Blind Faith (4 page)

Hanging that photo among the pictures of the Colonel's military career highlights, the prize bucks bagged by family and the Colonel's lodge brothers, was probably the most sensitive thing Sarah had ever seen him do. She'd started coming in more often after that. Not that they spoke much—but sometimes words didn't really say what you needed them to anyway.

"Hey kiddo," he bellowed, swiping a clean spot for her at the counter. "Georgie here thinks the Martians are landing."

"I didn't say they were aliens from outer space," George Dolan protested, sloshing coffee out of his cup as he dunked his cinnamon bun. He took a bite, sopped up the coffee running down his chin, and continued, "I said them lights could mean aliens like illegal aliens."

With a measured hand, the Colonel poured batter onto the griddle, forming perfectly symmetrical pancakes, each a regulation three inches in diameter. "What the hell would illegal aliens want here?"

"They could hide out in the caves up on Snakehead. Just like in Nam."

Silence descended as The Colonel turned and stared at George for a long moment. George had the good grace to blush and look down into his coffee cup.

"You don't know nothing about nothing, George. Been watching the History channel too much is all." The Colonel turned back to finish Sarah's pancakes, flipping them onto a plate and sliding the plate in front of her in one fluid motion.

"Yeah, mebbee. But you didn't see those lights. Moving up and down, across the dam, vanishing into thin air."

"You sure it was a person? Maybe it was some kind of natural phenomena." Sarah doused her short stack with maple syrup collected from the forest behind her house. "Snakehead's known for its fog and mists, especially this time of year."

Hal Waverly came in and sat down beside her, unfolding his paper and nodding as the Colonel poured him coffee. He and Sarah had grown up here in Hopewell together, been friends since they were eight, but these past two years, she felt like she’d lost track of Hal. He was always there, always helping, but she’d never before noticed the creases that had dug their way into the corners of his eyes or the dark circles that hung beneath them.

Guilt made her look away—how much else going on around her in the past two years had she been blind to?

"You mean like swamp gas or them northern lights we saw last year?” George said, still going on about his mysterious lights. “No sir, this was near to the ground. And it moved. Hal, when you gonna get someone up there to check it? What do we pay you good money for anyway?"

Hal snapped his newspaper. "Ask the Colonel. He's president of the village council. When are you going to give me enough money to hire another man? As it is—"

"Now Hal, don't you get started on that again. We got you the new government center, didn't we?" The Colonel's voice had a bite to it, one that in his past life would have had men snapping to attention.

"Fat lot of good it does with no one to man it. Me and my men are on patrol full time. If it wasn't for the county dispatcher handling calls and the mutual aid pact with Merrill, we wouldn't even have time to do that." A familiar edge of frustration lingered in Hal's voice. For years he'd been fighting a losing battle with the village council and his budget constraints. Sarah felt sorry for him. Hal worked hard and only wanted what was best for Hopewell. With an air of defeat, he took a drink of his coffee and buried himself in his paper.

"What are you doing today, Sarah?" The Colonel asked.

"I'm going up on Snakehead for a few days, get some hiking in."

Her announcement was met with silence. Even Hal lowered his paper, giving her an appraising look.

"You sure? Why don't you head over to Lake Placid?" The Colonel said, aligning the salt and pepper and sugar shakers into a perfect parade formation.

"Yeah. Or I hear there's a great art exhibit over in Montreal."

Sarah swiveled on her stool to stare at George. The delivery truck driver wasn't known for his love of fine culture.

"How would you know?" The Colonel asked.

George colored but didn't back down. "Because I been there. I took Lucy. It was one of them Impressionist French guys—lots of swirls and color. Kind of pretty." He brightened and smiled at Sarah. "Perfect for a relaxing holiday. Better than tramping up there." He indicated the mountain above them with a jerk of his chin.

Sarah opened her mouth, reconsidered, and jammed a forkful of pancakes in before she could say something she'd regret. It wasn't that the men were afraid for her physical safety—she'd hunted or worked search and rescue with all of them at one time or another. They were worried about her mental safety. As if after almost two years there was still something she could find on Snakehead that could push her over the edge.

It was sweet, really. But she had to do this.

"The weather's supposed to be gorgeous. Why would I want to be stuck inside with a bunch of old paintings?"

"But what about these weird people prowling the mountain at night?" The Colonel put in.

"Your aliens? Don't worry, I won't be anywhere near the dam."

"Where are you planning to be?" Hal folded his newspaper and regarded her with a serious expression. "You ought not go alone."

"I'll be fine. But I wouldn't mind borrowing one of your two-ways, just in case."

"No problem. Radios are one thing we've plenty of. You going over to the west face?"

"Thought I'd start up near the Colonel's cabin and kind of meander down. It's been awhile since I've spent a night on the mountain." Two years to be precise. The last time she and Sam had taken Josh up to the cabin. The men busied themselves with their food. Sarah's smile wilted. "Anyway, it will be a nice change of pace."

The Colonel twisted his lips. She knew he was ready to bark an order at her to cease and desist, so she met his gaze and arched an eyebrow. He put up a hand in surrender and backed off to brew a fresh pot of coffee.

"You just watch out for those aliens," George said. "Who knows what they want."

Wednesday, June 19, 2007: Quantico, Virginia

Caitlyn and Clemens moved to the one area on base even more secure than the lab building: the picnic tables in front of the Hogan's Alley Deli. Just a block away from the most frequently robbed bank in the world, they sat surrounded by trees with a view of anyone approaching from all directions and no chance of being overheard by anyone except the tame deer and squirrels who populated the forest. The only interruption was the occasional bark of an order from an instructor leading a car-stop drill along the block past the bank.

As they walked over, talking about anything except the incendiary contents of the folders Clemens carried in his briefcase, Caitlyn had taken measure of the lab tech. He'd enthusiastically informed her that he came from Pittsburgh with a masters from CMU and a PhD from Pitt, that he loved working at Quantico and that his fiancée managed a clothing store in Fairfax. Nothing to set off warning bells, his face had been open, he'd even blushed when mentioning his fiancée and their up-coming wedding and honeymoon.

She waited until he'd finished eating before prodding him back onto the topic of the Hopewell case. Not wanting to tempt her impending migraine prematurely into life, she'd barely touched her food. Clemens didn't seem to notice.

The headaches were just another part of her new reality—one that she'd learned to manage. When she returned to the office, she would gobble down a few naproxen. If those didn't do the trick, she'd deal with it when she got home tonight: shoot up with her Imitrex, swallow a few Fiorcet and curl up in the dark.

Tonight
, she promised her silent but almost constant companion,
tonight I'm all yours.

Post-concussive syndrome, the docs at Hopkins called it. Or traumatic brain injury. TBI. Caitlyn called it hell on earth.

Since she'd sustained her original head injury—a skull fracture and an epidural hematoma—in the line of duty, she could have applied for disability. But Caitlyn refused to admit that she was in anyway disabled. Not to herself and certainly not to the Bureau. She could just imagine what Jack Logan and others like him would say if she did that. What's next? they'd laugh. Medical leave for PMS?

No, she wasn't disabled. Just disadvantaged. After the operation to remove the blood clot and repair the torn vessels in her brain, she'd learned how to do almost everything again. How to associate names and faces rather than simply memorizing them; how to read even though some of the letters still seemed jumbled, especially if they were on a computer screen; how to handle her migraines and the symptoms that accompanied them.

None of which had kept her from doing her job—and never would.

"Whose DNA was up on that mountain?" she asked Clemens as he wiped chocolate chip smears from his lips.

"That's the problem." He pulled out a stack of folders, shoved their paper plates to one side and lined up his DNA samples. Even she could see that of the four only two matched. "This is Wright's. This is your Unsub's. And this is Durandt's—verified by this exemplar collected from his home." He slid another photostat of DNA bands from the folder. "When Wright's DNA didn't match the Unsub's, I ran Durandt's, thought maybe the case numbers had gotten mixed up. But I got nothing."

"What do you mean? He's a victim. His DNA had to be in the database."

He shook his head. "See what I mean? This case is freaky weird. Samuel Durandt wasn't in
any
of our records. Like someone wiped him clean."

She frowned, slid the DNA sample from his hand and laid it beside the others. Now there were three identical DNA patterns. "So where's the problem? You must have found his file somewhere—Durandt matches Durandt matches Durandt."

"Except this one isn't Sam Durandt. It belongs to someone named Stanley Diamontes." Clemens tapped the last DNA sample.

"And who the hell is Stanley Diamontes?" she asked, one hand massaging the pressure point at the base of her thumb, certain she wouldn't like the answer.

"Well, unless Sam Durandt has an identical twin brother, Stanley is Stan. Wait. It gets worse." He slid another DNA sample and laid it on top of the Unsub's. It was a match.

"Our unknown subject has a name. Do I want to know who he is?"

"No, but I'll tell you anyway. Leo Richland. United States Federal Marshal. Richland has been missing for two years. Last seen in Fairfax, Virginia, two days before Josh and Sam—or Stan—Durandt were presumed murdered by Damian Wright."

Caitlyn sucked in her breath as the flashing bright lights returned with a vengeance and nausea twisted her gut. The gray and black lines on the DNA evidence blurred before her.

"That's all I've got. I figured since Logan is retired, the case belongs to you, so..." His voice trailed off. He closed the folder and slid it across the wooden picnic table to her.

Sam Durandt wasn't Sam Durandt? And instead of Damian Wright killing him and his son, a US Marshal had? A US Marshal who'd gone missing under mysterious circumstances and who had no earthly reason being anywhere near Hopewell, New York on the day Sam and Josh were murdered.

She blinked as sunlight blared off the glossy white folder. Reached for her sunglasses and somehow fumbled them on without poking an eye out. She never allowed her migraines to hit her at work, could always block them, keep them at bay. But this one had snuck beneath her guard.

"Thanks, Clemens," she said, trying her best to keep her voice clear of the vise of pain tightening behind her eyes.

"Don't thank me," he said. "I'm thinking I just gave you the equivalent of a ticking bomb." He brushed the crumbs from his lap and stood, grabbing his briefcase. "Good luck, Caitlyn."

She sat, staring at the closed folder with its Department of Justice crest emblazoned on the front. A crisp breeze scattered the paper plates holding the remnants of their lunch, blowing the trash into the grass. Caitlyn ignored it, allowing Clemens to rush after them as she struggled to contain the migraine before it totally crippled her. She focused on her breathing, using the DOJ crest as her focal point.
Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity,
the words beneath it read.

Finally, she forced the blasts of pain to recede enough so she could stand without wavering. She was certain it would ambush her later, ten fold.

The glossy folder almost slipped from her sweaty grasp as she walked back toward Jefferson Hall.

Jesus, Logan, what the hell have you gotten me into?

September 15, 2005

They caught him. Oh my lord, my hand is shaking so badly I can barely write.

They caught him! Damian Wright. He was in Texas. Hiding in a group shelter for Katrina refugees. All those little boys—he must have felt as if Katrina and the despair of a million people fleeing for their lives was a godsend, an unholy offering to his sick perversions.

A national guardsman caught him with a boy. Felix Martinique. The body was still warm, Damian was covered in his blood, the news people said. They seemed glad of yet another catastrophe to lay at Katrina's feet.

He confessed to the two boys in Vermont, the one in Tennessee, another in Oklahoma. But not to you or Josh. Why? I don't know this man—why is he trying to destroy what little life I have left? Why can't he give me any peace of mind?

Why can't he give you back to me?

Dr. Hedeger says he'll put me in a hospital if I don't start eating or sleeping. He's forbidden me to go on my hikes anymore and has Hal Waverly and the Colonel watching over me like I'm a prisoner in my own house. It's only because there was an accident at the Rockslide today—the Colonel started a grease fire while trying to sneak a fried bologna sandwich—that the Colonel's wife is gone, I have the house to myself.

No one seems to understand that it's only when I'm on the mountain, on the same path you and Josh took, following in your footsteps, the sound of Josh's laughter just out of sight, beyond the next bend, beckoning to me—it's the only time I'm alive.