by Brad Meltzer
Nola didn’t cry. She kept that promise. There was a moment where she thought the tears would come, but it passed too fast, punctured by a far more powerful feeling—a swell of anger, of hatred, real hatred, that crept up from her belly, invading her on a molecular level.
There was a noise on her left. She turned.
Royall was standing there, like he’d been there all along, arms crossed at his chest, soda in his hand, on the threshold of the kitchen.
“My God. What happened?” he asked.
The world went red. At just the sight of him, Nola could feel something hardening inside her, could feel something elemental rising.
“Is Dooch okay?” he added.
On most days, Nola’s specialty was finding the hidden things, the lies we hide every day. But here, in this kitchen, as she cradled her dead pet in her arms, Royall wasn’t hiding anything. It was right there on his face. He had a fire behind his eyes, and an unmistakable grin.
“Nola, I feel awful for you. Is there anything I can do?”
She wanted to fight, wanted to rush at him, wanted to lace her fingers around his throat and squeeze tight until her nails pierced his windpipe and his life was gone, and he was the one who was just a stiff, empty, lifeless thing. But she knew what would happen in a fight like that. Today was proof of it. She wasn’t fighting a man. Royall was an animal.
“God, just heartbreaking, right?” Royall asked. “The world isn’t perfect. Why do folks think it is?”
She didn’t respond. Years from now, an Army psychologist would make a note in Nola’s file, saying she suffered from RAD—Reactive Attachment Disorder—which happens when a child can’t form attachments because of early neglect.
But tonight, Silent Nola just sat there, down on her knees, cursing herself for thinking she could have anything good—and cursing herself even more for taking the pet near Royall in the first place. If she hadn’t taken him home, he’d still be alive.
Lesson learned. She’d never bring anything she loved near the house again.
75
Dover Air Force Base, Delaware
Today
Nola, we’re on board. All clear,” Zig whisper-hissed, leaning down to the casket’s airholes. He pulled out his earplugs, so he wouldn’t miss her response.
Outside, there was another loud whirr. The third engine began its high-pitched whine. One more until full power.
“Nola, you hear me?” Zig added, now louder, his mouth up against the airholes. “You okay in—!?”
“Final check,” Kesel called out on the PA system. Two minutes to takeoff.
Silent Nola. That’s her MO. Always silent, Zig told himself. He thought again about the airholes. They had to be big enough. Right?
Behind him, Zig heard a noise by the stairs. Kesel was coming. Racing back toward the jump seat, Zig grabbed the Alaska guidebook, pretending to read.
“Make sure to strap in,” Kesel shouted over the noise, hopping off the bottom step for his final inspection.
Zig fastened his safety belt, still studying Nola’s metal case. She’s fine, he insisted, reminding himself that there’s enough air in a coffin for at least four and a half hours of breathing.
Kesel made a quick loop through the hull, checking every light, every gauge, every switch, every cargo strap, plus the anchor-line cable that ran down from the ceiling.
Diagonally across from Zig, toward the back of the plane, he noticed the side door with the red and green lights above it. Emergency Exit. Wide enough for a casket? Zig didn’t even want to think about it. She’s fine.
There was a final loud whirr as the fourth and final engine began to whine.
“See you at ten thousand feet,” Kesel called out, closing the door and heading back upstairs.
The moment Zig was alone, he raced back to the case. Forget the stupid codes. He banged hard on the metal top.
C’mon, Nola… Gimme a response.
He put his ear to the case.
Nothing.
“Nola, if you’re okay, say something!” he shouted directly into the airholes.
Still nothing.
Could she’ve passed out?
Zig stuck his fingers into the airholes. All clear. Even if they weren’t…there’s enough air…
Zig banged the case again, harder than ever.
Maybe being in a confined space…maybe she did pass out. If she did…she’d still be okay. Unless… Zig’s brain was racing now. If she accidentally turned on her side…
Zig shook his head, refusing to consider it. And then he replayed the familiar image that always leapt into his brain whenever he saw a news report about a child who drowned, or a little boy who was shot by a stray bullet…or a young girl who—
Zig shut his eyes, but he couldn’t stop seeing it: The red siren, spinning and blinding him. He was fighting through a crowd, pushing his way to— To those doors. To the open back doors of an ambulance. The doors seemed so far away, and then suddenly so close…close enough to see— There. Dangling from the gurney—a sagging arm. His chest turned to ice. Every parent knows their child. He knew it ten minutes ago, but now…to see it again, to see it this close… That was his daughter’s arm. Maggie’s arm. Just from the color of it—the gray color—he knew all hope was gone.
He was still elbowing through the crowd, fighting to get closer. No one fought against him, except at the end, when he reached the tall black paramedic who had no hope of stopping him. And then Zig was standing over the gurney, gasping for breath, like his lungs would never hold air again. Nononono. Even now, Zig could hear himself sobbing, praying, pleading with God that Zig could trade and be the dead one instead.
“Nola!” Zig shouted, grabbing at the metal casket, undoing the nylon straps with one hand, the clasps along the side with the other. She needed air! Get her out! He flicked open the final three clasps at the foot of the case.
Ka-clack. Ka-clack. Ka-clack.
Gripping the lid of the metal case, he wedged his fingers into its seam. Zig’s body swayed as the plane began moving, taxiing toward the runway. Still plenty of time to get her out, get her help.
With a yank, Zig lifted the lid and shoved it back, revealing…
Books. Nothing but books.
Confused, Zig looked over his shoulder, scanning the empty hull. He looked back at the books.
There were dozens of them—fanned in a neat stack like tumbled dominos—textbooks with titles like Modern Military Uniforms and 20th Century Military Regalia. They were from the library…the tall bookshelf right next to where all the extra caskets and transfer cases were—
Mothertrucker.
That’s where Zig took her— When he snuck Nola back into Dover, he backed the hearse into Departures, moving Nola out of the casket and into the metal transfer cases that were stored there. When Zig went out to check on the plane, she must’ve—
Again. She did it again. Zig slammed the lid shut, kicking himself for not seeing it coming, for not seeing the big move or the small one. He should’ve known all along. It’s the one rule of Nola: Nola doesn’t change.
Vrrrrrrrrrr. The plane rumbled and shook, picking up speed as it rolled toward the runway.
Zig replayed their last few hours in the motel room last night, slowly fitting each piece in place. When Nola was clicking through Houdini’s watch…she found new coordinates. From there, she knew Zig’s weaknesses. His guilt and sentimentality. All she had to do was ask him to team up. Make him think she wanted help.
That’s all it took. Nola didn’t need Zig to get on the plane, or to go anywhere near Alaska. No. The only thing she wanted from Zig was to get her here, into the one place where only he could bring her—directly into Dover. And for the third time, Zig walked right into it.
The rumble of the engines was deafening now. But as the wheels left the ground, and Zig was down on his knees, fighting for balance, he didn’t know what worried him more: that somehow the digital coordinates on the watch traced back to Dover…or that whoeve
r Nola was now searching for, they’d been hiding here all along.
76
There he is!” a female voice called out.
Master Guns rolled his eyes at his boss’s favorite line. “There he is!” she’d say, adding a thumbs-up if she really wanted to sell it.
Sure enough, as Colonel Hsu stepped into his office, she gave him a big thumbs-up with a double pump. Hsu was a politician. If she was leading with charm, bad news was coming.
Before she even turned the corner, Master Guns shot out of his seat, standing at attention behind his desk, both hands at his side.
“Really, Francis?” Hsu asked, clutching her cell phone. She was always clutching her cell phone. “Have I ever been that formal?”
Master Guns stood there, straight as a pencil. He was a Marine. Customs and courtesies still meant something. Colonel Hsu was Air Force. Didn’t mind breaking. So typical.
“At ease, okay? That make you happy?” Hsu asked.
“Just showing respect, ma’am.”
Hsu waved him off, like they were the oldest of friends. But Master Guns didn’t need to be Dover’s chief investigator to know they weren’t.
“What can I help you with, ma’am?”
“You weren’t at yesterday’s stand-up,” Hsu said, referring to her morning senior staff meeting. “You also, considering all the bodies that arrived, didn’t file a report for this morning’s stand-up. Just making sure you’re okay.”
“Apologies, ma’am. No offense meant. I’ve just been busy with the Alaska investigation.”
“I figured,” she said, adding a smile to keep things light. She took a seat opposite his desk, glancing over at the framed antique American flag on the wall.
“Thirty-eight?” she asked, counting the stars on the flag.
“1876. From when they added Colorado. My home state.” Master Guns took a deep breath through his nose. “Ma’am, if there’s something you want to talk about—?”
“I got a call this morning. About the plane crash in Alaska. Mind you, I’ve been getting calls all week, but this one came from the White House’s chief of staff—that little bug—what’s his name—?”
“Galen Gibbs.”
“Galen Gibbs. He calls me every few hours, looking for details.”
“He calls me every few minutes.”
Hsu laughed at that, her eyes no longer on the flag. “So you can imagine my surprise when Gibbs called me at five thirty this morning and asked me when the final autopsy report would be filed. Not just for the Librarian of Congress, but for the other victims on the plane: Clifford Eddy. Rose Mackenberg. Amedeo Vacca. He wanted all of them, said they weren’t filed yet. So odd, right? Our medical examiners are usually meticulous about that. Those should’ve been filed immediately. But they weren’t.”
Master Guns sat there silent, his hands gripped together on his desk in a little church and steeple.
“Then imagine my further surprise when I asked Dr. Sinclair about the reports…and he told me he gave them to you, Francis—that you personally asked for all the victims’ reports yourself. Even the one for the Librarian of Congress.”
“Ma’am, this is my investigation. I have every right to see those reports.”
“Then see them after he files them. You can read them online like the rest of us.”
“I appreciate that, ma’am. So I hope you also appreciate that the way things have been going here lately, I’d rather read from the original sources than trust what gets put online.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means, I am absolutely tired of talking in euphemisms. Ma’am. We both know what you’re asking. When Nola Brown’s body first arrived from Alaska, that body wasn’t Ms. Brown. And Clifford Eddy, Rose Mackenberg, and Amedeo Vacca…that’s not who they were either, were they? You knew that from the moment those fallen were packed in ice and sent here.”
Now Colonel Hsu was the one gripping her hands together, strangling her cell phone.
“Also, ma’am, when it comes to an ongoing investigation, you know I can’t talk about any of my findings.”
Hsu went to say something, stopped herself, then started again. “Francis, when people hear that this is my command, they assume I’m a serious person—that there’s no humor in death. But if I’ve learned anything at Dover, it’s that this place is filled with the absurd. Dead bodies fart. When you embalm someone, their penis engorges. Some things must be laughed at. But that accusing tone in your voice? There’s nothing funny about it, Francis. You hearing me on this? If you’ve altered a word in those reports, you’re breaking the law.”
“So you don’t have a problem with our medical examiner filing false reports? Was that your idea, or were those just orders from someone higher up the chain of command?”
“I told you, be careful with that tone, soldier.”
“Not a soldier. A Marine.”
Hsu rolled her eyes. “Francis, spare me the bluster. You should’ve never taken those reports before they were sent to my office!”
“Me? You’re the one now interfering with an active investiga—!”
There was a loud ring—Master Guns’s phone. He looked down at Caller ID. He knew the number. So did Colonel Hsu, who was glancing at it as well.
202-406 prefix. United States Secret Service.
“Why are they calling you?” Hsu asked.
Master Guns didn’t answer.
Riiiiiiing.
“Pick it up,” Hsu said.
He still didn’t touch it.
Riiiiiiing.
“Francis, pick that phone up now. That’s an order.”
Riiiii—
Hsu’s arm shot out like a cobra as she pounded the button for the speakerphone. “This is Colonel Agatha Hsu. Who’s this?”
“Terry O’Hara, Secret Service,” a strong, determined voice said through the speaker. “I’m looking for Sergeant Steranko.”
“The sergeant can hear you just fine. I’m his supervisor. How can we help you, Agent O’Hara?”
O’Hara paused, but not for long. “Ma’am, I’m not sure if you’re aware of the subject we’ve been tracking. We now believe that subject has breached security.”
“Breached it where?” Hsu asked.
“On base,” O’Hara replied. “We’ve got a full mobilization headed your way. After you activate surveillance and heightened security, we recommend you lock it down until we locate the target.”
“What’re you—? What target?”
“Horatio, ma’am. We believe Horatio’s now inside Dover.”
From opposite sides of the desk, Colonel Hsu and Master Guns looked up at each other, both of them confused.
Simultaneously, they asked, “Who’s Horatio?”
77
FBI Headquarters
Washington, DC
Amy Waggs was having one of those days. One of those years, actually, ever since she tweaked her back hurling down a zip line on that stupid singles cruise her sister Kim talked her into.
At thirty-eight years old, she should’ve known better than to listen to her sister. Or ride a zip line. All she had to show for it was a herniated disc, $4,500 in chiropractor bills, and a tall, adjustable-height desk that took the pressure off her spine but meant she was on her feet all day.
It was barely 6 a.m.—her favorite time of day, when the office was quiet, when the sky was dark—the best time to think. So here Waggs was, elbows on her adjustable-height desk, clicking through folder after folder, reading Dover report after Dover report, searching for the name Zig had told her this morning.
Horatio.
Three days ago, when Zig first called her to trace Nola’s fingerprints, Waggs was doing a simple favor. But somewhere along the way, this became more than just a courtesy for a friend. From the start, this case reeked. She knew it. Covert missions happened all the time. To protect national security, the CIA would regularly mask the names of Dover victims so that agents and sources weren’t revealed. But those c
ases had their own rhythm, their own pattern of governmental checks and clearances. Reports were written. Files were created.
None of that could be found here. And neither could any trace of Horatio, Waggs realized, running yet another search on Dover’s intranet.
Still nothing.
For a few moments, Waggs stood there, staring blankly at the only totem she kept on her desk: a Grateful Dead dancing bears soy candle from their reunion tour in Chicago a few years back. A present from her older sister. Growing up in rural Iowa, Waggs’s sister loved to color. Her brother used to love mazes. Waggs, though? She loved Connect the Dots. Such a simple treat. From one, to two, to three, to four—follow along and the bigger picture will emerge.
It was no different today.
To move a body in and out of Dover…was that hard to pull off? Not really. Leaning back and doing that stupid stretch the chiropractor gave her, Waggs could think of a dozen different ways. But. The one pattern that kept repeating? In every move across the chessboard, wherever Zig went, someone was always there first. When Zig went to check on Nola’s body in Departures, someone had already arranged to take it. When Zig went to Nola’s office, someone was already lying in wait. Wherever he moved, they always knew Zig was coming. Like someone tipped them off in advance.
For the next hour, Waggs ran the list of every Dover mortuary employee, checking it against the entrance records of every person who had gone in and out of Dover during the last few weeks. She checked flight manifests to see who landed there, then rechecked those same manifests to see who flew out. She even put in a request for phone records, specifically those of Colonel Hsu and Master Guns, just to be safe. Then she ran all those names, cross-checking to see who had ties to Zig, to Alaska, to Nola’s office at Fort Belvoir, to the Secret Service, even to the White House itself. And of course to that name. Horatio.
Despite all the dots, no pattern emerged. That is, until Waggs reached for the thick padded envelope that’d been sitting on the edge of her desk. There was no stamp in the corner. Hand-delivered, just like Waggs asked.
The bubble wrap popped as she tore open the envelope. Inside was a small black device made with mil-spec hardware. The Fang—the machine Zig used when he first scanned “Nola’s” fingerprints.
