stayed above his belt and a waistband that didn't roll. Women noticed him. That alone denied him a kind of welcome among the jaded, craggy-faced, scotch-and-water-gutted agents with thirty years of fieldwork. His first assignment had been in Portland. It was a small office with eighteen agents and five clerical staff. The Federal Building in downtown Portland was undergoing renovations when the new kid arrived for his first work assignment. He shared his cubbyhole office with a U.S. Marshall Service agent who, thankfully, was never around.
It was barely 5:30, Christmas morning, when Bauer got up, emptied his bladder, and shuffled to the kitchen. He resuscitated an English muffin by sprinkling water on it and running it through the toaster. Bauer pulled the metal ring from the top of a pop can, hooked the tab onto a long chain he had made, and sloshed Dr Pepper into the back of his throat. Warm, sweet. Not too bad . He didn't wait for coffee to brew. He turned on the radio to listen to Christmas tunes. Karen Carpenter's butterscotch alto filled the room, and for a blissful, melancholy moment he relaxed, closed his eyes, and conjured images of Christmas at home in Harper, an Idaho paper mill town just outside of Boise. He knew that in a few hours, his sisters would be converging on their mother's house with presents and a ham the size and weight of a bowling ball. Boise was only an hour from Portland by air, but that Christmas morning Bauer had holiday duty. He was low man on the totem pole.
A few minutes before six, the phone rang and his sleepy eyes popped open. It was the dispatcher calling. The man's voice was devoid of humanity or warmth. No Christmas cheer there.
"You'll need to get down to Spruce County," the dispatcher said. "Big to-do down there. Big snow dumping down that way, too."
The reason for the call was some sort of criminal activity, of course, not a weather report. And Bauer was summoned not because he was the most suited for the job, but because he had no family and the bureau director thought he'd be able to "hold down the fort" for a few days. Holding it down, as the agent in charge put it, was hardly a solo job. A handful of agents on a skeleton crew made sure the holidays went better for those with kids, wives, dogs, gerbils, and the other trappings of real life, than those with giant microwave ovens. The dispatcher, a guy named Walter with a Polish last name that no one could pronounce, let alone spell , said that an enormous fire on a Christmas tree farm had resulted in several deaths, most likely members of a family.
"That's a case for local law enforcement," Bauer said. He glanced out the window at the Willamette River, a silver strand with a shoreline dotted with boat hulls. In the glow of the streetlights and the light of an awakening morning on the riverside path below his window, a man and a small boy rode by. Shiny new wheels sparkled in the light.
"Yeah," the dispatcher said. "You'd think so, but not after what a volunteer fireman found."
The little boy outside fell down and the father ran to pick him up.
"And what was that?" Bauer asked.
"The skeletal remains of a man in a uniform found in a grave near the barn."
"Uniform?"
"A Marine lieutenant's."
Bauer set aside his poor excuse for an English muffin.
"Still there?" the voice asked.
"Yeah. Do they know who the guy is?"
"Not yet, but there's more. A lot more, I guess. After the fireman called his buddies over, they found another grave. And another after that. The weirdest thing is that all--presuming there are no others--have been related in some way to the military. A few had some form of identification, and they have been confirmed as missing for some time. A long time. Years . One guy on the list has been AWOL, they thought, for almost seven years."
"What the hell?" Bauer said. "What do you mean presuming there are no others ?"
"They're up to six. You better get down there. Infrared has already identified four other hot
It was barely 5:30, Christmas morning, when Bauer got up, emptied his bladder, and shuffled to the kitchen. He resuscitated an English muffin by sprinkling water on it and running it through the toaster. Bauer pulled the metal ring from the top of a pop can, hooked the tab onto a long chain he had made, and sloshed Dr Pepper into the back of his throat. Warm, sweet. Not too bad . He didn't wait for coffee to brew. He turned on the radio to listen to Christmas tunes. Karen Carpenter's butterscotch alto filled the room, and for a blissful, melancholy moment he relaxed, closed his eyes, and conjured images of Christmas at home in Harper, an Idaho paper mill town just outside of Boise. He knew that in a few hours, his sisters would be converging on their mother's house with presents and a ham the size and weight of a bowling ball. Boise was only an hour from Portland by air, but that Christmas morning Bauer had holiday duty. He was low man on the totem pole.
A few minutes before six, the phone rang and his sleepy eyes popped open. It was the dispatcher calling. The man's voice was devoid of humanity or warmth. No Christmas cheer there.
"You'll need to get down to Spruce County," the dispatcher said. "Big to-do down there. Big snow dumping down that way, too."
The reason for the call was some sort of criminal activity, of course, not a weather report. And Bauer was summoned not because he was the most suited for the job, but because he had no family and the bureau director thought he'd be able to "hold down the fort" for a few days. Holding it down, as the agent in charge put it, was hardly a solo job. A handful of agents on a skeleton crew made sure the holidays went better for those with kids, wives, dogs, gerbils, and the other trappings of real life, than those with giant microwave ovens. The dispatcher, a guy named Walter with a Polish last name that no one could pronounce, let alone spell , said that an enormous fire on a Christmas tree farm had resulted in several deaths, most likely members of a family.
"That's a case for local law enforcement," Bauer said. He glanced out the window at the Willamette River, a silver strand with a shoreline dotted with boat hulls. In the glow of the streetlights and the light of an awakening morning on the riverside path below his window, a man and a small boy rode by. Shiny new wheels sparkled in the light.
"Yeah," the dispatcher said. "You'd think so, but not after what a volunteer fireman found."
The little boy outside fell down and the father ran to pick him up.
"And what was that?" Bauer asked.
"The skeletal remains of a man in a uniform found in a grave near the barn."
"Uniform?"
"A Marine lieutenant's."
Bauer set aside his poor excuse for an English muffin.
"Still there?" the voice asked.
"Yeah. Do they know who the guy is?"
"Not yet, but there's more. A lot more, I guess. After the fireman called his buddies over, they found another grave. And another after that. The weirdest thing is that all--presuming there are no others--have been related in some way to the military. A few had some form of identification, and they have been confirmed as missing for some time. A long time. Years . One guy on the list has been AWOL, they thought, for almost seven years."
"What the hell?" Bauer said. "What do you mean presuming there are no others ?"
"They're up to six. You better get down there. Infrared has already identified four other hot
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