“Everybody stop,” she said, holding up both hands.
“What is it, Mrs. Bacchetti?” an agent asked.
“Blood on two trees, there and there,” she said, pointing. There was probably a lot more of it, but the rain must have washed some away. A dog began to bark somewhere in the woods.
The agent spoke into his fist, and there was a return radio call, then a shout. “Down here!” he called.
“Ladies, please remain where you are,” the detail leader said, producing a small machine gun and racking the slide. He went on talking to his fist.
An agent appeared out of the gloom from the direction of the shout, carrying something in one hand.
“What on earth is that?” Holly asked.
“It’s the head of a young buck deer,” the agent replied. “Appears to be a four-pointer.” He raised a hand to his other agent. “Just leave it there. We don’t need to see any more.”
The agent tossed it back into the woods, out of sight, then joined them on the road. “Somebody shot the deer and butchered it back about forty yards that way. Looks like somebody needed meat.”
“How much of it did they take?”
“Only the haunches,” the man replied.
“Could you tell what it was shot by?”
“The neck was torn up, so I reckon a military round, from an assault weapon. A hunting rifle round would have been a lot neater.”
“Did you hear anything?”
“Nope, but the carcass wasn’t frozen, and it was pretty cold last night, so they must have taken it early this morning. The rain and wind were noisy, so we might not have heard a single shot.”
“Did they leave any tracks?”
“I saw half a footprint. It’s a Vibram sole, so it could have been a hiking boot, but it’s too wet back there for tracking. The dog couldn’t make anything of it.”
“Direction?”
“Away from the road.”
“There’s another road out there, called Broad Cove Road.” The detail leader began talking into his fist again. Finally, he addressed Holly and Viv. “I’m sorry, ladies, but we’re going to have to return to the house. Shortly, there’ll be a lot of people searching these woods, and we don’t want somebody to mistake us for the deer hunters.” He beckoned, then they started back toward the house.
* * *
—
Dino and Stone were half asleep in their chairs, books in their laps, when Holly and Viv walked into the bedroom, stripped of their waterproof clothing and boots.
“That was a short walk,” Stone said.
Holly explained their experience.
“Well, they didn’t come this way,” Dino said, “or they’d have run into an agent or two, maybe even you.”
“So,” Viv said, “what do we do now?”
“Find a book,” Dino said.
“We’ll go down to the study,” Holly said, “and leave you two alone.” They went back downstairs.
* * *
—
The study was at the opposite end of the house from the kitchen and contained a corner computer station, a sofa, a pair of wing chairs, and a large fireplace. There was a turret at the other end of the room, with a circular staircase, and under that a coffee table and an Eames lounge chair next to the windows.
Holly went to a bookcase, and her eye immediately fell on a title: 1942, The Year That Tried Men’s Souls, by Winston Groom. She took it and settled into the Eames chair.
Immediately, a head leaned out from the turret on the upper floor. “Ma’am,” he said, “I’m afraid that’s an insecure location. You’re too easily seen from outside.”
“Right,” Holly said, and moved further inside to a wing chair and turned on a floor lamp next to it.
Viv was already settled on the sofa. “Would you like a fire?” she asked.
“Oh yes.”
The fireplace was already laid with hardwood. Viv found a gas valve and a box of long matches, and immediately had a blaze going.
“Much better,” Holly said.
Later, Bill Wright knocked on the doorjamb and came into the room. “Lunch in half an hour,” he said.
“Any result from your search party?” Holly asked.
“They found some truck tracks on a neighboring road to the south where they could have loaded their kill and driven away,” he said. “No telling where they went from there.”
“Thanks, Bill. Stone and Dino are upstairs. You might let them know when it’s lunchtime.”
Bill went away, and Holly and Viv settled back with their books.
9
Colonel Wade Sykes, U.S. Army (Ret.), sat at his desk in a book-lined, walnut-paneled study of a comfortable stone house near McLean, Virginia, working on an op-ed piece for the Washington Stalwart, which came close to being a paper version of Fox News, except that there was no unslanted news reporting printed in this newspaper. He wrote for them and other publications under the pseudonym Watchman. The cell phone in his shirt pocket hummed.
“Yes?”
“Are you encrypted?”
“Always, on this line.”
“Would you care for some fresh venison?”
“Good God, don’t tell me you’ve been hunting!”
“Quite by accident. We were walking the area, looking for the house, when a buck popped up, and Harold got him from the hip. Pure instinct.”
“I hope it didn’t wake anybody up.”
“Nobody to hear it, and at that hour the wind was howling.”
“Are there no people out there?”
“Apparently, it’s nearly all snowbirds,” Rudy said. “Last night there were lights in only one house, some distance away. We saw a car drive away very early, as if it had a long commute.”
“You’re sure they’re not on that road?”
“We drove all the way to the point and found nothing but three or four houses, boarded up for the winter. It’s a dead end, so we couldn’t have missed anybody coming or going.”
“As long as you’re certain they’re not there.”
“I am.”
“There’s been nothing on TV or in the papers—not even the Maine papers—about the incident on Islesboro.”