Which meant no suspect.
He jogged up the stairs to the apartment, a tiny studio on the third floor of the building. Even without a suspect, it didn’t take much to see that they’d hit pay dirt. He was careful not to touch anything—the apartment was lacking in most normal amenities, instead had a long, low desk along the wall, and a hard wooden chair, that was all. A dark-haired man was gingerly pushing a few things around on the desk with a pencil. Fletcher assumed it must be bomb-building equipment. It certainly wasn’t the leftovers of someone’s dinner.
“Jesus. What is all that?”
One of the SWAT men looked at Fletcher. “Sir? Do you have clearance?”
“Darren Fletcher, Metro Homicide, attached to the JTTF. Yes, I do. What do we have here?”
“Ah, Fletcher. Heard of you. I’m Brandt, lead explosives technician. Looks like someone was cooking acetone peroxide. If you look around you’ll see some nails, tacks, steel ball bearings and a few leftover canisters. I’d say we have someone carrying a bunch of explosives out there. He built his bombs here and God knows where he is now.”
THURSDAY
Chapter 32
Dillon, Colorado
Dr. Samantha Owens
Sunlight streamed in the windows, making the room glow with early-morning luster.
Sam smelled bleach and felt the unfamiliar bedclothes as she rolled over, and panicked for a moment, then remembered where she was. At Xander’s house.
The bed was empty, devoid of her reason for being here, but she smelled the delicious scent of bacon wafting up from the lower level, and hurried from the bed. The wood floor was warm under her bare feet. Clothes were stacked in a roughly hewn armoire. Sam looked at it in appreciation. Xander had told her his parents made everything they used, and had built everything in the house themselves, from floor studs to furniture. Sam had seen similar armoires in magazines, rustic old things that people were desperate to buy that reminded them of simpler times. She’d bet if they wanted to sell the piece it would fetch upward of $5,000.
She jumped in the shower, then investigated the clothes, which were surprisingly cute: a sundress made of soft nubbly hemp in burgundy, a lightweight tan wool cardigan, and underwear that she was convinced must have been made of freshly spun wool, as soft and fine as cashmere. Obviously Xander’s mom or his sister was about her size, because everything fit perfectly. These were a bit louder than her normal earthy hues, but beggars can’t be choosers. She slipped her feet into her loafers, happy to see that the neutral tan leather matched the sweater, so she looked quite put together, even if she wore another’s clothes.
It had been past midnight when they arrived at the farm in Dillon. The lights were burning but there was a note on the kitchen table— “You must be exhausted. Help yourself to the plates in the fridge. See you in the morning.”
Sam had been momentarily stung that they hadn’t waited up, then reminded herself how tired she was, and realized it was probably a good thing she didn’t have to put on a show because she was not at her best. The upset bled away and she recognized what a kind gesture Xander’s parents had made in letting them arrive without a fuss.
There had been cold meats and fruit on the plates, some homemade goat cheese, flaxseed wheat bread, and of course, a small pottery flagon of the promised dandelion wine. Sam skipped it. They wolfed down the meal and headed to bed and Sam was asleep before her head hit the pillow.
Now rested and steeled for the event ahead, she was going to be fed again, which was good, because she was starving. She glanced in the mirror, gave her hair one last fluff. She was too old to be intimidated by meeting her boyfriend’s parents, but she was just the tiniest bit nervous. She wanted them to like her, for Xander’s sake as much as her own. The last time she’d met someone’s parents she’d been twenty-four and in medical school at Georgetown. A lifetime ago.
With a final smoothing of her skirt and twist of her hands, she headed down the stairs toward the delicious scents of her breakfast, recognizing she was walking into her future for the first time in years.
*
The three Whitfields had their backs to her as she descended the stairs, giving Sam a moment to appreciate the beauty of the house and the setting. The A-frame was in the alpine style; she descended into an open great room with a massive peaked two-story bank of windows overlooking the mountains and the pasture below. She was assailed by colors, a hundred shades of greens complemented by the pinks, purples, blues and yellows of the wildflowers, set off by the blatant cobalt sky dotted with cottony clouds and the browns of the woods. The windows were so clear it seemed there was nothing holding her back from reaching out into the open air. No one could have painted a prettier picture.