Aimée Thurlo - Restless Wind

As she followed the neatly groomed, salt-and-pepperhaired man, she noted the way he paid attention to everything around him. His gaze darted continually from one place to another, and with the rooms all separated by glass panels, he didn’t miss much.

Once he sat down behind the desk in an office labeled deputy chief and waved her to an uncomfortable-looking wooden chair, his expression changed. Harris was suddenly focused exclusively on her.

“Ms. Seles, I need you to tell me exactly what happened, beginning from the moment you left your classroom in the afternoon. Include everything you can remember up to the moment the tribal police appeared on the scene.”

It took almost an hour. She repeated her story, meticulously describing even the smallest of details. When Dana finished, his expression was one of admiration.

“I don’t get many witnesses with your memory,” he said. “Not even experienced law enforcement professionals. You certainly don’t miss much.”

“No, I don’t,” she answered with complete honesty. “Can you tell me if you’ve made any progress tracking down the killers yet?”

Harris straightened his turquoise silk tie-the only item of clothing that suggested the Southwest. “There’s a four-state manhunt underway for these perps, with patrols on every highway within a hundred miles. Ignacio Trujillo, the name you provided the officers, hasn’t been located yet. He’s not at any of the properties he owns or controls but we’ll find him. The tribal president has already contacted the Bureau demanding justice, which is one of the reasons I’m getting as much extra manpower as I need. Under these circumstances, I have no doubt that we’ll catch all the individuals responsible.”

“What can I do to help?”

“Right now I need you to look through some photos and see if you can identify any of the perps. If that doesn’t work, then I’d like you to work with a sketch artist.”

A few minutes later, Dana began searching through a stack of oversized books filled with mug shots. Harris remained across the desk from her as she worked, occasionally taking a phone call, or directing the manhunt. In the background, she could hear several conversations all at once, some in English and some in Navajo, from a half dozen or more officers. She wondered if it was this busy every night.

When she’d searched through all the books he’d given her, she glanced up at him. “The men I saw are not in any of these books. But there’s one book missing-number seven.”

He checked it out, then muttered a soft curse. “I’ll be right back.”

When Agent Harris stepped out the door, Dana caught a glimpse of Ranger. He was across the hall speaking to a Navajo plainclothes officer, judging from the badge on his belt. Ranger’s expression left no doubt that things weren’t going well.

Looking back at the FBI agent, she saw Harris pick up the book she’d been missing off one of the desks. He was on his way back when a stir went around the squad room, and the officers all turned to look at a big-screen TV mounted on the wall. Some stood up from their desks. It became quiet all of a sudden.

Hearing her name mentioned by the newscaster, Dana stood and walked across the hall to listen. Her high school photo was flashed on the screen. The news brief featured her-the kidnap victim who’d survived. As bits and pieces of her life unfolded before the cameras she felt her insides knot up.

“Dana Seles has always been a survivor,” the reporter said. “Sources report that in her younger years…”

Dana returned to the office as the reporter recounted her mother’s arrest, the charges of card counting and, most of all, references describing Dana’s photographic memory.

“This is bad-very bad,” Harris said, returning to the office and dropping the book in front of her.

“Because the criminals are going to find out about my photographic memory?”

“Exactly. They might as well have painted a bull’s eye on your back,” he said, sitting down. “And whatever details they left out of the broadcast, you can count on reading about in the morning paper.”

He leaned back in his seat and regarded her in silence for several moments as she leafed through the mug shots. “Well, at least I know why you were able to come up with that extremely detailed description of what happened today. But there’s something I still don’t get. Why did you meet with the old man yesterday afternoon?” He looked down at his watch to confirm it was well past midnight. “I understand you were the one who arranged the meeting.”

“Teachers usually arrange their parent-teacher conferences,” she said, then went through the story again.

“Officers questioned Kevin Cohoe’s parents. It seems Mr. Cohoe got a note from someone claiming to be his mother’s neighbor and telling him that his mother was very sick. When they got there, Mr. Cohoe’s mother was just fine and they realized that the note had been a fake.”

“So that’s how they knew my friend would be at the school. They set him up.” She shook her head, then realized Harris was looking at her very coldly. “Wait a minute. You’re not seriously thinking that was my doing!”

“You tell me,” he said, his expression unchanged.

“Even if I’d been responsible for sending them that note-which I’m not-how could I possibly have known Hastiin Sani would show up?”

“A calculated guess? He and his grandson were very close and you two were friends, supposedly.”

Rage twisted inside her until her entire body began to shake. “I loved Hastiin Sani like a father.”

“I’m just trying to sort out the facts,” he said in a reasonable tone that only infuriated her more.

“Your theory makes absolutely no sense and that’s a fact. What motive could I possibly have? I’ve got a great job, my bills are all paid up and I even have a fairly decent savings account. So why would I do something like that? For more money? Hastiin Sani’s family isn’t wealthy. Last of all, if I were involved, why would I warn you that Trujillo has more violence planned?” Her words tumbled out, along with her frustration and anger.

“Good points. All perfectly logical,” he said.

She slammed the mug-shot book shut, then leaned back in her chair and stared at him. “None of the kidnappers are in any of these albums. Now what?”

“We’ll need you to work with the sketch artist,” he said, his voice cool and impersonal.

As she was led away by another officer, Ranger, who’d been standing in the hall, went in to speak with Agent Harris. She would have given anything to be able to eavesdrop, but she was taken to a different part of the station.

RANGER SAT ACROSS the desk from Agent Harris, his own expression trained into polite neutrality.

“The drug they used on you is common-a generic tranquilizer used by many animal control departments.” Harris paused for a moment, cleared his throat, then continued in a methodical and thoughtful voice. “You heard enough of my questioning to know I’ve got some serious concerns about the motivations of our witness. Correct?”

Ranger nodded.

“I also have some questions about your connection to the medicine man. My gut tells me there’s more to it than you’ve said. Some of the officers around here know what that is, too, but no one’s talking.” He met Ranger’s gaze in an open challenge. “I may not know what’s going on yet, but I will find out. Why don’t you save us both some time and play it straight with me?”

Ranger shrugged. “The medicine man and I knew each other for many years. We were practically neighbors. I was there to give him a ride home after his conference with Ms. Seles.”

Harris shook his head. “Don’t try to sell me that. There’s more to you than meets the eye. You’re not just an auto mechanic for some hotshot race car driver.” He met Ranger’s gaze and held it. A minute stretched out. Finally Harris continued. “But since the right people trust you, you’re off the hot seat, for now. Dana Seles, on the other hand, is a real question mark. I don’t know if she’s been roped into a conspiracy, or was just caught in the middle, but she ties in one way or the other. You having a relationship with her?”