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card.” Cunningham pinched a corner of the envelope between his thumb and index finger.
    “MR. F.B.I. MAN,” was written in block printing across the middle of the envelope in what looked like a first grader’s attempt at practicing capitalization.
    Cunningham set it down on the counter gently as if it would shatter. Then he stepped back and looked around the room again. A few agents waited for the elevator. Cunningham’s secretary, Anita, answered a ringing phone. No one noticed their boss, his darting eyes and the sweat on his upper lip the only signs of his growing panic.
    “Anthrax?” Maggie asked quietly.
    Cunningham shook his head. “It’s not sealed. Flap is tucked.”
    The elevator dinged, drawing both their attention. But only a glance.
    “It’s too thin for explosives,” Maggie said.
    “There’s nothing attached to the box, either.”
    She realized both of them were talking about this as if it were a harmless crossword puzzle.
    “What about the doughnuts?” Maggie finally asked. That one bite felt like a lump in her stomach. “Could they have been poisoned?”
    “Possibly.”
    Her mouth went dry. She wanted to believe their suspicions were unwarranted. It could be a prank between agents. That actually seemed more likely than a terrorist gaining access, not only to Quantico, but all the way down into the Behavioral Science Unit.
    Once he made the decision, Cunningham took less than two seconds—maybe three—to untuck the flap, barely touching the envelope with a butter knife. Again pinching only a corner he was able to pull out the piece of paper inside. It was folded in half and each side was folded over about a quarter of an inch.
    “Pharmacist fold,” Maggie said and her stomach did another flip.
    Cunningham nodded.
    Before nifty plastic containers, pharmacists used to dispense drugs in plain white paper and fold over the sides to keep the pills or powder from falling out when you lifted them out of their envelope. Maggie recognized the fold, only because it was one of the lessons they had learned from the Anthrax Killer. Now she wondered if they had been too quick in simply opening the envelope.
    Cunningham lifted the paper, keeping the folds intact, making a tent so they could see if there was anything inside. No powder, no residue. All Maggie saw was the same style block printing that was on the outside of the envelope. Again, reminding her of a child’s handwriting.
    Cunningham continued to use the end of his pen to open the note. The sentences were simple and short, one per line. Bold, capitalized letters shouted:
    CALL ME GOD.
    THERE WILL BE A CRASH TODAY.
    At 13949 ELK GROVE
    10:00 A.M.
    I’D HATE FOR YOU TO MISS IT.
    I AM GOD.
    P.S. YOUR CHILDREN ARE NOT SAFE ANYWHERE AT ANY TIME.
    Cunningham looked at his watch, then at Maggie. With his voice steady and even, he said, “We’ll need a bomb squad and a SWAT team. I’ll meet you out front in fifteen.” Then he turned and headed back to his office as casually as if this were an assignment he issued every day.

CHAPTER 3
    Reston, Virginia
    R.J. Tully slammed on his brakes, setting off a screeching chain reaction behind him. The Yukon driver who’d cut in front of him now waved a one finger salute before realizing he’d have to stop for the changing traffic light.
    “This is not my fault,” Tully’s daughter, Emma, said from the passenger seat. She was holding up her Starbucks latte with two hands, the protective spillproof lid intact, not a drip spilled.
    Tully glanced at his own coffee where he had left it in the console’s cup holder with the lid still off from when he had put in his cream. He hated drinking out of those spillproof lids. But maybe cleaning up the car’s interior would be an incentive to use them. Coffee had splashed all over including the knee of his trousers.
    “Why would this be your fault?” he asked her, but he kept his eyes on the Yukon driver who was staring at him in his rearview mirror. Was he