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instead of county or state. And Director Mueller had personally insisted that the bodies be brought to the District, especially the one dead agent.
    There were still no IDs being issued. Tully knew it was the identity of the fallen agent that had Cunningham jerking around in his seat, looking for things to occupy his hands and readjusting his headset every few seconds as if a new radio frequency would bring him new information. Tully wished his boss would sit still. He could feel the extra motion shake the helicopter, even though he realized it was probably scientifically impossible to do so. Or was it?
    As the pilot skimmed the treetops looking for a clearing to land, Tully tried not to think of the rattle under his seat. It sounded suspiciously like loose nuts and bolts. Instead, he tried to remember if he had left enough cash on the kitchen table for Emma. Was today her school field trip? Or was it this weekend? Why didn’t he write these things down? Although shouldn’t she be old enough and responsible enough to remember on her own? And why didn’t this get any easier?
    Lately, it seemed as though all his parenting had been learned the hard way. Well, if the field trip was today maybe it wouldn’t hurt for Emma to learn a few lessons. If he shortchanged her, maybe it would finally convince her to look for a part-time job. After all, she was fifteen years old. When Tully was fifteen he was working after school and in the summers, pumping gas at Ozzie’s 66 for two dollars an hour. Had things changed that drastically since he was a teenager? Then he stopped himself. That was thirty years ago, a lifetime ago. How could it be thirty years?
    The helicopter began its descent and Tully’s stomach flipped up into his chest, bringing him back to the present. The pilot had decided to take them down on a patch of grass no bigger than a doormat. Tully wanted to close his eyes. He stared at a rip in the back of the pilot’s leather seat. It didn’t help. The sight of stuffing and springs only reminded Tully of the nuts and bolts rolling loose underneath him, probably disconnecting the landing gear.
    For all his anxiety, the helicopter was grounded in seconds with a bounce, a thump and one last flip of Tully’s stomach. He thought about Agent O’Dell and wondered if he would rather have traded places with her. Then he thought about watching Wenhoff slicing into dead bodies. Easy answer. No contest. He’d still take the helicopter ride, loose screws and all.
    A uniformed soldier had come out of the woods to meet them. Tully hadn’t thought about it, but it made sense that the Massachusetts National Guard would be brought in to secure the expansive wooded area. The soldier waited in military stance, while Tully and Cunningham pulled their belongings off the helicopter—an assortment of rain gear, a Coleman thermos and two briefcases—all the while trying to keep their heads down and their necks from being whiplashed by the powerful blades. When they were clear, Cunningham waved to the pilot, and the helicopter didn’t hesitate, taking off and scattering leaves, a sudden downpour of crackling red and gold.
    “Sirs, if you follow me, I’ll take you to the site.” He reached for Cunningham’s briefcase, knowing immediately which of them to suck up to. Tully was impressed. Cunningham, however, wouldn’t be rushed, holding up a hand.
    “I need to know names,” Cunningham said. It wasn’t a question. It was a demand.
    “I’m not authorized to—”
    “I understand that,” Cunningham interrupted. “I promise you won’t get in trouble, but if you know, you need to tell me. I need to know now.”
    The soldier took up his military stance again, not flinching and holding Cunningham’s gaze. He seemed determined to not divulge any secrets. Cunningham must have realized what he was up against, because Tully couldn’t believe what he heard his boss say next.
    “Please, tell me,” Cunningham said in a quiet, almost