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The GPS had recalibrated and he soon found himself on the right path. When he arrived he wasn’t tired. In fact the long ride had both relaxed and energized him. He decided to get to work.
    He’d called ahead and reserved a room at the only motel in the area. It was a few notches below a Motel 6, but Puller didn’t care. He’d spent years of his life in tin cans in swamps and deserts with a bucket for a shower and a hole in the earth for a bathroom, so this particular crevice in the wall was like the Ritz.
    The door to the office was locked, but on the third ring of the buzzer, the door opened. Later, after she checked him in, the sleepy old lady in hair rollers and ratty robe standing behind the counter asked him what he was in town for.
    As he palmed the room key Puller said, “Vacation.”
    That had made the old woman laugh.
    “You’re a slick one you are,” she said, her voice lisping through a large gap between her front teeth. She smelled of nicotine, garlic, and salsa. It was an impressive combination. “And big.” She gazed up at him from her five-foot-one-inch perch on earth.
    “Any place you’d recommend to eat at?”
    Army Rule Number One: Find a dependable place for chow.
    “Depends,” said the woman.
    “On what?”
    “On whether you mind coal dust in your eggs.”
    “Can’t be any worse than depleted uranium in your morning coffee. And I’m still standing.”
    She cackled. “Then any place in town will do. They’re all about the same, honey.”
    As he turned away she said, “You married?”
    “You looking?” he replied, turning back to see her gap-toothed grin.
    “If only, honey. If only. Get a good night’s sleep.”
    Puller headed out. Sleep was not on his agenda.

CHAPTER
    6
    P ULLER HAD CALLED the police officer in charge of the investigation a number of times on the drive to West Virginia and left multiple messages. He hadn’t received a response. Maybe the locals were not going to be as cooperative as his SAC had suggested they would be. Or maybe they were just overwhelmed with four bodies and a massive forensics puzzle. Puller could hardly blame them if they were.
    The motel was a one-story courtyard configuration. On the way to his room Puller passed a young man lying unconscious on a strip of grass near a Pepsi machine that was chained to a metal post thirty feet from the motel office. Puller checked the man for injuries and found none. He made sure he had a pulse, smelled the liquor on his breath, and kept going. He carried his bag into his twelve-by-twelve room. It had a bathroom so tiny he could stand in the middle and easily touch the opposite walls simultaneously.
    He made some coffee from his own stock and using his portable percolator, a habit he’d picked up while on assignment overseas. He sat down on the floor with the file spread in front of him. He eyed the numbers, slid out his cell, and punched them in.
    The voice was female, groggy. “Hello?”
    “Sam Cole, please.”
    “Speaking.”
    “Sam Cole?” he asked again in a louder voice.
    The voice became rigid and more alert. “Short for Samantha. Who the hell is this? And do you have any idea what time it is?”
    The local accent thickened with the level of anger, Puller noted.
    “It’s 0320. Or twenty after three for civilians.”
    Long pause. He could see her wheels spinning, translating this to something comprehensible.
    “Damn, you’re Army, right?” Her voice was now husky, attractive.
    “John Puller. CID special agent from the 701st MP Group out of Quantico, Virginia.” He recited this in staccato fashion as he had a million times before.
    He envisioned her sitting up in bed. He wondered if she was alone. He didn’t hear any male mumbles in the background. But he did hear the percussion of a Zippo followed by a few seconds of silence. Then there was an intake of breath followed by an elongated exhale of smoke.
    “You miss the surgeon general’s warning, Ms. Cole?”
    “No, it’s right here on