“I’ll make a call and see what I can find out.”
Harper did not look mollified in the least by this offer. “Nothing against you, Devine, I know you’re just doing your job. But I sure as hell wish you’d never shown up in Putnam.”
Yeah, well, I’m feeling the same way, thought Devine.
He left Harper and walked to his cottage. Which was occupied.
Two men who screamed National Security were waiting for him. Plain suits, plain shoes, plain ties, uniform haircuts, unreadable expressions. One was tall and basketball player lean, the other medium height with some iron-pumping heft to his frame.
“Agent Mann,” said the shorter fellow, indicating himself. “And Agent Saxon,” he added, with a nod to his colleague.
They showed their creds. They were members of a little-known agency that was right at the heart of the country’s most stalwart defenses against enemies, both foreign and domestic, and their very presence made Devine tense.
“We need a detailed statement from you,” said Mann.
“Can I ask one thing first?”
“Sure, what?”
“How’d you access my room?”
Mann looked at Saxon and then turned back to Devine. “Our badges prompted the landlady to open sesame with her master key.”
“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”
“We’re on the same team,” said Saxon in a voice that was as drawn out as his frame.
“So everyone keeps telling me. But at the end of the day I think we’re all engaged in an individual sport.”
“Take it up with a government shrink to get your head on straight,” snapped Mann. “Your statement?”
“Have you looped in Campbell?”
“We’re actually here at his behest. Your boss carries a lot of horsepower in our world.”
“I’m sure.”
He spent the next five minutes recounting everything from the moment of his abduction to his running out of the house only to find the tires shot out on the SUV. He did not tell them about spending the night at Alex Silkwell’s art studio.
“So where have you been since then?” asked Saxon, apparently reading Devine’s mind. “We checked here hours ago. You didn’t sleep in this room.”
“No. It didn’t appear to be a safe place.”
“So where did you go?”
“Somewhere else. And why does that matter to you? I’m alive, right, to tell you what happened. So why don’t you reciprocate by telling me who it was who snatched me?”
Mann looked at Saxon, who shrugged. He said, “We don’t know.”
“Bullshit,” said Devine.
“We got the bodies, sure. We have printed them and nothing came up on any database we put them into. We got their DNA and we’re running that, too, on priority, but so far, squat.”
Saxon said, “Not so surprising, Devine. They appear to be international muscle for hire. They might never have been arrested, at least in this country, or in any other country that reports to the international-bad-guy clouds we use. We’re circulating pictures in various places hoping for a hit.”
“No ID on them?”
“None.”
“They had to get into the country somehow,” Devine pointed out.
Saxon said, “They could have done it under aliases and then dumped the fake IDs. They clearly took into account that their mission could go sideways and brought nothing that we could use to trace them when they snatched you. We’re checking camera feeds at all major points of entry, but it’s slow going.”
“The SUV?”
“Rented under a shell company with a fake ID and stolen credit card that our tech people tell us was of the very first order.”
Mann fixed him with a pointed stare that had much behind it, Devine could tell.
“So the question becomes: Why target you?” Mann said.
“Have you talked to Campbell about that?”
“No, but we’re talking to you right now. We know about Jenny Silkwell. I actually worked on a joint task force with her back in the day.”
“Any leads on her murder?” interjected Saxon.
“I’ve only been working this case a short while.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“No leads.”
“You think these people were here to stop you investigating the Silkwell case?”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“What other reason?” asked Mann.
“Take it up with Campbell. It’s not for me to say.”
“We will.”
“There was another vehicle, and I heard a woman’s voice. Anything on that?”
Saxon shrugged. “Not yet. We have BOLOs out but not much to go on. I would imagine they’re long gone by now.”
“Or hiding in plain sight,” noted Devine.
“In this Podunk place?” said Mann.
“This Podunk place has a lot of newcomers from all over.”
“What’s the attraction?” Saxon wanted to know.
“Lower cost of living for those who can work remotely and wanted to get out from being around millions of people.”
Saxon nodded thoughtfully. “COVID changed a lot.”
“In some ways it changed everything,” replied Devine.
He stood and Saxon said, “Where are you going?”
“Back to work.”
“With people gunning for you?”
“Assuming a fetal position is not an option. And when you’re in combat the mission comes before personal safety, at least they taught me that in the Army.”
“Four-one-one, Devine: You’re not in combat anymore,” growled Saxon.
“Could’ve fucking fooled me,” replied Devine as he walked out.
Chapter 32
Devine drove to a place he’d already been, twice. And this time he was not leaving without answers, truthful ones.
Earl Palmer answered the door. He looked pale and ill, thought Devine. His white sweater was stained and his pants drooped off his skinny hips and shriveled glutes.
“You okay, Mr. Palmer?” asked Devine, genuinely concerned about him.
“Yeah, yeah, just a twelve-hour bug. I’m getting over it. What do you want?”
“To ask you some more questions.”
His expression lapsed into a scowl. “Look, son, I’ve told you all I know.”
“Never hurts to go over it again. And I’d like you to go somewhere with me if you feel up to it.”
“Where?” said Palmer guardedly.
“To where you found the body.”
Palmer shook his head. “I don’t want to go back there. Almost had a heart attack.”
“Please, Mr. Palmer, it won’t take long. I’ll drive you and bring you right back here.”
“What else can—”
“I’m sure you believe that Jenny deserves justice.”
The old man stared at him, his white tufts of eyebrows twitching like he’d been mildly shocked. “Let me get my coat and stick.”
After Earl had been helped into the SUV, they drove in silence until Devine said, “I understand that your wife taught Alex Silkwell to be an artist?”
“Bertie taught lots of folks. But with Alex, she said it was different.”
“How so?” asked Devine. He wasn’t just making small talk, he wanted to know if only to help him better understand the youngest Silkwell.
“Bertie said some folks are born to do what they do. Write, draw — hell, fish for lobster, whatever. She said Alex would’ve been an artist with or without her. Bertie just happened to be there to help the girl along.”
“She has a studio out back like your wife did at your house.”
Palmer stared out at a sky that didn’t seem to be able to make up its mind: remain calm or turn stormy.