Diablo Mesa(65)

“Thanks for coming out,” said Tappan.

“No problem.” Toth slid a survey out of the tube and unrolled it on the table.

“We’ve been manipulating the point cloud data,” she said. “Take a look at what we found. It’s up in the corner, here.”

About a mile and a half from where they were now working, Nora could see a blurry set of tire tracks entering from the west and winding through the foothills of the Los Fuertes Mountains before heading out of the survey area to the north.

“Here’s a closer view.” Toth unrolled a second chart. The tracks came in from the left side of the survey, ran east through the Gigantes valley in the foothills, and stopped at a point near the far edge of the survey area. Here, they appeared to move around in a few erratic circles before turning and heading away in a different direction.

“These are fresh tracks,” said Toth. “Very fresh. I think what we might be looking at is where Bitan got picked up.”

Nora nodded.

“Not only are they recent,” said Toth, “but what’s more, it looks like an attempt was made to brush them out. They probably weren’t anticipating a subcentimeter lidar survey.” She whisked out a third chart. “This view has been further enhanced.”

Nora peered closely and felt a chill travel up her spine. There was a vague confusion of tracks, both car and foot, evidently brushed out but still visible.

“Those tracks lead into the mountains to the north. But where, exactly?”

“We don’t know. And it may be hard to find out.”

“Why?”

“That’s where the airspace is closed. The old Pershing Proving Range—a long-abandoned military base. Off-limits to ground entry, too.”

Tappan gave a low whistle. “I’m not normally paranoid, but it’s enough to make you wonder. Bitan vanishing…and those tracks going into an abandoned base. Supposedly. I mean, what’s in there? Area Fifty-Two? Can we fly our drone over and take a look?”

“No,” said Toth, “unless you want to lose your drone license.”

“What about Google Earth?”

“I checked it out. Just shows some abandoned buildings. No sign of anything recent.”

No one spoke for a moment.

Toth said, “Another thing. Two sheriffs showed up in base camp this afternoon, investigating Bitan’s disappearance. They want to speak to you, Mr. Tappan, and Skip.”

“Christ, just what we need,” said Tappan. He turned to Nora. “Let’s wrap up here and go see what they want. It’s quitting time, anyway.”





42



LATE IN THE afternoon, as Corrie passed by the door of Morwood’s old office—now occupied by Lime—the senior agent called out. “Agent Swanson?”

She backed up and paused. Lime was sitting behind his desk, the chief fire investigator in a chair opposite with a file open in front of him.

“Come in,” said Lime. “Have you met Lawrence Feeney?”

“Yes,” said Corrie as Feeney stood and extended his hand. He had questioned her early in the investigation. She felt a tightening in her chest.

“Please sit down.”

They all sat, and Lime leaned forward on his elbows, looking first at Corrie, then at Feeney. “Let’s get straight to the point, shall we? I mean, as it concerns Agent Swanson.”

“Right.” Feeney turned to her. “We determined the source of the fire. It was a short circuit in the autoclave.”

“In other words,” said Lime, “not the Bunsen burner, as Lathrop suggested.”

“We found the burner in the off position,” Feeney added. “Disconnected, and the gas cock at the source turned off, as well.”

Although none of this was a surprise to Corrie, she nevertheless felt a wave of relief wash over her.

“Furthermore,” Feeney said, “our investigation showed that the autoclave had not been properly maintained. The lab’s sprinkler and smoke detector system were inoperable because of chewed wires—a rodent infestation that went undetected. That fire-suppression system, of course, is supposed to be tested regularly. On two recent occasions, Lathrop asked the inspectors to come back another time when he was not busy, and as a result the system had not been tested within the prescribed schedule. Finally, the fire was accelerated by stacks of unopened packages, boxes, and deliveries that had been allowed to accumulate in the front hall of the lab.”

“As chief of the lab,” Lime added, “Lathrop had responsibility for all these issues.”

Corrie was stunned by these last pieces of information. It took her a moment to process them—and then, suddenly, she felt a wave of anger at Lathrop’s carelessness.

“What’s going to be done?” Corrie asked. “I mean, Agent Morwood’s death was Lathrop’s fault!”

“He’ll be given an engraved plaque—and retired.”

“That’s it?”

Lime looked at her. “I understand your anger. I feel it, too. But Lathrop didn’t do anything criminal—these were a cascade of oversights that, taken together, combined to make an unlikely tragedy.”

Corrie swallowed and said nothing further. It felt like manslaughter.

“The worst thing he did,” Lime said, “was blame you. Your fellow agents feel that pretty keenly—a lab technician, casting blame on one of their own. The SAC has asked Lathrop to take his remaining vacation days starting tomorrow, then move directly into retirement. We won’t see him around here again.”