Chapter 4 - The Door That Opened Itself
The garage door shuddered overhead. Its motor had been dead for months, yet the metal panels began lifting inch by inch.
Owens stepped between me and the street. "Inside the vehicle, ma'am."
"My bag," I said. It held Marcus's bracelet pouch, my medication, and a hard drive he'd hidden inside a paperback before deploying.
Price caught my expression. "Is the bag mission relevant?"
"Potentially."
He nodded to Owens. The sergeant retrieved it while the medic guided me into the SUV. No shouting, no theatrical guns pointed at my family. Just disciplined people moving fast because someone else had already made the situation dangerous.
The door reached waist height. Beneath it lay a plain black shipping case I had never seen. A green indicator blinked on its handle.
Raymond swore. "That's not mine."
"Then don't touch it," Price said.
We pulled off the driveway. Through the rear window, I saw my mother trying to follow, slippers sliding on the icy pavement. For the first time that morning, she looked frightened on my behalf. Or perhaps she was frightened of what she'd helped invite into the house.
"How far?" I asked.
"Secure medical screening first," Price said. "Then the briefing."
The medic, Captain Leah Ortiz, clipped a monitor onto my finger. "Any pain? Bleeding? Dizziness?"
"Only the usual nausea and a family worth writing a medical paper about."
She almost smiled. "Pulse is high. That's understandable."
Price handed me a sealed folder. On the cover was Marcus's task-force designation, BLACK HARBOR. Under it: STATUS REASSESSMENT—DO NOT PRESUME DECEASED.
I couldn't open it for several seconds. "They held a funeral," I said. "They gave me a flag."
"The command believed he was dead. Some still do."
"And you?"
"I believe somebody wants you to think he's alive. That isn't the same thing."
The distinction hurt worse because it was fair. Hope could be bait. My former job had taught me that with terrible efficiency.
I opened the folder. Inside lay a grainy image of a prisoner seated against a concrete wall. His face was bruised, partly turned from the camera. His left hand rested on one knee.
Marcus had broken his ring finger in college. It healed crooked.
The finger in the picture was crooked too.
Then Ortiz pointed to a fresh red message on Price's tablet.
"Major," she said, "the transmission has a second line."
Price read it once, then passed it to me.
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CLAIRE MUST NOT TRUST THE MAN WHO BROUGHT HER OUT.
