Walker pulled over the two vehicles less than a mile out of town. "You keep on headin' up to the waste storage place, Eppes," he directed. "Leave me this vehicle, and I'll join you shortly."
"You caught the same vibes that I did."
"That I did, Eppes. And I'm not liking it one bit. I think I'm going to hoof it back to the edge of town, see what I can see."
Don started to unbuckle his seatbelt. "I'll come with you."
"No, you head on up to that waste storage," Walker stopped him. "Pantini was telling the truth when he said that Charlie left town. He meant it."
Don scowled. "I don't like leaving you alone."
Walker fixed him with a dry glare. "Eppes, the day I can't take care of myself in a town filled with hicks like this is the day I'll turn in my badge." He tapped his pocket where his cell lived. "I'll keep a running commentary as to what I see."
"All right," Don said, "but no chances, hear me? We don't have time to be hauling your ass out of whatever trouble you find. Colby, give the keys to Walker. You're riding with us."
David pulled out onto the road, the car loaded with Federal agents. Don couldn't help but turn around, and watched Walker put the second car into a K-turn and move closer to the edge of town. The last thing Don saw was Walker getting out of the second vehicle and sliding into the forest outside of the town limit.
He turned his attention back to the road ahead. How had Charlie's car gotten to Bakersfield without him? Where was the man? Was he actually in Bakersfield, or somewhere close by? Don could rule out a car accident; the Bakersfield police reported the Prius stripped but not otherwise damaged. Had Charlie gotten lost, turned around, was driving in that direction because he didn't know any better? That didn't answer the question of why he wasn't answering his phone, or where he was.
No, in his gut Don knew that Charlie had gone to the SW Chemical waste storage facility. There simply wasn't a better explanation, not if Don knew Charlie. His kid brother, once he got hold of a problem, couldn't let go.
A thought struck him. "Colby."
"Yes, Don?"
"Those two from the EPA, the ones whose initials match the 'consulting firms' that SW Chemicals transferred money to."
"Right. Couple of low level government types."
Oh so casually. "Either one of them ever handle a gun?"
Colby stiffened. "I'll find out."
"I'll check for a military background." Caruthers pulled out her own cell.
David kept his attention on the road, dodging the worst of the potholes. "You're thinking that one of them may be our sniper? Remini's murderer?"
"I want to make certain that they're not."
"I've got the first," Caruthers called out. "Zachariah Roberts, lives in Bakersfield. Field agent for the EPA; doesn't say what territory he covers."
"I'll bet I can guess," David muttered, not bothering to keep it under his breath.
"Army, served in Iraq, with the 303rd. Listen to this: he tried out for the Rangers."
"He wash out?" Colby was hopeful.
"Yes."
"Good." It was clear: Colby didn't want anyone sullying the Rangers' good name.
"He had superior records in marksmanship." That was why Caruthers was bringing it up.
"So he could be our sniper. The shot from the Lyonsgate to the board room of SW Chemicals wasn't a hard one to make." Colby paused. "Here's the other one: Victoria Nance, also a field agent for the EPA. Nothing to indicate that she's anything special with a rifle."
"On the other hand, they're both field agents, used to going into the hills," David pointed out, keeping his eyes on the empty country road ahead. "They both probably have a fair bit of expertise, just on the job. And as Colby said, that wasn't a tough shot to make, not with decent equipment."
Don came to a decision. "When we get to the waste storage place, park a good hundred yards down the road. We'll break out the gear, and go in loaded for bear. Got it? I don't want anyone getting hurt." Anyone else, he said to himself. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe Charlie really is okay. Maybe he just got himself lost, is trying to find a way out. Maybe he's just lost on the hillside, forgot to mark a path to his car. Yeah, that's it. He lost his way to his car, and the car-jacker came by and hot-wired it out from underneath my stupid brother. That's the reason.
So why doesn't Charlie answer his phone?
Because my stupid brother let it run out of juice.
That's the rational explanation.
So why doesn't it feel right?
Because it doesn't explain Charlie's call for help.
There was a change in the greenery on either side of the road as they approached the entrance to the SW Chemicals storage facility. Every one of them saw it, felt it, knew it in their bones. The leaves were curled up into sickly dead rolls, and the strands of greenery that should have been lushly growing in the light afforded by the road were mere yellow and pale limp shoots that couldn't muster enough strength to reach for the sky. Sunlight pierced down through branches that ought to have been shading the road, but weren't.
It was clear that this patch of land was under attack.
Colby glanced around uneasily. "This isn't right," he muttered to himself.
Don spared him a glance. Colby Granger had grown up surrounded by mountain forests, and this was hitting him where it hurt. "Pull over," Don ordered, his voice harsher than he'd intended. "Let's gear up."
They put on their armor in silence, every one of them affected by the dying forest around them. What the hell was going on? Don wondered at the sight. The EPA ought to have been all over this, yet the facility looked deserted and forgotten. He handed out the rifles along with plenty of ammo. Nothing large would be roaming through this neck of the woods but just having the rifles to defend themselves with would help to allay the fears and the hair sticking up on the backs of their necks.
Don resorted to hand signals, wanting the silence. There was a brief struggle for command from Lt. Col. Caruthers, which Don won: these were his people. He knew them. Caruthers did not.
Colby: point. The man nodded, and ghosted off to run the perimeter. David he assigned to rear guard with himself taking the lead. Don didn't care that Caruthers was annoyed at being stuck in the middle; to him, she was the unknown quantity and until he had a better handle on how she could react, he wanted her in a place where he could keep an eyeball on her.
His cell vibrated in his pocket, and he pulled it out to see the text from Colby: clear. Still, Don made it a cautious approach, listening for any signs of habitation.
Too, he looked for anything suggesting that his brother had been here, and he found it: footprints. There was no attempt to hide, no effort to sneak up. The footprints were of a smallish man, and the size of the print approximating that of his brother. Given the circumstances, Don was willing to bet that Charlie had been here. Charlie himself could figure out the odds for the bet if he wanted. Don would be satisfied with 'pretty good'.
It felt like they were being watched, and Don finally realized what it was: vultures. Big ones, with ugly heads, perched in the treetops waiting for something—or someone—to die so that they could feast. There wasn't much in this caricature of a forest for the carrion eater to pick up, and Don decided not to contribute to the vultures' diet on a personal level.
There was no one inside the waste facility. Getting inside was a joke; the lock had rusted through long ago and the door was already hanging open from equally rusty hinges. Don avoided stepping on the trail of blue slime that trickled out over the transom and off down the hill. It was obvious that the filth had been meandering downhill for quite a long time. Maybe the EPA had been ignoring this place for whatever reason sounded good at the time. Don would see that something was done; a pungent phone call, at least.
Inside was no better. There were stacks of metal drums, three and four high with several rusting through, which was where the blue slime originated. Don cautiously eased the safety back onto his weapon, sensing the others doing the same. He didn't know what was inside these drums—the formula was hand-written on faded paper in a small notebook on a table just inside. Maybe Caruthers could hazard a guess, even if Don couldn't—but the thought of discharging a firearm in the vicinity brought up too vivid recollections of failing to breathe when a bomb filled with noxious chemicals was triggered next to his car door.
Bottom line: Charlie was not here. Their goal was to retrieve Charlie so they could get the next chunk of formula masquerading as an invoice and thus apprehend the traitor who was selling out the country. Don followed his brother's footprints out of the building, watching them turn to follow the blue slime. Why had the man done that? Why couldn't he have just gotten back in his car and gone home and saved Don all this worry?
Colby joined them, bringing up the rear. "No tracks," he whispered. "No one else here. Just Charlie." Which meant that Colby too believed that the footprints belonged to Charlie. Just one man, one set of footprints and, Don recalled, only one recent set of tire tracks.
The problem was, there was a set of footprints walking toward the storage facility, but none returning to where Charlie's car had been parked. Charlie's steps had taken him toward the sound of the brook, following the trail of blue slime.
Don's cell vibrated once again, and he pulled it out. Still no one around, so he chanced it. "Eppes," he whispered.
"Eppes, you're never gonna believe who's rabbiting," came Walker's gravelly voice.
Maybe he could. Don Eppes didn't know all that many people in Chadford. "The mayor?"
"You got it in one. He just finished tossing a bunch of crap into the trunk of his car. Now he's putting his wheelchair in there, too. Damn, he can walk! Not well, mind you. He's usin' the side of the car to prop himself up." Pause. "You want I should tail him?"
"Can you do it without being seen?"
"On these roads? Probably not." Another pause. "Uh, Eppes?"
"What?"
"He just tossed a pretty fine lookin' piece of hardware on the seat beside him. I think I'm going to withdraw my offer to tail him. I'd rather not get my ass shot off, if you don't mind."
Both David and Colby were waving for attention. "Don," David got in first, "the Lyonsgate. Those marks on the carpet—"
"It's the reason we didn't find any footprints—"
"—belonged to someone in a wheelchair!"
"Hold it!" Don held up his hands, pulling away from the cell and turning on the speaker phone. "I believe you guys, but if it's Pantini, how do we connect him to smuggling the code? He doesn't work for SW Chemicals; he hates their guts. If he and Charlie are right, he's in that chair because of what SW Chemicals did here. All of that means that he can't get to the codes or the invoices." He waved at the storage facility, taking in the corrosion.
Caruthers walked up from where the tire tracks from Charlie's car were. "I can't be certain, but it looks like the narrow tread of a wheelchair, just a couple inches from the tire tracks," she informed them. "The measurements look right I say we bring in Pantini for questioning, at the very least. Tell Walker to pull him in."
"I heard that. You tell Miss Ramrod that I'll bring Pantini in when he ain't near his rifle."
"If you're afraid—"
"Damn straight, I'm afraid. I ain't stupid, neither. He's gone, Eppes; dust in the distance."
Don had to agree with Walker on this one. "Notify Customs, Walker. Put his name and picture on the wire; don't let him out of the country. Put out an APB, but tell them to be gentle—and careful. We don't know for certain that he's our man. We can't arrest him on the basis of sitting in a wheelchair."
"You got it, Eppes. Out."
Caruthers glared at him. "He's running."
"Maybe, maybe not. He could be going to meet with more townspeople. We just handed him a lot of information about SW Chemicals."
"You really believe that crap?"
"This isn't a situation where we can just haul people off, colonel," Don reminded her. "I have to build a case, and that means air-tight evidence."
Caruthers set her jaw. "He killed George, and he may have killed your brother. What more do you want? A signed confession?"
"What I want," Don retorted, "is a better case than a man in a wheelchair getting into his car." There was something off about what the DoD officer had said. "Can we get back to our goal of tracking down the man with the code?"
"Be my guest," she choked out angrily, turning away.
Enough. They didn't have time for this; they needed to find Charlie. "Spread out," he directed. "Colby, uphill, and I'll take down. David and Caruthers, you follow the trail. Take it slow, and be careful. Just because we think it's Pantini, doesn't mean that it is."
Charlie's footsteps weren't hard to follow. The brush had been disturbed, and the tracks were still evident for even a cub scout to follow.
Don heard the babbling of a brook in the distance, felt thirsty as soon as he heard it. If they weren't so close to the leaking storage facility, he would have arrowed over there for a drink.
Thirsty, but not stupid. There were a lot of contaminated streams throughout the country, and Don knew better than to trust one based on how pretty it looked. The slender line of blue goop from the storage facility only cemented his decision.
It didn't matter. Charlie's footsteps were taking the same path, following the blue slime trail toward the brook several hundred yards away—there was a lump along the dirt path, and it didn't look like a rock. Don broke into a run before he realized what he was doing.
"Don!" David called out.
"It's Charlie!" Don didn't stop.
The other three let him, turning around instantly to form a partial barrier against anything—or anyone—who might approach while Don was otherwise occupied.
Don didn't care. He slid to his knees beside his brother, terrified. "Charlie?"
No response. Don felt for a pulse along the side of Charlie's neck, whole-heartedly panicking when he couldn't feel one. No, there it was, faint and fast. Breathing, too; shallow, rapid, through the mud that covered his face.
The stream was three yards away, and Don didn't trust it. Instead, he pulled out his handkerchief and wetted it with some of the water from his canteen. Gently, he wiped away some of the mud from his brother's face. "Charlie? Charlie, can you hear me?"
"He's been shot!" David exclaimed. "Look at his shoulder, Don!"
Don felt an icy cold grip him. David was right; someone had shot his brother! Someone had shot the brother that he was supposed to watch over, the one he was supposed to keep out of trouble.
Get a grip, he told himself. Charlie's a grown man, and this isn't your fault. Charlie came up here to research stuff for his student, not because of your case.
But what if trouble followed, and took advantage of your carelessness?
"We need to get him out of here." David looked around as if expecting an ambulance to materialize out of thin air.
Don got hold of himself. "Caruthers, get the medical kit from the car. Colby, get on the phone to Walker. Tell him to get a chopper into the air right now. We'll get Charlie air-lifted to L.A., with guards."
"He's in shock." David too felt for a pulse. "Give me your canteen, Don. I'll see if I can clean off some of the mud. I don't dare use any from the stream. How long do you think he's been out here?"
"Too long," Don said grimly. "Pantini said he drove out last evening, and there's no reason to think otherwise—"
A yell cut him off, a feminine shriek of rage from the direction of the SUV. More: there was the roar of a car engine, and it didn't sound as though it came from the FBI vehicle that Don had commandeered until his own Suburban was back on its proverbial feet.
Sharp cracks of sound: gunfire!
"We're under attack!" Colby instantly identified the noise.
"Go!" Colby was closest to the scene, and Don and David already had hands on Charlie. There was no time for discussion; Don and David hauled the limp body of Don's brother under the dead brush for as much cover as they could manage.
More gunfire. Don strove to see where it was coming from, couldn't see that far through the dead trees. Dammit, he had two people under direct attack, and another wounded here in his arms! He needed back up, dammit!
"Incoming!" That was Colby! What the—
The world exploded.