“Yeah, there is that. We’re here.” Nate pulled the Bronco off to the side of the road. The area where the killings had happened was cordoned off by yellow tape, which was good. Otherwise, it was doubtful he would have found the area again, since it was quickly looking like every other bit of windswept highway out here. The bloodstains had dried in the desert heat, and now were barely marked by slightly darker spots on the road and desert hardpan. White bits of dried plaster marked where Kottke had done his cast work, but the tire marks were also slowly being eradicated by the stealthy desert.
Nate swung out of the SUV and let Tracy go ahead of him, getting the feel of the scene. He kept an eye on her as she examined the site. His first impression was of a confident, capable woman who might be a bit out of her depth here, but was going to do whatever she could to get the job done, which he admired. Whether she could pull it off, well, they’d just have to wait and see.
“Not much to find out here, either. Your team did good work,” Tracy said.
Nate raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know there was any other kind.”
He had the satisfaction of seeing Tracy flush, and not because of the heat. “I didn’t mean it like that—”
“No, but ever since you started looking, I got the impression that you expected to blow in here, look over the files and crime scene, go ‘aha’ and pull up the perfect bit of evidence that all us local yokels missed. When you’re responsible for over 250,000 square miles of territory to cover, with only half the needed staff to do the job, you tend to make damn sure that you don’t miss a thing the first time around.”
Tracy stared at Nate during his diatribe through her silver-framed sunglasses, then she walked over and held out her hand. “Tracy Wentworth, Department of Homeland Security, pleased to meet you.” With her other hand, she brushed off her shoulder. “There, chip’s gone. I guess I’ve gotten so used to relying on the resources back at headquarters—you know, staring at computers for ten hours a day—that I didn’t recognize quality crime-scene processing even when it’s staring me right in the face.”
Nate reached for her hand and shook it once. “All right, then. So, you’ve read the reports and examined the scene— what’s your expert conclusion?”
“I don’t suppose the Border Patrol vehicle was equipped with video?” she asked.
“If it was, I would have suggested we review it in the comfort of an air-conditioned room, instead of standing out here in the sun. We’re still trying to get the funding approved for those. But even it we had it, it probably wouldn’t have done any good, especially after they torched the truck.”
Tracy nodded. “Since they didn’t leave a sign saying The Terrorists Went This Way, we’ll have to see for ourselves where they went.” She flipped open the cell phone again. “Stephanie? What have you come up with so far?”
She turned up the phone’s volume so Nate could hear.
“One of our military satellites recorded the following footage from 0154 hours to 0203 hours on the specified morning.”
The small screen on the phone burst into life, showing a grainy picture of a panel truck with two men next to it, moving what looked like bodies to the side of the road. The pair of men kept their heads down as they worked, and the overhead view meant their faces couldn’t be seen. When they had finished, they got in the truck and drove away, heading north-northeast.
Tracy frowned. “Away from El Paso? That doesn’t match your theory about staying near the city.”
Nate held up a finger. “Think about it for a second.
These guys just killed two dozen people, and sprayed blood and tissue everywhere, including on the truck they just stole—”
“And they need to hole up somewhere and make sure it’s clean—maybe even repaint it—” Tracy continued his line of thought.
“I know an out-of-the-way place that would serve just fine. Come on,” Nate said.
Back in the Bronco, he pulled a tight turn and sped off in the same direction the truck had gone, pushing his twenty-year-old SUV down the highway at a shaking eighty miles per hour. The desert sped by in a tan-and-brown blur, dotted with the occasional green cactus piercing the skyline. They traveled for at least half an hour, until Nate pulled off the road before they crested a rise that would have given them a perfect view of the several dozen square miles beyond.
Tracy stared at the large hill. “Why did you stop here?”
Nate grabbed a pair of binoculars from the backseat.
“You never know who might be here before you, so it’s good to take a look before charging in.” He got out and walked up the slope until he could see over the top. As he scanned the old white-walled adobe barn and faded farm-house, he was aware of Tracy at his side.
The area looked completely deserted. Nate handed the glasses to her. “Tell me what you see.”
She lifted them to her eyes and looked down at the buildings for a minute. “There’s no dust or sand buildup by the barn doors, which means recent activity—someone’s been here within the last couple of days.”
“Good eyes. Let’s go check it out,” Nate said.
They drove down to the supposedly abandoned buildings. Nate pulled the Bronco around to the back. “No sense advertising our presence if anyone does happens along.”
He took out his pistol and pulled the slide back. “Ready?”
Tracy looked a bit dubious, but followed his example.
“Is this really necessary?”
“In the eleven years I’ve been here, I’ve seen agents nearly get killed by having their heads bashed in from illegals, coyotes and drug smugglers, and I’ve seen a helicopter get taken out of the sky by a rock. That’s what I hadn’t told you yet—the desert may be dangerous, but the men running around out here make it look like an oasis.”
She raised a sculpted eyebrow at him. “Hmm, just like in Washington.”
“Touche.” He slid out of his seat and crept along the side of the barn, clearing the corner before rounding it to approach the door. Tracy took a position on the opposite side, her pistol steady. “Shouldn’t we call for backup?” she whispered.
“What, and wait a half hour for them to get here?” Nate held up three fingers, then counted down to zero. As soon as he did, he grabbed the door handle and yanked it over.
“U.S. Border Patrol! Anyone inside, come out with your hands up!” He shouted in Spanish, then repeated the commands in English. Only silence answered him. Nate peeked around the door, then relaxed a bit. “Anything that did go down here, I think we missed it.”
The inside of the cavernous barn was empty, with only scattered shafts of afternoon sunlight shining through warped roof boards, illuminating the clouds of dust motes drifting lazily through the still air. Keeping his pistol at his side, Nate stepped into the room, followed by Tracy.
“Smell that?” she asked.
Wrinkling his nose, Nate nodded. “Fresh paint. I wonder if the lab boys can get enough of a sample from anything in here.”
Tracy knelt down to examine the floor. “Too hard packed to leave any tread marks or footprints. I think something was stored here in the corner, but I’m not sure what.
Painting supplies that they took with them?”
“Most likely, although they might have disposed of them out here, so they wouldn’t get caught with them.
Might as well bring in a team to go over the area, see if they can pull something up.”
Nate walked back outside, where the afternoon heat was only broiling instead of nearly incapacitating, like in the barn. A noticeably wilted Tracy followed, and he went back to the Bronco and got two chilled bottles of water from a small cooler in the back. Going back around the building, he found her on the other side, looking for evidence. “Here.”
“Thanks, but I don’t feel particularly thirsty. I’m not even sweating.”
“I know, that’s why you need to drink. Your sweat is evaporating as soon as it hits the air, so you’re still losing body moisture—you just don’t realize it. Dehydration sneaks up on a person fast—that’s why it’s so dangerous.”
He flipped open his cell and dialed headquarters, giving them the location of the barn, directions to it and advising that they would wait for the crime-scene team to arrive.
“They figure about thirty to forty-five minutes, longer if whoever’s driving doesn’t know these roads. Nothing to
