“So why then?”
“I walked away because I thought you’d reject me and I wasn’t sure I could handle that.”
We fell into silence then. I had no idea what to say. I don’t even know how I felt.
“You’re angry,” she said.
“I don’t know.”
We drove some more. I wanted so very much to do the right thing. I thought about it. We both stared straight ahead. The tension pressed against the windows. Finally I said, “It doesn’t matter anymore. All that matters is finding Tara.”
I glanced at Rachel. I saw a tear on her cheek. The sign was up ahead now—small, discreet, nearly indiscernible. It read simply:HUNTERSVILLE . Rachel brushed the tear away and sat up. “Then let’s concentrate on that.”
Assistant Director in Charge Joseph Pistillo was at his desk, writing. He was large, barrel chested, big shouldered, and bald, the sort of old-timer that makes you think of dock workers and city-saloon fights—power without the show muscle. Pistillo was probably on the wrong side of sixty. Rumor had it that he’d be retiring soon.
Special Agent Claudia Fisher showed Tickner into the office and closed the door as she left. Tickner took his sunglasses off. He stood with his hands behind his back. He was not invited to sit. There was no greeting, no handshake, no salute, or anything such.
Without looking up, Pistillo said, “I understand you’ve been asking about the tragic death of Special Agent Jerry Camp.”
Alarm bells rang in Tickner’s head. Whoa, that was fast. He’d only started his inquiries a few hours ago. “Yes, sir.”
More scribbling. “He taught you at Quantico, isn’t that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He was a great teacher.”
“One of the best, sir.”
“Thebest, Agent.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your inquiries into his death,” Pistillo went on, “do they have anything to do with your past relationship with Special Agent Camp?”
“No, sir.”
Pistillo stopped writing. He put down the pen and folded his rock-breaking hands on his desk. “Then why are you asking about it?”
Tickner looked for the traps and pitfalls he knew lurked in his answer. “His wife’s name has arisen in another case I’m working on.”
“That would be the Seidman murder-kidnapping case?”
“Yes, sir.”
Pistillo frowned. His forehead crinkled. “You think there’s a connection between the accidental shooting death of Jerry Camp and the Tara Seidman kidnapping?”
Careful, Tickner thought. Careful. “It’s an avenue I need to explore.”
“No, Agent Tickner, it is not.”
Tickner stayed still.
“If you can tie Rachel Mills to the Seidman murder-kidnapping, do it. Find evidence that connects her to the case. But you don’t need Camp’s death to do that.”
“They could be related,” Tickner said.
“No,” Pistillo said in a voice that left little room for doubt, “they’re not.”
“But I need to look—”
“Agent Tickner?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ve looked into the file already,” Pistillo said. “More than that, I helped investigate the death of Jerry Camp personally. He was my friend. Do you understand?”
Tickner did not reply.
“I am completely satisfied that his shooting was a tragic accident. That means you, Agent Tickner”—Pistillo pointed a meaty finger at Tickner’s chest—“are completely satisfied too. Do I make myself clear?”
The two men stared at each other. Tickner was not a foolish man. He liked working for the bureau. He wanted to rise up the ladder. It would not pay to upset someone as powerful as Pistillo. So in the end, Tickner was the first to look away.
“Yes, sir.”
Pistillo relaxed. He picked up his pen. “Tara Seidman has been missing for over a year now. Is there any proof she is still alive?”
“No, sir.”
“Then the case doesn’t belong to us anymore.” He started writing now, making no bones about the fact that this was a dismissal. “Let the locals handle it.”
New Jersey is our most densely populated state. That doesn’t surprise people. New Jersey has cities, suburbs, and plenty of industry. That doesn’t surprise people either. New Jersey is called the Garden State and has plenty of rural areas. That surprises people.
Even before we hit the border of Huntersville, signs of life—human life, that is—had already started fading away. There were few houses. We had passed one general store straight out ofMayberry RFD , but that was boarded up. During the next three miles we hit six different roads. I saw no houses. I passed no cars.
We were in the thick of the woods. I made my final turn and the car climbed up the side of a mountain. A deer—the fourth I’d seen by my count—sprinted out of the road, far enough up so I wasn’t in any danger of hitting it. I was beginning to suspect that the name Huntersville was to be taken literally.
“It’ll be on the left,” Rachel said.
A few seconds later, I could see the mailbox. I began to slow, searching for a house or building of some kind. I saw nothing but trees.
“Keep driving,” Rachel said.
I understood. We couldn’t just pull into the driveway and announce ourselves. I found a small indentation off the road about a quarter of a mile up. I parked and turned off the engine. My heart started to triphammer. It was six in the morning. Dawn was here.
“Do you know how to use a gun?” Rachel asked me.
“I used to fire my dad’s at the range.”
She jammed a weapon into my hand. I stared down at it as if I’d just discovered an extra finger. Rachel had her gun out too. “Where did you get this?” I asked.
“At your house. Off the dead guy.”
“Jesus.”
She shrugged as if to say,Hey, you never know. I looked at the gun again and suddenly a thought hit me: Was this the weapon used to shoot me? To kill Monica? I stopped there. There was no time for this squeamish nonsense. Rachel was already out the door. I followed. We started into the woods. There was no path. We made our own. Rachel took the lead. She tucked her weapon into the back of her pants. For some reason, I didn’t do the same. I wanted to hold the gun. Faded orange signs tacked to trees warned trespassers to stay away. They had the wordNO in giant font and a surprising amount of finer print, overexplaining what seemed to me to be pretty obvious.