When the Wind Blows Read Online Free Page A

would look normal if he was being watched,
     or if someone happened to search the room. It was possible, even likely, that Frannie O’Neill or someone else would be watching
     him.
    The cabin was modest, not overly decorated, but surprisingly homey and warm. There was a Rumford fireplace built with local
     granite. Hammered tin lanterns covered most of the mantel. A cozy sheepskin was thrown on the bed.
    He pulled down the shades and quickly undressed. Then he turned off the lights and climbed into bed. Slid the rifle underneath.
     The gun was part of his cover story as a hunter, but he didn’t mind having it around as extra protection. It couldn’t hurt.
    I’m supposed to be in Nantucket on vacation. Cooling my jets; getting my head on straight. May be I should have gone there.
     But I didn’t, did I? Second time I screwed up on that.
    August 9, 1994, was the first screwup.
    He closed his eyes, but he didn’t sleep. He waited.
    With his eyes shut tight, he remembered a private talk he’d had with the assistant director of the FBI. He’d gone over the
     head of his superior to get the meeting.
    He remembered the highlights, as if it had happened yesterday.
    The assistant director had a
look
on his face, as if he were incredibly superior, and he couldn’t believe his time was being wasted by a field agent.
    “I’m going to talk, you’re going to listen, Agent Brennan.”
    “That would seem to defeat the purpose of the meeting,” Tom had said.
    “Only because you don’t understand the purpose of the meeting.”
    “No sir, I guess I don’t.”
    “We are trying to cut you some slack because of a tragedy in your personal life. You are making it hard for us, damn near
     impossible. Hear this, and hear it well. Let your wild-goose chase go. Let the witch hunt end today. Let the case with the
     missing doctors go, or we will let you go. Understood?”
    Kit lay in the dark, and he remembered the meaning, if not the exact words of the assistant director. And yes, he understood.
    So here he was in Colorado. He’d obviously made a choice. He’d gone with conscience over his career.
    He was a goner.

Chapter 7
    I T WAS QUARTER PAST ELEVEN that night when he threw off the sheepskin cover and climbed out of bed.
    He hurriedly dressed in the dark. A black T-shirt and black warm-up pants pulled over his hundred and eighty pound frame.
     A black ball cap. High-topped Converse—Larry Bird’s brand.
His own
brand since he’d been ten years old and running the roads and playground hardtop of South Boston.
    There was a full moon shining outside. He scanned the tall pine trees, looking from left to right through the bedroom window.
     He repeated the procedure until he was sure that no one was out there—watching, waiting for him to appear.
    He opened the cabin door and slipped outside into the crispy, cool night air. He felt a little like Mulder in the
X-Files.
No, actually he felt a lot like Mulder—and Mulder was a fricking nutjob and a half.
    Kit Harrison made his way back down the winding forest trail toward the animal hospital. He knew that Frances O’Neill had
     a room there, and that she’d lived in the clinic since the death of her husband, David. He knew about Dr. David Mekin, too.
     Actually, he knew more about David than about his wife. David Mekin had studied embryology at MIT in the eighties. Then he’d
     worked in San Francisco. Kit had a dozen pages thick with notes on Dr. Mekin.
    He did know a few things about Frannie. He’d done some homework. She had a veterinary degree (D.V.M.) from the Colorado State
     Teaching Hospital at Fort Collins. CSU was also the national center for wildlife biology, and she had done a minor in wildlife.
     The school had a good reputation, especially for surgery. She was the founder of a local “pet loss support group.” She’d had
     a thriving veterinary practice until her husband’s death. She’d been the family breadwinner. Lately, she’d let the business
     end of her