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Rapp was bothered by the simple fact that he couldn’t bring his hand up to shield his eyes. “Untie me.”
Coleman hesitated. He weighed the alternatives. Kennedy had left orders that she wanted him to be kept sedated and tied until she had a chance to further assess his attitude. Coleman didn’t like seeing him tied up as if he was some prisoner, and given all that he’d been through he didn’t feel right ignoring him. He reached down and grabbed one of the canvas straps that held his wrist to the bed frame. “Don’t do anything stupid, Mitch. You’ve got a broken arm, two broken ribs, a deep thigh bruise, and your knee is still swollen from surgery.” The former SEAL finished with the straps and gently placed a couple of pillows behind Rapp so he was propped up.
Rapp guessed from the view that he was on the second floor. The slight greenish hue of the glass also told him the window was bulletproof. He had been here before but had never ventured to the second floor. To the average unsuspecting person, the place looked no different from all the other horse farms and corporate retreats that dotted the rural Virginia landscape. It was very charming on the surface, but the subterranean levels beneath the main building held a secret the CIA guarded very closely. The place was so covert, it didn’t even have a name. To the handful of people who knew of its existence, it was referred to as The Facility.
It was off the books, not even listed in the black intelligence budget submitted in secret to Congress every year. The Facility was a place where they could clinically drain information from people. In decades past the subjects were usually traitors or spies, almost all of them atheists or agnostics. More recently the guests were decidedly more fervent in their religious beliefs. The place was located near Leesburg, Virginia, and was situated on sixty-two beautiful rolling acres which had been purchased by the Agency in the early fifties. The Facility was a necessary evil in the sometimes brutal high-stakes game of espionage.
Rapp was about to ask Coleman about Anna, but he choked on his words. After he got control of his emotions he asked, “What happened?”
“Do you remember the explosion?”
Rapp shook his head.
“As near as I’ve been able to piece it together, you came home after your knee surgery and the house blew up. Somehow you ended up in the bay. A nearby fisherman pulled you out of the drink and you were mede-vacked up to Johns Hopkins.”
“Anna?”
Coleman shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “She ended up in the front yard. The EMS people said they think she hit a tree as she was blown out of the house. Massive trauma to the head. They operated,” Coleman shook his head sadly, “but she never had a chance.”
Rapp looked away from his friend and stared out the window. He was trying desperately to keep it together. To keep his mind focused on what had happened, and not on what had been lost. “Who did it?”
“We don’t know yet, but we have some leads.”
“Bring me up to speed,” Rapp ordered with clinical detachment.
“I got to your house last night around ten. Skip McMahon was there with some other feds, but they were letting the locals run the show.” Coleman paused and then said blandly, “The fire chief says it was an accidental propane explosion, and so far the feds concur.”
Rapp frowned.
“Don’t worry, we’re not buying into it for a second. Let me finish with the official version, and then I’ll fill you in on the rest. The fire department found traces of an accelerant. They’re pretty sure it’s gasoline.”
“Where?”
“Between the garage and the propane tank. They figure you kept your gas for the boats on the side of the garage.”
“I fill my boats at the marina.”
“I thought so. Besides, I told them there was no way in hell you’d leave gas stored that close to a propane tank.”
“You’re right. What else?”
“This is where it gets tricky, Mitch.” Coleman folded his arms across his chest and widened his stance as if he was preparing himself for stormy seas. “You know how people like us tend to make the feds real nervous.”
Rapp nodded.
“I brought Wicker with me last night and we found some stuff they overlooked.”
Rapp knew Charlie Wicker well. They’d worked together many times, and occasionally they trained together. There was no better shot with a long barrel in the world. “Like what?”
“Someone was in the woods yesterday across the street from your house.” Coleman studied Rapp for a reaction.
“Go on.”
“Irene sent us out there because she knew we’d know what to look for. When we got there the feds and the locals were focused on the house. You know how good Charlie is…it took him all of two minutes to pick up the scent. We think one tango was in the woods when you got home. He had a bicycle with him. Wicker thinks the guy was careful enough to carry the bike into the woods, but then in the excitement after the explosion he wheeled it out, leaving a clear trail through the tall grass on the side of the road.” Coleman made a curved gesture with his right hand. “The guy headed south where your street dead-ends. Charlie knew there were paths down there, so he took off with his flashlight and followed this guy’s trail to the dirt road that runs along a landing strip a few miles from your house.”
Rapp was proceeding along the trail in his mind. He’d covered it hundreds of times on both foot and bike.
“Charlie found a fresh set of tire tracks on the edge of the dirt road about where the bike tracks ended. We think the guy threw the bike in the back of a truck, pulled a U-turn, and vanished.”
