Was he really interested? The small plane gave a bump, sending her heart into her throat. Who cared if he was interested or passing the time? She started talking, giving him the highlights of the Starlet Slasher case, from her first meeting with the LAPD detectives to the night she tracked down the serial killer with her partner, Detective Daniel Montoya. She told him about her parents, the actors.
Her story gave Jack a good idea what she was about—competent, able to think outside the box, maybe a bit too fearless. Telling him what happened had the added benefit of bringing color to her cheeks. “A good win. Okay, Wittier, so you’ve got a brain, you can hike, you wore the right clothes. Do you have any other useful skills?”
He didn’t sound hopeful, and that sent her chin up and thinned her lips. Good. Having her pissed off at him was better than having her scared.
“My friends in college called me a ninja camper—in and out of a campsite faster than well, the Flash, no muss, no fuss.”
“Ninja camping? Is that a military term?”
“It sounds like it should be—but I guess it isn’t manly enough. I can shoot straight. And I’m good at fixing mechanical problems, like busted fuel pumps on cars. I could help overhaul the engine on this plane if we got knocked out of the sky by a pissed-off goose. If you’re wounded, I can stitch you up without hurling on you.”
They hit some bumps, making the plane lurch and bounce. Cam looked down and wished she hadn’t. She saw nothing but tree-covered hills below those billowy clouds. Jack said, “We’ll be through this hit of air in a moment. Close your eyes, sit back, and hum James Bay’s ‘Let It Go.’?”
She spurted out a laugh and closed her eyes and heard the song play in her head whether she liked it or not. They were through the turbulence soon enough. Jack checked his cruise speed—145 knots—and made minor adjustments to the elevator and rudder trim. “Okay, you can open your eyes. I guess I saved us. It’s time to talk about what’s going to happen when we land. I already spoke to Wayne Duke, the Cumberland District park ranger who will be our guide in the national forest. Chief Harbinger of the Pennington Gap PD will be meeting us when we land at London-Corbin Magee Field.”
“I hope he’ll have all the gear we’ll need with him, like bivvy bags, a portable stove.”
“Not a problem—he’ll provide whatever we need. We’re going to keep the team small—the two of us, Wayne Duke, the park ranger, and Chief Harbinger. The other park rangers will help us as lookouts. The chief is assigning four of his deputies to cover major exit points from the forest, and he’s coordinating with other local law enforcement to patrol outside the forest, both west and east, on the lookout for anyone who doesn’t belong there. Hey, look down. Is that beautiful, or what?”
Cam looked out the small window again, saw the endless chain of rolling tree-covered Appalachian hills below the thinning clouds, the occasional small town, and homesteads set far apart on the rich green land. A single road cut through them straight as a knife.
Jack checked his watch. “The field is just inside Kentucky, about thirty miles from the entrance we’ll be using into the national forest.”
Jack had already been slowly descending. “There’s Magee Field coming up.”
Magee was a large expanse of tarmac cut into the land in front of a row of flat-roofed white single-story buildings and a pair of hangars. A trio of single-engine planes was lined up in front of the largest building. Cam saw a couple of guys in overalls talking, paying them no mind. Other than that, the place looked deserted. One of the men with a rooster tail of white hair finally looked up, shaded his eyes, and gave them a little wave.
Jack had his flaps up, and Cam’s stomach did a flip as the ground came up to meet them. She decided to be heroic and keep her eyes open. The Skylane angled smoothly downward, already lined up with the end of the runway, bumped once, twice, and settled, its wheels solid on the tarmac. Jack turned and taxied to a stop beside the other three aircraft, cut the engine.
She was quiet for a moment, settling like the plane, taking big easy breaths until her heart stopped kettle-drumming in her chest. She turned to Jack as she took off her headphones. “We’re on the ground, and we’re in one piece. Good job, Cabot. I forgot to ask, do we have parachutes on board?”
He laughed. “The FBI could only afford one so we’d have piggybacked.”
She rolled her eyes, watched him go through his shutdown checklist.
“We made good time. No particular headwind. You did good, too, Wittier.”
“I’ll admit to some white knuckles. I was wondering if I’d make it to heaven if we crashed into one of those cloud-covered hills.”
“Lots of people are jumpy about small planes their first time out. You’ll be fine when we fly back. You ready to dance with the devil when we catch him?”
“Looking forward to it.”
Jack opened the door, grabbed his backpack, and walked down the airstairs, Cam behind him. She stood a moment, content to breathe in the clean warm air and feel the gentle breeze ruffle her hair and dry the sweat from her forehead. It was so quiet, so peaceful with the engine off, and only trees around them, enough to build a city.
Jack pulled out his cell, then slid it back into his shirt pocket. “No need to call, that’s Chief Harbinger there, in that big honker black SUV coming toward us. Amazing timing.”
“I texted him as soon as we had a signal.”
He hadn’t seen her do that. They watched a big man dressed for the woods climb out of the SUV. He shouted, “Welcome to Magee, outpost of the brave.” A very pretty young girl scooted out the passenger door and stepped around to stand at his side. His daughter, Kim Harbinger? Why had the chief brought his teenage daughter with him?
6
WASHINGTON MEMORIAL HOSPITAL
WASHINGTON, D.C.
MONDAY AFTERNOON
Savich stood beside Dr. Grace Wordsworth, a tall, thin black woman with white wings in her hair and glasses over intelligent eyes, looking down at the young man lying on his back. A single blanket was pulled up to his bandaged shoulder and an adhesive strip covered the scalp wound where Savich’s bullet had grazed his left temple. He was bone-white and lay utterly still, the slow rise and fall of his chest his only obvious sign of life. Savich saw his uninjured arm was handcuffed to the metal bed frame, an IV line in his wrist.
Dr. Wordsworth checked his pulse, put her stethoscope over his heart, and straightened. “At least our John Doe is breathing easily on his own. But he hasn’t helped us much in figuring out why he’s in a coma. His CT scan was perfectly normal—no evidence of hematoma or brain contusion. We’ve looked at his cerebrospinal fluid with a lumbar puncture, and again, there was no evidence of bleeding, or of infection. By the way, Dr. Avery, the consulting neurologist, said John Doe’s irrational behavior yesterday sounded like delirium to him, not a psychiatric illness. Something else—a metabolic problem or something toxic—may be to blame. He has some abnormal central reflexes that point to something affecting his entire nervous system. So you can relax if you were worried his head wound put him in this condition. The bullet probably concussed him, sure, but this is something else entirely.” She glanced down at her watch and its large digital readout. “We may know more after they fit him in for his MRI in a couple of hours.”
“Something else? Could he have overdosed on a drug?”
“Our usual toxicology panel showed a trace of Haldol in his system—that’s an old antipsychotic drug—but nothing else he shouldn’t have taken. As I said, there was only a trace, which means he hadn’t taken any therapeutic dose for upward of three or four days. But there are a lot of drugs and supplements out there we haven’t tested for yet that can cause neurotoxicity. We’ve sent a sample of his blood to a facility with a specialized mass spectroscopy unit to try to identify any drugs we might have missed. We’ll have to wait for the results. Some kind of drug effect is a real possibility. His blood tests show his bone marrow is suppressed, and his liver shows signs of injury for some reason. So I have a medical mystery on my hands, and no history to work with. Have you made any progress identifying him?”