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the matter?” she pleaded.
    Carolyn pulled the tissue from her puffy eyes but didn’t have the nerve to look into hers. She turned her head away and blindly reached for Stephanie’s shoulder.
    The older woman didn’t hesitate to take her into her arms. She smiled. It made her feel warm to be needed again. “That’s okay, honey. I know, I know,” she said, letting a nervous giggle escape. “A new baby throws your system out of whack for a while, but it’ll pass. I promise. It’s all hormonal.”
    â€œNo,” Carolyn whispered in her ear. “I’m your daughter.”

7
    The smell was overwhelming. Martin Dunlevy swallowed hard, fighting back the involuntary gagging spasm in the back of his throat. Typically, carnage was no problem for Agent Dunlevy. He had seen plenty of bodies in his seventeen years with the FBI, but the stench of burning flesh had become his weakness. He detected the nauseating odor two blocks away. By the time he reached the perimeter of the crime scene, even a handkerchief over his nose couldn’t keep the smell of death from seeping into his pores.
    Dunlevy was an expert in explosives, or he
had
been prior to the Atlanta fiasco. The agent had put together an all-star counter-terrorist team in the two years prior to the summer Olympics. When the call came, his men had covered Centennial Park with military precision. The lone casualty died of a heart attack, not from bomb shrapnel. There were three other devices his team uncovered and disarmed that month, details the suits would never release to the press. Had those bombs exploded there would have been more than a hundred killed and many more wounded.
    During his stint in Atlanta, Dunlevy had never even been in the same room with Richard Jewell, yet the bureau made victims of both men. Barely ten days after the Olympic torch was doused, you could almost hear the careers of some two dozen agents start to fizzle. Dunlevy was reassigned to the Wilmington, North Carolina, field office, not exactly a region in need of an agent with his years of experience and specialized expertise.
    â€œGive me the numbers,” he ordered, still holding the white handkerchief over his nose.
    Franklin was short, no taller than five foot seven, well muscled to compensate for his height, and had a crew cut that he thought made him look menacing. “Twenty-six dead, eleven unaccounted for is where it stands now, but those figures will be changing quickly.”
    Franklin had been in Beaufort since daybreak. He was only twenty-six years old, but very thorough. Dunlevy would never admit it, but he drew energy from the youngster’s enthusiasm and often wondered if he had ever been that eager.
    Local authorities had control of the crime scene for most of the night, but daylight brought agents from the North Carolina State Bureau of Investigation, the ATF, and the FBI. A high-profile case like this would not be left to the Carteret County Sheriff’s Department.
    â€œHow are my two survivors holding up?”
    â€œThey lost one of them since we talked last. The other has burns over ninety percent of his body. It doesn’t look good.”
    â€œJesus Christ,” Dunlevy sighed. “What about ATF? They got anything yet?”
    â€œThey’ve only been here about three hours. They’re in the preliminary stages. They
do
know it’s a natural gas explosion and certainly no accident. Somebody spent a while under the building doctoring the gas pipes. Hell, there’s even evidence the perp may have messed with the gas main under the street.”
    There was no love lost between the Federal Bureau of Investigation and Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, yet Dunlevy was regarded among the ATF’s rank and file as one of the good guys. He knew their trade and talked their language.
    â€œWho’s the ATF agent in charge?”
    Franklin flipped through his legal pad. “A real pain in the ass. He