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“High and deep on this one. The man’s name is Calvin Cloke. Goes by CC.”
Of course, he does. I didn’t say it.
“Cloke’s an FBI special agent. He arrived in Provo six days ago.”
“On assignment?”
“Unclear.”
“Wouldn’t a special agent here on official business announce himself to your office? As a courtesy?”
“I would assume so.”
“What’s his—”
“All I know is Cloke landed on the island, rented a car, then slipped off the radar. Now the folks back home have started making inquiries.”
“Sounds a bit like Quentin Bonner and the others.”
“Yes.” Terse. “Though most tourists rent vehicles when they arrive. Hopefully, Cloke’s just having himself a bender. Or he’s off shagging the love of his life.”
There seemed little chance of that.
“My investigators are on it. When they know more, we’ll know more. In the meantime, let’s focus on the remains for which I brought you from Montreal.”
That’s what we did.
By eleven a.m., Musgrove and I were turning from the Millennium Highway onto a narrow sand road in the Wheeland Settlement. A sign identified a complex to our left as the TCI waste disposal facility. Musgrove drove past it until the road dead-ended at the edge of a woodland. I guessed the distance at roughly two hundred yards.
Ahead, an unoccupied Jeep sat just before the trees, the usual decal declaring it the property of the RTCIPF. The CSU van waited at its front bumper.
The same pair of techs occupied the van’s front seat, Stubbs at the wheel, Kemp riding shotgun. Both sat silent.
As we drew closer, I could see that the empty Jeep straddled an opening in the trees. The path, if it could be called that, was little more than a thinning of the trunks and the ground cover spreading across the sand between them.
When Musgrove rolled to a stop, Kemp and Stubbs alighted. So did we.
The sun was mid-morning high, struggling to bump the sky from a dirt gray to a lighter dirt gray. The air was already muggy and warm.
Musgrove spoke as we walked toward the two constables.
“The site’s been guarded twenty-four/seven since the bones were reported last Friday. My people came, strung tape, shot pics. I can’t vouch for what went on before we took over.”
Though I agreed in principle with Musgrove’s plan, I felt sympathy for those tasked with round-the-clock surveillance for six days. Said nothing.
Musgrove slapped at a mosquito lunching on her cheek, flicked the corpse, unrolled her sleeves down to wrist level. Drawing a can of Cutter insect repellent from her shoulder-hanging satchel, she coated her exposed skin, and handed the can to me.
I sprayed with alacrity. Forget organics—eucalyptus and essential oils. When it comes to mosquitoes, fleas, ticks, black flies, whatever, I douse liberally with the chemicals that will get the job done.
Moving in a cloud of Cutter, Musgrove and I continued forward. When we’d joined Kemp and Stubbs, Musgrove spoke again, her comments directed to me but for her subordinates’ benefit.
“My officers know their stuff. Direct them clearly, they’ll do a crack-up job.”
Kemp smiled and overnodded his willingness to help. Stubbs’s expression remained impassive.
“Which set of remains is at this location?” I asked, thinking of the pics I’d viewed back in Montreal.
“Both,” Musgrove said.
