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Clarence’s face wrinkled in indignation. “You didn’t evac the wounded to mainland hospitals? That’s not—”

Margaret’s left hand found Clarence’s knee. An automatic gesture, a way for her to tell her man relax, even though he apparently wasn’t her man anymore.

“The wounded can’t leave,” she told him. “No one there can.”

Clarence blinked, then he got it. Any of those survivors — wounded or not — could be infected. He turned back to Murray.

“The media,” Clarence said. “What’s the cover story? How do you explain the battle?”

“We don’t,” Murray said. “The flotilla was in the upper middle part of Lake Michigan. The sh.o.r.e was twenty-five miles away to both the east and west, a hundred to the north and two hundred to the south. n.o.body on land saw a thing. The battle occurred in a no-fly zone, so there was zero civilian air traffic. The sailors themselves won’t be leaking the story, because right now no one leaves the task force — for the rather obvious reason that somehow escaped you.”

Hundreds dead, just like that. A U.S. s.h.i.+p sinking other U.S. s.h.i.+ps; Margaret knew the infection could make that happen, could take over a host’s brain and make him do horrible things.

“Cellulose tests,” she said. “Any positives?”

She had to ask, even though she didn’t want to know the answer. Inside a host’s body, the infection built organic scaffolding and structures from cellulose, a substance produced by plants that was not found in the human body anywhere outside of the digestive tract. She and Amos had invented a cellulose test so accurate it left almost no doubt: if victims produced a positive result, it was already too late to save them.

“Two,” Murray said. “Both from corpses.”

Positive tests. Just the thought of it made Margaret sick.

The infection was back.

Murray offered Margaret the envelope.

She reached for it, an automatic movement, then she pulled her hand back.

“You don’t want me,” she said, her voice small and weak. “I … this is all horrible, but I put in my time. I can’t go through this again.”

Murray’s lip curled up ever so slightly, a snarling old man who wasn’t used to hearing the word no.

“Worst loss of life in a naval engagement since Vietnam, and it happened right here at home,” he said. “Three s.h.i.+ps destroyed, one damaged, about three billion dollars’ worth of military a.s.sets gone, and we have no idea what really happened. So pardon my indelicate way of speaking my mind, Montoya, but look at the motherf.u.c.king pictures!”

He was going to yell at her? Like she was some intern who would jump at his every word?

“Get Frank Cheng to look at them,” she snapped. “He’s your fair-haired boy.”