The naked edge

18

The building was made of weathered boards. It was twenty-feet-square, single-level, with a dusty window on two sides and a black stovepipe protruding from its sloped roof. The door was blank wood. On leashes, two dogs sniffed at it.

"They don't seem interested," one of their handlers said.

"The same as the other buildings. So far, no indication of explosives," the second handler told Cavanaugh.

Cavanaugh looked around-at men coming in and out of the farmhouse, whose door they'd rammed in; at other men searching the barn, whose padlock they'd cut.

"No indication of radiation, either," a man said, walking over with a Geiger counter. "A dirty bomb or anything like that."

"Or smallpox or anthrax," another man said. He held a compact device programmed to identify the DNA of selected bacteria and viruses. His hands were covered with latex gloves.

"And the place tests negative for stashes of drugs," Rutherford said, joining them.

A man with bolt cutters indicated the building's locked door. "Shall I do the honors?"

Cavanaugh walked to where a window provided an inside view of the door. Through the dusty glass, he didn't see any sign of a booby trap, but even though trained dogs had failed to indicate that they smelled explosives, he needed to be sure.

Reaching into a windbreaker, he pulled out a twist tie. "Free the lock," he told the man with the bolt cutters.

When the lock fell to the ground, Cavanaugh eased the door open a quarter inch, knelt, inserted the twist tie through the narrow gap, and slowly raised the pliant strip from the ground, alert for any sign of resistance from a wire attached to a detonator. While Jamie aimed her flashlight, searching for a reflection off a wire, Cavanaugh drew the twist tie along the entire door.

"Anybody care to step back?" he asked the group.

They thought about it.

"Wouldn't hurt to crouch behind that car," one of the dog handlers said.

"John, why don't you and Jamie go with them?" Cavanaugh asked.

What Jamie did instead was cautiously open the door.

Sunlight pierced shadows. Dust on the floor showed the footprints of someone who'd recently gone in and out. The marks were large, presumably a man's. They led past a metal stove that the old man had used for burning wood in the winter. They passed a dusty anvil and a table of equally dusty forging tools. Cavanaugh had worked with them so often that, even after many years, he recognized them as the old man's, especially the battered anvil. The footprints veered around a waist-high metal container that had a propane tank attached to it: the old man's forge. They led to another dusty table, upon which an envelope was set against a small wooden box.

The box was made of oak so polished that it reflected Cavanaugh's flashlight.

The box was open. It was lined with green felt into which was nestled the most beautiful knife Cavanaugh had ever seen.

Hey, he warned himself, pay attention. He and Jamie looked for wires stretched across the shadowy floor. As Cavanaugh approached the far table, he stayed clear of the footprints, preserving them as evidence. But the closer he came, the more he found it difficult to take his eyes from the envelope and the contents of the box. At last, he stopped before them.

The envelope had handwriting on it. Neat, solid strokes. In black ink. To Aaron

"Looks like you've got a pen pal," Rutherford said.

"It's Carl's handwriting." Trying to ignore the beckoning knife, Cavanaugh reached for the envelope but then hesitated. Turning toward the door, he saw one of the technicians peering in. "You'd better check this."

The technician followed the trail Cavanaugh and Jamie had made in the dust. He moved his detector over the envelope and the knife. "No pathogens. At least, none that this device is programmed for."

"Got any more gloves?"

The technician reached into a jacket pocket and gave him a pair.

After putting them on, Cavanaugh picked up the envelope and saw that it was sealed. He tore it open, removed a sheet of paper, and cautiously unfolded it. The handwritten message had the same neat, solid strokes. It was dated one day earlier. Aaron, Do you ever miss Lance? I used to lie awake nights wishing that old bastard was my father and you were my brother. All the adventures you and I had. Old buddy, you need to be reminded of the military virtues. Loyalty, courage, honor, and sacrifice. Thanks to them, we were able to fight our way out of a lot of trouble because we knew we could depend on one another. Loyalty. That's the greatest virtue. And Aaron, as I told you on the radio, you weren't a good enough friend. You should have backed me up when I got fired. I felt like you'd cut my parachute lines. I know you thought I killed that stalker to impress that twat singer. The truth is, I did it to impress YOU. I expected you to say, "Damned good job, man. You sure showed that piece of shit." Instead, you let me get fired. Okay, I made a mistake. But a true friend doesn't turn against another friend just because of a mistake. A friendship's supposed to be stronger than that. You can't choose your parents, but you CAN choose a friend. Trust. That's what a friendship's about. Being able to count on somebody no matter what. Well, buddy, I sure found out I couldn't count on YOU. None of this would have happened otherwise. I hope you're satisfied. Of course, you were supposed to be in a grave in Wyoming and not know any of this. You always could rise to a challenge. Not that it matters-two days from now, not even you will be able to find me. Just to show I'm big enough to stop hating you, here's a present. I think it's the best knife I ever made. Carl

Cavanaugh showed the letter to the group.

"So now he's justifying what he's done?" Rutherford asked. "This doesn't feel right."

"And what's the significance of the knife?" Jamie wondered. "It's beautiful, I admit. The handle. Is it covered with…"

"Gold quartz," Cavanaugh said.

"And those red dots. They look like…"

"Rubies embedded in gold rivets," Cavanaugh said.

The slender knife was eleven inches long, five inches of which were the amazing handle.

Cavanaugh couldn't take his gaze off it.

"Michael Price," he finally said.

"I don't understand."

"Old San Francisco." Cavanaugh kept staring at the knife. Then he felt that he was being stared at. Breaking his concentration, he looked up at Jamie and Rutherford, who watched him, puzzled.

"Who's Michael Price?" Jamie asked.