Saunders squatted on a bench outside the bank, feeling like a heavy weight had been lifted off his shoulders. For a few brief minutes, he had felt like a father who had been abandoned by all his children. No Justine. No Mosley. No Foster. To be honest, his lonely state felt good. A feeling which was completely contradictory to the horrific circumstances he currently found himself in. The only words that came to home at that moment was clusterfuck.

  As for the rest of that team, they were safely back at the hotel, awaiting word on the subject’s status. A status still in question because of the EMT’s initial assessment upon seeing that monster from the bank.

  “On the brink,” the medic had said sullenly. “50/50 at best”.

  “So,” was the only word the agent could muster.

  Foster and Justine on the other hand were so concerned about the suspect’s injuries that they almost ordered a helicopter to fly the killer directly to Vincent Memorial. But after the deaths of seven people, the sheriff concluded the ambulance would get him there soon enough.

  Saunders remembered Foster trying desperately to jump inside the ambulance and being stopped at the rear doors. “He’ll be out for a while, sir,” the EMT driver said with a hand up. “He’ll probably need surgery.”

  “I don’t mind waiting,” Foster replied. “I’m used to it.”

  The EMTs looked for the nearest person in authority for help. “Sir,” they pleaded with the middle-aged FBI agent. “We need to get going.”

  Since the stranger was unconscious and the possibility of him waking soon was extremely slim, Saunders didn’t want to force an already public issue by making them take Foster. “These men have a job to do, Foster. They will call us if there’s any change in his condition.”

  Then, he remembered Foster standing sulkily by as it sped away into the evening dusk. Not wanting the man to wallow in his disappointment, Saunders ordered everyone back to the lab to debrief Barbara and get some rest. Strange things were beginning to pile up in this small town, and no matter how he wrapped his head around it, nothing seemed to make much sense.

  A few minutes later, this feeling became even stronger during another unpleasant conversation with the Director.

  “Mr. Evers has not shared any of his theories with me or as far as I know with anyone else on the team. He’s had them spending all day chasing down unrelated events.” Saunders braced himself for the worst, and he got it.

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  “Do you like being stationed in Washington, Agent Saunders?” That question was rhetorical, so he didn’t answer. “Would you like to be stationed in Antarctica? I mean, you are close to retirement. Maybe you could discuss your leisure plans with the penguins? Maybe get a polar bear to work on your 401k investments?”

  “No sir, I would not like that at all.” Saunders really wanted to tell the Director to go to Hell. But his days of being a brash agent telling his asshole boss what he really thought were long gone. So instead, he bit his tongue. “What would you like me to do?”

  “You need to understand something. Foster Evers is perhaps the most brilliant person I have ever come across in my 20 years at the NSA. His work is vital to the security of this nation. And if you ever repeat a word of that to him, I will make sure you retire in a way that will save the government a shitload on health care costs.”

  He paused, measuring his next words carefully.

  “What I want you to do is keep him in check for the next twenty-four hours. It’s what I promised him, and it’s what I’m going to deliver. Part of that includes keeping him away from any unwanted attention. To be clear, I consider hostage situations and murders unwanted attention. Do we understand each other?”

  “Yes, director,” Saunders stared intently as another set of body bags were carried away from the bank by a parade of visibly shaken officers. So far, he had counted six. Painfully, he knew that three more were on their way. In the face of so much death, a mysterious signal seemed silly. “I understand.”

  “I know you do, Saunders. Wrap things up with the sheriff, then first thing in the morning get our boy focused back on task. I don’t want to have to call you again to make a point. And make sure you report first thing in the morning. Are we clear?”

  The director hung up before he even had a chance to say “Crystal.”

  A few minutes later, the last of the victims were cleared away in a couple of blue ambulances. Saunders sat alone in the setting sun, wondering if this town had a cab service. In Washington, a yellow cab was always just a hail away. In Elmira, everyone owned a car, so cabs were scarce.

  “Well,” he rubbed at the soreness in his old knees. “At least it can’t get any worse.”

  He was about to call Justine for a ride when a familiar looking Tahoe pulled up in front of his bench. The driver’s window began to lower. For a moment, he prayed that Justine was in the driver’s seat. His heart sank though when he saw Malcolm Purvis’ smiling face.

  “Jeffrey,” the last person he wanted to see said without the slightest hint of sarcasm. “Are you heading my way?”

  “Yes,” Saunders gritted his teeth so hard he thought they would crack into tiny pieces. Picking himself slowly off the wooden bench, he lumbered toward his ride like a child heading to school.

  “Then hop in. Uncle Malcolm’s taxi service will get you there in a jiffy!”

  “Thank you,” he said, accepting his fate with more humbleness than he thought he could muster. The placid look on his face hid just how angry this little ride was going to make him. Now definitely wasn't the time for jokes. “I appreciate it.”

  “You’re welcome, Jeffrey.” Knowing that his presence infuriated the senior agent to no end, Malcolm could not help but smile, “It’s my pleasure.”