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 conciliatory tone.
Without knowing the assistant director, the soldier must have recognized what it had taken for him to say this. The man relaxed his stance and his face softened.
“I honestly can’t tell you all their names, but the one who was killed was a Special Agent Delaney.”
“Richard Delaney?”
“Yes, sir. I believe so, sir. He was the HRT—the Hostage Rescue Team—negotiator. From what I heard, he had them ready to talk. They invited him into the cabin, then opened fire. The bastards. Sorry, sir.”
“No, don’t apologize. And thank you for telling me.”
The soldier turned to lead them through the trees, but Tully wondered if Cunningham would manage the trek. His face had gone white; his usual straight-backed walk seemed a bit wobbly.
With only a quick glance at Tully, he said, “I fucked up big time. I just sent Agent O’Dell to autopsy a friend of hers.”
Tully knew this case would be different. Just the idea that Cunningham would use the words please and fucked in the same day, let alone the same hour, was not a good sign.
CHAPTER 4
M aggie accepted the cool, damp towel from Stan and avoided his eyes. With only a quick glance, she could see his concern. He had to be concerned. Judging from the towel’s softness, she could tell it had come from Stan’s own privately laundered stash, unlike the institutional stiff ones that smelled like Clorox. The man had a cleaning obsession, a fetish that seemed contradictory to his profession; a profession that included a weekly, if not daily, dose of blood and body parts. She didn’t question his kindness, however, and without a single word, took the towel and rested her face in its cool, plush texture, waiting for the nausea to pass.
She hadn’t thrown up at the sight of a dead body since her initiation into the Behavioral Science Unit. She still remembered her first crime scene: spaghetti streaks of blood on the
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 conciliatory tone.
Without knowing the assistant director, the soldier must have recognized what it had taken for him to say this. The man relaxed his stance and his face softened.
“I honestly can’t tell you all their names, but the one who was killed was a Special Agent Delaney.”
“Richard Delaney?”
“Yes, sir. I believe so, sir. He was the HRT—the Hostage Rescue Team—negotiator. From what I heard, he had them ready to talk. They invited him into the cabin, then opened fire. The bastards. Sorry, sir.”
“No, don’t apologize. And thank you for telling me.”
The soldier turned to lead them through the trees, but Tully wondered if Cunningham would manage the trek. His face had gone white; his usual straight-backed walk seemed a bit wobbly.
With only a quick glance at Tully, he said, “I fucked up big time. I just sent Agent O’Dell to autopsy a friend of hers.”
Tully knew this case would be different. Just the idea that Cunningham would use the words please and fucked in the same day, let alone the same hour, was not a good sign.
CHAPTER 4
M aggie accepted the cool, damp towel from Stan and avoided his eyes. With only a quick glance, she could see his concern. He had to be concerned. Judging from the towel’s softness, she could tell it had come from Stan’s own privately laundered stash, unlike the institutional stiff ones that smelled like Clorox. The man had a cleaning obsession, a fetish that seemed contradictory to his profession; a profession that included a weekly, if not daily, dose of blood and body parts. She didn’t question his kindness, however, and without a single word, took the towel and rested her face in its cool, plush texture, waiting for the nausea to pass.
She hadn’t thrown up at the sight of a dead body since her initiation into the Behavioral Science Unit. She still remembered her first crime scene: spaghetti streaks of blood on the
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