The Knoxes’ house was searched with bomb-sniffing dogs and was declared clear within ten minutes. The family was then moved, under cover, back into their home from the tactical room in the rear of the HRT vehicle. It took the bomb disposal technicians forty-five tense minutes of quarantine in their mobile lab to properly analyze the explosive device. When they finally emerged to brief the director on the unit and its capabilities, HRT agents were stationed at various points along the street and around the Knoxes’ house.
The director sat down wearily behind his desk and ran two hands through his damp hair. Melissa and Sylvia had gone to bed, and with the exception of half a dozen security-detail agents, only Haviland and Waller remained inside the house.
“It was a bomb all right,” the explosives expert said. “Very sophisticated, capable of taking down this house and a couple of the neighboring ones with it. But the two detonation-fuse leads weren’t attached.”
“Weren’t attached,” Haviland said. “You mean they came apart?”
“No, they were never together. They were purposely mounted a half inch apart.”
“Another message,” Knox said. His usually well-coiffed hair was disheveled and he had a sagging darkness about his eyes. “That he can do whatever he wants and there’s nothing we can do to protect ourselves.” He shook his head. “I’m tired of running, of being on the defensive.” Knox slammed a fist down on the table. “Damn it, I’ve had enough. We’re going after this son-of-a-bitch.”
Knox went over a few details with Waller and Haviland, then with a wave of a hand bid them good-night. “Go catch whatever sleep you can before the sun’s up,” he told them.
“And can you two give me a few minutes alone?” he asked two of his security-detail agents.
“We’ll be right outside if you need us,” one of them said.
“I’m sure we’ve had all the excitement we’re going to have for a while,” Knox said.
As soon as the door to his study clicked shut, he grabbed for the yellow phone. He punched a few numbers, leaned back in his chair, and rubbed at his eyes with the fingers of his right hand.
“It’s me,” he said after the phone was answered.
“Are you really innocent until proven guilty?”
“That depends. Are we secure?” Hector DeSantos asked.
“Not at the moment. But we’re going to be.”
33
Lauren and Nick Bradley arrived at Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport at six in the morning. They were both exhausted, since neither had slept well during the flight. Lauren’s dream of her father had degenerated into a nightmare, and after that she was unable to fall back to sleep.
They rented a Chevy Malibu and drove to the small Best Western hotel rooms Bradley had reserved for them. The day they arrived, Bradley checked in with some of his contacts, a handful of private investigators and law enforcement people he had come to know over the years. Meanwhile, Lauren visited the mall where Michael had been when he sent her his message. Only a year ago, a simple visit to a mall would have been a devastating experience. Now, however, although her situational anxiety was still present, it was largely manageable.
Lauren had touched the panel of the GlobalNet kiosk and imagined her husband sitting there, his fingers playing across the keyboard, typing out the message that had given her hope and perhaps the will to survive while being held captive.
Lauren then spoke with merchants in each store, small and large, in an attempt to uncover some morsel of information she could add to the puzzle. Due to the number of sales staff and the many shifts and days off, however, she knew her efforts were going to be inefficient and incomplete.
After five hours, her most promising lead was a woman in Dillard’s department store who remembered a man who had stolen a customer’s credit card. When she provided a description that sounded like Michael, Lauren showed her his photo — and received a big nod from the employee. “That’s him, that’s the guy. I have to notify security. They never did catch him.”
Sensing more trouble than it was worth, Lauren stopped the woman as she was reaching for the phone. “I’ll just go to security and tell them myself. I’m sure they’ll have a lot of questions for me.”
The woman directed her to the security office on the lower level. Lauren headed toward the elevator, then abruptly turned and walked out of the store. She called a cab and went back to the hotel, where she waited for Bradley to return.
The following morning, Lauren and Bradley pored over a map and set a course of action for canvassing the surrounding area.
“Isn’t this a long shot?” Lauren asked.
Bradley smiled. “Welcome to the world of private investigation. It’s not easy work, but at least we’ve got a really solid lead. We know he’s here somewhere. If we stick to our plan, we should have some answers in a few days. I’ve put the word out on the street that we’re looking for him, and you’ll be camping out at the mall. Unless he can get on the Internet somewhere else, he’ll have to go back there to see if ‘Just Rose at Hotmail’ wrote him back.”
Lauren agreed that they were at least being proactive, even though she was becoming aware that finding Michael in Washington or Virginia was akin to looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack.
The only encouraging thought was that this particular needle wanted to be found.
34
Payne closed the binder full of condensed notes he and Jonathan Waller had assembled on the Scarponi trial and got ready to head out to the Academy’s dining hall for breakfast.
Although he could not recall what his life had been like before the accident, his existence since then had been filled with indecision, victimization, and defensive actions. This morning, for the first time, he awoke feeling he had control over things. Instead of reacting to events, he could anticipate them, plan responses. And he had a place where he fit in and was respected. Above everything else, he felt wanted, needed.
He felt at home.
A knock at the half-open door shifted Payne’s attention. It was Waller, a black nylon bag slung over his shoulder.
“I thought we weren’t getting together till nine-thirty,” Payne said.
Waller made his way over to the desk. “I brought my laptop. Thought you might want to check for that message before we got started.”
“A man of his word. Thanks.”
Waller set the computer down, plugged it in, and attached the telephone cord. “You remember how to use Windows?”
Payne hesitated. “Start, programs. Yeah, I remember that.” A broad smile creased his face. “I’m not completely helpless.”
“I didn’t know if that stuff had been wiped from your mind along with all your other memories.”
“The doctor said there are different kinds of memory, and things done by rote are handled by a part of the brain that wasn’t affected by the accident. Something like that. That’s why I can remember how to brush my teeth, chew my food, fire my weapon.”
“And operate Windows.”
“Apparently so.” Payne sat down at the desk, found the power switch, and turned on the computer.
Waller yawned. “Oh, man. Long night. I was up till three with Knox.”
“What’s the latest?”
“His daughter was kidnapped and returned several hours later. She’s fine. Stanfield’s still missing. It’s almost a lock Scarponi’s involved.”
“I’m feeling better about my testimony, if that helps at all.”
Waller managed a smile from the left corner of his mouth. “It helps a lot.” He stood up and walked to the door. “I’ll leave you to fool around with that thing. Meantime, I’m gonna go grab some breakfast. Meet me there when you’re done.”