Дэвид Балдаччи - The Sixth Man

Avery took a small step back. “Surveillance was lost for a bit but it has now been regained.”

Bunting rose out of his seat once more. “Lost for how long?”

“A few hours.”

Bunting snapped his fingers. “More precise than that, Avery.”

“Eight hours and four minutes. But now they’re headed, at least it seems, to Edgar Roy’s farm.”

“Did it occur to you that when we lost sight of them they might have been going somewhere that could have been highly enlightening?”

“Yes, sir, but I wasn’t in charge of that task.”

“Fine. I am now making it your task to ensure that surveillance is not lost again.” He refocused. “The six bodies at the farm?”

“Yes?”

“Not one ID made? Strange, isn’t it?” Bunting’s expression signaled that it was far more than strange; it was impossible.

“Yes, you would think they would be on some database somewhere.”

“And there’s something else.”

“Sir?”

“The number.”

“Number?”

“Of bodies. Now go do your job.”

Avery looked very confused as he closed the door behind him.

Bunting sat back in his chair, swiveled around, and stared out the window.

Six bodies. Not four, not five, but six.

Ordinarily, Bunting was a man who embraced numbers. He loved statistics, analysis, conclusions based on solid building blocks of data. But the number six was starting to haunt him. He didn’t like it at all.

Six bodies. The E-Six Program.

That hit very close to home.

Someone was really playing with him.

THE TRIP to Edgar Roy’s home took a number of hours. Michelle drove, as usual, while Sean stared moodily out the window.

“Are you curious about what Kelly Paul did while she was out of the country?” he asked.

“Of course I am. But she has a point about focusing on the investigation into her brother. He’s the one facing the death sentence. Not her.”

He didn’t seem to hear this. “And she never said how her stepfather died.”

“Easy enough to check, but that seems a little far afield, Sean.”

He turned to look at her. “Unless it’s all connected.”

“You’re talking a long time period, then.”

He looked back out the window. “Why would a woman like that move to a ramshackle house in the middle of nowhere? She’s not farming. And her country accent was a bit too well done.”

“Well, she did grow up in Virginia. And they do have accents down here,” drawled Michelle.

“Lot of questions,” said Sean absently.

“What do you think about her advice with the Bureau?”

“It was good actually. Riley is a lawyer for the defense. You just can’t detain her indefinitely. In fact…”

He took out his cell phone and punched in a number. “Still no answer. Okay, let’s do this the hard way.”

He keyed in another number. “Agent Murdock? Sean King here. What? Yeah, we took your advice and went home. But we’re coming back. But that’s not why I’m calling. You’re holding the defense counsel in a case you’re investigating. That breaks about a dozen ethical and other laws I can think of off the top of my head. I either hear from her in five minutes that she’s free and on her way to Martha’s Inn, or the next time you see me it’ll be on CNN talking about Bureau overreach.” Sean paused as the other man said something. “Yeah, well, try me. And you now have four minutes.”

He clicked off.

Michelle glanced at him. “And what did he say?”

“Basic blustery bullshit.” He looked at his watch. Ten seconds past the deadline Sean’s phone buzzed.

“Hello, Megan, how are you doing?” He paused. “Excellent. I thought Agent Murdock would see it my way. We’re down in Virginia but we’ll be heading back up very soon. Go to Martha’s Inn and stay there. No visitors. Do nothing. And if Murdock comes near you again, call me.”

He clicked off and put the phone in his pocket.

“What have they been asking her?”

“She didn’t say. From the background noise I think she was in a Bucar getting a ride back to the inn.”

“Do you think they told her about Hilary?”

“No, at least she didn’t mention it.”

“Wait till she finds out I was the one who probably shot her.”

“Michelle, you don’t know if it was you, so stop driving yourself crazy about it.”

“Easy for you to say.”

He started to make a retort but then stopped and patted her arm. “Actually, it is easy for me to say. I’m sorry.”

“So when are we heading back up to Maine?”

“As soon as we check out Roy’s farm and talk to the local authorities.”

“Doubt they’ll be much help.”

“No, I think they will.”

“Why?”

“Up to this point it seems everyone believed that Roy was guilty. Now, with Bergin and Hilary dead, something Roy could not have been involved in, it might make people take a second look. And cops are no different.”

“Who do we deal with on the federal side in Virginia? Not Murdock?”

“I know the RA in Charlottesville,” Sean said, referring to the Resident FBI Agent. “He’s a good guy. Owes me a favor, in fact.”

“Lots of people seem to owe you. What’s his debt?”

“I wrote a recommendation letter for his daughter to get into UVA Law.”

“That’s all?”

“Well, I got him tickets to the Skins-Cowboys game in D.C. He’s originally from Dallas.”

“Now that is valuable.”

The FBI agent was suitably cooperative. And he told them something that was particularly intriguing.

“I know Brandon Murdock. He’s a good guy. But I don’t know why he would be involved in something like this.”

“Why’s that?” asked Sean.

“He doesn’t work VICAP,” the man said, referring to the Bureau’s Violent Crime Apprehension Program, which also dealt with serial killers.

“What does he do?”

“Went to D.C. a while back.”

“So, Hoover, WFO?” asked Michelle, referring to the FBI headquarters and the Bureau’s Washington Field Office, respectively.

“No.” He looked doubtful. “I shouldn’t be talking about this with you, Sean.”

“Come on, Barry. I’m not going to go blab it. You know me.”

“And he got you the Cowboy tickets,” Michelle reminded him.

The man grinned wryly. “Okay, Murdock is with the counterterrorism unit. Really specialized stuff.” He pointed a finger at Sean. “And I expect tickets for this. And better seats.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Next, Sean and Michelle spent time with the local prosecutor, who had heard about Hilary Cunningham’s death.

“You’re right, Sean,” the prosecutor had said. “This thing is really starting to stink.”

They were given copies of the file on the Roy case and then drove out to the farm. It was isolated, with one dirt road in and out, the Blue Ridge Mountains as a backdrop, and not another house, car, or even stray cow in sight. Michelle pulled her Land Cruiser to a dusty stop in front of the one-story, wood-planked house, and they stepped out.

Though the crime scene had long since been released, strands of yellow police tape still hung down from the front porch posts. Twenty yards west of the house was a two-story barn painted dark green with a cedar shake roof. In the back they could see a chicken coop and a small split-rail corral that looked far too small for horses.

“Pigsty,” noted Michelle, as she glanced at it.

“Thanks for the insight,” said Sean. “I thought they might have been breeding really small horses.”

“Bodies in the barn.”

“Six of them. All men. All white. All John Does as of now.”