Point of Origin

'Who took care of his horses when he was out of town?' I asked.

'We don't know,' McGovern said.

'I'd like the farrier's name and number,' I said.

'No problem. Kurt?' she said to one of her investigators.

'Sure. I got it.' He flipped pages in a spiral notebook, his young hands big and rough from years of work.

McGovern grabbed bright blue helmets out of another compartment and began tossing them around as she reminded individuals of their assignments.

'Lucy, Robby, Frank, Jennifer, you're in the hole with me. Bill, you're general assignment, and Mick's going to help him, since this is Bill's first NRT.'

'Lucky you.'

'Ohhh, a virgin.'

'Give me a break, man,' said the agent named Bill. 'It's my wife's fortieth birthday. She'll never speak to me again.'

'Rusty's in charge of the truck,' McGovern resumed. 'Marino and the doc are here as needed.'

'Had Sparkes been receiving any threats?' Marino asked, because it was his job to think murder.

'You know about as much as we do at this point,' the fire investigator named Robby said.

'What's this about this alleged witness?' I asked.

'We got that through a telephone call,' he explained. 'A male, he wouldn't leave his name, and it was an out-of-the-area call, so we got no idea. Got no idea if it's legit.'

'But he said he heard the horses as they were dying,' I persisted.

'Yeah. Screaming like humans.'

'Did he explain how he might have been close enough to have heard that?' I was getting upset again.

'Said he saw the fire from the distance and drove in for a closer look. Says he watched for maybe fifteen minutes and then got the hell out of Dodge when he heard the fire trucks.'

'Now I didn't know that and it bothers me,' Marino said ominously. 'What he's saying is consistent with the response time. And we know how much these squirrels like to hang around and watch their fires burn. Got any idea about race?'

'I didn't talk to him more than thirty seconds,' Robby answered. 'But he had no discernible accent. Was soft-spoken and very calm.'

There was silence for a pause as everyone processed their disappointment in not knowing who this witness was, or if he had been genuine. McGovern went on with her roster of who was doing what this day.

'Johnny Kostylo, our beloved ASAC in Philly, will be working the media and local bigwigs, like the mayor of Warrenton, who's already been calling because he doesn't want his town to look bad.'

She glanced up from her clipboard, scanning our faces.

'One of our auditors is on his way,' she went on. 'And Pepper will be showing up shortly to help us out.'

Several agents whistled their appreciation of Pepper the arson dog.

'And thankfully, Pepper doesn't hit on alcohol.' McGovern put her own helmet on. 'Because there's about a thousand gallons of bourbon out here.'

'We know anything more about that?' Marino asked. 'We know if Sparkes might have been making or selling the stuff? I mean, that's a hell of a lot of hooch for one guy.'

'Apparently Sparkes was a collector of the finer things in life,' McGovern spoke of Sparkes as if he were certainly dead. 'Bourbon, cigars, automatic firearms, expensive horses. We don't know how legal he was, which is one of the reasons why youze guys are here instead of the Feebs.'

'Hate to tell you, but the Feebs are already sniffing around. Wanting to know what they can do to help.'

'Aren't they sweet.'

'Maybe they can show us what to do.'

'Where are they?' McGovern asked.

'In a white Suburban about a mile down the road. Three of 'em hanging out in their FBI flak jackets. They're already talking to the media.'

'Shit. Wherever there are cameras.'

There were groans and derisive laughter directed at the Feebs, which was what ATF rudely called the FBI. It was no secret that the two federal agencies were not fond of each other, and that the FBI routinely appropriated credit when it was not always due.

'Speaking of pains in the ass,' another agent spoke up, 'the Budget Motel doesn't take AmEx, boss. We're going through the heels of our boots, and we're supposed to use our own credit cards?'

'Plus, room service quits at seven.'

'It stinks anyway.'

'Any chance we can move?'

'I'll take care of it,' McGovern promised.

'That's why we love you so much.'

A bright red fire engine rumbled up the unpaved road, churning dust and small rocks, as help arrived to begin draining water from the scene. Two firefighters in turnout gear and high rubber boots climbed down and briefly conferred with McGovern before uncoiling one-and-three-quarter-inch hoses attached to filters. These they draped over their shoulders and dragged inside the mansion's stone shell and dropped them into the water in four different locations. They returned to the truck and set heavy portable Prosser pumps on the ground and plugged extension cords into the generator. Soon the noise of engines got very loud, and hoses swelled as dirty water gushed through them and over grass.

I gathered heavy canvas fire gloves and a turn-out coat and adjusted the size of my helmet. Then I began cleaning my faithful Red Wing boots, sloshing them through tubs of sudsy cold tap water that seeped through old leather tongues and soaked the laces. I had not thought to wear silk underwear beneath my BDUs because it was June. That had been a mistake. Winds were now strong and from the north, and every drop of moisture seemed to lower my body temperature another degree. I hated being cold. I hated not trusting my hands, because they were either stiff or heavily gloved. McGovern headed toward me as I blew on my fingertips and fastened my heavy turn-out coat up to my chin.

'It's going to be a long day,' she said with a shiver. 'What happened to summer?'

'Teun, I'm missing my vacation for you. You are destroying my personal life.' I gave her a hard time.

'At least you have either.' McGovern started cleaning her boots, too.

Teun was really an odd hybrid of the initials T. N., which stood for something Southern-awful such as Tina Nola, or so I had been told. For as long as I had been on the NRT, she had been Teun, and so that was what I called her. She was capable and divorced. She was firm and fit, her bone structure and gray eyes compelling. McGovern could be fierce. I had seen her anger flash over like a room in flames, but she could also be generous and kind. Her special gift was arson, and it was legend that she could intuit the cause of a fire simply by hearing a description of the scene.

I worked on two pairs of latex gloves as McGovern scanned the horizon, her eyes staying a long time on the blackened pit with its shell of standing granite. I followed her gaze to scorched stables, and in my mind heard screams and panicked hooves battering stalls. For an instant my throat constricted. I had seen the raw, clawed hands of people buried alive, and the defense injuries of victims who struggled with their killers. I knew about life fighting not to die, and I could not bear the vivid footage playing in my mind.

'Goddamn reporters.' McGovern stared up at a small helicopter flying low overhead.

It was a white Schweizer with no identification or mounted cameras I could see. McGovern stepped forward and boldly pointed out every member of the media within five miles.

'That van there,' she let me know. 'Radio, some local-yokel FM dial with a celebrity talent named Jezebel who tells moving stories about life and her crippled son and his three-legged dog named Sport. And another radio over there. And that Ford Escort over that way is some fucking son-of-a-bitch newspaper. Probably some tabloid out of D.C. Then we got the Post.' She pointed at a Honda. 'So look out for her. She's the brunette with legs. Can you imagine wearing a skirt out here? Probably thinks the guys will talk to her. But they know better, unlike the Feebs.'

She backed up and grabbed a handful of latex gloves from inside the supertruck. I dug my hands deeper into the pockets of my BDUs. I had gotten used to McGovern's diatribes about the biased, mendacious media, and I barely listened.