“You tough guys.”
Blake looked up at her, raised his eyebrows questioningly.
“You’ll happily get in a gunfight, dive headfirst off a cliff, stand next to a grenade, but subject you to anything medical and you start crying.”
“It wasn’t a grenade; it was a pipe bomb.”
“Whatever. You ought to be dead.”
“You can thank Edward R. Garrett that I’m not.”
“Who?”
“1837 to 1879. Luckily for me, they built headstones to last in 1879.”
“And to absorb blast damage.”
“Indeed. How’s Castle?”
Banner bit her lip. They’d used one of the search helicopters to transport Castle to the regional hospital in Rapid City. It had reduced their capacity to search for Wardell, but it had saved Castle’s life. For the moment, at least. “Critical but stable, is what they’re telling us.”
“I’m sorry,” Blake said.
“Don’t be. The only reason he’s still breathing is you.”
The house was a still-burning pile of rubble, the mobile command center a partially burnt-out crime scene. Wardell had melted into the thick woods after the explosion in the graveyard, and either he’d had a vehicle hidden somewhere off the grid, or he’d stayed on foot. Whatever the case, he hadn’t left a trace.
Blake was stripped to the waist, having discarded his torn and soaked shirt. Banner noticed that there was a long, whitened scar running from his left pectoral all of the way down to his waistline. Blake caught her staring at it and looked away. She decided not to ask.
The paramedic finished the stitching and tied it off. Blake flexed the fingers of his hand, testing the strength of the stitches, finding them adequate.
“What the hell happened in there?” Banner asked after a minute. “Inside the house, I mean.” Blake had already briefed her on what had taken place down in the old graveyard.
“Somebody was helping Wardell.”
“What?”
Blake reached for the blue FBI T-shirt they’d scavenged for him, pulled it over his head. “You people really like this color, huh?”
“What do you mean somebody was helping him?”
He shrugged. “That’s the way it worked out, anyway, whether or not it was the intention. But I think it was.”
“Hold on a second, Blake,” she said, shaking her head. “How the hell would anyone get inside the damn house? We had that place sewn up tighter than—”
“It was one of your guys.”
Banner felt like somebody had punched her in the gut. She opened her mouth to tell him he was crazy, or at the very least mistaken. That no one on the task force could have been involved in helping Wardell. But did she know that for sure? Really know it?
Blake’s face was sympathetic as he watched her struggle. “Or at least he was doing a fair impression of one of yours. The only reason I knew something was up with him is because I’d seen him before, at the Fort Dodge scene.”
“Is that a surprise? We had lots of agents at the scene.”
“But he was there right after the shooting, long before your people got there.”
Banner suppressed the barrage of questions that welled up inside her, decided to focus on the events in the house. “So what happened?”
“He coldcocked Castle, led Hatcher right into Wardell’s sights.”
“He was covering the front of the building, just like we thought,” Banner said. “Brazen asshole was actually perched on top of the command center’s roof. Killed another two of our guys who were in his way.” Our guys; that brought the question of an inside man back into focus. “What would one of us have to gain from helping?” she asked. “Who the hell is this guy? What does he look like?”
“As of right now? I’m guessing extra crispy. Castle shot him in the fight. We left him in the room at the front, the one where Hatcher died.”
“All right. What did he look like, then?”
“Like one of you,” Blake said. “Like your stereotypical anonymous G-Man. Dark suit, white shirt, quiet tie. Glasses. Tall, with a slight build.”
“And our only lead, up in smoke,” Banner said, shaking her head again.
“Not quite.”
Blake was reaching into the pocket of his pants. He withdrew a small black leather ID wallet and tossed it to her. She caught it one-handed and flipped it open. The object was as familiar to Banner as her own front door. In the bottom half, a metal shield with an eagle and the words “Federal Bureau of Investigation” and “Department of Justice,” gold on gold. In the top, a photo ID card.
“Anyone you know?” Blake prompted, adding, “The name’s unlikely.”
“‘John H. Edgar,’” she read from the ID. “I guess J. Edgar Hoover would have been too on the nose.”
“Is it a fake? Looks pretty good to me.”
“It must be. But you’re right; it’s a good one. We have guys from all over the country on the task force, way more than a hundred people here tonight. You can’t know everybody by sight. In fact—” Banner stopped midthought, looking at the gaunt, balding, unsmiling head shot in the photograph. The man in the picture wore no glasses. “You said he was wearing glasses?”
“Yes.”
“I saw him too. Allanton, after Wardell killed his father.” She closed her eyes and summoned the memory of the man she’d seen outside Nolan’s cabin. It was the same man in the picture; she was almost certain. “Blake, what the hell is going on here?”
Before Blake could begin to answer, a voice rang out from behind them.
“Funny, that’s exactly the question I was going to ask.”
Banner and Blake looked over to the open rear doors of the van. It was Edwards. He wore a dark raincoat with the hood up, and he looked pissed.
“Edwards,” Banner said. She closed the ID wallet and put it in her pocket. “Is Donaldson coming down?”
Edwards bristled at this but didn’t answer. He turned his gaze on Blake. “You assaulted one of my agents,” he said slowly, as though he could barely entertain the notion that such a thing had occurred.
“That’s ridic—” Banner began, the words dying in her throat as she saw the look on Blake’s face.
“Actually, it’s true. I forgot to mention that.”
“He’s in the infirmary with a broken finger, a broken nose, and a concussion.”
“I’m sorry, but he wouldn’t listen and he was in the way.”
“He was in the…” Edwards blinked as though a bucket of water had been thrown over him; then he really lost his temper. “You are in my fucking way, Blake. And as of now, you are officially out of my fucking way. You are off the task force and off the payroll, and if you don’t get the hell out of my sight in the next ten seconds, I’ll have you arrested for the attempted murder of a federal fucking agent.”
“Wait a second—” Banner started.
Edwards ignored her. “Get out of here, Blake.”
Blake glanced at Banner, then stood up slowly.
“Stay right there,” Banner said, then turned back to Edwards. “We need him, sir. He saved Castle; he nearly got Wardell; he—”
“He compromised this operation. He got the person we were here to protect killed, and then he let the target escape. We can do without his kind of help. And quite frankly, Agent Banner, we can do without yours for a while too.”
“Excuse me, sir?”
Edwards smiled for the first time. “Castle is out of action. The special agent in charge has reorganized the command structure of this task force. As of five minutes ago, I’m in operational command here. And I think you need to take a step back.”
“With all due respect, you need me. And Blake.”
“Three days’ leave, Agent Banner. Don’t force me to make it a suspension. Wouldn’t look good on your record, would it?”