The Serpent's Kiss

9

Derek walked out of the staging tent, his hazardous materials suit cleaned, dried and carefully folded back into his duffel bag. The cool October air felt awesome after an hour in the suit stepping over and around dead bodies. The only saving grace was that the suit prevented him from smelling the stench of body fluids and death. He took in a deep chest full of air. Cool and sweet. He looked around for Jill Church, but didn’t immediately see her. His temper flared, wondering what she did with the lists of names he sent out for her the last forty minutes.

Going through the personal belongings of dead people was hot, uncomfortable, unsettling work. Pulling wallets from pockets, opening purses, looking at ID badges. So many dead. Most of the dead were employees at Henry Ford Hospital across the street. Some worked for the HMO next door, Health Alliance Plan. A few came from Wayne State University and a few were from the neighborhood, people just stopping off for coffee or breakfast before going to their jobs or coming home from their night-shift work.

LaPointe sketched the restaurant and labeled the names of every single person on the chart as Derek read off the information. A tedious, but vital process.

Derek tucked the final names and his copy of the map into his back pocket. LaPointe was taking a break before overseeing the removal of the bodies from the restaurant to a makeshift morgue being set up in the basement of the hospital.

“Stillwater!”

Derek turned. Jill Church strode toward him, jaw tight, eyes blazing. She stopped in front of him.

“Did you start on those lists?” he asked.

She looked around. Nervously, thought Derek. “Yes,” she said, voice low. “I did. We’ve got a problem.”

“We do?”

“Yes,” she said. “We do. I went through my chain-of-command and gave that original list to my SAC.”

“Goddammit! I told you—”

”And he threw it away. My job isn’t to investigate. My job is to put little walls up around you and keep you out of this business.”

“Give me the goddamn list.” He held his hand out, snapping his fingers at her.

“I’ve got a question for you,” she said, not turning over the list.

“Goddamn it. I have a job to do, Church. You have my permission to go stick your head in the sand. I’m not going to do that, though. Give me the list.”

“Can I trust you?”

He stopped. “That’s up to you.”

Jill caught his shirt sleeve. “I read some of your file.”

“The FBI’s file is a little biased.”

“I can’t decide if you’re a bad guy or a hero. But I’ll tell you something. I’m a very overpaid babysitter and I did run those names you gave me. So my question is this. Do you know what you’re doing?”

He met her gaze. Again he was struck by that sense of familiarity, of deja vu. Had they met before?

“Yes,” he said. “Agent Church, I know what I’m doing.”

She nodded, as if to herself. “Then let’s go. Those first fifteen names? Some of those are really, really interesting.”