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When Lee Morgan first saw the woman hanging in the tree, he thought she was a drunk, or maybe a homeless person who'd found a clever way to spend the night.

As a security guard for the Oklahoma City National Memorial, most of his job consisted of making sure drunks didn't pee in the reflecting pool and the homeless didn't try to set up housekeeping among the 168 empty chairs. The memorial was open-air, and tourists came at all hours of the day and night. Every now and again Morgan would come across someone praying at the fence at midnight, or staring at the lighted chairs at three A.M., and would shake his head at how terrorism had turned into tourism.

He'd just done the leg along the west side of the memorial and was circling back to the Survivor Tree, the big old elm that overlooked the site where the Murrah Building had actually stood. It was about a half-hour circuit if he did it at a deliberate pace without stopping, which he rarely did. He would occasionally stop to read the newspaper under the lights on the Harvey Avenue side, and now and then he would sit down on a bench and call his girlfriend. She was an overnighter as well, an ER nurse at Mercy Hospital.

At first he actually laughed at the woman in the tree. These people were nothing if not creative. "Hey!" he called. "Hey up there! Time to wake up!"

He took a few more steps, his boots echoing on the flagstone walk that led to the tree. As he drew closer, the shape began to define itself more and more, even in the weak predawn light.

"Hello!" he called, then stopped as if he'd run into an invisible barrier.

The way the woman was situated...it wasn't natural. At first he'd thought she was sitting on one of the low branches and dangling her feet.

"Oh, shit," Morgan whispered.

The first thing was her shoe. One of her sandals had slipped off and fallen to the ground. Morgan's eyes trailed upward. She was wearing jeans and a light-colored polo-type shirt, except there was a dark splash of a stain beside her left breast.

Morgan stumbled backward.

The woman was young and attractive and had a rope around her neck, the other end of it securely wrapped several times around the thick tree branch.

Morgan tripped on the flagstones and tumbled over the low chain-link fence that lined the sidewalk. He fell into the dewy grass, breathing hard. Somewhere nearby, he heard a car.

Hands shaking, he fumbled his cell phone out of its harness on his belt, then stopped. Who did he call? He started to simply punch in 911, then remembered that the local cops wouldn't have jurisdiction here. Federal, he thought. This is a federal reservation. Who, then? The FBI? The National Park Service, for God's sake?

In the end, he called his supervisor at ITB Security. The boss would know what to do. After the call, Morgan got back to his feet, but he couldn't make himself go any closer to the tree.

Morgan said a silent prayer, something he hadn't done in years. Then he settled in to wait, his eyes still drawn to the pretty young woman who had been both shot and hanged.

It had all happened so fast.

That was Sean's only thought as he sat in the car in the early June predawn, in a McDonald's parking lot not far from the Oklahoma City National Memorial.

Everything had happened too fast, and now he didn't know what to do. His hands shook a little, and he rubbed them together. They felt dirty.

The light was beginning to glow off to his left, beyond the state capitol building. He hadn't grown up in this city, and didn't even live here -- you couldn't call what he'd been doing here living -- but he'd come to appreciate it for what it was: a medium-size prairie city with clean air and nice people. A good place to settle down. His sister thought so.

Settle down, he thought. Not now. Not after today. Not anywhere.

Sean swallowed. His throat felt raw, as if he'd swallowed shards of broken glass. His stomach lurched again. Once they knew who the dead woman in the tree was, it would be a short leap to him...to his cover, and then to his real identity. For a moment he wasn't even sure who he was supposed to be, or why.

God, I wish I had a drink.

His hands shook a little more, and he felt again how dirty they were. The McDonald's behind him was finally open, and he went inside. In the bathroom, he washed blood off his hand, scrubbing far too long, before buying a cup of coffee at the counter and going back outside.

No, no booze this morning. His sister would be proud of that. He allowed himself a bitter smile.

His sister.

She had influence, she knew things, she knew people. She could help him, if he would let her.

No.

No, she couldn't. No one could help him.

Sean put the gold Miata into gear, listening to the engine. He had to try to think, to stay one step ahead. It shouldn't be too hard, he told himself. Not long ago he'd been a man who figured things out, who linked facts together...who could find people. That's how he'd gotten into all this, after all.

He pulled out of the parking lot, back onto Twenty-third Street, then swung up the ramp to Interstate 235. His sister would be really pissed off at him now. She loved this car.

"Sorry, Faith," Sean said, and merged into the early morning traffic.

Copyright © 2006 by Kent Anderson

Two weeks earlier

When the ax fell, Sean Kelly was ready for it. He'd known it was coming ever since he woke up in his car yesterday, somewhere in far north Tucson, with a pounding headache and no idea how he got there.

He'd already cleaned most of his things out of his desk, in his cubicle of the United States Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE), Tucson field office. Once upon a time, it had been the plain old Customs Service, back in the days before the Department of Homeland Security, back when the mission had been a lot clearer. He'd put all his stuff in a trash bag and it was lumped at the edge of the cubicle.

Appropriate, he thought, since my career has turned to garbage.

People had been staring at him all day, mostly silent. One of the veteran agents, a big ex-military guy named Dunn, had leaned in, shaken his hand, and said, "Really fucked up big time, didn't you, Irish?" But most of the others just looked at him. He couldn't tell what the looks meant, but settled on a mixture of pity and contempt.

His phone rang at one minute after nine A.M., summoning him to the office of the special agent in charge of the Tucson office. Sean walked unsteadily to the corner office of Sonny Weller, who looked nothing like a "Sonny." Weller was another big guy. Sean was six three, and Weller had a good four inches and sixty pounds on him, none of it fat. His head was shaved bald, but he sported a wheat-colored walrus mustache. His real first name was something like Devon or Emerson or Winslow, but no one in the office dared call him that. No one screwed around with Sonny Weller.

"Sit," Weller said. Sean could tell he was barely keeping his voice under control.

Sean sat. Weller made no move to close the office door. So he wanted the whole office to know what was about to happen. He had Sean's file centered on the desk in front of him.

"Six months ago," Weller said, "you sat right there in that same chair and promised me this shit was through."

No niceties, Sean thought. It was just as well. It would be over more quickly that way. He nodded.

"You were going to get straightened out. You were going to be back on track, like you were when you first came to this office."

"Let's get it over with," Sean finally said.

Weller barked out something that might have been a laugh. "Over with? Oh, it's over with, all right." He opened the file so violently that papers flew around the desk and he had to bend over to retrieve them. "Starts simple, doesn't it, Irish? Eighteen months ago, falling asleep in a briefing. Helms was sitting next to you and said you smelled like you'd gone swimming in Jack Daniel's. A few weeks later, you missed the briefing altogether. We had to reschedule an operation just to bring you up to speed. Your paper went steadily downhill. You conveniently forgot to do your paper on the Meléndez operation, and he walked. The SOB had been smuggling tons of illegal assault rifles across the border for two years. We spent a year and a half building the case with ATF. And he fucking walked, Kelly! Because you 'forgot' to fill out the proper forms."

"Sorry," Sean mumbled.

"Yeah, well. January of this year. You decided to party hearty and go get shit-faced before the op at Naco. Remember that one? The sixty illegals in the back of the cattle truck? We missed them, because you weren't where you were supposed to be. You were so out of it you drove down the wrong road and were twenty fucking miles away!" His voice continued to rise.

"Sonny -- "

"No, don't 'Sonny' me. I gave you more chances than you deserved. As for yesterday, you totally skipped the operation. Arivaca is the middle of a fucking war, Irish. It's the drug runners versus us versus the locals. Here we were, with this joint task force -- us, the Bureau, DEA -- doing what we're supposed to do, namely keeping this country's borders safe. DEA's been undercover with Ray Acosta in Arivaca for six months. We're ready for the raid, but see, our office's forward observer isn't there. You were supposed to be on the road to Acosta's place. You were to keep us aware of his movements. But no, you were drunk off your butt, in your car -- nearly a hundred miles away!" Weller took the file folder and threw it across the desk at Sean.

"There's no need -- " Sean began, picking up papers.

Weller crashed his fist down on the desk. Outside the open door, people were staring. "By not providing that support, you endangered the lives of other officers, Kelly. We're damn lucky no one got killed. Never mind that Acosta got across the border. And you know what? They're all screaming at me. Everyone from the local U.S. attorney all the way up the line to D.C. War on drugs, war on terror, interagency cooperation...all that shit. They want my head, and I'm handing them yours."

Weller leaned back and was silent a moment.

"How bad?" Sean finally asked.

"Administrative suspension without pay, pending a termination hearing," Weller said. "The hearing is in thirty days, but you're done. There's no way you won't be canned at this point." He leaned forward and dropped his voice. "And you know what's really shitty about all this? You're a smart kid, you have good instincts, and you're good at putting things together with only a little to go on. Most of the guys in this office aren't half as smart as you are." He leaned back again, chair squeaking. "We all like a drink now and then, Irish. Most of us have even been rip-roaring drunk a time or three in our lives. But by God, you put people's lives at stake. You put other officers' lives in jeopardy because of your...problem. You promised me you'd see the damn counselor, even go to AA."

"I did," Sean said.

"What, once?"

"Twice."

Weller nodded. "Right. Now get going. You'll get a certified letter with a notice of the personnel action and the hearing date. I can't support you anymore, not when you put lives at stake."

Sean nodded. He stood up and numbly offered his hand to Weller. Weller stared at the hand for a moment, then shook it.

"Your weapon and your creds," Weller said.

Sean nodded again. He didn't normally wear the gun around the office -- in fact, he only carried it during actual operations -- but he'd known what was coming, so he'd brought it with him this morning. He handed the SIG Sauer nine-millimeter, holstered, to Weller, then passed him the leather case with his Department of Homeland Security credentials.

Sean walked out of the office into silence. Halfway back to his cubicle, someone said, "Hey, Irish, want to hit happy hour?" He didn't recognize the voice and didn't care. He just felt tired.

Sean said nothing. He picked up the black trash bag with the stuff from his desk. He stopped in to say good-bye to Dunn, and to A. J. Helms, who'd become his closest friend in the office. Helms just looked stricken. He'd been the one who arranged for Sean to go to AA, had driven him to the meeting. Sean felt a twinge of guilt -- he'd even deceived his best friend. Instead of going to the meeting, Sean had sneaked out the back door, then came out the front when Helms picked him up an hour later, without having ever gone into the actual meeting.

His grandfather Seamus Kelly, who'd been a beat cop in Chicago, was fond of saying, "There's no good Irish cop worth his salt who didn't like a good drink now and again."

Right, Sean thought. Now and again.

He hoisted the garbage bag onto his shoulder and walked out into the high desert air of southern Arizona. He had no idea where he was going.

Copyright © 2006 by Kent Anderson