Across the ceiling rippled the drunkard’s chaotic dance of red, orange, and blue waves of light. These patterns ebbed and flowed with their collisions giving rise to additional colors. Smaller sources of unnatural hues added to the kaleidoscope of illumination, contrasting the darkness of the moonless night. Ice crystals spread at the edges of the window, near a vent, with each blast from the air conditioning. Formation of these fractal patterns occasionally finding assistance from sustained mountain gusts moving across the ice-encased snow laid down over the previous week. These blasts of wind complemented the sympathetic cascade of humming from the equipment in the room, drowning out all but the loudest street noises. This perfect balance of sound and color shattered as a smartphone on the nightstand burst to life, its backlit screen and intrusive ringtone stirring the occupant. Slowly, a slender arm emerged from under the overstuffed duvet. Its fingers fumbled but managed to silence the intruder before tossing it away. As the device landed on the bed, it burst back to life.
“Someone had better be dead,” came the gravelly voice from under the pile of down. “Just a second,” it repeated, followed by a clearing of the throat, as the arm reemerged searching for the annoyance that moments ago had been cast into the folds of materials making up the fluffy abyss. As the index finger made contact, the rest of the hand followed. With a fluid motion, the device was grabbed and returned to the mass of the duvet and pillows at the head of the bed. “Do you have any idea what time it is?” blasted the voice from under the covers into the void of the room as much as the phone. “Yeah. Around 8:30 p.m.,” a familiar voice from the phone retorted. “You need to get your ass out of that apartment and down to the car I’m sending. It’ll pick you up in about ten minutes. Oh. Don’t forget to pack your full kit.” “What is it now? Along those lines, why should I do anything?” “I need you in Fort Collins in less than two hours, or I’m going to have a dead coed on my hands.” “Wait? What do you mean a dead coed in Fort Collins?” “She isn’t dead. At least not yet— hopefully. Car should be there in nine. Get your stuff. We can talk on your ride. Oh— there is likely to be media. Make sure you dress professional this time.” With that, the line and light from the phone went dead. “Dress professional?” she muttered back. “What does that even mean?” Her legs and arms fought to untangle themselves from the coverings as she moved her body free from the embrace of the bed. “Whatever. Lights!” Her hands rushed to cover her eyes with a pillow as the darkened dancing colors became an approximation of a bright summer day. “Dim lights!” she yelled through the pillow. As the glare became manageable, Lauren Oliver pulled the pillow from her deep brown eyes. She stood, slipping free from the covers.
Looking around the room packed with various electronics, including two server mini racks, she searched for the last position of her go-bag. “How convenient,” she nodded towards the oversized messenger bag resting on a pile of books by the bedroom door. She scanned her phone to check the time, before glancing down at the oversized grey sweatshirt with the stretched neck hole and the matching shorts. “OK. This probably won’t pass for professional.” Stumbling across the floor to her closet, she began tossing clothes onto the bed, many of which would eventually find their way into a bag. She let out a groan. “I need to change my number.” * * *
“Ms. Oliver?” The young man, with a serious haircut and an equally serious look, extended his hand. She pulled her hoodie tight against the latest canyon blast moving across the yard. “You my ride?” “Yes, Ma’am. May I,” he motioned towards her bags. “Guess you can grab the clothes.” She hefted the combination suitcase and duffle bag towards him as she pulled her messenger bag back against herself. “My rigs, it stays with me, Serpico.” “You know he was playing an undercover cop, right?” He motioned her towards the black SUV idling on the street. “Fair hit. You’re not a Fed though.” “I’ll take that as a compliment.” “You should. What’s your story?” “I am Agent Samuel Dane, Colorado Bureau of Investigations.” “CBI?” She stopped and glanced back briefly before continuing. “Correct. Apparently, I am driving you to Fort Collins.” “So, Sammy—” She retorted. “If you must—” his voice subtracting a couple of degrees from the biting air. “You can call me Agent Dane or Sam.” “Sorry. I have been awake for about ten minutes.” She nodded back at the apartment building. “Closer to twenty.” He shot back with a bit of a smile.
“Stalker much, Sam?” He shook his head. “Blame your FBI buddy Agent Kinley. He was rather exact with his instructions.” As Sam opened the door to the back seat, the warm air washed over Lauren. She rushed to its embrace. After storing the bag in the back, Sam climbed into the driver’s seat. Putting the vehicle in gear, he pulled out with just enough haste that it forced Lauren back into the seat. Lauren leaned forward once the momentum of the engine had settled down. “You wouldn’t happen to have either caffeine or sugar in this thing, would you?” Sam smiled as he looked in the rear-view mirror. “Your buddy gave specific instructions on that too. I believe hot chocolate and coconut doughnuts were the order.” He nodded his head back. “On the floor behind me.” “Oh, Sam.” She smiled. “You may have just become my favorite person of the day.” She reached to retrieve the promised sustenance from the seat next to her. After taking a bite, but before fully swallowing, she continued. “Any idea what this whole soon-to-be -dead coed thing is about?” “Sounds like you know more of what is going on than I do.” “Really?” “Yeah. We just got a call from our Director telling us to do whatever your Agent Kinley asked. He then called with your name, address, food order, instructions. I was to pick you up in twelve minutes and deliver you to him at Colorado State University. I’ve got nothing on a coed.” She took a deep drink from the hot chocolate. “That’s about all I know. But let’s see if we can find out the rest.” She raised her phone and tapped the app to start a video chat. * * *

“Excuse me,” Agent Michael Kinley said as he looked down at his phone. “Sorry, I have to take this.” He stepped away from the overcrowded doorway and moved into the empty commons area. As the picture formed on his phone, he said, “You’re at least ten minutes late.” “It’s Agent Sam’s fault. He offered to let you shoot him in an appendage of your choosing once we arrive,” she said with a smirk on her face. “As penance.” “I feel sorry for that man over the next two hours.” “Me too,” she said, smiling. “Perhaps it will encourage him to get me there sooner.” “Unfortunately, you can’t get here soon enough.” “You do remember that you have actual experts that work for the FBI. Full time and all,” she said, crinkling her face. “They get regular paychecks, health benefits—” She took another sip. “You know, those kinds of things.” “Yeah, but none of them are as good as you. Even those that are close — well, they are six to eight hours away, factoring in flight time.” “Wow. Geographical convenience. You really know how to charm a girl.” He shook his head. “Cut the crap. We both know you’re better than that team as well.” “Yeah,” she nodded. “But it’s nice to hear from time to time.” Settling back into her seat, she took another bite and asked, “Sam here would like to know what’s got both of us traveling up there this fine night?” “Ever heard of the podcast When Death Comes Collins?” She snorted. “No. It sounds atrocious. I’m shocked I haven’t already set up a fan page to do reactions and after the show commentaries on it.” “College project up here. New and alternative media production or something. Three undergrads managed to accidentally solve a cold case from a couple of years back.”
“What?” She let out what could best be described as the love child of a snort and a laugh of disbelief. “Serious? Good for them. What does that have to do with me hanging out with Agent Sam here for the next couple of hours?” “They just finished taping the last show tonight. It was supposed to be kind of a summary of events following the arraignment of the killer today.” He looked back to where the crowd was still milling before shifting back to the screen. “They were sent a message.” “What kind of message?” “Short video of a coed bound to a chair, gagged, with a rig to keep her eyes open. Behind her was a clock counting down. She was holding a note saying ‘She pays for your transgressions!’” “You’re joking, right? You just wanted to mess with me because of last time when—” “Wish I was.” Lauren lowered her head to rest on the palm of her left hand. Her fingers extended up into her brown hair with deep amber streaks as she let out a heavy sigh. “How much time do we have?” “They got the message over four hours ago. The clock had seventy -two- hours on it.” “Four hours!? What!? Why?” “Cavalcade of failure. They called the campus cops who thought it was a joke. They dialed up the locals who also thought it was a joke at first but decided to come by anyway. We got called in from Denver. Showed up about thirty minutes ago. I called CBI, I guess this Agent Dane fellow, and you.” “Got anything other than the message?” “We don’t even have a name for her yet. Half the people here are still insisting that it’s a joke or publicity stunt.” “Usual college BS about protecting the perception of safety. Keep those parents opening their wallets without thinking little Timmy or little Jenny are in danger?” Agent Kinley nodded in response. “I assume that every electronic device is in the exact same state as when you arrived?” she asked.
“Yeah. I threatened to shoot anyone who touched them before you showed up,” he replied. “Good job, Fed. I guess you can be taught,” she said with a hint of sarcasm. “I only have to screw up big-time once. OK, maybe twice. What are you thinking?” he asked. “You should have called earlier. Sam needs to break every traffic law there is— as well as a couple of the laws of physics, if he can manage it,” she said. “I called as soon as I could. What do you need from me before you arrive?” She reached over for her bag and took out a laptop and a cellular Wi-Fi puck. “Find somebody to wake up whoever can open the courthouse and send me everything about this case these podcasters solved.” “Already working on it,” he replied. “Good.” She looked around the interior as the computer came to life, bathing it in light. “Could you text me a link to these bozos’ podcast? Maybe even ask them about the key points in the episodes. That way, I can get caught up on what they did and what they found. I’m betting it’s about twelve to fifteen hours of material at least. I’d rather not have to nibble and pick blindly during this drive,” she said. “Will do. I’ve already arranged accommodations for you and Agent Dane. I’ll get him the directions to the hotel after you arrive,” he said. She shifted her attention to the driver’s seat. “Sam, did you hear that? The good news is you don’t have to drive home tonight. The bad news is you may end up hanging out with me more,” she said with a smile. Sam raised his hand in the shape of a gun and dropped his thumb before dramatically shifting his head in the opposite direction. She smiled as she turned her attention back to Kinley. “Agent Sam might just be a keeper.” “Good to know. Anything else you need?”
“What’s the best estimate of the time we have left?” “Sixty-seven and a half hours, give or take ten minutes on either side,” he replied. “OK.” She tapped the screen, ending the call. * * *
Agent Kinley sauntered over to where the various law enforcement representatives were gathered, and his partner, Agent Tony Jackson, appeared unusually agitated. “I don’t care who they are, or who their daddies are. I want them in your station in separate rooms. Isn’t that generally the procedure in these cases?” he exclaimed. “Normally, yes. If they were suspects. At this point, I would consider them more witnesses. I’m not dragging a bunch of witnesses to interrogation rooms in the middle of the night,” Chief Watkins retorted. Excusing himself, Kinley interjected, “Can we at least have them wait in separate rooms in this building while we get their statements? After all, we are going to be waiting on our technical expert.” “I suppose that would be acceptable. However, I still don’t understand why my forensics people can’t—”Chief Watkins began to say before Kinley cut her off. “Sounds good,” he said, shifting his attention to the empty space of the building to avoid the look of indignation he knew would be boiling in her eyes. “I’m assuming you would know who we need to contact about opening up some of these rooms?” Kinley shifted to look at her as he shrugged his shoulders slightly with an almost ‘ah shucks’ look on his face. “We are, of course, the outsiders here.” “Of course.” She scanned the space. “Let me just make a call or two.” Agent Kinley watched as Chief Watkins left with one of her men in tow. He turned to his partner. “What kind of a pissing match was that, Tony?”
“Honestly, Mike, I have no idea. I just suggested that we take them down to the station. She went off. I don’t get it.” “You grew up in Richmond, didn’t you?” Kinley asked. “What does that have to do with this?” “There were certain families there,” Kinley motioned his hands as if pointing to a city across the country. “Maybe tied into what is left of big tobacco. They exist with almost local untouchable status. Basically, local royalty because at its core Richmond is still a company town.” “Of course.” “Two of the kids you’re wanting her to stick into interrogation rooms are Colorado royalty. Even if they were suspects, we would be hard-pressed to get her to do that without her or someone else informing the parents and ensuring a lawyer beat us to the station.” “OK. Fair enough. I suppose you know these things when you have been here as long as you have.” “Yeah,” Kinley nodded, “However, even after all my time, I’m still an outsider in this state.” “Maybe. Although you certainly ran the table on the chief.” “Well, we are Feds. Locals are hardwired to expect us to toss around orders and generally act like jackasses. When you acknowledge that you are an outsider and ask them for help, it kind of causes a short circuit,” Kinley explained. “It is a little more effective than getting into a jurisdictional pissing match, which we will generally lose unless it is clearly a federal matter. It also lets you save the big stick of ‘I’m with the FBI’ for when you need it.” “Good trick to know,” Jackson nodded, making a mental note. “So who is this computer forensics expert you’re bringing in? Is he that good?” Kinley smiled as he put his left hand in a horizontal position about even with his chin. “This is the level of about the best you’ll ever meet in the Bureau or anywhere else in the government,” he said, moving his right hand into a parallel position well above his head. “Then there is her, up here.”

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