Under The Agent's Protection. Jennifer D. Bokal
After a beat, he added, “I used to work for the Behavioral Sciences Unit of the FBI.”
“You got any identification that says so?” Carl asked.
“What? That says I used to work for the Bureau? I still have my old creds. You can stop by and see them if you want.”
“I might do just that. Then again,” said Carl, “I’m retiring soon. Two weeks then I’m off to South Carolina.”
He waited for Wyatt to say something or offer the expected congratulations. Thornton said nothing. Carl cleared his throat. “One thing I know is that Rose will be excited to hear that we have a real-life G-man in Pleasant Pines.”
“If you don’t mind,” said Wyatt with a lifted palm, “I’d like to keep my former career in the past.”
With a nod, Carl said, “I respect a man of discretion.”
Wyatt gestured with his chin to the schoolhouse. “Sheriff, you should probably get a look at the scene.”
Wyatt walked through the front door and stopped. Carl followed. His gaze was drawn to the corpse at the far side of the room. A dead eye, gone milky white, stared straight at Carl.
Shaking off the skittering sensation that crawled up his spine, he got to work examining the body and the scene. Sure, he’d seen a few deaths in his time on the job—but something about this one just felt wrong.
“If you don’t mind,” said Wyatt. “I want to point out one thing.”
“What is it?” asked Carl.
“The floor’s clean,” Wyatt said.
A beam of sunlight shone from a hole in the roof, illuminating the interior of the structure. Where Carl would’ve normally seen dirt and debris, there was nothing. “Odd,” he agreed. “I would expect at least some dirt collected in a place like this.”
“Me, as well,” said Wyatt.
“How’d you get a name for the corpse?” Carl asked.
“I found his wallet in his pants pocket. He has a license from Illinois. I left it next to the body.”
Carl walked inside and found the wallet. Flipping it open, he found the driver’s license, complete with a picture. He looked back at the body. Even with the post-mortem injuries, they were undoubtedly the same man. Legally speaking, it was all he needed to make a positive identification on a John Doe. Standing, Carl dusted his hands on the seat of his pants. “Looks like this is Axl Baker.”
“I don’t want to disturb anything more than I already have. So, unless you need me,” Wyatt said while stepping toward the door, “I’ll be on my way.”
“I have to get an official statement,” said Carl. He followed outside. “Stop by my office tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock.”
“I’ll see you then,” said Wyatt. He called his dog and set off.
Carl watched until they disappeared below the crest of the hill. Returning to his truck, he picked up the radio. “Rose, you there?”
“I am, Sheriff. What d’you need?”
“Call Doc Lambert. I need him to come out and pick up the body.”
“Sure thing,” she said. “Anything else?”
“Did you get a next of kin for Axl Baker?”
“I did. It’s his sister, one Everly Baker, also of Chicago.”
Carl scribbled Everly’s number on a scrap of paper before signing off. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. Even here, there was a strong signal. He entered the number and held his breath. A woman answered the call.
“Yes?”
“Everly Baker?”
“Yes.” Her voice rose an octave. “Who is this?”
“Ms. Baker.” Carl paused. His temples began to throb, and he held his breath. Calls like this were the worst part of his job. With an exhale, he said, “This is Sheriff Haak in Pleasant Pines, Wyoming. I’m sorry to be bothering you, but I have some awful news...”
The following day
To Everly Baker, it looked as if Pleasant Pines had been carved out of the forest. Pine trees ringed the perimeter, and the center of town was taken up by a village green, complete with a gazebo. Wrought iron lampposts stood on each corner.
There had been a sign, welcoming all visitors and proclaiming that the population was a mere 3,200 people.
The streets were lined with businesses—a grocery store, a diner, a dentist’s office and the regional newspaper. People moved about, busy with their own lives. It looked as though not much had changed in the sleepy town for years. A spring snow had started, the flakes swirling across the road. Everly would’ve found the scene charming, if not for the circumstances.
After receiving the sheriff’s call about her brother, she’d caught a flight from Chicago to Cheyenne. From there, Everly rented a car for the last leg of her journey. After almost twenty-four hours of travel, she decided that Pleasant Pines was more than secluded—it was actually cut off from the rest of the world.
Driving down Main Street, Everly shuddered. She still couldn’t believe that this nightmare was real. Axl, dead? How could that be? The very idea that her brother was gone forever—and she was all alone in the world—was too overwhelming to handle.
Easing her car into a parking place, Everly turned off the engine. Her throat tightened as a fresh wave of anguish rose from her gut. She drew in a deep breath and waited for the grief to pass.
Using the rearview mirror, she checked her appearance quickly. Her green eyes—puffy. Cheeks—blotchy. Lips—colorless. For the day, she’d swept her hair into a ponytail and a tendril of auburn hair had come loose. Everly was far from put-together. But then again, what did she expect? She’d gotten the call as she was getting ready for work, and still wore the same clothes she’d changed into—black leggings, shearling-lined boots and a long cream-colored sweater.
It was 11:10 a.m. She’d reached her destination with twenty minutes to spare until her meeting with the sheriff.
She hoped that it gave her enough time for a quick detour—even if it wasn’t as much as she wanted. Years of experience in public relations had taught Everly to never attend an important meeting without getting all the facts. And as far as Everly was concerned, there was nothing more important than finding out what really happened to her brother.
After draping her purse across her forearm, she hustled through the biting wind to the hospital, situated two blocks from the town square. She followed signs to the morgue, which was located in the basement. The slap of footfalls on the tiled floor kept time with her racing heart as she descended the stairs.
Cold sweat covered her brow as she walked down the white-tiled hallway. A blue plastic sign hung, suspended by chains from the ceiling. Morgue. A metal door was the only thing that separated Everly from the truth. With a deep breath, she pushed open the door and stepped in.
A row of metal tables bisected the large room. There was a figure on the center table, shrouded with a blue sheet.
Sure, the sheriff had told Everly that her brother’s body had been found. And yeah, the body had Axl’s ID. Yet, she couldn’t help but wonder—what if it wasn’t Axl under the sheet? What if this had all been a mistake? Because there was one thing Everly knew for sure—her brother didn’t die of exposure as the sheriff suggested was the most likely possibility.
She reached out with a shaking hand. Her fingertips inched closer to the sheet, brushing the fabric.
“May I help you?” A man with sparse hair, glasses and a goatee stood next to the sink