Another sob erupted from deep inside her throat, and she gave in to it. She was alone. No one would hear. No one would know how weak she really was.

      But tomorrow, she’d pull herself together. She’d comb every inch of CIRP, pester Craig Horn and Ian Hall to death, even sneak onto Nighthawk Island if she had to. But she’d find out the truth.

      And no one, not the Savannah police or the FBI or Craig Horn, the Iceman, would make her change her mind.

      REGARDLESS OF THE LATE HOUR, when Agent Devlin showed up at Craig’s door, they spread the files on the Savannah Suicides on the wooden desk and studied the information collected so far.

      Devlin read aloud, “The first victim: Damon Byrd. Twenty-seven. A local banker. Single. Lived alone. Had a girlfriend named Tia. She claimed they broke up three weeks before the man died.”

      Craig tapped his pen on the desk, then picked up where Devlin had left off. “Tia said her boyfriend had been exhibiting erratic behavior the last few weeks, had been temperamental, had become physically violent. Co-workers corroborated her story. Normally an easygoing, quiet man who got along with everyone, no one had any clue as to what had caused the change in the man’s behavior. Two days before he died, his boss had ordered him to see a psychiatrist. He’d also given him two weeks leave to deal with his issues. If he didn’t, he’d be fired.”

      “Break up with girlfriend. Job problems,” Devlin summarized. “That might lead to suicide. But what caused the behavior change?”

      Craig frowned. “Money problems, maybe?” He searched the reports and found financial statements, quickly skimming aloud the man’s net worth, debt and recent credit card statements, but found no significant financial problems.

      “Interesting,” Devlin said. “If anything, Damon Byrd was a prime example of solid investments with a sizable savings account and a decent stock portfolio, although his cumulative worth wasn’t significant enough to warrant murder.”

      “And all signs point to suicide,” Craig said. “According to the medical examiner’s report, Byrd shot himself in the head at close range with a .38 which had been registered in his name. He’d purchased it a few weeks before.” Craig skimmed further. “Do you think it’s possible the victims belonged to some kind of cult?”

      “One that made a suicide pact?” Devlin asked.

      Craig nodded.

      “I’ll put someone on that angle,” Devlin said, “although there’s no references to either one of them joining any kind of religious or activist type group.”

      “Maybe those lab results will help pinpoint the nature of this virus,” Craig said. “Thornbird was probably waiting on those reports as well.”

      “There has to be some connection we’re missing.” Devlin scratched his chin. “Victim two. Emmett Grayson, forty years old. Married. Two kids in high school. Worked as a garage mechanic.”

      Craig twisted his mouth in thought. “So far, no similarities.”

      “Except that his wife, neighbors and co-workers all said his behavior had changed. He seemed angry all the time, had even threatened to hit his son, had slammed his fist through a window at the garage when a disgruntled client accused him of overcharging for services.”

      “The erratic behavior change,” Craig said. “It has to be a result of the virus. Maybe it’s spreading through some kind of chemical spill that was absorbed in the water or land,” Craig said.

      “Water samples have come back clean.” Devlin shuffled the papers. “Still waiting on the results of the soil samples.”

      “There’s another possibility we have to consider,” Devlin said. “The victims might have been targets.”

      “You mean someone purposely infected them?” Craig scrubbed a hand over his day’s growth of beard stubble. “What’s the motive?”

      “I’m not sure. Thornbird could have been killed to stop the research. As far as a connection, the two vics in Europe were also scientists, but the first two victims here weren’t, so I don’t see a connection between them.” Devlin gathered his notes. “I’m leaving