Free Echo of War by Grant Blackwood Page A

Either they got behind schedule and had to scuttle it, or they didn’t think it through.”
    â€œNeither makes sense,” Oliver said. “They put a lot of preparation into this. We know they were out of the house by midnight, and the trip across the bay’s only a few miles. Even with a small trolling motor it wouldn’t have taken more than an hour. Then again, who knows? Maybe they got lost in the fog.”
    â€œOr they scuttled it to lose physical evidence.”
    Like blood, McBride thought. This wouldn’t be the first time a kidnapping had gone bad right out of the gate. Blood in the boat would likely mean Amelia Root was dead; otherwise there would be no reason to hide the evidence, for if pushed during negotiations the kidnappers could provide proof she was still alive. In fact, McBride had found a little blood left at the scene tends to put the spouse or parent in a more … malleable state of mind for a ransom call.
    â€œThey don’t strike me as either sloppy or crude,” McBride said. “She’s too valuable; they wouldn’t have let anything happen to her.”
    â€œI agree. Then what the hell is the deal with the boat?”
    â€œI don’t know.” Something else, maybe, something we’re not seeing, McBride thought.
    Twenty minutes later, the lead technician called them over to the dock. The team on the fire road had found something. With Steve in the lead, they walked across the meadow, through a copse of maple and oak, and emerged onto the fire road to where another of the technicians was kneeling in the dirt.
    â€œTire tracks,” he called. “A van or truck, probably. We’ll get elimination casts from the neighbors.”
    â€œHow far’s the boat ramp?” Oliver asked.
    â€œAbout a hundred yards that way.”
    â€œSo, let’s put it together: They park here and split up. Three go to the dock to steal the boat, three more to the ramp to wait. They link up, do their business at the Roots’, come back to the ramp with Mrs. Root, and put her in the vehicle.”
    McBride picked up the narrative. “While they’re doing that, a couple of them take the boat into the bay, scuttle it, and swim back.”
    Oliver looked to the tech who’d found the tire tracks. “How soon will you know something?”
    â€œThere’s not enough to cast, but I can high-res the digital pictures. By the end of the day I should have a generic match. I’ll take grass samples, too. See how it’s crushed along here?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œDepending on the rate of drying, I might be able to nail down the time.”
    â€œHow close?”
    â€œNo more than an hour.”
    McBride whistled through his teeth. “You can do that?”
    â€œQuamico’s got a greenhouse with over six hundred varieties of grass. If you mow it, we’ve got it. Between weather conditions, soil type, chlorophyll content, we can tell a lot.”
    â€œCan you help me get rid of my dandelions?”
    â€œSorry.”
    Oliver’s cell phone trilled. He answered, listened for a minute, then disconnected. “Quantico. The boot casts from the Roots’ are ready.” He turned to Steve. “How long do you need for your casts?”
    â€œAnother half hour and they’ll be ready to move.”
    â€œWe’ll meet you there.”
    Three house later they were standing in one of the FBI’s laboratories at Quantico staring at a computer monitor. Displayed side-by-side on the screen were digital pictures of boot print casts taken from the Root estate, the dock in Dames Quarter, and the fire road.
    â€œNo doubt about it,” said Steve. “Same boots. We were even able to match the stride pattern and heel pivot on most of them. These are our guys.”
    â€œDid you match them against the guards?” asked Oliver.
    â€œYeah, they’re all eliminated. Here’s the interesting thing: See