Disclaimer etc see Chapter 1
White Pines Motel, rural North Carolina
November 26, 8:15 a.m.
Her head hurt. Her arm hurt. Hangover? No, she couldn't remember drinking. What day was it? She opened her eyes. What she saw wasn't what she had been expecting. It was dark, but even in the twilight, it was clear that this wasn't her bedroom. She sat up, slightly alarmed. The movement made her head spin. She couldn't have had that much to drink. It had been a while since she had woken up and not known how she had gotten there. That hadn't happened to her since her college days.
Systematically she looked around, collecting pieces of information. Generic, tasteless furniture, motel room?
There was a bandage on her upper arm. The motel room; Jack had seen her to her room the night before. His intense, hurt eyes when he wished her a good night. She shook her head to clear the cobwebs. The shooting. The scene unfolded in her mind, assaulting her anew in black and white. The only colour was the burning red of the blood staining Martin's shirt. Oh God! It all came back to her, along with the burden of guilt. She would have to face the music. With grim determination, she got up and parted the curtains. Bright light assaulted her. What time was it? 8:30 a.m. She hadn't slept this long in years. She was supposed to be at the station at ten. The investigation. She already knew the questions they would ask. The same questions she had been asking herself over and over again before she had finally drifted off to sleep in the early morning hours, the same questions that would follow her to work every day, the same questions that she would ask herself every time she looked at her gun.
She got up and took a shower. While it couldn't wash away the lousiness that she felt, it did wake her up and cleared her head enough for her to consider being ready for the day. The water caused the stitched wound in her arm to sting mercilessly. But she didn't stop, she couldn't. In a way, it felt good; it reminded her that she was alive. Towelling off, she got dressed, avoiding the mirror. She didn't think that she could face looking at herself in the mirror. All that would stare back at her was failure. She couldn't face that, not yet.
Suddenly there was knock at the door. Jack? No, he had told her that he had to fly to D.C.
"Sam, it's Danny. You up yet? "
"Danny, what was he doing here?" This was the first thing which came to mind. She couldn't recall Jack mentioning him the day before.
"Jack's headed back to the city." Danny didn't really answer the question, but her headache didn't permit her to contemplate that further.
"Yes, I'll be ready in a second," she called out.
She looked around, searching for her suit jacket, but couldn't find it. It wasn't there. Forensics had taken it in to check it for GSR. It was standard procedure, yet she felt her life invaded. She took a deep breath, trying to keep the new stirring of the memories at bay. She couldn't stand there forever, and she didn't want to alarm Danny, causing him to ask uncomfortable questions. She grabbed her spare jacket from the suitcase and headed out the door. She didn't want to face any of her team, afraid that she would only see the blame in their yes. Blame which, in fact, she deserved.
Danny didn't comment on her having taken so long to get ready. He didn't ask any questions at all, probably sensing that she wasn't ready to talk.
"You want to get breakfast before we head to the station? We still have time."
"Breakfast would be good. I haven't eaten since lunch yesterday," she replied, glad that the conversation was on an inconspicuous topic at the moment. She wasn't ready to delve into what had happened---not yet.
They went to the nearest restaurant, which was just down the road. Although they certainly weren't going to be served culinary gems, it was a quiet place at this time of the day. They took a seat in the back of the restaurant and placed their order with a tired looking waitress. They waited in silence for their meals. It wasn't an indomitable silence, but was more of a silent agreement, permitting each to bring order to their own thoughts and get ready for the day ahead. Fifteen minutes later their breakfast arrived. After a few sips of hot coffee, Samantha started to feel awake again. But eating with the use of just one arm was more taxing than she had anticipated.
"You want me to cut that up for you?" Danny asked.
"No, I'll be fine."
"You sure?"
"Yes. Thanks. Guess I'll be going on a diet for awhile." she smiled
"How is the arm holding up?"
"It's just a deep graze. I have to show up at the hospital this afternoon for a follow-up." Samantha didn't look up. She knew she had gotten lucky and saying it out loud made it even more so.
"Sam, I talked to the hospital this morning. Martin is going to make it. Stop blaming yourself. It's no one's fault that he got shot and the bullet only grazed you." There he had said it. As much as Samantha had feared that moment, she was now more relieved than before.
"Thanks, I know. It's just difficult right now."
"I know."
They continued their meal in silence.
"So, how long are you going to stay here?" Samantha broke the silence.
"I flew in with Jack yesterday." He paused. "I'm looking at the field agent's investigation."
Samantha's heart sank at the thought of the investigation where she would be sitting at the suspect's end.
Office of Paula Van Doran, FBI Missing Persons Unit, New York City
November 26, 10 a.m.
"I cannot believe that you chose not to inform me about receiving threats. What were you thinking, Jack?"
He didn't really have an answer to that. He had not been thinking. His reasoning was deeply rooted in emotions and now when he tried to retrace his thoughts, he couldn't, no matter how hard he tried.
"I didn't think they were serious," he finally answered the question, mainly because Van Doran looked at him, clearly expecting an answer.
"I'm tempted to pull you from this case in light of recent developments---first a car bomb and then yesterday two agents were targeted by a sniper. And that is disregarding the incident with Robert Kendall. For something that isn't serious, a lot of bullets are flying around," Van Doran noted dryly. "I'm tempted to pull you from this case immediately, but regarding the personnel situation, I can't do that at the moment. The homicide of Diane Durkin and the disappearance of Lydia Atkinson and Sina Atkinson are clearly connected. You'll continue to work on this case, but there will be an OPR investigation regarding your assessment of the threats, your treatment of the fingerprint evidence, and your judgment of the field capability of Agent Spade. She said the last part with a hint a irony. This didn't go by unnoticed and Jack was both angered at this and reminded of the guilt he was carrying. "But the only reason I'm doing this is because this is a high profile case and bringing in a new team now wouldn't be good for the case. But I want no more mistakes from here on out. And Agent Spade is on leave until further notice." With that Van Doran got up, signalling Jack that the conversation was over. He got up and left the office. Once he was outside, he allowed himself to breathe more easily. As far as the damage to his career was concerned, he had gotten incredibly lucky. The OPR investigation was still hanging over his head, but the fact that it had been postponed was a good sign. If Van Doran had had any intention of getting rid of him, she would have done so already.
Jack went back to his office. He was going to go over everything again. There were so many leads and loose ends on this case that they were bound to have overlooked some of them. On his desk he found another report waiting for him, adding to the growing pile of evidence in this case. He started to wonder just how many cases had never been solved because the investigator had literally been drowned in paper. He sat down and picked up the report. It was the results of the bullet found in Diane Durkin's head. Ballistics had found that the same gun that had killed her had been used before. In 1996, the body of two unknown males had been found in North Carolina. They had never been identified and by the time they had been found, only skeletons had remained. This didn't really get them anywhere, except maybe to underline the assumption that there was a link to organized crime in this. But that was about it. He sighed and put the report aside, not sure where to go next. But first, he had to make a call. He dialled Samantha's cell phone, but the computer voice informed him that the desired connection could not be established. The same went for Danny's cell phone. He recalled that he too had not been able to get a reliable network connection while in the forest. They were probably out of range at the moment. He dialled the local field office, who were most likely to get hold of his agents soon.
North Carolina Field Office
November 26, 10 a.m.
They had just stepped into the lobby of the field office, when they were intercepted by a man in his fifties, wearing a badge and identifying himself. "Good morning, Agent Spade, Agent Taylor. I'm Agent Robinson with the local field office. I'll be heading our end of the investigation of the shooting yesterday."
He led them into his small office. Compared with the New York office, the building seemed almost deserted. They only passed a single person on their way to Agent Robinson's office.
I have received your initial statement, Agent Spade." He handed her the report.
"You were under a lot of stress yesterday. Is there anything you want to add?"
Samantha read through the statement, forcing herself to replay the scene in her mind: getting out of the car, talking to Martin, suddenly spotting a figure on the roof, yelling, getting her gun out, shots tearing through the air, the incredible fear, being unable to lift her gun, unable to do anything. She swallowed hard.
"I don't have anything to add to it. It happened the way I described it yesterday."
"Fair enough. We haven't gotten any hits on the shooter yet, but your composite sketch has gone out to the media and to all airports and bus stations. If he tries to leave the country, we will get him. Unfortunately our forensics' team hasn't turned up anything useful." Agent Robinson explained.
"As soon as we have your final report, the matter should be resolved. Of course, the case will remain open, but to be honest, if he doesn't run into the police at a roadblock, our chances of catching this guy are pretty small."
"There is still the angle of our case. After all, the shooter must have known that we would be in the area. Have your agents asked around? It's a small town and any strangers would stick out," Danny spoke with barely contained anger. He couldn't believe that the investigation would be dismissed so easily. Someone had attempted to shoot two FBI agents, only a day after two agents had nearly fallen victim to a car bomb. There had to be intervention; all clues pointed to organized crime or terrorism. But it was hardly Agent Robinson's fault. That order would have to come from Washington. Hopefully, Jack would be able to pull some strings or at least make sense of it all. Otherwise, he had to agree---their chances of ever finding the person who had placed the bomb or the shooter were minimal.
"We have looked into police reports and asked the local paper for assistance. So far our search has turned up nothing. The property is rather remote; an outsider could have set up camp there without ever passing through the town. I'm afraid there are no viable leads in this case, but we will, of course, pursue every avenue. I'll keep you informed." He added the last part quickly when he saw their reaction
"Good day, agents." He nodded in their direction and left. Danny and Samantha returned outside to their rental car.
Samantha couldn't believe her ears either. There was no question as to her actions, not one word about her missing the shooter, about not being able to apprehend the suspect. Procedure normally subjected agents to the most probing questions after a shooting, even if the circumstances were far less suspect. She couldn't believe she would get away from this so easily. After all, she had managed to miss the shooter, giving him plenty of opportunity to wound her and to get away, eluding capture forever.
Danny shot a quick look around, making sure that they were indeed alone.
"That was strange."
"I agree. It couldn't have gone that well. And I can't believe that they are burying the investigation already."
"I agree. Normally the FBI would be all over this, tearing apart this town. I just hope Jack turns up something, and maybe get someone to actually make them move here. Otherwise, they are never going to catch this sick son of a bitch. We have been played from the start, and the act that Jack's been pulling hasn't been helping either. God knows what else he isn't telling us," Danny spoke heatedly,
"Jack. What didn't he tell us?" Samantha was confused.
"The print lifted from Lydia's house; when forensics ran it, there were two matches: Markus Feldman and Liam Kendall. They must be one and the same person. Jack didn't tell Van Doran or anyone and went ahead, even though he knew he couldn't get a warrant based on that print. Now the same day, he and Vivian were car bombed and the next morning someone makes an attempt on you and Martin."
Samantha winced at his words. But more than the reminder of the previous day, it was the new information that startled her. Jack in the garage. She had had the feeling that something was up and then there was his strange behaviour about letting her back into the field. He had just given in to her. At the time she had been glad about this, but now she started to question what might be going on with Jack.
"I'm sorry, Sam. We've all been on edge lately."
"It's okay. I don't know what to think anymore myself."
Back in his office, Jack spotted the letter that he had opened the previous day, just before he had gotten the call from Samantha informing him that Martin had been shot. The letter contained several pages of writing. He read through it several times. The letter was from the editor of the newspaper Lydia had occasionally written for. The editor had seen the reports about Lydia's disappearance on TV and had sent him copies of all articles that Lydia had published with the paper and also mentioned that she had sent in a draft the day before she had vanished. Jack skimmed the articles that were enclosed, but discovered nothing probative. They covered a variety of topics, but nothing that would have made Lydia any enemies. It was unlikely that her latest article, which Jack assumed dealt with a religious subject, would be any more revealing. Still, he dialled the phone number in the letterhead.
Two minutes later he had the editor on the phone. He explained who he was and why he was calling.
"Yes. I'm not sure it will help you find Lydia, but I'll send you the article. I'm so sorry that I didn't see it earlier, but Lydia isn't one of our regular freelance journalists; in fact, she hasn't submitted anything in over a year. We get tons of submissions every week, and it takes a while to dig through the slush pile."
"I appreciate your help. When is the last time you spoke to Lydia?"
"I don't know. I think it must have been while she was still regularly writing for us, but I don't think I have spoken to her in a year. But she did leave a message on my answering machine last week. She didn't say what it was about, she only asked that I call her back. I did, but nobody picked up. Then a few days later I saw on the news what had happened to her."
"Do you think there might be a connection to what she was writing about?"
"No, she isn't that type of journalist. She doesn't have the experience or the skills if you ask me. She had potential but not the discipline to develop it. But I don't think she had to. As far as I know, money was never an issue she lost sleep over."
"Sounds like you know her quite well. Do you know whether she had an office somewhere?" Jack recalled that they had never found any samples of her writing or her laptop at Lydia's home.
"She was working from home, as far as I know. Is there anything else I can do to help you find her and her daughter?"
Jack thought for a moment.
"Actually there is. Can you search through all her articles and see whether she had ever mentioned the names Feldman and Kendall?"
"Sure. Hang on a minute. Those articles are all computerized nowadays."
There was a brief silence where he only heard the faint clicking sound of someone typing.
"Here it is. No, she never mentioned either of those names in her published work."
"Thank you very much for your help."
"Not a problem. Good day, Agent Malone."
Another dead end or so it seemed. Maybe the laptop had really just been taken because it was an object of value. He wondered whether they were just looking in the wrong direction. Feldman might just be their doer. Feldman had ties to Europe, so Interpol might have something on him. That should have occurred to him sooner. He was just about to start dialling again when there was suddenly a knock on the door. The door was opened before he had the chance to answer. It was Van Doran again.
"Jack, you're being requested in Washington. "
"Who requested to see me?"
"Victor Fitzgerald."
Jack's heart sank at the mention of his name. But he had anticipated that he would have to face the anger and accusation of Martin's father at one point. His conduct in a case on which Martin had been shot, perhaps even killed, was bound to be under heavy scrutiny. He sighed and packed away his paperwork. He was done on this case one way or another.
There was just one thing left before heading to D.C. He had to call Maria and let her know that he was not going to come home. He didn't look forward to making this call any more than to speaking to Victor Fitzgerald. He and Maria had not spoken since he had come home the previous night. He had already dialled through half her cell phone number when he changed his mind. He hung up. He was tired, the case was wearing him out, his career was about to end and his marriage was in shambles no matter how hard he tried, and he had spent a sleepless night to boot. He didn't have the energy to deal with Maria right now. So he dialled their home number and left a message on the voice box. He was sure that he was going to regret this later, but for the moment it seemed like the best solution. He grabbed his briefcase with the files for the case to go over them once again on the flight and left his office, wondering whether he would ever work there again. Victor Fitzgerald certainly didn't want to see him for small talk.
Somewhere in rural North Carolina
November 26, 1 p.m.
The road was winding through the forest. They had been driving for a good twenty minutes without ever passing another car. The house was perfectly isolated. Agent Robinson had been right; anyone could have gotten to the house without being noticed by anyone in the village. But that still left them with the question how anyone could have done that, they would have had to have resources and threat indicated that a group of people was behind them. Danny glanced over at Sam. Tension was on her features; she was picking a thread in her suit. Considering the circumstances, she was holding up well. The shooting of a colleague was always hard on law enforcement officers.. He felt it too. Adding the frustration about the cooperation of the local agents and the aggravating case, it was enough for anyone to be under unusual strain. He couldn't imagine what Samantha was going through, actually having been witness to the incident.
They were both silent as they got out of the car at the scene of yesterday's shooting. It looked so peaceful, an idyllic scene: nature surrounding the quaint little stone house with its overgrown garden. To the casual passer-by, it looked the epitome of rural peace. But when one approached the house and looked closer, the signs of the nightmare that had taken place there the previous day were still visible---the trampled grass where medical personnel and investigators had been working, the blood on the gravel access.
A sensation of chill overcame Sam. It was as if the air had suddenly cooled down by ten degrees. She instantly pulled her jacket closer as they walked over to the house.
Samantha couldn't avoid staring at the bloody spot on the gravel road. She saw Martin looking up at her, shock and fear on his face, blood starting to drench his white shirt. Him looking up at her. She turned away from him, avoiding his hurt eyes.
Danny didn't say anything. He patiently waited for her by the door.
"Let's take a look then. But it doesn't look like anyone was living here for a while. There is grass on the access road, so no one was driving there regularly."
The decay on the outside had also taken place inside. Although the dust had been disturbed in places by the crime scene technicians, it was still evident that it was abandoned. But looking at how sparse and worn the furniture was, that was not surprising. On the ground floor, which consisted of two rooms and a bathroom, they found four iron framed bunk beds in one room, a few chairs and a table in the other. A hotplate standing on the table and a fridge were the only kitchen appliances. Samantha opened the refrigerator. Whoever had been living here had not bothered to empty the fridge before leaving. The contents were simple: bread, milk, orange juice, crackers, some processed cheese. Samantha checked the expiration date. Only the milk was already expired; the other items were still consumable.
"Danny, come have a look at this," Samantha called.
"It's expired only five days ago." She pointed to the date printed on the bottle.
"Even modern food processing doesn't make fresh milk stay that way for months. There was someone here recently," Danny said.
"Have you found anything yet?"
"Not much. It's been cleaned out pretty well. Someone did a good job here. But I did find this." He held up a packet with white powder and a wad of bills.
"Drugs and cash, stashed in the classic hiding place behind a tile in the bathroom." Danny smiled.
"That's our connection. Drugs and money. It's been everywhere. The money in Diane's apartment, drug trafficking near Kendall's cottage, the car bomb, the false identity. It looks like organized crime."
"But what were two women interested in religion doing with drug dealers? Somehow they don't strike me as the type."
"Maybe Diane was stashing drugs in her apartment for some dealer to make a few extra bucks. Lydia knows her through her first husband, Feldman. Somehow they hook up. Maybe Lydia wanted to write about Diane or she was into drugs. Then one night, Diane is involved in the hit and run. She is murdered later. The same night Lydia starts acting weird---pulling cash from her account, taking anti-anxiety pills. She knows that something is coming down. Someone grabs her, drags her to Kendall's place and kills her and her daughter, then cleans out the apartment."
"Wow, that is a pretty comprehensive theory, but what about the car bomb? We were nowhere near close to any big fish dealer or anything. And yesterday, that doesn't make any sense. There has to be something more to this than just some small-time dealer."
"It all started when we zeroed in on this guy, Kendall, Feldman or whoever he really is. He has got something big to hide and from what it looks like, he has ties to organized crime. That is the only explanation for the car bomb and the shooter on the hill."
"But they are too sloppy for organized crime. The car bomb didn't go off right and the shooter missed me. A professional wouldn't have made those kinds of mistakes." She shudders at the morbidity of that thought.
"We're walking in circles," Danny said. "Let's finish up here and then drive back. When is your appointment at the hospital?"
Samantha had already forgotten that she was supposed to come in again and have someone look at her arm.
"Uhmm, I think it was at four in the afternoon," Samantha answered with dread.
