Now she just had to figure out what he was trying to say.

Part II.

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers...

-William Shakespeare, Henry V.

Chapter Twenty-Nine.

New Castle, Virginia.

Detective Darren Fletcher.

The Blue Ridge Mountains run from Maryland to Tennessee, leaking across the borders of North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, West Virginia and Pennsylvania in the process. A blue haze hangs in the sky along the mountaintops, giving them their name, making them look like the keepers of long-lost secrets, hill ghosts from epochs past. It is an area full of mystery and distrust. The people along the knolls and rivers forever take care of their own. Generation after generation of settlers, wary and resistant to the rules of law enforcement, of anything that wasn't theirs, fight against the encroachment of civilization. They have their own rules, their own language, their own food, traditions, even their own liquor.

They do not look kindly on outsiders.

Darren Fletcher observed the long shadows where the trees of the mountains hung across the road, keeping it cool and dark in the brightest of sunlight, and felt a chill crawl up his arms. He felt like he was being watched, but not by a person. No single human being could cause the shivers he felt running through his spine. This was something older, ancient even, something he didn't belong to. He was an interloper, unwelcome, seen as nothing more than a threat.

He shook himself. Good grief, Fletch, what was in that barbecue you ate for lunch?

He glanced over at Hart, who also seemed uneasy. They were standing at the foot of the porch that led to the doorstep of a house that belonged to the mother of one William Everett, and the sheriff's deputy who'd driven them out here had backed away from the door after knocking once and calling out their intentions.

No one charged out with a shotgun, so that was a plus.

The deputy had been clear that Mrs. Everett didn't like to be surprised. Still, everything felt wrong. All three of them were seasoned professionals, though the deputy was young. They'd all seen their share of the surreal. So the fact that all three had the hair on the backs of their necks standing on end was something to pay attention to. Something was off, and Fletcher was pretty sure he knew what that was. He squared his shoulders, went up on the porch and knocked himself, three hard raps with his balled-up fist. "Police, Mrs. Everett. Open up."

There was still no answer.

"Force it," he said to the deputy.

"But..."

"No buts. We have a warrant. Get it open, Deputy."

The young man just shrugged his shoulders and went to grab the battering ram from his trunk.

The Department of Defense had cooperated fully with the "official" inquiry into the deaths of Edward Donovan and Harold Croswell. They'd provided name, rank and socials, all they were required to by law, and very little else outside of the men's discharge papers.

DOD had also cooperated with the "unofficial" inquiry made into the records of five soldiers from the 75th Ranger Regiment, Bravo Company, though the powers that be probably weren't aware of that fact, and Fletcher hoped to G.o.d they never would be. He liked living as a free man.

Felicia's lunch with her oldest friend, Joelle Comprant, had been fruitful to the extreme. Giddy with the knowledge she was going to be a fairy G.o.dmother, not once, but twice over, Joelle had been more than happy to dive into the personnel records-it was her job, after all. She'd broken just about every rule she'd promised to uphold by making printouts of all the records she could get her hands on, but Fletcher was a man of his word. He'd guaranteed Felicia that Joelle would never, ever be compromised, that he would resign without his pension before her name would ever leave his mouth in conjunction with this case.

He and Felicia had formed some sort of new bond, as well. On the plane down to Roanoke, when he told Hart that she'd actually offered to increase his visitation time with Tad, his partner had grinned.

"All she ever wanted was to be a part of your life, Fletch. You kept the job so separate from her that she felt unwelcome, and left out. By asking her for help, you thawed a long-frozen icicle. Learn from it."

"Why didn't you ever say that before?"

"I did. You just never wanted to hear it. Ginger and I were talking-"

"You told Ginger?"

"Dude. Unlike you, I plan to keep my wife around for a while. Of course I tell her. I tell her everything. That's why she loves me. And puts up with my bulls.h.i.t."

Fletcher had just shaken his head, wondering what in the h.e.l.l he was going to do with everyone in his life. Maybe he'd been too dumb and too blind to listen to them before, who knew. But he was determined not to f.u.c.k this up again. Tad was everything to him, and if he could get more time with the boy, he'd move heaven and earth to do it.

Just as soon as they figured out what the h.e.l.l was going on with Edward Donovan and the men from Bravo Company he served with.

There were two people left alive from the picture in Donovan's office. The illicit DOD records confirmed the obvious: the five men had served together in Afghanistan.

But the man they were here to see, William Everett, hadn't gone gently into that good night upon his return home. A little extra digging showed he was on a watch list the Secret Service kept of possible threats to the executive branch. Mr. Everett didn't like the fact that American lives were being lost in an unwinnable war, so he availed himself of his considerable skills as a writer to let the President know exactly what he thought about the current administration's foreign policy agenda.

Homegrown terrorists, the folks at Homeland Security liked to call them. Ironic, really, that the government would turn on the very men and women they'd relied on to keep them safe. Still, Everett had been low on their totem pole of possible threats. He was just an angry soldier who liked to send letters.

Except that now he was a suspect in the murders of two of his fellow soldiers, on home soil. He became the subject of record by default-their other possible, Alexander Whitfield, was a ghost. He'd come back from the war, mustered out and literally dropped off the face of the earth. It was going to take considerably more time to dig up his whereabouts.

And so they'd caught a flight to Roanoke and driven northwest. The last known address for William Everett had led them directly to this little cabin, outside of the small, picturesque town of New Castle.

The deputy approached the rickety porch again, this time with the cylindrical metal ram in hand. The door didn't look too stable, would probably only take a kick, but Fletcher wasn't in the mood to pull splinters out of his shin should it collapse too easily. No, make the locals work for it.

He and Hart raised their weapons to cover the young deputy, who gave a halfhearted swing. The door withstood the force with only a minor shiver. Fletcher cleared his throat and the deputy rolled his eyes and gave it a good thrust. The door spun open, flashing back, and the great gusting scent of decomposition wafted out.

"Jesus," the deputy said. He dropped the ram on the porch and covered his nose and mouth with his hand. A few flies b.u.mbled out the door, escaping into the open air.

Fletcher caught Hart's eye.

"No one smelled this when they came out last night?" Hart asked the deputy, the insinuation clear.

The deputy was still young enough to be intimidated by Hart's steely glare, and the knowledge of what he was about to have to deal with. "I doubt anyone got close enough, to tell you the truth, sir. Like I said, old Mrs. Everett can be a might tetchy. And she's got wicked aim. They probably called out to the house and, when no one answered, came on down the mountain."

Hart muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "incompetent hillbillies" and Fletcher shot him a look, glad the kid hadn't heard. It wasn't his fault. He wasn't the one who'd screwed the pooch.

He said a very bad word under his breath, then sighed and led the way.

The inside of the cabin was worse than he expected. It was hot, musty and stinking of death. Dust motes floated through the air, accompanying the flies on their perpetual journey. Newspapers were stacked up on the table, along with the remnants of a meal laid out for two. Maggots writhed on the plates. Fletcher made sure to breathe through his mouth.

The cabin wasn't very big, mostly comprised of a large room off a utilitarian kitchen housing the table, a couch, an armchair and a beat-up television set. A short hallway led to a bathroom, with two doors on either side.

"Let's find him," Fletcher said to Hart, who set off down the hall. He turned to the deputy. "Anyone heard from the mom recently?"

"Mrs. Everett was in town beginning of last week, getting supplies. I saw her myself, at the hardware store."

"But no one saw William?"

"Not that I know of, but we can ask around. Bill doesn't come home much. Once he got out... Well, who could blame him? His momma is mean as a snake. There was nothing for him here anymore."

"A dead snake." Hart appeared, face pinched. "Mrs. Everett's tucked up in her bed, single gunshot to the head."

"Aw, s.h.i.t," the deputy said, pulling his hat from his oversize head and mopping the sweat off with a red bandanna.

"What's in the other room?" Fletcher asked.

"Empty."

"The bath?"

"See for yourself."

It wasn't a pretty sight. A man who matched the description of William Everett sprawled in the tub, canted to one side, the water a murky black. A straight razor was on the floor, the blood long crusted. His face was congested with blood, the skin turning a dark puce.

"Suicide?" Fletcher asked, not really as a question. He was merely stating the obvious.

"Could be. Killed his momma, then slit his wrists."

"Why, though?"

Hart shook his head. The deputy was getting greener by the second. Fletcher barked at him. "Get out of here before you puke all over my crime scene."

The kid didn't have to be asked twice. He bolted from the room. Fletcher didn't blame him. He'd like to, as well. Billy Shakes smelled like h.e.l.l, and looked ten times worse, to boot.

"Let's take a quick gander for a note, then let the Roanoke police, or whoever handles their s.h.i.t around here, deal with the scene. d.a.m.n it."

"You thinking what I'm thinking?"

Fletcher nodded. "This much decomposition? He's probably been dead too long to have killed Donovan. Definitely too long to have hit Croswell."

"Yep, that's what I was thinking. Experts will know for sure, but he's been gone for a while."

They backed out of the bathroom, took a cursory glance around the house, but didn't see anything that smacked of a suicide note. Fletcher didn't feel like digging through the mess himself. He left that job to the techs.

The deputy was sitting on the front porch with his head between his knees. Fletcher patted him on the shoulder as he walked down the stairs.

"You okay, kid?"

"My name's Brendan." A little bite to him still. He'd make it eventually. The scene inside the Everett house could have been worse, but it was none too pleasant. Fletcher took pity on him.

"Ah. Brendan. Sorry, I'm a little preoccupied at the moment. When you're feeling up to it, let's call in your crime scene folks, have them take a look. Apparent murder-suicide. Warn them about the decomp. They'll want to bring extra suits."

"Yes, sir," the deputy said, misery making his shoulders droop.

"Brendan. Seriously, you okay?"

"Yeah. Just... No one deserves to go on like that, rotting in their bed. And I just saw her last week. And him, well, I mean...he got out. Why in the world would he come back to this? And kill your own mother? That's just cold. She wasn't a nice lady, G.o.d rest her soul, but she still birthed him."

"We might never know the answer to that. Go on. Make that call," Fletcher said. The deputy rose to his feet and went to his cruiser. Fletcher turned to Hart, who was fanning himself.

"This is a dead end."

"No pun intended, of course."

"Of course. He'd been dead at least a week, right?"

"I'd say so. If the deputy is accurate about seeing the mother in town last week, that absolutely would be before the Donovan murder. But murder-suicide?" Hart rubbed his chin. "I don't know, Fletch. This case get's weirder by the day. You realize Alexander Whitfield just became our prime suspect."

Whitfield, the hermit, living up in the woods. Whitfield, the ex-soldier, who would most likely be armed to the teeth. Fletcher couldn't think of a more dangerous wild card.

A wild card who may have four fresh bodies to his name.

Fletcher heard the thin wail of sirens bleeding through the air. The New Castle folks would arrive soon enough. The last thing he felt like doing was playing patty-cake with the locals, but it must be done. He needed as much information out of Everett's house as they could dig up before they took off.

There was a funeral in D.C. tomorrow, and he planned to be there.

Chapter Thirty.

Georgetown

Dr. Samantha Owens

Sam didn't like funerals.

No one does, she knew that. But she'd developed a deep and abiding discomfort of wakes and processionals and graveside tears when she was a kid, at the funeral for a childhood friend who'd been hit by a car, and it had never gone away. Her job was to uncover the cause of death, not to see the person into the ground. Not experience the agony of the people left behind.