Heavily wooded hills rose up and framed the multistory buildings of the FBI Criminal Justice Information Services compound, a high tech center of data and information held by the feds. It was used to track and identify not just criminals but missing persons and educated other law enforcement agencies and the public about the process of DNA analysis and biometric identification. The sun was just over the hills in the east, illuminating the dull beige brick and gleaming off the panels of glass along the side of the central building.
Outside there was a small cluster of men and women, dressed professionally and sipping coffee from styrofoam cups. Some carried laptop cases and others had notepads and one older man had a yellow steno pad under his arm of his ill fitting suit jacket. Away from the main cluster was a small, nearly walled off nook under the shade of an oak tree where smokers gathered.
Dr Laine stood under the tree, dressed in a black skirt over black tights topped with a form fitting deep grey sweater that hugged her hips and a Djarum between her fingers. Her blazer hung over her arm, the West Virginia summer morning already promising the day would be hot.
"You should really quit, it'll kill you."
The voice belonged to Dr Alex Bakker, forensic medical examiner for the crime lab at the academy. He sniffed at the stink of cigarettes, the sweeter smell of her cloves mingled in the acrid smoke.
“Yeah, well death is my aesthetic,” Laine said, rolling her eyes then flicked her ashes, “Besides, it didn’t seem to bother you before.”
“Because you only smoked after...ah, well if a funeral is what you’re after you’re always dressed for it,” Bakker quipped, running his eyes over her then glancing away towards the building. “I brought you a coffee.”
“Did you?”
“Black like your heart.”
“Funny,” Laine took the coffee and looked at him, “How’s your girlfriend, Linda? Babysitting still?”
“Funny and it’s Lily, she’s a kindergarten teacher,” Bakker replied, giving her a sharp look. “And she’s doing well, thank you for asking. We’re engaged now.”
“Congratulations,” Laine said, tipping her cup slightly to him. “Now for a two story house in the suburbs and a white picket fence. Of course, on a civil servant and public school teacher salary that might be difficult.”
Bakker took a drink and nodded, looking pensive at the hulking building across the parking lot. “That is a problem. She thinks maybe if I went back to practicing medicine on the living we could afford it.”
Laine raised a brow, a flicker of concern crossing her face. “You’d leave all this? I always thought you enjoyed your job. You’re good at it.”
It was a genuine compliment, no matter what feelings lay between them, Dr Bakker was a brilliant forensic medical examiner and they often worked on cases together. There was no one else she trusted more with a body.
“Maybe, things change. I’ve been doing this awhile.”
“If you were really going to do it, you wouldn’t be here,” Laine pointed out then snuffed the clove cigarette out in the sand of the ashtray.
“I said I was thinking about it, I would make a lot more money going back to surgery and saving lives rather than after the fact,” he said, falling in step with her as they walked back to the CJIS building as it grew closer to the time the seminar would begin.
“You would miss the mystery, the puzzles,” Laine said, tossing her bobbed dark hair as she shook her head emphatically. “I know you.”
“You knew me, things change. I’ve changed, I’m thinking about a future, you know? Marriage, kids, the things that you...” he bit back the words that would have come next, the same things they had argued about and ultimately drove them apart. “Anyway, I’m still with the Bureau.”
They finished their coffee and tossed the cups before entering the building as the other people, men and women from field FBI offices, city and county detectives, biologists and forensic examiners filed in to the lecture hall. Like high school, they tended to group up in knots of likeness, locals with locals and feds with feds. The science nerds off by themselves. Laine tried not to smile at the thought and found a seat at the back and Bakker slid into the desk next to her. “Sitting in the back with the cool kids now? Think you’ll get a handy from me if they turn off the lights?” she said, giving him a sly look as he blushed, unable to hide the reaction with his strawberry blonde coloring that reddened easily.
“Knock it off, Heather,” he muttered. Bakker coughed and cleared his throat as he attempted to smother the laugh. “Pay attention, I’m not letting you borrow my notes.”
Just as the seminar began, Laine felt a buzzing of her phone. Not the one she used everyday but the secret phone. She froze, unsure she had heard it but it went off again causing her to fish around in her purse before fetching it up and checking the message.
Working Group UMBRA is activated. Blackriver, WV.
“Shit,” she hissed, staring at the simple sentence, “I gotta go.”
“What’s going on?” Bakker leaned over, whispering though few heads turned their way with looks of annoyance.
“Take notes for me, I need to run.”
Laine got up, giving an apologetic nod to the geneticist who glared at her from the podium and she slipped out into the morning light. Blackriver County was not far from Clarksburg, she could drive and be there in an hour. Laine replied back, “omw”
The road was familiar and it brought back unpleasant memories as Laine steered around the turn of the mountain road heading toward the safehouse. She checked her speed on the rental Hyundai when she passed a Blackriver county cop tearing off to whatever methmergency was going on.
Behind the beauty of the wilderness there was the haunt of industry, the urban decay and ghettos replaced with trailer parks with blank eyed women scratching at their pale skin, watching dirty tow headed children playing in the weed choked yard. Hunger existed here, hopeless lives of poverty and violence as hard as any in Watts. Bikers and family meth dealers rather than gangs and crack, but it added up the same.
She passed in a flash, the sadness of the scene left behind as quick as she could, her mind on what might have caused Donnelley to activate them again. Excitement tempered with apprehension built up as she caught sight of the cabin, pulling into the parking area. Stepping out of the car, she reached for her regular phone. A message from Bakker, asking what happened. Laine turned off the phone and headed towards the door.
>LT. SERENA GOMEZ >THE SAFEHOUSE >BLACKRIVER COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA >0900HRS...///
Serena grabbed another beer and went back to her room to pack, not that there was much to pack. Hell she hadn’t really had the chance to unpack to begin with. She took a long pull from the beer and got on her cell phone to acquire a ticket for the ride back. She hadn’t planned on going home so soon, but to say that she had gotten any information sufficient enough to make much of a plan for was a bit much. She flopped down on the bottom bunk and thumbed her way through the web just long enough to hit the quickest site, Travelocity winning out this time.. She booked the first flight back to LA leaving Charlestown around 11:45 that pleased her. She wasn’t much for transfers and layovers, and this one had neither. She could definitely do for a nap, but she would have plenty of time for that on the flight home. It wasn’t like her mind was going to afford her much rest anyway, not after what happened at “Camp WhattheFuck”, West Virginia. Christ. She took another hard pull from the bottle and set it down as she sat upright, running a hand through her hair. A shower, yes. She stood up quick and dug through her bag as neatly as possible as to not have to repack everything. She dug out a pair of slim jeans and a plain white V neck shirt and a clean pair of panties that looked more like kids underwear more than anything and headed for the shower. That’s exactly what she needed. A good hot shower would do her some good…
A good hot shower might have been a bit of a stretch. It was anything but hot, but she was definitely awake and alert now, almost as much as her nipples were. She wasted little time in the water and even less time getting dressed, her clothes dampened from her lack of will to fully dry off before dressing herself. West Virginia’s climate was far more brisk and less forgiving than back home. She felt like her lips were turning purple and she developed a trembling which was most noticeable at her knees and elbows as she shivered her way down the hallway. She stopped along the way to grab another beer from the kitchen, at least they weren’t ice cold now.
”What I wouldn’t give for some Patron right now.” she said, popping the top on the counter once more.
She went back to the room and continued her packing which didn’t take very long. She took a moment to download a few songs on her ipod before heading out for Charlestown. She would have to speed a bit to get there but she could make it. She threw her luggage in the back of the rented Suburban and headed for the interstate, stopping along the way to get a few Red Bulls and a handful of large Tobbasco flavored SlimJims to help get her down the road.
She made it to the airport and returned her rental before checking her luggage and retrieving her ticket from the American Airlines desk. She did so rather hastily before going through the security checkpoint. She made it through with little time to spare. By the time she found her terminal the flight had nearly been boarded with only a handful of people still remaining in line. She found her seat and flopped down, plugged her headphones into her ipad and completely disregarded the flight attendant’s spiel about safety belts and flooding planes and how they should safely exit in the event of a blah blah blah. Before long the wheels on the landing gear were freed from the tarmac runway and she was on her way back to LA. She promptly hailed a stewardess for a pillow and some top shelf tequila which she immediately disposed of. She downed a second one before tuning herself out in the finest reclined seat that a coach ticket could afford.
>LAX INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT > LOS ANGELES, CA >01:45HRS...///
Some 14 hours later one jet-lagged Serena touched down in Los Angeles. She was absolutely spent. She hailed a cab from the airport back to her home. She accidentally slammed the door to the cab a bit harder than she meant to, and she could hear the cabbie cussing her for all she was worth until he was completely out of hearing range. “Home, sweet home”, she thought as a smile managed to grow on her face. She fumbled with her keys a bit before entering. She slung her keys down on to her new Ikea nook pub style table and went straight for the tequila in the freezer. She grabbed a glass from the cabinet and poured herself a healthy three fingers. She then retrieved her cell phone from the drawer of no return in the kitchen. She inserted the battery and sim card and turned the device back on. It promptly went through the annoying start up while she took a sip from the glass, wincing at the awful chimes that everyone dreaded to hear. An odd thing really, something so mundane and nerve racking was also equally as reassuring and grounding on the opposite side of the same coin. She was very glad to be home regardless. She pulled off her shoes and pants and slid under the covers. She took another drink. She thought better of calling her mother and father, knowing full well that if she did she wouldn’t catch a break. She was already two flights and a corpse past that so she decided to call after she got some much needed rest. She opted to text her friend Cindy instead, with a simple message that read:
“HOME, WILL CALL AFTER SLEEP.”
She had no idea that WILL CALL AFTER SLEEP would translate into two days later. Forty eight hours of blurry and negligent bliss had befallen her. She barely recalled much of anything save for a few trips to the fridge and the bathroom, and a few dreary visions muffled by low ambient television chatter, but that was about it. Having fully reacclimated herself she made her rounds on the phone first, of course. She called Cindy first, a lengthy conversation about absolutely nothing, full of “oh my god, girl” moments, with a sparse peppering of teasing comments about how clandestine she was being, but it was a short lived inconvenience, and she was happy about that. They had made plans to go out the very same night for a good meal and some much needed self loathing that only neon lights and dim lit bar tops could deliver. Then came the dreaded call home, which wasn’t nearly as bad as she had thought it was going to be. She was more than likely spared by the short span of time she was gone, and she now thankful for that. She also called to check back in with her Unit Commander Bill. Higgins was glad to hear from her, and in such good time too. She promised to come by, but Higgins made sure that she not rush back in before getting some rest in. She reassured him though that she would surely come in before the week was out. She then spent the rest of the afternoon at her mother and father’s home, enduring a healthy pelting of unwanted cheek kissing and overly amorous behavior from her mother. This was to be expected though, and she was surely not disappointed.
Cindy and Serena then went to their dinner, lots of drinks and laughter. Serena was very glad that this hadn’t changed. Cindy was only annoying in the best of ways, and she was a decent friend. That was a lot to ask of people in this day and age. They then went on to a bar not too far from their neighborhood and tore in proper like. She ended up with some nameless guy in his apartment afterwards. She had decided that she wouldn’t be bringing any strays around her new place, especially not since she had acquired this “second job”. It just wouldn’t be wise. She had a scheduled meeting with her shrink for the following Friday but she moved up a week. Apparently cheap drinks and cheaper sex wasn’t going to clear her mind from the download strain she acquired in West Virginia. Her psychiatrist, Angela Baker, was a nosy bitch. Serena had known this for some time, but it was much more irksome now that she had some shit to hide. Mrs. Baker had been assigned to everyone on her unit after the ”incident’ with the midget tribe of Bundys, and she pried persistently about that already. This was going to be a problem.. she was going to be a problem. She was already asking questions that Serena didn’t know how to answer. This would need to be remedied.
Serena made her way back to work the same day, and greeted Higgins straight away. There was an oddness looming about. It was as if nothing had changed, at least on the surface, but there was an air about him now. In fact, she noticed this distance with nearly everyone in her unit. She went to the gym at least twice a week for the first month. Faces masked by gestures of greeting and good fortune that didn’t quite cover the edges, letting their deceit, imagined or not, show through. This only compounded Serena’s desire to be reclusive, which Mrs. Baker had already confirmed wasn’t healthy behavior, nor was it beneficial. Serena cared little. She wasn’t going to fall apart, was she?
She continued to meet with Cindy at least once a week as well, perhaps the last bastion that remained of her humanity in social terms. She also ordered a pair of tail lights, and a new spark plug and starter cap upgrade to go on the Camaro. A personal project or two would surely help to fill in the gaps from her deteriorating social life. She had also taken to surfing a great deal in the morning times. It was about the best thing that her shrink had suggested thus far. She got into the habit of getting up semi early and grabbing a sixer on the way to the beach. She wasn’t much for actually surfing, but she did enjoy sitting in the water on her board with a six pack to take in the ass of the sunrise several times a week. The salty smell of the foaming tides did her a lot of good, but then so did day drinking. She did enjoy it a lot, all jokes aside. Her parts came in several weeks later and they sat in her covered drive for several more. She had also ordered a home gym from Amazon, as going to the gym was becoming uncomfortable. It wasn’t like she was doing anything to create this new distance from her unit, it was mainly due to her being outside of the loop within the group now. This was to be expected though. She did her best to cope with it, and still managed to make it to the gym to train with the group once a week. She continued to work with the unit without much of a problem, and regular operations came and went uneventfully. What didn’t come and go were the thoughts of what went down in West Virginia, that was a looming constant. She’d be lying if she said that she wasn’t yearning for more though. Everything else seemed so drab in comparison. She was already an addict, and she was already looking for her next fix.
Her uncle had also gotten locked up in the beginning of May, and this also caused a bit of problems with her in the workplace. He’d gotten caught with a stolen vehicle and other stolen goods at his shop downtown. It wasn’t like they didn’t know who he was or what he was into, but the side jokes were straining her already fragile social status within the group. She had made it to two more meetings with Mrs. Baker before she called Dr. Laine. She hadn’t tried to call socially at all since they left West Virginia, and she was a bit embarrassed to be calling in a favor. Dr. Laine was able to help her out, and set her up with a new psychiatrist who was more suitable to her current needs. This one, a man named Chris Bower, was much more acclimated to clients who had certain clearances and jobs that were a bit more secretive in nature, and knew only to pry where it actually mattered, on a personal level, outside of the workplace. She met with him twice between May and June and found him to be more than tolerable. She had also finally managed to add the lights and spark plugs to her Camaro with help that came in the form of heaps of domestic beer. She and Cindy would spend the next two weeks riding the coastline and hitting the boardwalks and bars, and things finally seemed to be falling into place for her back home. She had also managed to finish unpacking most of her shit, and her domicile was now starting to actually look like one. Now, if she could only maintain this drinking habit she might just survive, but her thoughts were still heavy with West Virginia.. And her new acquaintances therein.
"Fucking moon rune writing ass pricks." The Ranger muttered, closing his laptop. He had been mulling over what happened with the Delta Green case and it got him in a hankering for some zombie games. Unfortunately at this time of night while he was waiting for his shift. Ten minutes. All he had to do was wait in peace for ten minutes, and not let the fact he had to deal with Korean hackers in Left 4 Dead. At the same time, he had to find stimulus. Breathe Laurence, you're better than them. Laurie put his boots on the table, cracking open some dip to chew as he thought about... well, life. No, that was boring as shit. He stood up restlessly pacing about the room, knowing ten minutes was just a fucking awful time. The man took a quick gander through his social media and finding nothing interesting closed that as well. "Hello?" he called out, wondering if he was alone at the Ranger Station.
Silence, save for the mop of the deaf Janitor Rob. He was a nice fellow, and Laurie liked him but he wasn't a great conversationalist even after one got used to talking to the lip-reader. "Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck." he exclaimed, spinning in his chair. Seconds turned to minutes but it wasn't nearly fast enough that they did so.
Ding-ding. A text. Who the fuck was up now? He opened his phone, and was notified that working group Umbra was active. At this time of night? You kidding? Then it struck him, out in these swamps and down in this basement he cellular was spotty, so of course he only got it now. He rubbed his temple, running upstairs. He was about to text Donnelly back, but his alarm played announcing it was time to go to his shift. He cursed once more, texting his boss. "Suits callin me cant come call keith or kevin that glow in dark prick shit again" before sending "omw" to Donnelly. West Virginia again, fuck's sake.
He grabbed all his shit, drove home to grab a few more bags and then went straight North.
The ride was like last time, liberating and relaxing, but not nearly as much as last time. It seemed he'd have to stop at a gas station again, and he didn't want to run into the leather clad fucks again. He skipped the one he went to last time, going for the one two blocks away. But... no luck. Or perhaps much of it? He couldn't quite tell right away, because he recognized one of the biker dudes and it seemed he was alone.
Laurie sure as hell had the drop on him. He could slide in from behind, do some kung-fu shit leave the guy with bones sticking out his flesh. He sure as hell deserved it. Knuckles turned white as he gripped the handles of his bike with force to crack bones between his fingers. The Ranger exhaled heavily, before driving on. He wasn't as low as those dog eating fucks online, and he wasn't as low as this urban trailer park trash. He'd find another gas station, no problem.
Laurie arrived at the address, proud of himself in his zen state and reached for the door. His arrival would have been announced by the one man ozone burning engine of his bike, and from the cars here it was clear he wasn't the first. He took a breath, before turning the knob and putting on a working smile.
>THE SAFEHOUSE >OUTSIDE WHITE TREE >BLACKRIVER, WEST VIRGINIA
They were still there. Everything. Even the dust, which shifted with the air pressure as Donnelley opened up the door to his private room. He assumed this place was under watch if Foster and Donnelley needed it again in the near future, faceless grey men and women swinging by and doing sweeps in the middle of the night to make sure it was still secure until they got the order to dismantle the safehouse after a few months’ time. But they hadn’t passed that threshold.
He wondered what they thought about the bottles in his room. Half-empty, near-empty, soon-to-be empty. Jim Beam, Wild Turkey, even R&R. Clothes were strewn about the room in piles, in corners, draped over the back of the chair at the little desk where his laptop was. He grabbed up a bottle and took a pull from it before he almost choked, hearing the front door open and shut. Nobody should have been here this early and Foster said he would be at the scene for a while yet, interviewing the cops. Donnelley took a breath, push checking his 40 caliber before placing his hand on the doorknob of his room.
Carefully and quiet, he turned the knob, easing the door open. A figure in the living room. Was he followed? He threw open the door but recognition didn’t grip him in time before he had his front sight leveled on a black-clad woman he knew. Her eyes told surprise and he quickly holstered his handgun, harsh sigh in his throat, “Fuck, Laine.” He gave her a once over, “You’re, uh, early.”
The barrel of the gun seemed to be a gaping maw, dark as death and Laine instinctively put her hands up, startled at the strange man behind it. Then he spoke.
"Donnelley?" She stared for a moment, his red hair had been dyed black though his blue eyes remained the same. Laine quirked her brow then dropped her hands, tossing her bag on the chair. "That's too bad, I was partial to the ginger look. I was down the road in Clarksburg as it happens. Drove up as soon as I got the bat signal. What's going on?"
“I thought I was going to be giving the whole team this speech, but, well…” Donnelley and Laine stood in the quiet and empty safehouse, “You know.”
“Body was found in the mountains. Hiker, local, I don’t know. We don’t know because there weren’t any supplies or gear found,” Donnelley set his jaw and sighed, looking away from her and recalling, “She was just there. It was just muscle and tendon, no skin. And I mean none. Nowhere to be found. Parks Service pinged Foster and Foster pinged me, I pinged UMBRA.”
He crossed his arms and stepped over to the couch, plopping down in it. He ran his fingers through his hair, “Clarksburg?”
Her attention was immediate as she listened to the description of the victim. Laine furrowed her brow, "Any trauma other than the obvious skinning? Determined if it was posthumous or not? Cause of death?"
She rattled off the questions while sitting down, crossing her legs and took out a notepad and pen, writing quickly. "Yes, the Criminal Justice Information center is there. I happen to be attending a lecture on DNA analysis, some new techniques have been approved for identification. Anyway, where is she? I'd like to get a look at her myself. Unless you're going to want to wait for the team."
She tapped her pen, the team with the exception of Agent Stewart were more specialized in combat than investigation. This was a murder, not a septic tank surprise.
Laine glanced at him, then tilted her head slightly. "This sounds like it's more down the FBI alley than UMBRA. It wouldn't be the first time a killer skinned his victim. Why are you interested?"
“I was working a case in the Middle East.” He left it at that, “Almost entire villages were found in the same condition. Foster said the same thing you did until that girl turned up skinned almost the exact same way.”
He frowned, looking out the window, “Fuck, Laine.” He shook his head, sat quiet for a few moments before he looked at her again, “If it is the same, then we’ve got serious concern that it could be something down UMBRA’s alley. And trust me. Nobody wants it to be.”
"If it was a whole village I can see why you would be concerned, I mean...I know the terrorism is bad there but that seems excessive and it would take time, not like beheadings. What a mess."
Her thoughts turned to Jason and what he had confided in her. The possibility of ritual screamed from the description he had given her, as vague as it was. This too was something that might be ritual either in the act or with the skin of the victims. "Alright, so you saw both the villagers and this victim. Are they for certain the same? Did you take any pictures? Was anything posted online about these killings? Perhaps someone here copied it..."
She trailed off, jotting down a few notes. Every answer he gave her raised a dozen questions. "Did anyone examine those bodies? A doctor or someone with any kind of forensic training?"
“I only got the call a couple days ago. And this isn't the first time. Human bones were found in graves at the scene.” Donnelley got up and fished the keys from his pocket, “Let’s just go. Foster’s still there getting the details from the Law.”
He walked outside and slid into the driver’s seat of the Chrysler 300, the engine revving up as he turned it on and waited for Laine, once she was inside, they took off from the Safehouse.
“Whoever it was, they had a lot of time on their hands, and it wasn’t the first time they skinned something… or someone.” He said, “Part of the job is making sure that we even have a stake in the case. But by the time we get a call, we can be sure we do. The Program doesn’t just stick its nose wherever.”
“I got confirmation, by the way. About Washington.” He looked at Laine with a sympathetic frown, “The case was taken over by another Working Group. I know for a fact that means shit to you, Laine, but poking around where you’re not needed when you’re off-duty?”
Donnelley shook his head, “You’re lucky if you get a warning.” He gave a pause, a sidelong glance at Laine, “And don’t tell me you haven’t been trying. I know your type. I was like that. Deputy Donnelley trying to save the world starting with Texas.”
Dr Laine picked up her bag, it held her notepad and her camera, but her boots were at home. She followed Donnelley out, eager to get out to the scene. At least this case seemed something she could handle, she knew what the process was when a body was found and it gave her comfort.
She buckled up and leaned back into the seat as the Chrysler took off. If they had this case then there was something out of the ordinary, even more so than an average murder scene. Skinned. Ed Gein liked to skin women, to wear their skin and she recalled the photos of the scene. A carnal house of body parts and human skin clothing. Her stomach tightened at the thought that had not been a case for the Program. It had not been strange enough, just a serial killer.
Her attention snapped back at the mention of Washington, he was referring to the Childress case. “But why...”
Laine held her tongue when he shook his head, “You’re right, it does mean shit all. I would have at least liked to know who it is taking her, maybe collaborate...”
Her words trailed off at the warning and she reached up to tuck her hair behind her ear, trying not to argue.
After a few minutes of stubborn silence she said, “Fine, I get the message.”
Laine glanced towards him, at the large burn scar that was hard to ignore and the fine lines around his eyes that were focused on the road while he drove. There must have been a long hard journey between the two points yet here he was, still fighting.
“How did it go, trying to save the world?” Laine asked in a softer tone, watching the wooded hills pass in a green blur.
“Driver seat’s starting to feel like a couch all of a sudden, Doctor.” Donnelley commented in a rueful, low voice before he cracked a smirk. He liked Laine. They’d already had a moment back on the Baughman Case, true. He wondered if he wanted to talk. Wanted to let the contents of himself spill out into the open air.
“How do you think it went?” He said. Truth be told, Laine’s gaze was disarming, her face a picture of quiet sympathy that coaxed things out of him. Just the right amount of silence to her that made him want to fill them. Therapists had tried, but back then he never wanted to talk. Just keep his teeth together, furrow his brow, and get to work. “You know I was married? I told you, back at Clyde’s.”
“It was a happy marriage that started just after I got back home from the Army and just before I became a Deputy.” He shook his head, “Before long I was back in the Recruiter’s. I was a Ranger, then a Green Beret. If you know anything about those types, you know divorce is a very real possibility.”
“I…” He let go a sigh, “Afghanistan…” his eyes grew distant, remembering the wails and chants. The two JDAMs making thunderous nothing of the mountainside village. He thought about how scared he made his little girl at home and the straw that broke the camel’s back for Holly. The outburst at the school. He jerked the steering wheel to the left when he found they were starting to list off the road.
With violence in his movements he slammed the Chrysler into Park after he veered to the side of the road and rubbed at his eyes. “Fuck.” Said more like he’d dropped something than slipped into a memory skulking at the back of his mind. Resigned, his forehead still in the palm of his hand and the other limp on the shifter, “Well, I’m still trying. Saving the world.”
“Or the pieces I can.” He sat there, collecting himself. Felt like a man quaking in a basement while a tornado passed overhead, eyes closed and trying to think on better times. Or at least different ones. He decided it was his turn as he regained himself, “Why FBI?”
Her eyes never left his face as he began to speak, watching the nuances of the sudden vulnerability. It was not until the car jerked did she break her gaze and look out the window. They were now parked on the shoulder of the road, somewhere between safety and chaos.
Laine said nothing as she watched his silent battle to control himself then she reached out, putting her hand gently on his that held the shifter. With little effort, she curled her fingers into his palm so he would let go and held his hand. She wanted to know more but waited letting him go at his own pace.
She turned in her seat, resting her head against the cushion and looked at him when he asked why she had joined and Laine said simply, “Redondo Beach.”
He looked at her, curiosity tickling at his mind but he didn’t let it get to his tongue even if it seeped to his face. He looked at her, first sidelong and then he turned his head, uncaring that they were on the side of the road. Not caring if Foster was expecting him back soon or not. He wanted to tell her to go on, but he held himself back until she spoke. A little silence from him for her to fill.
Laine gazed thoughtfully at him then dropped her eyes for a moment before speaking, “You know, we all have that place or person that changes our trajectory, sends us on that unknown path that we cannot step back from. Afghanistan. Redondo Beach.”
She sighed, leaning back in her seat and met his eyes again. “I was fourteen when I found the path. I was at a party on the beach at night, snuck out like the little scamp I was.”
Laine breathed a soft laugh but her eyes did not reflect the humor. “I found myself under a pier, I don’t even remember why. And she was there. Victim three of the Redondo Beach Butcher another Jane Doe. A girl not much older than myself, dead and destroyed.”
Her jaw tightened as did her grip on his hand and she drew in a deep breath. “I wasn’t always so inclined to the dark but after that I was. I was obsessed.”
Laine did not mention the dark laugh, the black with in the shadows that her stoned teenage brain might have made up but now, she was not sure again. She sat in silence, staring at his chest then finally back up to his sad blue eyes and shrugged silently.
Donnelley and Laine sat for a good moment. Eyes on each others. He didn’t have to wonder why she was picked for the team, but finding a dead girl was enough for most people to break and run. Run as far away as they could from the possibility of finding another. Death and violence were contrary to most humans’ outlooks on a good, happy life.
But something in Laine’s past, in Donnelley’s, made them stay the course. Made them bear witness. Someone had to. Donnelley nodded, a small jerk of his head at first before he turned away from her, his chin dipping with each one as he shifted to drive and put them back on the road. “Okay.”
He didn’t know what more to say, but maybe there wasn’t anything else needed.
Straightening herself out, Laine quietly pulled out her phone, swiping through her music and glanced at him as she tapped a selection while they continued towards their destination.
Donnelley snorted as he slowly came to recognize the song playing. He gave Laine a chuckle as they sped down the mountain road.
>THE CORDON...///
Donnelley slowed the car down as they neared the roadblock, still manned by the same two bored Deputies making small talk before they jumped to attention and signaled for Donnelley to halt. One of the Deputies approached the driver window while the other covered. Donnelley rolled his window down and didn’t even give the Deputy the time to speak, just flashed the badge plainly in front of Laine, “Special Agents Davidson and Laine, we’re with Forrest.”
The Deputy nodded up the road and Donnelley continued on until they were outside the police tape. “We’re here.”
He lowered his window as Foster was already upon them, waving them down, “They’re going to move the body in an hour or so. Obvious reasons.” Foster rose his brow and nodded to all the wilderness before he noticed Laine in the passenger seat. “You’re quick.”
“I’m glad you met Special Agent John Davidson, I’m Special Agent Spencer Forrest.” Foster’s wink was paired with a smirk as he held out his hand to shake, Donnelley leaning back and away from it while smiling apologetically.
Dr Laine adjusted her glasses peering at Foster, then held her hand out and gave him a handshake as she would a genuine colleague. “Dr. Heather Laine, BAU. As it happens I was down in Clarksburg for a lecture CODIS was giving. Lucky timing it seems.”
Laine glanced at Donnelley, a hint of a smile on her lips, “Isn’t that right, Agent Davidson?”
“Uh huh…” Donnelley said as he opened his door and let Foster step back. A smirk was the sign that the humor of this all was not lost on him.
From her bag she took her phone to use its recording device and found a spare pair of latex gloves. Maybe she should have gone home first to get her kit together but there was a sense of urgency she felt even in the simple text from Donnelley that had put her on the road to the cabin.
“Can I see her now?” she asked, then pulling on the blue gloves to protect from contamination.
“She’s over here.” Foster began the walk towards the woman’s body while Donnelley and Laine followed. They came upon the body then, Foster looking expectantly at Laine for her to start her thing.
She lay on her back in the grass, arms down at her sides, eyeless sockets seeming to stare out at the sky above. No lips gave her an unsettling death’s head grin that Donnelley couldn’t help but stare at. Flies were starting to make cautious approach on her bare flesh and pale tendon as Foster shooed them away. If the reason for moving the body wasn’t obvious now…
Dr Laine took a moment, observing the details of the scene, the position of the body, surrounding vegetation anything that might be disturbed. She was wearing heels that sunk slightly into the earth but she ignored it, taking careful steps towards the body. She swallowed hard, the smell was starting to waft on the morning breeze and the buzz of flies filled the silence.
Laine took a few pictures of the scene, then crouched by the dead girl, her brow furrowing as she gently touched the exposed muscles through her latex gloves. She turned the right hand, looking for defensive wounds and fingernails, in case there might be DNA from the suspect underneath.
Gently laying her hand down she would leave it for the forensic team to gather. She looked at what was left of her face, the empty holes left from her nose and eyes being gone. Her teeth looked decent, especially for this area of the country. She was either very young or perhaps from another place. Gingerly, Laine probed around looking for stab wounds or gunshots.
Donnelley had not been exaggerating, her skin was completely gone, not even bits left on the phalanges or cuts from a skinning knife which would be different than stab marks. Whoever skinned her certainly was not an amateur and this made her gut clench.
"Who is going to do the autopsy?" She asked, glancing back at the two men.
Foster shrugged, “No coroner out here and the closest medical professional is a backwoods doc. Haven’t met her yet.”
“We can follow the ambulance to her place, make sure we’re the only ones looking at the body.” Donnelley offered as he stepped up between Laine and Foster.
Laine frowned slightly, "We need someone with expertise, this skin job is too clean and cause of death is not very obvious. I have experience in collecting evidence and preliminary forensic exam but I'm not qualified to cut into her."
She bit her lower lip slightly in thought then stood up, looking at Donnelley. "I know someone, he's in Clarksburg right now. One of the best medical examiners in the country, he teaches at Quantico and has handled some high profile murders. I know this is top secret but if we need to go deeper to find out what happened to this girl then I could try and get him out here. Otherwise, I'll do what I can."
“Whatever we can do.” Donnelley nodded at Laine and looked at Foster, who already was sporting a deep frown. “You have to admit bringing on a Fed is better than exposing some backwoods Doctor to… us. To this.”
Foster took a breath, taking his time. His frown let up before he nodded, “Sure.” He said, “I’ll tell Detective Roy, have her relay the new destination for… whoever it is you know.”
“He’s airtight, right?” Donnelley said to Laine, hushed, “Not a big damn mouth?”
Laine nodded, already taking out her phone. "I trust him, we've known each other for a long time."
Glancing up at Donnelley as she scrolled through the contacts, "I wouldn't offer if I thought he would do anything stupid."
Laine hoped that were true but could not imagine he would talk about this with his kindergarten teacher fiance. The phone rang three times and finally she heard Bakker's whispered, "Heather? Where'd you go? Hold on..."
Shuffling and steps then his voice again, no longer hushed. "Everything alright?"
"Alex," she said, looking up at the green canopy of ash and oak trees. "I need a big favor. Can you skip out on the rest of the lecture? I need you up here."
A sigh then he said, "Look, I can't meet up with you like this I'm engaged."
Laine rolled her eyes then turned her back to Donnelley, "Goddamnit, don't be so full of yourself I need your expertise. You're going to want to see this, I wouldn't want anyone else doing this autopsy."
"Autopsy? Why...what's going on, you're being very evasive."
"Just come up to Whitetree, in Blackriver County," she turned back around, her cheeks slightly flushed. "And Alex, don't breathe a word. I'll tell you more once you're here."
"Implying I will come," he replied then before she could say anything he added, "Shit, alright, I'll be there. Do I need anything?"
"We're taking her to a local doctor's office, start driving and I'll text you the exact address," Laine replied. "And Alex... thanks. I owe you one."
Bakker breathed deeply, then said, "I'll see what I can do about borrowing gear just in case. Sample kits, etc. I'll be up as soon as I can."
She disconnected the call, then went back to the men, addressing Donnelley. "He's coming, should be here in a couple hours."
Donnelley put his hands on his hips, nodding, “Good.”
“Oh, well there they are.” Foster pointed past Laine and Donnelley, the two looking where his finger landed.
Sure enough, the transportation for the woman’s body rolled up to the edge of the cordon. Blackriver was a backwater, and as such had a contract with the local funeral home, who’d sent a white and windowless van to pick the body up. CSI were already busy hefting the girl’s body into a body bag, zipping it up when they were done. Donnelley watched them place the bodybag onto a stretcher and bring it to the van, stowing it away in the back.
“You folks know where you’re going?” Donnelley raised his voice. One nodded, but that meant nothing to Donnelley. He gave another hard look, just enough.
“Yeah, Doc Levy?” The other said, catching Donnelley’s eye. Donnelley nodded.
The more time he spent here, the more he started feeling like Iraq. A stranger in a land that wasn’t his own.
Laine watched the CSI team like a hawk, pointing out needlessly as they began to get the body ready for removal from the scene, "Bag her hands first."
One gave her a look of masked tolerance that most local authorities used on the feds when they usurped their crime scenes. Laine glanced over at Donnelley when he addressed them and wondered briefly how the Program kept people like this from talking about the strange unsettling things they saw.
She reached into her blazer's pocket and fished a black pack of Djarums, removing a clove cigarette. Before lighting up, Laine held the pack out to Donnelley in a gesture to see if he wanted one. "You said there were bones found as well?"
Donnelley nodded, plucking a djarum cigarette from the pack and tucking it between his lips, raising his eyebrows and nodding for her to follow him in the direction of the small mass graves filled with piled skeletons. He gestured to the hole in the ground. Foster came up beside them, “They took some samples, dating them or something.”
Foster’s head snapped towards the sound of an engine turning over, “Van’s leaving.” He said, “You should follow. Make sure they get to the right place. I don’t trust anybody local.”
“Yeah, you’re telling me.” Donnelley muttered as a passing Deputy seemed to eye the three of them before turning back and going on his way. Donnelley held his gaze on the man even after he was heading away from them. This entire place left a bad taste in his mouth. Time for a smoke, then. He pointed to the cigarette dangling from his lip, “I’m gonna get out of this fucking cordon.”
Laine followed, looking past Foster at the bones in the graves. Moving closer, she took a few pictures and crouched at the edge of the hole. The bones seemed to be a variety of condition of decay but all of them looked intact. A skull stared up at her and she took a picture, before leaning in and picking it up gently.
She studied it, thought it had been awhile since her forensic anatomy training she could tell it was likely female by the comparatively gracile jaw and brow. Inside the lower jaw she could see the third molars still half buried in the bone. Wisdom teeth yet to erupt meant she was young but not a child, perhaps still in her teens or college age. Laine leaned back in to place it where she had found it.
She stood and tugged down her skirt, smoothing it back in place and said to Foster, “They’ll need to go down to CJIS for identification, at least they should. But I’m sure you know that, Special Agent Forrester.
She gave him a sly tight smile then turned to follow Donnelley to the car, treading the exposed roots of trees gingerly in her heels. Laine kicked a clod of mud clinging from one as she lit her cigarette and took a drag, the cloves crackling in the embers. “Hell of a thing. I didn’t see any wounds indicating she fought, but it’s hard to tell...well without the skin. I just hope this was posthumous.”
Watching the deputies load the body into the van, Laine said, “They don’t like it when we step on their toes but I’ve seen too many scenes botched by good intentions.”
Joining Donnelley in the Chrysler, she buckled up and then leaned her elbow on the open window, letting the wind take the smoke.
Donnelley was busy sucking in the sweet smoke of the clove cigarette and let it out as he spoke, turning the car’s engine over, “Lotta shit botched by good intentions, trust me.”
>DOC LEVY’S OFFICE >BLACKRIVER, WEST VIRGINIA...///
It was a half hour’s drive from the police cordon around the crime scene. Thirty or so minutes took the funeral home van and the two Program Agents in their Chrysler to the turnoff on the road into White Tree. It was marked by a sign on the side of the road, ‘Doctor Anne Levy, Serving Blackriver Since 1991!’
The sign itself was old and decrepit, Donnelley judging it to be a good number of years between the last time it was painted and now. Faded hues despite the happy exclamation.
“I guess this is it.” Donnelley turned the wheel as he watched the van disappear down the turnoff. Soon enough they were parked, Donnelley watching intently as the Deputies and the funeral home employees retrieved the girl’s body.
When they stopped what they were doing and looked towards the tinted windows of the Chrysler expectantly, Donnelley nodded to Laine. He pushed open his door and stepped out, hands on his hips- and close to his handgun. “Figure once we get inside y’all can get back to whatever it was you were doing.” His smile was anything but appreciative, lips pulled right in a mirthless thing, “‘Preciate it.”
The Deputies nodded and Donnelley stepped past them, rapping his knuckles on the door. Almost quick enough to make Donnelley flinch, the front door opened up, struggling against the chain that kept it only just cracked, “What?”
A hard-eyed woman with gray hair tied back into a frizzy bun, thick-lensed glasses perched midway up her nose from which her most unwelcoming stare burned over. Her thin lips cracked a smile, “Oh.” She looked around at the assortment of Deputies and others standing at her door, “‘Scuse me, then. What’s all this about?”
Donnelley tried to bring out his southern drawl a bit more than usual, thinking it would warm the country doctor to him, “I’m Special Agent John Davidson with the Bureau. We’re going to have to store this here body-“
“Yes, sure, come in.” The door shut again and fidgeting with the lock was heard from behind the door before it creaked open again, “Let’s go, come on.”
Donnelley waved the Deputies through the door with the girl’s body. Once they’d placed her on the metal table they did as they’d agreed to, filing out with not much ceremony. That suited Donnelley fine. The less eyes around when Laine’s man arrived and opened the girl up, the better. Everything faded away into silence, the three people in the room standing and glancing at each other. “So…” Doc Levy frowned.
Dr Laine hung back, watching Donnelley control the situation. She was used to sour faced local cops but when the doctor peered through the chained door, her attention perked up. Not the most welcoming entrance to a doctor’s office and the sense of urgency and suspicion from the older woman caught Laine by surprise. She followed the men into the office and when the deputies left, she stepped forward.
“Dr Heather Laine, FBI,” she introduced herself, speaking in a soft but firm voice, “Thank you for letting us bring her here and use your office so we can take care of her. Our medical examiner will be joining us within the next hour or so until then I will handle proceedings and preparation if you don’t mind.”
She scanned the room, a modest medical exam office in the backwater town. It looked clean and organized but certainly not equipped for surgery or an autopsy. Her small camera would have to do and a flashlight since there was no overhead light.
“Dr Levy,” she said, “I apologize if we caught you off hours.”
“Mm.” Doc Levy grunted, folding her arms, “You can use whatever you want, don’t bother me. Just don’t stay too long, there’s sick people here in Blackriver and I’m the only Doctor. I deal with live people, Special Fucking Agents Himmler and Goebbels.”
She spun on a heel and disappeared behind a door that led… somewhere. On the closed door, Donnelley could not help but notice a poster of Che Guevara on the door. He chuckled to himself, “Jesus Fuck. They have those out here?” He sniffed at the air, marijuana. “Doc likes it skunky.”
He shook his head, turning back to Laine and leaning on a table along the far wall. “So,” he clucked his tongue, “This Doctor of yours. How long’s he here for? Killing like this really implies it’s not the last.”
Laine raised her brow at the slander, then glanced at Donnelley, “At least it wasn’t Mengle.”
“I don’t mind the weed, but if she starts diagnosing with crystals and chakras I’m out,” Laine continued as she made a survey of the office. She moved a tray on wheels, it locked up but she kicked the brake and it spun around freely. At his question, she shrugged, “I don’t know, the seminar lasts two days, we’re both supposed to be there but this is more important. Of course explaining that to our boss, that’s another story. Dr Bakker will want to figure this out, he’s been like that as long as I’ve known him. If there are more killings following this MO, I’m pretty sure he would be interested.”
Laine held back her doubt, now that he was engaged and his head turned to living a normal life he might not want to dive into this nightmare. She laid out gloves and swabs, mostly to keep her hands busy as she spoke. She glanced up at Donnelley, “You’re right though, this was a practiced hand and that means there are more out there like her, the bones speak of that. I would not be surprised if they were a certain age and sex type, with similiar deaths. The suspect might be a local, someone familiar with the area, comfortable enough to blend in. These type of people would notice a stranger amongst them.”
Removing her blazer she pushed up the sleeves of her lightweight sweater, resting her rump against the counter, “Did you know of any missing persons in the area? The victim might not be local but usually a killer starts local.”
Donnelley shrugged, “Your guess is as good as mine. I haven’t been around these parts since the Agency sent me to Virginia.” He sighed, “I’m sure Foster can pick up on the local news while he’s out and about. I think this is the first time in years he’s worked a case for himself and not just getting his Working Group to do it for him.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if people went missing around these parts. Hikers, hunters.” Donnelley crossed his arms and shook his head, looking off to the side, “I’m really fucking hoping this is just open and shut. Give it to regular FBI and I can…”
Go back to what? He frowned. His empty, cold house in Seattle? Iraq, and keep chasing Anzor with Smitty and Kingsley? His entire life was work, and whatever scraps of it there weren’t was just meaningless shit. Drugs, alcohol, loose women. “I don’t know. Maybe I need a break.” He snorted, “I heard Fiji is nice.”
His smile dropped as he looked back at Laine, “We can either wait for the others to get here first and we just sit on our hands in the Safehouse or canvas the town. Interview the Ranger that found the girl, talk with Detective Roy.” Donnelley shook his head and sucked at his teeth, “I’m sure Roy or the Sheriff can get us some case files on missing persons, recent violent crimes in the area.”
Laine watched him, crossing her arms under her chest and then nodded, “You probably need a break, but somehow I think you might have to be forced into a vacation. But Fiji is nice, I hear. Come on, let’s go talk to people, to the detective and ranger. It’s the best way to start piecing this puzzle together, start with the edges. Besides, Bakker won’t be here for another hour or two. He’s meticulous in getting prepared, he won’t just jump in his car and tear ass.”
She gave a self deprecating smile, dipping her head slightly so her hair fell forward against her cheek. Grabbing her bag, she slung it over her shoulder and left her jacket still hanging on the chair. “Will it be alright to leave her here?”
Donnelley looked at the bodybag, thinking for a moment. He shrugged, taking his pack of cigarettes out of his collared shirt’s breast pocket, “Doc doesn’t seem interested in anything about this past letting the body sit here.” He nodded, placing a cigarette between his lips, “Let’s get to it, Doctor.”
After leaving the office, Laine asked, “Who do you want first? It might be easier to get Detective Roy, the ranger might be out in the woods and I’m not dressed for a hike.”
“Yeah,” Donnelley unlocked the car with the key fob, opening the door and then sliding into the driver seat, “I’m not really feeling one, anyways. Guess that leaves Detective Roy.”
As they drove, Laine took a few subtle glances at his hair then bit her lip to fight back a grin. “I don’t know if you can go out tonight,” she said, keeping her tone light. “Your red roots are showing.”
She laughed at her own joke, then ran a hand over her hair, the straight dark strands falling back into place of the blunt cut. “What made you do that?”
He snorted out a chuckle and ran his fingers through the top of his hair, “You know many gingers in the Mid East?” He smiled, “I at least have to try to blend in, make me look like anybody but Donnelley. It wasn’t the worst thing I had to do to get into a country, I’ll tell you that much.”
“Point taken. It works, I almost didn’t recognize you. Granted, I was staring down your gun,” she said. “I should have knocked.”
Her gaze shifted to the road to White Tree, the sagging buildings seemed to be bearing the weight of an uncaring world, the soot from the mines long ago staining the roof tiles and tree trunks black. She wondered how he disguised the burn scar that ran from his cheek down his neck, that surely was identifiable but Laine did not ask. Instead she watched a couple of kids walking with their skateboards along the side of the road rather than riding them. She murmured under her breath, “Skate or die, motherfuckers.”
Donnelley cracked a grin at Laine’s words. Those words and those kids so out of place were a callback to a Joseph Donnelley who hadn’t been around since long, long ago now.
The Sheriff’s office wasn’t anything to write home about. With Blackriver being the least populous county in West Virginia with only two towns of struggling Americans, it seemed somebody had laughed in the face of whoever proposed an actual police force for the county. The paint, like the paint on all the other buildings of White Tree, was peeling after years of poverty-stricken apathy. Three Ford Crown Victorias sat in the parking lot, their drivers hooting and hollering over a joke next to them, Blackriver Sheriff’s Department emblazoned on the side.
They all seemed to turn their heads in unison at the sound of crunching gravel underneath the Chrysler’s tires. Donnelley shot a glance their way and shook his head, taking up a space on the other side of the parking lot from the gaggle of Deputies. As he and Laine stepped out of the car, Donnelley waved to the staring Sheriff Deputies. He received nothing but weary eyes in return that averted themselves back to whatever bullshitting they were doing before Laine and Donnelley made their existence known to the town of White Tree. The lobby was small, dark brown carpet and beige walls, a front desk being manned by a young woman in a Sheriff Deputy uniform. “Can I help y’all?”
“Yes, we’re Special Agent John Davidson and Doctor Laine with the Bureau. Would it be possible to see the Sheriff?” Donnelley asked.
“I’m ‘fraid not, sir. Sheriff MacOnie’s on vacation.” The female Deputy offered her best attempt at looking sympathetic to their inconvenience.
Donnelley’s brow furrowed, shooting a glance at Laine before looking back at the Deputy, “Do you think we could schedule something? When’s he getting back?”
The Deputy just shrugged, “I’m not sure.”
“You’re not…” Donnelley pinched the bridge of his nose before he returned his hand to his pocket, “Well, do you think we could get access to some of your case files? You keep case files, right?”
The last bit he might have spat with some vitriol and he worked to keep his tongue in check before he made this visit a fiasco instead of an inconvenience. The Deputy frowned at him a moment, “You’ll have to submit a request to the Sheriff.”
“The Sheriff that’s on vacation for an indeterminate period? Who takes over for him when he’s on vacation for indeterminate periods?” Donnelley’s patience was wearing thin with this backwater Sheriff’s Department. Even his office back in bumfuck West Texas wasn’t this disorganized.
“Well…” Her excuses had hit a brick wall right then. “I’m sorry, sir, but you’re either going to have to submit a request for the Sheriff or leave immediately.”
Donnelley’s jaw set.
He took in a breath and let it blow out his nose as he shook his head. “Get him on the damn phone, this is part of an ongoing investigation and I will do everything I can to make sure you’re thrown out of that uniform straight on your ass.”
“Sir, I do not even know you and frankly, you’re a bit belligerent.” The Deputy stood, “There’s some Deputies outside who’d love something to do.”
Donnelley cracked a dark grin, about to open his mouth until he felt Laine step up beside him.
She put a hand on Donnelley’s shoulder and gave the deputy a sympathetic look, then showed her badge. “I apologize for my colleague, Deputy...”
Laine glanced down at her name tag, “Evans. It’s been a day, and it’s hardly started. I am the Supervising Special Agent, if I need to submit a request I will but I’m afraid we don’t have much time. The Behavioral Analysis Unit sent me to work on identifying a suspect involved in a recent killing not far from here. Time is of the essence and I hope your sheriff wouldn’t mind us reading through some of your case files for information about both unidentified suspect and victim. We’re really in a bind without much to go on.”
Without breaking her gaze on Laine and Donnelley, the Deputy reached over behind the desk. Donnelley’s first instinct was to prime himself to draw his handgun. The Deputy threw a business card fluttering to the ground, “Take it up with the Sheriff and fuck off out of here.”
All things considered, Donnelley breathed a bit easier. He chided himself for how he acted, swearing under his breath as he bent down and picked up the card. The number for Sheriff MacOnie. It was as much a win he and Laine were going to get. He couldn’t meet eyes with Laine, knowing he almost single handedly fucked them because of his mouth. He just walked past her and back to the Chrysler. They sat in the parking lot for a few seconds before Donnelley offered the card over, “I’m such an asshole.” He grumbled, “I’m sorry. That could’ve gone better. Should have.”
Laine pressed her lips together but managed to speak in a civil tone, “Have a nice day, Deputy Evans.”
Dr Laine turned and walked quickly, her high heels making staccato clicks in rapid succession as she went out the door. She breathed out, putting her hands on her hips, giving Donnelley side eye as he got to the car. She followed, not berating him but taking the card to hold onto it. “Well, we all make mistakes. Better pissing off a girl who probably should be working at the Dairy Queen than the sheriff himself.”
Laine smiled a bit, then laughed, as her irritation eased. “You were an asshole though. I need to bring you along when I speak with the manager at Wegmans when they don’t stock my coffee brand. Don’t worry about it, we’ll get in those files. Let’s go find the detective.”
Donnelley managed a grin as he rubbed at his face, letting go a small chuckle that Laine wasn’t being a hardass, “Fuck me,” he shook his head, “Well, if the salary for that’s alright I might have some options for the future.”
He shifted into drive, taking one last scorching glance at the Sheriff’s Office in the rear view before they were off down the road.
>WHITE TREE, WEST VIRGINIA >ROAD TO ANNIE'S TAVERN...///
“Roy and I are taking a break. You can find us at Annie’s Tavern.” Foster’s voice came through the speaker of Donnelley’s phone.
“We managed to get the Sheriff’s number.” Donnelley said, hoping that was good news at least.
“Yeah? Wasn’t there?”
“Vacation.” Donnelley glanced at Laine, “Indeterminate period.”
“Huh.” Foster paused just long enough for Donnelley to wonder if the shitstorm was winding up to pound him in the ass, “What an asshole.”
“Right? We’ll get to you.” Donnelley hung the phone up and stuffed it back in his pocket. There was a mental sigh of relief. Before long he and Laine were turning into another parking lot. Thankfully, there weren’t any Sheriff’s cruisers here, just a lot of empty parking spaces and one unmarked Dodge Interceptor. Most likely Detective Roy’s.
Laine stepped out of the Chrysler, smoothing down her skirt then her hair, bending briefly to check her makeup in the side view mirror. Roy would be their best bet in information, if she was any better than the receptionist deputy. It was still early to hit up a tavern but there was not exactly a plethora of choices of restaurants in White Tree.
"I think we need a game plan this time," Laine suggested. "Have you met this detective yet?"
Donnelley moaned out a stretch and scratched at the back of his head, “Briefly.” He began, scanning the area around the parking lot. It reminded him of his childhood. And that was not a good thing.
It was barren. White Tree looked like a town toeing the boundary between ghetto and graveyard. A dog that looked to have been surviving off of garbage was sniffing at its next rotten meal- roadkill of some sort. A gaggle of teens was the next to greet his eye, one flashing a middle finger and another craning his head to spit a gob of phlegm with impressive distance in his and Laine’s direction.
Stubborn grass and weeds jutted up from cracks in the pavement uncaring to the teens’ fading laughter, and there was no shortage of them. A cold wind blew and Donnelley shook his head. “She’s directly under us- er, the Bureau on this case. We’ll let Foster fill us in. I’m thinking she’ll be happy to share anything to get the fucker skinning people.” He sighed, looking back to Laine and nodding at the Tavern, “Come on.”
Laine resisted the temptation to return the salute, reminding herself when she was a teen and her friends were assholes to anyone over the age to buy beer. She went along with Donnelley, avoiding the cracks in the pavement.
Step on a crack, break your mother's back.
Or her ankle, besides she had broken her mother's heart enough times to spare her back.
The Tavern seemed to be the most welcoming place in the whole of White Tree. Like some metaphor, then, it had to have been empty of any patrons save for an old, scabby-knuckled man mooning into his glass at the far end of the bar. On the other side of it, a woman waved, smiling in such a homely and welcoming manner that was juxtaposed by the town around her. “Heya. What brings you here?”
“Our friends.” Donnelley said, and the woman pointed over to a booth in the corner with Detective Roy, Foster leaned out and waved them over. As Donnelley began his walk, his eyes almost didn’t believe there could be a place like this. It looked like any dive bar in any city. The lights were dim, accented by ropes of Christmas lights along the walls glowing red. Pictures of the very old glory days of White Tree hung there next to them.
Finally, Donnelley and Laine got to the booth. Foster slid out and offered Laine and Donnelley the space where he was sitting and slid back next to Roy, folding his fingers in front of him as he watched the pair sit. “Detective, you’ve met John Davidson with the Bureau.” Foster smiled, and gestured to Laine, “This is Doctor Laine with the Bureau’s Behavior Analysis Unit, she’s going to help us in identifying the bodies and hopefully profiling the murderer.”
“Nice to meet you, Doctor Laine.” Roy offered her hand out to the other woman.
Laine shook the detective's hand, giving her a polite smile as she said, "My pleasure, Detective. Thank you for your help. Nice to see you again, Agent Forrester."
She slid into the booth, letting Donnelley take the outside seat as he no doubt would be more comfortable not being trapped between her and the wall and have a view of the entrance.
Laine glanced at what they were drinking then at the chalked menu on the wall. She was getting hungry after the spare early breakfast. As they settled in she asked Roy, "Do you mind catching me up, what was your take on the crime scene when you arrived?"
Roy took a drink of her beer, setting the glass clinking on the tabletop as she spoke, “NPS contacted the police about a dead body found in the woods. I never thought I’d see a body like that though.” She shook her head, “You see a lot of shit in White Tree, you know? Blackriver’s filled with tweakers and shit. But everything all made sense in the end, open and shut cases with the same perps. Easy motives and small crimes. Usually. This?”
She shook her head, “Anyway, I wasn’t the first responding officer. Had some uniforms on scene by the time I arrived, Deputies.”
Donnelley snorted despite himself. Roy just smirked at him knowingly, “They’d secured the scene and cordoned it off by the time I arrived. Fresh turned dirt and a completely skinless body. Thankfully it’s in Blackriver, or, well…” She held her hands up, pausing, “Not what I meant. I mean I’m glad the press aren’t here because it’s Blackriver. Place is a fucking well of bad news. They’re the pustule on the face of West Virginia. Everybody wants to keep this place hush-hush.”
At her last words, she leaned in close, “I never told you that part. I don’t care who asks.”
“Why?” Donnelley plainly asked, staring up from beneath his brow, head downturned and beckoning an explanation.
“Sometime later, alright?” Roy said.
“Somewhere else.” Foster clarified. Donnelley knew he meant the Safehouse.
“Anyways,” She drew the word out, looking each of them in the eye, “I called CSI to come down and take a look at things, some Troopers to keep tabs on everything. I needed that body moved or else maggots and rats‘d be chewing the evidence away. Thanks for that, by the way, getting it away from the scene.”
“I finally got the Okay to dig up the dirt and what do I find but bones? I don’t know how old they are but the body being placed there, the bones too?” Roy whistled, “Whatever this is, it’s been happening again and again, and again. Which makes me ask the question, where are all the missing persons reports from White Tree and the sister town, Mercy? And if they are coming in,” she leaned in again, “What the fuck is up with the radio silence from the Sheriff Department?”
“Probably on vacation at the time.” Donnelley quipped, not eager at all to let that bullshit go.
“Funny, but this is serious, Agent Davidson.” Roy sighed, looking away and shaking her head, “Fucking Blackriver. It’s a black hole, a damn Bermuda Triangle for big cases. Either the County Sheriff’s is filled with incompetent fucks or...”
Roy’s face didn’t move, her head looking in the same direction though she fixed Laine with a sidelong stare, “What do you think?” She turned fully towards Laine, “You’re not from around here, you got a fresh perspective. What do you think?”
Dr Laine picked at the edge of a cardboard coaster, fraying the water warped paper as she listened intently to what Roy said and didn’t say. She pushed her glasses up and met the detective’s gaze. “I think that there is a possibility Blackriver runs deep. I am used to getting the cold shoulder from locals, feds tend to invite that when we step into other agency’s territory but it’s more than just the absent sheriff and stink eyes from deputies. I can’t explain it other than a feeling and unfortunately a gut feeling isn’t scientific so it doesn’t go into my report.”
She paused, tapping the coaster on the table a few times then added, “I’m from LA, about as far from a town like White Tree on the map and in custom and flavor but there is something in common. If you look past the traffic and concrete LA isn’t much but a bunch of small towns jammed together. People are clannish and territorial, defensive about where they are from. They keep to their own, whether it’s race or culture. They don’t trust authority. Cracking into that defensive wall is something we have to do, people will protect the worst of criminals if they view them as one of their own.”
“That’s my take on it, if this is a small town with a bad reputation that might be hiding crimes and criminals we have to figure out a way to get people to cooperate somehow or we’ll never get the truth. Badges might not mean much here so we have to find what does.”
Her eyes flicked to Foster then went back to Roy, “There’s a lot of work to do, we have a medical examiner coming down to autopsy the body and check out the bones if you could send them over to Dr. Levy’s. After that we’ll get them and the other evidence sent to CJIS in Clarksburg. I want to know who around here likes to skin their own kills or does taxidermy. And if you say you’re not hearing about people missing in Blackriver, then it's a good chance they’re not from here. We need to spread the net further and it’s going to take a lot of leg work and man hours.”
Leaning back, Laine dropped the coaster and said, “Until we learn something about the victims we won’t know anything about a suspect.”
“Speaking of the medical examiner,” Donnelley checked the time on his phone, “When did you say he was getting here? We should meet him at the Doc’s place.”
Laine pulled her own phone out and sent a quick text, giving Bakker the address and an ETA inquiry. Her phone blinked and she checked the text, "He's about to twenty minutes out. We should probably get back there, I don't want him greeted by the Bolshevik revolutionary."
"It was nice to meet you, Detective Roy, we'll call you once the autopsy is done," she said, then gave Donnelley a slight nudge to exit the booth.
...///
“That explains a few things, don’t it?” Donnelley muttered to Laine, his mind busy with the events of today and in Iraq, could they really even be related? “Backwoods town full of bullshit. Dime a dozen, sure, but this is a special type of bullshit.”
The car sped down the road out of White Tree, Donnelley eyeing a Sheriff’s cruiser parked across the street from White Tree’s broken down town sign. He sighed, shaking his head, “All cops are bastards.” He snorted, smirking ruefully before he shot a glance to Laine, “Not you, though.”
Laine glanced out at the cruiser as they passed and chuckled at his statement. ACAB. She turned away from the window, a slight curled smile on her lips. "I appreciate it," she said dryly, removing her glasses to clean the lens on her skirt.
As they approached the doctor's office she could see that they had beat Dr Bakker though she expected to see his Subaru pull up any minute. Laine sighed inwardly, she should have just driven to Clarksburg in her own car. At least she would have her emergency out of town gear rather than just a change of business casual clothes that was in her bag.
When they pulled into the parking spot, she asked, "How long do you think we'll be here?"
“Levy’s or White Tree?” Donnelley rose a brow at Laine as he opened his door, “Because, either way, we’re here for as long as this whole thing takes.”
He smirked, then looked at her with a bit of curiosity, “Why?”
She sighed, rolling her eyes at her own mismanagement. "Because I rushed up here and didn't think about packing. I only have an overnight change of clothes and nothing I can wear if we end up in the woods."
“Oh.” Donnelley bit his lip, “Well, we can head to Charleston or some bigger town for clothes. Tonight?” Donnelley shrugged, “Been meaning to go into town anyways. I’ve been wanting a drink in a place where I’m not looking over my shoulder. I’d drink in White Tree but I don’t usually put one on in the workplace.”
Laine brightened, "Good idea, then I'll be ready to rock once the others get here. We should probably get some stuff for the cabin, unless you want to be eating from whatever greasy spoon they have every day."
She stepped out, then used her hip to shut the car door. "When you say put one on, are you asking me to be the designated driver?"
“Nah, I drive better when I’m drunk.” Donnelley smirked, “If only you knew how many times I’ve found my way home while falling asleep at the wheel.”
Laine shook her head, "Not this time, make sure you give me the keys before diving into the whiskey bottle. Just in case, not that I don't trust your intoxication fortitude."
She walked around the front of the car, facing him. "Besides, do really want to trust your life in the hands of Hippy Lenin over here."
Donnelley clucked his tongue, taking a good look at the dilapidated Quonset hut, “Yeah, you got a point.” He chuckled, “And no pina colada for you? Maitai kind of girl?”
He joined Laine as they sided up to the door into Levy’s office. He rapped his knuckles against the door just as another car pulled into the driveway. He eyed the clean, sleek Subaru with a healthy amount of caution, assuming his position of casually resting his hands on his hips in easy access to his handgun. “That him?” He glanced at Laine, hoping it was a ‘yes.’
"I like getting caught in the rain," she shrugged then grinned at her own cheesy joke then sobered when she saw the later model Subaru Outback pulling up. "Yes, that's Alex."
Laine waved casually at him as the car turned off and a tall man with reddish blonde hair and a well trimmed beard scruff stepped out. He was dressed casually in gray slacks and blazer, his black t-shirt beneath the jacket snug enough to reveal a lean fit physique. He returned her wave but looked at Donnelley with an air of suspicion.
"The cavalry has arrived," Bakker said, flashing a brief grin as he took out his bag from the backseat. It was a military style duffle bag, dark blue with the yellow block letters "FBI" emblazoned across.
When he approached, Laine glanced at Donnelley unsure for a moment, then said,"This is Special Agent ...John Davidson. John, this is Dr Alex Bakker, our medical examiner."
The eye of suspicion was not lost on Donnelley and he gave a look of his own at the younger buck sizing him up from the safety of his car. He mentally rolled his eyes and frowned at Bakker’s precious dimples. In the end, he offered his hand out for a shake when Laine’s Doctor neared them, “Pleased to meet you, Doctor Bakker. Thank you for coming on short notice. You’re highly recommended by Doctor Laine.” He did a little sizing up of his own, remaining stone-faced even though the urge to smirk was powerful, “I know you must be highly sought after and very important, so we’re very lucky to have you here.”
Before Bakker could respond, Donnelley turned his shoulder on him, rapping his knuckles on the door and jerking back as Levy’s face appeared in the open doorway, “I heard the first time! Come in!”
She left the three of them standing in the doorway. Donnelley was first to grab the initiative and gesture to the bodybag as he stepped inside. He crossed his arms and leaned against a counter, “Found this morning. Trust me, it’s not every day you see this.”
Bakker narrowed his eyes slightly at the compliments but then relaxed, it was all true after all. Laine waved him inside as he followed Donnelley, then nodded at Dr Levy, "Thank you for letting us use your facility.
He tried not to grimace at the medical exam room that had not been updated since the Clinton administration. Bakker sniffed then looked at the body bag, apparently no freezer here either. "Right, we'll see. This isn't the first time I've worked on mutilated victim."
Laine gave Donnelley a side eye glance before unzipping the heavy plastic bag, exposing the skinned corpse.
"Jesus," Bakker whispered hoarsely, staring into the empty sockets and rictus grin of the skinned corpse.
He pulled his latex gloves on and opened up the bag, examining closely the exposed muscles and tendons, the pockets of fatty tissue on the chest and hips indicated her femininity but he would verify.
"Heather, do you mind setting up? Get my recorder going," he said, then glanced at her. "Please."
Laine bit back a retort about his kindergarten teacher fiance teaching him the magic word. This was not a time for petty. "Sure thing," she said, setting up the portable tray with swabs and sample jars, putting labels on each.
As Bakker started the exam, he addressed Donnelley, "Agent Davidson, where was she found exactly?"
He used a scalpel to gently pry away a bit of dirt and debris stuck to the caked blood and put it in an evidence bag. "Signs of it being the murder scene?"
He caught Bakker’s use of Laine’s first name. No matter how friendly he and Laine were being in the past few months, personal calls and… he looked at his hand for a moment before returning his gaze to watching Bakker and Laine at work. No matter any of that, he didn’t use Laine’s first name. Odd, sure, but why the hell did any of it matter. The thought occurred to him, cutting off any runaway thoughts. He focused on Bakker as he made to answer him.
“It was up in them mountains.” Donnelley jerked his thumb in no particular direction, “No excessive blood spatter being found at the scene leads me to believe that she’d been killed somewhere else. Bones under recently turned earth might point to it being some kind of storage place for display.”
Donnelley frowned at the woman on the table, “This is ritualistic for this guy. He takes the time to skin her, leave her out for the scavengers and then returns to bury whatever’s left.” He shrugged, “Some heavy conjecture, but I think he wanted it to be seen by people. It was close enough to a trail that a Park Ranger could spot it with a little detouring.”
After all, why had Anzor been doing it in Iraq? Keeping up appearances that the Islamic Caliphate was still fighting and more fearsome and brutal than ever? But what was this lone wolf after in Blackriver then? He shook his head ever so slightly, recognizing his warping the narrative to fit two very tangentially related crimes to the other. He looked to Bakker again, “That good enough?”
Dr Bakker nodded, not looking up. "She was killed elsewhere, probably where her skin is assuming no mention of it means you didn't find it. As for the rest of your conjecture I leave that to the Behavioral department."
He gestured with a tilt of his head towards Laine.
Laine stepped in quickly and said, "I was wondering if the killer didn't just get interrupted before he could finish whatever he does with them before burial. Maybe he heard the sound of the park ranger or something else spooked him off but leaving her for scavengers...that's something to think about. Display for purpose or was this an interrupted scene."
"If Dr Levy has a portable X-ray machine I want to get some shots before cutting into her," Bakker said, "I'll do the rape kit now."
Laine set out the prelabeled plastic jars and swabs. "It's hard to tell what sort of trauma she's had."
"Mmhmm," Bakker replied absently, "Contusion and anything other than a superficial dermal trauma will show on the muscles, just not as colorful. Time of death will be a little more tricky but I think I can get you a good estimate."
Donnelley sighed, getting the message. He carefully made his way to the door separating Doctor Levy and them, softly knocking on the wood. Before long, Levy was staring him in the face, “Yes, what?”
“I was wondering, uh,” Donnelley folded his arms, “Do you have an X-Ray machine?”
The way Levy rolled her eyes and disappeared behind the door wasn’t enough for Donnelley to be sure if she did or didn’t have one. Although, to his relief, she opened the door and dragged yet another relic from the past along with her. The big machine sat where Levy left it while she stalked off back into the smoke-filled, skunky backroom. “I guess she does.” Donnelley said, looking the thing up and down. He turned his attention to Bakker, “How long will this all take? Results and whatever.”
Dr Bakker looked up from his exam, his beard now covered with a paper mask. "The x-rays not long, even veterinarian offices have capability to develop their own x-rays, hopefully she does too."
By his tone Laine could tell he was less than impressed with Levy, this town and the whole situation but he was here and that is what mattered.
"A proper autopsy will take about two hours, maybe longer because I have to ..." He gestured around the room, "Make do."
Laine shook her head, "Spoiled."
"Maybe," he said, his eyes crinkling slightly in a hidden grin.
She went to stand with Donnelley, giving him a small nudge glancing up to meet his eyes. "Want to hang around?"
Laine gave him an apologetic smile, Bakker could be insufferable when indisposed, it was his clinical mind. He was organized to a fault and inflexible at times. She should know.
Donnelley frowned intently, not exactly finding anything better to do with his time. He would only report back to Foster if he asked for it, so he shrugged, nodded. “Sure.” He said, “My schedule’s pretty open. Gonna have a smoke first though.”
Bakker ignored them, focused on the examination of the skinned body, peering between her legs as he cranked the speculum open. He paused, then took his pen light, peering into her vaginal cavity. “Well...that is something,” he said in a low voice, “Bring your camera, you’ll want to get pictures.”
He stepped back, “Vaginal trauma, rectovaginal fistula consistent with violent rape or...”
Bakker paused and peered down with the light, “Huh, looking at the cuts they’re tearing but not in the direction of insertion. A traumatic birth?”
He was almost talking to himself as he moved so Laine could take what pictures she could. Bakker stepped back in, taking swabs of the cervix and external region. Doubtful anything was left if her skin was gone but he would not take a chance at missing evidence in such a horrific murder. “I’m going to get her open and we’ll check that uterus.”
Laine could see the tears, ugly things like a cat clawing up furniture and she winced as she took photos, the raw flesh made even worse with the injuries. She retreated back and nodded, “I think I’ll step out for a smoke, too. Unless you need me.”
Bakker looked over at her, noting the even paler face than usual. Laine was no beginner but the sight was even hard for seasoned agents. “Sure, I’ll be fine. Just routine right now, I’ll come get you if I find anything unusual.”
Laine grabbed her cloves out of the jacket pocket and stepped outside, camera still in hand. She stuck a black cigarette between her lips and breathed out, “Shit, someone did a number on her inside.”
She reached for her lighter and realized it was inside the other pocket and turned to Donnelley, “Light?”
Donnelley’s eyebrows rose at that, though his mouth was busy sucking in a lungful of nicotine. He breathed in sharp, hissing through closed teeth before he blew it. He stuck a hand in his pocket for his lighter and offered it out to Laine, “Jesus.” Donnelley shook his head, smirking at the odd bit of comedy yet to come, “A real jerk, this guy.”
Lighting it, she inhaled deeply, “Looked like a cat clawed its way out. Or in, I don’t know yet.”
At his comment she glanced at him then sighed, “He’s just...focused. He likes things just so and having to rush out here probably made him cranky. He’s great in his lab, not happy about the conditions. He’ll get over it once he’s elbow deep in a corpse.”
She smoked hard, the embers crickling in the familiar way then breathed out the fragrant smoke, feeling the cloves begint to numb her throat. “I think I might have a drink or two tonight. Just enough, I’ll still drive. Hear anything from the team yet?”
Another sharp inhale and he blew the smoke out, shaking his head, “Nope. But I don’t expect them to be available within the hour. We’ve all got jobs, we’ve all got bosses that need lying to. Some bosses harder than others, maybe.”
“And I meant the killer, you know, being the jerk.” He smirked at Laine and took another drag, “Bakker is good, I trust you on that. He’s our best bet. And for that I’ll forgive him that stupid fucking look on his face when he looked at me.” Donnelley chuckled, sounding more like a growl than anything. “He can be however he wants as long as he gets us results.”
"Oh, well, yes. I'd probably use a stronger term," Laine muttered, her face flushing at the mistake.
They stood outside for awhile, smoking and waiting as time ticked by. Laine finished her cigarette and snubbed it out on the concrete. “You know your theory is solid as any. I was thinking about it, you might be right. I figured at first an interrupted crime but since she was killed elsewhere and brought there then maybe she was put on some sort of display. Ritual is a strong indication here, especially with the other bones. If they were killed in similar ways, it’ll make a stronger case for that. But to what purpose to leave her out for the scavengers unless it was just her skin he was after...but he didn’t just bury her, he left her...”
Laine trailed off, running the ideas over in her head and thumbed the top of the box of Djarums.
The door swung open and Dr Bakker stepped out, his dark blue eyes wide as he peered down at them,and he jerked his head, “You’ll want to see this.”
Against the light boxes was an x-ray of the chest cavity, and Bakker pointed out a dark vaguely triangular shape beyond the pale rib cage and the heart. “Foreign object still in there, I’m going to dig it out but first look at this.”
Jane Doe lay on the table, now not just skinned but cut open from throat to pubis, laid open with her organs exposed. Bakker quickly stepped back over to the body and used his forceps to point out the damage. “Her uterus was punctured and scraped, like the worst botched abortion but it kept going. Look, through the diaphragm and across the lung to the heart. Massive internal trauma would be the cause of death, much of the blood is gone as well.”
With the forceps he pinched the lung tissue and lifted it, showing a jagged tear then did the same with the aorta. “Hemorrhaging would have occured and death would have been fairly quick. Now, let’s see if we can find that piece.”
Incising into the heart, he asked Laine to hold the clamps so he could fish out the object. She did, as well as holding her breath as Bakker used the forceps to fish around.
“Got it,” he announced, gently pulling loose the three inch long black shard. It was not metal as one might expect from shrapnel and Bakker held it up to the light. “Obsidian?”
Laine stared at it, her blood running cold as she saw no light filter through the thin sharp edges, no light reflected on it’s invisible angles. Just a sliver of black void clutched by the forceps. It reminded her of the stone that Sofie Childress’ lifeless body had been draped across. She shook her head and then looked towards Donnelley, her eyes wide behind her glasses.
"Not only this," Bakker said, moving to put the shard into an evidence bag, staring at it for a long moment before shaking his head sharply like a dog with a flea. "Ah, what was it... oh right, look at the X-ray of her skull. Her tongue is gone. Snipped right out, nice and neat. I'm going to inspect further as I continue but I..."
His gaze turned back to the infinite blackness of the piece in the bag. "I thought you'd want to know the cause of death."
“Fuck…” Donnelley breathed, his eyes were troubled at the sight of the shard. There was now no doubting it for him. This killer was leaving these bodies out there as a ritual. But she hadn’t been hacked apart or brutally cut open like Afghanistan or Washington, no, just very surgically dismantled. He swallowed hard as he stared into the little hole in the world that was contained in the evidence bag.
Finally, he ripped his eyes away, clearing his throat with a nervous tick of his eyes about the room. “This fucking guy has to be viewing this as some sort of ritual.” He shook his head, folding his arms to keep Laine or Bakker oblivious to the fact his hands were shaking. “Was that all so far?”
Laine stared at the disaster that was the woman’s insides and shuddered at the thought of agony. She had seen death in many forms but this was probably the worst dehumanizing desecration of a human body she had witnessed. “Did it go in or come out?”
Bakker shrugged slightly, “It looks like it came out but honestly I can’t say for certain yet. How it got in there, I don’t know. Not yet, I’ll need to finish then I can tell you more.”
He paused, his stern expression of professionalism cracking slightly as he gazed at the corpse. “This is bad. Whoever did this...”
Swallowing hard, he then excused himself, “I’m going to the john, I’ll be back to finish up.”
Laine and Donnelley were left in the room and she looked at him. “Bad is an understatement isn’t it?”
She could see in his expression the concern, more than just the morbid discovery. This was ritual, this was driven with a dark purpose that would be repeated until the man was stopped. And the likelihood was that it was a man, nearly all serial murderers were men and all who did mutilation and savagery like this were male. And the villages Donnelley had spoke of. Whole villages skinned and displayed.
“This is no copycat, ” she admitted, then rubbed a hand against the back of her neck, feeling the tense cords there. “Ritualized killing and display, skillful not sloppy. Rage, a lot of anger, I think to do that sort of damage but controlled in a manner. I'll have to wait until the final report to make a more thorough analysis, plus the victim's race and age."
Her gaze returned to Donnelley and she fell silent. There were no words from Donnelley either, just a picture of a man with arms crossed and a bearded frown, brows furrowed in concern.
He wondered if this was done all at once. Or carried out in sections. He wondered which possibility was worse. Imagining the girl’s pain, her anguish. How she might call out for her mother or father, beg for mercy. His mind flashed to Holly in that position like something in his brain was trying to hurt him. It worked. His frown deepened and he opened his mouth to say something. He shut it again and took his moment before finally speaking, “I’m killing this man.”
He left that out on the air, “We aren’t in the business of prosecuting.” He shook his head, all the while staring at the cadaver that was once alive and held smiles and laughter and love at one point, “I’m killing this man.”
Laine pressed her lips tight, knowing how he felt. A person who could do this would never be rehabilitated, there was no reason for them to be left alive.this was not an FBI case, the rules changed under UMBRA and she had no way to insist on taking the suspect alive. Except one.
“Not until I get information out of him,” she said firmly, meeting his blue eyes. He turned his gaze on her then, their eyes suspended on the other. He said nothing, just turned and left.
>CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA >GRAFFER’S DRINKS & DINING >1800HRS...///
Inevitably, Donnelley would have to stop his brooding. It made for bad conversation, but thankfully, for most of the ride to Charleston Laine was also quiet. They didn’t have the good spirits for jokes or speaking at all for a time. Or Donnelley didn’t. Of course, slowly he began to thaw and find his way back to the man he knew himself to be. They’d arrived at the small shopping center in the city and Donnelley followed Laine to the first store they came across. Around the Nordstrom they went, Donnelley with his hands firmly in his pockets as Laine buzzed about the clothing shelves and carousels, looking at shirts and pants and pondering on a few.
Soon enough, the dour attitude of Donnelley was chipped away at the small tries of banter from Laine. Smirks twitched at the corners of his mouth, smiles curled his lips and then chuckles weaseled from him through jokes at the ironic prospects of Laine in sundresses suited more for rich housewives and as Laine furthered her adventure deeper into the labyrinthine clothing section, he found he was smiling just because. He did have to try to look away- and fail in glances- when Laine was busy picking out more intimate and personal pieces of clothing. He came away from the experience red-faced. For the first time in a long time, Donnelley felt something he hadn’t; normal, an average man following a woman through a store and laughing at the stupidest things. At the beginning of it all, he checked his phone religiously for Foster or any of the others. As time went on, his phone was in his hand less and less until he forgot it was even there. The triviality was blissful, almost.
They left the store with Laine’s spoils, prized among them were a pair of black and white low-top Chuck Taylors she’d had a twinkle in her eye for from the moment she sensed their presence near her. Now, sitting in a booth at the bar, Old Fashioned in front of him and waiting for Laine to get back from the bathroom, he remembered what he missed about having someone outside of the Agency to spend time with. Something to do other than work or black out the time in-between. And perhaps the most heartbreaking thing about it is how unprofessional it was. If Foster saw them now he’d have a shit fit. And perhaps that only added to the fun of it all.
In the bathroom, Laine applied lipstick, a deep burgundy that bordered on plum. As close as she could get to black without being unprofessional. She had changed, taking off her skirt and tights to wear black leggings and the heels for the Converse sneakers. Her sweater was next, replaced by one of the few t-shirts she had found appealing, a white shirt with a distressed screen print of a city skyline. The sleeves had been tastefully torn off to resemble a tank top Nordstrom’s idea of urban style no doubt and it displayed her tattoos. She examined herself in the mirror, brushing her hair back behind her ears then forward again, shaking it loose. With a shrug, she grabbed her discarded clothes, rolling them into a tight bundle and tucked it under her arm as she exited the lady’s room.
Her drink was on the table, a cherry vodka sour, something she had not had since college and the bright red candied fruit poised in the liquor made her smile as plopped down across from Donnelley.
“Don’t you love it when you come back from the bathroom and your drink is waiting for you, “ Laine quipped with a sly smile and picked up the cherry, putting it in her mouth.
“Lucky we got anything at all.” He said, his modest smile still on him as he flashed his blue eyes at Laine’s green. He sipped at his drink, “I don’t think buddy over there’s much of a waiter. You look nice.”
Now that he was finally at rest and seemingly content with his life at the moment, he found it hard not to let the conversation stray towards work. The last thing he wanted to be talking about now was the case, and it wasn’t just because of OpSec. He’d spent his life doing one operation to the other. He promised himself not to let it seep into everything, and he’d keep it. “Then again you make it seem like you’ve never looked bad.” He smirked into his drink and shrugged, “I just throw shit on.”
Laine chewed on the cherry, rolling it in her mouth to rid it of the pit. At his compliment she popped the stem out and tossed it on a napkin, a self deprecating smile touching her lips. “That’s not my talent, that’s my mother’s training. She’s a real LA woman. But thank you.”
Leaning forward slightly she said in a low voice, “But isn’t that part of the mystique? Is he a street hood or spook? We’ll never know.”
With a light laugh, she leaned back and took her drink, downing about half of it and shivered, goosebumps rising on her bare arms. Double shot of the house vodka, it was rough.
“Could you believe I was one before the other?” He snorted, sloshing his drink in slow circles, “I might have been one of the five punks in Nowhere, Texas. My Pa was as West Texas as you could get, boots and hat, everything. Wasn’t all bad, learned how to ride from Pa and my manners from Ma.”
“So you dodged falling into the Valley Girl stereotype?” Donnelley rose a brow. “I could see it, riding in the back of a convertible Mustang to the beach and blaring… I don’t know, California Dreamin’ or something. Some Beatles, The Who, the real poppy shit from across the pond.”
“I believe it,” Laine grinned, “I can picture you, mohawk? Or liberty spikes? Brawling with the jocks and rednecks.”
She laughed at his image, shaking her head, “And again, that’s my mother. Not me. She was an actress and model, bleached hair and beach tan; a picture of California. She wanted me to follow in her footsteps but it wasn’t for me. Like I told you, I embraced the dark early.”
A melancholy look flickered in her eyes then she gave him a little smile as she imitated a dramatic teenager, “It’s not a phase, Mom.”
“In your defense it wasn’t for me, either.” He chuckled. He imitated flicking long locks from his shoulder, “I had some long-ass hair. Used to put makeup on and make kissy faces at the cowboys in their trucks to piss them off. I got my ass kicked a lot, but fuck it.”
He smiled, “I did have the vest though. Still got it somewhere, ratty as all hell by now.”
Laine laughed out loud at the image, a contagious slightly hoarse sound of pure glee at the idea of taunting rednecks. "Oh wow, now that's cool. I did a lot of bad poetry and my first real boyfriend had a blue mohawk and taught me to skate and play pool... among other things."
Her own smirk teased her lips and she took a sip then met his eyes. "Hell I want to see that vest one day. Judge your patches."
His brow ticked up at Laine’s insinuating smirk. He decided to let that dog lie for now and followed her along the subject of his vest, “Homemade, all of them. Lots of time on my hands back then and all I did was help fix motorcycles, make patches, break into cars, party and…” he shrugged, “Some other things.”
“We had to go to the bigger cities to party but that usually meant bigger trouble for little Donnelley.” He smiled at the memories, “I remember breaking into a DJ’s car and stealing my first records. We get back to the house show and the cops are at the place, had to pull my friend to the bus stop after he got cracked in the head with a baton.”
“I got a bottle broken over my head by a Crip once.” He looked away from Laine, thinking about any other times he’d got in trouble that should’ve killed him, “I don’t remember two days from those years because of the Xanax, but they said at one point I started a fight with a shitload of White Power Skins.”
“I was making kissy faces at them.” He mimicked it, throwing back the rest of his drink.
Laine raised her eyebrow at his tale of teenage debauchery and vandalism. “You would have been right at home with the boys I knew. Including the makeup, some of them were goth kids you know.”
She laughed at his kissy face, feeling warmth in her cheeks and she finished her drink. “You’ve always liked to tempt fate haven’t you?”
“I’ll be making kissy faces when the Reaper comes to the side of my deathbed.” He chuckled, leaning back and shaking his head, “Time was, I wanted to fight the whole goddamn world. I found out helping it feels better. Crazy idea, who’d have thought.”
He cracked a small smile, placing his hands on his empty glass and looking into it as he spoke, “I don’t get to do this often. I told them I wanted to stay as far away from Langley and America for a while since Holly and I, you know. Years later...” He chuckled, a small thing from his nose, “Besides how it started, I liked today. Forgot how much I missed this.”
His eyes glanced at Laine, catching himself, “Being Stateside.” He finished, a lie on two fronts. His little escapade in Seattle was more sad than anything and well, there was only a handful of things he liked in West Virginia. “It’s been a long time.”
Laine examined his face as he spoke, staying quiet and letting him express his longing for normalcy. Finally she said, “I can imagine, a job like yours is all consuming. I can understand that very well. As for your wife, I am guessing that was rough. I mean, of course it was but you still carry it don’t you? A burden of some kind of failure.”
She caught herself and glanced at her empty glass, setting it aside.
“Sometimes.” He shrugged, watching Laine, “Other times I’m pretty over it. I know she is. Honestly? It’s good for her. With a career like this I’d only be lying to her every day about what I am and where I’m going.”
“We’re both better this way.” He nodded before perking up a bit, giving a half smile. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring this down.”
Laine shook her head, “No, you didn’t. We’re here, talking and bullshitting, nothing to worry about. I’m going to get us another round since the waiter isn’t passing by. Same thing?”
She stood up, pushing the chair in with her hip and stacked her glass in his, picking them both up in a practiced manner. Once he gave her his answer, Laine sauntered to the bar, leaning against it and had the bartender’s attention in moments.
“Can I get a basket of fries, too? The largest you have, I’m starving,” she smiled and the bartender grinned, setting up their drinks, tossing in an extra shot each.
“On me,” he smiled at her, tossing two cherries into her vodka sour.
A generous tip went into his jar and she said, “Call me when the fries are out, we’ve been abandoned.”
“I’ll make sure you get them,” he said, giving her another cheeky grin, his eyes roaming over her tattoos and back to her face. “What’s the name on the order?”
“Laine. Thanks,” she said, turning on her heel and swayed her hips, giving Donnelley a sly smile and wink, their drinks in hand.
“It’s strong,” she said, setting it in front of him. “I forgot how easy it is to get free drinks.”
“When you’re you.” He winked. “Maybe if I grow my hair out again and give out some kissy faces I’ll be able to work magic like you.”
He took the first sip of his new drink and remembered he hadn’t eaten anything at all today. He was reminded of the fact when he felt the telltale looseness of muscle and tongue so early. He chuckled, “Thank you. You get any food? I haven’t eaten a thing all day.”
"You know I'm still in shock over the first kissy face," she chuckled and sat down, "I ordered a dumb huge basket of fries because I love french fries I don't care. I'll have thick thighs."
She sipped her strong drink and shivered, already feeling her head lighter and her body loosening. "I could add a burger if you want. I haven't eaten much and just now getting my appetite back."
Laine pulled a cherry out and offered it to him, "An appetizer."
“Thank you.” He snorted as he took the cherry and popped it into his mouth, holding the stem out in front of himself and looking at it appreciatively, “I never got how people tied stems out of these things.”
He shrugged, setting the stem down on his napkin and taking another sip to wash the cherry down. “I shared some of my stories,” he clucked his tongue, swirling the liquor in his glass, “Your turn?”
“No?” she said, picking up the cherry and then gave him a coy smile, popping the entire thing in her mouth. She chewed and pursed her lips, her tongue obviously moving in her mouth and trying not to laugh until she finally spit it out. The stem tied in a knot.
His brows rose, eyes going from Laine to the stem and back before he cracked a grin and laughed, “You are full of surprises.”
“I didn’t want to show off the first time,” Laine said, dropping it on his napkin. “Now, my stories...would it surprise you that I was a waitress and bartender at the Whiskey? It was only like six months and I was nineteen, couldn’t even drink legally but it was fun.”
“No petty crime wave like little Donnelley?” He chuckled, “S’alright. I can see it, you’ve got a good smile. Anything the Bureau wouldn’t want to know about from your childhood days kicking up dust with the punks?”
Laine tapped her fingernails, the deep plum polish looked black in the dim bar light. She glanced to the side then leaned in. "You know the usual sneaking out, smoking and drinking, X. Tried a couple of stronger things but I never liked the way it made me feel. But what could have got me in trouble if I'd been caught was shoplifting."
Rolling her eyes with embarrassment, she continued, "A friend of mine from school, Christine and I used to hit up different malls and steal from Hot Topic."
She laughed, blushing at the admission. "I mean, they had some cute stuff and decent t-shirts but fuck Hot Topic. We were too cool to pay for it. We were also like fifteen years old and it was a thrill."
Laine sipped her vodka sour and shook her head, "It's not something I'm proud of and my dad finally caught me with a bunch of tagged clothing in my closet. We had a long talk, you know. I hated disappointing him. I mean, I was used to disappointing my mom, that was easy but my dad? That was hard to face and so my sticky fingers days pretty much ended.”
She gave him a sheepish smile, then shrugged, “I guess I wasn’t as wild as you, but I also was happy to be alone with a good book or studying.”
Laine nursed her drink as he ordered more, watching him get drunk but she kept herself on the right side of sober. The fries helped and they devoured the basket of thick home cut potato wedges then ended up ordering burgers as well. A light buzz enough to take the edge off of the day, the horror of what the autopsy revealed. She felt a sudden pang of guilt, here they were drinking and laughing and Alex was back in White Tree. Laine finished her cranberry juice, what she had started drinking after the second vodka and then motioned to Donnelley, “I’m going to the ladies' room, then we should probably hit the road.” Once in the bathroom, she pulled out her phone and saw three messages from Dr Bakker. “Shit,” she muttered and called him.
He answered on the second ring and sounded rightfully annoyed, “Jesus, Heather where the fuck are you?”
“Hi, sorry about that,” she winced and sighed, “I had to get some clothes for the next few days in Charleston and we stopped for dinner.”
“Lovely, well I can tell you Annie’s Tavern has dry meatloaf, I wouldn’t recommend it. I need to get back now. I’ve got the report done and the samples I’ll run those down to CJIS myself,” he said and she could hear the impatience in his voice. “Heather, this shit...what the hell did you get into here?”
“I can’t talk about it and neither can you,” she said, checking under the stalls for any feet. “It’s late, are you sure-”
“I already have a room in Clarksburg, I’m heading out,” Bakker cut her off, then she could hear him sigh. “This has been rough.”
“I know, I’m sorry for dragging you into this but I don’t trust anyone else for that job.”
Bakker stayed silent then finally spoke, “At least you helped me decide something. I’m definitely going back into medicine where I don’t have to see shit like this ever again.”
Laine looked up at the ceiling, crossing one arm under her breasts, hugging herself, “It’s important you don’t talk about it, just take my word for it.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, “I don't even want to think about this again. Take care of yourself, and watch your ass. I don’t know who you’re working with but this whole thing stinks.”
“Yeah...it’s going to be a tough case,” Laine agreed, then waited a moment, “Look, I know you are shook up, hell we all are. But if I need you-”
“It better be dire need, Heather. I mean...shit,” he breathed out heavily, “Look, give me some time. Call me if you need me for anything.”
“Thanks, Alex,” she said quietly, then added, “Text me when you get to your hotel so I know you got there in one piece.”
“Sure. Drive safe.”
After he hung up, she tucked the phone into her waistband and splashed a little cold water on her face, still feeling the fuzziness in her brain. When she exited the bathroom, she spotted Donnelley still at the table.
The sight of him, slouched in his chair but relaxed made her smile as she strolled up, “Ready? Think you can make it to the car on your own feet?”
Without a word, Donnelley smiled, pushing himself up onto his feet with shaky grace. He held his hands out and his brows rose, “Ta da.”
She gave him a golf clap then grabbed her rolled up clothes and purse from the table, leading the way back to the Chrysler. Laine pulled the keys out and opened the car, dumping her stuff in the back before sliding into the driver's seat.
She adjusted the mirrors and seat, her sneakers lacking heels made her shorter height more noticeable. "Back to Whitetree or the cabin?"
Laine glanced at Donnelley then answered herself, "The cabin."
With that she fired up the car and pulled out of the bar parking lot, heading toward what would be home for the foreseeable future. Throughout the trip Donnelley had nodded off a few times, his conscience narrowed down to blinks of time in which he felt like he was a passenger in his own head. A view of a road through headlights. Reaching for a water bottle through the car window, held out by an attractive woman he didn’t know if he knew. More road. Even more empty road. Slowly, his consciousness trickled back to him by the time he felt them stop at the cabin. He kept his eyes closed for a few seconds before he opened them just as he felt and heard the engine cut off. He felt beat, taking a gulp of water and looking to Laine. For some reason, the image of her and Bakker at work, the memory of him addressing her with familiarity flashed back to him. Maybe it was the drink, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that it all bothered him for some reason. Just as Laine pushed open her door, Donnelley looked forward, the sight of the moon on high as he spoke. If he didn’t say it now he would never, “He called you by your first name.”
Laine let him rest, keeping the music mellow and ambient as she drove the lonely dark road towards the safehouse. If it had not been for the lingering memory of the dead girl and the horror inside her it would have been a great night. She had kept her own company so long lately she nearly forgot what it was like to get to know someone new and find those exciting connections. Granted, Donnelley was a coworker...no a supervisor. Her hands gripped the wheel and she told herself it didn't matter. They were just being friendly, that was all. A working friendship.
Tapping her thumbs to the Bauhaus beat that filled the silence between them, Laine focused on the winding road that finally lead them to the empty cabin. No one had made it in yet but that was expected, she had just happened to have been so close by. Home sweet home.
As Laine was getting out of the car, Donnelley's words caught her by surprise. Then she realized he meant Dr Bakker. She waited a beat, thinking over his possible reasons for demoting her to the familiar first name in front of other professionals. Or had it been for Donnelley.
Laine shrugged, meeting his gaze, "We've known each other for awhile. What's it matter?"
Donnelley’s brow furrowed, looking at his water bottle and mentally chiding himself that it would not give her the answers he wanted to. Neither would he, but his mouth worked at the words, struggling silently before he shook his head. “I don’t know.”
He looked at Laine but avoided her eyes, her face again a picture of quiet sympathy, the silence begging him to continue. He was her supervisor, a Team Lead. This was wildly inappropriate and completely unprofessional. He felt like a little boy again, confronted by… by what, Joseph? He asked himself. The silence was starting to draw on too long and he knew he might be wasting Laine’s time with this now that she wanted to be in a bed. He did too, but this was more important somehow. “Just...” He sighed, frustrated, “I’m sorry…”
He finally met her eyes with his tired own, flashing a sheepish smile and shaking his head as he looked away again.
Laine sank back into the seat, taking her time as he seemed to struggle with an internal battle. She waited patiently, watching him.
"You don't need to be sorry," she said quietly, and when he looked away she kept watching him.
He met her eyes again and offered her a lopsided grin. He silently pulled his pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and pulled one free with his teeth, getting out of his seat and walking towards the door. The lonely walk to the cabin held disappointment in every step for him but he braced against it long enough to stand at the doorway, unlocking the door and pushing it open for Laine. “Should get some rest,” He smiled, a request to be alone in different words, “I’ll be a little bit.”
She let him go, gathering her shopping bags and her work bag to head inside. As she passed him, she said, "It's been a long day but tonight was nice. Get some sleep."
Laine gave him a brief stern look before a small smile touched her lips, "Good night."
She left him there and went to the bedroom designated for the women in Team UMBRA,this time taking the bottom bunk. Laine undressed and put on an oversized t-shirt she had brought to sleep in. It was faded black with the screen print crackled with countless washings. It was hard to make out the band, only the red rose visible and instantly recognizable to Depeche Mode fans.
Laine flopped onto the bed, laying there for a moment before curling under the covers. She stayed still, closing her eyes and though she would not admit it to herself, she was listening for the door.
Alone again on the porch, Donnelley took a drag of his cigarette. The cherry of it burned brighter for a moment and he blew the smoke out, watching it drift away to the night breezes. For the first time, the night did not have a weight to it, the whispers of the trees as the wind rushed through them quieted and all was silence. Donnelley let a breath out, looking back at the cabin before his gaze met the moon and stars again. Another drag, another cloud drifted away from another sigh. Unprofessional. But Laine did say he liked to tempt fate.
Tom pulled his 2018 maroon Toyota Sequoia into the driveway on John Paul Circle. The driveway for the Stewart residence was slightly longer than the other homes on the street. The house was slightly obscured by a line of trees along the road. Tom appreciated his privacy. John Paul Circle could be considered an affluent neighborhood. He parked the large SUV in the garage and went into the house. As he entered the garage, he observed Jill’s 2019 mediterranean blue metallic BMW 3-series sedan. It was a beautiful car and came with all the bells and whistles one might expect from German engineering. With both Jill and Tom in high paying occupations, they could more than afford the house and the two cars.
When Tom walked into the kitchen, Jill had a broad grin stretched across her face that appeared as though it almost hurt. It was one of the widest and brightest smiles he’d seen on her in quite some time. Tom stopped to appreciate her appearance. He thought she was beautiful and told her often enough. “What?” Tom asked his smiling wife. “What’s going on?”
“Take a seat Tom,” Jill said as she reached for a beer in the fridge. She poured a cold Sam Adams winter lager in a glass and handed it to her husband. Tom preferred Sam Adams winter lager over the summer ale and always kept more than a case in the basement refrigerator. Tom appreciatively took the glass and sipped it after taking a seat. The kitchen had a peninsula separating the kitchen from the dining room. On the dining room side, there were three stools. Tom had taken one of these dark oaken stools with padded seating to listen to his wife’s news. She then turned her smile back onto her husband. “I went to the doctor’s this morning.”
“Oh?” Tom figured this was something good otherwise, why was she smiling? In fact, her face was contagious. He couldn’t help but smile along with her.
“I’m pregnant!” She popped it on him like there was nothing else to know in the world.
It took him several seconds to register. Tom heard the news and was very excited. “Really!” Tom exclaimed. “This is great news! We must celebrate. Let’s call our parents and tell them. Call your sister.”
“Tom, calm down,” Jill hushed her husband. “Let’s not jump into anything rash yet. I know you are excited and want to shout to the world that you are going to have a baby but it is still early. There are all sorts of things that could happen. Let’s wait until after week 16 when I have the ultrasound. I am only nine weeks pregnant. Next month, I want you to come to the ultrasound appointment. You can see your baby on the screen. Do you want to know the gender?”
“Yes, I do!” Tom was jumping for joy. He had the same smile plastered across his face. Then it hit him, “I’m going to be a father. I hope I will be a good father.” Every new dad wonders if they will treat their children right. They remember the things their own parents did and swear not to repeat their mistakes.
Jill pulled herself in close to Tom and hugged his head. She pulled his head into her chest and kissed him on top of his head. “You will be the best daddy in the whole world, Tom.” Jill was very happy. Tom hugged his wife, then looked up and kissed her.
“Ray, you got time?” Tom asked his boss.
“Sure Tom, come on in,” Ray told Agent Stewart. “what’s on your mind?”
“First, you have to keep this under your hat. Jill is pregnant.”
“Congratulations!” Ray exclaimed then added, “but why do I have to keep this a secret?”
“Jill wants to keep it a secret until after the ultrasound. She is afraid there may be complications. But she’s healthy and there is no reason for anything to go wrong, right?’
“Well, Jill is right. The prudent move would be to keep it to yourself for now,” the 48-year old FBI supervising special agent told his subordinate. “You know I have three children, right.”
“Sure, I’ve seen your son, James play ball for Boston Latin. He’s a great first baseman.”
“Jill is only trying to save herself from heartache. She knows there is a possibility of losing the baby. Yes, I have three children including an outstanding first baseman, but Pam has also had four miscarriages.” Ray mentioned his wife, Pam, whom the couple recently celebrated their 21st wedding anniversary. “In fact, she was pregnant twice before James was born. We got pregnant in 2000 and again in 2001 before James was born in 2002. The first pregnancy went 15 weeks and the second pregnancy went to week 26 before they were terminated. You never know what might happen.”
The blast of reality slapped Tom like a cross to the jaw. “You really know how to sour the mood there, boss.”
“Sorry to tell you this, but better you know the risk now than to be disappointed when it happens. Hopefully you will have no problem. Most people have their first child with no problems. But seriously, I am happy for you Tom. Congratulations.”
“Also, wanted to remind you, I am going to Annual Training next week. We’re going to West Virginia; training in the Kanawha State Forest. A company of Army Special Forces is going to play OPFOR for us. I don’t know if it is such a great idea putting marines against army doggies.”
“Oh you’ll be alright,” Ray assured him. “You know I was in the 3rd Armor Division in Germany and Iraq 30 years ago. Those green beanies aren’t so special, but I have nothing but respect for Jarheads. They are all grunts.”
“Weren’t you a tanker, Ray?”
“Well, that is true. I was a gunner on an M1 Abrams during the Desert Storm.
“Thanks for the advice, Ray. I’m going to head up to Salem to follow up some leads on that Varma case.”
“Ok, Tom. Good luck,” Ray was ready to dismiss Agent Stewart. “One minute. Why don’t you take Teri Kravets with you. She needs more field experience.” Ray wanted Tom to help break in an agent who had only arrived from Quantico about two months ago.
“Sure sure, will do. See you, Ray.”
>ONE WEEK LATER >DEVENS TRAINING AREA, MASSACHUSETTS
“Morning Reg,” Tom addressed the battalion intelligence officer as they both walked into the marine reserve center.
“Morning, Tom. What’s new with the Feds these days?” Captain Washington asked.
“Not much…or the same old thing. Always seem to be picking up cold case files from your CPAC. I was chasing down one in Salem this week.”
“Yea, I’m sure there are a lot of those.” Reg Washington noticed Tom carrying a garment bag. “What’s with the suit, Tom? You planning to do some work out in West Virginia? Play G-man?”
“Yea, I’ve gotten myself involved with an FBI group that sends me jobs to take care of; things that others either don’t want to do or can’t. I work with a group of agents. I never know when they are going to call. I need to be prepared.” Tom never knew when he would be called for an assignment with the UMBRA Group. He figured Reginald Washington didn’t need to know what UMBRA group was and didn’t feel the need to go into detail about what they did. Tom carried a a navy blue duffle with the letters FBI, packed with his tactical equipment as well as a few other sundries in case Donnelley called him in. He also packed a suit and tie in case he needed to play the role of an FBI agent. He was quite burdened during the walk into the reserve center carrying work related gear as well as his Marine corps utility uniforms and field gear. In one of his duffel bags, he squirreled away a new box of Cuban Cigars and four bottles of Jameson Whiskey.
The Headquarters and Services Company and Weapons Company, 1st Battalion, 25th Marines assembled at the reserve center at Devens then loaded onto buses. The remainder of the battalion was spread across New England and New York. A Company was based in Brunswick, Maine and were doing the same thing there. B Company assembled in Londonderry, New Hampshire and C Company assembled in Buffalo, New York. The five marine units then moved by bus to various civilian or military airfields boarding C-130 cargo aircraft from various state national guard air forces which would then transport the 750 members of the battalion to Yeager Airport near Charleston, West Virginia. A total of ten Air Force C-130s would be employed in the movement of one-two-five marine infantry battalion.
During the flight, Tom tried to catch some sleep. When he couldn’t sleep, he looked at photographs of his wife, thinking about their unborn child and read a book written by Ted Koppel titled, “Lights Out”, about what would happen to the US if a hostile enemy attempted to crash the electrical grid that all Americans take for granted. This could be accomplished either by explosives and a terrorist organization or two strategically placed electro-magnetic pulse (EMP) bombs detonated a hundred miles above the country. Ted Koppel did extensive research on the subject with professionals who work in public utilities and understand the distribution of electricity across the country as well as public policy makers. It was a scary read. According to the book, if the lights went out, ninety percent of the population would be dead from disease, famine or societal chaos within one year. No, it would not send the nation back to the 19th century, but the 14th century, one of the worst centuries on the planet.
Jillian (Malone) Stewart
Courtesy: Miriam Giovanelli
Upon arrival at Yeager Airport, the marines marched out into darkness to a “tent city” hastily assembled along the east edge of the airfield. Their home for the next three weeks was known as tent city and consisted of General Purpose (GP) medium tents with two rows of 15 cots in each to give the marines a place to store their equipment and get some sleep. A GP large tent had been erected to serve as a shower facility for them as well as a hard stand dining facility. The shower facility used wooden pallets as flooring. A special unit was on hand to set up the showers and kept water pumping into the shower heads to be used by the marines when needed. However, the men would not be at the facility, for most of their time in West Virginia would be spent in the woods of the State Forest.
After a few safety briefings and operations briefings at each level, the battalion was ready to deploy. They had been issued a basic load of blank ammunition and a set of MILES gear (Multiple Integrated Laser Engagement System) which would allow the BLUFOR and OPFOR members to know who was taking hits during firefights. Members of the West Virginia Army National Guard would serve as Observer/Controllers during the exercise. The battalion would conduct an air assault insertion into Objective SAIPAN in the Kanawha State Forest. Members of C Company, First Battalion, 19th Special Forces Group were portraying the role of Taliban or ISIS soldiers wearing the clothing Taliban soldiers wear in Afghanistan and armed with Kalashnikovs rather than M4s or FN SCARs.
“Good morning, Tom,” Lieutenant Colonel Norm Miller was awake when the Battalion Operations Officer (S3) emerged from his tent. The Battalion Commander (BC) was holding a mug filled with black coffee.
“You have another one of those, sir?” Major Stewart referred to the cup of hot steaming brown liquid or lifer juice.
“Chow hall right over there, Tom,” Colonel Miller pointed the place out.
“Wonderful, I’m getting a cup now. Need anything else sir?”
“No, just come back and see me after.” Miller wanted to talk with the S3 about the upcoming operations.
“Aye, aye, sir!” Major Stewart then walked into the dining facility to retrieve a cup of coffee, black, hot and bitter; just the way he liked it.
Major Stewart, Captain Washington, Major Srinivas and Colonel Miller sat at a table in their operations room. Major Vijay Srinivas, a large New Yorker of Indian descent served as the battalion’s executive officer or second in command. Captain Alejandro “Alex” Jimenez, who served as the Assistant Operations Officer (S3 Air), entered the room and took a seat near Major Stewart. Captain Jimenez grew up in Holyoke, Massachusetts, a city dominated by both Puerto Rican and Irish immigrants.
“What are we getting for air support?” The BC asked.
Major Stewart began, “We will be supported by VMM-744, a Medium Tiltrotor Squadron out of Chambers Field in Virginia. They are equipped with V-22 Ospreys. They will have enough aircraft to move the entire battalion into the AO in three sorties. Captain Jimenez conducted the air assault planning. Would you like him to go over it now, sir?”
“No, that won’t be necessary. I’m sure it is highly detailed,” the battalion commander responded. “Any attack aircraft or helicopters?”
“No sir,” Major Stewart answered.
“What about or Opposition Force?” The Battalion Commander asked the intelligence officer.
“C Company, 1st Battalion, 19th Special Forces Group will provide our OPFOR, sir.” Greg Washington was aware the BC knew the SF Company would be the opfor but for him to say it today meant the coordination was complete and the Green Berets were ready to roleplay as middle eastern Islamic warriors. A few may have worn the traditional black muslim attire as worn by members of the Islamic State of Iraq and Levant.
“What is their strength?”
Captain Washington researched the Special Forces modified table of organization and equipment (MTOE) in order to answer this question. “The company has eighty-three soldiers including six 12-man Operational Detachment Alphas and one 11-man Operational Detachment Bravo. Undoubtedly, they will operate in seven teams in a decentralized manner. They will be armed with AK-47 Kalashnikov assault rifles, Rocket Propelled Grenades and Dragunov, SVD-63 sniper rifles. I anticipate they will make good use of their snipers. Each team has at least two snipers working in two-man teams. Expect them to conduct hit and run operations.”
“Yes, Captain Washington. Thank you.” The Battalion commander looked at the XO, “Major Srinivas, what about logistic support?”
“Did you sleep well, sir?” Major Srinivas asked.
“I did, Vijay. Thank you for asking,” the Commander smiled. “My cot was tight.”
“So far, the state of West Virginia has been very forthcoming with equipment. They have provided us with 10-ton trucks to provide logistical support, Humm-Vs (HMMWVs), POL Tankers, recovery vehicles and Humm-V ambulances.” Major Srinivas continued with his briefing. “We need to insist our marines take excellent care of this equipment in appreciation for what the locals have done for us.”
“Aye, Aye!” The BC responded. “Thank you, gentlemen. We need to meet back up once we are on the ground in the forest. I want to have staff meetings at 1900 every night at the battalion Tactical Operations Center (TOC). We can address any issues as they come up. I also want the Jump TOC in full swing. I want to move around the battlefield quickly and see how the companies operate against the OPFOR.” LTC Miller did not let his staff officers know he was originally from West Virginia before moving to New England. His hometown was only about 20 miles from Charleston.
>KANAWHA STATE FOREST
The battalion inserted successfully into LZ SAIPAN. The V-22 Osprey were only a few years old and served their purpose well. The Special Forces soldiers on the ground provided the Marines a hot Landing Zone with several machine guns firing on both sides. The Marines took several training casualties especially from sniper fire. The local team of Observer/Controllers recorded the casualties and returned the marines back to their units right away to remain in the fight. Those marines who became training casualties wouldn’t receive any training benefit if they remained in some obscure dead pool.
“What is the situation in Alpha Oscar BRUNSWICK, over,” Major Stewart called over the radio. There had been a firefight in which A Company was taking casualties.
“Tulagi Tree, this is Iwo fife six, BRUNSWICK has received fife Kilo India Alphas and seven Whiskey India Alphas. Enemy suffered four Kilo India Alphas and an unknown quantity of Whiskey India Alphas, over.”
“Roger out,” Major Stewart clicked off the radio. Three ODAs struck A Company with three sniper teams and attacks from three different directions all timed perfectly. “These guys are getting some great training; you know that Lance Corporal?” Major Stewart spoke to his Humm-V driver Lance Corporal Jacob Hastings.
“Yes sir!” the driver responded.
Just as Tom Stewart thought about having a conversation with his driver, he received a call from Donnelley. fuck! I totally forgot about that guy. And this battle is really going well. “Looks like you’ll be driving Captain Jimenez around instead of me, Lance Corporal.”
“What’s up, sir?” Corporal Hastings asked. The 19-year old marine was from Athol, Massachusetts and enjoyed his time in the Corps. He stood five foot six inches tall and was lean like a Marine should be. The young marine smoked Marlboro cigarettes and worked in construction outside the Corps.
“My civilian job needs me to work a local case here in West Virginia.” Major Stewart asked his driver, “do you happen to know where the BC is?”
“Yes sir, he is back at the TOC.”
“Let’s get there, now!” Tom Stewart told his driver.
“Aye Aye, sir!” Lance Corporal Hastings turned the Humm-V around and headed back toward the Landing Zone where the battalion’s TOC was located. A pair of OPFOR nearby attempted to engage the S3s vehicle. Private First Class Frenier manned an M240 Machine gun in the cupola behind the S3 and his driver. PFC Frenier swung the big gun around and opened up on the two special forces soldiers. The general purpose machine punched the air with its fire trying to hit the enemy.
“Step on it, Hastings!” Major Stewart yelled as he thrust his M9 Beretta out the window. He was issued blank rounds too, firing in the direction of the enemy.
After speaking with the battalion commander, he needed to get back to Yaeger airfield and make arrangements to get to the safehouse which was only 20 miles away. He told Captain Jimenez he would take over for him during his absence. Major Stewart was confident in Captain Jimenez’ capabilities.
“How about a parachute?”
“What?” Captain Jimenez asked Major Stewart.
“How about I strap on a parachute and jump from a V-22 into the place I need to go. I don’t need to worry about transportation once I get there.”
Captain Jimenez thought about it. “I will contact VMM-744 and see if they have any chutes. If they do. I’m sure they will allow it. You are airborne.”
“I love it!” Tom was pretty happy. He expected to jump into the safehouse.
>THE SAFEHOUSE >OUTSIDE WHITE TREE >BLACKRIVER, WEST VIRGINIA 2330 hours
Tom Stewart strapped his FBI duffel containing his UMBRA Kit and garment bag onto his parachute harness. It was a vinyl bag with zipper and would have no problems holding up to the outside winds. He wore his Kevlar helmet with goggles, sun, wind and dust. He stood when the red light came on. He shuffled to the rear of the aircraft as the ramp lowered. He moved to the rear of the ramp. The Marine crew chief stood next to him, with safety strap tied in. He held onto the back of Stewart’s parachute harness. The Major and the sergeant stared at the red light waiting for it to turn green. It seemed like eternity, but it was only two minutes.
Green Light!
Tom Stewart lurched forward, propelling himself into the wind as his body dropped into the dark sky below. He exited the aircraft at two thousand feet. He could see the safehouse below. His chute opened as soon as he was clear of the aircraft. He was using the intruder system RA1 Ram Air tactical parachute system which allowed Tom to steer the chute right into the parking lot in front of the safehouse. He touched down quietly, gathered up his chute, stuffed it under his arm and headed to the front door.
When he hit the porch, he headed inside the building being as quiet as possible. He didn't know who was there and didn't want to wake anyone. He mounted the stairs, making his way to his room, still dressed in Marine Corps Multicam uniform and wearing his Kevlar helmet.
After unstrapping and storing his parachute, he stored his UMBRA kit along with the garment bag, box of Cuban cigars and bottles of Jamison Whiskey. He laid down on the bunk and thought, ‘I guess I won’t be sleeping on the ground tonight.’
Waking up this early sucked, yea it wasn't your usual 9-5 being in the airforce but getting up this early for an assignment, a flight in the less sucked. Gwen groaned as her alarm went off in her room on base, the alarm had become a hated sound by the young airman. She went to slam it off with a fist of steel, leaving her phone silent and emotionally hurt if it too had emotions. She dragged her sorry ass out of bed, like a snake she wiggled around on the hard floor before she regained her composure of sorrow. She had regretted taking an assignment like this if it meant getting up this early, fuck that Foster guy. She had already packed the night before as to prepare herself for this very moment, this moment, of course, would be her most trying. She internally sighed now wide awake in her room, she grabbed onto her suitcase and leave passed which was approved by her command - the wonders of shady friends in the dark.
After a quick shower and brushing of the teeth, Gwen made her way towards the front entrance of her lodgings. She mentally was going over what she packed, her USBs and programs her computer (for extensive downtime) and her uniform and a few other articles. Upon exiting the front lobby she was greeted by a blacked-out, black on black GMC SUV. It was a cool car, but the driver was not cool. He was all tight-lipped and didn't even help her put her stuff in the back of the car. It was whatever Gwen was her own woman and did it herself. She jumped into the car and without many words exchanged, they were off to the races. Except it was San Antonio INTL, the driver went to ask Gwen something but by the time he did she was already out and sound asleep. Whatever it was, it wasn't important enough to wake her for it.
Upon arriving at the airport, she woke up with a jolt to the driver's touch. "We're here, miss." He said curtly, Gwen simply responded with a big yawn "Awesoooooooooooooooome." she said as she pulled herself out of the SUV, the driver had been kind enough to bring her luggage out of the trunk of the car. She thanked him and quickly made it inside the airport, still trying to recall what her dream was. Just another weird nightmare where the hands from her computer almost killed her, it was scary how digital shit can be so real somedays. Literally, people got pulled through a fucking computer! Her mind traveled back when they bombed that sum-bitches warehouse and how awesome it was to fly that drone.
Back, in reality, she had been auto-piloting herself from the reception passed security and to her gate, no issues really. She googled how long it would take her to get there, something like 5-6 hours or some shit like that. Gwen sighed at the travel time, was it really worth it to go out in to buttfuck east-coastie land? She felt defeated as she remembered she had already signed on and wasn't planning to fuck off the spooky guys who called her, besides getting out of Texas was good she didn't really want to stick around considering her situation with her father.
Gwen woke up, not really remembering falling asleep on the flight - no it was not inception as she had thought. The flight touched down, she remembers sitting down on the plane beside some weird old man. He was gone now but the flight was ready to disembark, everyone was antsy to get out of the plane. Like sheep just pushing themselves to slaughter, the thought was morbid but simply what came to mind at the time. Gwen pulled herself off the plane and headed to find her baggage, she waited for all the bags to come flying out from being checked in on the conveyor belts. Doing stuff like this was not normal it didn't feel right. She had been in the airforce for to long to really enjoy doing stuff like this, or normal stuff if you could call it normal anymore.
She hauled herself to the outside of Yeager Airport, where another suspicious ride was waiting for her. Going to check if was her Spec-ops uber, she went to the driver if he was in fact her driver. He was an unimpressed blond, now more awake than before Gwen took in the views. The thirties, body-builder looking guy, half Asian white dude. Looked like he eats bricks and stuff for breakfast, that was cool but he probably wasn't much of a talker either. She did try him though, halfway through their magical drive to who knows where she tried asking what the hell was going on. "Where are we going?" she asked. "Don't worry." The man said firmly, as it didn't really help reinforce anything positive about the drive. She elected not to say anything at all in hopes she wouldn't be killed for breaking any kind of secret code. >SOMEWHERE IN WEST VIRGINIA >THE SAFEHOUSE >1800HRs
They had arrived, this time Gwen didn't really sleep as she slept the whole day but she yearned to sleep just a bit more. She was tired, probably because she knew nothing but this was the spec ops life she guessed. Stepping out of the car she got the bag herself this time since the guy was an asshole. While taking her suitcase out, she looked up to the sky. It was a good day out, yet she was stuck here. She went to the door and knocked on it. "Howdy?" She said, there was a twang in her voice - she was from Texas!
It was Alpha Company's turn to run the Gauntlet. The column of guys from 2nd Platoon were trailed out in full gear as the second platoon in the staggered-start schedule. 1st Platoon started half an hour ago, giving the 2nd the reassurance that the first few courses of the Gauntlet were at the very least cleared. Yet as the platoon walked to their starting area, all kitted up with their vests, artificially weighted rucksacks, and M4s loaded with dummy weighted magazines, they all dreaded the exercise.
It wasn't the PT that got to them necessarily. The presentation and organization was the problem, to them. The Gauntlet was some cooked up idea of the Major's that he stole from some almost decade-old article. It was originally some 40-hour mega-course that pushed soldiers to their limit, and was usually scheduled about every six months. But, in the usual fashion, that was deemed "insufficient" by the standards of whoever planned the damn course. Instead it was compacted for them into a single-day exercise that tried desperately to cram every little bit of the original course's itinerary into it, and was repeated no less than every two months.
His platoon lead, upstanding as he was, crushed dissent wherever it sprouted, and Staff Sergeant Clark was his hammer of repression. So, despite his own feelings, it was Justin's job, despite his own opinions, to stop the talk. And the platoon was good at talking.
"Hey, Staff Sarn't-" Corporal Staver, assistant lead of squad two, piped up from the front. Justin, relegated to the back of the column to keep watch while the Lieutenant led up front, huffed a sigh.
"Yes, Corporal?"
"Why is it that every two months, every time it's Alpha's time to run the Gauntlet, the Major always comes out to watch us, but never the other companies?"
It was true, every time they ran the Gauntlet, the Major, executive officer of the 3rd of the 75th, right hand of who may have well been God himself, came out to watch specifically Alpha do its run. Never did he watch Bravo or Charlie as closely as much as he seemed to breathe down Alpha's neck. It's likely he was somewhere with his eyes glued to 1st Platoon as they spoke.
"I don't know, Staver. Maybe he just wants us to excel." Justin knew that wasn't the reason. If that were the case, he'd be watching every company. No, it was because of the Captain. The Captain was perhaps the most respectable man in the battalion as far as Justin was concerned. As much as the Lieutenant was a brown-noser to the Major, the Captain of Alpha didn't take any bullshit. And that just made the Major's gears grind.
Stavers, as unsatisfied he was with the answer, didn't speak up again. He knew he wasn't going to get an answer from Staff Sergeant Clark, and certainly he wasn't going to take that one to the Lieutenant.
They rolled up on the starting area after about ten minutes of walking in a column. The Lieutenant halted the platoon and had Justin form them up by squad. Before them was stage one, the obstacle course. It was like something straight out of Full Metal Jacket, a collection of cobbled together wood and metal built to Army specifications. That was to say, purpose-built and prone to wear away within the year. Of all the squads formed up, the Lieutenant was going first with squad one. Justin was to send second squad after, and accompany squad three.
A bullhorn sounded, and squad one surged forward. The entire platoon was allotted fifteen minutes to clear the obstacles and proceed to the next area, and squad one made good time. After a decent head-start, second squad trailed behind. Staggered in last, Justin led the charge of squad three. Over log barriers and under concertina wire-wrapped wooden boards, they dragged themselves through the mud of the insufferably hot Fort Benning climate. It was going to be a long day.
>FORT BENNING BARRACKS COMPLEX >SOME TIME LATER...
Justin practically had to drag himself through the door of his barracks building as the pitch darkness of the early night was setting in. The Gauntlet was a poorly-designed tough-nut hell of a challenge, but it wasn't impossible, and as always, all of Alpha Company made it through with flying colors. But suffice to say, after all of that, Justin was fucking exhausted. His prime concern was making it to a bed and a bottle of Jack Daniels to wind down. And as he stripped off his utterly fucking soaked uniform, he began to pour himself a glass of his choice brew of whiskey.
Sitting on the bed, he reached to his nightstand to grab his phone, checking off all the notifications he had while in the Gauntlet. His burner, sitting firmly on top of a stack of papers in the stand, flashed with a black and red exclamation point. Flipping it open, he read off the message, murmuring it quietly to himself, before belting out venomously in his beautifully redneck accent which he only used casually.
"Aw shit."
>THE NEXT DAY >0500 hrs
Justin rolled out of bed much earlier than he would've cared to. The Company was slotted to have an easy day after the Gauntlet to recuperate. But no, UMBRA was activated. Bullshit. He dragged his achy self into his bathroom, in the near pitch dark of his room, flipping on the blindingly white fluorescent lights. Literally passing through the shower in moments and running a razor over his face haphazardly, he donned his usual civvies as he left post, leave-slip in hand.
And of course it was the exact same car waiting for him again, in the exact same spot, same bald, unspeaking and unflinching driver as before. Pursing a lip and building his frustrations as he got in the back of the car like before, he spoke up.
"Can I at least take my own goddamn car?"
The suit up front paused, his eyes concealed by sunglasses as he obviously looked back at Justin in the rear view mirror.
"No."
"Wh-" Justin started, not even bothering to continue voicing his frustration as he buckled up. He was passed out in his seat before they even hit the interstate.
He jolted back awake as they hit a surface of gravel among the hills of West Virginia. They were here. The mysterious driver dumped him out without so much as a goodbye in the midday weather in front of the safehouse. Go-bag and duffel over his shoulder, he stepped up to the porch and headed inside.
"So who's fuckin' idea was this?" The Tennessean called out, rubbing an aching knee.
>THE SAFEHOUSE >BLACKRIVER COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA >0630...///
The one good thing about being drunk before sleeping, or being so drunk he was forced to sleep, was the dreams seemed fiction then. Like watching a television rather than his own feet filling the boots or his own hands holding the knife or cradling Guzman’s head. He’d tried going to sleep sober once. It was not something he’d do if he had a choice at all.
boom… and then echoes. He stirred awake quicker than usual, reached for his M4 and as he scrambled for it, he realized it wasn’t there. He looked around himself. He wasn’t in Afghanistan, but there were mountains. West Virginia. He drew in a breath and blew it out his mouth, looking through the bedroom window to see the plume of dust a blasting charge at the mines had thrown up. The Safehouse. He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bunk and cradled his face in his hands, fingers tracing the edges of the burn scar as his head throbbed. He stayed like that for he didn’t know how long before he shook himself back to the present, standing and stretching. The familiar pops from his joints after a life of hitting the ground hard and ascending steep climbs with a ruck that weighed the equivalent of another man.
He sniffed at the air. Coffee? Was Laine up before him? He wasn’t surprised, he went to sleep later than she did and drunker than she did as well. He slipped a ratty black t-shirt over himself, the Choking Victim logo long faded to a hint that one would have to squint at to tell. He traded his slacks for sweats and slipped his .40 cal into the right pocket, tying a tight knot in the drawstrings to compensate for the weight that threatened to pull it down to his ankles. He eyed a half-empty water bottle on its side at the foot of his bed. He grasped it up and sucked down the rest of it in hopes of wetting his dry mouth, smacking his lips appreciatively as he threw it back into the covers of his bed. The finishing touch being a cigarette tucked behind his ear.
He put his hand on the knob, but froze. There wasn’t any conversation outside yet there was a stirring, a creaking of the floorboards and the sound of someone humming and quietly singing something. It was just Laine and him then. If he hadn’t been such an ass last night perhaps he could’ve strolled into the kitchen and waved at her, making himself a cup of coffee and ask how she slept, but…
Fuck it, that’s what he was going to do. He turned the knob and pulled the door open, closing it behind him and then standing in place. Laine was indeed already up and about, but she had not taken notice of his presence. She stood at the counter, sink on one side of her and cooking range on the other, bowl of soon-to-be scrambled eggs in one hand and her other beating it to rhythmic hell with a fork. He didn’t realize he was staring until he had to roll his eyes away from appreciating how the goddamn light from the window fell over her. She put it down and went for something else, prompting him to flinch back into a conspicuous walk to the island table in the kitchen. On which was a clean mug next to her filled one, coffee still steaming in hers. He grasped the cup by the handle, stepping quietly as he carefully placed it under the Black Budget Keurig’s spigot, replacing Laine’s used cartridge with a fresh French Roast one and letting the machine go to work with a press of a button. He turned around, leaning on the counter and watched Laine work at the morning’s breakfast, the dark-haired woman still utterly oblivious to his relaxed, folded arm presence in the corner of the kitchen behind her. He watched her mouth the words to some song, humming along at other parts. He finally picked it out. He smirked. Suicidal Tendencies. Another flash of normalcy. Another chiding shake of his head and sigh. She’s a colleague, his inner voice spoke, You fucking child.
“Look.” He said finally, the words trudging out of him like a funeral procession, “I didn’t mean anything by last night. I know it isn’t any business of mine and it really shouldn’t matter to me who calls you what.”
His eyes were on the floor and he could feel himself curling over like a guilty pet. She just kept on doing what she’d been and Donnelley instantly recognized the age-old unsaid ‘fuck off’ of the cold shoulder. Holly was a fan of it. There was an ache in his chest at that, a feeling that he was ankle-deep in shit. “Laine, I know I acted very unprofessional last night. I’m just trying to apologize for my behavior and I’m sorry if I offended you.”
Still no answer. And the shit rose to his knees. He sighed, closing his eyes and hanging his head, “I get it.” He breathed, nodding slow, “For the sake of the case we can just start over. No bullshit about someone who’s known you way damn longer than I have calling you by whatever name. Okay?”
No answer, and this time she actually turned away from him, giving him her back. He just wanted to take his coffee and hole up in his room like an angst-ridden younger Donnelley might have. He let out a harsh sigh and began to leave for his room, brushing a defeated hand through his hair, “Fuck, Donnelley...”
Laine flipped the bacon and went back to mixing the eggs, beating a good half dozen with a touch of milk, whisking them to the rhythm of one of her favorite Suicidal songs. She was dressed like she had just rolled out of bed, which she had, still in the faded back t shirt with the modesty of putting on some yoga pants. Her bare feet padded over the polished wood, neat pedicured toenails painted glossy black and dark hair swept back, a small clip holding the short locks out of her face as she cooked.
She went about the business of breakfast, stirring eggs and watching the browning potatoes, completely oblivious as the music blasted into her ears. Her favorite part of the song was coming up and she called out in not quite a full shout, “But here’s my apology, FUCK YOU!”
Donnelley’s shoulders flinched up and he turned slowly, mouth slightly agape. He looked at her and knew every little joke they shared was tossed aside, “Laine, I…”
When she spun around on the balls of her feet she finally noticed Donnelley staring at her and realization hit as she popped the ear buds out, “Oh hey, sorry about that, dude! I didn’t see you. Good morning, how’s your head?”
Donnelley’s brow furrowed even more and he tried to hide his face behind the mug, taking a long sip. When it came away from his face, he forced a smile. It was all just a misunderstanding, he told himself. The ache in his chest needn’t be worried over, it’s all fine now. But it wasn’t, and he resigned himself to sitting at the island table. “You know. Night of drinking. About as good as I could hope after that.” He replied, his smile coming back with a bit more sincerity, “D’you sleep good?”
She smiled a bit, her makeup gone except the raccoon eye remnants of her eyeliner as she had not hit the shower yet. “Yeah, I slept soundly, a little vodka and horrific murder just puts me out. I hope you’re hungry, I’m making enough for a small army.”
Laine glanced over at him, watching him drink his coffee before she poured the eggs into a buttered pan. “How about you? Feeling alright?”
“Yeah,” He was still smiling at her earlier quip as he looked into his mug before taking another sip. Gallows humor and survival and all that. He looked at her, shrugging, “Just a… an awkward start to my morning s’all.”
He leaned over and glanced at the food, feeling his stomach churn with hunger. He smiled as he put his ass back in his chair, “You looking to feed Whitetree with all that ‘cause you just might.”
“My dad always made us a huge Sunday breakfast, just in case we had visitors. His family was one of those that would make the rounds after church,” she said, looking wistfully out the window at the pine trees beyond the drive that only held the Chrysler and her rental Hyundai. She then shrugged, giving him a small grin. “Plus it helps with hangovers, grease and fat and caffeine.”
Laine set a plate in front of him, fluffy eggs and crisp bacon and hashbrowns. She had her own food and most important her cup of dark coffee. She stepped aside to turn off the burners, covering the eggs with a plate. “Awkward?”
She sat down, her face flushed pink and she sighed a soft self deprecating laugh, “Oh yeah, awkward. I’m really sorry about yelling ‘fuck you’ at you. It’s the song, I’m sure you know it. ‘You Won’t Bring Me Down’. One of my wake up tunes.”
She sipped her coffee and dug in, not shy about eating heartily. Laine kept a side eye on Donnelley, he seemed bothered by more than just her accidental cussing out, it certainly wasn’t the first time he had heard that phrase. “Unlike what it seems, I am not a morning person, it’s something I have to force myself into. I can’t do anything until I have coffee. Once that hits and I have a shower, I’ll be ready to be Doctor Laine.”
“Well, then, Miss Laine,” He smirked, forking some eggs into his mouth and finishing chewing, “You sure still know how to remedy a hangover.”
His mind returned to last night. No matter the fact the subject felt so far away from her it still stuck close to him, seeming to breathe down his neck every moment it got. He wondered if he should apologize anyway, now that he had her attention. Then he wondered if it would be more tactful to just shut up about it. “Laine,” Damnit, “I’m sorry about last night.”
Laine bit into a piece of bacon, done to crisp perfection and nodded at his observation of her hangover cure. Menudo was more traditional in the heavily Mexican influenced LA but this she knew how to make. As she ate, she could sense his tension, in the way he held himself and the furrows in his brow. Laine waited for Donnelley, this was a man who could not be pushed.
When he spoke, she turned to look at him. Her dark ringed eyes still calm and observant as he apologized. Setting her fork down, she turned her body slightly as she gave him her attention.
“Why are you sorry?” she said, “It’s not the drinking, I remember the flask. Last night was a nice distraction after the autopsy and you were kind enough to keep me company shopping.”
He sighed a chuckle, smiling softly at her, “Anytime.” He nodded. He wondered if he should just leave it at that, pretend that was exactly what he was talking about and they could both go on with their lives. But Donnelley never did things, never let things go easy, “It’s not the drinking though. It’s…”
“You were right.” He looked away from her, his hand dropping and leaving his fork on his plate, finding it too hard to look her in the eye with this, “What’s it matter. I shouldn’t have brought up Bakker calling you by your first name, he’s known you way longer than I have. I’m just some guy you met a couple months ago.”
Laine bit the inside of her lip, her brows drawing together slightly as he confessed why he was sorry. “Oh, yes, that. You’re right, it wasn’t your business,” she said, then softened her smoke husky voice, “I accept your apology. It’s not something I wanted to get into and it’s nothing that matters now. You’re not just some guy, by the way.”
She finished her coffee, then set her mug down, “I like you, Donnelley. You’re pretty cool. You know, for a black booted CIA spook.”
Laine winked at him slyly then stood and scraped her plate, setting it in the sink.
Donnelley laid a hand over his heart and bit his lip, “Oh, that kinda hurts.” He chuckled, “Go ahead and get about your morning, I’ll take care of the dishes.”
He forked up the last of his eggs and crunched down the bit of bacon he had left before he stood. He swallowed it down just as he set his plate in the sink, pulling the cigarette from behind his ear and placing it between his lips, “Thank you. Food was good.” He smiled at her as he walked to the front door and then looked outside the peephole at the sound of crunching gravel beneath tire treads. Then he saw her. “Who the fuck?”
He wasted no time in reaching into his pocket and thumbing the safety off on his handgun. He didn’t have to check the chamber. He always had one in there. He let her knock as he took in her face. Young. Pretty. She didn’t look like someone from town sent to kill him and everyone threatening to break down their sliver of backwoods.
He opened the door, as she knocked and called out at anybody inside. He sucked his teeth, summoning his best authoritative voice well-honed from his time as a Deputy and years in the military, the Texan in his voice apparent. “Think you’ve got the wrong house, ma’am.”
“Nope, Foster sent me - motherfucker.” The voice came back with it’s own Texan twang to it, unheard of in such parts of old Western Virginia. She sounded a bit annoyed, but not Texan pissed, such a fabled mood was seldom except for those who could not control their inner rage.
Donnelley narrowed his eyes at the last bit, the frown on his face twitching a hair deeper, “What?” He leaned in closer, “Don’t think I heard you right.”
Then he heard his phone ring from the other room. It was either Foster calling him to let him know there was a very last minute decision or to notify him that they were all compromised and a small, petite blonde Texan was coming to ventilate his skull. He nodded inside, “Get in here.”
"Took y'all long enough." Hauling her big ol' bag of luggage in with her before sliding it off to the side. "Senior Airman Weissman, pleasure to be of service to ya old man" she said sticking her hand for a lil hand shaky with the head honcho. She was definitely a saucy one.
At the disturbance at the door, Laine popped her head around to see what was going on. The exchange was brief but telling and she ducked back into the kitchen. Serving a plate and setting out another cup, she grabbed her phone and strolled out. “Welcome, I’m Dr Laine, there’s some breakfast waiting if you haven’t eaten. And coffee, plenty of coffee. Looks like you and Mr Donnelley probably have some things to work out so I’m going to grab a shower.”
As she passed Donnelley, she whispered to him, “Don’t kill her.”
Laine vanished into the bathroom after a stop into the women’s bunkroom for her shower bag and towel.
Donnelley regarded the hand and then looked to Weissman for a few good, tense seconds. He took the offered hand. “Joseph Donnelley, OGA.” He put his hands on his hips and nodded at the plate Laine had made, “Eat or not. I’m going outside for a smoke, you can join me if you want. I want to know why you’re here past Foster sending me young cubs to babysit.”
Old Guy Association (OGA), Gwen never thought they existed. Regardless, Gwen was happy enough to go and take the plate. Free food is free food, the Doc chick was pretty nice she thought as she scarfed down the food. After kicking back some killer coffee she went to meet the man who wanted the answers.
"Yea, I'm here to hack shit and do a lot of electronic wizardry." She said proudly. Now taking out her Cophagen Wintergreen giving it a few spanks before packing a mini-hog.
“Oh, good,” Donnelley smirked and dryly added, “If one of us forgets our passwords you can get it back. Appreciate it.”
Tom had woken up at zero five thirty. It was a habit he couldn’t break. It didn’t matter what time he went to bed, he always seemed to wake at zero dark thirty. The sun was just on the horizon; beginning morning nautical twilight or BMNT was here. The day would get gradually brighter as it went on.
Tom stood, moved to the closet, kicking the chute in deeper. Opening his duffel, he pulled out a pair of OD green running shorts and the white T-shirt. He pulled on his running shoes and headed downstairs. He could hear snoring coming from a room in the hall. He ran out the back door and hit the dirt road. He preferred to explore his surroundings on his own when he had time. At 5:45 in the morning, he had time.
The road went on for just under a mile and a half when he hit a paved road appearing to need serious repairs or at least just patching. The local highway department would get to it eventually, if it was in the budget.
‘Colonel Miller is pretty understanding letting me take off like this. I know it was work related, but technically even the FBI needs to let their employees take off time for Reserve training. But I’m not complaining. I want to be here.’ Tom ran along the paved road lost in his thoughts. He remembered Jill and their unborn child. He thought of names like Robert after his father or possibly Tom Jr. with a nickname of TJ. Maybe something totally different. His grandfather was Joseph and he had an uncle Randy, er Randall. Maybe not a boy. What about girls names? Let Jill choose? No. How about Michelle, Cheryl, Margot or Clarice? He then sang running cadences in his head.
After a half hour of running, he figured he was out about three or three and a half miles, turned and began heading back to the safehouse. His thoughts turned to the team. He thought about Mr. Donnelly. He didn’t know the man well enough but appeared to be competent in his work. It didn’t matter what he was like as long as he did his job. At least he brought beers to drink when it was all over. Couldn’t fault a man for his generosity. Heather Laine had called him when he was at home. He was able to follow up some leads that might help her. He would need to share that with her later. Lieutenant Gomez and Mr. Mathius seemed quite capable too. Gomez was a bit high strung at times. He looked forward to seeing Mr. Clark and Jason Jimenez. They were both good guys. He liked working with other military types even if he was an army doggy. They at least knew what they were doing.
Tom hit the dirt road and continued toward the safehouse. A nondescript car approached him from the direction of the house. Tom’s law enforcement and military training couldn’t be impeded. He eyeballed the unimpressed blonde haired gentleman driving the vehicle. He appeared to be close in age to himself and in decent shape. Probably worked out in a gym. He also looked like he could have been part Asian.
He slowed to a walk at about a hundred yards from the building and walked for his cool down. As he approached the house, he spied Mr. Donnelly on the front porch with a young blonde haired woman. She was cute and almost as tall as he and Donnelly; well maybe a few inches shorter, but still tall for a woman. “Hello Mr. Donnelly,” Tom announced walking to the porch, wearing a sweaty white T-shirt and green shorts. He obviously wasn’t carrying any bags. But his hair was cut to the typical US Marine Corps High and Tight length.
“Tom!” Donnelley waved and smiled as the footsteps on the gravel driveway and parking lot of the Safehouse revealed themselves to be none other than Special Agent Stewart, “My favorite Marine. Went on a run?”
He looked around the mostly vacant gravel lot and spotted only his car, the Chrysler. He looked at Tom with some lighthearted confusion and jokingly asked, “You didn’t just run all the way here, did you?”
Tom laughed at that comment. “No sir, I arrived last night,” Tom responded. “I believe it was a little after 2330.” Tom didn’t want to admit exactly how he arrived right away.
“Did you…” Donnelley’s face screwed up with some genuine curiosity, his smirk playing at the edges of his lips, “Missus drop you off, or?”
“Dropped off?” Tom laughed at that. “In a manner of speaking, I was dropped off, but not by the missus. It was courtesy of the US Marine Corps. In fact, it was a V-22 from about two thousand feet up. I parachuted in, boss.”
Donnelley smirked. At Tom’s continued expectant silence the smirk became a chuckle. Then a laugh as he fully realized Tom was being dead serious. “Goddamn, cowboy, I like the way you do things.” Donnelley sniffled and nodded, “Wish I’d been there to witness the justification of budget.”
Tom gave a wink and a smile at the mention of the budget. “Thanks boss,” Tom spoke in his typical Boston accent. “Oh yea, do you know how to rig a chute? We learned in Airborne school and yea, that was about twelve years ago. I should pack it before I go back.” Tom asked Mr. Donnelly. Then smelled the kitchen. “Is that bacon and eggs I smell? Coffee too?”
“Courtesy of our good Doctor Laine, yes it is.” Donnelley jerked his thumb over his shoulder, “Go on, get your chow. We’ve got a morning ahead of us.”
Tom started to enter the house, then asked the obvious question, “Who’s the new girl? Does she work for the farm? Or one of us now?”
“Go on, then,” Donnelley rose his brows at Gwen, “Introduce yourself to the nice man.”
Gwen went to go spit some dip outside before responding. "Weissman, hackergirl." A familiar Texan twang was attached to her voice.
Tom extended his right hand. He spoke in a Boston accent, “Stewart, Tom. I work for the Bureau, among other things. Very nice to meet you. I’m going to head inside. I’ll talk to you later.” Tom entered the house in search of breakfast.
"Cool." Gwen simply remarked making a mental note to creep his social media if he had any. She turned back to Donny. "So yea Foster hired me, you got a PC for lil ol' me?"
“Whatever you brought is what you got.” Donnelley said, smirking at his own unintended writing as he rolled out the cherry on his cigarette before flicking the filter away someplace, “Let’s head inside.”
As Donnelley opened the door and presumed that Gwen would follow, he took his seat at the island counter in the center of the kitchen, “Texas?” He asked, he knew she would know what he was asking.
"Del Rio and you ?" She said strolling in taking out her spitter to spit some dip into it.
“Spit of dirt little south of Dalhart.” Donnelley shrugged, “It’s a shithole but it was my shithole for a bit. Take ten steps and you’ll stub your toes on a meth house.”
He spat the last couple words with some venom, before turning his attention to Stewart, “Tom, I assume you have a storied history in Boston. Care to regale us?”
Tom put a breakfast together, consisting of eggs, bacon and black coffee. He sat down with the others and began eating the meal. “Storied? Well, I don’t know how interesting it is. You don’t want to hear about murder investigations. Especially not at breakfast.” He really didn’t want to talk about those. “How should I dress for the day, boss? I brought a suit just in case you needed me to play the FBI role,” Tom mentioned to avoid any uncomfortable conversations.
"Hmpf, cool." She said strutting into the cabin. She sat down at the table with the rest of them, looking them over. Maybe she was going to ventilate their skulls.
“Anything business. Look official, you know the drill.” He answered Tom as he grabbed a piece of bacon from the paper towel lined plate the stack of them rested on, “Play the FBI role. I am.”
He winked at Tom, “Special Agent John Davidson is my name when we get anywhere outside the Safehouse.” He smirked, talking around a mouthful of bacon, “I’ll give y’all a full briefing when we get to the town Doc. But, you know, don’t want to talk about any of that at breakfast.”
“No problem, Agent Davidson,” Tom smirked as he ate his egg. “I may just call you agent Davidson and John just to get used to the sound so I don’t slip up later.”
Donnelley nodded, offering his hand out to Tom as if they were colleagues meeting for the first time, “Please, just John.”
“OK, John,” Tom shook his hand after placing his fork down. He scooped up the mug and took a sip of the coffee before returning to the fork. “Where’s Heather? Oh, my mistake, Doctor Laine?”
Dr Laine was just getting out of the shower, wrapped in the oversized towel that was fluffy and indulgent, certainly no military regulation towel supplied in the cabin. She had bought it at the mall, a luxury she could not resist. She peeked out the door, then stepped out to make a hasty retreat back to the woman's bedroom, tip toeing along the wooden floor.
Once she was in the room, she towel dried her hair and began her getting ready for the day ritual. Loud music in the empty room, hairdryer blaring and her offkey singing, a person who definitely used to living alone. Laine put on light makeup for the small town, people like this thought a woman to be whorish in anything other than casual nude tones. She dressed in black slacks and a long sleeved black turtleneck, making sure all her tattoos were covered. Unable to surrender all her style to backwater standards she wore her silver skull earrings and four inch black heels. Hopefully no stumbling in the woods but just in case, Laine grabbed her Converse sneakers and shoved them in her leather purse.
Once she was ready, she strolled out of the room and saw the gathering around the table, enjoying the breakfast. “Hey, Tom, just get in?”
“Hey Heather, how’s it going?” Tom asked with a smile on his face. “Thanks for breakfast.”
“My pleasure, I love cooking for people,” she said, taking another Keurig cup out of the cupboard to place in the coffee maker. “Especially when I don’t have to clean up.”
Laine flashed a brief smile towards Donnelley, then put the egg pan into the sink. “Eggs are the worst.”
“Mhm.” Donnelley grunted, wordlessly getting to work on the dishes. Which consisted of turning on the sink to fill up the pots and bowls, giving Laine a smirk, “Just gonna let them soak a bit.”
“Oh yea, before I forget. That John Doe that washed ashore in Cohasset was connected to the Russian Mafia. His name was Anatoly Mikhailov. He was 32 years old and born in Voronezh, Russia. He spent time in the Russian Spetsnaz before immigrating to the US. He had a residence in Brighton Beach. Haven’t figured out how he ended up in Massachusetts yet.” Tom wanted to pass that along to Heather before too long. “I can include it in an email when I get back to Boston if you like. Just so you know, my marine reserve unit is training only about 20 miles south of here near Charleston. If you were in the area, you may have seen military vehicles moving about in town or V-22 Ospreys flying over head. We’ve been borrowing West Virginia National Guard vehicles.”
“I knew it, those damn Adidas tracksuits,” Laine commented on the identification of the washed up body. She wanted to ask about the Jane Doe but her concern was more about their Jane Doe in town. Not enough to bring it up as people still ate, it was a stomach turning conversation topic.
She turned, waiting for her coffee to finish and leaned against the counter. In her stilettos she was as tall as Donnelley and almost as tall as Tom, there was an unspoken communication of power when it came to height so damn the aching arches. “I was in town but I hadn’t noticed, I was shopping.”
Laine laughed a little at herself, then turned to fetch her mug now that the machine was done. “Did you get dropped off with Weissman then?”
Donnelley’s only comment was a soft snort at how Tom said he’d gotten to the Safehouse.
“Weissman?” Tom thought, must be talking about the newbie. “Ah, Gwen. No, I did not. I jumped in last night around 2330.”
Laine was blowing on her coffee then her pursed lips paused and she raised her brows, looking over her glasses at Tom, “Jumped?”
“Yea, you know those V-22’s I mentioned?” Tom paused to sip his coffee. “They are from Chambers Field in Virginia. They are here to support out annual training at Kanawha State Forest. I requisitioned a parachute from their squadron and parachuted into the parking lot out front around 2330 last night.”
She stared at him for a moment then laughed, shaking her head with an indulgent smile and said one word, “Marines.”
“Right?” The Army boy in Donnelley smirked.
Tom had finished his breakfast and still smelled from his run that morning. “If you will excuse me, I need to go shower and get ready for the day.” Tom stood up and placed his dishes near the sink. He left the room and headed upstairs.
Laine turned her gaze to Weissman, studying the younger woman for a quiet moment as she sipped her coffee. “How about you, Airforce right? I think I’m the only one not ex military. I’m sorry I missed the introduction, I’m with the Bureau, the actual FBI not like Davidson here. Behavioral Analysis Unit.”
"I'm still active duty, yea I'm with the air force 67th Cyberspace Operations Group, out of Lackland AFB. What's with all the cops I thought this was like a hacking op." She said just chilling at the table, looking around maybe processing everyone here was some kind of spook or some kind of expert.
“There’s a murder we’re looking into, you are here to help I take it,” Laine replied.
Laurie opened the door, chewing on some wild garlic with a few stalks left in his hands. “Shup.” He said through the chewing, tapping his forelock with index and middle finger before taking off his hat. “Who’re you?” the Ranger queried, looking at the newcomer as he went to lean on a chair.
“Another surprise,” Laine observed Laurie sauntering into the cabin, then nodded at the covered plate of food. “There’s still some breakfast, if that uh...grass isn’t filling. Bacon, scrambled eggs, and hashbrowns, help yourself.”
“You know, between you and Laurie, I think I’m going to feel like a dad again.” Donnelley shook his head as he watched Laurie chomping on a weed he’d found outside. “Just don’t make me get the kid leashes.”
He shook his head at Laurie with an amused grin and turned back to Gwen, “It is a hacking op. For you. And if we need a drone piloted it’s all you, Airman.” Donnelley popped the last morsel of bacon in his mouth and dusted off his hands, talking around his mouthful, “Sadly, we don’t have an air conditioned pilot station and a hangar for your Predator drone out back so I hope the Air Force taught you how to ruck too.”
"Fuck." She said spitting some more dip into her spitter. "Knew I should of said no." In reality she was glad to be out of Texas, but sad it was no hotel gig. 0 stars for this cabin and cabal.
“You can ruck can’t you?” He looked at Laurie and then realized he didn’t remember the guy getting to the Safehouse. “When did you get here? Where do y’all keep coming from?”
Laine caught the reference about Donnelley being a Dad, it should not be surprising since he had been married but it was all the same. She tried to imagine him as such and then ducked her face, trying not to smile. Kid leashes. Maybe she should have bought juice boxes.
“I’m glad I’m only having to carry my shoulder holster and a notebook,” Laine said, raising her cup of coffee in a gleeful reference to the heavy backpacks.
Laurie giggled at the Doctor’s words, nodding gratefully as he went over to make himself and impromptu sandwich wedging eggs and bacon between hashbrowns and placing a bit of his wild garlic in there too. He wasn’t really hungry, but he’d eat a fucking pride of lions and an endangered whale if it was free. “Myeah, I ruck.” He said to Donnelly, initially with hesitation and then resignation realizing he’d be made carry a quite literal shit ton of stuff either way. “Got here real early in the morning, if you didn’t see the ‘cycle. Just had a gander through the woods and all, didn’t feel like a sleep. Don’t worry I’ll double fist some monsters or whatever the fucking zoomers drink to stay awake.” Taking a great big bite. “Y’all mind if I finish these babies?” he queried, looking at the remnants of the breakfast that he hadn’t yet devoured.
"So, hick - you dip?" She said asking Laurie.
Laurie kept chewing after the question came, masticating a few times more before swallowing. “Sure.” he said, leaning over meaningfully under the assumption she was offering.
Gwen sauced her saucy tin of Copenhagen Wintergreen over to the man on the table with one hand. She then went to spit some out into her spitter.
“Unless we have others showing up, go ahead,” Laine said, there was not much left of the eggs anyway. “Help yourself.”
Laurie took a bit of the dip and put it on his plate, before saying something indeterminate in gratitude to Laine as he pounded down all that was left of the breakfast like an industrial machine, sliding the tin right back. The lady hadn’t answered him on who she was, but anyone that gave free dip was good enough in his book. Finishing up he licked his fingers and then went to wash them before drying them off. “I’ve got most of my shit ready on my bike, I’m ready when y’all are.”
She eyed the young woman’s dip can and tried not to make a face, she smoked after all. But a lady didn’t spit. Laine bit back a grin then stepped out of the kitchen to get her gear ready for the day. In her room she put on said shoulder holster, checking the standard FBI issue Glock 9mm to make sure it was loaded and then secured it under her arm. It snugged up against her breast and after a few adjustments finally felt as comfortable as it would get. Laine did not often have to wear it unless she was active in the field and as she was BAU it was not a regular basis.
Inside her purse were her sneakers and wallet, a packet of latex gloves and a few Ziploc bags and her cigarettes, lighter and small makeup bag. A switchblade and a can of mace, her phone charger and camera along with a small notebook with her thoughts on the case and names and numbers to remember was shoved in with a few pens. The purse was black leather, designer but sleek and modest with a shoulder strap. In all honesty she would have carried a backpack and dressed in jeans but as an FBI psychologist she learned to project a certain aura. Power, authority, intelligence and intimidation all in one package. Laine slid her black frame glasses back onto her face and touched up her modest lipstick.
Smoothing the trim dark blazer over the shoulder holster, Laine walked back out, ready to roll.
After the shower, Tom dressed in a pair of navy blue dockers slacks with the FBI shield in its belt holder at his waist and the Gerber leatherman also on the belt in the rear. He put on a white cotton button down shirt and a red necktie with navy blue diagonal stripes. He then put on the tactical boots with the Gerber Mark 2 survival knife tucked into the boot and under his pant leg. The last article of clothing would be the herringbone gray jacket, which he would put on later when he needed to. Inside his duffel, he had a small bag to put a kit together to take with him. It contained: two sets of Peerless handcuffs, several flex cuffs, a first aid kit, rubber gloves, assorted chem lites and a notepad. The Sig .40 cal was placed in the shoulder holster under his left arm. The M4 was too large for the bag, but he would put it in the trunk of the car and use it if needed. Inside the bag would go the eight magazines filled with .223 caliber ammunition along with the throat mic communications equipment if needed. His FBI identification was placed inside the top left breast inside pocket of his jacket along with three Cuban cigars and a zippo lighter.
Tom hefted the small bag, his jacket and the carbine to carry downstairs. Everyone else was busying themselves with getting their equipment together for the day’s mission. He knew they were investigating a murder; expecting there would be complications since it fell to UMBRA, as an experienced investigator he was naturally curious what it was all about.
>ROAD TO FBI CJIS FACILITY...///
Donnelley had elected Tom drive the Chrysler to the CJIS compound based solely on the fact that the majority of them didn’t have FBI IDs, real or fabricated. Tom and Laine took the two front seats, which left Donnelley squeezed into the back with Gwen and Laurie. It had been a quiet drive filled only with sparse small talk up until they got close to the facility. Donnelley has not been in the mood for banter after he stuffed the bag which held the shard into the trunk of the Chrysler. That thing was not meant to be seen, and he had the urge to bury it somewhere nobody could find it again.
Laine had notified Bakker to meet them there where he had moved the body of their Jane Doe and Donnelley figured there were a few things the team needed to know before they stepped foot inside the facility. “Alright, first things first,” He opened from the back seat, “Nobody better fucking even utter the name Joseph Donnelley in there. I’m Special Agent John Davidson to these people.”
“When we get there, everyone but Tom and Laine shuts up. If anybody asks who you two are,” he turned his head to Gwen and Laurie, “You’re studying under Doctor Laine. No more than that. Anybody presses, Tom and I can tell them to kindly fuck off.”
With that, the CJIS facility’s front gates were in sight. Just as planned and without incident, Tom and Laine flashed their identification and they were waved through. They made their deeper into the campus and following Laine, they were able to make it to the freezer rooms. Small drawers that may or may not have contained bodies. Bakker had not yet arrived, which left the team standing around to do nothing in the cold room, which was a welcome reprieve from the summer heat.
Gwen kinda just muddled around following Laine, not really understanding the purpose of some dead dude. She kept her laptop handy and her handy stuff handier on her, she just took in the shitty sights of the CJIS facility and kept quiet. Which in all, was really really hard to do. She just wanted to scream, or yawn but she stopped herself because one of these guys may snap her neck. Also, she got free breakfast earlier.
Tom parked the Chrysler and walked with Dr. Laine to the morgue. “I always hated coming to these places,” Tom admitted quietly. “Dead bodies just give me the creeps. But what creeps me more is when they aren’t really dead.” The temperature today was only in the upper 70s, maybe 80. Tom opted to leave the suit jacket on.
As Tom and Laine stepped out of the car, Laurie leaned out to say he wasn't coming. "Yeah uhh, tell the boss I ain't coming. I'll stay here, hold the fort and be in reserve in case them jap-porn monsters start appearing. Then I can heroically save your asses, otherwise I'll just sit here do a bit of reading and you can give me the spark notes after when I need it for… You know, my real job." With that, he shut the door, pulled out his Bible and started to do precisely what he promised.
“What the heck are we lookin for?” Gwen asked no one specifically but in a quiet tone as to not to earn the wrath from the team or security.
“Doctor Bakker.” Donnelley frowned, leaning on an exam table with his arms crossed. He rolled his shoulders in the blue long-sleeved button up he wore. Goddamn, he hated dressing up. “Y’all seen dead bodies before right?”
“More than I ever wanted to,” Tom responded.
“Yeah, this one time we had a AC-130. I wasn’t piloting cus it wasn’t no drone, but I saw the live footage and damn those things can zoom in like a microscope. This taliban van, well it got talibammed by a 40mm cannon. Insane, really crazy. Why didn’t we just facetime or skype this Doc is he like one of those old men who meet in person only?” Gwen said, not really impressed by the whole covert op to find some old doctor. Sometimes technology just helped you find people, old or not.
“Yeah, why don’t we FaceTime this Doc?” Donnelley asked, a small smirk as he added, “Then again, he is so very important and much needed.”
“If I had a PHD I would facetime people, on appointment of course.” Gwen added to Donnely’s remark.
Laine turned her head, huffing a soft laugh at the comments. “He just texted me, he’s in the parking lot. Facetime is fine but face to face is preferable, I guess I’m old fashioned.”
On cue, Dr Alex Bakker rounded the corner and entered the room, pausing at the size of the crowd. His reddish blonde hair was tastefully messy, purposefully combed that way and he wore casual dark brown slacks and a blazer over a t-shirt. “Circus in town?” he asked, his gaze moving from Laine to Donnelley briefly then he scanned their faces. “Alright, let’s get on with this, I had to self medicate to sleep last night. I hope you catch whoever did this.”
“First time, Precious?” Donnelley muttered ever so softly at his comment of self medicating. Weed? Or alcohol? Now that was the question on sliding scale of tragedy.
He held out a folder with the FBI stamp on it. “Your official unofficial Jane Doe autopsy report.”
“What does the report state as cause of death?” Tom Stewart asked.
“Oh, you’ll want to hear this.” Donnelley smirked at Tom, leaving it at that. The humor was of course a defense mechanism, tried and true for Donnelley. In truth, the body’s internal state and missing organs gave him a creeping anxiety.
Dr Bakker nodded then opened the report, his free hand going to the pocket of his blazer to hide the fidgeting fingers. “First, I’m Dr Bakker, FBI forensic examiner at Quantico. I’m sure Dr Laine told you. Nice to see you again, Agent Davidson. Now, the rest of you I don’t know and if you wish give me your names I probably won’t remember them no offense. I’m going straight home after this and I hope to never see you again.”
His eyes darted to Laine, then muttered, “I’ll see you at work when I pack my things.”
‘Tom intended to tell Dr. Bakker his name. It was the polite thing to do, but after that introduction, maybe it was best just to remain silent about the introductions.’ “Ok, maybe you could just tell us what you found?”
“Right,” he said, “Jane Doe, estimated age 16-23 years, found in wooded location just off a trail. She was disposed of there, the body had been moved from wherever the original crime scene was. Cause of death...”
He squinted his eyes and said, “Massive internal hemorrhaging caused by a foreign object. I believe it to have been inserted somehow, most likely vaginal as extensive abrasions and lacerations were found through her cervix and uterus which was punctured by the...hell I don’t know what it was. It looks like a shard of obsidian or stone. Black...very black.”
Bakker paused, a faraway look in his dark blue eyes as he fumbled his hand in his pocket. Blinking hard he continued, “It tore through her, her reproductive organs, it lacerated her liver, right lung and embedded itself in her aorta.”
He breathed out, then said, “She was also mutilated. Her tongue was cut out, her vocal chords...and most obvious, she was skinned from head to toe. Every bit of dermal layer removed.”
His hand gripped into a fist in his jacket pocket and he cleared his throat, “This was not done posthumously.”
Gwen was uninterested in the whole attitude the Doc had Tom had gone as far as just plain up ask him what’s the dice for this whole thing and made the guy a bit scared. She went up to Bakker and put a consolidating hand on his shoulder.
"Don’t worry Doc we'll find this damned serial killer. Don’t mind my partner, Agent Muldoon." She said gesturing to Tom. "We're just trying to get the pieces we need to find this sunbitch." She said smiling.
Bakker glanced at the blonde, then at her hand and managed a nod of acknowledgement.
Though Donnelley had been smirking at the beginning, he now stood with his eyes closed and thumb resting on his lip. His head seemed to hang lower and lower as Bakker gave the team the rundown of what he’d found out. Finally, he thrust his thumb over his shoulder at the freezer drawers, voice solemn, “Where is she?”
“As distasteful as it may seem, I would like to view the corpse.”Tom mentioned to reinforce what Donnelley was implying. Tom turned to Gwen, “Could you take him out into the hall? He appears to not have the stomach for this sort of thing.” He was referring to Laurie Mathieu.
Laine listened, her face a mask of calm but inside her stomach knotted, the details now clearly telling a tale of torture and brutal murder. She had hoped at least the skinning had been done after death but the young woman was not even allowed that mercy. Her eyes scanned over the team, watching their reactions. Her gaze lingered on Donnelley then returned to Bakker. His stress etched on the fine lines around his eyes and dark circles. She doubted he had slept much and he was normally out like a light no matter what. She stayed silent, not feeling the need to push into the situation, just to observe.
"Of course, Agent Muldoon." She says walking out gesturing to the ol' Ranger to follow her out.
Tom held a stoic, semi-placid appearance. He had seen many corpses over the past five or more years during his time with the bureau.
Bakker folded the flap of the report folder over and put it under his arm, “I’ll get her out for you.”
He moved to the middle row, last drawer on the small freezer wall. Unlatching it, he drew out the stainless steel table, rolling out in a smooth motion and on it lay a petite figure that looked more like a muscle anatomy illustration than a former living human being. Her chest was still split open, closed only with medical staples that could be easily removed to examine the internal organs. She would be sewn up later and buried, hopefully one day to be returned to a family missing their daughter.
Tom pulled a pair of rubber gloves out of a breast pocket and slipped them on. He noticed the lack of flesh on the corpse, finding that aspect quite peculiar as well as telling about the killer. The detail to remove the flesh in its entirety from a human was a voluminous clue. “You say the flesh was removed while she was still alive?” Tom asked the question rhetorically. He hadn’t missed that tidbit, but saying it aloud impacted on himself more solidly that simply recalling it. “
Bakker stood aside, putting on his own gloves and nodded, “Yes, the marks we found on her muscles indicate it was before the other wounds, they were well clotted and starting to knit together in some places. Not too much longer after she died but...she felt that. No traces of pain killers, not even some fucking Tylenol. Lab found Midazolam and Propofol, he made sure she didn’t move but she felt and knew what he was doing.”
His voice lowered to a growl, then he shook his head, pressing his lips together until they were a white line against his ruddy beard.
Tom looked at the opened chest. “You say there was an object embedded in her chest. I see it was removed.” Tom looked around at Dr. Laine and Donnelley, “did one of you secure this piece of evidence?”
Donnelley glanced at Laine before he reached down and grabbed up the duffel bag, placing it on the empty exam table. He paused, a heavy sigh escaping him and a very strong urge to step outside for a smoke. It’d have to wait. He unzipped the bag, rummaging around clothing items until the crinkling of a ziplock was heard. He pulled free a bag and tossed it onto the exam table with a trace of disgust. Within it, a sharp piece of some type of mineral black like a hole in the world stared out at them.
Donnelley’s appearance was not lost on Agent Stewart. He watched him handle the small shard in the ziploc bag and place it on the exam table. Tom picked the bag up to have a closer inspection of the shard. “How was this inserted?” was the thought he had, while verbalizing the question. He stared at the thing a bit longer and he started to feel bad. It was a feeling he felt many years ago. He began to see clouds swirling in it surface. He recalled the black stone in Northern Afghanistan those many years ago. As soon as he realized what he held, he dropped the item back onto the exam table. “Holy shit!” Tom paused, not ready to explain how he recognized the thing. “Where did that come from?!” Fear and anxiety were overwhelming him. He felt sad, turned to Donnelley, “Agent Davidson, could we go outside for a few minutes?”
“Way the fuck ahead of you, Devil Dog.” Donnelley turned on his heel and stuffed a cigarette between his lips. He stopped for a beat, looking at Bakker and Laine, then Bakker again.
“I’m sorry you had to do this.” His eyes lingered on Bakker’s own. He knew they didn’t have the best of starts but nobody deserved a look like that in their eyes. It was those same eyes Donnelley had when he got back to his FOB in Afghanistan years ago. He opened his mouth to say something else but looked to the side, shaking his head and continuing on his way after Tom.
Dr Bakker watched Donnelley take the shard out of the duffel bag and Laine could see his shoulders tense. She felt it herself, the anxiety and dread over something so small yet it reminded her of death and horror in Olympia Forest and now here in West Virginia.
Bakker stepped away from her but before he could answer Agent Stewart’s question the man reacted to the shard. He paused, his gaze moving back to the body of the dead woman that he had spent hours delving into, mentally and physically taking her apart into pieces to figure out what had happened. But she was not just a puzzle but a person and he had stayed awake too long last night thinking about worst case scenarios until he knocked himself out with a heavy dose of Nyquil bought from the small hotel lobby storefront.
He turned to look at Donnelley, then nodded, rubbing his scruff covered chin, “Part of me wishes I hadn’t answered Dr Laine’s call, but if there had to be someone to do this...”
Bakker sighed heavily, glancing at Laine who hung back, and looked back at Donnelley, “I know I did as best I could by her.”
Whether he spoke of Jane Doe or Heather Laine, it was unclear and he said no more. Bakker nodded to him and turned away, the cords on the back of his neck standing out with tension as he looked down at the body.
Laine waited until the men left then walked over to Dr Bakker to stand beside him. He was still silent and she waited, watching him from the corner of her eye brooding over the victim.
"I'm also sorry to put this on you, but I trust you," Laine said.
Bakker rubbed the bridge of his nose then glanced at her. He was still taller than she was in her high heels and he looked slightly down in her face. "Yeah, you said that. Look, this has been a weird damn two days. I missed the conference, by the way."
They both stayed silent then she added, "I guess I'll find someone else to copy off of."
Bakker cut a dark look at her, muttering, "Christ's sake."
"Sorry."
He sighed then shook his head, toying with the edge of the latex gloves. "Seems like much longer than...what's it been 24, 36 hours? Seems like a week since I came down to Whitetree. I was glad to leave it. That place is depressing."
"It's strange," Laine agreed vaguely, "The whole county. The people there..."
"Your new partner," Bakker said, "All of it seems off. But I did my part and I'm going home today. I already made an appointment with the counselor at Johns Hopkins."
Laine turned to him, "Because of this?"
"Somewhat, and I mean a counselor to see how many courses I would need to renew my surgical license. Not a shrink, no offense."
"I still think it would be a disservice to law enforcement but it's your life," Laine said.
"It would make Lily happy, too. That matters to me," Bakker said, glancing aside at her and he held out the folder with the autopsy report.
Laine nodded stiffly as she took it, tucking it under her arm, then turned away. She dug into her purse for her clove cigarettes. "I think I'll grab a smoke, too."
That was it. That was all. That’s all he felt for a day where children would be playing in the sprinklers outside and lovers would be walking along beaches. He inhaled the sharp smoke, feeling it burn in his throat as he growled it out to the wind. He desperately clung to any thought that wasn’t the case like a drowning man to the last piece of wood. He took another drag down to the filter and flicked it away, his words wreathed in smoke, “Fucking Christ…”
He pulled his pack free again and flipped it open, wondering if he should go for another. His father used to chainsmoke way back when. He wondered if this was what he went through, the endless thoughts and hellish feeling in his skin. He couldn’t blame him. Vietnam was a nice time for nobody. He used to wonder what he saw there, wonder what it was like all up until he had a slice of it himself. It was no jungle but Donnelley would never see Afghanistan, never see Pakistan and the FATA the same ever again. As he looked to Tom, quiet on his own, and then the sky again. He just knew he wouldn’t see West Virginia in the same light. “I read your file,” He said to Tom, though he still was looking at his own hands instead of the man next to him, “I read all of them, but you’re one of the only ones who saw what I did.”
Tom pulled a cigar out of his breast pocket. He bit the tip, spitting it at the ground. The zippo lighter had the traditional globe and anchor of the US Marine Corps engraved on the metallic side. He flipped it open, striking the flint igniting the fuel. Then lit his cigar sucking in a long drag. He held his breath before allowing the smoke to exit his lungs. Jill often told him it was a nasty habit, but he didn’t care. He only smoked away from her, never at the house.
“I say Afghanistan, I’m sure the official reports did too. Real hush, wasn’t even a debrief. I knew it was Pakistan though. We weren’t even supposed to be there, that wasn’t my ODA’s Area of Operations, but we were there,” he shook his head, voice low and distant, “And we saw.”
Tom eyeballed Donnelley as he spoke about Afghanistan and his ODA. “Any idea what this thing is? Or where it came from? It appears otherworldly. I’m not going to even ask how it has this ability to make anyone who comes near it sad.” Tom thought on his use of the word, sad. He paused and added, “sad may not be a strong enough word. Depression.”
Donnelley rubbed at his face and groaned, shaking his head, “I don’t know, Tom.” Donnelley sighed, finally deciding to have that second cigarette, “All I know is I want to find whoever did this and squeeze a round into his head.”
Tom sucked in another drag on the cigar and held it in. He thought of his wife and his unborn child. He thought of his friend and supervisor Ray Calhoun and how he had three healthy children. His oldest, first baseman for his high school team. Those are good things. Must hold onto those positive thoughts. “This is a shit storm, Donnelley…” Tom really didn’t want to talk about it for a bit. “Oh yea, the wife is pregnant. She doesn’t want me to tell anyone. She’s afraid she may lose the child, but indications say I should be a dad sometime next winter.”
Donnelley inhaled sharp through his smiling teeth, blowing out the smoke as he nodded, “Well, shit, congratulations!” Donnelley chuckled, a genuine mirth both for Tom’s soon to be child and his changing of the subject, “You got a name for them? Joseph’s a pretty good one.” He smirked.
Tom smiled as he exhaled a lung full of cigar smoke. “Yes, Joseph is a good name. My grandfather was named Joseph also. I was tossing around the idea of Tom Jr. and maybe a nickname of TJ. My father’s name is Robert and I have an uncle Randy. Might call him Randall if it is a boy. For girl’s names, I was thinking about Michelle, Cheryl, Margot or Clarice. But I haven’t talked this over with Jill yet either.”
“You should.” Donnelley smiled, “My daughter’s name was my… ex-wife’s idea. Tilly. Little Tilly Donnelley.”
Donnelley had a distant smile on his lips, remembering how she’d toddled her way through the house upon a time. “She’s probably, what… sixteen now.”
“Where does Tilly live now? Do you see her much?” Tom was suddenly curious about Donnellley and his daughter.
“Black Diamond. Washington.” Donnelley’s smile was fading, knowing there was a chance Tilly would never remember him if she saw him. But Holly would. Holly would remember a lot. “Big house. She remarried, my ex-wife.”
Tom picked up on Donnelley’s changing expression. Maybe this was a sore subject? “Well, I know we’ve been avoiding the white elephant in the room, but we need to do something about that young woman inside. I believe you said you don’t know where the crime scene is. What about the dump site? Any clues there? Have you found a witness or anyone who can say something about what happened to this young woman?”
Donnelley only shook his head, the bad taste in his mouth from the topic being put back on the case. “It’s like it happened in a goddamn vacuum. Only person who saw the body was a Park Ranger that found it. Nobody knows where the murder itself happened or who did it.” He sighed, taking another drag from his cigarette, “I know places like Whitetree. Grew up in one. Nobody tells shit to the badges, especially Federal ones.”
“Should’ve seen how many words they spent on me when they could’ve just told me to fuck myself.” Donnelley grinned ruefully, a bearing of fangs almost, “And this was at the Sheriff Station. They didn’t want me in their case files so I could cross reference this crime with any similar ones in the past. Or could just be a battle of who’s-the-biggest-asshole and whose jurisdiction ends where.”
Gwen waltzed over to the two by her lonesome. Stopping in front of them she sighed. "That was pretty boring." She said as she started milling about.
“Oh, I’m sorry that you couldn’t hack the body.” He frowned in Gwen’s direction. “Where’s Laurie? Aren’t you supposed to be watching each other?”
"Dunno I fucked him off." She said as she went to check her phone.
“Maybe these local yokels are high tech and have their files on line? Could senior airman Weissman gain access to their server?” Tom was grasping for ideas. The case appeared to be heading to the cold case files. He really didn’t want to see that happen.
"Agent Nikki Romero to you there Agent Muldoon." She responded, she probably could but wasn't by her PC and felt demotivated in any other setting than an air conditioned car.
Laine lit a cigarette as soon as she stepped out, the black Djarum complementary to her funeral attire. She walked over to the knot of people and said nothing, listening to the tail end of the conversation. Whitetree was closed off, it sat among the mines and hills, hunched and squatting like some beast that had been kicked too much. Wary and hateful, the town an embodiment of the people and the tainted landscape. It was a strange place to her yet it reminded her of certain neighborhoods in LA, closed off and spiteful of the law that was not their own.
She caught Gwen's words and Donnelley's reaction. Boring
It was childish. And despite her understanding of how individuals dealt with stress it put her off. Laine looked at the younger blonde woman, a long inspecting gaze until she broke it and turned back to Donnelley.
Gwen didn’t really care, the doc could think what she wanted to - Gwen would just strut and do her stuff like she always did. She stuck out her tongue, menacingly briefly before looking back at Donnely.
Laine blew out the clove scented smoke in Gwen's general direction then turned her back to her, addressing Tom and Donnelley, "We need to speak with the ranger and then track down the sheriff. CJIS is still checking dental records for missing Jane Does, it might take another day or so but maybe we put the feelers on missing people. Even if our Jane isn't local this guy likely is and most killers start off close to home. And there are graves of bones that may contain his first victims, likely locals."
“My thoughts exactly.” Donnelley nodded, flicking ash from his cigarette before he took another drag, “Roy should know who the Ranger is. First Responding officers are supposed to take notes even before anybody else shows up so he’d have the freshest view of the scene.”
“We checked the Sheriff Station in Whitetree. I want to try my luck at the one in Mercy if one’s there.” Donnelley bit his lip, looking away from the rest of them, “There’s only one way we can find out if the case files for the county Sheriff’s office is online or not.”
“If they want to be tight-lipped, I can play things fast and loose.” He drew his lips thin, “Just don’t ask me what I mean. Easier to say you didn’t know if you didn’t know.”
“We could get some SIGINT equipment in here and tunnel our way into their phones. We’ll see who’s laughing then.” Donnelley shrugged, raising a brow for critique.
"I'm down to hack, old man." She said raising her hand in hopes to finally doing something useful for a change.
“Yeah, you’ve been telling me that since you got here, cowgirl.” Donnelley smirked at her. She reminded him of Laurie in the way she shrugged off most things, but like Laurie, he admired her enthusiasm when her back was against the wall. “If backdoor software from a USB suddenly shows up on Sheriff computers, you’ll be the first to know.” He winked.
"Don't you go winking at me." She said winking back.
"Getting into their phones and computers would be very helpful, especially if they are none the wiser," Laine agreed, flicking the ashes absently. "But I really want to find his kill sight. And who the fuck this guy is."
She blew smoke through her nose, then jerked her head towards Tom and Donnelley, "That medication Al...Dr Bakker mentioned, I'm guessing it's not something easy to get. He'd have to have a connection, black market or otherwise. Most of these people cook up bathtub meth but I wouldn't be surprised if there was a dude selling prescriptions. We find who supplies him, that's a huge win."
“If this place is anything like Dalhart, there’s at least ten.” Donnelley spoke through his cigarette’s cloud. “At least where I was. I’ll just call up the DEA right quick.” He mimicked a phone with his hand before he fell back on being all business, “Seriously, though, our best bet for finding script dealers is a bigger city. I doubt people from Whitetree leave often. It’ll be a very lonely Silk Road up to those mountains. We follow it and we’ve got some suspects by the balls.”
Laine raised her glasses as they slid down and said, "No DEA contacts? I'm surprised. But the idea is sound, as far as I know. Let's meet with Roy again and get more information. Then the ranger, hopefully he'll be more forthcoming."
The sheriff's office had stone walled them, the thin beige line, but next time they would be ready.
"Have you heard from the rest of the team?" she asked looking over at Donnelley, her cigarette smoldering between her fingers.
“Quiet so far.” Donnelley shrugged, “I only sent out the message yesterday so I’d like to give them the benefit of the doubt that they’re not standing me up.”
He took a long drag before scraping off the cherry on the bottom of his shoe and flicking the filter away. “Well, we’ve got shit to do. Best not keep Roy or the Ranger waiting. I’ll call Foster to see if he can get us scheduled with her sometime soon.” He sucked at his teeth, “Maybe we’ll visit the Ranger station closest to the scene and ask around for an interview with the man of the hour.”
Laine nodded, putting out her cigarette and said in a low voice as she stood with Donnelley, "We probably should have asked her his name but she was pretty caught up in telling us what a shithole Whitetree is."
She cut her eyes over at him and failed at hiding her expression of annoyance looking over at the newcomer, Weissman. "Should we drop her off at the cabin? All this murder investigation might be too boring ."
"For someone with a PHD you sure act like a kid doc." She said spitting dip onto the asphalt. Before smirking.
"I'm not a pediatrician, unfortunately for you," Laine sniped back, then smiled placidly.
"I bet your doctorate is in history." She said spitting again.
Donnelley chuckled, shaking his head, “I forgot her mobile at home but maybe she’ll take a nap on the way.” He was still smirking as he leaned a bit closer to Gwen, “That means you. I’ll tell it to you like I told everyone else. Eyes peeled and ears open, you might learn something.”
“Let’s head out. We’re burning daylight.” Donnelley said as he turned to the others before walking in the direction of the Chrysler.
>BLACKRIVER COUNTY RANGER STATION...///
“Fucking pick up.” Donnelley muttered for the second time as they all stood around kicking rocks in the small parking lot of the Ranger Station. It was hemmed in by trees on every side, a lonely hut that was only slightly nicer than the buildings in White Tree. With atmosphere like this, green pines looming over, gravel and dirt underfoot, and a log cabin station it was hard to believe it was only a quarter mile off the main highway from Charleston to Whitetree, and Mercy a little further.
In one ear, Donnelley could hear birdsong and the trees shivering in the soft breezes. In the other was the trill of the dial tone to Foster. Finally, their Case Officer picked up the phone, “Yeah?” He sounded tired.
“The fuck are you doing?” Donnelley grimaced, then shook his head, “Actually I don’t care. What was the Ranger’s name again that found the girl’s body?”
“I don’t remember… Wilson? Wilkins?” Foster groaned and Donnelley wanted to chuck his phone into the forests, storm into the station and just ask for the ‘Ranger that found the fucking girl’, but thankfully Foster spoke up again, “Frank Wilkins.”
“Okay.” Donnelley nodded, sighing as he blew out a lungful of anger. “Also, get me some time with Roy. Today. Please.”
“Already on it, Sarn’t.” Donnelley rolled his eyes.
“First of all, wrong rank. Second of all, fuck off. I’ll see you at the Safehouse to brief you on the girl.”
Donnelley spoke. He was starting to remember why Foster was a difficult Officer as he hung up the phone and slipped it into his pocket.
He turned to the rest of the group, “Frank Wilkins. Let’s hope he’s not on vacation for an indeterminate period.” He glanced at Laine, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. He returned to his original demeanor, “Questions?”
"Since we're going to have grown up talk, maybe leave the child in the car," Laine said, glancing at Gwen with a half smile. "You know, preferably in the sun with the windows rolled up."
Donnelley instantly pointed at Gwen with a face that told her what he was going to say anyways, “Do not. Say. Shit.” He put away his finger and looked at Laine, “Don’t stoke the fire. Please.”
Gwen gently spit into her spitter. "Agent Romero, copies." She said.
Laine shrugged, then slung her purse over her shoulder. "I'm sorry, Mr Donnelley, I suppose I have to get used to working with the savant types. Let's go find Ranger Wilkins."
Gwen chuckled making a mental note to send gay porn to Laine's contact list on her email or something. If she was that bored.
With that she strolled away, heading towards the ranger station entrance.
Donnelley nodded to Tom, “Hold the fort.”
He turned away and caught up with Laine, “So, game plan? I don’t feel like going in there and yelling at everyone again.” He smirked, “Maybe you should take this.”
Laine glanced at him briefly, then focused forward, careful of the pitted asphalt under her high heels. "Let's save that for plan D. I can take the lead, sometimes they respond to a feminine touch. Other times they are just condescending. We can always bring Tom in if they won't crack for me."
A wicked little smile touched her lips as she added, "But I normally don't have a problem with men cracking."
"You can't seduce anyone doc." Gwen said from the peanut gallery behind them.
“Most men respond to any attention from a woman positively.” He snorted, pausing as he laid his hand on the doorknob when she added that last bit. He crooked a brow at her, smirking, “Oh.”
He pushed the door open and gestured inside for Laine to step in first. It was quaint, taxidermied buck head on the wall and everything rustic. There was not yet a haughty receptionist like last time. Thankfully. “After you, femme fatale.”
She met his eyes as he opened the door, the secretive smile her only answer. Laine stepped through, trying not to grin at his joke. It was not far from the truth, she cultivated the image for a reason. It was not for seduction, but power and there was a power in sexuality.
The rustic office was empty and Laine moved into the center of the room, "Anyone home?"
Donnelley pursed his lips at the silence that persisted. He leaned a bit closer to Laine and spoke in a hushed tone, smirk in his voice, “Plan D, though? I could try the kissy faces.”
"I'll take the ranger's lap, you take his face. We'll make a mess, old man moves in. Take his computer or some shit." Gwen said as she held her laptop bag, thinking about trying to crack their shit.
“Stop calling me old man.” The humor gone from Donnelley’s voice.
Just then, a creaking of floorboards emanated in the small space of the station and out walked a young, wiry man in a beige Ranger’s uniform and wide-brimmed hat. He tipped it at them. He wasn’t entirely plain looking, innocence was in his eyes which paired with his thin cheeks gave him a boyish appearance. “How can I help…” his eyes went over Laine and then Gwen, a flash of interest in his eyes, “Y-y’all?”
Ignoring Gwen, Dr Laine stepped forward and smiled politely. "Good morning, yes. We're looking for Ranger Wilkins. Agent Laine, FBI."
She showed her badge and credentials, offering it to the slight young man. "I'm with the Behavioral Analysis unit, we need to speak with him."
The young Ranger seemed to shrink into himself as if trying to disappear. His skin paled as he swallowed, any hint of attraction toward either of the women evaporating, “About the body?”
Gwen walked over beside the Ranger, putting a sensual hand on the back of his neck. "Yea, well it's not that serious hun. We'd just like to speak with him is all." She giggled.
“Agent Romero...” Laine sighed inwardly then gave the young ranger a sympathetic look. “Yes, please, I would like to see the trail and location if you could take us to him or...”
Laine looked sharply at Gwen, trying to subtly wave her off the poor man. “What is your name, I’m so sorry.”
Gwen backed away sensually dragging her finger on him before retracting her claws from him. Love claws.
The Ranger flinched under Gwen’s touch, his disposition not changing in the slightest as he moved away from her as she hung back from Laine. “Wilkins.” He said, “Frank.”
“Ranger Wilkins, my apologies for ...that,” Laine said, smiling gently. “This is Agent John Davidson and that’s...Junior Agent Romero.”
She stayed at a respectful distance, only closing in a step or two to speak more privately, “Can I call you Frank? I’m Heather. I understand you found the body and I know it’s hard to speak about but what I really need to know about the scene when you found her. Can we talk alone?”
The Ranger nodded. Donnelley frowned at the prospect of being alone with Gwen.
"My plan worked perfectly." Gwen said sounding astute. She said looking around the place for cameras.
“Jesus Christ, Gwen.” Donnelley said as he took a seat. He didn’t trust anywhere in Blackriver to leave Laine alone with another person he didn’t know. “Do you ever wonder if you shouldn’t do something? Or is everything you do just astounding in its genius to you?”
“Because it isn’t.” Donnelley shook his head and looked away from Gwen, trying to listen out for Laine and the Ranger’s conversation in the next room over.
"Someone had to seduce him, I guess the doc just had more assets than me. So you want me to bust this place open?" Gwen said taking out her laptop complete with cool stickers and decals like any hacker would have.
“No.” Donnelley said firmly. “I don’t want you to do anything unless I tell you to do it, alright? Full disclosure, I don’t want your fucking antics to fuck this up.”
“Then why am I here?” Gwen complained going to put her laptop away. “I should have just stayed in the car with Laurie.”
“Because Foster needs you.” Donnelley frowned. “And don’t worry. There’s some things I can think of you’d be useful for. Just gotta wait, s’all.”
“Maybe that kid just liked older women.” She said shrugging.
“Or maybe he doesn’t want to get touched by some fucking stranger. When are you going to realize that this is fucking serious?” He leaned in at her, “Keep your goddamn mitts to yourself and just watch, alright?”
Gwen blew dip breath at Donnely. “Maybe clue me the fuck in into what the hell y’all are doing, I’m just here for the ride ‘less you tell me what the fuck is going on, old man.”
“Oh, we’re just playing pretend. We get really serious about it because we’re boring outside of work. You know, get together and drink some brews and then-“ he stopped abruptly and stood, speaking as he yanked his cigarettes out of his breast pocket, “It’s a goddamn fucking murder investigation that only we want our hands on. You think Foster called all of us here so he could hang out? Eyes peeled, ears open.”
He turned and left, stepping out of the door and he could see the Ranger in the window to his left. He looked like he was about to shit himself. Laine would have something good when she got back, that was for sure.
“Piece of shit.” She said after he left, taking the rest of her hog out of her mouth tossing it into the trash. Not really learning anything new for why she was there she left the station and headed back to the car.
“Door’s still open, asshole.” Donnelley called back, placing his cigarette between his lips. “Come outside and learn something.”
Tom walked over to the National Park Service Ranger’s office just as Donnelley and Gwen came outside. When he reached the steps, he pulled out a second cigar, bit off the end and lit it. He felt like taking off the coat, but he wasn’t really too hot. It was only in the 80s today. Besides, he was accustomed to wearing a suit on the job. He puffed on the cigar while Donnelley stood with the young hacker from the Air Force.
“This is some fucked up shit, Tom.” Donnelley said through a cloud of thin smoke as he heard the FBI Marine’s footsteps.
“Yea, looks like a heap of shit we’ve stepped into.” Tom took a drag on his cigar. “What is going on? Do you know yet?”
Donnelley nodded, “Just a bit. You don’t have to grow up in a small town like I did to recognize all of it.” He frowned at Tom, “Small town corruption. When Laine and I went to cross reference the case files, you know what happened? None of the case files for missing persons ever changed hands over to State PD or FBI. Blackriver’s a fucking Bermuda Triangle for cases.”
“Sounds like Boston in the 70s. The Combat Zone was a haven for crime. It takes awareness at the highest levels in government to fix things. Tough to wade through that crap.” Tom reflected on his hometown and corruption.
“I’m pretty high in the government and all I’m aware of is this place is fucked deep.” Donnelley shook his head, “I wouldn’t be surprised if the Sheriff’s office was blowing smoke when we asked for the Sheriff. Vacation? Bullshit.”
“Yea, that was definitely a deflection,” Tom agreed.
“I want to monitor that crime scene every day we’re here. The killer might know he’s compromised because we caught the crime scene.” Donnelley nodded, “I think he wanted us to see. He’s going to get his wish.”
He turned to Gwen, “I want a drone up in the air in a five mile radius of that scene. We’re going to have to operate in the area because our drones don’t have the range of Predators.” Donnelley frowned, “I’ll have Laurie and Tom go with you to set up and hide your equipment. You alright with that?”
Gwen simply shrugged. “Sure, sounds good.” She said now feeling like she had a purpose again. She went to open her laptop to set up the required software to operate the shitty drone that they’d be working with.
The room they went into was a break room of sorts, with large open windows giving the viewer a scene of rolling rounded mountains of deep green turning to blue in the distance. It was a beautiful scene, tranquil and peaceful, yet hiding a great evil under those boughs of maple, fir and larch. Laine waited for the ranger to sit or stand, whatever made him comfortable as she looked out the window, admiring the view.
Frank took a seat in the corner, watching Laine as she peered out the window. Blackriver was beautiful, but not after what he saw yesterday. She was nice, this Doctor. Attractive, but still intimidating. He wanted to talk but also keep his mouth shut. Around these parts, the hills could hear you. Or at least that was what the stories said. He cleared his throat, “Uh, Yeah. So, what did you want to know?”
Laine turned from the window, then smiled at him, “A lovely park you protect, Frank. My dad took us to Yosemite one summer, I love hiking.”
That was a lie about hiking part but he did not need to know that. She took a seat across from him, crossing her legs and tucking her feet back, in a manner to convey respect of his space. It was all she could do after Gwen had so rudely invaded it. Laine took out a notepad from her purse and a pen, setting them on the side table which was a piece of old tree trunk cut and sanded to a smooth finish.
“I want to know how you found the scene, start from the beginning,” Laine said, looking at the ranger, keeping her expression calm and neutral. “Tell me everything, even if it might not seem important, as best you can remember.”
Frank nodded, swallowing hard as he tried to recall everything he saw. There were pieces in his memory that he knew she would never believe. Should he say anything about that or would they lock him up for being crazy? He shook his head, sighing hard, “I, um…” he began, he cleared his throat of nothing and continued, “They say this place is a career black hole, you know? Blackriver. They say Rangers don’t last long if they’re not locals, you know? And people and stuff go missing.”
His eyes darted to the left, the thing he saw in the woods stuck with him. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but… “Missing, just out of nowhere. Weird shit. Um, anyways, I was hiking along the trail, used to be the railway the old mines used way back in the Civil War. I saw…”
He was quiet for a few moments before he shook his head and flashed Laine a humorless, nervous smile. A fleeting toothy thing, “I was hiking on the trail, birds and everything went quiet and when that happens you know something’s there. Like, with you.” He let go a shuddering sigh, “Nobody goes around the old railway trails. Not since… listen…”
He seemed to pale again, leaning closer to Laine, “I don’t want to be here anymore. My superiors aren’t answering my emails to transfer to somewhere else.” He looked at the window then back to Laine, “If I talk, I want to know if you can do anything about that. Feds know other Feds, right? You can tell someone I don’t want to be here?”
Dr Laine listened to his nervous voice, the shifting eyes and the signals that he was uncomfortable and frightened. She recalled Roy’s assessment of Blackriver County and the ranger’s tale fell in step with the description. Something was wrong with the place, something dangerous. “I’ve heard of rumors of missing people and the silence after,” she said, leaning forward, her green eyes on his narrow face. “You’re not from here are you, Frank? I can see what I can do but I need information, I’ll do my best to protect you as my source. What happened when everything went silent?”
“You need to know I’m not fucking crazy, alright? I haven’t smoked weed since High School and I don’t even drink that much, okay?” Frank’s voice was stilted and staccato at Laine’s prompting. Finally, he thought, maybe someone that could really help.
“I don’t think you’re crazy,” Laine said, picking up the note pad to place against her knee. “I don’t think it’s drugs or drink. I am here because something terrible happened and I’m trying to figure out who might have done it.”
She smiled warmly at him, wanting to encourage his trust and waited.
Frank’s eyes grew distant for only a moment, fixated on nothing, staring through the room deep into his memory of it. “It was there, on the trail. You ever look out at the distance in the desert and see ripples? It was like that. Just ripples.” He said, “Just… ripples and I thought I was seeing things, but it moved. I thought I heard a scream but like… not from someone else, you know? Like I’d imagined it, thought it up?”
He shivered, “And something whispered, like in the same way. Come and see. I wanted to run but I wanted to see. Something in me wanted to see and I’m usually not a fucking brave guy, okay? I followed the ripple and went off the trail until I got to a clearing a good ways away. It was easy to get to, but not too easy. And I saw it.”
He paused, “I saw the body. There was a piece of something like silk on it, like cloth? Just had tiny writing on it. I left it there, I didn’t want to read it.” He said, “I called the Sheriff’s and I left for a bit, because fuck that, you know?”
Laine made a few notes, then pushed her glasses up as she turned back to him. She tried not to let her reaction show on her face, the dread at the mention of the voice. The ripple in space. Her scalp crawled with some primal recognition of deep fear and she felt her hand grip the pen until her knuckles went white.
“You did the right thing,” she said finally, licking her lips. They were dry and her voice felt slightly hoarse. She cleared her throat, “You were very brave, Frank. I appreciate you looking because that sounds like a very frightening experience. The body was...hard to look at but you did. You found her and we’re going to find who did this to her.”
Laine paused, then glanced at him, “What did the silk look like, could you make out the letters even if you didn’t read it?”
He shook his head, “No.” He said, “No, it was like scribbles, but I don’t know. Talk to the Sheriff’s, they might have taken it for evidence or whatever.”
He leaned back and rubbed at his face, “That’s all I know, I’m sorry. I just want to get the fuck out and forget this goddamn place.”
“Of course, they probably took it. I’ll check with them. Now, when you heard the voice, did you see anything other than the rippling? Was there any sort of figure or sounds in the brush? The color of the silk if you can remember it? Nothing is trivial,” Laine asked, jotting down a few words. Silk, symbolic? character? Writing, found on body gone b/4 we got there; railways
“Black.” He said, simply, “White writing. You’re going to help me, though?”
“And I want to help you, I know you’re scared,” she said then paused, glancing at the window and speaking in a lower tone. “Have you ever met the Sheriff?”
“Nah, went there a little bit ago, maybe couple months ago,” he shook his head, “I had to follow up on a couple of missing hikers they found a couple days later. Sheriff was on vacation.”
“Lucky fucker.” He muttered.
“Indefinite vacation,” she said, rather than asked, then waited to see if he would answer any more about the strangeness he saw.
“I guess? You went to see him?” Frank asked, his face playing on interest that the Sheriff would be on vacation this long.
“He wasn’t in,” Laine said, “We were told he was on vacation. So either he was or he did not want to speak with us. Now, Frank...something you said earlier, about the old railways. Tell me about those. Why don’t people go up there anymore?”
She wrote down the notes and then gave him her full attention.
“Just, like, old stories. Campfire stuff. Way back in the old days miners went missing, just disappeared and left their clothes. Tale is that one time, some guy collapsed a mine shaft just because. Sheriff pulled him out of there and he was screaming about the devil way down in the mines.” He frowned and shrugged, somehow this piece of history was distant enough from him that he didn’t believe it. Entirely. “Back before Whitetree was a thing the Indians said the place around here was tainted. The river was bitter and the air was bad. Indians say that about a lot of things, you know? So, yeah. Superstition and… stuff.”
Laine wrote quickly, then glanced up, “You know there is often truth veiled in legend, the veil grows thicker through the passage of time. There are places in the world that have been described like that, bad water and air."
Laine held off in commenting it was often caused by volcanic gasses rising into water and poisoning it or a depression in the land, making a death trap of asphyxiation. Besides, the Appalachians volcanic roots had long been dormant and gasses didn't skin a person.
She continued, leaning forward slightly, "Now, whether something was down there or not, it's hard to know but he saw something. Now was this recent enough that it was the same Sheriff? Would that man who fell still be around?"
“This was a long time ago.” Frank frowned, “Heard from one of the old guys around the Station. 2009? Seven? I dunno. Guy went to Beckley, the prison near Charleston, murder of eighteen guys. People around here are superstitious though. This was before the mines closed down when they wanted to unionize. Not the old ones around the rail lines.”
“But those too, you know? Miners say the old mines are haunted. I just think it’s them breathing that bad air in there. Makes them go crazy, see things.” He sighed, crossing his arms, “I’m, um, gonna get some sleep. Can we not talk about this anymore? I’m sorry, it’s just… you know.”
Laine gave him a sympathetic smile but tapped her pen once against the paper, "Of course, I understand. You've been very helpful, I just have a follow up and one other question. What was the fellow's name? And have you ever had reports of missing hikers? Guests of the park. Perhaps a parent or someone reporting their loved one never came home. I understand the sheriff department would contacted but did you ever know of any cases?"
“David Dulane.” Frank chewed his lip, “Just those two hikers I had to go to the Sheriff’s office for. We ended up finding them ourselves. I say them but… we found him taking shelter in one of the mines that closed down way, way back. 1920s or something. He was in there and he was just shaking. We asked him where his wife was and… Jesus, I’m sorry.”
He got up and ran his hands through his hair and scratched at his scalp. His breath growled in his throat as he paced around the room, making silent rounds. He stopped in front of Laine, “You guys should go. I told you everything I know about this, okay?” He said, annoyed at himself for talking about things he’d long since decided to leave behind himself, “I want to leave. I’m gonna go to my bunk.”
"Alright, Frank," she said, watching him pace after she jotted down David Dulane, fell down well 07-09, devil, @Beckley prison; 2 hikers lost, 1 found in old mine...?
"Thank you, you've been incredibly helpful," she reached into her pocket and grabbed one of her FBI business cards with her title, name and phone number. "Take this, call me if you need me or if you remember anything else. Like the hikers' names and what happened to the wife. Everything helps us find out who butchered that girl. She suffered terribly, she deserves justice. And you deserve peace of mind. I'll be making calls to my contacts in the National Park Service, see what I can do."
It was a stretch, her contacts were miniscule. The ranger in Olympia, a couple in Virginia and Laurie. Taking a deep breath, Laine stood up. "Keep your head down, if anyone asks you couldn't recall anything of value and we left frustrated."
Her eyes peered at him behind the glasses. "You know how information can disappear, better they think we didn't get anything."
Now she sounded like Detective Roy.
He looked scared at that. He was a foreigner to Blackriver, and if anybody saw him talking to these other people, would that mean he’d be next to come up skinned? He looked at the card, swallowing hard, “Thank you.”
The words left him, hollow things. He stood there, everything growing silent in the room. He turned to Laine and offered another humorless smile, “If… if I don’t call you in two days… when I remember the hikers.” He looked out the window at the mountains beyond, seeming menacing now when he thought them beautiful when he first got to West Virginia, “If I don’t call you by then, please come here.”
"You have my word," she replied, meeting his eyes. Her throat felt tight and she hoped that whatever was corrupt in this town had been exaggerated.
He turned for the door and stopped just before he rounded the corner, looking back at Laine, “Thank you, Mrs. Laine.”
And he was gone, the sound of a door delicately creaking and closing the only sound in the Station, signaling he was done with this all. Closing the door on Blackriver. And deep down, everything else too.
Laine waited a few moments, giving him time to leave without being seen with her and to gather her thoughts. She had made a large promise to a very frightened man and now she had to find a way to fulfill it. It was not going to be easy but after what he had been through and shared he needed to leave. And the information was interesting and gave her a few leads for the team to follow up on.
She walked out, a purposeful scowl on her face as she looked around the lobby. Her team was gone but one look outside would direct her where to go. Laine exited the door, saying louder than she usually might with the real irritation and frustration she felt upon seeing Gwen again.
"He couldn't give me anything. Too spooked by the body to recall."
Laine approached Donnelley, digging out her black pack of Djarums and slapped it against her palm to pack the cigarettes. Now that they stood close she murmured behind the lighting of her clove cigarette, "Dude, this boy is shit scared but he gave me something."
Donnelley was mid-drag as his eyebrows rose. His ears piqued at that, “I saw. Safehouse.”
Tom nodded and snuffed out his second cigar of the day. “Yea, let’s head back to the barn,” Tom reinforced Donnelley’s statement. The group headed to the Chrysler to make the drive back.
They’d made it back in good time, Tom going just slightly above the speed limit. Once they had all gathered in the living room couches, Donnelley took his usual place of leaning against the kitchen table with his arms crossed. He looked to Foster and then to Laine, “You got this?”
Dr Laine nodded at him, taking out her notebook and the autopsy report, “Yes, thank you.”
She took a seat on one of the chairs opposite of Foster and said, “I have quite a bit of information, we’ll start with the autopsy, I have a copy of the report if you’d like to read it in detail but I’ll give you and the rest of those that were not there the highlights.”
Flipping it open, she could see copies of the xrays Bakker had taken, the black shard showing up in the heart of the victim. Laine cleared her throat, “Jane Doe, age 16-23 years, cause of death massive internal bleeding caused by an unknown foreign object. The examiner believed it to have been inserted vaginally with the intent to cause internal injury, there was extensive lacerations to the uterus, cervix and punctures where the object was somehow shoved...ah, shoved through the uterine wall and up until it lacerated the liver, punctured the right lung and finally lodged into the heart, causing death.”
Laine flipped the page, her hands gripping the folder as she continued to read the summaries in a neutral voice, “Other significant trauma was the amputation of the tongue, the removal of the vocal cords and the entire epidermis and dermis layer. This was likely performed while the victim was still alive. Midazolam and Propofol both found in her system, these drugs would have rendered her immobile but no analgesic showed up in the drug tests. She felt everything.”
She paused, taking a deep breath then looked at Foster, handing him the report. “I’ll need a copy of that to reference.”
“Of course.” Foster nodded, turning to Donnelley, “We’ve got the shard in our custody? Program is going to want it.”
Donnelley nodded, “It’s in the garage.”
“Secure as ever, Donnelley.” Foster smirked.
Donnelley rolled his eyes, and turned back to Laine, “What about the Ranger?”
“I guess you’re not sending that piece of the puzzle to CJIS,” Laine commented then opened her notebook, flipping to the page of scribbled writing. “Ranger Frank Wilkins...first I’d like to note that this kid is not a local, and he is shit scared. He reiterated basically what Detective Roy said about Blackriver, people and things disappear and no one talks about it. He’s nervous, he said something about the hills having ears, like that’s a local accepted fact. He gave me a lot of information, Mr Foster but he wants out. A transfer and he’s been stonewalled by his supervisors. I told him I would try to help get him out. And I think we need to and I believe what he told me to be factual.”
Laine glanced down at the paper and said, “He told me that he was walking the trail that used to be part of an old railway to the mines and saw something, he described it as a ‘ripple’ like a heat mirage and heard a scream...then another voice, a whisper saying ‘come and see’. Mr Wilkins then followed, despite what he described as not being a brave man, and he left the trail and came onto the scene where the body was. He said nothing about any figures or footprints, even sounds in the brush only the voice. He also said the body had cloth on it, he said it looked like silk and it was black with white writing. He did not get close enough to read it but he said it was not letters, rather ‘scribble’ I take that to mean some sort of abstract symbol or character writing such as Arabic or Chinese. Of course, unless you or Roy have it, the cloth has disappeared into the Sheriff’s vaults.”
She paused here, looking at Foster then Donnelley, allowing them time before moving on.
Tom listened intently to the report from Dr. Laine. “Heather, what force would be required to move the shard from the vaginal entrance to the heart? There is no way a human could shove it up there with their arm.”
Laine shook her head slightly, “I don’t know, perhaps some sort of...spear? No splinters were found, maybe it was attached to metal.”
Tom nodded his head. A slender shaft would be required for that sort of penetration. Tom then looked at Donnelley, “Boss, if Mr. Mathieu and I are going to escort Senior Airman Weissman to wherever she is going to launch her drone, I should change out of my FBI suit and into something a bit more comfortable.”
Donnelley nodded, “I’d hope so. You’ll all be rolling in full gear. We’ll insert you along one of the forest roads up there and you’ll hike near the scene to somewhere secluded. Try to find a ridge. Take a satellite phone with you and make sure to check in three times a day.” Donnelley shifted in his seat and tightened his folded arms, “If you catch a glimpse of this guy moving around out there, call it in. I don’t want you to engage unless you have full confidence.”
“Do we have any Night Vision devices?” Tom asked.
“Anything anybody didn’t bring in, we don’t have. I can make a call to have some sent in. The drone should be equipped with IR and night vision.” Donnelley shrugged.
“Before you go running off into the hills,” Laine interrupted, “You need to hear what he told me about the old mines.”
Tom was thoroughly curious about her conversation with Wilkins. He nodded, “Certainly.”
Glancing at her notepad then up at Tom then Donnelley, “There’s mines up there, dating back to the Civil War era, so well over one hundred years old. He said they have always been associated with...well local legends, ghost stories, etc. Even the native people that once lived in this area called it a bad place of bitter water and air. It could be something natural, geological or it could mean something else. Something that might be up your...well, our alley.”
She continued, “A few years back, 2007 or 09, a man fell into the mines and was rescued by the sheriff. He apparently was screaming about a devil being down there with him. This man, David Dulane, is still alive at least as far as anyone knows, kicking around in Beckley Prison. I think we should talk to him as soon as we can. He saw something, or he was tripping balls, either way we need to make sure.”
Laine cleared her throat, refocusing, “There was a pair of hikers Mr Wilkins spoke of, they were missing and he said the Park Rangers found the husband but he didn’t continue when talking about what happened to the wife. Seeing his face, I can tell you it wasn’t good. Wilkins is scared and he said he’d call me in two days, I gave him my card. He’s probably wanting me to make good on my promise to try and get him out of there and he’ll tell me the rest, including the names of the lost hikers.”
She went silent, looking around the room and came back to Foster and Donnelley, “The rest is details I need to sort out of my notes but that’s the chunk...oh, one more thing.”
Laine tipped her notepad at Donnelley, “I asked Wilkins if he had ever visited the Sheriff and he said they had to report the lost hikers. Guess what happened?”
“Uh huh.” Donnelley nodded slow, his frown deepening. “I want to find out if the Sheriff’s case files are digital or not. I can try getting an inside man. If that doesn’t work…”
"Hicks usually have digital now, it's 2019 guys." She said typing away on her crack top.
Foster and Donnelley met eyes. Foster nodded and Donnelley’s smirk returned. “Vacation. By the way. Sheriff is either somewhere else or hiding in his office. Either way, he’s making it hard to get to him.”
“Yea and since you can’t see their files without seeing the sheriff, they don’t want you to see the sheriff,” Tom added.
“Fucking exactly. Somehow, someone is going to cut out the middleman. And when that happens,” Donnelley nodded to Gwen. “You know the rest.”
Gwen looked confused as to why the old man was nodding at her. "Yep, definitely." She said, probably something about hacking.
“That doesn’t get us the cloth,” Laine pointed out, “I want to see it.”
“Don’t be surprised when it shows up one day.” Donnelley muttered just loud enough for Laine while making like his hands were mighty interesting.
She glanced at him then pressed her lips together to suppress a smile but said nothing. Looking down at her notepad, she addressed Foster, “I think we owe Frank Wilkins our help, is there anything you can do to get him transferred out? You probably have more pull than I do.”
“I can try.” Foster shrugged, not seeming too committal. “Any other questions, anyone?”
Laine sighed inwardly, then nodded at Foster’s answer. She would need to do some calls on her own to try and get Ranger Wilkins out of the backwoods Bermuda Triangle. Or get their park ranger to help, Laurie might earn his free breakfast afterall. She turned to Donnelley, catching his eye and tilted her head towards the front door and mined smoking, “Can I talk to you real quick, alone?” She then headed outside, taking off her jacket to leave draped on the chair, her shoulder holster still in place.
On the porch she waited, an unlit black cigarette dangling between her fingers as she leaned her forearms on the railing. The view was decent if one could ignore the occasional black plume of coal smoke and the stink that mingled with sunwarmed pine.
Donnelley looked at Foster and raised his eyebrows. Not waiting for any cue or answer from the other man, Donnelley rose and went for the door, closing it behind him as he tucked a cigarette between his lips. He looked once more at the door before sighing, flicking his lighter and drawing in the first drag.
“Yeah?” Donnelley asked. He wasn’t sure what this was about at first, but like a fly buzzing in his face he soon caught onto an idea. “Ah. Go ahead.”
Laine turned her head, looking over her shoulder at him then stood up straight. She shook her head slightly, gathering her thoughts and temper. Finally she turned to face him, unlit clove cigarette pointed his direction. “If you ever bring that girl to any interview I’m involved in, I’ll walk home. I have never seen such behavior from a so called professional, and imitating a federal agent on top of that. She’s been nothing but rude and disrespectful since she got here. If this...”
She made a motion to them both and then the cabin, “Is boring for her, she can take her wiseass home. Or not, whatever...I’m just pissed off, Donnelley. She could have ruined that interview, clawing and rubbing up against that poor man.”
Laine sighed and shook her head, then gestured for a light, her eyes on his. Donnelley held them before giving her a sympathetic nod, offering his lighter out to her. At the same time, he spoke, “This is how this works. We don’t do applications. I didn’t even get to read her file and give a green light for that.” He knew that would do nothing for Laine, but he continued, “Foster needs her, and we don’t have any other people who can operate SIGINT equipment, drones, or hack shit wanting to transfer into UMBRA. The best I can do is send her out into the damn forest so she can play with some toys like she wants.”
He took another drag, inhaling sharp through his teeth and blowing it through his nostrils. He crossed his arms, leaning on the parapet of the deck, “Leastways, she’s Tom and Laurie’s problem and we get eyes on those old rail lines.” He looked at Laine, “I’m sorry. No more of her for interviews, keep her stimulated and in the field. That’s where she wants to be, that’s where she’ll be.”
Laine blew fragrant smoke between her lips, looking at the forest beyond the cabin. “That’s fine, put her to use where she’ll be useful. I know I didn’t handle her attitude in the parking lot very well but...”
She shrugged, crossing one arm over her waist and held her other arm crooked, cigarette smoldering away. “I trust you to handle it. And as for Laurie, I need him to help me get Frank Wilkins transferred somewhere else. I’m afraid to ask if he knows any higher ups well enough to call in a favor. I’m worried for this dude, Wilkins, he’s really a mess. The experience has been rough but his fear is what really seems to be gnawing at him.”
“I saw through the window.” Donnelley frowned, “I’ve heard shit like this before. Everybody’s got their own brand. Back in Afghanistan, some spook came to take us on a field trip to Pakistan.”
He sighed, taking another drag, “We tried to get a guide and a couple fighters from the tribe to come along. When they knew where we were going they just turned around and walked the other way.”
“If Foster won’t do it, I can try.” Donnelley offered Laine a consoling smile. “Moving Frank.”
She nodded, smoking in silence for a few moments, she watched the tree tops swaying in the breeze. “They know here, too. We’re just visitors, they have to live here. Same story all over. When I started with the Bureau I was a field agent at the LA office. Those hoods could be as tight lipped and suspicious of everyone not from there. Especially with badges, a snitch label could get someone killed.”
Laine glanced at him and returned his smile, “I appreciate it, I like to keep my word and I don’t want something to happen to him, he did a brave thing. And I know how it feels to stumble onto something...like that.”
Donnelley nodded, “You’re good people.” He smiled at her, taking another drag, “I’m pretty sure I could at least get him witness protection.”
With a relieved smile, Laine finished her cigarette, snuffing it against the post and kept the filter in her hand so she could throw it away inside. “Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do? Keep trying to save the world.”
There was an engine in the distance, the countryside quiet for now and sound carried on the wind. Laine looked over at Donnelley, “I think someone’s coming.”
“Fucking Christ…” Donnelley breathed. He lifted up his shirt and fully unholstered his FN, setting it on the banister under his palm.
The vehicle came into view from behind the treeline, a dark SUV with darker windows. Donnelley watched it, hard-eyed, before he saw who got out. His face changed instantly at Justin, “Staff Sarn’t!”
Justin emerged from the back driver side with a slight scowl on his face, but he couldn’t help but crack a grin as he was recognized. He was wearing his usual, a pair of worn out Wrangler jeans, some ATACs boots, an unmarked red t-shirt, and a blue and white mesh Tractor Supply Co. baseball cap. Over one shoulder he had a duffel bag, and a backpack over the other.
Trodding on up towards the porch, he called out half-jokingly. “So who’s fuckin’ idea was this, eh?” He grinned.
“Weirdest shit. Some guy just started murdering people and the Sheriff is on vacation forever,” Donnelley put his hands up and shrugged, adding sardonically, “Who’d have thought.”
“Hope your break was good enough, because we’re about to ruin it.” Donnelley frowned.
“Justin,” Laine smiled and waved at him, dressed all in black like he would remember. “Good to have you here. And yeah, what he said. I just debriefed the team over what we have going on.”
“Fun, fun. Break wasn’t amazin’. Battalion XO’s an asshole, my Captain’s too reserved to say anythin’ but too stone-fuckin’-cold to take the XO’s bullshit. Plus my LT’s a brown-noser. Not that that means much to you guys.” He rattled off.
“Right, so we’re catchin’ a killer then?” He raised a brow, only now did Donnelley and Laine’s words actually sink in.
“Damn right we are.” Donnelley sighed, not seeming too convinced of that, “We got roadblocks everywhere with this shit. Nobody here wants us to work this case.”
Laine added, “It’s probably one of the worst murders I’ve seen and I’ve seen many. Our best witness is scared shitless of what could happen to him because he’s not a local. You know, small town superstitions.”
“Shoo’, ‘bout the same reaction if I showed ‘em my ass. I already managed to get a business card thrown at me.” Donnelley shrugged, a small smirk, “A record.”
He shook his head, his accent coming back at the appearance of Justin’s own, “Still. Y’aint gonna believe it ‘til we get you out there and talk to one of these pricks. We found a body, what kicked this off. Skinned.” Donnelley frowned and his face darkened as he crossed his arms, “Laine could give you a rundown. I’m thinking we’re gonna need a goddamn lot of whiskey after this is over.”
“Scale of one to meth-cookin’ and cousin-fuckin’, how hick is this place anyways?” Justin inquired, scratching at his stubble.
“Damn near Hills Have Eyes, brother.” Donnelley shook his head. “Ain’t that what he said?”
“Ears,” Laine added absently, “It’s what Wilkes said, ‘the hills have ears’.”
She looked at Justin standing there with his bag then waved him forward, “I can give you the gruesome details, but come inside and get settled. I’ll make sandwiches...if the dishes are done.”
“Fuckin’...” Donnelley grumbled as he turned around to walk inside, remembering he’d been soaking them in the sink.
Laine raised a brow at Donnelley then moved to open the door for the men. “Oh and warn him about Gwen.”
“Oh, fuckin’...” Donnelley sighed harder that time.
“Who?” Justin muttered as he walked inside.
Tom rose when he saw the others walk inside. He recognized Mr. Clark immediately. “Hey Justin!” Tom Stewart exclaimed with a smile. “How the hell are you, Ranger!?”
Justin beamed with a grin. “Doin’ great, Marine! How’s it been?” He replied, sweeping his hat from off his head as he was clear through the door. Old habits.
“I’m doing well, army doggie. Anything you need, let me know.” Tom was happy to see Justin. “Oh yea, when this is over, I have a parachute upstairs that needs packing. Maybe you can lend a hand?”
Justin mouthed. ‘Parachute?’ He paused. “Wait, did-” He was baffled. “Static line?”
“Yes Staff Sergeant. From a V-22 Osprey about 2330 last night.”
“Christ.” Justin muttered, grinning widely. Definitely a Marine thing to do, he thought.
“Come in from an FTX or somethin’?” He followed up.
“My battalion is conducting their annual training near Charleston, WV right now. My battalion commander allowed me to slip away for this soire. Since I work in Operations, it was pretty easy to coordinate a jump with this aviation unit supporting our operations.” Tom conveyed what he was up to, then remembered their newest member. “Oh yea, we picked up a new member of the team.” Tom turned to Gwen, “this is senior airman Weissman. She is a UAV operator, among other things. Gwen, this is Staff Sergeant Justin Clark, an Airborne Ranger from Ft. Benning.”
Gwen went to extend her Laine bane claws towards Justin. “Hi Staff Sergeant, Gwen Weissman glad to be apart of the team.” She said smiling at him. There was a Texan twang to her speech
Justin extended his own hand, shaking hers. “‘S uh, just Justin.” He clarified. “Glad to have ya’ here.” Justin’s accent was twangy as well, but in a different way. He had that cadence and sing-song tone which could make you mistake him for a local. He was Appalachian through and through.
“Alright, sweet.” She said shaking his hand with a smile. She goes to crack her knuckles. “We’re going on a hunt soon for some sunbitch, glad we have more guys around here.” She said as she rubbed her dip-absence jaw. “Just wished everyone was as friendly as you though.” Thinking back to the Laine incident.
“Do not start.” Donnelley called over the sound of the sink and clinking dishes he was busying himself with begrudgingly. Couldn’t let Laine do it. It was a household thing when he was married that whoever cooked didn’t have to clean the dishes and they stuck to that better than their failed attempts at trying church. Donnelley just wasn’t into that. “Figure we’ll catch us some downtime for now. Tom, best pack your things soon, that goes for Laurie and Gwen too. We’ll be doing that thing. Justin- fuck...” Donnelley scrubbed hard at a piece of egg that had dried itself like a rock to the plate it was on, “Uh, Justin. You’re with me and Laine, going to see Roy in Charleston about this Dulane Dickhead.”
“Got it, I’ll toss my shit in a room, already got my go-bag ready.” Justin nodded, going to do just that unless someone else stopped him.
Gwen shrugged innocently at the old man, went to go follow the dinosaurs orders. Taking her bag she left out in the corner before they left earlier, she headed into woman’s bedroom to go start her packing and changing. The operation was coming. Tom went upstairs with Justin to pack for their operation. While Justin was doing his thing, Tom changed his clothing and packed. He removed his suit and pulled out the olive drab green tactical trousers with oversized cargo pockets, black Marine T-shirt and the low cut boots he’d been wearing all day. He realized he still had his Assault vest from his Marine Reserve unit in the closet. He loaded the magazine pouches with six of the eight magazines, one would go in his M4 and the eighth in a cargo pocket. He opted for the tactical thigh holster for his .40 caliber handgun. His assault vest had a pistol magazine holder as well a bit higher up. He attached his high cut ballistic tactical helmet to the back of his vest and would use it once they were in the field. He planned to use his throat mic in order to have communications with the rest of the team. Hand cuffs and flex cuffs might be a good addition in case they actually made an arrest; his FBI identification and badge as well. His compass was attached to his assault vest. A few chemlites for signaling or marking if necessary. He would definitely bring his M4 on this one. In the butt pack of his assault vest were three broken down MREs, at least they would have some food. He also placed another five Cuban cigars in one of his cargo pockets. He made a mental note to equip a pair of Night Observation Devices (NODs) to wear when it got dark and to pack his grey wind breaker in the butt pack for the overnight. He would later find a Laser listening device or Spectra Laser Microphone to aid in listening for sounds at a distance. Once he was packed up, which was all the equipment he was wearing he returned to the first floor ready to continue with the operation. Laine opened a cupboard, taking out a loaf of whole grain bread and glanced over her shoulder as the conversation died off and they went to pack. “Should I pack them lunches? You know, juice and raisins, I’ll cut the crusts off Gwen’s sandwich.”
She snickered and then shook her head, holding her hand up as she looked at Donnelley at the sink, “Sorry, I’ll stop. I’m being petty.”
Peanut butter and jelly made good trail food, she made a half dozen and wrapped them tightly in wax paper then into brown bags, along with some dried fruit and trail mix, goldfish crackers and chocolate protein bars. “It’s not Tom’s MREs but it should do for today. How long will they be up there?”
“Their first outing I’ll just put them out there for two nights, see what that gets us and if they can locate those old mines. The drone’s got a range of six or so miles, so they shouldn’t have to move hides too often to find one of them.” Donnelley said, smacking down the handle on the sink to turn it off and using a handtowel to dry himself. “She’s no Combat Controller, but she can handle a Predator? She can handle our drone.”
“Right, so probably...more sandwiches? I’m sorry I’ve only been on day hiking trips,” she said, shrugging, “My mom was into glamping before it was a thing. As long as Airman Wiseass does her job, I’ll be fine. Weissman, I mean.”
She gave Donnelley a small smirking smile as she put some apples and oranges into the large insulated tote along with the brown bag lunches that had a grinning face, a mascot of the chain grocery store printed on it on the bright blue material. “Yeah, this isn’t camo but it’ll keep things fairly fresh. I should put some jerky in there, too.”
Gwen exited the woman’s bedroom wearing her airforce equipment, in tow was her weapons and electronics. She looked like a badass POG operator “Did someone say, food?” She muses entering the room with all her shit and emotional baggage to boot. Her stomach rumbled on command as well.
Laine glanced over her shoulder and nodded, “Packing lunches for the campers. I can make an extra if you’re hungry now?”
She took out some bread, trying to make a conciliatory gesture after her comments.
“I’ll take like three.” She said holding up three fingers for effect.
“Three? Well...alright,” Laine said, tilting her head in amazement at the tall thin young woman. “Peanut butter ok? I forgot about allergies and gluten. I’m a terrible southern Californian.”
“Yea lay it on thick.” She said thinking about the many uses of having 3 extra sammies.
Finishing off the loaf, she passed a plate with the sandwiches to her, “There’s milk in the fridge, two percent. I’ll have to hit the store again, that bread was supposed to last a couple of days. I’m not used to buying for more than one. And Weissman...sorry about earlier.”
“It’s whatever doc, that ranger was more into you than me anyway.” She said blowing out hot steam.
Laine closed her eyes, her jaw twitching as she clenched her teeth. “Well, I need to go take this holster off.”
Food. Food was being made, and that was enough to rouse Laurie from his napping on the couch. He shook his head side to side, standing up to stretch. He had forgotten to bring those monsters to double fist, and so he spent msot of this day sleeping. Perhaps for the better, you can't replace sleep with caffeine forever and it seems he'd have a long watch with the soldier boy and the Jew-... pardon, new girl in the woods. Well, finally something he was used to being what he got a paycheck for. He walked over to the two women, smacking his lips after a yawn. "Evening or whatever the fuck it is. I smell shit to eat, any extras?"
The modest two bedroom house sat on the hill in the neighborhood in what people would call a nice suburb, not affluent nor poor but the home to many mid level professionals or young couples just starting out. A silver Mercedes Benz, a few years old sat in the driveway and on the well trimmed yard was a garden of bright azaleas and zinnias, peppering the front of the cream colored house with spots of magenta, orange and yellow. Along the curb was a basketball hoop, leaning forward from so many boys practicing their dunks. Along the back fence was a sign, ‘Beware of Dog,’ and a half dozen chewed squeak toys strewn over the grass.
Inside, Kaliah Freeman stood at the counter, folding paper bags precisely with labels, ‘lunch, ‘snack’, and ‘dinner’. Each one held a balanced meal of sandwiches, fruit, and small tupperware of her son’s favorite potato salad. Into the cooler they went and she leaned over, peering around the kitchen wall, “Mal! Are you ready? Boy, you better not be on that X Box.”
She shook her head, her dark thick curls falling around her shoulders past elegant cheekbones. His father was coming to get him, another camping trip planned in the Ozark mountains. Kaliah remembered those forests and hills, Dave had taken her there once upon a time when they still lived in a dream of romance and summer nights under the stars. She shook the memory away and took a heavy duty Ziploc bag, dumping the dog food into it and packing it separately.
Her son Malcolm came out of his bedroom, lugging a metal frame backpack and his phone. She gave him a side eye look, “Remember what I told you about the phone.”
His face reddened under golden brown skin, then he shoved the Android into his pocket. “I just wanna take videos of Bella, it’ll be her first time off leash out in the woods.”
Kaliah smiled, her deep brown eyes sparkling with pride despite her warning. Malcolm had been begging her for a dog since he was a boy and for his fourteenth birthday, she finally relented. Bella was a pitbull mix, slated for euthenasia if she was not adopted and her son had fallen in love with the brindle and white dog. She had been shy and unsocialized but Malcolm had spent his own allowance on training classes at the petstore and Bella had blossomed under his attention and affection.
“Alright, just make sure you keep an eye on her, don’t let her wander too far. Those rednecks will shoot dogs just because, especially pits,” Kaliah said, handing him the bagged dog food.
“Rednecks like dad?” Malcolm teased, his smile as charming as his father’s infectious grin. While he looked more like her, with his light brown skin and tousled curls and deep dark eyes his smile was all David.
Kaliah raised her brow and shook her head, then checked her phone, “He should be here any minute, finish packing.”
Dave MacCready steered his battered truck through the suburban streets, expertly piloting the old F250. He hated suburbs; the impersonal, cookie-cutter houses seemed less like homes, more like cages. The people within were desperate, harried, rushing from job to home to bed just to start all over again, taking their two days off a week to seek solace in television and online shopping before dragging themselves back to their daily drudgery. Dave didn't have a TV; he preferred spending his time doing, not sitting, and he was too far into the mountains for cable and satellite to be worth the trouble anyway.
He spotted Kaliah's modest home and broke into a grin, pulling up alongside the curb. His Sig rested on the bench seat beside him and he tucked it into the glovebox, out of sight. Mal knew about it; Dave hid nothing from his son, and the boy knew where the weapon was. Still, Kaliah didn't like them and so out of respect for the mother of his child he put on the show, keeping it stowed when the boy was around.
He'd made other concessions, too. For years he hadn't bothered with a driver's license, insurance, a carry permit; these documents were a scam, the government's way of selling a man rights that should be his by God's design. But again, he'd conceded to Kaliah's wishes. She hadn't wanted their boy picking up his rebel ways, and so he'd submitted himself to the indignity of it and gotten himself licensed.
The old truck rattled to a stop and he pushed open the door, hopping down out of the jacked-up rig and stretching his muscles loose. He was a tall-ish man, a shade under six feet, with a frame packing a good 180 pounds of lean muscle. His build was accentuated by the cut of his Wranglers and the fit of his flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled up to show sun-bronzed skin and a map of small scars, the legacy of a man who spent his life doing manual labor.
He started for the house, feeling his heart kick up a few notches as it always did at the prospect of seeing his boy.
“Mom! Dad’s here!” Malcolm hollered out, looking through the drapes when Bella started to bark and wag her tail madly. If there was anyone she loved more than Mal it was David. The dog barked and spun in circles, seemingly chasing her tail for a mad few seconds until the door was opened.
Malcolm beamed a bright smile, though he was growing taller and broadening he still had the air of boyish joy at the simple things like seeing his dad and the prospect of getting away from his beloved but overbearing mother. They shared that smile, and the boy was probably going to be as tall, if not a little taller than his father once he was grown. He held open the door, motioning at Bella to sit which she did, obediently but for a wiggle in her rump as David entered the house.
Kaliah stepped out, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She was dressed down for the weekend, a pink halter top and blue jeans and designer sandals, showing off her pedicure matching her French tip manicure. She looked Dave over, smiling a little. He was handsome as ever, still strong and fit, a natural muscle that came from work not the gym.
“How was the drive?” she asked, looking past the boy and dog and met David’s eyes.
"It was easy enough," Dave said. He eyed her for a moment, as he always did. He liked to think they still had a spark somewhere beneath the differing opinions, the diverging life goals. She had wanted a career, he had wanted a family. They just weren't meant to be.
He bent and pulled Mal into a hard hug, kissing him on top of the head and taking a moment just to enjoy being close to him. He was getting to the age where he wasn't big on public affection, and while Dave understood he still missed the days when his son could climb into his lap while they sat on the porch. He understood, but he still took his hugs when he could get them.
"You ready to go?" He asked, releasing Mal to give Bella a brisk rubdown, grinning as the dog leaned against him and licked wildly at his hands.
“Yeah, I’ll put my stuff in the truck, Mom packed food,” Malcolm hefted the metal frame old fashioned backpack and slung it over one shoulder then picked up the cooler, his young wiry muscles straining under the weight of ice and Kaliah’s potato salad.
The dog bounced along with him, now trusted to stay at his side and not dash down the street. A miracle every time she witnessed it. Kaliah motioned to David, looking up at him, “He’s been looking forward to this trip and since school starts soon I won’t deny him but you need to talk to your son about his behavior with girls online.”
She crossed her arms under her ample chest and gave him a direct look, “He was exchanging pictures, inappropriate pictures, with a girl from another school. You know it’s a crime if they got caught, they were both underage. Not to mention immoral for both of the kids. He’s at that age now.”
Dave winced, glancing over his shoulder at his son.
"Damn," he muttered. "Well… I'll have a talk with him. We're gonna be in the backwoods, good place to have that kinda talk. Less awkward that way." His voice was a mellow baritone, heavy on the country drawl, a stark contrast to Kaliah's more precise city-talk.
"I'll leave the punishment to you, I know that ain't really my place, but we'll discuss it. See if I can't… I dunno," he shrugged. "Maybe get some sense into him."
Kaliah sighed and shook her head, “Leave the punishment to me, of course. What else am I here for, but to feed him and punish him.”
She turned, her long curls swaying as she walked back into the kitchen and took something out of the refrigerator. “And remember his medicine.”
She handed him the inhaler in a Ziploc bag, “He doesn’t need it too much but if he’s up in elevation or breathing in dust, he might. Don’t let him lose it.”
Kaliah put her hands on her hips, “Bring him back to me in one piece, David. I’ll be home all weekend, prepping for trial, so if you need anything, call me.”
As if she would go anywhere else, it was work even on the days off, that’s what a salary did. Kaliah put her hand on his arm, “Keep him away from any of your family, he’s been asking more questions that I don’t want to answer.”
He took the inhaler without comment, brushing off her jibe about disciplining Mal. At the mention of his family his eyes grew hard, the muscles in his strong jaw clenching.
"My kin don't come around," he said, his voice harsh. His anger wasn't directed at Kaliah, but at his estranged family. "The Old Man knows if he comes near my boy I'll kill him on the spot. Ain't seen him since Mal was born and I pulled that gun on him in the parking garage."
Her warm brown eyes darkened at the memory and she looked at him, “I recall. I don’t think I’ve ever hated and loved so hard at the same time before that moment. Alright, I trust you’ll keep him safe, I always do. I just can’t help but worry, Mal’s getting grown now. At least he thinks he is and I worry.”
Kaliah brushed her hands together, then gestured to him, “Time to get going, I’ll walk you out. Did you eat? I packed some extra sandwiches and such, the ham and swiss. He loves the same damn sandwich you do, must be the white boy in him.”
She grinned as she teased him and put her hand on David’s arm, “Drive safe now.”
"I always do," he said, his grin matching her own. He looked at Mal waiting in the truck. "Oh, uh… I got that permit. For the pistol."
“Good, if you have to keep that damn thing at least you’ll do it legal,” Kaliah said, glancing over at him as they walked out, “One less thing they can try to arrest you for, David. Sometimes you gotta play in their boundaries.”
Dave grimaced. "One more thing they get to tax me for," he muttered. He reached out and gave her shoulder a soft squeeze. "I'll have the sat phone. I'll have him call once we get there, and again when we've set camp."
She walked out to the truck and leaned on the window where Malcolm was waiting, “You’re gonna leave without giving me a hug?”
“Sorry,” he slipped out of the truck, glancing around to see if any of his buddies were out and then hugged her quickly, grimacing as she tousled his hair and kissed his head.
“I love you, be good,” she told him, “And have fun.”
“Thanks, Mom, love you too,” Malcolm said, then called to Bella to hop up, putting her between himself and his dad.
She waved at them as they pulled out, heading down the street and out of the city, towards the Ozark hills.
>10:45 >Boone County, AR >David MacCready residence
Two hours later the Ford came to a clattering halt, this time on a wooded dirt road. Dave opened the door and took a deep breath, savoring the clean mountain air. His house was off the beaten path, back in the trees, the dirt drive unmarked. Unless you knew it was there, it was easy to drive right past it in the dark.
"Grab your stuff," he said. "I'll get the cooler." He leaned over and took his Sig from the glovebox, tucking the holster into his waistband as he climbed from the truck. A quick sweep of the dirt drive showed no tire tracks but his own, the only prints those of himself, his mammoth dog, and a few whitetail deer.
Dave pointed at the tracks as Mal got out of the truck.
"What's that?" He asked, picking up the cooler.
Malcolm tucked his phone away, it was useless out here anyway except as a camera. He smiled at the pines and oaks towering just past the cabin and then climbed out of the truck, clicking his tongue for Bella to follow. She jumped down, immediately sniffing the area around her boy and snuffled the large paw prints, her whip tail wagging.
He looked down where his dad pointed and studied the tracks. Boots with familiar treads, Rufus’ paw prints and the crescent pair that he knew to be a deer. “Bambi’s been through here,” he commented, then gestured with his chin towards the direction away from the driveway. “Going east. And Rufus followed and you had already left. I think it looks like their prints cross yours but it’s hard to tell.”
Malcolm crouched and looked close but the edges were blurred in the sandy soil.
Dave nodded proudly and picked up the cooler, walking around to join Mal.
"Buck or doe?"
Malcolm furrowed his brow, staring at the cloven hoof tracks but nothing manifested itself so he could tell the difference. He shrugged finally then looked up at his dad, "I'm not sure. I forgot I guess."
Dave grinned at him and hiked the cooler up onto his shoulder. He pointed at the track Mal was examining, then traced the trail back about 20 feet. A small cluster of pellets lay in the trail, loosely grouped.
"Doe," he said. He put a hand on Mal's shoulder. "The buck turds clump up. Does leave 'em loose, like rabbit shit. See how it's dark brown, but not slimy? It's a few hours old. Hasn't started to dry up. Gotta look at the whole picture. Everything'll tell you a story." "
His son followed where he pointed and stood over the deer feces and rubbed the back of his neck. "I wonder why they poop different. But that's pretty cool, Dad."
He brightened up, "Hey, do you think I could shoot your gun this weekend? Mom said..."
He stopped himself then tucked his hands in his jacket, "I'm old enough to, don't you think?"
"We can bring one of the rifles," Dave said. "No pistols yet. Get a few years getting used to the rifles first. Less barrel means more accidents if safety ain't second nature."
He put his hand on Mal's shoulder and steered him towards the house, hiding a grin at his son's question. He'd maintained his love of firearms, and was pleased that Mal seemed to be developing an interest of his own.
It was a modest affair, built half a century before and carefully maintained by its various owners over the years. The exterior was wood paneling, the paint faded and peeling but the planks themselves still strong. A carport housed a pair of ATV's and a battered dirt bike, as well as a cherry picker and various automotive equipment, and a small shed held a variety of tools.
"Rufus is out somewhere," Dave said, digging out his keys. He let the door swing open and stepped aside for Mal to enter.
"Can I shoot the AK? Like full auto, brrrrat tatat" he pretended to cradle a rifle, aiming it down at the truck.
Malcolm walked into the familiar old cabin, Bella starting to follow but paused at her training and whined, looking up at Dave, thumping her tail.
"She sleeps on my bed at home, can she come in?" He asked, glancing at his father.
"Go on," Dave said, nodding at the dog. She hurried inside, nails scrabbling at the wood floor.
"We can shoot the WASR," he said, walking the cooler to the small kitchen that stood at the rear of the house, separated from the rustic living room by a breakfast bar littered with bills. "But you gotta promise it'll be our secret." He gave Mal a sideways look, a hint of mischief in his eyes. "That gun ain't exactly legal. I gotta trust you not to go telling your friends about it."
Malcolm grinned his father’s grin, rubbing his hands together at the prospect of doing something he shouldn’t, even with permission. Then he said, “I won’t tell them or Mom, you know how she is. She hates those guns, says they’re nothing but people killers and should be banned.”
He shrugged his angular shoulders, his frame broadening faster than he could fill into it. “You know, because of all the school shootings and stuff.”
His dark eyes flicked to his Dad, uncertain for a moment at the conflict of the issue. “We had active shooter drills last week.”
"Yeah, well, that's something your mom and I never saw eye to eye on," Dave said. "Guns are tools, boy. No different than a knife or a hammer. You can kill a man with your hands, if you want."
“I guess,” Malcolm said, then put his bag against the wall, taking out the dog food his mom insisted on packing and stuck it in the pantry. He was quiet, his brow had the same furrow Dave would get when something troubled him. Finally he said what was on his mind.
“Hey, Dad? You ever have to kill anyone? I mean, I heard about people in the hills and stuff, Mom won’t tell me but I looked up stuff online,” the boy awkwardly tried to explain what his mother refused to talk about, the name MacCready.
“You don’t ask a man that, son,” Dave said, his voice firm. For a moment the friendly country boy was gone, replaced by a hard-eyed man with a face carved from stone. He shook off the memory of cool autumn air, a soft breeze, and a single gunshot that had silenced the birds for miles around. Then he was back, his calloused hand coming to rest gently on Mal’s shoulder. “Come on. Get your shit put away, we’re burnin’ daylight and I’ve got something to show you.”
Malcolm swallowed hard, then nodded “Yes, sir.”
He smiled hesitantly, then called his dog to show her the bedroom and put away his things for the weekend. The boy changed into the Red Wing boots he had got for his birthday, nicely kept and clean but not for long in the Ozark hills and creeks. Malcolm got the leash for Bella, just in case, and shouted, “Ready!”
Mal bounced out of his room, his tight curly hair bouncing as well, he was trying to grow it out but his mother had her limit. Nothing past the collar because of school though his curls tended to grow out rather than down. He flashed a grin, “So what’s up, what’re you gonna show me?” Dave headed for his own room, disappearing into the closet. A few moments later he returned, dropping a camouflage pack on the ground at Mal’s feet.
“Here,” he said. “Marine Corps issue. Figured it’s time we upgrade you from that old ALICE pack you’re toting around.” He knelt beside the pack, pointing out features as he went. “Top pouch, canteen pouches, belly band, back padding...You can fit every damn thing you need in here. And that smaller pack unhooks from it, so you can just carry that around like a backpack. We’re gonna be really roughing it this round, no four-wheelers. Everything we bring is goin’ on our backs.”
Malcolm blinked at the gift then knelt down, opening up pouches and checking out the padding. "This is what real Marines use? Badass. It looks more comfortable than the metal frame."
He tried out the backpack, "It's too bad we have to have see through bags at school or I'd use the small one. This feels a lot better, so where are we going to if we can't take the four-wheelers."
There was a trace of disappointment in his voice as he loved driving the ATVs around the trails and open clearings. But whatever his Dad had in mind it was probably good, it wasn't homework or chores like his mom would put him through on a beautiful Saturday. It was bad enough she signed him up for summer school.
“Well...That depends how much of a bad ass you are,” Dave said lightly. There was a hint of challenge in his voice, his eyes shining. “I was thinkin’ we could go whole hog this round. No GPS, no wheels...None of that pussy shit. Hell, we don’t even have to take a tent. Build our own shelter, eat what we find… Like I said. If you’re man enough.”
He flashed back, just for a moment, to nights spent in the woods with nothing but a rifle, a pack, and his father’s hard gaze as he dug a hole to sleep in. He clamped down hard on the memory, pushing it away.
“Course I’ll be right there with you,” he said. “You ain’t gonna be out there alone.”
Malcolm drew up straight under the weight of his bag and looked his dad square in the eyes, like he had been taught to do. “I’m ready, I’m not a pussy. Let’s do this, we’ll make Bear Grylls look like a Girl Scout.”
He chuckled, then called to Bella who was eager to go, whomping his legs with her tail as she felt the anticipation of departure.
“Alright then,” Dave said, nodding. He reached out and tousled his son’s hair, pride swelling in him. Seeing his boy so ready to lose himself in the natural world brought him joy like nothing else. He lived for these weekends. “Go get your shit packed. There’s waterproof bags in that pack, for clothes. Oh, shit, and call your mom. I told her I’d have you call when we got here.”
>13:24 >Boston Mountains, Boone County, AR
Sweat trickled down Malcolm’s back, the stains spreading on his gray t-shirt under the padded straps of his new backpack. They were on a high bald ridge, the sun beating down on them and he could feel perspiration stinging his eyes. Still, he did not complain, a man did not complain about trivial unavoidable inconveniences. That was what his Dad taught him and the boy was still young enough to look at his father like he was Superman. Besides, the view was incredible, the Arkansas valley opening up thick with summer trees and every now and then the glimmer of the river when the sun struck it. The far side of the valley was a plateau and it stretched out in rolling dips until it met the sky.
They started to descend, the exposed shale and sandstone giving way to tangled grass brush thick with blackberry bramble that was weighed down with ripening fruit and long thorns that guarded it. The fresh berries were delicious but they also attracted black bears and wild hogs, dangerous creatures that Malcolm learned to give a wide respectful berth. As the trail narrowed between the trunks of towering oaks and hickory trees they were finally blessed with shade. In the dappled shadows, small creatures dashed from the dogs who ran ahead. Bella enjoying her freedom from the backyard and Rufus, the huge mastiff that spent his days roaming, without collar or fence, was now marking the trees to add to his territory. He belonged both to Dave and himself, returning home when he wished but he never failed to come when the man called.
Malcolm could hear the distinct tapping of a woodpecker and squinted up to see if he could find and identify it. As he walked, peering up at the taller trees, his foot caught a root and he stumbled forward.
“Shit!” he exclaimed, wincing when his hands scraped the ground.
He pushed himself up with some difficulty, the heavy pack threatening to tip him forward. Malcolm swiped his hands against his jeans, checking the abrasions. It was not deep but should be cleaned. His mother would have fussed over doing it right away but the boy shrugged it off, not wanting to cause his Dad to have to wait on him.
He bent to brush his knees when he saw it. The ivory colored knob of some type of leg bone poking up from the leaf litter of last autumn. Malcolm brushed it away and picked up the bone, it was long and dense, probably a femur. His skin prickled looking at it and his mind jumped to the possibilities.
It was probably a deer. Or a bear. His dad would know.
“Hey, Dad! Look what I found!”
Dave heard the boy go down and slowed, throwing a glance over his shoulder. He resisted the urge to run to him, to pull him to his feet and make sure he was okay. Instead he hiked up his pack and adjusted the hang of the WASR10 rifle that dangled from a sling over his shoulder. His son had been dying to shoot the AK for months, so he had finally relented, bringing out the rifle and a couple of magazines. One rode in the weapon, the others were stowed in Dave’s pack. He’d also exchanged his compact Sig for something a little more woods-worthy, a hefty Ruger GP100 chambered in the venerable .357 magnum. It was more suited to putting down angry woodland creatures than the 9mm, and if he fell on his ass, slid down a muddy hill, and found himself face-to-balls with a pissed off black bear it would still fire reliably.
“What’d ya find?” He called.
Malcolm held up the bone, it was picked clean but for a few bits of tendon dried to gristle where the hinge like joint for a knee on a bipedal would go. There was no mistake for anyone that had taken time to study skeletal anatomy of both humans and animals. No other creature was built like that.
“It’s got some teeth marks,” he commented, still looking at it and then at his Dad. “Kinda big for a deer but...what do you think?”
Dave frowned at the sight of the bone. As he walked to his son he felt the hair on his arms stand up, a chill running through him.
“Put that down, son,” he said. “That’s…” He shook his head and lowered his voice, not wanting to frighten Mal. “That’s human, son. Go on and put it down.”
Malcolm looked at the bone in his hand and dropped it like it had burned him. “Jesus...what’s it doing out here?”
He rubbed his hand once again against his pants then gave a panicky thought to his skinned palm and touching some dead guy’s leg bone. Malcolm edged away from it, both sickened and curious. What if there were other parts around, right where they were standing? The boy looked down at his feet and around but saw nothing in the weeds.
“What do we do with it?” he asked, looking back over at his dad.
Dave walked over and put a heavy hand on top of the boy’s head, pushing back so that Mal was forced to look up at him.
“Hey,” he said. His voice was gentle, his eyes holding his son’s gaze. “It’s alright. He must’ve got lost. We’re in the Bostons, it’s rough country. That happens, okay?” He patted Mal on the cheek.
“Get your map out,” he said. “You been keeping track of where we are? I want you to mark us on the map. That way we can call this in once we make camp. Let the Rangers know we found him.”
Malcolm looked up at his Dad, then nodded. "Yeah, that's probably what happened. Poor guy though."
He dropped his gaze, glancing at the bone in the grass. He shuddered and wiped his hand again against his jeans but did as he was told. The map was in a waterproof bag despite it being laminated, it never hurt to take extra care of a life saving tool. Malcolm wondered briefly if the dead guy had lost his map or ran out of water. Or maybe a black bear or cougar got him.
The boy glanced up, his thoughts broken by what his dad said. He frowned, "Rangers? But aren't they like forest cops. Feds even."
Dave grimaced, not just at the truth in the boy's words, but because he'd said them at all. He couldn't stand cops, hated the Feds; it felt different coming from his son.
"Yeah, they're cops," he said slowly. "But… You know, this guy probably had a family. Got people out there somewhere wonderin' where he went. If he got hurt, ran out on them… They deserve to know what happened, right? We can at least do that for 'em."
Malcolm considered his words, then shrugged, "I guess you're right, at least he's been dead a while so they can't blame you for it. You know?"
He opened the map, then looked back up at his dad. "And you're right, he probably had somebody missing him. It's sad...I mean he was probably all alone up here."
Malcolm turned his attention back to the map trying to figure out where exactly along the ridge they had come down as it branched into three trails. He furrowed his brow, had they passed the other forks or just continued on the main path. There had been a large boulder just past the highest point and... Malcolm sighed and scratched his arm.
"I can't remember which path had the boulder," he admitted, them looked over at the bone resting in the grass. “I think we went down the middle then veered right, away from the edge. Into the woods, I’m just not sure how far.”
Dave leaned over and studied the map a moment, then tapped their location with his fingertip.
“We’re about here,” he said. “I’ll show you how I worked it out later tonight, okay?” He looked down at the bone.
“That’s why I teach you this shit, you know. Nature’s a hard bitch. Killed more people than anything else in our history. If that guy’d known just a little bit more, he might’ve gotten home okay. That’s why you gotta pay attention to what I teach you.” Dave gave Mal a little punch on the shoulder and grinned at him. “You’re doin’ good though. You got our area within a few miles, enough for a rescue party if you were in trouble.”
Malcolm watched his father’s face when he spoke, paying rapt attention. Despite the teasing he took for camping and fishing, being called ‘country’ and such, he enjoyed every moment because it was with his dad. He could not really remember a time when his parents lived together, they separated when he was still a toddler. These times were special and he only wanted his father’s approval. Besides, who knew when the zombie apocalypse might happen and Malcom damn sure would be ready.
“Yes, sir,” he said, nodding at the map and sighed, looking at the bone. “He’s probably been out a long time, I found it under last years leaves and it’s pretty dry.”
“Yeah, looks a little chewed on, but that’s normal.” Dave pointed out the small marks on the bone, divots where tiny teeth had worried at the meat and sinew. “Somethin’ big, like a cat or a bear, it would’ve broken bone. Crunched it up. These are scavenger marks. Like on that deer last year, remember?”
Malcolm stood up, folding the map over and nodded, “I remember, probably like raccoons or coyotes or vultures.”
The boy stood quiet for a moment then turned to look up at Dave, “Can we go now?”
“Yeah, we can go.” He put a hand on his son’s shoulder and steered him away from the bone, back down the trail. The dogs had stopped up ahead, Bella sniffing at trees, Rufus waiting with his gaze trained on Dave. The big mutt did as he wished whenever Dave turned him loose, but when they were together he took his directions from the man, courtesy of years spent building trust and the handful of schutzhund training manuals in Dave’s basement. He sat patiently as man and boy approached, only ranging ahead again after Dave had released him.
“This gonna bother you?” Dave asked after a few minutes. He eyed his son sidelong, gauging his reaction. “Finding a body, that’s not a small thing. Kind of freaky, right?”
Malcolm walked along, just to the side of his father and shrugged, “I dunno, maybe. But I’ll be okay, it’s just kinda freaky, yeah. Like I feel bad for the guy, I wonder who he was. It must suck to be scattered around, he’s dead so I guess he doesn’t know but still. Maybe he’s in heaven.”
Bella ran ahead, the bright white markings against her dark brindle coat like beacons in the shadows of the thick summer woods. She sniffed here and there, digging at the leaf litter and then running back to Rufus to fuss around with him but he did not return her invitation to play. The boy watched her with a smile, taking his mind off the bone and whistled to her, watching as she bounded back, pink tongue lolling out of the powerful jaws. He pet the pitbull mutt as she licked his hands, wanting the comfort of the dog close even if his dad was near.
They made it another hundred yards before Dave slowed, putting a hand on Mal’s shoulder to stop him. Rufus stood further down the trail. The tan beast’s body was rigid, his shoulders squared and his floppy ears perked up. There was a wariness to his stance that Dave had long since learned to trust. A predator would have set off a barrage of harsh warning barks; this was something else.
“Slow down boy,” Dave said, pulling Mal a little behind him. He sniffed the air and caught it; beneath the scent of pine was a sickly sweet, cloying stench. It raised the hairs on the back of his neck.
“Somethin’s dead up ahead, smell that?” Dave said, relaxing a little. Animals died all the time. On his own Rufus would’ve probably gone to see if there was a meal worth scavenging, but his training had him waiting on his master. Dave patted Mal on the shoulder. “C’mon, let’s go take a look. Might be something cool. It’s big, if I can smell it from here.”
It stunk, whatever it was. Malcolm scrunched his nose, it was like the time a raccoon died under their porch but stronger, especially as they got closer. He tagged along behind Dave, keeping Bella at his heel. “It really stinks,” he commented as the wind shifted and blew lightly on his face.
“It does.” They moved up the trail and when they reached Rufus Dave stopped. Warning bells started to ring at the back of his mind. Rufus was massive; Kaliah had called him a monster on more than one occasion. Part mastiff, part shepherd, part something else, his head reached Dave’s hips and his chest was big enough around that Mal could just barely encircle it. He was every bit of 150 pounds, and at four years old he was an uncut male in his prime. He was trembling.
The mammoth dog patrolled his chosen territory zealously, guarding it against all comers, and it had been years since Dave had seen signs of bear, cougar, or coyote around his little homestead. For something to scare a dog like Rufus…
Dave stepped in front of Mal, unslinging his AK. He rested a hand on Rufus’s head for a moment, giving the dog’s ears a scratch. Rufus whined.
“Mal, stay here,” he said. “I’ll be right back, okay? Rufus, pass auf.” Rufus moved obediently to Mal’s side, a low rumble in his chest serving as both a warning to whatever was bothering him and acknowledgement of his duty to protect Mal.
“Dad?” he asked tentatively when Dave made him stay put. He peered into the distance but the low light through the trees cut down visibility. The dogs sat on either side of him and Bella pressing against his leg, shuffling nervously as she felt the tension in the boy.
“Just stay put,” Dave said. He gave the boy a reassuring smile and then lied to his face. “Probably just a bear putting a scare into Rufus. Probably eatin’ whatever’s rotten. I’ll take a look and shoo it off, it’ll be fine.”
He winked at his son and then stepped into the trees, quietly pushing the safety lever down into automatic and racking the bolt as gently as he could. He left the weapon live and pushed deeper.
The stench grew as he walked. It raised gooseflesh on his arms, and a moment later his heart began to pound. The woods were silent. No birds. No bugs. How could there not be any bugs? Something this rancid, the woods should sound like a buzzsaw. He should have been chewing flies with every breath, but the trees were silent, the air still, the forest around him dead except for that damned stink.
He reached the first of the heads ten feet in. It was a hog, skinned but not cleaned, the flesh rotten. The tip of a stake was buried in the meat of what used to be its neck, so the empty sockets stared up at the sky, and the blood that had run down onto the stake was black. He could see another head off to his right, this one a goat judging by the horns, then a third further on, then a fourth. Four heads, all rotted, pigs and goats both, forming what looked like the curve of a circle.
The trees within the circle were sparse, each of them dead and dry, their bare branches revealing the rest of the circle on the far side. The ground was littered with a thick coating of brown leaves, despite the summer season. His unease grew, but something within pulled him onwards, and with a muttered prayer he stepped into the circle. In the center was a single large stone, flat topped, rectangular, about three feet tall. It was a little longer than a man, a flat, matte black. Bones were piled around the base, crusted with old blood, bits of flesh still clinging to them where it hadn’t rotted off and fallen to the forest floor in rancid clumps.
Dave walked on, eyes on the stone. He could hear nothing but the pounding of his heart, and he felt his stomach turn. He neared the stone with weak knees; the air around him felt wrong, and he tightened his grip on his rifle. As he drew closer he saw the body. A human corpse, fresher than the staked heads but not by much. It was nude, female judging by the build, but it had bloated and then burst, its ruptured gut shrinking back down to collapse against its spine. He drew closer still. Then a thunderous bark pulled him back to himself.
Rufus barked again and Dave backpedaled, reeling away from the stone and heading for his son. He crashed through the trees, snapping the safety back on the rifle as he went, and when he stumbled onto the trail he grabbed Mal hard by the shoulder as Rufus barked a third time, the big dog snarling and curling his lips back from his teeth. Bella began to bark as well and Dave gave Mal’s shoulder a squeeze.
“Let’s go, we’re going,” Dave said. He was pale, shaking, his grey-blue eyes combing the trees around them. “Go.”
Malcolm stared wide eyed as his dad came rushing back out, his mouth hung open slightly at his expression. Fear jolted through him once Rufus had raised his hackles and started barking insistently and looking into his father's eyes he felt it again.
"Dad?" His voice rose and cracked when he saw Dave’s expression. "Dad what's wrong?"
Dave ignored his question, half guiding and half shoving him back down the trail. As the monstrous scene fell further behind them Dave’s mood changed, the fear vanishing to be replaced by anger; anger that somebody had so defiled his mountain, fury that something was endangering his his neighbors. A righteous rage that his son might be at risk. His eyes still scanned the woodline to either side of the narrow trail, but now there was murder in them, not terror. If something, anything, presented itself, he was ready to send it straight to hell to keep his boy safe.
“Just keep walking,” Dave said firmly. “We’re goin’ home. I’ll explain in a bit, just keep your eyes open and keep movin’. Okay?”
Malcolm nodded and said nothing, walking quickly, glancing at the heavy brush and tangles of blackberries. Bella stuck close, her tail now pressed to her hindquarters as they left the area of the rancid smell.
They walked for several minutes, Mal glancing over his shoulder at his Dad and the hard expression on his face and the readiness in which he cradled the rifle. Once the smell receded he found himself starting to relax. It was too bad they had to go home, he had wanted to try his hand at making a shelter.
“Dad, do we have to go back, maybe we just go around that spot,” Malcolm suggested, hitching up his pack as they started back up towards the ridge.
Dave glanced at his son, thinking for a moment. “We gotta go back,” he said finally. “Look, back there...I found another body. This one’s fresher. And it wasn’t an animal that got ‘em, you understand? We’re gonna tell the law, and let them sort it out. But I ain’t gonna be the man who has his boy sleepin’ in the boonies with somebody like that on the loose. Okay?”
He gave him an uneasy grin. “Your mom would kill me if she found out, and we don’t want that, right?”
Malcolm’s face registered shock and he looked around himself as if expecting the boogy man to jump out of the bushes. “You mean he got killed, like murdered? Jesus...yeah, we better go.”
He glanced at his Dad, “I guess cops are better than some killer running around.”
“Yeah, it was real bad son,” Dave nodded. “We’ll just hump it back home, alright? Tell you what, we can camp out by the house, okay? Call it a training run. We’ll build our shelter just a mile in. Got the creek there for water, it’ll be good practice for later on. That sound okay?”
His son nodded, the dark curls bobbing along and he gave his dad a bright grin, trying to be upbeat about the situation that was rather frightening. At least he knew his Dad could use that rifle and would, he had no doubt. He would blast any weirdo murderer that might come around. “Yeah, that sounds good. Maybe I could do some shooting?”
The man laughed and put a hand on Mal’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze before taking up the rifle again. “Yeah, we can shoot.” He thought for a moment. “Keep it quiet from your mother, and I’ll let you keep a shotgun in the shelter. Just in case. Our secret though, okay?”
Mal leaned into his Dad briefly then walked along, “A shottie? Yes! I swear I never tell her about the guns, you know how she is. She wouldn’t even buy me a super soaker.”
“She just worries,” Dave said. “Now step it out. We’ve got about nine miles to go, and about half that’s gonna be uphill.”
>Two Weeks Later >19:35 >David MacCready residence, Boone County AR
1900 was not the usual time Robert Kopelmann liked to do these things. People were sometimes more receptive during the day and he always tried to warm up his “assistant”, a term of probably unprofessional endearment he had for those he’d had to interrogate in the past like a magician and a stranger from the crowd. He found the people he was supposed to recruit were no different. He looked behind himself at the two men that were sent with him. The Program’s Office of Security employed nothing but former JSOC, and mostly DEVGRU at that, which meant that David MacCready was going to open his door and see a lot of things he absolutely did not like.
Robert himself, a veteran spook, dressed in the finest not-spook slacks and polo that would not confirm nor deny to anyone he was DoD, and JSOC at that. David’s own life story in a Manila folder, everything every Federal Agency had on David and his family, as well as pictures of Black Slabs in everywhere they had been previously found and dealt with, from Pakistan to Pennsylvania. And two burly, silent towers of meat and beard flanking him. A bunch of strangers framed by the darkening sky. Robert sighed, pushing up his wire-frame glasses, this may just be the day he gets his 9mm retirement plan. Even so, Robert put on his best friendly grin and rapped his knuckles on the door, skin crawling with the moment it cracked open and let a blast of .00 buckshot through his face.
A moment passed, then another, before the locks on the door clacked and it swung in about two inches. Dave eyed the strangers on his porch in silence, sizing them up, taking in their clothing, the way they held themselves. He let the door open another few inches before bracing it with his foot. Inside, he held the barrel of his Ruger flush against the door. He’d rather have the capacity of the Sig, but the door was solid-core and the .357 would carry more punch if he had to fire through it.
“Y’all are feds,” he said. It wasn’t a question. His blue eyes tracked across the three men before settling on the man in the glasses.
“This is about that body.” Again, not a question. He was silent for a moment. “I’m gonna let the hammer down on my gun, so don’t shoot me. Then I’ll let you inside. Just you. The jackboots can wait on the porch.” He glanced at the larger of the two bodyguards. “My dog’s around. Big tan fella. He won’t bother you, but if you shoot him you’re gonna get a gunfight instead of...Whatever you’re here for.”
At the mention of letting the hammer down on a gun that was ready to kill him a moment before, Robert’s grin ticked up, “No gunfights today. My…” Friends was the wrong word, they hadn’t even spoken to each other on the ride here, “Associates can stay outside. My name’s Bob. Just Bob.”
He maintained his composure even though to him, he was only speaking to a dark crack in the door pointing a wheelgun at his brow. “You may let me in whenever you’d like.” Sooner than later, Robert left unsaid.
Dave watched him for a beat, then lowered the hammer on the Ruger with a click. He let the door swing open and backed away a few steps, keeping the gun in his off-hand.
“Dave,” he said. “Just Dave. Though I figure you know the rest of it.” He nodded his head at the folder in Bob’s hand, then gestured to a battered leather sofa in his small living room. There was no television; instead the sofa, a beat up love-seat, and a single large recliner all faced a coffee table, the arrangement one designed for conversation rather than digital entertainment.
“Take a seat. Close the door on your way in, the A/C is workin’ overtime this year as it is. I’d offer you a beer, but I don’t know if the visit’s gonna be a pleasant one yet.” He gave Bob a small grin, then walked over and dropped into the chair, resting his gun on a small side table, the muzzle away from his guest but still in reach.
Robert stepped through the threshold, readily closing the door on the two big mood dampers outside. He took a seat closer to David, rather than across. Putting yourself front to front with someone put up an instant air of offense and defense. Opposing sides. Hopefully David didn’t mind, but either way, Robert reached under his shirt and pulled free his IWB holster holding his Glock, and set it on the same side table next to the larger Ruger. “I’m only here to ask you a few questions about the incident two weeks ago, Dave. I’m hoping we can be out of each other’s hair as soon as possible and I’m sure you’re hoping the same.” Robert cleared his throat, placing the folder on the table and looked to David, “First things first, can you tell me everything about the scene? Omit nothing.”
Dave martialed his thoughts, his eyes on the far wall. When he finally spoke he did so slowly, picking the scene apart in his mind to be sure he’d relayed them as accurately as possible. He described the old bone, the heads on the stakes, the lack of bugs and the fallen leaves. The details grew more vague as he described the stone and its cadaverous occupant, the details having mercifully faded over the last couple of weeks.
“It just felt wrong,” he said as he reached the end of the story. “The whole thing, it was too quiet. The air seemed dead, you know? Had my skin crawling. But I felt like...Like I had to get a closer look at it all.”
Robert nodded along, lips pursed as he watched David’s face while he described the scene. “And the Slab, it was black?”
He reached into his folder and produced a stack of photos. One clearly from a crime scene in the Pacific Northwest, one from the Afghan mountains and another one taken from an aerial view somewhere in the FATA in Pakistan. “Like these?”
Dave took the photos, looking them over with a frown of concentration. While he didn’t get the same sense of impending doom that he had from the slab in the mountains, he still suppressed a shudder.
“Yup,” he said, handing them back. “Pretty much like that. Corpse was rotten, but hadn’t been eaten on. I don’t know how familiar you are with the woods, but that...It doesn’t happen. Something dies, it gets eaten, every time. I’ve got a dog the size of a Harley and I still have to lock down my garbage to keep the raccoons out of it. Body shouldn’t have been there more than a few hours before somethin’ came for a bite.”
Robert nodded along. “These Slabs are considered a grave threat, David. I’m glad you made us aware of this one. I understand you have a son?”
There was a slight tightening around Dave’s eyes, a clenching of his hands that he was quick to mask.
“Yeah, I do,” he said. “What about him? He didn’t see shit, and I didn’t tell him the whole story. He’s got nothin’ to do with this.”
“And I’m glad he doesn’t. David, I’m not making a threat. I knew he was with you when you found the Slab.” Robert held a hand up to quell any aggression from mentioning his son, “But there’s a lot of other fathers who can’t say the same. The real reason I’m here, David, is because I was given a choice.”
“Since I’ve already made my decision by coming here and talking to you tonight, I’m going to give you a choice.” Robert opened the Manila folder to show David a profile of his own life rendered into the margins of a Top Secret dossier, “A man like you is a valuable thing. You’re not beholden to big organizations that would rather retain you than loan you to a section of the government nobody knows exists.”
“I belong to a long line of men and women who keep things like that Slab and whoever the fuck put it there away from our sons, our daughters, our families. Our fellow man.” Robert shook his head, “I’m not going to tell you that you owe the world a thing. I’m not asking you to keep the world safe. But you have a choice to make, David.”
“Either you forget about this and you keep spending your weekends with your son and always looking over your shoulder in these woods…” Robert slowly got up from his seat, going over to the door and whispering at one of the operators at the door. He returned with a briefcase, popping it open to reveal a very good amount of money, “And have enough money to put your son through college without debt after. You could do that. Or you could make sure your son lives in a world where you don’t have to worry about Black Slabs or whatever put them there coming for him before he even graduates High School.”
Robert leaned over, holding David’s gaze while he pulled a flip phone from his pocket. He placed it on the table in front of David and stood. “I’ll leave you the money. If anything, it’s the least I can do for you making me aware of that thing in the mountains so I can go out and put it down.” Robert gestured to the phone. “I’ll leave you the phone too. Just in case you ever have a feeling like you might want to go hunting too. I’ll see you around, David.”
Robert pushed up his glasses, replaced his holster and turned for the door.
“Stop,” Dave said as Robert walked away. He stared at the money for a moment. “I ain’t sayin’ I’ll do this...But...You said you’re gonna go out and take care of this Slab. Whoever put it there.”
He looked up at Robert. His eyes were hard, chips of ice set in his rugged face. “These are my mountains. Nobody’s gonna do that kinda shit around here, not as long as I can stop ‘em. I figure you already know everything about me, so you’ll know I’ve got half a ton of Tannerite down in my basement, and the riggings for a blasting cap or two. Setup like that, I could level a house. Or two. You willin’ to let me in on this? You let me help handle the shit here, and I’ll come with you wherever you need me next. But we clean up my backyard first.”
Robert turned to David, and looked him over. He loved when things were easy and went his way. Robert rolled his jaw and nodded, turning back for the door with a suppressed grin like he’d just secured a deal for damn good racehorse, “Hurry up and get dressed.”
>0724 >FairFax County, Virginia >Avaline Moore residence
A paw tapping her forehead roused Ava from her sleep and making her blearily squint open her eyes, staring up at the blurred image of her cat. He was perched on the small shelf above her bed that she built for him so he wouldn’t settle his 20 pounds of Norweigian muscle and fluff on her face while she slept. He let out a low, rumbling ‘mrow’ when he saw she was awake and she tried to rub the sleep from her eyes. “I’ll feed you Thor.” She croaked out, rolling over to the side of the bed and forcing herself to sit up.
She picked up her glasses from her bedside table and placed the large, circular black frames on her face. Next she picked up her phone and tapped at the screen to pull up an app that said ‘Alfred’. “Alfred,” She said into her phone with a yawn. “Is coffee ready?”
There was a soft chime and then a synthetic male voice replied from the speakers around her room, “Coffee is ready.”
“Good.” She stood up and shuffled on bare feet out of her bedroom, hearing her brown tabby and white cat jump onto the bed and then the floor to follow her. “Any activity on the outside security cameras?” She asked into her phone and then stuffed it into the giant pouch of the large cloud soft, rainbow pastel sweater she wore to bed.
“Activity log. Raccoon detected on west perimeter fence at 2:17 am. Deer detected in backyard at 4:38 am. Neighbor, Mrs. Grier, detected outside east perimeter fence at 6:21 am. End of activity log.”
“Probably taking her dog out to use the bathroom.” Ava noted to herself as she walked through her small, one story colonial style home. It was two bedrooms, two and a half baths and it still felt like more space than she needed. She had long turned the second bedroom into a home office and her garage into a hobby space where she tinkered away on a few side projects she had going on. Her car sat parked underneath an awning she had built on the side of the house.
She entered into the front area of the house which was an open floor plan that gave her a view from the kitchen of the den and the living room as well as the front door. It was meant to make the small house seems larger than it actually was, and while it was filled with tasteful, modern furniture of soft, neutral blues and greys; it felt empty at times to Ava.
Ava pulled her phone back out and spoke into it, “Alfred, how many messages do I have?”
“You have, 58 unread messages.” The flat voiced computer assistant replied back via speakers installed in the corners of her home.
“Read them please.” Ava requested and set the phone down on the counter and went about filling a bowl with cat food for Thor. She scratched the giant cat on the head as he chowed down, half listening to Alfred read out the messages that had accumulated while she slept. They were all work related, follow ups asking how the raw data sifting was going, confirmations that reports had been received and a few emails from coworkers in other departments asking for her assistance on something.
While her main job was to dig through raw data to look for nuggets of information that would be useful to the CIA or the Program; it wasn’t uncommon for her to help in other departments. There was a lot of cross department mingling that went on when it came to the tech aspect of intelligence gathering. Sometimes someone needed fresh eyes in order to help solve a problem with a particular code or why the design for a new stealth drone wasn’t working properly. She helped others and had received help from others on more than a few occasions.
“Subject: Stranger Things Viewing Party.” Alfred suddenly read out and that caught her attention as she was pouring her coffee. He continued to read the body and as the subject line stated, it was an invitation from a work acquaintance to come watch a few episodes of the new season of Stranger Things.
Ava frowned down at the black liquid staring back at her from inside a cute owl ceramic mug painted in twilight pastels, a gift from her neighbor, Mrs. Grier. Her immediate response to the invitation was to recoil, a spike of anxiety hitting her chest at the idea of attending a social gathering.
Who would be there? Would she know anyone besides the host? It was going to be a casual setting, they probably didn’t want to talk about work. Shit, what would she be able to talk to them about? Not the show, that’s for sure, she had never watched the previous seasons before. Would she have to watch them in order to attend?
She really didn’t want to, she was afraid it would reflect the reality of her work with The Program too closely. And she didn’t need a reminder of her own strange experiences…
A shiver went down her spine and her heart started racing faster. “Medicine.” She reminded herself and quickly left the kitchen to head for her bathroom back through her bedroom. Alfred continued reading out her emails and messages, but the mechanical voice was white noise as she opened her medicine cabinet and grabbed her bottle of Klonopin. She shook two pills out into her hand and took them, swallowing them down with the help of a glass of water she kept on her bathroom counter for just this reason.
Immediately she began to calm down, not because the pills worked that fast but the comfort in having taken them was enough to ease away the beginnings of a panic attack.
She braced her hands on the sink and took in deep, slow breaths as her heart began to settle down. After a few moments she shut the medicine cabinet and looked at her own reflection. Bright blue eyes beneath the large frames of her glasses stared back at her, small bags under them from countless nights where she didn’t take her sleep medication in order to keep working.
She ran her hand over one pale and freckle covered cheek, her skin warm to the touch and not clammy or sweaty. That was a good sign and helped her breathe easier.
If the idea of a party had this kind of affect on her, how would she react in the middle of one? Wouldn’t that make for fun office scuttle butt, Avaline Moore, the girl that went to MIT at 10, having a panic attack in the middle of a simple social gathering.
She looked up at her hair in the mirror and scrunched her small nose, choosing to focus her frustration on that ball of tangles than her inability to socialize. Her hair was a complete mess, the bright red curls and waves that fell down to the middle of her back were going to be a pain to brush; they always were.
“Subject: Report to Agent Stark’s Office today at 1000. No body of email.” Alfred suddenly said, bringing her back from her moment of reflection and back to reality. She frowned, Agent Gregory Stark was who she reported to whenever she did work for the Program. It wasn’t unusual for her to be called in to report on her days off, The Program didn’t believe in such mortal concepts, but it still made her stomach twist with dread. It was never a positive thing when The Program came knocking unexpectedly. Luckily, she just took her anxiety medicine.
It was only 7:30 in the morning, so she had time which meant she wouldn’t need to skip out on her breakfast with Mrs. Grier. There was that, at least she wouldn’t be missing out on sharing breakfast with her friend. She would need a bit of easy conversation to get her through her meeting with Gregory. She sighed and left her bathroom, heading to the kitchen to drink her coffee so she could get dressed.
///
Ava walked the dozen or so feet from her house to Mrs. Diane Grier’s front yard, Thor wearing a harness attached to a leash and walking alongside her. She smiled as she looked and admired her neighbor’s beautiful garden, lovingly tended to with blooming flowers, bright green grass and cute lawn ornaments.
Usually when she stopped by for breakfast, she was dressed casually, but since she intended to head straight to work after she had dressed appropriately for the office. A high waisted, soft blue pleated skirt was worn over a pair of white stockings with black, flat heeled mary janes on her feet. It was warm, even this early in the morning so she wore a light weighted, lilac colored blouse with the intention of throwing a sweater over it when she got to the office. She had brushed her hair and managed to battle the unruly locks into a proper and professional bun.
She reached the porch and chuckled hearing Mrs. Grier’s dog barking excitedly on the other side. She looked down at Thor and saw the cat unphased by the sounds as he was used to them and he knew he was bigger than the dog making the racket. Shaking her head, she reached out and rang the doorbell, then stepped back to wait for the door to open.
“Daisy!” the woman’s voice came from just behind the door, “That’s enough, I know you’re excited.”
She was talking as she opened the door, Mrs Grier then smiled down at the younger woman. She was in her early seventies, her once dark brown hair now entirely gray and she had given up on trying to mask it. The widow still had a trim figure and elegant features, a twinkle in her hazel eyes as she greeted Ava.
“Come in, dear,” she said, stepping back. She was dressed in casual white slacks and floral blouse, pearl earrings in place. Every inch a US Navy Captain’s wife still, even after a decade without her husband.
The fat wrinkled pug bounced up to Ava, curled tongue lolling out to greet her and Thor. Daisy snuffled and jumped up on her stumpy hind legs, the curled tail wiggling back and forth.
“Yes, yes, your friends are here,” Mrs Grier said, “Daisy get down, let them come inside.” She turned to go back to the kitchen, speaking over her shoulder “How are you this morning?”
The inside of the house was tidy, with pale lace curtains and antique furniture, the curio full of oddities collected from Navy ports around the world. Framed photos of family hung on the wall; wedding shots of Diane and Walter Grier, her in white and he in his uniform. Pictures of their children and grandchildren, now scattered across the US. Older photos of dead relatives and a few framed oil paintings depicting the sea.
The kitchen was bright, the soft morning sun pouring through the sliding glass door and the round table had a white lace linen tossed over it and fine china set. It was their tradition, Mrs Greir and Ava, grown up tea parties and elegant breakfasts on the weekends. There was a pot of tea and plate of english muffins toasted and buttered, just waiting for orange marmalade to be spread on them.
“I’m good.” Ava answered softly as she walked inside and shut the door behind her. She crouched down to unclip the leash from Thor’s harness, taking a moment to scratch Daisy on the head and smiling as the pug licked her fingers. “I won’t be able to stay long.” She said, standing up with a sheepish and apologetic look on her heart shaped face. “I have to go in to work in a few hours.”
“Oh?” Mrs Greir looked up from the frittata she removed from the oven, the smell of bacon and melted cheese wafting out of the kitchen. “Oh that’s too bad, but sit, we’ll have ourselves a nice breakfast at least. Did you want some juice or water or will the tea suffice?”
“Tea is good, thank you.” Ava smiled as she walked over and sat down at the table. She watched Daisy jump around Thor as the cat, bigger by a solid 8 pounds than the pug, sat on the floor, seemingly disinterested in the presence of the dog. She looked away and leaned over the table, sniffing the fresh cut orange daylilies sitting in a vase on the table.
Her breakfasts with Mrs. Greir were easily her favorite thing about her move to Fairfax County. Actually, just having a friend in Mrs. Greir was the best thing about turbulent time in her life 2 years ago. She didn’t know if she would have been able to survive that first week, the trauma of her nocturnal episode still fresh in her mind, without Mrs. Greir.
The southern matron had a lot of stories to tell, advice to give and didn’t mind that Ava preferred listening to talking. Sitting in the warm kitchen, with the smell of food in the air and another person around was comforting. It didn’t feel as empty as her home next door.
“So,” She said, clearing her throat, suddenly nervous as she thought about the unexpected email she received. “I got an invitation from a coworker to attend a viewing party for Stranger Things.”
Mrs Greir poured them both tea in dainty eggshell thin porcelain teacups, painted with delicate flowers and rimmed in gold. They had been her own grandmother’s china, witnesses to thousands of conversations over the generations. “Well, that sounds like fun. I saw some of that show, the first season. It was good, it reminded me of the Stephen King novels from the 80s.”
She watched Ava as she put out the tiny jar of sugar and then set the english muffin on her plate, an indication Ava should start eating. Mrs Greir moved back to the kitchen to cut portions of the frittata, a breakfast indulgence full of cheese and eggs, spinach and bacon. She brought these back out and set them on the table, “Are you going to go?”
The older woman smiled slightly, perching on her chair with her tea cup in hand as she observed her friend.
Ava hesitated, thinking over how to explain herself. It always took her awhile to properly articulate how she was feeling into words. “I...don’t think so.” She answered slowly, picking up her tea with dainty practice and taking a sip. “I’ve never seen the show and I’m not sure I would like it.” She said, placing the tea cup back down. “Also, I don’t think people would like talking about work at a social gathering.” She picked up her own english muffin and started putting it marmalade on the warm bread.
“Then don’t talk about work, dear,” Mrs Greir replied in her soft southern accent. “If you don’t like the show, just nod and smile, pick a few things you like and keep it simple. Trust me, that has gotten me through so many dinner parties.”
“...The only thing I know about it is that it has something to do with waffles.” She said, a helpless expression on her face.
Mrs Greir laughed gently, her eyes bright with humor, “Oh dear, you can do better than that. Ava, darling, you are an intelligent girl. What is it that you work on again? Your tools of the trade so to speak?”
“Software and technology in general.” She answered with a small shrug. “But, those are easy. It’s just numbers and putting bits of metal together.” She took a bite of her english muffin, embarrassed by her lack of social tact. “People aren’t as easy.” She continued after finishing her bite of muffin.
“No they aren’t, but you have tools,” Mrs Greir reminded her, “If you don’t know something, you research it, correct? You have technology at your fingertips, and you in particular should know this. Just Google the show, read the wiki page. You don’t really care about spoilers, so you’ll at least be up to date on the main storyline. Look, when I had to attend those dinner parties with the wives of admirals and senators and all sorts of people that I may or may not have liked and I had to be the gentile Navy officer’s wife and a polite, entertaining conversationalist. I always prepared myself, so I wouldn’t bore the wrong person or anger another. And you have so much more information at hand these days.”
Mrs Greir sat back, sipping her tea, looking at Ava. “You can do this, if you want. Does any part of you want to go?”
That’s exactly what Ava was afraid of. Upsetting one of her coworkers by accident and then it affecting any future work they had together. It was just a fact that eggheads needed the help of other eggheads from time to time and in their line of work, in order to get the best results, there needed to be cross department cooperation. Ava was fine interacting with people at work because there was always work to discuss and the complexity of their work never lead to any awkward lulls.
She didn’t have that kind of luxury in social gatherings about a television show.
Ava frowned down at her food, searching her emotions as she thought it over. “Emotionally? No.” She answered with a sigh. “But, logically, I know that it’s important to maintain healthy social bonds with your coworkers.” She looked up at Mrs. Greir, so calm and composed, conversation coming so easy to her. Ava wished she was like that. “And, I know that I should have friends my own age because that’s what’s healthy.”
“Is it?” she asked then tilted her head, “I find that whatever age a friend should be someone you trust and who supports you, not because it is what is expected. I suppose others might see our friendship as weird, filling in for a lost grandparent or child. But you do need friends with whom you share experiences with from your own age group. Is there anyone attending this party that you are interested in getting to know?”
Her gaze held Ava as she spoke, looking past the large glasses to the blue eyes. She fell quiet to let her answer, going back to eating her breakfast. Mrs Greir was never a big eater and as she got older, her appetite waned. She was nearly halfway through the slice of frittata and she put her fork down.
Ava knitted her eyebrows together and poked her untouched frittata with her fork. “I don’t know who is going, I do know the host though. She’s helped me on a few projects and seems nice, I guess that’s why she invited me.”
“Well, there you go, she wants you there,” Mrs Greir smiled, then sipped her tea. “Maybe they want to get to you know you, too? You know, Ava, it’s alright to want to be alone, to enjoy being alone and doing things alone but we are social creatures at heart. I spent many days, weeks, months even alone when Walter was overseas. I learned to enjoy my solitude, I understand. But we still need other people, loneliness infects this world, even with all the technology.”
She looked over at Ava, then out the sliding glass door into the green backyard, the hedges and fence that bordered it. “You are still very young, you have so much life and I don’t want you to waste it trapped by fear. Now you can tell me to mind my own business, I won’t be offended.”
“I would never say that to you.” Ava said with a concerned frown, anxiety briefly spiking through her. Why would Mrs Greir think she would say something like that? Ava didn’t think she had been short with her before when she gave advice. Had she been and she just didn’t remember or realize it?
Realizing her thoughts were going to start piling on if she focused any longer on that phrase, she focused back on the conversation at hand. “I’ll...think about it. I have time to RSVP.” She finally dug her fork into her frittata and took a bite. “This is delicious.” She said with a smile and a not so subtle way to change the subject.
Mrs Greir nodded, then smiled, “I found the recipe online, but if anyone asks it was handwritten in my kitchen tome of ancestral recipes. The venerable old Savannah, Georgia style fritatta.”
With a gentle laugh, the older woman looked at the leftovers on her small plate and then at Daisy who was watching with the bug eyed look all pugs had. “I know I shouldn't spoil her anymore than I do, but it’s only going to go in the trash.”
With a snap of her fingers, Mrs Greir suddenly stood up, “That reminds me, I’ll never finish the rest of this food, let me wrap it up for you and you can share it at work since you have to go in unexpectedly.”
“Oh, okay! That’s very nice of you, thank you.” Ava said with a surprised, but happy smile. She looked down at Daisy and laughed seeing Thor peeking around the corner, looking intently at the breakfast table. “You definitely don’t get any table scraps.” She told the cat, then took another few bites of her food and washing it down with the tea before it got too cold. “I should get going soon anyway, I don’t want to hit traffic and security getting into the office is always slow.”
Mrs Greir wrapped the leftover frittata in heavy foil then put it in a large tupperware bowl along with the cut up cantaloupe and strawberries they did not finish in a smaller dish. “Here, make sure you share this, it’ll be a nice surprise for those working on this lovely Saturday morning.”
She handed the stacked tupperware to Ava, then reached up and smoothed a wild curl that had come free from the young woman’s bun. “There, ready to face the world. Or at least the Beltway.”
Ava blushed but smiled at the grandmotherly gesture. It made her think of her own grammy, hundreds of miles away in Rhode Island. She stood up and gave the taller woman a hug. “I need all the luck I can get with the Beltway.” She laughed.
“That you do, dear,” Mrs Greir said as she walked Ava to the door, then glanced over at Daisy and Thor, the cat pretending not to be interested in the pug’s antics, licking his paw and grooming behind his ear. When he thought the women were not looking, he bat curiously at the dog’s curly wagging tail, then turned away again.
Ava looked back at Thor. “Oh, almost forgot about him.” She said. “Um, let me just get his leash.”
“Why not just leave Thor with me, I will be out in the garden the rest of the morning, he can keep us company. He loves stalking around in there,” Mrs Greir offered, holding the door for a moment. “He might enjoy a change of pace, rather than being left alone in the house.”
“If you’re sure.” Ava said slowly, looking at the large feline skeptically. “You leave the birds alone.” She told the cat firmly. “I’m not going to have my cat be responsible for destroying the local ecosystem of the neighborhood.”
With a soft chuckle, Mrs Greir glanced at the pair and said, “Don’t worry, with Daisy there he won’t get the chance to find birds. She chases them with no hope of catching any. Bless her heart.”
She stepped outside with Ava, then closed the door behind them. “Be safe driving, and don’t go worrying about things that don’t need to be worried over.”
Ava nodded, smiling up at her warm and kindly face. “Okay, don’t be afraid to put Thor in time out.” She said jokingly as she stepped down off the porch. “I’ll let you know when I’ll be home.” She told her as she walked down the path with the left overs balanced in her hands.
“I raised three sons and a daughter, don’t worry,” Mrs Greir said, watching until Ava crossed back into her own yard before going inside.
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA THE PROGRAM HEADQUARTERS, CIA HEADQUARTERS 0957HRS...///
Almost 18 years with the Program had made Supervising Special Agent Gregory Stark of Homeland Security Investigations a man with little patience for anything less than the best. As long as the best was what he deemed the best in his eyes. Viewing his gray head of hair with resentment as yet another sign his body was reminding him he would not be in the field again for the Program nor HSI’s Field Intelligence Groups, he relegated himself to watching over the Office of Logistics’ day to day activities like Big Brother. His own hatred of micro-management kept him from committing the grave sin. That, and frequent golfing trips to secure deals with important people for the purpose of furthering The Program’s standing in the US Intelligence Community, a place where even the Program was viewed with suspicion for being blacker-than-black in the eyes of even the NSA.
And now he had gotten word that the Director of Logistics and the Director of Operations, plus that grizzled, smug little prick Steven Foster from the CIA had cut a deal for an urgent transfer on the Black Slab Case. He wore his disgust plainly for that CIA asshole Foster and his fast and loose lapdog Joseph Donnelley, an even bigger, more grizzled, more smug prick from those cowboys in the Special Activities Center here in Langley.
When a knocking came at his door, he didn’t hesitate for it to show in his voice either, because they had come calling like reapers to take from him one of the best analysts and technicians he had, “Get the hell in here, Moore!”
Outside the door Ava jumped and her immediate instinct was to apologize and quickly leave the area. She clamped down on that urge however, since the inclusion of her last name informed her that yes, she was supposed to be there. Stark sounded angry and her mind raced through what she could have done wrong to earn his ire. She had filed her reports on time. She was on schedule with all her work and he cleared her to help in other departments with their projects.
Her palms broke out into a nervous sweat as she turned the knob and slowly poked her head inside; her eyes wide from underneath her large glasses, making her seem even more like a spooked deer. Her throat tightened up as she tried to speak, forcing her to clear it before asking, “You wanted to see me sir?”
“Uh Huh.” Greg Stark nodded as he gestured to a chair at his desk, his icy blue eyes locked on hers, “You’re with that Contractor, Booz-Allen? Analyst?”
“They ever put you in a Blacksite? A FOB? Foreign Station at an Embassy in Bumfuck, Nowhere-stan, even?” Greg Stark’s questions peppered Ava like birdshot.
Ava hesitantly entered the office, making her way to the chair and looking more and more confused with each question from her supervisor. “Oh, uh, yes and yes. Um, no, no and no.” She answered as she reached the chair and sat down in it, smoothing the bottom of her skirt forward so it didn’t wrinkle.
She sat in the chair with a ramrod straight back and her legs tucked to the side, her hands curled into fists on her lap. “I’m sorry sir, have I done something wrong? Was my last report insufficient?” She asked, her brows knitted together in pure confusion.
Stark sighed, his fingers brushing the thick-rimmed glasses further up his nose as he pinched the bridge. He collected himself, taking a couple more breaths and folding his hands out in front of himself. “Of course not, Ava, you’re one of the best things Booz-Allen could’ve given us.” He said in an almost father-like tone, knowing none of this was Moore’s fault and putting aside his anger for now. And knowing people usually responded better to bad news if it wasn’t being yelled in their face. “You’re familiar with what the Office of Operations does?”
Ava relaxed slightly when she was given the clear on the quality of her work. That was a relief, though the line of questioning she received still kept her tense, unsure where the direction of this meeting was going. “I am sir.” She answered with a nod of her head. “Do you need me to go through some raw data they collected in the field? Or do I need to take a look at their system software to make sure it’s secure?” She asked, her shoulders relaxing slightly more as her mind ran through the work possibilities, making notes on what might be needed, how she could fit that into her work schedule.
Stark’s eyes darted to the left for a moment before started nodding. She was on the right trail, at least, “Uh Huh,” He smiled, his lips pressed tight in a humorless line, “Yeah. In West Virginia. For Case Officer Steve Foster. In the field.”
“This is going to be an active case, part of an international one. It’s sapping away a lot of manpower and we’ve got shit on the backburner that shouldn’t be there.” He said, almost justifying it for himself more than Moore, “If I can offer you up to the Working Groups out in the field, I will. You’re one of our best bets.”
“After all, you’re tied to this place and what’s…” he stopped, remembering that part of her file may have been particularly sensitive to Ava. The dreams. “They need you. Steve Foster requested you by name.” He paused, remembering that Foster did ask for her, but in the way he’d ask for a certain waitress. ‘You know, that mousy one.’
“You’re going to report to Working Group UMBRA in Blackriver county. Office of Logistics have already provided you the work funds you’ll need for anything there, and a rental you can use to drive.” He smiled again. Still no humor in it. Maybe condolences.
As he spoke, the rapid track of thought in Ava’s mind grew increasingly quiet until her mind was silent. She stared at Agent Stark, as though he had switched to a foreign language in the middle of their conversation.
Like the flip on a light switch, a cold sweat broke out along the edge of her hairline and her hands started to shake. Her mind flashed through the key points of what Agent Stark just said.
West Virginia. Field work. Working group UMBRA. West Virginia. Field Work. Working fucking group UMBRA.
She took in a deep breath and moved one hand up to play with the silver pendant worn openly on her creamy, peach colored sweater. She ran her thumb over the embossed image of The Archangel Michael, slaying the Devil and the latin words engraved around the image. It provided her a spark of comfort and she focused on the image pressing against her thumb to bring her back to the conversation.
She opened her mouth and a squeak came out. She shut her lips and swallowed thickly, then parted them to try again. “S-sir, you know I’m not a field Agent.” She finally said, her voice far softer than she had intended it to be.
“Yet.” Stark said, simply. “Office of Operations has already finalized the paperwork. Your transfer forms came in an hour ago.”
He slid a piece of paper from a corner of his desk, a form that may as well have been a contract to a career black hole. A contract with the very devil on her pendant. Office of Operations personnel were known to be unruly JSOC cowboys and the only place for them elsewhere was the Office of Security as Safehouse guards and the quiet little hands that arrived to tie up loose ends after an operation.
That was not, nor ever would be, what Stark saw Ava Moore as. Even so, “Please initial and date here,” he pressed a finger on a blank line before moving it to another at the very bottom, below two other signatures belonging to the Director of Operations and the Director of Logistics, “And date and signature here. Please.”
Ava took in a deep breath and squeezed her pendant in her hand. It felt like she was signing her own death certificate. She picked up the pen sitting on the desk and quickly read over the document, her eyes flashing across the page and absorbing the information for her to likely obsess over later. Line by line, word by word, letter by letter.
She wanted to fight this transfer, wanted to just say no, get up and leave and go back to the safety of her office and the cool detachment of raw data and lines of code. But she knew Gregory Stark, perhaps not personally, but she knew and understood how the man worked and viewed his work.
If he had been able to stop this, he would have.
She signed the paperwork, her hand steadying as a cold numbness washed over her. Hopefully she could keep it together until she was in the privacy of her own home, where she could have a quiet and civilized mental break down.
She set down the pen when she finished and continued to run her fingers over her pendant. “When do I need to leave, where and who do I report too?” She asked him, her voice buzzing in her ears with the hollow words she spoke.
“Thank you, Ava.” Stark said, his voice like he was reading her epitaph. “You’re doing us good. You’ll be safe out there, they know what they’re doing, these guys.”
“As for who you’ll report to,” Stark reached into a drawer and produced a phone, placing it in front of Ava, “There’s only two numbers on this phone. This will be your direct line to Steve Foster, your Case Officer. Joseph Donnelley is Working Group UMBRA’s team lead. A good man. I like him.”
That was complete and unfiltered bullshit coming from Stark, whose few interactions with Donnelley and Foster, both inside the Program’s tucked away corner of Langley and outside of it were hard stares and stilted conversations. Donnelley in particular had once called him an uptight prick with no sense of scope of just how important and secretive Donnelley’s operations were and had to stay. “Make sure Foster knows you’re coming, and tell Donnelley too. Those Working Groups are paid to be suspicious of everybody they don’t know.”
Ava nodded, picking up the phone with her free hand and looking it over suspiciously. “I’ll be sure to give them each a call.” She agreed, slipping the phone into a pocket in her skirt. “Does...it matter when I call them?” She asked him hesitantly. “How do I know it’s a good time?”
“You know as well as I do that the Program doesn’t give a shit. If you’re going to work with these guys, they don’t give a shit when you call them.” Stark shrugged. “Your ETA should be ASAP. They don’t like waiting.”
Ava nodded, briefly looking down at the pendant she was fiddling with. She read over the latin phrase inscribed on the edges, the corner of her mouth briefly ticking upwards and then looked up at Agent Stark; her eyes screaming with uncertainty. But she tried to keep a professional composure. “Thank you sir, it’s been a pleasure working with you.” She said, standing up and not so subtly making sure her hand was dry before holding it out to him to shake.
“Likewise, Ava.” Stark said, about as much sentimentality as he was willing to show as he gave the only genuine smile and concern for what he’d just sent Ava off to do, “Good luck, you’ll do great out there.”
Ava returned his smile, appreciating the lie. Maybe she should have tried to get to know Agent Stark better? “Thank you sir. Am I dismissed for the day? I have some things I need to get into order before I leave.” She hoped Mrs. Greir wouldn’t mind looking after Thor for awhile longer, maybe she should call Foster sooner than later. Or the team lead, if Stark liked him then maybe it’d be easier to talk to him first.
The weight of the phone in her pocket suddenly felt heavier than it had any right to be.
“Go ahead, just make it quick.” Stark tapped his forehead in a quick salute before Ava left.
She returned the salute, awkwardly, unsure if it was the right thing to do. It seemed like it was polite wasn’t it? She quickly turned around as her cheeks started to turn red beneath her freckles and sped walk out of the office.
It looked like she had a valid excuse to not go to that party.
After giving the sandwiches to Gwen, Laine stepped out of the kitchen, spotting Laurie rousing from his nap. "If you're hungry, you might have to fight her for a sandwich, I just packed lunches for your hike."
She removed her shoulder holster, hanging it with the Glock still strapped in on a coat peg. Laine put her hands on her hips, looking over the young park ranger. "You've been quiet, how're you doing?"
"Fuck, it's alright. I'll eat but momma always taught me to grab some last if I can. The last bits of chivalry and all." Laurie rubbed his temple with a hand, pulling out his phone with the other to check the time.
"I'm alright. I rode here after midnight and thought I'd be all badass pushing it through on no sleep but I guess I'm not as cool as I thought. Still pretty darned cool though. And yourself?"
“It’s been a busy morning,” Laine replied, perching at the end of the couch, her seat near the edge. “You slept through the debriefing but I’m sure you’ll get caught up on your hike or what is it that Donnelley called it, a ruck? I’m fine, just...well actually now that I have you here I’d like to talk to you about Ranger Frank Wilkins, he’s the park ranger that found the victim.”
Laine crossed her legs, laying her clasped hands on her knee. “So, I’m pretty sure coming from where you come from you understand small town solidarity, how no matter how long a man lives there he’ll always be an outsider if he wasn’t born to it.”
She looked at him, his sleep creased cheek and tousled hair then continued, “Well, it’s like that multiplied here in Blackriver apparently. He’s afraid of retribution for talking to the feds. He gave us a lot of useful information and he wants a transfer in return. His higher ups are stonewalling him, not responding to his requests. I was wondering if you had any contacts in the National Park Service that might be able to help.”
The Ranger raised both eyebrows as Laine promptly got to what was in her mind, and then his eyes widened. It was a pretty sobering thing she asked, bringing him to his senses faster than a coffee or cold shower could.
"Doc I… I'm a nobody," he said, his chin trembling a little. He likewise ultimately had no goodwill to the feds, and if all the black stone shit he had heard of trickling into his ears was right then this fellow really did have some shit to be scared of from his neighbours.
"I don't got any pull, I joined up because I like nature and animals and it helps with- well, it's nice and different from the shit I was expected to do." he said, deciding to not elaborate on his condition even if he felt it acting up at the very moment. His fingers curled and uncurled cyclically while his right foot shook restlessly. What could he do for this dude? He really didn't know. But the idea of leaving a brother behind soured his stomach more than the undead or mutilated dead ever could. He didn't want to be at the gates to heaven and have Saint Peter ask him why he let a man die and this had a quite quick effect on him.
He stood up, pacing a bit with his fingers instinctually going to his pockets to fetch his Rubik's cube. "I-I hope you didn't make any promises to him Doctor, this could be real damn bad." Laurie stuttered. He looked down at his cube, finding a blue square amongst the otherwise perfect yellow. The man threw the thing, plastic pieces breaking off as it struck a wall and then bounced to the floor. Laurie sat on a chair opposite Heather, running a hand down his face to wipe his forehead in some vain attempt to also wipe his consciousness. "Alright. Alright. Here's what I can do." he started quite tentatively, biting a nail as he stared at the ceiling. "I don't know anybody who could make his higher ups move their asses and transfer him. But, we can arrange a little something else. My bosses were all hardasses or old guys but they know the struggle. If this fella is ready to move to Louisiana or maybe even New England or Utah then we can work something out. He can quit. If they don't take his resignation then tell him to move right away and wait for no pay to come his way then it's all real easy to do. Once he's out of here, I can hook him up with my old bosses and buddies, and he can get rehired for the same or basically the same position. It's the best I can do Doc but it's got to count right?" he asked, both of himself and his counterpart.
Laine watched him fidget and pace, the ubiquitous Rubik's cube finally losing its battle against his stress. She stayed quiet as he worked through both moral and logistical dilemna she had set before him. “I promised him I would try my best,” she said, “That’s why I’m coming to you and Donnelley for help. I don’t know but few rangers and not very well, just men and women I’ve crossed paths with during work. But I know this place is hiding something dark, something terrible. Too many secrets and what Frank Wilkes saw, not just the body. He saw something else. He needs a chance to get the hell out of those hills. If you can swing this, that would probably work. I’d like to run it by Donnelley, he had the idea of reaching out to the witness protection program. I am just concerned how do we prove the threat? A gut feeling? That might not be enough.”
She fell silent, looking across at Laurie. He was nervous but like Wilkes he would not turn away. Laine glanced at her hands, the dark plum polish gleaming against her pale skin then she glanced back up, meeting his eyes,. “It counts, Laurie. Anything we can do to help him, it counts.”
Laurie swallowed nothing, face reddening but then slowly returning to its usual peach shade through Lane's speech. He was grateful the Doctor tried to assuage his fears, nodding in affirmation. "That's good. We're not cops, Doctor." he said, rubbing stubble near his neck. "We're not cowards, most of us anyway, but we just deal with bears and alligators and wolves and maybe drunks that couldn't hit the broad side of Mount Rushmore. We're in it 'cause we're nice dudes that liked helping little limping birds as kids. God gave me balls of steel if I say so myself but not to this guy and I can't imagine what it must be like to be alone as a stranger in a strange land that to top it off wants to kill you. Like I said, I can't do much but what I can I will."
Donneley watched the exchange from afar, going unnoticed as he leaned against the kitchen sink, arms folded. He silently looked away for a moment when Laurie threw his cube and he listened to the talk. As much as he didn’t want to bring back Guzman and Chechnya, he knew there was only so much they could do to help Frank Wilkes. You could try to save the whole world, but in the end, it was only [i]a try.[i] “Might work.” Donnelley opened, “Getting rehired, after moving.”
“Maybe under a different name?” Laine suggested, looking up at Donnelley, giving him a brief smile. “A new identity to start fresh.”
"If he gets enough ID yeah that should work." Laurie chimed in. "To be real though, probably not even necessary. He can crash at the Ranger stations if he needs and folks there usually have guns on them. Besides I doubt local hicks will follow him across state lines for a little payback, but if they do he's in fairly safe hands with the boys." he said, referring to past and present coworkers as a collective.
“But if he walks off the job here, it’ll be in the system that he quit and might not be listed as rehirable, unless,” Laine said, then thought for a moment, glancing towards the kitchen. “Unless...if we can’t get him an ID change then maybe Weissman could do a little touching up to his record."
If she's the hacker she claimed to be, Laine thought wryly. Donnelley shrugged, “Maybe ask her when she gets back.” Donnelley posited, pushing off the counter and going for a window, sliding it open before pulling out a cigarette and lighting up. “The Drone Team gets back the day Wilkes is supposed to call Laine. He gets us the names of those hikers and I’ll push these fucking mountains out of his way so he can stroll out.”
"Could work, definitely." Laurie said. "Might not even be necessary, depends if he's a seasonal worker and a few other things."
She clapped her hands together once then smiled at the men, "Sounds like a decent plan. I knew we'd find a way to help."
>CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA >STATE PD STATION >1800HRS...///
Donnelley cut the engine of the Suburban, and stepped out. The State PD’s visitor parking lot was mostly empty and he chose the far corner away from the other vehicles so they’d have some privacy. As Laine was busy with parking the Explorer, Donnelley busied himself with making sure the cigarette he just lit would get smoked. As the pair got out of the Explorer, Donnelley waved them over. “Any questions or concerns before we get started?” Donnelley raised his eyebrows and his eyes went between the three of them before he spoke again, “For Justin’s information, Detective Roy is our only friendly on this case so far. I want to get a hold of David Dulane’s case files and get a visit with him authorized in Beckley. If his story checks out, we can maybe get him out to the mines.”
His eyes turned dark, “I’ve got a feeling Blackriver has a history we should know about. If Whitetree is a mining town then somebody at the mines knows the killer because he’s been pulling his bullshit for a while.”
Tom had no questions for agent Davidson. He left the OD green tactical trousers on and black marine T-shirt. He didn’t change back into the suit and tie he had on earlier. His more recent mission was canceled at the last moment and he jumped in with Donnelley, Laine and Clark.
Laine was still dressed in the monochromatic black she had worn to the park ranger’s office, the blazer in place to mask her gun. She nodded then said, “It might be a family owned business, you know how the hills and small towns are. We can look into it, maybe the library or state records. I wouldn’t trust some wiki article for that information.”
Donnelley nodded, “Let’s do that. If they’ve been mining since the Civil War there has to be some books about the operations and superstitions. At some point, I want Dulane.”
“He will be our priority, if we can get in and talk to him,” she agreed, “I could probably get in to interview him, just tell them it’s for some training manual I’m building for the Bureau. But to actually get him outside those walls, that’ll be some spook magic.”
Laine grinned briefly at Donnelley then glanced up at the late slanted light over the buildings in Charleston. “We should probably get going, where are we meeting Roy?”
“Her office. Let’s go.” He nodded inside, flicking his cigarette out into the sidewalk next to the parking lot. He made the walk and held the door open for Laine and Justin.
It was almost like last time, though the lobby looked more modern and the State PD receptionist at the front desk looked up from his book to stare at their approach to his desk. “Yes.” He said, looking at the assembled and official looking retinue, before he settled on Laine, the least overtly threatening looking. “Ma’am.”
Laine smiled politely, “We’re here to see Detective Roy, she’s expecting us. I’m Dr Heather Laine, FBI.”
She opened her credentials, a brief flash of the bold three letters and a stoic ID photo of herself without glasses. “These are my associates, Special Agent Davidson and my student, Cadet Christianson.”
“Okay.” The Cop got up from his desk and waved them along with him. They made their way deeper into the station until they reached an office door with a nameplate, ‘Det. Roy, Maryanne.’
The Cop flashed them a brief and tight-lipped smile before brushing past them. Donnelley knocked on the door and heard Roy on the other side, “Yes?”
“Davidson and Laine.” Donnelley rose his voice.
“Oh, come on in.” Donnelley opened the door to Roy’s office. It was clean from ceiling to floor, everything organized and pictures of her graduation ceremony from the academy and the college she went to were proudly displayed in frames on the wall. “Welcome in, guys.”
She got up to shut the door and shook hands with the team before sitting back down at her desk, Donnelley following suit. “How’s the case? Jane Doe still Jane Doe?”
Laine smiled a greeting and shook hands and took a seat in front of the desk. At the mention of the victim, her smile faded, “Yes, until we hear back from CJIS. It’s dental records and DNA, I’m hoping we get an ID tomorrow. I spoke with Frank Wilkins earlier today, you spoke to him at the scene? How did he seem to you?”
“Real damn shook.” Roy frowned and nodded, “But he’s a Ranger, not a cop… per se. He’s not used to this, I could tell. You interviewed him?”
“Yes, he was certainly shaken up by the body but I know seasoned agents that would have been, I’ve been at quite a few murder scenes and this was the worst,” Laine said, “And I specialize in serial murder, so...yes, he was disturbed by it all but he’s also scared. He basically told us what you did about Blackriver. About the sheriff being on ‘vacation’ when the Park Rangers tried to report lost hikers. About the superstitions and rumors about the mines, about David Dulane. Are you familiar with him?”
Roy nodded slow. Donnelley wasn’t surprised Roy would know about Dulane. It was a pretty big case for Blackriver. Maybe the only one that ever made it out. Roy sighed, “Yeah.” She responded to Laine, “Dulane was the weirdest case. He’s a nut. What about him though?”
Laine crossed her legs, resting her hand on her knee, “Wilkins mentioned him, what’s he in prison for?”
“The murder of eighteen men using blasting charges to collapse a mine tunnel on top of them. He also endangered a lot more because the payload he used could’ve collapsed a few more.” Roy shook her head, “He confessed. He swore until the end he wasn’t crazy while at the same time spouting some bullshit about the devil. You visited the mines yet?”
She asked, before continuing, “The big mining companies moved in right before 2010 but they still employ the locals. Their breathing equipment is shit.” She shrugged, “Thin air. Makes a guy go crazy. He freaks out, blows a tunnel up. Mine security handed him over to the Sheriff’s boys and we pulled him out of Blackriver. Beckley ever since.”
“He sounds like he should be in a mental care facility,” Laine commented dryly then sighed, “I don’t suppose that was ever an option. We haven’t visited the mines yet, but we are interested in them. Do you know who used to own it before the big companies bought it out?”
“MacOnies. Old money around Appalachia. Vera Corp moves in and gives them a shitload of new money.” Roy said. “Back in Dulane’s mining days, the Sheriff? Guess what his last name is.”
“MacOnie. I remember, odd name to my ears. So this family, did they just sell the mineral rights to the mines or all the land? Do they have any residences near the park?” Laine took out her trusty notepad, clicking the pen to make a note.
“All of it, except for the land they owned personally for the family. They owned a big manor up in the hills but they’re reclused up there. They opened up the town way back when they opened up the mines, real old family.” Roy shrugged, “Nowadays the MacOnies have moved away to the four corners of the States and left Whitetree and Blackriver. The old Sheriff MacOnie is pretty much the only one left in Blackriver.”
"Is he? Because it seems like he's vacationing when anyone outside the county needs to speak with him," Laine commented then glanced at Donnelley before looking back at Detective Roy. "So old money, old power. Has there been any conflict with the Vera Corp employees and locals?"
“Mines have a history of conflict. 1800s, the O’dhoules moved in and tried to muscle in on the minerals and set up moonshine distilleries to boot.” Roy narrowed her eyes, shifting to a corner in the ceiling, “Things were more cutthroat back then, you know? O’dhoules were pushed out when their homestead was burned down and their patriarch got kidnapped. Never found him, is the story. Ever since then, Whitetree’s been locals only.”
“In the sixties, the MacOnies tried to expand their operations so they could open some mines in Kentucky. They hired some out of town people to be brought into Blackriver. Big riot. Some miners died and took security with them.” Roy sighed, shaking her head as she returned her eyes to Laine, “Nothing about Vera Corp, though. They keep a tight operation in their mines and they’re always on time when the ecological reports to the Governor are due. I can put you in touch with the Vera Corp suit they have organizing everything in Blackriver.”
“It’s almost the end of my shift. I gotta get home to my mister and the kids, so…” Roy shrugged apologetically, “I’ll set some time away for you folks, but don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything, alright?”
“Sure thing, Detective.” Donnelley smiled, getting up as Roy did and shaking her hand again. “When can we see you again?”
“Next couple days, I’ll call you.” Roy smiled before checking her watch. “Anything last minute? Questions?”
Laine noted the names and dates, then looked at Roy, "You've been looking into that place, we appreciate the information and I'll probably have another dozen questions next time. But just one thing, is there anything you've come across in your time about...I don't know like Indian superstition, ghosts or bad spirits stories. Maybe witchcraft. Something like that."
Laine stood up, her hand resting on the back of the chair, "I know it seems silly but sometimes those old stories mask uncomfortable truths."
Roy smiled a bit, “Looking to set up dream catchers on the roads? Put out an APB on females on flying broomsticks?”
Roy shook her head, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’ve heard a few things about Blackriver, but I don’t put too much stock in that.” Roy grabbed her coat from her rack, slipping it on and adjusting it on her shoulders, “Check out the library. Oh, shit! Forrest said you’d want some of our case files when you came around.”
She bent down and dropped a stack of Manila envelopes on her desk. “I was reading them myself when I got them, passing time. I grabbed anything interesting about Blackriver, whatever little we have,” she glanced knowingly at Donnelley and Laine, “Feds came through in the sixties and went to Mercy, Whitetree’s sister town. Pretty tight-lipped about everything they were doing up there. Weird folk too, IRS guy named Clyde Baughman was the lead. Him and his guys came in all rush and hush, left the same way. All we got out of it back then was reports of gunfire in the woods from the Sheriff department and nothing else.”
“Anyways, I’ll be seeing y’all ‘round.” She brushed past them and left the three in her office. Donnelley stood and his eyes wouldn’t leave the stack of Manila folders.
“Baughman.” He said, quiet. He grasped up the stack of folders, tucked it under his arm and left for the car.
"The case files, of course," Laine said, mentally face palming herself getting wrapped up in ghost stories. "Thank you Detective Roy, we appreciate your help.”
She paused at the name, Baughman, the sudden memory of his undead wife and her iron grip hit her. Laine swallowed hard then cleared her throat, coughing a little into her fist. “Excuse me.”
>CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA >PUBLIC LIBRARY...///
The three of them again stood around the Suburban, idly smoking. Donnelley had been quiet for the duration of the short jaunt to the library. He hadn’t opened the case files yet, but his mind was busy wondering just what Baughman had been doing in Mercy with his team. The sixties were a bad time for Delta Green, and it must have been bad for them to be activated Stateside under the eye of the government.
“Baughman.” He thought out loud as he raised his hand to take a drag from his cigarette. “That fucking name.”
Laine was watching street lights coming on in the gloaming, the sky starting to change from blue to indigo in the slow summer style of stretching out the evening. Her face was turned from Donnelley, her hand tucked into the blazer pockets and she felt the hard edge of the box of Djarums. It was half full and she figured at this rate she’d smoke them down before the team was back from the hills. Giving in, she pulled one out and lit it, still staying quiet.
The black cigarette balanced between two slender pale fingers, burning fragrant smoke as Laine smoked silently before finally she turned her eyes to Donnelley, “Baughman. Now I’m very curious as to why he kept a cabin in this area and what he learned..to you know.”
Laine made a motion to her throat, not wanting to speak out loud the horror of the septic tank that had been Mrs Baughman, not out loud in the peaceful summer evening in a public parking lot. She pursed her lips, the cloves smoldering as she sucked on it, drawing the numbing smoke down her throat and into her lungs. “We should probably go through his things a little more, knowing what we know now.”
“Probably.” Donnelley nodded. He flicked ash from the top of his cigarette, bringing it to his lips again, “Gunfire from the forests. Tom’s out there with the others now.”
His eyes lingered on the growing darkness of the sky. Whatever was in those hills, maybe Clyde Baughman and his team didn’t finish the job. The hills in the distance seemed to loom. The longer he stared, he almost saw the tops of them slowly writhe like heat ripples until he rubbed at his eyes. Looking back at them, they stood still. Like they were supposed to. “Let’s go inside.”
“He’s a Marine and an agent, they should be fine,” Laine said, sounding more positive than she felt. Her gaze fell on Justin, maybe he should have gone with them, he was a Ranger and not the Smokey the Bear kind like Laurie. “But we should contact Tom and let him know about what went on there in the Sixties. Probably locals with shotguns sitting on their porches but...”
Wilkins terrified face and his description of the voice that lead him to the body Come and see.
“We don’t want to take chances,” she finished and snuffed out her cigarette in the concrete ashtray to the side of the steps. Laine pushed up her glasses, “Let’s do this.”
“Mrh.” Justin grunted. “Shoulda’ fuckin’ gone with ‘em.” Justin mused, his own Pall Mall cigarette between two fingers. He was a door kicker, a fucking skull-cracker. But all the security helped, he figured. He idly brushed a hand over his SIG in its in-waistband concealed holster. He wasn’t used to it, never needed a CCW in the Army.
Donnelley watched Laine go, a cloud of cigarette smoke idly drifting out of his open mouth before he blew it all out. He turned to Justin, “Trust me, I wanted myself out there too. After that fool in the car watchin’ us the first time we came to Charleston? Remember?” Donnelley took another drag, “Ain’t takin’ chances.”
Donnelley decided to switch subjects. The prospect of sending the three of them in the forest out to their deaths was not a nice one for him, “How’s the Ranger Batts these days?”
“Got us working our asses off with the whole ‘rapid-deployment’ shit. Runnin’ us like dogs and then we’re expected to be wheels up within 18 hours of a shot bein’ fired.” Justin spat. “Plus, mentioned the whole buttfuckery with my chain of command earlier.”
Donnelley huffed a chuckle, blowing smoke out with it, “That, Staff Sarn’t, is an omnipresent source of bitchin’. Did my fair share of it everywhere I went in the Army. Whether it was Infantry, the Batts, the ODAs.” He shook his head, “My Captain in my ODA was a gloryhound fuckhead. When that Spook from Langley came around blowin’ smoke that he was Army Intelligence, Captain America basically HAHO jumped on his dick and told ‘em we’d follow where he went.”
“And, boy, did we ever. Illegally crossin’ into Pakistan and dropping the wrath of God onto a little village in the FATA. Twice.” Donnelley chuckled ruefully, “We couldn’t tell if the mission was successful or a bust. We got back, weren’t even debriefed and Langley shook Captain America’s hand before hoppin’ on the first helo home.”
“Afghanistan was fuckin’ weird.” Donnelley took another drag.
“God-damn.” Justin enunciated. “As much as I respect and adore the Berets, no fuckin’ way I’d get into that shit. Throw me into five compound raids a night, fine. But the second they pull that shit, no chance.”
“Army Intel never bothered with us. Langley only once, and we were stateside. Figure you already read about that, whether it was the version with black ink or not, I ‘unno. Got me into a whole bunch of permanent contracts to never talk if I wanted to keep my stripes. Figure if I did talk, my only view would be the inside of Leavenworth.”
“Langley didn’t even bother with the contract. Nobody’d believe our crazy asses anyways, what bullshit we saw.” Donnelley’s smile was present, though his eyes grew distant and the smile vacant before he shook his head and took another drag, “I can’t take personal responsibility for that shit you’re talkin’ ‘bout now. Guess I couldn’t if I was, anyways.” He winked.
“Stateside Operations.” Donnelley shook his head, “This’n’s my first. West Virginia’s starting to get about as weird as Afghanistan.”
He clucked his tongue, taking another drag, “Guess they both got mountains in ‘em.”
“Found a lotta’ goddamn similarities over there. Eerie as fuck, those Pashtuns are the fuckin’ extreme but they’re pretty fuckin’ close to these people. Can’t say I saw a squad of SEALs exsanguinated in the hills of West Virginia, though. N’ definitely none a’ those ‘slabs’, or whatever it was you n’ Tom were goin’ on about last time.” Justin explained.
“Count yourself real fuckin’ lucky, son. Not that what you saw made you just peachy. Shit out there’s coming over here. You hear it from Laine yet?” He asked, grimacing with the knowledge, “Fuckin’ slab out in Olympic National Park. Now we got some sick sum’bitch out here skinnin’ folk like it’s people season.”
“Well, guess it’s our fuckin’ job to sort this shit out now.” Justin tossed the burnt out cigarette butt to the ground, treading on it with his boot.
“Livin’ the dream, brother.” Donnelley flicked his burnt end somewhere beyond sight in the growing darkness of Charleston.
The library was small compared to the one she had been used to visit as a kid in LA and at the university, even at Quantico but it had an extensive section of local West Virginia history and folklore. Laine made herself comfortable between two stacks of potential books, based on their description in the digital card catalogue. She thumbed through the indexes, looking for certain keywords. Blackriver. Mines. Native. Devils. Murder. Disappearances.
She put a book about the mine riots aside and another on Shawnee myths, the tribe that was one local in the area of Blackriver as far back as the 17th century and beyond. Laine thumbed through another, Ghost Stories and Campfire Myths of West Virginia, it was less than scholarly but expanded on one of the legends mentioned about evil wind spirits. A fringe group of Shawnee, a cult most likely and she recalled from her anthropology classes that those were not uncommon among native tribes. The most famous being the Ghost Dancers, the last stand of resistance from the plains tribes.
This particular one seemed a bit more sinister than desperate, mentioning a darker version of the Shawnee Cyclone Man, a nature spirit or god. She put the book into the pile, then picked up a tattered old book with frayed cloth wrapped hard back. The smell of the yellowed pages and the crackle told her it had been wedged in the shelves for awhile. Backwoods Witchcraft of Appalachia. It was no Wiccan how to bless this mess or find a job, it was old and written by some local scholar in the 1930s and had only been published once.
The first chapter was headed by a plate illustration of a woodcut, a black ink crude image of a goat on two legs and trees around it. A typical depiction of Satan, Baphomet maybe, but it was not quite the classic image. Laine flipped the page until she came across another plate titled Lord of the Woods and she continued to another chapter, about Skin Walkers. She was familiar with those from the Navajo myths but apparently it was not localized.
Dr Laine lost track of time, skimming the old book until she turned to a later chapter, this about a chief grieving his wife and trying to call her spirit back. Her blood ran cold and she felt the prickling goosebumps rising on her arms. Laine shut the book and got up, gathering the books together to check out.
Donnelley turned his head at the sound of the doors opening and the click-clacks of Laine’s heels. He had busied himself with smoking and staring out at the hills before Laine was with him and Justin. “Found some good stuff?”
Her arms were full of books, the top one the old frayed covered book and she met his gaze, “I am now the proud owner of a Charleston City Public Library card. And yes, there’s some stuff I need to show you, we should get back, the sooner the better. Was there anything else you needed to do here?”
“I’d say drink, but,” He frowned, hands longing for his flask left in the Suburban, “I’ve got my own back at the house.”
“I know you must have a stash, so you’ll probably need to break it out. Just don’t overindulge when we have Tom and the kids out camping,” Laine said, then glanced down at the books. “I know I’ll need a shot or two. We can divide these up and read, I’ll make dinner.”
“Those reel to reel tapes, I want to try to find a way to view them tonight.”
Laine suddenly pushed the books into Donnelley’s arms, “Hold on, I might be able to solve that.”
Even in the four inch heels she ran up the stairs and walked quickly back into the library. When she came back, about ten minutes later, she was cradling a large box with a latched lid. The librarian was helping her with the cord and explaining how to set it up.
“Are you sure you’ll have it back soon, Special Agent Laine? It isn’t really in the policy to lend this machine out,” the librarian, an older woman dressed in a long dress, stick thin with gray streaked hair pulled back in a braid spoke with concern. “We need it for our weekend showing of old local student films. Apparently it’s very popular among the young people, especially those with nice boys with the funny curly mustaches. They always bring the best coffee. Oh, don’t forget to change the reel before it runs out, it stresses the tape if it gets pulled taut. And you said you’d bring it back after the holiday, yes?”
“Yes, thanks Mrs Clark, I promise I’ll have it back and you have the gratitude of the Bureau,” Laine assured her and nodded at the pair of men waiting. “They’re with me, they can take it from here.”
She gestured at Justin to grab the heavy box that contained the reel to reel projector from her hands.
Mrs Clark looked at both men, her gaze lingering on the burn scar on Donnelley’s face and his cigarette then she smiled tightly, “Well, as long as it is to help our country, right? It’s the patriotic time of year after all. Enjoy.”
Reluctantly the woman relinquished the cords to them and went back into the library.
Laine gave Donnelley a triumphant grin before unlocking the Explorer.
>ROAD TO THE SAFEHOUSE >BLACKRIVER COUNTY...///
BANTER TIME
Laine drove the Ford Explorer with Justin next to her, no doubt for security but she liked his quiet thoughtful presence. Unsure of his music taste, she set her phone in the holder and pulled up Donnelley’s contact information. They had just passed the city limits and she lead the way, letting Donnelley protect the rear. It felt strange, she certainly was not used to having to look over her shoulder despite the particular nature of the people she studied. The information from Roy and the books in the back that waited to be read and pieced with the mystery of what Wilkins had told her and Jane Doe, in her own way, had told them. It was dark and strange but fascinating, and she dwelled on what might be on those old reels of film from Baughman’s cabin. She gripped the steering wheel and wanted to get her mind off the racing ideas in her mind so she hit the call button, then the speaker.
“Hey, when are we going to race?” she asked when he answered, trying to keep her voice light and fight back the darkness. “Next quarter mile, I’ll take you.”
“Oh, don’t you tempt me now.” Donnelley chuckled after Laine’s call cut off Black Flag’s Rise Above. “Last thing we need’s a fuckin’ Deputy of all stupid fucks pullin’ us over.
She laughed, “Just flash our badges, it’s a federal emergency that I beat the pants off Agent Davidson.”
Glancing at Justin, she raised her eyebrows and gave him a sly grin, “What’s the fun in being a cop if we can’t get out of speeding tickets.”
“Joking, of course,” she called out, before the temptation became too great and her foot pressed the pedal, speeding up just a little, staying about five miles over the limit.
Justin grinned, slouching back in the passenger seat beside Laine, munching on a Hershey bar, considering he didn’t have breakfast, and who says that chocolate isn’t a good substitute for a well-balanced meal?
“Better slow down,” Donnelley chuckled as the Explorer shrunk farther ahead of him for just a moment, “You might scare our Ranger. Can we make a deal?”
He asked, before speaking out again, “No talk about the case at dinner? I don’t want to have my whiskey soured by this shit.” He frowned and nodded appreciatively, “Huh. Whiskey sours. We should pick some ingredients up next time we’re in town.”
Justin retorted. “Takes a fuckin’ lot to throw me off.” He chuckled. “Try bein’ in the turret of a humvee goin’ sixty-plus down some shitty Afghani road. Surprised I fuckin’ survived that shit.” He mused.
He turned to Laine. “You know those fuckin’ humvees are death traps? There’s like a fuckton of soldiers die every year when those things roll over.” He transitioned topics faster than a crack-addict. “N’ I second that, no case talk at dinner.”
“Well I’m cooking so I’ll agree, I don’t want you put off because of case talk,” Laine said, then laughed at the image of Justin bouncing around behind a machine gun like a ragdoll. “Good thing we’re not in a humvee and you have me driving. And that sounds good, I like a whiskey sour. Next time, to celebrate the return of our campers, we’ll load up.”
She steered around a slow moving pick up truck, changing lanes with quickly and glanced back in the rear view mirror, “Don’t fall behind, Donnelley. I know you probably learned to drive in a hay baling truck.”
“‘Least the- holy shit-“ He swerved past the truck and swerved back into his own lane, the truck’s horn blaring at him as he laughed maniacally. He’d be lying if he didn’t take a couple pulls from his flask, “Least the first car I ever owned wasn’t a pink electric Barbie Jeep, valley girl. And for your information, first thing I ever rode in was the saddle on my uncle’s farm with the reins in my fist. Genuine cowboy.”
“Excuse me, Barbie Jeep? It was the Ferrari, thank you very much,” Laine scoffed and glanced at Justin, raising her brow in a silent request, a wicked twinkle in her green eyes. Then said quietly, “Hold on.”
She floored it, the Explorer roaring past seventy then eighty and the Suburban dropped back as she took the sharp mountain road turn, letting the rear wheel drive truck drift around it. Laine tensed, feeling the weight shift in the SUV and then corrected before it could decide to tip and roll, a squeal and smoke from the tires as she tore down the straight away. “Catch this valley girl, cowboy!”
“Christ almighty!” Justin called out, grinning as he held onto one of the cab handles, clutching the half-eaten candy bar in the other hand.
Donnelley shook his head as he watched the Ford Explorer careen down the road, taking the turn sharp and throwing up a trail of smoke. His shit-eating grin would go unnoticed by them, but they could hear it in his voice when he spoke, “Goddamn, Valley Girl.”
His Suburban was never going to make that turn at a high speed. He didn’t even bother chancing it, so while they tore down the road, he ambled back to the Safehouse in comparison. All in all, they made good time, cutting the hour long drive down to forty or so minutes.
“Wow! Heather, are you trying to be the next Richard Petty?” Tom was a bit shaken by her driving, but he’d done worse, so it wasn’t that bad.
Laine laughed, getting out of the Explorer, "Who is that? The singer?"
She grinned at Tom with a little raise of her brow in mock ignorance, remembering his classic rock tastes then said, "I was establishing dominance, no one calls me valley girl. Besides it's the only way to beat traffic."
“OK, you got here safe,” Tom smiled. “Well done.”
Donnelley, Tom, Laine, and Justin set themselves to lounging for a bit in the Safehouse. Foster was undoubtedly in the garage on his computer and it was otherwise quiet in the house until Laine set herself to cooking. Donnelley was already on his first two fingers of Jim Beam as he smoked outside, rocking back and forth in his chair. The night was quiet, warm enough to not need a blanket or any other such covering. Nights like this reminded him of West Texas, and in some sort of commemoration he opted to feel the night air on his shirtless skin, his faded tattoos gotten in garages standing out on his slender torso. West Texas.
Except a little more trees. Somewhere off in the tree line an owl hooted every so often, heard above the soft breezes through the branches. In all the quiet, his thoughts meandered from the Drone Team and to that scared kid named Frank Wilkins, to Clyde Baughman. Whatever Baughman’s team found in the woods near Mercy, he wondered if it still plagued the hills here. A quiet evil that stalked between the trees and preyed on men. He wondered if whatever Clyde Baughman had come to put down had gotten that Jane Doe. If the Devil in the mines was roused again from its prison.
Movement? No. Something in the shadows that stood still through the swaying of leaves and branches. Something tall. From the porch, it could’ve been the trunk of a tree with how it put a hole in the shadows like a tear in reality’s fabric. Like a sliver of the nothingness between stars. He gripped his handgun and stood, walked to the edge of the porch with his cigarette between his teeth. He leaned forward. What was it? He blinked and stared harder. Only a tree. Only a tree, only a tree, only a tree. He rubbed at his face and spat off the porch, swearing under his breath and with a need to be back inside. He threw open the door, flicked his cigarette off the porch and strolled inside. “What’s for dinner?” He asked, the shirt in his fist before he placed his handgun on the island table in the kitchen and slipped it back on.
The triumph of her race to the cabin kept Laine buoyant as she took raised her hand in victory watching Donnelley pull in then went into the cabin to change. Her feet ached from her stilettos and she called back to Justin, "Do you mind unloading the stuff from the library? And I hope you're hungry, you missed the breakfast I made."
Once she changed out of the business suit she was dressed casually in a dark charcoal pair of yoga pants and a white tank top, a pair of fuzzy socks on her feet that let her slide across the polished wood floor. Her own black ink tattoos covered her upper arms, beautiful shaded art work of macabre skulls and spiders intertwined with roses and leafy vines on one shoulder and the moon and ocean landscape on the other. One her back was an esoteric geometric abstract design that peeked out from the tank top.
She slid playfully over to the refrigerator, taking out the two pounds of lean ground meat and placed it in the counter then gathered vegetables from the crisper. Onions, zucchini, garlic, red bell peppers, tomatoes went onto the cutting board. When the door opened, she glanced over then paused catching herself staring at Donnelley. She looked from his lean torso as he pulled his shirt on then flickered to the gun. His face, however, was hard to read but stress was there and of course it was with half his people up some haunted mountain.
Laine stood by the large pot of water starting to boil. "Spaghetti Bolognese, I figured everyone likes spaghetti so it's a safe bet plus I can make a ton and leftovers are great."
She padded over a few steps, eyeing him then the gun, "Nice ink. Everything alright?"
“Clyde Baughman brought guns into Blackriver,” Donnelley smirked, “I’m keeping mine close. But, no, everything’s fine. You spend your life in warzones and you develop some habits.”
He shrugged, “Chainsmoking, carrying, and cussing.”
Laine nodded, there was no argument there. "Right, well I'm not going to cook strapped. Besides, if I run into trouble..."
She picked up the large chef's knife, honed and bright from being new and slammed the blade through a red onion, halving it. "Trouble better beware," she said, keeping her tone light. No case talk during the preparation of dinner either.
"Those tattoos, they look pretty ancient," Laine commented, glancing his way as she started slicing zucchini, "I mean...I just caught a glimpse, you know. Some DIY?"
Laine turned away, suddenly feeling self conscious and stirred the browning ground beef the scent of onions and garlic along with it. Mushrooms would need to go in soon and the peppers, she made a mental note.
“A lot DIY.” Donnelley chuckled, “Bought my own tattoo needles and some ink way back when I was younger. Too bad I couldn’t buy artistic talent, but I think I did pretty well after some practice.”
He gestured to Laine, “You got some too.”
She looked over at him, shaking her head with a crooked grin, "I hope you didn't write anything backwards from looking in the mirror and yes, hundreds of dollars of paid for ink and talent. I figured if it's permanent I want it to be some art worthy of making a lampshade out of after I'm gone."
Laine offered her free arm for him to inspect, the moon tattooed in great detail above a beach, surrounded by swirling clouds. "Several sessions each, my back is the most recent. Something different, I was going for more stark contrast rather than nuanced shading."
She glanced at him, a smile quirking her lips, "I've got more, they're just hidden."
Laine went back to cooking and tossed in sliced mushrooms to what would be the meat sauce. Donnelley returned her coy smile with one of his own. There was a silence that grew between them and the sizzling of the cooking. “What about you, Justin? Got some ink ‘sides your arm?”
When the group returned to the safehouse, Tom went upstairs to get the parachute. He figured he could rig it outside in the field. He laid the thing out end to end insuring none of the parachute cords were crossed. He paid special attention to insure the chute itself were as straight as possible. Someone’s life, possibly his own would depend on packing this accurately. He also insured no foreign debris was mixed into the chute or the strings. He hadn’t rigged a chute with brake lines before, but made sure they were on top. He made sure the drag lines were straight. Wouldn’t want any twists in them as well. In order to straighten out all the lines, he had to fold the chute over itself a few times passing it between the lines each time. Once all the lines were straight, no longer twisted, he then pulled all the slack out and put them over his right shoulder facing the parachute. He worked all the lines to the outside leaving the tail against his body. He took great care to make sure there were no twists in the silk. The chute was divided into nine cells. He separated them all so they were not mixed with the others. He tucked cell one behind the left side of his body. Then wrapped each cell one by one around the side until all nine cells were wrapped around the left side of his body. These nine cells were then tucked between his legs. He grabbed the other side of the chute. He then separated the lines and slowly worked the parachute back to the pack. He finished the job and packed the parachute. Once the parachute was packed in the bag, he then systematically stowed the lines back and forth so they could spill our in the proper manner when the next person used the parachute. With the parachute packed, he returned to the house and stored it in the closet in this room.
Before leaving the room, he grabbed a few more cigars and a bottle of Jameson’s whiskey. He grabbed a glass from the kitchen where Donnelley and Laine were having a discussion about something. He didn’t listen. He was lost in thought, thinking about his wife back home. He would pour a glass of whiskey, grab a cigar and head outside to smoke and drink. He would then pull out his phone and give her a call.
“How the fuck did I end up doing this again?” Donnelley had his hands on his hips as he surveyed the recently empty sink and the cleaned dishes he’d done for the second time today. He reached over and grabbed up his glass of cheap wine, taking a gulp of it and appreciating his work.
He turned around to see Justin and Tom setting up the projector while Laine watched, sipping away at her wine. He sided up with her, “Wine was a good choice. What is this, Merlot?” He made a show of swirling the wine and sticking his nose in the glass to sniff at it, “Great vintage.”
“Jill enjoys a warm glass of merlot,” Tom added. “I prefer Chardonnay or Pinot Grigio; bitter or pale, rather than sweet. I’ve seen too many that have a sweet flavor to them. Can’t stand that.”
“Donnelley, I can do those dishes if you like? You don’t have to do them every meal,” Tom volunteered for the job. “Or do you just like to complain about it?” Tom added with a smile.
“It’s a sense of normalcy thing. Some people fantasize about traveling the world, some people fantasize about doing dishes and going to bed late.” Donnelley shrugged, giving Tom his own smirk, “And I like to complain about it.”
"It's Cabernet Sauvignon actually, I'm not a fan of Merlot, too dry mostly," Laine replied then grinned, "Yeah it's a 2008 vintage. Thanks for washing up, again."
“It’s not bad. I’ll drink it.” Tom responded to Dr. Laine. He looked at Justin, “Hey Clark, how’s that projector coming?”
“I was told I’d be a good House Husband.” Donnelley rose his glass to Laine, “One of my many talents.”
She raised her glass in return, "To your second career one day. May you find the perfect vacuum cleaner."
Laine chuckled and drank some of the cheap but tasty wine. She felt the growing anxiousness at watching the reels they had found at Baughman's cabin, part of her hoping it was old family movies rather than another clue to the horror unfolding in the hills. But the FBI agent in her wanted to see, the deep need to witness what he had left for someone to one day view. Not just anyone but them, a working group for Delta Green.
She sat in the middle of the couch, her glass between her knees and centered on the white sheet pinned on the wall as a makeshift screen..
Finally, Justin had installed the earliest dated reel into the projector. Donnelley closed his eyes and sighed, downing the rest of his Cabernet and tucking the cigarette he’d had behind his ear between his lips. “I’m not going to lie. There’s a reason he hid these and we’re going to find out what that is. It might not be good dinner conversation.”
He walked over to the projector, placing his hand on it in order to start it but pausing before he did, “Any objections to seeing this?” He asked, when no one spoke up, he nodded. “Good.”
The projector was flipped on and he lit his cigarette, looking back up after. It was soundless, of course, but on the screen there was something normal going on. Men and women dressed normally, standing around and shaking hands, making conversation with drinks in their hands. It continued on for the next few minutes, showing the socialization of what could’ve been an average yacht club in some empty ballroom. Donnelley leaned in closer and his brow furrowed.
The screen went black, darkening the entirety of the house for a few moments before the screen showed more after the transition. The people they’d been watching socialize like normal suburb families were now dressed in felt robes of black. The camera panned while they passed a dagger around the congregation. Donnelley stood, but the old camera the filmmaker had been using didn’t have the best resolution. The dagger appeared to be of the same material as the black shard, but he just couldn’t tell for sure. Something in him told him it was. Something in him hoped like hell it wasn’t. As the dagger was passed around, each man or woman tenderly laid their lips on it in a kiss before passing it on.
Finally, the dagger changed hands over to a man with a mask fashioned to look almost like a nest of serpents. He rose the dagger and the people in robes exploded in ecstasy, screaming and writhing, their hands held up to the ceiling in a maddening dance. Donnelley couldn’t hear their screaming and wailing, but the sounds of Pakistan filtered back to his ears anew and he breathed, “Fuck.”
Stepping to the back of the room, rubbing his face and looking back to the makeshift screen. They were dancing and screaming still. The man in the serpent mask walked to the other end of the room, the camera panning with him to reveal a small bundle of sheets topped with what looked to be a real black goat’s head. What looked like drips on the white bundle of sheets told the team that it was not taxidermied. The man in the serpent mask grasped one of the horns of the goat head and lifted it away from the sheets to reveal a girl staring out with sunken eyes. He recognized them, his little Tilly. The masked man raised the black dagger and Donnelley rushed to shut off the tape, the projector turning off.
He stepped away from the projector, his steps stumbling as he turned away and slammed the front door behind him.
Laine watched, sitting forward, her teeth clenched but determined not to look away as the flickering silent images became more disturbing. This was important, she had to see. To witness.
Come and see
The dagger held her attention, the deep black so dark it looked like a hole in the film except it wasn't, it was real and deadly and the child. Laine gasped, her wine tipping and crashing to the floor, splinters of glass and red fluid slid across the wood. It was Colin, her nephew, the older of her brother's children. He stared back at her, huge dark eyes full of fear and she gasped a strangled scream just as Donnelley shut the projector off.
"No...fuck no," she murmured and curled in on herself, pulling her knees to her chest. "How the hell..."
It wasn't real, it was a trick. A trick of her mind, putting someone she loved in place of the blurred image of a child. She saw Donnelley take off and she jumped up, ignoring the sharp pain of a piece of glass embedding itself through her fuzzy socks and into her foot.
Laine limped after him, leaving small blood smears to mark her progress to the door and out onto the deck, the door slamming behind her.
Tom stared at the white sheet. He looked into the girls’ eyes and saw someone he knew. She was the spitting image of his mother. Her curly black hair and blue eyes were unmistaken. Meghan was his playmate for ten years of his life. He loved Meghan. She was his sister and his best friend. His eyes welled up with tears upon recognizing Meghan. ‘This was made in the 1960s. It couldn’t be her. She died in 1996. “What sort of sorcery is this horse shit!?”
Justin sat there on the couch, likely one of the only ones left in the room. He was dead silent as his two dull green eyes stared at the screen, pupils dilated to fill the entire socket it seemed. Sunken eyes, skin of a slight brown, marred by scars and bruises. Afghani for sure. Of all the faces he saw over there, it was the one he’d never forget. There was no way. She was dead, her house in ruins by a midnight raid. She couldn’t have been six. She was an innocent, she got caught up in it all, left dead amongst rubble and a cache of AKs.
[i]Two-one, light it up![i]
That order pounded through his head and his heart pounded back. It was his fault. He was on the gun, had peppered the entire compound with the M134 on his Humvee. She was dead because of him. But how was she here, in this film? His sins coming back to haunt him? Was he truly damned?
He continued to stare blankly into the screen, a hand clasped over his mouth.
Donnelley sat slumped over in his chair, one hand limp with the cigarette still smoldering and the other over his face. He rose and wiped a forearm across his eyes and took another drag, sniffling before he blew it out. It was silent between the two of them on the porch. He tore his eyes away from the darkness around the cabin and caught the trail of bloody footprints that followed Laine. She looked to be in a bad way too. “You’re hurt…”
He sighed, his head hanging again and he rubbed at his face, taking another drag and looked back at her, his lips parting to say something but he closed them again. He looked away from her, speaking a single word out on the air quiet enough almost to be mistaken for a breeze, “Tilly.”
Laine limped over to him, trying to keep on her toes of her left foot to avoid putting weight where the glass had punctured in her arch. Her face was pallid, the dark makeup around her eyes more exaggerated as she had smeared it with the back of her hand.
She moved next to him, leaning against the deck railing and put her hand gently on his shoulder, observing his expression and tried to push her own horror aside. "So are you," Laine said gently, "It wasn't her, it ..."
Without another word she moved closer, rubbing his back in a comforting gesture, desperately grasping at reality. "It couldn't have been him."
His hands hesitantly placed his cigarette to rest on the railing of the porch. He sighed, tentatively moving his hands to hers and coming away from her, the two of them closer than they’d allowed themselves to be. He held her eyes on his own reddened ones and offered her a consoling look before he offered her his seat. He didn’t want the image of Tilly in that bundle of sheets again. He needed to busy himself with something. The image of Tilly and the insinuation he would ever fail to protect her plagued him. When Laine sat, he gingerly took her injured foot in his hands. “Gonna need to come out.” He looked into her eyes, watching them and wondering what she had seen in that film reel. He’d already failed her once in Baughman’s cabin. Almost another failure in the long cracks of the road his life had paved thus far. He could help her now, with something, at least. His voice was careful, as coaxing as he could make it and as gentle. “Him? Who?”
She met his eyes, the pain in them struck her. A pain that went past any she had seen when he had told her about Afghanistan. Laine nodded slightly, not trusting herself to speak and sat down, crossing her left leg over her right, her injured foot in his hand. The sock had a blood stain, and once it was off the shard of glass was visible.
"I saw," she took a deep breath, "My nephew, Colin. He's seven...he...shit, Donnelley. Obviously it's not real but it felt so..."
She looked at him intently, "Do you think we all saw someone different?"
While she talked, he swiftly plucked the shard from her foot, she continued without noticing and he allowed himself a small smile at the deftness. He pressed his thumb against the now opened wound, bringing her foot closer to his chest for a bit more leverage and returned his eyes to her. He’d been listening, and he shrugged, “Apparently. I don’t know why.” He shook his head, “I know Clyde didn’t get all of them. Didn’t, or wouldn’t… for some reason…”
Marlene flashed before him, her smiles growing more hollow in the glimpses of history between her and Clyde the pictures offered. Clyde bringing her back to life, the sting of his failures and grief at her passing ripping at him as if it had been his doing. The toying with forces ancient and unnatural for just one more chance to get things right. And failing. He swallowed, looking away from Laine before he came back to her, “I’m sorry.” He said to her. Sorry for bringing her into this. All of it. “What do you need? Make tonight not so shitty. Anything.”
He offered her a lopsided smile, weighed down by his own troubles. He already knew sleep wasn’t an option for him tonight. No matter how drunk he got. Maybe he could at least help her.
She hardly felt the glass being pulled out but felt him apply pressure, holding her foot against himself. Laine felt tears threaten again and she blinked rapidly, "I don't know," she admitted, hanging her head so her short dark hair fell forward. "I just...I need to check on them. I know it's silly, I know that right now Colin and Sophie are probably just fine. My brother and his wife probably trying to get them bathed and ready for bed. Or...shit time zones. I don't know, Donnelley. I feel...off. I want to get drunk but I can't there is too much work to do. "
Her eyes met his and her need flickered there then she turned away, pulling back, her arms hugging herself, "We have a lot of work, to catch this guy. Thank you, for taking the glass out."
Her foot came away from his hands and he was left there on his knee before her. There was an ache left in him, like the part of her in his hands was plugging it up. He looked at her, his eyes lingered on her as she looked away from him. He nodded once, stiff, before he regained himself. He folded the fingers of both his hands together and looked away from her for a moment. The words had to work at parting his lips, but he spoke, “Yeah.” He hesitated, still looking at her face, “Of course.”
He pushed himself up to his feet, reaching over and grabbing his cigarette to relight it. He stood with his hands leaning on the railing, his back to her as he hung his head, blowing a long, slow stream of smoke from his lips to drift up towards the overhang of the porch’s ceiling, writhing in the deck light’s glow and mingling with the dancing bugs near the bulb. Once again, he felt alone with the cricket song and owl hoots, the treetops making jagged shadows in front of the night sky. Stars and moon shone down, but no comfort from the soft, pale light.
It hurt her to leave him there but if she did not step away, the weakness she felt would cause her to seek solace in a place she knew she could not go. Laine stood up, looking over Donnelley's tense shoulders and the smoke drifting up into the darkness. Biting her lower lip to stay her urge to speak she limped back inside.
Once inside her breath hitched and she tried to stifle a sob, pressing her hand against her mouth to try and keep the other men from hearing her cry. She considered hiding out in her room but she wasn't entirely wanting to be alone. Laine went into the kitchen, opening the last bottle of wine and drank from it, sitting in a wooden chair and she rested her arms on the table, leaning forward.
Tom stood, grabbed the opened bottle of Jameson’s and followed Donnelley onto the porch. He took a chair at the other end of the porch, uncapped the bottle and downed about eight ounces in one pull. Then he bit the end off one of the Cubans and lit it up. “What the fuck did we get ourselves into, Joe?” The words were spoken softly, Undoubtedly Joe Donnelley did not hear him. He was busy in a conversation with Dr. Laine.
Tom was lost in his own thoughts away from Laine and Donnelley. The effects of downing eight ounces of Whiskey were starting to take effect as Laine went inside. Tom barely noticed her departure and heard none of their conversation. Tom took another swig of the whiskey, feeling a bit light headed. ’How could that have been Meghan? She died twenty-three years ago and that film is over fifty years old. I don’t get it.’ Tom took another swig of whiskey. ’This idea of me seeing my dead sister only begs to ask the question, what did Laine, Donnelley and Justin see? They couldn’t have seen my sister. By the looks on their faces, it had to be something traumatic.’
Tom was lost in thought when he fell asleep. The porch chair wasn’t really very comfortable but the sedative he gave himself was enough to knock him out. Within several minutes, he was snoring.
“Tommy!” a child’s voice called through the haze. “Tommy!” Tom focused on the voice. It sounded familiar. “Tommy!” The little girl voice giggled.
“Meghan!” he yelled.
“Tommy! Come here you silly,” she giggled, but Tom could not see her. It was dark.
“Meghan, I hear you, but can’t find you.” Tom felt desperate trying to find his sister. He wanted to find her, to hold her to look upon her face. But his movement was impeded. He felt as though he was stumbling over something, falling down, struggling to get back to his feet. All the while Meghan’s voice was laughing at him. It was the children on a playground laughing, rather than anything else. Something seemed to be holding him down, He felt immobilized.
Meghan’s voice started to sing, ”Ring-a-ring-a-rosies, A pocket full of posies, A tissue, a tissue We all fall down!” Meghan laughed harder now. She sounded like she was running.
“Meghan! Where are you!?” Tom yelled out.
She continued to sing the song, ”The king has sent his daughter, To fetch a pail of water, A tissue, a tissue, We all fall down!” She laughed loudly.
“Tommy, I know a secret,” Meghan uttered coyly at her brother and giggled some more. “Tommy, want to hear my secret?”
“Meghan, where are you?” Tom called out.
“Come find me and I will tell you the secret,” Meghan giggled at her brother. “Come and find me.”
But Tom could not move. He struggled to get to her. Frustration and anxiety took over pushing him towards consciousness…
“I’m going to have a nephew,” she whispered in the darkness just as he woke up. Tom was sweating. He kicked just at the moment of consciousness freeing him from whatever held him down. Then he was awake looking around regaining awareness of his surroundings. The bottle of whiskey fell to the floor and whatever contents remained spilled onto the porch and soil below.
’I’m going to have a nephew,’ Tom whispered to himself. ’wow, I need to go to bed.’ Tom went back inside, climbing the steps and crawling into bed.
Dr Laine was in the bathroom, she had left the half empty bottle of wine on the table and was now sitting on the toilet lid and bandaging her foot. She heard someone come inside and she peeked out, watching Tom struggle up the stairs to the bunkroom shared by the men on the team. He looked pale and exhausted, like the rest of them. What had he seen? It was obviously personal for each of them and as she had calmed down and the wine took effect she thought over the possibilities. Some sort of hypnotic effect from the action in the film was a possibility.
The stone was there, that sliver of black void and Laine shivered, glancing down at her foot. It had just been a shard of glass, that was all but her thoughts returned to Jane Doe and her gruesome suffering before death. Everything she had been holding back from the day had been let loose after the vision of her nephew being murdered, whether it was an act of imagination or a trick of the film, she was still shaken. Her defenses now in tatters, she needed to regroup and get herself together. Grabbing some toilet paper she wiped her eyes now watering again.
Get your shit together, Heather. she scolded herself, hating that she had fallen apart when people needed her. Tossing the paper into the bin, she hobbled back out into the living room area, looking to see if anyone was around and went to clean up the broken glass.
The mountains and forests of Montana were sprawled out in front of the window. An idyllic landscape that if one was to take a picture of, such a photograph could be in the National Geographic. That picture would be a lie too, a deceitful painting of serenity and peace that was a betrayal of the haunting bloodshed that was happening. The soil from which the green grass grew was soaked with blood.
The windowpane was a barrier between the real world and the world inside. What was inside was not natural, instead it was a snowglobe of debauchery. The smoke so great and constant that unlike the grains in a snow globe, that eventually settled to show a scene, everything in this room was permanently hidden behind the shroud. The windowsill was littered with several plant pots, only weeks ago they had been bought brand new. Herbs, flowers, succulents. To brighten the place he had said. Now, each plant was dead or at least half way there. The water bowls underneath merely served as more ashtrays. The last petal clinging to the stem of one of the flowers fell crisp as old newspaper after a breeze rolled in from the crack in the window.
The sound of laughter filled the place. A woman.
There she lay on the bed, in nothing but underwear and a tank top. Beside her, the muscular form of man lying stretched over the sheets, his head resting on his hand and elbow in the air lazily. Beside them both a bedside table adorned with bags and lines of substance. Whisky glasses sat, smudged with days worth of fingerprints. Above them a skylight - the way the sun shone down made the thick haze of cigarette smoke worse. A sepia film over the scene, so that she could barely make out his face.
“I can’t believe we’re so close to done on this case, it’s been a long eight months,” she yawned, taking a drag from the cigarette, letting it sit, stuck to her lipstick as she stretched out her arms.
“Mmmm,” he replied, a soft drawl. His eyes were heavy lidded and he moved his hand to stroke her arm. “Then back to civ… Think we’ll stick together?” he asked, his eyebrow raised as if he was genuinely hoping for a certain answer.
She smiled, taking the cigarette between her fingers again and handing it to him. “Maybe.” Her eyebrows narrowed, and she relished in the act of playing coy with him. “You would come to Seattle, would you?”
“Maybe,” he replied, mirroring her own response. All it served to do was make her bite her lip and kick at him playfully.
“We deserve respite. Maybe we could travel…” she suggested, looking down and into her lap, where her fingers danced nervous circles over her thighs.
“Want you to get cleaner first, this… it’s fun for the most part but - Paz…” His eyes were drawn to their table. He was guilty of it too, but she’d been worse. Much worse, and worse still was that she lied. But he’d still found her empty bottles. And fentanyl, the oxycontin. He’d found it all.
“It’s prescription,” she replied defensively - but there was a smugness about it too. Her parents were doctors, and that meant that Pari knew better than anyone telling her it was too much. “Besides, you’re a hypocrite…” She too, indicated to the table. The bag of cocaine. “We’re fine, it’s just now and then. We aren’t junkies, Simon,” she added as he passed the cigarette back to her. He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “I know my limits,” Pari said, softer this time. “This just… takes the edge off.”
That’s how it starts…
He couldn’t argue with it, and moving the conversation on was better, they’d had this conversation more than once. Still, he did long to take her away from all of this shit. The cult, the braindead religious zombies that had well and truly been drinking the kool-aid delivered by their self-titled messiah. Eight months of undercover work had been hard, and if this took the edge off, then so be it. He took a look at her where she was. Buried deep in a file now, reading something. He remarked to himself how beautiful she looked like that, in the candid moments of her work. The way that her brow sloped down in concentration. Her expression held by the strong jaw that should have made her look less feminine, but by some miracle only made her more so. He was lucky to have her, and maybe when this was all over they’d make a real go of it and stand a chance.
He’d ‘borrowed’ one of her rings. She hadn’t noticed it was missing just yet, and hopefully she wouldn’t. Some things were just right though.
Pari soon caught him looking at he like he did; and she shot a kittenish glare in his direction, and then to the table, and then back to him. Sure, it had been only a few months but Simon thought she was special and there was merit to that old ‘light in the darkness’ cliche. They had a real connection, so damned real. He’d realised that he wanted to be more than just a sad bachelor on his own. Working to live and not enjoying the life all that much. They needed to try more though. They needed to be out of Montana.
“We could go to Mumbai, you could see where I’m from.” Her bare legs hooked over his and she moved closer to him, putting down the work and putting herself on him instead. Work could wait for the moment. She handed him the cigarette again. “What do you think? Or maybe we could go to Bali and find a private beach…”
“Always fancied Germany during Oktoberfest. All the beer you know?” he said with a smirk. “But anywhere with you would be perfect. We could go to Paris…” he suggested, taking her left hand in his, thinking of the rings.
Pari scoffed in response, “the City of looooooooove,” she laughed. So that was a no, then. “We should just take a map, close our eyes, and point.” Pari blew the smoke out slowly, letting it swirl around her face before she lowered herself to his chest. “Let’s just take this son of a bitch down first, then see where the wind carries us…”
“Soon,” he said with a soft sigh, squeezing her hand again. “Just a few more days, and then we’ll go wherever the wind carries us and be us for a while.” He smiled, a hand behind her neck to pull her close and press his lips to her forehead. Her hair smelled of patchouli, jasmine, and mandarin. He inhaled it, wrapping his fingers where he could around her curls.
“Fucking bible bashers… trapped in their cave,” Pari said, suddenly sounding weary. “They’re not liberated, they’re slaves to him and his fucking delusions of granduer… He’s nothing but a psychopath.” It was another conversation they’d had many times. It was all that they talked about some days. About Elijah Brooks and his so called apocalyptic prophecy. Brainwashing the local people, and when that didn’t work - violence and coercion. The line between preacher and warlord was terrifyingly thin. He had spouted loud of a Seven Headed Dragon, serpents, and beasts. Frightening those who were too weak and beaten down to see the sense. Pari scoffed again, Simon hadn’t responded. Of course he hadn’t. He had been pounding the pavement when she had been safe in the offices.
“So yeah… it takes the edge off from all of that,” Pari concluded after what had felt like an incredibly long pause in a smoky breath - somewhat apologetically. This was time together, not time to talk about the cult and Elijah - the mission. She knew that it wore him down, that the eight months had been hard on him. No wonder he couldn’t wait to be free of it. He’d zipped up more bodybags here than anywhere else. She finished the last of the cigarette, pushing the butt onto the table by the coke. The breeze carried it to the floor though, in the cloud of its own ash.
Simon stared up and out of the skylight. Outside was clear and beautiful, and even the smoke was drowned down by it from where he was lying. Clouds drifted idly by for what felt like hours as Pari fell asleep beside him. The sky was such a beautiful thing, it made him feel small and insignificant - that the vastness of everything above and beyond made his efforts futile. Even if that wasn’t the case. They both had the weight of the world on their shoulders, and the lives of many were on the line. The last hurdle of this case. It was a crushing weight of responsibility that Simon wasn’t poetic enough to effectively express. So, looking up at the clouds reminded him that he was small, and just one man existing in a split second of the entirety of time. Looking up at the clouds, with his love breathing easy beside him removed that weight. But it wasn’t until he could run his drugs and whisky into his system that he could feel his demons let him go long enough to even enjoy the weightlessness.
Everyone had a poison, afterall. She was right. He was a hypocrite.
>PRESENT DAY >BLACKRIVER, 0500
It wasn’t always possible to remember and find time for her morning routines, but if there was any day where setting the time aside would be worth it, it was today. And so she did it. Upon waking she said a silent prayer before leaving her bed, clearly visualising her affirmations for the day. She opened her eyes, and moved towards the bathroom of the cheap motel and let cold water take away the last ounces of sleep that were holding her back. With a sharp gasp she carefully washed her face, eyes, and mouth. She brushed her teeth, gargled mouthwash, drank water. Each step had purpose.
There was so little around her. Just her few belongings that she had placed out on the bathroom counter, two suitcases by the door, and her outfit laid out on the bed sheets that she’d made. She had the skill of an experienced maid in making the bed back up. The sheets were pulled taut and tucked with precise folds. It was completely even - it looked as though it hadn’t been slept in at all as she observed it through the reflection of the mirror. She had a habit of leaving places in the way that she had found them.
She smiled at her reflection, and combed her hair methodically with her fingers into a ponytail before moving to the balcony - where she performed her sun salutations and a quick yoga routine under the rising sun meditavely. She sat herself down for her Pranayama, taking a few moments to breath in the early morning air - and exhale anything she was holding on to. She smiled again. She was ready, as she got dressed she recited another prayer in Marathi out loud. She collected her belongings and finally switched on her phone, listening to the sound of the engine of the car awaiting her as she left the motel to head towards the safehouse.
Parinaaz Bhatt sat with one leg crossed over the other in the backseat. Today she was in charcoal tailored pants. The kind with the severe and deliberate crease down the centre of each leg. She looked down at her thigh and pinched at it, dragging her thumb and forefinger over the crease to ensure it stayed in place.
There was a manila folder on her lap and with one hand she thumbed at its corners - already aware of the images and information inside - but still she was curious for another look. The forefinger of her other hand was pressed to her lips, brushing against her front teeth. She glanced upwards into the rear view mirror and saw that her driver was looking right back. She placed her hands back by her side and smiled politely at him, nodding her head in acknowledgement of him as they travelled together.
There was a strange stillness about the place at this hour - as if it were suspended in a single peaceful minute as the sun rose up, casting it’s rays against the luscious greenery, the dew on the grass sparkling, and the trees were catching an ethereal amber glow in the solar spotlight. “Good morning,” she said softly to the man in the driver's seat - he smiled back - but it wasn’t a sincere smile. Just a return of hers so as not to appear rude. He was here to take her to the safehouse, and that was that. As the journey brought her closer to the mountains, the bright glow seemed to hide behind darkened clouds, and the stillness was disturbed by wind. The atmosphere changed. She swallowed.
It had rained during the night. Pari could smell it in the air, there was a freshness to that smell. Cement and gravel soaked through deep. Grass drinking it in, the trees protected by the shell of their bark but still she could smell pines, earth, and fresh air. It was a misconception by many that rain signified the washing away of any badness in the world to leave behind a clean slate. There were some things that simply wouldn’t come clean, there was always a trace, a fingerprint, a disturbance in the energy that left behind the heraldic evidence of evil’s dark touch. This much, she knew.
Pari turned her head to look out at the scene as the car began to wind around the roads in the mountains, thick deciduous forest either side of them, sliced through the middle by a rough grey dirt road, that only seemed to get bumpier the further they drove across it. The scene outside of the window, the mountains - the forest... It was a world away from Seattle, a universe from Mumbai. There was a chilling dissonance here that only seemed to become more unnerving as the car approached her destination. That which the rain couldn’t wash away...
As the scene broke once again, the car curled around the bend with the tyres crunching over gravel and Pari’s attention was torn from the folder to a lone tree outside of the rest of the forest. A solitary figure, devoid of leaves and bent over as if bowing its head in prayer. The branches were gnarled and came together like arms and joined in the middle like hands. Entwined in each other, barren of life and yet kneeling low. What a strange thing to see -- the disfigured conifer, isolated from those that were practically perfect, standing in line and statuesque. It was heartbreaking, and Pari placed a splayed hand against the window of the car, feeling somewhat like that raw and exposed tree too. She saw the beauty in it, beyond the cracked and mangled bark.
If there had been an atmosphere before, it was nothing compared to this. The scene was in slow motion, captured and held there in a heavy and morose ambiance, threat and terror looming over the horizon - something quietly sinister stirring below. It was as though the whole thing would collapse at any moment. She was out of place here completely and it only caused the anxiety to further stab at her guts. She took a deep breath in and clicked her finger against the button of her seatbelt. “Alright, and so it begins...” her tone was subdued and heavy, followed by the long exhalation from her nose.
Four wheels struggled for purchase on the mountain road, suspension creaking in the early morning darkness. The halo of morning was starting to peek through the horizon as Donnelley grunted in frustration at the mud being thrown up by the Ural’s tires, their toughest enemy yet and the one that managed to slow their advance to the objective.
“You sure you don’t want me to drive?” Peake turned his head to Donnelley, his face still stuck in that slit-eyed frown he’d had since Somalia. Donnelley wondered if his face had ever known a smile or grin.
Probably not, Donnelley sucked his teeth, cigarette clenched between them, “I’m fine, I’ve got this.”
“We could ditch this piece of shit, ruck the rest of the way to the rally point.” Peake grumbled, turning away from Donnelley, but Donnelley had never been the one to take the easy way. He wasn’t going to start. “That’s what I’d do.”
“Oh, I’m sure. Thank you for telling me the tale of what Peake would do with this stolen Ural in Chechnya.” Donnelley frowned sidelong at Peake, glowering from the passenger seat. “I liked the last one too, what Peake would do if FSB caught wind of a Marine Raider, a CIA Officer and an ISA Operator illegally crossing into Russia.”
Donnelley heard Guzman sigh from the backseat, his AKM laid across his thighs as he looked out his window pretending not to hear yet another contest of Who’s-A-Better-Asshole. Donnelley’s eyes narrowed as Guzman’s did the same, leaning closer to his driver’s side rear window. Guzman’s wary voice came from behind Donnelley, “You seen that?”
“What?” Peake barked, his head whipping to the direction Guzman was looking like a bird of prey. “Oh, sh-“
“Fuck!” Donnelley fell from his rocking chair and scrambled across the wooden deck, a terrified flailing that left him with an aching knee and elbow when he came to lay in the gravel just at the foot of the porch’s steps to the front door of the Safehouse.
His chest rose and fell as he lay there, staring up at the dark-blue morning sky. He stayed there, his mind busying itself like a dog barking away intruders, pushing away the memories of Chechnya. “Fuck.”
He reached up to his face and felt his right cheek, fingers gliding down the long burn scar from cheekbone to clavicle. Still there. He lifted his shirt and eyed the two bullet wounds under his ribs. Still there. Guzman. Still gone.
“Fuck.” His breath quivered in his throat as he buried his eyes in the crook of his elbow, heaving one long breath and growled it out between clenched teeth. Finally, he sighed, grunting as he got to his feet and walked back to his rocking chair, bending over to pick up the pack of American Spirits on the floor.
He shoved one between his teeth and found the bottle of Jameson that Tom had spilled last night, only dregs left but Donnelley swigged at it anyway. He bared his clenching teeth and shook his head, the liquor fighting all the way down. As he dropped his ass back in his rocking chair, he let himself sway back and forward. The creak added to the birdsong of the early morning, darkness still hanging over the open air such that the porch lights were still useful. He tipped his head back after lighting his cigarette and sighed the first drag out into the morning, enjoying his moment of silence.
Laine lay in the bottom bunk, alone in the women’s bedroom and she listened to the birds singing outside. She had not slept well, nightmares plagued her, most she did not remember now that dawn was creeping in. With a grunt, she rolled over and slipped out of bed, wincing as she put her weight on her cut foot. She had forgotten about that. The night came back, charging forward with the film and the strange phenomena that had occurred to the four that had watched it. She rubbed her eyes, smearing more old mascara around as she had passed out without washing her face.
“Gross,” she muttered, feeling the oiliness of her skin. Laine puttered around, picking out black jeans and underwear then went to the new shirts, picking one up then the other. Nothing she actually would buy if she had not been pressed for time. It reminded her of when she went shopping for Alex back when they were together. He loved the name brands. She took the black t-shirt, a fitted little thing that had a queen of spades in a distressed print on the chest. It was still better than the designer labels splashed across like a damn walking billboard.
After a shower that was not long or hot enough Laine dressed, putting on her Converse sneakers to keep her foot comfortable and went outside to smoke. Her mind was still clouded and she felt the shadow of last night still hovering over her. She stepped out onto the porch, inhaling the mountain air and despite the tinge of distant coal smoke it was nice. Better than than the smog of LA or the humidity of Virgina. She lit up, the cloves crackling with comforting familiarity.
The creaking caught her attention and she turned, spotting Donnelley in the chair and she felt her chest tighten. Guilt over leaving him alone, over her own reaction to his closeness made her hesitate, but if she said nothing or too much then it might get weird. She was already making it weird. Laine sighed and blowing out a stream of smoke, she turned again, looking at him and said, “Good morning.”
“Hm?” Donnelley leaned forward and set his eyes on Laine. He paused, remembering the moment they shared on the very porch they stood on now. And how it didn’t come out to anything. He smiled anyway, a soft curve of lips, “Hey.”
He would ask how she was doing but he feared the worst to come from that topic. His mind stretched for something to say to her, something to fill the air between them. He didn’t know why but the empty space left there felt wrong. “It’s a nice morning.”
Laine shifted so her hip leaned against the railing, she glanced east at the sun breaking over the trees. “Another sunrise.”
Her eyes met his and she smiled slightly, recalling what he had told her before. Now that she was living dangerously, that’s what she had to look for, another sunrise. Laine glanced away, flicking her cigarette absently, “How’d you sleep?”
Donnelley looked at her and then out at the rising sun at her words. It was another sunrise, but… Oh, he thought. He cracked a grin at that, remembering the time they had at Baughman’s cabin. To her question, his grin faltered and then regressed to a tight-lipped smile in his bearded face, red roots now really shining through in his hair and beard, especially in the growing early morning light. “Slept alright.” He cleared his throat and took another drag, “I hope you did too.”
He chuckled softly, trying at a little bit of humor, “I need a goddamn vacation.”
“I slept as well as you probably did,” Laine said, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. She brushed a hand over her damp tousled hair, smoothing the dark strands down. She had put on makeup to cover the dark circles under her eyes, the sleeplessness as she woke again and again.
“You mean away from all this,” Laine waved a hand, her cigarette now between her plush lips. “A cabin in the woods, rustic American living.”
She huffed a close mouthed laugh, then shrugged a shoulder. “This place could have been real nice, but...well it’s not.”
Laine blew out smoke and tapped the ashes, letting her hand rest against the railing. “So, where would you go if you could go anywhere for vacation?”
Donnelley pursed his lips at the question. He hadn’t even thought on where he’d go, just that he wanted to sometimes. “Huh…” He grunted, taking a drag from his cigarette and flicking ash away, “Mexico. Beer on the beach.”
“That sounds nice, some white sand on the Sea of Cortez,” Laine said, tossing her hair back and looked out at the forest as if it might change to the crystal blue waters. “Have you a nice senorita on your arm?”
She met his eyes then glanced away, ducking her head down to examine her cigarette, watching the glow against the black paper.
Donnelley’s smile grew a little more the longer Laine described the details of his imaginary vacation. He was envisioning the beach, the stars, a bonfire. A señorita on his arm. He huffed a chuckle as she looked away from him, turning his eyes onto the sunrise after he said, “Maybe I do.” A little smile on him before he continued, “Modelos, Corona, tequila. Street tacos… marlin.”
He chuckled warmly, “Shoo’, makin’ me wanna run for the border.”
At his expanded description, Laine smiled and added, “With fresh mango salsa and lime juice...muy bueno.
She looked up and hobbled a step towards his chair, the conversation had started to flow more naturally as it had before, the tension she felt somewhat easing. Laine gestured to her sneaker clad foot, “I’d go with you but I’m not running anywhere today. Bring me back a sombrero, the kind with the little pom poms.”
“Only the best for you.” He smiled at her as he leaned back in his chair. The events of the night before grabbed and clawed at his attention but he made an effort to push them back, reaching for better, “Where would you go? Anywhere.”
Laine tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, then grinned, “I had thought Fiji but Mexico sounds so good now. I think I’d like to visit somewhere different, maybe colder. Finland..maybe, my dad’s family is Finnish. But I don’t think pickled herring or whatever they eat could beat fish tacos.”
She laughed, glancing over at him, “I don’t know really, maybe France. Visit Paris to say I went there then be disgusted by all the tourists and light out for some small unknown village and drink local wine and travel around the French countryside in early summer. Rent a bike and take a picnic, stay in a chateau.”
Her green eyes twinkled at the idea, lavender filled fields and ancient stone houses. And no weird shit. “I guess that’s probably pretty basic, but it sounds nice.”
Donnelley watched her as she stared out at the sunrise, or beyond it to those green fields of France where he could see her smiling as she walked the streets of Paris, tasting wine, and lounging in a field of grass where no signs of man would spring up for miles. Didn’t he say he wished he could have ridden his motorcycle across Europe a time ago? He took his eyes off of her and looked out where her gaze was, the hills not seeming too sinister for a time. “I’d like that.” He near whispered, before he caught himself and continued, “It’d be a nice break. Maybe sometime soon we’ll have what we want.”
His hushed tone caught her attention and she looked at him, not quite catching what he said before he continued. Laine nodded, “It would be nice. Maybe hop over to Switzerland or the Netherlands. Just somewhere far away from here. Soon...”
Unwillingly her thoughts turned to the murder, the film and the mystery of Blackriver. Laine moved over to Donnelley, standing within reaching distance and looked at him, “‘We have miles to go before we sleep.’ I just remembered that line, you know I loved poetry and literature in school, if it wasn’t for...well...”
She noticed her cigarette had burned down, the length of ashes hanging precariously and she flicked them, taking the last drag. “If it wasn’t for the path set for me, I might have majored in that.”
Laine grinned, then crushed the butt of the Djarum under her sneaker, “Then I’d not be here and I wouldn’t have met you and all of our team. Nor had an actual career.”
She stooped with a swift movement to pick it up, palming the filter to toss it away inside. “I’m sorry,” she said suddenly, then shook her head. “It was nice...you know, dreaming for a little while.”
“Ain’t it?” He said, smile fading a tick before a thought crossed his mind and pulled him back to the waking world. He hadn’t gotten the check-in from Laurie and Gwen. “Oh, fuck.”
He stood with some purpose and frantically checked his pockets for his phone, finding it wasn’t there. He rushed inside, leaving the front door open and he snatched his phone up. No messages. Nothing. Maybe those two assholes had just forgotten or…
He dialed the number to the sat-phone, having to erase a wrong digit a couple times for his rushed fingers struggling to keep up with his panicked mind. Finally, he got it right and pressed it to his ear. It picked up. When he heard nothing for a few seconds he hesitated to speak. “Laurie?” He ventured, nothing. “Gwen? Can you hear me?”
Maybe they weren’t in a spot where the reception was good. Mountains blocking the signal. Something. He opened his mouth to try calling out at them again but a voice like a chorus of whispers came through underneath static, “Come and see…”
The line went dead.
He looked at his phone, pressed the home button and it only showed him that it had died. It was at least at half battery last night and there was no way it would’ve drained so quickly. He set his phone down and stepped back, his hand on his forehead, his eyes vacant at the floor.
Laine followed him, not quite sure what was making him worry until she heard him ask for Laurie. The Drone team that had gone into the woods, cocksure and packed with PB&J sandwiches. She stared at his expression as the phone call ended, feeling a prickle crawl across her scalp. “What happened?”
“Donnelley?” she asked again, stepping closer to him when he did not respond. “What the hell happened?”
Laine touched his cheek, trying to look him in the eyes, her fingers light against his two toned beard. “It’s bad. Fuck...”
Turning away, she felt the cold grip of panic trying to seize her up as she called out, “Tom! Justin!”
Tom woke up thinking about the events of the night before. He was thinking about his sister. The Boston PD and Mass State CPAC never did find who kidnapped Meghan. It was one of those things that has haunted him since he was 12 years old. It was one of the main reasons he became a police officer. On the anniversary of her death, or the anniversary of when Boston Police found her corpse, he pulls out her cold case file and read it cover to cover. He hasn’t given up, but there is very little evidence or leads to go on.
He rubbed his eyes, dispelling the sleepy seeds from the corner of his eyes. He dragged his legs off the edge of the bed and felt a throbbing headache on both sides of his head. It took some effort, but he dragged himself to a standing position and stumbled to the bathroom to relieve himself and take some Tylenol. He returned to the room and began the process of getting dressed. He pulled on the same green tactical trousers he wore yesterday, but opted for the grey T-shirt.
Justin shocked awake in a cold sweat. He came out of whatever hell he was in with his heart pounding. He shot up in bed in an instant, his mind racing. Mortars? Where was the goddamn shelter, it was-
His eyes traced the features of the room, his brain struggling to catch up and remember just where he was.
“Good morning, Sleepy head,” Tom chided Mr. Clark as he tied his boots.
“Gh-” Justin tried to speak, to respond. His mouth was bone dry, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. A moment of contemplation, and he finally mustered a response in a dry, scraggled voice. “Ffffuck.”
“You need some water?” Tom asked. “I have a bottle of whiskey if you’d prefer that?”
“No.. I’m- ah- I’m good.” Justin swung his legs out over the side of the bed slowly. “Did- did I dream someone calling me? Or was it real?” He inquired as he went for a pair of jeans folded semi-neatly nearby the bed.
“I heard nothing, but then I had a pretty deep sedative last night,” Tom admitted. “It may have been a dream.
“Right.” Justin stood as he wriggled into the pair of jeans. No sooner had he done that than an unmarked maroon t-shirt was thrown over his head. Socks, check. He slipped on his favorite ATAC boots right after.
“Well, I’m going to head downstairs. I don’t smell eggs and bacon like yesterday, but maybe I can cook us up something to eat,” Tom added. He headed for the door. Once in the doorway he heard someone yell. “That sounds like Dr. Laine,” Tom spoke at Justin. “It sounds like she just yelled for the both of us. Hurry up!” Tom headed for the stairs and marched downstairs quickly. He found Donnelley near the counter at the kitchen.
When he entered the room after descending the staircase, he asked, “What’s up?” Tom was curious why the doctor called.
Justin was right behind, signs of his bedtime distress still plastered on his face as he appeared in the room.
“Laurie and Gwen missed their check-in. No SITREP, nothing.” Donnelley didn’t even turn to them as he spoke, just stood there, one arm wrapped around his waist and the other rubbing his forehead, ‘Come and see’ echoing again and again in his mind, “Fuck. Something’s wrong.”
He pushed off the counter and nodded at the two men, “Full gear, get outside ASAP. We’re going for a hike.”
“Roger that, boss,” Tom responded and moved back up the stairs. He grabbed his Assault vest, still set up as it was yesterday. He pulled the M4 sling over his head, checking to insure the weapon was on Safe. The SIG was back in its right thigh holster and he put the tactical helmet on his head before grabbing a few more cigars sliding them in a pocket. He was ready for a hike, heading toward the front door as instructed by Mr. Donnelley.
Justin similarly rushed up the stairs, his instinct kicking in as he pulled pieces of gear from his duffel under his bed. He traded the t-shirt for a UBAC but otherwise kept the jeans. He fastened his JPC vest hastily, thumping a fist against the hard plates. He hooked the straps of his helmet around one of the PALS loops, letting it hang as he affixed a multicam baseball cap on his head. Then onto the guns. The Mk. 18 was a beast of a weapon, an M4 frame updated with all the best parts that money could buy outside the Army itself. Slamming home a magazine, he didn’t bother chambering a round as he threaded the sling around his torso. Sliding his SIG into a holster and collecting both his knives, he stuffed magazines into accessory pouches; his go-bag became a patrol ruck. As he descended the stairs, he’d went from washed-up hillbilly to elite operator.
Laine watched them roll into motion, practiced and smooth, not like her own jerking heart. She glanced at Donnelley, his face still drawn and pale. He looked suddenly older, the carelines etched deeper and she waited until the men as vanished up the stairs.
"You know what you'll find," she said quietly, putting a gentle hand on his arm and despite her gut fear of what she suspected might be waiting she said, "I'm coming with you."
They might have the guns but she knew crime scenes, she understood men that killed like this. At least she hoped she did.
Donnelley folded his arms and hung his head, nodding in agreement. He already knew what happened, or the gist. It wouldn’t hit him until he saw it. And he needed to. Leaving anything open to wonder at years down the line wasn’t something Donnelley did. In a profession that made him witness the unreal and the unknown, Donnelley dealt in reality and absolutes. “I gotta get ready.”
He went for the stairs, leaving Laine’s gentle hand behind him as he gathered his tools of the trade.
Laine watched Tom and Justin, now grim faced and armed to the teeth. She closed her eyes for a moment and hoped to whatever might be out there that this was Gwen and Laurie's idea of a prank.
"Wait, you guys haven't eaten," Laine said, looking for something to do as they readied.
“You have any more of those PB&Js?” Tom asked.
"I can make some real quick, and there's protein bars," she moved quickly, ignoring the twinge of discomfort in her foot. Cabinets slammed open and closed as she whipped together half a dozen PB&Js, spreading lumps of peanut butter and spilling some strawberry jam in the process. Her mind focused she was able to put aside speculation of what waited.
Tom grabbed a few sandwiches and protein bars, stuffing these into his butt pack. “Thanks, Heather.” He took one of the sandwiches and began eating it as he resumed heading to the door.
Donnelley took a deep breath at the top of the stairs, fully kitted with his Honey Badger dangling from its single point sling. A pull from his flask had steadied his hands as he got ready, and as he descended the stairs it seemed the stress was seeping deep under his skin to be hidden away in some compartment at the back of his brain. He donned a grin as he sauntered into the kitchen, one hand clutched the rim of his tactical helmet, NODs fixed to the front of it. The other stuffed a cigarette between his grinning lips. “Hot damn, look’it these badasses.” He rapped his knuckles on Justin’s backplate, “I’m feelin’ dangerous now.”
He stepped back, heading for the door, but paused at the open door. He looked to Laine, his face grim for a second until he cracked his smirk, “I trust mine are cut in triangles.”
"Only the best," she said, flipping the knife to make a quick cross cut.
Laine smiled at Tom and Justin, the hint of worry in her green eyes unable to be completely hidden. "You guys are armored up, I'd better drive to test the durability."
>BLACKRIVER FORESTS >0600...///
Donnelley had made sure to wake up Foster before they set out in the Chevy Suburban, stuffing their gear in the back before the three men stowed themselves in the back seat, squeezed in amongst each other. The closer they got to Laurie and Gwen’s infil point the less and less idle chit chat or small talk came up. By the time the Suburban lurched to a stop in the logging roads to the mountains, they all sat grim faced and ready.
They exited the Suburban and as they donned their rucks, Donnelley spoke in a voice unlike his previous cheeky banter, “I’m sure I don’t have to tell either of you this, but we’re goin’ to treat this forest like hostile territory. Light and sound discipline, no smokin’, we communicate by whisper or by hand and arm signals. Make sure you bring your NODs, I’m not leavin’ ‘til we find Laurie and Gwen or the sun fucks off.” Donnelley patted his Honey Badger, “We don’t know what is in this forest with us, but if it was quiet enough to get Laurie and Gwen before they could call then it’s quiet and it’s good. This ain’t no Tora Bora, so your signal to shoot is when I shoot. If you see somethin’ I don’t, you signal for a halt and tell me about it so we’re all on the same page where to put our rounds down range.”
“That means anythin’ and anyone. I’m comin’ out of this forest. We make sure whatever’s in that forest don’t.” Donnelley checked over his weapons and laid eyes on his men, “Justin, you’re takin’ point, I’m bringin’ up the rear. Heads on a swivel, boys. Good copy?”
"Aye." Justin nodded, fitting his olive green OpsCore over his head. He flipped down the monocular NOD on the RHINO mount, giving it a quick test as he secured the battery. He ran a gloved hand down the taped-down wire which ran from his headset to his radio. Pulling his Mk. 18 up by its single-point sling, he pressed the stock into his shoulder and pulled back the charging handle, guiding the bolt back forward with a satisfying 'click-clack'! A test of the laser-light and he was ready to go.
As Donnelley was heard and understood, he came around to the passenger side window, tapping a knuckle on it for Foster to roll it down. Once it was down halfway, he smirked at the other man, “Don’t suppose we can request a Predator drone overhead? Maybe get Coral Nomad teams as QRF?”
Foster just shrugged, miming tied hands, “I’m not planning for it to get bad enough we have to convince someone to drop a JDAM on Whitetree.”
“Could we?” Donnelley rose a brow. Foster shooed him and Donnelley caught eyes with Laine. “I’ll be back pretty soon. Just goin’ for a walk with some friends, s’all.”
Laine leaned forward to look around Foster, she was stuffed into borrowed Kevlar and her Glock on her hip, tactical helmet in her lap. Just in case. "You be careful, stay out of that poison oak," she said, playing along but her gaze was intent and worried.
“Yes, dear, I shall.” Donnelley smirked before he looked back at Foster, “Night time. I’ll call you. We don’t come back by zero-hour, you hightail it out of here and get CORAL NOMAD on the phone. Have the president authorize a nuke to get dropped on Blackriver.”
“Yes, Sarn’t.” Foster saluted.
“Don’t salute in the field, dick.” Donnelley gave a smug grin and patted the car door before he walked back to the others and nodded, all business. “Are we ready, gentlemen?”
"Ready." Justin nodded, having returned his Mk. 18 to sit diagonally across his chest via it's single-point sling. A single-hole olive green balaclava obscured his face, only his two green eyes visible, which were soon also covered with a pair of Oakley combat glasses. A microphone stalk stretched from one side of his integral headset, which was earpro and comms all in one.
Tom put his assault vest and thigh holster back on with the Sig in the holster and all his equipment in the butt pack or attached to the vest. He put his low tactical helmet which looked similar to Mr Clark’s olive green Ops Core Helmet. He checked his NODs to make sure they were working properly. The M4 sling went over his head to the left shoulder so the weapon slung down on his right side. Tom pulled the magazine out of the well and pulled the charging handle back, locking it to the rear. He inspected the chamber, which was clear and then reinserted the magazine. Next, he unlocked the bolt, which slid forward, placing a round in the chamber. The weapon remained on safe until needed.
Major Tom Stewart, USMC intended to follow Ranger Clark along their path up the mountain. He would remain roughly ten meters behind his point man; closer if the foliage became congested. “Roger that Mr. Donnelley. I’ll watch Mr. Clark’s back and keep an eye on you too.” Tom did not smile. He would be as serious as a mother fucking heart attack here on in.
Donnelley nodded and motioned for the two men to follow him. From then on, the only sound they would share between each other were their boots crunching against the packed dirt and gravel of the mountain trail. Three men willing, waiting, and ready to pull Laurie and Gwen out of a bad situation. And failing that, eager to visit violence upon their enemy. Like Donnelley had said, they packed light, probed deep, and when the time came - Struck goddamn hard.
Their first destination was the hide point that Laurie most likely would have pointed out. It came to them after a half hour as a high ridge resting above the trails, standing rocky, jagged vigil over the trees. From here, Laurie and Gwen would have had a commanding view of the forests in Blackriver. There were the tell-tale signs that Laurie and Gwen were here. The makings of a campfire had been propped up, but as Donnelley looked closer at it there was no ash or ember. He looked around the rest of the hide, noting the disheveled look of the place. The tents were toppled and there were fresh-turned scrapes in the dirt hinting a scuffle.
His eyes narrowed at the camouflage netting over the laser microphone. It remained upright on its tripod, turning in another direction, the drone still sat underneath its netting. The laptop was still there, as well as all the other pieces of hardware the two-person Drone Team had taken with them. Donnelley stepped over and opened up the laptop. No recordings of flights had been made. The drone had not even left the hide.
Around one of their tents, the boot prints became more erratic. Scrapes in the earth and bounding steps. Ten meters away, three spent 7.62 casing rested on top of the dirt. As expected, they were not warm, cold to the touch Donnelley found as he removed a hard-knuckle glove to pluck one of the casings up. He dropped it back, replacing his glove. Laurie was shooting at someone. Returning fire, maybe, but as he looked back to where Laurie had been standing he could see no visible bullet holes coming back at him. A few meters forward, one of his rounds had punched through a young tree, another pile of casings between its roots there, boot prints heading from the first pile to this tree. He was advancing on someone. He motioned for Tom and Justin, speaking as low as he could while still trying to let them hear what he had to say, “Search around the camp, look for Gwen’s 5.56 casings. Laurie was advancing on somebody deeper in the forest.”
The farther Donnelley tracked the casings and bootprints, the more the picture came together. He looked up and took in the rest of the scene, his head staying down so far. Trees were splintered in the distance, bending in the places they were broken. He walked further, his eyes scanning the spaces between the trees, looking for movement. Bending down to look at a dip in the ground, big as his upper body, he swore under his breath. Whatever they were shooting at wasn’t going to be bothered by Laurie and Gwen’s bullets but it had been retreating deeper into the forest.
Pulling them away from camp. Exhausting their ability to get a sense of their surroundings and regroup, getting rid of the possibility of calling for help. This thing was huge. And intelligent. He lifted his eyes to scan the trees again, suddenly not feeling like the hunter anymore. Tom and Justin regrouped with him and he nodded. They would continue on and follow the tracks and broken trees.
Their slow and methodical advance took them through a long stretch of hard country they tackled with soft swears and hard steps. They were assured and also burdened by the fact the size of what they were tracking would be heard coming, at least. It was easy to track. But it was not easy to kill. They pressed on through overgrown game trails and forest roads until the sun began to set, even. Their NODs lit their way from the time the long shadows of the mountains swallowed them.
Then they came to a place where Donnelley knew they would come. But it had to be seen. Had to. He knew it was them from the weapons and tatters of clothing. Gwen’s Air Force uniform, or rags of it, and Laurie’s weapon. Laurie’s legs were a meter away from him, his chest split open with what looked like an axe, but Donnelley knew was something more brutal.
Farther afield it looked like something had blown the trees apart. More huge tracks, a set heading away and then a set heading back. Somebody had set explosives to catch the thing, but he knew neither Laurie or Gwen would’ve had the time to set a trap like that in the midst of a firefight. Donnelley picked up a piece of cord, found the blackened timber of the trees self-evident that somebody else had entered the picture. There were bootprints around as well, two more sets. Heading towards the scene and leading away into the underbrush. “We’ve got some unaccounted for guests.”
As Joe conducted his investigative surveillance of the scene where a fight occurred involving Laure and Gwen, Tom scanned the horizon and peered through the underbrush for any signs someone might be watching them. He pulled security while their team leader did his job. He viewed the surrounding terrain in various hues of green looking for an unanticipated heat signature that would show up as a bright green spot.
It was easy to track where the two people were headed. They had somehow earned the ire of this great beast and it had chased them long into the hills. The shine of casings told the men it was a fighting retreat, but a frenzied one. Before long, the trail cut south and led them to what looked like a cabin, or what may have been one at some point before nature set its teeth into it, the forest intent on swallowing it whole. From Donnelley’s NODs, he could see no movement, but the bootprints and splintered trees were enough to tell him that the fight had stopped here. Donnelley surveyed the area with his NODs, “Lotta broken trees and shit.” He pointed to an area where a huge crater had been blown into the earth, as well as toppled a couple trees, “They had some decent firepower, looks like. Let’s move. Stick close. Tom, watch those windows on the left side of the cabin from the treeline, Justin and I can stack up on the front door.”
Tom used the crook of a tree to steady his aiming point and scanned the windows providing overwatch for Joe and Justin as they advanced toward the door. He could see nothing inside the window; just the blackness of night.
With that, they moved in unison to their spots like a well-oiled machine. Justin and Donnelley bounded across the thirty meters from treeline to front door, their steps quick and quiet as the breezes. Donnelley took one side of the door while Justin took the opposite. Donnelley held up three fingers… two fingers… one finger…
>THE NIGHT BEFORE >BLACKRIVER FORESTS >WORKING GROUP BLACKBEARD SAFEHOUSE >2300HRS...///
“I’m picking up some weird signals.” Mark said. He was a SIGINT collector in the Army’s ISA working in Somalia before The Program picked him up. The short, bearded Korean man wiped his brow and sighed, “Baby Boy’s going batshit over this stretch of country.”
Baby Boy was one of two hand-launched drones Mark procured from the Army and upgraded with all manner of Hollywood spy shit by The Program’s Office of Logistics. The other, named Baby Girl, was without node for picking up radio, cellphone, radiation and a menagerie of other detectable signals. A small expense compared to some of the other things The Program would manage to get indefinitely loaned out to them for the vague purpose of supplying ‘counterterrorism task forces.’ Clif Boone, the team’s Designated Marksman and former sniper for the FBI’s HRT, and a Green Beret before that, removed the two-setting NVG/IR monocular from his eye as he looked out over the cliff their little cabin Safehouse was perched on. The sharpshooter piped up from around a mouthful of Ranger bar from his recently devoured MRE, “You like naming your shit weird.”
“GPS still works though,” Mark said, unperturbed by Clif’s comment, “I’m penning the coordinates down so you and David can check it out. We need eyes on this place.”
“Are you asking, or is Bob?” Clif sighed.
“Bob.” Mark tossed the notebook with the coordinates to Clif, “Asshole.”
“I’ll take Rambo with me.” Clif nodded over to David, Rambo being his nickname for David, knowing of his recent recruitment and the cowboy nature of the man in question, “You good with that, Rambo?”
"Yeah, I'm good with it." Dave picked himself up off the ground where he'd sat cross-legged, pouring over 101 Medicinal and Edible Plants. The sub-title marked it as the Appalachian edition; Dave had a copy of the Ozark edition at home, and had given another to Mal. He tucked the book into his pack and slung it over his shoulders, tightening up the straps before slinging his rifle. The weapon was one from his own armory, an AK platform in a NATO caliber.
"We goin' out just us?" He asked, brass-checking the weapon before letting it hang and digging out a can of Long Cut from a cargo pocket.
“Gotta leave somebody to watch over my favorite Korean.” Clif shrugged, growling to his feet and stretching his arms up, his back rattling off a series of pops. “Holy shit.”
Clif grunted, slipping his plate carrier over his head and plopping his helmet on, slapping it a couple times. “Let’s git.”
Clif waved David along with him as he stepped through the rickety door of their cabin and out onto the porch. Bear came around the corner, just finished with zipping up his pants. The huge SEAL bent down and hefted up his FN LMG, “Where y’all headed?” He said, turning his head and letting loose a thick stream of chew spit.
“Out. Stay with Mark.” Clif pointed back at the cabin without breaking stride. The long hike was silent to the coordinates that Mark had penned down. Rough country and overgrown game trails traced their jagged path through the mountains. Clif was no slouch when it came to rucking through the backwoods and to David’s credit he kept up almost effortlessly. It was an hour before Clif held up a hand for them to stop on the trail they’d been hiking for a while.
“You hear that?” Clif whispered silently enough it was almost lost to the night air. There were no animals. None. Which made it easier to pick out the soft sound of gunfire somewhere in the hills. With how far away it sounded, it would be nigh impossible for Clif and David to orient themselves the true direction it was coming from. Vaguely east, Clif pulling out his compass and listening closely.
"Well that probably ain't a good sign," Dave said dryly. He swallowed hard. The first time he tried dip, he and his brother had snuck off into the woods. They'd brought a few beers they stole from their father's liquor cabinet, intent on a little youthful rebellion. Big Joe tracked them by the spit trail, and gave them both a thrashing to reinforce the lesson. Now he gutted his dip.
"So I guess we're headed East," he said. "Unless you think we should head back and grab the boys. Go into it with some numbers."
Clif frowned deep, looking from the east to where the cabin would be and back again. He took his moment, “I’ll update them. Tell them to catch the fuck up, we’ll get eyes on.”
Clif got Mark and Bear on the horn, told them what they heard and to double-time it to their position. By the time they were close enough to hear the pops on the air and the flashes from muzzles the two of them were panting as they lay prone in the bushes. Their distance from the gunfight let them have a wide view of the field. What was off about it was that there were no muzzle flashes opposite the other two. The pattern of the flashes and the report of gunfire told Clif these were professionals. The longer they lay there, Clif and David felt the soft vibrations of something. Paired with the trees splintering and looking like they were being shoved out of the way by something told Clif it was footsteps. Big ones. The ones with the guns were advancing in bounding overwatch, but why did they feel the need to cover their partner from?
Almost as if whatever it was answered him, there was a roar on the wind. Something like cattle being slaughtered before there were screams, more human. No more gunfire. Just the footsteps, and a low thrum of a growl. The trees made way for it and they listened until it was gone. Clif turned to David, “Fuck me.” He whispered incredulously, “I almost don’t even want to fuck with this. Your call, we go or wait for the others?”
Dave shot him a look. "You fuckin' with me right now?" He asked. "I left my RPG back in Arkansas. That thing sounds huge, and it just wrecked shop on a pack of shooters. My country ass votes we get back-up." He held his breath for a moment, then muttered a curse. "After we check casualties, I can't just fuckin' leave 'em."
“I don’t even know who the fuck them is.” Clif said. It was silence between them for a few moments, “Fuck, alright, Rambo. Let’s go do this.”
Clif rummaged around in a pocket and his hand returned with his monocular. The IR setting painted the trees in greys and, lo and behold, two splotches of white. There was a spray of white along a tree as well. They were dead. Bad kind of dead. The prints of whatever attacked them were big, its prints standing out as huge dips in the earth, each the size of a man’s torso. “Jesus fuck.” He said, passing over the monocular, “Take a look.”
"Christ in heaven," Dave murmured. He dropped to a knee, eyeing the prints. They were sunk deep into the loamy earth of the forest floor, pressed firmly enough he could see the ridges of the toes. He gave Clif a wide-eyed look.
"This thing… we're talking ten, fifteen thousand pounds. Feet this wide, weight's spread out. This thing is fucking massive, man." He passed the monocular back; his AK suddenly felt nigh impotent. "I don't have the kind of ordinance to reliably kill something like this, even in my pack."
He looked in the direction the thing had gone.
"Let's go, we need to move. You want me to set a toe-popper for him?"
“I’ll check out the bodies. You do that, maybe it comes back this way and we can hear about it. We’re gonna need some high-vis shit on this low-vis op to put this thing down. This place is more fucked than the Ozarks.” Clif looked to the huge tracks and shook his head, “Which I have no goddamn clue if they’re even going to approve that Hollywood bullshit after what we pulled in your stomping grounds.” Clif shook his head at the growing amount of bullshit they’d have to deal with now, “Seven fucking tons.”
Clif turned to go check out the bodies, muttering, “Get a goddamn C-130 gunship in the air for this sonofabitch.”
"If they don't we're fucked, unless I can rig something up." Dave dug into his pack, coming up a moment later with a roll of electrical tape and a spool of snare wire. He eyed the creature's path, found two likely trees, and went to work.
Animals, especially big ones, preferred walking ground they'd already covered. It made for less resistance, and almost universally animals chose the path of least resistance unless they were on the run or on the attack. He took every frag grenade he had, four of them, and began strapping them together with the tape. He added a flashbang for good measure and then taped the entire contraption to a tree at hip-height, securing it to a thick branch with the rest of the tape.
"You really think we might get airpower?" He asked as he ran the snare wire through the pins on the grenades. He'd placed the explosives so that all of the spoons were free, and ran the wire in a quick weave through the pin rings. The other end he spooled out and attached firmly to a tree across the monster's trail.
"Done. Let's scat."
“Hold a moment,” Clif called to David, waving him over, “The hell you make of this shit?”
In front of Clif were the two bodies, one smaller than the other. Their weapons were NATO, an M14 next to one and an M4 next to the other. And as David looked them over, he could clearly see what Clif did.
They had absolutely no skin. One was missing an arm, the other had its legs amputated from the knees and his chest split open. Clif hoped to God they’d died instantly. “I’ve seen some shit, but this is a special type of shit.”
Dave looked over the bodies critically. "Ain't seen nothing like that before," he said. He sniffed, shook his head, and shouldered his pack.
"Look, we need to scoot, hoss," Dave said. He looked nervously down the path the beast had taken. "Ain't any guarantee the frags are gonna stop whatever that thing is. Shit's more of a spicy early warning system. I don't want to be standin' anywhere nearby when that thing gets an ankle full of shrapnel."
“Right, yeah.” Clif turned away from the bodies and followed David back the way they came. They didn’t get twenty steps into the underbrush when they heard it again. Or felt it, more like. “Holy shit.” Clif pushed David ahead of him, “Get to the others and tell them we’ve got a big one paying us a visit. Go!”
Even by the few moments Clif spent talking the footsteps and crashing trees were loud enough to be heard in their peripherals now. Clif and David made their retreat, Clif turning back every now and then just to see if he could see what was chasing them. And hopefully he could distract the big sonofabitch long enough for David to slip away quick.
Dave released an impressive stream of creative backwoods profanity. Then he spun on his heel, tucked his dip tight into his cheek, and ran.
He moved as fast as he dared, high-stepping to keep his feet free of entangling obstacles, his rifle tucked tight to his body with his left arm. His heart was hammering, but he kept his gaze solidly ahead, wishing like hell he'd saved one of those goddamn frags.
From behind him he could hear Clif curse, the easy sound of reports of gunfire from his rifle. Three bursts of automatic fire and Clif was gone, taking the thing with him as the huge steps seemed to fade in the distance with yet more angry pops of Clif’s M4...///
>FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER...///
Bear and Mark had been taking a knee at the position Clif had pegged him and David would be at. He and Bear were chatting, the bigger man’s words coming from around a protein bar. His eyes screwed up when he saw something come crashing through the trees and brush, raising his LMG while Mark had his M4 up in a flash. They seemed to relax when they saw who it was. Bear spoke first, “Where’s Clif?” He asked, “What happened? We got here and we’ve been pinging Clif since, dude hasn’t responded.”
Dave ducked his head as he crashed into view, slaloming around a tree. He tried to slow down, couldn't, and settled for dropping into a slide, skidding to a stop baseball-style with a twinge of the knees and another burst of profanity.
"Fucking contact!" He roared, rolling to a painful kneeling position. His safety clacked off and he scanned the treeline, his barrel bobbing slightly as he worked to catch his breath. "Contact, big, Clif is gone, killed a couple others, dunno who. It's fucking big."
“Wait, what the fuck?” Mark asked, eyes going from David to the treeline. Despite his confusion, if David was spooked, he kept his M4 up at the ready. “Alright, let’s get back to the cabin. Tell us what happened, and we can see if I can find Clif with my drone.”
“We need to go-“
“We need to make sure we can get Clif without risking our own asses floundering around the damn dark.” Mark held up his hand, interrupting Bear. “Come on. Unless you want to risk it there, David.”
Dave thought for a moment while he caught his breath. "We gotta fall back," he said finally. "We're talking seven tons of somethin' angry. It killed two shooters, tore 'em apart. Ain't no way Clif made it. He's either hidin' and we'll find him later, or he's dead. This thing don't leave walking wounded."
He stood, wincing as his knees cracked. That sprint through the forest with gear on his back was going to take its toll later, he could already tell.
"Come on. Move quick, fucker wasn't far behind me. We get back in time I might be able to set somethin' for it, but we gotta roll."
>...///
They made it to the Safehouse in good time, moving as quick as they could through the trees and underbrush until they spotted their little home in the forest. “Fucking shit, man,” Bear growled, “Bob doesn’t have to stay in this fucking forest, but we do?”
“He had to report to Headquarters.” Mark shook his head. “Get the fuck inside, Bear. Where’s the M2?”
“I’ve got it, it’s in the living room.” Bear bounded inside the house to retrieve it so they could set some kind of perimeter up.
“Set it at one of the windows!” Mark called after him. “David, what do you got? Please tell me you have something in your bag of tricks to fuck this thing up.”
Dave grabbed a heavy black duffel bag, hiking it up onto his shoulder.
"Keep me covered," he said. "I'm gonna plan a Fourth of July party." He paused in the doorway. "Hey...I ain't kidding when I say this thing is bad. If I start screamin'... Just hit it with that fifty. Don't worry about watching your fire. Rather take a bullet than deal with this bastard up close. Alright?"
He jogged to the treeline, to the area they'd exited from. He hadn't bothered trying to hide their trail; it wouldn't have been possible anyway. And he didn't want to. He wanted that trail, wanted that monster to just stroll along after them. It made his job easier.
Dave dropped the bag and dug into its contents, laying out a few bricks of C4, their detonators, and other accoutrements. Beside that he added three Claymore antipersonnel mines and two red-star-parachute flares.
His heart pounded, but he forced himself to work calmly. The flares he rigged to two tripwires, a simple setup to let them know the bastard had arrived. The Claymores he rigged at three levels; one at the ground, one set into the crotch of a tree at waist level, and one propped at head height, all pointed to roughly cover the "X" of the flares.
Time was wasting, so the C4 he simply slapped on the ground, armed, and then covered with leaves. While it was a sloppy job that wouldn't trick even an amateur soldier, he hoped it was enough to deceive a mindless killing beast. If that's what it was.
The last step of the trap was bait; human or animal, the bait had to be something the target wanted. With people that was usually something intangible, something goal-oriented. People wanted to get into something, go somewhere, or find cover; the bait was a door, a hallway, a culvert or rock wall. With an animal, especially a predator, things were simpler.
Dave took his knife, gritted his teeth, and then jerked the blade across the flesh of his left forearm. The blood welled and he slung his hand about, spattering blood on the ground and trees nearest his trap. Then he jogged back to the cabin, slamming the door shut behind him.
"Trap's set," he said, tossing his empty bag aside. He moved to the window and set his detonators nearby, within reach. "When the flares pop, hit the deck. Don't wanna be by a window when this party starts."
“Don’t wanna be by a window,” Bear put some oomph behind his arm, working the bolt and chambering the first of the huge .50 BMG rounds into the M2- which was situated at a window, “Goddamn it.”
Mark let go a rueful laugh at that, a growl in the silence, one eye closed and M4 pointing at window of the east side of the cabin. Bear and his M2 could light up whatever came from the west and he trusted David to watch the approach to his trap from the south. Just as everybody’s hearts were pounding the loudest, it turned quiet. The moments ticked by at a snail’s pace. Mark could only hear his breathing and his labored heart pumping adrenaline, his jaw set and hands ready. “How big?” Mark asked, his question drifting on the winds to David, “You get a look at it?”
"Not even once," Dave said. "Got footprints is all. From the depth, when you compare how broad the feet are? Lookin' at no shit like… Ten, fifteen thousand pounds at the top end. And the way it tore apart the bodies…"
He shuddered, blocking out the memory of both the corpses and the roar of whatever it was. "I know the guys it killed were putting a lot of rounds out. And we know Clif at least was a pro. So…" He shook his head, realizing he was drifting, letting his nerves get the best of him. "So no. I don't know what it looks like, or how big it really is. But I put three Claymores and four pounds of C4 out there, so if it can walk that off we might as well shoot ourselves."
A lonely breeze only added to the rising anxiety in Mark’s bones. David’s talk didn’t help, but he couldn’t blame the man. He heard Bear swallow hard even from how far they were apart, other ends of the cabin, “Downer.”
“Everyone shut the fuck up.” Mark shot back, giving a thick swallow himself and rolling his shoulders, “Get your NODs on.”
Mark pulled his down as he spoke, lighting up the perimeter in shades of staticky green. The minutes ticked by silently. These binocular goggles didn’t give him the field of view of the quad-NODs the Army gave him in Somalia, but neither did the window. He leaned at the waist, slicing the pie on his field of view from the window and still saw nothing. Fucking nothing. He whispered into his comms headset, “Anybody got visual on anything?”
“Negative.” Bear’s rumble came over from his right ear.
More silence. No sounds from the trees. Not even an owl or a bat. The rustle of the trees made him shiver in turn. They were alone out here, and White Tree was the closest civilization, if that shit place could even be called such. “David? Movement?”
"Nothin'," Dave said. His eyes were glued to the trail, straining for detail through the green tint of the NVG's. His rifle lay across his lap, the explosive triggers on the floor within easy reach, his hands on his weapon where they wouldn't set off the bombs with an accidental fidget. He was breathing slowly, rhythmically, keeping cool, staying calm, just slow breathing -
"Wait," he said. He saw it again, a subtle but definite movement, low to the ground on the trail. It was small, not some rampaging beast. He leaned forward, hands drifting towards his detonators. Then the image resolved itself and he swore.
"Son of a bitch, it's Clif! And he's headin' right for the goddamn bombs!"
Mark snapped his attention to David at the mention of Clif. His eyes went to the window to David and back again, “Can you fucking stop him?” Mark asked. This threw a goddamn wrench in everything. He wasn’t going to leave Clif out there for that thing. “Try to stop him! Don’t break the fucking perimeter, tell him to-to come another direction. Fuck.”
“Help!” Clif’s ragged voice came, “Come on! I need a fucking medic! Bear!”
“Fuck, I gotta-“
“No, you don’t…” Mark cut himself off. He couldn’t break his watch on the eastern approach and neither could anyone else risk going outside to retrieve Clif. What if… “It wants us to get him. Don’t fucking go outside.”
“Please, fuck!” Clif’s cries for help came again. “My fucking leg! I’ll crawl to you, just get me half way there, man!”
“Fuck!” Mark growled, uselessly slamming the toe of his boot against a wall. “Just…”
But he had no ideas. There was nothing any of them could do for Clif save putting a massive hole in their perimeter they’d just set up. Bear was getting antsy, the SEAL medic in him needing to tear across the thirty meters of open ground from the front door to Clif. A deadly thirty meters. “Come on, I can make it, Mark. You know it.”
“That thing… it’s out there, it’s testing us. You think Clif could reach us this quick with a bum leg?” Mark said through gritted teeth, trying to give Bear reason as much as he was trying to give the rest of them.
The entire time he realized he wasn’t watching his side of the perimeter. He turned back to the window and something was off about the picture his NODs were giving him. He lifted them and looked with his own eyes. Had that tree been there be-
Bear heard the window on the east side crash open and something heavy thud to the ground. He took his eyes off of his window to catch a glimpse of Mark’s body and a growing pool of black around his head. There was no gunfire…
As if the sun had suddenly risen red, the entirety of the immediate area around the cabin was bathed in a bright light from David’s flares. They could clearly see Clif become frenzied and crawl frantically for the cabin. The explosion that followed and thumped in David and Bear’s chests told them Clif was now gone with Mark. And David’s entire payload.
The massive trap David had set had been wasted on one of their own. Bear swore under his breath, maybe Mark was right. This thing was smarter than they thought. “Fuck, David. Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Bear screamed impotently.
This was all going to shit. The crash of trees ripped Bear back to the present and like a man watching an Orca through the depths and the wake it left, the towering old growth trees simply cracked and jostled at the beast’s advance, skirting their perimeter and hidden in the trees, a huge black mass. Bear had found his target, “Fuck you!”
The M2 let loose its furious rounds in a cone of fire and drowned the cabin in its loud rhythmic bang. Brass flew everywhere as Bear tracked the movement of the beast through the forest, not even bothering with leading it at this distance. He wasn’t sure if he hit it or not as the beast careened past his cone of vision through the wide window. He stopped firing, standing to heft up the M2 and change position but his window crashed open and he looked down at the numbness in his body.
Out from his solar plexus, a long, thick black chitinous spike had punched straight through the Level III plates in his carrier. He looked up at his comrade, vision growing blurry through his NODs. He let go a gurgling, breathless whimper, “Dave-“
And whatever had grabbed him pulled him through the window, shattering the rest of it as he flew through the glass. A few beats passed as David could hear Bear’s helpless scream, so unlike the burly, bearded DEVGRU Operator. Something flew through the window, a huge mass that hit the wall with a wet thud hard enough to send dust from the rafters as it dropped and rested against the wall. It was Bear, skinned completely with only tatters of his clothing left. A single eye still set in his wet, grinning skull, glassy and lifeless.
A low growl, deep enough for David to feel in his chest resounded through the forest around him. The snapping of twigs of its careful movement and the low growl the only menacing evidence that it was still there. Still waiting to see any more of them.
As the chaos raged Dave did the only thing that made sense - he hit the ground, and lay still. He wasn't a coward. He was a pragmatist. His father instilled in him an insurgent's practical mindset; fight when you can win, run when you can't. You can always come back with more friends and a bigger gun.
Dave knew a losing battle when he saw one. That thing had shrugged off gunfire from half a dozen different men, one of them armed with a fucking deuce. If a .50 wasn't killing it then nothing that Dave had access to was going to. Not with his proverbial load blown out the south treeline.
He rolled onto his back and began to scoot away from the window, his rifle in his hands, ready to lay down enough fire to let him rabbit if something stuck its head in at him.
Nothing came. Nothing else but the thrumming growl and the sounds of its steps in the underbrush, creaking of trees as it weaseled it’s wide berth otherwise carefully through the tight forest. It might have been minutes, maybe hours. It left at some point in the night, the big steps and complaints of trees heralding its retreat, leaving David the sole survivor. But not for any notion of mercy, nor as cruel and human as sending a message.
He listened to it disappear into the trees, resisting the urge to try and sneak a look. Instead he used the reprieve to crawl to the bag full of their extra gear. He helped himself to a few frag grenades, slipping them into his empty pouches, before making his way to the kitchen. There was only one window there, a more defensible position. He lay back down, quietly turned off the safety on his rifle, and settled in to wait for daylight…///
>WORKING GROUP UMBRA >PRESENT NIGHT >2100HRS...///
As soon as his three-finger countdown closed in a fist, Donnelley stepped back, unsheathing his super shorty and stabbing the barrel into the door, right next to the knob. With a loud bang, the knob came apart and Donnelley spun to put his back against the wall again. A good kick sent the door swinging in hard enough to hit the wall on the inside of the cabin, thudding against the wood and shaking as Justin took point with Donnelley close behind.
They kept their rifles trained to their front and moved in unison, right for Donnelley and left for Justin. “Two bodies.” Donnelley called out, knowing Justin saw them too. “Door, front. Moving up.”
Donnelley stepped over one of the bodies, the fact it was completely skinless sticking in his mind. The other one lay in a black pool of blood from a wound in his head, the thirsty and dry wood of the floor stained with what blood it had drank. Brass covered the floor, big spent casings from the M2 sitting destitute in the middle of the living room.
The door looked to be the last room to clear, probably the kitchen at the back of the cabin. Again, Justin and Donnelley took their sides on the door. Donnelley reached out, turned the knob slowly and quietly and threw the door wide open with a good shove. He took a knee and leaned left, offering whoever was on the other side just the smallest picture of him. A sliver of himself, and a gun barrel to meet eyes with.
Tom remained in the woodline watching the exterior of the building. He lowered himself into the prone position and scanned the terrain around him, in front, to the sides and naturally to the front; the cabin Joe and Justin were searching. The temperature outside felt comfortable, maybe low 70s or upper 60s. The soil had that musty smell he often appreciated when being one with the ground.
Dave heard the door breach, the hard, flat bang of a shotgun unmistakable, especially in close quarters. He scooted to the pantry, pulled the door open, and put himself behind it, muzzle towards the door. The hollow-core door wouldn't even slow a bullet down, but concealment was better than nothing.
He heard the rattle of the ķnob, took a breath, and then took a chance.
"Hold fire!" He called leaning into his rifle and putting his own finger on the trigger. "Hold fire! Rather not get shot after all that shit last night."
“We got a live one!” Donnelley spoke from behind his own concealment. He assumed the both of them knew that what they were hiding behind would stop none of the lead they could potentially sling at each other. “Who are you? What do you mean ‘all that shit?’”
Dave paused as he thought things through. He had never been the shiniest apple in the barrel, he knew that. This spy shit was beyond him, and likely always would be. Instead he sighted down his barrel, aiming roughly where he'd heard the voice, and checked that his SLR was set to auto.
"I'm out here on a special…Project," he said. He put a little emphasis on the word and winced at how forced it sounded, even to his amateur ear. "I'd love to tell you all about it, hoss, but I don't know that I can. Don't want to upset Bob, you understand? Unless you might be working on the same kind of Project?"
Donnelley’s eyes went to Justin, mouthing to himself, ‘What?’ He put his eye back on his front sight, leveled right at the other man. “Project?” He asked, the confusion in his voice barely shrouded, “What… you mean a fucking Program? Some kind of Group. That Works together?”
Donnelley grunted, rolling his eyes, “Do the words Working Group mean anything to you, guy?”
"Only if the name BLACKBEARD means somethin' to you." Dave paused and gave a heavy sigh. "Look man, I think it's pretty clear we're all a buncha bad-ass killers or whatever, but I'm gonna level with you - I don't wanna kill you, and I damn sure don't want you to kill me. So can we just share a black helicopter ride outta here before that thing comes back? Cuz I'm all out of ordnance and this thing shakes off grenades and fifties."
“The thing that fucking vivisected my guys?” He thought about the bodies he’d stepped over, “And yours?” Donnelley already knew the answer. If what this guy was saying was true, then he didn’t want to be anywhere near it. Maybe they would have to bring in CORAL NOMAD teams after all. “You can walk?”
"Shit, I can run," Dave said. He peeked around the door, showed his hands, and then stood, stepping into the open.
He'd been through Hell, and looked like it. Even as surefooted as he was, that sprint through the woods had taken a toll. His face was covered when small scratches, and his eyes were shadowed by deep, dark circles. His left hand was a bloody mess where the cut he'd given himself to bait his trap had bled freely, crusting his forearm and knuckles. He moved stiffly, sore from having sat in one spot all night, but he was on his feet and mobile enough for one more hike.
"Whatever that thing is, it's big and it's smart. Real smart, man. It saw right through the trap I set, then picked us off." He shook his head. "We need to move."
Donnelley stood, sidestepping out into the open himself and tentatively lowered his weapon. He frowned at the guy’s warning, “Jesus fucking Christ. Alright.” Into his headset’s mic, he spoke, “Tom, three coming out. We’ve got a friendly. Double-time it to the truck.”
“Roger that,” Tom stood up and joined the group at the cabin. They would walk together to the vehicle for extraction. Tom wasn’t going to be left in these woods alone after what he saw.
“Stay where I can see you. No offense.” Donnelley shrugged, and they were off. The entire way from the cabin they made a steady and shuffling jog through the underbrush and old growth trees to a main trail. A thick lifeline straight to the general area Donnelley had remembered coming in from. They wasted no time with introductions or small talk, everyone knew where they stood and what needed to be done.
They passed the huge tracks, Laurie and Gwen’s bodies. When they broke out into the main trail, Donnelley felt it first. A thump, thump, thump in the earth. “Oh, fuck.” They all shared a glance and were off at a dead sprint and whatever it was roared something fierce and chilling.
Donnelley didn’t dare look back but they could all feel it in the ground, hear it in the crashing trees and the underbrush trampled underneath it’s huge breadth…
[EVERYONE ROLL STAMINA AND DEX]
>BLACKRIVER FORESTS >LAINE AND FOSTER...///
“They’ve been out there for a while…” Foster said more to himself than Laine. He knew Donnelley was a good Agent, always was. Give him a task and he’ll get it done. But this was different, it was almost starting to play out like Chechnya. Foster push checked his 9mm Glock, “They said they were going to come back when it’s night, right?”
Laine sat in the car, watching the trees that rose with the land as it arched back and away from the clearing. Into the dense woods and uphill, not ideal at all; an environment made for concealment, a man could walk right by a hidden danger and not know it. She shifted in her seat, leaning her elbow on the door frame where the window was down. It was quiet, not even the whirr of summer insects or birds and it made her nervous. It was a noticeable silence, one that seemed to be heavy in her ears.
Foster spoke and she turned to look at him. “By dark he said, he would call.”
Her gaze settled on the case officer, studying him for a moment, “You’ve worked with Donnelley before, you know his habits. What’s making you nervous?”
Foster shook his head, eyes slowly sweeping the treeline. He wasn’t used to being in the field, more suited to watching over everything from a Drone’s feed or monitoring the team on his computer. This was different. “Just… Donnelley. Being Donnelley. I’ve worked with him since 2014 and he’s the man I’ve kept in my rotation because of how he is.” Foster turned to Laine, “A stubborn prick. I’m betting we’ll go back to the Safehouse and he’ll just be getting there when we wake up.”
Foster sighed, “That is to say, he’s going to comb every inch of these woods for Gwen and Laurie. If he doesn’t find them, he’s going to find the person that got them and… well, do what Donnelley does. What time is it, speaking of?”
Laine kept her eyes on him, watching his expression then met his gaze when he looked her way. “Not in the business of making arrests,” she made a soft sound between a sigh and a snort, turning away to watch the trees again. “But he’s good at what he does, right? He’s made it this long. He’ll get them back, all of them.”
At his question she took out her phone, “It’s almost nine, uh, twenty one hundred. Sun’s going down.”
The last part was needless, the sun was dropping below the treeline, the slanted light of the late afternoon had fell to dusk, a reddish glow over the tops of the oaks and pine now vanishing as the shadows crept in. Laine sat up, leaning forward slightly over the steering wheel of Suburban, it was getting harder to see as the light faded.
Foster nodded at her confirmation of the time, “None of the military boys are here, you can use civilian time.” Foster chuckled before it guttered out as he watched Laine lean forward as if to look at something. He brought his handgun up to his chest at low-ready, eyes narrowing as he too looked out at the trees, “What is it?”
Laine felt her heart jump, the tall shadow loomed among the tree trunks and even from where she was she felt the menace, or perhaps it was her own fear. She blinked and it was gone, but it left the small hairs on the back of her neck standing.
“I don’t know, something in the trees...maybe it was just a trick of the light,” she said, sinking back in her seat and realized her right hand was on the butt of her Glock.
“Goddamnit, I hate fieldwork.” Foster sighed, eyes a little more nervous in their searching of the treeline. “Fuck, Donnelley, just call and say you’re heading back.”
Foster slowly lowered his handgun back to his lap. He felt naked out here, just sitting in the metal box of the Suburban in a dress shirt, slacks, and a black plate carrier. “So, you’re the Doctor. Psychiatrist, profiler. You like Donnelley as Team Lead?” Foster asked, trying to change the subject but his eyes didn’t stray from the trees.
“I am,” Laine said, keeping her eyes on the forest, watching to see if that shadow would appear again. “Donnelley is...interesting. I think he makes a good team lead. He’s flexible, leads by example and he’s not a typical government type, rigid and by the book. I think that helps when he has to pull together a group coming from different agencies. He’s able to adjust to the personalities and find what drives his people. And he cares. I get that from him, he cares about us and the job. That’s what I’ve gathered anyway, whatever weaknesses he might have I don’t think have taken away from him being an effective leader.”
She glanced at Foster, “I think he’s a good man.”
“I didn’t ask you about that.” Foster snorted at the last bit, but in the end he nodded. “All the years I’ve known Donnelley, he’s been a real goddamn wiseass. But I did put him in charge of this team for a reason.”
“I know he likes you.” Foster rose a brow, looking at Laine for a few beats, “He thinks you’re a good investigator. Told me you tried to pick his brain within the first day of knowing him.”
Foster chuckled, “But that’s the kind of shit he likes. People who play things loose and don’t catch shit for it, don’t end up being idiots. Or worse for everybody, dead idiots.”
“What about the rest of the team?” He asked, “What do you think? Donnelley tolerates some, but he definitely has a preference. I can tell.”
Laine smiled slightly, glancing down at her hands as she recalled that conversation with Donnelley. It was the first but not the last time she would try to pry under that sardonic layer that was presented, not that it was part of her job. He interested her and that was enough reason. At Foster’s next question, Laine breathed out a sigh and thought for a moment, “I haven’t been able to work with all of them equally, but I’ll tell you what I think so far. This is just my current opinion, not a formal analysis. For the record.”
She watched the growing dusk, absent of fireflies that would normally be flickering in the long grass before the treeline. “Tom Stewart, very professional and skilled, he’s been used more for his combat training so far but I’ve talked to him about an outside case and he has a quick mind for procedure, investigation, and evidence. I haven’t had much personal time with him but he’s certainly an asset to this team. Justin Clarke, even less time spent with him but he’s a quiet, polite, professional soldier. He seems confident but not cocky, he knows his business. Definitely a keeper for the team. Mathieu Laurence...well, I think he might be in over his head, to be honest. There’s a certain detachment he’s maintained and when I spoke directly to him to get his help and broke through it he nearly melted down. I fear what might have happened out there.”
Laine gestured with her chin towards the trees, “If he was confronted with something his detachment would not protect him against. If he’s still alive, send him home. He’s not fit for this duty.”
Thumbing the box of Djarums that she left unsmoked, Laine continued, “Serena Gomez, I think is capable but I don’t think she wants this anymore. She’s not checked in and after my contact with her after the last case, she was seeking therapy outside the LAPD. I think she’s struggling and perhaps should be quietly let go and allowed to resume her life as best she can after seeing what she has. Jason Jimenez, another that has not arrived but considering his day job, it’s not a surprise. I think he’s a very capable mind and he’s obviously skilled in combat. But mostly he’s seen things, I’m sure you know more than I about those things he saw and I believe his experience, like Donnelley’s, might be vital to our mission. Those killings...”
She tugged up a black cigarette between her fingers but left it unlit, “Anyway, last and certainly least, Gwen Weissman. Why?”
Laine looked at Foster, “Why the hell was she ever sent anywhere to interact with human beings and a sensitive investigation? If she’s not dead, send her somewhere, anywhere but here. I’ve never met someone so unprofessional.”
“I think we might not have a choice in the matter. I’m not familiar with the Case Officer that brought her in, but whatever he saw in her, I have no idea. She was foisted on me, truth be told.” Foster frowned, “I put in a call before we left for a replacement. I know someone who knows someone, who knows someone that I want for this team.”
Foster sighed, nodding, “And it’s not Gwen. I hope she’s alive. Her and Laurie.” He shook his head, “But I hope I can shove her somewhere else. So, you want Stewart put on more investigative stuff with you? He’s got the combat experience too, so him going with you should give you someone good for watching your back.”
“Donnelley’s a good guy, but… you know. He’s an intelligence officer, not a detective. He can put the screws to some guy in a blacksite. I’m sure Donnelley will be happier pulling triggers.” Foster shrugged, “Your call.”
“It’s not my call,” she countered, “I’m not the team lead. Besides, Tom is versatile, he’ll fit where he’s needed most. Whether with me to read case files and talk to witnesses or...or up in that forest.”
Laine glanced at Foster, tilting her head slightly as she peered over her glasses, “I think, despite the fact you’ve worked with Donnelley so much, you underestimate him.”
Foster rose a brow at Laine, curiosity tickling at him, “You think?”
She pushed her glasses up and looked out the window, “Yes. But like I said, these are my current opinions, we worked together earlier and I would say he’s perceptive and can read people, obviously. He might have upset the deputy but now we know those assholes aren’t going to play nice no matter how we go at them directly. I think he...”
Laine trailed off and looked at Foster then clamped her mouth closed, feeling a flush suddenly warming her face. She looked down, digging in her pocket for a lighter then put her hand on the door handle, “I’m gonna smoke, is that alright?”
“Keep in the car, please. I don’t want anybody else missing.” Foster nodded to Laine. After a spell of silence, he looked out at the night sky and the trees around. There was a growing sense of wrongness about the forest that he couldn’t block out with conversation.
But he’d try, “Your opinions are more valuable than you think. A Working Group is only as good as the members can make it. One wrong piece that doesn’t fit in the puzzle… two pieces that snag together… and it comes apart when it’s needed most.”
Foster turned to Laine, eyes on her own, “I’m sure you know that. Despite your competence, there’s a certain Doctor in the Bureau with telling words.” Foster paused before he looked back out the window, “I think Donnelley works better when he’s not burdened by a needless care for something or other. As sad as it was, the recently divorced and burgeoning alcoholic state we found him in back in 2010 might have helped him say yes to us. He cares a lot about a lot.”
“You think we can’t find a reason why Laurie and Gwen disappeared and continue with this investigation? It’s sad, but between friends and duty, there’s only one choice.” He pointed out to the expanse of woods, “And Donnelley made his. And we’re out here risking an entire Working Group to find out what we already know.”
Laine held the lighter, looking at the rubbed logo of the Crimson Ghost, the cheap Misfits lighter her brother Roy had bought her at some gas station. She sighed, huffing a breath between her lips and nodded, “While it might be seen as risky, it’s what makes him a good team leader. We know we won’t be left behind and even if we are replaceable to the unknown suits there’s one that will look out for us.”
Her thoughts turned to Olympia and how Donnelley had at least given her a piece of mind to know Sofie Childress was not going to just be forgotten once she was out of her hands. “It’s dark now,” she said quietly, then looked towards Foster.
Foster nodded, his face made of silent stone until he spoke, “It is.”
A trilling ringtone sliced through the tension and Foster’s hand shot out to pick up his phone. He didn’t have time to ask Donnelley what he found as he heard the man yelling over what sounded like… gunfire?
“Turn that fucking car on and point it in the direction we came!” Donnelley’s voice was loud enough that Laine could hear it. No need for speaker phone, “We’re coming in fucking hot, Foster, don’t fuck me now!”
“O-Okay.” He nodded to Laine to do just what Donnelley had said, “Turn the car around, unlock the doors.”
She slapped the helmet on her head, just to get it out of her lap and cranked the key over, the engine roaring to life. Laine put the Suburban into reverse, backing up to give herself room to make the U turn and face the direction away from the trees. “Time to flip a bitch,” she muttered as she glanced over her shoulder.
The doors were unlocked, waiting as the engine idled, Laine was gripping the wheel ready to make a hasty escape as soon as the team was in the truck. Up until Tom heard the rustling of something large chasing them, he was skeptical about the possibility there was some supernatural creature in these woods. Even when he viewed the skinless corpse on the metal table in the morgue and held the black shard in his hand, he refrained from admitting there were supernatural efforts in motion. But with the enormity of the beast thundering after them. The sound, thrashing of trees as though they were. He told himself to not turn. ‘Keep your head forward. Focus on the bottom of the hill, the road, the truck.’ If he wasn’t fast enough to outrun the thing, these would be his last few breaths. No need turning to look. Just run. Run like your life depended on it, which is certainly did. He didn’t know who this fourth guy running with them was, but he was apparently one of them now. ‘Welcome to the outfit stranger!’ Tom could see the suburban driven by Heather Laine at the bottom of the hill. The doors were open. He was nearing the bottom of the hill and he must have hit a slippery patch. His conditioning was good, his breathing was heavy, more from the fear of what was behind them than the running. He ran almost every day. But the urgency to get away from something he did not dare to look at overwhelmed him. Fortunately, he was traveling light. But traveling light was irrelevant tonight. The world changed attitude, slipping on a fern or patch of mud. Whatever it was, no one will know. His right leg fell out from underneath him. He fell headfirst into the roadway, striking his right cheek on a rock. Skinning both his hands as they slid across the path. The rock tore a three-inch cut across his cheek causing the blood to flow quickly. The impact to his head snapped his head back sharply putting strain on his neck. He would definitely feel that in the morning. Remembering why they were running; he quickly clambered to his feet and ran around to the other side of the vehicle throwing himself inside. “Get out of here now!” He yelled with blood flowing down over his jaw collecting on his assault vest and gray T-shirt. Dave was running, his head down, lungs heaving, one arm holding his rifle tight to his side while the other pumped furiously for momentum. He could hear the shouts of the other men coming to him over the furious rush of his breathing, could feel the ground trembling as the beast behind them gained step by step. He pushed harder, feeling the fatigue of the previous night’s exertions as his muscles strained. The SUV drew nearer and Dave shot a look over his shoulder. His foot came down on a rock and he cursed as he felt the ankle twist, the rock tumbling and his foot shooting off to one side. He came down hard and pulled his arms in, rolling with the fall, trying to use his momentum to get back to his feet with some of his speed left. He managed it, coming upright only to realize that in his tumble he had gained on the Suburban more rapidly than he’d expected. There was a confused moment in which all he could see was the rear bumper. Then his head met it with a solid thud and the world turned white, a harsh ringing drowning out all other sound. A few seconds passed that felt like hours. He rolled, trying to right himself, his foot kicking listlessly at the ground for a moment as he struggled to regain his feet. He managed it in a kind of stumbling crawl, leaning against the Suburban as he wobbled his way around it to the open door. With an incoherent muttering he collapsed inside, his body working on automatic while his mind drifted in a confusion of stars and distant, muffled voices. Run. That was Donnelley’s only thought, over and over again. With each footfall he made, the beast’s own made the earth under his soles tremble. He bared his teeth, lungs sucking air desperately and for a few moments he wondered why he’d chosen to smoke so many cigarettes. He could feel the beast practically looming over him, but he did not turn back to see if it was true or only his fear. He could see the treeline coming up on them. He saw Tom and the new guy pass him quick before they each took a tumble. Justin was to his right, but before he could ready himself for the slope the others forgot about, pain lanced through his left leg. It made his right buckle and he pitched face first into the dirt, the ballistic helmet taking the brunt of the force but his cheek still ground itself into the rocky soil, sending white flashing across his vision. “Gurgh!” The entire right side of his face was a burning mess and his teeth ached. He could feel himself getting dragged back and he looked down to see it, a tendril blacker than night had impaled the meat of his thigh and the pain seared into him. “Fuck! Justin!” Frantically, he ripped his knife out of its scabbard and grabbed hold of the tendril, furiously chopping at it in an effort to get away. “Justin, help!” Whatever the tendril was made out of, it was hard. Blacker than anything he’d seen, save one. The more he chopped, the more he chipped away at it until the meat of it was bare. When he saw the gray of its flesh, he struck and made purchase. His blade bit deep and the the tendril tore itself wriggling from his leg with a spurt of blood and a sickening squelch, back into the trees. Donnelley cried out in pain and scrambled to his shaky legs, but he could not stand. Foster saw movement in his side window, four… four? Four men crashing out from the darkness in the trees. He felt the Suburban rock sideways before Tom threw the stranger into the backseat and clambered in after him. He saw Donnelley at the top of the ridge limp and tumble down, leaving a scarp in his wake.
With three of them piled into the back of the truck, Donnelley threw open the large back door and threw himself inside. His panting was furious, growling, white knuckles underneath his glove grabbing the oh-shit handle above Tom’s head, “Go!” As if to punctuate his order, the forest erupted into an ear-splitting roar. Laine glanced at the rear view mirror, the doors slamming shut, they were inside. At Donnelley's order she shoved the Suburban into drive, her foot hitting the gas when she heard it. "What the fuck," She said to no one in particular, gripping the steering wheel as the back tires slid on the hard packed road. The truck fish tailed slightly then corrected, slamming down the logging trail, rocking through the dips and bumps. "What the fuck was that noise?" Laine called out, flooring it as fast as big Suburban would go on the dirt road. "Are you guys alright?" Donnelley was still peering out of the back window as Laine spoke, not registering her question as his mind still raced at what was in the forest with them. “I’m…” Donnelley looked down and pressed his palms against the gaping hole of his leg, the pant leg almost soaked through and black with dark blood, “I’m… oh, shit.” His hands weakly slapped at his plate carrier in search of his first aid pouch. When he finally found it, he pulled free a tourniquet and cinched it around his thigh, just above the wound, hoping that would at least do something. He forced himself to relax, letting his head droop back and forth with the rough bumps of the road, the back of his helmet tapping against the window behind his head. The adrenaline from moments before now a thing of the past. While his head bobbed, he slurred out, “Just go, just go.” Dave looked blearily at the man beside him, watching with distant interest as he tied his leg off. His forehead was swelling, already carrying a sizeable goose-egg, and the lights of the car’s console seemed uncomfortably bright. “Toldja it’s fuckin’ big,” he grumbled. He reached up and tentatively prodded at his forehead, then paused. “...I lost my fuckin’ hat.” “Oh, shit,” Donnelley muttered, his eyes weak as he shook them from the hole in his leg and looked around for something to wipe his hands on, settling for his other pant leg and smearing that too with his own blood. He reached into a pouch on his carrier and pulled free his pack of cigarettes, “Not the hat.” Laine could hear them but her focus was on the road, keeping the speed up as fast as she dared on the unpaved surface. She could see the scattered trees and brush rush past caught in brief illumination of the bouncing headlights. The road had to be close, she tried to remember but they had driven slower that morning. Not by much though. Suddenly the strip of asphalt was there and she asked Foster while glancing briefly in the rear view at the men illuminated only by the dim console light They looked pale and one man she did not recognize was with them but Gwen and Laurie were not. "What's going on, straight back home?" Foster looked back at the others, “Hospital is out of the question. Back home.” She hung a sharp left onto the paved road that would get them back to the cabin. Laine forced herself not to put the gas all the way down, what good would it do to escape only to flip the truck on some tight curve. The white line glowed in the headlights, marking the darkness, absolute country darkness she thought uncomfortably. The mention of hospital finally trickled into her conscious and she realized she could smell the faint slightly metallic tang of blood and gunpowder. "Anyone hurt bad?" Donnelley flicked his lighter on and puffed his cigarette, offering his pack out to the other men, his Texan twang evident, “Just a ‘lil poke, s’all.” "Poke? Better not be bullshitting me, dude," Laine said, slipping into the SoCal accent. "How bad?"
“He’ll be alright,” Dave said. His thoughts were clearing, though things still felt fuzzy. He waved off the offered cigarette. “You uh...Want me to give that tourniquet another yank, man?”
Donnelley took a drag of his cigarette, keeping it clenched in his teeth as he growled and lifted up his leg, “Thank ya kindly.” As Dave roughly drew the tourniquet tighter, he growled again and gave a thumbs-up, “Feels great. Couple bandaids, some whiskey...”
He drifted off, staring out at the forest passing them by, taking another drag and hanging his head, “Fuckin’...” Donnelley sighed, rubbing his face and carelessly smearing blood over his forehead, remembering the bodies and sobered by the memory, “They… they ain’t here.”
"Goddamn it, a tourniquet?" Laine hissed and said to Foster, "He needs a doctor, now. We can make it to that doctor near Whitetree."
Donnelley perked up at that with a quickness, pointing at Laine’s general direction with his cigarette still smoldering between his outstretched fingers, “Fuck that. Do not bring me to Whitetree, fuck Whitetree. Go to the Safehouse, Foster can work his fuckin’ magic and conjure me up a doctor.”
"I'll only do that if you promise not to fucking bleed out," she glanced at him through the mirror, her brow creasing with concern.
“Yes, mother.” Donnelley shook his head and huffed out smoke, silently hoping he could keep that promise.
Dice Rolls Tom Stewart, Situational Awareness: 11 Tom Stewart, SERE: 13 Justin Clark, Awareness: 20 Justin Clark, SERE: 22 Dave MacCready, Athletics: 20 Dave MacCready, Dexterity: 6 Tom Stewart, Athletics: 18 Tom Stewart, Dexterity: 4 Justin Clark, Athletics: 7 Justin Clark, Dexterity: 20 Donnelley, DEX/STAMINA: 16/11
>GRU-UMBRA SAFEHOUSE >BLACKRIVER, WEST VIRGINIA >DAY OF FOREST EXPEDITION >2150HRS...///
Ava had the window rolled down of her rented sedan, the cool air hitting her face as she navigated the dark mountain roads. The crisp smell the pines and the mustiness of the Earth was nice and while it didn't necessarily help her nerves it didn't make them worse, so she kept the window down.
She had been driving 8 almost 9 hours straight after leaving her home at roughly 1 pm; after her meeting with Agent Stark. It had taken her awhile to get her affairs in order, making sure her projects were in good hands, informing teams she'd been working with she was leaving unexpectedly. Turning down the invite to the Stranger Things party had been surprisingly disappointing. She would have preferred it to being transferred to Operations.
She informed no one of the transfer, of course. She didn't want to talk about it or deal with the looks of pity. She kept it appropriately vague which wasn't unusual for her line of work. People understood different levels of secrecy were needed and if someone was being intentionally vague then you didn't press them for answers.
Petty? Probably, but Ava had a hard enough time keeping herself together. She had tried calling Agent Foster or the Team Lead Joseph Donnelley but they hadn’t answered, which didn’t help her anxiety. She got the location of the Safe House through other means and just packed up some clothes, her laptop, a few basic repair tools, and a pair of drones after she learned she’d be out in the middle of nowhere. Stark had said she was needed ASAP so she took that as gospel and left as soon as she could. She didn’t know what she was needed for so she came as prepared as she could.
Which included bringing her Glock...That sat in it’s holster in her center console, within easy reach and if she was pulled over, it wasn’t sitting in the glove compartment with the car’s paperwork.
Mrs. Greir had thankfully been understanding about her needing to leave town unexpectedly and would look after Thor for her. She had also, blessedly, not asked why Ava had to leave suddenly for work nor why Ava couldn't tell her when she'd be back. Just told her to drive safe and gave her a few road snacks and drinks for the drive. Ava thought it had something to do with her late husband’s work before he retired, maybe she was used to being kept in the dark?
All the same, Ava wished she could have talked to her friend about it. Get some of the nervous energy twisting her gut in knots out and have Mrs. Greir tell her it’d all be okay.
She did take one piece of advice she learned from Mrs. Greir and it made her a little optimistic about meeting her new team. If you wanted to break the ice, nothing worked better than bringing a food that everyone generally enjoyed. That and it was just polite to bring something to someone’s home if you were invited. While technically this wasn’t someone’s home she was invited to, she thought the same principles applied.
Besides, from what she heard about Operations, especially their field agents...She wanted to be on these people’s good side. So when she had been driving through Charleston, she made a small stop before she left the city.
Ava took in a deep breath and straightened up as she rounded a bend and a squat, two story cabin in the middle of a clearing came into view; right where the coordinates said it would be. There weren’t any lights on in the windows down stairs, but there were a few cars parked in the gravel driveway so maybe everyone was asleep. Great, she’d have to wake someone up to let her in, at least she had the donuts as offerings. Not the best way to say hello. She thought with a grimace as she pulled up close to the porch and turned off the car.
She reached over to the passenger seat and picked up the two bright pink boxes of donuts that had been sitting there since she left Charleston. She opened the car door and stepped out onto the gravel, cradling the boxes in her hands she shut the door hard with her sneaker covered foot. “Okay, just knock, apologize and offer up the donuts.” She muttered to herself as she started slowly walking toward the porch.
Flying had always been soothing for Jason. Even before the Air Force he felt comfort in the thrum of the engines, the vibration of their mechanical lullaby a womb-like white noise. He had no qualms about its regressive allure. It seemed like everyone needed a womb to curl up in, a moment like a place to slough off their existential skin. All of the song and dance of self medication were but fleeting attempts to feel that animal comfort again, and there were too few people to accept it all as it truly was. For the briefest of moments Jason didn’t have to be anything but a human body soothed into rest by the violence of its mechanical making. The great illusion comforting us all.
Without substances it was hard to sink into that deep sleep he was seeking, but the buzz of aircraft was enough to ease him into a shallow slumber. He was under the surface of its haze and a turbulence free ride into West Virginia kept him from bobbing up into wakefulness. If there were any dreams they had slipped into the void of unconscious forgetfulness, and despite Dan’s close call in Amman Jason’s subconscious wasn’t acting up. And then it did.
Come and see…
Nothing but voice and darkness and the pressure of anxiety throbbing against his ribcage.
Come and see…
Dan’s heart had stopped. He hadn’t yet vomited into his mouth and back down his throat. Not yet. Don’t you fucking die you amateur piece of shit, he thought.
Come and see…Come and see…Come an-
“Bailey! Come and see these mountains, aren’t they something else?” a portly woman rang out in a southern twang. Jason came to staring at the back page of a in-flight catalogue tucked in the seat in front of him. To his right across the aisle the woman was shuffling her overworked ankles so her gut could rest against the arm of the chair. “Come on!” she howled out, mindless of the passengers around her. An adolescent version of the woman waddled up the aisle and smushed her face against the glass adjacent from Jason. Asinine novelty at its finest. Good ole US of A.
The landing was thankfully uneventful and Jason was quick to repeat his in-country routine. Activate his burner debit card and phone. Withdraw cash, sign anything as Mike Salem. Check the carry-on outside the airport. Everything he had left substance wise was secure. Mostly adderall, some pain pills, and a cleverly disguised bottle with the infamous ketamine that almost killed Dan. Then it was a taxi to a second rate car rental joint, something local. Nondescript car, no flashy colors. A Ford Taurus was his chariot for this outing.
Instead of heading straight to the fieldhouse Jason felt oddly social and whipped into the nearby Walmart for beer, brisket, and a bottle of Pendleton Rye he thought Donnelley would appreciate. The beer was light and there were many, nothing snooty. Nothing that would make Laurie scoff and turn his nose up or Dr. Laine playfully criticize. Tom and Justin would drink anything, he’d wager. After his stop he slinked off into the mountains riding an anxious wave of excitement. Not even the memory of the Baughman’s could shake his newfound extroversion. He embraced that positive energy, clung to it like a drifting piece of wood in a roiling sea of Appalachian trees. It felt right, as if the universe was aligning and the dilapidated road was his cosmic byway. All aligning for him. Once it was rural enough he reached for the beers and cracked one open, rolling down the window and bathing in the cool mountain air. Was this camaraderie? Could he finally feel at home? Did it take a morbid, fucked up tragedy and the scarred cleaning crew Donnelley had assembled? That’s just life, he thought, but this was in full color. The roof of the cabin crested the rising asphalt and swaying canopy. Jason was coming back.
Scraping rocks protested underneath the roll of the Taurus’ tires as Jason eased the vehicle into park. The cars around the house were somewhat different but it didn’t give Jason pause; they were coming from all over and just like his rental theirs would inevitably be different. He hooked the bags of groceries into his hands and made way towards the porch, seeing a figure that slowly became the visage of someone he hadn’t met before. A woman, petite and with a milky pale complexion. Jason tried his best to not let his frown sour their impromptu meeting, and tried just as hard to not let his eyes wander. It wasn’t that he couldn’t help himself, but perhaps it was exactly that. His appetite made working with women hard, and he was ashamed to even recognize that within himself. But what was most important was making sure she was where she was supposed to be. He made a mental check of the .45 at his waist and gave a warm but fabricated smile.
“Hey there,” he said, approaching the porch behind her. “New, I’m guessing? Crowder must of recruited you.” It was a false name, an easy front to expose an imposter. He hoped he wouldn’t have to smash the liquor on the ground to shoot her, either. The close encounter in Amman had him predatory. Bad luck on her part.
Ava was staring at the door, after having knocked quite loudly to wait for someone to let her in. Instead of the door opening however, she heard a deep, rumbling voice speak up from behind her. She jumped and quickly turned around, keeping a hand on the top box to make sure the donuts didn’t fall from her grasp.
“Oh, um, hello.” She said, swallowing nervously as she eyed the silhouette of a man walking to the porch. She couldn’t make out his features well in the darkness, but she could more than see the broad width of his shoulders and the noticeable bulging biceps of his arms. Her heart felt like it was beating so fast it’d burst out of her chest. She tried to shift away and her shoulder bumped against the door, blocking her retreat that way.
Her mind started racing through a number of nightmare scenarios and she wished she had thought to even grab her pepper spray. “Yeah, I’m new, I’m Avaline Moore?” She said slowly, clearing her throat. “I don’t know who Crowder is, I’m looking for a man named Foster? Or Donnelley? Am I in the right place?” She asked, glancing around the porch of the cabin. There was no way she had the wrong location, maybe Crowder was one of the other people of UMBRA? She didn’t know all their names, just the Agents she needed to report too.
Jason chuckled at himself when she mentioned Donnelley and Foster, amused he was contemplating shooting her so easily. I guess I’m being a little jumpy now aren’t I, he thought. He closed the distance between them, wearing a boyish grin and shaking his head as he stepped past her and to the door. Each footfall pounded deep against the weathered wood below him, his full stature looming over her.
“Right place, but we seem to be early,” he said, dropping the groceries and handling his keys to unlock the door. “Jason Jimenez. They picked me up from the DIA.” He opened the door, grabbed the groceries, and slid his foot forward to hold the door open for her. “After you, Ms. Moore.”
Ava shrunk away from the door to let him open it, his size right next to her even more intimidating as she got a true sense of his scale. She was used to people being taller than her, but she wasn’t used to being around men that looked like they could lift the back end of a car. She returned his grin with a small, anxious smile. “Thank you.” She said and scooted past him and into the dark interior of the house.
“The DIA?” She repeated to make polite conversation as she looked around for a light switch. “I was from the CIA.” She found a lamp and set the donuts down on the coffee table so she could turn it on, letting out soft light to chase away some of the shadows. “I got called this morning and told to report here immediately.” She explained, turning around and picking up the donut boxes.
She looked over at him in the light provided by the lamp now and relaxed a little now that she could see his face. It was a face that complimented the bulkiness of his frame, but the grin softened his features and made him seem more friendly. “I’m, um, IT, basically.” She looked down at the boxes in her arms. “I brought donuts.” She added, a little awkwardly.
He followed behind her, striding to the kitchen and producing a flood of light that ran for the corners of the cabin. The air was cool inside but stuffy with dust and dragged in dirt. He began to unpack the groceries, looking up from the kitchen island to study Ava every few moments. Foster and Donnelley always know how to pick them, he thought. Focus on cooking, you twat. She doesn’t want any this.
“Good to see another spook in the mix,” he said, the crisp exhale of two open beer cans announcing his collected walk towards her. He extended the beer her way, his can already rounding the edges of his lips. After a hearty gulp and hand off he continued, “Lots of DOJ with us, a profiler and an investigator, I believe. SWAT leader too. At least you have a partner in Donnelley, he’s Central as well.”
He returned to the kitchen and began to look around for spices, clicking his tongue against the side of his mouth at the disappointing assortment. At least he had bought a dry rub and some sauce. “Usually Donnelley would be here glaring into the sunset and sucking down cigarettes. He might be out on something official. Least I can do is make a hot meal for ‘em when they get back. And you brought the dessert.” He gave a playful wink at that, nodding at the donuts.
“Where you from, Ms. Moore?”
Ava accepted the beer after setting the donuts down on a free space on the kitchen counter. She looked down at the can in her hand, her lips were smiling but her stomach was curling as the heavy scent of the beverage wafted into her nose. When he turned away she glared down at the beer and tried to think of a way to ditch it without offending one of the people she would be working with. Where was a potted plant when you needed one…
When he turned back to her and she quickly brought the beer to her lips to take a tentative sip, since it seemed like the polite thing to do.
It tasted as bad as it smelled. She fought the urge to grimace, her straight, button nose wrinkling slightly as she lowered the can back down, rubbing her hand over her mouth to try to hide her expression; her pale cheeks burning underneath her own smattering of freckles.
“Oh, I’m from Rhode Island.” She answered, giving him another friendly smile, hoping he didn’t notice her reaction to the beer. “I was actually, probably born here in West Virginia?” She said, the end of the statement turning into a question as she was still fuzzy on that detail herself. “But I grew up near Providence.” She added quickly to clarify. “Um, how about you Mr Jimenez? Where are you from?” She asked with a small, if slightly crooked smile. “And, you can call me Ava, if you want. I don’t mind.”
After cleaning his hands Jason put the hearty slab of brisket on a foil lined pan and began to work the dry rub over its fleshy surface. There was something soothing in the process that reminded him of home, and when Ava asked where that was he said, ”Texas. Houston to be exact.”
The meat and mention of home bubbled something up like a summoned image to the calm surface of his mind. The drunk-heavy eyes of his mother’s friend and the sour fumes of his breath. Let me tell you the first rule about cooking, he had slurred. No matter what if it tastes good then do it. No one gives a shit about a recipe. It ain’t furniture instructions. Jason hadn’t cared he was drunk, which had always made him uncomfortably alert, and was happy someone was teaching him anything. He had imagined it was one of those vital lessons that a father was supposed to teach his son, an inkling he was offered but was otherwise not meant for him. And in all those years it finally came back up. A bittersweet smile teased itself out from his lips.
“Ava, a word of advice,” he said after a silent moment. He looked up from the brisket, eyes dark and his face a stormy sternness. “If you’re going to stick around for this I’d suggest you make peace with what used to be.” He grabbed his beer with a spice and blood grimed hand and gulped it down as if it was water. “Donnelley didn’t want to tell us upfront and I don’t think I can either. And talk to Dr. Laine. When things get hard she’ll help.”
Ava blinked in surprise at the shift in his tone and expression and felt the hair stand up on end on the back of her neck as he gave his ominous advice. She wished she had a taste for the beer in her hand, the alcohol would have been nice to sooth the surging sense of panic in her chest. ‘Make peace with what used to be’ made her think of the things she would have to confront that she had been desperately trying to bury for the past two years.
The memories of her nightmares started bubbling forth and she reached up with her free hand to pull her St Michael pendant out from under her soft jersey t-shirt. She pressed her thumb against it and took in a deep breath, trying to bring herself back to center and not have a melt down in front of this complete stranger.
“I...should go get my stuff out of the car.” She said, setting the beer on the kitchen counter. Not the most subtle of escapes, but she needed something to do with this sudden surge of adrenaline. “I’ll be back.” She added, giving him a forced smile and not quite meeting his eyes as she walked out of the kitchen.
Headlights washed over the front of the cabin, relief then surprise exploding in her chest as Laine hit the brakes, skidding in the gravel as the momentum of the big truck tried to stop on a dime. The small car parked there had been unexpected and she almost slammed into it. There was something else in the headlamps, a pale lithe figure. A child. What the everloving fuck was going on?
Laine shoved the truck into park and when she looked again she realized it was a small woman, not a child and then on the porch was a glow of fire in the pit. Another car in the driveway
“People are here,” she said unbuckling her seatbelt, reaching up to knock the loose helmet off her head.
The click-clack of Donnelley’s Honey Badger came from the back as he threw open the big door, “Jesus Christ…” He limped out of the Suburban, coming around the back to spot a little girl. After the day he just had, he wasn’t sure if she was real or could be trusted. Mysterious children in odd places were never a good thing, “Y’all seein’ her?”
"Yeah, I'm trackin' her." Dave was out of the SUV and moving, his SLR raised to a low-ready. His head throbbed; the semi-comfortable fuzziness had faded, replaced by an impact-induced headache that pulsed along with his heartbeat. The lights were still too bright, his footsteps unsteady, but he socked his rifle into his shoulder and moved the opposite direction from his new friend, covering the angles the other man couldn't and staying out of his line of fire.
"Take it this'n ain't yours?" He called. "Hey, miss, you might oughta put your hands up. Real easy, okay?"
Everything happened very quickly for Ava. One moment she was pulling her duffle bag out of the trunk of the car and the next there was a roaring of an angry engine and bright lights. She yelped and stumbled out of the way of the oncoming car, nearly losing her footing from the loose gravel while clutching her bag.
She looked up with wide eyes as two men exited the car, dressed in tactical gear and weapons drawn. One of them was spattered with blood and the other looked like he was drunk the way he swayed on his feet. And he was holding the biggest gun.
Ava dropped her mint green duffle bag, covered in pink roses and her hands shot up in the air. “Please don’t shoot me! I-I’m Avaline Moore and Agent Foster sent for me!” She squeaked out, her hands shaking in the air, tears welling up in her eyes and her heart felt like it was trying to jump out of her chest to run for safety.
Inside Jason was washing off his hands when the telltale crunch of gravel preceded Ava’s panicked shout. He bound from the kitchen to the livingroom, seeing the beaming glare of the headlights coming through the window. Instead of the front door Jason raced towards the back, bounding up to his room as quickly as he could. He through around his gear until he uncovered his KSG, turned it upside down to check if each barrel magazine was loaded, and racked it on his way towards the back door.
His chest was pounding as he kicked the back door open and pied the corner around towards the cars. His weight betrayed his approach as the gravel gave way with each heavy step, and as he approached them from the side he had his shotgun trained on the figure pointing his weapon at who he assumed was Ava. Then he saw Donnelley.
“Friendly at your three!” he shouted, lowering his KSG and trying to make sense of everything.
Everything unraveled at once, the car doors opening and guns drawn on the woman and even Laine drew her service weapon, the Glock in her hand before she could think who this person might be. The last time she tried to approach a stranger unarmed was not pleasant to think about. She pointed it low, then stepped forward slowly, the poor thing looked scared to death, “Foster is that true?”
Before he could answer she heard a shout, a familiar voice she recalled the over the phone last time she had heard it. “Jason!?”
Her focus shifted off the girl and she called out, “Jimenez, we have wounded.”
“Everybody lower your goddamn fucking weapons, Jesus!” Foster holstered his own, which had entered his hand in all the excitement. He entered the center of the scene with both his hands out, looking at everyone, “I know her! I requested her! She’s Ava, she’s a contractor from Booz-Allen!”
“Fuck me.” Donnelley growled, dropping his weapon to sway from its single point sling and turned to the new guy, “Stand down, man. Mexican standoff’s over.”
He didn’t bother with introductions, just began his limp towards Jason, grunting at him as he passed, “Medic.”
Dave nodded and lowered his weapon, the safety snapping over with the loud clak so common to Kalashnikov style rifles. He pulled it off to the side and watched Donnelley walk away, leaning against the SUV for support. As he had so many times in the last few weeks, he took a moment to wonder just what the fuck he'd gotten himself into.
"So," he said. He looked over at the woman who'd driven and the man who had ordered them all to stand down. "You uh… You guys know Bob? Cuz he's gonna want to know where the fuck BLACKBEARD went, so…" He trailed off, then shrugged.
Ava swallowed back a sob of relief as everyone put their weapons away and she tentatively lowered her hands. She took the large glasses off her face to rub at her eyes and slowly sat down on the ground, taking deep, measured breaths to calm herself down.
She had a few ideas of what meeting the Working Group would be like and despite the rumors she had heard; she did not think she’d have guns pointed at her.
Laine holstered her gun, then turned to the stranger that had come along with the men. “I don’t know any Bob.”
She stepped closer, the headlights silhouetting her dark clad figure for a moment before she was beside him. Her gaze drawn from his face to the lump on his head, “You’re hurt, come on.”
Laine glanced at Ava, “Can you help him inside? Sorry about the greeting. It’s been a night.”
"I ain't that bad off, it's just a concussion." He waved a hand but allowed himself to be led to the door. He looked down at the small redhead and smiled sheepishly. "Hey, yeah, sorry 'bout all the guns."
He offered a hand to help her up. "You did good, keepin' your cool like that."
Ava let out one more long breath and jumped as one of the men stopped next to her. She quickly rubbed at her eyes before looking up at him while putting on her glasses so she could actually see his features. Her eyes went right to the giant bump on his head that was already turning a lovely shade of blood red from blunt force trauma.
So he hadn’t been drunk, but concussed. She didn’t know if she should feel bad for misjudging him or more concerned he had previously had a gun on her. She gently took his hand and stood up, dusting off her jeans and shuffling her feet on the gravel. “Thank you.” She said softly, her voice and hands still a little shaky as the adrenaline hadn’t quite subsided yet. “I’m sorry for...startling you all.” She said, rubbing her hands together to try and hide their shaking and looking back up at the man’s face.
Ava grimaced as she got an even better look at the bump. “You look like you need some ice.” She said and pointed to the door. “I just got here, but I can help you find some?”
"Yeah, okay." Dave nodded and followed the small woman inside.
Laine watched Donnelley and Jason go inside, followed by the two strangers. She went to Tom and Justin, noting their more minor injuries and suggested they head inside as well. Once they had gone, she turned off the truck and shut the driver’s door then leaned against it. The sound, the sound that had accompanied the running men. Maybe she had imagined it, just like the laugh under the dark pier. Laine rubbed her head, brushing her fingers back through short dark hair and rested on the back of her neck. Tension made the tendons there taut and she massaged them for a moment, closing her eyes.
It had to have been, nothing could make that sound. Nothing outside Hollywood, she told herself. Her glasses rested in her pocket, she had taken them off at some point in the long wait and out of habit she put them on, the barrier between her face and the world once more back in place. Looking in the dark reflection of the glass, she straightened her hair and took a few deep breaths, bringing herself down and forcing her face back into the calm cool expression of the FBI profiler.
She turned and went back towards the cabin, glancing at Foster, “Are you coming? He’s hurt pretty bad.”
Once inside, Laine paused in the kitchen, noting the cooking materials left out and then looked at Ava and Dave. “I’m Special Agent Dr. Heather Laine, FBI. Welcome to Blackriver.”
She looked over at Dave, recalling the accent when he had spoken then narrowed her eyes slightly, “Unless you’re from here?”
"Huh?" Dave eyed Laine for a moment. He held a bag of frozen vegetables to his forehead. "Nah, I'm from Arkansas. Different kinda hillbilly. I'm Dave. MacCready. Er...Just Dave, no titles. I'm not a Fed."
“Right, sorry,” she replied, then took a bottle of water from the refrigerator, offering him one. “You mentioned something about Bob and Blackbeard. I’m sure Foster or Donnelley would know...”
She trailed off, looking towards the other room then shook her head, the concern in her green eyes flashing behind her black framed glasses. Laine nodded, “So, Dave of no titles, you were with another group and things went bad.”
Laine stopped herself for a moment, noticing Ava, the small young woman that Foster said was IT. Already replaced Gwen she thought grimly, despite her dislike of the Air Force tech she did not want her dead. And since neither she nor Laurie arrived with them and Donnelley being Donnelley, Laine presumed they were dead.
Ava wasn’t quite sure what to do with herself, part of her mind was still processing the sudden arrival of the rest of the team while also trying to remember how to treat someone with a concussion. She got him something frozen at least to nurse the bump and was looking around in the cabinets for...something. A first aid kit maybe? Were you supposed to give aspirin for a head injury? Or was giving a person with a concussion drugs a bad idea?
She overheard the conversation between ‘Dave’ and ‘Dr. Heather Laine’ and stopped in her looking to give them both a confused look. Another team? Things went bad? What kind of things? Was that why she couldn’t get in touch with Foster earlier?
Her eyes met with the Special Agent when the older woman looked at her and she froze. “Um, hi.” She said softly. “I’m Ava,” She already knows that, say something else. “I got here forty minutes ago.” Brilliant. She thought sarcastically.
Laine nodded, eyeing the redhead and her expression, “Quite the introduction, then. Are you alright?”
No. Ava thought immediately but forced herself to nod. “Just...Surprised.” She said, turning back to the cabinet she had been looking in and shut the doors when she didn’t find a first aid kit. She spotted the pink boxes she brought and picked one up, moving it over to Dave and Dr. Laine. “I brought donuts? You can have as many as you want.” She set them down on the island in the middle of the kitchen and then went back to looking through cabinets.
Partially for a first aid kit and partially to give herself something to do so she wasn’t standing idle. “Um, so, something happened?” She asked tentatively, opening a cabinet, realized she had already looked through it and then shutting it again.
"Yeah." Dave sighed and leaned back against the refrigerator. His head was aching, and the exertions of the last 24 hours were starting to catch up to him. Or was it 36 now? 48? He hadn't been sleeping well anyway. He stifled a groan, part exhaustion and part frustration, with perhaps a little grief mixed in for the men who'd been lost. He hadn't known them well, but still…
"Yeah, somethin' happened," he said. "I'll probably hafta give your boss the story soon, but… There's somethin' in them woods. Killed my team, all but me and fuckin' Bob, wherever the hell he is. Killed a couple others too. Damn near killed me."
Laine took the donuts to the table, opening it and gestured for Dave to join. She reached into her back pocket and took out a black notebook then she hunted up a pen from the drawer. Clicking it, she sat down and looked up at Dave, “I can help with that. Mind talking about it while it’s fresh? I know you’re tired and hurting but I don’t think it’s a good idea that you go to sleep right now. We have coffee, a Keurig machine, so any flavor you want.”
Jason had taken Donnelley and the other wounded into the living room, using the coffee table as a makeshift examining table. Unless he needed help, it was best they gave him room to work.
When Dave started to move to make himself coffee, Ava put a tentative hand on his arm to stop him. “I can do that.” She offered him with a small smile, eager to do something that wasn’t mindlessly searching through the kitchen. “What kind of coffee do you like?”
"Ah hell, I don't care, sweetheart, make what you want." He eyed Laine's notebook warily for a minute. "Look, I'm not good at this spook shit. So if it's all the same to you, I'm gonna wait and tell y'all's boss the story. Once I figure out for sure that I'm where I need to be, you know? Nothin' personal, I just thought me and my boys were the only armed nutjobs in these mountains, aside from the locals."
He gave her an apologetic smile coupled with an iron-hard stare. "Like I said. Nothin' personal."
Laine set the pen down and dipped her chin slightly. The man was still carrying his weapon so she gave him a polite, tight smile, “That’s fine, no pressure, Mr MacCready. I’m sure he will want to hear it. As we all do.”
She took a donut and bit into it delicately, careful not to smear her lipstick. “But you’re still not going to sleep, not with that chingaso on your forehead.”
Jason swung Donnelley’s weight on the coffee table, walking brisking to his gear, saying “Hope you don’t care about those pants, boss.” A multicam pack was amongst the equipment that had come with him and by the time he came back he had surgical scissors in his other hand. Without engaging Donnelley he pushed him from his back to sitting and studied his legs for a second. Both seemed about the same length. Most likely no femur break, he thought; good. From the bottom of the pants leg he sliced upward on Donnelly’s pants short of the tourniquet. Jason looked around the cabin, noticing a few of their own were missing. “How long has this tourniquet be on?”
“Long enough to get from the forests to here. Maybe… uh, forty-five.” Donnelley answered, his eyes were heavy and his voice slurred. It felt like he had to will his own body to cooperate with him as he lifted his leg slightly to let Jason cut up his pants, he offered Jason a cheeky smile and a chuckle, “You know, I usually don’t let boys do this on the first date. How bad‘s it lookin’, friendo?”
"Aww don't feel bad, I have that effect on first dates," Jason replied, flashing the same cheeky smile. He grabbed a fentanyl lollipop and offered it to Donnelley, his other hand fumbling to turn on his phone's flashlight app. He checked his pupils with the glaring light, saying, "You've had one of those lollipop before, take it before I see what we've got. If you don’t want to care about the pain I have some K we can use. Sounds like you've misplaced some blood."
“Jason, you been holdin’ out on me, shoo’.” Donnelley chuckled, scratching at his neck. In truth, he was very much not looking forward to having his leg in full view. It always made it hurt more, looking at a wound. He felt his chest tighten knowing the tourniquet was going to come off and let the pain flow freely with the blood. “Shit, yeah. I’mma need me some K.”
His gear had plasma bags but he was worried they were spoiled; it was still worth the try. It seemed like he had taken a bullet through the thigh by the looks of it. He worked quickly, requisitioning a tall lamp from the livingroom and tying a plasma bag to hang above Joseph. In an instant the IV was in his arm with a practiced ease.
"Before you get loopy tell me what happened. Good news is the bullet didn't break your femur and you'd be passed out if it that main artery."
Jason had all his gear ready to take off the tourniquet, and with a roiling thrill rising in his chest he took it off and cut away the rest of his pant leg as the blood began to flow.
Donnelley bit down on his lower lip and grunted while Jason worked on his leg, releasing the tourniquet. It wasn’t so much the pain, but as long as he could see his wound it made it no better. “Yeah, I figured that… thing in them woods didn’t hit my femoral or break my femur. Then again, I’m a tough sumbitch so,” he chuckled at his own cheesy boast to help steady his nerve when the blood flowed again and brought a rhythmic throbbing pain into his leg, “Took you a bit to answer the Bat Signal, guy. I wonder what that’s about.”
Jason pulled on some gloves, retrieved a needle and vial of Ketamine, and put it in Donnelley's lap. For the briefest of moments he made eye contact with Donnelley, glanced down at the needle, and back up to Donnelley again. The message was clear. You know what to do, his eyes said.
He nodded, getting to work and making distracting small-talk as he eased the needle into himself. He pushed the plunger down with even pressure as he winked and smirked at Jason, “Trust me, I understand if it’s a pretty Top Secret. I’m only lucky my Station Chief is a fuckwit or I wouldn’t be able to disappear for these lovely campin’ trips with y’all.”
"My chain has been hounding me over this, a little butt hurt I won't play ball," he said, beginning to wash out the wound with saline. Watered down blood dripped all over the living room and the metallic aroma of it sent Jason's memory into a vague recollection. "We also had an asset fire sale. I still can't make sense of it, contacts getting whacked across our AOR."
Now he had to stuff the wound and he gave Donnelley his best sarcastic smile to mask what would happen next. "I had some other things happen too, something I might run by you," he said, his finger sinking into Donnelley's leg. He'd notice it but hoped the fentanyl was kicking in. "You said a 'thing?' Something like Baughman? And where's the rest of our team?"
Donnelley’s brows rose and his eyes grew in surprise as he caught a glimpse of what Jason was doing to the hole in his leg. His hand lifted up to grab the man by the collar in a dulled, but very real sense of fight or flight. He instead put a quivering finger in Jason’s face, his quivering but stern voice, “Boy, you did not buy me dinner.”
There was a foreign pressure building up in the wound as Jason packed it, his smile becoming boyish, replying, “Hell, I was covering the brisket in a dry rub before you guys stumbled home. Even got us some rye. I’ll stitch you up and we can polish it off.”
He leaned back at the mention of the team, coming to lay as comfortably on the hardwood table his plate carrier would let him, “Yeah, Jason. Something like the Baughman cabin, but worse.” He came back up just a bit to lean on his elbow, “Laurie and… this girl. They- I sent…”
Again, he felt the somber nature of losing yet more people to the endless war against things he didn’t even understand. He rubbed his face, taking a deep breath before shoving another cigarette between his lips, “Well, they ain’t here, are they.” It wasn’t a question, and he looked away from Jason.
All the banter and wit drained from Jason’s face, but he couldn’t quite tell if Donnelley meant they didn’t come back or won’t be coming back. He focused on the entry point of the wound prepping the suture as he mouthed, “Could I have done something?” He almost regretted asking it, to have Donnelley drugged up and having to focus on whatever it was that kept the squirrelly park ranger from being with them. Jason had to know.
“Jason…” Donnelley said quietly, casting an eye at the new man in the group over at the dining table and back over to his leg. Sympathy in his eyes for what he knew Jason the medic would see as a failed opportunity. Hell, Donnelley wouldn’t be able to calm his thoughts of all the different decisions he could’ve made for Laurie and Gwen, “You seen what I did out there, ain’t nothin’ to be done. You finish up that leg, I’ll finish up this here smoke. We can polish off that rye and talk about anythin’ you want.”
"Fuck, man..." was all Jason could mutter as he finished stitching up the front side of the wound. "If you can stand I have to stitch the back side of your leg." He glanced at the amber fluid slowly dripping into Donnelley's arm. "You're gonna have to carry that lamp around for a bit."
Jason wouldn't let himself dwell on it when he had to finish patching up Donnelley. There was a depth in his eyes, a bottomlessness that warned about asking anything more about who was missing and why. They were like candles snuffed out in a cold, vacant dark. How many had been taken that way, he wondered. There'd always be untold numbers plunging into the long night, but how many had been dragged into it by the unknown. How far does their staircase into hell go? He stood and offered Donnelley his arm. No words this time, no jokes.
After making Dave a cup of coffee, Ava found herself back in the kitchen and staring at the walls for a few moments; her mind flat lining as to what to do now. Dwelling on her first impression of the UMBRA team and the vague, ominous words of Dave didn’t seem like a productive use of her time, no matter how hard her anxiety wanted to play it over and over again. Distraction, nothing wrong with a little distraction…
Her eyes landed on the raw brisket sitting on the kitchen counter still and she grimaced. That was one option, she couldn’t let the meat continue to sit out like that. She tucked a loose curl of red hair behind her ear and tentatively left the kitchen to find Jason Jimenez.
She did not have to go far to find the large DIA man and she immediately wanted to turn around and go back into the kitchen. He was currently in the process of stitching closed a wound in the back thigh of one of the men that had piled out of the car; Donnelley? Maybe? There was blood on Jason’s hands, all over the coffee table and was dripping down onto the floor beneath. It looked painful, she had no idea how her possibly Team Leader was able to stand the amount of pain he must have been in.
Her eyes went wide beneath her glasses and what little color was in her face naturally, drained away and left her as white as a sheet. “Uuh,” She croaked out and cleared her throat, forcing herself to tear her eyes away from the impromptu surgery happening in the living room. “Brisket.” She said, pointing back in the direction of the kitchen. “Do...what?”
Donnelley hopped on one leg to look at the source of the small voice. An equally small woman, the same one they’d gotten all in a knot over, standing in the doorway to the kitchen. He opened his mouth to speak, but seeing her in the full light…
Maybe it was just the drugs, he tried to tell himself as a creeping sense of recognition niggled at his mind. He looked at Jason and back to her, using his tongue to shift the lollipop to the other cheek, “Just…” He blinked, shaking his head and looking away from her, “Cover it up, for now. Be done in a second.”
He flashed a sheepish little smile at Jason working on his leg, “Shit, sorry for jostlin’.”
Jason didn't look up from Donnelley's thigh as he worked to close the wound, and only at the frayed edge of his focus could he recognize the voice as Ava's. It was best to say nothing instead of barking at her for talking about food when he was closing a hole in someone's leg. Probably something Laurie would have done, he thought. That goofy fuck. Give the woman some slack, too.
"Hey Ava," he said, still not looking up from his work. "Cover it in foil, but there's enough salt on it to keep the meat from spoiling for a bit. Do me a favor. I need a towel for this blood. More importantly I need that bottle of rye whiskey and three shot glasses."
“Hell yeah, we do.” Donnelley muttered and chuckled, “Stat.”
Jason leaned around Donnelley, adding, “You heard the boss.”
Ava nodded and quickly ducked back into the kitchen, thankful for a moment to catch a breath before she went about doing what Jason asked. She covered up the brisket and found the shot glasses easily enough, her search for a first aid kit earlier hadn’t been completely fruitless in that regard. With the whiskey in hand, she also grabbed a few kitchen towels to help soak up the blood. It didn’t seem like enough to soak up all the blood she saw dripping onto the floor, but they’d do until she could find a bigger towel.
"What are you doing?" Laine asked when Ava took the whiskey and glasses. "A bleeding man shouldn't be drinking booze."
Ava jumped, making the glass in her arms rattle as she looked up at Laine. “But...He said…” She trailed off and shrugged her small shoulders stiffly, her expression lost. “I thought...It’d help the pain? Or it can disinfect the wound?”
Laine rolled her eyes and shook her head, "This isn't 1865, he's got plenty of painkillers from Jason. He just wants his bottle."
She stood up and took the whiskey from her overloaded arms, and looked at the label. Her eyes met Ava's and she said, "Donnelley tell you to bring this?"
Donnelley’s face screwed up in a knee-jerk anger he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. It was a burning flame that did not build in intensity but instead just manifested and wanting to burn whoever put it there, “Yes, I did, Laine. It’s one,” he held up his index finger and shook it for good measure, “One drink. I’m not gonna fuckin’ croak. That thing didn’t kill me, some fuckin’ liquid goddamn won’t.”
Laine looked over the redhead at Donnelley, at his makeshift IV pole and the vulnerable state of his pants cut away. "Try to keep it to one or two, for your own good," she said, putting the bottle back in Ava's overloaded arms without looking down. Her gaze shifted to Jason holding his eyes as long as he would look at her. "Right, Doc, take care of him."
Jason’s expression was stern if anything, an expressionless stare that said more than a glare or verbal response would. The longer she held it the more prominent the barbs of anger began to poke inside of him. He stood and walked to Ava, grabbed the bottle from her hands, and with his bloody hand he unscrewed it and took a swig. He didn’t break his gaze from Laine until he walked back to Donnelley and thrust the bottle his way. Jason snatched up the used needle and remaining ketamine before anyone started questioning that as well, pocketing the vial and beginning to clean up.
Donnelley rose the bottle to Laine and took a deep, deep swig, wiping his mouth off on his sleeve. He turned away from her to Jason, “Let’s git. Meet me in the garage, I’mma change and head there so we can talk.” He began his hobbling in the direction of his room, grunting with each stiff-legged step and the thunk, thunk of his makeshift IV pole accompanying, “In peace.”
Before he disappeared into the hallway, he turned back and looked at Ava again. The recognition, the familiarity was still there, but so were the drugs. If it was there in the morning, he’d worry… for some reason. He shook his head and continued on.
Laine sighed then glanced back at Dave, still sitting with his gun and back at Ava. "I think I'll go have a shower, please make sure he doesn't go to sleep. He's likely got a bad concussion."
She walked away, making a berth around the coffee table and glanced at Jason then kept on her way to the women's bunk room.
Ava stood for a heart beat in the doorway, the shot glasses and kitchen towels still cradled in her arms. She had tried to remain as quiet and still as possible during the whole argument, trying not to make it worse and feeling somehow responsible for it happening in the first place.
She looked at Dave worriedly when Laine mentioned making sure he didn’t fall asleep. Good thing he had coffee, that should help...Hopefully. She turned her bright blue eyes back to Jason, cleaning up his makeshift operating table.
She set down the shot glasses, since they didn’t seem to be needed anymore, and approached the medic with the towels. “Here,” She said quietly, holding one out to him. “Is there...anything I can help do?” She asked while glancing down at the red stains that were slowly drying on the wood of the table and floor then back at him.
Jason took the towels, their eyes meeting for a second he made linger. What was she doing here, he wondered. It couldn’t be that she was unqualified, but her reaction to the evening had him feeling suspect. It wasn’t that she belonged either, but if she wasn’t prepared for their operations tempo or the trauma associated with it she’d crash hard. He hoped she wouldn’t, or that she could at least manage. Could he?
“No, Ava,” he said, his voice taking a turn for sympathetic. “You helped a lot, thank you. You haven’t had a gun pointed your way often, I take it. These guys are pretty hardcore, so you’ll be in good hands. You’ll be a jaded, stone cold fuck in no time. Get some rest if you can, I have a feeling we’re going to be worked hard come daylight.”
He stood with a large lump of blood soaked towels and disappeared out the front door, returning a moment later with free hands. It was time to chat with Donnelley, and sweet aftertaste of rye whiskey had him wanting more. He had a spare joint tucked away in his gear but he had a feeling Donnelley would want a drag. That would be too much for a conversation, so Jason would have to stick to the rye. Oh well.
“Welcome to the team,” Jason said to Ava, and disappeared on his way to the garage.
Ava watched Jason leave while her fingers played with the pendant of her necklace. Welcome to the team indeed.
Resting sounded like a good idea, maybe she'd feel better about this if she slept on it, with the help of her little sleep aides. She looked around for her bag briefly and then remembered she had left her duffle bag outside in the driveway during all the chaos. She checked that Dave was still awake and then headed outside to get her bag.
She was fairly certain another car wouldn't be ripping into the driveway at high speeds, filled with armed men. All the same, she kept an eye out and her ears alert as she grabbed her duffle bag from the dirt. She also grabbed her laptop bag and her Glock from the center console; so she didn't have to come back outside.
She was carefully tucking her gun into her laptop bag when over the ambient sounds of night; she heard a voice. Ava froze for a moment and listened intently, trying to pin point the location and the owner.
It sounded like it was coming from the back of the cabin. It wasn't a big building and the trees around them seemed to cause noises to echo and bounce around. It took her a moment to recognize the voice as belonging to Agent Foster. So that's where he went after all the chaos inside.
She frowned and made her way around to the back. She still hadn't officially reported to him, she needed to do that. That and she wanted to know what she had personally done to offend him to bring her out to the backwoods of West Virginia.
She took in a deep breath before rounding the corner to the back of the cabin, finding Agent Foster on the phone. She paused, not sure what to do. Should she approach and get his attention? Or wait to find him later when he wasn't on the phone? What if he thought she was eavesdropping? Spooks tended to not like that.
She shuffled her feet in the dirt and gravel in her indecisiveness.
A sigh and then more footsteps, growing closer. Foster came around the corner and flinched, “Jesus!”
He stepped back, one hand going for his pistol before he realized it was only Ava. And then a wave of guilt for almost pointing yet another weapon at the woman in the span of an hour. He gave her an annoyed look as he smoothed his tie and dress shirt, clearing his throat as he regained his composure, “Yes?”
Ava jumped and took a step back, holding up her hands when she realized she had startled the Agent.
“Sorry!” She said immediately, her face grimacing with guilt as she lowered her hands to grip one of the straps across her chest. “I heard you back here and realized I hadn't officially reported to you yet.” Ava explained, rubbing her thumb back and forth over the strap of her bag. “And, um, I'd like to know,” Why am I here? “What my job is now...exactly?”
Foster nodded as he crossed his arms over his chest. His eyes went over Ava and seemed to pry at her, almost boring a peephole into her thoughts. “Why else?” He shrugged, “I wanted you here. Your job is to support the investigation by any means available to you and necessary for the solving of this case. Anything related to technology and media. You’re highly recommended.”
It was a lie. Or a half-truth. Foster had read everybody’s files and chosen Donnelley to head the team because of the common thread of black slabs in their pasts. And when he’d heard of little Ava Moore from Booz-Allen Hamilton and her dreams… “Nothing more, nothing less. Why?”
Ava felt a bubble of frustration rise in her chest and wanted to snap at him what should be obvious. She clamped down on the anger however and took in a calming breath through her nose. “I just don't believe I'm qualified for field work, sir. I'm a contract hire, not a trained Operator like the others here.”
“Do you think me or Laine even pretend we can do what Donnelley and the others do?” Foster narrowed his eyes at her. Usually he was cool, calm. But the privacy of the Safehouse and the fact he was talking to his own subordinate made for little reason to hide anything, “I wanted you here, I got you here. You’re highly recommended in the things Booz-Allen hires you out to do. You’re a contractor, Ava. Grin, nod your head, and get to work.”
Ava looked away at the narrowed eyed look and found a spot of dirt to look at on her bag. As he spoke, maybe it was the anxiety and fear that she had been stewing in all day or the stress of having guns pointed at her for the first time in her life; but the nerves in her stomach curdled with anger at his non explanation, explanation.
Which pushed her to say, in a quiet but tight voice, “It's because of the dreams, isn't it?”
“Case Officers’ Working Groups are on this case of black slabs. I rotated Donnelley from his previous Working Group to this one because of the Slab he saw in Afghanistan, same as Tom. Same as Laine in Seattle.” Foster frowned, “Everyone has a reason to be here. Everyone has a reason to be in the Program. So, yes, you’re in the Program because of the dreams.”
Foster took a step forward, “Because two years ago I told them to recruit you. You’re in Working Group UMBRA because you’re good at what you do.” He looked down his nose at her, “That’s your job. So do it.”
Ava took a reflexive shuffling step back, her grip loosening on the strap she was clutching as she processed the information; the anger and frustration in her chest fading away. She was surprised to learn that there was a connecting thread between the people of UMBRA. And that it was kind of similar to what she had experienced. Did they have dreams like hers too, before they saw the Black Slab?
Despite the fact that Agent Foster was acting so cold with the delivery of the information, she felt...oddly a little more secure. She had something in common with these people and maybe she wasn’t alone in whatever her dreams meant.
She took in a breath and nodded. “Yes sir.” She answered, looking back up at him.
“Good.” Foster said, unfolding his arms and brushing past her.
Ava stepped to the side to let him walk by, looking back at him as he walked away. She hoped her proper introduction with Agent Donnelley would go better. She sighed and went the opposite direction to go back into the cabin. Succumbing to unconsciousness for a few hours sounded good right about then.
The garage door closed gently, Donnelley’s shuffling steps brought him over to the chair opposite Jason’s and he sat under the dim light of the garage’s lamp, using his IV pole as support. Dust floated freely here, and a breeze washed over Donnelley from under the garage door that sent a chill down him. He looked at the boxes of ammunition, Foster’s computer, the weapons. He took the bottle as it was offered silently to him and took another swig, remembering Laine’s one-or-two rule. It was his second swig of the night, but he shrugged and took another pull and let a growl through his bared teeth. He offered it back, the cigarette jumping with each word, “I take it wherever you’re stationed went to shit.”
Jason sighed, his large stature slumping into the chair opposite of Donnelley after taking the bottle. He let the fiery liquid flow into his mouth and replied with a sharp exhale of his own. “I had an asset IDed by a mid-level Daish commander. You know how that goes. After the execution a lot of our humint assets started going dark. The official story is my asset turned and gave them info. Problem is I handled him exclusively and there’s absolutely no way he had access to that info. That isn’t even the spooky part.”
He handed the bottle back to Donnelley and studied his clarity. Getting fucked up was good and all, but he wanted to keep his team lead lucid enough to talk. He knew where Joseph was at, bobbing in the choppy, euphoric waters of a drug cocktail. At least he could see the man’s tolerance now. He almost forgot people had died today.
“That commander? Supposedly was responsible for the fire sale but he died in an air strike a week before the killings. I don’t know what the fuck that means but something weird is happening.”
Donnelley watched Jason talk, every so often having to hold his own head back up while he did. He reached up and rubbed at his face. He hadn’t been this fucked up since Seattle. When Jason handed the bottle back to him he had to think about it, weigh the pros and cons, analyze how fucked up he was and assess how fucked up he was going to be if he took another sip.
He took another.
He offered out the bottle, nodding at his wounded leg, “Yeah, you’re tellin’ me ‘bout weird shit.”
He sniffled, sighing, again wondering if there was anything else he could’ve done for Laurie and Gwen. ‘Not send them.’ He hung his head, wanting to immediately switch his mind from that to something else, “If only you knew what I know about Daesh commanders.”
Jason went swig for swig with him, a dry chuckle coming out at the statement. He couldn't see Donnelley wrestling demons and the ketamine drew a veil over any revealing expression.“I might have an idea. We need the G-O to start making glass parking lots. I'm tired of the chaos.”
He let that sit on the air, not knowing and maybe not caring if he was supposed to let that slip to anyone outside of his small team in the CIA. He snorted at Jason’s quip. “I’m not gonna pretend our AOs are worlds apart. You know who I work for, I know who you work for. Your fire sale is a piece of the puzzle in the MidEast I have interest in. I don’t know what they’re plannin’.”
“What exactly does a Daesh commander have to gain by goin’ out every night and killin’ all the Yezidi men he can find?” Donnelley flicked his lighter on and sucked in a thick cloud, letting it out in a sigh, “And why is somebody in West Virginia killin’ people the exact same way this Daesh guy is? Maybe it’s a coincidence. But either way, you should see how we get dicked around here by local authorities.”
Donnelley sucked down more smoke, “It’s fuckin’ unfortunate as fuck. Somebody doesn’t like us bein’ here.”
Jason sat there for a moment studying the cracks branch away on the concrete floor. The implications of what Donnelley said were immense. How are they connected, he wondered. How could they be? His index finger was tapping the neck of the bottle hanging precariously in his wide hand.
“As it pertains to West Virginia--my guess is no one likes the government snooping in their neck of the woods. Doesn’t matter if we’re Feds or not, it’s all the same; strangers in their strange land. Hell, you’ve encountered that all over the world.” Jason sighed and ran his free hand through his hair, this time giving Donnelley a prolonged study. The Ketamine had frozen his face in a vague grimace, but his eyes had a hazy medicated look that belied the gruff expression.
“As far as CENTCOM goes I have no fucking idea, but you make it sound like something spooky is going on. Shit like what’s happening here.”
Jason sighed again, hanging his head and staring at the rye in his hand. Did Donnelley really want to talk shop with two KIA tonight, possibly an entire team as well. He didn’t like the fact that they were operating nearby with not so much as a hello. Would everything be so compartmentalized? The Pararescueman in him thought about the bodies. They’d have to be recovered. Sealed up in a box and tagged with a bullshit story. They died in service to something they didn’t even understand, sorry mom and dad.
“It doesn’t get easier, does it?” he mouthed. “Not this, not the action movie shit and the dead. That never gets easier. You just get more numb. But not being able to think or talk about anything else. It’s like I just learned Santa isn’t real and it’s Christmas eve every day. It’s all I could think about these last few months.”
Donnelley idly swigged at the bottle, listening to Jason talk. There was a moment of silence in which thought played over Jason’s face from one subject to the next. He almost sympathized with that. Maybe eight years in the CIA, and five years in The Program, had neutered his ability to make small talk about anything but work. Or maybe it was like a defense mechanism. You get a cold and your body gives itself a fever. You give the order that gets two fucking kids killed and suddenly you need to talk about everything else in the world.
“I don’t know, man.” Donnelley held the bottle out from himself and appreciated it in the dim light of the garage, “Fuck, I even tried therapy once and found out I couldn’t talk about shit. It’s not like she had the clearance. Ain’t like I had the want neither.”
The way Jason looked at him pierced even the heavy veil of drugs over his eyes. Jason had seen things. Combat, yes, because what trigger puller here hadn’t, but other things too. The things the Program wanted gone. Donnelley handed over the bottle, “What happened, man? Over there?”
"Most of my job was hunting down meth labs in the desert. Daish go pills for their shock troops," Jason said. "Most those chemists usually work on their chem weapons ideas so they're HVTs off the bat."
The job's details clung on him like a weighted cape. Not even 24 hours and he'd sutured a wound, pulled out his shotgun, and was yearning for more action. It made him feel sick, to cling to the adrenaline and purpose while standing on the bones of Laurie, whoever had died with him, and whoever else was left out there for the flies and the crows.
"If I'm being honest," he said, his gaze becoming closer and closer to a thousand yard length, "I was going nowhere with the mission. Maybe a distant station chief or mid-level leadership after a few years--but anything that was worth it? Hmmm."
He took a swig, thrust it forward, then grimaced and pulled it back. "Uh, I wouldn't normally do this, boss, but maybe we don't ride that lightning tonight. Looks like you're swimming in the clouds already."
Donnelley scowled for just the shortest moment when Jason pulled the bottle away from his hand. Then he remembered there was a whole fucking job to do and it wouldn’t do to wallow in self-pity when there were two people who were dead. “Yeah, yeah. Right.” He nodded, taking a breath to steady himself, “Maybe that’s just it. Maybe given enough time it just starts feel droll. Wish we could’ve just smoked that brisket and knocked back a few beers, but...” Donnelley shrugged.
“Shit, what time is it?” Jason asked. “I could start it tonight. Was thinking of staying up for a watch, anyway.”
He looked over the bottle smirking at himself for the good choice. Donnelley seemed to like it, but Jason could have also handed him a bottle of chilled piss and he might still down it in his current state.
“If you can keep me here,” Jason said, not taking his eyes from the Pendleton, “I’ll be sure you won't have to limp around with any wounds. Maybe even save a life or two. I’m not bad with intel, either.”
“A brotherhood of spooks.” Donnelley chuckled at himself, “As much as I just love workin’ with FBI and shit, it’s good to know there’s at least somebody in the team that understands the shit I do.”
“If I can keep you here? Be honest, man, there’s a reason we did and still do high speed shit. Stick around, you’ll love me for it.” Donnelley smirked and puffed away at his cigarette, “Thanks for volunteerin’ though, for watch. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Jason rocked himself up to standing and offered a hand to Donnelley, “It feels good to know that too. Here, let me help you up. You also sucked through your saline, I’ll hook you up with another.”
The steam rose around her as Laine pressed her forehead against the tile, taking a deep breath to clear her mind. Sitting all day in the Suburban, having to squat in the bushes to pee with Foster in ear shot. Then the call, Donnelley's voice in the darkness. The call and the darkness and the fear. And the noise in the forest, strange and full of guttural rage. At least it seemed that way.
Laine rinsed her hair, rubbing her face vigorously as the panic tried to rise, the feeling she had the entire drive back along the dark country road with Donnelley bleeding in the back and the rest silent, Gwen and Laurie not among them. Things were changing faster than her mind could wrap around it, the crime scene and victim still unknown now two missing team members. And whatever killed them.
Her chest heaved and she felt the burning in her throat, the want to cry with frustration and fear that this situation was spiraling out of control. Hot tears mingled with the warm shower as Laine let go until she was spent. The water was starting to cool and she turned it off, stepping out onto the braided rug.
In the women's bedroom she dressed, putting on boyshort panties and the long Depeche Mode t-shirt to sleep in. She went to the bunk opposite her own, looking down at the disarray of clothes that Gwen had left behind. Laine started by putting the sweatshirt laying across the bed into the duffel bag. Laine packed the blue USAF duffel bag and set it on the footlocker. Despite their rocky short relationship Gwen Weissman was a human being, someone dragged out into this mess and thrown into the middle of danger like the rest of them and she had a family somewhere that would get a folded American flag and a lie.
Laine went to her own bag and took out her laptop and portable printer, setting them up on the bed then loaded the crime scene photos from the email sent to her by the state CSI team and the ones from her camera. The printer blinked then slowly started up, humming as the pictures of forest and bones and the raw body of Jane Doe. She sat on the bed, one leg hanging off as she started typing up her notes from Ranger Wilkins into a comprehensive report.
Once the photos were printed out, Laine lay them across the carpet and studied them, picking them up one at a time, comparing them to the testimony and autopsy, making notes. Burying herself in the work, it took her away from Donnelley, knowing he would probably finish off the bottle with or without help from Jason. Laine had seen him drink, she knew about the flask, and Foster’s term ‘semi alcoholic’. She set down a photo and rubbed the bridge of her nose.
I’m not a fucking babysitter, she told herself. He’s grown ass man, whatever he does it’s his business.
Laine leaned back and picked up a photo of Jane Doe, the wounds raw and ugly, the tearing of her private areas in full view. She was here to find a killer, not patch up the psychological wounds. The scene, the victim, that was what needed her attention.
On her notebook, she wrote out her thoughts. Organized, prepared, experienced at killing. Obviously. She looked at the photos of the bones from the shallow graves. Why did you show us? Why now?
Male, white, mid thirties to forties. Likely local, experienced hunter and skinner, maybe an amateur taxidermist. He used display ritual, killed in another location and moved, left out in a place she could be found. He made sure she was found.
Sexual rage, need to dominate, severe damage to reproductive organs. Hate for women, need to humiliate and dehumanize her with severe destruction of internal organs, no external wounds other than the skinning. Need to control victim immobilized her with drugs not bound, an unusual method. Cutting out her ability to talk or call for help, silencing the victim, controlling her voice. He needed control, he had to have CONTROL.
She wrote it boldly and shook her head, running her hand through her dark hair. Of course it was about control. Laine tossed the notebook aside and stood up. “Think,” she said out loud, “Focus.”
“Shit,” she sighed, then got up and found her pack of Djarums in the pocket of her blazer still hanging on the chair. The t-shirt hung past her ass but the strangers were out there so she tugged on a pair of leggings before walking outside, lighting up a clove cigarette even before she exited the front door.
Laine leaned against the railing, noting the light still on on the garage and turned away from it. She looked out instead over the deep shadows past the circle of illumination made by the light of the lamp over the driveway. The first time Laine was here seemed like a lifetime ago, supposedly there to clean out a cabin. Then she met Mrs. Baughman.
She shivered in the balmy summer night, recalling the dead eyes and flat voice calling out for her husband. Laine touched her neck, but that thing that had been a woman once had real strength. Dead but alive. Horror movie stuff she would have thought bullshit if it had not tried to strangle her. And the roar she heard tonight, deep and resonant from the woods that the tactical team had run from.
The cloves crackled as she sucked on the cigarette, her cheeks hollowing. It made her head swim with uncertainty Laine had not felt since she stepped into her first real crime scene. She had stared at the result of human brutality, evil some called it but she was always more scientific with her view. Even if it was an aberration, deviant behavior there was psychological maybe even biological reasons for it. Whatever happened to Mrs Baughman and what was in the woods was something else.
The scent of cloves mingled with the scent of smoldering wood chips and Laine remembered the meat on the counter and the strangers left inside. Putting out her cigarette, she went back inside.
She eyed Dave with his bruise and cradling the AK 47. The last thing they needed was some guy with a head injury and automatic weapon roaming around the cabin at night.
"Hey, uh, Dave? You said you're from Arkansas, you wouldn't know anything about what to do with this brisket?" Laine asked, looking at the meat then at Dave, watching how he might answer and listening for slur or confusing. She had heard enough of Bakker's war hospital stories to know something about trauma.
"Not that won't take a few hours," he said. He was leaning against the refrigerator, his arms crossed and resting on the stock of his rifle, the muzzle pointed at the ground. He felt a little steadier; his head still ached like a bastard, but he didn't feel like badgering his new acquaintances for a tylenol when people were bleeding.
"Besides," he said, giving her a grave look. "Grillin' is a sacred trust. Don't wanna intrude on a man's cooking."
Laine patted the foil covered brisket, "In other words, we'll let Jason handle his own meat."
She opened the fridge and began to arrange things to make room, talking over her shoulder, "It's been a hell of a night."
Once it was in there, she glanced over at Dave and asked, "Want me to make you a sandwich or something? I haven't eaten much and I was going to make something."
Laine felt the normalcy trying to trickle back in, the tension and explosive fear of the day left her tired but the man before her looked exhausted. Paranoia slipped away and she felt slightly ashamed of how he had been introduced. "How's your head feeling?"
"Head feels like I fell down a hill an' bounced it off a truck." He gave her a rueful grin. "But I'll manage. I could eat I guess."
Laine furrowed her brow with a wince. That's what that first thump against the truck had been.
She made a few sandwiches, wrapping some with saran wrap in case one of the others got hungry. Placing a plate with a couple of turkey sandwiches in front of Dave she gave him a cold beer, whatever Jason had picked up before they came back.
"I think I have some Advil, if that's alright? Anything stronger you'd have to ask Jason...uh, Jason Jimenez, he used to be a medic of sorts in the Air Force," Laine said, looking through a drawer. "I'm sorry you had to see that display earlier."
She found the small bottle of painkillers and handed to him before sitting across from him at the table.
"Happens. Been a rough night, can't expect everyone to be relaxed." He took the pills and then tore into the sandwich. It had been...shit, eighteen hours since he'd eaten? More? He wasn't even sure what time it was. "Thanks for the food. I figure I'm crashin' on the couch, y'all probably don't want a stranger bunking with you."
“The men’s room is upstairs, but that would be up to Justin and Tom, I guess,” she said, watching him eat. “But wherever you’d be more comfortable anyway, sleeping around a bunch of strangers and feds at that.”
Her sharp green eyes glanced at his rifle, certainly not US military issued hardware, and then back up at him, studying his bruised face. He wore civilian clothes under the armor and the wariness in his eyes that was not all about what he had run from in the woods. There was certainly a story there but not for tonight. Laine took her own beer and chugged about half before settling to eat her sandwich.
Dave snorted, relaxing a little. Laine seemed laid back, for a Fed, more relaxed than the ones he'd met since joining up with the Program. She was easy on the eyes, too, which helped.
"Yeah, never thought I'd be workin' with the uh…" Jackboots. "You know. The government." He adjusted the strap on his rifle, for want of anything else to do. His fingers drummed nervously on the stock of the weapon, and after a moment of awkward silence he picked up his beer and finished it off.
"So you're a doctor, you said?"
“Hm, yes,” she replied, setting down the sandwich. “I’m a profiler with the FBI so unless you’re kidnapping people and cutting off their heads, I don’t really care what you do.”
Laine smiled briefly, then raised her eyebrows, “I’m a psychologist, I specialize in violent crime, in particular serial murder. What about you, Dave? Since you’re not a jackboot, how’d you get mixed up with this.”
"Somebody was leavin' dead bodies on my mountain," he said. His eyes grew angry for a moment. "Anyway, I found one of them, told the cops like a damn fool, and then helped blow one up like a bigger damn fool."
He sighed and shook his head. "I guess I'm here because I'm… You know. Deniable. Ain't attached to the government, and ain't a lot of people gonna come lookin' for a hillbilly who gets himself ate on some top secret mission. Plus I can… Well, I'm kind of a bomb guy. Figured they'd have me on some watch list, probably better to help than tell 'em to fuck off away from my mountain."
That was a partial truth. He'd joined to protect Mal. But they didn't need to know that yet.
"So here I am."
Laine watched him as he spoke, her chin resting on her fist as she felt the sudden tiredness the day had wrought. At least he was easy on the eyes. "And so here we are. I get the feeling you're not the only one who they could easily dispose of, not to feed your fears. We're all replaceable in some form or another."
She shrugged slightly, but went on, "So the bodies you found. I am guessing they were probably laid out some black slab. Otherwise one of my colleagues in the Bureau would have responded not..."
Laine lifted her head then gestured around the cabin then met his eyes. They were a steely shade of blue and seemed suited to his hard stares he had thrown her way earlier. "A bomb guy who isn't military, now you have me very curious, Mountain Man."
She brushed her empty plate aside and glanced at the knot on his head, it seemed a little better after the ice. "Did you need anything else?"
"Maybe I'll tell ya the story sometime." He grinned at her. "I think I'm all set, I'll probably get some sleep. Gonna have a hell of a shiner in the mornin'."
Laine gave a concerned glance at the knot on his forehead, then nodded, “If you need anything, I’ll be in the woman’s bunkroom. It’s across the bathroom, first door on the left. There’s extra bedding in the linen closet.”
She rose from the table, picking up his empty plate as well as her own, smiling slightly at Dave, “Sweet dreams.”
"First door on the left." He nodded and his grin grew a little wider. "Well I'll keep that in mind. See you in the mornin'."
>THE SAFEHOUSE >0800...///
An intrusive earworm was caught between the ears of Parinaaz Bhatt as she exited the car. She couldn’t quite place the melody – and only an obscure bar or two of it repeated. A shrill trumpet and snare in the tempo of a quickstep. The woman shook her head as if to allow it to fall out. Her ponytail swished with the motion - thick brown curls styled immaculately save for the edges she’d had to slick down with a wax around her hairline. Such was her genetic makeup. Fresh faced she took a deep breath of the country air, expecting it to be refreshing, with the biting chill of the mountains that she’d experienced in the past. This air was thick, and heavy enough to have caught in her throat had she not been careful enough. Strange, it was. It was that same feeling of rot in the atmosphere she’d felt during the drive. Probably nerves, anticipation. Pari shrugged.
The agent leaned into the trunk upon exiting the car to grab her belongings. She had barely gotten it closed with a click and moved out of the way when the driver unceremoniously took off – back over the path and away. It had been a long drive and the fellow hadn’t even offered her a goodbye. There was no leaving now, that was for sure. She struggled in her heels with the case behind her, wheeled suitcases were not intended for anything other than a smooth surface – and perhaps if the car hadn’t been enough then the dragging of it over the gravel would alert her colleagues to her presence.
She was alerted too, there was something decidedly off about this place. As if the energy of something terrible had left a stain over the driveway and it had started with the car that had been parked. There was a certain frantic way in which it had skidded through, that was clear in the tracks left behind. It hadn’t slowly and carefully been brought to a halt. It had slammed and slammed again. A rush job. Not to mention that there were droplets of blood that led to the door. Easy enough for an untrained eye to have missed but Pari had the eyes of a hawk when it came to such things. A forensics thing, surely. That and just an insatiable curiosity and heightened intuition.
A well-groomed and thick eyebrow raised as she took off her sunglasses, placing the end of the arm against her lower lip as she continued to analyse the scene before she chastised herself for it. It made no sense to hover in the driveway when she could just go and ask. It wasn’t quite as fun though, was it? As fun and thrilling as slotting the pieces of the puzzle together so that she could be right in her theory. The current one being that a mission had gone awry and that at least one person was injured in the cabin.
She didn’t feel that anyone had died, and the fact that whomsoever had arrived in a hurry had not left since was promising.
Still, the air got thicker
A drum crashed, and one, two, three – the beat picked up. The earworm that returned with a vengeance. What the fuck was it again? A manicured finger tapped at her temple as she approached the steps to the cabin, the case got heavier the more that the wheels dug into the unsuitable terrain. “Gosh darn, zavadya” she cursed under her breath with a groan. ”Going like Elsie…” whispered through the back of her mind and it ran an eerie chill up her spine to the nape of her neck but it was soon disturbed by the ringing, familiar sound of metal on ceramic. A distinct morning sound – a spoon in a mug. So they were alright then, she mused as she approached the cabin. ”Alright as can be…” The suitcase thunked on each step and she winced as it did. She was hardly in stealth mode, that was a real nice impression to give them. She wasn’t the strongest woman around, that was to be sure. She quietly cleared her throat, tucking the loose, sweeping strands of fringe behind a jewelled ear. Her hands smoothed over her crisp white shirt, fiddling with the collar to lay it flat again. Pari let the sunglasses drop into the ‘v’ before finally knocking at the door, it was time to find out what had happened... Whatever it was, she was surely in for a story.
Bacon once again sizzled in the pan as Laine made breakfast, waking up early despite her own weariness as the rest of the team had a decidedly worse night. She was in a white tank top and black jeans, wearing her Converse sneakers that occasionally squeaked on the polished floorboards. Earbuds in place, she had the music loud to hear over the blender as she dumped sliced bananas and frozen berries into it.
He was there, Donnelley, wobbling in to make his coffee. She could see him in her peripheral vision but this time purposefully ignored him. Leave him in peace, as he wanted. Instead she moved to grab the milk from the refrigerator, glancing at his back once it was turned away from her. Even from here he looked miserable. Hungover, the leg pain and the sobering memories of whatever had happened, she left him alone.
Donnelley looked up from cradling his head in his hands to Laine when the knock came. The errant thought of her not only ignoring him, but everything else too brought little humor. Knocks at the door were his business as of late, so he stood shakily, grabbing up his handgun and thumbing the safety off as he turned for the door. He put it behind his back as he turned the knob, opening the door a crack and squinting at the light that stabbed through at his eyes. Beyond it, there was a shape.
A woman, and he focused on her face, “You the one Greg sent?”
It was a trick question, of course, and a wrong answer would prove deadly. Since Foster loved bringing people into the fold and not telling him, he could clean up this one’s brains from the porch if it turned out she wasn’t meant to be here.
Eyes the colour chocolate met Donnelley's, and they narrowed. He was playing it incredibly safe, she could hear now more noise in the background. A blender. He wasn't alone. "Steve Foster requested me here," she answered frankly with a slow nod, holding her gaze steady. "I'm FBI, forensics," she added. "Parinaaz Bhatt." Pari went to place her hand out to shake, knowing that there was not enough space in the slight crack of the door, and so she tilted her head instead. "Rough night?"
Donnelley opened the door all the way as she introduced herself, making no effort to hide the fact he was stuffing the handgun in the front of his jeans. He made sure the safety was off so this stranger’s first day with the team wasn’t spent driving him and his dick to the hospital. He offered a slight smile at Pari’s very correct, and very understated assessment of the past night, his Texas drawl rolling out of him in the morning, “Parinaaz, you’ve no fuckin’ clue.” He offered his hand out to shake, “Joseph Donnelley, I’m the Team Lead. Welcome to Workin’ Group UMBRA’s Safehouse, and your home for the foreseeable future. Come on in, gettin’ breakfast ready.”
He waved her inside and closed the door behind her, shuffling to the kitchen with an uneven gait on behalf of the stab wound in his leg. It still twitched with pain and gave him a dull ache even when he wasn’t moving around on it. He called from the kitchen, “You like coffee, Special Agent Bhatt?” Donnelley’s eyes were pulled to two boxes he did not remember last night. He reached over and peeked inside one. Thankfully, it wasn’t a bomb or anthrax, but donuts. “Oh, fuck me, donuts. You like donuts too, Agent Bhatt?
Pari let him take three steps ahead after shaking his hand before she followed him inside, observing the way that he moved - that his leg was hurt. "It's nice to meet you Donnelley - I take it you were the bleeder," she said, motioning behind her. She took steady steps, leaving her cases at the door for now - bringing only her handbag with her through to the kitchen. "Coffee sounds great, too," she replied, eyes taking in the details of the safehouse. "I'll pass on donuts though. I don't have a sweet tooth…" her voice tapered off as she saw the woman by the blender. Truthfully, she did like sweet things - but donuts were likely to create crumbs, splashes of jelly, and it was a known fact that probability rolled on the side of making someone look a fool on the first day. She was going to avoid all kinds of temptation that might just tar her first impression. Like spilling jelly down her front.
Dave still lay on the couch, curled around his rifle and watching the goings-on through lidded eyes. He wasn’t really trying to be subtle. He just didn’t want to move. Everything ached, from his hair to his toenails. The shot to the head, the sprinting through the trees, huddling in one position all day and all night waiting to be eaten...They’d taken their toll. He hurt like hell.
Finally he groaned and pushed himself up, taking stock of his surroundings. He hadn’t showered in a few days, and he knew that if he could smell himself, so could everybody else. His clothes were filthy, his head hurt, things were just generally unpleasant. Fuck the government.
With another groan Dave heaved himself to his feet, reaching out a hand for balance as one of his knees popped and briefly threatened to buckle. He moved slowly, loosening up the kinks from sleeping on a couch not quite big enough for him, then shifted his rifle off to his side, keeping it in place with his left arm.
“Hey,” he called, waving a hand. “Can uh… Can I have one of them donuts? An’ some coffee?”
“What’s your flavor, stranger? We got, uh,” Donnelley looked at all the variety, just a big box of French roast, “French roast… and just French roast.”
Donnelley had his and Pari’s coffee mugs hooked in the fingers of one hand while the other held the boxes of donuts. He placed Pari’s coffee down next to the donuts and flipped open the lid on the pastries. He picked himself out a maple bar and nodded at Pari, “I am the bleeder. Sharp eye, blood’s had to dry on the gravel. Then again, for all I know I was leaking like a faucet.”
“Like a stuck pig,” Dave said, his voice muffled by the chocolate donut he’d unceremoniously shoved into his mouth. He grabbed a second donut for good luck and then advanced on the coffee. It smelled like heaven; his body was screaming for caffeine, and he held his cup beneath his nose and took a long pull, savoring it.
“So. It’s lookin’ like I ain’t gonna have to shoot anybody,” he said after he’d taken a sip and ridden out the near-orgasmic bliss that it brought. “Any chance I can get a shower and some clothes before we play the Name Game? Cuz all I’ve met so far is Ava an’ Dr. Laine over there.” He jerked his head at the aforementioned Dr. Laine. “And I know I’m kinda harpin’ on this, but...I really do need to talk to Bob.”
Donnelley sipped his coffee and turned to Dave with a nice enough demeanor, ripping a chunk of maple bar and speaking around it, “How’s this for a recipe. I talk to Foster, Foster calls up whoever the fuck Bob is, and then you tell us just what the fuck you and your buddies were doing in my goddamn AO.”
Donnelley smiled, tight lipped and hammed up, “‘Til Foster wakes the fuck up, I guess I’m your next best choice.” Donnelley touched his thumb to his chest, “I’m Joseph Donnelley, I’m the Team Lead. My favorite color’s black, and I like calling in hellfire missiles on terrorists. And you are?”
Dave nodded his way through Donnelley’s speech, his smile growing colder and his eyes growing harder. His last team had pulled the same tough-guy bullshit; maybe it was a Fed thing. He waited until Donnelley had finished and then nodded.
“More of this,” he said. “Alright then, hoss. I’m Dave MacCready. I blow shit up. My daddy’s a terrorist, but if you wanna kill him, you gotta get in line, cuz I’ve got first dibs. My favorite thing is not havin’ dicks waved in my face like I’m some sorta challenger every time I walk in a goddamn room.”
He walked a few paces away, putting some distance between himself and Donnelley. He wanted to butt-stroke the man, but it was counter-productive. “Look, I heard you say Workin’ Group UMBRA? I’m what’s left of Workin’ Group BLACKBEARD. I’m a civilian, a useful asset, Bob said. So what am I doin’ in your AO? Fuck, I don’t know, man. I go where they tell me and I do what I’m told. What I do know is that my whole goddamn team got killed last night by somethin’ a Ma-Deuce and a handful of frags wouldn’t drop, so how about you put your dick away an’ help me figure out where I’m supposed to be, instead of actin’ like I’m tryin’ to take your job?”
Donnelley offered another tight lipped smile, raising his cup of coffee to Dave, “Thank you.” He sipped at his cup and nodded, “And now, since I’m a man of my word and not a fucking asshole, sometimes, I can go talk to my boss, who will talk to your boss about things.”
Donnelley cleared his throat, “Still leaves the question why you were here. Ain’t a fuckin’ person who been fully vetted and tested that’s only theirs to do or die for this bullshit. Bob told you to do something here, what was it?”
Laine had her back to the growing crowd, the music blasting at dangerous levels in her ears until it changed and she heard the voices. Turning and genuinely surprised at the sight of another person, a dark haired woman nicely dressed and Dave and finally introducing themselves to each other. She popped the earbuds out, tempted to interrupt but held her tongue, instead she went back to draining the bacon grease and wiping the cast iron pan.
“There was a cult out in Arkansas, in the Ozarks,” Dave said. “Killin’ folks on those Black Slabs, skinnin’ bodies...Bad shit. Anyway, we heard there was the same sorta shit goin’ on out here, so Bob sent us to see what was up.” He shrugged, eyed the donuts, and then took a third. Fuck this guy. “So he stuck us up in that cabin, had us huntin’ around for hillbillies with stone daggers and shit.”
Pari had done nothing but listen to the rapid fire of the conversation, and it occurred to her she would require an extra shot or two in her coffee just to keep up with them. Her eyes flitted between the bruised Dave and the rough looking Donnelley as she put the pieces together internally.
"Holy cabooses!" She remarked finally, holding her hands out in front of her. "Things move fast here! I'd like to talk to Foster too - when that's alright, Donnelley" Pari said politely, her eyes finishing on Dave, more specifically on his face - that was an injury and a half.
Laine turned silently and moved with a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon, setting it on the table, pushing the half empty box of donuts out of the way. “Maybe we can all talk after eating something other than pure sugar. Foster needs his beauty rest after all.”
She glanced at Dave, giving him a once over, “There should be some clean towels in the same place you got the bedding.”
In her mind she turned of the information he had spat at Donnelley and the name MacCready tugged at the recesses of her memory she just was not sure why. Laine nodded at Pari and pushed herself up on the counter, picking up the smoothie she had made. Beside her was a stack of plates for the team. She sipped her blackberry banana smoothie and watched the show.
Donnelley glanced at Laine, looking back at Dave. “No shit? A cult over in Arkansas?” Donnelley gestured with his cup over to Laine, “There’s a Working Group in Washington probin’ around for that shit. So, Bob has a hunch about West Virginia.”
He patted his leg gently, “Can’t really blame him now. Was there a big fuckin’ monster in Arkansas too, or are we special?”
He turned to Pari, looking her over, “Anything you can say to Foster, think you can say to me too. We all know how keeping secrets don’t make friends.” He nodded his head at Dave, “We almost dusted each other over one last night. Good thing we’re patchin’ up that bridge now, ain’t we?”
A playful smirk rose across her lips at Donnelley's request, and her fingers knitted together as she waited for him to finish speaking, before adding; "well then, I just wanted to say thank you Foster for allowing me to consult on this case, it's so nice to finally meet you in person, properly. I'll look forward to spending more time with you." Pari rounded off with several quick blinks, and with a sip from the coffee. This is going well, she thought to herself, smiling at Donnelley as she let the flavour savour in her mouth before swallowing it down.
“You know,” Donnelley sipped at his coffee and shook his head at Pari before offering an appreciative grin at her sarcasm, he would riposte, “Bein’ a sarcastic prick is only fun when I’m the only one doin’ it. So, you’re consultin’? On?”
Laine piped up from her gallery seat, “Oh, probably the murder. You know, remember that?”
“Jesus fuck.” Donnelley held his hands up, not looking at either woman and knowing he would not have a shield at his back with Dave, “Maybe I’ll just keep my fuckin’ mouth shut and eat my donut and drink my coffee outside.”
He pointed at the women’s bunk room, “I got some girl come in last night we almost shot,” He pointed at Pari, “Some woman comes in saying she’s a consultant, and this guy over here is saying another Case Officer is playin’ in my damn yard without me even knowin’ ‘til I get stabbed in my fuckin’ leg.”
Donnelley produced his trusty pack of escape plans and shoved one of them between his lips, “On top of that, I got two KIA up in them goddamn fuckin’ dogshit mountains and some equipment I gotta put a call in to recover somehow.” He lit up the cigarette without asking if anybody would mind. He didn’t give a shit, “Excuse me for my prickishness, I forgot to not be stressed.”
Laine held her hands up, her eyes flickered with sympathy and chagrin but she said nothing. Bouncing off the counter, she looked at Donnelley for a long moment then nodded slightly, stepping around him to head back to the women’s bunk room.
"That was brilliantly done," Pari added after a pregnant pause, not meaning to stick a knife in further, only to reign in the heat. She took another sip, eyebrows raised as she looked at nothing in particular and away from both of the men she was left with.
Dave eyed Pari, then Donnelley, then the retreating Laine for a moment. Without a word he walked to the breakfast she’d cooked, filled a plate, and began eating. He ate in silence for a few moments.
“So uh...This is fun. Good team dynamic. Y’all want some breakfast?”
“I could eat.” Donnelley shrugged, placing his cigarette on the table and going about making himself a plate. He sat down next to Dave, forking some eggs into his mouth and sighing. “So, MacCready, of the Arkansas MacCreadys. Those fuckin’ preppers up in the Ozarks.”
“Guess if that’s what you wanna call ‘em.” Dave gave Donnelley a sideways glance. “Ain’t had anything to do with ‘em in almost 20 years though so...You know. Just sayin’.”
“Guess if that’s what you wanna call it.” Dave drained his coffee mug and then sighed. “Look man, they ain’t good people. I try to be. So I don’t consider myself part of them anymore. I just...You know. I happen to remember how to do some shit that’s apparently useful.”
He frowned. “In more circumstances than I thought, honestly.”
Pari simply let the gentlemen talk, taking the opportunity to place her bag upon the counter. There was something to the rant that Donnelley had engaged in, sarcasm and humour aside. Two agents killed in action? That there was another girl here besides the one who had excused herself after being sprayed with the verbal tirade. She thought to follow after her, but having not been formally introduced might make that something of an even more awkward affair.
MacCready was apparently as green to the team as she was, and completely unexpected, and that made Pari feel slightly more at ease. She remained silent for the time being, standing still in her spot, coffee in both hands, held at chest level.
Donnelley set his fork down and looked at Dave, “You know, you’ve got some valuable intelligence up in there I’d like to know.” He rapped his temple with a finger, “It’d help save a lot of time. We already know these guys don’t like Feds in their county, but that doesn’t change the fact that somebody got killed in the hills and they ain’t keen on sharin’ their case files with us.”
“These folk got somethin’ to hide. We been operating under the assumption that it’s one guy out here doin’ this shit. But you dealt with a whole cult up in Arkansas, yeah?” Donnelley’s brow perked up, waiting for an answer.
"There was a few of 'em, yeah." Dave flashed back to an overpowered breaching charge and a messy tangle on the other side of the wall that might've been two men a few moments before. He looked a little green for a moment, then it passed.
"Wasn't a Jim Jones Sunday Revival or anything…" he trailed off, then gave Donnelley a look of confusion. "Hey, how come y'all don't know this? Shouldn't y'all be talking, if there are teams chasin' the same thing?
Donnelley snorted, “You would think,” after all his years in the military, and then as an intelligence officer, he’d learned that the hydra of government often tangled its own necks and rendered itself inert and convoluted at times, “Case Officers are like mountain lions, man. Wolf packs, we carve out some territory and get pissy when another pushes in. Damn shame.”
“Damn irritatin’, more like,” Dave grumbled. “Really I’ll have to get in contact with Bob to get y’all much more than a man-on-the-ground’s perspective. He didn’t tell me much. I’m the explosive mushroom, ya know? Kept in the dark, fed bullshit, all that jazz. But I know we were lookin’ into how the shit out here tied into what was fuckin’ up my Ozarks.”
“Okay, okay.” Donnelley nodded, “After the morning briefing, you and me and…” He looked at Pari, “Our consultant over there, we can all have a sit down with Foster. Get everything straight. Sound good?”
“Cults,” Pari sighed and placed her mug on the counter top, letting a finger rest gently on the handle, the other on the rim. “There’s not a great deal I can’t tell you about cults,” she added, tearing her eyes from the ceramic and onto Donnelley, and then to Dave. She thought to add more, but the mood was sitting weird enough as it was. “A sit down would be good.” She finished with a smile, letting go of the mug, the handle sitting perfectly parallel to the edge of the counter.
"A sit-down would at least tell me what the hell I'm supposed to be doin'," Dave grumbled. "Any way we can just nuke West Virginia and go home? Ain't like we can't buy moonshine at the liquor store these days."
Tom followed the the group into the safehouse after the young woman was greeted with terror in the parking area. ‘That poor young woman must have shit her britches at that introduction.’ he thought to himself. He held a gauze to his left cheek covering the bleeding wound. He took a seat waiting quietly for his turn to be treated by Jason. He held the gauze over his face in order to put direct pressure on the wound, stopping the bleeding. He saw the new girl walking around, wondered who she was, but she didn’t talk to him so he wouldn’t find out tonight. He still didn’t know who the guy they picked up in the SUV was. Apparently, introductions would happen in time.
Eventually, Jason got to his face. He applied a few steri strips and then covered with a clean bandage. Tom figured he would have a scar when this healed. Scarface. Once the bandage was in place, he retired to his room. He took a quick shower and went to sleep thinking about the creature in the woods. He really didn’t know what he had gotten himself into but wouldn’t miss this for the world. He hoped Justin was OK. He would talk to him later.
At zero five thirty the next morning, he was awake before the rest of the house and went for his morning run. His limbs were a bit stiff from the sprint through the woods the night before. The morning run would help to work the kinks out. Exercise is the best remedy to help stretch out the muscles, making him limber today and not walking around all stiff and lame. Most people who do not appreciate the benefit of exercise would prefer to use the I’m all stiff and lame excuse than head outside to exercise. He preferred padwork but didn’t have anyone to spar with. He hoped Justin would, but he didn’t seem available either. He recalled some martial arts training when he was a teen. It was at that time in his life when he learned to train daily. It really helped to prevent that stiff achy feeling the next day.
After quietly exiting the building so as to not wake anyone, he ran his standard seven miles. He loved the country, the woods and especially the smell. It was nothing like home in Eastern Massachusetts—no traffic, sirens or rumbling trains. The country was very peaceful, serene. Being alone with his thoughts helped him to reflect on the important things in his life. He thought about Jillian, his parents, the Boston Red Sox and the New England Patriots. He wondered what one-two-five marines were doing without him down near Charleston. He knew once this was over, here in bumfuck, West Virginia he would need to return to his Marine Reserve unit in the woods. He actually looked forward to it. He would have to return the parachute to VMM-744 when he got back. At least he had time to repack it. Finally, his thoughts returned to his wife and their unborn child. He thought about the dream the night before, how is sister told him she was going to have a nephew. He would remember that when they had the ultrasound. He wanted to know the gender now. Sure, it was fifty-fifty, but it would be a bit freaky if his dead sister told him in a dream he was going to have a boy and indeed the baby was a boy.
When his run was over, he returned to the second floor of the safe house to shower and get dressed for the day. Even at this hour most folks were still asleep. He looked at the new guy asleep on the couch as he crept through the living room. He didn’t want to disturb him. He grabbed a cigar and headed out onto the porch for a smoke and to appreciate the morning air.
Laine opened the door to the woman’s bunk room quietly, resisting the urge to be petulant and slam it. He was not the only one under stress, she thought then shook her head. It sounded like her mother, everything about her, her suffering was always worse. Her mother never put aside her own hurt and she hated when she saw that in herself acting in that manner.
Laine breathed out loudly and then noticed the small lump in the bunk opposite of her bed. Wild curls of red sprouted out of the blanket like some delicate moss and Laine closed the door. She sat down on her own bunk and put her face in her hands, rubbing her eyes then sat up and said, “Ava? Ms Moore, it’s time to wake up.”
At least now she had an excuse to hide from the embarrassment she felt at her sharp critical comment tossed at Donnelley. “They might have eaten all your donuts.”
“Mm,” Ava grumbled under her blanket and one hand emerged to slap around for her phone. She found it resting next to her head on the bed and moved the blanket aside to speak into the phone. “Alfred, is coffee ready?” She asked it, her voice croaking with grogginess.
Her sleep fogged eyes blinked as her mind sluggishly took in her blurred surroundings. “Oh, right.” She dropped her phone back on the thin mattress and rubbed her eyes.
Laine gave her a bemused smile, “Alfred? Are you expecting your butler, Batman?”
“There’s a Keurig in the kitchen,” she added, then stretched her long legs out, crossing her arms under her chest.
Ava groaned and covered her face with her hands, from both waking up and embarrassment. “Sorry, Alfred is my home assistant.” She said, taking a moment to stretch before sitting herself upright. Her hair fluffed up around her head like a cloud, wild corkscrew curls and waves of red and copper colored strands sticking up in odd directions. “Good morning.” She said around a yawn, her hand reaching back to pick up her glasses also beside her pillow.
She afixed the glasses to her face so she could see and turned bleary eyes to her roommate. “Dr. Laine, right?” She asked and moving the blanket aside to plop her feet over the edge of the bed, revealing the pink plaid sweat pants she wore as well as an overly large white t-shirt with the NASA logo over a pink, lilac and periwinkle nebula.
“Yes,” she replied, watching her then reached for her blazer that hung on the chair, taking out a black pack of cloves, shifting her hips up to stuff them in the pocket of her tight jeans but kept the lighter in her hand. She was still casually dressed, her black ink tattoos bold on her pale skin and she knew she probably did not look much like a Bureau agent. “Heather Laine, Feeb. I’m a psychologist with the BAU. Which, by the way, I’m sorry about leaving those crime scene photos out, I was preoccupied. I know they’re graphic.”
Laine clicked the lid of the cheap metallic lighter back and forth, the imitation zippo somehow had lasted more than a month. She watched Ava, noting the dried drool on her chin. She slept hard.
“Oh,” Ava grimaced and pushed her glasses up to grind the heel of her palm into her eye as the images of the skinned corpse flashed through her mind. It technically wasn’t her first time seeing a flayed body, but it didn’t make it any less stomach lurching. “It’s alright, it looked like you were working so I didn’t want to disturb you.”
Feeling the dried drool cracking on her chin as she spoke, she turned her head slightly to try and rub it away.
“It’s not alright, you’re here to do computers not dig into that,” Laine replied, then stood up, clicking the lighter again. “We’ll probably have a briefing soon, then figure out what we’ll do. Listen, I’m expecting a call but my previous plans fell...”
Her thoughts flashed to Laurie, dead Laurie. Dead cocky Laurie with his damn Rubick’s cube. She felt unexpected tears prick her eyes and she glanced at Gwen’s blue duffel bag on the footlocker. They were gone and not coming back but Frank Wilkins still needed her help.
“Do you know how to make fake IDs? False identity, disappear a man’s virtual trail and build him another?” She asked, palming the lighter to keep from fidgeting with it.
Ava put her glasses back on her face and gave her a curious look. “I do, it was part of what I did for The Program back at the CIA headquarters.” She looked at Laine closely and bit her lip for a moment before asking, “Are you...okay? Things seemed a little chaotic last night…” She let the sentence trail off as she realized ‘a little chaotic’ was a bit of an understatement.
Laine huffed a laugh and flicked her lighter’s cap again, slapping it down hard, “I’ll be alright, I am just trying to get back to understanding what the hell is going on. I thought I might then last night happened. I’m not sure what it was but something was in the woods with the men, something that killed Ranger Mathieu and Airman Weissman. I don’t know how much you know, Ava but something is really rotten in Blackriver County. We’re here to clean it up but we hardly know which way is up, now.”
She glanced at the folder on the small table beside her bunk, “But when you’re lost, the best thing is to figure out where you went off the path, go back to familiar ground. Right? I don’t know, I never was much of a hiker, but it sounds good to me.”
Ava stared at her with wide eyes as she processed the new information and fit it into the context of last night. No wonder everyone was so jumpy, if someone or something attacked them and killed two of their own, she couldn’t blame them.
“I’m sorry you lost two teammates.” She said, her eyes sympathetic. “And I'm afraid I don’t know much of anything.” She admitted with a wincing squint of her eyes. “I was told to come here and Foster said my job was to assist UMBRA however I can. He didn’t delve into any other specifics just ‘get to work’.” She shrugged and then motioned to Laine’s bed. “But, given your credentials and the pictures, I’m guessing you’re investigating a homicide?”
Laine nodded, tucking a lock of short black hair behind her ear, the silver skull earring winking in the overhead light, “We did, it was something I don't know could have been avoided but tragic nonetheless. And yes, a body was discovered, also in the mountains of the State Park. She was skinned, mutilated and has yet to be identified. I have sent dental and DNA to the lab and we’re waiting to see who our Jane Doe is, in the meantime, the man who found her. Who...well, he said someone showed him, he didn’t see him but heard the voice. Anyway, he found the body and now he’s shit scared and wants to get out of town.”
She gestured to the manila folder under her arm, “He’s afraid, things are very closed off around here. Even more than one might expect in a small town and he isn’t a local dude. We need to get Wilkins moved, I promised I would try and the plan we had with Park Ranger Mathieu died with him. We need to wipe his existence, there never was a Frank Wilkins, you know?”
Ava nodded, her brows knitting together with thought as she mentally went over what to do to help this witness. “I think I can pull that off.” She said with another small nod. “I can’t really say I blame him for wanting to leave after experiencing...that. How scrubbed clean do you need this to be? Just this town and this county level? Or State or even Federal level?” She asked, her tone taking on a faint note of steady confidence as they shifted to talking about her work. “Does he have any family he could go to? Outside of Blackriver since you mentioned he’s not a local. There’s also the issue of transportation...He could take my rental car to get out of town, I should be able to change the names around easy enough.”
“I don’t know too much yet,” Laine admitted, “He’s supposed to call me, he saved some important information about a hiker killed a few years back, I suppose in exchange for us coming through with what I promised. I would like to get that information, it could be important. I think he’d like to get as far away as possible, but we’ll talk to him see what he wants. Hopefully he’s calmed down, he was ready to jump out of his skin when I talked to him.”
Laine stopped, curling her lips in a grimace, “Sorry, bad choice of words.”
Her attention went back to Ava, still sitting on her bunk in her pajamas. “Look, I’m throwing this all on your lap before you’ve even got out of bed. Why don’t you go shower and get ready, we can continue our discussion. I need to smoke anyway.”
“Oh,” Ava glanced down at herself and the confident, professional expression slipped away to be replaced with one of mild embarrassment and she flashed a sheepish smile. “Right, that’s probably a good idea.”
Laine noticed her reaction of embarrassment and recalled her anxiety as she tried to both help and be out of the way last night. And the way she had been greeted by the team, at gunpoint, it was no wonder she had been a bundle of nerves. Laine gave her an encouraging smile, “Totally my fault. I’ll leave you a fresh towel in the bathroom, better get a shower before Dave. He’ll probably leave it full of dirt, poor guy. ”
She added quickly lest Ava think she was somehow usurping the shower privilege, “He’s eating and talking with Donnelley, that’ll take him some time.”
“Okay, thank you.” She nodded with a smile, pushing herself up to her feet and looking up at Laine. “Donnelley is the man that was wounded in the leg, right?” She asked, wincing at the memory of Jason stitching the man up on the coffee table. “Is he going to be okay? There’s that artery in the leg and something tells me hospitals aren’t really an option for us.”
At her question, Laine nodded, the flush rising in her face from shame at how she had snapped at him. He had been wounded and she remembered the strain of worry as she drove those dark roads that he might be dead by the time she got to the cabin. What would they do without his guidance here, without the familiar chain smoking leader guiding them into the unknown. And what would she have felt if he had been lost, what could have been lost that was only a fragile ghost of a spark right now. Not wanting to dwell on that, she shook her head slightly and looked back at Ava, “If it had hit the femoral artery he probably wouldn’t have made it, even with a tourniquet and Jason’s help. And you’re right, we can’t trust anyone that’s not under this roof out here in Blackriver. I’m learning this so you might as well get a head start.”
She took out the black package of Djarums and packed them, absently smacking the box against her hand. Donnelley and his bad leg, he would not be able to lead the tactical team. It would probably fall to Tom, even though he had been wounded she had seen the blood on his cheek but had no idea how bad as he had gone to bed without a word. It was not something she should worry about, she reminded herself. You’re not the babysitter of UMBRA.
“Right, I’m gonna grab a smoke, enjoy your shower,” Laine said, turning to head to the door.
“Thank you-oh!” Ava perked up and held up her hand slightly. “This might be weird, but I think you mentioned everyone eating the donuts I brought? Could you set one of the maple bar donuts aside for me? In case both boxes get eaten?”
Laine huffed a soft laugh, “Sure, and it’s not weird to want to save yourself your favorite donut. I’ll put one aside if there’s any left. Want me to save you some bacon and eggs?”
Ava nodded with a small smile. “Yeah, that’d be great, thank you Dr. Laine.”
“No problem,” Laine said, heading out the door and though she had hoped to bypass the kitchen she had the donut promise to fulfill.
Ava watched her leave, her mind buzzing with questions she wanted to ask the FBI psychologist. Questions that Foster had sparked after what he told her about Laine and Seattle.
She kept them to herself though, for now. She may not be very socially savvy but she knew you didn't ask such prying and personal questions after just meeting a person. No matter much she wanted to know.
Letting out a breath she started gathering up her clothes and toiletries.
[SIT DOWN WITH FOSTER: DONNELLEY, DAVE, PARI]
Once the team had assembled, Foster and Donnelley took their places at the front of the room. Dressed in a suit for Foster and business casual for Donnelley. A salmon dress shirt and gray slacks, brown leather belt and oxfords. He scanned the faces from behind his ray ban style sunglasses, like before. Some, he’d grown to know, others not yet. And some were missing. He sighed, crossing his arms tighter and trying his best to slip back into that stoney leadership role. Foster stood and he opened the briefing once everybody looked settled, “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.” He nodded, “We have a couple new faces here, make them feel like part of the team, but make no mistake. We’re hitting the ground running on this case today.”
“Two days ago, we made decent headway on the Jane Doe found in the woods. Potential leads and a good direction to take for the rest of the case. Thanks to Doctor Laine and her resources,” Foster gestured to the woman, “We have a way forward in ID’ing the Jane Doe and a lead from the toxicology reports consisting of very niche drugs in her system. Evidence found on… on the Jane Doe as well have convinced me to treat this as part of a bigger case some of you may be familiar with. Black Slabs.”
“Because of this, I have called in Parinaaz Bhatt of the FBI to consult for her expertise and experience. Likewise, a new transfer brought us Avaline Moore of Booz-Allen Hamilton to handle our technology, and…” Foster pursed his lips at Dave, “Uh, David MacCready. He will supplement the tactical team, his skills will be important and needed, knowing how these things sometimes go. I’ve put in a request to transfer you from BLACKBEARD to UMBRA.”
He addressed the man personally, then turned his attention back to the bigger picture, “In the meantime, valuable intelligence has been gained and is yet to be gained. Laine has an asset in the NPS willing and ready to give us information on the state of Blackriver and its authorities. David Dulane is a potential source of information and we’ll set up a visit to the facility he’s being kept at.” Foster looked to Donnelley, “We also have valuable equipment to recover. Donnelley will be handling that in the meanwhile. Due to concerns about security, Tom and Justin will be holding the fort here with me.”
“As for today, Jason, Laine, and Donnelley will be awaiting the call from Ranger Frank Wilkins and meeting with David Dulane. David, Ava, Pari,” he nodded at the three, “I’d like you to meet with Detective Maryanne Roy of the State CID over in Charleston. See if we can get information on local dealers and suppliers in the Charleston area.”
He gestured to Jason and Donnelley, “When you two get a chance, I’d like to speak to you as well. That’s for later. For now, everybody, focus on those objectives given for the day.” Foster brushed aside the bottom of his suit jacket to place his hands on his hips, “Any questions?”
“Yeah,” Jason said from the back. Sometime late in the morning he had roused himself from a dreamless sleep and without much banter went straight into the meeting after guzzling down some coffee. Foster’s mention of him did a lot more than the coffee was currently doing in waking him up. “You mentioned rare substances in Jane’s system. What was it and would local dealers be able to get their hands on it?”
“It’s pretty damn niche.” Foster nodded, “What was it?”
“Midazolam… and Propofol. Conscious sedation. Ain’t heard of anybody asking for those to have fun.” Donnelley frowned. “The killer didn’t want her to move. Didn’t give a shit if she could feel it though. Whoever supplies that is gonna be few and far between. Whoever asks for that in Blackriver? Even fewer.”
Dave raised his hand. He’d finally gotten a shower, and had washed his jeans and flannel shirt. “Why don’t we just start askin’ around at pharmacies? Or doctors’ offices? If it’s that hard to get ahold of, then your average hillbilly meth cook probably ain’t gonna have it on hand. Somebody would’ve had to fill a prescription or whatever, right? Unless the guy’s a doctor himself.”
“It could have also been stolen?” Ava suggested from where she was sitting on the end of the couch, her hair pulled back into a french braid and dressed in a crisp blue blouse as well as a grey plaid tweed skirt over a pair of black stockings. There was a thoughtful frown on her face as she tried to focus on the origin of the strange drugs and not the agony that poor woman must have suffered; her fingers idly playing with her necklace. “Midazolam is a controlled substance, if someone wanted it bad enough, they could have stolen it from a hospital or pharmacy.”
Donnelley nodded, looking at Laine for a moment, “We took the Jane Doe to a local doc. She might have the drugs on hand. I’ll have my team swing by and ask around, not like she had the best security at her… facility. Make it easy for anybody to get in and snatch it.” Donnelley smirked at the memory of the mossy Quonset hut. “Anythin’ else?”
Dr Laine had also dressed for the day, dressed neatly in the snug charcoal gray turtleneck and black slacks, power heels on her feet. There was a little discomfort on the cut foot so she had made a mental note to grab her sneakers on the way out. As she listened, she also snuck surreptitious looks at the team. Dave's face was mottled with bruises but he looked clear eyed and attentive. Ava seemed much more pulled together as well.
When Donnelley glanced at her she met his eyes briefly before looking away. Not wanting to contradict him or argue, she held her breath for a moment until Foster asked for any other questions.
"The doctor might but it's probably not common among family doctors though she could get it legally. It's worth checking into, anyway," Laine observed.
Jason, arms crossed and wide chest hidden behind the wrinkles of a faded black shirt, was working out the substance mystery with his eyes darting around the floor. Physically thinking was what someone had told him that was once. He had been dead for years now. "No, that sort of drug wouldn't be floating around a local practice or a CVS. If we start asking around for it too overtly we could tip off our perp—or out him. We convince local police to compile hospital pharmacy records we could see any weird orders or inventory changes." Jason looked up from the ground to Ava, adding, "Or thefts. Could rule out some suspects."
He looked around the team, not for assurance of the idea, but if he had stepped on someone's toes. It was hard not being a team lead anymore, and it was just as hard to figure out what his role here was.
Laine nodded, "That's a good idea, better to be quiet about this. Especially after seeing how nervous Wilkins was and the reception at the sheriff's office."
She looked over at Ava, leaning back as she did, "We're going to find out if the sheriff has gone digital, maybe you could sneak in the virtual back door and look into their records."
“Someone has to install one first. Someone needs to get in there, slip a usb into the right slot.” Donnelley shrugged. “Ain’t gonna be easy. If the Sheriff is fuckin’ us, we’re operating under Moscow Rules here, boys and girls. They’re opposition.”
“Wait, why?” Ava asked, eyes widening slightly in surprise. “What has the Sheriff done?”
Laine crossed her legs and shifted in her chair, slightly uncomfortable at the thought of one of them breaking into the office full of armed deputies, "He's been on 'vacation' for awhile. Indefinitely we were told."
“On top of that, there was evidence found on the body besides the black shard. A piece of fabric, something cryptic. It was there when Frank called in the Sheriff,” Foster looked around the room at the sets of eyes on him, “And nowhere to be found when State Police arrived. It’s something the Program would like to have, potentially. Anybody going into the Sheriff’s will have to recover that.”
Donnelley spoke up, “I wanna get my hands on the Sheriff. Figure out where and why he’s hiding.”
Pari sat quietly towards the back. Straight backed, one leg crossed over the other, her arms crossed and a finger resting on her lips - statuesque. Her eyes were closed as she listened along. It was not out of a lack of paying attention, in fact quite the opposite. The conversation had of course rolled on, but soon she removed the finger from her lips and placed it in the air in front of her as her eyes shot open. “I’d like to see those scene photographs,” she said with a level of dissonance in her voice. “If that would be alright, before we leave to our activities of the day.”
It’s not right, she thought, an eyebrow quirked upon her face that shifted her countenance. She had a theory, but it was based on the facts banded over the table, not gleaned from the tangible evidence.
Dave himself remained silent throughout the discussion, leaning his chair back with his arms behind his head. They'd shot his idea down, but he wasn't bothered by it. He'd made peace with his limited skillset the day he'd met the members of BLACKBEARD. He blew stuff up; that was enough for him.
The thought of BLACKBEARD did bring a twist to his gut though. He hadn't known the men long, but they'd pulled some serious shit in Arkansas. There had still been a bond. That brought a thought to mind, and he raised his hand again.
"Hey, so...if it ain't too off topic, can I look over our ordinance? I need to know what I've got to work with before I need to work with it." He grinned. "Though if there's a Home Depot in town I can probably come up with somethin' to hold us over."
Laine perked up at Pari's request, "I have the photos and the autopsy report, you're welcome to look them over. We should be getting lab results anytime, hopefully today or tomorrow. We're still waiting on an identification on Jane Doe and the scene samples. I can brief you after this briefing."
Her gaze shifted to Dave, his suggestion reminded her of why the MacCready name seemed familiar. Arkansas, home grown anti-government terrorists, white supremacists. Laine stiffened in her chair, recalling a course taught be a friend of hers at Quantico about domestic terrorism. They had put their heads together in building a profile of the suspect in a mass shooting at a black church in Georgia. And this man, Dave MacCready, was one of the family notorious in the sovereign citizens movement.
Laine studied his handsome bruised face and thought over the small pieces she had gleaned from him. Now she was definitely curious to know how he ended up here.
Ava also gave Dave a curious look at the mention of making home explosives from a hardware store. She didn’t recall catching what branch of the government or military he worked for, though she wondered why Foster just didn’t say…
Oh. Realization clicked behind her eyes and she glanced away from the man. Another civilian hire like herself it seemed. She switched her thinking back to the Sheriff and frowned as she mulled over the sketchy behavior described and Agent Donnelley’s word that they were ‘opposition’ now.
It was unpleasant to think that a Sheriff would be dirty and possibly connected to the killing, but if that was the case then they’d need any information they could get.
She slowly rose up her hand. “Um, did the Sheriff station look like it had a camera system?” She asked with a thoughtful crease between her eyebrows. “I could design the backdoor virus to give us remote access to the security cameras as well and we can monitor the station for suspicious activity ourselves. Or I could use it to manipulate the feeds if we have to break in.”
“Shit,” Donnelley shook his head, not even bothering to look at Laine. He wanted to leave the details of that scene in the past, but, “I can’t even remember. I might have to show my face around there again, or someone is. Case the place.”
Donnelley nodded to Dave, “Everythin’s in the garage. We ain’t ready for a shootin’ war with the county, but we got some things.” Donnelley shrugged, “Whatever you brought when we hauled ass out the forest is what we got in the way of explosives.”
Pari nodded with a smile in Laine's direction. "I'd appreciate it. There's context to be obtained by looking at them here." The woman's arms unfolded, and she held them out, palms down. After a slight pause, she brought them to her lap, and glanced over to Dave - who wasn't looking too unlike the Phantom of the Opera with the mottled bruising that crept around his face.
"I actually wouldn't be averse to the Home Depot myself, and well, if it makes you feel more at ease I'm sure there is time to be found." Pari added, drumming her fingers over her thighs.
Dave nodded at Pari. "Well, we'll be makin' the trip then, 'cuz I used everything I had on whatever the hell attacked us in those woods. Claymores, C4, and a handful of frag grenades, didn't even slow it down."
He glanced around. "Er… Not that I brought those from home. That'd be illegal."
“Hoss, you knew the shit I done for the Program, a few hand grenades ain’t shit.” Donnelley chuckled. “No ATF here.”
Laine said, "Anything I have on the case is yours to peruse, I would like another set of eyes on it."
Her gaze shifted to Jason, meeting his eyes briefly and she made a subtle motion, a slight tilting of her head to indicate she would want to speak after.
Once again Ava found herself staring at Dave with wide eyes at the mention of heavy explosives not even affecting whatever was in the woods they were talking about. Did they run from a T-Rex? What the hell was out there? Ava made a mental note to never go near the forest at night, especially alone.
Jason's attention drifted to each team member as they spoke, his passivity gleaning any details he hadn't been privy to. Legwork, he always loved legwork. It was like making something with your hands, like the most complicated of puzzles. The stakes were at their highest and it gave him an almost boyish thrill. Finally, he could dive into something of true substance.
As for the new team members, Dave was interesting in the way watching an animal hunt was interesting. There was something dangerous and eerily familiar about his matter-of-fact, casual demeanor. Jason wouldn't question who the Program picked or why. He was here and that was that. The other new member, Pari, was analytically minded in a way he couldn't help but appreciate either. And Ava? Finally showing her skillset as well. She'll be invaluable for sure. A good team, Jason thought. Way too fucking attractive too.
When he met Laine's gaze he caught her non-verbal and replied with the slightest of nods. Seemed he was popular today. Good, he liked being popular. It was better than being treated like the smelly kid in Amman. It felt strange not having talked with her since arriving, not after their conversation over the phone. He felt like something was owed, especially with how they both were to each other last night.
Jason then turned his attention on Donnelley and cocked his head Foster's way. Whatever this is let's get it out of the fucking way.
“Do we have a security system?” Ava asked, thinking back to what Foster said about security concerns and the tidbit of information Dave dropped making her nervous about what was lurking among the trees. “Cameras? Perimeter sensors?”
Foster looked to Donnelley, who looked at him and then to Ava. He mimicked pulling a trigger. “We’re not at Langley anymore. Whoever we’re badgerin’ isn’t supposed to find us. We don’t exist here at this very moment. If they have probable cause to come and no-knock us, we fucked up. Our tradecraft wasn’t up to par. We’re disavowed and left to the wolves.” Donnelley shrugged, “Officially, we are all employed as an FBI team descendin’ on Blackriver to catch this homicidal fuck.”
Donnelley crossed his arms, eyes growing darker and brow furrowing, “Unofficially? Realistically? Those who haven’t caught on by now, we aren’t gathering evidence to prosecute. We don’t. We make problems like this disappear.” Donnelley frowned, “In vats of acid and shallow graves sometimes.”
Laine glanced up at Donnelley at his last comment, her mouth pressing into a line. She had heard it before from him but in front of the team it made her realize the seriousness. No one they caught for this murder would last long. She took a deep breath and held her tongue, clasping her hands over her knee to keep still.
Tom stood silently at the back of the room, listening to the briefing. His arms were folded. He had looked at all the new members and was confident in their abilities, reasoning they belonged in this group. He took in what Donnelly had just said with seriousness. It was a difficult pill to swallow. He sort of assumed that was the case here, but since he was truly an agent with the federal bureau of investigations, he felt uneasy about this. As long as Mister Joseph Donnelly can make the perpetrators disappear into his mysterious vat of acid that won’t leave a trace to any of these people assembled here, he was OK with this. He never wanted to place himself in a position where it would jeopardize his family back home in New England.
Ava looked down at her necklace as she ran her thumb over the image pressed into the metal as well as the Latin words carved along the edges. She had known about that aspect of The Program for some time and had always felt unsteady about the validity of just killing targets rather than putting them through the due process of prosecution. However...After seeing the pictures of the skinned woman, learning about the unimaginable pain and suffering this madman put her through; she wouldn’t feel any sympathy for him when The Program caught up with him.
"Great pep talk, Donnelley," Jason chuckled out.
"Long as they have it comin'," Dave said firmly. His eyes were cold chips of ice set into the bruised mess of his face. "I heard rumors. From the boys in BLACKBEARD. 'Bout witnesses, people who talk outta turn… Just want it known I won't be part of that."
Donnelley nodded, a knowing glance at Dave’s words. A very real truth to the rumors and Donnelley wasn’t going to divulge how in-depth his knowledge and experiences of that was, “Different breed.” Donnelley frowned, “Hopefully we won’t have to call folk like them. Just want it known, if we do, another sign we fucked up.”
"Long as we know where I stand," Dave grunted.
"Since we're all supposed to be Bureau agents here, if you have any questions about how to act or what to say, please ask Agent Stewart, Agent Bhaat, or myself," Laine offered, not mentioning the sideshow that Weissman had made in the Park Ranger office. She glanced towards Dave, at his comments and gave a little nod. "Hopefully we keep appearances up enough for it to look like a routine FBI investigation and we'll not need those breed."
“She gets it.” Donnelley said, examining his nails and waiting to head out. “Any more questions or clarifications?”
Ava silently shook her head, her mind already drifting to how she would put together the backdoor virus, especially if there was a camera system to gain access too. If they were really lucky, maybe there’d be a few webcams and microphones in the computers she could tap into as well. Given the backwater status of the town however, she wasn’t getting her hopes up.
Laine stood up as a signal she was ready, fetching up her bag to retrieve the manilla folder of crime scene photos and set it on the kitchen table, waiting for Pari since Jason would still be occupied.
“Alright then, dismissed.” Foster nodded, then pointed at Donnelley and Jason, “You two. Quickly, before you go.”
Donnelley nodded, glancing at Jason before following Foster to the garage. Before Jason followed in he gave Laine another glance, a I’ll be right back look, and disappeared with Donnelley in the garage.
Foster and Donnelley sat in silence. Donnelley crossed his arms while Foster gestured for the seat opposite them. Already, Donnelley was wondering just what this was about. He wasn’t going to answer to Foster like a parent. The two of them knew where they stood with each other, so he knew this wasn’t about the drinking and drugs last night. Two things that could easily be explained away by the grief of two lost agents.
The seating arrangements, Foster’s look that Donnelley knew well. Were they going to do this now? Here? “Foster?”
But Foster didn’t even so much as hold a hand up to quiet Donnelley. He reached into his coat pocket and placed a small recorder on his lap. Donnelley’s brow quirked as Foster pressed the recording button, “Jason Jimenez. DIA put you in Jordan, is this correct?”
Jason couldn't hide his concern as the recorder came out, and gave Donnelley, not Foster, a questioning look. "Uhhh," he verbally paused. Finally he made eye contact with Foster.
"Um, yeah," Jason said after a moment, pushing his hesitation away with a shake of his head. "Amman but we frequently hit the Syrian border and...beyond it."
“Mm.” Foster nodded. The entire time, Donnelley was wondering why he had to be here, but he guessed it was because he was the middle man between team and Case Officer. Team Lead. The first with a grimace when the shit rolled downhill. “Tell me, at any point were you called back home? Stateside? And for what reason?”
"Yeah, after Baughman I was called to CENTCOM HQ," Jason replied. This was what the meeting is about. He hadn't imagined either operative played the bureaucrat game. Jason was confident of it, in fact. Then what? "My deputy director tried to get details about the Program. Worked me hard, actually, under the guise of internal affairs. Sidelined me because I won't talk."
“Good.” Foster gave a smile that did not shine or glow with warmth. A cold accountant’s gaze set on Jason for a few moments. Each breath heard in the silence the whooshing of a great metronome.
Foster slowly lifted a fist to his mouth and cleared his throat, all the while his eyes remained on Jason’s, “At any point during your time at the CENTCOM HQ, anywhere else Stateside, or in Jordan did anybody claiming to be Program, or operating under the pretense of Delta Green personnel attempt to make contact with you or at any point did you get the impression that you were being put under surveillance?”
Jason’s brow contorted as he thought about the question. How would he answer this? “What if I told you something I thought would be in the purview of the Program happened to me?”
Foster even broke his cold exterior to glance at Donnelley, who leaned forward in his chair. Both were curious expressions that begged him to go on.
The image of Dan’s limp body, his slack mouth oozing vomit, violated Jason’s thoughts. The scene crashed into his mind’s eye, inescapable and demanding all of his focus that moment. The Arabic shouting that had rang out from a floor below, and the violence that erupted before the men had stormed upstairs for them both. For Jason. Not even the DIA knew about that incident. Or had they sent them?
“The linguist on my team was tracking a ghost in the system. A dead asset pinging us from a phone that shouldn’t exist anymore. There’s more intel I’m waiting on but—”
He paused. Dan had been rigid in his chair in the bottomless depth of a K-hole, but Jason had heard it. The chanting from the hallway, its hypnotic repetition like the ravings of a monk possessed with zeal. Tueal washahid, Tueal washahid. The man with empty sockets and the writing on the walls. The names, some a mystery, but most painfully known. The team from Ghazni. SOUTHCOM assets lost to counter-narco ops. And then some names that were an impossibility; Donnelley, Laine, Stewart, Clark, Mathieu, Weissman, Moore, MacCready, Bhatt, Foster, Jimenez. His name over and over again, smeared into the wall with something not quite blood. But it had all be the trip, he thought. It had to have been the ketamine. All before the scene turned to shit. At least Dan was still alive.
“—but it’s slow going. We’re waiting until it’s safe for it to be sent.” He didn’t know why, but Jason withheld mention of the attack. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Foster, as much as he could trust anyone anymore. He didn’t even question it internally. Subconsciously Jason simply didn’t say. “I wanted to study it before I brought it up to the team, see if I actually had something. Maybe it’s just the agency playing me, I don’t know.”
Foster’s frown grew again. He inclined his head towards Jason. There was a tangible cloud of tension in the room. Donnelley could feel it and he suspected Jason did too. Foster spoke, “Is that all? Jason, we need full disclosure. Is that everything?” Foster asked, “Holding out information is a grave decision. It would be like letting someone through an airport gate with a dirty bomb. Only worse. That’s what the Program deals with, Jason.”
Donnelley leaned back and he finally chimed in, seeing as the questions branched away from just Jason himself and the suspicions of the Program versus the DIA. Petty interagency pissing contests. Something like this piqued his interest though, “Is there an ETA? What are you waiting for the intelligence to be safe from? DIA?”
Jason responded to Donnelley first, “Bingo. Linguist is making sure he isn’t caught sending classified over the pond. I’m expecting something from the darkweb, PGP at least. And, huh—” Another pause. Do I tell him the vision or the attack, he wondered. What’s telling me not to tell him?
“We were attacked. In a hostel in Amman. I couldn’t tell if it was supposed to be an abduction, but if it was they were sloppy as shit. There wasn’t a plan, just trying to rush us. Maybe they just wanted to off us then, but uh...it didn’t feel right. I couldn’t report it either.”
Because you were shooting ketamine, you druggy fuck. You can’t even tell Foster. Jason shot Donnelley a grim stare. He wasn’t asking for a lifeline, nor his sympathy. It was the front he always had to embrace. The lie he kept at the surface. No one could know, no one that didn’t partake the way he did, that didn’t understand.
“So, they weren’t professionals then.” Foster nodded.
“Maybe just to flush him out. See where he’d… you’d go,” Donnelley tactfully switched language. He wasn’t going to talk about the man like he wasn’t right there, “So these were, what? Thugs? Daesh militants? They found you somehow…”
Donnelley sighed and scratched at his black and red beard. It was a puzzle they didn’t need right now, but he very much wanted to revisit it when he could. He reminded himself that Viktor Ozan was in CIA custody and he too was waiting for word back from Kingsley and Smitty, and INIS. What if Daesh had somehow gotten word of Ozan and Bekzhaev getting hunted down and mistook the operation for Jason’s DIA? Trying to get back on the offensive?
“You said you went beyond the border? Did your HUMINT ever extend into Turkey?” Donnelley shrugged, “Chechens? Daesh funnels fighters through there, drugs and people too. Foster and I are privy to another ongoing string of incidents in Iraq that’s in connection.”
Jason shook his head, thick arms crossing over his chest. “Turkey? Never. I didn’t go past Deir al-Zour physically but I worked with some assets that went as far north as Aleppo. As far as foreign fighters not too many. Your typical smattering of central Asian and Chechen fighters. We ran into a few African recruits coming up from Yemen. As far as Iraq? All the time. But they outted me it was because I was a Westerner, not because of my ops. I’m fuckin’ positive of that.”
“Alright.” Donnelley nodded, clucking his tongue, “Anyway, you keep us posted. None of this leaves this house, it comes to me and Foster first. We both have mutual interest in this, man. You show me yours, I’ll share what I’ve got.” Donnelley frowned, “Deal?”
“We can read the intel together once I get it,” Jason replied. “Maybe more eyes can help me make sense of it.” He looked at Foster, grim sincerity flashing in the amber-brown of his eyes. “This is the team I bat for, sir. I don’t give a shit about DoD and the closet they’re pushing me into. This means something.”
“It should.” Foster said as he and Donnelley stood, Foster making for the door while Donnelley lit a cigarette, Foster called back over his shoulder, “We make sure there’s still a world to fight for.”
Taking a small breath, Pari rose from her seat - her height impressive in the heels, rounding out at a nice 5’10 in the patent pumps. It would most likely be the last time she would be wearing them, she thought momentarily as she glanced down at the reflective shine on their surface, and then her eyes took note of a scuff too. Her fingers twitched at it, and Pari took in a sharp breath through her teeth. Just a scuff. Most likely gravel from the driveway, possibly touched dirty slats on the steps. Only needs a quick wipe.
A smile returned, and she moved to Laine’s side in graceful strides that maintained her balletic posture with each step. She did not open the folder, instead turning to face her new colleague with a somewhat serious expression. “Dr. Laine, you were at the scene, yes?” She asked in a softer tone, her accent more prominent when she was softer - relaxed. “Before I look - is there anything you can remember about the scene that could not have been captured by the camera? Smells, sounds… feelings.?”
Laine stood looking at the first picture, one she had taken herself of a wide view of the entire scene. Trees in summer leaf casting shadows, dappling the ground with light and dark and among them was the young woman skinned like a deer, left on the ground. She was laid out neatly, not bundled or dropped in a callous manner but her arms and legs straight, her face tilted up to watch the sky with sightless dark sockets where eyes once were. Around her there was police tape, bright yellow against the green foliage and the raw black and rusty red of the body.
She turned to Pari, meeting the woman’s dark gaze and took a deep breath, “I prefer not to tell you any of my thoughts before you look this over. Whatever I say might make an impression, you know, unintentionally of course. But as for the sounds and smells? It was normal. Nothing to out of the ordinary, not that I noticed but I’m not exactly a woman of the woods. It smelled like earth, leaves, and death. Temperature was in the mid fifties I think, something ordinary for the mountains in the summer. No rain in the last couple of days, so the samples the state CSI took should be good for trace evidence.”
Laine touched the folder and pushed it across the table towards a chair so Pari could sit and look through it. “Once you’re done, tell me your thoughts and I’ll tell you mine.”
As Pari looked at the images, she remained unflinching at the sights, instead focussing on the information provided by Laine. She tried as best as she could to imagine the scent, to feel the sticky balm of the heat. Her eyes closed, and she placed a splayed hand beside the series of photographs - letting her thoughts ruminate. She stayed like this for some time, it must have been at least a couple of minutes - taking a series of deep breaths in and out until at last she opened her eyes and took her seat.
Pari cleared her throat, lifting a particularly grizzly photograph up in a pinch of her fingers closer to her face. She found herself focusing on Jane Doe’s genitals - for obvious reasons. The lack of eyes was alarming, but not something that Pari found unusual. Was she younger woman, her lack of emotional response might have worried her. It was a skill she had developed, a necessary one. Still, the violence to her most private parts was just enough to tap at her. There was always something personal about violence to women, wasn’t there?
She placed the image down and reclined in the chair. “Dr. Laine, as a psychologist, and well educated woman, I will make the assumption that you know of Ockham’s Razor, yes?” she asked, glancing to the side to meet the eyes of the woman beside her.
Laine took a seat on the opposite side of the table, folding her hands and waited. She watched Pari, her cool green gaze unwavering until the other woman spoke.
“Keep it simple, stupid,” she replied without batting an eyelash.
“Yes, precisely,” Pari replied, her breath was almost a laugh. “The principle being that the simplest theory, or speculation is usually correct.” Her head lowered as she collected the photographs back together, fingers tracing the edges so they were exact on the pile. So that no photograph was lying at any angle other than the correct one. “A doctor, a licensed medical professional would have had access to the drugs found in our Jane Doe’s system. They would have also had the knowledge of the absolute correct dosage to administer.” Pari paused again, placing the photographs back into the folder, she pressed a finger to the cover and slid it back across the table to Laine.
“The mutilations of her body took a great deal of precision and expertise, a strong stomach also.” Her eyes flickered to the corner of the room and they narrowed as her thoughts continued. “That would be my theory thus far, from what I’ve seen,” Pari’s gaze snapped back to Laine. “I’m not a psychologist like yourself, I can’t profile this kind of person. But, if you would listen to my advice, I’d look to local doctors and surgeons as suspects.”
Laine nodded, tapping her manicured nails on the table, “There was certainly precision in what he did, this was not his first, even if we had not found other bones you could see he’s had a lot of practice, he has a method. This also seems to be his comfort zone. You’ll see with most organized killers, they will start in their area and then branch out as they continue to develop the fantasy and their skill, their confidence. But this man, he’s drawn back to that spot. At least we have not found others that match this MO in particular.”
Leaning forward, she looked at the picture of Jane Doe, “As for a doctor or surgeon, I had not thought too much on that as you can see we’re in a rural undereducated area, poor and closed off, not exactly a hotbed of professionals. Unless he has a vacation cabin around here. I was thinking he might be local, a hunter or amateur taxidermist. I’m sure we can find more of those than surgeons around these parts. But it’s something to consider, we can’t weed out anything yet. The prescription drugs he used is very niche, it’s not something regular people would go out to buy, you can’t get stoned but honestly it’s a lot easier to learn to administer a drug with practice than skinning a large body so complete and without cuts or tears in the muscles. I think we need to look at both local hunters, anyone in the area that might have gone to medical school at least and anyone renting cabins in the area. Which is going to be a long list. I would cut it down to men in their late 20s to early 40s, it’s a wide gap until we learn more. But he’s had experience killing and he’s still strong enough to carry a body out into the woods. No tire marks were found. ”
She took a breath and pushed up the sleeves of her soft grey sweater, her lower arms bare of any hint of the tattoos that were just a few inches above. “Once we get the tests and ID back, we’ll be able to start narrowing that list.”
“My expertise, Dr. Laine, is in religion and crime. Cults and the like,” Pari offered with a wave of her hand. “I’m afraid I can’t be of any assistance in the getting into the mind of our killer. I can only offer you suggestions on the knowledge and experience I have. This all feels…. Familiar to me. You’re right that this isn’t the first - and she sadly will not be the last…” Pari sighed, her posture almost deflated but with a slow blink she pulled herself back together. “I’d guess that the next victim will be more theatrical, bolder.”
She ran a finger over her lower lip again, meeting Laine’s eyes, offering her a reassuring smile of sorts - it was heavy subject material for this time of the morning, truthfully though, their jobs didn’t run on a clock. There was no such thing a ‘bad time’. “This all reminds me of ritual killing. This is why I was brought here, I suppose.” Pari heaved a sigh and for the first time, leaned forward, she uncrossed her legs and placed an elbow on each thigh. “This is about power. Possibly a gift - sacrifice, for some higher purpose. Did he keep the eyes and tongue?” She asked, looking up at Laine, lines appeared across her forehead.
Laine shifted in her chair, reaching up to tuck her short dark hair behind her ears, “I need you for that, for looking into the things I don’t see. What might be in my eyes an odd cut might mean something more to someone with your skill, but from what I see right now is an organized killer. He is trying to recreate his fantasy, it is rage, lust and control. We found no semen but nearly every serial killer is motivated partly by sex. The penetration wounds obviously speaks to that, it was a lot of anger. Cutting out her ability to see and speak? It could tie into shame about sex, perhaps he couldn’t rape her because he was impotent when she could see him and mock him? Who knows just yet. Skinning her...he takes away her beauty, her humanity yet he displays her, so perhaps more akin to a hunting trophy. He wanted us to see her. Look at his work.”
Out of habit she reached for her pocket, hunting for the cigarettes still in her blazer that hung on a coat hook on the wall. Giving up, she looked at Pari, “Perhaps he did, maybe he ate them? We haven’t found them so it could be in a jar in his refrigerator. You know, Ed Kemper threw his mother’s larynx into the garbage disposal, a sort of poetic justice for him I suppose. She was very verbally and emotionally abusive and he actually turned himself in after killing and mutilating her. Of course, that was the end of a reign of terror in which he killed several young women. No, this guy here isn’t done. He’s perfecting.”
“I’d be inclined to believe he ate them. If this was a ritual killing, then what he took with him he would have consumed. It’s spiritual-” Pari’s back straightened again, and an eyebrow quirked as she rolled her wrists while emphasising her thoughts. “To consume is to become the victim in spirit. Not to mention that in that there are certain supernatural connotations…” The conversation between herself and Laine had reached a point of interest she hadn’t expected it too. There was one thing she could be sure of, it was that Laine was switched on. Not that Pari had reason to doubt that, but she felt assured to know that this was a woman with whom she could discuss her theories and not have them brushed to the side. Talking supernatural often got her funny looks, whispers behind her back.
“Wendigo.” She stated, narrowing her eyes. The rogue strand of hair that was her side swept fringe had moved from behind her ear, and mirroring Laine she too tucked it away again. “An individual whose entire equilibrium is shattered. Often outcasts of the community, so they seek to bring destruction and shake the balance of their environment around them in turn…” Pari closed her eyes, and placed a palm flat on the surface of the table.
“Spiritual beings, humans corrupted by greed - that extends to the greed for flesh. Perhaps he ate the skin too.” Her tone was cold, serious. She knew what she was talking about, to most, would sound crazy. But this was as Laine had said, a small town, and myths like that of Wendigos become rampant and real in small towns. It was an area for her to research into, at the very least. Her almond eyes shot open again, and warmth returned to her demeanour before she drummed her fingers three times over the table. “But that’s me getting ahead of myself, I apologise.”
Laine listened, watching the woman think and slowly nodded, “Well, that’s an angle I did not consider. But you’re right, there are many myths and legends that persist in places like this. In fact, I have a stack of library books that we need to go through, some with very interesting Blackriver history in it along with Shawnee tales. They’re the most recent of tribes to have lived here before being shoved off to Oklahoma, poor bastards.”
She tapped her nail, “Now, in the Behavioral Analysis Unit, we established that cannibalism when connected to serial murder is usually not the work of a true psychopath, someone who gets off on the pain he inflicts. It’s more about inferiority and possessing that person, they were only a means to a corpse. Now, Ted Bundy, now that was a psychopath. He reveled in the pain he caused and I think this guy does too. Why else give them a drug that immobilizes them and yet allows them to feel everything? But, I won’t discount what you’re saying, we could very well be onto something new here. Someone that is not going to fall into categories neatly. But again, all of this is just spitballing until we know if he did with the pieces missing. He could have tossed in the garbage disposal for all we know. We just need more information.”
Laine glanced at the living room, the people still waiting for Donnelley and Jason to emerge, “We did not get a good chance to meet properly because of...well this morning, but welcome to the team, Agent Bhatt. I was up here the last time UMBRA came out, I’ll tell you about that one day if I can, there was some interesting things found in the cabin we cleared out.”
“After the activities of the day, I’d very much like to look at those books. Cross reference anything with my own studies and writings - those of my peers,” Pari offered, shelving the books to the back of her mind for later. “Yes, just spitballing for now. I’ll be interested to see the results of the later testing of the body, and her ID.”
She took a look over her shoulder too, glancing at Dave and Ava who were both still in the room. This morning she would be heading off with both of them, and like her, they were also green to the team. There was comfort in that, but it also stoked a fire inside of her that they needed to work hard to impress, there would be absolutely no room for missteps. Not on the first day. With that in mind, she stood from her seat too and gave a smile to Laine. “It was good to have this conversation, I’m glad we’ve established a page to write on, at the very least. I’m glad to be on the team, I can only hope to prove myself useful in as many capacities as I can.”
Her eyes fell to the scuff on her pump again, and her lip twitched this time. “If it’s alright with you Dr Laine, while we wait for the others, I'd like to take my belongings to my room, freshen up some, it was a long drive.”
“This is your home,” Laine said, making a gesture towards the living room and the hallway beyond. “Though, I hope you don’t mind but..”
She gave a sly amused look towards Ava then back at Pari, “Bottom bunks have been claimed.”
Amusing as the words probably were, all of a sudden - Dave’s couch was looking pretty comfortable by comparison. “Perfect,” Pari replied with a half smile. Her head tilted in the direction of her suitcase, still by the door - gravel and dirt stuck in the wheels. She always packed light, at least. Only that which was necessary - anything else could be bought.
"You could pick up a step ladder at Home Depot, to make it easier," Laine suggested.
Pari cocked her head back to Laine, “Well, now we definitely have to make it a priority to get there.”
The briefing done, Ava stood up and went to the women’s bunk room to fetch her laptop. She returned shortly after with it in hand, a hard cover resembling light blue marble with veins of gold encasing the device. She flashed a small smile at Dave, still sitting in his chair as she sat back down on the couch, smoothing the back of her skirt forward so it didn’t wrinkle, setting her laptop on the coffee table to get started on the virus.
As it powered on, she looked back over to Dave and fought the urge to wince in sympathy at the dark bruising that covered the top half of his face. “How’s your head feeling?” She asked him with a concerned frown, hoping that his head just looked worse than the damage actually was.
"It's fine, a little sore but that's just the bruise, I figure." He grinned and gingerly poked at the knot on his forehead. It had shrunk, but was still visible from the right angle. "Look like a damn unicorn."
He was leaned back in his chair, watching the room, learning his new team. He knew he wouldn't have much to contribute to the investigative process; he was a physical problem solver, not a mental one. Mechanical force, explosive yield, those came easily to him. Abstract thinking made his head hurt. He needed things to be grounded, acting on each other, not floating.
"So uh… What ya workin' on there?" He scooted his chair a little closer, using the motion to take a peek at Ava before taking a peek at her computer. "This is that virus, right? Supposed to fuck up their computers?"
“Yes it is and it won’t really mess up their system.” Ava said, smiling over at him as she opened a program on her laptop and started typing away. “It’s basically going to give me remote, admin access to their computers. It’ll let me poke around in their systems, let me see through any cameras they have and copy and download files to my laptop here. That’s why it’s called a Backdoor.” She looked back over at him, her fingers still typing without looking at the screen. “The tricky part is it has to be downloaded onto one of their computers first.”
Ava hadn’t really had a chance to study Dave past his head injury since it was so eye drawing. Now that they were sitting there in a calm environment and talking, she was surprised to note how handsome he was. Even with the bruising it didn’t really detract from his appearance.
Huh. She thought and then turned her eyes back to her screen.
Dave nodded along as she spoke, quickly finding himself over his head as far as the raw details were concerned. He could use the internet, he had a teenage son, after all. But his mechanical business was handled via a landline, and for the actual work he relied on hard-copy books, personal experience, and technical manuals. The same was true of his less legal hobbies.
"So we're gonna have to do some spy shit then?" He grinned, his blue eyes sparkling with amusement. "Go James Bond and sneak inside?"
Ava smiled at that and a soft giggle bubbled up from her chest. “Or Mission Impossible.” She said, mirth clear in her quiet voice. “If the Sheriff’s station has a skylight.”
"I can always make a skylight, if y'all ask me real nice." He glanced over at Laine and Pari, watching them speak for a moment. Both seemed heavily invested in their conversation, and from what he could glean it probably wasn't something he wanted to be involved in. He was of the opinion that evil was real. Evil people didn't need to be understood, and they didn't deserve understanding. All that was needed was a tall tree, a short rope, and a few beers for a job well done. Or a few bullets and a shot of whiskey if you had shit to do that day.
"So this virus," he said, turning his attention back to Ava. "You do that sorta thing a lot?"
“Kind of, I have a pretty diverse portfolio.” Ava answered with a slight shrug of her petite shoulders, looking over at him again. “My job before I was transferred here had me working across different departments. I mainly sifted through raw data, but I also helped with coding programs, testing new security software by making viruses,” She nodded her head to her laptop to indicate that was how she developed her virus skills. “I even did a little hardware and mechanical engineering.”
She studied him for a moment, her eyebrows arching curiously. “So, what is it that you do?” She asked him. “What’s your specialty?”
"Explosives, mostly," Dave said. "I've got kind of...a background with them, I guess. And survival stuff. I'm from the Ozarks, grew up doing hardcore survival training. I still spend a lot of time out in my mountains."
“Wow.” Ava said, her tone and expression taking on an impressed note. “That’s amazing. So did you use to do artillery for a mercenary company?” She asked, her blue eyes bright with interest and curiosity about the other civilian’s background.
"Er...More demolitions, I guess?" He rubbed the back of his neck nervously; any talk about his family tended to make him antsy, particularly surrounded by so many Feds. "Anyway, it's kind of a story. What about you? What got you all into computers and spy stuff?"
“Oh, um,” Ava looked back at her computer, suddenly bashful at the question of her past. “I’m a little...weird?” She started, glancing at him from the corner of her eye nervously, hoping he didn’t think she was bragging about herself.
“I was basically one of those kids who understood complex math right away? I went to MIT when I was about 10 and that’s where I really got into computer science and engineering. I got my doctorate in computer science when I was 18 and I guess Booz-Allen Hamilton had like...connections there because they offered me a job shortly after. It was well paying and it was work I loved so I accepted.” She shrugged again, her focus turning back to her laptop. “And I’ve been doing it ever since, I’m basically an outside contractor with a security clearance so my contract has been shuffled around a few times between agencies.”
"Huh," Dave said. "That's pretty cool. I don't understand complex math now." He was quiet for a moment, watching her type away. "Honestly, I don't know how useful I'm gonna be, goin' out with you and the Agent there. I'm mostly a one trick pony. Though I guess if we have to blow up a bridge or get lost in the mountains I'll have somethin' to do."
“I’m unsure about it myself.” She admitted to him with a smile, happy to change the subject. It was also relieving to hear someone else was unsure about doing investigative work like she was. “Unless the drug dealer we’re looking for left an obvious digital trail, I probably won’t be much use.” She looked over to where Pari and Laine sat, both professional FBI women engrossed in their conversation. It sounded like they were using their combined expertise to put together theories on who the murder suspect was.
Laine seemed nice and friendly from their brief conversation in the bunkroom before the briefing. It truthfully amazed her how the woman with such different credentials from the rest of UMBRA was able to form a cohesive working dynamic with them. She was so poised and confident, even when there were guns and injured people about.
She hadn’t a chance to even say hello to Agent Bhaat yet, but from how she spoke during the briefing and the sound of her now; she was confident and calm with a sharp mind that clearly understood what she spoke of. She was also a seasoned FBI agent, which was a comforting thought as she and Dave would be stepping into uncharted territory with police work.
Ava nodded her head to the table. “I think we should follow Agent Bhaat’s lead and we’ll be okay. Maybe we’ll be able to help by offering outside the box thinking?” She suggested, turning her eyes back to Dave and the bruise on the top half of his head. “Um, should maybe make up a story for that though.” She said, pointing to the bump and bruising on his head.
"Huh? Oh, the Halloween mask," he grinned. He had noticed it in the mirror after his shower and had gotten a chuckle out of it. "Yeah, it looks kinda ridiculous. If I had a suit I could be the tough guy. The Bad Cop, you know?"
He looked down at his red flannel shirt. He'd washed his clothes the night before, but they still had a bit of a rumpled look to them.
"Right now I just look like a clumsy lumberjack or somethin'."
“At least you’re okay.” She said with a slight grin as she turned back to her laptop. “Maybe one of the other guys here has a suit you can borrow?”
"Maybe," he said. "I'm bigger'n Donnelley and smaller'n the big guy. Jason. I'll probably be fine. Just tell 'em I'm your undercover jackboot. It ain't too far off."
She nodded, continuing to type away on her keyboard. “That could work, I’m sure Agent Bhaat or Dr. Laine will have an idea for a cover for you.” She liked this, socializing wasn’t so bad when she had work to help keep her from obsessing over saying the wrong thing. Or maybe Dave was just easy to talk to. Despite their first meeting, there was an easy laid back energy to him, the way he held himself and the relaxed manner he spoke, in that rolling drawl of his, was infectious in it’s soothing tones.
She typed a few more lines of code and then leaned back from the coffee table, stretching her arms up above her. “Okay, I’ve got the basic framework for the virus done.”
"Cool," Dave said. He meant it; high technology baffled him, but it was still interesting. He gave Ava another surreptitious glance as she stretched. "So uh… From there you just kinda tweak it? Make it do whatever for a specific system?"
“That’s right.” She nodded, reaching back forward to save her work and close the program; leaving her desktop wallpaper in view. A picture of her cat Thor sitting in the front basket of her bicycle, which looked just barely big enough for him to sit in. “But that’s pretty detailed work that’ll take me longer than I think we have.” She said, starting to shut down her laptop. “Agent Foster and Agent Donnelley made it seem like we’re supposed to hit the ground running on this.”
"Yeah, seems like they're in a hurry. Which makes sense, I guess." His eyes grew cold for a moment. "Got some asshole out here killin' innocent women, doin' God knows what. Sooner he's in the ground, the better."
Then it was gone, his easy mirth back in an instant. "But 'til then, guess we gotta play our part of the game and catch his ass, right?"
“Yes,” She frowned and reached up to touch her pendant as her mind flashed to the pictures she saw of the Jane Doe. “I’ll do what I can, hopefully we catch him before he does something like that again.”
"We'll get him," Dave said. There was confidence in his voice, a firm conviction. Good always won, in Dave's world. Even when it did it at gunpoint. "We'll get him and all his buddies. Let God figure out the rest."
In the kitchen, Laine was observing Dave with Ava as the young woman worked on her computer. He looked like the mountain man he was and she looked like an Ivy League student cramming for finals. Not FBI agents. She glanced at Pari and then reached for her bag, counting out several twenty dollar bills and winced inwardly at her dwindling funds.
"While you're in Charleston, do you mind taking Mountain MacCready shopping for a decent suit so he'll look like a Bureau man. And I'll see if Ava has a blazer, if not have her pick one up," Laine suggested, then folded the money in a piece of paper. "Tell Dave it's on the Program and bring me the receipts if you would."
Pari discreetly took the notes, and nodded. She could have made a quip about the task, but elected to keep such thoughts to herself for now. “Of course,” was her response, and with that said she made her way back to her own purse on the counter.
The sky was blue again. Donnelley’s smoke clouds mimicked the slow current of the wispy clouds. Again, the smell of diesel and the echoes of blasting charges making their way to his senses from miles away. It was meditative, almost. A little reminder that life went on despite everything, a bittersweet reality check. No one but who had been with him knew that two young people died on his command last night. He felt like he killed them himself, and like a remorseful murderer, he was waiting for justice to come.
He shook his head, shooing those thoughts away like flies as he took another drag. “Fuck…” he breathed.
The front door to the Safe House creaked open and there was the slightest scuff and creak of footfalls on wood as the door gently shut again. “Um,” Ava’s soft voice called out as she approached the burn scarred man, staring off into the distance with a cigarette perched between his lips. “Hello, Agent Donnelley.” She greeted, with a slight but polite smile. “Is this a good time?”
“Just Donnelley.” The man said, looking down at Ava. Just like he feared, he recognized something in her. Maybe it was the eyes, the hair was too easy an assumption. He could’ve just seen her around the Program HQ. He shrugged, offered his hand out, “Good a time as any. What’s up?”
She reached out and shook his hand, noting how rough and calloused it was. A life of hard work? Or a life from running and gunning? “I just thought I should officially meet you. It’s been a little...hectic.” She said, letting go of his hand and glancing over to the driveway where their first, unfortunate meeting took place.
“And, offer my condolences, for the two people you lost.” She added, her bright blue eyes looking back up at him from behind her glasses. He was a rough looking man, the scar aside, she could see that the years of stress of whatever events he had survived etched into the hard lines of his face. Yet, he didn’t give off a very intimidating presence to her, even after that briefing he had just given them.
He could feel the hard edge of regret play across his brows at that. If it had been anybody else he would’ve firmly asked them to shut their hole. Death, you could get used to. Sending someone to die… “Yeah.” Donnelley nodded, sucking in another drag and offering Ava a sheepish grin, “I’m sorry about last night. We were on edge. I hope you find this place good enough to lay your head at night, at least. Lotta guns, lotta dudes to shoot ‘em. Makes me feel safe.” He chuckled.
“Thank you for the donuts, by the way. I like a good maple bar.” He nodded.
“It was surprising, but I’m okay now.” She assured him. Her anxiety medication helped a great deal and having some work to focus on also didn’t hurt, but he didn’t need to know that. Or she didn’t need to say it, if he had access to her file than he likely knew already.
She smiled at the mention of the donuts and she rubbed the back of her neck. “You’re welcome, I’m glad everyone liked them. I like the maple bars too, I bought three for myself when I got the rest.” She said, shaking her head at herself.
Ava found herself glancing down at his leg, vividly remembering the sight of Jason sewing the bleeding wound shut. “So,” She felt her voice growing soft as her curiosity got the best of her and she raised her eyes back up to him. “What...happened? If I can ask? Dr. Laine said something attacked you? And Dave mentioned...well...” She let the unspoken statement of explosives doing nothing to whatever it was, hang in the air.
“Yeah,” Donnelley’s expression soured a bit, suppressing a shiver at the memory of the roar and the footsteps, “Something. You do tech? Ever been in the field?”
Ava noticed the change in his expression and latched onto the change in subject. “I do, I was a data analysis and technician for The Program and before that, the CIA.” She winced at the mention of field work. “I’ve never done field work before, this is my first experience with it.”
Donnelley took a long drag, clucking his tongue before speaking, “Have to start somewhere. Don’t worry, you probably ain’t gonna be tramping around the woods with me.” He looked down at his leg, “Not that I’m gonna be any time soon. Best get ready now, we’re rollin’ out soon.”
“Right,” She nodded and flashed another small but polite smile. “I’ll get to work finishing that backdoor virus as soon as I can. It was nice officially meeting you.” She said while taking a small step back to turn and head back inside.
She paused for a moment, glancing back at him and the questions about his experience with the Black Slabs surfacing once again to her mind, just like when she had spoken with Dr. Laine. And just like then she bit her tongue and looked away to go back inside, afraid of prying too deep too soon.
>WHITETREE >ANNIE’S DINER >1100HRS...///
The jukebox that sat at the back of the tavern clicked a CD into place, filling the tavern with Dwight Yoakum as the early lunch crowd shuffled in to shovel mashed potatoes and cheap chopped steak that swam in greasy gravy into their mouths. Men that worked in the mines splurging on something that wasn't bologna and white bread, enjoying both their own company and the warm reception of Annie herself. The Christmas lights and flyspecked overhead lamps lit the dining area dimly and the booths were empty near the back.
When the duo entered, the murmured conversation came to an abrupt halt, suspicious eyes wandering over the man in a suit and a tall woman in high heels. The silence hung around them and Laine felt the tension not unlike what had been in the car the whole drive up. The crooning twangy voice cut through, the mournful guitar filling the tavern.
You've got your little ways to hurt me They're not too big but they're real tough Just one cold look from you can knock me down
It wasn't until Annie greeted the feds with a smile and invited them to sit wherever that the hard faced men went back to eating, discussing bum transmissions and politicians.
Laine turned to make her way to the back not waiting to see if Jason followed. Eyes marked her progress, watching the sway of hips as she strolled across the diner. An empty booth waited and she slid into one of the benches, setting her phone onto the menu and clasped her hands over it.
Jason met the hostile gazes with a disarming smile that deflated into a silent nod and a mouthed hello. He expected the stares, the air vacating the room in big wooshes of unwelcome moods. The smile worked better on women, but he wanted to come off as harmless as possible. Better to be the jackass pretty boy than the big lug to sucker punch and gloat over. He was thankful Laine took most of their attention, and he couldn’t help but appreciate her walk to the back of the diner as he followed. She knew she could turn heads, Jason concluded. It was a good tool, a good tool until admirers became too courageous. That’s where her intellect would come in. All rosy from a distance, but thorny if you didn’t keep it. He was quick to pull his gaze away from her hips as she shuffled into the booth, and without a pause he took the seat opposite of her.
Since their first meeting Jason had been avoiding any prolonged looks or obvious gawking, but now he let his restraint go. Though his demeanor was stoic, perhaps a tad stern, his eyes glowed with an admiration that was graduating from friendly towards something lascivious. He told himself it was harmless as long as he kept his eyes from dipping below her neck. Besides, she was off limits. She had to be.
“About last night—” Jason began, but then Annie came from a patron at the bar top to their booth.
“You two lookin’ too creased to be havin’ anything other than coffee,” Annie said, her bright but tired eyes rimmed with heavy makeup and her yellow tooth smile genuine.
Jason flashed his best handsome smile at her. “Oh don’t write me off just yet. I’m a big boy, I need to eat,” he said, giving her a wink.
“Ain’t that the truth,” Annie giggled out. She turned to Laine, “and I could peel you right off the front cover of a magazine. What’ll you two be havin’ to start?”
“You were right about the coffee,” Jason answered. “Make it at least two, we have a third comin’.”
“And you, hun?” Annie asked Laine.
Laine watched Jason squeeze into the booth, he seemed to fill the space with his broad chest and shoulders. She glanced up to his face, at the youthful sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of his nose that had caught her eye before. They seemed to contradict the hard stare he had given her the last night, when his eyes had been cold and flat in his boyishly handsome face.
When she met his eyes this time, it was different. No anger but something else just as strong and easy to understand. Laine glanced away, feeling unexpected warmth start to rise to her face and was grateful when the owner of the diner walked up. She remembered her from the previous visit with Donnelley, Foster and Detective Roy, she had been the same, the well practiced small town sunshine of customer service.
Laine smiled in return, close mouthed and conservative then replied, "Just coffee for now, please, black."
Once she had left Laine looked back at Jason, now better prepared to face him and what she needed to discuss before Donnelley returned. She studied the dark phone for a moment, expecting it to light up any moment with Frank Wilkins wanting his ticket out of Dodge.
Folding her arms, sleeves tugged up to her elbows, she leaned forward which pushed her chest against the snug sweater. Meeting his eyes once more, she let the moment rest before asking, "Yes, about last night?"
She would let him finish his thoughts before expressing her own, curious to see where his mind was, especially since they had not spoken since the phone call months ago. The night before had been fraught with tension and danger, fear and confusion. And worse. Laine felt both the guilt at her meddling and righteous anger of being so dismissed but mostly she wanted to clear the air.
The reciprocal union of their gaze quickly became uncomfortable for Jason. Partly because he had always felt his prolonged stare was aggressive, invasive. It came with the territory of someone his stature, and a face prone to an idle glare made it no better. But there was also her intensity, the depth of a cool gaze as fluid as water and as unyielding as the mind behind it. He broke it up with occasional glances at the menu.
“I wanted to apologize. I was a bit rude and that was probably the last thing you needed then. Just felt like you were intruding on my job at the time,” he said. He wanted to say he wouldn’t do that to her were she to use her skillset, if she were to engage in any psychological discourse. Does she even do therapy, he wondered. It was worth a future question. In any case, saying so would only stain his apology. The last thing he wanted was for Laine to be cutting. Something about her confidence exuded the capacity to be venomous, at least he assumed as much.
“But you weren’t,” he went on, as if to stymy his own thoughts. “You were concerned for Donnelley. I get that. What did you want to talk about?”
Annie came back with her steaming industrial coffee pot and two dishwasher warm mugs. She slapped down a shallow bowl filled with creamer packets, Sweet’n Low, and sugar, then filled their mugs. She asked for their order, to which Jason politely responded they weren’t ready, and began to study Laine again.
Laine waited until Annie left, picking up her cup of coffee and blowing gently across the steaming dark liquid, inhaling the scent. She held the cup there, both elbows on the table and gazed at him over the mug.
"I also wanted to apologize for stepping on your toes with my concern," Laine said, "Obviously you're well trained and he's a grown man. If he wanted to suck down whiskey after losing so much blood, who am I to interfere?"
She took a tentative sip, the heat still too much so she set the mug down, a dark red lipstick stain on the rim of the industrial white porcelain. Clasping her hands against the warmth, Laine looked back up at Jason, gauging his expression. " I wanted to ask you about Donnelley's wound, before you closed it, did you notice details? Was it ragged or a smooth puncture? Any splinters of material perhaps embedded? I should have taken pictures to compare to...well, just in case. It would be wise to record anything related to what's going on in those woods."
Jason’s gaze narrowed in a focused study. There was a reason beyond the statement, and she was gleaning details for something..Of what, he had to know. Ever since Amman he’d been wary of questions; Brunser, Foster, and now Laine. The dinner suddenly felt constricting, cage-like. There was a roiling of his tongue behind pursed lips, his eyes focused on the excessive creamer and sugar he was adding to his coffee.
“Wasn’t a fuckin’ bullet wound,” he said. He looked over his shoulder at the patrons, and feeling sufficiently isolated from any prying ears he added, “Reminded me of a time I had to pull rebar out of an Afghan’s leg. IED sent it right through his thigh. This was...larger, no metal residue or fragments. Like a stingray wound but way larger. Little tearing around the edge of both the entry and exit point so not likely to be serrated. Your guess is as good as mine. I was going to ask Donnelley what he saw, but all he could give me last night was that it was big.”
He swirled his sugar addled coffee with a spoon before slurping it between his lips. “You said you wanted to compare it to something then you stopped. Compare it to what?” he asked.
Laine made a mental note of his description and then leaned forward again, “It’s just a hunch, probably nothing. This is a case like no other so I’m not going to discount any ideas before I explore them. I’m waiting until we can get some tests back before delving further into this one. You see, the victim was found with a shard of that black stone, for lack of a better term, embedded in her heart. I would like to know what it is, if it’s a mineral then where is it from. But it did not get sent to the lab, Donnelley took it and I haven’t seen it since.”
With a sigh, she sipped her coffee again, the idea nagging at her but she did not want to voice it just yet. There was some sort of connection between the thing in the woods and the dead girl, there had to be. Laine was not a big believer in coincidence.
“Well, I suppose that’ll be something we can both ask Donnelley once he’s done outside,” she said, setting the mug down. Her green gaze flickered over Jason’s face and then touched his eyes, a hint of a smile now on her lips. “How have you been, by the way. Since we last spoke.”
“Like shit,”Jason said, and took a big gulp of his coffee. He wanted to leave it at that, but it was hard not to respond to her smile. He felt like she wasn’t allowed the true answer. Not yet. “The shard. Was forensics able to determine if its placement was deliberate or—”
“Alright, you two,” Annie said, sashaying their way, “figured out what to order?”
Jason’s gaze never left Laine’s as he answered, “Chicken fried steak, eggs over easy ma’am.”
“Toast?”
“Hashbrowns.”
Annie clicked her pen and took it down. “And you, sweetie?” she asked Laine.
When Annie approached Laine stopped talking, her jaw clicking shut and the veil of polite courtesy fell over her features. “I guess I should eat while I have a chance,” she said, it would be a long drive to talk to Dulane. Laine glanced at the menu and remembered Bakker’s judgement of the meatloaf. “I’ll have a BLT on toast, with fries. And an ice water.”
Laine added, “We’ll have someone joining us shortly, if you could bring another coffee cup with the food.”
Annie nodded and wrote it down, “Be back shortly.”
“Sorry to hear that,” she said, sincerity in the answer to how he had been doing. Laine resisted prying once he turned back to the case and she sat up in the booth, “A friend of mine from Quantico did the autopsy, he was certain it was what killed her despite all the other damage.”
Laine folded the menu back up and glanced at her phone, no missed calls. She checked to see if the ringer was on, as she had a habit of leaving it on silent. It was on full volume, not to miss Wilkins call. Her attention was brought back to Jason when he spoke again.
“Did someone put that shard there or was it broken off in her heart?” he asked. There was an emptiness in the question, a void of emotionality. Jason might as well have been talking about what paint to use in the kitchen, or what groceries he’d need to pick up. The apathy’s cause was apparent; desensitization. It came with the job, least the job swallow you whole.
Laine nodded, her own tone neutral, “Both. The autopsy report shows that it was inserted vag...”
She lowered her voice in case the word caused ears to perk up, “Vaginally, lacerated her through the cervix and punctured into the uterus to penetrate through her body, nicked the liver and lung before stopping in the heart, lodging in the aorta. A terrible amount force had to be used to do something like that, Jason. The best estimate Dr Bakker had was maybe the shard had been a sort of spear head, something like that. Honestly, I don’t have a better guess than that. Except...”
Laine tilted her head, the pink of her tongue brushing her lips as she thought, “Nothing shows any sort of wood splinter or bruising from a shaft of any sort, at least that we can tell. With lividity and her lack of skin, it is almost impossible. It’s probably the strangest murder I’ve come across. And that’s just the internal damage.”
She shifted again in the booth, crossing her feet at the ankles to push them back against the bench and leaned on her elbows. “I can get you the report if you’d like to go over it, I’m having Agent Bhaat looking over it today. Maybe you’ve seen something similar...over there, you know.”
Her eyes flashed with curiosity then she smiled a bit, her eyebrows ticking up, “If you want, it’s not exactly light reading. But I would like your insight, I have a feeling you're here for more than just bandaids and muscle."
Her gaze unconsciously dropped briefly to his shoulders and flicked back up, meeting his eyes.
Jason’s boyish warmth returned at her quip, his head bobbing as he choked down a chuckle. “I’m no detective, but I’d be more than happy to look it over. Call it professional curiosity,” he said. He took another sip of his coffee, his eyes following hers, what they were studying.That was it, that’s what he was looking for. He couldn’t stand to admit it until it was glaring him in the eyes, tracing itself along the contours of his shoulders.
Bandaids. How apt a word, how metaphorical it all was. Wasn’t most things just that, he thought, bandaids to patchwork what we wouldn’t accept, what we couldn’t. How much of a distraction would he be for her, or her for him, he wondered. There was a solace in their wandering eyes, or at least what he thought was a conscious wandering. He wouldn’t lie to himself and say it wasn’t just that. There was a danger in that recognition, but all the same he took a moment to study the sculpted arch of her eyebrows and the intensity flashing in her olive eyes.
“I haven’t seen anything that fits the bill,” he went on. “Do you have any other victims? Is it just women or have you seen males this way?”
"I haven't seen another in this condition," Laine admitted, "The Olympia National Park case was different, she was not killed the same way. In fact comparing the two, Childress' killer seems more of an amateur or at least one still content with simply slitting throats. Granted, I never got to see the autopsy report but observed her neck opened up ear to ear."
She started to speak again, brushing a lock of dark hair back as she leaned into the conversation. It was something she needed, even if it was not his specialty, Jason knew and understood death and maiming, his observations would be valuable. It didn't hurt that he was handsome and built like a brick house, but he himself intrigued her, ever since their phone conversation.
The long years spent as an Intelligence Sergeant in the Green Berets and compounded upon as a CIA Ground Branch Operator had drilled it into Donnelley that the eyes were the windows to the soul. Less poetically put, lingering eyes usually meant two things- they want to fight you or fuck you. And from his place standing some ways away at the front of Annie’s Diner, he got a feeling Laine wasn’t wanting to challenge Jason to a duel.
“Have a seat anywhere, Hon’, nice to see you again.” Annie greeted him warmly. She obviously remembered the man with the scar. He made a mental note of covering it up with makeup or a longer beard again.
“Thanks, Annie.” Donnelley smiled back.
The few steps towards the booth that Laine and Jason were in seemed a mile, of a sudden. He knew the reason, but he just didn’t want to bark up that tree. Yet. Donnelley stepped up to the table the two were seated at, wearing his face plain. The face Holly knew meant he didn’t like what was going on, but just waiting for the exact moment to spring whatever vitriol he had. He clucked his tongue and his lips turned up in a smile. A cold thing. The alternative was a piercing glare, but professionalism forbade something so overt. “Y’all gettin’ along well,” Donnelley huffed a chuckle through his nostrils, looking at Jason and Laine, and back again. Every word out of his mouth jacketed with a sprinkle of enmity, “Good, glad to see the team gettin’ closer.”
He squeezed in next to Jason, the bigger man. Even so, past the difference, both their builds contained in that little booth didn’t leave much seat left. There’s the moment between two big dogs with one bowl, the moment that there was no prospect of sharing. He gave Laine a tight-lipped smile that reached his eyes, but not in the right way. He knew, he just didn’t bother faking anything more than he needed to, “What y’all havin’ for brunch? You two look kinda hungry.” Frank Wilkins’ testimony hinged on whether his three guardian angels could play nice. This one was trying very hard to give a shit about Frank Wilkins at the moment. He sighed and clucked his tongue, “You think they got Pendleton?”
Laine glanced down at her cup, the coffee more than half gone then she met Jason's warm eyes. There was something else there, behind the golden brown and in the depths that made her want to challenge him, to see how deep his shadows lay.
Laine reached for her cup, a small half smile forming on her lips as she caught sight of Donnelley moving towards them. It died when she met his eyes, the cold tight smile and forced chuckled. He was still angry from this morning she guessed but there was something else. Something more in how he bulled his way into the booth with Jason and how he glanced between them, as if catching them doing something shady.
She said nothing at his thinly veiled insinuation, but her green eyes narrowed and Laine set her cup down without taking a drink. Tilting her head slightly, like a bird of prey spotting movement, Laine responded, "We're discussing the case, you know, like two agents would do."
Laine refilled her cup of coffee and then slid it over to him, saying flatly, "I ordered a BLT. But if you're so thirsty , please help yourself to some coffee."
Jason felt that animal aggression throb in his chest, spurred on by Donnelley’s rigidness and feigned smile. He couldn’t help but feel the human equivalent of heckles stand on end, a pressure tightening his back. He met Donnelley’s gaze with an expressionless stare, the muscles of his jaw flexing as his teeth pressed together. It wasn’t the intrusion, nor any perceived notion of foul play. It was simply the hostility Donnelley was exuding. I’ll break that fucking femur through your wound if you keep looking at me like that, said a voice in Jason’s head. He stifled its venom immediately and hoped his eyes didn’t belie his thoughts.
Jason took a long sip of his coffee as Donnelley sat next to him, and then answered, “Chicken fried steak.” He wanted to be an ass, to mouth of ‘oh Laine don’t be coy, we were talking about how to fuck each other without getting you jealous,’ but he swallowed that down with another gulp of coffee and then he smirked. And here I thought him and I were getting along. Some things never change.
“Was asking details about her case,” Jason said, his words coming out like he had something bitter in his mouth. “Well, she was asking if I had ever encountered anything like it. Do the powers that be have anything on it?”
Donnelley shrugged, “Compartmentalized. You know how it goes. Ask and you shall receive,” he shook his head, “Just gotta know when and what to ask.”
With a dismissive finger he pushed Laine’s cup back towards her. He didn’t even look at her as he uttered something innocuous but knowing the two of them would get the meaning of it, “I don’t like sharing.”
Laine took a deep breath and counted backwards as her cup slid back towards her. She could feel the rush of heat to her face, hating that it would be so apparent as her fair skin flushed.
I don't like sharing.
Her eyes gleamed hard as she stared at Donnelley, her own teeth clenched. She knew his meaning and the fact he would reduce her and spark they had shared to the equivalent of a bottle of whiskey made a hard burning knot in her chest.
Laine took a drink of the hot coffee, ignoring the pain as it burned her tongue. Licking her lips slightly, she felt herself start feel the calm spread as she mentally counted.
"Compartmentalized," Laine repeated with another curious tilt of her head, her eyes on Donnelley. "Putting something of interest into a little box and locking it away. Until you deem it fit to be let it out."
An almost feline snarl of a smile crossed her plush mouth then vanished almost as quickly as it has appeared and she leaned back in the booth. She lay a cool green gaze on Donnelley, "Well, boss, we were just discussing if there had been similar cases found. I'll definitely be running ours through VICAP, see if anyone has been arrested for or victim of a murder of this nature."
As if siphoned from his own vehemence, Jason felt the tension of something unsaid settle over the table like a fog. Something unsaid between Donnelley and Laine. Coffee cup suspended in the air before meeting his lips, Jason peered at Donnelley and then across the table at Laine. Oh shit. No.... He couldn’t stop his eyebrows arching in exclaim, and he turned to stare out the diner window to hide it. Had Laine and Donnelley already went down that route? Would that make him the interloper? Jason was ashamed to admit that if what he felt from Laine was true he liked it. It showed a promiscuousness he couldn’t help but be attracted to, a caustic honey pulling him into the depth of its flower.
“Call it conjecture, “Jason said, hiding his face from them as he watched the lull of a truck grumbling down the road, “but the placement of the stone seems ritualistic. But that also implies a consistent M.O. One I’m guessing you haven’t quite seen yet.”
“Killin’.” Donnelley shrugged, “Olympic Peninsula. Fuckin’ Arkansas. Pakistan. Maybe there’s more somewhere, I don’t know. I know how I took care of the one in Pakistan.”
Donnelley smirked, one that wasn’t hiding any pithy little remark about the situation at hand, “Big fuckin’ bomb.” He looked out the diner window with Jason, “Or the CIA spook they sent to take us Green Berets out for a field trip did, anyway. Worked a charm, far as I know.”
“How deep into that rabbit hole did you go ‘fore they took it?” Donnelley’s eyes went to Laine, genuine curiosity instead of a scathing gaze this time.
Laine caught the raise of eyebrows from Jason before he turned away, as if he had realized something, a piece snapping into place for him. She watched him a moment but as he stayed focused out the window Laine turned back to Donnelley.
"Not that deep," she admitted, "Preliminary examining of the body at the site, the autopsy report never made it to my desk. I have my own photos but none of the official CSI or lab results. But I know her, the victim, Sofie Childress. I was up there working her kidnapping before it became a homicide. I had a couple leads...in fact that day I called you. I spoke with a man I'd be interested in probing into a little more."
She had gestured slightly to indicate Donnelley as the one she had called that rainy day in Seattle. Laine sighed, then picked up her coffee, "She was involved in more than met the eye, I think. While she cultivated a very good college girl image, one of her professors mentioned her quality of work slipping, her being late or distracted. Mid semester overload probably but it could have been something else. She had bruising that might have been lividity or not But I guess it doesn't matter, it's not my case anymore."
Laine drank her coffee, it tasted bitter and appropriate. She ignored the urge to take her frustration out on Donnelley, his snide comment still burning in her mind. He didn't share. Apparently no one in the Program was good at sharing. She wasn't allowed back near the Childress case and she still had lingering doubt about Special Agent Chan's suicide.
She finished the coffee and slid out of the booth. "I'm going to the ladies room."
Laine took her purse and strolled away, heels clicking on the cheap linoleum. She did not bother to check which eyes might follow her progress, if they both watched her or neither.
Donnelley watched her go. Now that the table was without the linchpin that held all the tension together, Donnelley felt at once relief and sheepishness. As if he’d just slipped from the grip of hysteria, or some such other foolish notion. Without turning to Jason he spoke, still watching her until she disappeared, “She’s somethin’...” He looked back down at the table, studying the grain and making like what he was about to say was what he meant, “Hell of a detective.”
He cleared his throat, soft coughs into his fist, “I’m sorry. I didn’t think Foster was gonna put the nails to you. ‘Specially right before we left.”
As Laine rounded a corner into the bathroom Jason felt his own anxiety creep up, snagging his ribs like climbing the rungs of a ladder. He gulped down some bothersome saliva and like Donnelley his eyes panned over the table. If he was going mend this he had to do it quickly.
“He man,” he said, voice low and sincere, “Not trying to step on anyone’s toes. I didn’t know.”
Either Donnelley would confirm what he implied or it would be telling in another way. Anything lingering from the brief moment with Laine, if one could even call that a moment, dissipated. Now his mind was racked with the fallout of the previous aggression spike and the mental image of Sofie Childress, her body cold, pale, and exposed in a Northwestern dampness. He had so many questions about her condition, the minutiae of details any one of which could bridge the gap to understanding.
Donnelley let go a nervous, humorless chuckle, something that dissipated and left a small smirk on him as he shook his head, “I don’t think she wants anyone to know. Not that I’m thinking on how to propose soon or anything.” He sighed, “It’s, uh… sensitive. As long as this stays between the three of us and absolutely never gets to Foster.”
Jason grunted his affirmation as he bobbed his head, his stare becoming longer by the moment. There was an easy fix to all of this, and he thought he could find it one of these nights waiting for him in a run down honky tonk. Small towns had a way of producing a desperate loneliness he was more than happy to oblige. He would have to soon before he did something stupid.
“I’m not trying to save my ass, Foster already knows I’m an asshole an iota away from… fucking something up.” He shrugged, “Mostly for the Working Group’s sake. We’ve got a real good team here, best feeling I’ve had in a bit about the team I’m in. I want to keep everyone in.”
“And I want to stay here,” Jason replied. “So if Foster has my back when it comes to DIA I’m not worried about him prying. He’s probably my lifeline anyway. “
He sighed, gulped down the rest of his coffee, and turned his attention back to the stillness outside the diner. The depth of the seemingly endless trees, the asphalt chipping away by the moment. God damn, he thought, I just want to get into some shit now. He pictured a black slab, something jagged and reflective like obsidian. And then Sofie Childress, a blank stare into an evergreen canopy.
“You’re right,” Jason said after a moment. “She’s good. Can see through bullshit and I kinda can’t stand it.” He exhaled a laugh and shot Donnelley a smile. Maybe not a disaster after all.
“Fuckin’ right,” Donnelley chuckled out, “Shoulda been there at Baughman’s apartment. Didn’t even know me a day and already tryin’ to pick me the hell apart.”
Inside the restroom, Laine stood at the sink, washing her hands and checking her makeup. Her lipstick had been left on the cup so she touched it up, taking her time to give the men a moment without her disturbing presence. She frowned, her brows drawing closer together, leaving a delicate vertical line furrowed between them.
She would have to talk to Donnelley soon, in private before anything worse happened. Like his reaction to Bakker, the same hostility towards Jason was inappropriate. They had to all work together and disruptions of a personal nature could be disastrous for team chemistry. Laine took a deep breath, hunting for her resolve before finally exiting the ladies room.
As she approached, Laine looked at the men, almost amused that they had stayed sitting together in the same bench. The previous tension seemed to have dispersed, both men more relaxed than she had left them.
Laine slid into the booth, putting her purse beside her. Folding her hands, she looked at both of them but said nothing about what happened before.
"So, while we eat, we should come up with a game plan for Dulane," she suggested, glancing up at both of them. "I've interviewed people in prison, some are eager to talk and others not so much, especially if they are worried about a snitch rep after talking to feds."
“Seems like a him problem if he gets a snitch rep.” Donnelley shrugged, “Put him on watch if what he has to say seems important, but past that, I don’t owe this guy and I don’t know him. If he can tell me anything that seems fishy about Blackriver I’ll make sure he’s set up good.”
“As for Frank Wilkins? I’m treating this like we’re extractin’ a friendly HVT. He’s seen some shit, and for them to keep him right where they can have an eye on him at all times?” Donnelley chuckled and shook his head, “I could give a shit if Mary and Joseph themselves come up to me and tell me to hand him over. He’s ours, only ours.”
He leaned in closer to his two partners in the booth, “I’m not saying we turn this into a shooting war with Blackriver Sheriff’s or NPS, but they seem a little too zealous in keeping Wilkins from us…” he clucked his tongue and shrugged. “Any problems with that?”
Laine looked across at Donnelley as he spoke, her face had remaining closed off. She nodded slowly, but when the subject turned to Wilkins she looked sharply at him.
Her eyes sparked as she leaned forward, speaking in a low but firm voice, the slight raspy quality of it noticable. "And if we get in a goddamn firefight with the locals we can kiss this crime scene goodbye. So try to keep the cowboying to a minimum. I'm sure we can find a way to sneak him out if we must."
Laine sighed then swept her hand up to tuck a dark lock of hair behind her ear then leaned back against the booth seat. She resisted the urge to cross her arms under her chest, instead pressing her palms against the table and added, "I trust you both to know your business in that area. And obviously you know the stakes more than we do, Mr Donnelley."
“Obviously,” Donnelley’s lip curled in contempt for the slightest moment before he calmed himself, “Know how long I’ve been doin’ this shit, Miss Laine.”
“You want me on countersurveillance with Wilkins’ extraction or you?” Donnelley turned an eye to Jason.
"Doctor Laine," she corrected him quickly, meeting his blue eyes and felt the temper returning rapidly. He certainly had a way of pushing her buttons and she reminded herself to stop responding. She turned away, first picking up her phone but no call or text from Wilkins and when he addressed Jason she looked over towards the kitchen, to watch in case Annie might walk up on them.
Jason was reserved through Laine’s return, closed off and stern as he observed their interaction. He watched Laine’s body language, read the disdain. She wasn’t used to strongarming the “same team,” but some notion of collusion was teasing his gut feeling on the matter. Someone somewhere in this town didn’t want the same things they did, and he had the feeling they might have to push back. Or shoot back.
“You’ve already established rapport,” he said to Donnelley. “I can countersurveil for Wilkins. And Dulane?”
He returned Donnelley’s gaze and then whipped it over to Laine. “Fuck him. We tell him what he wants and that’s that. We deliver or we don’t, but I’m not going to lose sleep over it. Same thing with the sheriff. Crime scene or not we have to get progress, even if it means playing dirty.”
Jason knew the route Laine wanted to go, insisted on it even. That was the trouble with a room full of smart professionals; they always had the only answer to the situation. He had to remind himself she wasn’t used to the viper’s kiss that was so common overseas. Cordialness bred tightrope bureaucracy here, parameters he assumed the sheriff expected.
“Alright, Laine’s the lead with Wilkins since she interviewed him.” Donnelley nodded, “I’ll go with her just in case, dependin’ on where he wants to meet us, you’ll have an easy job.” He said to Jason.
He looked back to Laine, “The dice are loaded in the Blackriver Sheriff’s favor. The Park Rangers around here might be in his pocket and in case you forgot, we’re not…” He looked around the diner, righting his next words before they could potentially wrong them sometime down the road, “We’re not on good terms. I said we’re playin’ under Moscow Rules, so I’m not goin’ to harass the opposition. But they’re still opposition. They ain’t gonna keep me from finding the sick fuck skinnin’ people ‘round here.”
“They want to keep us from gettin’ Frank? I’m goin’ to show them how bad I want him from them.” Donnelley sucked his teeth and shrugged, “Sometimes it gets like that. Ain’t sayin’ I’m pushin’ for it.”
Laine heard them out, they were right about the sheriff not wanting them there but the subtle denial of assistance was not the same as open hostility. That was the facade and up until now she was content to keep it that way, especially when it came to Frank Wilkins.
"That's fair," she said simply, then glanced between both of the men, her hands b "I just want assurance we'll try a nonviolent approach until it proves impossible. And if you say you're not pushing for it...I believe you."
Her gaze met Donnelley's briefly, then flicked away, moving to Jason. "Alright then, Dulane we'll just have to figure out what he wants and say what we need to get what we want. I don't like it but I understand the situation time is ticking and this is not an academic study. Who is going to question him by the way?"
“Me and Jason can get at him. I’m not tryin’ to take this case off your hands or play cowboy, but if there’s one thing they taught me at The Farm it’s how to cultivate assets.” Donnelley jerked a thumb Jason’s way, “This guy knows it too. If Dulane’s a fuckin’ nut like Roy says he is then he’s hopeless. But if he’s not? He’s damn ripe to cut a deal for table scraps at this point. He don’t want to be there, or he’s used to it, but that little voice in his head is going to be begging for the outside world.”
Donnelley looked at Jason, “We’ll give it to him.” And then went back to Laine, “If we got to, we’ll arrange to take him for a walk to the place it all happened, jog his memory and have him tell us why he did what he did. You’re right, he should’ve been put in a mental ward. Somebody wanted him shut up somewhere he couldn’t talk. We’re goin’ to be his two guardian angels out of there.”
Donnelley frowned, “For a price. Good intel.”
Laine frowned slightly, mulling over what he told her, "Then where do you want me during the Dulane meeting? If he is mentally unstable, you might need my advice...not that I doubt either of your capabilities of handling this. Look, he's probably suffering from untreated PTSD and other side effects of trauma, though I'm inclined to believe the crazy label might have just been assigned to him because of what he said he saw."
Her eyebrows quirked up and a ghost of a smile touched her lips, "As I'm sure it would if I talked about the problem in that septic tank to anyone other than plumbers."
She caught herself, glancing over as Annie approached with a tray. Annie smiled a greeting and slid the oversized chicken fried steak hanging off the plate in front of Jason and the BLT and a glass of water before Laine then peered down at Donnelley, pulling the order pad from her apron, "And you, hon? What can I get you?"
“Coffee and, uh,” He rolled his jaw in thought, “Omelette.”
“Sure thing, hon’.” Annie smiled and hurried off.
“You and Jason then. I want him out of there, givin’ him some time outside the prison might make him more receptive to talk. I wouldn’t trust police if they were the ones who put me in Beckwith.” Donnelley folded his arms, his corded forearms across his chest, “We’ll need to get it okayed and have Marshals with us, but it’s better’n nothin’. Hell, promise anythin’ you need to squeeze him dry.”
“I’d tell him I believed him if he sticks to his mine devils story. Ain’t a far stretch with the shit… we deal with.” Donnelley didn’t want to utter the name of The Program out loud in public.
Laine took a sip of water, watching Donnelley her gaze drifting to his folded arms then back to his face. She set her glass down, nodding slightly. As she had when she questioned Wilkins she would try to make Dulane comfortable and hopefully he would tell everything they needed. If not, there was Jason and whatever DIA tricks he might have up his sleeve.
"Right," she said, "We can handle it, I wanted to get a look at the mines myself anyway."
Laine paused, then picked up a piece of the sandwich, examining it before taking a bite. Once she swallowed, she looked at Donnelley, the memory of the tavern in Charleston came rushing back. But so did the sting of his comment earlier.
"If you want some fries while you wait, I'm not going to be able to finish them all," Laine said, shrugging slightly, her eyes searching his.
He looked up from the table to find her looking at him in that way she always did. Like conversation was chess, picking people apart was one-part hobby, one-part habit. He nodded a few times, slow, as he reached over to her plate. He stopped just short, “Thank you.”
He plucked one from her plate and sunk his teeth into the thick steak fry, ripping half of it from itself and chewing. His gaze didn’t leave hers until he flicked it away to the window, watching a bird on a powerline before they went back to the grain of the table. He finished off the last morsel, wanting to say something to Laine. An apology, as the good night he’d had in Charleston with her came back to him with the taste of it. But he wanted it to be private. Admitting that he was wrong, that he was an asshole for no good reason was not something easily pulled from behind his teeth. Especially if it was to someone he liked, “Good fries.”
“So, Frank Wilkins. Wherever he has us meet him, we get in, get him, get out. Any interviews we save for when we get to the Safehouse. Anyone not at this table is a potential hostile.” He said, infinitely more comfortable speaking on the case than trying to pick up pieces from his entrance. Shit, he thought, was he going to have to apologize to Jason too? Maybe not. There was an understanding between them.
Yet, he felt guilty for even insinuating that Laine was his. They’d known each other personally for what? A couple days, past a phone call and three months of passively knowing what she looked like and a name to her face. With Laine, there was no us, yet. Yet? “We’re kicking the hornet’s nest as it is by taking Frank Wilkins. It’s one thing taking a bad guy off the street and… liquidating him.” His eyes flicked from Jason to Laine and back to the table, “I’d rather not shoot anyone in the face if I don’t have to.”
As soon as his plate of food was handed over Jason took to the steak with his fork and knife, an animal replied spreading from its warmth settling in his empty stomach. He'd have to work off the gravy, but figured he'd be burning lots of calories throughout the days. He had shoveled two heaping cuts of steak and hashbrowns before Annie had walked away, nodding in response to both Laine and Donnelley.
"I hope we don't either," he said, pushing the food in his mouth to one side as he spoke. "If it comes to that we know where they stand, what they'd be willing to do. Getting Dulane out of the prison is going to be hard. We sweet talk the warden already? What's our angle?"
“US Marshals are going to have to be a part of it, that’s a done deal. We can tweak things if I can talk to Foster before the outing is scheduled, if it even gets approved.” Donnelley said, eyeing the two plates at Laine and Jason’s busy hands. He felt hunger pangs in his gut which meant potential distractions and even complications with low blood sugar if and when things went awry.
He sighed, “Anyways, if our people can intercept a request to the local Marshal’s field office, we can have one of our own teams pose as Marshals SOG for security during transport.” He looked at Jason, “Like anybody else, I’m sure the Warden would be receptive to large amounts of money to approve it and keep his lips tight.”
“If that happens, then I can’t be exposed to anyone in Beckwith, not even a gate guard. It wouldn’t do if people were scratching their heads at Special Agent John Davidson also being a US Marshal. You two need to be the only ones handling Dulane. I can pose as the Lead Marshal when the time comes.” Donnelley reached over and plucked another fry from Laine’s plate and made it disappear in two quick bites, chewing over the plan, “We only tell everybody what we absolutely need to. Dulane’s testimony is part of an ongoing case, nothing more or less.”
Laine finished half her sandwich as Donnelley spoke, the reality of the situation of getting Dulane out to the mines sinking in. Bribery of all things, hopefully she could convince the warden before getting to that point and she had an idea. Before she could speak, her phone lit up urgent piercing chirps and she snatched it up, answering.
"This is Agent Laine," she identified herself then jerked her head up, looking at Donnelley. Giving a push to her plate towards him, she slid out of the booth and said, "Just hold a moment, its noisy here."
As she stood up, she silently mouthed, "Wilkins."
Laine strode away, making a beeline to the restroom, it was a one stall affair and would afford her the most privacy.
After she locked the door, she said, "Frank, it's good to hear from you. Talk to me."
“Hey, um,” Frank paused, sounding somewhat more calm than the last time they’d spoke. There was still an edge there, though, “I packed my shit that night you came to talk to me and got out of there. They can’t keep me there, I won’t let them.”
“I took the bus to Charleston and I’m at a Motel 6 along the way. I don’t know, but I think someone’s watching me.” He said, a whisper this time.
"Good, that's good," she said, leaning against the sink. It was worrisome but not surprising that he was being watched. Loose lips sink ships.
"Frank, you probably are being watched but I want you to stay calm and don't leave your room," she said, her voice even and confident, even as her stomach knotted. "We're coming for you. What's your room number?"
“I’m in room 204.” He swallowed, not exactly relieved that his conjecture was probably confirmed by Laine. “Just get here quick. It’s the Motel 6 on the main road to Charleston.”
"We'll be there as soon as possible, call me if anything changes," Laine said, reaching to unlock to door.
Once he disconnected Laine left the restroom, walking quickly back to the booth. She reached over to grab her purse, pulling her wallet out to leave a tip and glanced around for Annie before addressing the men. "Looks like we'll be needing to-go boxes, that was our boy."
Donnelley simply nodded, looking to Jason, “Let’s git.”
