circular marks, spaced in such a way they could form a triangle.
“Is it possible?” he asked.
He had the tripod in his hands and was examining its feet and the length between them. Why hadn’t he thought about it before? The tripod’s feet would certainly leave similar marks in the dirt. While he turned the thing over, Maggie suddenly grabbed the two photos of Ginny Brier-the ones she had picked up earlier-and slapped them down on the table in front of Tully.
“Look at these two photos,” she said. “Do you see anything different from one to the other?”
He set the tripod aside and picked up the photos to study them. They looked almost exactly the same, same pose, same angle. There was a flash mark at the bottom of one print where the photo ended just above Ginny Brier’s hands, almost exactly where her wrists were. Tully wondered if perhaps it was some mark caused by the developing process, though he knew little about film or print processing.
“You mean this white mark at the bottom? This one has it, but the other doesn’t.”
“What do you think it is?”
“Not sure. Could just be a smudge from developing, couldn’t it?”
“Doesn’t it look more like the flash reflecting off of something?”
He looked again. “Yeah, I guess so. It’s hard to tell. A reflection off of what, though?”
“How about handcuffs?”
He stared at the photo again, then remembered. “She wasn’t wearing handcuffs when we found her.”
“Exactly,” she said, now excited as she grabbed two other photos and slapped them down. “Now look at these two.” They were close-ups of the Brier girl’s face, the dead eyes wide open, staring directly at her audience. They, too, looked the same.
“I’m not following, O’Dell.”
“One is from the roll of film Garrison kept for himself. The roll he used to sell shots to the
“Okay. How can you tell? They look identical. Same angle, same distance. Seems like he was trying really hard to duplicate what he took for himself and what he took for us.”
“Both photos are the same angle, same distance, same shot, but taken at different times,” O’Dell said, slowing down her excitement, as if she was figuring out the puzzle as she spoke.
“What are you talking about?”
“The eyes,” she said. “Take a close look.”
As she pointed to the corners of the eyes in each photo Tully finally saw what she was talking about. In one photo there were small clumps of the whitish-yellow eggs in the corners of her eyes. Tully wasn’t an expert, but he knew blowflies usually arrived within minutes to a few hours after death and began laying their eggs immediately. Yet in the photo Garrison had kept for himself, the dead girl’s eyes were completely clear. There wasn’t even the hint of infestation.
“That’s impossible,” he said, looking to O’Dell. “This photo had to have been taken shortly after her death.”
“Exactly.”
Tully picked up the tripod again, now more certain than ever that its feet had caused the strange indentations found at the three crime scenes. “Which would mean he’s on the scene before the cops are. Just what the hell is Ben Garrison up to?”
“More important, how does he know about the murders before we do?”
“O’Dell, you’re back,” Cunningham interrupted. He carried a mug of coffee, sipping as he walked, as if he had no time or patience to do only one thing at a time.
“Any word if the agents arrived at the compound yet?” she asked him.
“Why don’t you sit down,” he told her, pointing to a chair.
Tully immediately felt his own muscles tense as he saw O’Dell’s back straighten.
“It’s another standoff, isn’t it?” she wanted to know.
“Not exactly.”
“Eve told me that Everett would never allow himself to be taken alive. He has them prepared for suicide drills. Just like those boys at the cabin.” Her voice seemed calm, but Tully could see her right hand twisting the hem of her windbreaker into her fist. “He’s refusing to give up, isn’t he?”
“Actually…” Cunningham pulled off his eyeglasses and rubbed his eyes. Tully knew their boss wasn’t the type to stall, but lately the man seemed a bit unpredictable. “Everett isn’t there. He’s gone. We think he might already be on his way to Ohio, maybe Colorado.”
O’Dell looked relieved until Cunningham put a hand on her shoulder and said, “That’s not all, Maggie. There were people still at the compound. Between the short time that the Hostage Rescue Team announced its presence and then actually gained access to the compound there must have been a panic. You’re right about the suicide drill. HRT’s not sure how many, but there are bodies.”
CHAPTER 67
He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, but the nausea remained. How the hell could he have motion sickness? It was impossible. It had to be something else. Perhaps just the excitement, the anticipation for the inevitable climax.
The engines continued to rumble. He hated having them so close. He tried to let the sound relax him. He tried to concentrate on the next step, the last step. He just needed to keep steady. He was almost out of his homemade concoction. He couldn’t afford to take any until it was absolutely necessary. He’d need to wait. He could do that. He could be patient. Patience was a virtue. His mother had written that somewhere in one of her journal entries. So much patience. So much wisdom.
Then he realized he didn’t have the book. Damn it! How the hell could he have forgotten it?
CHAPTER 68
Kathleen O’Dell laid her head back against the seat and tried to let the rumbling of the bus lull the throbbing at her temples. She knew exactly what would get rid of the pain, but unfortunately, there hadn’t been a drop of alcohol in sight. She had even raided the cafeteria’s medicine cabinet, hoping to find some cough medicine. Instead, all she had found was a plastic bag full of red-and-white headache capsules. Now she wished she had taken several of them to stop this insistent banging in her head.
The girl named Alice sat quietly in the aisle seat beside her, but her eyes kept looking over at the young man who had helped Kathleen earlier in the cafeteria. Now she couldn’t remember his name. Why did she have such a problem remembering names? Or was it just because too much was happening? Her eyes still stung. Her ears were still ringing with the memory of those insults, those verbal jabs. And, of course, the physical jabs-she could feel the bruises. She just wanted to forget. She just wanted to sleep, to pretend everything was okay. And maybe everything would be as soon as they got to Colorado.
She noticed Alice’s glances getting longer, braver now that all the inside lights on the bus had been extinguished, except for the bright green floor tracking lights. “You like him, don’t you?” she whispered to Alice.
“What?”
“The boy across the aisle that you keep looking at. Justin.”
Even in the dim light, Kathleen could see Alice blush, the freckles even more pronounced.
“We’re just friends,” Alice said. “You know Father doesn’t allow anything more. We must keep ourselves chaste and our bodies pure.” It sounded like she was reading the words off a pamphlet.
“I think he’s very nice.” She ignored Alice’s benediction and nodded her chin in his direction. “And quite handsome.”
