“We’ll need to recognize them when we see them,” Amy said.
“Yes, we’ll get photos sent to us. Back at the inn, we’ll work on contacts and a plan for an hour or so, get some satellite images and head back.”
“All right,” Amy agreed. “Food along the way, please.” She flashed him a smile. “I don’t usually drink during the day, and certainly not in the morning. But Phin wanted to buy me a drink, and you said we needed to get friendly with the locals, so...”
“Let’s get something to eat,” he agreed.
There was a sign that welcomed them to Micanopy. The sign explained that Micanopy means “head chief” and that it had been awarded to the famed leader of the Alachua Seminoles. Hernando de Soto had been in the area way back in 1539.
Maclamara, he knew, was a township named for the rich man who’d once been the only landholder in the area—he’d owned a plantation that had encompassed it all. The place still had only about twenty families that called it home.
Amy asked, “Where was she found?”
He knew she was referring to the victim in Maclamara.
“About half a mile back, not far off the road. Right at the border between Maclamara and Micanopy.”
“Can we go back?” she asked.
“We need to watch our time.”
“I won’t need much,” she said.
He pulled the car in a tight U-turn and drove back the other way. There was a small part in the trees and a narrow, leaf-laden trail that led to the clearing in the woods where the young woman had been found. Hunter drove onto the shoulder of the highway, and they got out.
A few strings of crime scene tape littered the ground, but it had rained, and there was no evidence that remained to show just where the body had been.
But Hunter remembered, and he showed Amy.
“They had a swarm of forensics experts on her, from the county and from the FBI. They combed the place, and they talked to everyone over the age of three, to the best of my knowledge, in Maclamara and Micanopy. No one saw anything. No one knew her.”
Amy looked around.
“It’s just like in the south.” She started walking back from the site and paused. “You’re right, this was practice. What is frightening now is we’ve had the sword and the pestilence.”
“Famine and plague are next.”
“They could be starving their next victim to death.”
“Or they have a biological weapon. And they’re planning on mass casualties—not just one murder.” He paused. “Or the first horse, the white horse, is the conqueror—and these murders are to show us the conqueror has come. And the conqueror is showing us he has the power to do what he will with widespread dominion. He carried a bow, but no arrows. He is a warrior and can fight, but first, he’s just taking over. Money, maybe even diplomacy. ‘And I saw, and behold a white horse: and he that sat on him had a bow; and a crown was given unto him: and he went forth conquering, and to conquer.’”
“It’s so confusing. But I still think he’s going to kill again with famine and disease,” Amy said. “Unless we can stop him.”
“Could be...the red horse is next. He brings war. By the time he’s done all this killing, there will be a war, even if it’s a war between law enforcement and his following.”
“There are dozens of interpretations regarding the Four Horsemen. Maybe this guy has his own interpretation, as well. Maybe he’s convinced his followers that the Apocalypse is on us—many rational people think we’ve brought the world to that point. Anyway, let’s get going. We can get satellite imagery on our phones, but a computer will be better.”
They walked back to the car. Hunter paused on the trail. It was so quiet. It didn’t seem as if the birds and the creatures of the forest were moving, almost as if recent events had caused them all to hold their breath.
“What?” she asked.
“I was just wondering how many places there are like this, places distant from civilization, from people, where this kind of murder can be carried out.”
“More than we can count,” Amy said.
They reached the car and he drove again; they were both thoughtful.
“It’s a good thing you came into the bar when you did,” she said as they neared the inn.
“Oh?”
“I might have carried on flirting with Phin. And then, maybe, go to the barbecue with him after pretending I didn’t know you.”
“Amy, this isn’t a solo gig—”
“I know. But I didn’t know, not until I went back in, that we were going to be under suspicion. Someone called up here to warn people about us. Hank is dead. Artie is being held. It wasn’t the two of them. And as far as it goes, everyone we came close to claimed they were being secretive, but that’s because they were trying to help Billie.”
They reached the inn. As they drove up, Hunter saw a vehicle just off the drive that hadn’t been there the night before.
It was a paneled van.
He looked at Amy.
“Be ready for anything,” he told her.
* * *
Amy was ready, even as she stepped out of the car. The sight of the van and Hunter’s warning had put her on high alert. She had a hand on her gun holster.
She was ready to drop behind the protection of the car.
An older man stepped out of the van; he had a rich headful of snow-white hair, stood very tall and straight and appeared extremely athletic.
To her amazement, Hunter cried out, not in alarm, but with pleasure.
He hurried forward, greeting the man with a warm hug. Then he turned back to Amy, smiling, his pleasure at the appearance of the stranger evident.
“Amy, this is Special Agent Dawson,” he told her.
“Retired,” the man said quickly, and then frowned. “She knows?”
“She’s my partner.”
“She’s FDLE.”
“She’s my partner. Amy, come meet this guy,” Hunter said. “He saved my life—used his body to shield me from bullets.”
“He was six,” Dawson explained as Amy walked over to shake his hand. “He was six, and by throwing myself down on him, I brought us both out of the path of any bullets.” He looked at Hunter. “No one knows your real identity, except for Garza. And we all thought it best—”
“In this, Amy needed to know,” Hunter said.
Amy was surprised and touched. She knew, without anyone saying, the information he had given was nothing to be shared.