“How are you feeling?”

Danny Spaulding shifted in the chair, leaning to his left, favoring the healing wound on his right buttock. The bandages were off, but the damaged muscle underneath complained when he sat straight. His shoulder would be an even longer process. The discomfort of the sling rubbing on the stitched-up repair was a constant reminder.

His interrogator leaned against the wall to the side of the desk. Spaulding noted the conscious effort to take a position of neutrality, not behind the desk, and far enough away to communicate a lack of threat.

He’d been discharged from the hospital two days ago and had gone a full day without interviews by representatives of the many three-letter agencies now occupying Rexburg in the aftermath of the mass casualty event. Instead of makeshift medical facilities and healthcare workers milling around, overwhelmed by the wounded, now it was military helicopters and black utility vehicles with tinted windows everywhere. He tried to get breakfast at the Daisy but couldn’t get a seat.

“Can’t complain,” Spaulding finally answered.

The other man smiled. “I would. Though it seems you’ve led somewhat of a charmed existence. Perhaps these injuries are more than you expected, even with the intensity of that firefight.”

So this guy knew about his combat record. He may not have sustained much in the way of physical disability from his tours decades before, but there were still wounds, some freshly reopened after the mayhem of past days.

They sat in silence that neither were inclined to interrupt.

“Am I being detained?” Spaulding finally asked.

“Absolutely not. This is strictly a debriefing. Unfortunately, the others still have questions only you can answer.”

Spaulding studied the man’s features, the rich brown skin, dark eyes, straight black hair, craggy features. On a hunch, he ventured a guess.

“Navajo?”

“Ya’ at’ eeh,” he replied with a smile. “Jicarilla Apache, but good eye. My mother’s family is from Window Rock.”

Spaulding nodded. “So, who are you with?”

The man made no reply, maintaining eye contact with that little smile. Not mocking, but more the recognition of an equal who knew what the game was. He waited for Spaulding to continue. They stared at each other, waiting for someone to break.

“What can I help you with?” Spaulding finally relented.

The man pushed away from the wall and paced, hands in his pockets. “One of my assignments is to the National Center for Strategic Studies. We’re kind of a think tank for all the branches, studying history, forecasting trends, that sort of thing. We try to look ahead to understand the threats coming down the road.”

“And what happened at the lab was a threat?”

“Actually, no. That appears to be a pretty straightforward counterintelligence failure, penetration and compromise by outside actors. The program itself, even with the illegality of what Dr. Abrams did, that’s just a small part of the genomics arms race we’re struggling with. We should be better at keeping up with our adversaries, but here we are. The agencies that normally deal with that are all over it. They’ll do their after-action reports, lessons learned, the usual finger pointing and ass covering, then it will all be forgotten and it will happen again. No, we’re interested in something different.”

If what he saw at the lab was considered ‘pretty straightforward’, he really was curious as to what this person thought the real threat was.

“Tell me about the McJames School.”

Spaulding frowned. “The school is a threat? I thought it closed. They all left?”

The man shrugged. “Tell me about Dr. Trey Isaac.”

Spaulding squinted, trying to follow where he was probing. “Don’t know him. Don’t know the name. Was he connected to the lab?”

The man nodded. “He worked with Dr. Abrams. Your Dr. Abrams.” The man locked eyes with Spaulding again with that little smile, waited, then continued. “While you were working up Abrams, what did you find out about Dr. Isaac?”

Spaulding shook his head. “He never came up. We really didn’t have much time to do anything with Abrams. We got the hit on his DNA, got the warrant, but never served it because of the mess when we got there.”

The mess. Four of his officers killed, including young Ben Davis. Six ISP troopers, dozens inside the facility, all the civilians caught in the crossfire. And those creatures, whatever they were. Spaulding’s eyes grew distant, intrusive visuals of gore and mangled corpses commandeering his attention, until he finally shook himself out of it.

The man studied him. Spaulding saw something like compassion cross his face.

“It made an impression, didn’t it?” Spaulding made no reply, and the man resumed pacing.

“Abrams wasn’t your guy. The farmer was killed by someone from the lab, but it wasn’t him. We picked up Kevin Jorgenson, the head of Security. He was banged up badly, but he was one of the first the EMTs got to and was on the first evac to Salt Lake City. He’s still in the ICU, but he’s going to be very helpful. Mostly for the others, figuring out how the lab was compromised.”

“But…the DNA. In the kitchen. That wasn’t Abrams?”

“What you picked up in the kitchen was the DNA from one of the creatures. The farmer somehow got a hold of a bone fragment from an escapee, thought it was a fossil. They must have destroyed it in the kitchen, scattered fragments all over and didn’t clean up, then killed the farmer.”

“But, Abrams…”

“The forensic lab folks proved that creature was cloned from Dr. Abrams’ own DNA, with modifications, of course. Others, the younger ones especially, were from his children’s DNA. He confirmed everything. He survived as well. He seems eager to come clean. The only one who isn’t sharing is Dr. Cole. He lawyered up, but from what we’ve gotten from Abrams and the system records, most of it we can piece together. Except the school. What’s the connection between the lab and the school?”

Spaulding shook his head, bewildered by this torrent of new information. They went back and forth about Isaac several more times, then the man started in about the girl, the reporter from Chicago. Spaulding didn’t know much more about her – why she was in town, why she was out at the lab and the school. Something about her brother? It was all getting foggy. Spaulding grew tired, irritable. He snapped at the man a few times, raised his voice.

The man remained calm and spoke softly. Spaulding could see he recognized the relapsing PTSD symptoms Spaulding endured. They took another break.

“I think that’s enough for today, Sherriff. I appreciate you helping me. We’ll be in touch again, I’m sure.” The man stood up and walked toward the door. Spaulding remained seated staring at him, mustering control, gathering himself.

“You never told me who you are with.”

The man hesitated, then took a few steps back into the room.

“Back when white people first arrived, I’m sure all my people looked around and didn’t know what to make of it. Those first contacts with the Spanish and the French, then everyone else, each one brought some benefits and some threats. Guns, horses, those were good. Small pox, alcohol, not so much. But by the time they figured it out, it was too late. The collision of cultures was already long past the inflection point and our fate was sealed.”

He waited for Spaulding to respond or ask a question. Spaulding stared at him.

“We’re trying to avoid that. Holding things together, which is really all we’ve been doing since the twenties, that’s not going to be enough. The inflection point is here. We’re trying to make sure we stay in front of whatever new change is coming. That’s who I’m with.”

***

Over the next several weeks, the interviews continued, then gradually tapered off. He started drinking again, stopped, started, then stopped again. Work was a blur, and he found himself coming in later, leaving earlier, taking days off. The aftermath of the crisis kept everyone else running around and distracted, allowing him to descend further into his own darkness.

He finally returned the calls of Jonas Stone and agreed to meet his Madison County counterpart for coffee at the Daisy.

Spaulding entered the diner, looking for Jeannette even knowing she wasn’t there. He saw Jonas watching him from a booth. The big man waved him over with a forced smile.

“Been here long?” Spaulding asked as he slid into the booth.

“’Bout ten minutes. Still waiting on coffee. This new girl seems to be struggling.” He nodded to a young woman with wild hair, bristling with facial piercings, collecting menus from a crowded table of loud men in dirty coveralls. She scowled as she turned away, pushing back her hair with the back of her hand.

“You hear anything from Jeanette?” Stone continued. Spaulding shook his head.

“Still down in Tahoe with her sister, I guess. She didn’t tell me much about her plans.” Spaulding had difficulty maintaining eye contact, looking down, looking away. His friend’s concern only made him more uncomfortable. The waitress delivered menus, taking the order of two coffees. She returned quickly and placed water on the table then disappeared. Jonas made a show of studying the menu while they sat in silence.

“The Feds just told us they’re moving their headquarters onto the BYU campus. They’re taking over one of the admin buildings. I guess that whole ‘we’ll be gone in six months’ thing don’t apply no more.”

Spaulding shook his head, looking down at his hands. The waitress returned with coffees, sloshing onto the table as she put them down, then took their orders.

“They still talking to you?” Jonas asked.

Spaulding shook his head again. “Not in a couple of weeks. I think they lost interest, in me at least.”

Jonas nodded. “You know, your deputies are doing a great job. That Christiansen has really stepped up. He picked up…” Jonas stopped, noting his friend’s distress at the mention of the deputies. Spaulding glanced around the diner with a hunted look.

Jonas leaned in, lowering his voice. “Danny, that won’t happen again. She’s calmed down. People talked to her. Her husband apologizes every time I see him. They know it’s not your fault.”

Spaulding’s hands clenched, knuckles blanching, the memories of the ugly confrontation with the mother of Deputy Ben Davis in the parking lot of the Wrangler Steak House. A crowd gathered while she screamed at him, barely restrained by her mortified husband – why did he suspend her son? If he’d been on the drug task force down in Idaho Falls he wouldn’t have been there that day. Why didn’t he let the State Police handle it? Why did he send her son out there with no protection?

It went on and on, and Spaulding could only stand there, head down, accepting it all, because she was right. It was his fault, the whole thing.

As if reading Danny’s mind, Jonas continued. “They say you cracked it. It’s in all the news reports now. The Feds always give you credit for uncovering what they were doing out there, connecting that scientist to it and Cyrus’ murder. It’s a whole mess, and getting worse, but they say they wouldn’t be making such good progress if it weren’t for your police work. And now they’re talking about spies, the Chinese, criminals. It’s big. You’re a hero, Danny. You need to accept that.”

The waitress interrupted them with armloads of plates piled with food. Jonas tucked in, shoveling eggs and pancakes while Danny nibbled his meal. They finished without returning to any sensitive subjects, Jonas successfully steering the conversation to sports and fishing, getting Danny to open up a little. Jonas made a fuss about picking up the tab, and they went out to the parking lot. They had to raise their voices over the truck traffic whooshing by.

“Let’s get back to doing this on the regular, okay?”

Spaulding nodded and shook Jonas’ hand.

“Thanks for breakfast.”

Jonas held tight, not letting go. “Keep talking to that therapist, Danny. We’ll get through this. You’re a good man. Your community needs you. Your department needs you.”

Spaulding nodded and turned away without a word. He sat in his car and waited until Jonas drove off, then sat for a while longer, unable to decide where to go next.

***

One cold rainy afternoon several weeks later, he sat at home, staring out the window. He got up, went to the kitchen cabinet where he kept the bottle and stood in front of it. After some lost time, he shook himself out of it. He went to the front hall, strapped on his weapon, and went out to the car.

From his home in Rigby, he drove east to the foothills of the Tetons, wound down some back roads and pulled off an old gravel logging road leading up into the woods. He sat there listening to the drizzle making soft noises on the cruiser roof.

He was startled out of his reverie by the buzzing of his device. He pulled it out, glanced at the unfamiliar number on the screen. He started to put it down, then changed his mind.

“Hello?”

“Sherriff Spaulding?”

“Yes?”

“It’s Michelle Shank. I…we need your help.”

Chapters 59 and 60