The old tobacco barn had been unused for an even longer time than the house. Like others of its type, however, it had been tightly constructed to hold in the heat generated by brick furnaces during the four to five-day process of curing freshly harvested tobacco. Even after farmers had all switched to the blocky metal bulk barns, the old structures still dotted the landscape, too sturdy to fall of their own accord and too much trouble to pull down.
Sanders ducked his head slightly to avoid the rusting tin roof of the gallery that wrapped around the old building like a hoopskirt. He entered the barn, stopping to give his eyes time to get accustomed to the dim light. A bulky shape beneath a bright blue tarp dominated the interior. He pulled the tarp aside.
The vehicle beneath the tarp was a 1985 Ford LTD. It looked undistinguished on the outside. Sanders had repainted it to remove the Florida Highway Patrol markings and removed the light bar from the roof. Under the hood, however, was the same police package—5.0-liter V-8 engine, stiffened suspension, enhanced cooling system—that it had used in its younger days.
Sanders popped the trunk. He reached in and took out a pair of large canvas bags with cloth handles. He placed the duffel bag in the trunk where the canvas bags had been, then carried the bags back to the house. He set them down next to the single whitepainted rocker and wiped his brow. He went inside and got a bottle of Corona out of the fridge, rubbing it against his sweaty brow as he came back out. He sat down in the rocker and pulled one of the bags to him. A flap on the front of the bag opened to reveal two side-by-side compartments. Sanders reached into the righthand one first and checked its contents: a roll of insulating tape, a roll of wire, a small plastic device that looked like a pistol grip and trigger with no gun attached. He reached into the left-hand compartment. It contained only one object: a rectangle of smooth, molded green plastic, slightly curved, with a complex set of indentations and protrusions along one side. Sanders repeated the process with the other bag, satisfying himself that all the necessary components were there. He had done so before, and he knew that no one had disturbed his packages since. But he would no more have skipped the checklist than he would have ignored the warning embossed on the front of each of the green rectangles: FRONT TOWARD ENEMY.
Sanders closed the bags and took a sip of his beer, looking down the long slope toward the trees that hid the farm from the road. He wondered if he was being overly paranoid. He wondered if, in his situation, “overly paranoid” was a term that had any meaning. He decided that he would take the two mines into the house, but he wouldn’t take them out of the bags and set them up. Yet.
BUCKTHORN RUBBED his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. The two boys were hiding something, he knew it—but how the hell was he supposed to interrogate a couple of traumatized kids? The parents hadn’t let him talk to them alone for a moment, and they steadfastly refused to bring them back to the sheriff ’s department for questioning. They had retained a lawyer to back them up. He couldn’t blame them, he supposed, but sitting on the designer couch in their expensive North Raleigh home, Buckthorn was the one out of his natural element, and it was making him cranky.
“Okay,” he said, “let’s go over this again.”
“I’m sorry, Deputy,” the lawyer said smoothly, from where he sat perched on the edge of the couch between Buckthorn and Evan Powell, “but I don’t see where this is getting us. These boys have already told the FBI everything they know.”
“We still haven’t gotten anything on the guy that shot their kidnapper.” They had run the prints and discovered that the dead abductor was one Crandall Biggs, a lowlife with a series of sex offenses on his record. They hadn’t turned up anything about known associates. Buckthorn was beginning to lose faith in the FBI’s pet theory that Biggs had been shot by an accomplice angry over how the spoils of their crime—the two Powell boys—were divided.
“Mr. Mullens.” Buckthorn addressed the lawyer. “I appreciate that your clients have been over this before. I’m just hoping maybe one of the boys will come up with some detail that might mean something to me. I grew up in the area. Lived there all my life, except for my time in the service.” He looked at Evan, who was staring down at his own feet. “Evan,” he tried again, “did the other guy that was with Biggs . . . with the guy that took you—”
“They weren’t together,” the boy said. “I don’t know who the other guy was.”
“I know they scared you. But if you help us catch the other guy, I can promise you we won’t let him hurt you. Or anyone else, ever again.”
“I told you.” Evan’s voice broke as if he was about to cry. “I never saw the other guy before he came through the door and started shooting.”
“I know what you said, Evan.” Buckthorn kept his voice level. “But you can see how it doesn’t make much sense that a total stranger would come through the door, shoot this guy dead, then disappear without a trace.”
“I’m not lying!” Evan said. Now he was crying. His mother came rushing in and gathered him into her arms. She looked at Buckthorn as if he were the child molester.
Mullen stood up. “That’s enough, Deputy,” he said. Buckthorn stood up as well. “Counselor—”
“You can see yourself out,” the lawyer said.
Buckthorn gritted his teeth. The dentist had warned him against the habit, telling him he’d started to develop a webwork of hairline cracks in his enamel that was going to cost him thousands in dental work someday. He turned and walked out. On the way to his car, he flipped his cell open and hit a number on the speed dial. After a couple of rings, a voice answered. “Blauner.”
“It’s Tim Buckthorn.”
“Let me guess,” the FBI man said, “you got nothing.”
A headache was forming at Buckthorn’s temples. “Right.” “I hate to say I told you so—”
“Then don’t,” Buckthorn snapped.
“Okay,” Blauner said equably. “We’ve got another request for you, anyway.”
Buckthorn had climbed behind the wheel of his cruiser. “What?”
“We’ve been going to the stores in the area, trying to get any surveillance videos they have. We’re trying to see if our Mr. Biggs might have showed up in one of the local places to get gas or supplies.”
“Okay,” Buckthorn said. “What does that have to do—”
“One of them, a guy who owns a convenience store, won’t cooperate. He won’t give us the tape.”
“Let me guess,” Buckthorn said. “Jeff Slocum.” “You know him,” Blauner said.
“I know everybody. And I’m not surprised. Jeff still thinks you guys shot JFK.”
“It was before my time,” Blauner said, “but I’m pretty sure that was the CIA.”
“Yeah, well, Jeff doesn’t see that much difference.”
“Anyway,” Blauner said, “we could get a court order, but we figured he might cooperate better with one of the locals.”
“Okay,” Buckthorn said. “I’m headed back. I’ll stop by on the way.”
“Thanks, Deputy,” Blauner said.
Buckthorn sighed as he shut the cell phone. No, the lovers’ quarrel theory, as he privately called it, was looking more and more like a dead end. As for a theory of his own, he didn’t have squat. He was reduced to running errands for the FBI boys. He didn’t like it, but it seemed to be the only way he could make himself useful. He had to stop himself from grinding his teeth again as he started the car.
“HOW can you eat those things?” Gaby asked.
Howard grinned as he fished another Vienna sausage out of the can. Gaby nearly gagged at the sight of the gelatinous goo that still clung to the pale pink cylinder.
The NewsNow van was parked on the far side of the parking lot, away from the convenience store where they’d bought their improvised lunch. Gaby was seated in the open side door of the van. Howard leaned against the passenger side door. He popped the sausage into his mouth with exaggerated relish. “Mmmmmm,” he murmured. “Delicious and nutritious
.” He took a long drink from his can of RC Cola.
Gaby made a retching noise, then took a bite of her peanut butter cracker. “You know what goes into those, right?”
“Nope. Don’t want to, either.” He tossed the empty can into a nearby metal trash bin. “So what next?”
Gaby finished the last cracker and tossed the empty wrapper into the bin. “I don’t know. The FBI guys have clammed up. The family won’t let us near the boys.” She rubbed her eyes. “Maybe that deputy again?”
Howard shrugged. “You’re the boss.”
“Okay,” Gaby said. She looked up at Howard. “So how bad is it?”
His face was expressionless. “Not sure what you mean,” he said. “You know what I mean, Howard,” she said. “Just how pissed off is Brian?”
Howard gave her a thin smile. “Well, for a few minutes there, it was lookin’ like our star reporter was going to have that brain aneurysm the production staff has been hoping and praying for. But he settled for pitching his standard hissy fit.”
She sighed. “He can make it hard for me, you know.”
“Girl,” Howard said, “you got this story fair and square. Michael knows that. That’s why he gave it to you. If Brian gives you any shit, Mike’s a good enough news director to back you up. Have a little faith.” He looked across the parking lot. “Huh,” he said. “Looks like we don’t have to chase that deputy down.”
Gaby followed his gaze. A sheriff ’s car had pulled up at the doorway of the store. She recognized the deputy getting out as the Lieutenant Buckthorn she had met the day before.
“See what I mean?” Howard said. “Have a little faith and the Lord will provide.” They saw Buckthorn enter the store. “Now that,” Howard says, “is not the walk of a cop who’s just here for the doughnuts.” He reached inside the van and grabbed his camera.
“Let’s set up and wait outside,” Gaby said. “You got it.”
After a few minutes, Buckthorn came out. He was holding a small black object in one hand. As they walked toward him, Gaby saw it was a videocassette. “Lieutenant Buckthorn,” she called. He stopped for a second. The look that crossed his face was anything but welcoming.
“Gabriella Torrijos, NewsNow,” she began as she pulled up to a stop, Howard behind her in position with the camera running.
“No comment,” Buckthorn mumbled. He began walking toward his car.
“Lieutenant, I see you’re coming out of the Stop-N-Go Mart with what looks like a videotape. Does that videotape contain a lead in the investigation surrounding the kidnapping of Evan and Earl Powell?”
He had reached the door to his cruiser. “No comment,” he said more strongly. He opened the door and tossed the tape onto the seat. Howard swung the camera to get a shot of it through the car window.
“Does that tape contain an image of the kidnapper?” she persisted. Buckthorn didn’t answer. She stepped back as he started the car.
Gaby lowered the mike as he drove out of sight. “Well, hell,” she said.
“Wonder what’s on the tape?” Howard said. “You and me both,” she replied.
BUCKTHORN deliberately relaxed his jaw, willing himself not to grind his teeth as he drove away. With everything else going on, he really didn’t need the stress of having to duck the girl reporter who seemed to be dogging his steps. He took a deep breath and tried to relax.
HIS encounter with Blauner, however, did nothing to improve his mood. The FBI man was cordial as he took the tape from him, but when Buckthorn offered his assistance in identifying anyone local who might be on the tape, Blauner’s condescending smile had set his teeth to grinding again. “We’ll let you know if we need you, Deputy,” Blauner said, then turned around and walked back into the tiny offices they’d “borrowed” from a pair of disgruntled detectives. The dismissal was unmistakable.
Buckthorn stood there for a few minutes, fuming silently, before taking a deep breath and walking back to his own office. I’m behind on the paperwork anyway, he thought. His position as chief deputy saddled him with far more administrative crap than he liked, and it was constantly piling up until guilt drove him into a desk-clearing frenzy of work that had driven veteran secretaries to the point of mutiny. Janine, the secretary in the front office, was in the middle of informing him in no uncertain terms that the fact that he’d allowed his work to pile up didn’t obligate her to work through lunch when there was a knock at the door.
“Yes?” Buckthorn managed—barely—to keep it from turning into a snarl.
Blauner opened the door. There was a strange expression on his face, as if he had seen something he didn’t quite understand. “Lieutenant,” he said, with more deference than he’d shown so far, “can you come take a look at something for a second?”
Buckthorn got up and followed the agent down the hall. Inside the cramped office, a playback unit had been set up on a folding table, with a small black-and-white monitor beside it. An image had been frozen on the screen: a short, stocky, bearded man standing at the counter of the Stop-N-Go, a canned drink in one hand. He was dressed in a leather jacket and jeans.
Blauner’s partner, Ross, was seated a few feet away, talking in a low voice on a cell phone. “Yeah,” Buckthorn heard him say. “I’ll hold.”
“Do you know this man?” Blauner asked, his voice curiously expressionless.
Buckthorn leaned forward and squinted at the screen. “Looks like that Sanders guy. The one who rents the old Jacobs place.” He straightened up. Blauner and Ross were looking at each other. “What?” Buckthorn said.
It was Blauner who replied. “How long has this Mr. Sanders lived there?”
Buckthorn felt a strange feeling crawling up the back of his neck. “About four years. Why? Is he on some list?” They didn’t answer. “Look,” Buckthorn said, “if this guy’s any kind of threat, in my county, I need to know about it.”
Blauner continued to stare at the screen. Ross spoke into the phone. “Right. Wolf. SAC Kendra Wolf.”
The name seemed to snap Blauner out of his reverie. “Thanks, Lieutenant,” he said, “we’ll call you again if we—”
“Like hell!” Buckthorn exploded. “Listen, goddammit, you can’t pull me in here, show me a picture of someone who lives here, look at him like he’s just stepped off a goddamn alien spaceship, then march me out the door. I want to know what the hell’s going on!”
Ross spoke again into the phone. “Yes, ma’am, he’s right here.” He handed the phone to Blauner. Blauner took it and motioned with his eyes toward Buckthorn.
“Lieutenant,” Ross said, “if you’ll just step out with me—” “Fuck you,” Buckthorn said calmly.
Ross sighed. “I can explain some things to you right now. Outside. But before I can give you the whole story, my partner has to clear some things with some people. And he can’t do that with you in the room.” He opened the office door. “Please, Lieutenant,” he said.
Reluctantly, Buckthorn followed him out. Blauner began talking in a low voice before he’d even cleared the doorway.
“Just tell me,” Buckthorn demanded as the door closed. “Is this guy some sort of terrorist? Is he going to blow up the bank or something?”
“No, sir,” Ross said. “It’s nothing like that.” He looked around as if searching for prying ears. “If it’s the man we think he is,” he said, “he’s one of ours.”
“Excuse me?” Buckthorn said. “He’s FBI? So what’s the problem?”
“The problem is,” Ross said, “the last time I saw that man’s picture, it was on the memorial wall at the Hoover Building.” He looked back at the door to the office. Buckthorn could barely hear Blauner’s voice through the door.
“That man,” said Ross, “that guy who calls himself Sanders, was killed in the line of duty four years ago.”
“THANK you, Agent Blauner. I’ll get back to you.”
Special Agent in Charge Kendra Wolf stared at the office wall as she hung up the phone. It was the standard “glory wall,” covered wit
h awards, accolades, and photographs of Kendra with various dignitaries. She saw none of them.
He’s alive.
Emotions roiled through her, each one fighting for primacy: shock, relief, bewilderment, anger.
He’s alive.
So what do we do about it?
The “we” shocked her mind back into analytical mode. It was comforting. It felt safer to treat this as another problem to be solved. She’d deal with the other emotions later.
There was a knock at the door. Without waiting for her answer, Agent Brett Harper stuck his head in. “Hey, beautiful,” he said. “I talked to my friend at the wine store. He’s holding us a bottle of Duckhorn Estate Cabernet. The 2002. I figured for our six-month anniversary—” He stopped. “Hey,” he said as he saw the look on her face. He came the rest of the way into the room. “What’s wrong?”
She looked at him and hesitated. But she knew she owed him the truth.
“It’s Tony,” she said. “An agent working a case in North Carolina saw his picture on a surveillance camera from some country convenience store.”
With detached amusement, she saw the same mix of emotions that she had felt flash across his face. Well, maybe not relief, she thought. Poor Brett. He never was able to keep a poker face.
“So . . .” he said. “What does that mean?”
“First off,” she said, “we . . . I . . . need to call the deputy director. This is a decision above my pay grade.” He started to say something, but she silenced him with a raised hand. “I know what you really meant,” she said softly. “And the answer to that question is . . . I don’t know.”
“I guess that means our anniversary dinner is off,” he said. He was trying to look calm and failing.
“I think I’m going to be working late,” she said. “All of us are.” He nodded. Without another word, he turned and left the room.
Breaking Cover (Tony Wolf/Tim Buckthorn) Page 4
