Jonathon King - The Blue Edge of Midnight

The helipad was next to a motor pool and as a group we climbed out of the settled helicopter and walked along the now-closed garage bays and through a set of fenced gates. Hammonds' key card let us through an unmarked metal door into the big building. He was slipping us in the back way. We all knew the TV crews and reporters were staked out in front. We went up an elevator that may have been the same one Diaz had taken me on, but it was a different ride.

We stank. We were four men who'd spent a day in the humid Everglades in the company of rotting entrails, decaying plants and a ripe corpse. We had sweated through clothes that were soaked in swamp water and smeared with mud. Our faces were insect-bitten and sunburned. Hammonds had pushed number six when we got on, but the elevator stopped at four and opened. A woman in office attire carrying an armload of files started to get on but either the sight or smell hit her and she backed off and flipped the back of her fingers mumbling something that sounded like "go on." We got off at six.

It was nine o'clock but the office pods and aisles were still filled with investigators in shirtsleeves and with uniformed aides. A wave seemed to push out in front of Hammonds, causing a silence as it went. He nodded at several people. An older detective reached out and briefly shook his hand and said, "Congratulations."

When we got to the glassed office, both Diaz and Richards were waiting. The FBI broke off to their computer table and Hammonds crooked his finger to the detectives and to me as he entered his office. Diaz closed the door behind us.

Without a word Hammonds went through another small door in the back corner of his office. I heard water begin to run.

I sat down in an upholstered chair, mud and all. Diaz was still wearing his clothes from the swamp, minus the boots. Richards had changed her shirt and was wearing a tight knit top tucked into her water-stained jeans. She'd brushed her hair to a gloss.

"How's the girl?" I asked, an excuse to look at her face.

"She's fine. Her family's with her." A small smile touched the corners of her mouth.

Hammonds returned, wiping his face with a towel and then dropping heavily into his chair and leaning back.

"OK. Update me."

"The kid's all right," Diaz started, looking at a small notepad. "She was dehydrated. Her, um, potassium levels were down. She was covered with insect bites and there was a small bite, maybe a rodent, the doc said, on one foot." He flipped a page as if it had to come from some official record.

"There was no sign of sexual assault and the only sign of physical injury was some bruises on her arms where the docs think she was grabbed and probably picked up and carried. And they took some adhesive out of her hair and off a cheek that looks like it came from a strip of duct tape he used to gag her.

"They expect a full recovery, but they said she was really on the edge." He finished, looking at me.

Richards was again half sitting on the edge of the table, her arms crossed.

"Her parents were brought in and they were all put up in a hospital suite on one of the upper floors. The doctors want to keep her at least a couple of days for observation," she said without the aid of a notebook. "The newsies were waiting for us and were camped out for hours until hospital public relations got the E.R. doctors to issue a brief statement that she was in guarded condition and they were optimistic for a recovery."

Diaz checked his notes and nodded at the precise language.

"The parents are holding off on the press. They don't want to say anything yet," Richards continued. "They were grateful. We gave them a vague description of where she was found and told them we thought the kidnapper had killed himself." She looked up at Hammonds, wondering if she'd overstepped.

"All right. Fine," he said, turning his eyes on me. "Now, Mr. Freeman. If you wouldn't mind explaining again how you found this situation."

I knew the grilling was coming. It was the only reason Hammonds had brought me along. While he began to twist the small towel in his hands, I went through the same description of Nate Brown's appearance and the boat ride to the cabin I'd given Diaz. They listened. I gave the same description of the girl and of finding Ashley's body. They listened. Then I went out on a limb.

"There was some evidence of a struggle. The table and lamp broken. That bit with the chair under the tree was too pat. And why does a loner like Ashley even bother to bring the kid all the way to his place? It wasn't for rape. It wasn't for torture."

They listened. Diaz moved uneasily behind me. Richards studied the carpet. Hammonds twisted the towel and the lines at the corners of his eyes were tightening again.

"What the hell's your theory?" he finally asked.

"Someone else was there."

"Brown?"

"Yeah. But someone else too."

"You have proof of that?"

I thought of the knife, still stuck inside my boot.

"It just didn't feel right," I said.

All three of them let it set. Maybe they were thinking about how it felt. Hammonds broke the silence.

"Look, Freeman. I'm not sure you aren't in deeper shit than even you think. Sure, we'll try to find this Brown and talk to him. Hell, we don't even have a damn autopsy on Ashley yet. But in fifteen minutes I have to go in front of the sheriff, the FBI's regional director, the county mayor and who the hell knows who else and spin a logical string of events."

He had rolled up to his desk. The towel was stretched between his hands like a thick rope.

"We've reached a point of urgency here. And I cannot entertain any goddam conspiracy theories at this point in time.

"We've got a damn good suspect who's damn good and dead. We saved a kid from becoming victim number five. Now if you want me to make you out to be the hero in that, fine. But I don't think you're up to the scrutiny that that would bring. Am I right?"

I was thinking of Donna the reporter. Maybe he was too. I nodded my head in agreement.

"So we go with what we have for now."

The others nodded. Hammonds stood up and started for his bathroom as we began to file out and stopped.

"And Freeman," he said, again in control of his voice. "Don't leave the state."

The FBI agents watched us as we headed for the hallway. Each time I saw them it looked as though they expected to see me in handcuffs. I couldn't tell if they were disappointed or not.

"Jesus," Diaz said, again leading us with his voice. "I never heard the old man cuss before." We reached the elevator and he punched the down button.

"If he expects us to be at the press conference, I gotta change down in the locker room," Richards said, looking at her mud-flecked boots and jeans. She couldn't see the fine red welts still glowing on her forehead and cheek from the branch whippings. "I'm a mess," she said, more to herself than us.

As we rode down Diaz asked if I had a way back north.

"My attorney's downstairs," I said.

"That was probably good planning," he said, smiling.

When the doors opened at the second floor, Diaz punched the lobby button for me and shook my hand before stepping out.

"We'll be talking, right?"

Richards started to follow him out, but put her hand on the door guard. I thought she was going to say something but instead she stepped in close, reached up on her toes and kissed me on the mouth.

"Thanks," she said. Her eyes were an unmistakable green.

When the elevator doors opened on the lobby it took me a few seconds to recognize the action. My head was still softly swimming. The doors started to close again and I reached out and clanged back the metal guard, tripping them open. I started across the marble floor, admittedly a little glazed, and my hand seemed to involuntarily come up and touch my mouth.