Blake Pierce - Once Hunted

“I think I’ve got everything you could possibly want to see,” Flores said. “Birth certificate, arrest records, court transcripts, the works.”

Riley saw that it was an impressive display. And it certainly didn’t leave much to the imagination. There were several gruesome photos of Shane Hatcher’s murdered victims, including the mangled cop lying on his own front porch.

“What information do we have about the cop Hatcher killed?” Bill asked.

Flores brought up a batch of photos of a hearty-looking police officer.

“We’re talking about Officer Lucien Wayles, forty-six years old when he died in 1986,” Flores said. “He was married with three kids, awarded a Medal of Valor, well-liked and respected. The FBI teamed up with local cops and nailed Hatcher within days after Wayles was killed. What’s amazing is that they didn’t beat Hatcher to a pulp right then and there.”

Scanning the display, Riley was most struck by the photos of Hatcher himself. She barely recognized him. Although the man she knew could be intimidating, he managed to project a respectable, even bookish demeanor, with a pair of reading glasses always perched on his nose. The young African American in the 1986 mugshots had a lean, hard face and a cruel, empty stare. Riley had a hard time believing that it was the same person.

As detailed and complete as the display was, Riley felt dissatisfied. She had thought that she knew Shane Hatcher as well as anybody alive. But she didn’t know this Shane Hatcher – the vicious young gangbanger called “Shane the Chain.”

I’ve got to get to know him, she thought.

Otherwise, she doubted that she could possibly catch him.

Somehow, she felt that the cold, digital feeling of the display was working against her. She needed something more tangible – actual glossy photographs with folds and frayed edges, yellowed and brittle reports and documents.

She asked Flores, “Could I get a look at the originals of these materials?”

Flores let out a slight snort of disbelief.

“Sorry, Agent Paige – but not a chance. The FBI shredded all its paper files in 2014. Now all of it is scanned and digitized. What you see is all we’ve got.”

Riley let out a sigh of disappointment. Yes, she remembered all that shredding of millions of paper files. Other agents had complained, but back then it hadn’t seemed like a problem to her. Now she fairly itched for some old-fashioned palpability.

But right now, the important thing was to figure out Hatcher’s next move. An idea occurred to her.

“Who was the cop who brought Hatcher in?” she asked. “If he’s still alive, Hatcher’s liable to target him first.”

“It wasn’t a local cop,” Flores said. “And it wasn’t a ‘he.’”

He brought up an old photo of a woman agent.

“Her name was Kelsey Sprigge. She was an FBI agent at the Syracuse office – was thirty-five years old at the time. She’s seventy now, retired and living in Searcy, a town near Syracuse.”

Riley was surprised that Sprigge was a woman.

“She must have joined the bureau – ” Riley began.

Flores continued her thought.

“She signed up in 1972, when J. Edgar’s corpse was barely cold. That was when women were finally allowed to apply to be agents. She’d been a local cop before then.”

Riley was impressed. Kelsey Sprigge had lived a lot of history.

“What can you tell me about her?” Riley asked Flores.

“Well, she’s a widow with three children and three grandchildren.”

“Call the Syracuse FBI field office and tell them to do whatever they can to keep Sprigge safe,” Riley said. “She’s in serious danger.”

Flores nodded.

Then she turned to Meredith.

“Sir, I’m going to need a plane.”

“Why?” he asked, confused.

She took a deep breath.

“Shane may be on his way to kill Sprigge,” she said. “And I want to see her first.”

As the FBI jet hit the runway at Syracuse Hancock International Airport, Riley remembered something her father had told her in last night’s dream.

“You’re no good to anybody unless they’re dead.”

Riley was struck by the irony. This was perhaps the first case she’d ever been assigned where somebody hadn’t been murdered already.

But that’s likely to change soon, she thought.

She was especially worried about Kelsey Sprigge. She wanted to meet the woman face to face and see that she was all right. Then it would be up to Riley and Bill to keep her that way, and that would mean tracking down Shane Hatcher and putting him back in prison.

As the plane taxied toward the terminal, Riley saw that they had traveled into a true winter world. Although the landing strip was clear, huge mountains of snow showed how much work the plows had put in recently.

It was a change of scenery from Virginia – and a welcome one. Now Riley realized how much she needed a new challenge. She had called Gabriela from Quantico to explain that she was on her way to work on a case. Gabriela had been happy for her and assured her that she’d take care of April.

When the plane came to a stop, Riley and Bill grabbed their gear and climbed down the stairs onto the icy tarmac. When she felt the shock of deep cold on her face, she was glad that she’d been issued a heavy hooded jacket at Quantico.

Two men scurried toward them and introduced themselves as Agents McGill and Newton of the FBI field office in Syracuse.

“We’re here to help any way we can,” McGill told Bill and Riley as they all hurried into the terminal.

Riley asked the first question that came to her mind.

“Have you got people watching Kelsey Sprigge? Are you sure she’s safe?”

“Some local cops are posted outside her house in Searcy,” Newton said. “We’re sure she’s fine.”

Riley wished she felt as certain.

Bill said, “Okay then. Right now we just need something to drive to Searcy.”

McGill said, “Searcy’s not far from Syracuse, and the roads are all clear. We’ve brought an SUV you can use, but … uh, are you used to driving in northern winters?”

“You know, Syracuse always wins the Golden Snowball Award,” Newton added with impish pride.

“Golden Snowball?” Riley asked.

“That’s New York state’s prize for the most snow,” McGill said. “We’re the champs. Got a trophy to prove it.”

“Maybe one of us should drive you,” Newton said.

Bill chuckled. “Thanks, but I think we can handle it. I had a winter assignment in North Dakota a few years ago. I got a good dose of winter driving there.”

Although she didn’t say so, Riley also felt seasoned for this kind of driving. She’d learned to drive in the Virginia mountains. The snow there was never as deep as it was here, but the back roads were never cleared very quickly. She’d probably put in as much time on icy roads as anybody here.

But she was happy to have Bill drive. Right now she was preoccupied with Kelsey Sprigge’s safety. Bill took the keys and they were on their way.

“I’ve got to say, it feels good to be working together again,” Bill said as he drove. “It’s selfish of me, I guess. I like working with Lucy, but it’s not the same.”

Riley smiled. She also felt good to be working with Bill again.

“Still, part of me wishes you weren’t coming back to this case,” Bill added.

“Why not?” Riley asked with surprise.

Bill shook his head.

“I’ve just got a bad feeling,” he said. “Remember, I met Hatcher too. It takes a lot to scare me, but … well, he’s in a class by himself.”

Riley didn’t reply, but she couldn’t disagree. She knew that Hatcher had pushed Bill’s buttons during that visit. With uncanny instinct, the longtime prisoner had made shrewd observations about Bill’s personal life.