Ben stood at the door to the command post. Agent Devereaux was gone, as were most of the agents. The young female FBI agent he had met—Jorgenson, he thought—sat at one computer station, telephone headset on, talking and typing. But the intensity level of the command post had noticeably decreased, as if the battle were over. Ben laid the lead sheet on Devereaux’s desk, sighting number 3,317, Idaho Falls, Idaho, and wrote in the margin: Spoke to this Clayton Lee Tucker. Said he saw a blonde girl with two men, one with a tattoo, muscular, wearing a black tee shirt, at his gas station Sunday evening. If that was Gracie, you’ve got the wrong man in jail. The wrong man was in jail and Gracie was in Idaho, where it was cold and where the trees stood tall and where snow covered the ground—a white blanket of snow. Not that the FBI would release Jennings on the basis of Ben’s dream. But once Clayton Tucker positively identified the men or the tattoo or Gracie from the FBI’s photos, they would.
