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f the North Fork of Quantico Creek. He didn’t remember it being this hot. Actually, he couldn’t remember any other day being this hot. No one had been more surprised than Savich when they got a call from a park ranger thirty minutes before.
As he turned into the shaded park entrance, with the forest pressing in, Sherlock said, “Finally, a call about the Kia.”
They’d put an APB out on the green Kia immediately after Victor had shot at them in Peterborough, but there’d been no calls. Savich pulled up close to the ranger kiosk, got out of the Volvo, and slipped his Glock into his pocket so he could take off his jacket. He and Sherlock waited for a single car filled with a father, mother, and three young kids, all laughing, talking, and arguing, to pass through. They’d hoped Ranger Harmon would be there, but she wasn’t. Still, they identified themselves, showed the young man with thick black eyebrows their creds.
Terry Menard studied them, then looked up, head tilted to the side. “Agents, what can I do for you?”
Savich said, “We need to know where to find Ranger Sionna Harmon. She called us.”
Terry perked right up. “Oh yes, this is about that terrorist who bombed the cathedral in Falls Church? I’ve seen his photo—it’s all over TV and the Internet. He sure looks like a wuss, doesn’t he? As harmless as my terrier Milo. None of us saw him though, only Sionna—well, you can speak to her yourself. I’ll give her a heads-up, tell her you’re here. She’s doing an hour in the visitor’s center.”
Savich parked Sherlock’s Volvo and they walked quickly out of the insane summer heat into glorious air-conditioning and what looked like controlled pandemonium. Families and children, happy to be out of the sun, crowded around the exhibits of the park’s history and its geology, the kids shouting questions to a docent. Savich asked for Park Ranger Sionna Harmon.
A tall, leggy black woman with buzz-cut hair strode to them, everything about her screaming efficiency. They introduced themselves. “You called us about the green Kia,” Sherlock said.
“That’s right. Sorry, but I never saw Victor Nesser. Last night, before I left, I walked through the parking area as I always do, my last duty of the day, looking for anything hinky, I guess you could say. I saw a banged-up green car and wondered about all the nicks and holes, wondered how it could still drive. And I forgot about it. Then this morning a police officer from Dumfries was here drinking my coffee, telling us about the news, and he happened to mention the green Kia. After he left I went back and took a look. It was the Kia. That’s when I called you.” She paused a moment. “Look, I’ve asked, but no one saw him come in.”
Savich said, “Nesser probably drove the Kia in while you were on break. He did the same thing at a park in Maryland.”
“Well, that makes sense. Parks aren’t prisons, and we aren’t guards. He could have snuck in if he was lurking, watching to see when I or another park ranger left the kiosk for a break. There are lots of places he could have parked out of sight.” She paused. “I didn’t look closely, but I was wondering. Are all those nicks in the car bullet holes?”
“Yes,” Sherlock said.
Harmon’s dark eyes studied Sherlock’s face. “I’m guessing it was your bullets in the Kia?”
Sherlock only nodded.
Sionna shook her head, ran her tongue over her lips. “This is beyond terrifying, Agents. Our park is full of families. So many kids who’d make hostages.”
Savich said, “Let’s go look at that Kia.”
They followed Sionna past the kiosk, where Terry Menard was busy processing a line of cars to enter the park. The Kia was the very last car in the parking lot. Savich pulled his cell out of his pocket and called a forensic team to Prince William Forest Park to go over it.
Sionna’s cell phone rang. She listened, punched off. “That was Ranger Menard. Sure enough, one of our visitors, a Mr. Jules Dunn, reported his car was stolen from the parking area, a blue Honda SUV.”
Savich met with Mr. Dunn, an insurance salesman from Leesburg, at the visitor’s center, got all his information, phoned it in, and got another APB going for the local area. When Ranger Harmon told Dunn who’d stolen his old blue Honda SUV, the man’s eyes bugged wide. In the next instant, he turned to tell his wife and three teenage sons. The oldest boy grabbed his hand and shook it. “Wow, Dad, the terrorist dude stole our car! We’re going to be on TV. Way to go!” Mr. Dunn grinned, did a high five, and Mrs. Dunn turned perfectly white, Sherlock saw, a more intelligent response. The three teenage boys were still excited, hooting and hollering, when their dad looked at his wife and stopped grinning. The reality of what had happened was beginning to sink into his brain. Savich said, “Local law enforcement will be on the lookout for your Honda. You’ll have to go in and file a report. Ranger Harmon will help you with that.”
Mrs. Dunn said, “We won’t see the car again, will we, Agent Savich?”
Savich shook his head. “Doubtful, but what’s important is you’re all safe.”
When the Dunn family was seated in the visitor’s center waiting for a police car, Sherlock said to Ranger Harmon, “We’re going to try to find his campsite, but chances are slim he left anything useful.”
Harmon said, “Would you like me to go with you? I’m a sworn officer, you know, and I have a gun for situations like this. I do know how to use it.”
Savich said, “Thank you. If we need your help, you can count on us calling out fast and loud.”
Harmon showed them the main trail and left them to it, though it was clear she still wanted to come with them. As they walked into the woods on a well-marked path, Savich called Ollie Hamish, his second in command in the CAU, who gave him the latest news on the church bombing aftermath. When Savich punched off, he said, “Looks like everyone is going to make it. No critical injuries reported. Needless to say, the politicians are lining up to get their outraged sound bites on the bombing of the church on the six o’clock news. Same old, same old.”
Sherlock pointed. “Look at those red maples and the Virginia pines. We need to bring Sean back here.” She fanned herself. “Let’s wait for some cooler weather, though.”
They started walking quietly, alert for any sound that wasn’t right, and soon heard footsteps and several voices. Like Savich, Sherlock carried her jacket over her arm, her Glock in her pocket. She eased it out. A family—husband, wife, two young kids—appeared around a curve in the trail ahead of them, hauling tents and camping equipment. They looked happy—well, the kids looked happy. The dad looked stoic, the mom tired and sweaty. Sherlock pressed her Glock against her leg. No sense scaring the bejesus out of them. Everyone said hi and walked on. They passed into a large designated RV camping area where people sat around in portable chairs, drinking sodas and beers, some grilling hamburgers for a late lunch. Sherlock breathed in deeply, heard her stomach growl.
They walked to the far end of the camping sites, then followed a trail that led through poplars and white oaks so thick they formed a canopy overhead to block the sun. A blessing.
They found what was probably Victor’s campsite some twenty yards beyond where camping was allowed and a Snickers wrapper, nothing else. The ashes in the freshly dug fire pit were cold. Victor had been gone a long time and he’d swept the area down.
As they trudged back, Sherlock said, “How long do you think it’ll take Victor to dump Mr. Dunn’s Honda, and steal another car?”
