Silent Creed

20

Dust blurred Creed’s vision. He could taste it, clots of it stuck in his throat, trying to suffocate him. Somewhere on the other side of the mud wall he could hear Peter Logan telling his men to stand down until the dogman cleared the way. But when Logan appeared from around the corner, none of his men accompanied him. Instead, he was walking with a small boy.

Creed recognized the kid. His name was Jabar, but the men in the platoon called him Jabber because for an Afghan kid he talked a lot and fast, no matter which language he used. From what Creed had observed, Jabar spoke at least three, including English.

He guessed the boy was nine or ten going on twenty. The men thought it was funny that Jabar acted so grown-up, even bumming cigarettes off the men and smoking alongside them. The first time Creed met him, Jabar took one look at Rufus and backed away. It wasn’t as if he was frightened but that he thought the dog was bad luck. He warned Creed that the other children in his village would throw rocks at dogs and if Creed didn’t want the animal to be hurt he should not take him beyond the camp.

Jabar came and went as he pleased. The men barely noticed him, and if they did, they teased him. But even after a few weeks Jabar still kept his distance from Rufus. Creed had put it off as superstition, until that last day, when he discovered the real reason.

He was back there again, seeing it as if he were standing off to the side, watching and knowing what happened next but not able to change the outcome. So many warning signs. Why hadn’t he seen them?

Jabar’s bright white athletic shoes should have been a tip-off. A size too big and laced up around his long skinny legs. But the kid was always showing up with crap like that. Most likely the shoes came from Logan. The two exchanged contraband on a regular basis. It was one of the things Logan expected Creed not to notice, or if he did, to look the other way. Especially since Creed had made it clear that he wasn’t interested in “free” designer sunglasses or athletic shoes or diver’s watches. And he declined the experimental cough drops and cough syrup. He knew there was other experimental stuff Logan distributed to his men. That was the real reason for the gifts. Where or how Logan got any of those things, Creed didn’t know and didn’t want to know. He and Rufus would move on to the next platoon in another week or so.

Jabar showed up that day wearing a baggy jacket, a sleek zip-up windbreaker in addition to the white athletic shoes. The sleeves were rolled up to the kid’s elbows, bulging with too much fabric and making his stick arms look even more fragile. Likewise, the rest of the jacket bulged, but in ways that indicated there was more than only Jabar’s slight frame hidden underneath.

At first Creed thought certainly Logan must know that Jabar wasn’t exclusively his little con artist. The kid was a hustler who could swindle and trick even someone like Logan.

But on that day Jabar jabbered faster and louder than usual. He had the swagger and belligerence of someone twice his age and three times his size. Creed heard him yelling at Logan, climbing on rocks and jumping down with his arms out, making the baggy sleeves look like wings.

Logan seemed annoyed but not alarmed. He cursed at the boy, then laughed at him, but it wasn’t in jest. Instead it sounded too much like mockery, too much like he was daring the boy.

Rufus started whining at Creed’s side, straining at the end of the leash. Nose in the air, neck hair bristling, tail curled, ears pricked forward. The dog was alerting.

That’s when Jabar saw Rufus. Creed didn’t notice that the boy’s hands were balled up. The first rock he threw hit Creed in his temple. The next landed with a sickening thud against Rufus’s shoulder. Jabar yelled at them, digging into his pockets, plucking out and throwing rocks, his arms swinging in exaggerated wild loops. Even Logan took a hit.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“He’s loaded,” Creed yelled, pulling Rufus back along with him.

He saw the boy dig into the folds of the windbreaker. Saw the cord. Knew he’d never make it behind the boulder ten paces away. He snatched up Rufus, all eighty squirming pounds of him, and he dived for shelter as he heard the explosion. It blasted him off his feet.

Dirt and rocks crumbled, raining down. Burning pieces of metal shredded his back. The last thing he heard was Rufus’s whimper before everything went black.

Creed felt the wet tongue licking his cheek. His eyelids were heavy. When he tried to open them it was as if sandpaper scraped against the lenses. Blurred figures danced in the dim light above him. A dog nose hovered, then the licking started again. Creed reached up and caught the small head between his hands, massaging the ears and containing the licks.

When his vision finally focused he was surprised to see not Rufus but Grace, his Jack Russell terrier.

“What are you doing here?” Creed asked the dog as his eyes darted around the large area, a towering ceiling with steel beams and massive light fixtures on low. The bed beneath him screeched under his movement and he remembered the small cot in the corner of the school gymnasium.

North Carolina. Not Afghanistan.

Landslide. No explosions.

Bolo butted his big head up against Creed’s side. Grace scampered along the other. Just as he was trying to put the pieces together in his fuzzy mind someone said from behind him, “It’s about time you woke up.”

He twisted his neck to see Jason Seaver, his hired dog trainer. But he had left him back at his facility in the Florida Panhandle.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

21

Maggie O’Dell stepped off the elevator and immediately felt the knot in her stomach tighten. She wasn’t looking forward to telling her friend that she needed to leave her side for an out-of-town assignment. Last night, when she was leaving Gwen, O’Dell caught a glimpse of something in her friend’s eyes.

Gwen would deny that it was fear. She had tried to put up a strong front even this summer after the realization had sunk in that she had breast cancer. For too many months she had sought second and third opinions, as if searching for someone — anyone — who might tell her something different from the inevitable truth. O’Dell had watched the brilliant psychiatrist, who for decades had counseled generals and politicians for a living, retreat into a state of denial when faced with her own frightening battle.

Gwen was fifteen years older than O’Dell. They had become friends while O’Dell was a forensic fellow at Quantico and Gwen an independent consultant on criminal behavior. Their early days had been spent poring over files and crime scene photos, looking for signature details and motives, sometimes doing so while sharing cold pizza and warm beer into late-night hours. Not exactly the bonding experiences of ordinary friendships.

Almost ten years later it still surprised O’Dell how a sophisticated and mature woman like Gwen had put up with a wet-behind-the-ears newbie like her. Truth was, she still looked up to Gwen as a mentor. She counted on her strength and counsel. Gwen was the only person in her life whom O’Dell cared about unconditionally. Gwen had always been there when she needed her, and a few times when O’Dell didn’t even realize she needed her. Now it was her turn to repay Gwen, if only she knew how. And if only Gwen would let her.

For the last week O’Dell had spent as much time as possible with Gwen, taking vacation time from her job. During Gwen’s hospital stay O’Dell had sat by her side, giving up her post only when she knew Gwen’s significant other, R. J. Tully, would be there. And even then, she stayed perhaps longer than necessary, almost as if making certain that Tully was okay, too.

O’Dell had partnered with R. J. Tully on dozens of FBI cases before he and Gwen fell in love. To O’Dell they seemed an unlikely couple. Gwen was pearls, oysters Rockefeller, and evenings at the Kennedy Center. She was a gourmet cook and kept her kitchen, her home, and her office meticulous. Tully, on the other hand, couldn’t seem to go a day without getting a stain on his tie or his shirt cuff. He was tall and lanky and loved to eat but wasn’t picky. Their last road trip, O’Dell had watched him devour — and delightedly so — a honey bun with a month-old expiration date from a rest stop vending machine. But despite all that, O’Dell trusted him with her back. More important, she trusted him with her best friend.

Last night before she left she had asked if there was anything she could do for Gwen. Her friend thanked her, but O’Dell knew Gwen wouldn’t ask for help, just like she wouldn’t admit how frightened she was. She looked completely uncomfortable and so very vulnerable in the ill-fitting button-down shirt — an item far removed from her fashion style, but necessary to accommodate the drain tubes. Then she shook her head and said that she was glad to be home. But before she looked away O’Dell caught something in Gwen’s eyes that didn’t look remotely like relief. Just like she wouldn’t ask for help, Gwen would never admit that she was frightened. But O’Dell had seen a flicker of fear, maybe panic. Something that whispered, Please don’t leave me.

And O’Dell had no idea what to do about it.

Maggie O’Dell had grown up too soon, taking care of herself from the time she was twelve. She had to, after her father’s death and her mother’s downward spiral from beloved wife and mother to suicidal alcoholic. The independence and emotional detachment, perhaps even the lack of trust that she had learned as a child, came in handy in her profession as an FBI agent specializing in criminal behavior.

However, those same traits that helped her to excel at her job were a hindrance in her personal life. A busted marriage only added to her distrust and to the barricade she built inside herself. It took such effort to let anyone in, and with few exceptions she no longer even made the effort. In these last several months, and in particular the last two days, it had struck her like a dagger to her heart. She couldn’t imagine what her life would be like without her best friend. She could not lose Gwen Patterson.

Now, walking down the hallway clutching the vase of flowers, she felt a sense of how small and inadequate the gesture was. How little difference it made. How totally helpless she felt. She didn’t have a clue as to what she was supposed to do.

She used her key and let herself into Gwen’s condo, announcing her presence as soon as she stepped in. As she made her way to Gwen’s bedroom, she suddenly felt guilty that she was more comfortable dealing with killers and dead people than she was taking care of someone she loved. She hated that when Ben asked her to go to North Carolina she didn’t mind cutting short her vacation time. What was worse — she was almost relieved.

O’Dell was surprised to find Gwen asleep and alone. On tiptoe, she placed the vase of flowers on the window ledge alongside the others. She had racked her brain trying to find some other display of her feelings, only to come up empty.

“Calla lilies,” Gwen said from behind her.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Gwen waved a hand at her, gesturing that it made no difference, then pointed at the chair next to her bed, inviting O’Dell to come sit beside her. But even as she obeyed, O’Dell couldn’t help noticing how drained and pale her friend’s face was. She still hadn’t gotten used to seeing Gwen with her golden red hair chopped short in preparation for what was to come.

“How did you know calla lilies are my favorite?”

It was the first smile O’Dell had seen in days.

“Sometimes I remember stuff.”

“You mean stuff other than details about killers and dead bodies.”

O’Dell’s turn to smile, pleased to hear the familiar ribbing.

“There’s something I need to ask you,” O’Dell said as she sat down.

“It’s okay. I already know.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Kunze called me.”

“He called you?”

“He wanted to know how I was doing.”

“Are we talking about the same Raymond Kunze?”

Gwen smiled again. She had worked with the man on a case last spring, acting as a consultant. O’Dell suspected Kunze ended up very fond of Gwen. Most men were. It was after working together on a case that Tully had fallen for her. But that Kunze would actually call to see if it was okay to pull one of his agents away from Gwen’s bedside — that was beyond anything O’Dell would have expected.

“He promised that you wouldn’t be away for too long. A few days at most. Something terribly classified. Bodies unearthed after a landslide? Obviously not victims of the landslide, I gathered.”

“No. One of them has a gunshot wound. They believe it happened before all of the slides began.”

“All of the slides? There’s more than one? Are they still happening?”

A slip of the tongue. O’Dell needed to backtrack. She didn’t want Gwen to worry. But she knew there had been more slides and smaller ones were expected. Conditions hadn’t changed. It was still raining. Part of the area where one of the bodies had been discovered was already flooded.

Instead of telling her friend any of this, O’Dell said, “Hey, I’ve handled worse. It can’t be as bad as a hurricane, right? Or chasing a serial killer through graveyard tunnels?”

O’Dell meant to make light of this assignment, but her friend didn’t smile. Instead Gwen added, “Your last out-of-town assignment landed you in a pit of scorpions.”

She couldn’t argue that fact. Some nights O’Dell awoke from her regularly scheduled nightmares swatting at her arms and batting at her hair. It would take a special compartment in her mind for her to forget how it felt to have them scurrying across her body, stinging her over and over again.

“I’ll be okay,” she told Gwen, this time serious, all joking set aside.

Then she caught and held her friend’s eyes, and she could see that Gwen was thinking the same thing — how quickly, once again, they had reversed roles. But going down for a few days to deal with a couple of dead bodies wasn’t anything close to her friend’s battle. It certainly wasn’t a life-or-death matter, or at least that’s what O’Dell thought at that moment.

“Are you doing this only because Ben asked?” Gwen wanted to know.

“He’s done a lot for me without asking for anything in return.”

“When you care deeply about someone you don’t expect anything in return.”

O’Dell knew Gwen wasn’t Ben’s biggest fan. She thought he was playing mind games with O’Dell. By telling her that he couldn’t be in a relationship with any woman who didn’t want children, Gwen said he was only testing her, pushing her to make a decision.

O’Dell didn’t want to hear it. Instead she tried to change the subject and found herself suddenly saying, “Speaking of scorpions, Ryder Creed’s there working the North Carolina site with one of his dogs.”

“Really?” And now her friend was smiling again. O’Dell had confessed to Gwen about her attraction to the man the last time she had worked with him. “Well, now that makes things interesting.”

22

Creed watched Jason shovel in ham and eggs like a man who hadn’t eaten for a week. He didn’t even put the fork down to pick up a biscuit or the glass of water. Creed couldn’t help thinking the kid was already learning some one-handed bad habits. At the same time he sort of admired his survival skills.

The community had set up the high school gymnasium with cots for the rescue workers. The school cafeteria was right next door. Volunteers prepared meals, trying to accommodate the different shifts, and even providing sack lunches.

Creed and Jason took up a corner table out of the way, where they could also feed Grace and Bolo. He glanced down at the dogs and noticed that both of them ate slower and with more manners than Jason. Creed grabbed the last biscuit from the plastic basket and Jason noticed, stopping long enough to look sheepish about having devoured three to Creed’s one.

“I drove most of the night,” Jason said by way of explanation. “Nothing open after midnight.”

“Usually Hannah packs me a little something.”

“Oh yeah, she made me a couple of sandwiches and a thermos of coffee.”

Creed raised an eyebrow, but now Jason was preoccupied with slathering butter on his last biscuit.

Both men were in their twenties — Creed at the end and Jason at the beginning — but Creed realized the gap between them was a cavern when it came to many things, including appetite.

“She was pretty worried about you,” Jason said.

“Hannah worries too much.”

“She didn’t even want me waiting for Dr. Parker. Otherwise we could have rode together.”

“Dr. Avelyn’s coming?”

“I guess she got a call from some organization she belongs to.”

“VDRA,” Creed said. “Veterinarian Disaster Response Assistance. That’s good. That means she’ll help set up the decontamination process for the work dogs, too.”

“Yeah, I saw about a half-dozen dogs and trainers getting in this morning.”

Creed had convinced Hannah a few years back that they needed to have a veterinarian on-site at their facility. Avelyn Parker had her own practice with two other vets in Milton, Florida. When Creed built a clinic on his property, he convinced her to spend at least two afternoons a week there, paying her a generous monthly retainer that covered emergencies, too.

It made more sense having a vet come to them instead of crating and driving dogs continuously for even the basic services. But Dr. Avelyn had been adamant about being a volunteer member of an organization and needing to be ready to go at a moment’s notice. VDRA was one of several organizations that sent veterinarians to disaster sites like this one. They set up protocol for decontamination and were ready to treat any working dogs that got injured while on duty. They were also ready to treat animals harmed by the disaster — like the dog Vance’s crew had found buried in the car.

Thinking about that poor scared dog, Creed said to Jason, “Hannah shouldn’t have sent Grace with you.” He glanced down at her, and she was staring up at him from the mention of her name. He patted her, keeping his voice conversational and trying to leave out his concern. “She’s too small for this kind of terrain.”

“I don’t think Hannah expects her to work. She said she’s been missing you.”

That’s exactly what Hannah had told Creed when they talked just an hour ago. Although from the tone of her voice he suspected that Hannah thought he needed Grace to lift his spirits more than Grace needed him. Either way, Creed couldn’t deny that her presence always made him feel better. He had a special connection with each of his dogs, but Grace — whom Hannah called “Amazing Grace”—seemed to bring out things in Creed that even he didn’t know existed.

“I don’t like this man, this Peter Logan,” Hannah had said to him earlier, after explaining that Logan had called last night insisting K9 CrimeScents was obligated to send backup. He had demanded this only seconds after he told her that Creed had been buried under a landslide.

Creed knew she was giving him a way out. She would handle the business end and the consequences if he wanted to cancel the job assignment. But if Logan thought he had a debt that needed to be repaid, he wouldn’t allow a cancellation.

One of the cafeteria ladies came by with a carafe of coffee, refilling their cups without asking.

“Get you boys anything else?”

“We’re good, thank you,” Creed said, shooting Jason a warning when he saw the kid look at the empty basket of biscuits. “This was all delicious,” he told the woman, sending the crinkles in her face into a smile.

“How ’bout the dogs? I’m sure we’ve got a couple ham bones back in the kitchen.”

“That’s very kind of you, but I’ve got to keep them on a special diet.”

“Oh sure, I never even thought of that. We heard about you getting caught in that last slide up there.”

She pointed at the cuts on his face. The medics told him the one above his eye probably needed stitches, but they butterflied it instead. Said it was too close to his eye and neither of them wanted to be poking a needle there.

“We sure appreciate you all being here. You need anything, just holler. I’m Agnes. I’m here for the long haul.”

He nodded his thanks as she went on to the next table.

Creed had spent almost an hour in the boys’ locker room shower trying to restore his body while he ignored all the bruises and cuts. He still felt like he had mud in his ears and gravel scratching his eyes. His chest hurt. They suspected he had a broken rib or two. The medic had wrapped him up after his shower and Creed swore the bandage felt like it was crushing his lungs. But he’d had broken ribs before and knew better than to remove the wrap.

He shifted in his chair and realized he must have winced from the pain, because now Jason was watching him. Finally finished eating, Jason sipped his coffee. Sipping, not gulping. Maybe there was hope for this kid after all.

“So what was it like?” Jason asked.

“Breaking my ribs?”

“No, being buried alive.”

23

Creed guessed that he hadn’t thought about it like that. Not yet anyway. Buried alive seemed so… final.

He reached for his ceramic mug, wrapping his fingers around it instead of using the handle. It smelled good and strong, just the way he liked it. He took a sip, taking his time to answer, and when he glanced across the table at Jason, he saw that the kid was waiting, willing to give him a chance to consider it.

“After I quit trying to fight it, it was actually kinda peaceful.”

“Kinda like going to sleep?”

“No dreams, though. More like hallucinations.”

They were both quiet for a while, then Jason asked, “You suppose that’s what dying’s like?”

“Maybe. You didn’t feel it with your arm?”

Creed knew that Jason must have been close to dying, having lived through an IED explosion that had literally blown off the bottom part of his arm.

Jason shook his head. “I guess I went into shock. Everything sort of happened in slow motion. I didn’t know my arm was gone until I woke up later in the hospital.”

That was the way it had been for Creed, too. One minute Jabar was grabbing for the cord on his suicide vest and the next thing Creed knew, he was waking up in a hospital reaching for Rufus. Yelling for him, then trying to climb out of bed to go look for his dog. But Rufus hadn’t been harmed. Creed’s body had protected the dog. Protected him so well that he was considered well enough to be reassigned to another handler and get back to work. Because that’s what the military did back then. Dogs were classified as equipment, given numbers that were branded into their ears. Rufus was N103 and he was fit for duty.

Creed knew all this too well. He had been ready to sign up for another tour of duty just so he and Rufus could stay together. And a stupid kid that Peter Logan had allowed to come and go in and out of their camp had blown everything apart.

“You suppose when you plan it that it’s that peaceful?” Jason asked, interrupting Creed’s thoughts. “You know, just like going to sleep?”

Creed had lost track of what they were talking about. “Plan what?”

“Death.”

“You mean like suicide?”

“I’ve got five buddies that I served with — maybe more. I haven’t stayed in touch with some. All we went through. We risked our lives every single day over there. We couldn’t wait to get back home. But they get back and then decided to eat their guns or swallow a shitload of pills. One guy managed to hang himself.”

Creed watched Jason over the rim of his coffee mug. He didn’t need to ask. He figured the kid had thought about it himself. Hannah had met Jason at Segway House, a place that took in returning soldiers who didn’t have anywhere else to go or couldn’t afford to return to their previous lives for one reason or another. He didn’t know Jason’s circumstances. He never asked. Figured he didn’t need to know. They hired him to do a job. Offered him a chance to learn how to train dogs. Even provided a double-wide trailer on their property for his housing. If the kid was looking for therapy he should have stayed at Segway House or, at the very least, talked to Hannah and not him.

Instead of telling Jason this, Creed told him, “My dad committed suicide.”

Jason stared at him. It wasn’t exactly what the kid had expected of this conversation, but he didn’t seem thrown by it at all. Finally he nodded and said, “Because of your sister?”

This time Creed was surprised.

“How do you know about my sister? Did Hannah tell you?”

Jason shook his head. “She didn’t need to tell me. All you have to do is Google your name.”

Creed’s sister, Brodie, had disappeared when she was eleven and Creed was fourteen. His dad was driving them back home, a daylong road trip from their grandmother’s house. His mom had stayed to take care of his grandmother, who had been sick. They stopped at a busy rest area because Brodie needed to use the restroom. Creed’s last image of his sister was of her skipping in the rain, the puddles lit up with orange and red neon from the reflections of eighteen-wheelers’ running lights and the dozens of brake lights.

“How’d he do it?”

Appeared the kid had very little manners.

Creed glanced down and saw that both Grace and Bolo had lain down at his feet. Grace, however, was watching him. Of all his dogs, she seemed the most sensitive to his moods. She looked anxious. He dropped his right hand and she nudged it.

Finally Jason realized his mistake. “Sorry. Just seems like if people talked about it more they might not actually do it.”

“Are you thinking about doing it?”

Another rescue crew came into the cafeteria, adding noise and distraction, but Jason kept his eyes on Creed’s and Creed could see the answer.

“You accepted a puppy from me,” Creed told him. He leaned down and scratched Grace behind the ears. “I understood you’d be around to take care of him.”

“A dog?” Jason half snorted, half chuckled, like he didn’t think Creed was serious.

“There’s been a time or two that these dogs were the only reason I stuck around.”

Jason got quiet and eyed him suspiciously, as if still waiting for a punch line.

“You don’t owe Hannah a thing, and you certainly don’t owe me, but you have an obligation to Scout. Yeah, a dog.” He sat up and leaned his elbows on the table, hands wrapped around his mug again. “You take a dog in, you earn his trust, his unconditional love. If you think there’s a chance that you might not be sticking around, then you need to give him back to me.”

“Seriously?”

Creed held his eyes, saw that what he was presenting was actually a decision for Jason to make, despite his attempt to make light of it now.

“Yeah, I’m serious. Most of my dogs have already been abandoned in some way. You need to remember when I found that puppy he was stuffed into a burlap bag with his siblings, ready to be tossed into the river. If you’re planning on offing yourself and abandoning that dog again, you might as well give him back now.”

Jason’s eyes flitted away, suddenly interested in the rescue members shedding gear and clanking trays and silverware. He looked at Creed again and there was still too much curiosity when he asked, “Did you see your dad do it?”

Creed wondered if the kid had heard a word he’d said because he certainly didn’t seem to take any of it seriously.

“No,” he told Jason, “but I was the one who found him.”

Creed saw Oliver Vance across the room. When he spotted Creed he waved at him. He had shed his gear and, though still a giant of a man, he looked half normal. He made his way toward them.

Creed put his mug on the table with an exaggerated tap and told Jason, “Time to work.”

“How are you doing?” Vance asked, pulling up one of the metal folding chairs. He swung his leg over it like he was saddling a horse, sitting on it backward so he could lean his arms on the back.

“I feel like I rolled down a mountain,” Creed told him.

The big man laughed, loud and hard.

“Actually, the mountain rolled on top of you.”

“Oliver Vance, this is one of my trainers, Jason Seaver.”

“Call me Ollie,” he said, holding out his hand to shake Jason’s, and when he realized Jason’s right hand wasn’t there, Vance didn’t flinch. He simply switched and offered his left one.

Then he looked at Creed, not wasting time and getting down to business. “I heard that your Mr. Logan wants you back up there to recover those bodies we found. Last night we pulled two more people alive out of the rubble of what used to be their home. They’re pretty beat-up but there’s a good chance they’ll make it.”

“That’s great,” Jason said.

Vance’s eyes stayed on Creed’s. “Just got word that an eighty-two-year-old woman across the bridge over in the Hillcrest development’s been missing since the first night. They got some flooding over there but houses are intact. None of the properties were affected by the slide. She has dementia. They think she might have walked off, looking for her daughter. They live together and the daughter got caught up in the downpours. Got home late. Found the front door left open. Family’s been searching the woods. No sign of her. That’s two nights she’s been out in the dark, alone, confused, lost. Temperature’s supposed to drop tonight so we can add cold to that list.”

“If she’s still alive,” Creed said.

“That’s true. I’ve got a few hours before I have to get back to work. I thought I’d run over there.” Vance glanced around the cafeteria. A group was leaving and waved at him. He waved back. “All I know is there’s a chance one of your dogs might be able to find her. Save her life if she is still alive. Those bodies Logan wants you to find… Hey, I know he’s paying you and you gotta do the job.”

Vance looked around again, and Creed wasn’t sure if he was expecting Logan to walk in the door at any minute. Then his eyes came back and locked on Creed’s as he said, “All I’m saying is that those dead guys aren’t going anywhere. Maybe they can wait a little while longer.”

24

Frankie Sadowski hated waiting. Butterflies had invaded his stomach. The palms of his hands perspired as he clutched the rim of his hat. His daughter, Susan, sat quietly by his side. They were told to stay outside the hearing room and asked not to wander far from the corridor. He tried to keep his mind focused on why he was there in the first place. The reason he had agreed to do this.

It all started with the reunion. They’d grown into old men who complained about their various health issues as though their surgeries were badges of honor. Frankie smiled at that. Once upon a time this same group bragged about their children, their promotions, even their golf handicaps. But this reunion was a litany of ailments. It wasn’t long before the eight men realized each of them had gone through or suffered from too many of the same things: pulmonary infections, chronic respiratory problems, and pulmonary fibrosis. Duke Hutchins had had five heart bypass surgeries. Calvin Clark was getting ready for his fourth.

At first they had laughed. By the end of the evening they were elbowing each other in smaller groups, whispering their suspicions. Was it possible that their time in the service had had anything to do with so many illnesses?

Frankie shared their concerns with Susan, who was a nurse. Immediately she said it was a strange coincidence. She started doing research. Frankie had never even heard of SHAD until she explained that it was an acronym for Shipboard Hazard and Defense. The tests were part of Project 112 and were conducted secretly from 1962 until around 1974. She told him about veterans getting sick.

The government, of course, had denied any such tests until 2002. Since then Congress had held hearings, ordered study after study, tried to enact legislation — but all of it had simply put off doing anything about the servicemen who had been exposed. And consequently, it allowed the VA to deny those servicemen any benefits or compensation.

Frankie figured they would just keep putting it off until all of them were dead. He wasn’t sure how anyone had managed to bring it back to life. Another congressional hearing. Another possibility of getting some help for his friends.

Frankie’s buddies had christened him their crusader. Slapped him on his back and wished him well. They even took up a collection among themselves to pay for Frankie’s flight to D.C. He felt bad about that. None of them had extra money sitting around. He hadn’t asked for their money or their trust. He simply wanted answers, and he wanted his friends to finally get the medical benefits they deserved.

Frankie started coughing and Susan offered him a bottle of water. He took it and sipped. The cough had gotten worse. He hadn’t told Susan about the blood he’d hacked up the other day. At Segway House he was afraid Hannah would notice that her little dog named Grace could obviously smell his cancer. Hannah had barely finished telling him that the dog was capable of doing just that when Frankie noticed Grace staring at him, long and hard.

Now all Frankie cared about was that if he could help Gus and the others, then this would be worth it. He thought about Gus being worried about his grandson. The kid had come home from Afghanistan without one hand. What they’d been through might have caused them some health issues, but at least all his buddies were in one piece. He couldn’t imagine going through life with only one hand.

Maybe they were silly to be fixated on a stupid government test that had been kept secret for sixty years. Even Gus had said that if they were able to keep secret who killed Kennedy for this long, how did they ever expect to bust open Project 112?

Frankie shook his head thinking about Gus. He knew his friend didn’t have much time left, either. Frankie knew Gus was dying, too. But he knew this not because Gus had told him. He wasn’t sure Gus even knew. Nor did he know it because of his daughter, who was a nurse at the care facility that Gus went to. If she did know, she’d never divulge that information to her father.

No, Frankie knew that Gus was dying because that’s what the man from the government had told him. The man who had visited him a week ago and suggested what Frankie should and shouldn’t say during his testimony.

Frankie and his friends knew the government might try to discourage them from testifying. They had battled with their VA for years now. And they knew there were others like them who had been fighting this fight for many more years. All of them had been denied benefits, first because the government denied Project 112 and Project SHAD even existed, then because the government’s studies claimed those projects did not hurt any military personnel. Of course, their own studies would not show any evidence despite private studies showing the opposite.

So Frankie wasn’t surprised to have someone visit him and try to guide his testimony. He didn’t care. It was too late to worry about himself. But he didn’t want the others to worry, so Frankie hadn’t told Gus about the man. He hadn’t told Susan, either. In fact, he hadn’t told a single soul.

25

Senator Ellie Delanor tried not to be distracted by the reporters and cameras. They were sprawled below in the tight area between the row of senators on the dais and the table where witnesses would testify. Some of them looked ridiculous squatting or sitting on the floor, bracing their foot-long lenses. She hid her delight in their discomfort. It was nice to have them focused on someone else for a change.

“To fully understand Project 112,” Dr. Hess was telling the committee, as if he were a professor in control of a classroom instead of an expert who had been subpoenaed to be there, “you must understand the nature of the world at that time. There was a deep, almost visceral, distrust after World War Two. Russia had been an ally out of necessity only. But the Russians were happy to split the spoils of war. For the most part we imported German scientists and their minds. The Russians got the laboratories and they literally disassembled them piece by piece and transferred them to places inside their borders. We had no idea what may have been left in those labs.”

He reached for his glass of water, slowly taking a sip as if he wanted the committee to sip on that last bit of information. When Senator John Quincy started to say something, Dr. Hess held up his index finger and stopped the senator cold.

Ellie couldn’t help being fascinated by the colonel’s air of authority. At first glance he looked like a stodgy old man, his shoulders sagging as if from the weight of all the medals that decorated his dress blues. His full head of hair had gone thin; the feathery wisps barely covered the brown spots on his scalp that matched the ones on the back of his hands. But there was something about him — the piercing blue eyes, the confident gestures — that demanded respect.

“We knew the Russians were way ahead of us in the chemical and biological warfare department. The Cold War was something no one had ever experienced. Two countries literally had the ability to wipe each other off the face of the earth and take everyone else with them. We were all looking for alternatives to nuclear weapons. President Kennedy ordered his secretary of defense, Robert McNamara—”

“With all due respect, Colonel Hess,” Senator Quincy interrupted, and this time managed to ignore the scowl he received, “I don’t believe we brought you here today for a history lesson.”

There were a few nervous smiles and nods as the cameras turned. Even the reporters seemed to be waiting for some kind of confrontation.

“How old were you, Mr. Quincy, in 1962?”

“I’m not sure how that’s relevant. I certainly wasn’t old enough to enlist, if that’s your point.”

“I’m guessing you were in elementary school, perhaps?”

“Actually, if you must know, I was five years old. Not quite in school yet.”

“Ah, I see. That explains things.” Hess was now nodding and smiling, and Senator Quincy suddenly looked uncomfortable, as though he’d missed out on a joke. “You never experienced the school drills of the 1960s, where children were instructed at the blaring sound of an alarm to climb underneath their desks in preparation for an attack. You probably don’t remember the evening news showing soldiers slogging through the jungle or the daily casualty report from Vietnam. You have no idea, Mr. Quincy, what kind of fear and panic existed at that time because you were simply a child. But let me tell you as someone who was there, someone who helped prepare us for a new generation of threat — we were in the race of our lives.”

Ellie, along with the other senators, kept quiet. She wasn’t born until a decade later. Project 112—from the little homework she had done — existed between 1962 and 1974. As far as she was concerned, these hearings seemed more for show than anything else. Veterans who were unknowingly a part of Project 112 had been attempting to get VA medical benefits and disability since 2002, when the Department of Defense finally acknowledged this project even existed.

There had already been hearings that produced studies that later went nowhere. A legislative bill passed the House in 2008, only to die in the Senate. Maybe that’s why she hadn’t bothered to read beyond those facts. She already knew this hearing would most likely be only for show, too. And that’s why she had signed up. Why she had fought to be included. She needed to look like she was fighting for veteran voters without really engaging in any controversy that could alienate her from the powers that be within Congress. It was a safe political bet for an embattled incumbent who needed to look like she was working hard for her constituents.

“These tests that a handful of veterans are complaining about nearly forty to fifty years later were not conducted with the intention of hurting them. These tests were to determine the vulnerability of U.S. warships to attacks with chemical and biological agents that we understood could wipe out more than just our troops if used by a willing enemy. These weapons could wipe out entire cities. So excuse me, Senator Quincy, if I insist that knowing a bit about history is important in this matter.”

Without raising his voice Hess had managed to deliver a scolding that silenced the room. Except for the clicks of the cameras. Hess milked it, waiting patiently with a stone-cold stare that made Quincy squirm and shift in his chair. Ellie watched him give a slight tug on his collar, as if it were choking him to release the four words he finally said: “By all means, continue.”

26

Daniel Tate had discovered an entire tunnel system. Fractured walls and splintered furniture made it a challenge, as did the many cables and electrical wires tangled in clumps or strung from one side to another. Ceiling tiles dangled, and in some spots he could see all the way up to the clouds. He climbed over burst pipes that spewed disgusting sewer mixtures.

This was nothing.

He’d been through much worse — a bombed village outside of Baghdad. He remembered the soles of his boots melting from walking on the charred remains. As long as he lived he’d never forget the smell of burnt flesh.

Earlier, searching through a caved-in storage room, Tate had hit the jackpot. He found night vision goggles, something that looked like a Kevlar vest but was lighter, and a helmet with two different lighting options. With a flick of a switch he could change from LED to infrared. The helmet and the goggles allowed him to see whatever he wanted without filling his hands with a flashlight. And he needed his hands to pull and shove and push as he made his way through the tunnel system.

Despite all the gadgets, he had yet to find a pair of shoes. He had found bottles of alcohol and cleaned his bruised and bloodied feet by pouring stinging amounts of the liquid over them. Then he carefully wrapped them with ACE bandages. If he couldn’t walk — and if necessary, run — it wouldn’t matter what weapons he had.

Now if only he could shut down the prickly feeling that stabbed at his skin like a thousand tiny needles. His nose kept bleeding even after he had stuffed wads of tissue up his nostrils. And his heart raced in his chest so fast and so hard it felt as if it would crack his ribs open at any moment.

Enough time had gone by that Tate suspected these things were probably side effects of the drug that Dr. Shaw had given him. He tried to tell himself that they would wear off.

He heard a noise and stood stock-still. Cocked his head and listened to see if he could identify it. By now he knew the sound of pipes belching or walls cracking. There was something different about this sound. He didn’t have to wait long. He heard it again.

It came from somewhere in the tunnel ahead of him. A rhythmic clack-clack, then the crunch of glass.

Footsteps!

27

They stopped after they pulled out the first body and realized it could be a crime scene because of the gunshot wound,” the National Guardsman explained. He looked back over his shoulder as he led O’Dell and the medical examiner through the mud. “We’ve had someone securing the area since last night. The only problem is that some of it’s underwater now.”

His long legs made it an effort for him to slow his pace to keep close to theirs. He maneuvered around the debris sticking out of the ground. The slight incline didn’t seem to affect him. O’Dell, however, found herself slipping just when she thought she had her balance. And still, she put out her arm to help the older woman beside her.

She guessed that the woman’s slight limp made her look frailer than she actually was. She swatted away at O’Dell’s offer and continued marching in big rubber boots that swallowed her feet all the way up to her knees.

When O’Dell first met Dr. Gunther she found herself thinking they had reached the bottom of their barrel — so to speak — and that all the more capable law enforcement officials must already have been overwhelmed in rescue efforts. The dead — or at least the dead not associated with the landslide — would have to settle for whoever was left.

Ben had made it sound like this was a top secret mission. Yet from the moment O’Dell arrived, she couldn’t help thinking the government had pieced together a slapdash team. She was told that Peter Logan was held up in D.C. and that his assistant, Isabel Klein, was supposed to meet her. But instead, a young National Guardsman named Ross showed up in her place.

Dr. Gunther looked as if she herself had been through the landslide. Her long gray hair was tied back and tucked into a headscarf, but strands waved across her face. One end of her scarf wrapped tightly around her neck and into the collar of her baggy jacket, as if she were prepared for deathly cold temperatures. The rain had stopped for the moment, leaving a gray sky masked behind a thick cloud of fog. The breeze brought a damp chill, but nothing that warranted Dr. Gunther’s wardrobe.

The top of the woman’s head came to O’Dell’s chin, and the oversized clothing made her thin frame look even smaller. And though she didn’t use a cane or a walking stick, she moved with a pronounced limp. Even when it slowed them down she made no excuse or explanation for the handicap.

“And where is that first body being kept?” the medical examiner asked.

That surprised O’Dell. She had presumed Dr. Gunther had already been involved.

“It’s my understanding a temporary morgue has been set up a couple blocks from the high school.”

“A couple blocks from the high school?” The woman’s brow furrowed as she tried to retrieve what must have been familiar territory. “You don’t mean Ralph’s Meat Locker, do you?”

The guardsman’s ears flushed with his answer before he said, “I wouldn’t know, ma’am. I haven’t been involved in that aspect of the recovery.”

By now they were at the top of the incline and O’Dell could see three guardsmen setting up equipment. They already had two tents, one most likely being used to shelter the remains. O’Dell could hear rushing water. Not more than a couple of feet away a muddy stream raced over rocks and debris.

Guardsman Ross pointed at the water and said, “The last slide broke that free. Someplace underneath is where they left at least one body buried.”

“Is this where the research facility was located?” O’Dell asked, knowing that one of the bodies had already been identified as one of the scientists.

“It’s my understanding that the facility was located about a half mile up.” He pointed in the direction, but there was nothing that looked remotely like a brick building — only debris and mud.

“We’re still trying to find it,” Ross added when he noticed O’Dell still searching. “Landslides can dismantle buildings and relocate objects — vehicles, furniture, bodies — miles from where they originated. That body we think is under the water might not even be there anymore. We’re waiting on the K9 unit to relocate it. Hopefully it didn’t get washed farther downhill.”

“I thought the K9 unit was already here?” O’Dell asked, expecting to see Ryder Creed and trying not to sound disappointed.

“Actually, he and his dog found the bodies yesterday. Then all hell broke loose. It’s my understanding he was buried under that last slide. If it wasn’t for his dog, they might not have found him in time.”

“Is he okay?”

“Must be.” He checked his cell phone. “Sounds like they’re sending him back up here.”

28

Creed had to take several detours to get to the Hillcrest area. Vance had warned him that some roads and bridges might be ripped up a bit. That proved to be an understatement. Thick layers of fog replaced the rain, making it difficult to see chunks of the road missing until he was practically on top of them. But still, he was glad to be back in the driver’s seat of his own Jeep Grand Cherokee. Even more glad to have Grace sitting in the back watching the road through the space between the front seats, where she could also see and catch her owner’s eye every now and then. The girl was excited to be getting back to work.

He had packed what he needed for himself as well as for Grace. Though Jason had insisted that Hannah hadn’t meant for Grace to work the disaster area, she had still loaded a duffel bag with all of the dog’s gear, including two extra pink squeaky elephant toys that Grace loved as her reward.

Vance had promised they’d do this quietly. He’d have his back if Logan had a problem with it. Creed had to admit he was surprised Logan still hadn’t shown up in Haywood County. So it seemed possible that they might be able to offer this family some help with little attention. Possible until Creed saw a local TV van and camera crew waiting at the curb in front of the two-story house that belonged to the missing woman and her daughter.

He parked around the corner, making sure that the neighbor’s house blocked them from view. He wanted to put Grace’s vest on and slide on his own gear before drawing any attention.

Hannah always told him that publicity was a good thing. Over the summer she had even convinced him that it could help to locate his sister, Brodie. That’s if Brodie was still alive. Creed couldn’t hide the fact that the small possibility of that being true was one of the things that helped him get out of bed each day. But he and Grace had had their fill of publicity over the past months.

Okay, he’d had his fill. Grace was already prancing and wagging in the direction of the TV van. He ignored the camera crew even as they came at him. He ignored the female anchor, too, as she shoved a microphone in his face.

“What exactly will you and your dog be doing to help find Mrs. Hamlet?”

When he didn’t answer and kept walking she continued a barrage of questions.

“She’s been gone for almost forty hours. Is this a cadaver dog? Does that mean you think she might be dead?”

He saw Vance in a group on the front lawn. When he noticed Creed and Grace he hurried up the sidewalk.

“Your dog seems so small,” the anchor said, still walking in front of him. Creed was trying to be polite and not shove her or the cameraman out of his way. “Will you be bringing in other dogs?”

“Folks, please let the man and his dog through so they can get to work.” Vance stepped between Creed and the woman, opening his long arms to create a path, but more important, blocking the TV crew.

He led Creed up over the mud-slick lawn. Debris was scattered where the receding floodwaters had left the heavier items, like rocks and branches, pieces of siding, and a few shingles. Already Creed kept an eye on what Grace might step on. Grace was straining at her leash to greet the group that waited and stared at them.

Before Vance even introduced them, Creed had picked out the grieving daughter. The entire group looked exhausted. Clothes wet and mud-stained. Shoulders sagging. But the daughter, Charlene, was in the center. Her short blond hair was windblown, damp strands stuck to her forehead. Her eyes were bloodshot with swollen bags underneath. She was biting at a fingernail as Vance introduced them, and then she absently presented Creed with the same hand to shake.

“We’ve looked everywhere,” she told Creed. “My fear is,” and she stopped as tears began to choke her words. A man standing behind her moved up and squeezed her shoulders. “This is my brother, Lonnie.”

But the man didn’t offer Creed his hand. Instead he eyed him and Grace suspiciously, keeping his hands on Charlene, more protective than comforting.

“I keep imagining that she’s hurt,” Charlene continued. “That she’s stuck under some branches. She’s just a little bitty thing. Barely a hundred pounds.” She dragged a sleeve over her runny nose. The fingernail found its way between her teeth again.

“I need to ask a few questions,” Creed told her, waiting for her eyes to quit flickering to Grace, then to her friends and her brother. They darted back to the woods that started at the edge of the cul-de-sac.

“Miss Hamlet?”

Finally she looked at him and offered a hint of a smile as she said, “Call me Charlene.”

“Charlene, how advanced is your mother’s dementia? Are we talking Alzheimer’s?”

“Early stages. She gets confused very easily. Can’t remember things. She doesn’t recognize anyone except me.” She looked down at her finger. It was bleeding now. “Some days I’m not sure she even recognizes me or if she’s just pretending to.”

“What does she do when she’s confused?”

Charlene had to think about this and her nose scrunched up as she did. “Sometimes she sits down. Other times she paces, almost like she’s looking for the correct answer.”

“Does she ever go outside the house alone?”

“No, never.” She shook her head to ward off more tears. “She was probably worried about me. I tried calling, but sometimes she doesn’t remember what the phone is.” She looked back at her brother as if she needed to convince him. “Sometimes she doesn’t know where the ringing is coming from. You know how hard of hearing she is.” Her eyes trailed back to the woods. “I don’t know if she can even hear us calling for her.”

Grace sat patiently at Creed’s feet. He glanced down to find her looking at Charlene Hamlet, tilting her head from side to side, ears pitched forward, listening as though she were taking in all the information, too. She would definitely be focused on the woman’s emotional state.

He’d already explained to Vance that Grace was an air-scent dog. She found dead people by the particular smells of decomposition that every human being gives off after death. She was also trained in rescue, just like Bolo. Live humans emitted particles of scent, millions that go airborne and are carried by the wind or get caught on items in the environment.

Most lost or trapped people ended up in remote areas where there were no other people, so it didn’t matter whether Grace could distinguish one person’s individual scent from another. She was trained to simply find human scent. But in this case there had been dozens of people roaming through the woods already looking for Mrs. Hamlet. They would have left human scent everywhere. And unlike trailing dogs or tracking dogs, Grace had never been trained specifically to take in an individual’s scent off a personal item and then go find that same person.

However, she was trained for scent discrimination. That’s how she had become a celebrity over the summer when she was able to track down illegal drugs hidden in anything from jars of peanut butter to a drug mule’s stomach. And recently Creed had been working with her to recognize the scents of different illnesses, including viruses and cancer.

Still, he warned Vance that he wasn’t sure she’d be able to do what they were asking here. In order to specifically find Mrs. Hamlet, Grace would need to know definitively what the woman smelled like, independent of everyone else around her, and then understand that she needed to go find that scent despite the downpours, fog, and wind that could have taken Mrs. Hamlet’s scent far away from where the woman ended up.

When he glanced back at Charlene she was staring at him. So was the rest of the group, waiting, expecting, hoping.

“Is your mother right- or left-handed?”

“What the hell does that have to do with anything?” Lonnie asked.

Charlene looked back and forth between the two men.

“When a person’s lost”—Creed kept his tone calm—“they tend to move in the same direction of whichever hand is dominant. Right-handed people usually go to the right. Left-handed to the left.”

“Even if they don’t know their right from their left?” Lonnie questioned him, and Creed could tell the man had already decided this was a waste of time.

“It’s an involuntary reaction, so memory or thought doesn’t necessarily affect it. Because they’re always going in the same direction, sometimes they end up going in circles.”

“She’s right-handed,” Charlene said.

Everyone continued to stare at Creed, periodically looking down at Grace or glancing at Lonnie. Creed was used to it. People were either skeptical, like Lonnie, or they expected to see a magic act and were waiting for it to begin.

“I’ll need to take Grace inside your house. Is there a chair or perhaps even your mother’s bed that hasn’t been disturbed since she was last in it?”

“Sure thing.”

Charlene started to walk toward the house, but Creed reached out and stopped her.

“I’m sorry, but you won’t be able to go with us.”

“What the hell?” Lonnie asked again, and this time he stepped in front of his sister, as if challenging Creed.

Now Creed could feel the others’ suspicions, too. Even Vance shot him a look.

He tried to explain to Charlene. “I’m afraid if you come with us, it’ll confuse her. You live in the house, too. Your scent is all over the place. I need Grace to be focused on your mother’s scent only.”

“Right,” Lonnie said. “How do we know to trust this guy?”

“Lonnie!” Charlene’s cheeks flushed. “Mr. Creed is here because I asked Mr. Vance to bring him here.” To Creed she said, “I am so sorry.”

“I can’t promise this is going to work,” Creed told her. “But Grace has made some amazing finds.”

Charlene looked down at the Jack Russell as if seeing her for the first time. She squatted down and offered Grace her hand, then petted her.

When she stood back up she said, “The recliner in the living room is Mother’s. The quilt that she uses to cover her legs is still bunched up in the seat. Upstairs, her bedroom is the first on the right.”

He nodded, then called to Grace. The entire distance to the front door he could feel their eyes on him. Grace pranced beside him, happy to find a couple of puddles to splash through.

Creed’s head began to throb and his chest ached, reminding him of his tumble not even twenty-four hours earlier. He hated when families were on-site. Fifty percent of the time he would disappoint them. He hoped this wasn’t one of those times.

29

This is a totally inappropriate process for recovering a body,” Dr. Gunther scolded the four guardsmen who stood towering over her, heads bowed though they had no control over those details.

O’Dell was impressed and mildly amused that this small woman — the word “elfish” came to mind — could reduce these lean, tough soldiers with the command of her voice and her presence, despite her lack of physical stature.

“Even if Mr. Creed’s dog alerts to the exact spot,” Dr. Gunther continued, “how are Agent O’Dell and I supposed to retrieve the remains? Surely we’re not expected to wade into those floodwaters and fish them out?”

O’Dell was thinking the same thing and could only imagine the force of the water knocking both of them off their feet. Although she had helped recover bodies from stranger places. This landscape reminded her of a past crime scene with dissected bodies stuffed into fifty-five-gallon drums, then buried in a rock quarry.

There were no manuals that dictated recovery instructions for many of the scenes she had helped process, so Dr. Gunther’s complaint about “inappropriate” seemed a bit silly to O’Dell. But she also knew that coroners and medical examiners were oftentimes precise and detail-minded, with more experience in the laboratory than in the field.

“We were instructed to secure and assist,” Ross defended his team.

“Of course you were.” The woman’s irritation bit through her stoic demeanor.

She glanced up at O’Dell. “Well, Mr. Logan’s boss told me that you are in charge of this recovery operation. How would you suggest we proceed?”

O’Dell looked out over the rushing water. In several areas it had carved deep crevices in the mud. Downhill it widened and she could see debris riding on the surface. Branches tangled with electrical wire passed by.

Uphill it was impossible to determine where the stream began. The fog was too thick. But one thing she knew for sure — it didn’t look like it would be slowing down to a trickle anytime soon. As if to emphasize that fact she heard a low rumble of thunder in the distance. She could feel Dr. Gunther staring at her. The guardsmen waited patiently for her reply and instruction.

“We’ll wait for Mr. Creed and his dog. If they can give us a smaller area to search, we’ll still need to stop the water or divert it.” She sought out Ross’s attention. “There must be some sort of equipment you have available that can send the water in a bit of a detour?”

He held up his cell phone and said, “I can check.”

“Yes, do that, please.” Then to Dr. Gunther, O’Dell pointed at the tent and said, “Let’s take a look at the remains that are not underwater.”

The older woman nodded and started a slow limp in that direction. Ross finished his text and followed. O’Dell fell into step alongside him this time.

“You’ve seen these remains?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Her title is agent,” Dr. Gunther corrected him without turning to look back.

Ross looked to O’Dell and she simply ignored the comment and continued, “What equipment do we have to recover this body?”

“I was told to bring shovels and trowels. We have tarps and several body bags.”

O’Dell heard Dr. Gunther making a tsk-tsk sound while she shook her head. Obviously she was not pleased. Again, Ross noticed and his eyes darted back to O’Dell, looking for instruction or absolution. She wasn’t quite sure which.

O’Dell ignored the woman’s reaction a second time and simply trudged through the mud. She had brought her own backpack with items she’d anticipated needing, including a digital camera, rubber gloves, and evidence bags. She imagined Dr. Gunther’s satchel held whatever she expected she’d need.

All four sides of the tent were screened in. Ross unzipped the door and held the flap open for the two women. The floor was uneven ground — or rather tamped-down mud — but other than removing the bigger pieces of debris, O’Dell imagined the rescue crew had left the scene the way they’d found it. The guardsmen had pitched the tent as carefully as possible so as not to disturb what was covered by a tarp in the center of the area.

Dirty water pooled between creases in the black plastic. Underneath, O’Dell could see additional pools. The body and tarp had been left in the rain until the tent could be set up.

O’Dell shrugged out of her backpack, found her digital camera, and took a few shots of the scene before they disturbed it. Then she nodded for Ross to remove the tarp.

He lifted the corner, slow and easy, folding it over to let the water run off and away. The pile of dirt underneath looked unremarkable, pocked with rock and gravel. The hole was only a foot in diameter. Even with the screened walls it was difficult to see because of the thick fog and cloud cover. Dr. Gunther pulled a flashlight from her satchel and turned it on. As Ross uncovered the hole, she shot a stream of light into the shallow depths.

She stopped at the blue-gray skin washed clean by the rain before the rescue crew had covered it. At first glance O’Dell didn’t recognize that it was part of a face until the light flicked over the chin, lips, and then an eye looking straight up at them.

“Oh, my good Lord,” the woman said, taking a step back so quickly she almost stumbled.

O’Dell reached out to help steady her, but Dr. Gunther waved her off again. This time she looked embarrassed about her reaction. O’Dell watched her take a deep breath, then step forward. She moved in closer, pointing the beam of light back down the hole. And before she could control it, O’Dell saw her wince.

At that moment all O’Dell could think was that this was not going to be quite as simple as Benjamin Platt had made it sound.

30

Creed led Grace directly to the old woman’s chair. Made her sit in front of it. He wanted her to focus on him instead of all the different sounds and smells inside the house.

He gave her a few minutes to glance around. An ear twitched toward the ticking of the grandfather clock. Her head jerked when an appliance’s motor kicked on in the kitchen. Finally she settled down, shifting her weight and looking up at him.

He took the quilt gently from the recliner and held it in front of her nose, offering it to her for inspection. She sniffed at it and he let her put her nose inside the folds. There was a faint medicinal smell and Creed had no clue if that would help or hinder. Individualized scent was always tricky.

Like he had told Vance earlier, although Grace had proven herself in finding a variety of scents Creed had asked her to search out, she wasn’t trained as a trailing or tracking dog. Those dogs — usually bloodhounds — were trained to sniff a particular item or article of clothing that belonged to a specific person, take in the tiny particles of human tissue or skin cells cast off by that person, and then go search for that specific scent. Yes, Grace could rescue lost people, but she did that differently.

Grace was able to rescue the lost by picking up traces of human scent that drifted in the air. The same scent that all humans give off. Throw in some extras like universal body odors from fear, anxiety, and perspiration. Maybe even blood. Grace didn’t look for any specific person. She simply searched for human scent.

One of the reasons this worked was because people tended to get trapped or lost in remote areas. So if Grace picked up human scent in the woods, she searched for the cone of air, an area with the most concentrated scent. She zeroed in on where it was the strongest, and usually the person was nearby.

In this case, the forest around Mrs. Hamlet’s house was already filled with human scent from those who had been trying to find her.

“Grace,” Creed said, and waited for her eyes. He held up the quilt and very slowly said, “Hamlet.”

He put the quilt aside, then waved for her to come smell the chair. She stood on her hind legs, sniffing. He patted the seat and allowed her to jump onto the recliner.

“Grace.” He waited for her to look up at him from her new perch. He tapped the arm of the chair and said, “Hamlet.”

Her nose went to work on the fabric from the creases to the tufted buttons on the back where he could see a treasured strand of hair had snagged. When she was finished she jumped back down to the floor and sat down.

As a test he unsnapped the leash from her vest. He pointed at the door on the other side of the room, the entrance they had come in. The same door that Mrs. Hamlet would have left through.

“Go find Hamlet, Grace.”

She took off across the room but skidded to a halt on the polished wood floor. She turned around, nose in the air, and headed back toward him. She stopped at the coffee table, her nose twitching. Then she sat down and looked up to find his eyes. It was her alert. Her way of telling him that she had found what he had asked for.

Then he noticed the TV remote and a wad of used tissues on the tabletop. They probably belonged to Mrs. Hamlet. But it wasn’t what he was looking for. He couldn’t reward her even though these items most definitely had the same scent on them. He didn’t want her to find Mrs. Hamlet’s things. He needed her to find the old woman.

Creed held back a sigh of frustration. The throbbing at his temple had changed to a continuous dull beat. Maybe this would never work.

31

Creed snapped the leash back in place. Last month at the Atlanta airport Grace had alerted to cocaine stashed in plastic bags and stuffed into jars of peanut butter. He knew she could do this if he could figure out a way to tell her what it was he wanted her to find. He decided to start at the last place they knew Mrs. Hamlet had been.

He led her through the door onto the front steps. Because of the debris in the yard he hated to take her off the leash again. He dug into his daypack and pulled out a retractable lead that would give her twice the roaming distance. Grace was watching him closely. She knew he also kept her pink elephant in that same pack.

“Grace, find Hamlet.”

She looked back at the door, as if to say that Hamlet was inside. Creed didn’t flinch. When he wouldn’t indulge her with even a glance back, she started sniffing the air again. He knew he was asking a lot. Mrs. Hamlet’s scent had been washed away by downpours and blown around since she stepped out two nights ago.

Grace tugged at the end of the leash. Creed felt his adrenaline kick in when she took a turn to the right, a hard right. Mrs. Hamlet was right-handed. This was a good start.

He saw the group on the lawn start to move toward him and put up his hand to stop them.

Grace strained hard now. She was pulling in air at a rapid rate. But she was keeping close to the side of the house. He kept his eyes on her paws, watching for glass or pieces of metal. She was following a narrow gully that the overflowing gutters had created between the foundation of the house and the beginning of the lawn.

At the corner of the house Grace took another hard right. She picked up her pace, skittering in the mud. There was more debris in the backyard than the front and Creed tried to slow her down.

The woods began about fifty feet from the back of the house. Fragrant bushes lined the yard, creating a natural barrier. In the fog it was difficult to see anything beyond them. The thick bushes had also acted as a stopgap for the floodwater that had come through earlier, gathering pieces of debris left behind. He worried that the grass held equal amounts of foreign objects that could pierce Grace’s pads. His boots crunched glass and a knot tightened in his stomach.

Grace stopped suddenly, interested in something stuck in the bushes. She looked back at him and sat down.

Another alert.

He took a closer look and saw a couple more wadded tissues pierced on the prickly bush. To anyone else they’d simply look like garbage, but Grace insisted they were “Hamlet.”

Creed glanced back toward the front of the house. Vance hadn’t allowed anyone to follow. He remembered the daughter had found the front door open. The search party had spent hours going up and down the neighborhood and, from what Vance had told him, they had ventured into the forest that started across the street and at the end of the cul-de-sac. They had tried to track the footsteps of an elderly woman who had come out her front door on a dark and stormy night, thinking that she had gone looking for her daughter who hadn’t come home.

They had done their best to guess the mind of someone old and confused with dementia. Had they looked in the backyard, they would have seen what Creed saw now — nothing.

“Good girl, Grace,” he told her in an even tone and not the excited, high-pitched one he used when she found what they were looking for. Still, her eyes left his to glance at the backpack where she knew her pink elephant was waiting.

“Grace,” he said, and her eyes came back to his. “Find Hamlet.”

She stood up and sniffed at the tissues. Glanced up at him.

They could have blown there from anywhere, even if they had belonged to Mrs. Hamlet. Just when Creed thought they were at a dead end, Grace’s nose started twitching. And once again she tugged and strained, pulling him toward the thick barrier of bushes. She turned right and led him along the row. At the end she took another right and headed back toward the house. Before she got there she stopped in her tracks.

Her tail stood straight out. No motion. Ears perched forward. Nose up, twitching and sniffing rapidly. She turned right again but didn’t go far. She circled and stopped. But she wasn’t finished.

This time she took off and raced for the back line of bushes. She pulled Creed through a narrow gap where the branches didn’t touch her but scraped and scratched at his jeans and snagged his shirt, ripping it before he could set himself free. On this side the grass ended and mud greeted his boots, sending him sliding. He kept his balance even as the forest floor sloped down. Grace didn’t slow a bit.

In seconds the canopy above cut their light. The fog seemed to come alive, moving between the trees like smoke in the wind. Dampness settled around them. Branches dripped. The smell of earth and pine was overwhelming. Yet Grace’s nose continued to work the air.

Creed glanced back up to get a sense of how far they had come, and he could no longer see the bushes that separated the Hamlet backyard from the forest. He knew that Grace was still leading him toward the right but it was subtle now. None of the sharp turns like in the backyard. He was starting to get concerned about how deep they were going. His head hurt. The cut above his eye throbbed a new rhythm of pain. Already he felt that his sense of direction was slipping away.

He wanted to reel Grace in. Take a break. Get both of them some water. Before he had a chance to do any of that, Grace skittered to a halt. She sat down and looked up at him, her eyes finding his.

Creed’s pulse was racing, his breath uneven. His eyes darted around the area. The fog was thick along the floor of the forest. He squinted but all he could see were trees, downed branches, a pile of rubbish, leaves and pine needles, thigh-high shrubs, and vines growing from trunk to trunk. He scanned higher, looking for more tissues stuck in branches, pieces of fabric, anything that could have once been Mrs. Hamlet’s.

He glanced back down at Grace and she was staring at him hard. False alerts weren’t uncommon. It happened. But not with Grace. He saw her eyes slip to his daypack. She was ready for her reward, getting impatient.

Creed took another look around, this time turning slowly and trying to take in the surroundings in small clips. The throbbing over his eye was causing it to twitch. Maybe it and the fog were making him miss something. He could feel Grace watching him.

Then suddenly she stood back up and casually strolled over to the pile of rubbish. It looked like someone’s garbage dump with twigs and vines growing over it. There were pieces of cardboard, an old sofa cushion, cans and bottles, a tangle of rope and wet newspapers, along with other unrecognizable musty throwaways.

The tang was a mixture of smells, one of which could be human decomposition. Was Mrs. Hamlet’s body buried under this pile of garbage?

That’s when something stirred beneath that mess.

Creed jerked back a step, but Grace’s tail started wagging. She stuck her nose into the pile and a hand nudged its way out, reaching to touch Grace.

Creed dropped to his knees and started grabbing at pieces, pulling and tugging. Grace licked at the dirty fingers. Before he finished uncovering her, the old woman shifted from lying on her side. She was filthy — mud streaked her face. Strands of garbage dangled from her hair. Her clothes looked like part of the rubbish and so did her small body of bones.

She sat up on her own without Creed’s help. He didn’t want to alarm her by touching her, so he tried to use his eyes to look for cuts and blood. He scanned her arms and legs to check if he could see any bones protruding.

“Mrs. Hamlet, are you okay?”

It seemed like a silly question to ask a woman who had been under a pile of rubbish for two nights.

Her eyes were bright and anxious and didn’t leave Grace as she petted the dog with muddy, blue-veined hands. She stroked her from head to tail over and over.

“Aren’t you the prettiest thing,” she cooed, and Grace continued to wag, even forgetting about her pink elephant for the moment.

Then suddenly the old woman looked up at Creed as if she’d only just noticed him. “What in the world took you so long?”

32

Daniel Tate lay on his belly and watched from inside a bent metal air duct. He was proud of how quietly he had moved in the dark, the night vision goggles providing him views that the intruder didn’t have beyond the stream from the handheld strobe light. Only one time did the metal creak beneath his weight, and he worried that it might crash down. The spaceman below didn’t seem concerned, glancing up only briefly before going back to his mission.

Tate’s first thought when he saw the oversized white suit was of a spaceman, because it covered the trespasser completely from the hood and glass shield all the way to the black rubber boots and gloves. But he knew it was a hazmat suit.

If he pushed back the paranoia and anxiety that pounded in his chest, Tate could almost convince himself that the spaceman wasn’t there to destroy him. Instead, he seemed more interested in the battered metal cabinet and the black suitcase he’d found in the rubble.

The spaceman set the strobe light on a pile of debris where he could work with the light shining down. He opened a combination lock on the metal cabinet. Carefully he reached around inside until he found what he was looking for. Then his focus turned to the black suitcase.

Several times the spaceman tried to lift the suitcase, but it was too heavy. He then tried to drag it but there was no clear trail. The case made it only a foot or two before getting hung up in debris.

From his perch, Tate noticed digital numbers flashing on the side of the case, and a small red light blinking like the suitcase had a pulse. The spaceman fidgeted with the digital numbers, making them tick up and down until there was a loud click. With the click the light changed to green and the spaceman was able to open the lid.

Tate wanted to squirm and reposition himself to see over the man’s shoulder. He was soaking wet with perspiration, hot from being inside the metal air duct. Still, he wanted to see what was inside the case. But in seconds the spaceman took what he wanted, stuffed something into a case of his own, and snapped the suitcase shut. Both cases lit up, each with a pulsing red light and with the same freaky rhythm that made them seem as if they were part of the same living organism.

Then the spaceman did something Tate didn’t expect. He set aside the second case. Then he shoved the metal cabinet until it toppled on top of the first one. The cabinet’s contents fell out, metal striking metal and glass shattering, burying the case.

Satisfied, the spaceman swatted a hand in front of his face shield, then grabbed his strobe light and left in the direction he had come.

Tate watched him maneuver his way down the tunnel until the light turned a corner and disappeared.

Tate waited. He wanted to make sure the man wasn’t coming back. Just when he thought it was safe, he started to crawl out of the metal duct and heard another crash.

He jerked back inside and let his eyes search below in the eerie green light of the night vision goggles. A large container had slipped from the overturned cabinet. It crashed and shattered.

Tate heard the hum before he noticed the contents. What appeared to be black specks scattered over the floor suddenly started coming to life, one by one flitting up, then suddenly gathering and moving together. They lifted up off the floor, a swarm of black. The humming grew louder as the swarm moved back and forth as if looking for the best escape route.

He ducked deeper into the air duct as the swarm moved past him. He recognized the buzz and caught a glimpse before it disappeared. And he wondered why in the world a swarm of mosquitoes had been kept locked up in a laboratory cabinet.

33

It’s been a while since I’ve had to dig up a body,” Dr. Gunther told O’Dell.

Both were on their knees, carefully scooping. Ross and another guardsman took the plastic tub away when it got full, replacing it with a second one. The two men had the tedious chore of sifting through the mud for anything that might be considered evidence. O’Dell knew there was slim chance of that. No matter what had originally happened to these bodies — whether they were murdered or not — being caught up in the slide most likely had destroyed any trace evidence.

“I imagine you were surprised then when Mr. Logan called you for this project,” O’Dell said.

She restrained herself from simply coming out and asking the woman why in the world she was here for such a supposedly sensitive mission. However, something in her tone must have tipped off Dr. Gunther, because she shot O’Dell an irritated look.

“It wasn’t Logan,” she said. “I’ve never met the man. His boss and I worked together years ago.”

O’Dell nodded, satisfied. Of course it was something like that. It wasn’t much different from Ben asking her. Old favors. Funny how they could feel an awful lot like payback.

“Your forensic background,” Dr. Gunther began to ask, then she seemed to stop herself and reworded her thoughts. “I understand you’re an FBI agent. But you obviously have extensive experience in retrieving dead bodies.”

O’Dell hesitated, wondering if she should give the short, more appropriate answer. Somehow over the years, without a plan or strategy, she had become a leading expert in criminal behavior, specializing in dismemberment and ritualistic murders. Murders that often ended up being the work of serial killers. The doctor, however, was simply asking why she was a part of this mission.

“When you chase killers for a living, you find yourself examining their handiwork up close and personal whether you like it or not.”

“I don’t understand why they think this body is not a victim of the slide.” She wiped a cloth over his face and shoulder, careful to clean off the mud but not rub hard enough to disturb or break the flesh. “There’s very little decomposition.”

“The mud would slow it down considerably.”

At that moment Dr. Gunther grabbed for her flashlight.

“This is interesting.”

She flipped the switch and, instead of examining the shoulder more closely, the doctor pointed the light up higher, where something had caught her eye. Slowly she swept the beam over the portion of the man’s head that was exposed. They only had a side view. The other half of his face was still buried in mud.

He’d shaved his hair down to the scalp. Dr. Gunther’s cleaning efforts now revealed circular marks, slight indentations that showed up in the harsh beam of light. The three circles were a bit shinier than the rest of his skin, as if some kind of greasy solution had been used that prevented the dirt from sticking.

O’Dell waited, expecting Dr. Gunther to voice a theory, but the woman remained quiet. O’Dell could venture to guess the marks had been made by electrode pads. She wondered if his head had been shaved specifically for some kind of neurological test.

When Dr. Gunther still hadn’t said anything, O’Dell glanced at her. She could see the pinched furrow between the woman’s eyes. Her thin lips were pursed tight. Without comment she moved the beam of light back to the shoulder and began wiping the dirt away. This time her fingers appeared more hesitant. Even as an image started to reveal itself, Dr. Gunther slowed her movements.

Before the old woman had shifted her attention to the dead man’s head, O’Dell noticed the corner of a tattoo starting to reveal itself on his shoulder. She suspected the yellow beak of an eagle. She could make out the top of letters curved above it and guessed it read: U.S. Airborne.

Tattoos were often valuable in identifying a corpse. Ink pooled deep into the dermis, so even during decomposition if the epidermis had been shed, the tattoo actually showed up more brilliantly. But O’Dell expected this one might simply indicate that the victim had served in the military.

Dr. Gunther stopped suddenly. Again she grabbed the flashlight with an urgency that warranted surprise. But again the woman remained silent and O’Dell was growing impatient. Was she not sharing her thoughts because O’Dell was an outsider? A federal agent?

“What is it?” she finally asked.

But now O’Dell saw what had grabbed the doctor’s interest. Lower on the arm, close to the elbow, the skin bubbled up. Mean streaks of red-brown imprinted the areas in between.

“Burns?” O’Dell asked.

The doctor looked up at her and nodded. “Maybe chemical burns,” she said.

O’Dell’s eyes darted around the area outside the screened-in tent. If the chemicals were still present, would they have smelled them? And why in the world had they not been warned?

“Are you talking about chemicals leaked because of the landslide?”

“No, no. At least I don’t believe so.” The woman shook her head. “These would be serious chemicals administered to this individual to cause such a severe reaction. Most likely toxic.”

“Should we be in hazmat suits?”

But again Dr. Gunther shook her head. She switched off the flashlight and struggled to her feet. She swatted at the dirt on the knees of her trousers before glancing back up at O’Dell. And when she did, O’Dell caught a glimpse of something beyond anger in her gray eyes. Something that resembled fear.

“What is it? What are you thinking?” O’Dell prodded.

The woman was packing up her equipment as she said, “I think we need to have our young men here dig out this body as best they can and wrap him up. I’ll want to take a better look at him after I can clean him up somewhere other than this hole in the ground.”

“But should we be concerned about touching him?”

She stopped and looked to be pondering this, then she shrugged and said, “I have no idea. Perhaps you need to ask your Mr. Logan.” And she started packing again.

“He’s not my Mr. Logan,” O’Dell spit out, reacting more than thinking. She wanted to tell Dr. Gunther that she had never met or spoken to the man. But it wouldn’t matter to the woman. Instead she asked, “What about the body underwater?”

“Have them bag it up as well.”

“That’s it?”

“This is not the scene of the crime,” the woman told her. “What happened to these poor men didn’t happen here.”

“Can you tell me, at least, where he might have gotten those burns?”

“I might have more for you after I’ve had a chance to examine him.” She waved her arms to indicate their makeshift surroundings. “I cannot do that here.”

Before O’Dell could disagree, Dr. Gunther was calling to Ross and explaining how she wanted him to proceed. She didn’t even hesitate to check with O’Dell as she had earlier. Something had spooked the woman about the wounds, and O’Dell knew she wasn’t going to get any answers right now.

Dr. Gunther finished stashing her gear, her small hands moving quickly, dipping in and out of the pockets of her satchel. Without another word, she left on the same path they had used to come there — this time on the arm of a guardsman. O’Dell noticed the limp was more pronounced in her attempt to hurry away, as though she no longer had time or need to disguise the vulnerability.

As she watched the woman disappear into the fog, O’Dell could see the shape of a man coming up the incline. She caught a glimpse of the dog at his side and she felt an annoying flutter. But as he got closer she noticed the right sleeve of his jacket flapping in the breeze. It wasn’t Ryder Creed.

34

Is Ryder okay?” O’Dell asked Jason as she petted Bolo. “I heard he got caught in a slide yesterday.”

“Oh, he got caught, all right. Completely buried. They thought they’d lost him.”

He must have seen her look of concern despite her best attempt to hide it. He quickly added, “He looks like hell. May have broken a few ribs. Otherwise, I guess he’s okay. He took Grace to look for an old woman who got lost in the storm.”

O’Dell thought of Dr. Gunther again. Was this case simply too much for her? Was she in over her head?

“So you’re stuck with Bolo and me.”

She glanced at him and noticed a defensive stance. O’Dell had worked with Jason and Creed just a month ago to locate a crime scene in the backwoods of Alabama. She knew the young veteran was capable, though he was still learning. If Mr. Logan wanted top-notch professionals he should have come to supervise himself. At this point, she’d take what she could get.

She stroked Bolo’s lean, strong muscles. She had seen the dog in action before, too, and knew he could follow a scent even over water. And yet she caught herself glancing up the path, disappointed. It had nothing to do with having capable help. It had everything to do with the annoying uptick of her pulse just from the expectation of seeing Ryder Creed.

She was stingy with her emotions and more so with her heart. After her divorce she had promised herself no more romantic entanglements, because that was exactly how she viewed them: entanglements that strangled and sucked the life out of her. Even with Ben, there were more times when she was relieved they weren’t “together” than there were times when she longed for him.

But Ryder Creed was a dangerous distraction. He had kissed her twice — once catching her off guard; the second time with purpose and intention. But it wasn’t just the physical attraction. There was a connection between them that she couldn’t explain, one that unsettled her as much as it excited her. So far, she’d managed to stay clear, as if doing so would avoid the sparks that would most certainly lead to some sort of electric shock.

She introduced Jason to Ross, interrupting him as he continued to unearth the body under the tent. One of the guardsmen had accompanied Dr. Gunther. The other two had left to make arrangements for the equipment they’d need.

The floodwater continued to gush and churn, carving an even wider path. It moved fast despite being muddy and dragging debris as it washed over rocks and chunks of concrete. There was no telling how long it might last or if this would now be a new channel of a river from farther up the mountain.

O’Dell watched, standing silently beside Jason and Bolo. She realized it was ridiculous to expect a dog to sniff out a body believed to be somewhere under the floodwater. Unless they were able to successfully divert the water, there was no way to recover anything that might be buried there.

“One of the first things I learned from Mr. Creed is never to send a dog into a dangerous situation,” Jason finally said, even as he noticed Bolo’s nose held up high and working.

“Is it possible he’s getting a scent? Or is it the body inside the tent?” O’Dell asked, although their backs were to the tent and Bolo looked to be sniffing the air over the water.

“From what I understand, all of this flowing in front of us could be carrying human scent.” He glanced at O’Dell before adding, “You probably know that landslides can rip apart a body, right?”

Actually, she didn’t know that. Outside of hunting a killer during a hurricane, O’Dell had never worked a disaster site. This was supposed to be a favor to a friend. Just go check things out.

“It’s tough on a dog,” Jason explained. “Slides can unearth graveyards, too. Bolo’s trained for both rescue and cadaver recovery. How long have these bodies been dead?”

“The one we started to dig up looks like less than a week. But that’s my guess. You met the medical examiner leaving when you came up. She decided she didn’t care to stay.”

She saw a hint of a smile as Jason said, “I’m not surprised. North Carolina’s medical examiners’ system has some challenges.”

“What makes you say that?”

“A buddy of mine died in a car wreck a few months ago. They said he lost control, slammed into a ditch culvert. Wasn’t wearing a seat belt. Makes sense, right? Auto accident. No-brainer. The funeral director found four stab wounds in his back. One deep enough it punctured a lung.”

Those cases always made her stomach slide a bit. But they happened everywhere. “Mistakes happen.”

“Charlotte Observer did a whole investigation. Found a lot more. Interviewed me, since I was one of the last ones to see him alive. His wife was arrested, though I never heard him say a single bad thing about her.”

“I’m not sure Dr. Gunther is negligent.”

“Maybe not, but how long did you say the body in the tent’s been dead?”

“I can only guess, but definitely less than a week.”

“But probably not from the slide, right?”

She didn’t want to admit that just yet. “I’m not sure.”

“So if they didn’t die in the landslide, where did these bodies come from?”

She ran her fingers through her hair, slick with moisture from the fog. She couldn’t tell for sure whether this man had been at the research facility just because the body of a murdered scientist had been found close by. Didn’t Ross tell her earlier that objects could be moved up to a mile from where they were when the first slide happened?

And if this man was in the facility, she had no way to determine if he was also murdered. Besides, there was no way a killer could have predicted the landslide and hoped that these bodies would be treated as casualties. Now O’Dell wondered if the scientist could have been killed in an impulsive reaction to the disaster. Perhaps the murderer was taking advantage of the chaos. Attempting to protect something, or someone?

“That’s what I’m here to find out,” she told Jason, but she was starting to realize that Benjamin Platt owed her an explanation.

35

O’Dell expected to leave Ben a message. She was surprised when he answered on the third ring.

“Maggie, are you okay? I just saw the newest weather forecast and was thinking about you.”

“Look, Ben, if you’re holding back any information about these bodies, now would be a good time to tell me.”

She was up to her ankles in mud, and the damp fog had changed to a cold drizzle. If she wanted the latest weather report she wouldn’t have been calling him. Yes, she was a bit impatient with him. Okay, maybe a little angry, too.

“I told you what I know. What’s going on?”

“One body is literally stuck in the mud. The other is buried underneath what now looks like rapids. This is not a ‘go down and check it out’ situation.” She let that sink in before she added, “And I think you already knew that.”

Silence. Was he irritated about her accusation or feeling guilty that he’d sent her down without telling her what was going on?

“I’ll see what I can find out,” he finally said. Before she could get irritated with that response, he added, “Are you okay?” The tone was sincere and genuine, a concerned friend.

“I don’t like to be left in the dark, Ben.” She took her anger down a notch, but she knew there was still an edge to her voice.

“Understood.”

“And why isn’t Logan down here?”

“He isn’t there with you?” This time he couldn’t disguise his surprise.

“I haven’t seen him and I’m at the site.”

Silence again. Enough this time that she pulled her phone away from her ear to see if she still had bars for reception. One. Maybe she’d lost him. She put the phone back in place and waited.

“Let me see what I can find out. I’m sure Logan must have gotten held up somewhere. I’ll call you as soon as I know something.”

She almost pushed END when she heard him say, “Maggie.”

She brought the phone back up and suddenly found herself holding her breath. “Yes?”

“Be safe, okay?”

That was it? Why did she think it would be something else? Something like “I love you”?

“Okay,” she answered, rolling her eyes for no one other than herself, thinking “Okay” was as lame as “Be safe.” What the hell was wrong with them? Were they both so gun-shy, so emotionally battered that neither of them could stand to bare their souls?

She pocketed the phone, jamming it deep, as if that would mean something. When she looked up she noticed that Jason and Bolo had wandered almost a hundred feet away to search the area alongside the floodwaters. Jason was staring at the ground. The big dog’s tail was swishing back and forth in a rapid motion.

They found something!

O’Dell started walking toward them, dread filling her empty stomach. Ross noticed. He spun around to see what had her attention. Then he said something to his partner and left the tent. He trekked uphill, a diagonal line to O’Dell.

Jason’s eyes darted up and found hers. He yanked at his jacket pocket, suddenly desperate to get Bolo’s rope toy free. The dogs expected and needed to be rewarded. She’d seen Creed do it as soon as he knew it wasn’t a false alert. From the look on Jason’s face, this was definitely not a false alert. But even as she approached she still couldn’t figure out what the object was.

Jason tossed the toy to Bolo and he caught it, prancing off, proud and pleased. O’Dell and Ross arrived at the same time. Both stopped within three feet of Jason and both stared at the ground.

There was a snarl of twigs and wet leaves. O’Dell anticipated another partially buried body. Something comparable to the one under the protection of the tent — face half stuck in the mud. But this was already unearthed except for the twigs and leaves.

The hand was severed just above the wrist and the fingers were still balled up in a fist. It almost looked like its owner had grabbed hold of something and had been wrenched away. Maybe washed away.

She glanced at Jason. The color had drained from his face but his eyes were intense and focused. She remembered his empty sleeve, and suddenly she felt a rush of heat crawl up her neck.

“Are you okay?” she asked him.

“I’ve seen worse,” he assured her, and stared down Ross when the guardsman noticed the connection.

She wouldn’t insult him with any more attention. Instead she said, “Are those teeth marks?” She squatted down for a better look. Both men joined her, though more slowly and apprehensively than O’Dell. Already she was yanking out her cell phone and taking several photos.

“Coyotes run in pretty much every county in North Carolina,” Ross said.

O’Dell slipped her phone back in her pocket and pulled out a fresh pair of latex gloves from another pocket of her windbreaker.

“That’s probably what this is, right?” With a protected index finger she poked at the puncture marks on the back of the hand. They looked very much like impressions made by an animal’s teeth.

“Would it rip it from the body like that?” Jason asked.

Dirt and dried blood prevented O’Dell from examining the dismembered area. All she could be sure of was that it hadn’t been cut clean.

“You said earlier that landslides can tear a body apart,” she reminded Jason.

“It’s just that it looks like the poor bastard was hanging on to something for dear life.”

She couldn’t argue that point.

“Coyotes won’t eat fresh meat,” Ross said.

“Excuse me?” O’Dell thought she might have heard him wrong.

“They’ll usually leave it for days, maybe even a week, sort of let it ripen. I guess it’s easier on their digestive systems. Probably why they left it.”

It confirmed what O’Dell already believed — that whatever had happened to these men must have occurred just before the landslide.

36

Mr. Sadowski.” A young woman came out of the conference room and crossed the lobby to where Frankie and his daughter had taken up vigil.

She was the first person to pay any attention to them all afternoon. They’d been sitting waiting, taking a break only for a couple of sandwiches and mediocre coffee.

“So sorry, they won’t be getting to you today.”

“What do you mean?” Susan asked. “We’ve waited all day.”

“I know, I know. Some of the experts’ testimony ran long. They’ll probably be ready for you first thing tomorrow morning.”

The woman was the same clerk who had told Frankie he needed to be ready first thing that morning.

“Are you sure?” Susan was more annoyed than Frankie, and he hated that he’d brought her there to sit and waste her time. “Because if it isn’t going to be until afternoon—”

“No, no, I’m sure it’ll be sometime in the morning.”

“But probably not first thing.”

As his daughter bickered with the clerk, Frankie noticed the senators and others leaving the chamber where the hearings had been.

“I’ll be right back,” he told Susan as he wandered over closer.

He knew his own state senator was part of this committee. He was a volunteer for her reelection campaign. He’d met her briefly at a rally a few years ago in Pensacola, though he didn’t expect her to recognize him.

When she came out of the chamber door, he called to her, “Senator Delanor.”

Hat in hand, he approached her slowly. She smiled, but it was a tight, controlled effort to not keep walking. In this lobby she had to know he wouldn’t be there unless he’d passed through security.

“I’m Frankie Sadowski,” he said, offering his hand. “From Pensacola.”

She shook his hand, but her eyes were darting around as if she were looking for someone to rescue her, some excuse to pull her away.

“You responded to a letter of mine back in July,” he told her. “You encouraged me to testify.”

He watched to see some recollection take place, but it never did. Now he was a bit embarrassed. Had the reply been written by one of her staff and placed with a stack of others simply for her signature?

“I’m glad to see you here,” she said. “This committee certainly needs to hear stories like yours.”

“Senator Delanor,” someone called from behind Frankie, “I have someone waiting for you.”

Frankie saw the relief on her face before she could hide it.

“If you’ll excuse me.” She hesitated, as if trying to remember his name, then suddenly decided it wasn’t necessary. “I look forward to hearing from you tomorrow.”

He turned to watch her join the man who was waiting to deliver several folded messages and a tall cup of coffee. He was obviously one of her staff members. She called him Carter. He had a headset over his neatly styled hair so he could talk on his phone without his hands, and from the way he chattered nonstop it looked like he was filling her in on a long list of things.

Frankie started to walk away when he noticed two men in dress blues who had just come out of the doors to the hearing room. One man was young, the other old, perhaps even older than Frankie, with wisps of white hair and stooped shoulders. They stopped to talk to another young man dressed in khakis and a leather bomber jacket. There was something so familiar about this man in the leather jacket despite the distance of fifty feet or more. Then the man looked over his shoulder. His eyes caught Frankie’s before he turned away. He said something to the men and left.

Frankie stopped in his tracks and stared at the man, certain now, recognizing the clipped, confident gait. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up and a knot twist in his gut. It was the same man who had warned Frankie about testifying. And he was here with military men who had been a part of the hearings.

What in the world was going on?

37

Ellie waited until they were clearly out of earshot before she asked Carter, “Did you recognize that man?”

“The old guy?”

She noticed he didn’t turn to look at him again. Ellie did, however. She watched the tall, silver-haired gentleman take a seat beside the younger woman who had obviously accompanied him.

“He’s testifying at the hearing.”

“I’ve got a long list of phone calls that you need to return. Where do you want me to start?”

They continued into her office, but she didn’t glance through the papers he had handed her. It was after five PM. She couldn’t think of anyone who couldn’t wait, and Frankie San— No, not San, but Sadowski. She didn’t even recognize the name.

“He said I replied to a letter of his, encouraging him to testify.”

Carter looked up at her and let out a sigh. “We send out a ton of letters.”

“Form letters. It sounded like this was a personal reply.”

“And we send out a lot of those, too.”

He was off-loading a new stack of files and documents onto her desk, sorting as he piled.

“He said he was from Pensacola. My hometown. You’d think I’d remember that, at least.”

Carter was jotting on sticky notes and tacking them to several of the files he was leaving on her desk. She could tell he didn’t care about Frankie Sadowski, but the man was testifying tomorrow. How many people had Sadowski told that she had encouraged him to come forward?

“Find a way to leak to the media that I encouraged one of my constituents affected by Project 112 to tell his story.”

Carter’s head shot up. “You’re not serious?”

“Why not? Those people outside the Capitol are asking that we finally listen to the veterans who were affected.”

“Listening and encouraging are two separate things. You don’t even know what he has to say. What if he sounds like a crackpot?”

“Crackpot?” She smiled at him. It seemed like a strange word for someone his age to use.

“You know what I mean. This old guy probably doesn’t have anything better to do with his time than promote conspiracy theories on the Internet. What if he’s a member of one of those radical groups?”

“He’s here to testify. Senator Quincy wouldn’t have allowed it if he was some radical crackpot. He said his staff vetted every witness, right?”

“I wouldn’t know what Senator Quincy’s staff does or doesn’t do.”

She was getting tired of everyone in D.C. labeling people as radicals simply because they disagreed. There was something about Mr. Sadowski that reminded her of Jimmy Stewart and the roles he played in the old classics like Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. He presented himself to her as a gentleman and that was a rare quality these days, especially in this town.

“You’re always talking about controlling the message, Carter. So find a way to leak something positive. For God’s sake, the man is from my hometown. At least make that connection before the media does or they’ll spin it into something stupid.”

Finally he gave her a reluctant half grin. “Let me see what I can do.”

“Oh, and Carter.” She stopped him as he was heading for the door. “Find the letters.”

“Excuse me?”

“We keep copies of everything in this place.” She pointed to the boxes still stacked in her office: the copies of documents from the DoD. They were supposedly from as far back as the 1950s. “I’d like to see Mr. Sadowski’s letter.”

“Who knows if the guy actually sent you anything.”

“We certainly have a copy of my reply. Find it.”

“It was probably a form letter.”

“Probably. Find it anyway.”

He frowned as he left. Ellie checked her wristwatch. Her fingers grazed the top of the pile he’d stacked neatly. Even the sticky notes poked out at different intervals so that she could read them with only a glance.

Then something struck her. Frankie Sadowski had said he received her reply in July. How was that possible? She didn’t even know about this hearing back then, or at the very least, it hadn’t been on her radar. She didn’t nag Quincy about being a part of it until about a month ago.

Ellie headed out of her office to catch Carter and get his take. She stopped. Then she took two steps back to hide herself against the pillar outside her office.

Carter was on the other side of the lobby talking to Senator Quincy. They were both looking toward the entrance where Mr. Sadowski and his companion were talking to one of the clerks.

Carter whipped out his favorite notepad and started scribbling as Quincy seemed to be dictating. Then he clapped Ellie’s chief of staff on the shoulder, pleased and satisfied. Carter was beaming and nodding. Both men set off in opposite directions.

By the time Quincy passed her office, Ellie was back inside, door closed. She stuffed her briefcase with everything she’d need. On her desk she spread open an innocuous file with a pen and pad beside it. She placed her coffee mug within reach so it looked like she hadn’t left the building. Then she slipped out, heading for the back stairs.

38

Benjamin Platt hated that Maggie sounded like she didn’t trust him. He knew her well enough to know that trust was a fragile commodity to her. That he had gained hers only to lose it in this way made him angry with himself. And it made him angry with Colonel Abraham Hess.

Hess had invited Platt to dinner. He knew the man was feeling pleased with how the congressional hearings had been going. He knew that Hess considered these hearings a mere excuse for Congress to cut the DoD’s budget. They had reviewed Project 112 and Project SHAD twice before and done nothing.

Platt had watched his mentor deliver his testimony, not only captivating his audience but controlling Senator Quincy and the rest of the committee. Now he wanted to celebrate and Platt was far from feeling any sense of victory. In fact, he had no appetite at all, but he wanted answers about North Carolina.

Earlier when Peter Logan met them after the hearing he seemed to have more questions than answers. He couldn’t get ahold of his assistant, Isabel Klein, and although Logan made it sound like a simple communication problem because cell phone towers had been destroyed by the landslide, Platt could see it was yet another excuse. Frustrated, Platt mentioned that he hadn’t had any problems getting through to Maggie O’Dell.

What disturbed Platt even more was that Hess and Logan didn’t seem to be on the same page. Hess said something about a special team on-site and Logan looked surprised. He tried to hide it, but Platt saw the irritation. That’s when Hess asked Platt to meet him for dinner and dismissed him with a nod of his head. As Platt left them he could hear Logan firing off more excuses. Platt glanced back in time to see Hess finally cut Logan short with a wave of his hand, and then he heard the colonel tell his deputy to “get the hell down there.”

Now, several hours later, Platt found the colonel in their favorite corner booth at Old Ebbitt’s. Hess was already enjoying what Platt knew would be a Scotch, neat. As Platt slid into the opposite side, Hess flagged the waiter, who came immediately.

“May I get you a drink, sir?”

“Coffee, black.”

Hess raised his eyebrows.

“Another Scotch for you, sir?”

Hess shook his head. As soon as the young man left, he said to Platt, “What’s wrong, Benjamin?”

“What’s going on in North Carolina? Logan sounded like he had no information and yet it’s been days since the landslide.”

“Logan.” He said the name like it left a bitter taste in his mouth. “The man has potential. He was a good soldier. I met him when he was a platoon leader in Afghanistan. He was instrumental in testing some of our new products in the field.” He looked across the table at Platt. “You know how important that’s been?”

Platt didn’t want Hess to get off the subject of North Carolina. He nodded, then asked, “Instrumental enough that you made him a deputy of DARPA?”

Hess stared at him with narrow eyes, obviously not pleased with Platt questioning his judgment.

Before Hess could answer, Platt continued, “There are dead bodies being recovered — one of them a scientist from your facility who may have been murdered. And Logan hasn’t even been there.”

Hess held up a hand, stopping him just as he had Senator Quincy. “Don’t worry about it. I have a special recovery team there. They’ve already started to take care of things even without Logan.”

“So do you have any more information about the facility?”

“It appears it’s buried. Gone. Completely shoved off its foundation and toppled somewhere under the mountain.”

Platt ran a hand over his face and held back his response as the waiter set a cup of coffee and a saucer in front of him.

“Don’t look so troubled, Benjamin,” Hess said as he took a sip of his Scotch. “Down there we can still control things. Up here is where the vultures will destroy us if we let them.”

By “vultures” Platt knew the colonel meant political vultures. How could he look so content when an entire facility had been destroyed by a landslide and its staff members were gone, one possibly murdered?

“Have you been able to reach Dr. Shaw?”

“No. Not yet.”

“By now you must know what was kept at the facility.”

“My team will take care of it.”

“Abraham, you asked me to send down an FBI agent. Is there a chance she might be exposed to something?”

“You know each facility takes all kinds of precautions. We have no reason to believe that anything has been breached.”

“What were they working on?”

Finally Platt saw a look of concern. Hess glanced around the noisy restaurant and scooted closer to the edge of his seat, placing his hands on his glass.

“In the 1950s we worked on a project to breed Aedes aegypti to use the mosquitoes as a carrier, a biological delivery system. The U.S. Army actually did a small, limited trial, doing a release in Georgia and Florida. Probably too small to measure any level of effectiveness.

“But think about it for a minute. How perfect would that be? If we could either breed insects that already carry certain diseases, like dengue fever or chikungunya, or perhaps infect insects with diseases or viruses, we could release them in areas without the enemy even knowing. Dr. Shaw was fascinated by different delivery methods, especially organic carriers.”

“What exactly are you saying, Abraham? That she was working on using swarms of mosquitoes as a weapons delivery system?”

“Keep your voice down, Benjamin.”

“Do you know what viruses the facility had access to?”

“I’m working on getting—”

“No,” Platt interrupted, stunning the colonel. “You must know by now.”

Platt waited out the silence, staring down the man he had respected and revered for almost two decades.

“You must not share this with anyone,” Hess finally said.

“You asked me to send someone I trusted, only so you could control the investigation and what information is released.”

“I assure you any dangerous pathogens are completely safe. My team is in the process of recovering the lockbox that stores them.”

“How can you be certain it hasn’t already ruptured from the pressure of the landslide? Everyone there could have already been exposed.”

“Because it emits a signal, and we’re still getting that signal.”

Platt shook his head. As an army colonel and director of USAMRIID he knew the fine line they walked keeping civilians safe while trying to find new ways to help soldiers be more effective and keeping them safe, too. His life was filled with classified information. He worked in labs at Fort Detrick with viruses and pathogens that could wipe out a city if accidentally released. And he had, in fact, been at the helm of controlling an Ebola outbreak several years ago that could have killed hundreds if there had been a widespread panic.

“Twenty-four hours,” he told Hess. “I’ll give you twenty-four hours.”

“Are you threatening me, Benjamin?”

“I’m giving you a chance to do the right thing.”

39

By the time they made it back down the mountain, rain had replaced the drizzle. Ross dropped O’Dell, Jason, and Bolo at the high school. She had already checked the area for available lodging. The nearest hotel or motel was over fifty miles away and certainly not worth the drive with all the detours.

Ross had told them that one of the three community churches was housing and feeding the families whose homes had been destroyed. Since classes had to be canceled, cots had been set up in the school gymnasium for the rescue workers. They could use the locker rooms to store their gear and take a shower. Hot breakfasts and dinner were being served in the cafeteria. Brown-bag lunches would be prepared and ready by eight AM.

“Just get your name on the list,” the guardsman had told them.

He pointed to the back of the long gymnasium. “All three of you will need to go through Decon before you can enter the building.”

“Decon?”

“Sorry. Decontamination. All that mud we’ve been trudging through and digging up is considered contaminated. Landslides tend to produce a toxic cesspool. Most folks here have propane tanks for heating and septic tanks. We don’t know how many have been breached. Not to mention all the insulation, asbestos, and other stuff. Basically they’ll be hosing you off.” Then he shrugged and said, “Not like we aren’t already wet enough, huh?”

O’Dell noticed it was the guardsman’s first attempt at humor. She studied his profile and realized he was much younger than she had initially thought. They were all exhausted.

On the drive down the mountain she had tried to get ahold of Dr. Gunther, leaving two messages and a callback number each time. Ross had told her that the other guardsmen would be delivering the body they’d unearthed along with the hand to the temporary morgue, as per their instructions. She’d been hoping Dr. Gunther would start her examination as soon as possible, but now doubted that would happen.

O’Dell, Jason, and Bolo followed the sidewalk around to the back of the long building. Other crews were pulling up along the curb, filing out and gathering gear. Sunset wasn’t for another hour but the gray skies and rain would accelerate that.

“They served an excellent breakfast this morning,” Jason said, walking alongside her.

She glanced at him and saw that he was straining to maintain a casual tone. Then she noticed he was keeping Bolo tight on his other side, giving the dog a short leash with no alternative but to walk next to Jason, so close she imagined the dog was brushing against Jason’s pant leg. And she could see the reason for the short leash. The line of hair that stood up on Bolo’s back and pointed in the opposite direction — the line that defined him as a ridgeback — was now bristling with the rest of the dog’s back and neck.

She remembered Creed saying that Bolo was overprotective of him. That protection must extend to Jason. The dog eyed the other men climbing out of their trucks. His head pivoted to the sounds they made. He viewed them as a threat. This simple walk was far from his comfort zone. That was back up in the woods, along the floodwaters, where he could concentrate only on the scent he was asked to find.

“I’m parked in the lot just across the street,” O’Dell told him, getting a glimpse of it now. “I need to grab my overnight bag or I won’t have dry clothes.”

“Sure thing.” He nodded. “We’ll catch up to you at Decon.”

His tone was still even and casual, signaling that everything was fine. But she wondered if he realized his tight and strained posture was probably screaming at Bolo that everything was not fine. The dog was strong and muscular. Was Jason worried he wouldn’t be able to control him with only one hand? Her own dog Jake — a huge black German shepherd — could knock her off her feet if he tugged suddenly.

She wanted to ask Jason if he’d be okay, but there wasn’t any way to do that without contributing to Bolo’s tension and making Jason even more self-conscious. Instead, she simply agreed she’d see them later and broke off in the other direction, trying hard not to look back.

O’Dell climbed inside her SUV to get out of the rain and immediately pulled out her cell phone. No messages from Ben. She tamped down her irritation. She didn’t want to talk to him right now, anyway. Instead she called her boss, Assistant Director Kunze, and left him a message. Then she tapped another number in her phone’s memory and waited.

Gwen had been disguising her depression for months now and the surgery had made that more difficult. O’Dell just needed to hear that her friend was okay. She never expected the cheerful and excited voice that answered.

“So have you seen him yet?” Her friend sounded like a teenager.

O’Dell couldn’t help it. The exhaustion from the day caught up with her and she simply smiled.

40

Through the crowded Decon area, Creed was glad to see Dr. Avelyn. Three large tents had been erected in what otherwise was a back parking lot behind the school’s gymnasium. The line waiting to go through the process snaked around the corner of the building. Rescue workers had started calling it a day. And now they stood, wet and muddy, waiting their turn to be hosed down.

The rain was steady now with no signs of easing up, and nightfall would come soon. Creed felt what most of them were feeling — exhausted, hungry, dead tired, and yet reluctant to stop because they knew there might still be victims out there alive, buried under debris and mud, clinging to their last gasps. People like Mrs. Hamlet, waiting out yet another night.

Creed had left Grace with the old woman while he found his way back up the hill. Before he left them he had entered their location in his handheld GPS’s memory. He hadn’t wanted to waste any time finding them again. When he reached Vance and Mrs. Hamlet’s daughter, he brought up the location and discovered a shortcut.

They were able to carry the woman to her anxious daughter and a waiting ambulance. And through it all, Grace had never left the old woman’s side until they closed the medical van’s doors. The little dog hadn’t even complained about the pieces of glass buried between the pads of her feet.

Now Creed was eager to get Grace taken care of. There were only three search dogs waiting to be examined. He weaved his way through the rescue workers. When Dr. Avelyn saw him, she waved and gestured for him to cut through.

Grace pranced among the booted workers, greeting them with a wagging tail. Some of them smiled and bent down to pet her. Others parted out of Creed’s way when they saw Grace. By the time he reached Dr. Avelyn’s tented station, she was finishing her inspection of the last of the three dogs. When Grace recognized her, she could barely contain her excitement.

“Settle down,” Creed told her.

Dr. Avelyn immediately contradicted his command. She squatted down, opened her arms, and called Grace to her. He unsnapped the leash and the dog flew on bruised and bleeding paws.

“I just checked through Jason and Bolo about fifteen minutes ago,” she told him.

“Good. I’m glad they’re back. They okay?”

“Bolo’s a little freaked by all the men.”

“I bet he was glad to see you, then.”

She smiled. “I heard about your adventure today, Grace,” she told the little dog as she massaged her hands over Grace’s body, feeling for signs of distress or wounds. She glanced up at Creed and gave him another smile. “Sounds like you’ve had an interesting couple of days.”

“It’s been crazy.”

“You look like hell,” she said. She pointed to the cut above his eye. “You need to have that covered when you’re working in the field.”

He reached up to finger it and her scold stopped him. “Don’t touch it!”

“I pulled some glass from her paws,” he said, wanting the attention back on Grace. “But I think there’s more.”

He dropped to his knees beside the vet, wanting to get a closer look for himself. Strobe lights hung from the frame of the tent, creating too many shadows. Dr. Avelyn pulled on headgear and flipped on her own light. She grabbed a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and forceps, ready to get to work.

Creed lifted Grace up, cradling her back against his chest, his chin on the top of her head, making it easier for Dr. Avelyn to get at her paws.

“This might sting, Grace.”

“She has a freakishly high tolerance for pain,” he told the vet, watching as she removed small fragments of glass and debris. Every time she dropped one on the stainless steel tray Creed wanted to wince.

“She’s like her master.”

When Creed didn’t respond, Dr. Avelyn said, “I heard you might have a few busted ribs. If you want, I brought the portable X-ray machine. We can take a look.”

“Medics hog-tied me with ACE bandage. Would you do anything different if we found out the ribs were broken?”

“Not for a dog. I’m not sure for a person, but I’ll check. An X-ray could show whether a rib’s poking or threatening to poke something important. How’s your breathing?”

“Okay, I guess.” He nuzzled the top of Grace’s head. She was starting to get impatient with staying still. “Almost done, girl.” Then to Dr. Avelyn he said, “My head hurts. Maybe I broke something up there.”

He smiled but she shot him a concerned look, one that made him regret mentioning it.

“They checked you for a concussion, right?”

“I guess. I don’t know for sure. I don’t really remember much. I was out for quite a while afterwards.”

“Ryder! That’s like one of the top symptoms. Have you felt nauseated? How’s your vision?”

“Vision’s okay.”

“Do you remember what happened?”

“You mean being buried?”

She nodded. She was swabbing Grace’s paws now.

“Not all of it.”

“Did anyone clear you today before you went back out?”

“Nope.”

“How do you feel right now? Any dizziness? Ringing in the ears?”

“Ringing off and on. No more dizziness.”

“No more? That means you had some?”

“A little. Right now the headache feels like someone’s drumming a hammer into my head.”

“Some symptoms of a concussion can be delayed for hours. Even days. Sounds like you definitely had one. You might still have one.”

“Do you have something you can give me for the headache?”

“Yes.” She didn’t hesitate in answering. She finished with Grace, taking one last look. “No more work for you, Grace.” To Creed she said, “She needs to rest for at least twenty-four hours.”

“Absolutely.”

“And so should you,” she told him. Then she looked up over Creed’s shoulder at someone behind him and said, “I hope you don’t have any scorpions this time.”

Creed turned, surprised to find Maggie O’Dell.

41

No scorpions,” O’Dell told Dr. Avelyn.

The vet was referring to the last time the two had seen each other. O’Dell had fallen into a pit filled with scorpions. The thought of it usually made her shudder, but right now her focus was on Ryder Creed.

She hated that her heart seemed to skip a couple of beats as soon as his eyes met hers. Creed’s clothes looked like he had rolled in the mud. His hair was slicked down. His face bruised and cut, jaw dark with stubble. But eyes bright and clear. The corner of his mouth lifted into a smile. Battered and dirty, the man still managed to look like the poster boy for GQ if they had an outdoorsman edition.

“What brings you down to this mess?” he asked.

“Official request.” And she left it at that. There was time later for business.

Both Dr. Avelyn and Creed stood up. He still had Grace in his arms. When the little dog recognized O’Dell she started to squirm. He tucked her more securely under his arm and took a couple of steps closer for Grace’s sake. Or at least, O’Dell thought it was for Grace’s sake.

She offered the dog her hand to sniff and lick, then she petted Grace’s head, careful so she didn’t brush Creed’s fingers.

Silly. Totally ridiculous. But she’d forgotten how powerful his presence was, and already she was annoyed that her pulse was racing and that she was avoiding his eyes.

“Did you and Grace find the lost woman?”

“Grace did. And we think Mrs. Hamlet will be okay. She’s dehydrated and worn out from being out in the elements for almost two days. Twisted her ankle. Otherwise she seemed okay.”

She felt his eyes run over the length of her. “Looks like you’ve been out all day, too?” he said.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

She glanced down and realized her jeans were muddy at the knees and ankles, her boots caked, and her hair drenched like Creed’s, despite her FBI ball cap. She had her overnight bag slung over her shoulder and even with her windbreaker zipped up she was starting to feel a chill.

“Jason told me about you getting caught in a slide yesterday. Are you okay?”

“You saw Jason?”

Before she could explain, a man coming out the side door of the gymnasium interrupted them.

“Dogman!” he called out to Creed. “I’ve been waiting for you to get back.”

The man was shorter than Creed but lean and muscular. A bit older. White-blond hair, cut military short on the sides with a flap of bangs. He wore a leather bomber jacket, khaki pants, and expensive hiking boots that O’Dell immediately noticed didn’t have a spot of mud on them.

“Peter Logan.” He stuck out his hand for hers, then crushed it in his.

“So you’re Logan,” she said, returning the firm grip and watching his surprise. Actually, she didn’t mind the crusher grip. She’d rather that than the soft, patronizing handshake that most men in authority extended to women colleagues. “I have quite a few questions for you.”

He cocked his head at her and managed to keep his fake smile as he shot a look at Creed.

“I’m Agent Maggie O’Dell.”

Realization came over his face. “Oh, so you’re Ben’s girlfriend.”

O’Dell felt the rush of heat travel up her neck.

42

Peter Logan was an asshole and Creed wasn’t surprised to see that he hadn’t changed in the seven years since he’d seen him last.

“You two know each other?” He looked from Creed to O’Dell and back to Creed, eyebrows raised like there was something inappropriate going on.

“We’ve worked a couple of cases,” Maggie told him.

Creed wasn’t sure if he was irritated at Logan because he had embarrassed Maggie or because Logan knew more about the man who had an obvious hold on her heart.

Logan saw Grace. “What’s the deal, dogman? You bring the smallest dog you could possibly find to do a job for me? He doesn’t look like he’s even fifteen pounds soaking wet.”

Grace growled at him. Creed could feel the hair on the back of her neck rise up.

“Her name’s Grace. And no, she’s not working your project.”

“Yeah, I heard you didn’t show up at the site.” Hands on his hips as if he still had a platoon to order around.

“Jason and Bolo did a great job,” Maggie said before Creed could answer.

Only then did Creed realize she was the FBI agent sent to supervise Logan’s secret project.

“Yes, I heard you had a productive afternoon.” He wagged his head at Maggie in what Creed recognized as his familiar gesture of giving praise. That was about all anyone would get for pleasing him.

Grace was still rigid under Creed’s arm, stiff-arming her paw against his arm. He could feel the slight vibration of a low, continuous growl. She was probably feeding off of Creed’s animosity toward Logan.

“Until those floodwaters are reined in we won’t be able to do much more,” Maggie said.

Logan’s eyes darted around. Clearly he wasn’t comfortable discussing it in the open, even though Creed could see no one paying attention to them. Even Dr. Avelyn had gone over to the trailer set up for her and the others.

“We can talk about that later,” Logan told Maggie.

“Yes, that would be good if we could talk. I have some questions.”

“I’m sure you do.” He laughed like there was a private joke between them. “You go get cleaned up. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Morning?” Maggie was visibly irritated. She glanced back at the Decon line, which had gotten considerably shorter. “We should be finished in twenty to thirty minutes. Maybe we can talk over dinner. I heard they have a meal and a cot for us.”

Logan grinned and shook his head. “I’m afraid I won’t be staying here. I have other accommodations. But I’ll see you both in the morning.”

To Creed he said, “And I expect you up on the site tomorrow. Not one of your surrogates.” Then, as if he hadn’t just registered a chewing out, he added, “Good to work with you again, dogman.”

He reached out to slap Creed on the shoulder and Grace lunged for his hand, teeth bared, a growl deep in her throat.

Logan’s eyes went wide before Creed settled her back against his chest.

“Good grief, dogman. Send that little bitch back home.”

“She saved an elderly woman today who probably would have died if Grace hadn’t found her.”

Fake smile still planted on his face, but now with teeth gritted, Logan told Creed, “Yeah, well, I’m not paying you to find elderly women.”

He headed toward the street where Creed could see headlights waiting for him.

Maggie watched him leave, then turned back to Creed and said, “He’s a real piece of work. Are you two friends?”

“Not even close. I owe him a favor and he’s collecting it.”

43

O’Dell had the women’s locker room to herself after a couple of female rescue workers left. It felt good to be clean again and in dry clothes. She wished she had thought to bring another pair of hiking boots. She scraped and wiped off the mud as best she could, then pulled them back on over a warm pair of fresh socks.

She was meeting Creed for the 7:30 dinner. The cafeteria staff had asked that the crews separate into two groups so they could accommodate all the workers and volunteers. She had been trying to get ahold of Dr. Gunther. After leaving several more voice messages O’Dell gave up. But as she was stowing her gear and overnight case in a locker, her phone pinged.

At first she didn’t recognize the phone number for the text that had just come through. But the message left no doubt who it was from:

She remembered that Ralph’s was the meat locker they were using to store the body recovered from the government facility. She tapped a reply:

She asked one of the volunteers for directions to Ralph’s. The shortcut through the parking lot led her directly to the front door. Which was padlocked and had a sign warning to KEEP OUT. O’Dell made her way to the alley behind the building and found the back door. The heavy wood creaked as she shoved it open and darkness greeted her on the other side.

“Dr. Gunther? It’s Agent O’Dell.”

Suddenly a door down the hallway opened and light seeped out around the doorjamb.

“Are you alone?” the old woman asked.

“Yes, of course.”

“Then come on down here. I don’t have all night.”

The room was set up with stainless steel work stations and multiple sinks. Three refrigerator doors lined one wall. O’Dell found Dr. Gunther in baggy scrubs, teetering on a footstool that she had pushed up to one of the tables. The body on the table was the man with the shaved scalp. O’Dell noticed the hand they’d found on a stainless steel tray on one of the counters.

The old woman jutted her chin in the direction of a desk where there was a box of latex gloves, another with shoe covers, and still another with surgical masks. Over the back of the desk chair were a couple of scrubs tops. O’Dell pulled on the necessities and joined Dr. Gunther.

“Sons of bitches padlocked the place. Don’t know how they expected me to get in. I’ll be registering a complaint with their boss.” Then she snorted through her face mask and added, “Actually, I think they didn’t want anybody inside.”

“So how did you get in?”

“Ralph gave me a key for the back door. You closed it, right?” She shot O’Dell a look.

O’Dell nodded.

“Why would they ask you to help recover the bodies if they didn’t want you to do the autopsies?”

“Maybe because they don’t want anyone to find out what really happened to these men.”

If that were true, it hadn’t stopped her. She’d already cleaned the body. Instruments crowded a tray beside the doctor. A tool that looked like hedge trimmers sat on the counter, and O’Dell knew it would be used to cut the rib cage. No Y incision had been made. No samples had been taken and cataloged. Empty vials waited to be filled and labeled.

Without the mud O’Dell could now clearly see the U.S. Airborne tattoo with an eagle beneath it. What she thought had been burns farther down his arm now looked more like a large red bruise. Not a rash, but a bruise underneath the skin. Small white blisters like tapioca bubbled up around the edges. There were large red patches like this over most of his body. It reminded her of burns because in some places the skin had torn away. But this was different.

“What caused the skin to do this?” O’Dell knew it couldn’t have happened postmortem.

“I’ve only seen something like this once before. Years ago. Back in the late sixties. My husband was stationed at Eglin Air Force Base outside Pensacola, Florida. I was just a medical student at the time and he let me assist him. They were doing some kind of trials, spraying what they called tracer BG. It was supposed to be a harmless compound with fluorescent particles so they could track how the wind might affect an enemy attack with a biological weapon. We must have had two dozen airmen come in coughing up blood or bleeding from the ears. But there were blisters, too, and red patches almost like these.”

“Do you know what they actually sprayed?”

“Oh no, they never would tell us even while we were trying to treat those young men. They insisted the symptoms would go away. That what they used was completely safe. So safe they ended up conducting nine more tests. My husband was furious. It almost cost him his best friend.”

“Is it possible this facility was testing something similar?”

“I have no idea. But whatever this is, it’s much more potent. Watch this.” Dr. Gunther gently put an index finger on the bruise that covered his abdomen. She applied very little pressure and moved her finger an inch to the right. The skin fell away and peeled back with the motion of her finger.

She looked up at O’Dell over the top of her protective glasses. “How in the world am I supposed to conduct an autopsy?”

“Could it have been some kind of allergic reaction or accidental exposure?”

“Possibly. It would have been extreme. There’s more,” she said, and scooted over to hover above his face. With the same index finger and her thumb she pushed his lips up over his teeth, exposing his gums. The teeth were stained a rust color more prominent at the top, where the gums had peeled and bled.

The doctor waited for O’Dell’s surprise, then dropped the lips back, again accidentally tearing one with the slightest movement.

“It’s almost like the mud held him together.”

“He was hooked up to some kind of electrodes.” Dr. Gunther pointed to the clean circles on both temples. “And injected many times.” She moved his left arm for O’Dell to see all the puncture marks.

“It was a research facility,” O’Dell said, but her words sounded hollow even to her, with no passion to defend them. “We already suspected that he didn’t die in the landslide.”

“No, he certainly didn’t,” she said definitively.

“Did this… whatever he was exposed to — was it the cause of his death?”

“No, I don’t believe so.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“Help me sit him up.”

O’Dell stared at the woman, but she was already tugging at the man’s right shoulder.

“Help me,” the woman instructed. “Be careful not to touch his skin. I don’t want to tear it.”

O’Dell moved around to the other side of the table and gripped his left shoulder. They raised him to a sitting position.

“Take a look at his back,” Dr. Gunther insisted.

Still holding on to the body, O’Dell shifted so she could see whatever it was the woman wanted her to see. She found more bruising, but that wasn’t what Dr. Gunther was showing her. In the middle of his shoulder blade was a small black hole.

They eased him back onto the table.

“So he was shot, too.”

“Yes.”

“The first man they found — the scientist. Wasn’t he shot in the head?”

The doctor glanced around the room. “That’s what I was told, but he’s not here. I checked all the refrigerators. There is no other body.”

“I thought Ross told us he was brought here.”

“Perhaps they have his body at the funeral home. That’s where they’re keeping the victims from the landslide.”

“Or they moved him already.”

“Well, there’s just this gentleman here now. And the woman’s hand.”

“You can tell the hand belonged to a woman?”

“I need to look more closely but it’s small and has characteristics of a female. Also there’s a gold ring with diamonds on the thumb.”

“Men sometimes wear rings on their thumbs.”

“Yes, but not many men wear red fingernail polish.”

44

Creed called Hannah to let her know everyone was safe.

“I didn’t mean for Grace to go to work.”

“I know,” Creed said. He would have tried to keep it from her but Hannah always had a way of finding things out. “She’s okay.”

“She better be okay. I sent her with Jason so she wouldn’t be moping around here missing you. Not to work.”

As he watched the Jack Russell terrier, he realized how much he liked having her here with him. She was curled up in a dog bed beside his cot. She had tried to keep one eye open, checking on him, but finally gave in to exhaustion. Now he could see her breathing heavy, fast asleep.

Bolo was sprawled on the floor at the foot of Creed’s cot. One of the volunteers had set up two cots in the far corner of the gymnasium, making more room for Creed to be comfortable with the dogs and away from others so Bolo could relax. Still, the big dog lifted his head every time someone moved in one of the cots close by. He looked to see where the noise had come from, glanced over at Creed, then plopped his head down.

Jason and Dr. Avelyn had found a place about five cots over. They had eaten at the first dinner, then fed both dogs while Creed cleaned up. If he stood up he could see them.

At 7:15 he waved at Jason to come over. They had agreed Jason would stay with the sleeping dogs while Creed met Maggie for dinner. But now as Creed made his way through the cafeteria, he couldn’t find her. She seemed to have disappeared. Or maybe she changed her mind.

He hadn’t been able to figure Maggie O’Dell out. Creed didn’t usually have much trouble with women. Relationships were a different story, but most of the time women enjoyed his company.

He had worked with Maggie on two other cases in the last six months. One that ended in Blackwater River State Forest had almost gotten the two of them killed along with Bolo.

He knew there was chemistry between them. Could see she felt it as much as he did. But this guy, Ben — Logan had finally given him a name — had a hold on her. It was just as well. It looked like they’d be working together again, and Creed had only one rule about women — he never slept with women he worked with.

Still, he found himself watching the door.

Someone put a hand on his shoulder. Creed turned to find Oliver Vance, his tray piled with empty, dirty dishes.

“Thanks again for helping today.”

“Have you gotten any word on Mrs. Hamlet?”

“Last I heard she was doing good. They’re keeping her overnight at the hospital.” He waved at the spot he and his crew were vacating — the entire end of a table in the corner of the cafeteria. “Get your dinner. Bring me a cup of coffee. I’ll hold down a couple spots.”

Creed glanced at the door. Workers were coming in for the second dinner shift. But still no Maggie.

“Cream or sugar?” he asked Vance.

“Both. And grab me a piece of cherry pie if there’s any left.”

“There’s cherry pie?”

“Homemade.”

Creed was still grinning at the big man’s enthusiasm when he headed for the line. That’s when he saw Maggie come in the cafeteria door. She stopped and her eyes searched for him among the tables. She had her FBI windbreaker on but had definitely showered and changed from earlier, yet her hair was tousled and damp, her face flushed as if she had jogged there. When her eyes finally found him she smiled. He waited at the end of the line while she weaved around the tables and politely broke through the clusters of rescue workers, turning some heads as she passed by.

For a few minutes he didn’t even notice the pounding in his own head.

45

Creed had hoped to have Maggie to himself despite the crowded cafeteria. Vance had ended up having a second piece of pie and a third cup of coffee, talking endlessly when Maggie asked if he had family affected by the landslide. He did not. He actually lived across the state, but that didn’t stop him from bringing up photos on his cell phone of the wife and two girls he already missed terribly. By the time he got to the family dog pictures he realized he’d rambled. He clicked the phone off and tucked it into his shirt pocket.

“Your dogs are pretty damned amazing,” he told Creed, as if suddenly embarrassed and trying to stop hogging the attention. “Jason told me they’re all rescues that people dumped at the end of your property. Is that true?”

“Yeah, a lot of them are. I’ve gotten several from shelters. The breed oftentimes isn’t as important as the dog’s drive.”

“And the trainer,” Maggie offered.

“I’ve seen a lot of handlers get in the way, though.”

The big man was nodding and grinning. “Ain’t that the truth. One of my men worked with a FEMA handler and dog today. The dog alerted and they spent the next three hours digging up what they expected was a victim. Turned out it was a busted refrigerator with a whole lot of spoiled meat.”

“What was the trainer using for a reward?”

Vance shrugged.

“If they use food it might account for the dog alerting to the site. That’s why it’s best to use a toy.”

“Well, I sure wish I could have you back out with my crew tomorrow, but I know your boss and Agent O’Dell here are expecting you to work their site.”

“If they don’t have the floodwater diverted, we won’t be able to do a thing,” Maggie said.

“That must be where I saw the heavy equipment being trucked to. Funny, the feds will bust their asses to get anything necessary to recover a couple of dead guys, but I’ve been screaming for a couple more bulldozers and a few more dogs and all I hear are excuses.”

By the time they left Vance, the gymnasium lights had been dimmed. Creed had to strain to lead them through the rows of cots, most with already-sleeping occupants. Jason was stretched out on Creed’s cot watching a football game on his phone. When he saw them he sat up and gathered his stuff in silence.

Grace’s dog bed was between the two cots. She glanced up and wagged. Then she wiggled and started to get up when she saw Maggie, but Creed put his hand out for her to stay put. Maggie came around and patted her head as she sat on the cot that was saved for her.

Creed talked to Jason in whispers, making plans for the next day. He wanted him to stay with Grace. He also gave him a crumpled piece of paper from his daypack. On it was a name and phone number.

“This guy’s supposed to have something for me. Would you mind calling him?”

“Yeah, I can do that.” But Jason still hesitated. “You sure you don’t want to stay and rest? I don’t mind going back up with Bolo.”

“I appreciate that, but Logan made it clear he wants me on the site.”

Jason didn’t press it. They said they’d see each other at breakfast and he left for his own cot.

Creed turned back around to find that Bolo had his head in Maggie’s lap and Grace was up on Maggie’s cot, her head already on the pillow.

“Grace—”

“I invited her up.” She hugged Bolo around the neck, then pointed him to his dog bed at the foot of the cots and he obeyed.

Maggie already had her boots off. She threw her windbreaker across the blanket, then peeled off her sweatshirt, leaving a T-shirt and her jeans. She snuggled back behind Grace.

Creed pulled off boots and shirt, leaving on his T-shirt. He was about to lie back when Maggie sat up, staring at him with concern.

“Are you still bleeding?” She pointed at the stain over his chest.

“I might have leaked a little.” After his shower he had wrapped a fresh ACE bandage around his ribs. In the process he’d opened a few cuts. He lifted up his T-shirt to check.

“You shouldn’t have it wrapped that tightly.”

“The medic had it even tighter.”

“Must be old-school. It actually keeps you from breathing deeply. You could get pneumonia. Do you have more ACE bandages?”

He reached to the foot of his cot and pulled another roll out from the side pocket of his duffel. He wasn’t looking forward to doing this again. It had been a challenge the first time.

Maggie held out her hand and he surrendered the roll.

“Take off your shirt,” she said. When he hesitated she added, “We’ll do it without too much pressure.”

He smiled at her and waited for her to realize what she had said. When she did, she rolled her eyes at him, but he noticed the slight blush.

He pulled off his shirt and started unwrapping the old bandage, but Maggie stopped him.

“Here, let me.”

For the next several minutes Creed didn’t need to worry about his breathing because he was practically holding his breath. Every revolution to unwrap the old bandage and then wrap the new one required her hands to touch him, and she had to lean into him so close her hair brushed against his skin. She was avoiding his eyes but he couldn’t take his off of her. By the time she was finished he was exhausted from trying so hard not to feel so much.

Her eyes were still examining her handiwork even as she lay back down. They were face-to-face except for about eighteen inches between their cots. That and a Jack Russell terrier who was already breathing heavy and fast asleep. Creed was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to sleep if he were in Grace’s place, but he liked trying to imagine what it felt like to have Maggie’s body against him.

“Thanks,” he told her.

“Thanks for saving me a cot.”

“You don’t suppose Ben will be upset?”

She opened one eye and raised her eyebrow, waiting for an explanation.

“That we’re sleeping together.”

She didn’t answer. Closed both eyes again, but even in the dim light Creed could see her smile.

46

Ellie had sneaked down the back steps and waited until she saw Carter leave the building. Then with the help of another staff member she had loaded the boxes into the trunk of her car. Now the contents of several of those boxes carpeted her living room floor.

“Mom, George is eating pizza in the game room.”

Ellie glanced up. Her daughter stood at the edge of the mess but didn’t seem fazed by it, as if her mother always brought home copies of forty-year-old classified documents and scattered them around the house.

“I told him he could.”

Ellie dug out another set of file folders and started sifting through them.

Her daughter didn’t budge. Ellie looked up at her again and waited.

“Are you okay?” she asked, scrunching up her nose at the mess as if seeing it for the first time.

“I’m fine, sweetie.” But still she waited.

She knew her kids missed their father. George Ramos was a liar and soon would be a convicted criminal, but the man had always been good to his children. The last year had been difficult for them. Sometimes Ellie wondered if the kids were waiting for signs that she might fall apart or leave them, too.

“Can I have pizza in my room?”

“Sure.”

“Really?” She stared at Ellie like it was a trick or a test.

“Would you bring me a piece before you go upstairs?”

The girl nodded, still eyeing her suspiciously as she left the room.

Ellie sat back, stretched her legs out in front of her, and arched her back. She’d need a dozen people to help sort through the mess and still not know what to look for. The DoD had overwhelmed them with so many documents — many of which seemed blatantly irrelevant — that she suspected that was their strategy. It was as if they were taunting the committee to try to find the needle in their haystack.

And what did it really matter? There had been a hearing years ago. That hearing had insisted a study be conducted. Hadn’t those committee members gone over all these same documents? If there was damning evidence, wouldn’t it have been found by now?

She tossed the files in her hand off to the side. She didn’t even know what she was looking for. Did she really care or was she simply angry that Quincy might be keeping her in the dark? He was even using her chief of staff.

But why didn’t they want her to know about Frank Sadowski? He was a veteran from her home state of Florida who was affected by Project 112. Of course she’d encourage him to testify. But in July she didn’t even know about these congressional hearings. Was Sadowski the only reason that Senator Quincy had allowed her to be on the committee? Did he think he might somehow be able to control the veteran’s testimony if Sadowski thought he had his own senator on his side? What kind of game was Quincy playing? And using her chief of staff to do it?

She wondered if Quincy had ever intended to treat her like a full-fledged member of this committee. But how could she complain? She had used being the token woman as a trump card to get on the committee. And her reason for wanting on? She needed to lift her profile for reelection. How lame was that? How selfish was that?

Ellie raked her fingers through her long hair and leaned against the sofa.

Dear God, she was as bad as the rest of them.

Games, compromises, quid pro quo — everything came with a price. From the very beginning she should not have put up with any of their sexist actions and degrading comments. Her first month in the Senate she was stunned when one of the most senior members had told her that she had the “prettiest bottom” for a senator. Okay, so at least he hadn’t pinched it, but his remark certainly set the stage for what the others thought was appropriate.

She thought it would get old and go away. Sort of like a fraternity initiation ritual. But just last week another senior senator had asked her if it was tough being without her Latin husband, insinuating that she must be accustomed to sex and lots of it. In so many words he went on to offer his services. She had laughed like it was the funniest joke she had ever heard because she had no clue how else to respond.

Isn’t that what the men did — tell each other rude, crude jokes and then roll with laughter?

She pulled out another stack of files and stopped. This was ridiculous. A waste of time. She started to shove them back into the box when a manila envelope fell to the floor. Even before she picked it up she could tell it was old. The metal clasp indented the fold and rust encircled it. The envelope felt brittle between her fingers. There was something thicker than paper inside.

Ellie glanced at the outside of the box. All these files were copies of original documents. Was it possible someone had mistakenly dropped an original?

She tried to carefully and slowly bend the metal clasp. One side broke off in her fingers and she felt a slight panic. She set the piece of metal aside and caught herself actually thinking she might be able to glue it back on.

Stupid and silly! Just open the damned envelope.

She slid the contents out onto her coffee table. And then she stopped, her hand in midair holding the now empty envelope. The black-and-white photographs were eight-by-tens, the kind a professional photographer would take. The dates were stamped in scalloped white edges: 1953, 1958, 1962, 1965.

Ellie held each one up. They were nothing like she expected. So much talk about ships and bases being sprayed, about sailors and soldiers being exposed to biological weapons.

But these were not photos of sailors or ships. These photographs were of schoolchildren.

47

Ellie dug back into the box and found the file folder she thought the envelope had fallen out of. Unlike the others, this one was not labeled.

In all, there were five photographs. The children were lined up and smiled for the camera as a man in a suit waved a strange wand with some kind of light beam. Ellie didn’t recognize it as any kind of magic trick.

In one photo he held the wand over their feet. In another, they were facing away from the camera while he waved the light beam across their little backs.

There was no explanation in the envelope. Only the date stamped on each. She pulled out yellowed newspaper articles from the folder. They were from the Chicago Tribune, The New York Times, and the Minneapolis Star Tribune. Two were from 1994. One was dated 2012. All had disturbing headlines:

“You haven’t touched your pizza.” Ellie’s daughter startled her. She was standing over her and Ellie closed the folder and plopped it on top of the photographs.

“I will. I just got carried away.”

“What are you doing, anyway?”

Usually her daughter wouldn’t notice unless it somehow involved her. Such was the mind of a twelve-year-old.

“I have some homework.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

She walked away shaking her head.

Ellie opened the folder again and pulled out one of the articles to read. In 1953 the army sprayed clouds of what they believed was a nontoxic material — zinc cadmium sulfide — in an effort to test how chemicals would disperse during biological warfare. Multiple cities were used as test sites, as were multiple areas within each city. In Minneapolis the material was sprayed sixty-one times in four parts of the city from generators in the rear of trucks or from rooftops.

One of the sites sprayed in Minneapolis was a public elementary school. Students were tested at various times with “special lights” to determine if the chemicals — zinc sulfide is a fluorescent phosphor — showed residual traces on their shoes, clothing, or bodies. And if it showed up, how long it stayed.

Ellie stopped. Took a deep breath. She was feeling a bit sick to her stomach and now the pepperoni on the pizza didn’t help matters.

The articles talked about demands for full disclosure from the army. Zinc cadmium sulfide was now believed to be toxic and could possibly cause cancer and some birth defects. Yet a committee of the National Research Council in 1997 determined that the amounts used in these studies were not harmful.

However, they admitted their research was “sparse” and relied on incomplete information supplied by the army and Fort Detrick about the “quantities dispersed” and the “exact composition of the fluorescent particles” used.

They did admit that more than a hundred biological warfare simulation tests such as these were conducted by the army in urban and rural areas between 1952 and 1969 without the public’s knowledge. Some used zinc cadmium sulfide. Others used Bacillus globigii or Serratia marcescens—both common bacillus found in water, food, and sewage.

Ellie placed the articles back in the folder. Carefully she slid the photographs into the envelope and noticed that there was another photograph, stuck to the inside. She pried it loose and pulled it out.

This one was stamped 1968. Another group of schoolchildren, but this time posing with three men who were all dressed in uniforms. They stood behind the children, smiling for the camera. She glanced at the photograph, then stared at the men, stunned to recognize two of them.

No, it wasn’t possible.

She held it up to the light, then flipped it over to find a label on the back. She read the caption identifying the men, and now she was certain. The man in the middle was a young Colonel Abraham Hess. To his left was an army doctor named Dr. Samuel Gunther. And the man standing on Colonel Hess’s right was Ellie’s father.