FBI Headquarters
Washington, D.C.

Maggie waited for Keith Ganza to finish the work she had interrupted. He was used to her barging into his lab at FBI headquarters, whether invited or not—usually not. And although he grumbled about it, she knew he didn’t mind, even late on a Saturday afternoon when everyone else had already called it a day and left.

As the head of the FBI crime lab, Ganza had seen more in his thirty-plus years than any one person should ever see. Yet he seemed to take it all in stride, unruffled—unlike his outward appearance—by any of it. As Maggie waited and watched his tall, thin frame hunched over a microscope, she wondered if she had ever seen him in anything other than a white lab coat, or rather a yellowed-at-the-collar, wrinkled lab coat with sleeves too short for his long arms.

Maggie knew she shouldn’t be here—she should wait for the official report. But four-year-old Abby’s tenacity had only strengthened Maggie’s resolve to find out who was responsible for Delaney’s murder. Which reminded her—she pulled out a string of red licorice Abby had given her and began unwrapping it. Ganza stopped at the sound of crinkling plastic and glanced up at her over the microscope and over his half glasses that sat at the end of his nose. He looked at her with a familiar frown, one that remained in place, whether he was delivering a joke, talking about evidence or, in this case, staring at her impatiently.

“I haven’t eaten today,” she offered as an explanation.

“There’s half a tuna salad sandwich in the fridge.”

She knew his offer to be generous and sincere, however, she had never gotten used to eating anything that had spent time on a shelf next to blood and tissue samples.

“No, thanks,” she told him. “I’m meeting Gwen in a little while for dinner.”

“So you buy licorice to tide you over?” Another frown.

“No. I got this at Agent Delaney’s funeral.”

“They were handing out red licorice?”

“His daughter was. Are you ready for me to interrupt you yet?”

“You mean you haven’t already?”

Her turn to frown. “Very funny.”

“I’m getting the file to A.D. Cunningham first thing Monday morning. Can’t you wait until then?”

Without answering, she folded the long string of licorice, holding it up in front of her to measure, then pulling it apart at the fold. She handed him one section of candy. He took the bribe without hesitation. Satisfied, he left his microscope, began nibbling at the candy and searched the counter for a file folder.

“It was potassium cyanide in the capsules. About ninety percent with a mixture of potassium hydroxide, some carbonate and a smidge of potassium chloride.”

“How difficult is it to get your hands on potassium cyanide these days?”

“Not difficult. It’s used in a lot of industries. Usually as a cleaning solution or fixative. It’s used in making plastics, some photographic development processes, even in fumigating ships. There was about seventy-five milligrams in the capsule the kid spit out. With little food in the digestive tract, that dose causes almost an instantaneous collapse and cessation of all respiration. Of course, that starts only after the plastic capsule is dissolved, but I’d say within minutes. Absorbs all the oxygen out of the cells. Not a pretty or fun way to die. The victims literally strangle to death from the inside out.”

“So why not just stick their guns in their mouths like most teenage boys who commit suicide?” Both images bothered Maggie, and Ganza raised his eyebrows at the impatience and sarcasm in her voice.

“You know the answer to that as well as I do. Psychologically it’s much easier to swallow a pill than pull the trigger, especially if you’re not so keen on the idea to begin with.”

“So you don’t think this was their idea?”

“Do you?”

“I wish it were that simple.” She ran her fingers through her hair, only now noticing the tangles. “They found a two-way radio inside the cabin, so they were in contact with someone. We just don’t know who. And, of course, there was a huge arsenal underneath the cabin.”

“Oh, yes, the arsenal.” Ganza opened a file folder and shuffled through several pages. “We were able to track the serial numbers on about a dozen of the weapons.”

“That was fast. I’m guessing they were stolen instead of bought at some gun show, right?”

“Not exactly.” He pulled out several documents. “You’re not going to like it.”

“Try me.”

“They came from a storage facility at Fort Bragg.”

“So they were stolen.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then what exactly did you say?” She came to stand at his side, looking over his arm at the document he had extracted.

“The military never knew they were missing.”

“How is that possible?”

“They retired the weapons long ago, sent them to storage. Whoever got ahold of them would have had to have high-level clearance or some type of official access.”

“You’re kidding!”

“It gets even more interesting.” He handed her an envelope stamped Document Department and motioned for her to open it.

Maggie pulled out several sheets of paper, which included a land title from the state of Massachusetts for ten acres of property, as well as for a cabin and docking rights to the Neponset River.

“Great,” she said after scanning the copy. “So the land was donated to some nonprofit organization. These guys really know how to hide their tracks.”

“Not that unusual,” Ganza said. “A lot of these groups filter weapons and money, even property, through bogus NPOs. Saves them from paying taxes and allows them to thumb their noses at the government they profess to hate so much. That’s usually all they have the courage to do.”

“But this group is into more dangerous stuff than tax evasion. Whoever is behind this, this maniac’s willing to sacrifice his own men…boys, really.” Maggie flipped through the pages. “So what in the world is the Church of Spiritual Freedom? I’ve never heard of it before.” She looked back up at Ganza, who shrugged his bony shoulders. “What the hell did Delaney get in the middle of?”