Page 7 of Unnatural Death

“Apparently the footprint was left deeper inside the mine than the investigators had ventured. The shallow impression in dirt wasn’t all that easy to see because of the conditions.”

“If it wasn’t obvious, that might argue against it being planted,” Henry considers. “I would think that if you were going to do that, you’d leave it where it was sure to be noticed.”

“I don’t know what to think, honestly,” I reply, and through the vehicle bay’s opening I notice Lucy headed this way.

I tell Henry that I’m turning the security cameras back on inside the bay. As if on cue, Fabian opens the door at the top of the ramp. He’s cheerfully snapping his fingers while humming the theme song ofThe Addams FamilyTV sitcom from the 1960s.

“Come on up!” Snap-snap. “She’s ready and waiting!” Snap- snap … He holds the door open as Henry doesn’t react. He’s been hearing the jokes all his life. “One of the best shows ever. Who’s your favorite character? I’m partial to Uncle Fester …”

I walk out into the morning’s clean-scrubbed cool air. Fall foliage is fiery against skies the polished blue of Murano glass, the colors peaking later than usual this year after a dry, hot summer. Lucy is waiting on the tarmac, keeping her distance from the spectators gathered by the fence, many of them filming with their phones.

Her dropping in from the sky to pick me up at work is a first since we moved back to Virginia three years ago. I’m fairly certain no one has done it before, not even for the governor. There’s no helipad or suitable place to land and plenty of people to offend. But that didn’t stop her, and we’ve got quite the audience.

“Nothing like being subtle,” I remark as we begin walking through rows of cars.

“You know me,” she says. “Subtle is my middle name.” Her face is keenly pretty, her short auburn hair highlighted rose gold in the sun.

I sense her preoccupations like a magnetic pull, and what I’m intuiting doesn’t bode well. I know when my niece is bothered by something that holds her complete attention.

She looks menacing in a black flight suit and boots, her Desert Eagle .44 Magnum in a drop-leg holster. My gun is locked up in a drawer at home. I don’t bring it to work routinely.

But a 9-millimeter pistol wouldn’t be my weapon of choice for where we’re going. Inside my briefcase is a large canister of bear repellent pepper spray. I have an air horn that could wake the dead were it possible.

“So far so good. No phone calls from the media,” I inform Lucy. “And I’ve seen nothing on the internet.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts. Which won’t be much longer.” She says this as if she knows it without a doubt.

Up close the helicopter looks stealthier and more dangerous with its wide tactical platform skids and multiple antennas. Radomes on the undercarriage conceal lasers and cameras able to “see” in zero visibility. Otherwise, Lucy wouldn’t have been able to locate the campsite in the stormy dark.

She wouldn’t have known to look had the Mansons not been under surveillance. Their nonworking farm abuts Buckingham Run, and they’d cleared a path to their secret campsite next to the old gold mine on a lakeshore. They’d set up the thermal imaging trail cameras that the Secret Service hacked into early on. This is what Lucy has told me.

She walks around the helicopter, giving it a final once-over while unlocking the doors. Moving traffic cones, I stack them near the fence. I’m making sure they’re far enough out of the way that rotor wash won’t send them skittering.

“I’ve sent a few text messages to Benton,” I let Lucy know. “I’ve not heard from him. I’m wondering if you have.”

“He knows what’s going on and is inside a SCIF.”

Benton is my husband and the Secret Service’s top threat advisor. He’s been inside a Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility for hours. The case is of interest at the highest levels, Lucy says.

“And his opinion so far?” I place my briefcase inside the helicopter’s back cabin.

“The victims were targeted, and the degree of violence is meant to send a message.” She checks the tail rotor, turning it slowly.

“He’s aware of the bizarre footprint Marino found?”

“Benton’s initial reaction is that we’re being jerked around. Most of all, Marino is. Because if he’s disrupted, all of us are. And I wouldn’t say this to him but he’s the weakest link,” Lucy says. “He’s a Bigfoot fan. An active and vocal one.”

“I’m aware.”

“Since we moved back to Virginia, he’s been going to festivals and other related events,” she says as we step up on the platform skids. “And he’s been known to go out Bigfoot hunting with his camera, playing alleged vocalizations on a field recorder, hoping he might get a sighting or the thing to answer him.”

“It’s unfortunate under the circumstances.”

“If people find out, they’ll make something of it,” Lucy says. “Get ready. Because Marino doesn’t take it well when anyone makes fun of him or treats him like he’s stupid.”

“I don’t know anybody who appreciates that.” I open the copilot’s cockpit door, and the interior smells new, the air heated up inside.

I’ve flown with Lucy many times but never in the Doomsday Bird, and I’m glad I’m not wearing a skirt for a lot of reasons. I swing my leg over the copilot’s cyclic in a most unladylike fashion.

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