The Archangel Project by C.S. Graham Page B

became three men neatly dressed in well-tailored suits, with short hair and cleanly shaven faces. Tobie slipped the security chain in place and opened the door.
    â€œMiss Guinness?” A tall dark-haired man in his late thirties held up a badge he flipped open to show theID beneath. “FBI. We’re investigating the death of Dr. Henry Youngblood. May we come in? We’d like to ask you some questions.”
    â€œOh God,” Tobie whispered. “Henry.” She slipped off the chain and opened the door wider. “Are you sure he’s dead?”
    â€œI’m afraid so, miss.”
    The FBI agents were big, powerful men, all well over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and the kind of flat stomachs that spoke of a lifetime of crunches and bench presses. They filled her small living room of cottage-sized furniture in a way that made them seem out of place and vaguely intimidating.
    â€œWe understand you were working with Dr. Youngblood on his research project,” said the man who had shown her his badge. Agent Lance Palmer, he said his name was.
    â€œThat’s right. Since January. Why?”
    It was one of the other agents who answered her, a lean, sandy-haired man with prominent cheekbones and wire-framed glasses. “We think this project he’s been working on might have something to do with his death.”
    Tobie sank into the slat-backed rocking chair she kept beside the fireplace, her splayed fingers gripping the rocker’s worn wooden arms. “The firemen found his body?”
    â€œAs soon as they were able to get into the building.” Agent Palmer came to sit on the tattered camel-back sofa opposite her. “We’re particularly interested in a session you did recently with Dr. Youngblood. A session that was used as a demonstration for a funding proposal.”
    â€œI’m not sure I know exactly which session you’retalking about. Dr. Youngblood was applying all over the place for funding, but I don’t remember him saying any of the sessions we did were directly related to a proposal. Usually he thought the less I knew about the targets, the better.”
    Palmer leaned forward, his hands clasped loosely between his knees, his gaze hard on her face. “The target for this particular session was a room. An office, to be precise.”
    Tobie glanced down at the empty hearth and tried to remember. But all that came to her was the image of exploding light and the stink of wet burning timber. She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember.”
    The lean man with the glasses came to stand with one arm resting along the wooden mantel beside her. “During this particular session, you drew a picture of a plane. An old World War II transport called a Skytrooper.”
    Tobie was about to say I’m sorry again, then paused. “Wait. I think maybe I do remember that session. Was that for a funding proposal?”
    The men exchanged quick glances. The older one, Palmer, the one Tobie had come to think of as being in charge, said, “Did you discuss the session with anyone else besides Dr. Youngblood?”
    It struck Tobie as a peculiar question. “No. Why would I?”
    â€œDid Dr. Youngblood ever discuss your session with anyone?”
    â€œNot that I know of.”
    â€œNot with any of his colleagues? Or maybe a girlfriend?”
    â€œNo. I don’t think he had one. Girlfriend, I mean.”
    â€œHow about a boyfriend?” asked the third man, smirking. He was the tallest of the three, his arms thick with muscle, his eyes small and dark in a full-cheeked face.
    Palmer didn’t even turn to look at him. He just said, “Lopez,” in a low, warning tone, and the big man closed his mouth.
    Tobie glanced from one man to the next, and it was as if a canyon yawned in the pit of her stomach and ice water trickled slowly down her spine. For it had only just occurred to her to wonder how the FBI could have