It was a fifteen-mile drive to the Cumberland County ME’s office in the town of Woodbine. Mason figured if he pushed it through the tight turns of the national forest, he could make it in under twenty minutes. Layne rode in the passenger seat, with her laptop open on her thighs, the photographs of the five victims in the cornfield and the two behind the wall arranged on her screen like some hellish version of The Brady Bunch.
“So we’re dealing with seven victims that we currently attribute to our UNSUB,” she said. “But what about the person who was incinerated in the truck? Where does he fit in?”
“You know as well as I do that the guys who attacked us tonight didn’t kill him,” Mason said.
“So you think he was already inside the vehicle when they set it on fire?”
“Stands to reason, and if they believed they were potentially looking at murder charges in addition to arson, that would justify their panic.”
“Okay. So we have three subsets of victims.”
“And three distinct MOs,” Mason said. “The two men in the tunnel were presumably used as guinea pigs to test the efficacy of the Novichok, and the men in the cornfield were displayed in a manner that more closely fits the mold of a serial killer.”
“We don’t know how the man in the truck was killed, though.”
“That’s the point. We’re not supposed to. There’s something about either his identity or the manner of his death that would compromise their plans.”
“‘Their’?”
“We’ve already established that the UNSUB has no fear of getting caught, which means that someone else does. Someone threatened by the potential identification of the remains.”
“Then what’s the UNSUB’s relationship to this second person?”
“I think you were right when you drew a distinction between the personal and professional nature of his crimes. Manufacturing the Novichok was professional. Testing it on the men in the tunnel and torturing the men in the field were personal.”
“So where does the body in the truck fit in?”
“If we assume the second man in this scenario hired the UNSUB for his ability to manufacture a large quantity of Novichok and then the four men from tonight to clean up after him, then I’m betting the man in the truck is the link between the two.”
“We need to figure out who he was.”
“Or else this is where the trail ends.”
Layne closed her computer, cradled it to her chest, and brought her feet up onto the seat. She rolled down the window and leaned her face into the breeze.
“You know what I don’t understand?” she said. “Let’s say we’re right and one man hired another to mass-produce a chemical weapon. That’s a straight-up business transaction. Cash for Novichok. They could have built a lab anywhere, loaded the product onto any truck, and we would never have known. Why set up shop in a building where there’s already other horrible stuff going on, and why kill five men on the same property where he stole the trucks? It’s like he’s leaving bread crumbs for us.”
Mason thought about the chemical formula he’d found on the clipboard in the otherwise sanitized lab.
“He wants us to find him,” he said.
“But we already know he’s fully convinced that we can’t.”
“Then he’s leading us toward something.”
“His partner, the man who hired him?” Layne asked. “Why would he want to do that?”
“Because he has his own agenda.”
“But is it separate from the dispersal of the Novichok? That’s our priority. We don’t have time to explore every tangent.”
“There has to be a relationship between the first two subsets of victims and the UNSUB for him to have wanted them to suffer so badly before their deaths,” Mason said. “And if my theory is right, the dead man from the truck somehow links him to his business partner, which means that the victims are the key to finding both of them.”
“We need to ID them,” Layne said.
The headlights diffused into the surrounding forest, which encroached from the sides of the road. They caught the occasional flash of eye shine from nocturnal animals in the deep shadows.
“Do me a favor,” Mason said. He removed his cell phone from his pocket and handed it to her. “Scroll through my contacts until you find Locker’s number, call him, and put him on speaker.”
She did as he asked. Locker answered in an exhausted voice on the fourth ring.
“You’re on speaker,” Mason said. “Special Agent Layne is here with me. Tell us you have some good news.”
“Wilkinson was released from the hospital today and they expect Andrews to be able to go home by the end of the week.”
Mason had gotten so caught up in the hunt that he’d nearly forgotten about the men who’d been exposed to the Novichok in the tunnel.
“What happened to them isn’t on you.”
“Maybe not, but if we don’t find this guy before he dips into his stockpile, the next time will be.”
“We won’t let that happen,” Layne said.
“I like your optimism, but from everything I’ve heard, we’re no closer to finding him now than we were yesterday.”
“Who’s your source?” Mason asked.
“Are you kidding? I’ve had Homeland crawling all over me since the moment they arrived.”
“Even with their EOCs at heightened awareness, they had that hazmat team on-site awfully quickly, don’t you think? It’s almost like they were just sitting around waiting for something to happen.”
“I have no doubt they know more about the situation than they’re letting on. We only know as much as we do because they’ve allowed it to filter down to us.”
“Are they starting to clamp down on the flow of information?”
“Not really. It’s strange. It’s almost like they’re just hovering around the periphery, waiting for something to happen.”
“You think they anticipate a mass-casualty event?”
“That’s what I thought at first, but their level of involvement doesn’t mesh with a theoretical threat level that high.”
“Then what else could they be waiting for?” Layne asked.
“Good question. They’ve basically set up shop right here in my lab, and yet they’re taking a hands-off approach. It’s like their presence is meant to remind us of who’s in charge, but they’ve yet to assume command. You know what that means, right?”
Unfortunately, Mason did.
The Department of Homeland Security was an autonomous agency whose directorship was a cabinet-level position, making it beholden neither to Congress nor the people of the United States. It fell under the auspices of the president of the United States himself, in effect creating his own private army. That wasn’t to say that Homeland didn’t have the best interests of the country at heart, only that it was under no obligation to divulge those interests. Or even justify the means by which it pursued them.
For Locker, that meant he had agents watching his every move, poring over his work, and using it to draw conclusions to which he wasn’t privy, until such time as they either seized control or simply up and left. Their arrival had been too well timed and their actions strangely unpredictable. They merely maintained a presence inside the lab and on the Dodge-Hill Strike Force, waiting for the right moment to assert their authority.
Mason wasn’t about to let that happen. He refused to be cut out of an investigation peripherally related to his wife’s death, the aftermath of which had revealed a shadow entity powerful enough to influence global events and, he now suspected, utilize the DHS for its own ends. They’d stumbled upon a plot they’d never been meant to find and now the investigation was about to be usurped by an agency capable of making it disappear beneath the shroud of national security.
“It means we’re running out of time,” Mason said.
“Surely anyone purchasing isopropanol or methylphosphonyl dichloride in the kind of volume required to convert potentially thousands of pounds of hydrogen fluoride into a viable nerve agent should be pretty easy to find, don’t you think?” Locker said.
“The Homeland contingent on the strike force is following that lead.”
“That alone should tell you everything you need to know. Either they’re grossly incompetent, which I highly doubt, or they already have a pretty good idea of where it originated.”
“So why haven’t they stepped in and taken over the investigation?” Layne asked.
There had to be an element Homeland still didn’t know, something they were unable to find out on their own. That was why they hadn’t thrown up the shield of the Patriot Act and sent them all packing. They needed Locker, or at least his resources, but what could he possibly have or be able to provide that they couldn’t get on their own?
Mason slowed as he left the forest behind and entered the city limits. The traffic light at the main intersection flashed yellow, highlighting the darkened storefronts lining the sleepy thoroughfare. Another block and he turned into an asphalt lot beside a sign that read SOUTHERN REGION MEDICAL EXAMINER’S OFFICE. He parked right in front, beside a newer-model Escalade, which presumably meant the ME was already set up and waiting for them. They needed to pick her brain. There had to be a way to identify the cremated remains—
The final piece fell into place.
He suddenly understood exactly why the DHS was taking such a passive role. It needed something that only Locker was in a position to provide.
“You haven’t ID’d the men behind the wall yet, have you?” Mason said.
“It’s not as easy everyone seems to think. Such advanced stages of desiccation are notoriously challenging, even without factoring in the unprecedented level of insect activity. Those guys are practically mummified. We couldn’t get a single useful fingerprint to save our souls and odontological molds and X-rays are only useful if we have access to the victims’ dental records. I managed to sequence their DNA, but unless their families provided samples that were uploaded to the system when they went missing…” Locker’s words trailed off. “They’re waiting for me to identify the victims.”
“Then I guess we’d better figure out who they were first,” Layne said.