DeBolt already knew what to say — he’d been rehearsing his story since he’d spotted a sign for a hiking trail two miles back. He was perfectly dressed for the part — at the Walmart where he’d bought the prepaid phone, he had also purchased two changes of clothing. He now wore Levi’s, a warm long-sleeved shirt, and a set of hiking boots.
“Man, I’m really sorry. I got lost hiking the Lead Mountain Pond Trail. It’s getting dark, and when I saw you guys I thought you could steer me straight.”
The fireman seemed to soften.
“Okay, buddy. You must’ve got turned around. Go back down that road; the parking lot for the trailhead is about a mile and a half on your right.”
“Okay, great.” DeBolt then looked over the scene. “What happened here? It looks like a war zone.”
There was a slight hesitation, then, “Bad fire … really bad. The five people who worked here were all trapped inside. None made it out.”
DeBolt held steady, remaining in character. “God, how awful. I never even knew this place was out here. What is it?”
The fireman’s gaze hardened. “Can’t say. Maybe you should get back.”
From fifty feet away, DeBolt studied the building’s wreckage in the fast-dimming light. He saw what looked like an X-ray machine, the support arm melted and misshapen. An IV pole loomed over the charred remains of a bed, the mattress and sheets of which had gone to dust, and a few blackened steel springs poked upward like some kind of junkyard-inspired flora. He said, “It looks like a clinic or something.”
“Sir, I—”
“Hey!” shouted a man from the Crown Vic. “This is a crime scene!” He got out and strode over. He was short and stocky, and wore an FBI windbreaker. “You need to leave!”
DeBolt raised a hand apologetically. “Okay, sorry. I’m on my way.” He turned away and began walking, feeling two sets of eyes on his back. It didn’t matter. He knew what he needed to know.
His steps were steady and methodical, belying his staggering thoughts. Five people … none made it out. A mysterious fire. There could be no doubt — what had happened here was no different from Joan Chandler’s cottage. Evidence destroyed and innocent people killed. He wanted to tell the poor fire inspector it was hopeless. Don’t waste your time; you’ll never find out who’s responsible. Then DeBolt felt a connection on an even deeper level. This was the place he remembered. The muted lights, the needle. The cold that had seized him from within and crawled into his heart. This was where he had been zipped into a plastic body bag.
The place where life as he knew it had ended.
“Look, I’m sorry about your dad, but you can’t just leave!” said Petty Officer James Kalata from across their utilitarian office.
“I can, and I will,” said Lund calmly.
Their desks were arranged to oppose one another, a functional reflection of their strained relationship. One uniform and one civilian, they were both attached to CGIS Northwest Region, and reported to the same person: Special Agent in Charge Jonathan Wheeley in the Seattle district office. Having a boss fourteen hundred miles away was a considerably long leash. Not helping the situation was that when Kalata had first arrived a year ago, he’d immediately started hitting on her. Lund was less than receptive, particularly since Kalata had a wife and three kids less than a mile outside the main gate.
“You need to get approval from Seattle,” he told her.
“I’ll send an email, Jon will understand. My flight is already booked.” Lund had considered making her trip to Boston official business, but for that she would have had to go through channels. The paperwork would take days to process, and given that her evidence was minimal, the request could very possibly be turned down. Something told her Trey DeBolt didn’t have that kind of time. So she’d opted for an emergency leave ploy, explaining that her father in Arizona was ill — a man who was in truth as robust as the Prescott hills he hiked daily.
Kalata finally quit arguing, and he sarcastically wished her a pleasant journey. As Lund was rifling over her desk for documents to take on the flight, her phone rang. She looked at the number guardedly. It wasn’t the one DeBolt had used an hour ago. It was Matt Doran.
“What’s up, Matt?”
“Hi, Shannon. You got a minute?”
“Barely.” Lund heard wind rushing across the microphone of Doran’s phone, a bass static that told her he was outside. “Where are you? You sound like Jim Cantore in a cat five.”
“Yeah, well, that’s why I’m calling. I finally got up the mountain. I’m standing near the top, the spot where William Simmons fell off. I thought you should know there are actually two sets of footprints up here.”
Lund stopped rifling through papers. “Okay.”
“I’m no detective, but I do a little hunting, so I can track pretty well. One set of footprints is definitely Simmons’—when we recovered him I took a picture of the soles of his climbing boots, figuring I’d get a match up higher. I see his prints near the edge, and I think I can even make out where he slid over the side.”
“Can you get pictures of that?”
“Yeah, I’m working on it now. The thing is, all this happened a few days ago and it’s rained a couple of times since. The other set of footprints I’m looking at have the same distortions from the rain. I’m convinced they were made at nearly the same time. His climbing partner told me he never got up this far.”
“Yeah, he told me the same thing — he didn’t think it was safe to go up where Simmons had gone. But even if there is a second set of footprints, Matt, is it a big deal? I mean, other people climb the mountain, right?”
A big rush of wind, then, “This time of year … not so much. And the ledge Simmons was on is pretty tough to reach. I mean, not impossible, but you’d have to know what you’re doing. With that in mind I took a detour south, which is the only other passage up. I picked up the same second set of tracks, and even found a climbing anchor in a crevice — looks like it jammed in place and they couldn’t get it out. I took a picture of that too.”
Lund was silent in thought.
“I dunno, Shannon. This is bugging me. I really think there was somebody else up here that day, somebody who knew how to climb.”
“Okay, I’ll look into it. And send me those pictures when you can.”
“Sure thing.” Another gust of wind.
“And for God’s sake, Matt, be careful up there.”
The call ended, and Lund looked out her office window. It wasn’t much of a view — the side of a hangar and an out-of-service boat sitting on a trailer. Doran’s suspicions might be nothing. There were any number of explanations for what he’d found. But one awkward truth settled in — she hadn’t looked very hard into William Simmons’ death. She’d found out that he had a steady girlfriend named Ashley Routledge, also a Coastie, and Lund had been meaning to talk to her. Then something else registered. The day after the accident she remembered talking to Lieutenant Commander Reggie Walsh, Simmons’ supervising officer, and he’d mentioned that Simmons had inquired about applying for rescue swimmer training. I was going to recommend him too. He was friends with a couple of the ASTs on station, guys who’d been through the program.
Walsh’s words … ASTs on station.
Like Trey DeBolt.
Lund didn’t like the coincidences brewing in her head. In the window’s reflection she caught Kalata staring at her ass. She was as repulsed as ever, but there was a part of her — a very small part — that was encouraged. She’d actually used the treadmill twice this week, and was picking up her pace. Feeling more confident.