Hopefully, you're not tired of this adventure already. Thanks so much for your kind return visit as the story moves forward...

Chapter Three

A veteran agent waited in the air conditioned, unmarked sedan as his companion trotted through neat rows of future ethanol and cattle feed. The temperature soared against the weatherman's prediction and even the cows in the adjoining pasture chewed slower. This wasn't his idea of an assignment; chauffeuring a rookie and babysitting corn. Still, the AC worked, the food was free and as a sign of decent luck, the stalks didn't bother making a break for it.

Reaching the compacted crime scene, the young agent tore the yellow tape from the stalks, rolling the length into a hasty ball. As his orders were to return the scene to its original condition, he picked up the six numbered tags identifying the bodies and bagged even the litter that blew in after the victims had been removed. Eager to escape the Easybake Oven of the early morning humidity, the agent swiftly completed his tasks and rushed back to the government-issue car.

There was an odd tingle vibrating in his spine when he yanked open the car door, but as the artificially cool air kissed his face, it was dismissed. The prospect that someone was watching the field was welcomed as the perpetrator might take their clean-up as a sign that interest had been lost in the site. When they felt secure, many criminals return to their last scene, the case's lead agent reminded them during her limited briefing. The rookie's activity was a show for the criminal's benefit and he hoped they appreciated the new sweat stains on his crisp shirt. Pulling back onto the road, the sedan headed to a nearby grain store where surveillance would commence on the field.

And a man, climbing quietly down from a deer stand with satisfaction, strode away from the place of his recent triumph.

…….

After concluding an arduous oversight committee meeting, where again he fought for a stay of execution on his special unit, Broyles made his way to the one-way mirror. This was the closest he'd see today of a break from the ever-pressing workload. For several minutes he lingered on the girl fidgeting in the interrogation room. Patiently waiting for his lead agent to arrive, Phillip took in Megan Asher's compulsive gum smacking and knuckle cracking, the rocking and constant glances behind her. It was the distress of a scared sixteen year old, an honor roll student with a spotless record whose story to the local police brought her to this room.

Olivia's pace was brisk through the outer office. When she reached the interrogation wing, she nodded to her superior, who looked not at all surprised that Peter Bishop was trailing behind her. The man, who had likely been on the other side of an interrogation room a time or two, chewed gently on a cherry stem. The perceptive agent was well aware of the punch stain parking on her jacket but as the air conditioning was set to 'Alaska,' she opted to simply drape an arm across her mid section. Broyles handed her a folder and then acknowledged Dr. Bishop's son with a nod.

"Are we ready?" Dunham asked her civilian partner as she opened the door.

Once clear of the doorway, Peter took a guarded position to Olivia's left while she claimed the chair opposite the possible witness. Megan's pretty face, with no make-up or chemical hair colors, was the all-American ideal. Until the rest of the image was considered: black baggy clothing, thick chain necklace and multiple piercings.

"My name's Olivia. I was hoping you could tell me what happened at the bus stop."

Megan looked up at the adults and swallowed her gum. "Um, I was just waiting for the bus and I felt someone grab me from behind." Megan peered over her shoulder as though it might reoccur.

In a motherly turn, Olivia invoked a softer gaze while removing her badge and jacket. Then she yanked her hair from its binding, letting it fall. The teen watched every motion, finding something soothing in the altered appearance.

"How did you get away, Megan?" Olivia asked.

"My dad." Her lips arched upward a fraction as she played with the skull on her wristband. "He told me that a guy has… you know, parts that don't like to be kicked."

Hearing the soft throat clearing behind her, Olivia's lips mimicked Megan's. "What did you do?"

"I pulled my foot up as hard as I could and the person that had me did this dolphin wail. And that kinda told me it wasn't a man."

"A woman tried to take you?" Peter chimed in, stepping closer and opening the folder. The photo he produced showed Abe Winston's missing sister. "This woman?"

Megan grasped the picture, fingering the corners and turning it from one side to the other. "No." Then she taped a chipped black nail on Martha Winston's face. "But she was in the van that the other woman ran to after I got away."

Tucking the photo back into the folder, Olivia threw a quick glance behind her. "And the blue flier fell out of the van when she opened the door?" Megan nodded. "Did the woman say anything?"

"Well, the windows were rolled down, so I heard one of them say that, um… Benjamin would be disappointed." The last four words came with air quotes.

When anxious parents arrived, Olivia dismissed the girl into their care and watched them steer past the row of desks toward the lobby. The agent nearest Olivia was given the task of running the artist's sketch of the unknown assailant and tracking down the van Megan detailed.

Shrugging off her mother's sheltering arm from her shoulder, Megan sprinted back to the blond agent and, panting, told her one more thing.

"I forgot about the little girl..."

…….

The van was described as a burgundy passenger model with white pinstripes and tinted windows. Walter, hearing this, decried the ending of the van art era. To Astrid's amusement, he detailed every style he'd ever seen, from wizards and witches to flames and flowers. Of course, he preferred the Darth Vader motif one of his colleagues possessed, which led to a sad tale of the professor's unfortunate death by grain harvester. Invariably, this brought Walter's whiffle ball mind back the case. He instructed Asthma to remind him to inquire if that field had any farm equipment that he could drive.

Astrid filed that request under 'Never' and was hardly surprised that it wasn't mentioned when Peter and Olivia returned. Instead, Walter explained that the tissue samples held nothing unusual, nor did his retinal burn tests that were meant to show the last image the dead had seen.

Reviewing the recorded impressions, Peter rubbed his whiskered chin. "Looks like the inside of their eyelids. If someone babbled less, I might actually see the same view."

"Maybe," Olivia peered at the monitor over his shoulder, "they were asleep when they died."

"Lucky them," Astrid said. "But how often do you sleep in a field with strangers?"

"Perhaps it was a six-some." Chuckling, Walter stridently sucked the remnants of his milkshake, getting more air than liquid.

Peter's groan was becoming a familiar sound in the lab and it was unleashed to no one's attention. "Please, I beg you, don't talk like that."

Moving to the computer, Olivia began a search of suspected cult leaders, narrowing the list to Benjamins. The coffee Astrid provided use for her otherwise drumming fingers. Watching the progress bar was one of her greatest annoyances. When no positive results were returned, Olivia widened her search to kidnappers with that name. The mug shot of a now fifty-five year old man caught her eye. Reynold Tanzer. Formerly handsome, son of a pastor, victims included female toddlers and known to use an alias.

Benjamin Woods.