“Unpredictable,” answered Paul.
“And after that?” said Michelle.
“The real work begins,” she said cryptically.
A moment later she and Bunting were gone.
Twenty minutes after that, two state trooper cruisers slid to a stop outside the cottage. Sean and Michelle heard running feet. A few seconds later two troopers appeared in the doorway. Their gazes swung around the room before settling on Sean and Michelle and then, inevitably, on Dobkin’s body. They moved forward slowly. Sean recognized them from the Bergin crime scene. He assumed they were good friends of Eric Dobkin. The troopers in this area were probably all close friends.
Another car pulled up outside and a moment later Colonel Mayhew and another trooper came inside.
They all stood around Dobkin’s body, staring down at it.
Mayhew finally eyed Sean and Michelle.
“What the hell happened?” he said, his voice low but full of raw emotion.
They both took turns explaining, leaving out the details concerning Peter Bunting and Kelly Paul.
Sean concluded, “Bottom line was we asked Eric to watch Megan Riley for us. We were worried about her after what happened to Bergin.”
“And where were you two when all of this happened?” asked Mayhew.
“Portland, running down a lead,” answered Michelle.
Mayhew drew a deep breath and said sharply, “Eric is a state trooper.
“You’re right,” agreed Sean. “We never intended for this to happen.”
“You certainly should have known it might happen,” retorted Mayhew. “If you thought Riley was in danger then you had to assume that someone might try and harm her. Which would put Eric in danger.”
“We feel as bad as anyone about this,” said Sean.
“I doubt that,” barked Mayhew. “You certainly won’t feel as bad as Sally Dobkin when she finds out she’s a widow.”
Sean looked down.
Michelle said, “Colonel Mayhew, we needed help. Eric was a first-rate man. That’s why we asked him for assistance. But we didn’t force him to do it. He wanted to help us. He wanted to get to the truth too.”
Mayhew didn’t look satisfied by this but he broke off gazing at her and looked around. “Any idea who did this?”
Sean and Michelle exchanged a quick glance. They had discussed and decided how they were going to answer this question.
“We don’t have the person’s identity, but we have to assume it’s the same person who killed Bergin,” said Sean.
Mayhew looked at the bloody sweater. “And your call to the dispatcher said that Megan Riley is missing?”
“She must’ve been the target.”
Mayhew said absently, “The forensic team is on its way.”
“Okay,” said Sean. “We’re prepared to help in any way we can.”
“It’s been a long time since we lost anyone,” said Mayhew. “And never under my watch.”
“We understand,” said Michelle.
“I have to go tell Sally,” Mayhew said, his voice hoarse.
“Would you like me to go with you?” asked Michelle.
“No, no, that’s my job,” said Mayhew firmly.
He gazed once more at Dobkin’s body. “I recruited Eric. Watched him grow into a fine officer.”
“I’m sure,” said Sean quietly.
“Did you find the truth?” asked Mayhew.
“What?” said Sean.
“Down in Portland? Did you find the truth?”
“I think we’re getting there.”
“This is a lot more complicated than it appeared initially to be, isn’t it?” said Mayhew shrewdly. “Bergin, Dukes, Agent Murdock. Edgar Roy is smack in the middle of all this, and I seriously doubt he is who we’ve been told he is.”
“I couldn’t disagree with any of your conclusions, sir,” said Sean diplomatically.
“Could you do me a favor?” asked Mayhew.
“Certainly.”
“When you do find who did this to Eric, I want to personally arrest them and see that they’re tried here for murder.”
“I’ll do my best, Colonel Mayhew. I’ll certainly do my best.”
“Thank you.” Mayhew turned and left.
He had to go and deliver the tragic news to a young woman with three kids and a fourth on the way.
CHAPTER
70
TWO NIGHTS LATER Edgar Roy could feel it coming, almost like how animals react so early to an approaching storm. He hunched down in the darkness, his face pressed against the flimsy mattress that he slept on each night. He heard footsteps. Routine guard patrols. Ordinary chatter. But he still knew.
The lights flickered, went out, and then came back on.
He scrunched down further into his bed, his feet hanging off one end of it. He didn’t care if the camera saw him moving now. It didn’t matter. The lights flickered again, like there was a storm outside and Mother Nature was playing games with Cutter’s electrical supply. Then the lights went back out and stayed out a long time.
He heard cries from the guards. He heard calls from some of the prisoners.
Feet were running.
Doors clanged open and then shut with a crash of steel on steel.
A siren started up.
Then the lights came back on. From somewhere there was an enormous rush of noise, like a jet plane powering up for takeoff.
The backup generator. Roy had heard it come on once before, only then it was a test. It had the power to run the entire facility, even the electrified fence. It was huge, contained in its own structure just outside the main building. It ran on fuel. They had enough fuel here for the generator to run the facility for an entire week. He had heard this, too, from conversations among the guards. They never expected anyone was listening or caring about this. But Roy listened and cared about everything. And he remembered it all. The generator was the fail-safe. After that there was nothing else.
The rush of power ceased. The instant it did the lights went back out. It was so black inside here that Roy could not even see his own hands. He looked out between the bars of his cell. Guards were hustling around with emergency lights. With no heat the poured concrete building quickly cooled. Roy started to shiver. He covered himself with the blanket. He tried to burrow down into the bed. But there was no hiding. Not really.
The caravan of black SUVs with government plates stormed the causeway and roared toward the entrance at Cutter’s. Six men jumped out and approached the first layer of guards. Behind them Cutter’s lay black and nearly invisible. The darkness was interrupted only by the weak moonlight and stabs of narrow beams as guards with flashlights raced around trying to secure the perimeter. Battery-powered sirens shrieked.
One of the men held up his badge. “FBI. We’re here for Edgar Roy. Now.”
“What?” said a bewildered guard.
The man shoved his creds and badge into the uniform’s face. “FBI. You have a total security meltdown. Roy is a Level One Federal Prisoner. That was part of the paperwork when he was remanded here. His security is the
