William Tyree - The Fellowship

Speers pulled the SUV up to the address FBI Director Chad Fordham had given him on 5th Street Northeast. The home was inconspicuous among the row of three-story brownstones. “This is it?” Carver said incredulously. They were only a few blocks from the Capitol Building where Carver’s hearing had been. “We could have walked faster.”

They got out of the vehicle and walked into the tiny yard. The front door opened and he spotted Fordham inside, beckoning them up the stairs. What was going on here? Carver couldn’t fathom anything happening at a residential address that would require the heads of both the FBI and the ODNI to make a personal visit. Nothing short of a major breech in national security.

Carver liked Fordham, who was a rare holdover from the previous administration. Last year Fordham had helped put an end to the Ulysses Coup. Sixteen FBI agents sacrificed their lives that week — a huge loss by any measure, especially considering that, until that day in August, only 26 agents had been killed in the agency’s entire history.

After assuming the presidency, Eva Hudson had set about cleaning house from top to bottom. No one was safe. Of the 17 agency heads making up the intelligence community, only Fordham had been retained. He had proven himself to be an ally.

As they entered, Fordham greeted Julian and reached out to Carver with a latex-gloved hand. The presence of latex suggested a crime scene. And yet there was no police tape, no guys in FBI jackets swarming the yard.

“If you two will suit up, please,” one of Fordham’s men told them. He pointed to a box of aqua latex gloves and shoe prophylactics, which the two men quickly put on. As Fordham led them through the home, Carver heard the sound of a woman in hysterics. He poked his head into the living room, seeking the source of the commotion. He didn’t spot the crier, but the calfskin rugs and original Eames lounge chairs told him that the occupants were people of means with western taste.

“Who knows about this?” Speers asked.

“As of now,” Fordham said, “There are only seven people in the circle of trust, including you two and the POTUS.”

The president? Whatever was going on here, it was huge. Either someone high-profile is dead in this house, Carver thought, or they’ve found a nuke in the basement.

Carver lingered in the doorway of a small study, where he found the source of the noise. A woman, mid-20s, sporting a blonde boy-cut and a sharp but conservative red dress. Her black flats danced on the floor as the rest of her convulsed in manic weeping. A plainclothes special agent with her back to the door was trying to calm the woman down and conduct an interview. Carver’s eyes scanned the gray pantsuit that revealed a runner’s haunches and slender, smallish shoulders. He knew those gams.

“Haley?”

Haley Ellis turned. The skin of her angular face was tanned and framed by wispy, shoulder-length hair. It was her, all right. The last time Carver had seen her, she had been a senior liaison for Pentagon-White House Affairs.

“Forgot you two knew each other,” Speers said.

Carver hadn’t seen Ellis in 13 months. And that had been on purpose.

“This way,” Fordham urged, motioning for Carver to come to the end of the hallway. He held an old rectangular-shaped flashlight that looked large enough to light up FedExField.

“Who’s that gal Haley’s talking to?” Carver said.

“Mary Borst. She’s the executive assistant to Senator Preston.”

Carver got tense just thinking about what her days must be like. The executive assistant for anyone on the Hill was never paid enough in relation to the stress they endured. They had to manage huge egos, scheduling and even menial tasks for the Senator, like picking up dry-cleaning and babysitting.

They came to the basement staircase. “No lights down there,” Fordham commented as he switched on his flashlight, which was less powerful than it looked, and led them down 15 steps.

The subject of interest was in the middle of the basement, which was unfurnished except for a row of tools and a wooden workbench along the far wall. A body clothed in a dark suit was crumpled in a fetal position, surrounded by a great deal of blood. The victim’s red-stained shirt was unbuttoned, revealing several dozen small slashes across the stomach and chest.

“Who’s the…” Carver didn’t need to finish his sentence, as he quickly recognized the dead man’s face as that of Senator Rand Preston.

This was huge. Preston was a third-term Republican from Texas. Over the past year or so, pundits had been touting him as a possible contender for the GOP nomination.

The furnishings upstairs made sense now. Preston was from a Texas oil family, and he was often seen wearing pricey cowboy hats and boots.

While some members of congress were forced to share apartments while congress was in session, many of those with means kept second homes in Washington D.C., while their families continued to reside in their home states. The location was perfect. They were just a few blocks’ walking distance not only to Congress, but also to the Senate offices and Union Station.

Carver heard a scream from upstairs, which was followed by another bout of intense weeping. “What time did she find her boss down here?”

“She didn’t,” Fordham said, pointing to a solidly built man in a gray suit. “This is Hank Bowers. Section Chief with us for 15 years now. He and the senator were in the same fraternity at UT Austin. He was first on the scene.”

Carver noted the silver TKE ring on the man’s left hand. “You guys were still tight, huh?”

“Not so much. We see each other maybe a couple times a year these days. But Rand called me last night, said he wanted to get together. Something had him spooked. Wanted some advice on how to hire personal security.”

“And he couldn’t get Secret Service protection?”

“Didn’t qualify,” Bowers said. “As a senator, the only way to get protection is if you’re the majority or minority leader, or if you run for president, and even for that, it has to be within 120 days of the general election.”

“What was he scared of?”

“He didn’t give any specifics.”

“What else did he say?”

“Nada. We were supposed to meet up for coffee this morning. When he didn’t show, I came here. Front door was wide open.”

“We got lucky,” Fordham said. “If Mary had found him first, this place would be crawling with reporters right now.”

“Who called her?”

"Said the senator was a no-show for another meeting, and she got worried. Arrived just a few minutes before you two.”

“I don’t think he was down here long,” Carver observed as he crouched alongside the body. Judging by the stains all over the workbench and covered pieces of furniture — not to mention several traps deployed along the far wall — the house had a major rat infestation. Yet there were only a handful of rodent bites on the senator’s face and hands. “Not more than three or four hours. Much longer and the rats would’ve given him a full facelift.”

“Are you in forensics?” Bowers said.

Carver shook his head. “I just watch a lot of TV. You guys find a murder weapon?”

“No,” Fordham said. “We found his phone and his computer over there.” He shone his light into the corner, where Carver saw the notebook computer wedged in a vise on a workbench. “The SIM card is missing from the phone and the computer’s been gutted. My guess is they took the hard drive. Maybe we can pull some prints off the hardware.”

Returning his attention to the body, it appeared to Carver that the senator’s jugular had been slit with an extremely sharp blade. There was a great deal of congealed blood directly in front of the neck, but the incision was fine. Nothing to suggest the sort of tearing you might get with a domestic weapon of convenience, like a steak knife. They were going to need to get a blood spatter expert out there. He didn’t want to be the one to tell Fordham how to do his job, but he couldn’t fathom why there wasn’t already a forensics team on site.