Lone Wolf

by Sara Driscoll

  Back before the fevers and the rash. Before the suffocating pressure of pneumonia. Before the pained wails of his little brother dwindled to wracking sobs and later to breathless gasps. Until even those stopped.

  He closed his eyes, turning his back on the memories to face the present.

  He returned to the ground floor, his gaze drawn to the open door at the far end of the stalls. Inside the room, the stacks of copper pots and stills that had once been his family’s moonshine operation glinted dully in the light cascading in through the single grimy window.

  He had a job to do. And he knew exactly who would pay next.

  Chapter 8

  Depraved Heart Murder: The deliberate commission of a knowingly dangerous act with reckless and wanton unconcern and indifference as to whether anyone is harmed or not. Common law considers such a state of mind just as blameworthy, just as antisocial, and therefore, just as truly murderous as the specific intent to kill or harm.

  Friday, April 14, 10:34 AM

  IRS Office

  Cumberland, Maryland

  The line snaked through the foyer and the air practically sparked with impatience and tension. A low hum of irritated muttering filled the room as people scuttled forward a few inches, then abruptly stopped, shifting their weight anxiously, necks craning toward the front of the line. Not a single person wanted to be there—including the employees—but the tax man cometh in just a matter of days, and Uncle Sam wanted his due.

  Naomi shifted the squirming baby on her hip, patting his back with a damp palm and glancing for the fourth time in as many minutes at the slightly cockeyed analog clock on the wall that seemed to move with preternatural slowness. Joe started to fret in her arms, pushing clumsily against her shoulders. At nearly a year old, he’d been walking now for a full four weeks. Well, walking was an understatement. She swore he’d gone from crawling to running in only a matter of days. And he didn’t like to be held, not now when he could walk.

  Joe balled a fist and swiped at one eye, his lower lip starting to quiver.

  She patted his back again and bounced him up and down a few times. “Hang on, Joey. Almost there.” She glanced toward the front window where sunlight slanted in radiant beams onto the floor. It was the first day since the fall that had been mild enough to play outside without the suffocating bulk of winter jackets and she was just itching to take him out and simply bask in the warmth and the light.

  “Next!” The voice was flat, dull, worn down by weeks of nearly there tax deadline hysteria.

  The line shuffled forward again. Naomi nudged the diaper bag at her feet, pushing it ahead of them as they crept forward. Only three more people and then it was their turn.

  Joe’s whimper accompanied a whole body squirm. She clamped her arms around him, familiar with this move and how he’d nearly managed to slither free a few times before. The pressure of her hold only increased his distress and he started to whine. Heat rose in her face as sideways glances began to slide her way.

  What kind of parent are you? Can’t you control that child? Who’s in charge—you or the kid? The crowd’s unvoiced thoughts rang in her head.

  “Ignore them. Ignoooooooore them . . .” she singsonged to herself, bouncing him again. It’s too early, naysayers advised, but she knew the reason he’d been up half the night was his one-year molars coming in. Her normally placid baby was riding a razor’s edge of exhaustion right now. And, as a result, so was she. Never a good combination.

  An older woman on the opposite side of the cord divider caught her eye, giving her a smile and the universal nod every mother recognizes. Been there, done that, survived to tell the tale. Know exactly how you feel. The tangled knot in Naomi’s belly loosened slightly as she returned the smile.

  “Next!” A different voice. Moving along.

  This time after they shuffled forward, she squatted down quickly, rooting around in one of the outer pockets of the diaper bag before finally finding the bag of teething biscuits. She pushed to her feet, staggering slightly as Joe shifted his weight reaching for the biscuit in her hand. Recovering just before slamming into the shoulder of the man beside her, she tried to throw him a bright, apologetic smile, but his narrowed eyes gave no forgiveness or understanding. Her shoulders slumping, she turned away, drawing Joe in, making them both smaller. You’re not a bad parent. You’re not a bad parent.

  “Next!”

  Suddenly the way before her was clear and the window at the front counter lay ahead. “So close, Joey. We’ll talk to the nice man or lady and then we can go home. How about a walk by the duck pond? You love the duck pond. What does the ducky say?”

  Joe looked up at her, all rosy cheeks and luminous blue eyes. Cookie paste was smeared around his mouth and over his fingers where he clutched the slobbery chunk of biscuit. “Gak!”

  The laugh bubbled up from the pit of her stomach, a sound of joy and love. “That’s right, baby. Quack.” She didn’t even look at the restless crowd surrounding her. The love she had for this precious little man outweighed anything they could throw at her. She pressed a kiss to his cheek, coming away with a faint taste of vanilla. “That’s my smart little man.”

  “Next!”

  Oh, thank God . . .

  Naomi stooped to grab the diaper bag and then moved to the open window. A young woman sat on the other side of the desk with a pinched expression that spoke of too many hours dealing with angry customers, not enough fresh air, and the stress headache that went along with tax time. “Hi, I’m filling out a final tax return for my father who passed away last year and I don’t understand what I need to do with this form.” Pulling out a Form 1041, Income Tax Return for Estates and Trusts, Naomi pushed it across the desk to the woman.

  Ten minutes later and she was finally done. Forms all filled out, copied, and submitted. She couldn’t get out of that stuffy room of cloying tension fast enough.

  It was such a relief to finally step out into sunshine. Naomi let the door close behind her, shutting out the discontented buzz, and took a moment to just stand still, listening to birdsong and the sound of the wind blowing through the newly leafed trees surrounding the small strip mall. She took a deep breath, letting the fresh air soothe her.

  An odd sound overhead caught her attention, a mechanical sound out of place among the natural sounds of the outdoors. It was a constant whine, deepening and growing louder by the second. A small dark object burst from over the trees to the east, just skimming the upper branches. She followed it with her eyes for a moment until it disappeared from view behind the stepped roofs of the building, the sound of the engine suddenly dropping away. Odd.

  She shrugged and turned back to her boy. “Okay, Joey, my man. Let’s go find those ducks.”

  She hiked him a little higher on her hip and turned toward her car. She’d only taken a few steps when a deafening blast came from behind her, lifting her off her feet as if an invisible hand picked her up by her collar and tossed her like a rag doll. She had a second of blinding panic and only enough time to clutch her son tighter. Then there was nothing.

  Chapter 9

  Afterdamp: An unbreathable mixture of carbon dioxide, carbon monoxide, and nitrogen left in a mine after an explosion of firedamp.

  Friday, April 14, 12:07 PM

  Highway 40

  La Vale, Maryland

  Meg laid her hand on the back of Hawk’s neck, her fingers curving into his soft fur as the helicopter vibrated around them and rotors roared overhead. Hawk looked up from where he lay between her feet and Lacey’s body, his tipped head clearly conveying his understanding at her show of nerves. The FBI K-9s were accustomed to air travel, since they were often deployed at a moment’s notice for remote tracking incidents. They were used to the noise and sensations of both planes and choppers, and he knew her need to touch him wasn’t concern for his welfare. He knew helicopters put Meg on edge in a way that planes didn’t. Planes seemed so closed and secure. All it would take in a helicopter is an open door and there’d be n
othing between her and the ground but thin air. It would be a long, long fall....

  She hadn’t always been afraid of heights. In fact, it was that lack of fear that had prompted her six-year-old self to lead her more than willing four-year-old sister out onto the rickety widow’s walk on the roof of their grandparents’ ancient Nantucket cottage. She’d always wanted to go up there, to stand in the strong sea breeze and look out over the Atlantic Ocean, just like the elegant ladies in long dresses from the stories their grandmother told them. Hundreds of years ago, many of their relatives had spent many hours standing above the wave-battered rocks and wind-swept beaches, watching for the whaling ships that would bring home their husbands after months at sea. Or not.

  Curiosity won out that day and the girls slipped away from under their grandparents’ watchful eyes. Sneaking up to the rooftop platform wasn’t hard, but the wood was frail and gave way the first time Meg leaned her elbows on it to gaze out into the distance. Her own weight sent her tumbling head first off the platform to slide over the roof; only lightning-fast reflexes left her clinging to the eaves, dangling from both arms.

  Cara’s frantic screams brought their grandparents, and her grandfather had climbed down and hauled her up. The girls had been so terrified that no lecture was required. Meg’s lasting scar from the experience was a heart-stopping fear of heights and falling. Some nights, the nightmares came, leaving her dangling in the buffeting wind, certain death only seconds away on the jagged rocks below as her arms ached with the effort to hold on and her screams for help went unanswered.

  Meg swallowed hard and blocked the memory from her mind. Don’t look down. Stare at the front cabin wall and just think of it as a really noisy bus ride.

  Meg glanced up and met Brian’s somber eyes, staring unblinkingly from under his aviation helmet. They were both mic’d so they could talk during the flight, but no words were needed. He understood both her fear and her refusal to let it stop her from doing her job. On top of that, they’d stood in the same bomb site only four days earlier and she could read the same dread in his eyes that frosted her own blood. So soon. We barely had time to mentally recover from the last one. She thought about the brief overview they’d had, complete with fuzzy Google Maps photos of the plaza. So small. Nothing to shield anyone inside from the full force of the blast. The fatality rate is going to be high.

  She tore her gaze away as the helicopter started to lose altitude, swaying gently from side to side as it lowered toward asphalt. Through the window, dark smoke filled the sky, fading to a lighter gray and then dissipating as it rose.

  It had been a wild rush from DC. The call came in only about fifteen minutes after the bomb exploded; it had only taken a few eyewitness reports of a drone spotted flying over the building just before the explosion for the local police to connect this incident with the Whitten Building bombing and to contact the closest FBI field office in Baltimore. Agents were in the car trying to cover the two-hour drive in considerably less than that even as the Forensic Canine Unit was alerted back in DC.

  Maryland State Police K-9s were also called in, but were similarly coming from locations spread across the state. The feds had the advantage of access to private flights when needed during an emergency; this was clearly one of those times. The bomber had crossed state lines, so the FBI had jurisdiction. Peters didn’t even consider that the locals could and normally would handle it. His task force, his skilled teams—they were going in, no question.

  The helicopter gave a small bump as it touched down at one end of a roped-off asphalt parking lot. The engine spooled down immediately, the rotor blades still spinning overhead, suddenly quieter.

  Inside the chopper, Meg let out a long, pent-up breath, the muscles across her shoulders relaxing slightly. Terra firma. She and Brian slipped off their helmets just as the copilot hopped out to open the side door for them.

  “Stay low,” he ordered from his own crouched position. “We had to land nearly a mile out. Couldn’t get any closer.” Over his shoulder, Meg could see the distant shops, a rural version of a big box complex. “A state trooper is here to transport you to the site.”

  The dogs rose as their handlers did, following them to the open helicopter doorway. Meg and Brian jumped out, hunching down to stay well below the rotor blades. A single glance back had the dogs following. Hawk and Lacey waited patiently as leads were clipped onto the top ring on their FBI vests, and then they were moving across the parking lot toward the trooper in beige and khaki standing beside a black SUV with the Maryland crest on the door.

  He touched his flat-brimmed hat in greeting as they approached. “Hop in the back. I’ll run you to the site.”

  Meg and Brian got into the SUV, their dogs settling at their feet before they slammed their doors in unison. “How bad is it?” Brian asked.

  Steel gray eyes flicked toward the rearview mirror momentarily before turning forward again as the SUV pulled out of the parking lot. “The target was a small strip mall just down Highway 40. Six one-story units, built into a hill, so the units climb in steps up the incline. Looks to me that not being constructed as a single continuous block took away some stability, not that the contractors built the place to be bomb resistant. The IRS office was right in the middle and it collapsed like a house of cards, taking the units on either side of it down too. A taco and breakfast restaurant, and a methadone clinic, both with victims inside.”

  Meg winced. Victims—it’s not like you didn’t see it coming. Up ahead, oily black smoke surged upward in huge clouds.

  The SUV sped down Highway 40, but the trooper didn’t bother with lights and siren. The road was deserted, closed to traffic in the wake of the explosion.

  “The explosion ruptured a natural gas line going into the restaurant, which started a three-alarm fire. We got that under control. The firefighters tried to get in to rescue any victims, but in the end, they had to pull back and simply fight the fire from the outside.” He paused, his lips flattening into a tight white line. “I’m afraid we brought you folks out here for nothing. I don’t think there’s anyone left to find alive now.”

  “We’re here, we’ll try anyway.” Brian’s words were flat, but Meg could hear the discouragement tucked under them.

  The knot of dread in her belly wound tighter and she glanced down at Hawk, lying quietly with his dark head cushioned on his paws. Finding victims or tracking and finding someone—a suspect or a lost child—that was the most important part of the game for the dogs. They really did consider it a game, and they liked to win. It felt good to win. They also liked to be rewarded, but in many situations the praise from their handlers was enough.

  However, when the only people to be found were already dead . . . That scenario was hard on the dogs and they often got discouraged. She’d had searches like that before. The best way to snap a dog out of that kind of funk was for one of the handlers or a law enforcement volunteer to go out and get “lost” so the dog could find them. As far as the dog was concerned, that was still a win.

  The clump of police cars and fire trucks ahead told Meg they were nearly there. The trooper didn’t even attempt to get close; he simply pulled to the side of the highway. “This is the closest I can get you. A command post is set up on the narrow stretch of grass between the highway and the parking lot. Captain Morrison is running the post until the feds get here to take over, since it’s clearly a related case. Good luck.”

  “Thanks.” Brian gave him a curt guy nod, then turned away to open the door and climb out.

  They jogged down the road, quickly finding the command post and introducing themselves. Captain Morrison, in his early fifties with buzz cut salt-and-pepper hair, shook hands perfunctorily. “Glad you came. Hope we haven’t wasted your time.”

  “The trooper who brought us in gave us the bare bones. The situation doesn’t sound promising,” Meg said.

  “It’s not. Whoever the bomb didn’t take out, the fire likely did. We’re just waiting for the green light to go in, but
that should come any minute. When you go in, any of my men or the firefighters will give you whatever help you need. Ambulance crews are standing by.”

  Meg’s gaze drifted over his shoulder to the back of an ambulance, its doors thrown wide open. A young woman with curly red hair cradling a wailing baby sat on the bumper, her legs dangling. The young mother looked up briefly, residual terror still reflected in her eyes and in the tear tracks that washed down her dirty cheeks. Bending her head, she pressed a kiss to her baby’s head and rocked, trying to comfort them both.

  “We have some survivors, I see.”

  Morrison glanced over his shoulder and nodded. “She was beyond lucky. She’d just left the tax office and was outside the door when she spotted the drone coming in. She didn’t think much of it, and headed for her car, so she was a good ten or fifteen feet away when the bomb exploded. Knocked her clean off her feet. She managed to not only hold on to her baby, but cushion his fall. They both got banged up pretty good though and she’s got a serious case of road rash from where she slid along the pavement from the force of the blast wave. But they’re still better off than anyone inside. She says there must have been at least twenty people in there, all adults, maybe more depending on how many workers were in the back.”

  “The day before taxes are due?” Brian’s eyes were fixed on the charred remains of the office. “As many as they could book in to work.” He shifted back toward Meg. “This was totally planned for maximum effect. If he’d waited to hit this place next Tuesday, it would have been deserted.”

  “That’s what we think,” Morrison agreed. “It’s no coincidence this was his next target.”

  A shout came from near the building and Meg turned to see a firefighter in a red helmet waving an arm in their direction. “And that’s the signal. Good luck.”