Archie glanced back at all the activity behind them, the trucks and equipment and people. The place stank with exhaustion and anxiety. All that work, and they were still at the mercy of the river’s whims.

Mary Riley handed him her card. “I’m taking him now, and getting some sleep. You can call me in the morning if you want to agitate him more.”

Archie was just tucking the card away when he heard his name. He could tell by the looks on his detectives’ faces that it was important. He turned to see Chief Eaton standing outside his command trailer, hailing Archie with an arm. Lorenzo Robbins stood next to him, towering over him a good foot.

There was good news and there was bad news, and Archie mostly dealt with the latter. He could recognize it at a distance—a reluctance around the mouth, a slope of the shoulders—and he could tell with one look that Lorenzo Robbins had bad news, and that the chief didn’t yet know what it was.

Archie hung his head and jogged over to them.

Chief Eaton was in full-dress rain gear, fancy cap and everything. But he got points for not being in bed. “You wanted him. There he is,” Eaton said to Robbins. “Now tell us what you’ve got.”

Robbins took a deep breath and looked at Archie. Somewhere under the bridge, the beeps of a backing truck sounded. “We’ve identified the toxin,” Robbins said. “But you’re not going to like it.”

Chapter 17

CHAPTER

17

He saw the picture of the boy on the news. He was alive. Wanted for questioning. The detective from the plaza was in critical condition. Poisoned, they said.

The other three were still listed as drowning victims. Flood-related tragedies. It happened. Eighteen people had died across the state since the flooding had begun. He had read about them all. Mudslides. Boating accidents. Cars swept off rural roads. The Herald always seemed to turn up breathless accounts from some witnesses or survivor. He had seen one story about an elderly man who had been swept away trying to rescue his wife after the creek surged on their farm. The neighbors saw him dive in after her. Heard her cry for him. Then she was gone. They said they could see his head above water for a while, looking at the spot where she had been. Maybe he was waiting for her to come up for air. But she never did. And then he went under, too. His three, they didn’t seem that special compared to that. To have a good story, you needed someone to tell it.

He thought about that as he prepared the tank.