Chapter 3
Story: The Red Phone Had Never Rung in Fourteen Years. Then It Rang Twice.
Kessinger held the receiver away from his ear and looked at it, the way a man looks at a snake that's bitten him. Then he put it back.
"Who is this?"
"Your point of contact for the next hour. The team at your fence is under our authority. They are executing a lawful recovery operation. You will not obstruct them."
"Recovery of what?" Kessinger said. "That lot holds confiscated vehicles and a seized ATV. There's nothing federal in there."
The voice was silent for a moment. Then it said, "The object we are recovering is not in your impound lot. It was placed there thirty-six hours ago by a county tow operator under contract to a private party. The chain of custody is flawed. We are correcting it."
The floor trembled again, a deep thrum that Kessinger felt in his chest. Voss was at the window, his hands flat against the glass, watching the men at the fence.
"There's a woman in my booking room," Kessinger said. "She told me the phone was going to ring. Are you telling me she's part of this?"
The voice did not answer immediately. When it did, the warmth was gone from it entirely. "Marisol Reyes is a contract analyst with the Defense Logistics Agency. She has been on administrative leave for six days. That leave ended today at four o'clock. She should not be in your county."
Kessinger turned to look at Marisol. She was still standing at the steel ring, still cuffed, still perfectly still. She met his eyes and did not look away.
"She's cuffed to my desk," he said. "She's in my custody for attitude."
"Release her."
"I can't release her. She's a prisoner. I've got paperwork."
The voice on the phone said, "Sheriff, you do not understand what is happening. The object we are recovering is in a vehicle entered into your impound system at zero-three-hundred hours this morning. The tow operator filed a standard lien form. The vehicle belongs to a retired United States Army Colonel whose last assignment was a defense logistics command in Kuwait. Six days ago, records of that command were found incomplete. The Colonel's vehicle was discovered to contain a hard drive with a classification level that does not exist in your state's jurisdiction. That hard drive has been sitting in your impound lot for over a day, unguarded, in a vehicle that any citizen of this county could have claimed."
Kessinger felt the floor shift under him, and it wasn't the helicopters.
"Your tow operator," the voice continued, "filed a lien because the vehicle's owner is deceased. He suffered a cardiac event on Tuesday. His next of kin is a daughter who lives in Canada and has not been notified. The tow operator believed he was following standard procedure. The colonel's vehicle is the object we are recovering."
Kessinger's mouth was dry. "And the woman in my room?"
"We believe she is a former employee of the colonel's command. We believe she knew about the hard drive and attempted to retrieve it before our team arrived. We believe she is here to-"
"I'm not an employee anymore," Marisol said.
Her voice was quiet, but in the sudden silence of the room it carried like a bell. Kessinger turned. She was looking at him, not the phone, her hands still cuffed, the silver ring on her right hand catching the light.
"I was his analyst for nine years," she said. "I knew what he kept in that car. I've been trying to get them to listen for six days. They told me I was being paranoid. They told me the records were complete. I drove four hundred miles to get here before they could-"
She stopped.
Before they could what? Kessinger thought.
The voice on the phone said, "Sheriff, do not listen to her. She is a civilian with a security clearance that was revoked yesterday. She has no authority and no standing. Release her to our team. We will take custody of the vehicle and the hard drive. Your county will receive full cooperation and you will be commended."
Kessinger looked at the red phone. Then he looked at Marisol. Then he looked at Voss, who was still at the window, watching the men at the fence reach the gate.
"Deputy," Kessinger said. "Do not draw your weapon. That's an order."
"Yes, sir," Voss said, and his hand—which had been hovering near his holster—dropped to his side.
Kessinger put the phone back to his ear. "I'm going to need something more than a phone call," he said. "I need written authorization. I need a name. I need to confirm who you are before I hand over a piece of my county."
The voice was quiet for a long moment. Then it said, "Check your fax machine."
Kessinger looked across the room. The fax machine—a relic he'd forgotten existed—was on the credenza behind Alma's desk. Its green light was blinking.
"I'm sending you a document," the voice said. "It will arrive in thirty seconds. You will read it. You will release the woman. You will instruct your deputy to open the gate."
The fax machine began to whir.
The red telephone rang again, and this time Kessinger saw something he'd never seen before. The woman at the steel ring—Marisol Reyes—closed her eyes.
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