Jake checked his watch, 3:15 p.m., at least nine hours before the blackmailer would try to make a move on the Grandview Cemetery. To satisfy his curiosity, he decided to go to the Main Library to research Michael Patterson Roundtree. He parked in the lot on Remington Street where East Oak Street ends and walked the two blocks toward the library.
He liked Old Town Fort Collins. It was interesting how locals liked to brag about the history of their towns. He'd learned some of the unique architecture in Old Town served as inspiration for Disneyland's Main Street USA. He wondered if after tonight they would brag about the discovery of long lost art found in a graveyard. He smiled.
The fresh air was crisp and clean. And dry. The high humidity in the east during the summer was like living in a sauna. He liked the big trees planted decades ago throughout downtown. Colorado's Front Range was a barren high desert typically devoid of trees. Fort Collins seemed an exception.
When he walked past the St. Peters Fly Shop on East Oak Street, he had an overwhelming urge to try his hand at fly-fishing in the area. He'd heard the streams and rivers in Northern Colorado were brimming with trout. He fought off his desire to go in the shop, determined to end Project Resurrection tonight.
He passed the boarded up Fort Collins Museum. The sign in front of the closed museum indicated it had been relocated a few blocks away. Behind the museum was the Old Town branch of the Poudre River Public Library. He entered the recently remodeled library and was directed to the second floor to access the reference section and the library computers.
Within minutes of using the library's computers, he found what he was searching for, a 1992 newspaper article about Michael Patterson Roundtree's posthumous awarding of the Medal of Honor. The photo attached with the article showed a young man in uniform the day he was shipped off to Germany in 1944 to fight in World War II.
The man in the picture was black.
Francesca located Ashley Regan's rental car in front of an urgent care facility in Knoxville, Tennessee. If Jake was right about decompression sickness, she was surprised Christa Barnett was able to drive this far without medical attention.
Francesca entered the urgent care's lobby and walked directly to the receptionist. She placed a photo of Barnett on the counter and pulled her counterfeit FBI credentials from her pocket. "I need to speak to the doctor in charge of this patient immediately." She demanded.
"I'm sorry, ma'am. But he's with a patient right now."
"This can't wait. Get him."
"But, ma'am."
"Get him." Francesca's tone changed to match her frustration with the receptionist.
A minute later a man with a graying mustache in a white lab coat came through the door. "I'm Dr. Miller. What's this about?"
Francesca put the picture in front of him. "It's about this woman. Is she here?"
"What's she done?" He asked.
"Dr. Miller, I'm not here to answer questions. I'm here to get my questions answered. Now, is this woman here?"
"She came in last night. I sent her to U-T Medical Center."
"U-T? What's that?"
"University of Tennessee Medical Center."
"I see." Francesca looked at the doctor. She didn't like him. He'd already copped a defensive posture. "What was wrong with her?"
"Doctor-Patient privilege."
She had had it with his insolent attitude. "Dr. Miller, every heard of the Patriot Act? This is a matter of national security so I suggest you cooperate or I'll haul your ass in for interfering with an investigation. Now this is the last time I'll ask. What was wrong with her?"
"She had fever and chills accompanied with stiffness in her arms and legs. Said she was scuba diving and surfaced too fast. I sent her to UT Medical Center for hyperbaric oxygen therapy."
"Thank you, doctor." Francesca stepped closer. "Now that wasn't so difficult was it?"
She turned and left never giving Miller a chance to respond. She called Wiley with the news.
By the time she got to the Hyperbaric Oxygen Therapy room at the University of Tennessee Medical Center, Wiley had posted armed guards at the door. Through the window she saw a small room with several machines and a clear tube in the middle. A male nurse and woman in a lab coat were inside. She assumed the treating physician was the woman standing over the clear tube talking to the woman lying inside the chamber.
After Francesca identified herself, the guards let her pass. She entered the room and got the attention of the physician. "Is this Christa Barnett?" She asked.
"That's about all I know," the doctor said. "That and she had some sort of scuba diving accident."
"Are you her treating physician?" Francesca asked.
"Yes." The woman held out her hand. "Dr. Flanagan."
Francesca shook her hand. Flanagan wasn't a tall woman, several inches shorter than she was. She had thick brown hair and a pleasing smile. "Dr. Flanagan, has Ms. Barnett indicated how the accident happened?"
"No. She hasn't said much of anything. She's traumatized and very emotional."
Francesca looked at the chamber. She could see Barnett's eyes were red and swollen from crying. "How much longer in the chamber?"
The doctor looked at her watch. "She's been in there since around nine o'clock last night so what's that, twenty hours? I should be able to release her in the morning provided she gets follow up care. She still isn't out of the woods. "
"Can she be released sooner?" Francesca asked.
"I don't want to risk it." She pointed to the door. "Is all that really necessary? Two guards? She can't even get out of the chamber unless it's opened from the outside."
"I'm afraid so, doctor. And make it three guards."
"Three?"
"I'll be staying all night as well."
Jake parked his rental behind the Fort Collins Housing Authority building on Mountain Avenue. He pulled into an empty slot between a beat up dark colored van with plastic taped over the left rear window and a flat bed truck. It was approaching midnight and he hadn't seen any cars in the past five minutes.
He slipped a silenced Glock into the holster. A throw down weapon, just in case. He grabbed his penlight and night vision spyglass from his backpack, and slipped them into pockets in his specially designed tactical wardrobe. Lastly, he pulled a black beanie cap over his head to camouflage his blond hair.
When he stepped from the vehicle he felt ready for anything.
He avoided the streetlights as he made the less than five-minute walk to the Grandview Cemetery. He passed the darkened cemetery office building. A light breeze stirred the vines draping from the roof. The sky was clear and the moon was bright. In the moonlight, the headstones struck a strong contrast against the dark green grass.
He crossed the stone bridge spanning the small canal and could see the amber glow from the forest fires behind the mountains to the west.
It had been Colorado's worst fire year on record and had been in the news for weeks. And as bad as the fires were west of Fort Collins, the fires further to the south were even worse. According to the local newspaper, this year's fires had closed Lory State Park just west of Horsetooth Reservoir. Tourists, hikers, and campers were forced to evacuate with less than a day's notice. Fire tankers were flown in from all over the United States and Canada to help but when the fires broke out to the south, many of those tankers were pulled and relocated to the more populated areas near Colorado Springs.
Jake used his phone's GPS to orient himself and followed the dirt road until he reached Section E in the Grandview Cemetery. He stepped quietly; always cognizant he might not be alone in the graveyard. His peripheral vision caught two eyes staring at him. He froze and crouched low. He pulled his weapon from the holster and retrieved his night vision spyglass, another one of Wiley's specialty gadgets. The eyes raised and ran off. A cat. Jake holstered his gun. Stupid cat almost lost all nine lives tonight.