The dermestid beetles had done their job with utmost efficiency. They’d eaten Blue Shirt’s left leg down to a near spotless femur, tibia, and whatever the other leg bone was named. He’d have to sift through the debris to recover all the toe bones. This beetle colony seemed to still be going strong, but a bit of new blood never hurt.
He dragged another tub next to the first and prepped it by adding shredded newspaper and chunks of Styrofoam. He emptied the box of not-really-praying-mantises into the tub and retrieved the right leg from the freezer. Blue Shirt was shorter than average. Such a considerate man. The beetles would make short work of the appendage.
He used a knife to cut a small piece of the flesh, more like jerky now, and placed it in a corner of the original plastic bin to attract any live insects. Give it an hour and he’d scoop them into the tub with the newest residents. Then he could clean the container and get it ready for the next project. Probably the torso. A quick cut along the sternum and it would be an easy fit. Granddad’s old handsaw would make fast work of the job. Of all the tools he’d tried, nothing cut thick bone as good.
Sometimes he’d watch the beetles swarm over the flesh and do their work, but not often. The process was slow, not like those piranhas in the movies. He chuckled. Maybe he should stick an aquarium down here and throw some of those fish into it just to see if they really did work that fast.
After replacing the lids on each tub, he moved over to the workbench and clicked on the desk lamp. A paint-splattered wooden stool, handmade by his grandfather, served as his seat. He reached over the assortment of bones and turned the knob on a decades-old AM/FM radio. Low static crackled through the tinny speaker, accentuated with random bits of chatter from the talk station that managed to find its way to his hiding spot. So much history in this barn.
Wiring the phalanges together was like working a puzzle. Deciding which finger bone went where. Laying it all out so he could evaluate his work before finalizing it. Switching this bone for that one. Comparing it to the pictures he’d downloaded off the Internet. He was no archaeologist and doubtless some of the hands he’d done were a little off. No problem though. It’s not like anyone would ever notice.
The hands were his. Intimate. Fragile. Kept stored away for those days when there was no time to hunt but he needed to feel ... better. Hold the reconstructed bones against his own hand. Compare the sizes.
An hour and a half later, he stood and stretched, arching his back to chase the dull ache away. Granddad’s stool could use a cushion. He checked the tubs and, sure enough, the original beetle colony had already converged on the small piece of flesh. He used a plastic cup to scoop them into the other container with an ampler food supply. In a couple of days, that leg would be picked clean, and the tub would be full of happy, bloated insects. Such a blessing to enjoy your work.
He retrieved the cleaned left leg bones and placed them in the freezer with the others. In a week and a half, maybe less depending on how hungry the beetles were, Blue Shirt should be finished. Then he could—
A shuffling sound on the floor above froze him in place. He’d forgotten to lock the barn door. Stupid. He held his breath and pressed a palm over his racing heart.
“Mason?”
Paula.
“What’s going on down there?”
He glanced at the tubs. “Just doing a little cleaning.”
“Need any help?”
“Um, no thanks. About done. I’m heading up there now.” He moved toward the ladder.
“Nonsense. I’ve seen your definition of cleaning.” A second later, her legs appeared on the top rung, and his wife began her descent.
Mason stared at the newly formed hands on the workbench. Works of art for his family and farm. Sacrifices made to hold it all together.
Paula finished her descent and turned toward him, her hands planted firmly on her hips while she recovered her breath. She scanned the room slowly, stopping when she saw the bones. Her mouth hung open, her eyebrows furrowed. “Mason? What ...”
“Oh, Paula.” He stretched his fingers—phalanges—and moved toward her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“Hey, sweetie,” Jeremy said. “Why don’t you go draw me a picture in your room? Surprise me with something really big?”
Rebecca squished her jaw to the side. “Like what?”
“Well, if I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise, now would it?”
“Elephants are big. So are giraffes and gorillas and whales and—”
“Pick one,” Maggie said. “Or draw them all. You choose.”
The girl scampered down the hall toward her room and hollered back over her shoulder. “Don’t come in here till I’m done.”
“We won’t,” Jeremy said. “Do a good job on it. I need a picture I can show off to everybody at my work.”
Maggie sat across from him on the living room sofa, hands clasped in her lap. “Now, what’s going on? Is everything okay?”
He forced himself to maintain eye contact. “Um, yeah. I think so. I needed to talk to you. Let you know what’s going on.”
Her eyes moistened, and she sniffed and hunched forward. “What’s happened?”
Best to just come out and say it. “Maggie, I’m quitting the Bureau.”
Her eyes narrowed, and she started to speak but paused and pouted her lips. “Wait. What?”
He sighed and rested his elbows on his knees. “I haven’t told anyone yet. Just you.”
Maggie leaned back and crossed her arms. “Well, on one hand I’m relieved. I thought ... I was afraid this might be about us. On the other hand, I’m confused.”
“Twenty-two, almost twenty-three years with the Bureau now. I suppose the politics finally caught up to me. Read this.” He handed her the unsigned confidentiality agreement.
She read the letter twice, then exhaled loudly and scrunched her eyes. “What’s this about? Why are they so worried?”
He glanced at the ceiling and exhaled. “Things happened in Afghanistan, Maggie. Things that maybe shouldn’t have happened. And now, some, uh, important people are concerned the information I have might come out. And that would not be good for anyone involved. Some more than others.”
“Including you?”
“Yeah, I suppose so.”
“What happens if you sign this?”
He ran a hand down his leg, squeezing and massaging. “Not sure. They implied things will go back to normal.”
“Normal?”
“Transferred back to D.C. and freedom to work on my cases.”
“That doesn’t sound bad, does it? And if you don’t sign?”
“I hear Alaska’s nice this time of year.”
She patted the sofa and waited until Jeremy moved next to her. “How much time do you have before giving an answer?”
“Not enough. Bailey’s already backing away from me.”
“You’re less than three years away from getting your full retirement benefits. You willing to give that up?”
He shook his head. “Willing? No. I don’t have a choice, though. Maggie, if I sign that paper, I give away any power I have. They’ll own me, and there’s no guarantee they won’t still ship me off somewhere. If I walk away from the Bureau, at least I’ll have control over something I know they want. My silence.”
She ran both hands through her shoulder-length hair. “Is this coming from Bailey?”
“No. Far over him. Colonel Ramsey Cronfeld.”
“Cronfeld? Diane Morgans’ husband? What’s he got to do with you?”
“He was the C.O. of the base I was assigned to in Afghanistan. Haven’t heard from him since I left there, so I’m guessing this is all about his wife. It seems our shared history may be a threat to the senator.”
“A threat? How? And why now?”
“Not sure why now. Maybe she’s planning a move up to Pennsylvania Avenue. Certainly has the backing to at least make a run for it. And having a decorated veteran like Cronfeld at her side won’t hurt unless ...”
“Unless certain things from the past come to light.”
He traced the back of a finger along the side of her face and nodded. “There’s more, Maggie. Your name came up.”
She leaned away and stared at him. “My name? Why?”
“Don’t know for sure, but I’m guessing it’s to put more pressure on me to sign. Imply the Bureau might transfer you somewhere else too.”
Her hands fidgeted in her lap. “They can’t do that. They wouldn’t. I can’t move from Virginia, not with the custody agreement.”
He placed his hand on hers. “I know that. I won’t let it happen. If I quit, it puts them on the defensive.”
She narrowed her eyes. “How? They could still threaten me to get to you unless ... unless we stop seeing each other. Is that what this is about?”
“What? No. Maggie, the thought never crossed my mind.”
“Then what’s to keep Cronfeld or his wife from pulling some strings and messing with my job?”
“I’m going to tell him I’ll go public if I ever get the slightest hint you’re being manipulated. He doesn’t want the story out there? Well, I’ll make it front page news across the country.”
She frowned. “That could be dangerous. Powerful people don’t like to be threatened.”
“I’m not naive. Cronfeld will understand. I’ve kept my mouth shut this long, and I’ll keep it closed unless he backs me into a corner.”
“There are ways to guarantee someone doesn’t talk. Thought about that?”
“He’s not stupid, Maggie. But just in case, I’ll let him know there’s a backup plan that’ll kick in if anything suspicious happens to me or you.”
“And is there?”
He grinned and draped his arm over her shoulder. “Hey, I’m making this up as I go, but there will be. Besides, he won’t know one way or the other. The threat is what counts.”
She sighed and her shoulders dropped slightly. “This is so sudden, that’s all. I mean, what would you do for a living?”
“Yeah, I guess it seems like everything’s happening fast, but it’s really not. I always expected that, sooner or later, my past was going to catch up with me, and now it has. The only thing I regret is not telling you everything sooner. Got a hundred excuses why the time was never right, but it doesn’t matter. I owed it to you. Maybe Cronfeld’s doing me a favor by forcing me to get all this out in the open. And the future? I’ve got a bit of money saved up that will tide me over for a while. And I can move anywhere I want.”
Her lips turned up at the corners. “Anywhere? Let me help you out here. From now on, open with the good news. It’ll make the rest of the conversation go so much better.”
Jeremy didn’t return her smile. “Maggie, even with all I’ve said, if you tell me not to quit, I won’t. This can’t be something that divides us.”
She arched her eyebrows and shook her head. “I could never do that. You know that, right?”
“So we’re good?”
She tapped a finger on her bottom lip and grinned. “Good? I don’t know. Tell me more about moving anywhere you want.”
He took a deep breath and nodded toward his left leg. “Can do. But first, you need to hear it all. I’ll be honest. The Bureau’s been my life for as long as I can remember. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little worried, but that’s not what scares me.”
Maggie’s smile faded. “I told you. I know what I feel, and you’re not going to change that. Today, tomorrow, next year, whenever. You’ll tell me about Afghanistan when you’re ready.”
He cleared his throat, slowed his breathing, grabbed her hands, and feigned confidence into his voice. “It was hell, Maggie.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Jeremy looked at his watch. Thirty-seven hours. That’s how long it’d been since the Bureau told him to get to Quli Khish, Afghanistan. Handed him a file folder and told him there’d be suspects ready for him to interrogate when he got there. No questions. No limits. Just go. And lose the suit.
“You the guy?” the colonel asked. The man standing in front of Jeremy was far from the tough Marine stereotype. Somewhat thinnish, high- pitched voice, wire-rimmed glasses, and patches of stubble in random locations on his sunburned face. Not what Jeremy expected, but in the five months since 9/11, what was?
Operation Enduring Freedom progressed per plan, which wasn’t difficult when the blueprint changed daily. Firefights spread across half the country as U.S. forces hunted for the face of Al-Qaeda. A few weeks ago, most Americans had never heard of the Taliban or Osama bin Laden. Now they lined up to kill anyone in a turban. Soon, the terrorists would collapse back into whatever hole they crawled from, and everybody could go home. Lesson learned on both sides.
“I’m the guy.” He extended his hand. “FBI Agent Jeremy Winter.”
“Colonel Ramsey Cronfeld. Welcome to Afghanistan.” He gave Jeremy a once-over before continuing. “We usually get CIA.”
“Yes, sir. As you can imagine, things are a bit of a mess right now. CIA’s got their hands full. The rules are in flux since the attacks. Threats to national security fall under our purview, and right now that covers a broad spectrum. Plus, it’s not too much of a stretch to make the case that an American soldier getting grabbed by the Taliban constitutes kidnapping under U.S. law. Although I don’t think anyone’s too concerned about making those kinds of arguments these days.”
The colonel spat on the dirt floor of the mud brick home that served as his headquarters. The hut smelled of dirt, cigarette smoke, and machine oil. “Marine. Not soldier. That’s one of my men they took. I want him back, whatever it takes. Are we clear?”
Jeremy swatted at a fly and tried to quell the internal argument of which he needed more: sleep or food. “Of course. I’ll do what I can, sir. Interrogating is as much an art as it is science. Sometimes no matter what you do, you end up with nothing helpful. But I know what’s at stake here. I want that sol—Marine back as much as you do.”
Colonel Cronfeld moved closer to Jeremy and squinted, staring directly into his eyes. The officer’s head tilted left, then right. After a moment, he spat again. “I seriously doubt that. And as far as you doing your best goes, five months ago these terrorists killed thousands of American citizens. I intend to return the favor several times over. Be my pleasure to rid the world of these vermin. So, son, if your best doesn’t get me the information I need, then it ain’t worth—”
“Sir, I understand.”
“Do you now? We’re eighty-five miles from Kabul, as if that matters. Every inch of this loathsome country’s behind enemy lines. My men need to believe that if anything happens to them, I’m not going to rest until I get them home, one way or another. And I won’t stop, Agent Winter. No matter what I have to do, I won’t abandon my men.” The colonel leaned in until his face was inches away. “No matter what I have to do.”
Jeremy held his shoulders steady as a shudder trickled down his spine. “I’m not the enemy here, Colonel Cronfeld. I’m on your side. Anything I can legally do to help locate your missing man, I will.”
The officer straightened and moved to a makeshift desk consisting of two wood planks spanning stacks of olive green crates, each stenciled in white with its contents. Stacked bags of rice served as his seat. “Do you know what bothers me about that statement?”
“Sir?”
“Legally. You said ‘legally.’ Look around you. We’re at war. The United States of America doesn’t have time for your stipulations. Was it legal when they crashed those planes into the towers? Killed those people at the Pentagon? Our enemy doesn’t care about laws, Agent Winter. Murdering Americans. Civilians on top of that. They’ll pay deeply for their mistake, no matter what I have to do. You keep those laws in your pocket and pull them out again when you get home.”
Jeremy cleared his throat. “We’re not them.”
“Thank God for that because when we’re through with those—”
A Marine entered the building, his rifle i
n one hand and a bottled water in the other. His boots and camouflage pants radiated clouds of dust with each step, and his solid green T-shirt had dark patches of sweat under each arm. He took a drink and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Four more, sir. We put ’em with the others.”
The colonel nodded. “Good work, Sanders. This gentleman was just telling me about his expertise in interrogating POWs. I expect we’ll have a rescue mission underway soon enough. Isn’t that right, Agent Winter?”
Jeremy glanced between the two men without responding.
“That’ll be all, Sanders,” the colonel said. He waited until the Marine was out of earshot. “Do what you have to do to save an American life.”
Jeremy swallowed hard. “Sir, there comes a point in an interrogation where you can’t be sure whether the information you’re getting is reliable or not. Bad info is worse than no info.”
“Agreed. That’s why we need corroboration.” He motioned out the door. “I’ve got nine suspected Taliban out there. You’ll get a shot at each of them. Put enough pressure on them, they’ll crack. I figure if we get two or three to tell us the same story, that’s good enough.”
“It’ll take time. I need to build their trust and—”
The colonel jumped up, sending the desk tumbling to the ground. “Time? What do you think the Taliban’s doing to my boy right now? We don’t have time, Winter. I don’t know what fancy tactics they taught you back at Quantico, but this isn’t the States. Rules don’t apply. You do whatever it takes to get what I need, and you do it fast.”
“Sir, you said these men were suspected of being Taliban. You don’t know for sure?”
Colonel Cronfeld crossed his arms. “And how would you propose I verify that? Last time I checked, the Taliban wasn’t issuing ID cards.”
Jeremy licked his lips. “Just to be clear, sir, you’re telling me some of the men I’ll be interrogating, maybe all of them, will be civilians?”
Coming of Winter Page 11
