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catching whoever did this.”
    His smile is a little tired. “I appreciate the candor, Agent Barrett, but don’t worry. I’m not conspiracy-minded. I’ve dealt with three other politically connected deaths, including one that involved a powerful man and a male prostitute. I’m familiar with the territory.”
    It occurs to me that Dr. Johnston is pretty damn competent. I shouldn’t be surprised; most of those I’ve met who deal with the dead take what they do very seriously.
    “I appreciate that.” I look down at Lisa Reid, lying on what we still call a slab, though it’s been made of steel for a very long time. “Anything else probative?”
    “Oh yes. Something very, very unusual. I was just getting to that.” He grabs another pan and holds it out. “I found this inserted into her body. He widened the wound on her right side. You noticed the cuts?”
    “Yes.”
    “He was smart; he cut her postmortem, after the blood flow had stopped. Then he stuck this inside her.”
    I peer into the pan and see a medium-sized, silver cross.
    “Where are your gloves?” I ask.
    He nods to a box of latex gloves on a nearby counter. I grab a pair and slip them on. I reach into the pan and pick up the cross.
    “It’s heavy,” I say. “Dense. Probably a silver alloy.”
    The cross is a humble one, simple. It’s approximately two inches tall and one inch wide. I turn it over in my hand and squint. There appears to be an engraving on the back, but it’s far too small to read with the naked eye.
    “Do you have a magnifying glass?”
    Johnston finds one and hands it to me. I place it over the cross. I see a symbol, very small, very simple: a skull and crossbones, patterned after the universal sign for poison. It’s been engraved into the back of the head of the cross. Along the crosspiece are some numbers.
    “Number one forty-three,” I say out loud.
    “What the fuck does that mean?” AD Jones asks.
    “I don’t know.” I place the cross back in the pan. “Let’s make sure we withhold this particular detail, Doctor, if anything does end up getting to the media.”
    “Of course.”
    “Anything else?”
    He shakes his head. “Not at the moment.”
    AD Jones glances at his watch, points a finger at me. “Then let’s head to the airport. Your team should be arriving shortly and I need to get back to California.”
    We say our good-byes to Dr. Johnston and head down the hall toward the front of the building. Our shoes click-clack on the linoleum, eerie in the context of our surrounds.
    “What’s your game plan?” AD Jones asks.
    “The basics. Forensics on the plane where Lisa was killed, interviews of the passengers, start working up a profile. From there…” I pause. “From there we need to get on to identifying other potential targets as quickly as possible.”
    I don’t state the obvious and most worrisome thing:
    A death’s-head and “#143”—there’s only one thing a killer would count.
    Leading, of course, to the next concern: how high will the counting go?

 
    4
    IT’S PAST ELEVEN O’CLOCK AT NIGHT, AND IT’S FREAKING cold . I hate the cold.
    The wind isn’t fierce, but it is steady and it blows across the tarmac in short gusts that have numbed my cheeks.
    The moon is huge and bloated in a sky devoid of clouds. It has that look to it, the look that says it’s the same moon that shone on the cavemen: it was here before me, it’ll be here long after I’m gone.
    It took us about an hour to make our way to this private airport near Washington, DC. It’s small and lonely, just a single hangar and a landing strip. My team and I will make our way from here to Dulles International Airport, where the plane Lisa died on awaits.
    I hug myself as we watch the private jet taxi on the runway. It’s a white Learjet and I’ve been on it many times.
    AD Jones seems unmoved by the temperature. He’s smoking, a habit I gave up but still miss, particularly when I see someone smoking my old brand, as he