Lucas crawled over to her, and asked, “Where?”
She said, “Leg,” and grabbed her left leg below her butt. And when she took her hand away, it was red with blood.
Moy was still standing, staring, and Lucas shouted, “She’s in the woods. Get some guys out there—the night vision guy. And we need an ambulance—right now.”
Chase was staring up at him, eyes full of pain, and she groaned, and Bob dropped to his knees beside her and dug into a pocket and came out with his Leatherman tool, and he flicked out a blade. He said to Lucas, “Roll her over, I’ll cut her jeans.”
They rolled her over, and Chase groaned again louder. Bob cut a slit up the back of her jeans, and two more at right angles, until he could peel the denim back and they could see the wound. The shot had gone in through the back of the leg and come out the front, just missing the bone. The wound was bleeding heavily.
Bob, as calm as he might have been addressing the Kiwanis Club, said to Lucas, “Through and through. Not pulsing.”
Chase asked through clenched teeth, “Am I gonna be okay?”
Bob said, “Yes. But it’s gonna hurt, both now and later. Believe me, I know.”
A fed came running through the door with a first-aid kit the size of a suitcase, knelt beside Chase, and popped open the lid. “I’m gonna plug the holes, put pressure on the wound.”
Lucas patted Chase once on the shoulder, and said to Bob, “Clear the house. Let these guys take care of her.”
Rae took the left wing, Bob took the right, Lucas went straight ahead into the kitchen. He stopped halfway in. What? What was it? Out the kitchen window, he could see high-powered LED flashlights playing through the woods and hear the plaintive wail of sirens. The sirens were too clear, this far back in the house, and he moved through the kitchen and found the back door standing open. She’d run through there into the dark, he thought.
Maybe.
He spent five minutes working through the back of the house, joined by one of the feds. When it was cleared out, Moy came up, and said, “We’ve got the streets covered, but it’s harder than hell to see anything in the dark and the rain. It’s been twelve minutes. If she made it out to a road, she could be a mile away.”
“Gotta keep looking,” Lucas said. “We don’t know if these were executions or a gunfight. She could be wounded.”
Moy was doubtful. “Haven’t seen any blood except from the dead guys.”
“Gotta look anyway . . . think about the after-action report. If you don’t do everything, they’ll be on you like a hot sweat.”
“Ah, shit. I’ll push the search,” Moy said. “I’ll do everything. Get the crime scene team down here.”
* * *
—
LUCAS WALKED through the kitchen again, stood by the back door, looking out into the trees and at the flashlights searching through them.
Rae came up to him. “House is cleared.”
“Where’s Bob?”
Bob called, “Right here,” and he came through the arched doorway from the front room. “What are we doing? I could go out to the roads . . .”
Lucas shook his head. “I missed something. I saw something when I came into the kitchen, and it was important, but I don’t see it anymore. Look around . . . What do you see?”
The two of them looked carefully but saw nothing relevant. Lucas went back out of the kitchen and then walked back in, looking for whatever he’d seen the first time, but, again, he didn’t see it.
A minute later, an ambulance pulled into the driveway, and two EMTs hustled through the door. They looked at the FBI man’s first-aid work, pronounced it good, and lifted Chase onto a gurney.
Pale as a piece of computer paper, she saw Lucas, licked her lips, said, “They told me I’ll be okay.”
“Maybe better than that,” Lucas said. “A guy told me once that an FBI agent shot in a firefight gets extra career points.”
She revealed the tiniest of smiles, said, her voice rasping and near a whisper, “It’s absolutely ridiculous to be thinking about that . . . but I already did.”
Lucas gave her arm a squeeze, and the EMTs took her out.
* * *
—
WITHIN A HALF HOUR of the shooting, thirty local cops were combing the woods and stopping cars within five miles of the Douglas house.
Lucas told the local chief of police: “She came in a car that’s still out in the driveway, and she ran out through the trees. She’s either holed up in the woods, getting hypothermia; or she cracked a house, killed the owners, and has taken their car; or she hijacked a car on the street, killed the driver. If she got a car, she’s god-knows-where by now.”
“We’re looking with everything we’ve got,” the chief said.
Rae had gone out in the woods with the searchers, came back soaking wet. “Nothing. You figured out what you missed yet?”
“No. I keep going back to look but don’t see it anymore, whatever it was.”
“Maybe a brain fart,” Bob suggested.
“Don’t think so. It felt too real.”
* * *
—
AT TWO O’CLOCK in the morning, the police chief told Lucas, “We might have a problem. There’s an old guy here who said his wife went out to a grocery store sometime after nine-thirty and she hasn’t come back. He can’t get her on her phone.”
“Ah, Jesus. She’s gone, she’s dead,” Lucas said.
“Don’t tell me that,” the cop said. “Please don’t tell me that.”
* * *
—
THE THREE MARSHALS were on the scene until four in the morning, until there was nothing more to see or say, and the FBI crime scene crew told them to go. There were still cops in the woods, and they’d be there through the next day, the chief said. There was no sign of the old woman or her car.
Lucas got Russell Forte out of bed to tell him what had happened.
“Oh my God,” Forte said, and a woman’s voice in the background demanded, “What happened? What happened? Is Sara okay?”
They agreed to talk the next morning.
* * *
—
LUCAS, BOB, AND RAE were halfway back to Washington, and the after-shooting was setting in. Bob was nearly asleep in the back, Rae was glassy-eyed in the passenger seat, when Lucas braked and pulled the Evoque to the side of the road.
He shifted into park, put his hands on the steering wheel at ten and two o’clock, and leaned his forehead against the wheel. Rae asked, “What? What? You okay?” echoed by Bob in the back, “What’s going on?”
“I figured out what I didn’t see in the kitchen. I didn’t see a fuckin’ thing,” Lucas said.
“What?”
“I smelled it,” he said.
Rae: “What?”
“When I was investigating Taryn Grant back in the Twin Cities, I interviewed her several times, and one time got in her bedroom after she was robbed . . . Well, never mind about that. Anyway, she uses a heavy scent, a perfume called Black Orchid. Kind of funky. I got a whiff of it when I ran into the kitchen, Just a whiff, but I know I’m right.”
“You’re saying . . .”
“That wasn’t Wendy in there. That was Taryn Grant. She killed them all. Everybody who could take her down.”
* * *
—
BOB AND RAE DIDN’T QUITE BUY IT.
“There was the smell of the gunpowder—that’s what I noticed—and the smell of blood. And the odors from the forest outside. And then Chase got shot . . . It’d be impossible to pick out a dab of perfume,” Rae said. “I mean, I’m wearing perfume and I can’t even smell myself.”
“I smelled it,” Lucas said.
“Even if you did, a jury would never convict,” Bob said. “It’s useless as evidence.”
“Ah, you’re right, you’re right,” Lucas said.
“We need some sleep,” Rae said. “Let’s get some sleep and think about it in the morning.”
“You are correct about one thing, Lucas,” Bob said.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. That old lady is dead.”
30
Forte called early, eight o’clock, and the first thing he said was, “They found the old lady about thirty feet from the end of her driveway, under a bush. Your shooter, Suzie—whatever her name is—apparently flagged her down as she was coming out. Shot her in the face.”
“It wasn’t Suzie,” Lucas said. “It was Taryn Grant.”