The First Billion

Time passed in strange fits and spurts, and Byrnes knew his fever was worsening. He sat and watched as one after another the corpses were picked up and carried to the stone sump house across the compound. After a time, he heard the muted, regular fall of an ax. Smoke began to course from the chimney. The scent reached him, and he retched.

Sometime later, the second Suburban drove away.

***

It was night when the van carrying his food arrived. A steady rain pattered the roof, sliding with ease between the irregular birch boughs and making the floor a muddy hell.

Curled into a ball, Byrnes lay in a corner, moaning. As his jailer opened the door, Byrnes moaned louder. "Doctor," he said several times. The jailer set the mess tin on the ground and relocked the padlock with nary a second's hesitation. But Byrnes was sure he'd heard the words, sure he'd noticed him. In the morning when he returned, he would find the prisoner in a similar position. And the next evening, too.

By then, Byrnes would be ready.

36

Howell Dodson was not happy to be in Florida at six o'clock on a Friday evening. His daughter Renee's softball game had begun a half hour ago, and at this very moment he'd hoped to be seated in the bleachers next to his wife, chomping on popcorn, swilling a Coke, and yelling his lungs out for his little girl to belt one over the left field fence. He'd promised her he wouldn't miss the game, and each day this week before he went to work, she'd reminded him of his obligation. Friday night at seven-thirty, Daddy. It's the league playoffs. You have to come. In fact, he hadn't just promised to come- he'd sworn it. Cross his heart and hope to die. This was one game the Bureau would not interfere with. And goddamn it, until ten o'clock that morning, he'd had every intention of attending. Until a cold-blooded killer had stormed into Cornerstone Trading in Delray Beach, Florida, and massacred ten innocent people, Howell Dodson would have broken legs to see the game.

"It's all right, Dad," Renee had said when he'd called earlier to tell her he would not be able to make the game. "I know you wanted to come. That's what's important."

"Hit a homer for me, will ya, slugger?"

"Sure thing. I'll try for two even."

Hanging up the phone, Dodson struggled to come to grips with her newfound maturity. When had his little girl grown up on him? When had she become possessed of such poise and understanding? When had she stopped needing him to cheer for her?

Dodson's temporary office was located in a small room in the basement of the Miami-Dade Federal Building. There was a metal desk, a clerk's rolling chair, and a sagging love seat done in transparent plastic slipcovers. The sole artwork came from the U.S. Government Printing Office: a copy of the most recent "Ten Most Wanted" circular.

Standing, Dodson moved to the door, smoothing his blue and white seersucker suit, appraising the knot of his yellow paisley necktie, as if checking that his uniform was presentable for inspection. He looked onto a large, open linoleum floor that might have welcomed the smaller, less prestigious variety of convention. Chiropractors, roofers, or morticians. Desks and chairs were being set up on the double. A man passed carrying a chalkboard. Another labored beneath a half-dozen cases of Coke. Behind him followed a woman with grocery bags full of juice, cookies, and tissues. In an hour or two, the first of the victims' relatives would arrive for questioning. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Dodson sighed. It would be a long and painful night.

From afar, he spotted Roy DiGenovese storming across the floor, dodging a pushcart loaded with potted plants. His eyes were bright, his olive cheeks flushed with excitement. Since Dodson's appointment as director of the Cornerstone investigation, DiGenovese had been more gung ho than usual, almost dangerously so.

"What is it, Roy?" called Dodson. "You look about ready to burst."

"We got Gavallan's prints from the Pentagon. There's a ninety percent probability they match the partials we took from the golf club in Luca's bedroom, as well as the smudges on the closet door. The lab's still comparing them against the prints found at Cornerstone. Nothing yet."

"Lucky for us he's a vet. Always handy to have a suspect's prints on file. Has the Air Force sent us over a copy of his records yet?"

"Due in twenty-four hours."

"Good news." Dodson motioned the younger agent into his office and shut the door behind them. "What about the blood in the house?"

DiGenovese pulled a spiral notepad from his jacket pocket, flipping back a couple of pages. "Gavallan's O-positive. The stuff on the floor is AB-negative."

"How recent?"

"Very. The samples were hardly dry when they collected it. Three hours tops."

"And Luca's blood type?"

"O-positive, too."

"Got sex?"

"Still checking. Preliminary DNA's due by nine."

"What about the acetate test on the murder weapon?"