lips, but quickly vanished.
To his left, the driver tapped a tuneless melody on the steering wheel. He was a beast of a man, the backs of his hands hairy to the first knuckles, his face bristled with stubble despite his morning shave.
"How long have we been trying to track him? And you think this guy's just going to swoop in and--"
The caller interrupted him again, but this time he made no effort to hide his irritation. He reached across the console and grabbed the driver's right hand to stop the incessant drumming.
"Yes, sir," he said, relaxing his fierce grip. The driver didn't attempt to resume. "Yes, sir. He left a calling card." He paused for the response. "Obsidian figurines. A bat and a tapir."
He tilted the rear view mirror so he could see himself, and adjusted his sunglasses. They only hid his eyebrow, not the four parallel scars marring his forehead to the hairline.
"Yes, sir. It definitely confirms our suspicions, but I don't believe for a second that's where he is. He's still close. I can feel him. He's just taunting us now."
The driver began to tap the wheel unconsciously again, but Hawthorne silenced him with a look. Though the driver continued to stare straight ahead, the bulging muscles in his angular jaw betrayed his annoyance. His nostrils flared and there was a screech of grinding teeth, yet he said nothing. He brushed his bangs out of his eyes under his shades and shifted in his seat, his sinewy form creating the impression of uncoiling.
"Yes, sir," Hawthorne said. "I'll see what I can do to expedite matters."
He removed the phone from his ear and tucked it back into the inner breast pocket of his jacket, the back of his hand grazing his shoulder holster.
"Did you give mom my love?" the driver said, his voice giving lie to his appearance. He was thin, yet muscular, his voice a scratchy baritone. He tried to hide his smirk as he killed the idling engine and climbed out the door, but Hawthorne had seen it all the same.
Hawthorne opened his own door and climbed out of the air-conditioned car into the scorching desert heat. His patience had already worn thin. He had a solid team already in place. The last thing he needed right now was new blood mucking up the works, especially now that he was so close. He didn't share his superior's faith, but he had his orders. If Carver didn't perform as promised, then he would intercede and do what needed to be done. As he always had in the past.
Always.
The two agents made their way down the dusty trail to the tent and entered without acknowledging the pair of officers milling beside the flaps, obviously out of their league.
Hawthorne stood at the lip of the excavation, and studied the spread of vile-smelling blankets and the body beside them. One of the ERT investigators spared him a glance before she resumed capping a series of test tubes.
"You boys are late for the dance," she said, inserting the tubes into an insulated carrier. "This debutante's card is already full."
Hawthorne wasn't in the mood. He held up his badge. "Hawthorne." He nodded to the shorter, wiry man to his right, who displayed his as well.
"Locke," the other agent said, removing his glasses to reveal eyebrows that flared like brown flames over eyes that appeared solid black.
"Manning," she said, resuming her work. "You missed your friends."
Hawthorne looked to his left, where another woman was using putty to flesh out the plaster cast of a face, then back to Manning.
"I need you to do me a favor," he said.
"Why don't I just stop doing my job and do yours instead?"
"I need to know if she was infected with any viruses."
"That's an absurd request."
"We'll see."
"Without blood we won't be able to establish--"
"I assume you're familiar with the PCR method."
"Polymerase Chain Reaction?"
"Viable strands of DNA have already been isolated."
"In case you haven't noticed, this wasn't the work of a virus."
"Are you saying you can't do it?"
"Of course I can, but I don't see how it's
To his left, the driver tapped a tuneless melody on the steering wheel. He was a beast of a man, the backs of his hands hairy to the first knuckles, his face bristled with stubble despite his morning shave.
"How long have we been trying to track him? And you think this guy's just going to swoop in and--"
The caller interrupted him again, but this time he made no effort to hide his irritation. He reached across the console and grabbed the driver's right hand to stop the incessant drumming.
"Yes, sir," he said, relaxing his fierce grip. The driver didn't attempt to resume. "Yes, sir. He left a calling card." He paused for the response. "Obsidian figurines. A bat and a tapir."
He tilted the rear view mirror so he could see himself, and adjusted his sunglasses. They only hid his eyebrow, not the four parallel scars marring his forehead to the hairline.
"Yes, sir. It definitely confirms our suspicions, but I don't believe for a second that's where he is. He's still close. I can feel him. He's just taunting us now."
The driver began to tap the wheel unconsciously again, but Hawthorne silenced him with a look. Though the driver continued to stare straight ahead, the bulging muscles in his angular jaw betrayed his annoyance. His nostrils flared and there was a screech of grinding teeth, yet he said nothing. He brushed his bangs out of his eyes under his shades and shifted in his seat, his sinewy form creating the impression of uncoiling.
"Yes, sir," Hawthorne said. "I'll see what I can do to expedite matters."
He removed the phone from his ear and tucked it back into the inner breast pocket of his jacket, the back of his hand grazing his shoulder holster.
"Did you give mom my love?" the driver said, his voice giving lie to his appearance. He was thin, yet muscular, his voice a scratchy baritone. He tried to hide his smirk as he killed the idling engine and climbed out the door, but Hawthorne had seen it all the same.
Hawthorne opened his own door and climbed out of the air-conditioned car into the scorching desert heat. His patience had already worn thin. He had a solid team already in place. The last thing he needed right now was new blood mucking up the works, especially now that he was so close. He didn't share his superior's faith, but he had his orders. If Carver didn't perform as promised, then he would intercede and do what needed to be done. As he always had in the past.
Always.
The two agents made their way down the dusty trail to the tent and entered without acknowledging the pair of officers milling beside the flaps, obviously out of their league.
Hawthorne stood at the lip of the excavation, and studied the spread of vile-smelling blankets and the body beside them. One of the ERT investigators spared him a glance before she resumed capping a series of test tubes.
"You boys are late for the dance," she said, inserting the tubes into an insulated carrier. "This debutante's card is already full."
Hawthorne wasn't in the mood. He held up his badge. "Hawthorne." He nodded to the shorter, wiry man to his right, who displayed his as well.
"Locke," the other agent said, removing his glasses to reveal eyebrows that flared like brown flames over eyes that appeared solid black.
"Manning," she said, resuming her work. "You missed your friends."
Hawthorne looked to his left, where another woman was using putty to flesh out the plaster cast of a face, then back to Manning.
"I need you to do me a favor," he said.
"Why don't I just stop doing my job and do yours instead?"
"I need to know if she was infected with any viruses."
"That's an absurd request."
"We'll see."
"Without blood we won't be able to establish--"
"I assume you're familiar with the PCR method."
"Polymerase Chain Reaction?"
"Viable strands of DNA have already been isolated."
"In case you haven't noticed, this wasn't the work of a virus."
"Are you saying you can't do it?"
"Of course I can, but I don't see how it's
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