The only advantage to an enforced sedentary lifestyle was that it gave him all the time he wanted, and then some, to indulge in his private passion: history. Specifically, American military history. In recent years he had read avidly and deeply. He could specify—down to the regiment, or squadron, or sometimes even the company—what turned the tide of battle at places as diverse as Bunker Hill, Gettysburg, or Midway…although, reserved by nature, he rarely put such erudition on display. In particular, he was fascinated by the technical aspects of war, and how developments such as the rifled barrel and Norden bombsight could play as much of a role in victory as courage or strategy did.
He reached the door to the lab and—alone and unobserved—paused to take a few breaths. His armchair avocation had occasionally helped in his investigative work. More than once, lying in bed and unable to sleep, his mind drifting over some detail of Thermopylae or World War I, he would find—among the litter of chaos and death—some insight into an elusive case he’d been tasked with. He would jot his thoughts down on a pad, and then check on them when he went in to work the next day. Normally they didn’t pan out; now and then, however, they started a chain of mental dominoes falling.
Such a thought had occurred to him this evening, and he’d jotted down the particulars, as usual. But he hadn’t gone to bed: he believed this particular revelation couldn’t wait for the morning.
He pressed the keypad, and the lab door unlocked with a hiss of escaping air. It was almost pitch black inside, of course, with only the red exit signs for light. He stepped in, felt around with his hand for the bank of switches, flicked them on. Ahead lay the usual rat’s nest of unopened shipping boxes Lathrop allowed to pile up, lining both walls and obscuring the view of the main lab around a corner and to the left. The place stank, too. All forensic labs stank, to various degrees, of chemicals and fluids and decaying things, but this was worse than the others of Morwood’s acquaintance: there was a vague aroma of food, reminiscent of liverwurst, that in this context was revolting. He understood why Corrie didn’t like working with Lathrop: not only was he an old fussbudget, but he kept his lab in vile condition. He reminded himself to send out a gentle memo to that effect in the morning.
He stepped forward, past the stacks of boxes, toward the bend in the passage. Ahead, he could make out the shadowy set of light switches that would illuminate the lab itself. He found himself smiling at the thought of Corrie. She had a special kind of moxie: not studied or forced, but a natural instinct to lower her head and charge, that—
There was a blur of motion, gray upon black, in his peripheral vision: it was so rapid that, secure location or not, all Morwood’s instincts shouted danger. He began to turn, but fast as lightning a hand slipped up beneath his arm, then seized the back of his head in a half nelson as solid as iron. Morwood opened his mouth to yell, dropping the box while at the same time raising his elbow to strike back at his attacker, but this move was anticipated and he felt himself shoved violently forward against a metal packing shelf. As he choked, the wind knocked out of him, Morwood felt the burning sensation of a needle being driven into his neck, at the scalp line. Abruptly, the viselike grip slid away, freeing him. Regaining his breath, Morwood turned, preparing to launch himself at the intruder. But even as he did, he felt a peculiar weakness shiver down his spine, and then out to his limbs. His muscles grew slack, then—with horrible rapidity—unresponsive. His legs gave out and he crumpled to the floor, unable even to stop his head from slamming against the concrete.
He was paralyzed: unable to move, unable to work his jaw or even blink his eyes. As he lay there, dazed by the blow to his head and the suddenness of his attack, he noticed the rest of the lights coming on. A moment later, a figure came into view, looking down at him: a man in his thirties or forties with chestnut-colored hair. He was wearing a dark, conservative suit of the kind favored by the FBI. Morwood, frozen, saw an expression of both curiosity and concern on the man’s face. He knelt and placed two fingers briefly against Morwood’s neck. Then the man raised a latex-gloved hand and, very gently, closed Morwood’s eyes.
As he lay—immobilized yet fully aware of his surroundings—Morwood heard the man’s footsteps recede into the deeper spaces of the lab. But the man, and his sudden attack, were already less critical to him than they’d been a minute before: the paralysis had now spread to Morwood’s pleural cavity, and his breathing—a burden at the best of times—turned into shallow gasps.