“Hand’s prints weren’t in the system?” Larabee asked.

“He’d never been arrested, served in the military, or held a job that required a security clearance.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “The FBI suspected Hand and the Patriot Posse were planning a bioterrorist attack like the one in Oregon, this time with ricin.”

“Yes.”

“That’s why you were treading eggshells back in 1998.”

“We couldn’t risk setting them off.”

“But it never happened.”

“No.”

“How would Hand get hold of ricin?” Larabee asked.

“We think he may have been producing the toxin himself.”

“Ricinus communis grows in North Carolina?”

“Easily.”

We all thought about that.

“So how did Hand end up in a barrel of asphalt?” I voiced the question in everyone’s mind.

“Accidentally poisoned himself? Fell on his head? Got taken out by his pals? We honestly don’t know.”

“What happened to Cale Lovette and Cindi Gamble?” I asked.

“Same answer.”

“Was either of them working inside for the bureau?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Uh-huh.”

I held Williams’s eyes with mine. He didn’t blink.

The small office filled with tense silence. When Williams broke it, his voice was elevated a microdecibel. It was as excited as I’d seen him.

“The long shot paid off, Dr. Brennan.”

“Sorry?” The quick segue lost me.

Williams cocked his chin toward his partner.

One word and I knew why Randall spoke so rarely. His voice was high and nasal, more suited to a Hollywood hairdresser than an FBI agent.

“Alda Pickerly Winge has owned a home on Union Cemetery Road in Concord since 1964. The property is less than a quarter mile from the Circle K from which the call was placed to your mobile last night.”

I felt centipedes crawl my arms.

“Alda is related to Grady?” Stupid. I knew the answer to that one, too.

“He is her son.”

“You think Grady Winge called in the tip on Eli Hand?”

“Winge’s truck is currently parked at his mother’s house. We believe it has been there all night.”

“Who’s Grady Winge?” Larabee asked.

“A Speedway maintenance worker who saw Cindi Gamble and Cale Lovette argue with a man, then enter a car shortly before they disappeared.”

Again the troublesome tickle in my brainpan.

What?

“A ’sixty-five Mustang,” Williams added.

Suddenly, the tickle exploded into a full-blown thought.

I shot upright in my chair.

“A ’sixty-five Petty-blue Mustang with a lime-green decal on the passenger-side windshield. That’s what Winge told Slidell and me at the Speedway last Monday. Can you check his statement from 1998?”

The specials exchanged one of their meaningful glances. Then Williams lowered his chin almost imperceptibly.

Randall got up and went into the hall. In moments he was back.

“A ’sixty-five Petty-blue Mustang with a lime-green decal on the passenger-side windshield.”

“You’re sure that’s what he said?”

“That was his statement verbatim.”