The Body Farm by Patricia Cornwell
“Those aren’t normal barns,” the attorney general observed. “What was being shipped off his farm?”
“Or to it,” the senator said.
I reminded them of what Danny’s killer had tracked into the carpet of my former Mercedes. “This might be where the casks were stored,” I added. “The buildings are big enough, and you would need cranes and trains or trucks.”
“Then that would certainly link Danny Webster’s homicide to the New Zionists,” the attorney general said to me as she nervously fingered her pearls.
“Or at least to someone who was going in and out of the warehouses where the casks were kept,” I answered. “Microscopic particles of depleted uranium would be everywhere, saying that the casks are, in fact, lined with depleted uranium.”
“So this person could have had uranium on the bottom of his shoes and not known it,” Senator Lord said.
“Without a doubt.”
“Well, we need to raid this place and see what we find,” he then said.
“Yes, sir,” Wesley agreed. “When we can.”
“Frank, so far they haven’t done anything that we can prove,” Gradecki said to him. “We don’t have probable cause. The New Zionists haven’t claimed responsibility.”
“Well, I know how it works, too, but it’s ridiculous,” Lord said, looking out. “There’s no one down there but dogs, looks like to me. So you explain that, if the New Zionists are not involved. Where is everyone? Well, I think we damn well know.”
Doberman pinschers in a pen were barking and lunging at the air we circled.
“Christ,” Wesley said. “I never thought all of them might be inside Old Point.”
Neither had I, and a very scary thought was forming.
“We’ve been assuming the New Zionists maintained their numbers over recent years,” Wesley went on. “But maybe not. Maybe eventually the only people here were the ones in training for the attack.”
“And that would include Joel Hand.” I looked at Wesley.
“We know he’s been living here,” he said. “I think there’s a very good chance he was on that bus. He’s probably inside the power plant with the others. He’s their leader.”
“No,” I said. “He’s their god.”
There was a long pause.
Then Gradecki said, “The problem with that is he’s insane.”
“No,” I said. “The problem with that is he’s not. Hand is evil, and that’s infinitely worse.”
“And his fanaticism will affect everything he does in there,” Wesley added. “If he is in there”—he measured his words—“then the threat goes bizarrely beyond escaping with a barge of fuel assemblies. At any time, this could turn into a suicide mission.”
“I’m not sure why you’re saying that,” said Gradecki, who did not want to hear it in the least. “The motive is very clear.”
I thought of the Book of Hand and of how hard it was for the uninitiated to understand what a man like its author was capable of doing. I looked at the attorney general as we flew over rows of old gray tankers and transport ships, known as the Navy’s Dead Fleet. They were parked in the James, and from a distance it looked like Virginia was under siege, and in a way, it was.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen that,” she muttered in amazement as she looked down.
“Well, you should have,” Senator Lord retorted. “You Democrats are responsible for the decommissioning of half the Navy’s fleet. In fact, we don’t have room to park them. They’re scattered here and there, ghosts of their former selves and not worth a tinker’s damn if we need seaworthy vessels fast. By the time you’d get one of those old tubs going, the Persian Gulf would be as long past as that other war they fought around here.”
“Frank, you’ve made your point,” she crisply said. “I believe we have other matters to attend to this morning.”
Wesley had put on a set of headphones so he could talk to the pilots. He asked for an update and then listened for a long time as he stared out at Jamestown and its ferry. When he got off the radio his face was anxious.
“We’ll be at Old Point in several minutes. The terrorists still have refused contact and we don’t know how many casualties might be inside.”
“I hear more helicopters,” I said.
We were silent, and then the sound of thudding blades was unmistakable. Wesley got back on the air.
“Listen, dammit, the FAA was supposed to restrict this airspace.” He paused as he listened. “Absolutely not. No one else has clearance within a mile—” Interrupted, he listened again. “Right, right.” He got angrier. “Christ,” he exclaimed as the noise got louder.
Two Hueys and two Black Hawks loudly rumbled past, and Wesley unfastened his seat belt as if he were going somewhere. Furious, he rose and moved to the other side of the cabin, looking out windows.
He had his back to the senator when he said with controlled fury, “Sir, you should not have called in the National Guard. We have a very delicate operation in place and cannot—let me repeat—cannot afford any sort of interference in either our planning or our airspace. And let me remind you the jurisdiction here is police, not military. This is the United States—”
Senator Lord cut in, “I did not call them, and we’re in complete agreement.”
“Then who did?” asked Gradecki, who was Wesley’s ultimate boss.
“Probably your governor,” Senator Lord said, looking at me, and I knew by his manner that he was enraged, too. “He would do something stupid like that because all he thinks about is the next election. Patch me into his office, and I mean now.”
The senator slipped the headset on and did not care who overheard when he launched in several minutes later.
“For God’s sake, Dick, have you lost your mind?” he said to the man who held the Commonwealth’s highest office. “No, no, don’t even bother telling me any of that,” he snapped. “You are interfering with what we’re doing out here, and if it costs lives you can be assured I’m going to announce who’s to blame . . .”
He fell silent for a moment, and the expression on his face as he listened was scary. Then he made several other salient points as the governor ordered the National Guard back. In fact, their huge helicopters never landed, but suddenly changed formation as they gained altitude. They flew right past Old Point, which just now we could see, its concrete containments rising in the clean blue air.
“I’m very sorry,” the senator apologized to us, because he was, above all, a gentleman.
We stared out at scores of police and law enforcement vehicles, ambulances and fire trucks, and flowering satellite dishes and news vans. Dozens of people were outside as if enjoying a lovely, brisk day, and Wesley informed us that where they were congregated was the visitors’ center, which was the command post for the outer perimeter.
“As you can see,” he explained, “it’s no closer than half a mile away from the plant and the main building, which is there.” He pointed.
“The main building is where the control room is?” I asked.
“Right. That three-story beige brick building. That’s where they are, at least most of them, we think, including the hostages.”
“Well, it’s where they’d have to be if they planned on doing anything with the reactors, like shutting them down, which we know they’ve already done,” Senator Lord remarked.
“And then what?” the attorney general asked.
“There are backup generators, so no one’s going to lose electricity. And the plant itself has an emergency power supply,” Lord said, and he was known for being an ardent advocate of nuclear energy.
Wide waterways ran on the plant’s two sides, one leading from the James, the other to a man-made lake nearby. There were acres of transformers and power lines, and parking lots with many cars, belonging to hostages and the people who had arrived to help. There did not seem an easy way to access the main building without being seen, for any nuclear power plant is designed with the most stringent security in
I suspected Wesley was thinking about a possible amphibious plan, for HRT divers could enter undetected either the river or the lake, and follow a waterway very close to one side of the main building. It looked to me that they could swim within twenty yards of the very door the terrorists had stormed, but how the agents would escape detection once ashore, I could not imagine.
Wesley did not spell out any plan, for the senator and the attorney general were allies, even friends, but they were also politicians. Neither the FBI nor the police needed Washington inserting itself into this mission. What the governor had just done was bad enough.
“Now if you’ll notice the large white RV that’s close to the main building,” Wesley said, “that’s our inner perimeter command post.”
“I thought that belonged to a news crew,” the attorney general commented.
“That’s where we try to establish a relationship with Mr. Hand and his Merry Band.”
“How?”
“For starters, I want to talk with them,” Wesley said.
“No one’s talked to them yet?” the senator asked.
“So far,” he said, “they don’t seem interested in us.”
The Bell 222 slowly made its loud descent as news crews assembled near a helipad across the road from the visitors’ center. We grabbed briefcases and bags and disembarked in the strong wind of flying blades. Wesley and I walked swiftly and in silence. I glanced back only once and saw Senator Lord surrounded by microphones while our nation’s most powerful lawyer delivered a string of emotional quotes.
We walked inside the visitors’ center with its many displays intended for schoolchildren and the curious. But now the entire area was divided by local and state police. They were drinking sodas, eating fast food and snacks near plats and maps on easels, and I could not help but wonder how much of a difference any of us could make.
“Where’s your outpost?” Wesley asked me.
“It should be with the squads. I think I spotted our refrigerator truck from the air.”
His eyes were roaming around. They stopped on the men’s room door opening and swinging shut. Marino walked out, hitching up his pants again. I had not expected to see him here. If for no other reason, I would have thought his fear of radiation would have kept him home.
“I’m getting coffee,” Wesley said. “Anybody?”
“Yo. Make it a double.”
“Thanks,” I said, then to Marino I added, “This is the last place I would have thought to find you.”
“See all these guys walking around in here?” he said. “We’re part of a task force so all the local jurisdictions got somebody here that can call home and say what the hell’s going on. Bottom line is, the chief sent my ass out here, and no, I’m not thrilled about it. And by the way, I saw your buddy Chief Steels out here, and you’ll be happy to know Roche has been suspended without pay.”
I did not reply, for Roche was not important right now.
“So that ought to make you feel a little better,” Marino went on.
I looked at him. His stiff white collar was rimmed in sweat, and his belt with all its gear creaked as he moved.
“While I’m here, I’ll do my best to keep an eye on you. But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t go wandering into the crosshairs of some drone’s high-powered rifle,” he added, smoothing back strands of hair with a big, thick hand.
“I’d appreciate it if I didn’t do that either. I need to check on my folks,” I said. “Have you seen them?”
“Yeah, Fielding’s in that big trailer the funeral home people bought for you. He was cooking eggs in the kitchen like he’s camping out or something. There’s a refrigerator truck, too.”
“Okay. I know exactly where it is.”
“I’ll take you over there, if you want,” he nonchalantly said, as if he didn’t care.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I said, because I knew I was part of the reason, no matter what he claimed.
Wesley was back, and he had balanced a paper plate of doughnuts on top of cups of coffee. Marino helped himself while I looked out windows at the bright, cold day.
“Benton,” I said, “where is Lucy?”
He did not reply, so I knew. My worst fears were confirmed right then.
“Kay, all of us have a job to do.” His eyes were kind, but he was unequivocal.
“Of course we do.” I set down my coffee because my nerves were bad enough. “I’m going out to check on things.”
“Hold on,” Marino said as he started his second doughnut.
“I’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, you will,” he said. “I’m going to make sure of that.”
“You do need to be careful out there,” Wesley said to me. “We know there’s someone in every window, and they could start shooting whenever they want.”
I looked at the main building in the distance, and I pushed open the glass door that led outside. Marino was right behind me.
“Where’s HRT?” I asked him.
“Where you can’t see them.”
“Don’t talk to me in riddles. I’m not in the mood.”
I walked with purpose, and because I could not see any sign of terrorism or its victims, this ordeal seemed a drill. Fire and refrigerator trucks and ambulances seemed part of a mock emergency, and even Fielding arranging disaster kits inside the large white trailer that was my outpost did not strike me as reality. He was opening one of the blue Army footlockers stamped with OCME, and inside was everything from eighteen-gauge needles to yellow pouches designed to hold the personal effects of the dead.
He looked up at me as if I had been here all along. “You got any idea where the stakes are?” he asked.
“Those should be in separate boxes with hatchets, pliers, metal ties,” I replied.
“Well, I don’t know where they are.”
“What about the yellow body pouches?” I scanned lockers and boxes stacked inside the trailer.
“I guess I’m just going to have to get all that from FEMA,” he said, referring to the Federal Emergency Management Agency.
“Where are they?” I asked, because hundreds of people from many agencies and departments were here.
“You go out and you’ll see their trailer directly to the left, next to the guys from Fort Lee. Graves Registration. And FEMA’s got the lead-lined suits.”
“And we’ll pray we don’t need them,” I said.
Fielding said to Marino, “What’s the latest on hostages? Do we know how many they’ve got in there?”
“We’re not really sure because we don’t know exactly how many employees were in the building,” he said. “But the shift was small when they hit, which I’m sure was part of the plan. They’ve released thirty-two people. We’re thinking there’s maybe about a dozen left. We don’t know how many of them are still alive.”
“Christ.” Fielding’s eyes were angry as he shook his head. “You ask me, every one of the assholes ought to be shot on the spot.”
“Yeah, well, you won’t get an argument out of me,” Marino said.
“At this moment,” Fielding said to me, “we can handle fifty. That’s the max between the truck we got here and our morgue back in Richmond, which is already pretty crowded. Beyond that, MCV’s mobilized if we need them for storage.”
“The dentists and radiologists are also mobilized,” I assumed.
“Right. Jenkins, Verner, Silverberg, Rollins. They’re all on standby.”
I could smell eggs and bacon and didn’t know if I felt hungry or sick. “I’m on the radio, if you need me,” I said, opening the trailer’s door.
“Don’t walk so fast,” Marino complained when we were back outside.
“Have you checked out the mobile command post?” I asked. “The big blue and white RV? I saw it when we w
“I don’t think we want to go over there.”
“Well, I do.”
“Doc, that’s the inner perimeter.”
“That’s where HRT is,” I said.
“Let’s just check it out with Benton first. I know you’re looking for Lucy, but for God’s sake, use your head.”
“I am using my head and I am looking for Lucy.” I was getting angrier with Wesley by the moment.
Marino put his hand on my arm and stopped me, and we squinted at each other in the sun. “Doc,” he said, “listen to me. What’s going down ain’t personal. No one gives a shit that Lucy’s your niece. She’s a friggin’ FBI agent, and it ain’t Wesley’s duty to give you a report on everything she’s doing for them.”
I did not say anything, and he did not need to, either, for me to know the truth.
“So don’t be pissed at him.” Marino was still gently holding my arm. “You want to know? I don’t like it, either. I couldn’t stand it if something happened to her. I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to either of you. And right now I’m about as scared as I’ve ever been in my goddamn fucking life. But I got a job to do and so do you.”
“She’s at the inner perimeter,” I said.
He paused. “Come on, Doc. Let’s go talk to Wesley.”
But we did not get a chance to do that, because when we walked into the visitors’ center, we found him on the phone. His tone was iron-calm and he was standing tensely.
“Don’t do anything until I get there, and it is very important that they know I’m on my way,” he was saying, slowly. “No, no, no. Don’t do that. Use a bullhorn so no one gets close.” He glanced at Marino and me. “Just hold tight. Tell them you’ve got someone coming who will get a hostage phone to them immediately. Right.”
He hung up and headed straight for the door, and we were right behind him.
“What the hell’s going on?” Marino asked.
“They want to communicate.”
“What’d they do? Send a letter?”
“One of them yelled out a window,” Wesley replied. “They’re very agitated.”