She seemed about to ask more but read the warning in my eyes. There were lines no one was allowed to cross.
Engel cleared his throat. “We’re happy to have your help, Agent McConnell. You’ll be leading CARD?”
She rose. “Call me Mac, please. And yes, I’m the lead on CARD, at least for the moment. If we don’t find Lucy within twenty-four hours, they’ll send someone from LA.” At our expressions, she added, “It’s about protocol, not experience. I spent six years working CARD in Alabama and Texas. Had a ninety-five percent recovery rate. So I’m not unfamiliar with the process. Just tell me what assistance you would like. My team is at your disposal.”
“Appreciate it,” Cohen said. “Right now I want the door-to-door manpower. Checking the registered sex offenders, looking at other potential suspects, running backgrounds. We’re setting up a hotline and could use some bodies on that. And we’ll take whatever specific suggestions your team can offer on how to conduct our search.”
“We’re happy to follow through on the RSOs. Although, as I’m sure you know, that’s usually a dead end. We can help with your tip line and we’ll handle any leads from the Amber Alert hotline—we’ll let you know about the ones that aren’t obviously cranks.” Her phone buzzed. She glanced at it, then slid it back in her pocket. “We can also craft the media announcements, since that’s usually considered a shit job the police are happy to hand over.”
Engel swallowed a smile. “Good.”
“What about a cell phone? Did Lucy have one?”
Cohen shook his head. “We’re still working to pull phone records, but according to friends of the family, she didn’t have her own.”
McConnell turned to me. “Give us a rundown of this morning?”
I went through what I’d told Cohen. All three agents asked a lot of questions; Ritland and Wyman were especially interested in what I’d seen before the bomb went off. They asked about the wire and whether I’d seen any kind of timer. I told them about the bag and the other wires.
“Trip wire and a remote?” Ritland said to Wyman.
“Or a delay of some kind,” Wyman said.
“So no chance Lucy was in that kiln?” McConnell asked.
“Clyde would have let me know.”
She nodded, her gaze going to the vast sweep of the cement factory. “Then unless forensics tells us otherwise, we’ll proceed under the assumption that Lucy was taken away from the site.”
Ritland was watching the bomb techs. “We brought a digital fingerprint scanner. As long as the bodies weren’t atomized, we can probably get enough of a print to run an immediate check.”
“Let’s talk to the crime scene guys,” Engel said. “See what we’ve got.”
Static burst in my ear. Dispatch. I excused myself and walked a short distance away.
“Parnell,” I said. “Go ahead.”
“The police are almost ready to unhook the fouled train. The operating crew is standing by for your go-ahead.”
“Roger that,” I said. “Tell them I’ll be there in twenty.”
I walked back to where the others were still talking. “I’ve got to return to the first scene.”
“I’ll radio one of the units to drive you back,” Engel said.
“Since this is train related, I assume you’ll be part of the inter-agency task force,” McConnell said to me.
For just a second, I hesitated. I’d lost something important when that bomb went off and maybe walking away wasn’t how I’d get it back. Then again, walking away might be the smartest thing I could do. For me and the investigation. A good Marine knows when one man’s weakness can bring down the entire team.
“You want my boss,” I said. “Deputy John Mauer. He’s collecting information now.”
McConnell nodded as if she expected no different. I thought I saw a flicker of disappointment in Ritland’s eyes. Well, one thing you could say about fobbits—our survival rate didn’t suck. We shook hands again and I headed toward the line of patrol cars to catch a ride back to the first crime scene. Then, at a thought, I spun back around.
“Agent McConnell,” I said. “What do you think the chances are we’ll find her?”
McConnell removed her sunglasses. Her left eye was severely bruised, a ring of blue and purple that went all the way around, turning the socket into a deep pool. Seeing her injury was like finding a crack in a perfect piece of glass. But I guess you never know anyone’s story.
“This one will be tough,” she said. “Our killer is organized. Thorough.”
To the west, the sky had turned black with threat, smaller clouds churning fast across a gray canopy. The air crackled with the tang of ozone and spats of rain slapped the ground. A sudden wind whipped through the grasses and I caught my cap before the wind could take it.
I said, “But still, ninety-five percent likely, right? Like you said.”
She looked at me a moment longer. “Right.” She turned away as if to say something to Ritland.
A cold and frightened voice inside me made me call her back, even though I knew better than to ask. “Of that ninety-five percent, how many of the kids were still alive?”
Something dark swam into her eyes—something I recognized from my own gaze when I looked in the mirror. Madeline McConnell was haunted. I’d bet on it.
“How many were alive?” I asked again.
Her eyes stayed steady on mine. “Most,” she said, “were not.”
The wind pulled up the dust in the road, gathered it in a fist, and hurled it at the world.
CHAPTER 5
Some cultures believe true wisdom is attained only through suffering—that our pain allows us to cross the void between the living and the dead and bring back knowledge. Thus, veterans are lauded as having special insight.
But in other times and places, warriors fresh from combat are named unclean and kept from society until ritual can make them pure again.
In America, I don’t think we’ve decided which of these two views we hold. Most often we see the traumatized as merely weak. When our veterans struggle, they are pitied. Or ignored.
—Sydney Parnell, ENGL 2008, Psychology of Combat.
I stepped out of the patrol car into the bucketing rain. I opened the rear door for Clyde, then leaned back in. A sheet of rain came with me.
“Sorry about the mud,” I said to the officer.
“Been worse back there.” His eyes met mine through the steel-mesh barrier. “Try not to drown in the storm.”