“New World Genetics, who else?”
Harrington nodded. He looked at the house, and his gaze went distant. “Anyone else?”
“No. The fact it exists is only known to a couple of people.”
“Can Anubis find each other long range?”
“I guess it’s possible for them to follow each other’s particle trails.” Reese had never really thought about it.
“What about Nash?”
“What do you mean?”
“Was he following something?”
Reese ran a hand through his hair. “No idea.” But by all appearances, he’d been going in a set direction.
“And of all the places Nash could have gone, why this location? There has to be a reason.”
Reese couldn’t argue.
Water soaked leaves attempted to ride the wind but wound up caught in the ruts cut into the ground. One of the forensic personnel used a pair of tweezers to pluck them out of the way before snapping a picture.
“And why leave by car?” The colonel watched the people move around the parking area.
Reese nodded in the direction of the driveway. “What if he took it because he didn’t leave alone? Someone lived here just like next door. The neighbor had been left in pieces, and this house is empty.”
The colonel dropped his shoulders and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and finger. “This day just gets better and better.” He took out his cell phone. “You think you can entertain yourself for a while? I need to make a call. We’re going to need more people and access to that satellite so we can track them.”
Reese didn’t bother reminding him numbers, like weapons, wouldn’t matter. He left the colonel while he dialed his phone and headed up the steps to the farmhouse. The two men standing guard barely glanced his way. Since no one stopped him, Reese went inside.
Two forensic personnel knelt on the floor, picking up bits of straw with tweezers. The one who stood and acknowledged Reese barely came to his waist. The woman pushed up her visor and held out a hand. “Beth Barnaby. Are you with the FBI?”
Reese ran a hand over the front of his sweater. “Uh, no.”
“Trash bag by the door.” She pulled a fresh set of booties from her pocket and handed them to Reese. “Well, you don’t look like military.”
“I’m…” What did Reese call himself? “A consultant for Colonel Harrington.” He dropped his old booties into the trash bag.
“You don’t sound too sure of that.”
“Well, I’m just going with what Harrington says, along with a very scary woman named Phillips.” He slipped on one bootie, then the other.
The technician on the floor looked up with wide eyes.
Barnaby huffed. “Better you than me. Hell, better you than anyone I know.” She waved a hand. “Feel free to look around but mind where you walk and don’t touch anything.”
Reese held up his hands. “I promise not to touch anything.”
“Good.” She eased herself back onto her knees and returned to collecting dead grass. The other woman continued to watch Reese until Barnaby said her name.
Reese stepped around them. There were no gouges in the floor of the farmhouse, but plenty of hay splinters. He followed the trail to the back door and opened the screen door. Half a muddy bare footprint stamped the top step leading inside. Reese compared it to the width of his shoe. Either it belonged to Bigfoot’s cousin or the owner was a minimum of six feet. Nash was a good six foot four.
A coffee maker, a cup on the counter, dishes in the sink. Plates with a blue motif of different roosters hung on the wall. Even the trashcan was boring. Reese returned to the living room. The bits of hay ended right where the women knelt.
Reese returned to the area near the front door. A table sat off to the left at the back of the fat leather sofa. A large glass bowl on the top had a wallet inside. Broken threads edged the corners, and the logo had faded to unreadable. He reached for it and caught himself.
The last thing he needed was to screw something up. He walked to the other side of the cozy room. A modest flat screen TV occupied the space near a window. Photos adorned the adjoining wall.