Fatal Connections

"You're bleeding." Terry sounded panicky.

I sighed. "So I've been told," I said. I ran my hand over my cheeks, my chin, my forehead. When I saw how much blood was on my hand, the amount so distracted me, I nearly veered into the wrong lane.

This required a pit stop. I scanned the rural roadside for any sign of a shoulder. After driving a mile or two through the darkness created by the trees, I spied a thin strip of ground between the pavement and the woods. The moon had come up, giving the surrounding woods a silvery hue. I pulled over for a better look at the damage.

My rear-view mirror revealed nothing worse than a scraped chin and some skinny blood trails streaming down my face. It felt like sweat, but I looked like hell.

Terry helped me remove the few stubborn bits and pieces of remaining glass. He pulled a wad of my hard-earned fast-food paper napkins from the glove box and used some of them to help me mop up the mess.

"You realize head wounds always look worse than they are," I informed him. Even so, I had to wonder why I didn't notice that what remained of the window had cut my face. Was I so numb to pain these days that I couldn't even feel it?

"You got any disinfectant?" Terry had just finished rummaging through the glove box.

"Does this look like an ambulance?" I snapped, then paused for a breath. "Sorry."

"Yeah," Terry said. "Me, too."

I dropped Terry off at his car and continued to think about the Harcourt matter as I drove home. My thoughts were beginning to coalesce from random speculations into near theories. The Harcourts had formed relationships through the church. The Reverend appeared to be connected with some shady characters related to Embrace the Wild. If the Harcourts ended up doing business with any of them, they might not have known about any illegal activities until it was too late to back out. Apparently Embrace the Wild had earned the scrutiny of federal agents who keep top-level secrets. But what had the Harcourts done to merit being murdered so brutally? It had to concern more than just their roles as internet influencers.

Back in my apartment, I examined my face carefully and cleaned the cuts, which were already starting to scab over. Not a horrifying sight. More like a dusting of reddish freckles.

I thought about making coffee, rejected the thought, then made it anyway. While sipping it from my mug, I scribbled down a few thoughts for my file.

If the Harcourts worked closely with the church, they may well have gotten sucked into a criminal enterprise hidden within its walls that also included the petting zoo. Alex Kingsley's poking about had overturned a few stones with "scorpions" under them, scorpions of interest to federal agencies. I wondered exactly how many laws the owners of Embrace the Wild had broken. And how they remained in business. I considered this along with the other evidence I had managed to scrape together.

I reviewed Gallagher's notes of conversations and then shuffled through the documents I had retrieved from his office, organizing them as I went. Checking his calendar, I noticed an entry earlier in the week before the murders. It read: "Meeting re: the Hs." H as in Harcourt? I would have to look through Gallagher's notes for that meeting, which might provide a clue of some sort.

Gallagher had been a rather meticulous if not completely organized notekeeper. All his notes about various meetings were typed and kept separate from correspondence. He seemed to have a paper copy of every email regarding the couple's legal affairs. Apparently, the law is like the military. Kill entire rain forests if you must, but make sure your ass is covered with paper.

Mostly I found things where I expected them. But I didn't see any typed notes memorializing any meeting with the Harcourts during the week before they died. In fact, he apparently kept no meeting notes for anyone during that week.

Then I checked the handwritten notes. A quick comparison revealed duplications with the typed notes, and I almost dismissed them. Until I saw a reference to a meeting about Embrace the Wild. One that was dated two days before the Harcourts were murdered. I checked the calendar. No entry for this meeting.

Rather than knock myself out trying to decipher the late lawyer's handwriting, I opted for some well-earned sack time. I caught a few hours of sleep and returned to the files the next morning with a renewed resolve to find the Harcourts' murderer—and finally figure out why I ended up under police scrutiny. Someone was guilty, and I knew it wasn't me.

I called Detectives Gordon and Sully and got voicemail both times. I told them about an interesting recording I had. One with a voice they might want to compare with Marian Harcourt's voice, which lived on in both audio and video form on the internet. I had also saved the last voice mail from Marian, so one way or the other, I had something for comparison.

The process of deciphering the chicken scratch of Gallagher's handwriting nearly gave me a migraine. Plus, he used an alphabet soup of initials. But I was able to figure out his writing style well enough to determine that the discussion about Embrace the Wild was with MC and RD, most likely Calhoun and Douglas. And mentions of BM and PA. Whoever they were.

I checked back a bit further and found notes with the H's. The scrawl of handwriting became more convoluted and peppered with what looked like code words. They must have been discussing something pretty confidential.

I took a break from the notes and turned my attention to other investigative leads. My research on the three nannies turned up one local address in Reston, Virginia, for Astrid Gunderson. An additional search unearthed the last known locations for Ingrid Swenson and Sasha Krikorian. Ingrid was in the Pittsburgh area. Sasha lived in Bakersfield, California. Bakersfield. Sounded hot.

Reston, Virginia, was within the D.C. metro area, so I started my inquiries with Astrid Gunderson, and since driving to Virginia is always a bitch, I tried to connect first by phone. When she picked up, I introduced myself and briefly explained how I knew the Harcourts before mentioning their murder.

"I know," she murmured. "Such lovely people—"

"They were, weren't they?" I gushed quickly to cut her off. "I keep hearing that. What were their kids like?"

"Oh, they were teenagers." The way she said it suggested that the kids were mischievous. I wondered how mischievous.

"Please tell me about them," I said.