Bailey chuckled. “Your skill set is more attuned? You planning to run for office, Agent Winter? Maybe filling out resumes? I get enough people talking in circles without you doing it too. I think what you mean is you like working the bigger cases. Especially the violent ones. With your history, I suppose that’s understandable.”
Jeremy grimaced. His history. Holly and Miranda and the nightmare of Afghanistan. The sins of the past, forgotten by most but remembered by the FBI. And himself. Funny. So few people knew the story, and the ones who did thought he was a hero. Still, he was a risk to the Bureau, what with the things he’d seen.
And done.
Was that why they had shipped him off? But why now? “Sir, I believe I’ve proved myself to be steady and reliable.”
“You have. I’m with you on this, but give it a little more time. Listen, I’m running late for a meeting. Let me know when the doctor is indicted. And give Agent Keeley my best.”
Jeremy hung up the phone. Agent Maggie Keeley. Was there anything Bailey didn’t know? Not likely. Best to stay buried in work, close some cases, and then revisit the possibility of transferring back … as soon as he checked one more thing.
He turned his focus back to the database of missing women and sorted by the available categories, desperate to find something that stood out. Nothing. A perfectly random sampling of American females. He sorted them by location and plotted each on an online map. A few of the women lived close to the National Forest, but as large as the park was, that could easily be the result of coincidence. He printed the list and circled the names of the three closest to the public land. As good a place to start as any.
He slid the file back into the desk drawer and made himself look away. Like a kid whose parents teased with a wrapped birthday present. Not today, honey. You can open it tomorrow. And no peeking.
He sighed and opened the case file for the prescription-peddling doctor. Get this done, and you can open your gift. Maybe.
Later.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The hockey game ended, and Jeremy switched off the TV, effectively casting his bedroom into darkness except for the flashing green light on his cell phone. After a quick check for any urgent emails, he replaced the phone on the nightstand. Fortunately, the game had been a blowout, with the Capitals winning easily. No adrenaline to keep him awake tonight.
He closed his eyes and slowed his breathing, trying to control the images and thoughts that flashed through his mind. Never worked. Bedtime was when he chased the rabbit trails. See where they led him. Replayed the past and pondered the future. One kept him awake at night. The other got him out of bed in the morning.
The buzzing and dinging of his phone jolted his heart, and he squeezed his eyes closed before blinking several times and picking up the device. He didn’t recognize the number, but he did know the area code. 202. Washington, D.C.
He cleared his throat to remove any sleepiness from his voice. “Agent Winter.”
“Good evening, Winter. Hope I didn’t wake you.”
Jeremy recognized the voice immediately, though, if you didn’t count the dreams, it’d been a dozen years since he’d last heard it in Afghanistan. He’d have been happy to never hear it again. “Colonel Cronfeld.”
“Good memory. Been a while.”
As if he could forget. “What can I do for you?”
“Son, it’s more like what I can do for you.”
Son? Cronfeld couldn’t have been more than fifty, barely older than Jeremy. “How’s that?”
“Let’s get together soon. Have a chat about old times.”
Absolutely the last thing Jeremy wanted to do. If he needed to talk to someone about Afghanistan, it wouldn’t be with Cronfeld. And the colonel knew that. What was going on?
Jeremy sat up and swung his feet to the floor. “Um, I’m not sure—”
“Heard you got transferred. Saint Louis, is it? White-collar investigations now? How’s that working out for you?”
And there it was. A not-so-subtle implication that he’d been responsible for Jeremy’s relocation. Which meant he could arrange to undo it as well. A retired Marine colonel didn’t have that kind of power, but his U.S. Senator wife did. But why?
Jeremy rubbed his forehead. “I go where I’m assigned.”
“Of course you do. We’re all just soldiers obeying orders. Trying to hold the world together, am I right?”
“I do what I have to do.”
“We all do, son. We all do. Now, as it turns out, I’ll be in Missouri in the next day or so. How about you and me get together? Dinner on me. Saint Louis has wonderful Italian restaurants. Pick one. I can be reached at this number.”
“If it’s all the same to—”
“I’m not asking. Tomorrow night. Nineteen thirty. If I need to, I can have Director Bailey arrange things for us.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ll make the reservations.”
“Good. Looking forward to it then. I’ll pick you up outside your apartment building. Great to talk to you again, son. Got a lot to catch up on.”
Cronfeld knew where he lived. He’d done some digging, but why? Jeremy fell back in the bed and switched on the TV. A west coast hockey game. Not a fan of either team, but that didn’t matter. The game was nothing more than background noise to his thoughts.
Colonel Ramsey Cronfeld was back. Why and for how long, Jeremy didn’t know. Not yet.
He reached over and grabbed his Glock 19 off the nightstand, then popped the magazine to confirm it was full. Fifteen rounds plus one in the pipe. Backup magazine in the drawer.
Old habits die hard.
Old memories? Even harder.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Mason opened the blinds of the kitchen’s bay window, allowing the early morning light to saturate the room. The pinkish-orange glow on the horizon highlighted a smattering of clouds, but that would change soon enough. Rain was coming his way. Best to get out and get the work done before the showers hit.
“Mornin’, babe.” Paula Miller dropped half a slab of bacon into the cast iron skillet and looked over her shoulder at her husband. The sizzling crescendoed, and she scooted the pieces around, letting the fat render and pop. “Get enough sleep? You tossed and turned all night.”
“Mornin’,” Mason said. He nuzzled his face into her hair and bit her earlobe. “I swear the smell of bacon could wake the dead.”
She giggled and swatted his hand. “Too early for that foolishness. Now go on before you make me burn breakfast.”
He kissed the back of her neck and took a seat at the yellow dinette table. Everything sat in its proper position. Half a glass of orange juice in front of the plate, a steaming cup of coffee next to it. The newspaper off to the right and opened to the sports page.
“The boys not up yet?” he asked.
“They’re stirring. I’ll make sure they’re ready in time for the school bus. A couple more weeks, and they’ll be out for the summer. Seems like this year’s flying by.” She flipped the bacon and stepped back from the stove. “They’ll be down here soon enough once they get a whiff of breakfast cooking.”
“True enough.” He took a sip of coffee, looked into the mug, and set it back on the table. “Got an email from the bank last night.”
She turned toward him. “Turn us down again?”
He grunted. “Yeah. They said we didn’t have enough collateral to cover a new loan, what with the other outstanding balances. Said they’d reconsider if I’d be willing to put at least some of the land up to secure the money. Not sure how we’re going to get the planter fixed before spring. I can probably rig it good enough to get the cotton in, and a bit of corn in the fall, but after that who knows. Could sell off the cattle, I guess. That’s how they do it, you know? They take it away piece by piece until there’s nothing left.”
“We’ll get by. We always do. October’s not that far off. We’ll bring in enough money on the pumpkins and corn maze to get everything fixed up. And if not, we’ll
find another way.”
“Got no choice, do we?”
“No, we don’t. Now, straighten up. I don’t want the kids to worry. You’ll fix things. You always do.” She pivoted back toward the stove, and he swatted her rear. She looked back over her shoulder, and he winked at her.
“You want your eggs scrambled?” she asked.
“Sounds great. Sprinkle a little cheese on there too.”
Lucas and Andy shuffled into the kitchen, dressed but looking like they’d been hanging out on the clothesline all night. The red creases on their faces pointed to hair that would need to be drenched before there’d be any hope of it laying down.
Mason chuckled at the pair. “You two look like you had a rough night. Might want to take a look in the mirror before you head off to school.”
Both boys grunted their responses and dragged themselves into chairs around the table. Paula brought the eggs, bacon, and biscuits and sat next to her husband. All bowed their heads and held hands while Mason recited grace. As soon as the “Amen” came, forks and knives went to work, clanking against bowls, jelly jars, and butter dishes.
“Supposed to get some rain the next few days,” Mason said. “I’ll have to hold off on putting out the cotton.”
Lucas grabbed his second biscuit and shoved a bite of bacon inside it. “Should be all right as long as you get it in by the end of the month, right Dad? Still got a couple of weeks.”
Mason reached over and mussed both boys’ hair. “I’ll make farmers out of you two yet. We’ll be fine. Plenty of time to get the seeds in the ground.”
Paula grinned, slathered butter on a biscuit, and placed it on her husband’s plate. “They’ve got a good teacher.”
Mason nodded. “Best way to learn is by doing it. My daddy showed me, and his daddy showed him. Supposed to be that way. Book learning is good, but until a man gets the feel of dirt, he can’t be a farmer.”
“Oh,” Paula said, “after a day in the fields, those two have the feel of dirt all right. The look and smell of it too.”
“Just boys being boys, Paula. Don’t figure I was much different back when we met, was I?”
“That’s the hard truth, right there. But I saw through the dirt to the man underneath.”
She leaned toward her husband, and he pecked her on the lips. The boys squirmed, poked each other, and scrunched their noses.
“What?” Mason said. “Don’t you two have girlfriends yet?”
“Eww,” five-year-old Andy said. “Girls are gross.”
“We are?” Paula said.
“You’re not a girl. You’re a mom. That’s different.”
Mason smiled. “I’m not so sure about that. Now listen up. I need you boys to take care of your mom this weekend. I’ve got some business to tend to out of town, and since it’s going to rain, it’ll be a good time to go.”
Paula licked her lips and poked at the scrambled eggs on her plate. “How long will you be gone?”
“No more than a couple of days probably. Monsanto’s running a seminar up in Cape Girardeau on some of their new weed control sprays. Thought I’d check into it.”
She took a deep breath and stared at her plate. “Want me to come keep you company? I’m sure I could get a sitter for the boys.”
Mason shook his head. “You’d be bored, honey. Heck, I’ll be bored, but I need to keep up on the latest stuff. I’ll be home as soon as I can. Promise.”
Paula nodded but kept her eyes focused on her food. “Sure. Maybe next time.”
“Count on it,” he said. “Now, somebody slide the strawberry jelly over this way. A man can’t get any work done on an empty belly. Isn’t that right, boys?”
Mumbled agreement filtered from food-packed mouths. Andy had apple butter smeared around his mouth, and Lucas reached for what had to be his fifth piece of bacon. Good, strong boys who’d grow into tough farmers. Had to be if they were going to survive everything this life would throw at them.
Weather. Banks. Uncle Sam. Crop prices. All conspiring against him, his family, and his land. They had to be a strong unit, banded together against all threats. Their home had to be a haven from outside forces. A fortress against anything that would dare come against them.
The pressure against them was building, wearing him down, shoving thoughts of giving up. They wouldn’t win. Not this time. Not ever.
All he needed was to reset and get a fresh outlook. Clean himself of the doubts and the burdens and remember what it was to enjoy life.
He licked his lips.
Time to go hunting.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Mason tossed the collection of herbicide pamphlets, business cards, and freebies into the cracked vinyl passenger seat of his pickup. The new weed killer might be a good thing, but only corporations would be able to afford it. Family farms like his were out of luck.
That’s why most of the friends he’d grown up with had sold their farms and moved on. They all said they wanted stability. They got tired of the randomness of the weather and the seed and the pests and the buyers. They were sick of making a fortune one year and losing everything the next, of spending hundreds of thousands of dollars for a single piece of equipment. Times changed, they said, and the smart ones changed with them. They recognized that farming’s a business, just like the auto parts store or the Dollar General. Once you understood that, life got simpler and you got stability.
Mason spit out the window and ran the back of his hand along his bottom lip. Forty-plus years he’d been farming. Wasn’t even five yet when his daddy showed him how to plant a vegetable garden. Didn’t have all the education and science they had nowadays, but got it done. Had to. Wasn’t any choice.
He pulled the wire-rimmed glasses from his face and cleaned them with his checkered flannel shirt. Stability. If that’s what you want, go work at the frozen food factory in town. Sell off your heritage. Either the farming’s in your blood or it’s not.
Dad taught him to deal with the stress. The pressure’s got to get out one way or another, and if you direct it at your family, things only got worse. Find your outlet and don’t be shy about using it.
Dad was a whittler. When things got bad, he’d sit on the porch, part of a thick oak branch in one hand, his old Buck knife in the other. He’d sit out there for hours, shaving that wood down to nothing. No fancy designs or little animals. Just keep going until it’s gone. Then he’d go to the barn and sharpen the knife, stick it in his pocket, and get back to work.
You knew not to bother Dad on those days. Let him whittle the worries and anger and stress out of his system so he could focus on farming. He’d passed the knife on to Mason, its woodgrain handle worn to a yellowish tan from years of use. Just as sharp as ever, though. Only one problem.
Mason hated whittling.
.......
The first was almost six years ago. Mason had just turned forty, and it was a rough season at the farm. Low yields on the soybeans. The old combine harvester had finally died, and he’d needed to finagle a new one before the winter wheat came in. Money was trickling in and pouring out. Paula even picked up some part-time work as a substitute teacher, but by the time they paid the babysitter to watch Lucas, it was hardly worth it. Just as well. Made him look bad that his wife had to work. A man ought to be able to support his family, and it wasn’t happening.
He’d gone hunting to improve both his mood and his food supply. A decent whitetail deer, a hundred seventy pounds or thereabouts, would mean they might make it through the winter without having to butcher one of the cows. They had enough vegetables stored in the chest freezer to last four or five months. As long as they scavenged enough to make at least token payments on their loans, they’d survive until spring. Of course, that’d bring a new set of problems, beginning with convincing someone to lend them money to buy seed.
Duane Forsberg was almost an accident—almost. It takes a special kind of idiot to go hiking through Chickasaw Wildlife Refuge during deer hunting season, especially without
wearing bright orange. So what if the zone he was in was posted? Hunters hunt. They go where the prey is. And that morning, the quarry was where Duane Forsberg shouldn’t have been.
There are two kinds of hunters. Those that hunt to provide food for family and neighbors, and those that shouldn’t be hunting. If it moved, it was fair game whether deer, duck, coon, or squirrel. Nothing topped the thrill of deer hunting, though.
You beat the sun out of bed by hours, donned camos buttoned tight against the cold, and grabbed the Thermos of strong coffee with extra sugar as you eased the back door closed so you wouldn’t wake the family. The only other vehicles on the road were likely also hunters, and he always nodded and raised a finger off the steering wheel in greeting. Even though it was dark, he was confident the other drivers returned the gesture.
That morning, he’d tracked alone. A neighbor had offered to join him, but Mason wanted the quiet. He crept through the dark woods, bathed in the pine scent that flowed like streams, and listened to the trees and animals as they whispered and stretched their way to a new day.
He’d stalked the deer for almost an hour and was finally in position. The rush of zeroing in on his target, sixty yards away across a grassy clearing, filled him as everything else faded away. There was just enough light to watch the twelve-point buck as the animal moved along the tree line, grazing and alert for any danger.
Mason’s finger rested on the trigger of his old bolt-action Remington 700, given to him on his third birthday by his granddad. Uncountable whitetails had fallen victim to its accuracy, and one more was about to join the club. Perfect setup. And then ... gone. The deer jumped into the woods, spooked by something.
Meat taken from the mouths of his family.
He pivoted the rifle to the right and peered through the scope, seeking the culprit. There. A hiker. There must be a trail back in the woods. Couldn’t get a good look, what with all the trees. He swung the weapon to the left and focused on a small opening in a group of pines. At the pace the backpacker moved, he should be there in fifteen seconds or so.
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