"Why... why? He, he left with the flower delivery girl, his niece in her van. Is there a problem? Are they alright?"
"I'm sure they are," resounded the second agent. He grimaced, "But I don't think we are." They quick-stepped out the church and the circus began anew.
"Hello," answered Jack from home on the same Sunday at four p.m.
"You're not going to believe this," sputtered agent Whitaker calling from the office. "Marc Atwater has gone missing right under the noses of at least thirty agents."
"When?"
"Between ten-thirty a.m. and twelve noon Pacific time."
"I'll be there in fifteen minutes and we'll review it," directed Jack. "No need to call in Rachel. She probably knows more than we do."
That upcoming Thursday Jack and Bruce read a hot release stating the good reverend Marc Atwater was found hanging in the library of the seminary from which he graduated. "Time to fire up Speedy the jet, Bruce. Rachel, would you please call ahead and ask all those nice policemen and special agents to preserve the scene for us and back off."
"I'm sure they know you are coming and will protect the evidence," she returned while now giving respect to her fellow case workers.
"Any witnesses?" as Jack viewed the hanging body.
"Not to the actual crime," answered the Tacoma Police lieutenant. "It must have occurred between two and four a.m. last night. That's what the M.E. estimated as the time of death. A night-owl student who had his windows open above the alleyway said he thought he heard the buzz of those old, antique electric motorcycles but he didn't give it any concern."
Crenshaw asked, "Have you given Atwater a preliminary once over?" The officer indicated 'yes'. "Did he defecate or urinate while dying?"
The lieutenant was surprised at the odd question. "No I don't believe so but you are most welcome to stick your nose in and make your own determination." Jack ignored his sarcasm. "We, at the Tacoma P.D, are treating this as a homicide. Look at those footprints. This man was not alone."
"Yes, we saw them. Please thank your officers for preserving the scene so well."
Bruce took pictures of three distinct, different sets of boot prints. They were muddy and clearly defined. "I don't see any evidence of a physical struggle," perceived Jack.
The lieutenant rebuked, "Three to one against a man of the cloth? You're joking, right? There's no question he was overpowered, bound and hung. Most likely by that band of anti-religious, upper-class, spoiled brat, drug users we've been having so much trouble with lately. They'll be the first ones we bring in for questioning!"
"Uh, huh," grunted Jack as he inspected the dead man's face and wrists and didn't detect any bruising or cuts. He shook the officer's hand, "Thanks a lot; I hope we haven't inconvenienced you too much." Jack and Bruce threaded their way through a hundred lawmen and C.S.I. techs waiting outside. "Let's get home. I don't want to talk here." Bruce smirked.
Three hours later in the Obama National Park situated between Maryland and D.C. "Did you have your car swept?" inquired Crenshaw.
"Yes, sir. The Bureau said they did it but afterwards I had a buddy from high school who works for a private detective agency check it also. He found a g.p.s. transmitter and an audio transceiver. I think the C.I.A. placed them and the Bureau knew of it."
"Those people make you feel like we're the enemy not the good guys. Let's walk," directed Jack. They found a nearby bench and Crenshaw activated a multi-level, short-range scrambler. He leaned forward, "Keep your voice low." His experienced eye scanned the area. "It's my opinion Marc Atwater wasn't murdered and the evidence even after they're finished doctoring it to suit their needs, will reflect the same." Bruce raised his eyebrows. "It was an assisted or permitted suicide. There were no bruising or resistance marks. His bowels and urinary tracts were vacated prior to the hanging which demonstrates a controlled voluntary act before his demise."
"Maybe he was terminally ill and they came to comfort him," suggested the young F.B.I. agent.
"Sorry, I don't believe that was the case. His brother for certain would not have killed him but would have assisted or at least not hindered it. I feel it was with respect and love they watched Atwater die. Marc probably requested their presence. People don't want to die alone. I'm confident the lab and his medical history will confirm my analysis."
The Why bothered Bruce. "Assuming everything you said is true, we still have to find the motive."
"I believe that Atwater's Code name: Pandora was the motive."
"Then they should have kept their stupid mouths shut!" steamed Bruce. "Imagine driving your only brother, a man of God, to suicide. First there was Johannsen's 'suicide by cop' in Colorado and now him. What is the matter with these people?"
"Yeah, I suspect they were seeking another scientific opinion and it back-fired on them," quantified Jack. "The note in his pocket gives another clue."
"I apologize to my flock. I was misinformed at the highest levels," recited Bruce. "He felt his brother had tricked him?"
"No, I believe the 'misled' correlated to the location of his passing... the library, the foundation of his religious learning," reasoned Jack. "I believe Pandora destroyed his faith and purpose for living. He was an unmarried man with no children and he chose not to continue."
Bruce let out a deep breath, "Anything else, boss?"
"Yes, a lot more. I suspect Louis Atwater selected his constituents for their expertise in their respective fields... in addition to being trusted friends." He counted off on his fingers, astronomy, mathematics, physics, chemistry, biology. "He needed experts to verify or challenge and disprove what he observed with the Starfinder. It's apparent to me his brother concurred with his conclusions and opted to check out. I don't believe our dismal band of three will be seeking further verification. They're going to run now and hide for the rest of their lives... however long or short that may be."
"I assume you don't want any of your suspicions released," assessed Bruce.
"Hell no. Officially, they're just theories at this point. Our initial assignment hasn't changed. We're to pursue and capture. If we apprehend all of these men together and they voluntarily explain Pandora it would be fine and dandy by me."
"Would it?" asked Whitaker. "Do you really want to know?"
"I doubt I'd understand even if they told me," speculated Jack. "Now for the good news. I think I know where they are going. I believe they'll continue northwest. When and where they cross into Canada will tell us if they're going to the Northwest Territories or Alaska."
"How will we know?" asked Bruce. "Should we blockade all the routes leaving Washington State?"
"No, that would be easy to evade. They'd have a lead bike which would signal back to the trailing other two and all of them would turn back before they hit the roadblock or go off-road and disappear into the countryside." Bruce's face reflected, 'Then how?' "All vehicles are Pic-recorded as they cross the border. This is done by both the U. S. and Canadian Border Patrols. Can you find us a reliable contact on the Canadian side who will pass us info quietly and discreetly of a three pack cycle crossing? It should occur within the next twenty-four hours."
"Can do, sir! I know just the man in C.B.P. Comm."
"And he'll keep it under his hat?" verified Jack.
"His hat?" repeated Bruce. "Oh, retain nondisclosure. Yes, you know the Canadians are not enthused about the U.S. manhunt... especially after we arrested their Prime Minister for drug trafficking last year."
"Yes, I remember that. He was carrying a small amount of cocaine for his own personal use and some fool on our side made in big deal out of it," reflected Crenshaw. "Of course the charges were dropped. But it still amazes me, you step on someone's toes then don't understand why they don't come running to help when you have a problem. It seems we haven't learned that lesson in four hundred years... Let me know what your contact says a.s.a.p. I have a good hunch."
Ten hours later. "My friend at the C.B.P. reports a group of three just entered into Canada by crossing U.S. state road n
ine at Sumas," informed Bruce.
"This great news," asserted Jack. "Now we need just one more favor from your friend. Would he please tell us if they exit on Yukon One or Yukon Two into Alaska? This may take two to four days. If they cross where I expect, I'll be pretty sure of their destination."
Bruce, excited at this determination squeaked, "Where?"
"Prudhoe Bay. It's a port on the Beaufort Sea. As far as shipping goes it's only accessible May through September; the same applies for electracycles." Again, Jack saw Bruce's puzzled look and explained. "I served in the Merchant Marines four years and we put in there a few times to unload supplies for the upcoming winter. That's where the Alaskan pipeline begins. There are three groups of people who reside there: the oil company workers, the Inuit, or First Americans to you... and seasonal bikers."
"I thought the pipeline had gone dry and the Prudhoe Bay outpost was a ghost town since we evolved away from fossil-fuel energy eighty years ago," reasoned Bruce.
"It's pretty much a ghost town that's true," agreed Jack. "But oil is still pumped from there during the summer, a small fraction of what they did in the past. I believe it's used for some kind of research. As far as I know that single pipeline is the sole active source left in the U.S. Sounds like a good question for the television show: Did you Know? doesn't it?"
Fifty-three hours later.
"My Canadian friend reports the trio