This time her mother’s eyes caught hers, and Maggie couldn’t look away. She had never told her mother about Nick Morrelli, but obviously Greg had. She had met Nick last year. At the time he had been a county sheriff in a small Nebraska town. The two of them had spent a week together chasing a child killer. Ever since then she hadn’t been able to get him out of her mind for very long, a task made more difficult now that he was living in Boston, an A.D.A. for Suffolk County. But she was not even seeing Nick, had insisted, in fact, that they have little contact until her divorce was final. And, despite her feelings, she had not slept with Nick. She had never cheated on Greg, or at least not in a legal sense. Maybe she was guilty of cheating on him in her heart.
Never mind. It wasn’t any of her mother’s business. How dare she claim that she had some secret access to Maggie’s heart. She had no right. Not after all the damage she had done to it herself.
“The divorce papers have already been drawn up,” Maggie finally said with what she hoped was enough finality to close the subject.
“But you haven’t signed them yet?”
She continued to stare at her mother’s concerned look, puzzled by it as much as she was uncomfortable with it. Was her mother sincerely trying to change? Was she genuinely concerned? Or had she talked to Greg, discovered he was having second thoughts and agreed to some secret alliance? Was that the real reason behind this good ole Thanksgiving plan?
“Whether we sign the divorce papers or not, nothing will change between Greg and me.”
“No, of course not. Not as long as you insist on keeping that government job of yours.”
There it was. The subtle but oh-so-effective jab to the heart. Much more effective than a slap to the face. Of course, Maggie was the bad guy, and the divorce was all her fault. And, according to her mother, everything could be fixed if only Maggie apologized and swept all the messy problems out of sight. No need to solve anything. Just get them the hell out of sight. After all, wasn’t that Kathleen O’Dell’s specialty? What you don’t acknowledge can’t possibly exist.
Maggie shook her head and smiled up at the waiter who had returned and deposited in front of her a tumbler of amber, liquid salvation. She picked up the glass and sipped, ignoring the frown on her mother’s new and carefully made-up face. Indeed, some things never changed.
Her cellular phone began ringing, and Maggie twisted around to pull it out of her jacket, which hung on the back of her chair. Only two rings and the entire restaurant was now joining her mother to frown at her.
“Maggie O’Dell.”
“Agent O’Dell, it’s Cunningham. Sorry to interrupt your Sunday morning.”
“That’s fine, sir.” This new apologetic Cunningham could easily start to grate on her nerves. She wanted her old boss back.
“A body’s been found on federal property. District PD’s on the scene, but I’ve gotten a request for BSU to take a look.”
“I’m already at the Crystal City Hyatt. Just tell me where you need me to be.” She could feel her mother scowling at her. She wanted another sip of Scotch, but set it aside.
“Meet Agent Tully at the FDR Memorial.”
“The monument?”
“Yes. The fourth gallery. The District’s lead on the scene is…” She could hear him flipping pages. “Lead is a Detective Racine.”
“Racine? Julia Racine?”
“Yes, I believe so. Is there a problem, Agent O’Dell?”
“No, sir. Not at all.”
“Okay then.” He hung up without a goodbye, a sign the old Cunningham was still in charge.
Maggie looked at her mother as she wrestled into her jacket and peeled out a twenty dollar bill to leave for the breakfast she hadn’t yet ordered.
“Sorry. I need to leave.”
“Yes, I know. Your job. It tends to ruin quite a few things, doesn’t it?”
Rather than even try to find the correct answer, Maggie grabbed the tumbler of Scotch and drained it in one gulp. She mumbled a goodbye and left.
CHAPTER 20
Everett’s Compound
at the foot of the Appalachian Mountains
Justin Pratt jerked awake at the sudden blast of music, almost falling off the narrow army cot. Had he done so, he would have crashed on top of several members stretched out in sleeping bags. He knew he should be grateful to have a cot in the cramped sleeping quarters that housed almost two dozen men. After his probationary period—whenever the hell that ended—he was certain he would be on the floor with the rest of them.
It wouldn’t matter, with the little sleep they were allowed. And then to wake up to that god-awful music over the loudspeakers. It sounded like an old scratched LP of “Onward, Christian Soldiers.” No, he shouldn’t complain. He needed to remember to be grateful. At least, until Eric got back. Then they could figure out what to do together. Maybe they could hitchhike to the West Coast. Although he wasn’t sure how they’d survive without a fucking dime. Maybe they could go back home. If only he could convince Eric. He wouldn’t leave without Eric.
He rubbed the blur from his eyes. Shit! It felt like he hadn’t even slept. Out of habit, he looked at his wrist before he remembered that the expensive Seiko watch his grandfather had given him was gone. It had been just one of the hedonistic material things confiscated for his own good. Like knowing what time it was would fucking send him straight to hell.
Now Justin wondered if perhaps the real reason Father didn’t allow them to keep anything of value was to make them dependent on him. And they were. For everything. Everything from that buggy rice to the scraps of newspaper they used as toilet paper.
“Get up, Pratt.” Someone shoved his shoulder from behind.
Justin felt his hands ball up into fists. Without looking, he knew it was Brandon. Just once he’d like to slam a fist into that smug, arrogant face. Instead, he pulled a clean pair of underwear and socks from the clothesline in the corner. Brandon had been good enough to share it with him, because it seemed that even something like a cheap piece of fucking clothesline was a rare commodity around this place. The socks were still damp, which meant that once again his feet would be cold all day.
He took his time dressing while the others scurried to get in line for the showers. From the small, single-paned window, Justin could see the line forming. It curved all the way around the concrete building’s corner. He combed his fingers through his greasy hair. Fuck it! Maybe he could sneak in a shower later. He was tired of waiting in line after line. Besides, he was starving, and his stomach reminded him with a rumble that he hadn’t eaten since yesterday’s lunch.
Justin headed for the cafeteria, looking around as he walked across the compound. That’s what they called it, a fucking compound. The only other time he had heard someone refer to a place as a compound was on a cable special about the Kennedy family and their estate; an estate that they called a compound. So, of course, when Eric had told him about the compound, Justin had imagined something similar with servant cottages and horse stables and a huge mansion. But this place looked like army barracks—stark, metal and concrete buildings surrounded by trees and more trees, secluded in the Shenandoah Valley.
Piles of brush and uprooted trees were stacked on the south side where they had bulldozed and cleared just enough land to set up their compound. It didn’t seem very organized, either. Wells hadn’t been dug deep enough and many of the buildings didn’t have plumbing. There certainly was never enough warm water. And hot water? Forget about it.
The whole place looked temporary, and Justin had heard rumors about Father building a new compound somewhere else, some paradise he was promising everyone. But after last night, Justin wasn’t about to trust the asshole or anything he said. The pervert was a fucking hypocrite. Not like he had trusted him much before. Trust was a rare commodity with Justin. He should have known from his first week that the guy was nothing but a fraud.
That first week, Eric had taken him to what Father called a cleansing ritual. All of those who attended had to write
down their most embarrassing moment, as well as one of their deepest fears. They were supposed to sign the papers, too.
“No one else will see these confessions,” Father had assured them in his smooth, hypnotic manner. “The signatures are strictly an exercise for you to own up to your past and face your fears.”
The folded papers were then collected in a black, square metal box. Justin had been asked to collect them and told where to set the dented box, back behind Father’s huge wooden chair. A chair that looked more like a throne and was flanked by his Cro-Magnon bodyguards. At the end of the evening, Father brought out the black box with all those confidential secrets. He threw a single lit match into the metal container, setting the confessions on fire. There had been sighs of relief, but Justin couldn’t help noticing that the black box no longer had a dent in it.
Later, when Justin told Eric about the miracle of the disappearing dent, his brother had practically snapped his head off.
“Some things require faith and trust. If you can’t accept that, you don’t belong here,” his brother had told him in a pissed-off tone he had never used with him before that night. Justin remembered thinking that Eric sounded like he wasn’t just trying to convince him. That maybe he was trying to convince himself, too.
Justin took a shortcut to the cafeteria, hopping over some sawhorses and wandering through a maze of stacked lumber and archaic construction equipment. He couldn’t help thinking that a couple of pairs of Father’s solid-gold cuff links could probably buy a small new forklift that would put the old John Deere tractor with the front loader and rusted plow hitched behind out of its misery.
He could smell the garbage dump and decided his shortcut wasn’t such a hot idea. No wonder everyone avoided this area. Just as he was weaving his way back to the main path, he saw several men digging behind the piles of garbage. Maybe they were finally burying the smelly mess. But as he stopped, he saw that they had several strongboxes they were lowering into the ground.
“Hey, Justin.”
He turned to find Alice waving at him over the stacks of lumber. She was making her way through the maze. Her silky hair glistened in the morning sun, and her clothes were crisp and fresh. No way were her socks still damp. Suddenly, he wished he had taken the time for that cold two-minute shower. When she looked up at him, her face immediately scrunched into that cute little worried expression.
“What are you doing, Justin? No one’s allowed back here.”
“I was just taking a shortcut.”
“Come on, let’s get out of here before someone notices.” She took his hand to lead him away, but he stayed put.
“What are those guys doing over there?”
She frowned at him, but put a hand to her forehead and squinted into the morning sun, taking a look at where he was pointing.
“It’s none of your concern.”
“So, you don’t know?”
“It doesn’t matter, Justin. Please, you don’t want to get caught back here.”
“Or what? No one will talk to me for weeks? Or no, maybe I won’t get my week’s ration of gummy rice and beans.”
“Justin, stop it.”
“Come on, Alice. Just tell me what those guys are burying, and I’ll go nice and quiet like.”
She dropped his hand, practically shoving it away, and suddenly he realized how stupid he was being. She was the only person he cared about, and now he was pissing her off, just like he seemed to piss off everyone else.
“They’re burying the money we collected at the rally last night.”
At the end of each rally, about a half-dozen wicker baskets were passed around for what Father called a “gratitude offering” to God. Those baskets usually ended up overflowing.
“Whaddya mean, they’re burying it?”
“They bury all the cash we take in.”
“They’re putting it in the ground?”
“It’s okay. They put mothballs in the boxes, so the bills don’t get all moldy.”
“But why bury it?”
“Where else would they put it, Justin? You can’t trust banks. They’re all controlled by the government. ATMs and electronic transfers—all of that stuff is just so the government can monitor and take your money whenever it wants.”
“Okay, so why not at least invest some of it, like in the stock market?”
“Oh, Justin, what am I going to do with you?” Alice smiled and patted his arm as though he had made a joke. “The stock market is controlled by the government, too. Remember reading in your history classes about the Great Depression?” She was using her calm teacher voice with him. At least the worry lines had left her face for the time being. “Anytime the stock market takes a plunge, it’s the government causing the decline, stealing people’s hard-earned money and making them start all over again.”
Justin hadn’t really thought about it before. He knew his dad got really pissed when he lost money in the market. Alice knew so much more about this stuff than he did. History had never been one of his strongest subjects. He shrugged, pretending it didn’t matter to him. This time when she took his hand to lead him away, he let her and enjoyed the feel of her soft skin. He wanted to ask her about last night, about Father and the perverted moves he had made on her. Yet, at the same time, he didn’t want to talk about it. He just wanted to forget it had ever happened. Maybe it was best that they both did.
As they walked to the cafeteria, Justin decided instead to think about how much money must be buried in that hole. He couldn’t help wondering how many others knew about it. When they decided to leave maybe he and Eric wouldn’t need to hitchhike, after all.
CHAPTER 21
FDR Memorial
Washington, D.C.
Ben Garrison put his gloves back on and slapped the back of his camera shut on a fresh roll of film. He certainly didn’t want to waste any time or give Detective Racine a chance to change her mind. He stepped in closer, focusing on the woman’s face. She looked so peaceful, almost as if she were simply sleeping, despite being set up against a tree. Ben was fascinated by the blue tint of her skin. Had it been caused by the cold last night or a delayed reaction to the strangulation?
Even more fascinating were the flies, hundreds of them, persistent despite the activity of officers and detectives examining the area around them. They were huge and black, not your ordinary houseflies, and they seemed to be taking up residence in every one of the body’s orifices, especially the warmer, moist areas like her eyes and ears. Her dark pubic hair looked alive with them. Already Ben could see what had to be milky gray eggs nestled in the mass of thick hair.
Death and its rituals and all the natural processes that went along with it amazed him. No matter how many dead bodies he saw, he continued to be fascinated. Less than twenty-four hours ago something warm and pulsating had been housed within this body. In New Caledonia the old men called this a word that meant shadow soul. The Esquimaux of Bering Strait referred to it as a person’s shade. In Christian faith it was simply referred to as the soul. But now, whatever it was, it was gone. It had disappeared into thin air, leaving behind an empty, hollow carcass for insects to feed upon.
He remembered reading somewhere that in a week’s time, a human cadaver could lose about ninety percent of its original weight when left exposed to insects during a hot summer. Insects were certainly efficient and predictable. Too bad human beings weren’t. It would make his job so much easier.
“Hey, watch where you’re stepping!” a uniformed cop yelled at him.
“Who the hell are you, buddy?” a guy in a navy windbreaker and baseball cap wanted to know. He looked more like a third baseman than a cop. When Ben didn’t answer and continued to snap shots, the man grabbed him by the elbow. “Who let this guy back here?”
“Wait a fucking minute.” Ben twisted free and was immediately accosted by two uniforms. Now he could see the white letters on the back of the guy’s windbreaker: FBI. Shit, how was he supposed to know? The guy looked like a clean-cut, fu
cking Boy Scout.
“It’s okay.” Racine finally appeared to rescue him. The knees of her carefully pressed trousers had leaves sticking to them and her short blond hair had been tangled by the wind. “I know the guy. He used to shoot crime scenes for us before he became a big-shot freelancer. Steinberg isn’t here yet. He’s across town at another scene. We’ve gotta get some shots before the rain starts. Hell, we lucked out. Garrison just happened to be in the neighborhood.”
The officers let go of Ben’s arms, giving him a shove just as a reminder that they could. He checked his camera settings to make sure they didn’t get all fucked up. Assholes. He was doing them a goddamn favor, and they still treated him like shit.
“Come on, boys. Show’s over,” Racine told the mobile-crime-lab guys who had stopped crawling around in the grass to watch the commotion. “We’ve got to hurry up before our evidence gets washed away. That goes for you, too, Garrison.”
He nodded but wasn’t paying much attention. He had only now noticed that no matter where he stood, the dead woman’s eyes seemed to follow him. It had to be one of those strange illusion things, right? Or was he getting paranoid?
“Hey, camera guy,” the FBI agent called to him. “Get a shot of this.”
The guy stood behind Ben, pointing to a spot on the ground about five feet away from the body.
“The name’s Garrison,” Ben said, waiting for the guy to meet his eyes, and when he did, Ben made it clear that he wouldn’t proceed until the guy acknowledged him with a little respect.
He tipped back his baseball cap and smiled. “And you just happened to be in the neighborhood, is that what Detective Racine said?”
“Yeah. What about it? I was getting some fucking stock shots of the monuments.”
“On a Sunday morning?”
“Best time to do it. No oddballs monkeying around, thinking it’s funny to screw up my shots. Hey, I’m helping you guys out here. Maybe you could quit busting my balls.” Ben kept his tone calm, confining the anger, when he really wanted to tell this guy to go fuck himself.