The Soul Collectors

44

The door banged against the wall with enough force to leave a mark. Darby didn't flinch. She sat still, her blood cooling.

Jack Casey was much older than the man she'd just seen in the pictures; he'd gone from the young Clint Eastwood to the older but still good-looking and still intimidating Clint: face weathered and wrinkled from too many years spent toiling in the sun; grey hair cut short and receding a bit around the temples. Casey was the same height as Coop, somewhere in the neighbourhood of six five, and, despite his age, the former profiler packed an amazing amount of solid muscle. The man looked as if he could lift a small car without breaking a sweat.

'You,' Casey said, pointing to Coop. 'Get out.'

Darby said, 'He stays, Mr Casey. Or should I call you Special Agent Casey?'

The man's gaze narrowed, surprised either that she knew his name or that she had the audacity to go up against his orders. Casey made his way to her, slowly, and when he reached her chair, he stared down at her, scowling. Unlike Army Boy Billy Fitzgerald, aka Special Agent Sergey Martynovich, the Secret Service agents and other men she'd met who had tried to intimidate her with their tough-guy glares, Casey was the real deal. He was struggling to maintain his composure.

Good, she thought. That gave her a tactical advantage. Angry people didn't think clearly. They made mistakes. They spilled secrets and painted themselves into corners.

'McCormick, right?'

'That's me.'

Casey put one hand on her chair arm. The other gripped the edge of the desk. He had big hands. Tanned, but rough and callused. A carpenter, maybe. Some sort of trade.

His brown leather jacket was unzipped, and when he leaned into her, she caught a glimpse of the shoulder holster. If he was back working with the feds, he certainly wasn't dressing like one: jeans, a black T-shirt and work boots.

'Listen to me carefully, sweetheart.' His voice trembled, struggling to speak clearly over his mounting rage. 'There are two federal agents posted outside this room. You are going to go with them. You are going to sit down with them and answer every one of their questions. If you give them any lip this time, if you so much as accidentally rub up against one, I am personally going to jam an obstruction of justice charge so far up your ass that you won't see daylight again.'

Darby sighed.

'It's a good threat. Honestly, it is.' Her voice was calm, a fact that irritated Casey. His crimson-coloured face, growing darker by the second, looked like it was going to explode off his shoulders. 'One small problem, though. You're going to have to put me in front of a judge, and you and I both know you don't want a judge or anyone else to know about this secret little investigation you're running — especially now, given your negligence.'

'My what?'

'Your negligence. Your people neglected to tell me that this cult or whoever they are would be following my every move. Your people neglected to tell me that they would try to capture or kill me. If I had known the danger, I wouldn't have gone to see John Smith. The man and his wife might still be alive.'

Casey swallowed, his eyes growing dangerously bright.

'And then there's the issue of those army documents I was forced to sign,' she said. 'You had one of your agents impersonate a US Army officer, and he forced me to sign — under duress, I might add — those forged documents.'

'Serious accusations. Going to be tough to prove.'

'I have in my possession a portion of the original documentation.'

Surprise flashed across Casey's face; his eyes widened, just a bit, before he caught himself.

'Three fingerprints were recovered,' she said. 'Yours and ones that belong to Special Agent Sergey Martynovich, the man who impersonated a US Army officer at the BU Biomedical Lab. The third print, though, was the most interesting one. A missing boy named Darren Waters, who's been missing for — ' She turned to Coop. 'How many years was it again? Thirty-four years?'

'Thirty-four,' Coop said.

Darby whistled.

She looked back at Casey. 'How in God's name did a missing boy's fingerprints — a boy who has been missing thirty-four years — how did his fingerprints manage to get on those forged army forms?'

Casey didn't answer. Some of the heat, though, had left his glare.

'You'd better come up with an answer,' she said. 'Judges don't care for the silent treatment. And they don't look too kindly on federal agents who kick someone to the kerb to use as bait. The people I met at the Rizzo house? They followed me to the blast site.'

Casey tried to hide his confusion. 'When was this?'

Darby tapped the heel of her palm against her forehead. 'That's right, I forgot. You don't know about that because those two bozos you had parked at the end of my street, the ones in the Chevy Tahoe, York and Blue, they blew their cover. Too bad. If they hadn't, they could have followed me to New Hampshire. Maybe then you'd have in custody at least one of the six men I met there.'

Casey looked like he was going to make a move to grab her. Snap her in half like a dry branch, toss the broken pieces aside and then go after Coop, who was still seated and staring down at the table, a hand covering his mouth, she knew, to hide his grin. For reasons she never understood, he always got a kick out of it when she was on the verge of blowing a gasket.

'Doesn't matter,' she said. 'We'll discuss this in front of a judge.'

Darby sprang to her feet. The sudden movement caught Casey off guard; he stumbled back.

'See you at the courthouse.'

She moved past him, to the door. Had her hand on the knob and was turning it when Casey said: 'Those agents were sent there to protect you.'

Darby swung around and saw Casey standing with his back to her, his hands thrust deep in his jeans pockets.

'Who are these people?'

Casey didn't answer. Just arched his back and stared up at the ceiling.

'You can answer my questions now, or we can do it in front of a judge,' she said. 'A judge is going to ask you why I needed to be protected, and that's going to create all sorts of problems for you, the first of which is explaining that story you manufactured about the Rizzo home exploding from a meth lab. I was there, as you already know, and I saw the dynamite. I'll start there, then walk the judge through everything that's happened, ending with how I almost got my head blown off last night at a former cop's — '

'Enough,' Casey said, holding up a hand. 'Enough,' he said again, this time in a softer, tired voice. 'You've made your point.'

He turned around and faced her. Blew out a long stream of air. 'Fine,' Casey said. 'We'll talk, but we'll do it alone.'

Coop stood, knowing full well she'd fill him in later. He collected his papers. 'I'll wait for you outside, Miss McCormick.'

Her focus never left Casey. The man's gaze was still pinned on her but he wasn't looking at her. His attention had drifted inward.

The door shut.

'Let's hear it,' Darby said.