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Whitney screamed and Ashley stared. She saw a body in the water among the debris. The flames went out almost immediately, but the smoke filled the area.
“We have to help them,” Ashley said. “Whitney—”
Then a second explosion sent a shock wave toward their sailboat, and it was all they could do to keep from going under themselves. Sirens on the shore sounded the alarm, and Ashley and Whitney headed back to the harbor as the sheriff’s rescue boats went toward the disaster.
Taking a final look back, Ashley pulled out her camera and took more pictures. If West End was to blame for this, Ashley would make sure they paid. Neil was a friend, a good man, like a grandfather to her. He...he couldn’t have survived. Could he?
She stared at the smoking boat, split in two.
No. She didn’t see how anyone survived that.
Tears streamed down her face, and as soon as she and Whitney were docked, she hugged her sister tight.
I’ll get them, Neil. I promise you, I’ll prove that West End cut corners and killed you and everyone else.
MONDAY
2
Nine people dead.
FBI Special Agent in Charge Mathias Costa, head of the Mobile Response Team, stood at the end of the Friday Harbor pier and looked east where theWater Lily, a private charter, had exploded three days earlier. All remnants had been cleared since, but he could picture it... He’d read the reports, he’d seen the photos, he knew what explosions did to flesh and bone.
This wasn’t the first bombing he’d investigated. He couldn’t allow the past to cloud the present.
Matt needed this minute alone, to focus his attention on the case at hand, to be the leader his team deserved. When he and his boss, Tony Greer, came up with the concept of the Mobile Response Team, he knew that he’d be assigned difficult and challenging cases all over the country. It was harder when he knew one of the victims. Though he hadn’t seen former FBI agent Neil Devereaux in years, he had been to his retirement party; he’d attended his wife’s funeral. Neil had been a solid agent, the type of cop most agents aspired to be. Dedicated, trustworthy, smart.
And Neil was Tony Greer’s closest friend. It was all Matt could do to convince Tony to stay in DC and let Matt work the case without the assistant director breathing down his neck. Fortunately, Tony hadn’t worked in the field for more than a decade, and didn’t push hard to join Matt.
The San Juan Islands were uniquely beautiful and Matt could see why Neil had chosen to retire here. Not only was he originally from Washington State, but the islands were a piece of paradise for those who loved boating, fishing, and fresh salt air. A hundred and seventy-two islands dotted the archipelago, though most of the population lived on the main island, San Juan Island, where Friday Harbor was located. Matt had never been here before, an oversight, he realized, because he liked the environment.
The San Juan Islands Sheriff’s Department patrolled the inhabited islands—all twenty of them—and fortunately, the sheriff was more than happy to have the FBI take over this investigation. The crime rate was low, violent crime almost nonexistent. The bombing had thrown the entire community into shock, and Matt needed to give them peace.
The only way they would find peace was if he and his team found the bomber and brought him to justice.
And that was something Matt was very, very good at.
He heard someone walking down the pier toward him. He glanced over his shoulder, saw his longtime friend and colleague Catherine Jones, one of the FBI’s top forensic psychiatrists. This was her first case since returning from an extended sabbatical after her sister had been murdered nearly a year ago. He was glad she was here, though Catherine had changed. He wasn’t certain the changes were for the better. She still maintained her regal appearance, attractive and calm, yet cool and unapproachable to anyone who didn’t know her. She was still one of the smartest people he knew. But she seemed even more aloof, more distant, sharper-edged. Matt had hoped getting back in the field would give her the final push she needed to reclaim her life after her sister was murdered, but for the first time, he wondered if he’d pushed too hard, too soon.
It’s been a year since Beth died.
“I thought I might find you here,” Catherine said when she approached and stood next to him.
“I wanted a minute,” he said.
Together they stared out over calm waters. Already, three days after the explosion, a variety of boats dotted the horizon. In the distance he could see a ferry coming from Anacortes, the closest port to the islands, an hour east. Life went on. He was grateful for the fact, but he still mourned the eight people he had never known—and especially, the one person he did.
“The sheriff has been more than accommodating,” Catherine said. “We have a conference room dedicated to the investigation, and he’s assigned two deputies full-time to assist—Redfield and Anderson. More if we need them.”
“It’s nice to have local law enforcement support.”
“Agreed.” Catherine paused, then said, “Are you thinking about the Tucson Bomber?”
He was, but he didn’t want to talk about it.
“You caught him,” Catherine reminded Matt.
“Not before he killed thirteen people.”
