Then he looked at his PDA, checking the list. He slowly scrolled through and then came to a halt when he spotted what he was half-afraid, half-hoping he would find.
He reached into his shirt pocket, peeling back the Velcro close. He pulled out a cell phone, a sleek black model with a surprisingly thick, stubby antenna as wide as a cigar and a quarter as long.
Changing programs on the PDA to his contacts list, he scrolled through the names in his address book and then dialed a local number as he saw the contact he needed. He waited while it rang, his eyes shifting down the beach to the east, where the article said the girl had been found.
“Jimmy, this is Mac,” he began as a cautious voice answered. “The girl at the Florabama?”
He listened for a moment, and cut in. “Any signs of sexual assault?”
The reply was short and negative.
“Someone she knew?”
The frown deepened as he received his second negative response.
“Anything of note at the crime scene?”
As soon as he received the third negative from the sheriff he curtly thanked his source and ended the connection. Then he dialed a special 6 digit entry, accessing the phone’s satellite link. There was a series of beeps as the signal was relayed through a secure MILSTAR communications satellite, frequency hopped to avoid interception, and scrambled to avoid decryption if someone did manage to intercept, before the signal finally down-linked. Two tones sounded and he spoke quickly.
“Auxiliary Two-Six-Four here. I’ve got a female KIA. Nineteen. Name Caliegh Roberts. No sexual assault. No known associates. The name is on the list. Drowned in a foot of water. No on sight evidence. Very clean kill. Very brutal.”
He cut the connection, put the phone back in the pocket and pulled the next paper out to continue reading while he waited. He’d spent twenty-five years working in the CIA. Less than two months after his retirement, a man had shown up at his house and offered him the job of being in the Auxiliary. Boredom had about driven the old man crazy within two months and he readily accepted.
The Satphone buzzed and he answered. “Yes?”
The voice on the other end was female, but not feminine. All business. “Was there anything left at the murder site? Specifically a piece of paper?”
“No one reported it. I’ll check on it.”
“Do that.”
The man called his contacts in the sheriff’s department and then the State Police. All reported back negative about any paper being left at the murder scene. He dialed his contact number and reported that.
Satisfied he had done his duty, he stood up, closing his folding chair and turned to head back to his car. But then he paused and looked once more down the beach in the direction the murder had taken place and felt a chill crawl over his skin despite the bright sun. A predator had been in the area during the night — a trained predator, the worst kind of all.
Golden walked into Sam Cranston’s familiar apartment just off post of Fort Bragg in Fayetteville, North Carolina. Every piece of furniture was the same. Same masculine decorating, but the room felt different. Maybe it was the crowd of dark-suited men who she presumed were agents, or the stink of cigarette smoke. She felt truly out of place. Then Sam saw her and waved her toward him. Golden hoped she didn’t look as surprised at his appearance as she really was. Sam looked terrible. She was enough of a doctor to recognize he was in shock. He didn’t smoke, as far as she remembered, but the smoke apparently came from him. He was grinding a butt into an overflowing ashtray. Golden had always wondered how nicotine had become the ubiquitous calming agent. The English made you a nice cup of tea. But in America, it was ‘here have something deadly. It will make you feel better.’
She sank down onto the couch next to Sam, and put her arms around him. At first he felt stiff and unyielding, but as she held him tight, she could feel his shoulders start to loosen and then the deep spasms as he began to cry. The man she presumed Sam had been talking to before she entered the room, looked at her with dismay. An uneasy mood settled into the room — real men don’t cry, she thought. But real men rarely faced having their daughter taken.
“Who are you?” As the agent said it, he pulled out his ID fast enough to let her know that he was new to the job. She had noticed that so far she had not had to show her ‘NSA’ card to anyone, nor had Gant offered his identification up to anyone.
Gant stood just inside the doorway of the apartment, a silent presence and she noted that once more no one asked him who he was or why he was here the same way none of the FBI people at the lake had gone up to him. They’d spent several hours in Kentucky before making the trip back to Memphis and then flying in to Pope Air Force Base in the wee hours of the morning, adjacent to Fort Bragg. During that time Gant hadn’t said a word and Golden had spent the time looking at her computer screen, trying to draw up long buried theories and writing.
Golden continued to hold Sam as he cried. She looked around Sam’s head and shushed the man she now knew was a Special Agent. She could tell that he wasn’t pleased, but he acquiesced by turning and searching for someone to speak to. Golden returned her attention to Sam and held him until the worst had passed. He straightened and leaned over to grab a couple of tissues. She ran her fingers through his hair. Even when she had seen him right out of bed, it had never appeared so askew. “It will be all right,” Golden said, the words feeling as weak as they sounded.
He looked at her. “Thanks for coming. I was surprised when they said you would be here. You know, with your son and everything else that’s happened. Seeing you now, I’m glad that you did.”
“I’m glad I’m here.” She looked around the room and wished they had more privacy. “What are all these people doing here?” She noted that Gant had drifted closer, listening.
“Standard procedure,” Sam said. “The FBI says there’s a good chance this could be for ransom. Goddamn.” He covered his face with hands displaying a fine tremor. “But I’ve got nothing, I’m not rich. I’m just an Army colonel. Why would someone do this?”
“Sam, tell me what did they say to you?”
He kept his hands over his face as if the words needed a guide to escort them out of his mouth. “She was at the beach, you know- spring break. She was there with three of her friends, and they were staying in a condo. The last night, Emily got tired and wanted to go back to the condo. Bitches. They let her go by herself. When they got back to the condo, they couldn’t get in. Emily had the key. Then they noticed her car wasn’t there. Luckily one of them had my number from Emily and called me. I had to raise hell to get the cops to investigate. I knew she wouldn’t disappear like that. They had to drive back to school that day.”
Golden did think that was extremely lucky. She could see the cops getting real worried about a twenty-one year old missing from Spring Break. “What about the witnesses?”
“There were two kids. They saw Emily in the parking lot. They said she was alone walking to her car.” His voice trailed off, as he turned to look at Gant. “Who are you?”
“Jack Gant.”
Golden was surprised as Sam stood, gathering himself, putting out his hand. “Geez, you were in the Ranger Battalion, weren’t you, back in ’93? Mogadishu?”
Gant simply nodded. “Yeah.”
“Bad time.”
“Yeah.”
“Why are you here?” Sam asked. Then it seemed to sink in and he glanced at Golden. “Why are you here? What’s going on?”
“There won’t be a ransom,” Gant said.
Smooth, thought Golden, real smooth and subtle. She shot a dagger look at Gant but he ignored it.