‘That van there,’ she let me know. ‘Radio, some local-yokel FM dial with a celebrity talent named Jezebel who tells moving stories about life and her crippled son and his three-legged dog named Sport. And another radio over there. And that Ford Escort over that way is some fucking son-of-a-bitch newspaper. Probably some tabloid out of D.C. Then we got the Post.’ She pointed at a Honda. ‘So look out for her. She’s the brunette with legs. Can you imagine wearing a skirt out here? Probably thinks the guys will talk to her. But they know better, unlike the Feebs.’
She backed up and grabbed a handful of latex gloves from inside the supertruck. I dug my hands deeper into the pockets of my BDUs. I had gotten used to McGovern’s diatribes about the biased, mendacious media, and I barely listened.
‘And this is just the start,’ she went on. ‘These media maggots will be crawling all over the place because I already know about this one here. It doesn’t take a Boy Scout to guess how this place burned and all those poor horses got killed.’
‘You seem more cheerful than usual,’ I said dryly.
‘I’m not cheerful in the least.’
She propped her foot on the shiny tailgate of the supertruck as an old station wagon pulled up. Pepper the arson dog was a handsome black Labrador retriever. He wore an ATF badge on his collar and was no doubt comfortably curled in the warm front seat, going nowhere until we were ready for him.
‘What can I do to help?’ I said to her. ‘Besides staying out of the way until you need me.’
She was staring off. ‘If I were you, I’d hang out with Pepper or in the truck. Both are heated.’
McGovern had worked with me before and knew if I was needed to dive into a river or sift through fire or bombing debris, I was not above the task. She knew I could hold a shovel and did not sit around. I resented her comments and felt she was somehow picking on me. I turned to address her again and found her standing very still, like a bird dog pointing. She had an incredulous expression on her face as she remained fixed to some spot on the horizon.
‘Holy Jesus,’ she muttered.
I followed her stare to a lone black foal, maybe a hundred yards due east of us, just beyond the smoky ruins of the stables. The magnificent animal looked carved from ebony from where we stood, and I could make out twitching muscles and tail as he seemed to return our attention.
‘The stables,’ McGovern said, in awe. ‘How the hell did he get away?’
She got on her portable radio.
‘Teun to Jennifer,’ she said.
‘Go ahead.’
‘Take a look maybe beyond the stables. See what I do?’
‘Ten-four. Got the four-legged subject in sight.’
‘Make sure the locals know. We need to find out if subject is a survivor from here or a runaway from somewhere else.’
‘You got it.’
McGovern strode off, a shovel over her shoulder. I watched her move into the stinking pit and pick a spot near what appeared to have once been the wide front door, cold water up to her knees. Far off, the aloof black horse wavered as if made of fire. I slogged ahead in soggy boots, my fingers getting increasingly uncooperative. It was only a matter of time before I would need a toilet, which typically would be a tree, a mound, an acre somewhere in what was sworn to be a blind with no men within a mile.
I did not enter the remaining stone shell at first but walked slowly around it from the outside perimeter. The caving-in of remaining structures was an obvious and extreme danger at scenes of mass destruction, and although the two-story walls looked sturdy enough, it would have suited me better had they been pulled down by a crane and trucked away. I continued my scan in the bright, cool wind, my heart sinking as I wondered where to begin. My shoulders ached from my aluminum case, and just the thought of dragging a rake through water-logged debris sent pain into my back. I was certain McGovern was watching to see how long I would last.