“I said, ‘This could have been a lot worse.’”
“We got lucky,” Via admitted. “So far, we’ve underestimated this group at every turn. The fact that this was an implosion and not an explosion tells us that the bombmaker knew what they were doing.”
“Agent Via,” a technician said, “we’re ready to roll.”
“Let’s go,” Via replied.
The hydraulics on the slide-out whirred as the alcove disappeared. Via pointed to a handful of seats built into the wall, and Murphy walked over and buckled in. The leveling hydraulics settled as the truck’s engines came to life. The truck pulled out of their staging location and headed to the Texas ranch.
In thirty minutes, the mobile unit was fully operational again. Murphy, Davis and Via, entered Benjamin and Laura Lee Jackson’s house. A team of FBI agents were already photographing and tagging anything that could be potential evidence. As a home, everything was very West Texas Americana—lots of imagery of the west decorated the place, along with patriotic red, white and blue motifs. A giant family Bible sat prominently on the coffee table before the couch. A very thin layer of dust had covered things.
“They haven’t been here in at least a week,” Murphy guessed.
“How do ya figure?” Davis asked.
“The dust. Look at this place. It’s immaculate. The only thing out of place is the dust.”
“Good observation,” Davis admitted, “but this is West Texas. Dust happens faster out here. All it takes is one of those haboobs coming from New Mexico, and everything can be dusty tomorrow.”
“A what?” Murphy asked.
“A haboob,” Davis repeated. “It’s a powerful dust storm that can descend upon West Texas with tremendous force. Basically, air comes rushing over the Rockies, picking up speed and dust along the Western Plains of New Mexico until it hits Texas. You’ll look out on the horizon and see this massive wall of swirling dust barreling down on you. When a haboob rolls in, all you can do is take cover. And if you must be out in it, don’t open your mouth. New Mexico doesn’t taste that great.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.”
“Agents?” a young agent said, entering the room. “You need to come see this.”
The three senior agents walked through the house and into the kitchen. “We almost missed it,” the agent said. He pointed to a rustic china cabinet with various dishes and serving platters of different sizes and shapes. “We were going to inventory the china when we accidentally pulled on the door harder than needed and the entire cabinet moved.” He reached out and slid the cabinet outward, revealing the entrance to a basement.
“Has anyone been down yet?”
“No.”
“Let’s clear it first. Go get someone from the bomb squad in here.”
Twenty minutes later, the three supervisory agents were assured the basement was safe, so they ventured into the room to find the epicenter of the CLA.
“Holy shit,” Davis said. “We just hit the mother lode.”
“We’ll be dissecting this mess for weeks,” Via agreed.
The three took out their phones and started documenting the room’s content. They’d get other agents down there to go through the material thoroughly. But for now, they took videos and pictures on their cell phones of anything that looked immediately important.
“Agent Murphy,” Via said, “come look at this.” Murphy wandered toward Via and looked at a corkboard on the wall. “Pennington University… Isn’t that in Houston?”
“Yes.” Murphy’s eyes grew as she started snapping pictures of everything on the corkboard. Murphy could see the corner of something sticking out from one sheet of paper on the wall. Using her gloved hand, she moved the sheet of paper aside and found the picture of a woman with a bullseye marked over her in red marker. “Now, who are you?” Murphy took a picture of the photo.
* * * *
Blayne
Blayne and Ethan proceeded to clean up the dishes after their breakfast with Richardson. She sat down at a table with a cup of coffee. Fortunately, she had put away her gun, which was a step in the right direction. As Richardson relaxed, Blayne wasn’t concerned that she would become trigger-happy. Richardson seemed resigned to hanging out in their apartment all day, but Blayne had class. He glanced down at his watch. He still had plenty of time.
Just as Blayne finished putting the last of the dishes in the dishwasher and starting it, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He dried his hands on a dishtowel. He glanced down and saw the nine-one-five area code on his phone.
“I should answer this. I think it’s Ms. Wilson.”
“Put it on speaker,” Richardson replied.
