Under the color of law

Chapter 7

The new day broke with a dull, angry sky and a wicked wind that howled out of the mountains without letup. Ambassador Terrell had arranged for his wife's burial at the Santa Fe National Cemetery, and about twenty people were clustered around a coffin by a freshly dug grave, heads lowered as a minister read a prayer, his coattails flapping in the stiff breeze.

Kerney stood apart from the group, taking it all in. He knew the mayor, Bill Demora; the governor; his chief of staff; the state police captain in charge of the governor's security unit; and Frank Powers, the resident FBI special agent.

From photographs he recognized Proctor Straley, his daughter, and Clarence Thayer, the CEO of APT Performa. The rest of the people were unfamiliar to him, but as a group they were sober-looking, well-dressed, late-middle-aged males.

The minister droned on. Kerney noted the absence of Alexandra Lawton, Phyllis Terrells friend, and wondered why the gathering had been limited to so few people. Surely, Phyllis Terrell had friends who would have wanted to participate. Why did everything feel so staged?

It said something about the ambassador, but Kerney wasn't sure what that might be.

The winds kicked up and the minister's words were lost in a fierce gust that swirled dirt out of the freshly dug grave and blew it into the mourners' faces.

Kerney studied the faces. Straley and his daughter looked grief stricken.

Terrell looked pensive and subdued. The expressions of the others seemed polite, but showed no sorrow.

The minister closed his prayer book, raised his head, and the group began to move away. Terrell shook hands with Thayer and whispered something in the man's ear, then found his way to Proctor and Susan Straley and walked with them to the waiting cars. Frank Powers, the resident FBI agent, led the way.

Terrell passed Kerney by without a look or a word. Below, where the cars waited, television cameramen started filming video.

He watched the procession leave before paying a visit to his godson's grave. He stood in front of the plain military headstone. The windblown dust that whipped his face only partially caused the wetness in his eyes. Sammy had been murdered while serving in the army. Kerney had solved the case with the help of Sara Brannon, who then commanded the provost marshal criminal investigation unit at White Sands Missile Range. Through the bitter loss of a young man he'd known since birth, Kerney had met his wife.

Until this morning it had been several days since he'd talked to Sara.

He'd deliberately phoned her just before her classes to avoid any lengthy discussion about his work. They talked about the need to get the land bought and the house built, and how Sara was feeling. She reported the pregnancy was going just fine and suggested Kerney should call her back in the evening when they had more time to talk.

He returned to his unit and through the windshield looked beyond the last long rows of headstones that stopped at a swath of freshly cleared ground recently prepared to accommodate the upsurge in deaths of aging World War Two veterans and their spouses. He dialed a number on his cell phone and the agent in charge of the State Police Intelligence Unit picked up. Kerney had borrowed the agent's services from Andy Baca.

"How did it go?" Kerney asked, keeping his question vague.

Although the electronic-surveillance van that had been parked across the street from police headquarters had disappeared last night, Kerney remained cautious.

He scanned the tree-covered ridgeline above the clearing and saw no sign of the agent.

"Ten-four, Chief," the agent said.

"I'll get something for you soon."

"Roger that, and thanks," Kerney said. He disconnected and drove away.

Hidden in the tree line, using a camera with a telephoto lens, the agent had been taking photographs of everyone in attendance at the services.

It was a long shot, but just maybe somebody invited to the services might provide a clue to what was really going on.

He called Larry Otero, told him he was taking the rest of the morning off and would be back in the office by noon.

"Steven Summer wants to meet with you, Chief," Otero said.

"He's Officer Herrera's lawyer. He specializes in human-rights and discrimination cases."

"You handle it."

"I already made the offer. He only wants to meet with you."

"Have Helen make an appointment for him late this afternoon."

"Summer is an ex-city counselor, Chief. He's tight with the mayor, the city manager, and a couple of his cronies are still on the council. He might not appreciate being put off."

"Should I be more accommodating?" Kerney asked.

"I'd make him wait," Otero said.

"But then, I've never liked the guy anyway."

"I'll see him at four-thirty."

The doctors at the hospital had kept Brother Jerome overnight for observation.

Sloan picked him up early in the morning, drove him to the campus, and gladly settled into a chair while Brother Jerome sorted through the papers on his office floor.

Sloan looked around the office in the light of day. Discounting the littered floor, the room reflected Brother Jerome's fastidious personality. Office decorations consisted of a crucifix hung on the wall; a hand-carved wooden statue of St. John Baptiste de la Sane, founder of the Christian Brothers, placed in the center of the top shelf of a large built-in bookcase; and a few family photographs neatly positioned on a plain rectangular credenza behind the desk. A window broke the march of a row of file cabinets neatly lined up against a wall. There was no evidence of clutter. Even the file trays on top of the cabinets were trimmed out in an orderly line.

Lack of sleep made Sloan light headed, and he eagerly accepted a cup of coffee from the worried office receptionist who stepped in to see if there was anything she could do to help Brother Jerome. Sloan told the woman everything was under control and asked her to keep staff and faculty members at bay until they finished up.

Sloan's long night had been fruitless. Security at the college was minimal. The college had an open campus policy. There was no visitor check-in system, no procedure for recording or flagging unauthorized vehicles, and no thorough security patrols of buildings after normal working hours. He'd learned that about the only thing the lone night-shift security officer did was cruise in a car, keep an eye on the dorms, shut down loud student parties that went on too late or too loud, turn off lights that had been left on in classrooms, and rattle a few doorknobs. As a result Sloan had learned nothing that gave him a clue about Brother Jerome's attacker.

However, he did learn from reading the morning newspaper that somebody on campus, probably the security guard, had leaked the story to the press. The front-page headline read "Professor Attacked at the College of Santa Fe." Not wanting to raise his blood pressure, Sloan had scanned only the first paragraph of the story. But that had been enough to make him fantasize finding the dip-shit security guard and punching his lights out.

Brother Jerome picked up the pile of papers and envelopes, now nicely sorted by size and type, placed it on his desk, and shook his head.

"Nothing was taken as far as I can tell," he said.

"My lecture notes for today's classes are all here, my grade book hasn't been tampered with, and none of the student term-paper outlines are missing."

"Check again," Sloan said, "just to be sure."

He waited while Brother Jerome sat at his desk, carefully went through the stack, and placed each item to one side after reviewing it.

"One thing," he said, looking up at Sloan.

"An envelope came for Father Mitchell yesterday, and it doesn't seem to be here."

Sloan's tiredness vanished.

Kerneys plans to move out of the small guesthouse he rented in the South Capitol neighborhood had been delayed by the workload of his new job. He changed from his uniform into cold-weather civvies, and drove his truck to the end of Upper Canyon Road, where he left it in the parking lot of the New Mexico Audubon Society. The house, which bordered the edge of the Santa Fe watershed and reservoir system, had once belonged to a well-known local artist.

He started up a hiking trail that led into the mountains, but as soon as he passed out of sight of the building, he veered off the path jumped a fence, and entered the restricted area of the Santa Fe watershed. He cut across below the lower reservoir to the hills beyond, where Phyllis Terrell's house overlooked the valley, and made a hard climb up the foothills, his bad knee protesting with each step. He topped out at a circular dirt road that served the expensive houses bordering the watershed, hobbled his way to Alexandra Lawton's front door, and rang the bell.

The door opened. Lawton looked over Kerneys shoulder at the empty driveway and then down at his snow-covered hiking boots and wet pant cuffs.

"You walked up here?" she asked.

"Why?"

"I needed the exercise," Kerney replied.

"Please, Chief Kerney, I doubt that was the reason."

"I wanted to talk with you privately and off the record."

Lawton stepped back to let Kerney enter.

"Come in."

"Could we talk outside?"

The wind had subsided and wet heavy snowflakes drifted out of a slate-dark sky, covering the teakwood patio furniture.

"It's not a particularly pleasant day to sit outside," she said.

"I'll explain my reason if you'll get your coat," Kerney said.

Lawton studied Kerney's expression, nodded in assent, and pulled a parka off the hall coatrack.

"This better be good, Chief Kerney."

Kerney waited to speak until Lawton closed the front door.

"I wonder if you ever heard Mrs. Terrell talk about being under electronic surveillance."

"That's absurd," Lawton said.

"Why would anyone want to spy on Phyllis?"

"The ambassador is engaged in highly confidential government work.

Protective services and precautions to keep foreign-service staff and their immediate family members safe from harm are standard protocols in the diplomatic corps."

"But why should they bother with Phyllis?" Lawton asked.

"After all, she was living apart from the ambassador, divorcing him."

"A wife, even an estranged one, could still be a kidnapping target,"

Kerney said, "and the ambassador did visit her upon occasion. State Department officials are vulnerable to acts of terrorism."

"Why don't you talk to the government about this?" Lawton asked sharply.

"I did," Kerney replied, "and got nowhere. You know, the federal government has a good deal of latitude when it comes to protecting high-ranking officials.

Frequently, citizens who have personal relationships with people in sensitive positions, diplomats, or their immediate family members, undergo deep background investigations, often without any knowledge that they've been scrutinized."

Lawton shivered, partly from the cold and partly because of Kerney's words.

"All they would learn about me is that I'm pro-choice and in favor of banning all handguns. You're pushing my natural skepticism about our government into paranoia. Why are you doing this, Chief Kerney? From what I've read in the papers, Phyllis's murder has been solved."

"That's correct," Kerney said.

"But Santiago Terjo is missing. If I can determine that surveillance is in place at the Terrell residence, I can ask for a court order that will allow me to access all recorded conversations. It may be helpful in finding him."

"Santiago missing? Are you quite sure? His truck is parked at the stables."

"Have you seen him over the past several days?"

"I haven't seen him since the day he was arrested. I hope nothing bad has happened to him."

"Let me change the subject, Ms. Lawton. Have there been any problems with the utilities in the neighborhood recently?"

"Around the holidays an electrical transformer had to be replaced. We were without power for several hours."

"Were you given the location of the faulty transformer?"

"No, but I was home when it happened and watched from my picture window when the man came to fix it. It was the one at the bottom of the hill between Phyllis's driveway and my road."

"Was that about the time Ambassador Terrell came to Santa Fe?" Kerney asked.

Lawton nodded.

"Yes, a day or two before. I remember Phyllis was in a snit about his visit. She didn't want to see him, but he was insistent."

"Did she go into any detail?"

Lawton shook her head.

"I noticed you weren't at the cemetery this morning."

"I knew nothing about it."

"Do you know of any other neighbors who might have wanted to attend?"

Lawton shrugged a shoulder.

"Randall and Lori Stewart might have gone. Phyllis had little contact with the rest of the people who live nearby."

"The Stewarts were friends of Mrs. Terrell?"

"Phyllis and Lori got along well, and sometimes Randall would help her when her computer crashed, or if she needed help moving rocks when Santiago wasn't around."

"The Stewarts live where?" Kerney asked.

"Two houses up the hill. Randall's probably at work. He's a stockbroker.

But Lori should be there. She's a fine arts dealer who works out of her home."

"Did Phyllis talk to you about her love life or her relationships with men?"

Kerney asked.

"She was closed mouthed about the subject of men. But I attributed that to what she was going through with the divorce. In fact, she hardly ever discussed the ambassador or the reasons she was divorcing him."

"She said nothing?"

"Just that she couldn't live with him."

"Why the long, drawn-out divorce negotiations?" Kerney asked.

"Property settlements can be very difficult when a great deal of money is involved. Phyllis wanted to make sure she kept all of hers." Lawton wrapped her arms tightly around her body.

"Why am I standing out here freezing, Chief Kerney?"

"Ambassador Terrell most likely has the highest government security clearance possible. Sometimes federal agencies will monitor the conversations of family and friends. It's a good way to make sure classified information isn't being inadvertently discussed."

"Are you saying I'm being spied upon?"

"I doubt it," Kerney said.

"But then you never know."

Lawton searched Kerney's face.

"This is unreal. I don't like what you're saying at all. What can I do?"

"Call in an electronics expert to sweep your house inside and out. The cost may well be worth your peace of mind." He shook Lawton's gloved hand.

"Thank you for your time."

"Unreal," Lawton said again, shaking her head as she went inside.

The woman who opened the door at the Randall Stewart residence had her long brown hair pinned up. She wore bright yellow rubber kitchen gloves.

In her forties, she had tired eyes and seemed decidedly unhappy about the interruption.

Kerney showed the woman his shield and asked if she was Mrs. Stewart.

"I'm Cynthia Cabot, the housekeeper," the woman replied.

"The Stewarts are out of town on a skiing vacation. Where's your police car?"

"I walked up from Ms. Lawton's house," Kerney said.

"When did the Stewarts leave?"

"I'm not sure. There was a note on the kitchen table when I arrived this morning. The trip wasn't planned ahead of time, I can tell you that.

Mrs. Stewart always lets me know when they'll be gone. This must have been a spur-of-the-moment thing. And they took the boys out of school to go with them."

"Is that unusual?"

"I've worked for the Stewarts for three years and until now, family vacations have always been scheduled during school holidays."

"Do you know where they went?"

"No, and Mrs. Stewart always leaves that information for me in case something important comes up."

"Any idea when they'll be back?" Kerney asked.

"The note didn't say. What's this all about?"

"Just a follow-up to an investigation," Kerney answered.

"The Terrell murder?" Cabot asked.

"A completely different matter. Do the Stewarts call in when they're vacationing?"

"Always. I check the house daily while they're gone, usually in the evening after I've finished with my other clients. If Mrs. Stew art doesn't call while I'm here, I'm sure there will be a message on the answering machine tonight."

Kerney held out his business card.

"When they call, ask them to get in touch with me. It's not an emergency, but I do need to speak with them."

Cabot read Kerney's card and gave him a surprised look.

"You're the police chief?"

"Yes, I am," Kerney said. He turned before Cabot could probe further and walked away.

Through thickening snow Kerney hiked back to his truck, cranked the engine, turned up the heater, and sat for a minute until the throbbing in his knee subsided. His kneecap had been almost completely destroyed by a drug dealer's bullet, and the surgical reconstruction had left him with a limp and a leg that performed poorly. Over the years he'd maintained a fairly rigorous exercise program to keep his legs in good shape. But the pain never completely went away, and his hike up and down the hills had made it worse.

He used his cell phone to call the electric company and learned that no power outage had occurred in the vicinity of the Terrell neighborhood before or after the holidays. He turned on the windshield wipers and the blades thudded against the wet, heavy snow as he drove out of the parking lot. According to the housekeeper the Stewarts' decision to leave suddenly on an unplanned vacation was completely out of character.

He wondered why, and couldn't dismiss the possibility that it was somehow linked to everything else he'd learned so far about the ambassador and his wife.

He drove the loop that passed in front of the Terrell residence, stopped a hundred yards down the road from the driveway, and studied the electric transformer on the power pole through binoculars. Mounted above the transformer a tiny video camera was trained on the security gate and driveway to the Terrell house.

Kerney turned the truck around. He needed to find out who had put the surveillance camera in place. But more important, now that the possibility of hard evidence existed that could identify Terrell's murderer, he needed to get hold of the videotapes.

Brother Jerome had been unable to give Bobby Sloan any information about a return address on the missing envelope sent to Father Mitchell.

He did recall that the envelope had been addressed by hand, not typed, and postage stamps, not metered mail, had been used to send it. Brother Jerome also noted that the quality of the penmanship was excellent and that the hand was most probably a woman's.

Without a name the information wasn't much help to Sloan's investigation. While he now had a clear-cut link between the priest's murder and the aggravated burglary, he still lacked both a suspect and a viable motive.

He left the last video store on his list, which, like all the others he'd checked, had no customer record on Father Mitchell, and walked glumly through the snow to his unit. Reduced to chasing down tangential shreds of information, Sloan felt the rhythm of the investigation fading into one of those unsolved murder mysteries that ten years down the road would be featured by the local paper in a Sunday edition.

He went back to the college and started another round of interviews that focused on the burglary of Brother Jerome's office, sloshing through the wet snow from building to building, meeting with staff and faculty members who'd been on campus around the time of the break-in.

He finished up with nothing to show for the effort and walked toward the parking lot, passing a blocky two-story building with a stepped-down entrance that looked like a modern version of an ancient Aztec temple.

The building housed the Moving Images Arts Department and construction of the facility had been funded by a famous old movie actress named Greer Garson, who'd lived outside of Santa Fe on a ranch until her death some time back.

Sloan stopped, went inside, and asked the college student working at the desk if he knew Father Mitchell.

The young man, who had stringy shoulder-length blond hair and a nose ring, nodded his head.

"Yeah, he was in here all the time, mostly in the evenings after classes ended. That's when I'm usually here working on my own stuff."

"Did he talk to you about what he was doing?" Sloan asked.

"No, but he spent most of his time in an editing suite, so he must have been producing something. I never saw him in the screening room or in the archives."

"Is there someplace in the building where he might have stored his materials?"

"There are dozens of places like that where we can lock up film, videos, and shooting scripts. All of the post production rooms have built-in locking cabinets, and there are lots of storage lockers for students to use all over the building, on a first come, first served basis."

The kid opened a drawer and pulled out a loose-leaf binder.

"But since Father Mitchell had faculty status, he probably got an assigned locker. Yeah, here it is. One seventy-six. You go past the production rooms and the soundstage down to the end of the hall. You'll find his locker there."

"Who can open it?" Sloan asked.

The kid shrugged.

"Beats me."

"Find out who can open the locker, okay?"

It took ten minutes with the kid calling around and then another ten before a harried-looking female faculty member with big hair showed up carrying a key ring. She immediately asked Sloan why he needed to get into the locker.

Sloan told her to chill out.

"There may be evidence in the locker important to Father Mitchell's murder, and I need to search it now."

"Show me your credentials," the woman said.

Sloan flipped open his badge case.

"Good enough?"

"Follow me."

At no. 176 Sloan held his breath while the woman opened the locker. In it were a briefcase and a stack of videocassettes. He wrote out a receipt, gathered everything up, thanked the woman, and left the building, oblivious to the full-fledged blizzard that had settled over the city.

Kerney made stops at the electric, phone, and cable companies. He asked about a special law-enforcement request to install a surveillance camera on the utility pole near the Terrell driveway. Clerks studied work orders, pulled files, and shook their heads. Security personnel fanned through court orders and shook their heads. Maintenance supervisors licked their thumbs, paged through smudged paperwork, and shook their heads.

He borrowed an office phone and called all local police agencies within the jurisdiction. No one knew anything.

He stopped at Phyllis Terrell's alarm company. Her contract called for burglary and fire monitoring, gate control, and driveway sensors to warn of vehicle approach. No audio or video services were included.

He drove to city hall, parked in his reserved space, and crossed the street to the post office, an ugly 1960s era building that looked incongruous next to the stately old stone federal courthouse.

Once, on one of her long weekends in town, Sara had asked to see something in Santa Fe tourists didn't know about. After an elegant lunch at a nearby restaurant, he'd walked her to the courthouse and shown her the old wooden telephone booth that stood in the lobby.

Sara had laughed, marveling at the sight of it. Then she had pulled him into the booth, closed the accordion door, and pressed herself against him. The guard sitting at the end of the hall had grinned insipidly at them when they emerged.

Kerney found the resident FBI agent, Frank Powers, in his small third-floor suite at the post office building.

"I get to see you twice in one day," Powers said, unwinding his long legs and getting to his feet to shake Kerney's hand.

"Boy, am I one lucky SOB."

In his early fifties, Powers was on his final duty assignment before retirement.

Powers and his wife were ballroom-dance fanatics. Kerney and Sara had watched the couple put on quite a show one Saturday night when they'd stopped at a club for an after-dinner drink.

"As the new police chief I thought it was time to touch base with you,"

Kerney said.

"Yeah, sure," Powers said with a smile.

"What do you really want?"

"Did Perry keep you in the loop on his investigation?" Kerney asked.

Powers chuckled sarcastically.

"Me? You've got to be kidding. All he asked me to do was give him a ring if you paid me a social call, and be the ambassador's bodyguard at the funeral."

"Well, here I am," Kerney said.

"Call him up."

"What for? From what I've heard, the case is closed, the task force is disbanded. That means I'm once again free to assist local law-enforcement representatives such as yourself without dropping a dime on you."

"Can I hold you to that?" Kerney asked.

"Unless I hear otherwise, you can. Why do you ask?"

"Perry is staying in town for a couple more days just to make sure everything's tidied up."

"I didn't know that," Powers said.

"Do you know anything about the surveillance camera at the foot of Phyllis Terrell's driveway?"

"You've got the wrong agency, Kerney. You need to talk to the State Department.

Call the Bureau of Diplomatic Security."

"You know nothing about it?"

"If Ambassador Terrell needed enhanced security at his wife's Santa Fe home, that's who would handle it."

"I don't think Phyllis Terrell knew anything about the surveillance."

"What makes you say that?"

"The Terrells were planning to divorce. They'd been living apart for almost two years. The ambassador rarely visited. Phyllis Terrell was known to have entertained several lovers at her home."

"Well, then, there you have it," Powers said.

"The ambassador hired himself a private investigator to spy on his wife."

"I don't think so," Kerney said.

"Why not? Any sharp PI can put in a good system. The way I heard it, Mrs. Terrell had the big bucks, and was sleeping around. Proof of infidelity could be worth a lot of money to an aggrieved husband."

"You know nothing about any court-ordered, official surveillance at the Terrell residence?" Kerney said.

"That's what I've been telling you, Kerney. Look, if a court order had been requested by us and not the State Department, I'd know about it.

But then I still couldn't tell you anyway. You know the routine; both the application and order would have been sealed by a federal judge."

Powers adjusted his necktie.

"Since we're talking about people being watched, here's some advice:

Stay out of this. Agent Perry doesn't like you. I don't know what that's about. But if you're smart, don't give him an excuse to play hardball."

"Charlie can be obnoxious," Kerney said.

Powers shrugged.

"There are over twenty-two thousand special agents in the Bureau, Chief, and there is no charm-school requirement for academy applicants."

Kerney walked down the post office steps. Powers had deliberately warned him that he was being watched. That made Frank's other assertions seem highly questionable.

While his wife skied the mountain, Randall Stewart kept an eye on his two young sons, Lance and Jeremy, as they practiced on the kiddie slope.

The boys, ages six and eight, had improved their technique this season, but they were at least a year away from being able to ski the more difficult intermediate runs.

Stewart's interrogation by the FBI agent had put him into a total panic, and the only thing he could think to do was leave town for a while.

Springing the idea of an impromptu skiing trip on his wife hadn't been easy. Lori liked everything planned and orderly. Keeping up a cheery front, Stewart had prevailed with Lori by pointing out that her business was slow this time of year, both children were doing extremely well in school, and it was time to be a little more spontaneous about family fun before the boys were grown and gone.

He booked a suite in a lodge in Red River, high in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains near Taos, packed up Lori's Volvo, and drove the family out of Santa Fe as soon as he possibly could.

As Lance, his youngest, took a spill and got up laughing, Stew art tried to contain his worry about the threats the FBI agent had made. To have his affair with Phyllis exposed would most likely mean the end of his marriage, and to be branded a suspected traitor would surely destroy his career. He had no doubt that the threats would be carried out if he ever mentioned anything at all about the envelope.

Still stunned by the memory of his interrogation, he shook his head in an attempt to wipe it out of his mind. He looked up just as Lori came down the mountain, and fixed a smile on his face when she approached.

"There's eleven inches of new powder on top of the mountain," she said, eyes dancing, waving at the boys.

"It's wonderful."

"Aren't you glad I talked you into this?" Randall asked.

"Very," Lori said, brushing his cheek with her lips.

"It's your turn on the slopes. But you'd better get up there before the storm closes in. I'll take the boys back to the lodge and get something whipped up for lunch."

"I'll be back in an hour," Randall said, reaching for his skis.

"It's dinner out tonight, just you and me. I've made reservations and the lodge has found us a sitter."

"This is a lot of fun," Lori said.

"That's what I wanted to hear," Randall said. He kissed his pretty wife, wondering why he'd been so stupid about Phyllis Terrell. He watched her gather up the boys, and ski them off to the lodge, a short distance away.

Randall turned his attention to the mountain. A good, hard run was just what he needed. Work up a sweat. He got in the lift line and a woman joined him on the chair.

"Have you skied Red River before?" she asked.

Randall nodded and looked at the woman. Rather ordinary in appearance, he guessed her to be about his age.

"Several times."

"Some people who just came down the mountain said the Cat Skinner run is excellent. Have you done that?"

"It's rated difficult," Randall said, nodding.

"Are you a good skier?"

"I am. But I've never skied here before and I'd rather follow someone down who knows the terrain. Would that be an imposition?"

"Not at all," Randall replied.

The woman flashed a big smile.

"Super."

They got off the lift. Randall waited while the woman adjusted her bindings.

People flowed around them and skied off.

"New equipment," she explained apologetically as she buttoned up.

"Cat Skinner is to the left," Randall said.

"Lead on," the woman said.

"Get me pointed in the right direction and I'll beat you to the bottom."

Randall smiled at the prospect of some friendly competition.

"We'll see about that."

A third of the way down, Randall Stewart picked up good speed. He caught some air on a small bump and the woman stayed right with him.

The woman took a quick look back. No one was behind her. She ran Stewart off the powder and into a tree. The glancing impact sent him careening, spinning wildly on his backside, his left ski twisted awkwardly under his body. He slid to a stop and tried to get his leg untangled, but the pain was too intense.

The woman reached him as he lay in the snow under some trees out of sight of the run.

"Jesus, why the fuck did you run into me?" Stewart asked, panting from the pain.

The woman took a handgun from inside her parka, bent over, slammed it full force against Stewart's forehead, and heard his skull bone shatter.

That should do it, Agent Applewhite thought, as she watched Stewart's breathing slow and finally stop.

The snow fell harder now as the cloud dipped over the mountain. Soon their ski tracks would be completely covered.

She turned away from the body and continued her run down the mountain, feeling a rush of adrenaline as she cut through the fresh powder.