The Emerald Scepter

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Sutherland lived in a one-story stucco house atop a scrub-covered hill on rolling land that was once part of an abandoned ranch about ten miles north of the Mexican border. The only people she ever saw on her property were illegal immigrants heading north and the border police in white SUVs trying to intercept them. They were the ideal visitors because they didn’t linger.

She had settled in Arizona after wandering around the Southwestern desert vaguely in search of the kind of spirituality that had vanished along with her innocence. Sutherland had seen the listing for the stucco house in a real estate office window during a stopover in the artsy little town of Tubac. She rode out to take a look at the house and immediately fell in love with its isolation and panoramic view. She bought it and about five surrounding acres with her winnings from internet poker. Her navy disability pension kept her in tacos and burritos and paid the utility bills.

The quiet beauty of the desert had lulled the anxieties that seemed to hound her wherever she traveled. Inspired by the fiery vermilion of the sunsets she saw in the western sky from her patio, she had ventured into town and acquired acrylic paints, brushes and an easel in a local art supply shop. After she took a few painting lessons in a local gallery, she had been spending less time at the computer and more of her days in front of a canvas.

She painted landscapes at first. Her paintings were technically well-executed, but they made her uneasy because of what they revealed about her psyche. She didn’t have to be a psychologist to detect the disturbing hints of paranoia in the beastly eyes lurking in the shadows and in the menacing postures of saguaro cacti. She had put her landscapes in storage and switched to another subject, the hummingbirds that darted in to dine at the dozen or so feeders she had hung around the house. It was impossible to instill menace in her paintings of the tiny birds and she captured the luminescent hues of their colors with amazing accuracy.

She had set up her computer in a small bedroom that had a window view of the crumbling walls of an old ranch house and stables in a shallow valley around a quarter of a mile away. She had carried her coffee into her office to check her computer when the call came in from Hawkins.

“We’re on our way, Molly. Crossing the Atlantic. How’s it going?”

“Fine. Prester John file is done. I’m setting up the internet surveillance program, but nothing has come up so far that relates to the mission.”

“Great, Molly.” He paused. “I’ve been thinking. I don’t really have a handle on the folks who hired me.”

“You told me about the Newport meeting.”

“Yes, but those characters could have been bit players for all I know. Dumb not to vet the people at the meeting.”

“Yeah, pretty dumb. No problem. I’ll start files on all the names you gave me.”

“That would put my mind at ease. I’ll let you know when we get to Kabul.”

After they said their good-byes, Sutherland turned to her computer. She compiled bios on the Newport group. Nothing popped up to catch her attention. There was one name on the meeting list that she didn’t check out. Matt Hawkins.

Sutherland already knew everything there was to know about Hawkins. She had opened a file the day she met him in Trask’s office, adding to it every step of his life since he’d left the navy, returned to college and established a new career. She had watched electronically from afar, only rarely corresponding with him. Her fault mostly. She was aware that she had a crush on Hawkins. My god, she thought, what female wouldn’t be attracted to him? Sutherland knew Hawkins liked her, but probably more like a kid sister. She was comfortable with that arrangement, with its implicit bond of trust. It was why she had answered his IM. And the reason she took on this nutty assignment.

Although she had to admit that her heart had skipped a beat when she saw his face during the teleconference, and she was pleased to hear him praise her skill as an investigator. Out of idle curiosity, she called up the Hawkins file and clicked on the transcript of the navy hearing after the ambush in Afghanistan. She read down to the tense exchange between Hawkins and the lead officer:

Sutherland found the rest of the testimony hard to read. The board took turns demolishing Matt’s theory that dark, unknown forces had doomed the operation. Without explicitly saying so, their questions seemed to suggest that it was Matt’s fault the mission went awry. Matt was still feeling guilt about his leadership. The outburst that ended his career and led to a less than honorable discharge was inevitable given his precarious mental state.

She had read the transcript before, but except for her friend’s flashes of anger, it seemed straightforward. Hawkins was on the defensive, visibly frustrated with the board’s unwillingness to look further into the ambush. She sat back in her chair and stared out the window.

Something was out of kilter. In reading the transcript before, she had concentrated on Hawkins and his anguished testimony rather than the facts presented at the hearing. She had the feeling she had missed something.

Sutherland glanced at her wall clock. She had to run into town for art supplies and her painting class. She snapped the cover down on her computer and pushed back from the desk. She’d get back to the hearing later. Maybe a few hours slapping paint on canvas would clear her mind.