Amanda said, “The Mexicans have a stranglehold on the H flowing into the suburbs. Black tar is mostly used by minorities. In Macon, this means African Americans. The price point is on par with crack in the mid-1980s. Ragnersen isn’t a big dog in the trade. He’s established a niche market.”

Faith had her notebook out. She said, “Beau’s serious bank comes from pills, but not what you’re thinking. Antibiotics, insulin, statins—legitimate medications that people need but can’t afford. There’s a huge black market for it in Macon. Lots of uninsured people with chronic medical conditions. Macon PD picked him up twice with pills in his glove box. Unmarked Ziplocs. They assumed opiates. May of 2017, the lab result came back with Metformin and Beau’s record was cleared. The second time, February 2018, it was something called gabapentin. It’s used to treat a lot of things, but mostly nerve pain. The judge kicked him with time served.”

Amanda took over. “Macon PD suspects that Ragnersen is also an on-call medic—courtesy of his Army training, I would assume. He mostly works with the local gangs. If you get shot and don’t want the police asking questions at the hospital, he’s your man.”

Faith said, “Okay, I’ve got a wild hair on this one.”

Amanda waited.

“The Wells Fargo bank where Martin Novak was apprehended was just outside of Macon. One of Novak’s guys was shot in the belly. We were told in the meeting yesterday that there was no way the guy could’ve survived the gunshot wound without medical intervention.” She waited for Amanda to pick up on her train of thought, but when she didn’t, Faith asked her directly. “Do you think Beau Ragnersen got the bullet out?”

Amanda passed an autopsy report to Faith. “Sebastian James Monroe, aka Merle, the man who was killed by Will at the car accident, showed extensive abdominal scarring from a previous gunshot wound, likely received within the last two years. The report says he was patched up by someone with medical knowledge—a veterinarian or a surgical nurse.”

“Or a former special forces medic.” Faith snapped her fingers. “Jackpot. That puts Monroe at the Wells Fargo, which ties him to Novak. This is proof that Novak is connected to the IPA. You’ve got to tell the FBI. They can rain hellfire down on this thing.”

“Everything you’ve told me is either speculation or wishful thinking,” Amanda said. “The FBI has already been informed of your theory. They remain unconvinced.”

Faith tossed the report onto the pile. “Of course they do.”

“I want to make this very clear to both of you,” Amanda said. “Our focus is on finding Sara and Michelle Spivey. That’s it. The larger conspiracy pieces are not in our purview. The marshals have custody of Martin Novak. It is not the job of the GBI to tie Novak to the IPA. The FBI is investigating the bombing. It is not the job of the GBI to tie the IPA to the bombing. We are working an abduction and kidnapping case.”

Faith said, “So, we hammer everything but the nail?”

“Listen to me.” Amanda tapped her desk for attention. “Why do I have to keep reminding you of Waco and Ruby Ridge? The FBI has dealt with these paramilitary, white nationalist organizations far longer than we have.”

“Yeah, they’ve made them too white to fail.”

“Faith.” Amanda was clearly trying to hold in her temper. “We need to take a page from the history books. Do you want the GBI to turn Dash and the IPA into a group of martyrs that inspire the next generation of domestic terrorists, or do you want us to slowly, methodically work the case and bring about a solid conviction?”

Will didn’t give a shit about building a case. He was going to find Dash because that was how he would find Sara. “Where is Beau? Is he here?”

Faith waited for Amanda to nod her permission. “He’s cooling off downstairs.” She told Amanda, “On the plus side, we’ve arrested him for assaulting an agent. Beau wasn’t happy about being yanked out of bed in the middle of the night. He punched Zevon hard enough to break his nose.”

The middle of the night.

The phrase woke up Will’s brain. Beau hadn’t been arrested on a whim. Amanda had brought him in while Will was sitting on his couch waiting for the alarm to go off so he could do his fucking job and find Sara.

Amanda asked, “Wilbur, do you have something to say?”

He had a lot to say, but he settled on, “I want to talk to him.”

“I’m sure you do.”

Inside one of the evidence bags, Beau’s cell phone screen flashed with a notification. Faith turned her head to read, “It’s an email—gmail account with random letters and numbers. The subject line is ASAP, but that’s all I can see with the screen locked.”

Amanda stood up from her desk. She took her jacket off the back of the chair and slipped it on. “Faith, bring his phone.”

Will opened the door. He kept his hand tight on the knob, fighting against the spin in his eyeballs. Amanda walked ahead of him, BlackBerry out, thumbs moving across the keys. Will’s vision turned rickety as he followed her down the hall, which had rolled out like a giraffe’s tongue. The fluorescent lights were strobing. Or he was having a stroke.

“You look like shit,” Faith hissed. “Either go home or ask Amanda for the other half of that pill.”

Will gritted his teeth, but that only made his headache worse. The lights were the problem. Someone had turned them up too high.

“You can barely walk straight.” Faith was no longer using her inside voice. “If you want to help Sara, then you need to look like a human being. Take the fucking pill.”

Will kept his fingers to the wall as he walked. She was worried about him. She always yelled when she was worried. He should probably acknowledge that in some way. “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are, dumbass.” Faith used her teeth to rip open the evidence bag. Beau’s iPhone X dropped into her hand. It was the bigger kind that didn’t have a home button. Will guessed the black tar heroin and pill trade was pretty lucrative.

Amanda opened the door to the stairs. “Faith, I need you to do another meeting for me this afternoon.”

Faith muttered under her breath as she trundled down the stairs behind Amanda. She was examining Beau’s phone. The screen was still locked. The case was black rubber with a corrugated grip. She peeled away the corners to see if there was anything hidden between the phone and the case.

Nothing.

The door opened below them. Two agents stood at the bottom of the stairs. They waited until Amanda was down before going up. Each one lifted his chin at Will, he guessed as a sort of recognition for what he was going through. Sara was the only reason they even saw him. Will had never felt a sense of camaraderie with anyone in this building aside from Faith and Charlie. Then Sara had started working here and after fifteen years, Will suddenly belonged.

Amanda was already halfway down the hall. Will had to lengthen his stride to catch up. She opened the door to the viewing room, but didn’t go in. She nodded for Faith to continue down the hall.

She told Will, “The FBI took Hurley into custody. They’re moving him out of state. We won’t get another bite at him. The bombing is a federal investigation. So long as the FBI keeps insisting there’s no connection to the IPA, we’ve got Dash all to ourselves.”

“We need to run social security numbers and—”

“It’s being handled, Will. We’ve been on it since last night.” Her eyes narrowed. “Are you up for this?”

He went into the viewing room. The lights were off. His headache instantly backed off a notch. He stood in front of the two-way mirror with his hands in his pockets. He stared at the man he assumed was Beau Ragnersen. The former soldier was slumped over the table with his cuffed hands gripped together. A chain ran through a metal ring on the table. Two plastic chairs were across from him. His head was down. Sweat rolled down his face. He had been arrested at least twice before, but that was Macon PD. A man who had cornered the market on desperate sick people knew the difference between wrangling with the locals and coming up against the full force of the state.

Faith opened the door. She said, “Hey, asshole.”

Beau looked up.

Faith showed him his iPhone. The facial recognition software scanned Beau’s features and unlocked the screen.

“Fuck!” Beau’s wrists jerked against the chains. The table was bolted down. All he could do was kick a chair into the wall.

On the other side of the glass, Will heard a muffled thunk. The walls inside the interrogation room were paneled in thick acoustic board so that the microphones could catch every sniff, cough or mumbled confession.

Faith was smirking when she came into the viewing room. She told Amanda, “The ASAP email to Beau’s phone says, ‘Meet at regular spot 4pm today’, then there’s a long list of medications with quantities. ‘10-Tobrex. 10-Vigamox. 5-Digoxin. 5-Seroquel. 20-Hydrocortisone cream. 10-Erythromycin. 5-Lamisil. 5-Phenytoin. 10-Dilantin. 10-Zovirax. 10—’”

“Wait a minute.” Amanda was looking over Faith’s shoulder. “Hydrocortisone. Erythromycin. Lamisil. Phenytoin. What do the first letters of each word spell?”