The Breaking Point (Body Farm 9)

“How was your dinner?” The voice came from the darkness behind me.

“Crap,” I exclaimed, jumping with surprise. Again I recognized the voice as Prescott’s, and I turned toward it. He was leaning against the IHOP’s wall, waiting for me. “You scared the bejesus out of me.”

I expected him to say that he didn’t mean to; instead, he repeated, “How was dinner?”

“Kinda meager,” I said. “I ordered a lot, but I only ate one bite. It was a big bite—my mouth was too full to say anything when I heard you behind me—but I’m not sure it’s gonna tide me over till breakfast.” I looked at him more frankly now, embarrassed to have been caught, but relieved not to be keeping secrets. “You knew I was there the whole time?”

“Just about.”

“How? I didn’t think you guys could me see over the back of the booth.”

“Couldn’t,” he said. “I noticed your reflection in the window. Hickock never did.”

“Hickock’s the pissed-off guy?”

“You might say that. Wild Bill. He was in the middle of his tirade when I spotted you. If I’d cut him off—if he’d known we had an audience—he’d’ve gone ballistic. At me and you both.” He shook his head. “No point in that.”

I nodded. “Well, thanks. Sorry I was sitting in the wrong place at the wrong time. Didn’t mean to put you in an awkward spot.”

“You didn’t. From what I hear, you’re one of the good guys. Besides, Hickock and I should both know better. Talking business in public? I oughta rip myself a new one for that.”

I remembered old national-security posters I’d seen from the early 1940s. “Loose lips sink ships?”

“Sounds corny, but basically, yeah.” He nodded across the parking lot, to the black Suburban under a streetlight, its back window thick with dust. “Come on, I’ll give you a ride home.”

“Thanks, but I’d kinda like to walk.”

He frowned. “You carrying?”

“Carrying? You mean a gun?” He nodded, and I shook my head. “Heavens no. I’ve never owned one.”

“Let me give you a ride, then. This ain’t exactly the tourist district, Doc. You might get robbed; you might get mistaken for a robber. Either way, you wander around here after dark, you’re liable to get shot. Or stabbed. Or worse. Not good for either of us.”

“Since you put it that way,” I said, “thanks.”

In the privacy of the Suburban, I figured he’d tell me at least a bit about the raspy-voiced man, and about their argument, but he didn’t. Instead, during the brief drive, he asked about my research at the Body Farm, then quizzed me about a couple of prior cases I’d helped the Bureau with. It was obvious that he was redirecting the conversation away from the confrontation I had stumbled into. It was also, perhaps, a reminder that he had done his research, had read the Bureau’s file on me. It might even have been a subtle caution: If I wanted to keep working with the FBI, I should keep quiet about what I’d overheard tonight. As I thanked him for the lift and headed toward my room, I parsed the conversation—the things he’d said and the ones he hadn’t. Loose lips sink ships, I reminded myself. And maybe crash careers.

THE TROUBLE WITH GRADUATE ASSISTANTS, I’D noticed—well, one of the troubles—was their tendency to go gallivanting off every summer: for gainful employment, for adventurous travel, or for romance. My current assistant, Marty, was helping direct a student dig in Tuscany for three months, and judging by the letter and photos he’d sent in early June, he was getting both well paid and well laid. Not that I was envious.

What I was, though, was inconvenienced. I had a question that needed researching, but no time or tools to research it myself—and no helpful minion at my beck and call. So instead, despite the late hour, I called Kathleen.

It was only 8:45 in San Diego, but it was nearly midnight in Knoxville, and that meant Kathleen had probably been asleep for at least an hour. To my surprise, she answered on the second ring. Her voice sounded thick, but not sleepy.

“Hey,” I said, “is something wrong? Are you crying?”

“Oh, I am,” she sniffled, “but it’s just a movie I’m watching.” In the background, I heard voices and music. “Hang on, honey, let me pause it.” She laid the phone down with a rustle, then the background noise quieted. “You know I don’t sleep worth a hoot when you’re gone,” she said, “so I stopped at Blockbuster on the way home.”

“I’m jealous. What’d you get?”

“One of those chick flicks you wouldn’t take me to.”

/>

“Silence of the Lambs?”

“Ha. Not quite. Shakespeare in Love.”

“I take it back,” I said. “I’m not a bit jealous.”

“Actually, you’d really like the scene where he’s in bed with Gwyneth Paltrow.”

She knew me well. “Well then,” I said, “when I get home, we can rent it again and fast-forward to that part.”

“Hmmph.” She sniffed again, and in the brief pause that followed, I could practically hear the gears in her mind shifting. “Why aren’t you asleep?” Her voice was laser sharp now, and despite the two thousand miles between us, I could almost feel her eyes searching mine. “You called me to say good night two hours ago. What’s happened?”

“I don’t know.” I told her about my accidental, disturbing eavesdropping at the IHOP. “I wish I understood what’s going on,” I said. “Not that I need to know everything, but . . .”

“But what?”

“But it feels like there’s stuff here—players and politics and agendas—that I don’t understand, stuff that could affect the investigation.”

“Affect it how?”

Suddenly I thought, Shit, what if my phone is tapped? A moment later I scolded myself, Don’t be paranoid. Who the hell would want to tap your phone? “I don’t know, Kath. That’s the frustrating thing—I don’t know enough to know what else I need to know. What is it Donald Rumsfeld calls this kind of thing?”

“God, don’t get me started on Rumsfeld,” she said. She had a point there—she despised the man, and the mere mention of his name sometimes set her off on a Rumsfeld rant. “But I believe ‘unknown unknowns’ is the gobbledygook term you’re thinking of.”

“That’s it,” I said. “I’m worried that the unknown unknowns here could affect this case in ways I can’t foresee or control. Distort it, undermine its objectivity or integrity. Here I am doing my thing, crawling around looking for teeth and bones. But I’ve got a bad feeling, like I’m wandering around in a minefield. One false step, and there goes a foot. Figuratively speaking. If I blow this case, Kathleen—the highest-profile case the Bureau has ever used me on? They’ll write me off, and for good.”