Despite taking his time, he reached the turnoff to the clearing only fifteen minutes after the dispatcher's call had come through. The unpaved access track stretched out ahead of him. The clearing, he recalled, was about a quarter mile away. The forest crowded in on either side.
He was tempted to drive on down the track, but he decided to think this one through. If someone had been pushed into a helicopter in the clearing, they had to have been brought there. It could, of course, have been another helicopter, but if so, why make a switch? No, the chances were that a vehicle would have been used.
Richardson got out of the cruiser and examined the track carefully. He could see one recent set of wheel marks in the dust heading toward the clearing but none coming out. The hairs on the back of his neck started to prickle. The supposed incident had happened about an hour earlier. The vehicle that had been reported as being involved in the transfer should have left — or else it was still inside. There was one other possibility.
He picked up his radio and gave his call sign. "Did our birdwatching witness drive to the clearing?"
"Negative," said the dispatcher. "His home is about two miles back, and he walked. He's there if you need him."
"I've got one set of tire tracks going in," said Richardson. "I'm going to block off the road and go in on foot. I'll call you in ten."
"Need backup?" said the dispatcher.
"No," said Richardson. "This probably doesn't amount to anything. But..."
He parked the cruiser across the track. Then he unclipped his shotgun. You never knew, and the mere sight of a shotgun tended to make potential assailants think twice. There was something about the sheer size of the muzzle.
He walked carefully and slowly down the track toward the clearing, examining not only the track itself but the undergrowth and woods on either side. If someone had been struggling in the car, they just might have been able to drop something out of the window. Perhaps some identification or a note. Well, it was unlikely, given the prevalence of air-conditioning combined with fully closed windows, but he had to check and now was the best time.
It was alarming how quickly the integrity of a crime scene could be compromised. Items of value that might also be clues had a tendency to vanish no matter how you tried to secure the scene. Human nature was just that — all too human. Of course, this was not yet a crime scene, but when you had a report you had to act as if the location might be. Certainly this was Richardson's way.
He held his shotgun in his right hand and used a stick to push aside the vegetation. All kinds of things that crawled and slithered and bit flourished in North Carolina — and not all were human. He smiled to himself, and then the joke lost some of its flavor as his stick revealed a rattlesnake curled up next to a rock. The snake seemed to look at him as if debating the odds, then shot into the undergrowth. It did not like shotguns either.
Richardson was used to snakes, but that kind of eyeball-to-eyeball encounter certainly got the adrenaline going. He waited until his heart had stopped pounding and then radioed in.
This time he was transferred to the lieutenant, who was becoming somewhat frustrated at how long checking out one simple call was taking. Particularly when it was almost certainly nothing.
"Hurry it up, Andy, will you?" said the lieutenant.
"Roger that, Lieutenant," said Richardson flatly.
He entered the clearing a few minutes later. If he had read the tracks right, there should have been a car there, but there was nothing. This was all getting ridiculous, he decided. They would be talking flying saucers and little green men soon. In the real world, vehicles did not drive into lonely clearings and just vanish. Life was much more mundane. Solid stayed solid and flesh stayed flesh. And visible stayed visible.
All good sensible thinking, he reflected, but he still could not see that damned automobile and there was no track out of the clearing.
He started a perimeter search. The trees were growing too close together and too irregularly for a vehicle to have been driven between them. Then he saw the break in the tree line where maybe there had been a lightning strike or storm damage. Anyway, a couple of trees were down. The vegetation had been cut away and then replaced in a crude attempt to buy time.
He pulled the cut undergrowth out of the way. It did not take too long, and then there in front of him was the trunk of a Dodge sedan. A rental, by the look of it. The hood pointed into the forest.
The trunk was locked. He tried the doors and they were open. There were no keys in the ignition, but he found the trunk release lever.
He recognized the odor immediately. It was an amalgam of blood and excrement and fear. It was the smell of violent death.
He edged up the lid of the trunk with his stick and looked in.
Staring up at him, wide-eyed mouth open in a rictus grin of fear, was the body of a young woman. Her throat had been cut and it looked as if she had bled to death there. Her clothing and the inside of the trunk itself were saturated in blood.
Richardson could imagine her lying there terrified and helpless in the confines of the trunk as her executioner stood over her, knife in hand. There were severe slashes on her hands. She had tried to defend herself. Closer examination showed blood on and around the front passenger seat. She had been hit there, he surmised, and then dumped as she was dying. The callousness was chilling.
Subdued and depressed, he called in. He could take traffic accidents except where they involved the injury or death of children.
This kind of wanton butchery shook him. He thought of Susan. It could have been she in there.
Procedure dictated that he wait for the scene-of-crime team, but he had to do something and he knew he was professional enough to do it right. He started searching the clearing slowly and thoroughly, working to an imaginary grid.
There were clear signs of the reported helicopter and of activity surrounding it. Leaves and small branches had been dislodged by the downdraft, and some branches in the center of the clearing by landing skid marks suggested that the pilot had maybe clipped the tree tops coming in. Out of practice, inexperienced, or just a hotshot? Hard to know. Richardson favored out of practice. A novice would scarcely try landing in a narrow clearing like this.
After twelve minutes of searching, he saw a glint in the sandy earth fairly near the skid marks. Whatever it was seemed practically covered. Dropped by accident or deliberately.
He bent down and scratched the earth away with his stick. It was an unusual charm bracelet made of two types of gold, by the looks of it. He hunkered down, hooked the bracelet on the stick, and brought it close. The design was abstract, but one of the charms looked like a harp. It was an expensive item and had both a clasp and a safety chain. This had not fallen off by accident.
He read the inscription inside.
Richardson took an evidence bag out of his hip pocket and slipped the bracelet inside. He was thinking. The kind of gutsy person who dropped this will have tried to drop something more than once. But he had found nothing on the track, and the car's windows were, as he had expected, closed. Maybe she had been kept in the trunk with the other woman. Hell, maybe there was only one woman and the witness had been mistaken. She had struggled as she was being put on board and had been killed.
No, that did not feel right. The witness had proved out so far, so why not give him the benefit of the doubt and assume two women? That meant the kidnap victim could have been kept either in the trunk or in the back of the car.
Either way, it meant searching the car, and that was very much against the rules.
On the other hand, in a kidnapping — and now he was fairly certain there had been one — time was crucial.
He found the telephone message slip pushed down behind the upholstery of the backseat. It was the kind of thing you would jot down to remind you what room you were in. There was no date, but the paper looked fresh.
They now had a dead woman, murdered for sure, a probable kidnapping, and some guy named Hugo was involved.
The message slip was from Fayetteville.
Richardson called in again. He did not do any more searching. A kidnapping — and a helicopter being used — was going to mean federal involvement for sure.
And the feds could be more than difficult if they felt their scene of crime had been screwed up.
Sergeant Richardson did not think he had screwed up, but as with most things in life it was going to be a matter of perception.
He checked his watch and hoped that the scene-of-crime team would get their ass in gear. It was going to be dark soon.
* * * * *
Shelby Jacklin, sheriff of Fayetteville, put down the phone and thought. When he had been younger he had been a great believer in immediate action. Now he liked to get the flavor of a situation before moving.
It had taken just one phone call to identify this "Hugo." The question now was what to do. Hugo Fitzduane might be the killer or he might be entirely innocent. But the probability was the either the dead woman or the kidnap victim was closely connected to him. And it was a statistical fact that most murders were carried out by someone you knew and most probably were close to. Like married to.
This business was going to get complicated. The body had been discovered by the state police outside his jurisdiction, but this Fitzduane was staying right in the sheriff's patch. And before long the feds would be on the scene.
They could question Fitzduane immediately or go for a search warrant first. Then they could search this Irishman's room with impunity. It was the safer route. A search warrant would not take long. Judge Rikel was a hard-liner with strong views on violent crime.
It would also be a good idea to check Fitzduane with the FBI. Sheriff Jacklin was not overly fond of the feds, but he had learned to sup with the devil if it got the job done.
8
Country and western music filled the air and a demonstration team of line dancers in yellow shirts, red kerchiefs, and white Stetsons sashayed and pivoted with drill-team precision.
Several hundred exhibitors were gathered around the poolside and the open bar was having its predictable effect. Tables covered in checked tablecloths had been set up and the barbecue team were in full action.
After a long hard day, people drank and ate and networked and relaxed. There were many more women present that were actually attending the exhibition. Wives and girlfriends who had steered clear while their menfolk played with weaponry had surfaced.
It was a festive atmosphere, and the evening had all the makings of a really good party. The parachute demonstration would be the last event that was special operations oriented, and then the focus would be on nothing more than having fun.
As agreed, Dana was keeping an eye on Kathleen. Texas was doing much the same for her team. She had considered attending the party, but that would have turned the whole thing into a social event, and she was supposed to be working.
So she stood behind the parapet on the flat roof of the right-hand accommodation block and watched the festivities below. From that location, five stories up, she had the high ground and could actually keep quite a close eye on her charges through binoculars. At full power she was visually near enough to lip-read.
Another reason she had not gone to the party was Don Shanley. It had been a perfect night, and that was the way she wanted to remember it. If they met again face-to-face it could get complicated, and she knew she would get hurt. Shanley was attracted to her, she knew, but he was a certain kind of man. He might stray if she worked hard, but his loyalties lay elsewhere and he would not change them. That she knew, and it hurt because there was something about him that had connected. Too bad. The good ones were so often married.
She checked out her surroundings afresh. The courtyard below was pool and party. To her left was the main hotel block. Directly across from her was the other accommodation wing, similar to where she was standing but two blocks lower. The fourth side of the rectangle was open. There was an access road and a car park. The free-fall parachutists, she had been told, would float in the open end and land around the pool. It should be quite spectacular.
She considered the exhibition security. At the end of the day, all weapons on display were locked up by the individual exhibitors and then kept either on the exhibition hall floor or in the exhibitors' own rooms. The corollary of that was that the organizers' security was relaxed somewhat. If the weapons were locked up there was no need for so many guards, so went the argument. And having full strength at night was expensive.
The Bastogne Inn was one location where they really should be safe. But Texas was a professional. She stayed and she watched, because you never really knew. In the final analysis, it was all a giant craps game.
Then she saw Shanley and her heart leaped.
You tried to stay in control and then your body betrayed you.
* * * * *
"Hugo," said Kilmara patiently. "Relax and enjoy yourself. If Kathleen has gone to the coast to spend the day sight-seeing, which is my understanding, there is no way she will be back before late this evening. She may even stay there overnight. There is a lot of driving involved. So take it easy. She is a grown woman, Dana is keeping an eye on her, and Kathleen is pregnant, which does things to your hormones and moods. She wants some space. It's normal."
Fitzduane looked at his friend. He wanted to believe him with every fiber of his being. Yet his instincts told him something was wrong, and, unfortunately, his instincts rarely let him down.
He struggled for the middle ground. The music was infectious and people were having fun. He did not want to cast around doom and gloom.
"I'd be happier if she had telephoned," he said quietly. "She almost always phones."
Kilmara looked at him sharply. Privately, he was as concerned as Fitzduane, but he could not see what they could do right now that would be of any practical advantage.
"Hugo," he said firmly. "You had a row. Kathleen wants to keep her distance for a few hours. Accept it and stop behaving like an old woman."
Fitzduane smiled. Shane was right. He was overreacting. It was time to change the subject.
He gestured at the line dancers. "You know, I've never danced or made love wearing a hat and cowboy boots."
"You don't know what you're missing," said Shanley. "Where's Maury?"
Kilmara laughed. "Maury can make it one to one with difficulty. He can't handle large gatherings. He's in his trailer working."
"And Texas is on the roof," said Fitzduane conversationally. "The beautiful blonde with the binoculars on the skyline. She's our guardian angel."
Shanley looked up and straight into Texas's eyes. "I know," he said quietly.
* * * * *
Sheriff Jacklin went through the FBI report once again.
Hugo Fitzduane was indeed known to the bureau, only no criminal record was involved. The Irishman was on the side of the good guys and he was connected. There were a series of reference numbers that could be called. Most were inside the Beltway. One was Langley. The Hill was well represented. And the man was a colonel in some counterterrorist outfit. This thing had all kinds of nasty ramifications.
"Holy shit!" he said to himself. "I was mindful to arrest you for murder."
Mike Erdman, a sheriff's department investigator, poked his head through the door. "Sheriff," he said. "We've got the warrant to search Fitzduane's room."
The sheriff looked up. "Wait awhile. I've a hunch this thing is a mite more complicated," he said.
He thought. There was a conjunction of elements here that had ramifications way outside his normal daily concerns. This was not about drunken airborne troopers smashing up a bar or some cuckolded husband back from a foreign tour blowing the brains out of his wife or lover.
This smacked of another battlefield. Murder, a kidnapping, a helicopter, counterterrorism. The mysterious Hugo Fitzduane. A special-operations exhibition.
Connections in Washington. Too many connections in Washington. The feds — all kinds of feds. This could become downright hor
rible. Feds were like a social disease — intrusive and hard to shake.
He looked up at Mike Erdman. "Mike," he said. "Phone the MPs at Bragg and tell them."
"What?" said Erdman.
"Something is going down," said the sheriff.
"What?" said Erdman. "You know, Sheriff, underneath their fatigues they are cops up there. They ask questions like that. Who? What? Why? Motive? Means? Opportunity?"
Sheriff Jacklin took a flier, which was something he never did. But something screamed inside him.
"Tell them we have reason to believe there are terrorists in the area and that something big is going down."
Erdman gaped at him.
"Mike," said the sheriff. "You're a fine detective. But sometimes you're an asshole." He smiled. "Nothing personal. Now, MOVE!"
Erdman went back to his desk.
He was lifting the phone when they heard the explosion and felt the tremor.
"Bragg?" he said out loud.
Sheriff Jacklin stood in the doorway. "No," he said. "Much closer."
They did not have long to wait. The first call came in within thirty seconds.
"Sheriff?"
Jacklin raised his head. He felt unbelievably tired.
"Sheriff, they've bombed the Oak ParkShopping Center. Dozens dead. Hundreds injured. Lots of military families hit, by the looks of it."
The thought that Jacklin had considered yet suppressed in the past came through. You don't have to hit Bragg to hit Bragg. All you have to do is kill lots of soldiers and their families is to strike at the nearby shopping centers. No MPs and minimal security. Child's play for a dedicated terrorist. Child's play for any psycho.
He had thought about it and even raised it at a local-state-federal security meeting. He had been brushed aside. He had done nothing. It was hard to go up against the system. You questioned it at your peril.
There was not a serious terrorist threat in the United States of America. That was the conventional wisdom.
Fitzduane 03 - Devil's Footprint, The Page 12
