“Hello, Nero,” Coastie said in an almost inaudible voice, hurt recognizing hurt. The dog immediately dropped a wet pink tongue to her hand, licked twice, and then pushed his nose flat into the jacket, inviting her to rub his head. “You’re the most beautiful dog I’ve ever seen.”
They headed northwest up Interstate 89 for a while before cutting across U.S. 2 toward Lake Champlain, reaching deep into the strange, quiet world of rural Vermont between the Winooski and Lamoille Rivers. Coastie began to cry, pulling herself deep into the parka. Dawkins said nothing, but passed a box of tissue. Nero stepped onto the console and leaned on her. “I can’t stop all this crying,” Coastie blubbered. “I hate it. When do the images stop coming back?”
“Time,” he said. “It’s really the only cure.”
Nero started nudging around, trying to get his nose into the thick jacket. He sensed the pain of a friend, and pressed with his right front leg. Coastie gave in and helped the seventy-five-pound dog into the spacious seat with her, wrapped both arms around him, and held on tight, her tears wetting his fur. Nero sat strong and loving as the countryside passed, contentedly sniffing her uniqueness and listening to her heartbeat. She was part of the pack now. He would protect her.
When she spotted the lake’s broad expanse of shining water, she finally asked, “Where are we going?”
“I have some property up here, about a hundred acres surrounded by forest, and we’ve built up a private retreat for special operators like ourselves who are having problems. Coming back from a war is never easy, and for folks like us the nightmares can be even tougher. We get some grant and foundation money, but Excalibur Enterprises is the main sponsor.”
“Kyle and Sir Jeff and Lady Pat do this? I hadn’t heard of that.”
“None of us are big on publicity, Coastie. The results are what counts. You can rest here for a while, fully protected, and we’ll help each other. We’ve all lost someone.”
“Kyle promised you’d train me up again.”
“He lied, girl. He’s trying to keep your existence on the down-low, so we’ll do some exercises and stuff, and maybe some shooting. Hell, there’s nothing I can teach you about shooting, Coastie. Not a damn thing. We’ll just plink some targets. No heavy stuff.”
“So what’s the plan?” She felt Nero shift beside her, detecting the sudden uneasiness.
“I’m supposed to determine if you have your head screwed on straight. If you have a couple of loose bolts, we’ll tighten them up. After what happened with Mickey, there’s bound to be some trauma.” He drove along a narrow road, through a desolate stretch that had its own dark beauty. They reached a fence line, and a wooden sign nailed to a tree announced PHOENIX FARM. A polished brass ship’s bell hung beside the opening in the fence, because there was no gate.
Coastie began to glimpse outbuildings through the trees — stables, a main house and some smaller bungalows, horses, other dogs, and a few people. “I’m okay,” she insisted, not believing it herself.
“Nero and I disagree. That mutt and I both think you’re pretty fucked up right now. The good news is that we can fix it.”
Special Agent Lucky Sharif drove straight back to his office in the Hoover Building when he got back to D.C. to plow through the file that the FBI had hastily compiled on the late VMI First Captain Gary Smith.
The young man’s biography was truly impressive, but irrelevant, and Sharif skimmed through it to learn about the fatal accident. A few brief newspaper articles sketched the overall story. Smith had been free-solo climbing, which Sharif knew meant not using any ropes, helmet, or safety harness. In fact, the authorities reported that Smith was clad in only a pair of green Jockey boxers, a rock-band T-shirt, shorts, and climbing shoes, with a small flask of water and a bag of chalk around his waist. No tubular rope, no snap carabiners, no bashies, no cams to help him get out of a tough situation. The coroner found no indication of intoxicants or drugs in the system. The abrasions and broken bones and violated organs were consistent with a hard fall onto stone. He ruled that it was a tragic accident.
Sharif let that percolate for a few minutes as he went to get a soda and some crackers. Free-soloing was an inherently risky business, but Smith, a former paratrooper, would have had no fear of heights and would have been in splendid physical shape. Smith against the mountain; the irresistible force against the immovable object. Sharif felt that was reasonable for such an overachiever. A normal picnic wouldn’t be enough.
Virginia boasted plenty of rock-climbing routes for more traditional adventurers. The death site in the New River Gorge wasn’t one of them. A ranger said the climb apparently started at a virgin spot reached only by off-roading and a bit of luck. It hadn’t been certified for public use because of the obvious danger of the hard climb over loose scree to a range of boulders and then up an apparently sheer cliff face that crested at a small space known as the Buzzard’s Beak.
An addendum contained a brief report from the sole witness, Lucas Gibson, a classmate of the victim at the Virginia Military Institute. The cop wrote that the witness was emotional but showed self-control. It was the witness who had summoned rescuers by using a radio in the climbers’ truck.
In the terse language of police reports, the account said: “The witness stated the victim was climbing well and showing no sign of distress. The witness began his own ascent about three minutes after the victim and was positioned below the victim. The witness said the victim put his weight on his right foot while edging to a new position, and slipped. The drop was an estimated seventy feet onto rocks.”
The mourning would take place elsewhere. To the authorities, the incident went into a “shit happens” file. There was no further investigation.
Lucky Sharif packed up, turned out the light, and finally went home. Janna was still awake, waiting, and they went over the file again together, working until dawn as they threw questions back and forth, just as they had done when they were FBI partners. The picture was complete, but the pieces didn’t fit.
The two snipers had dashed away from Washington so fast that, a day later, they needed everything from toothpaste to shoes. A big base like Ramstein and its nearby German towns had it all, and more. After letting their body clocks adjust to the time change, Swanson and Gibson went shopping off-post for certain civilian gear, because they didn’t know what would be their next step in pursuing the elusive killer Nicky Marks. That he might be going to Afghanistan was only a hunch.
They went for medium prices in buying a few lightweight shirts and slacks similar to what the Germans and tourists in town were wearing, because it would be ideal to conceal themselves as Europeans and not be tagged as Americans at first glance. The sundries were available off the shelf, and they quickly filled their backpacks. Back at the base, the two split up and interviewed other special-ops types who had been in the area for a while. Swanson took the marines and the SEALs, while Gibson did the Army. They found nothing of interest, and morosely drifted over to Zur Big Emma for schnitzel and beer and maybe to pick up some gossip.
“Gonna have to run a lot tomorrow to work off this meal,” Gibson said, devouring a forkful of soft spaetzle. “No wonder Germans are so big.”