“I hope to hell they got us some real dogs this time. Did you ask for that special breed they’ve been training up in Dodge, those Spanish dogs, what are they called?”

“Presa canarios,” Larssen said. “I did. They said their training wasn’t complete, but I insisted.”

“Good. I’m through playing around with lap dogs. Who’s the handler?”

“Same as last time. Lefty Weeks. He’s their best.”

Hazen scowled, shucked out a cigarette, lit it.

Now he raked the group with his gaze. “You all know the drill, so I’ll be brief. The dogs go first, then the handler—Lefty—then me and Raskovich.” He pointed at the KSU security chief with his cigarette.

Raskovich nodded, his jaw tightening with the gravity of the situation.

“Raskovich, you know how to use a twelve-gauge?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I’ll issue you one. Behind us, as backup, there’ll be Cole, Brast, and Sheriff Larssen.” He nodded to two state troopers dressed in full raid wear: black BDU pants bloused over Hi-Tec boots, blacked-out bulletproof vests. No more Boy Scout hats—this was going to be the real thing. Then he turned back to Larssen. “That okay with you, Hank?”

The Deeper sheriff nodded.

Hazen knew it was important to play the political game, keep Hank in the loop, make sure he was part of the team. Hank clearly wasn’t happy about it, but there wasn’t much he could do: this was Hazen’s turf, and until the operation was finished and outside communication was restored, it was completely his show. In the end Hazen would make sure Larssen looked good. They’d all share credit—Raskovich, too—and there wouldn’t be any backstabbing when it came to trial.

“The rules of engagement are simple. You’ve all got riot guns, but don’t use them unless your life isdirectly threatened. Is that absolutely crystal clear?”

Everyone nodded.

“We’re taking our man outalive andunhurt. We’re going in nice and easy, disarm the guy, bring him out shackled and cuffed, but with kid gloves. He’s our star witness. If he panics and starts shooting, youstay back and let the dogs take care of him. And dogs like these can take a major round or two and still work.”

Silence, nods.

“If any of you’s thinking of coming out a hero, forget it. I’ll arrest you myself. We work together.”

He glared at each one in turn. It was Raskovich he was most worried about, but so far the man had been cool. It was worth taking the chance. Hell, he was willing to let Raskovich take all the damn credit if it meant the experimental field came to Medicine Creek.

“Shurte and Williams, you two will stake out the cave entrance. I want you to give yourself a good field of action, which means no lounging in the entrance where you could be surprised. If we flush McFelty and he tries to take off, you need to be ready to take him. You, Rheinbeck, you’re going into the Kraus mansion to serve the warrant and drink tea with Winifred. Be prepared to back up Shurte and Williams if they need it.”

Rheinbeck’s face betrayed nothing, just a faint twitching along the jawline.

“I know, Rheinbeck, it’s a tough assignment, but the old lady’s bound to be upset. We don’t want any heart attacks, right?”

Rheinbeck nodded.

“Remember, we’ll have no communication to the outside world down there. And if we get separated, there won’t be any communication between us, either. So we stay together. Got it?”

He looked around. They got it.

“All right, Cole’s going to tell us about the night-vision goggles.”

Cole stepped forward. He was Mr. State Police himself, tall, muscular, crew-cut, deadpan face. Funny how the Staties were never fat. Maybe it was a rule. He was carrying a gray helmet with a large set of goggles fastened beneath it.

“In a cave,” he said, “there’s no light at all. None. For that reason normal NVGs won’t work. So we’re going in with infrared illumination. The infrared light works just like a flashlight. This is the bulb, right here, on the front of the helmet. Here’s the switch. It’s got to be turned on to work, just like a regular flashlight. You can’t see the light with the naked eye, but when you put the NVGs on you’ll see a reddish illumination. If your infrared headlamp goes off, your goggles go black. Understand?”

Everyone nodded.

“The purpose of the NVGs is so we don’t make ourselves targets by carrying flashlights. He can’t see us. We’ll keep the overhead lights off and go in silent, and he won’t know how many we are.”

“Is there a map of the cave or something?” It was Raskovich.

“Good question,” said Hazen. “No, there isn’t. A wooden walkway’s been erected through most of it. There are a few rooms in the back, two or three at most, beyond. One of these rooms has the old still in it, and that’s probably where we’ll find our man. This isn’t Carlsbad Caverns we’re talking about. Just exercise common sense, stay close, and you’ll be all right.”

The security chief nodded.

Hazen went to the weapons locker, removed a shotgun, broke it open, loaded it, slapped it closed with a flick of his wrist, and handed it to Raskovich. “You’ve all checked your weapons?”

There was a general shuffling, a murmur of assent. Hazen did a final check of his service belt, counterclockwise: extra magazines, asp baton, cuffs, pepper spray, sidearm all in place. He took a breath, snugged his armored vest up tight beneath his chin.

At that moment the lights in the office flickered, brightened, and went out. A chorus of groans and murmurs went up.

Hazen glanced out the window. No lights on the main drag, or anywhere else for that matter. Medicine Creek was blacked out from front to back. No surprise, really.

“This doesn’t change a thing,” he said. “Let’s go.”

He opened the door and they stepped out into the howling night.

Fifty-Five

As he pulled into Medicine Creek, Special Agent Pendergast slowed the big Rolls, then plucked his cell phone from his pocket and made another attempt to call Corrie Swanson.

The only reply was a steady beeping, no longer even a recorded message. The relay stations were down.

He replaced the phone. The police radio was also down and the lights of the town were out. Medicine Creek was effectively cut off from the outside world.

He drove along Main Street. The trees were lashing back and forth in a frenzy under the angry wind. Sheets of rain swept across the streets, forming muddy whirlpools in drains that a few hours before had been choked with dust. The town was locked down tight: shades drawn, shutters closed. The only activity seemed to be at the sheriff’s office. Several state police cars were parked outside, and the sheriff and state police were moving around outside, loading equipment into a state police van and getting into squad cars. It looked like some operation was afoot, something more than the usual storm detail.

He continued on, turning into the gates of Wyndham Parke Estates. Within, the windows of the mobile homes were heavily taped, and large rocks had been placed on many of the roofs. Everything was dark, except for the occasional glimmer of a candle or flashlight beam glimpsed through a taped window. The wind tore through the narrow dirt lanes, rocking the trailers, pulling pebbles from the ground and throwing them against the aluminum sidings. In a nearby yard the swings of a child’s playset were whipping crazily, as if propelled by manic ghosts.

Pendergast pulled into the Swanson driveway. Corrie’s car was gone. He got out of his car, moved quickly to the door, and knocked.

No answer. The house was dark.

He knocked again, louder.

There was a thump from inside, and the movement of a flashlight beam. A voice called out: “Corrie? Is that you? You’re in trouble, young lady.”

Pendergast pushed at the door; it opened two inches and was stopped by the chain.