Nelson handed his ID to the man at the front gate of the National Security Agency. He knew the people inside probably wouldn’t give him any information he didn’t already have, but he owed it to Dwight to at least try.
A week had passed since he had discovered his friend’s body in his secret office, and Nelson wasn’t thrilled that it had taken this long to find someone willing to talk to him. A handful of locals made the commute into Maryland every day to work for the agency, and one of them had been kind enough to set up this meeting. Nelson hoped he hadn’t wasted both his time and the better part of a tank of gas.
He’d always suspected Dwight was more than just a farmer because hired hands had always done the majority of the work at his place. Yet he spent enough time in the fields and in the barn to make it seem like he just might be what he appeared to be.
After the fellow from the NSA showed up, though, Nelson decided it was time to do some digging of his own. If Dwight had equipment that belonged to the government, it only made sense that he had access to it for a reason.
Nelson parked where he was told and made his way inside, where he waited at security until a dark-haired man arrived and introduced himself.
“Sheriff Hendricks, I’m Ken Holtz.”
“Good to meet you,” Nelson said. He followed the man through the complicated security procedures for admittance into the building and walked with him down a long hallway and into an office.
“Please, take a seat.” Ken gestured to a chair across the desk from his own. As soon as they were both settled, he said, “I understand you’re here about Dwight Martin?”
“That’s right. I’m investigating his murder, and so far the only apparent motivation is tied to the equipment we found in his barn.”
His eyebrows drew together. “Equipment?”
“That’s right. The extensive computer equipment we found at the scene of the crime.” At the blank expression on the other man’s face, Nelson added, “Someone from this agency picked it up right after the murders.”
Even though the man’s expression didn’t change, Nelson sensed an increased level of tension in the air, and his own concerns heightened. Nelson opened the file he carried and pulled out a copy of the authorization Nick White had given him. “Does the name Nick White ring a bell?”
“May I see that?” Ken asked, standing up so he could reach for the paper Nelson held.
Nelson handed it over, glad he’d had the foresight to make copies of everything before bringing the file with him.
The man across from him took his time as he studied the form silently. His own impatience humming, Nelson decided to get straight to the point. “Do you think it’s possible that Charlotte Martin could be responsible for killing Dwight Martin and Kurt Dorsey?”
“Charlotte? The daughter?” Ken asked, looking up with surprise that was quickly replaced by resolve. “No. Absolutely not.”
Nelson was surprised by the absolute certainty in the man’s voice. “How can you be so sure?”
“With what you’ve told me, I think it’s possible Dwight and Kurt were killed because of a project they were working on. Charlotte wouldn’t have anything to gain by their deaths, and she and Dwight were very close. If anything, these men died protecting her.”
“Protecting her from what?”
“I’m sorry. I’m afraid that information is highly classified,” Ken said. “I only mention this so you understand that if you search for Charlotte, you could inadvertently be putting her in danger.”
“Can you give me any clue as to who might be behind these murders?” Nelson asked, frustrated. “Surely you must know who would be involved with this project you mentioned, or at least the equipment at Dwight’s farm.”
“We’re still trying to ascertain that information ourselves. If we’re able to isolate any solid suspects, I’ll be sure to let you know.”
Though he wasn’t happy with the lack of cooperation, Nelson stood.
“I’ll be in touch, Sheriff. You can count on that.”
“I hope so.” Nelson said. “Dwight was a friend. I owe it to him to find out who did this.”
“I understand, and I share that sentiment.”
Nelson pondered the man across from him, seeing for the first time a trace of sincerity on the other man’s face. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He let himself be escorted out of the office and back through security. When he reached the parking lot, he looked up at the formidable building behind him. Classified or not, Nelson wasn’t about to let this case grow cold.
* * *
Charlotte rolled up her bedding, tying the worn blanket to the back of her saddle. For five days she had followed the same routine, breaking camp shortly after the sun came up and stopping an hour before sunset to start the process all over again.
At midday she took a short break for lunch and to indulge herself by reading the Jackson Clark novel in her bag. If nothing else, it provided her with an escape for a little while. Since the book was set in central Virginia, at times she could even distract herself by imagining she was living in the fictional world the author had created instead of this new life she could barely believe was real.
On her second day, she had come across an apple orchard and gratefully taken advantage of the fruit to supplement her meals. Some wild asparagus and strawberries had given her slightly more variety. Thankfully, she had also found several water sources, streams mostly, where she could bathe and replenish her water supply.
Hopefully she would find some more food along her path today since she had eaten the last of her harvest for breakfast and didn’t want to break into what remained of her emergency rations. She turned to gather the trash bags she had used for her makeshift shelter and ground cover just as a gust of wind lifted them and carried them toward the stream.
“No!” Charlotte shouted as though the wind would listen to her and stop its thievery. She turned and raced after the bags as they skidded along the ground. She reached down when she drew close enough, and her fingers briefly made contact with the slick plastic before the wind whipped the bags away again, this time pulling them several feet into the air.
Her eyes lifted to follow them, and her toe caught on a tree root protruding from the ground, sending her stumbling. She reached a hand out to stop her fall, but she wasn’t fast enough to prevent her hip and thigh from crashing into the fallen log on her right. She yelped with surprise more than pain, and the sound of fabric ripping was followed by the chill of exposed skin.
She looked down at her pants. Or what was left of them. A long gash in the cotton ran from just below the waistband to the middle of her knee. Blood welled up along the corresponding scratch.
“Great,” she muttered to herself.
The pants were ruined. Even with the miniature sewing kit she had in her bag, she doubted she had enough thread to fix this, not to mention the fabric was so badly frayed the task was likely impossible anyway.
Remembering why she had been running through the woods in the first place, she looked up and saw the two black trash bags finally coming to rest in the stream as the water swept them away.
She fought back tears and a wave of frustration. Today was definitely not her day.