more of it she could take. Sometimes it seemed that the very next minute would edge her into lunacy.
Those were the times when Bobby miraculously appeared for her, his strength restored, his optimism unblemished. God, how she loved him.
She found herself watching the back of his head as he piloted the truck through the night, studying the strong set of his chin, his unshakable concentration on the road. When he shifted his position in his seat, he moved slowly and deliberately, no doubt assuming that she was asleep and not wanting to disturb her.
Watching him this way brought a glimmer of warmth. All of this really would pass, she told herself, and if she emerged whole on the other side, it would be because Bobby had never let go of her hand. She used these thoughts to edge the other horrors out of her mind as she leaned back against the headrest and closed her eyes.
An hour later, as the Explorer swung the turn into the long, wooded driveway, Susan was sound asleep, the fingers of her right hand tangled in the boy’s filthy mop of hair. In her dream, Steven was with her again, his head on her lap and listening intently as they read together from Winnie the Pooh.
7
R USSELL C OATES CINCHED the seat belt even tighter and willed himself not to look out the window. He focused instead on the altimeter, where the needle rested just above five hundred feet, and he did the math. The mountains themselves had to be at least three or four hundred feet, and then you add tall trees on top of that, and by his calculations, they were already dead. Maybe the window wasn’t so bad after all.
“Are you okay, Agent Coates?” the pilot asked over the intercom.
He did his best to smile. “Peachy.”
“I’ve been doing this for years, sir. Since Vietnam, in fact, so you can relax.”
All that meant was he was as old as Russell and all the more likely to have a heart attack and pitch this rattletrap eggbeater into the trees; there to be found and eaten by the descendants of the Deliverance gang.
“There’s the crime scene down there.” The pilot pointed through the windows at their feet. In another few weeks, once the leaves had bloomed, the cluster of cops on the ground would have been invisible. “Now, we can lower you on a winch, or—”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“The alternative is a long walk, sir.”
“Always my preference over a long fall. Just land this thing and let me out, okay?” Russell wasn’t sure what part of his statement was so funny, but the pilot thought it was hysterical.
Russell’s headset crackled. “State police chopper, this is the FBI ground unit below you. Is Agent Coates on board with you?”
Russell recognized the voice of Tim Burrows, his ASAC out of the Charleston field office, and he beat the pilot to the mike button. “I’m here, Tim. We’re just looking for a place to park. Hold what you’ve got and I’ll be on scene in a half hour, tops.”
As police agencies go, the Charleston, West Virginia, Field Office of the FBI was not exactly Murder Central. They did their share, of course, but most murder investigations fell within the jurisdiction of local police forces, with additional support from state agencies. Because this particular killing had occurred in Catoctin National Forest, however—on federal property—it was a federal issue. Moreover, because it had occurred on Russell Coates’s first day back from a Bahamian cruise, it had become the Bureau’s version of a welcome-home fruit basket.
A hiker had discovered the body earlier this morning and made an anonymous phone call to the nearest ranger station. They, in turn, had called the local police, who notified the FBI. Somewhere in that daisy chain of telephone calls, someone thought to roust Russell out of bed on what should have been his last day of vacation to catch a state police chopper out to the middle of nowhere. Technically, he could have said no thanks, but such were the words that could get an
Those were the times when Bobby miraculously appeared for her, his strength restored, his optimism unblemished. God, how she loved him.
She found herself watching the back of his head as he piloted the truck through the night, studying the strong set of his chin, his unshakable concentration on the road. When he shifted his position in his seat, he moved slowly and deliberately, no doubt assuming that she was asleep and not wanting to disturb her.
Watching him this way brought a glimmer of warmth. All of this really would pass, she told herself, and if she emerged whole on the other side, it would be because Bobby had never let go of her hand. She used these thoughts to edge the other horrors out of her mind as she leaned back against the headrest and closed her eyes.
An hour later, as the Explorer swung the turn into the long, wooded driveway, Susan was sound asleep, the fingers of her right hand tangled in the boy’s filthy mop of hair. In her dream, Steven was with her again, his head on her lap and listening intently as they read together from Winnie the Pooh.
7
R USSELL C OATES CINCHED the seat belt even tighter and willed himself not to look out the window. He focused instead on the altimeter, where the needle rested just above five hundred feet, and he did the math. The mountains themselves had to be at least three or four hundred feet, and then you add tall trees on top of that, and by his calculations, they were already dead. Maybe the window wasn’t so bad after all.
“Are you okay, Agent Coates?” the pilot asked over the intercom.
He did his best to smile. “Peachy.”
“I’ve been doing this for years, sir. Since Vietnam, in fact, so you can relax.”
All that meant was he was as old as Russell and all the more likely to have a heart attack and pitch this rattletrap eggbeater into the trees; there to be found and eaten by the descendants of the Deliverance gang.
“There’s the crime scene down there.” The pilot pointed through the windows at their feet. In another few weeks, once the leaves had bloomed, the cluster of cops on the ground would have been invisible. “Now, we can lower you on a winch, or—”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“The alternative is a long walk, sir.”
“Always my preference over a long fall. Just land this thing and let me out, okay?” Russell wasn’t sure what part of his statement was so funny, but the pilot thought it was hysterical.
Russell’s headset crackled. “State police chopper, this is the FBI ground unit below you. Is Agent Coates on board with you?”
Russell recognized the voice of Tim Burrows, his ASAC out of the Charleston field office, and he beat the pilot to the mike button. “I’m here, Tim. We’re just looking for a place to park. Hold what you’ve got and I’ll be on scene in a half hour, tops.”
As police agencies go, the Charleston, West Virginia, Field Office of the FBI was not exactly Murder Central. They did their share, of course, but most murder investigations fell within the jurisdiction of local police forces, with additional support from state agencies. Because this particular killing had occurred in Catoctin National Forest, however—on federal property—it was a federal issue. Moreover, because it had occurred on Russell Coates’s first day back from a Bahamian cruise, it had become the Bureau’s version of a welcome-home fruit basket.
A hiker had discovered the body earlier this morning and made an anonymous phone call to the nearest ranger station. They, in turn, had called the local police, who notified the FBI. Somewhere in that daisy chain of telephone calls, someone thought to roust Russell out of bed on what should have been his last day of vacation to catch a state police chopper out to the middle of nowhere. Technically, he could have said no thanks, but such were the words that could get an
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