David Baldacci - Split Second

One of the agents walked up to the front door as another emerged from the truck and pulled out a surveyor's tripod. County public works insignia had been hung on the sides of the door. Underneath the men's bulky jackets was body armor, and their pistols rode on belt clips, ready to be pulled. The other men in the truck had enough firepower to take on an army regiment.

King and Michelle held their breaths as the agent knocked on the door. Thirty seconds went by and then a minute. He knocked again, called out. Another minute went by. He walked around the side of the cabin and reappeared on the other end about a minute later. As he walked back to the truck, he seemed to be talking to himself. He was, King knew, getting authority from Parks to hit the target. That authority must have been granted, because the doors to the Suburban burst open and the men piled out and flew toward the door that was blown open by a shotgun blast wielded by the point man. Seven men burst through this opening and disappeared inside. King and Michelle watched as men emerged from the woods on all sides of the cabin and moved toward it, rifles pointed and ready to fire.

All were waiting tensely for gunfire to signal that the enemy was there and prepared to go down in glorious flames. Yet all they heard was the breeze rustling the leaves and the occasional bird chirping. Thirty minutes later the all-clear was sounded, and Michelle and King drove down and joined Parks and the other hunters.

The cabin was small and contained only a few pieces of rusticfurniture, an empty fireplace, stale food in the cabinets and a mostly empty fridge. They had found the entrance to the bunker through a door in the basement.

The bunker was many times the size of the cabin. It was well lighted and clean and had been used very recently. There were storage rooms with shelves that were empty, but the dust patterns showed that things had been stacked there not long ago. There was a shooting range that, from the smell, had also seen activity. When they came to the prison cells, Parks nodded at King and Michelle, and they followed him down the corridor to one of the cells where the door was ajar. Parks used his foot to shove it fully open.

It was empty.

"They're all empty," grumbled Parks. "This was one big strikeout. But the place was occupied recently, and we'll go over it with a fine-tooth comb."

He stalked off to arrange for tech teams to scour the place. King stared at the inside of the cell and then shone his light into each crevice, flinching when something glinted back at him. He went inside, looked under the small cot and then said to Michelle, "Do you have a handkerchief?"

She handed him one, and he used it to pull the shiny object out. It was an earring.

Michelle examined it. "It's one of Joan's."

King looked at her skeptically. "How do you know that? It looks like any earring."

"To a man, yes. Women notice clothes, hair, jewelry, nails and shoes, just about anything another woman has on her body. Men only notice boobs and butts, usually in that order, and sometimes hair color. It's Joan's; she had it on the last time I saw her."

"So she was here."

"But she's not now, which means the odds are good she's still alive," commented Michelle.

"She might have dropped it on purpose," said King.

"Right. To let us know she was here."

While Michelle went to give the earring to Parks, King went into the next cell and shone his light around. He went grid by grid but saw nothing of any relevance. He checked under the bed and bumped his head as he was sliding back out. He stood, rubbed his noggin and noticed that he'd dislodged the small mattress. He bent over to set it straight before he was slapped on the hand for disturbing a crime scene.

That's when he saw it. The inscription was right at the edge of the wall where the mattress had covered it. He stooped and directed his light there. It must have been tough going, etching this into the concrete, probably using a fingernail.

As he read it, something clicked in his head, and he cast his mind back to the truck rolling down toward the cabin. Something Kate had told them was finally beginning to make sense. If it was true, how wrong they'd all been.

"What are you doing?"

He whirled around and saw Michelle standing there staring at him.

"Pretending I'm Sherlock Holmes and failing," he said with a sheepish look. He glanced over her shoulder. "How's it going out there?"

"The tech teams are gearing up to come in. I don't think they'll appreciate our presence."

"I hear you. Why don't you go tell Parks we're going to drive back to Wrightsburg? He can meet us back at my house."

Michelle looked around. "I was really hoping that today would answer all our questions. Now we just have more."

After Michelle left, King turned back to the wall and again read over what was there, memorizing it. He debated whether to tell the others, but decided to let them find it on their own, if they did. If he was right, this changed everything.

On the drive back to Wrightsburg King was moodily silent. So much so that Michelle finally gave up any attempt to rouse him from his funk. She dropped him at his house.

"I'm going to head back to the inn for a while," she said, "and check out a few things. I guess I should call into the Service. I'm still employed there, after all."

"Fine, good idea," King said absently, averting his gaze.

"If you don't want to give me your thoughts for a penny, I'll go as high as a nickel." She smiled and touched him lightly on the arm. "Come on, Sean, give it up."

"I'm not sure my thoughts right now are even worth a nickel."

"You saw something back there, didn't you?"

"Not now, Michelle. I need to think some things through."

"Okay, but I thought we were partners," she said, obviously hurt he wasn't interested in her assistance.

"Wait a minute," he said. "There is something you can do for me. You still have access to the Secret Service database?"

"I think so. I had a friend of mine slow-walk my admin leave papers. Actually, after they let me take my vacation time, I'm not sure what my status is. But I can find out quickly enough. I have my laptop back at the inn; I'll log on and check it out. What do you need to know?" When he told her, she looked very surprised. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Maybe nothing, but maybe everything."

"Well, I'm doubtful that'll be on the Service's database."

"Then find it somewhere else. You're a pretty good detective."

"I'm not sure you really believe that," she said. "So far all my grand theories haven't really held up."

"If you find out that answer for me, there will be no doubt left in my mind."

She climbed into the truck. "By the way, do you have a gun?"

He shook his head. "They never gave it back to me."

She pulled her pistol out of its holster and handed it to him. "Here. If I were you, I'd sleep with it."

"What about you?"

"Secret Service agents always keep a spare. You know that."

Twenty minutes after Michelle left, King climbed into his Lexus and drove to his law office. He'd gone there at least five days a week for years until Howard Jennings had been found dead on the carpet. Now it seemed like a foreign land he was entering for the very first time. The place was cold and dark. He turned on lights and cranked up the heat and looked around at the familiar surroundings. They were a measure of how far he'd pulled himself out of the abyss created by the Ritter assassination. And yet as he admired a tasteful oil painting on the wall, ran his hand along the fine mahogany paneling, looked at the order and calm of the place which reflected that of his beautiful home, he didn't feel the usual sense of accomplishment and peace. Rather, he felt a kind of emptiness. What had Michelle said? That his home was cold, even a sham? Had he changed that much? Well, he told himself, he'd been forced to. You took the curves life threw, and you either adapted or got left by the side of the road, a self-pitying wreck.