Том Светерлич - The Gone World

“O’Connor,” he answered.

“This is Moss. I need information about Mursult, if you can get it for me. The information I have was redacted. He’s listed as missing in action . ”

“I have something for you,” said O’Connor. “I’ve been meeting with NSC through the night. Mursult turning up is a major problem, Shannon.”

“What do you have?”

“Patrick Mursult was a major player when NSC was part of Star Wars, flush with cash because of Reagan,” said O’Connor. “The early days, part of the broader DoD space initiative—before Challenger and the consolidations. Mursult participated in the air force’s Manned Spaceflight Engineers program out in Los Angeles, he also had his hand in the military floor at Johnson Space Center. But, Shannon, his record ends with the Zodiac missions. Are you familiar?”

“Twelve ships, deployed from the late seventies until about 1989. Before my time. Three of the ships are still commissioned.”

“ Aries , Cancer , Taurus ,” said O’Connor. “The other nine ships never returned, hundreds of lives presumed lost. Catastrophic. And the Taurus —”

“The Taurus discovered Terminus,” Moss said. “They were the first.” She had studied crime-scene photographs of the USS Taurus . The ship had launched in late 1986 but returned from a far-future IFT with a depleted crew, only a few survivors, the inside of their ship covered in crude pictures of dead men and warnings written in their own blood.

“Patrick Mursult is listed as missing in action because he was a sailor aboard the USS Libra ,” said O’Connor. “The Libra is assumed lost, Shannon.”

Lost to Deep Waters, but appearing now. “How is that possible?” she asked. Moss had observed NSC launches, had seen ships launch to Deep Waters and return within a second, nearly instantaneous—the ships merely shimmered even though the crew might have sailed galaxies and lived for several years within that time. An uncanny sensation to see a man board a ship one moment as a young man and disembark the next moment grown to retirement age. Occasionally, however, an NSC ship launched but never returned—it would simply blink out of existence altogether. Those ships that blinked were assumed lost, irretrievably. They were either torn apart by debris or cast into a burning sun or devoured by a black hole, or more likely suffered a mechanical failure that had proved catastrophic or one of any other ruins—but the ships never returned and they never appeared in another location. If a ship blinked out, then the ship was lost and the crew dead, listed as missing in action only because their bodies would never be recovered. “If Libra was lost, then Patrick Mursult shouldn’t exist,” she said. “Or he was never on Libra . Maybe he’s a deserter? Or never made his assignment?”

“We need to account for Libra , we need to account for Mursult,” said O’Connor. “That’s why you were called in. We need to apprehend Patrick Mursult, find out his story.”

“Brock says the guy’s been living off the grid, everything in his wife’s name except for a few counterfeit IDs, a fake driver’s license,” said Moss. “We have witnesses who know Mursult personally—I don’t think we’re dealing with a false identity, or anything like that. He’s been living here in Canonsburg, right out in plain sight.”

“No one’s been looking for him,” said O’Connor. “As far as anyone knew, Patrick Mursult blinked along with everyone else on Libra . You can hide a long time when no one’s looking.”

“We have a lot of people looking for him now.”

“Shannon,” said O’Connor, “Special Agent Brock mentioned you have a personal connection to the crime scene—”

“Fine—I’m fine,” said Moss. “A childhood friend lived there. And the crime scene was horrific last night, but I’m all right.”

“I can offer you more agents, if you think you’ll need the help,” said O’Connor.

“I’m handling it,” she said, thinking of Jessica Mursult, the body gouged. Courtney Gimm’s bedroom, where Moss had dreamed of ditching Canonsburg. No one would ever leave that room. “I’m fine,” she said again. “I’m focused on Patrick Mursult.”

“What’s your take on this?” he asked.

She thought of the woman’s hand gloved in blood, the missing nails. “Right now this seems like a domestic situation,” said Moss. “I think we’ll find Mursult before too long—we have his face all over the news. Whatever his military situation, whatever the complications concerning Libra , you know as well as I do that this probably comes down to a question of money, or maybe an affair. Something quick and brutal but common. He took their fingernails—I don’t know why. Let’s consider more agents when we take him into custody. You should know that the missing girl’s a looker.”

“I saw the Amber Alert,” said O’Connor.

“I’d only expect media interest to grow once Marian’s picture makes the rounds,” she said, knowing that media scrutiny was anathema to NSC. “Won’t be too long before someone starts asking about Mursult, who he is.”

“We’re already on it,” said O’Connor. “FBI has been cooperative. Our directors have been talking—we have a memorandum of agreement on this investigation. They have the manpower to handle the media inquiries, lead the search for Marian.”

“They’re having a press conference right now,” said Moss, thinking that her mother might very well be watching. Damn , she thought—her mother a gossipy hawk for local misery, news stories of maimed animals, house fires, familial slayings. I should call her. Her mother would remember Cricketwood Court—all those afternoons dropping her daughter off at her best friend’s house. Once Moss hung up with O’Connor, she dialed her mother’s number. The line rang twice before clicking to the answering machine.

“Mom, this is Shan,” she said. “Mom, if you’re there, pick up. I’ll swing by the house tonight. Don’t worry too much about the news. We’ll talk soon.”

Nestor opened the office door with a soft tap.

“Let’s go,” he said.

Moss flipped her cell phone closed. “Where are we going?” she asked.

“We have the truck,” he said. “West Virginia state patrol just called it in. Come with me.”

The red Ram belonged to Elric Fleece, expired license, expired plates, an address somewhere off Barthollow Fork Branch, near Dents Run and Mannington. Local cops seemed to know him, a belligerent drunk they’ve had to chase away from bars, but no arrests—a Vietnam veteran, an unlicensed electrician who worked odd jobs for cash. Nestor drove Moss in an FBI Suburban, skimming past slower traffic on the interstate as shallow Pennsylvania hills gave way to the greater swells of West Virginia. Over an hour’s drive, discussion of Patrick Mursult shifted to personal chatter. Nestor was from southern West Virginia, grew up poor. A freelance photographer a few years before he fell into steadier fingerprint and crime-scene work with the Phoenix, Arizona, police department. Back home to West Virginia when his father was dying. Moss was circumspect in everything she offered of herself—she was drawn to share with Nestor, an attentive listener, but she knew how easily the covers for her life and career could fray.

“I guess I’m not much of a talker,” she had said.

“You’re guarded,” said Nestor. “I respect that.”

They came up on the junction with Barthollow Fork Branch and seemed to leave the world behind, swallowed by woodland. Barthollow Fork Branch tapered as they drove, the tree line butting against the road, reedy trunks, a canopy of branches that choked out light. Moss peered through the veil of woods to houses built far from the road, isolated places. They passed a series of houses propped up on cinder blocks—pastel siding faded and streaked with water damage from rusted gutters. Yards that looked like junk sales. Moss wondered what all these trees sounded like when they swayed. The road was little more than a mud path by the time they crossed a wood-plank bridge that bounded a dry creek bed. Nestor turned down a track that split away from Barthollow Fork, just two strips of dirt through the undergrowth.