The Last Word

the dragons and their riders from the Anne McCaffrey books, and Tessa had recently discovered the secret name of her Gryphon. By calling his name, she’d awakened her own magical abilities, but with no training in magic, she was now vulnerable to attack as she headed to the furthermost outpost of her people.

Olivia leaned back in her chair and began to read.

Tessa held on to Variynt’s thick mane as he dove between the sharp spires of rock. The Needle Mountains were a menacing cluster of towering stones, so tall that they blotted out the sun and obscured the horizon. Flying between their narrow, clawlike spires was dangerous at best, and in a thunderstorm with the wind currents shifting every few seconds, it was close to madness.

The Gryphon blinked drops of cold rain from his amber eyes and veered away from a jagged outcrop of rock. Tessa flew with her head tucked against Variynt’s neck, but the biting rain battered the flesh on her hands and face. Finally, the icy downpour abated and the mountains gave way to a stretch of dark wood. It happened without warning. In the space of a heartbeat, Tessa looked up and the rocks were gone.

We’re going to make it, she thought and knew that Variynt had heard her relief. She and her Gryphon were bonded telepathically. Tessa also experienced his pain as if it were her own and had been told by the priests that if her Gryphon died, she would follow him to the White Plains, the place where Gryphon Warriors rested after exhausting lives of battle and strife.

Suddenly, a trio of nets was discharged from the canopy of trees, pinning Variynt’s wings to his sides. He cried out in rage and crashed through the foliage, the branches piercing his skin like razors, Tessa screaming with agony.

Just when she thought they’d collide with the hard ground, their bones snapping like kindling in the fire, the nets jerked upward, and they swayed back and forth, hovering over a clearing.

Tessa fought to regain her breath. The sound of her heartbeat roared inside her head, and Variynt was flooding her with a mixture of anger and distress.

Voices speaking in a foreign, raspy tongue surrounded them, and Tessa struggled to pull the blade from her bootstrap. She never got the chance, for the netting was rapidly removed and several men grabbed her, pinning her down. Though she cursed and spat, her hands were lashed behind her back and then she was yanked to her feet as though she weighed less than a pile of Variynt’s feathers.

Before her stood a cloaked man. He slid the hood from his head, and Tessa held back a gasp. Both of his cheeks were tattooed with dragon scales.

He was a Wyvern Warrior, Tessa’s mortal enemy. The race Tessa’s people had warred against since the dawn of time. He was also the most beautiful man she had ever seen.

And he was smiling at her.

Olivia went back to the beginning of the chapter and made a few notes in the margins. In her opinion, Millay had a tendency to take her metaphors too far. She knew that Millay was a huge admirer of Dean Koontz’s style but didn’t feel that her metaphors were as successful, or original, as Mr. Koontz’s.

Overall, Olivia enjoyed every installment of Tessa’s journey, but something about the last line made her forget all about mythological beasts. Instead, her thoughts turned to Rawlings. Why wasn’t he returning her calls?

Her iMac binged, indicating the receipt of a new e-mail. Olivia minimized Millay’s chapter and noticed the sender was Professor Billinger. He’d sent her an enormous attachment, and she could only hope that he’d discovered something useful. The moment she read his message, she knew that he had.

Dear Olivia,

I hope this note finds you well. Excuse the cliches, but I have been burning the candle at both ends in search of more information on the ill-fated lovers. After exhausting the documents at the North Carolina Museum of History, I traveled to DC and began hunting there.

I won’t bore you with the details, but within the seemingly endless archives of the Library of Congress, I found a treasure trove of documents and photographs on the prison camps of North Carolina. There were dozens of photographs from Camp New Bern, including the one I’ve attached featuring our mutual friend, Heinrich Kamler. Unlike the photo you saw in my office, this one shows his face quite clearly, and as you can see, Kamler stands apart from the rest of the prisoners.

I’ve also attached images of his watercolor rendition of the camp and some shots of the men taking exercise and engaged in other daily tasks. I still have many letters and military reports to wade through and will be in touch if I stumble across anything that could be of use to you.

Please let me know if you’ve made any fresh discoveries. I believe we make an excellent research team.

Affectionately yours,

Emmett Billinger

Olivia scrolled down, her finger hovering over the mouse as her eyes drank in the black-and-white photograph showing a group of uniformed prisoners standing on a row of wooden bleachers. A baseball game was in progress, and the spectators were facing the camera, relaxed and grinning.

The caption indicated that Heinrich Kamler was the last man in the second row, and Olivia immediately understood what Billinger had meant by his comment that Kamler stood apart from the others. He was a head taller than the rest of the men and had a lean, wiry body and the kind of chiseled, handsome face that would be at home on a movie screen. His eyes gazed into middle distance, but the unmistakable look of longing struck Olivia to the quick. She had seen the same expression in those very eyes. Recently.

Her mouth went dry.

She stared at the square jaw, the smooth brow, and the straight, proud nose and wanted to put her head back and cry out in misery. Instead, she hit the print button, pacing back and forth in front of the printer as it strung the pixels together into an image. An image that would shake the entire community.

Haviland watched her with anxious eyes, but Olivia was too lost in the picture emerging from the printer to pay him any heed.

The machine completed its task and the image fell neatly into a tray. Olivia snatched it up and carried it to the window. There was no denying it. The eyes gave him away.

Olivia leaned against the glass, pressing her right cheek against its cool surface as she glanced out at the ocean for a long time, desperately needing to be soothed by the dips and swells of blue.

It failed to comfort her.

She turned her stunned gaze on the interior of her house, her eyes staring at the well-known patterns of tile and wood flooring and carpet. It was as if she didn’t know where she was. Her surroundings, her town, and the people in it seemed to have turned inside out, and all that she knew had become cold and strange.

And no matter how much she wanted to, she could not avoid knowing what she now knew. There was no way to deny the truth that burned her lungs and brought hot tears to her eyes.

Olivia knew the identity of Heinrich Kamler. She’d known him for years and cared for him deeply.

The doorbell rang. Olivia leapt backward like a startled doe.

Haviland began to bark and raced into the kitchen. Olivia followed him slowly, like a sleepwalker. When she opened the door to Rawlings, she could not speak. She merely shook her head, again and again, clutching the photograph of Heinrich Kamler in her hand.

“Shhhhh,” the chief hushed her and gently pried the paper from beneath her fingers. He studied the image in silence and then touched her cheek. “Olivia, I’m sorry that it has to end this way. Raymond Hatcher is innocent of Nick Plumley’s murder. Heinrich Kamler is the killer.”

Mutely, Olivia averted her gaze, but Rawlings put a hand under her chin and forced her to look at him. “I came to tell you before I picked him up. It’s against every rule and regulation, and I’m half disgusted with myself for being here, but I knew this would hurt you. I didn’t want you to find out from anyone but me, but I can see that I’m already too late. I suppose your professor friend sent you this?”

Olivia didn’t even hear the question. She dug her fingertips into the fabric of the chief’s uniform sleeve and squeezed him hard. “Let me be the one,” she begged, her voice hoarse and pitiful. “Let me go to him first.”

Rawlings dropped his eyes. “I can’t allow that. You’d have him on the next plane, the next boat, anything to