17

On Wednesday morning, Dale flipped through the magazine in Emily’s waiting room, trying not to appear nervous. The Lord had brought him here for a reason, he was sure of it. During the next hour, God would show him his next steps in righting the wrongs.

“Can I get you some coffee, Mr. Smith?”

He raised his head. The Mexican-looking receptionist was smiling at him. That radio talk show guy he’d begun listening to at night was right. The U.S. was being taken over by foreigners.

“No, thank you.” He buried his nose back in the magazine, hoping she’d leave him alone.

To his relief, she got the hint. Lowering the magazine a bit, he gave the headline of the story a disinterested scan . . . then read it again.

“Immobilization Drug: Attacker’s Best Friend.”

As he scanned the first few paragraphs, Dale’s heart began to thud. According to the article, the powerful, fast-acting drug was tasteless, odorless, and colorless. Soluble in liquid, a couple of teaspoons were enough to wreak havoc on the central nervous system. It immobilized without loss of consciousness, leaving victims responsive but passive and incapable of thinking clearly.

While the drug was illegal, the article suggested it could be made with common, available ingredients—and that the recipe was easy to find. The drug could also be sourced on the Net or easily purchased on the black market.

How that information fit in with Dale’s mission was a mystery. But somehow he knew it did.

Emily looked over the notes she’d taken during her phone conversation with Randy Miller as she prepared for her first meeting with Joe Smith. Age fifty-nine, employed by Aiken Concrete for twenty-four years, he had been considered a solid, dependable employee until the past month or so, when he’d become distracted and distant.

The cause was no secret. Two months ago, his sixteen-year-old son—an only child—had hung himself in the barn. Three weeks later, his wife had suffered a fatal heart attack. In total, Mr. Smith had taken five days off work for the two funerals. His stoic fortitude had amazed his supervisor and co-workers—until he’d begun making mistakes on the job.

The mistakes were a given, Emily reflected. A person didn’t suffer those kinds of blows without major fallout. She knew that firsthand. Fear was the legacy of her tragic loss. But now that Mark had entered her life, she’d faced her issues and was trying to work through them.

Based on the preliminary information Randy had given her— and his top-line assessment—Mr. Smith wasn’t even close to that stage yet. Meaning he could be on a direct path to a major breakdown.

Laying down her notes, Emily took a final sip of her coffee, set the cup aside, and headed toward the door to the reception area. A man with thinning gray hair looked up as she stepped into the waiting room.

“Mr. Smith? Emily Lawson. It’s nice to meet you.” She moved forward and extended her hand.

The man rose as she approached, folding his magazine in half as he tucked it under his arm.

He took her hand in an almost too-firm grip. About five-foot-nine, he had a lean but muscular build, suggesting he was accustomed to physical labor. Up close, his tanned, weathered face spoke of long hours in the wind and sun, while the lines radiating from the corners of his eyes and mouth conveyed prolonged strain. He wore jeans and a cotton work shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal sinewy muscles in his forearms. Penetrating brown eyes, rather unnerving in their intensity, were fixed on her as he shook her hand.

“How do you do?”

“Please, come in.” She stepped aside and ushered him into her office, indicating the sitting area off to the side.

He chose one of the striped chairs and sat stiffly on the edge, twisting the magazine in his hands as he surveyed the room.

Considering his comment to Randy about the stigma of counseling, his nervousness didn’t surprise Emily. Her first order of business was to put him at ease.

Picking up her pen and notepad, she chose the chair at right angles to him. “Did Maria offer you something to drink?”

“Yes.” He gestured toward the Starbuck’s cup on her desk. “I hope I didn’t interrupt your morning coffee.”

“I must confess, today it was a double chocolate chip frap-puccino. And it’s long gone. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a beverage? Water, perhaps?”

“No thank you.” He twisted the magazine tighter in his hands.

“If you change your mind, let me know.” She crossed her legs and settled her notebook on her lap. “I spoke with Randy Miller about your situation. I’m very sorry for your losses, Mr.

Smith.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s not surprising for that kind of trauma to have a negative impact on your work performance. Why don’t we talk about what’s been happening at your job?”

“I made a couple of mistakes.”

“I imagine you’ve been distracted.”

She waited for him to comment, but he remained silent, wary and watching. After several more queries about his problems on the job met with monosyllabic answers, she tried asking a few questions about his wife. Same result.

Consulting her notes, Emily took a few moments to regroup.

Joe Smith wasn’t the first resistant EAP referral she’d had, but she couldn’t remember too many who had been as tightly strung as this man. His rigid body posture, the mangled magazine in his hands, his intent but guarded gaze . . . no wonder his boss had been worried about him.

If he wouldn’t talk about his wife or his job, she doubted he’d open up about his son. The death of a child was always hard on a parent. And suicides were devastating. But she could try.

“Would you like to tell me a little about your son, Mr. Smith?”she asked gently.

“He was a good boy. He shouldn’t have died.” The man’s gaze bored into her. “It was wrong that he died.”

“The loss of such a young life is always a tragedy. I do some work with young people, and I’ve discovered that depression is often a very serious problem for teens. Do you think that might have been an issue with your son?”

His shoulders stiffened. “He had his blue days now and then, like we all do. But he was a strong boy. He would have been fine if he’d gotten out in the fresh air and enjoyed God’s creation, or read the Good Book, instead of holing up in his room.”

Denial. Emily ran into it frequently. “Depression can often be helped by treatment, in much the same way antibiotics heal an infection.” She strove to maintain a relaxed, conversational tone.

“And it often runs in families. Is there a history of depression in your family, Mr. Smith?”

“No, ma’am.” He stared at her, his face expressionless. “And my son wasn’t depressed. Just a little down.”

Now she was picking up another emotion. Anger, perhaps.

Possibly self-directed. Deep inside, he might be questioning his beliefs about the value of counseling and wondering if he could have averted the tragedy by seeking professional help for his son.

If that was the case, a sense of blame and a familial propensity to depression could lead to serious guilt and self-loathing—a dangerous combination.

The picture that emerged troubled her. While Mr. Smith hadn’t offered her any direct insights into his thoughts or feelings, she’d gleaned a fair amount from body language and what was left unsaid. The bottom line was that he appeared to be poised on the verge of meltdown, his tension palpable. Some of it could be attributed to the counseling situation, which he clearly found uncomfortable. But she sensed it went far deeper than that and was sourced in roiling emotions buried inside.

Anger, guilt, grief, confusion. As far as she could see, none of those emotions had found an outlet. And they needed to. Or the pressure would build until it burst.

Today, however, was a wash. The best that could be said was that he’d shown up. All she could do was hope that Mr. Smith, like Jack Hanley, would recognize sooner rather than later that he needed help. Until he was ready to talk to her, however, there was little she could do except be available.

Rising, Emily moved to her desk, picked up one of her cards, and held it out to him. “I understand this situation is awkward for you, Mr. Smith. But I’d like to see you again. Now that we’ve met, I hope you’ll feel more comfortable in the future. In the meantime, if you’d like to talk, don’t hesitate to call me at any hour of the day or night. My exchange can reach me within minutes.”

“Thank you.” He took the card and slid it into his shirt pocket as he stood, tucking the magazine under his arm.

“May I set up another appointment for you? How about Friday or Monday?” She didn’t want to wait a week to see him again.

“Monday is okay.”

“Give me a minute.”

Rising, Emily flashed him a pleasant smile. But his expression remained impassive. Closed. Verging on hostile. This wasn’t going to be an easy case, she reflected. But as she slipped through the door to the reception area, closing it behind her, she was glad he’d come.

Because Joe Smith needed help.

Badly.

Dale stared at the closed door as Emily exited. She was smooth, he’d give her that. With her gentle, caring tone, she oozed empathy. He could see how his son would have been sucked in by her.

But her comments about depression had disgusted him. She made the blues sound like an inherited disease, like high blood pressure or diabetes. But it wasn’t a sickness. It was a weakness. And no one could help you overcome weaknesses except yourself. And God.

That’s what he’d told Bryan.

And John.

All at once he was propelled back four years to his last phone conversation with his older brother. Two days before Christmas.

The day before John had walked out into his garage, turned on the car, and waited for the deadly fumes to end the grief that had plagued him after he’d lost his wife to cancer the prior summer.

Dale had tried to stand by him through his anguish, had pushed him to talk to the Lord, but John had sought “professional” help instead of seeking it from God—just as Bryan had.

And like Bryan, he’d been misled. As Dale had reminded both of them on numerous occasions, the Lord said, “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”

Come to me. Not some shrink.

But John had gone to the wrong place for help. Dale had tried to protect his son from falling into that same trap, but Bryan hadn’t listened. Instead, he’d talked to this woman. On the radio, no less. And he’d ended up dead too.

He couldn’t bring Bryan or John back. But he could at least eliminate the woman who’d caused his son’s death.

And God would be pleased.

The door to the reception area opened again, and Emily crossed the room to hand him an appointment card. He pocketed that too.

“We’re all set for Monday. But feel free to call me sooner if you’d like to talk.”

“I will.”

The door that led from her office to the hall had a peephole in it, as had the one from the hall to the reception room, he noted, waiting while she checked the corridor. She was being careful.

That meant he would have to be too.

“Sorry about the cloak and dagger stuff.” She twisted the lock and opened the door. “I had a little problem recently and I’m being cautious. Take care, Mr. Smith.”

Stepping outside, he waited as the door closed behind him.

Then he headed toward the exit.

Once out of sight of her peephole, he withdrew the two cards from his pocket. Tearing up the one with the appointment on it, he discarded it in a trash can near the door. The other one he fingered thoughtfully.

A plan was forming in his mind. Through his conversation with Emily Lawson, the Lord had reminded him he wasn’t avenging just one death. His brother, too, had died as a result of a shrink. Not the one who had ruined Dale’s life. But they were all alike. Equally dangerous—and liable.

He’d also been reminded that John and Bryan hadn’t died instantly. They’d had time to think about their life coming to an end, John as he drifted into unconsciousness, Bryan as he’d gasped his final, choking breaths. That’s why his first plan had failed, Dale concluded. Emily Lawson needed to die more slowly.

And she needed to know her death was a punishment for the wrongs she and others like her had done.

Tucking the magazine more securely under his arm, Dale looked at the card Emily had given him as she’d told him to call her. Any time.

That one he kept.

“Mark, Steve wanted me to check with you about . . .”

As the woman’s words trailed off, Mark slipped his Glock into his holster and turned to find Allison Schwartz, one of the professional support people in the St. Louis office, staring at the copy of the shooter’s note on his desk.

“Allison? What is it?” He and Coop had been preparing to spend their Wednesday afternoon following up on the names they’d been assigned to investigate from what had become known as the Eight List. But her expression stopped him cold.

“It’s nothing, I’m sure.” She shook her head, but her attention remained riveted on the piece of paper on his desk. “It’s just that . . . the handwriting on that note reminds me of my brother-in-law’s.”

“Take a closer look.” He picked up the sheet of paper and passed it to her.

Frowning, she studied the script. “See how the t’s are crossed with a slanted line? That’s what caught my attention. My brother-in-law does that.”

It was probably nothing, Mark told himself. An odd coincidence. But he could remember several cases from his investigative days when such a coincidence had provided the key to solving a crime.

“This is from the shooter, isn’t it?” Allison gave him a concerned look.

The existence of the note was common knowledge in the office, but few had seen it.

“Yes.”

“In that case, it can’t have anything to do with my brother-in-law. He’s a straight arrow. A hardworking, churchgoing family man.”

“Quantico believes the note was forged, Allison. If you think the resemblance to your brother-in-law’s writing is that strong, we need to talk to him. What’s his name, and how can we reach him?” He pulled a small notebook out of his pocket.

“Mike Evans. He’s a residential builder. Evans Construction.

They handle a lot of higher-end housing developments. I’ll call my sister and get his cell number.”

“Thanks.”

As she exited, Mark motioned to Coop, who was chatting with an agent on the far side of the bull pen, an open room that was honeycombed with cubes. When Coop walked over, Mark filled him in. As he finished, his desk phone rang and he scribbled down the number Allison recited.

“Let’s stop in and see Steve before we leave,” Mark said.

Five minutes later, Steve had Paul Sheehan in Quantico on the speaker phone.

“We need to get some original handwriting samples,” Paul said. “As we speak I’m emailing Steve some suggested text to have him write. And have him use two different pens. I’ll need the originals to do a thorough analysis, but if you fax me a copy of the samples you get I can give you a preliminary opinion on whether I think it’s a match.”

“We’ll do that right away, Paul. Thanks.” Steve ended the call, checked his email, and printed out the text Paul had sent. “Do you two want to track this guy down or focus on the Eight List?”

“Both. It shouldn’t take long to deal with Mr. Evans. We’ll courier the samples back here from his office.”

“Good enough.” Steve pulled the text from Paul off his printer and handed it over. “I’ll have copies faxed to Quantico and overnight the originals. You’ll hear from me as soon as he gives us a preliminary read. And I’ll get some intelligence analysts working on Evans.”

As Mark and Coop headed to the car, Coop looked at his partner. “You realize this is a long shot.”

“Yeah.” Mark pulled out his BlackBerry to call Evans and set up a meeting. “But stranger things have happened. Keep your fingers crossed.”

Mike Evans met them in the construction trailer at Windsor Hills, his latest West County development project. Midforties, with salt-and-pepper hair and a face tanned from long hours in the sun, he was dressed in khaki slacks and a blue dress shirt that was rolled to the elbows. A hard hat sat on the corner of his cluttered desk in the cramped office.

“Sorry for the heat, gentlemen.” He shook their hands as they introduced themselves and motioned them to seats across from his desk. “These trailers aren’t equipped with the best air conditioners, and they sure can’t keep up with this sweltering weather.”

“No problem, Mr. Evans.” Not quite true, but Mark resisted the urge to loosen his tie. After years on the HRT, neither he nor Coop were used to wearing suits. And the humid heat of St. Louis wasn’t conducive to the FBI dress code for agents. But they’d manage.

“How can I help you today? It isn’t often I get a visit from the FBI.”

The man appeared more curious than nervous, Mark assessed. If he had anything to hide, he was doing a masterful job masking it.

“We received a note about a week ago that appears to be forged. Allison Schwartz was in my office today and saw it. She remarked that it looked a lot like your handwriting. We’d like to get an original sample of your writing to send to our experts in Quantico.”

“I’m more than happy to cooperate, gentlemen. But even if my handwriting was forged, I doubt that will help you much. A lot of people have memos and notes from me.”

“We understand that, but we’re trying to follow up on every lead,” Coop said.

“Of course. What specifically do you need from me?”

“Several handwriting samples.” Coop handed over the text Paul had suggested. “If you could write those paragraphs on different sheets of paper, switching pens each time, we’d appreciate it.”

“No problem.” The man took the proffered document, extracted a pen from the chaos on his desk, and began to write.

Ten minutes later, he gathered up the samples, tapped them into a neat pile, and handed them over with an apologetic grin.

“I’m afraid my penmanship deteriorated as I went along. Sister

Mary Elizabeth, who taught me cursive, would have a fit. But I hope this gives you what you need.”

Taking the stack of paper, Mark scanned the top sheet, angling it to allow Coop to do the same. The writing looked like a match to him, and a quick glance confirmed his partner felt the same way.

“This will work,” Mark assured the contractor.

“Can you tell us where you were on the morning of Saturday, August 3, about eight o’clock?” Coop asked the question as Mark slid the handwriting samples into a folder.

Pulling out his PalmPilot, the builder scanned back to the date in question. “On a plane returning from Chicago. I was at a conference the prior Thursday and Friday.” He gave them the flight number without prompting, as well as the location of the conference.

“Thank you.” Mark jotted down the information. “Proceeding on the assumption the handwriting sample is a match to the forgery, we’d like you to put together a list of everyone employed here in the past six months—tagging anyone who was fired or may have been disgruntled—along with a list of subcontractors you’ve used during the same period. We’ll also need the names of anyone who has access to this office, plus anyone you can think of in the St. Louis area who might have a sample of your handwriting.”

“The employee and contractor rosters I can have to you within an hour or two. I’ll jot down the names of anyone else I can think of who might have a document with my handwriting on it, but that will be an extensive list and will take longer to put together.”

“We’ll start with whatever we have. If you could fax the information to Steve Preston at our office as soon as possible, we’d appreciate it.” Mark wrote the number on a slip of paper and handed it to the builder. He looked at Coop, and the other agent gave a slight nod. “That’s all we need for now, Mr. Evans.”

They rose and shook his hand. “Thanks for your help. We may be back in touch.”

Once settled in their car, Coop glanced at Mark as he turned the key in the ignition. “Looks like a match to me.”

“Me too. And considering our shooter had fresh concrete on his boots, the link to Mike Evans fits. But given the size of this operation and the number of contacts the man has, I don’t know how much that will help us.”

“Look at it this way. Everything we learn gets us one step closer to finding this guy. We can always hope a name Evans supplies matches one on our Eight List.”

“That would be too easy.” Mark stared out the window as the late August sun beat down on the parched landscape. Despite the new leads, that’s how this case felt to him. Parched. They needed a big break, a connection among the loose threads they’d assembled that would tie them together. And they needed it soon.

Because in his gut, Mark felt certain about two things.

First, the note he’d received hadn’t been a hoax or an idle threat.

Second, they were running out of time.