“You don’t know me!”
“You’re right. And that’s another reason you’re here. I needed to understand how much of you was egotistical posing, and how much was talent and intelligence.” He smiled derisively. “Plus, I wanted to get a glimpse of that arrogant look you get when you know you’re right.”
Amaia scowled.
“Bull’s-eye!” Dupree cried triumphantly. “That’s the one!”
“Arrogant expression?” She rocked back slightly, dismayed. Now she understood him.
Dupree turned away again and set off toward the group of agents waiting for him outside the farmhouse. “Don’t forget,” he called back over his shoulder, “your report is due before eight tomorrow morning, Salazar.”
8
A TOOL
Quantico, Virginia
The hours passed with agonizing slowness. She’d gone over her report so many times she could barely think anymore. She had no appetite for dinner, but she went to the canteen with the other European officers anyway. They arrived as Emerson was on his way out. Amaia greeted him, but a surly Emerson walked right past her.
The afternoon had been taken up first by a class on international crime syndicates, followed by one on international transportation, crime on the high seas, and customs processing of shipping containers. She was no better focused than before, but what really got under her skin was that she’d gotten more and more depressed with each passing hour. She’d started to listen to that persistent little voice inside her head insisting that she’d screwed up, the structure of her report was wrong, and she’d drawn the wrong conclusions. She’d refused to listen when Dupree reproached her for her arrogance, and she was sure she’d proven him right by putting down exactly what she thought. She’d drafted and signed her own expulsion order.
She understood now that they’d toyed with her like cats tormenting a mouse. They’d amused themselves by provoking her. Now they’d abandoned her. Amaia was tired and disoriented, her head full of crime photos, pathology reports, financial information . . . Dupree had been cruelly explicit. “It’s the investigation that counts” and “Today you were a tool.”
She pushed the food around her plate, smiling dutifully at her colleagues’ cheerful talk. She excused herself early and returned to the room she shared with Gertha. She could hardly hold her head up and desperately needed sleep, but the case kept tormenting her. She stared blindly at a book. Gertha was sleeping on her stomach, snoring quietly. Amaia put down the book and turned out the overhead light, certain this was going to be another sleepless night. Moments later she was asleep.
A knocking at the door accompanied by a male voice calling her name interrupted her slumber. Her bedside lamp was still on. She sat up, awake but groggy. She got out of bed and went to the door, turning back for a moment to reassure Gertha, who was peering sleepily at her. “Go back to sleep. It’s for me.”
Gertha obediently turned on her side and closed her eyes. As Amaia started to open the door, she realized she was in her nightdress. She peeked out, shielding her body with the door.
“Come with me,” the man said, indifferent to her attire. “Special Agent Dupree wants to speak with you.”
Taking time only to pull on clothes, she followed him. The labyrinthine path to Dupree’s office was even more confusing in the dead of night. The midnight calm vanished when the elevator door opened to the basement space. There was little activity at the desks in the open plan of the Behavioral Science Unit. The agent escorted her directly to the office.
Agent Johnson looked as alert as if he’d had a full night’s sleep. He rose from the office chair behind Dupree’s desk and leaned forward to shake her hand. Johnson settled back into the chair without saying a word. Dupree, in shirtsleeves, was standing to one side before a map. He turned, acknowledged her, and without ceremony, asked, “Salazar, have you been following the weather forecasts over the last few days?”
Amaia didn’t see how she could have failed to do so, and not only because of the case. All day long the national newscasts had been obsessed.
“Yes, I saw the news.”
“Yesterday, Katrina, a category one hurricane, crossed the tip of Florida. So far, it’s left six dead, countless others injured, a wide area blacked out, and highways blocked throughout the state. We have reports of several families who haven’t been heard from for at least twenty-four hours. Some of them fit the victimological profile of our killer.”
Amaia took in a lungful of air and held it in suspense.
Dupree qualified his narrative. “This may mean nothing. Maybe they evacuated early or went to ride out the storm with family or friends.”
“But . . . ,” she piped up, unable to contain herself.
“But maybe this is our man at work again.”
“You and your team should go there,” she suggested, aware she was overstepping her bounds.
“Yes, I agree. I already sent Tucker and Emerson to Florida. We need our people there; we can’t afford to have the local authorities miss something. We’re hoping they will report back in a few hours.”
Amaia looked down and nodded. That was it, then; she was out. Then why had Dupree summoned her? Only to make it clear they had no need for her?
“After she made landfall in Florida, Katrina slowed considerably, but now she’s moved out into the Gulf of Mexico. The higher temperatures there have intensified the storm. She’s gathering force. The National Hurricane Center currently expects Katrina to make landfall as a category four. Earlier forecasts predicted Katrina would move north across Florida and Georgia, but she’s headed west toward Louisiana instead.”
A shiver ran up Amaia’s spine. She knew most of this already. The newscasts had flashed maps of the hurricane’s progress all day long, a huge eye staring down menacingly from above the Gulf of Mexico. She jerked involuntarily, a reaction to the sudden tension she felt.
“Mayor Nagin’s staff informed us he’s going to decree a mandatory evacuation.” The import of his words floated in the air.
“That’s where the killer will go,” she declared firmly. Her shoulder had stopped quivering.
“That’s what I think too. And this time we’ll be there waiting for him.”
“You will be?”
“We will be. Assuming you want to come.”
Amaia smiled. “Of course I do.”
Dupree offered his hand. “Johnson will accompany you. You have to fill out some security paperwork first, and then they’ll give you temporary credentials and a firearm. You don’t have much time. We leave for New Orleans in two hours.”
Johnson was all smiles as he escorted her to be sworn in as a temporary FBI agent. They gave her clothing, a bulletproof vest, a temporary badge, and a gun. She went back to the dormitory. Trying not to make noise, she opened the low chest of drawers where she kept her few belongings. She smiled at the thought of choosing appropriate attire for a hurricane. She put a bag on the bed and set out her few things next to it. When she had it ready to go, she checked her watch. Half an hour until departure.
Gertha hadn’t budged. She seemed to be sleeping peacefully. Amaia weighed whether to wake her friend.