by Josh Lanyon
He could hear Manning’s disquiet all the way from Boston. “Kennedy has raised the, erm, question of your, erm, fitness for field duty.”
It was kind of like getting punched in the chest. It took a moment’s struggle before Jason had the breath to say, “He said what?”
“Kennedy has suggested there may be an issue with your return to active duty status. I understand there was an, erm, incident yesterday.”
Jason stuttered with anger and alarm, “Th-the issue is Kennedy doesn’t like being partnered. That’s the only issue here, and it’s a big one.”
By some miracle he had hit on exactly the right response. He could hear the instant relief in Manning’s voice. “Erm. I see. I suspected that might be the case; however, Kennedy was unaware of your, erm, shooting, so his suggestion you froze under fire—”
“He claims I froze under fire?” Jason’s voice did not sound like him.
Whoever it did sound like ruffled Manning into saying, “Erm, he didn’t quite say that. He—”
“We were never under fire—you’d certainly have heard if we had been—and I did not freeze. Kennedy can’t handle the fact everyone on the planet doesn’t think and react like him.”
Ah. He was playing Manning’s song and hitting all the high notes. Manning fully believed Kennedy was an arrogant sonofabitch who listened to nobody and believed he was the supreme authority on all matters.
His tone was almost conciliatory as he told Jason, “I realize it’s a difficult situation and, erm, Kennedy is a difficult, erm, personality. That’s one reason you were the first, erm, person I thought of for this assignment.”
Yeah. Jason was the first erm person Manning had thought of because he was geographically closest, between assignments, and too erm hungry for promotion to turn down any request from a superior. Mostly because he had been the only agent within driving distance to Kennedy—who would not have been willing to wait around in that parking lot even another five minutes, if Jason was any judge.
Manning was still talking, attempting to schmooze down Jason’s hackles, but Jason was no longer listening. He was running through the conversation he and Kennedy were going to have five seconds after Manning hung up.
At last Manning stopped blabbing and disconnected. Jason hauled on his jeans, slammed out of his motel room, and stalked down the walkway to thump on Kennedy’s door.
Annoyingly, his hair, wet from the shower, was dripping down his face. Jason brushed the drops from his cheeks just as Kennedy opened the door. Terror he might look like he was weeping spurred Jason into attack.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing telling Manning I froze yesterday? You weren’t there. You have no idea what happened. I did not freeze.”
Kennedy said levelly, as though he was used to being greeted every morning by enraged colleagues, “I think you froze.”
“I didn’t freeze. You weren’t even th—”
“And I think you should stop yelling the word froze where anyone can hear you.” To Jason’s astonishment, Kennedy wrapped his hand around Jason’s bicep and drew him into his motel room.
The effect of Kennedy’s large, capable hand drawing him briefly and disconcertingly close was…confusing. Definitely confusing. Coworkers did not breach each other’s personal space unless they were very good friends—or possibly about to punch each other.
For damn sure straight male coworkers did not casually manhandle each other. It occurred to Jason to wonder if there had been another reason he had been partnered with Kennedy. Was Kennedy gay?
Ha. Could cyborgs be gay?
Cyborg? Fleetingly, he was aware that Kennedy, though also fresh from the shower, had had time to slap on too much aftershave and drink several cups of motel Brand X coffee. He was wearing those reading glasses that made him look older if not scholarly. His shirt was unbuttoned and open, revealing unexpectedly ripped six-pack abs.
Kennedy shut the door and let go of Jason’s arm with an okay-knock-yourself-out salute.
“McEnroe pulled a gun on me,” Jason said. Loudly. “That’s what happened. He had the drop on me. You weren’t there. You don’t know what you would have done in the same situation. It’s speculation on your part. And this isn’t about that anyway. This is about you not wanting to be partnered with anyone.”
“I don’t want or need a partner,” Kennedy agreed. “But if I’m going to have one, he sure as hell needs to be someone I can rely on.”
“You can rely on me!” Though maybe shouting wasn’t the most reassuring means of delivering the message. “And if you honest to God thought you couldn’t, you could have talked to me. You didn’t have to go behind my back.”
He wasn’t sure if he imagined the red tinge that appeared on Kennedy’s face. “I didn’t realize you’d been shot.” Kennedy’s tone wasn’t exactly apologetic, but there was a note of something that might almost have been regret. His gaze lowered briefly to the puckered scar on Jason’s shoulder. “Under the circumstances, I don’t blame you for being gun shy, and if I’d known the reason, I’d have spoken to you directly. That doesn’t change the fact you shouldn’t be out in the field if you’re not able to—”
“I’m able,” Jason cut in tersely. “I’m not afraid. Unduly. Of being shot. I did not free—”
“And if you can’t admit there was a problem, how am I supposed to believe you’ve got it under control?”
“Christ.” Jason turned away, raking his hand through his wet hair. He faced Kennedy. “All right. Yes. Maybe I did freeze for a few seconds. It was just the surprise, the unexpectedness of finding a gun in my face.” As he made the admission, Jason realized he had fallen for one of the oldest interrogation techniques in the world: let’s work together to fix this mess.
Yeah. Right. Busted!
He finished without hope that there would be any comprehension, “I’ve been back on the job for a month, and I’ve been fine the whole time.” He tried for a lightness he didn’t feel—and Kennedy certainly didn’t feel. “I give you my word, if we end up in a firefight this week, I’ll have your back.”
Kennedy continued to study him, flinty-eyed and unmoved. And then, to Jason’s astonishment, the powerful, aggressive line of the older man’s shoulders relaxed. He said, “All right. I’ll hold you to that.”
“You’ll…”
Kennedy said, “You’re correct. I wasn’t there. I didn’t witness the incident. You’ve been cleared for duty. You believe you’ll be ready next time. We’ll go with that.”
They…would? Kennedy would?
There was a pause—a strange moment—where neither of them spoke or moved. Jason was acutely aware of an unexpected intimacy created by physical proximity and a cautious lowering of defenses. This was probably the first honest, unguarded conversation he’d had with Kennedy. It was more than that. He was intensely, forcefully aware of Kennedy as a man. A powerful man. An attractive man. A man with shoulders like a bulwark and a full, sensual lower lip at odds with the ascetic planes of his chiseled face.
What was happening? He didn’t even like Kennedy. Did he?
Kennedy broke the spell with a crisp, “Were you planning to go bare-chested today, Agent West? I’m sure it’ll be a treat for the ladies of Kingsfield, but I suggest you grab your shirt and shoes. We need to get moving.”
* * * * *
“We’ve had a couple of developments,” Chief Gervase informed Jason and Kennedy when they arrived at the New Dominion housing track.
Jason eyed Boxner who was busily handing out radios to the search team leaders. He and Boxner had parted ways the previous evening right after Jason had finished his beer. Which had been plenty long enough for Boxner to share with Jason what he and everyone else on the Kingsfield PD thought of Kennedy.
Which was interesting given Boxner hadn’t been on the force ten years ago. Maybe the idea that Kennedy had yanked the investigation of Martin Pink out of the hands of local law enforcement was the view of Chief Gervase? Chief Gervase had been forthr
ight about needing and wanting Kennedy’s help, so more likely that was the opinion of those standing on the sidelines.
It reinforced the perception that Kennedy was a difficult personality. Good at this job—maybe even gifted at his job—but impossible to work with.
“What’s up?” Kennedy asked.
“A local girl, Charlotte Simpson of all people, came forward this morning with the story she and McEnroe are an item and therefore he’d have no motive for doing Rebecca harm.”
“Can she confirm McEnroe’s alibi?”
“No. She wasn’t at the party, and she didn’t see McEnroe Friday evening.” Gervase grimaced. “She doesn’t seem to understand juggling two girlfriends actually gives McEnroe more of a motive.”
Kennedy shrugged.
“You just don’t like him for it, do you?” Gervase asked glumly. He glanced at Jason. “What about you?”
“McEnroe’s not my favorite person,” Jason said. “However, I think there would be easier ways to get rid of an extra girlfriend.”
Gervase grinned. “You’d probably have some experience with that, a nice-looking young fella like yourself.”
Uh… Jason glanced at Kennedy. He could have sworn Kennedy’s gaze was speculative.
Jason said, “Am I right in thinking there are fewer volunteers out here today?”
Chief Gervase confirmed this with the news that a lot of people were now convinced Tony McEnroe had killed the girl. Those who didn’t buy into that theory believed Rebecca had taken off of her own free will and for reasons unknown.
“No,” Kennedy said. “Absolutely not. That is incorrect.”
“I know it’s incorrect, and you know it’s incorrect,” Gervase said. “That doesn’t change the fact it’s what people are saying.”
“I thought the theory was there might be a copycat out there,” Jason said.
“That’s our theory,” Gervase told him. “If the people of this town have a choice, they’re going to opt for the Madigan kid running away over another monster.”
“It’s too early to determine what we’re dealing with,” Kennedy said. “That girl running away from home is not among the possibilities.”
“I’m not arguing with you,” Gervase said. “We’ll do what we can with the resources we’ve got.” He absently accepted a thermos cup of coffee from a young female officer. “McEnroe passed his lie-detector test. Not that it means much. We’re still going to hold him on the firearms charges, assaulting a federal agent…we’ve got plenty on him.”
“He’s fine where he is,” Kennedy said indifferently. Clearly McEnroe’s fate was not a matter of interest or importance to him. He was studying the incident briefing map.
New Geographic Information Software had replaced outdated hardcopy quadrangle maps, transparent Mylars, and erasable markers, once standard tools in any search. In the final analysis, it all came down to boots on the ground. Humans searching for humans.
Today Jason and Kennedy were joining those boots on the ground, though that was as much to gain insight into the other players as to help locate Rebecca. According to Kennedy, there was every chance whoever had taken the girl—and he did not entertain any other scenario—would be among those looking for her now.
It was another beautiful hot summer day, and while the general mood of the searchers could not be called optimistic, the morning had brought a renewed sense of determination to find Rebecca.
News vans were parked along the perimeter, a reminder the outside world was watching.
Mid-morning Chief Gervase gave a couple of interviews, and Jason was designated—by Kennedy—to stand in the background and look suitably grave.
“That’s what you’re here for, West. Just looking at you will instill confidence in the at-home viewers.”
“The hell—”
Kennedy had already gone back to his maps and charts, and Jason gritted his teeth and followed the chief to where the cameras waited.
Around lunchtime word spread that the Madigans were holding their own press conference, and the news vans departed. Rebecca’s parents were offering a two-hundred–thousand-dollar reward for Rebecca’s safe return—and unwittingly creating huge problems for themselves, as they would no doubt discover once the crank calls started flooding in.
Around two o’clock Gervase called his “focus team” together for a quick meeting.
“It’s a long shot, but I think we should try Rexford.”
“Rexford?” Boxner was frowning. “Why?”
“What’s Rexford?” Kennedy asked.
Jason was wondering the same thing. The name was vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it.
“Rexford is a ghost town,” Gervase told them. “It was one of the smaller villages that got flooded when they created the Quabbin Reservoir back in the ’30s. Some of the houses were moved or razed, but the cellar holes remain. Some of the buildings were just abandoned as was. The majority of the land is still above water. You can’t get to it by car. You have to walk in. You’ve been there, Boyd. Hell, every kid in this county has explored Rexford at some time or another.”
“Not me,” Boxner said.
“Me neither,” Jason said.
Gervase didn’t quite roll his eyes, but the effect was the same. “Don’t worry, boys, I’m not planning to arrest you for trespassing.”
“I’ve never been inside there,” Boxner repeated. “Not ever.”
“What’s the plan?” Kennedy said.
“A small team. Strictly LEOs,” Gervase replied. “There are too many potential risks to even consider bringing civilians into the area. Some of those buildings are half underwater. All of them are falling down. We’ve got everything from poison ivy to black-widow spiders.”
“Welcome to the neighborhood,” Jason said.
“It doesn’t seem realistic to me Rebecca would be there,” Boxner said. “For sure not of her own free will. And why would anyone take her there?”
“You just answered your own question,” Gervase said. “Because it’s guaranteed no one would look for her in Rexford.”
Boxner continued to frown.
Kennedy said briskly, “All right. Let’s do it.”
“Okay. You, me, West, Boyd, Simpson—”
“George? How does George Simpson fit into this?” Boxner asked.
The chief said with exaggerated patience, “George Simpson used to be a State Trooper.”
“About a million years ago.”
“He’s got the training, and he knows the area. Which would be useful since the rest of you are claiming you’ve never been there.”
“Up to you,” Boxner said.
“I know it’s up to me,” Gervase said shortly. “And our final man—person—will be Officer Dale.”
“The little kiss-ass should love that,” Boxner said.
“Boyd, you are starting to piss me off,” Gervase said. “What’s gotten into you?”
Boxner scowled, muttered something, and walked away.
“Thinks he knows better than the old man,” Gervase said wryly.
Kennedy said, “They always do.”
* * * * *
“Remember the time we opened that old icebox and found that nest of snakes?” George Simpson was saying. “I’m surprised they didn’t hear us all the way in Boston.”
Gervase snorted. Catching Jason’s expression in the rearview mirror, he said, “They weren’t poisonous snakes.”
Jason and Kennedy were riding with the chief and George Simpson in the chief’s SUV while Boxner and the personable and efficient Officer Dale followed in a second vehicle.
“Oh,” Jason said. “Great.” He glanced sideways at Kennedy. Kennedy was staring out the window at the woodland flashing by as they headed down the highway toward Rexford, but there was the tiniest of quirks to his mouth.
“We don’t have many poisonous snakes out here,” Gervase said. “You find timber rattlers and copperheads in Hampshire and Hampden. Sometimes Norfolk. Which is not to say Rexfor
d doesn’t have its dangers.”
“You just have to exercise common sense,” Simpson said.
Gervase laughed. “Which we never did.”
Simpson looked to be a few years younger than the chief, which still made him rather old to be Charlotte’s father, but Jason knew a bit about that. No one could have been more surprised than his own parents finding themselves pregnant again after having raised their family. Though technically the youngest of three, in practice Jason had been an only child.
He gathered Simpson was a widower and a little overprotective when it came to Charlotte. Not that Jason could blame a guy for being overprotective in a town where it had once been open season on teenage girls.
“I thank God I didn’t let Charlie go to that party,” Simpson said.
Gervase said, “We’re going to have to talk to her again about McEnroe. You know that.”
Simpson nodded. “She’s got nothing to hide.”
“Kids always think they have something to hide. We did.”
Simpson’s frown faded. He grinned at some long-ago memory.
Jason asked, “Were the remains of any of the other victims found in the vicinity of Rexford?”
Kennedy answered. “No. But that’s irrelevant. We’re dealing with a completely different offender. Pink didn’t care whether his victims were found or not. He didn’t stage them, but he was an exhibitionist in his own way. He liked the idea that people would be shocked and horrified by what he’d done. That said, once he was finished with them…out of sight, out of mind. Our unsub may be counting on Rebecca not being found.”
That put a chill on the discussion.
In silence Gervase exited the highway. They followed the road a mile or two until it turned to dirt and gravel. Gervase pulled off to the side and parked in a small clearing surrounded by oaks.
“From here we have to hike in,” Gervase said.
They were testing their radios as Boxner and Dale pulled up behind them and got out.
Gervase pointed to a trail leading through the trees. “We follow this path for two miles until we come to the highway overpass. At that point we’re going to have to crawl through the brambles and brush in order to scale the embankment. That’s the toughest part of this hike. Then it’s another couple hundred yards up on the left. The first thing you’ll see is what remains of the old stone mill. The trail forks there. If you go to the left, the path leads down to the old cemetery. If you stay to the right and follow the trail, it leads to the old road and what’s left of the village. I’d say we head straight for the village. Assuming we don’t find anything, we’ll canvass the cemetery on our way out.”