“Did you notice anything unusual about any of their behavior? Did any of them seem nervous or anything?” Lewis asked.
“No,” Mr. Jones replied. “Nothing I noticed.”
“Did they bring anything with them that seemed unusual?”
“Not that I noticed. Mostly just fishing gear, but I did notice they had a shotgun with them. I don’t know exactly whose it was, but I know they had one.”
Lewis nodded. “Can you remember for sure if you saw any other guns or weapons?”
“No, not that I can remember.”
“What about an ax?” Lewis asked.
“Well, each of the cabins has an ax for chopping firewood,” Mr. Jones replied.
“They never found one at the site,” Marasco said to Kyle.
In the other room, Lewis paused to write down the information. Kyle was sure he was thinking the same thing. Then Lewis said, “We found the vehicle and the snowmobiles they rented at the cabin. Did they bring more than one vehicle?”
“No, just the one,” Mr. Jones replied.
“What about skis?” the sheriff asked.
“No, not that I saw. At least I didn’t notice any on the truck’s ski rack.”
“Did you know if anyone came to visit them at the cabin before the storm?” Lewis asked.
“No,” Mrs. Jones replied. Mr. Jones just shook his head.
“Do you know of any reason why someone would want to kill those men?”
“No, none at all,” said Mrs. Jones.
“No, me either,” Mr. Jones said quietly. He acted as if he were about to say more but then stopped. He looked down at the hat he was nervously working back and forth between his hands.
Kyle could tell that something was bothering Mr. Jones.
Lewis had picked up on it too. He waited a moment before he spoke. “Mr. Jones, is there something you want to tell us?”
Mr. Jones shook his head. “I just … I went to the cabin and told them about the storm before it hit, but they said they were just going to ride it out. I didn’t think … I didn’t know … I just wish … I should have made them come into town with us,” he sighed. “None of this would have happened if I’d made them come into town.”
Mrs. Jones reached out and gently placed her hand on top of his. Her husband seemed to respond to her touch. Straightening his shoulders, he sat back up and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“That’s all right,” Lewis said. “I think we have everything for now. But before you go, there’s someone else I’d like you to meet.” He stood and left the room.
The door to the viewing room opened, and Lewis stuck his head in. “What do you think?” he asked.
“Not much, but I believed them,” said Marasco. He sounded almost disappointed to admit it.
“Yeah, me too,” said Kyle.
“Yeah,” Lewis said, sounding distracted. “I was hoping they might give us something more to work with. Kyle, come with me. I want you to be the point of contact.”
Kyle followed Lewis next door.
“Mr. and Mrs. Jones,” Lewis said. “This is Kyle Andrews. He’s the victim specialist who will be handling this case.”
“Victim specialist?” asked Mrs. Jones.
“Yes,” Kyle said as he shook their hands. He had never cared for the title of victim specialist. To him, it sounded like someone who specialized in creating victims, not helping them.
He held out one of his cards, and Mrs. Jones took it. “I’ll be in touch with you to help keep you informed on the progress of the investigation and to let you know when your property will be released to you. You may not think of yourself as a victim in the typical sense of the word, but you probably do feel a certain sense of apprehension and violation over what has happened. If at any point you feel like you would like to talk to someone about it, please call me.”
“And if you think of anything else that might help us with the investigation, don’t hesitate to call,” added Lewis.
Mr. Jones nodded as he and his wife stood. Clearing his throat, Mr. Jones pulled his cap back on and then reached out and took his wife’s hand. Together, they walked from the room, holding on to each other for support. Watching them, Kyle thought of Angela. He wondered if they would ever be like that.
Lewis looked at his watch. “Tell the press we’ll have a briefing for them in half an hour,” he said to the sheriff. “I’m going to go have a smoke first.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Marasco as the two headed outside.
CHAPTER 5
Denver
By the time Carrie Daniels arrived home, it was already well after dark. She had worked late, not because she had to but because she was trying to keep her mind off the fact that it was Valentine’s Day and she was alone again. She pulled into the driveway of her townhouse and hit the garage door opener. A few scattered snowflakes had begun to fall, sparkling like tiny diamonds as they angled across the headlight beams. That didn’t bother her. In fact, she liked it. Her plans for the evening consisted of dinner alone with her cat and a nice, hot bath before she relaxed in front of the fire.
When she stepped into the laundry room off the garage, she was greeted by the chirping of the alarm system she had recently had installed. She punched in the code to disarm the system and watched as the garage door rolled shut. Once satisfied, she closed the back door, locked it, and punched in the code to re-arm the system.
When she had purchased the system, she had told herself she was doing it to protect herself from the nameless, faceless criminals of the world, that in this day and age, it was foolish to ignore society’s inherent propensity for violence. But she knew better. She had learned that the hard way. The harsh reality was it wasn’t the nameless, faceless criminals of the world, but those closest to you who posed the greatest danger.
She stepped into the kitchen and was immediately greeted by Chelsea, who hopped up onto the bar between the kitchen and the living room. After she satisfied the cat’s desire for attention, she emptied a can of cat food into the plastic food dish on the floor. While the cat devoured its food, Carrie poured herself a glass of wine from a box sitting in the fridge. She could afford the more expensive vintages, but she didn’t see the point. She wasn’t a wine connoisseur. She drank for the effect, not for the taste.
Glass of box-blush in hand, she proceeded upstairs to change.
When she returned downstairs, she was wearing a pair of red plaid flannel pajamas and thick gray athletic socks on her feet. The wine glass was empty.
She poured herself another drink and then went into the living room, where she started a fire in the gas fireplace. She opened the door on her entertainment center and picked out several CDs, including The Verve, Tori Amos, Sarah McLaughlin, and Fiona Apple, which she placed into the CD changer. Then, on impulse, she added the first CD from Elton John’s Goodbye Yellow Brick Road and Glass Houses by Billy Joel, both of which had been among her father’s favorites. Even now, years later, she still remembered riding in the car with him, singing along and giggling at the silly face he made when he sang “Ahh-ooh, B … B … B … Benny and the Jets.”
She took her time preparing dinner. While she didn’t normally cook and wasn’t good at it by any stretch of the imagination, tonight was about keeping herself busy, so she planned to make homemade spaghetti.
“You don’t mind if my breath’s bad, do you, baby?” she cooed to Chelsea as she chopped up an onion and minced two cloves of garlic for the sauce. The cat looked at her, cocking its head momentarily, and then began industriously licking its paw.
The sauce was simmering, and Carrie was buttering the thick slices of French bread for the garlic toast when the phone rang. Without looking, she knew who it was. He knew her so well. He knew she would be feeling lonely tonight and was trying to take advantage of it.
She let it ring, reaching for her glass of wine instead. The answering machine picked up.
“Carrie, it’s Bret.” It sounded like he had already b
een drinking, just enough to be charming. Reflexively, Carrie’s hand lifted to the cheekbone below her right eye. Most of the bruising was gone, but it was still tender to the touch.
“I was just calling to wish you a happy Valentine’s Day. Hope you liked the flowers. I know how much you like lilies and all, and roses just seem so cliché.” There was a long pause and the sound of a deep sigh. “Look, I’ve told you like a hundred times I’m sorry about what happened. I don’t know what more you want from me. Can’t we just put this behind us? I love you. Don’t you know that?”
A part of her desperately wanted to pick up. She wanted to believe him, to believe that everything was going to be all right, but she just couldn’t do it. Not anymore.
“I’m not going to give up,” he continued, the tone of his voice becoming suddenly harsh. “You know we were meant to be together … forever.”
Carrie winced as the phone was slammed down.
She stood there, listening to the shrill sound of the dial tone until the machine finally cut it off. She quickly reached over and hit the button to delete the message. She knew if she didn’t, she would spend the rest of the evening listening to it over and over, trying to discern the true meaning of his statement. If only she could get him out of her life that easily. She didn’t know what to do. Since she had left him, his behavior had become more and more erratic to the point that she was genuinely scared of what he might do next. She had even considered taking out a temporary restraining order against him, but she was afraid that might be the thing that would send him over the edge completely.
Her hand shook as she turned off the burner beneath the sauce, her appetite suddenly gone. Instead, she went to the refrigerator and poured herself another blush. Without closing the door, she slammed it down in three large gulps and then filled it again.
CHAPTER 6
Maryland
At the corner of West Jefferson and 18th, in a quiet subdivision on the south side of Columbia, Maryland, a darkened moving truck sat next to the curb at the end of the block. In the converted cargo area sat Nathaniel Brockemeyer smacking on a mouthful of cinnamon-flavored gum. As a child, he wouldn’t have dared to smack his gum for fear of a beating. But his father wasn’t around anymore, so he was free to enjoy the gum as he pleased.
He wore all black, including the baseball cap turned around backward on his head. Over the top of the cap, he wore a pair of expensive Bose headphones that were typically only used in music-industry recording studios or by the most demanding—and wealthy—audiophiles. But he wasn’t listening to music or even the mindless chatter of conservative talk radio. Instead, he was listening to the sounds picked up by a dozen electronic bugs that had been installed in a house halfway down the street.
The only light came from a bank of flat-screen monitors mounted along one wall. One monitor displayed the view on all four sides of the van, while another displayed the dark backyard of the house down the block. Chuckling to himself, Nathan turned a knob on the console in front of him and adjusted the gain on one of the little microphones until he could hear Letterman’s monologue better.
Just as Letterman was about to deliver the punch line to a joke, there was a short pop, and the house fell silent. Someone had turned off the TV.
Damn it. He slapped his hand against the console. He hated it when they did that.
There was a groan of leather as someone got up out of the La-Z-Boy (or off the couch), followed by shuffling footsteps and the creaking of the stairs as the occupant made their way upstairs. Nathan pushed a small button on the console, switching the feed to the microphones on the second floor. A door squeaked open; a light switch was flipped. There was an odd clattering, followed by the sound of someone brushing their teeth. After spitting and rinsing, there was more clattering.
Nathan had done this enough that he had become good at figuring out what people were doing. As he listened to the tiny clink, he could picture the person dropping the toothbrush back into the ceramic holder. There was more clattering and the sound of a plastic lid being unscrewed. Inside the truck, Nathan mimicked the person, holding an imaginary bottle of mouthwash and pouring it into an imaginary glass. He leaned his head back in anticipation and laughed when he heard the person beginning to gargle. “Damn, I’m good,” he said, amused by his own cleverness.
Looking at one of the monitors, Nathan waited until the light in the upstairs bedroom went out. He made a note of the time on his watch, and then leaned back in his chair to wait.
An hour later, he unwrapped a fresh stick of gum and stuffed it into his mouth. Standing, he buckled a leather tool belt—loaded with the special devices of his trade—on over his tight-fitting black fatigues. He took off the baseball cap, rubbed his hand across his stubbly red hair, and inserted a radio receiver into his left ear. He then pulled on a pair of black latex gloves and a black ski mask. He unfastened a pair of night-vision goggles from his belt and pulled them on, leaving the oculars flipped up on top of his forehead. He clapped his hands together and pumped his legs up and down as he ran in place like a sprinter preparing for a race. He took several deep breaths, mentally preparing himself for the task at hand.
Game time.
He slipped from the back of the truck and scanned the block to make sure he wasn’t being observed. Overhead, the moon was blotted out behind a bank of thick clouds. The night was inky black. The only lights in the area were those still on in a few of the houses and the circular glow of the sodium-vapor streetlamp on the opposite corner. He had broken out the one nearest the truck. From behind the mask, his icy blue eyes glimmered like quicksilver.
He slipped down the alley. Years of advanced training had taught him how to be stealthy in urban environments. It had saved his life during the war with Iraq.
When he reached the back fence of the house, he hefted himself up and over. He landed in a crouch, grimacing at the momentary burst of pain in his right knee. It was an old injury that still bothered him, especially in the cold. It was a constant reminder of what he had been before.
Nathan crept across the backyard onto the patio and removed one of the tools from his belt. It bristled with a handful of thin, wire blades and metal picks. He pressed the device against the back door’s keyhole and inserted several of the thin, metal wires, working and twisting until there was a satisfying click. He replaced the tool and carefully opened the door, making sure it didn’t creak, and then slipped inside.
He flipped down the night-vision goggles. The house sprang to life in an eerie blaze of luminous green light.
He was in the living room. To his left were the breakfast nook and the kitchen. He made his way to the right, around the sofa and the La-Z-Boy recliner. He tiptoed up the stairs, stepping on the outer edges of each step in order to remain silent.
At the top of the stairs, he paused and pressed his left hand against his ear. In the truck, he had set the transmitter to broadcast the audio from the bug in the bedroom to the receiver in his ear, which he now listened to. The room remained silent.
He slipped down the hall and peered into the first doorway. A night-light next to the bed provided enough illumination for him to see without the goggles, which he flipped up. A small form lay curled up in bed—a boy, he surmised from the racing-car bedspread and the posters of sports figures and rock stars hanging on all the walls. One of them in particular caught Nathaniel’s attention, which caused him to pause. It was a large photograph of Carlos Aurilio, the National’s shortstop, in the process of ducking a tag as he slid into home. Dirt was flying up around him, and the umpire’s arms were spread wide. The caption across the top read: “The Washington Nationals—Staying Safe at Home.”
Seeing the poster caused Nathan to hesitate. He looked down at the small boy. He remembered when he had been young, the joy and admiration he had felt watching Cal Ripken Jr., play, and he felt an immediate kinship with the boy. He wished there was another way, but there wasn’t. He was the one truly keeping the nation safe.
He p
ulled a small silver canister from a pouch on his belt. He held it near the boy’s face and depressed the nozzle, dispelling a fine mist. He then turned to step from the boy’s room, but paused when he saw a baseball glove lying on the dresser by the door. He picked up the glove and slipped it beneath the boy’s arm before he moved down the hall.
In the master bedroom, Nathan crept to the side of the bed, his anger growing as he looked down at Jacobson. How could the bastard have been so thoughtless? Because of this man’s stupidity, his entire family had been condemned. Nathan’s fists clenched as he struggled to contain his rage. He wanted to pummel the traitorous bastard, to beat him to death with his bare hands. But it would raise suspicion, and that would not be tolerated.
He lifted the canister and sprayed the mist again, causing the man’s nose to twitch momentarily as he inhaled the vapor. He snorted once, and then settled back down.
Nathan moved around the bed. He paused as he looked down at the woman. She was beautiful, her lustrous blonde hair aglow in the moonlight that spilled in through the blinds. Her skin was soft and smooth, her lips full. Leaning over, he breathed in the heady scent of her. He started to reach out and touch her but caught himself. Instead, he quickly sprayed two shots of the mist beneath her nose. He wasn’t sure exactly what the vapor consisted of, or how it worked, but he knew it was a complex chemical agent because he had received an inoculation prior to the mission. What he did know was that within minutes all three would be dead from suffocation. The autopsies, which were certain to be performed, would reveal that they had all died from carbon monoxide poisoning. On his way out, he would simply rig the pilot light on the gas range to cover his tracks.
He waited until he was sure she would not wake, then pulled off the glove on his right hand and placed it against her cheek. He burned for her, but it was forbidden. There could be no evidence of his visit. He was already taking a big chance by just touching her.
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