Meg shifted away from him, braced her hands in the damp earth at her knees, and pushed to her feet. She wobbled slightly, but then got her balance. “To hell with off this hill. We have a search to finish.”
“You sure you can manage?”
“Better than Sergeant Hubbert did. We can do this for him. Where’s my pack?”
Brian helped her into it and she shrugged it into place. He packed away the empty bottles, then picked up the discarded canister from the ground, slid the safety clip into place, and put it into her holster. “God forbid, you might need it again. But it will only be to back me up. I’m leading for the rest of this hike.”
“No arguments here.” She grasped his forearm. “Thanks. I’m not sure what I’d have done without you.”
“You’d have managed, like you always do. I just made it a little easier for you. Thank God bear repellent is only two percent strength. It’s nowhere near as bad as the twenty percent pepper spray law enforcement uses.”
“No kidding. Hopefully, I’ll be better in a few hours and recovered by tomorrow. That other stuff must be like burning in the flames of hell. That wasn’t all our water, was it?”
“No, I left us a couple each for drinking and for watering the dogs.”
“Good.” She bent and picked up Hawk’s leash from the dirt. “Hawk, ready?”
He looked up at her alertly and thumped his tail a few times.
“Okay, we’re ready.”
Brian sidled past her carefully on the narrow path, Lacey trotting behind him to get in front of Meg and Hawk.
“Lacey, find.”
“Hawk, find.”
The dogs took off at an easy lope down the southward path, Meg and Brian behind. For the first few minutes, Brian kept checking to make sure she was okay. Each time, she gave him a thumbs-up and he turned back to the trail ahead.
They had a job to do. No matter what, the search would continue.
CHAPTER 4
Dancing Ghosts: In Cherokee legend, the Appalachian Mountains were once covered by a great flood. When the floodwaters receded, the ridges were lined with great piles of bone, where the ghosts of the drowned danced at night.
Monday, April 8, 2:20 PM
Blue Ridge Police Department
Blue Ridge, Georgia
Meg, Brian, and the dogs were directed to a small conference room on the first floor of the Blue Ridge Police Department. Once Blue Ridge’s city hall, the old stone, two-story building was a historic landmark and one of the oldest structures in town. But for all the external charm and craftsmanship, inside the building was straight-up generic cop.
Torres sat at the table, a laptop opened in front of him, several files at his elbow, and a paper coffee cup in his hand. He looked up at the sound of footsteps and then froze, staring at Meg standing in the doorway. His gaze shifted to Brian behind her, the dogs at their feet, and then back to Meg. “What happened to you?”
“Bear spray. We ran into a mother and her two cubs.” Meg had checked out the damage in the sun visor mirror of the Blue Ridge cop who had picked them up at the end of the search—with puffy lids and patchy redness spread across her cheeks and forehead, she was not a pretty sight. On top of that, while her eyes were much better, they still burned slightly and she suspected it would be another hour or two before that went away, and at least a day before the puffiness and redness went down.
“Are you all right?”
“Getting there.”
Torres braced his hands against the edge of the table as if ready to stand. “What do you need? Medical supplies?”
Meg shook her head and waved him down. “At this point, just time. We stopped and bought some no tears baby shampoo. All the oil that can be flushed off, has been. As for the rest, I should be better tomorrow.”
“Then at least come in and take a load off.” Torres motioned to the empty chairs around the table. “I heard the search was unsuccessful.”
“We never had a chance.” Brian pulled out a chair and fell into it. “Lacey girl, come and lay down. That’s it. Good girl.” He leaned over and rubbed at her fur as she settled beside him with a canine sigh of relief. “The shooter was hours ahead of us. And had a vehicle waiting. He was probably long gone before we even landed in Atlanta.” He craned his neck to look back at Meg, who still leaned against the doorjamb. “Sit down. That’s an order.”
“You can’t order me around,” Meg said, but pulled out the chair next to him and sat.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Torres looked from Brian to Meg, shaking his head. “How long have you two worked together?”
“Three years,” they said in unison, then looked at each other and grinned.
“I could have sworn it was longer. You’re like an old married couple.”
“Thanks . . . I think,” said Brian. “So where are we on the case? Did you make any headway while we didn’t?”
“Actually, yes.”
“Really?” Meg leaned forward in her chair. “In what way?”
“I’ve tied the victims together. At first I couldn’t find any connection beyond the method of death, including the handmade arrows, so I thought they had to be random hits by a common predator. Until I stumbled on what may be the key. But let me back up. What do you know about the first victim?”
“Nothing. SAC Beaumont didn’t have any of the details when he scrambled us.”
“Then let’s start at the beginning. The first victim was Tim Reynolds, Chairman of the Fannin County Board of Commissioners. He was out bowhunting and was hit with an arrow and killed. It looked like a tragic accident. He was wearing camo and he blended into the surroundings. Everyone assumed another hunter saw movement and shot his arrow, only to find out he’d killed someone by mistake and fled in horror.”
“Until the second death,” Brian said.
“Once Sergeant Hubbert was killed in the same fashion, with the same type of arrow—”
“In his own driveway,” Brian interjected.
“In his own driveway,” Torres continued, “and not out in the woods, then things became clearer. But the connection between the two men wasn’t evident. They’re separated by twenty years in age, they didn’t come from the same town, go to the same schools, have any social connections, or cross paths in their jobs. Until I found out Noah Hubbert was the son of Ethan Hubbert, the CEO of Atkins Power.”
“I don’t recognize the father’s name,” said Meg, “but I’ve heard of the company. Isn’t that a huge, multistate corporation?”
“It is. And as part of that huge, multistate corporation, Atkins Power has been working with the Fannin County Board of Commissioners on the Copperhill Dam.”
“Never heard of it,” Brian said.
“That’s because it’s not built yet, but there’s a local argument that it’s needed to manage rising water levels and flooding as the climate changes. Copperhill, Tennessee, and McCaysville, Georgia, are twin cities, but in reality, they’re a single community on the Toccoa River that’s split down the middle by the Georgia/Tennessee state line.”
“Rather than the river itself?” Meg asked.
“Correct. The river is not the dividing line. But it cuts through both towns. And in the past four years, those towns have experienced both a five-hundred-year flood and a one-thousand-year flood.”
Brian whistled.
“The dam is just in the planning stages, but it’s ruffled a lot of feathers.” Torres took a sip of his coffee. “By the way, help yourself.” He pointed at the coffeemaker set up on a side table against the wall.
Meg started to push her chair back and Brian laid a hand on her arm. They exchanged a silent look, Meg nodded, and Brian rose to make their coffee.
“People don’t want to see the dam built?” Brian asked. “Even after all that flooding? I assume the dam will help control the river level?”
“It will. And the citizens of Copperhill and McCaysville are one hundred percent in support o
f the project. However, there’s a number of people who are against it. What do you know about reservoir dams?”
“Probably just the basics,” Meg said. “The dam blocks the river, letting water through at a controlled pace, and a reservoir fills behind it.”
“That’s part of it. Power generation is the other part. The deeper the reservoir, the farther the water has to fall, the more kinetic energy it carries, the more power can be generated when the water is directed into a turbine and generator. For all the dams in this area, and there are a number of them, it’s still not enough for the power needs of Georgia and Tennessee.”
“Especially as the world and the economy are moving away from coal-fired power plants and fossil fuels and are looking for dependable renewable energy sources.” Meg accepted a coffee from Brian. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Brian sat down again. “So flood control and power generation. It all sounds good so far. Clearly, there must be a catch.”
“The catch is the reservoir. As I said, the deeper the reservoir, the better flood control, and the better the power generation. But that land has to come from somewhere. In this case, it’s going to come from the Toccoa River valley that runs from Blue Ridge, Georgia, nearly all the way to McCaysville and Copperhill.”
“That area has to be occupied.”
“It is. Farms, businesses, houses. Everyone would have to abandon their property and then the valley would be flooded. The people who live in the valley, some of whom have lived there for over a hundred years, are fighting tooth and nail to keep their land. There’s a suspect list right there. But that’s not all. The Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians have also made a claim on the land. It was their land up to the 1830s, until the American government took it away from them, and they want it back.”
“What are the chances of that happening?” Meg asked.
“Recently, the EBCI has reclaimed some of its hereditary land in Tennessee, on the border of North Carolina. They’ve been successful once, so they want to try again, which adds them to the suspect list. But then on the other side of the argument, we have all the people who support the project. Beginning with the Tennessee Valley Authority, the group in charge of all the rivers and dams, power generation, and the economic development within the Tennessee Valley, in an area that goes from Kentucky all the way to Virginia and North Carolina, down to Georgia, and west through Alabama and Mississippi. Then there’s Atkins Power, Roswell Engineering—the construction company that has already bid for and won the dam project, which will be worth billions in federal, state, and county funding—local residents, and business owners. And that just scratches the surface. I have my work cut out for me in compiling a suspect pool and then narrowing it down.”
“The method of death seems to be a good way to narrow down the list,” Meg said. She took another sip of coffee and set down the cup. “Not everyone is going to know how to shoot a bow. And even fewer will have any kind of skill with it. And then we’re looking for someone with an elite level of that skill.”
“And don’t forget the outdoor skills,” Brian said. “It’s pretty clear I’m not a country boy, but I couldn’t see the path the dogs were following. Not a boot print, not a broken branch, not anything to disturb the surroundings. This isn’t some business magnate who blows in from LA for the weekend and does a little shooting. This is someone who lives the outdoor life.”
“I’ll second that. I couldn’t see a path, either,” Meg said. “One question, though. We saw the arrow, but do we know what kind of weapon shot it? I’m not a country girl”—she cocked an eyebrow at Brian—“but even I know there’s more than one kind of bow.”
“I’m not a hunter myself, but Wilcox told me it’s either a recurve or a compound bow. They can both use the same kind of arrow. But he also said that because of how the seasons go in Georgia and the surrounding states, there’s a lot of bowhunting overall, especially right now. Finding someone who owns a recurve or compound bow is not going to be a sign of guilt.”
“Unless you disapprove of hunting for sport,” Brian muttered.
“The way these things are tricked out these days with scopes and laser sights, I’m not sure there’s any sport in it at all,” Torres said. “Taking what Wilcox said into account, the bowhunting angle will limit the suspect pool, but maybe not nearly as much as we’d like. That’s my mission in the next few days. You both are heading to DC?”
“Yes,” Meg said. “Unless you think we’re going to be needed, SAC Beaumont wants us back and available for other deployments. We’re headed to Atlanta and we’ll catch the next flight out.”
The question was—would they need to return and, if so, how soon?
CHAPTER 5
Thunderer: A storm spirit who lives in the sky and commands thunder and lightning.
Monday, April 8, 5:55 PM
Ronald Reagan Airport
Washington, DC
Meg made sure Hawk was well back from the door and then closed him into his travel compartment. Lugging her bags around to the rear of the SUV, she popped the hatch, loaded their gear, and slammed the door shut. Her steps dragging slightly, she circled around to the driver’s door. Getting in, she glanced at Hawk to see him comfortably settling in to take a nap on the ride home, and let out a long breath as she sagged back against the seat. She was still tired from the strenuous search, smarting from the pepper spray, and discouraged by the whole day. If the kills were ten or more days apart, there was no sense in staying there waiting for the next shoe to drop, but not being on-site essentially made the searches useless.
How do you catch someone who is clearly an elite hunter and who knew how to hide his tracks when he had a three or four hour head start on you? It seemed futile. Sure, the dogs could follow an hours-old trail, but the chances of catching up were nearly nil in that kind of environment where there were dozens of hazards and multiple places to lose the scent. And if the person they were trailing knew he wasn’t being immediately followed, he could take all the time in the world to disappear.
She wanted to talk to Craig about how this case was being handled. Yes, it had been bumped to the federal level because of the death of a state law enforcement officer, but maybe the FBI should be relying on local K-9 assistance. Surely the Georgia Bureau of Investigation had tracking dogs. Maybe that would be a better support system for Torres. It would certainly be faster.
Meg studied her face in the rearview mirror. The angry red splotches smeared across her cheeks and forehead had faded only slightly, and her eyes were bloodshot, the lids red and puffy. She groaned. That explained all the odd looks she got on the trip home. She’d hoped it would have faded more by now.
Instead of running home, she wanted to go to the Forensic Canine Unit in the J. Edgar Hoover Building to talk to Craig. He wasn’t expecting her until tomorrow, but she knew he wouldn’t have gone home yet and she wanted to run things by him while they were still fresh in her mind. And who knew when the next assignment would come along to distract her? Maybe as soon as tomorrow morning, so it was better to talk to him today.
She pulled her phone out of her pocket to check for messages. Webb was on shift now, but she’d texted him they were on their way back before they left Atlanta. So far, there was no response.
“Probably a busy shift,” she muttered. “Maybe out on a call.”
Which gave her an idea. She opened the glove box and pulled out the handheld radio Webb had given her months before so she could track him when he was at work. It was set to DC Fire and Emergency Medical Services main frequencies, but he’d marked the tactical frequencies they used on it as well. Sometimes during longer incidents, she’d tune in and follow the action, occasionally hearing his voice on the main channel.
She’d been a cop with the Richmond PD before she joined the FBI. She knew the risks of first responder work, be it law enforcement or firefighting. But Webb had given her a window into his world and a way to reassure herself during dangerous fires that he was okay.
He’s a good man, and you’re lucky to have him. Brian’s words rang in her head. He was right, and the radio in her hand was an example of Webb finding ways to meet her halfway. It was time for her to do the same.
She laid the radio on the passenger seat. Then she started the SUV and maneuvered her way out of the parking garage to merge onto the George Washington Parkway. Reaching over, she turned on the radio.
She could tell right away the house was out on a call—a structure fire in the Washington City neighborhood, and within a few minutes she heard Webb’s voice.
“Engine 2 at scene, switching to tac.”
He’d explained their use of radio frequencies to her. They used a main channel, one amplified by a repeater to reach dispatch anywhere in the city. But they also used two tactical or “tac” channels on scene for active communications while attacking the fire. That channel could be received only at short distances—under two miles—but Meg had been able to tune into the tac channel from the Hoover building because of the proximity to Engine Company 2’s firehouse and many of their calls. So, she’d be able to follow along once she got into DC proper.
She took the exit to I-395 over the Charles R. Fenwick Bridge, the Potomac streaking by through her window as she listened to the details of the fire reported to dispatch by the incident commander. It was going to be a tricky one—the fire was on the upper floors of a hoarder’s house, so maneuvering through the flaming debris would be difficult. Not to mention the fire was spreading fast. It would be an offensive attack with crews taking lines into the house long enough to search for occupants. The incident commander clearly had his doubts they’d be able to do anything else after but pull back and fight the fire defensively, trying to protect the surrounding structures. The fire was already too involved by the time they arrived, and there were simply too many flammable items inside to feed the inferno.
Leave No Trace Page 4
