FBI Agent Richard Sharpe felt he might go mad in Millbrook. Nothing had gone well. The lab had not completed even the preliminary work on the scrapings taken from Louisa Childe's nails, cellular tissue almost invisible to the naked eye with an infinitesimal amount of dried, degenerated blood clinging to it.
In Dr. Herman Krueshach, he had a real winner. Krueshach had shopped out the work to Minneapolis, only now telling Sharpe that Millbrook wasn't big enough to handle the process, not without taking chances, not with the limited and limiting equipment, and not with the limited amount of material taken from Louisa Childe that they had to work with. Much of the substance they'd scraped had been compromised and broken down over time due to the poor quality of the coffin, allowing dampness and water to seep in.
“That's what the bird on the overhanging branch wanted,” Richard had decided, stating it aloud now. “The water she… the corpse… had been lying in.” To Krueshach he added, “So everything has been transferred already to a lab in Minneapolis?”
“Ahhh, St. Paul to be exact.”
“Christ, you might have consulted me.”
“This decision is mine.”
“Give me the information. What's the name of the lab?”
“Cellmark of St. Paul. They're quite reputable. Do a lot of work for the Mayo Clinic.”
“And they have a backlog and Mayo's at the top of their list of clients. Shit, gaw-blimey for a fool!”
“No, Agent Sharpe, they promised to put it at the head of the line.”
“And can you trust that? I'm going there to await results. To sit on them.”
“Suit yourself, Agent.”
“I damn well will.” He stormed from Krueshach's lab and shoved past Brannan as he was entering. Brannan threw up his hands and asked Krueshach, “What gives?”
After Krueshach explained, Brannan rushed after Sharpe, catching him on the steps of the police station. “I'll arrange to drive you to St. Paul,” he offered. “Don't do me any favors.”
“Goddamn it man, I'm not doing shit for you. I want this freak that killed Louisa Childe more than anyone, and if it's not the guy in Portland, then by God, I want his execution set aside, so we can search for the real motherfucker!”
The two men glared at one another, their eyes boring in, twisting and turning before they mutually pulled back. Finally, Richard said, “Then it would appear we both want the same thing.”
“Exactly.”
“All right then… all right, I accept your offer to drive me to St. Paul.”
“We'll sit on their doorstep until we get results.”
“That's my plan, that and a call from the director of the FBI.”
“That oughta cut some ice.”
“We can only hope so. Where's your car?”
“Whoa up there, Sharpe. I've got to clear all this with my superior. Even in Millbrook, there's such a thing as protocol and channels.”
“And how long has that been the case?”
Brannan glared, but then he burst into a hearty laugh. “It won't take long. In and out, especially if you're 'longside me with that mug of yours. My boss is a sucker for higher-authority types like you. Come on.”
Darwin and Jessica disembarked and stood on the runway with bags in hand, no one to greet them. Darwin looked off into the distance at a row of other hangars, searching for the FBI car that was to take them to the governor's mansion. Jessica looked at her Citizen watch. “Time's running low. If we miss the meeting, there might not be another shot, at least not today.”
“Damn it, I was told the local field guys would be here to greet us.” She handed him her cellular. “Get on the phone and call them,” she urged. “Tell 'em to haul ass.”
Darwin pushed her phone back into her hands, and pulled out his own. He got right through to someone, but in a moment Jessica saw Darwin's brow crease, first in confusion and then anger. “I don't give a damn about your motor pool problems or your mother's gallbladder, Agent Riley. Get us transport and do it now!” He swore under his breath and shook his head and stepped about in a tight little circle of indignation and rage. “Fucking bastard says they didn't expect us for another two hours, some shit about logging it in as A.M. instead of P.M., so a car was waiting at 4 A.M., and some shit about since we did not show, blah-blah-blah.”
“A car was waiting for us? At four this morning?”
“Was being the operative word. It obviously didn't wait for us.” His attempt to lighten the situation didn't improve either of their moods. Darwin's mood had darkened to the hue of his skin, and he sent a fist into a sign on a chain-link fence, rattling the entire fence and denting the sign that read: No Loitering on Runway.
“There's a cab stand the other side of the fence. We can grab a cab, Darwin.”
“No, the car's on the way. It's on the way.”
Ten minutes passed.
Sitting on her bags, Jessica finally said, “Let's catch a damn cab, Darwin.”
“There, there it is!” he pointed to a car pulling out onto the runway. It carefully made its way toward them, two agents inside. These two appeared pissed off at pulling this duty; they looked deeply glum, deadly serious and terribly unfriendly.
“These boys look unhappy in their work,” she said in gross understatement.
“They're going to be a lot unhappier when I get through with them.” The car halted, the trunk popped open and the two men climbed out.
“Let's just get to the wedding on time, Darwin,” Jessica cautioned. “Let it go for now.”
“All right, agreed, for now.” He hefted their bags and tossed them into the trunk as the two Portland field agents flashed their badges and offered their halfhearted cliches about being at their disposal while in the Portland area, while at the same time offering no help with the bags.
“Save it. We've wasted enough time here, gentlemen,” Jessica said, fearful of losing her own control at their attitude. “We're only here to save an innocent man's life.”
Darwin added nothing but an approving look.
Jessica quickly climbed into the rear of the luxurious Lincoln Town Car, not wishing to be witness to Darwin's rage at the two should he decide to unleash it. But while she heard him use the term jag-offs moments before he climbed into the rear himself to sit alongside her, she was proud that he'd held himself in check.
“You know what's going on?” he asked her as the Portland agents climbed into the front. “These men don't want us here. They're perfectly happy to let Robert Towne die. In fact, they think the way he's going to be executed by the state is weak and flimsy final justice for the man. Isn't that right, gentlemen.”
She said quietly in his ear, “Sounds like the entire state has him down as guilty.”
“Why not?” he shouted, his booming voice taking off the lid of the car, startling the two agents in the front seat. “Robert's been judged guilty by twelve of his 'betters,' not to mention all of law enforcement in Oregon! Including the FBI.”
One of the agents turned and shouted back, “Look, man, some of us saw what that bastard did to his wife.”
“You mean that white woman, don't you?” Darwin shot back. “Might as well be in fucking Alabama or goddamn
Mississippi in the fucking forties as be out here. Goddamn no-man's-land between prejudice and racial hatred.”
“Whoa up, Agent Reynolds! Nobody's talking race here but you,” said the driver.
“You play that race card, you play it alone,” added the other.
“Fuck you both. Just drive.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jessica realized only now that Darwin was right, that Towne, in large measure, had been found guilty by these field ops largely on the basis of his race. “Take it easy, Darwin. We've just got to get to the governor. He's got to have more on the ball than these yahoos.”
“Take the fastest route you know, Agent Barnes,” ordered Darwin.
