Chapter 7

Dana madeit to the FBI forensics lab a little after eleven. It was a nondescript-looking building on 8th Street near the Bureau's headquarters. The interior was sparse and industrial with three black plastic chairs in the waiting room. Scarred beige walls added to the austere atmosphere as Dana made her way down the cold hallway to the only room with a light on at this hour.

She'd been expecting Jenkins, but she was surprised to find Officer Hartwell when she was buzzed through the swinging steel doors. He was accompanied by a uniformed officer she didn't know.

"Thank you for coming, Dr. Gray," Hartwell said. "This is Officer Lennox."

The young officer extended his hand, and Dana shook it, but her attention was on Hartwell. "I was told Dr. Raynard requested me."

"I did." Dr. Felix Raynard practically danced into the room carrying an evidence tray with the reverence of the Mad Hatter. "But the request came from the top," he said, giving a jaunty bow to Hartwell.

"I wanted to go through the proper channels," Hartwell clarified.

"Relax," Jenkins said. "This isn't an inquisition. We're all on the same team."

Dr. Raynard grinned, adjusting his thick round glasses. "Ah, it's always so good to get the band back together, isn't it?"

Dana had forgotten how quirky the brilliant doctor could be. Though his brilliance overshadowed his peculiarities, it seemed he enjoyed playing the part of his moniker.

Known proudly as the Alchemist to those who sought his talents in forensic specialties, Felix Raynard had a reputation of being a genius recluse who dwelled in the FBI's forensic lab.

His job wasn't that different from Dana's. They both cataloged death. Though she preferred her ancient victims to the Alchemist's barely cold ones.

Studying his unkempt appearance, and the way the large gray opti-visor atop his head made his frizzy white hair stick out every which way, Dana had to admit the Alchemist seemed even more eccentric than the last time they crossed paths.

She smoothed down her stray curls, briefly wondering if her own nickname conjured the same unconventional image among others in the Bureau. The Witch Doctor and the Alchemist.We're certainly a peculiar pair.

"Wait." Raynard's gaze bounced around the room. "Where's Agent Shepard?"

That's what I'd like to know.Dana ignored the question, her attention on the evidence tray. "Is that why I'm here?"

Hartwell stepped up. "Yes. This was found at a murder scene."

Dana looked at Jenkins. "Claire's rehab center?"

Jenkins and Hartwell exchanged glances, making Dana's blood boil. She hated the bureaucratic dance between different justice departments. "If this has to do with Claire, I can save you some time and agree to consult on this case, no matter whose jurisdiction it lands in."

Jenkins raised an eyebrow, signaling the ball was in Hartwell's court. The officer sighed and gave a nod. "The weapon was found at the Passages Rehabilitation Center crime scene tonight. We believe it's the murder weapon."

"Who was murdered?" Dana asked.

Again, Jenkins and Hartwell shared a glance. It seemed like Hartwell was about to answer but Jenkins cut him off. "The victim's identity is not being disclosed at this time."

"Then why am I here?" Dana asked.

Jenkins spoke up. "Hartwell believes we need your expertise on the weapon."

"A weapon like this is chosen for a reason," Hartwell replied.

Fighting her frustration, Dana donned a pair of exam gloves and approached the blade. She'd only agreed to help because of Claire, but now that she was here, the familiar tug of intrigue took hold. "May I?" she asked.

"It'd be my pleasure to embark on another expedition with you," Dr. Raynard quipped. Already gloved, he carefully opened the evidence bag and gently extracted the weapon, setting it on the gleaming silver exam table.

"Is it really a sickle?" Lennox asked.

Dana shook her head. "Common misconception. What you have here is a scythe."

"There's a difference?" Hartwell asked.

Dana nodded. "Quite a large one, historically speaking. A sickle has a more circular blade, a short handle and can be used with one hand, traditionally to reap wheat. A scythe's blade is flatter, more like a raven's beak. Its origin predates the sickle. It's a long-handled tool that requires the use of two hands. Wielded by the Grim Reaper, the scythe is synonymous with death. Many cultures believe the Grim Reaper to be ordained by God and put on earth to do his bidding. Vita est morte est vita."

"Life is death is life," the Alchemist translated.

"That's correct," Dana replied. "Though seeing the phrase inscribed on the blade itself is rare, and something I'd need to research further."

"A noble weapon with a noble history," the Alchemist revered.

"There's nothing noble about how it was used," Hartwell muttered. "You said longhandled. This one's only about a foot long."

Dana nodded, pointing to the jagged end of the wooden handle. "It's been snapped off here. Possibly on impact. Was the rest of it recovered at the scene?"

Hartwell shook his head but jotted down a note. "Not yet, but DCFD is still on scene containing the fire. I'll circle back when it's safe and see if I can recover it."

"Why the scythe?" Lennox asked. "I mean for the Grim Reaper."

"It's an apt tool for harvesting," Dana replied. "The scythe has always been meant for reaping, whether souls or crops. Each feeds its own end. It really just depends on who's wielding it. How was the blade used?"

"Haven't gotten the official ME report back yet, but if I had to guess COD…" Hartwell drew a line across his throat. "First cut was through the jugular. Quick and clean."

Dana nodded. "That's the traditional way a Reaper is taught to glean."

This time it was Jenkins who spoke up. "Glean?"

The Alchemist piped up. "Extracting a vessel of its soul."

"Exactly. Gleaning is a Reaper's word for killing," Dana explained. "They don't kill unnecessarily, they glean, or cull to rid the world of sinners."

"You're talking about Grim Reapers like they're real," Lennox said.

"Because they are. Or were," Dana amended. "There have been numerous accounts of religious culture adopting the lore and legends of Grim Reapers."

"Great, so we've got a killer who thinks he's some sort of Grim Reaper doing God's work," Hartwell grumbled.

"That's one possibility," Dana replied. "But I'd prefer to fully examine all the evidence before labeling this a religious killing."

Lennox huffed a laugh. "Too bad. A lunatic in a hooded black robe wielding a scythe would be easy to find."

"Actually, you might be right," Dana replied, her gaze pinning Lennox. "If someone went to the trouble of using this particular weapon in this particular way, they might also dress the part. The garb of Death, or the black mourning robe, dates back to the early fifteenth century and is believed to have been chosen to resemble the dark robes of the priests or monks who officiated at the death bed. But I wouldn't presume the murderer is a lunatic. Traditionally, Reapers follow scripture, not lunar cycles."

Mercifully Lennox was stunned silent, so Hartwell spoke up. "Thank you for your help, Dr. Gray," he said, snapping his notebook shut.

The gesture reminded Dana so much of Jake that for a moment she found herself looking for him in the small crowd gathered around the exam table.

No matter how much Dana wished Jake would appear, she knew this time she was on her own. Unwilling to leave without answers, she spoke up as the group began to separate. "Is there anything else you can tell me about the case? About Claire?"

"I'll get you up to speed," Jenkins interrupted, steering Dana out of the lab.

Dana's temperflared as she digested Jenkins' recap of how the case was being handled. She did her best to remember she was speaking to a high-ranking member of the FBI, not just a woman she'd fought alongside in the trenches. "Jenkins, are you really going to let some high-profile politician get this whole case brushed under the rug?"

"No one's brushing anything anywhere. But this case is complicated. The identities of patients at Passages Rehabilitation Center are confidential. Especially this politician's. It isn't public knowledge that he was there, and his death makes this a matter of National Security."

Dana didn't follow D.C.'s political drama the way most in the city did, but she understood enough to realize any political involvement would make things more difficult. "So, this wasn't random, you think the victim was targeted?"

"I'm not making any assumptions, Gray, but there's no telling where this case is going to land."

"I don't care where it lands. I care about Claire. She's out there, scared and alone."

"There's no evidence to indicate she's alone. Other patients are missing. They could be sheltering together."

"Or they could be …" Dana couldn't even bring herself to say it. Thinking it was terrifying enough. Dead. Claire could be dead.

Dana closed her eyes and pulled in a steadying breath, repeating her mantra.

One step at a time.

That's how she'd get through this.

It's how she'd solved her last three cases; it's how she'd find Claire.

Opening her eyes, Dana readjusted her glasses. Conjuring confidence, she let her mind brush against each of the facts she'd already learned. There were few besides the murder weapon.

The only sliver of solace was that this was most likely politically motivated. The fact that it happened at the rehab facility where Claire was could be merely coincidental—though Dana had her own beliefs about coincidences.

They didn't exist in science, and she'd yet to see them exist in her life.

Dana heard Jake's words in her head. Prepare for the worst, hope for the best.

She wanted him here so badly it physically hurt. But she knew whatever he was dealing with in Nevada must be important if he wasn't calling her back. Especially after her last voicemail.

"Jenkins, I can't sit around and do nothing. Let me help," Dana pleaded. "I know Claire. I know her habits, how she thinks, where she might go."

"As I've said, Metro PD and our agents are canvassing the areas nearest the facility. You've assisted with identifying the murder weapon. Now the best way you can help is to go home." Dana started to interrupt but Jenkins cut her off. "You're right, you know. The first place Claire would go is most likely somewhere familiar. Somewhere she feels safe, like your home. She could be there waiting for you as we speak."

Dana knew Jenkins was placating her, but she couldn't argue the logic. "Claire would call me."

"Patients at the rehab facility aren't allowed to have cell phones," Jenkins replied. "If Claire left in a hurry, she doesn't have a way to contact you. Go home, Dana. Wait for her there. If I hear anything I'll call you. But right now, the best thing you can do is let us do our jobs."