Hamilton decided that the situation down there could no longer be handled by long distance. He needed to go himself. In hindsight, he wished he had jetted to Louisiana immediately after receiving that first SOS call from Coburn. Since then, the shit had only gotten thicker.
He placed a series of calls and secured clearance from his superiors. He asked for a squad of agents trained for special ops. “No less than four men, no more than eight. I want them at Langley, geared up and ready to board the jet at 02:30.”
Everyone with whom he spoke asked why he was flying men and equipment down there when he could use personnel from the district office in New Orleans.
His answer to all of them was the same. “Because I don’t want anyone to know I’m coming.”
When her doorbell rang, Janice VanAllen ran to answer it, mindful that she was wearing only her nightgown, but uncaring about her lack of modesty. She had her phone in her hand and a look of concern on her face when she pulled open the front door.
Two strangers looked back at her. One was male, the other female, but their dark suits and serious expressions were practically identical.
“Mrs. VanAllen?” The woman palmed a leather ID wallet and extended it toward Janice. Her partner did the same. “I’m Special Agent Beth Turner, this is Special Agent Ward Fitzgerald. We’re from Tom’s office.”
Janice’s chest rose and fell on several short breaths. “Where’s Tom?”
“May we come in?” the woman asked kindly.
Janice shook her head. “Where is Tom?”
They remained silent, but their stoicism spoke volumes.
Janice made a keening sound and gripped the edge of the door for support. “He’s dead?”
Special Agent Turner reached for her, but Janice jerked her arm back before the woman could touch her. “He’s dead?” she repeated, this time on a ragged cry. And then her knees gave way and she crumpled to the floor.
The two FBI agents lifted her and supported her between them, half carrying her into the living room where they deposited her on the sofa. All the while Janice was screaming Tom’s name.
Then Agents Turner and Fitzgerald began asking her questions.
Is there someone we can call to come be with you?
“No,” she sobbed into her hands.
Your minister? A friend?
“No, no.”
Is there a family member who should be notified?
“No! Just tell me what happened.”
Can we make you some tea?
“I don’t want anything! I only want Tom! I want my husband!”
Is your son…
Clearly they knew about Lanny, but didn’t know how to phrase a question regarding him. “Lanny, Lanny,” she chanted mournfully. “Oh, God.” She buried her face in her hands and sobbed. Tom had loved their son. As hopeless as it was that his love would ever be returned, Tom’s love for Lanny had never wavered.
Special Agent Turner sat down beside her and placed a comforting arm across her shoulders. Fitzgerald had moved away and was now standing across the room with his back to them, speaking softly into a cell phone.
Turner said, “You’ll have the full support of the bureau, Mrs. VanAllen. Tom was well liked and respected.”
Janice threw off her arm and wanted badly to slap her. Tom wasn’t respected at all, and, to hear Tom tell it, few of his fellow agents had liked him.
“How did it happen?”
“We’re still trying to determine—”