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  Although Chambers routinely groused about Beckstrom and other aspects of their job that he found annoying, Sam had noticed a troubling change in the foreman’s behavior lately. He rarely joked around anymore and what little banter he did engage in seemed subdued and somewhat forced. He hardly ever finished a cigarette before crushing it out and lighting another one as he labored over his shift report. Sam didn’t know what was bothering Chambers, but hoped the old guy just had a case of pre-retirement jitters and not some new worrisome medical condition. Whatever the problem, it was serious enough that he’d asked Sam to come in an hour early so they could talk without Beckstrom nosing around.

  Sam’s shared office space with Pete Chambers was no coincidence. After a string of sabotage attacks at the dam, Sam had been sent by the F.B.I. as an undercover agent to investigate. The consensus at the Portland bureau was that the attacks were instigated by a handful of local Indians opposed to the dam. But the worry in Washington—fostered by J. Edgar Hoover’s close association with Senator Joseph McCarthy—was that the Communist Party had infiltrated the Corps and organized the attacks as part of a much larger effort to stop construction of the dam. The successful completion of The Dalles Dam represented a multi-million-dollar investment in the future, not only of the Pacific Northwest but of the United States as well. According to Senator McCarthy, it was a future that the Communists would do anything to prevent. Sam doubted that Chambers was a Communist or involved in any way. It wasn’t a decision he made lightly, given his “trust no one, suspect everyone” rule, but sometimes he just had to go with his gut.

  Chambers’ pickup wasn’t in its usual spot in the parking lot so Sam figured he’d gotten delayed at the job site and would arrive shortly. That thought died quickly when he spotted Beckstrom’s government-issued rig parked in the lot. Sam’s gut twitched uneasily as he tested the hood with a flattened hand. Cold. Fearing the worst, Sam strode into the office.

  Beckstrom sat at Chambers’ desk talking on the telephone. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I understand. Yes, sir. Our full cooperation.” His youthful face was drawn and haggard; his shirt and trousers rumpled as if he’d slept in them. When he hung up the receiver, his hand shook as he lit a cigarette. “That was the chief engineer on the phone.”

  “What’s up?” asked Sam.

  “All hell is about to break loose.”

  “Care to be more specific?”

  “Pete Chambers is dead.”

  Sam slumped into his chair. “Aw, hell. What was it? His heart again?”

  “We should be so lucky,” Beckstrom said, eying Sam through a smoky haze.

  Building a dam was a dangerous business and accidents sometimes happened. And when they did, schedules got derailed. In Beckstrom’s world, a heart attack would cause him fewer problems than a work-related fatality. Chambers was as careful as any, but with a bum knee, he wasn’t always steady on his feet. It wasn’t improbable that he’d fallen to his death. “How’d it happen?” asked Sam.

  “He was murdered.”

  “What? How do you know that?”

  “I got the call last night. He didn’t show up for his shift so I told a couple of his men to go to his house and check on him. That’s when they discovered the body. Chambers had been stabbed. Quite a violent attack, judging by the amount of blood at the scene. The Feds are already on their way here.”

  Since Chambers was a federal employee, the FBI would investigate the murder instead of the local police. Sam should’ve gotten a heads-up call from his bureau chief, but Sam’s position at the dam was tentative at best. The murder of one of the Corps’ employees he’d been sent to watch was not good news, any way you looked at it. There were bound to be serious repercussions for Sam. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Who’s the special agent-in-charge?”

  Beckstrom ground out his cigarette in the ashtray on Chambers’ desk. “I must look like shit,” he said, straightening his tie. “Been here most of the night.”

  “The investigation, Phillip. Who’s the agent?”

  “Don’t know his name, but he’s from Portland.”

  A Portland agent was sure to know Sam. Sure to have at least heard about him: Samuel R. Matthews, the special agent-in-charge whose stellar career had taken a nose dive. A screw-up so bad that he got an agent under his command seriously wounded and his own partner nearly killed. Not many in the bureau would have missed hearing about that. Why he hadn’t been fired outright was a mystery to Sam. His experience was a textbook case, a cautionary tale for all concerned. He was just grateful that he’d been given a second chance and hadn’t risked asking why.

  “I’ve been designated as the FBI’s point man at the dam,” Beckstrom said proudly. He checked his wristwatch. “In fact, the agent is due here any minute to meet with me.”

  Sam pitied the agent. If the man was any good at all, he’d quickly take Beckstrom’s measure and banish him from the case. Sam donned his hard hat, tucked a set of blueprints under his arm and stood up.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “To work.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  If Beckstrom thought Sam was going to stick around and watch him ingratiate himself with the FBI, he had another think coming. “Watch me,” Sam said. But the trailer door opened before he could make his getaway.

  Guilt is a powerful force. You can push it down deep inside, but it’s always there, ready to punch you in the chest when you least expect it. All it takes is something ordinary—a brief glance, a certain food, or a melody on the radio—for regret to strike hard and fast. When you come face to face with the flesh and bones reminder of what you’ve done, the misery you’ve caused, the blow is almost overwhelming. Your pulse races, your throat tightens, your vision dims, and your body numbs as if paralyzed. For Sam, the debilitating symptoms were triggered the moment Jess Harmon walked into the trailer.

  Harmon had been his best friend and partner until the night everything went sideways. Most of his injuries were internal, but the jagged scar running the length of his left jawline was visible proof of the pain Harmon had suffered. Except for the unsightly mark and a slight limp, the forty-five-year-old looked much the same as before. His crew cut was a little grayer at the temples and he’d lost some weight, but his dark eyes still reflected a razor-sharp intelligence. At six-foot-six, he was an imposing figure under most circumstances but in the trailer’s tightly confined space, he had a powerful presence.

  Harmon surveyed the room and its occupants with a swift once-over and then focused on Sam. Unable to endure the intense scrutiny, Sam stumbled backward a step and the roll of blueprints he held fell onto the floor. Although certain that his rubbery legs wouldn’t hold him upright a moment longer, Sam waved off the steadying hand Harmon offered him. “I’m okay,” he insisted, walking back to his chair unaided.

  Harmon retrieved the blueprints and tossed them onto the desk. “It’s good to see you again, old buddy.”

  Sam had visited his former partner numerous times while he was hospitalized, but Harmon had been in a coma for most of that time. When he did regain consciousness, he was medicated to the hilt and too groggy to register Sam’s presence. Despite repeated phone calls and letters later, Sam hadn’t seen or heard from him since the incident. Distancing yourself from the man responsible for your pain and suffering was understandable. Jess Harmon had every right to hate Sam—which is why his friendly, “old buddy” greeting didn’t ring true. Both men had worked undercover many times and were experts at deception. Whatever motive was behind Harmon’s affable manner wasn’t clear, but Sam did not believe for a minute that Harmon was glad to see him.

  Beckstrom cleared his throat. “Uh, you two know each other?”

  Harmon acknowledged Beckstrom w
ith a brief nod. “Ran into Matthews a time or two out at Bonneville Dam.” He offered his hand to Beckstrom. “Special Agent Jess Harmon with the FBI,” he said.

  “I’m Phillip Beckstrom, Lead Engineer and your designated point man here.”

  Sam collected himself with some deep breaths while point man and agent shook hands. Although Harmon’s sudden appearance had been awkward and unnerving, Sam quickly mastered his emotions. He couldn’t change his past but he could control his present. Standing, he tucked the blueprints under his arm once again. “Well,” he said, “I’ll get out of your hair now so you two can get down to business.”

  “Where’re you off to?” asked Harmon.

  “Construction site. I need to hold a tailgate meeting with my crew.”

  “It better be about the dike,” Beckstrom said. “I refuse to accept any more of your delaying tactics.” That the engineer would try to make himself look good at Sam’s expense wasn’t surprising. Beckstrom probably took Harmon’s cocked eyebrow as disapproval of Sam. Maybe that was his intention now, but when they were partners a brow lift meant something entirely different. It was a signal they’d give one another whenever they’d encounter an ass-kisser or self-important blow-hard.

  “Don’t want to add to the delay,” Harmon told Beckstrom. “But I’d like to speak to your foreman before he goes.”

  “But . . . but I don’t see how Matthews could help. I’m the point man and I know—”

  “It’s not about the case,” Harmon interrupted. “Just some bureaucratic paperwork left over from his time at Bonneville. Shouldn’t take long.”

  Beckstrom seemed relieved. “I understand completely,” he said, frowning at Sam. It wasn’t much of a stretch for Beckstrom to believe Sam had neglected to do something.

  Whatever Harmon wanted to say to Sam, he didn’t want an audience. He pointed to the door with his thumb. “We’ll just step outside so we won’t bother you.”

  Harmon cupped a hand against the wind and lit a cigarette as soon as they exited the trailer. He smoked Lucky Strikes, which had been Sam’s preferred brand, too, when they worked together. The pungent tobacco smell stirred a familiar craving, but he passed on the cigarette Harmon offered. “I’ve quit,” he said.

  “And the drinking? Have you quit that, too?”

  So that was it. There was no bureaucratic business that needed a private conference. Harmon just wanted to rub Sam’s nose in his problems. “Is that why you’ve been put in charge of Chambers’ murder instead of me? Are you here to tell me I’m fired?”

  “Easy, Sam. That’s not it at all. The chief still wants you to work undercover. Nothing has changed in that regard.”

  “Then why the dig about my drinking? Why this little tête a tête?”

  “Forget I mentioned the drinking. I just wanted to let you know up front that I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry?”

  “You know, for not responding when you reached out to me.”

  He sounded sincere, but Sam had worked with the man long enough to recognize the tension behind the words. “No need to make amends,” Sam said. “I screwed up and you paid for it.”

  “But,” Harmon said, eying Sam, closely. “My wounds have healed. I suspect you’re still suffering from yours.”

  Sam opened his pickup door. “I’ll survive,” he said. “Good luck with the investigation.”

  “Hold on a minute. What can you tell me about the vic? I understand Chambers was a foreman, too.”

  “A month away from retirement.”

  Harmon winced. “Any idea why someone would want him dead?”

  His questioning of Sam was standard procedure. As partners, they’d asked the same questions when meeting with the families and friends of other homicide victims. Sam could predict exactly what Harmon would ask next. “Let me save you some time,” he said. “Chambers was well-respected and liked by his crew and the others who worked with him. He had a good reputation and was experienced and skilled at what he did. Report writing gave him fits, but he always got it done.

  “He had two main interests in life: construction and fishing. He didn’t talk about his personal life much, but he did let it slip that his wife had left him many years ago. They had no children and as far as I know, he didn’t have any other relatives living in the area. You’d be better off talking to his crew than to waste time tracking down family members. He played poker with the same buddies every week and won as often as he lost. He didn’t appear to be having any financial difficulties, but you’d have to confirm that with his bank. Although he tipped back a few now and then, he didn’t drink on the job. He was overweight by at least fifty pounds and had several serious medical issues, including a heart attack last year.

  “He seemed worried about something, which I attributed at first to health or impending retirement concerns. But he seemed increasingly anxious in the last few days. I never questioned him, figuring that if he wanted me to know what was bothering him he’d tell me. And, in fact, he asked me to come in early today so we could talk but . . . well, we never got the chance.”

  “What’s your gut telling you about his murder?”

  “He must have seen or heard something that he wasn’t supposed to,” Sam said, as he climbed into his truck. “For what it’s worth, I never suspected him of having any Communist ties or being behind the sabotage attacks.”

  “What about my point man?” asked Harmon.

  “Jury’s still out.”

  Harmon grabbed the door handle. “Wait. I have a proposition for you.”

  Sam waited.

  “I’d like you to work this case with me.” The absurdity of the situation was not lost on Harmon. He smiled sheepishly and added, “I know it sounds crazy after all that’s happened, but I need your expertise.”

  Sam cocked his eyebrow.

  “Don’t give me the look,” Harmon said without rancor. “We made a dynamite team before—”

  “Before everything changed.” Sam wrenched the door out of Harmon’s grip. “You’ve got your point man waiting inside the trailer.”

  Harmon shook his head. “You know that hound dog ain’t gonna hunt.”

  “Maybe, but Beckstrom’s all puffed up about his new role. He’d never cotton to my involvement, not to mention what our chief would have to say about it.”

  “No one has to know. You’d still be undercover, just the way we used to do it.”

  The protection of federal installations from sabotage or other destructive acts was more effective with a man on the inside. Although opposition to The Dalles Dam was more intense than what he’d encountered at other sites, it remained to be seen whether that figured into Chambers’ murder. Getting back in the action was tempting, but Sam didn’t trust Harmon’s motives.

  “I’m not being charitable, if that’s what you’re thinking,” said Harmon. “The bureau chief hand-picked me for this assignment. I’m in line to take over his job when he leaves for his new position in D.C.” He ran a finger along his scarred jaw. “Almost getting killed in action has its benefits. I’m a bonafide hero around the bureau now. Solving a high-profile murder case would . . . well, let’s just say it would push me to the top of the candidate list.”

  In other words, it was payback time. “I see.”

  “Do you? Maybe you owe me this one, but I don’t think you’re seeing the total picture. Helping me helps you, too”

  “How’s that?”

  “For Christ’s sake, Sam! The FBI is your life. You can’t tell me that you like being stuck out here chasing Indians.”

  “Don’t forget communists.”

  Harmon tossed his cigarette on the ground and crus
hed it out with his shoe. “Hell, we both know Hoover and McCarthy are wound too tight about the Communist angle.”

  “That may be true, but I’ve still been tasked with finding out if there is a federal employee at the dam aiding and abetting the Communist Party.

  “Which you can still do. But I wager that the sabotage has nothing to do with the communists or a mole in the Corps, and everything to do with a bunch of renegade Indians hell-bent on making as much trouble as they can. You need to be back in Portland doing real investigative work. Solving Chambers’ murder is the first step.”

  “Even if all that were true, and I’m not saying it is, how is working off the grid on a murder case going to help me?”

  Harmon smiled, “Because when I make bureau chief—and trust me, I will—my priority out of the gate will be to get you promoted and back in Portland where you belong.”

  Like that was going to happen, thought Sam. Not even the bureau chief had that much pull. As Chambers would’ve said, Harmon’s promise was nothing but “a load of B.S.” but it really didn’t matter. Helping Harmon solve Chambers’ murder couldn’t purge the guilt festering in his belly like a tumor, but it might make it tolerable.

  “Okay,” Sam said. “I’m in.”

  Chapter Eleven