There was a pause.
Something’s going on, Gaia thought suddenly. It was like the sheriff and the ME were waiting for something. It was a very strange perception—Gaia knew that she could be imagining it.
We’re missing something.
Gaia racked her brains. What could they be missing? They had the photographs, they had seen the naked body—
Oh.
“Can we see the boy’s clothes?” Gaia asked.
The ME looked at her. Was it her imagination, or were his eyes twinkling, as if the actor was suppressing a smile? She couldn’t be sure.
“Right this way,” Dr. Pietro told them. “I’ve got them set up for you.”
Will
Okay, I admit it—this is much harder than it looks.
The strange thing about that is, in my experience nothing is as hard as it looks. The first time I saw a man hit a home run, when I was just ten and Uncle Casper took me to a ball game, I thought, That’s absolutely awesome. There’s no way I could ever do that. But I turned out to be wrong.
In college it happened all the time—I benefited from the same simple lesson I’d learned when I was a kid. The world is full of people who tell you what you can’t do. But there aren’t that many people telling you what you can do. So you just have to tell yourself.
I’ve made it pretty far on that principle. “You’ve made your best time,” the track coach would tell me. “You can’t get any faster.” And I’d think, How do you know? I’ll bet I can.
Or my knack for seeing things. Growing up, the joke about me was that you could never throw me a surprise party—I’d always pick up on what was going on. No matter how subtle everyone tried to be, how they tried to fake me out, they never could. I’d notice the balloon-store bag in the trash or my aunt’s car parked way down the street and the jig was up. Eventually people would challenge me—“Hey, Will, I’ll bet you five bucks you didn’t see where I put my car keys”—but they’d always lose.
“You’ll never make it into the FBI,” Casper told me when I was home this past Christmas. He was sitting on the porch drinking a Jack Daniels, which he still does exactly twice a year. The farm smells were rolling in across the fields, like they always do whenever I’m home. And Casper was holding forth on the subject of government agencies.
“It’s all a big club,” Casper lectured, sipping his drink. I like to think my dad would lecture me the way Uncle Casper does if he was around. “All Yankees, all Ivy Leaguers from the big northeastern cities. I remember Kennedy’s war: all the Harvard and Yale boys at the CIA running things. Today’s no different.” My uncle turned in his chair to look at me. “When they see you, they’ll see a southern good ol’ boy, and that’s it. You may have learned some slick manners and some big words, but that won’t make any difference. They’ll see you for what you are.”
That’s fine, I thought, looking out at the beautiful hills of South Carolina. Bring it on. I love you, Casper, but you’ve got it all wrong.
Now, standing here in this freezing cold morgue, there’s no reason for me to be thinking about that evening. Except maybe I’m having my doubts. Everyone reaches their best time, right? What’s the Clint Eastwood line—“A man’s got to know his limitations”? I’m watching Gaia and Kim sort through this pile of bloody clothes, with the blood smearing onto the latex gloves they’re wearing, and I have to wonder if I can play in the same league as them.
When Gaia looks at me, I feel like I have a wisp of hay coming out of the corner of my mouth and I’m dressed in manure-covered overalls. Or even worse—I feel like one of those hucksters, a good ol’ boy in a shiny suit and a bolo tie, trying to work some angle out of a briefcase—trying to pass for high class, but nobody’s buying it. She gives me one look with those wide eyes of hers, and it’s like all my pretension melts away. Because she’s what my daddy was talking about—she’s as sophisticated as they get. Manhattan to Stanford. I can see it in the way she dresses, the way she talks, the way she carries herself—even the way she uses her upper arm to brush her hair from her eyes right now while she’s looking through the dead boy’s pockets.
It’s possible that Gaia (and the others) feel as over their heads as I do. It really is. But it doesn’t seem like it. I won’t tell them what I’m really thinking, which is that if I were doing this on my own, I would have no idea what to do next. It’s a wonder that serial killers are ever caught.
But maybe as a team we can do it. I don’t know—crazier things have happened. Anyway, I’m determined to think positively. It’s my best characteristic, or so they’ve always told me. It’s corny, I know, but it works. And it might make me look like a hick to someone like Gaia Moore, but that’s just too bad. It’s gotten me this far.
Watching the girls work—the women, I mean—I’m impressed with them, too. They’ve found a bunch of stuff in Nathan Hill’s pockets. Not exactly a treasure trove, but a few items that might shed some light on who this kid was. In the windbreaker’s pockets they’ve found the following items:
a combination lock, Master brand, with the steel hasp closed
a bottle of prescription pills
a GameBoy cartridge, slightly scuffed (“Wario Land 4”)
three quarters and two dimes
a Coca-Cola bottle cap with an inset game piece good for a free song download
And that’s it. While Gaia and the others dutifully “bag and tag” all the evidence, carefully sealing everything into those Mylar envelopes, I can’t help but feel some resignation. I’m trying to think positively, like I said. I’m really trying.
But in the movies when the cops do stuff like this, it’s exciting. All you have to do is sit back, eat your popcorn, and just wait for the clues to reveal their secrets.
Here it’s different. If we don’t put the puzzle pieces together, nobody will. Or more accurately, one of the other teams will, and we’ll lose the game. And I don’t even want to think about that.
Why did nobody hear anything?
Why was Nathan torn open like that?
Does it matter that he was carrying a combination lock?
“SAVED” …? What does that mean?
Like I said, this is much harder than it looks.
just let me be incognito
IT’S A PSYCH-OUT
They were all squinting in the sun, standing in a rough circle on the Hogan’s Alley sidewalk. The police station was behind them. The light had changed, Kim noticed, looking at the shadows on the low buildings across the street.
“Now what?” Catherine asked.
“I’m not sure,” Kim answered. “Let’s see.” He ticked the items off on his fingers as he spoke. “We’ve seen the photographs. We’ve seen the body. We’ve seen the contents of his pockets.”
“We can’t talk to the parents,” Gaia said. Her hair was whipping over her face as she spoke; she impatiently brushed it away. “The crime scene is no longer available. We can’t see the lab results because they’re not ready yet.”
“Look,” Catherine said, pointing.
Behind them three young women and one young man were emerging from the police station. They all had badges and guns and were carrying a stack of photographs that looked like the ones that Catherine had under her arm. As Kim watched, the four other trainees spared them a haughty glance before moving purposefully off down the sidewalk.
“The competition,” Will said. He was staring after them the way a panther stares at his prey across the African savanna.
“Where the hell are they going?” Catherine complained.
“They look like they’ve got something,” said Gaia. “Something we missed.”
“No,” Kim said firmly. “It’s a psych-out. They want us to think they’ve got some sweet clue.” He couldn’t explain why, but he was absolutely sure of it. It was clear from the way the short, redheaded woman had glanced at them and then purposely moved in front of her teammates as if pulling them along.
“The question remains,” Catherine sa
id, squinting up at the blue sky. “What do we do now?”
“I’d say, let’s talk to people,” Kim suggested. “Let’s find someone who knew the kid. Maybe we can learn something about him.”
“That’s a waste of time,” Will argued. “There’s no reason to think that anything about the kid’s behavior enters into this, Kim.”
“There’s no reason to think it doesn’t,” Gaia shot back.
She’ll take the opposite position to whatever Will says, Kim marveled. He’d been noticing it since the previous day. It’s completely consistent. “Anyway, how should we be spending our time?”
“Starting pointless arguments,” Will said, smiling. “But you knew—”
“Quiet,” Catherine said urgently, waving at them impatiently. “Shhh!”
Kim heard it suddenly. Catherine’s cell phone was ringing.
“Sanders,” Catherine said. Again she seemed to have to strain to hear. “What? Yes, Sheriff, I understand. What? I’m sorry, could you repeat—”
The others were moving closer to Catherine, trying to hear the voice on the other end of her cell phone.
“Yes.” Catherine’s eyes widened. She reached in her pocket for a pen and scribbled something along the edge of the folder she carried. “I understand. Yes—right away. Thank you.”
Catherine hung up the phone. She seemed very excited.
“What is it?” Will asked. “Is it the lab results?”
“Catherine, Jesus. What’s wrong?” Gaia had reached to touch Catherine’s bare arm.
“It’s not the lab results,” Catherine said in a strange, quiet voice. “That was the sheriff. There’s been a second murder.”
Kim felt something like an electric thrill passing through him. He felt cold, even though the warm Virginia sun was beating down on his shoulders and reflecting from the mica in the bright sidewalk.
“Where? When?” Gaia asked.
“Called in minutes ago,” Catherine said. “The homicide detectives are on their way now. I’ve got the address.”
“Then let’s move,” Will said purposefully. “We haven’t got a moment to sp—”
And right then the bell rang out, as clear and loud as a fire alarm, making them all jump. Game time, Kim thought. “Round one” was over. Around them on the sidewalks the pedestrians all stopped what they were doing and began walking toward the road that led back to real life.
In Hogan’s Alley time had stopped. It wouldn’t start again until the game resumed the next morning. Kim took a deep breath as the others stretched and tried to relax.
“Wow,” Catherine said after a moment. It was clear that she was trying to “wake up” to reality—he could hear the stress in her voice as she tried to drain the adrenaline out of her system.
“So how are we doing?” Gaia asked worriedly.
“Great,” Will said confidently. He had begun leading them across the big town square, which now resembled nothing more than a movie set. Kim could see other teams in the distance walking in the same direction. “We’re doing great. Come on—who’s hungry?”
He’s faking it, Kim thought. We have no idea how we’re doing.
But Will faked it well, and Kim was impressed. It was the sign of a leader—the willingness to sacrifice candor for morale. It showed a sensitivity to the team’s feelings, and Kim approved.
“I’m going to take a stroll,” Gaia told them. “I just need to think for a little while. I’ll see you at dinner.”
Kim frowned. It was easy to see that something about “the Nathan Hill Murder” had gotten to Gaia. But he had no idea what it was or why it had hit her as hard as it clearly had.
GRAB THE INTRUDER
From the wooded path Gaia could see the fading sky. As she walked over the twigs and dirt, she could hear the sounds of Quantico drifting through the trees: the ever-present echoes of gunfire (paint pellets, she’d remind herself, they’re only firing paint pellets), the shouts from the physical-training fields, the occasional drone of an automobile. But right now all that was out of view.
Gaia wasn’t homesick necessarily. She’d gotten over that at Stanford. It was just so different. She didn’t know if she’d ever get completely used to it. Closing her eyes, she could imagine the sights and sounds of New York as if it were just yesterday that she’d left. The taxicabs, the roar of traffic, the loud cell phone conversations, the honking car horns, the beeping of early-morning garbage trucks.
Now, walking through the Virginia woods, Gaia relished the quiet. She was alone with her own thoughts, and for once that seemed to be a tranquil or even a pleasant thing. She thought about her teammates, who might be turning into her friends. Somehow she’d avoided having friends in college. Now she wasn’t sure why. It had seemed logical at the time: no distractions, no lures away from the crystalline purity of her thoughts, no threat that they’d have their lives taken prematurely and without mercy. And inevitably if she tried to make friends—as she was tempted to do a few times, once with a shy girl in her math class named Akeisha, who impressed Gaia with her own conspicuous “loner” routine, hiding her eyes constantly behind Armani sunglasses, and once with a quiet sophomore musician and actor who struck her as being one of the most truly original thinkers she’d met, and finally, of course, fatefully, with Kevin Bender—but she always pulled back because in the end she was afraid of the questions. Where are you from? What do your parents do? What was high school like? What’s the worst thing that ever happened to you?
And Gaia just wasn’t ready to answer these questions. Just let me be incognito, she wanted to say. Can we be friends without you knowing me? Because I can’t deal with the questions or the reactions the answers will produce. At least her friends here would be well equipped to defend themselves physically.
Gaia was nearly back to the campus—she could see the dark masses of the FBI buildings looming through the trees. She passed a pair of trainees in running shoes sprinting in the other direction, and they smiled and waved. Gaia waved back.
Here it might be different, she was thinking. These people were the same way. They could trade information like poker players putting cards down—it would be an even, fair game. My mother was killed when I was a girl, she would say. Your turn. And then Kim or Catherine would tell her something, and it would be clear that it was as hard for them as it was for Gaia. Because they were unusual, too—Gaia could tell. Agent Bishop must have made sure of that.
And Will. Don’t forget Will.
But Gaia wasn’t sure if she could fit Will into that same category. Yes, she grudgingly reminded herself, he’d done that amazing move in the restaurant the previous day. And he’d come closer to beating her in the physical competitions than anyone ever had—even Jake. But beyond that, was he so exceptional? Was he really? Gaia wasn’t sure.
A few moments later, exiting the stairwell onto the girls’ floor, Gaia stopped walking, staring at the half-open door to her room.
What the hell?
Security was very tight on the Quantico base. Gaia had to show her plastic trainee badge to a guard every time she entered the dorm building—and the campus’s edge was rimmed with a high fence and surveillance cameras. No one unauthorized could possibly get in here.
So there was no way she could be seeing what she was seeing—but there it was. A dark-clothed, stooping figure rummaging through Gaia’s dresser.
Gaia stood there a moment, getting her bearings, making sure she had the right floor and the correct room. But she did. There was the nameplate that read Moore, G./Sanders, C. Stepping soundlessly forward, catlike, Gaia could see the figure stooped over her drawer—and she could hear clattering noises as her belongings were pushed around.
Gaia barreled forward and swung the door open, ready to grab the intruder.
“Jesus Christ!” Catherine yelled, jumping nearly a foot in the air and then turning around. “Gaia,” she gasped, hand on her chest. “Wow—you scared the hell out of me.”
“What are you doing?” Gaia looked
down at her open drawer. “Can I help you with something?”
“No—I’m sorry,” Catherine said, stepping back from Gaia’s dresser. She sounded frustrated. “Damn, this looks really bad. Look, have you seen my bracelet? I can’t find this bracelet of mine.”
Gaia went over to sit on her bed. “No,” Gaia said, thinking back. “No, I don’t think so. What’s it look like? And why would it be in my dresser drawer?”
“I don’t know,” Catherine admitted, collapsing on her bed. “Damn it, I’m just at my wits’ end. I’m sorry, Gaia.”
“That’s okay,” Gaia said hesitantly. “Is it really valuable?”
“To me,” Catherine told her. She had her hand shoved up into her short Peter Pan haircut. “It’s not actually that valuable—it’s actually kind of tacky. It’s just a silver band, you know, with a turquoise inlay. It was—it was my mother’s.”
“Oh,” Gaia said, leaning back against the wall.
Do I believe that?
Gaia wasn’t sure. How well did she know Catherine, anyway? Why would she really be looking through her drawer?
Oh, come off it, Gaia thought disgustedly. She told you why. Drop it—there are actually people who tell the truth, if you can get your head around that one.
Gaia sensed pain coming from Catherine when she said the word mom. She knew this was her cue to ask.
“And your mom …” Gaia began, but then trailed off. She has no idea how to complete the question.
“She died,” Catherine said quietly.
That’s what Gaia had figured.
“Abdominal cancer, two years ago.”
“Oh—I’m sorry,” Gaia said. A strange feeling had come over her—a feeling of sadness, or loneliness, or some combination of the two.
Do it, Gaia told herself. Say the words.
“My mother died, too,” she said. “Years ago.”
Catherine stopped tapping her foot. She raised her brown eyes slowly to look back at Gaia.
“Really?” Catherine was sitting up. “Wow. I’m sorry, I had no—were you close?”
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