Hotwire

Baldwin stared at her, for once speechless.

“I believe the undersecretary for food and nutrition is directly responsible for the NSLP,” Mary Ellen repeated, losing count of how many times she had already said this. “I’m sure Mr. Eisler would be able to explain the process much more accurately.”

Then she pursed her lips, trying to confine her irritation. She folded her hands in her lap and stopped herself from adding that this should be Eisler’s mess.

“I’ve offered our conference room,” Baldwin said, “for a task force strategy and information center. I’m hoping Mr. Bix will agree to use it, so we can maintain some control. He already has personnel from the FBI, DHS, the District police department, and USAMRIID on the case.”

“USAMRIID? That seems a bit reactionary, doesn’t it?”

“Considering he believes it might be intentional, I’d say it’s rather smart. I get the impression Mr. Bix is good at dotting his i’s and crossing his t’s. Speaking of which, we’ll need to have a meeting first thing in the morning with our people. Please contact the necessary members. I would prefer we keep this confined to essential personnel only.”

“Yes, of course. What about the media?” Mary Ellen asked.

“Mr. Bix has agreed that no one talks to anyone until we know what’s going on.” She flipped the pages of her legal pad, again, until she found what she wanted. Then she ripped out two pages. “Here’s a list of what we’ll need set up in the conference room for our meeting with Mr. Bix.”

Mary Ellen took the pages noticing the list was single-spaced, double columns. “I’ll see to it that everything is there first thing in the morning.”

“See to it that everything is set up immediately.”

“Immediately?”

“Bix and his team will be arriving in about two hours.”

THIRTY

NEBRASKA

Maggie couldn’t remember the last time she was more relieved to see anyone. Donny stood on the sidewalk out of the way of the rescue crew and the bystanders. Still hearing Mrs. Bosh’s sobs, Maggie retreated to stand alongside him.

“I brought your car,” he said, keeping his eyes on the people trampling the Boshes’ carefully manicured lawn.

She glanced down the street and recognized her rented Toyota in the line of vehicles.

“How did you know I was here?”

“The whole county knows you’re here.”

She wasn’t quite sure why, but that simple statement of fact felt like a punch to her gut.

“I should have known something like this would happen,” she said under her breath, by no means a confession but rather an admonishment to herself.

“We all should have known.”

They stood silent and still while the world seemed to spin around them.

Maggie was struck by how different the crowd was from what she was used to. There were a few gawkers but mostly it looked like friends and neighbors huddled together, comforting the Boshes. Neighbors raced off to bring back ropes or twine, garden clippers and other tools from their sheds or garages, anything that might help the rescue crew which worked with an urgent steadiness despite making a recovery instead of a rescue.

Maggie understood now why they had all come last night. It wasn’t to exert their authority and see firsthand what was happening. Mostly it had been to help. That’s what they were used to doing, chipping in and helping each other.

“Thanks for bringing the car,” she told Donny.

“Not a problem. We explained to the rental branch in Scottsbluff, and they gave us an extra key.” He dug in his pocket and handed her the set. “The manager also adjusted your rate in the computer. Said they’ll only charge you for the weekend but you wouldn’t need to return it until late next week if need be.”

“Good deal. The State Patrol discount?”

“We do what we can.” He tipped his hat and finally allowed a smile. “One catch, I do need a ride back to North Platte. Figured you’d want to be there for the autopsies. That is unless you’re headed back to Denver.”

She hadn’t heard from Kunze, but then she hadn’t exactly been checking for messages. It’d be easier to simply hand this investigation over and leave. Donny and the State Patrol were more than capable. She could be in Denver before nightfall, check into the hotel, take a hot shower, order room service, and be rested and ready to teach her sessions tomorrow and Sunday. No one would question her decision. Skylar would probably welcome her absence.

She saw him glance in her direction. Earlier he’d helped her out from under the porch, but when she delivered the news, he’d stepped away, shaking his head as if it were somehow her fault.

She watched the Boshes, holding each other up, waiting while the rescue crew organized their efforts. Maggie was almost certain toxicology would show an overdose of some form of drug. There’d be no need to spend the county’s budget on another autopsy. Yes, Denver was starting to sound like a good idea. After the autopsies of the other two boys.

She asked Donny to drive her to North Platte.

“Maybe we can stop at the convenience store before we head out,” he said as they climbed into the Toyota.

“Yes, I could use a Diet Pepsi.”

“Your suitcase is in the trunk.”

“Thanks.”

“The store out by the highway has a nice, roomy bathroom.”

This time she turned and stared at him.

“Investigator Fergussen, are you saying I stink?”

She noticed the back of his neck flush.

“Just offering a suggestion.”

Of course it was in the convenience store’s “nice, roomy,” single-room bathroom shortly after Maggie had removed her dirty clothes—all of her clothes—that the call came in from Assistant Director Kunze. She thought about pressing Ignore and making him leave a voice message. She already knew what he would say. But instead, she checked the door’s lock and grabbed the cell phone.

“This is Maggie O’Dell.”

“Please tell me, Agent O’Dell, that you are either in Denver or on your way there.”

“I’ve had a bit of a delay.” She had given him the basics in her voice message.

“I’m sure the local authorities appreciate your efforts and are more than capable of taking over.”

“One of the surviving teenagers just committed suicide.”

She wasn’t sure why she blurted it out. Old habits were hard to break. It was something she would have done naturally with Cunningham. He would have responded with something brisk but profound. A reassurance that they were the good guys and that he knew she had done everything possible. He had been their boss, their leader, and he gave his agents hell when they deserved it but he also took care of them. She hadn’t realized how much she counted on him until he was gone.

She was thinking about this while waiting for Kunze to criticize, to lecture, to humiliate her. But he said something totally unexpected.

“How can I protect you if you constantly keep getting yourself into these messes?”

“Excuse me? What exactly do you think you’re protecting me from?”

Even as she said it, she examined herself in the bathroom mirror. Under the stark fluorescent lights the scar on her abdomen and the one on her side seemed to pucker up, betraying her. Dirt from underneath the Boshes’ house smudged her face. Remnants of cobwebs still tangled her hair. She had rubbed holes in her shirtsleeves and her elbows were caked with blood and dirt from crawling. Okay, perhaps at this moment she did look a bit frazzled, but she was not someone who needed protecting.

She realized Kunze was silent and wondered if she had lost the connection just as she heard him sigh.

“You have three sessions at the Denver law enforcement conference starting tomorrow.”

“Any seasoned police detective who’s gone through Quantico’s training could substitute for me.”

“But I didn’t send any police detective. I sent you. Please make sure those attendees are not sitting there without an instructor. I’ll see you on Monday, Agent O’Dell.”

“Actually I fly back on Monday.”

“I’ll see you on Tuesday morning, Agent O’Dell.”

She heard the click, and then silence. Typical Kunze, he ended his calls as abruptly as he began them.

Minutes ago she had made the same decision as her boss had. Why did she argue? Was it his statement about protecting her? What the hell did he mean by that?

Ever since Kunze replaced Cunningham he had been riding her, questioning her, sending her into killers’ warehouses and into the path of a hurricane. He had bluntly told her that he thought her negligence had contributed to Cunningham’s death and that she would need to prove herself to him. But how many times did she have to do it?

In just the last year, she had solved a major piece of the puzzle to a bombing at Mall of America. But it had placed her and Kunze on opposite sides of a political fallout. Then last month she had survived a category-5 hurricane only to uncover a ploy that made the U.S. Navy look bad. Again, tripping up her politically correct and politically connected new boss. Whatever happened to doing the right thing, no matter what the consequences were? Cunningham always understood. Okay, yes, sometimes he’d be mad as hell at her, but he’d understand. He might question her means but never had he questioned her intent.

She cleaned up in the small sink, doing as good a job as possible with stiff, brown paper towels that scraped the dirt off rather than wiped. Then she pulled on fresh clothes. Brushed her hair. Already she felt better.

She rolled up her dirty clothes and started shoving them into a side pocket of her suitcase when something tumbled to the floor.

Johnny’s cell phone.

She had forgotten all about it. She shut the toilet lid and sat down. She remembered Dawson’s eyes last night. Johnny’s eyes just moments ago.

That’s when she decided.

Kunze said he didn’t want the conference attendees sitting there without an instructor. She would make sure they had someone.

She grabbed her cell phone and punched through her Contact menu. While in Florida last month she had met a detective from the Denver Police Department. Glen Karst was a seasoned homicide detective who had been through the criminal behavior training course at Quantico. She found his phone number and hoped he wasn’t busy this weekend. She’d owe him a steak dinner, some cheesecake, and a bottle of Buffalo Trace. It seemed like a bargain.

THIRTY-ONE

“Did your techs find anything more in the forest?” Maggie asked Donny as soon as they were back on the road.

“We did find the live wire Dawson Hayes ran into. Someone must have cut it, rigged it from the fence post, and strung it between two trees.”

“Like a trap.”

“The fence line they took the electric wire from actually cordons off pasture land from the forest. The kid must have run into the trap wire and the shock was enough to throw him into the barbed wire. We could see where it snapped from the posts.”

“And the momentum kept him rolling, taking the barbed wire and wrapping it around him.”

“Yup. That’s what we’re thinking. We left the hotwire coiled and out of reach. I’ll need to find and talk to the rancher who leases that pasture. Have him shut off the current.”

“How did you touch it without getting a shock?”

“Whoever rigged it left pieces of plastic—they’re sort of safety guards so you can handle it hot without getting shocked. That’s why we know it was rigged on purpose. Ranchers don’t use anything like that.”

“Is it possible the other two boys ran into the wire, too?”

“We’ll have to wait and see what Lucy says, but I’m guessing no. Not enough juice to electrocute. Just enough to knock you on your ass. Remember, ranchers just want to discourage cattle, not fry them. Sorry,” he said, his ears turning red. “Didn’t mean to be crude.”

“I guess that’s why Dawson’s alive.”

“The crime team also cast some of the footprints.”

“So the tarps held?”

“Yeah, the tarps preserved them from the rain but I’m not sure it’ll matter unless we confiscate all seven kids’ shoes.”

When she didn’t respond he glanced at her and winced. “You want me to confiscate all seven kids’ shoes?”

“We already have three pairs.”

“There’s one set of prints that looks like a size thirteen work boot. I don’t remember any of the boys wearing anything close to a work boot.”

“So it may come in handy collecting the shoes, after all.”

He didn’t argue.

“We did find some animal tracks up on the ridge. Rain made a mess of them. Could be a cougar. Maybe a coyote or large dog. Hard to tell.”

“You’re kidding?”

“Hank said there were a few sightings of a cougar reported in the last several weeks. Nothing confirmed. Still, doesn’t add much to the story. None of these kids had injuries that come close to a cat attack.”

“What about Amanda Vicks’s arm?”

“That didn’t look like an animal bite to me. I think we got a photo of it if you wanna take a look.” He glanced over at her. “What’s this all about?”

“Dawson Hayes said this morning that a wolflike animal came at him.”

“Really?”

“Did you find any tracks down in the campsite area?”

“Not a one.”

“Anything that could have produced a light show?”

He shook his head. Glanced at her again but this time it looked as if he was trying to decide how to say what he wanted to say.

“I have to tell you, I think some of those kids were stoned last night. We didn’t find any bottles or cans. A few cigarette butts. No joints. But I know from their stories and that spaced-out look, it wasn’t just shock and awe.”

Maggie hadn’t told Sheriff Skylar about the salvia because of his holding back evidence of drugs in a previous case. Allegedly he’d rather have the girl’s parents believe she accidentally fell from the bridge instead of knowing she had tripped out on salvia and jumped. But she couldn’t hold out on Donny.

“Lucy did find a baggie. She thinks it may be Salvia divinorum.”

She left it at that, letting him believe Lucy could have found it today while she prepped the two boys for autopsies.

“I thought so,” Donny said, tapping the steering wheel in triumph of being correct. He didn’t even question the how or when of the discovery.

“Do you know much about salvia?”

“It’s a hallucinogen. I’ve heard it compared to LSD. Supposed to be nonaddictive with no long-term side effects. The big trend right now is with kids filming their trips, posting them on YouTube.”

“You think that’s what was happening last night?”

“It would certainly explain their stories, the fireworks and laser light show. I had one kid telling me how loud the purple was.”

“We didn’t find a camera, though,” Maggie said.

“Nope. No camera.”

“And isn’t it a little strange that they would all see fireworks and a light show?”

“Kids are easily influenced. The drug might make them more impressionable. If one kid claimed he saw fireworks, maybe they all thought they did.”

Maggie noticed they had driven for miles on the rolling ribbon of two-lane asphalt and yet they hadn’t crossed a single intersection. The only breaks were a few long driveways to ranches or farms or cutouts to pastures. She couldn’t help thinking that even in the middle of nowhere these kids knew about salvia and were able to purchase it illegally. Donny was right. Teenagers were easily influenced and not much different no matter where they lived.

“If we’re right,” Maggie said, “chances are this wasn’t their first trip, so to speak, in the forest. Can we get ahold of Trevor’s and Kyle’s text messages and their computers?”

“I can probably do that.”

“When we were looking at the cattle mutilation … ” Maggie started but paused. Was it only yesterday? “Nolan Comstock mentioned lights in the night sky. Said people were used to seeing them.”

She watched as Donny’s jaw twitched.

“He didn’t seem to be a crazy, old rancher,” she said, choosing the two adjectives that Skylar had used to describe Lucy. “Do people see lights in the night sky? And if so, what are they?”

He was quiet for a while then said, “We really are smack-dab between two major air force installations. It’s no secret they fly maneuvers over this part of the country. They probably test drive all kinds of strange new technology. And of course, they’re not going to be announcing it or admitting it.”

“Any chance that’s what these kids saw? Some sort of clandestine war game.”

“No. The government wouldn’t purposely hurt kids.” He looked offended by the idea.

She didn’t push it. She wasn’t sure she believed it, but she needed Donny Fergussen on her side. She remembered the look Sheriff Skylar had given her when she told them Johnny Bosh was dead. There was something about it that made Maggie realize a lot of people would be taking sides before all this was over.

THIRTY-TWO

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Benjamin Platt carried a hard-shell case filled with an assortment of samples. He was anxious to get back to a lab at USAMRIID. Bix had overnighted a set to his CDC scientists in Atlanta as well. Platt would, no doubt, be cross-checking what Bix’s experts had looked for at the Norfolk high school, including a variety of strains of E. coli and salmonella along with norovirus and a few other sneaky bacteria. He also had more than a dozen baggies filled with leftovers and garbage that he and Julia Racine had carefully scavenged.

He was still smiling at Julia’s last remark: “I’ve never seen a guy get so excited about vomit. Your mother must be very proud.”

She stood beside him now, shoulder holster in full view as if providing backup while he loaded the samples into his Land Rover. They ignored the media that had followed, tossing questions and sticking microphones in their faces. That’s when Racine pushed back her jacket to show her badge as well as her firearm. She shoved one reporter off the curb then held out her hand like a running back, strong-arming anyone else who dared get in their way.

Finally inside the vehicle, Platt was ready to make a getaway. He revved the engine to warn the Channel 5 news crew at his hood that he wouldn’t hesitate to roll over them. He accelerated forward, braked hard. Watched the big guy with a camera jump-step out of his way. Suddenly the back door to the Land Rover opened. Racine turned ready to pounce over the seat. Roger Bix slid inside.

“Go,” Bix said. “Run these assholes over if you have to.” Halfway down the street Platt said, “I’m taking Detective Racine to her car. You want me to take you to yours?”

“USDA just invited us over to their house to play a game of information swap.”

“Really? I thought they had to assess your request.”

“Evidently they’ve assessed it. My guess, our new Miss Undersecretary watched a little television this afternoon and is now as nervous as a long-tail cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”

Platt glanced at Racine then at Bix in the rearview mirror. Bix was finally slipping back to his old self, using metaphors that would still sound ridiculous even without the Southern drawl.

“So you want me to drop you off at the Department of Agriculture?”

“Drop me off? I thought we were in this together. Like Batman and Robin or the Lone Ranger and Tonto.”

Platt bit back: “More like Archie and Jughead,” and added, “Believe me, Roger, I’m more useful to you in a research lab, hunting for what made these kids sick. Not in some office, sipping tea, eating finger food, and batting around political mumbo-jumbo.”

“Actually you’re both coming with me. I need a show of force.”

“What happened to Agent Tully?”

“His boss said there wasn’t enough information yet to make this an FBI matter.” Bix pursed his lips and muttered, “Bastard.”

“Officially, I’m not assigned to this case either,” Racine told him.

Bix held up his cell phone. “Who do I need to call to get you officially assigned?”

“Roger, this is her day off. What the hell’s going on with you?”

“Only twenty minutes,” Bix promised.

“Sure, why not. I’m hungry.”

Before Platt could argue, Bix’s cell phone started playing something that sounded more like salsa when Platt would have expected country western. The guy was full of surprises.

Bix glanced at the caller ID, frowned, then shook his head as he answered, “This is Bix.” He listened for several seconds and finally said, “Yes, of course, I believe you. I never said I didn’t believe you.”

Platt exchanged looks with Julia but stayed quiet. He continued to shoot glances at the rearview mirror, watching Bix. The man appeared visibly shaken, eyes darting outside the vehicle windows as if trying to locate his caller someplace on the sidewalks of the District. Was that sweat on his upper lip?

“Christ almighty, you cannot be serious.” It came out as a hiss of disbelief rather than anger. “You’ve got to give me more than that to go on. Hold on. Wait a minute.” He brought the phone down and stared at it before he slapped it shut. The person had hung up before Bix was finished.

He wiped a sleeve across his sweaty face and then said, “There’s going to be more schools.”

He said it so quietly Platt wasn’t sure he heard him correctly.

“What do you mean, going to be?” Julia asked.

“If we don’t figure this out by Monday morning then Monday afternoon there’ll be more sick kids.”

“Who did you just talk to, Roger?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is this some food terrorist plot?” Julia asked.

“Almost as bad,” Bix said. “But not a terrorist. A whistle-blower.”

THIRTY-THREE

NEBRASKA

Since North Platte was an hour and a half away, Maggie called and told Lucy not to wait. She had finished the autopsy on one boy and was doing an external examination of the second when Donny and Maggie walked in.

Maggie had to admit, she was impressed with the autopsy suite, a bright, gleaming pathology lab in the basement of the community hospital. After discovering the archaism of Nebraska’s coroner system, she wasn’t sure what to expect.

Last night Lucy had tried to explain how Nebraska law required the county attorney to also be the coroner, which put prosecutors across the state in charge of each county’s death investigations. It was a ninety-year-old law that set few standards, leaving it up to individual county attorneys to determine if and when an investigation even took place. No medical training was necessary. Death investigation training, which amounted to a day down in Lincoln, was optional. At one time Lucy Coy was the only professionally trained medical examiner in a five-county area.

“You have to understand,” Lucy had said last night, “Nebraska has about 1.6 million people in the entire state and a million of them live within a fifty-mile radius of Omaha and Lincoln. Both cities, of course, have their own medical examiners and homicide departments. Lincoln has the State Patrol Crime Lab. Omaha has the Douglas County Regional Crime Lab. They have all the high-tech luxuries, you might say, of a metropolitan city, but that’s also where most of the crimes happen. In this part of the state it isn’t like people are stabbed or shot to death every week. It just isn’t necessary to have all the technology and specialties.”

“Unless it’s your family or friend who winds up dead out here in the middle of the Sandhills,” Maggie had countered.

“It’s been said before”—Lucy had shrugged—“that if you want to get away with murder, western Nebraska would be a good place to try it.”

When Donny had given Maggie his geography lesson yesterday, she hadn’t quite translated what that sort of isolation could mean. Today she was beginning to understand firsthand.

She was, however, relieved to finally have some familiar surroundings. Even the scrub gowns were the same—two sizes too large, which Maggie always believed was on purpose to reduce guests to a more vulnerable state. Sometimes law enforcement officers required a bit of humility to relate to the victim. But Donny’s gown stretched tight across his barrel chest. The shoe covers didn’t quite make it all the way up his heels.

Lucy had her hands on Kyle Bandor’s ankle, her long fingers in purple latex. She looked up at Maggie.

“I heard what happened,” she said. “Are you all right?”

“You already heard about Johnny Bosh?”

“Unfortunately bad news travels fast. Oliver Cushman will be doing the death investigation.”

“County Attorney Cushman? The man I sent away last night.”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful. Will he even order an autopsy?”

“For a suicide?” Lucy looked to Donny for the answer but he shrugged. “Probably not,” she said. “He’ll probably order a toxicology report.” She glanced back at Maggie. “How did he look?”

“Dead,” Maggie said bluntly, avoiding Lucy’s eyes, suddenly aware of them studying her with genuine concern. She didn’t like the fact that if she closed her eyes right now she would still see Johnny Bosh staring at her.

“I didn’t see any drug paraphernalia,” Maggie explained. “His skin wasn’t red like it can be from certain poisons. His eyes were bloodshot but it didn’t look like petechial hemorrhage, so whatever he took didn’t strangle or asphyxiate him. I didn’t smell or see any vomit. His mother told us she noticed some OxyContin missing from her medicine cabinet.”

“Depending on how many he ingested and if he crushed them … most likely he suffered a cardiac arrest. Was there a note?” Lucy asked.

“If there was, no one’s found it yet.” Maggie remembered the boy’s cell phone in the side pocket of her suitcase. She was hoping it might offer some clues. Later she’d figure out if she could recharge it and take a look before handing it back to the family or—cringe—to County Attorney Cushman.

“Well, let me share what I’ve found so far.”

Lucy left Kyle with a soft double tap to his chest as though telling the boy she would be right back. Maggie was struck by the intimacy of the gesture. She’d watched dozens of medical examiners, coroners, and pathologists in her ten years as a federal agent and during her forensic fellowship. She believed it took a special personality to work with the dead, to slice tissue, pluck off maggots, suck out brains, and section apart organs, reducing the human body to bits and pieces all in an effort to solve a mystery, tell a story, and hopefully reveal secrets that even the killer couldn’t hide.

In Maggie’s experience the MEs and their counterparts were detail-oriented, efficient problem solvers, thinkers not feelers. They didn’t personalize their surgical procedures even while showing and demanding respect for the victim. She couldn’t count the number of times she’d watched a medical examiner stare down a visiting law enforcement officer who, in his own discomfort with the procedure, had made an off-color remark.

But there was something different in the way Lucy conducted business in an autopsy suite. Maggie watched as Lucy pulled a sheet off the first boy—the sheet, in and of itself, was a courtesy rarely used at this stage.

“Trevor displayed external signs of electrocution. He’s the one we examined in the forest.” She gently took his right foot in her hands, turning it slowly as if not to disturb the boy and showing the extent of the damage.

In the forest, Maggie had noticed that Trevor’s high-top sneaker had been blown off his right foot, leaving a smudge of black on his sock. Now with no shoe or sock she could see the broken blood vessels at the top of his foot and the charred leathery burn at the bottom.

“In cases of electrocution,” Lucy said, placing his foot down and going to the other end of the stainless-steel table, “the electrical current has a source point. Often the head or hands. In Trevor’s case it was up at his left shoulder.” She pointed at the obvious wound where the skin puckered red, swollen, and blistered. “The current passes through the body, usually taking the path of least resistance, choosing nerves and tissue rather than skin. The ground point is often the feet.”

She waved them closer to take a look inside his chest cavity. Maggie noticed Lucy hadn’t removed any of Trevor’s organs yet.

“Muscles contract,” she continued. “The nervous system goes haywire. Temporary paralysis results. And depending how high the voltage, organs, including the brain, can hemorrhage. As you can see.”

Donny had slid his hands into his trouser pockets. Without his Stetson Maggie thought he looked disarmed. But he didn’t seem fazed by any of this.

“This definitely wasn’t a Taser,” he said.

“No. Definitely not a Taser.”

“Any idea where the electrical current came from?” he asked.

“Take a closer look at the source point.”

Lucy’s purple-gloved finger traced over the shoulder wound. “Are either of you familiar with how lasers cut?”

She paused as Donny and Maggie exchanged a glance. The question seemed to come out of left field. Lucy didn’t wait for an answer.

“Lasers actually cut by burning or breaking apart molecules that bond tissue together. It looks like Trevor was initially cut when the electrical current hit his shoulder. Take a look.” She stood back. “It cauterizes the cuts automatically so there’s no blood.”

“You’re suggesting these two boys were hit and electrocuted by a laser beam?” Maggie asked. She didn’t bother to hide her skepticism.

“It would need to be a very intense laser pulse. But yes, that’s what I believe hit them.”

“And it just came out of the sky?”

“Or maybe a laser stun gun,” Donny said.

“Is there such a thing?”

“It uses a laser beam to ionize, if that’s the correct term.” Lucy nodded and he continued. “The ionized air produces sort of threadlike filaments of glowing plasma from the gun to the target. Supposedly you can sweep a lightning-like beam of electricity across a wide area. I can’t remember how many feet away. They call it a shock rifle. It can interrupt a vehicle’s electronic ignition system and stop it cold.”

“That would certainly explain the light show the kids talked about,” Maggie said. “But I don’t know of any available weapon like that. Are you sure you’re not just reading too many science digests, Investigator Fergussen?”

“Oh there’re available but there’s only one place I know of that would have them.”

“And where might that be?”

“The United States Department of Defense.”

THIRTY-FOUR

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Platt and Bix trailed behind Julia and their security escort to the third-floor conference room. Julia was still complaining about having to leave her weapon. Platt took the opportunity to whisper to Bix, “What’s the game plan, Roger?”

“Just follow my lead. This is solely to gather information.”

“No task force?”

“Like I’m gonna trust them.”

“Do you have a choice?”

“Watch me.” Then he let his guard down and confessed, “I really need you to back me up.”

Earlier, on the drive over to Fourteenth Street and Independence Avenue, Platt had made Bix talk, threatening he’d drop him in the middle of a District intersection to walk if he continued to withhold information.

Truth was, Bix knew very little. Earlier that morning, someone who claimed to have insider knowledge told him there would be more schools. It would be the exact scenario as the Norfolk, Virginia, contamination. They’d find the same bacteria. Kids would get very sick. Some would be hospitalized. There might even be fatalities. When Bix demanded to know who the person was, he hung up.

At first Platt wondered if it might be a reporter. Someone guessing, hedging his bets, creating a bigger story by being a part of the story. Maybe the man had simply made a lucky guess. But why call again and risk being wrong? Bix insisted the person told him specific details that only an insider would know. Platt, however, wasn’t convinced.

The conference room looked suspiciously big for gathering information. Platt had been in other situations like this—or at least, what he imagined this to be—with government officials acting more like politicians than public servants, working their asses off to save their asses. If past experience was any indication, the plush conference room, reserved for catered meetings that required leather high-back chairs and big-screen presentations, was more for intimidation.

As soon as their security escort left, Julia immediately headed for the refreshment table. Bix grabbed a can of Pepsi and popped it open. Gulped almost half the can. Platt didn’t think Bix would be able to pull this off as long as his upper lip remained sweaty.

“What do you know about this person you’re calling a whistle-blower? If what he’s saying is true, we have just over forty-eight hours to figure out what’s going on. Do you even know he’s for real?”

“I know enough to realize if there’s another attack the USDA is not going to come out smelling like a bouquet.”

“Rose.”

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind,” Platt said. The man’s awkward meta phors shouldn’t make a difference right now, even if they got on Platt’s nerves. “You think the USDA is somehow responsible?”

“This is what I know: Yesterday when I asked for their help they had no interest in doing anything more than sending me from one department to another. Today they invite me here for a strategy session.”

“Is that what they called it? A strategy session?”

“I don’t give a damn what they called it. You’re missing the point, Platt. Today every media outlet was on the scene and oh, by the way, now suddenly the USDA wants to help.”

Platt couldn’t argue. Government agencies had a tendency to be reactive instead of proactive. But their timing didn’t necessarily mean they had something to hide. At the same time, he couldn’t shake the fact that someone had followed him from his meeting at the diner with Bix all the way to his parents’ home.

“Would you recognize this so-called whistle-blower’s voice if you met him?”

Bix shook his head. “He uses a computer voice.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, where you key in your words on a computer and the program reads it out loud. Sort of like the mechanical voice that says, ‘You’ve got mail.’”

“So maybe he is concerned you’d recognize his real voice.”

“Too many veggies.” Julia returned with a plate full. “I’m so sick of people telling me what’s good for me,” she said as she crunched a celery stick. “Department of Agriculture, hmpf. You’d think they’d provide a few chunks of meat. Have you ordered a trace on the cell-phone call?”

“I tried this morning. It’s a secure number.”

“There’re usually ways to get around that.”

Both men stared at her, waiting to hear what she meant when a woman came into the conference room. She wore a flowered silk blouse under a fitted blazer with a skirt that accentuated her willowy figure making her appear softer and betraying her stickler personality. She was attractive with wavy brown hair that fell past her shoulders and green eyes that sparked slightly with irritation as soon as she saw Platt. She was tall, almost as tall as him but mostly because she insisted on wearing three-inch spiked heels, which he knew she hated and was reminded how much when she walked across the long conference room.

She offered her hand to Bix first.

“You must be Roger Bix. I’m Mary Ellen Wychulis.”

“This is Julia Racine and—”

“And Colonel Benjamin Platt,” she interrupted Bix and didn’t even bother to glance at Julia.

“You know each other.” Bix sounded almost as surprised as Platt was. He didn’t think he knew anyone at the USDA.

“Yes,” Mary Ellen said. “Ben and I know each other.”

“I didn’t know you worked here,” Platt said.

Bix looked at him as if seeing a traitor. He was waiting for an explanation. Even Julia had bristled, her eyes darting between the two of them.

“Mary Ellen and I used to be married.”

THIRTY-FIVE

NEBRASKA

“There was blood,” Lucy explained as she pointed to a black T-shirt on a stainless-steel tray. “Kyle’s shirt but it’s not his blood.”

“One of the other kid’s?” Maggie asked thinking about Dawson and the bloody mess he had been when she stumbled over him.

Lucy had started Kyle’s autopsy and was focused on cutting through his ribs.

“Black dye plays havoc with DNA,” Lucy said without stopping work. “No one’s really sure why. But this time it won’t matter. It’s not any of the other teenagers’ blood.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“Because it’s not human.”

“What the hell?” Donny went to look at the shirt.

“It’s pig’s blood.”

“You think it came with the kids or with whoever shot at them?”

“Those are the details I leave up to you investigators.”

“If these kids were experimenting with salvia they might have been doing some other weird crap,” Donny said.

“Like mutilating cattle?” Maggie asked.

“I said pig’s blood, not cow’s. We used pig’s blood to recreate crime scenes in forensic training. It’s close enough to human blood and easier to obtain.” Lucy smiled but still didn’t look up. “Donny mentioned that’s what he dragged you out here for. The cattle mutilations.”

“Is it possible these kids had something to do with them? Some freaky ritualistic stuff?” Maggie asked. If a county sheriff could keep it secret that area teenagers were experimenting with new and different drugs, could he keep under wraps their other illegal activities as well?

“The mutilations are too advanced and deliberate,” Donny said. “Especially for a bunch of teenagers tripping on drugs. How would they figure out how to drain the blood? And erase footprints? I’d sooner believe UFO guys like Stotter than think a bunch of kids were able to pull that off.”

“I have to agree,” Lucy said. “About a year ago I was asked to do a necropsy on a mutilated steer. The incisions were precise as were the organs they chose to extract.”

Suddenly her hands were still. She stood up straight and looked from Maggie to Donny and back. “Actually I remember thinking at the time that the incisions looked as though they had been cauterized. It would certainly explain why there’s no blood. Now that I think back, it reminded me of laser surgery.”

The three of them stared at one another.

“I think I need to go upstairs and talk to Dawson Hayes again,” Maggie said. “There’re too many strange questions left unanswered.”

Donny walked her back to the rental car. He needed to retrieve his jacket and she wanted to grab hers before going back up to see Dawson, having learned that the cold invaded as soon as the sun went down. They were discussing what trace evidence Donny would send with the State Patrol technicians headed back to Lincoln. Neither of them noticed the cracked windshield until they opened the Toyota’s doors.

“What the hell?” Donny was the first to see the fist-size rock on the hood.

Maggie couldn’t believe it. Instinctively her head swiveled and her eyes darted around the parking lot as if she would still be able to locate the culprit.

“I thought the heartland was supposed to be a friendly place.”

“People are edgy about this case.”

“So why take it out on me? I’m trying to solve the crime.”

“Maybe somebody doesn’t want it solved.”

“Then why aren’t they threatening you?”

“It’s against the law to threaten a State Patrol officer.”

“It’s against the law to threaten a federal agent.” Maggie heard the frustration spilling out in her voice.

“It’s easier to blame an outsider. They know I’m not going anywhere. They probably think they can convince you to pack up and go home. Don’t take it personally.”

“Are you serious?” She grabbed the rock and held it up. “You don’t want me to take this personally?”

“You get used to it after a while,” a man said from behind them.

Maggie spun around again. She hadn’t noticed the stranger who must have come out of one of the buildings. He stood beside a Buick station wagon parked behind the Toyota. Maybe he had been waiting inside his vehicle for them.

“Name’s Wesley Stotter.” He put out his hand to Maggie.

“Stotter,” Donny said. “The UFO guy?”

The man shrugged. “I guess some people call me that. I prefer the term ‘paranormal investigator.’ ”

Immediately Donny winced. Maggie looked from one man to the other for an explanation.

“You’re the one getting the ranchers all riled up about alien spaceships mutilating their cattle.”

Stotter was about Maggie’s height, thick-chested, bald-headed with violet-colored eyes and a well-manicured silver beard that made him look more like a history professor than a UFO nut.

“I saw something in the forest last night that I think you two might be interested in hearing about.”

“You were there last night?” Maggie was interested now.

“I tried to come up through the back entrance. A bright beam of light stopped me about halfway up.”

“You mean you stopped to watch the lights?” Donny didn’t sound convinced.

“No, I said it stopped me. Literally. Shut down my car’s entire electrical system.”

THIRTY-SIX

Wesley Stotter knew they would be skeptical. Most law enforcement officials dismissed whatever he had to say, but what if something he saw could help their investigation? So he stuck to the facts as he told State Patrolman Fergussen and Agent O’Dell about his drive up into the forest last night.

“What are you doing out here in the Sandhills?” Fergussen wanted to know. “I thought your radio show was based in Denver.”

Stotter couldn’t help but be impressed that the man actually knew a little something about him.

“Chasing lights in the sky.”

He watched the two investigators exchange a glance.

“I’ve been examining cattle mutilations for years now,” he explained. “You’ve had a string of them recently. Seven, to be exact, within twenty-three days.”

Fergussen crossed his arms and shook his head, but now Agent O’Dell seemed interested.

“You think the lights have something to do with it?” she asked.

“When you’ve looked at dozens of cattle mutilations you can’t deny the similarities. Seeing lights in the night sky before or after is common.”

“And that leads you to believe alien spacecrafts are involved?”

He studied her for a moment, not sure if she was playing with him or genuinely interested. Up until this point Fergussen had asked all the questions while O’Dell busied herself with a salad she had piled high from the hospital’s cafeteria.

They had found a table in the corner where no one could hear them. Fergussen had picked up a sandwich. Stotter grabbed a doughnut and coffee. O’Dell was the only one devouring her food. Stotter was a bit surprised at her appetite. He knew they had just come from viewing the autopsies of the dead boys.

“Not necessarily alien,” he finally admitted.

“That’s right,” Fergussen said. “You’ve got the ranchers all up in arms believing some conspiracy with black ops helicopters is responsible for killing their cattle.”

“The government’s been secretly testing bovine parts for years, although I doubt they’d ever admit it. Back in the ’80s they snatched up thyroid glands, paying meat-processing plants and butchers top dollar. Nobody knew what the hell they were doing with them nor did anyone care.

“Then all of a sudden Uncle Sam was done and the processing plants were flooded with bovine thyroid glands. So what did they do with them? They ground them up with hamburger until tens of thousands got sick with something called thyrotoxicosis.”

O’Dell stopped with her fork in midair and asked Fergussen, “Is that true?”

Fergussen stared at him without answering.

Stotter realized he needed to be careful. He couldn’t go off on tangents like he did on his radio show. Most people didn’t want to hear this stuff. It was one of the reasons the government got away with what it did.

“Consider the parts that are consistently taken in almost every single cattle mutilation,” Stotter tried again. “Jaws are stripped to the bone. Reproductive organs, tongues, digestive tracks, all removed. The blood completely drained. Think about it. The jaw has saliva glands. The digestive track absorbs and collects traces of chemicals or toxins. Even the ears act as a filter. If you were doing tests on animals and didn’t want anyone to know, you’d remove all the bodily fluids and all the pieces that might hold clues that could give you away.”

“So they use a helicopter to snatch a cow up out of a herd,” Fergussen said, arms still crossed and Stotter could see he didn’t believe him. “Where exactly do they perform all these tests? In the air?”

“Have you ever heard of a mobile slaughter unit?” He could see Fergussen had. O’Dell shook her head. “The USDA provides these state-of-the-art butcher shops on wheels. They’re part of a farm initiative, an outreach program for rural areas.”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“I’ve seen the mobile slaughter units in the same areas that have had cattle mutilations.”

“Coincidence,” Fergussen said, only now he grew impatient, sitting up, ready to cut this short. “So which is it, Stotter? Government conspiracy or alien spaceship?”

“What makes you think it has to be one or the other?”

“I’ve had enough,” Fergussen said but looked over at O’Dell.

“What does any of this have to do with two dead teenagers?” she asked.

“Maybe they saw something they weren’t supposed to see.”

THIRTY-SEVEN

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Platt hadn’t seen his ex-wife in more than five years. She looked good but that was no surprise. Outer appearances had always been of utmost importance to her.

“You took back your maiden name?” The words fell out of his mouth before he could stop them.

“And my new husband agreed I should keep it.”

Her smile was tight, framed with tiny new crinkles, but Platt was struck by how familiar her gestures still were to him. And how much she reminded him of Ali. It was hard to believe five years had passed.

“You’re married?” He had purposely lost track of her after their divorce. Anger overrode his curiosity.

“Yes.” The answer was curt and meant to bring the discussion to an immediate end. She didn’t ask about him. Instead she pointed to the chairs around the long table. “Make yourselves comfortable. Undersecretary Baldwin—”

“I’m Irene Baldwin,” her boss said, coming into the room. “Thanks for joining us.”

The older woman shook hands with the ease and charm of a successful CEO. Or, Platt couldn’t help thinking, a slick politician. Baldwin wore her hair swept up. Her suit was probably an expensive designer model, simple and charcoal. She didn’t bother with heels and was much shorter than Mary Ellen but no one would immediately notice. The woman carried herself with grace and authority. Her presence filled the room and she automatically took command. In minutes she had Roger Bix giving a long, drawn-out account of both school contaminations as well as sharing his personal insights.

However, Bix was good, too. And Platt was impressed. The account Bix gave—although sounding complete and including what Platt began to realize halfway through the telling was insignificant nonsense—left out pertinent information and vital details. In other words, Bix was only pretending to share.

“We’ll help in any way possible,” Baldwin told them.

“I’m glad to hear that. A notification to all schools in the surrounding districts would be a good start.”

“That’s not possible,” Mary Ellen said, garnering a scowl from her boss. But she didn’t seem to notice, or perhaps she didn’t care. “How can we notify schools when we don’t even know what’s making these children sick?”

“We’ll know by tomorrow morning,” Platt said in such a convincing tone that even Bix stared at him. They had to figure it out. Come Monday afternoon more kids would be getting sick somewhere.

“Still so sure of yourself.” His ex-wife gave him another one of those tight smiles that seemed to say, I know you better than that.

“If we can tell you what made them sick, can you track down the supplier?” Bix asked Irene Baldwin, wisely ignoring the sideshow taking place across the table.

“Of course,” Baldwin told him.

But Platt saw on Mary Ellen’s face that Baldwin’s promise might not be possible.

“You’ll give us full access to the records? No proprietary stuff blackened out?”

“We’ll track down the offending supplier together, if it indeed turns out to be a supplier. Food safety is the priority.”

“I’m glad to hear that, because the last time I worked with this department they seemed hesitant to disclose and even more hesitant to punish one of their longtime suppliers.”

Silence.

Bix wiped at an imaginary speck on the table in front of him. Knowing Bix, it was another way of telling Baldwin she wouldn’t be able to fool him. That he could spot even the tiniest imperfections.

“I won’t bother asking about the last time you worked with this department,” Baldwin finally said. “That would mean defending procedures that I knew nothing about.”

“It’s been my experience that the USDA is sometimes … not always”—he held up his hands as if in mock surrender—“but sometimes, has been slow to take our lead. What’s that old axiom? The federal government won’t act till the bodies stack.” Bix exaggerated his Southern drawl, maybe to sound more charming, but Platt saw Mary Ellen stare darts at him. Baldwin, however, appeared unfazed.

“I can assure you that will not be the case under my watch. Now, if we’re finished for the day, I promised Ms. Wychulis that I wouldn’t keep her all night from her doting husband and new baby.”

Baldwin stood up and everyone followed suit except Platt, who thought his knees would buckle in if he tried.

“You have a baby?” he asked.

“Yes, a son.”

“I’m sorry,” Baldwin interjected. “Do you two know each other?”

“Colonel Platt used to be my husband,” Mary Ellen explained. To Platt she added, “I’ve moved on.”

And she did, making her way with the others toward the door.

Platt trailed behind. His ears filled with the hiss of a wind tunnel and the thump-thump of his heart. Everyone walked in slow motion. Lips moved but made no sound. More smiles. A glance back at him. His chest ached. His breath felt obstructed. He silently gulped in air through his mouth.

“Platt, are you coming?” Julia waited at the door.

Bix and the women had already gone out into the hallway.

Platt nodded and made his feet obey, but a voice in the back of his head kept repeating, “You haven’t moved on. You haven’t even begun to move on.”

THIRTY-EIGHT

NORTH PLATTE, NEBRASKA

Maggie thought Wesley Stotter’s tale, though interesting, sounded too fantastic to be true. She hoped she might get some answers out of Dawson. She left Donny to figure out what to do with the entertaining Stotter.

On her way out of the cafeteria she went through the line again and grabbed a piece of chocolate cake for Dawson.

She was glad to see him awake until she got a good look at his eyes.

“He’s here,” he whispered instead of a greeting. His head jerked back and forth as if he expected someone to jump out of the room’s dark corners.

“Who are you talking about?”

She set the piece of cake on the cart beside him. He looked past it. Looked past her, over her shoulder, trying to see out the door.

“I saw him walk by the door three times.”

She stayed in his line of vision, shifting and trying to get him to meet her eyes. He was panicked, sweat glistening on his face, his arms pushing himself up.

“I know he was in here. I could smell him.”

She wondered if it was a reaction to the drugs they were giving him for pain. Or maybe it was simply the aftereffect of the electrical shock. She knew disorientation and incoherency could linger. So could the blurred vision.

“What does he smell like?”

“River mud. And sweat.”

She turned on a lamp in the corner of the room and came back to stand close to him.

“You think he wants to hurt you?”

“He said I’d be sorry.” His eyes flittered by, touching her face briefly before going off again. “Said I’d be sorry I survived.”

She wished she had talked to Lucy about side effects of salvia. Could the hallucinations return? Certainly the hospital staff had done a toxicology workup on Dawson. She needed to tell them about the salvia. Would this be another costly mistake?

“Dawson, you need to talk to me. I want to help you, but you have to let me in on what happened last night.”

“Can’t. I promised Johnny.” He caught the slip and looked to see if she had caught it, too.

“Johnny’s dead, Dawson.”

He stared at her as if waiting for a punch line.

“Johnny’s not dead. I saw him this morning.”

“He was here?”

“Yeah. You mean Kyle and Trevor. I know they’re dead.”

“Yes. And so is Johnny. We found him this afternoon.” She paused to let it sink in. “He may have taken an overdose of something.”

She was silent, not sure what to expect. What did teenagers do when they found out a friend was dead? Dawson was already imagining a stranger who smelled of river mud.

“What about Amanda?” His eyes were still worried.

“Was Amanda Johnny’s girlfriend?”

He frowned as if he had to think about it. His mind was probably still fuzzy. Then he said, “Yeah, I guess so.”

“She’s fine.” Maggie watched for his reaction to see if he had a crush on Amanda.

His eyes darted to the door, slid to Maggie’s face, and jerked to the door again. Then he laid back.

“I can’t believe Johnny’s dead.”

To Maggie’s surprise the news about his friend’s death appeared to calm him, but just a little. He settled into the pillows. Ran his free hand through his hair. His other hand still had an IV needle connecting him to a bag of solution. His eyes settled down.

“Is your mom or dad here with you?” Maggie glanced around the room. There were no jackets or magazines. No purse or tote bag. No abandoned coffee cups or soda cans.

“My dad’ll stop by after work.”

“And your mom?”

“My mom hasn’t been around for a long time.” He said this as a matter of fact, without sadness or anger.

“I’m sorry,” Maggie said automatically then wanted to kick herself. She hated when people asked about her father, especially after she told them he was killed when she was twelve. “Lame response,” she told Dawson. “But I am sorry you’re alone.”

He noticed the cake and looked up at her. “Is this for me?”

“Yes. I brought it up from the cafeteria.”

He grabbed the plate and fork and started shoving in bites, suddenly looking much more like a normal teen ager.

“You’re not from around here.”

“It’s that obvious?”

He just shrugged. Kept on eating. She saw him glance inside her jacket where he could see her shoulder holster and weapon.

Maggie ventured closer.

“Dawson, you need to tell me what happened last night. Because I’m having an awful time trying to figure it all out.”

His eyes darted back to the doorway.

“I promise you won’t get in trouble.” Even as she said this she sensed his panic. “But I can’t protect you if I don’t know what to protect you from.”

He finished the cake. Left the plate on his tray and took a long draw at the straw in his water glass. He was studying her, trying to decide whether or not to trust her.

“I know about the salvia,” she said and saw his eyes widen. “I don’t care who brought it or where you got it. I just need to know what happened. What were you doing in the forest?”

“My dad was a quarterback in high school.”

Maggie had no idea what this had to do with anything. Would he just avoid all her questions? Still, she listened.

“He really liked Johnny.” Dawson stared at his hands, twisted the top of the bedsheets. “Sometimes I think he wished Johnny was his son instead of me.”

He paused. He was waiting for her to say something. Another one of those knee-jerk responses like “I’m sorry.” She stayed quiet. She had no idea what to say to that.

“I just wanted to fit in. You know, be cool.” He looked up to make sure she was listening. “I was just excited they invited me.”

“Last night wasn’t the first time?”

“Third, for me.”

“It was an invitation-only party?”

“For some. Some new kids were always invited. Kind of a test.”

“Like an initiation?”

He shrugged.

“You always tried different drugs?”

He shrugged again.

“You’re not going to get in trouble,” she reassured him. “I’m just trying to figure out what happened.”

But she could see he was still trying to decide what to tell her and what to leave out.

“Were you filming your experiences for YouTube?”

His eyes flashed and she knew she’d hit on a kernel of truth.

“You found the camera.” Not a question but an admission.

She didn’t admit that they had not. Why didn’t they find one? Had someone taken it before they arrived at the scene?

“And what about the pig’s blood,” she tried another shot in the dark.

To this he just shook his head.

“That was some dumb-ass idea of Johnny’s. He wanted to see what the losers would do if he splattered them with blood.”

She noticed he was still holding the fork she had brought with the piece of cake. He waggled it in one hand then shifted to the other, back and forth.

“Who attacked you, Dawson? Was that part of the ritual?”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Who was it then?”

“I don’t know.” And the panic returned.

“I need your help, Dawson.”

For the first time he really looked at her. He was scared, but also perplexed that someone would ask such a thing of him.

“You need my help?”

“Yes. Will you help me?”

He almost smiled but then the teenager in him took control and he pretended to be negotiating when he said, “If you get me another piece of that cake I’ll tell you whatever you want.”

THIRTY-NINE

The nurses’ station was empty when Maggie came back with two plates of chocolate cake. She had forgotten a fork for herself and instead of making another trip down to the cafeteria she hoped the nurses might have a plastic one. But no one was in sight.

As she approached Dawson’s room down the hallway she could see that the light she had left on in the room had been turned out. There was only the red-and-green glow from the monitors. Maybe she was breaking hospital rules, hanging around after lights-out.

From a few feet outside the door, she could see there was someone inside the room, bent over Dawson’s bed. A man. His broad back to the doorway. Maybe Dawson’s dad. She turned to leave them. She’d let them have their privacy. Dawson said his dad would come by after he got off work.

Then Maggie took another look. Something wasn’t right.

She squinted, trying to adjust her eyes from the bright hallway to the dark room. The man held a pillow in one hand. He was adjusting Dawson’s pillows. She started to turn away again.

Stopped again. This time she could see Dawson’s fingers gripping the man’s arm.

“Hey,” she yelled and raced through the doorway.

Both of her hands were filled with plates. The man turned and bolted right at her, head down like a football player. He shoved his elbow up, catching her in the chest. The plates dropped and shattered. Maggie fell hard against one of the monitors and set it beeping. She scrambled to her feet, automatically drawing her weapon.

“Dawson?” She punched the instrument panel above his bed until a blue light flickered on and the Call button was activated.

Dawson was sitting up, holding his neck. Coughing.

“Are you okay?” She was half out of the room, looking up and down the hallway. A door banged under the far exit sign. “Are you okay?”

His eyes were wide but he gave her a thumbs-up.

She almost knocked a nurse over as she dashed out.

“What’s going on?”

“Call the police,” she managed to yell as her hip slammed against the door latch.

She stopped in the stairwell. Let the door thump shut.

Then she listened. Had he gone up or down?

She didn’t hear any footsteps. Could he have already exited on one of the other levels? She had to be only steps behind him.

She held her breath. Tried to slow her pulse. Listened again.

Nothing. Damn!

He must have already left the stairwell. She grabbed the door handle, ready to go back. It was locked. Of course, it was locked. All the levels would be. Standard security. You could leave but not reenter. Which meant he would need to go all the way down to the exit. Probably out into the parking lot.

Which meant he was still in the stairwell. Waiting for her.

FORTY

The dim lights in the stairwell cast more shadows than light. Maggie stayed pressed against the cinder-block wall as she slipped down one step then another. She kept her Smith and Wesson nose-down, both hands steadying her grip, trigger finger ready. She had no idea if the man in Dawson’s room had a weapon. Just because he chose a pillow to smother Dawson didn’t mean he wasn’t carrying something more lethal.

She couldn’t see beyond the next landing and she didn’t dare hang over the railing to get a good look. No better way to get your head blown off. She slithered all the way down to the next set of stairs and peeked at the landing below.

Nothing. And still no sound.

Maybe he had already made it down to the ground floor. He could have exited and kept the door from slamming on his way out. As quietly as possible, she slipped out of her leather jacket, keeping crinkles and wisps to a minimum. She loved this jacket, worn and comfortable, the two of them had been through a lot together. She rolled it up, lining on the outside, just like her mother had taught her. Without leaning forward she tossed it.

There was a shuffle of shoes on concrete then a whoosh. Maggie looked down in time to see the man withdrawing his hand and the gleam of a knife blade from his jacket.

“Stop. FBI.”

He turned and was gone, banging his way down the steps.

She followed. Her heart thumped in her ears now. Sweat trickled down her back. It sounded like he was taking the steps two at a time. She tried quickening her pace. Only one more flight and he’d reach the exit.

She caught a glimpse of a black jacket. Maybe a stocking cap? It sounded like work boots, something heavy, but no clicking heel.

A door slammed. He was out.

Maggie raced down to the exit and almost elbowed it open, not wanting to give him another step ahead. But she stopped herself again. If he had waited for her on the landing what would stop him from waiting for a second shot at her on the other side of this door.

Damn!

She tried to settle her breathing, slow down her heartbeat. Neither cooperated. She could smell wet dirt or some kind of sludge. What was it that Dawson had said? The man smelled of river mud. She looked down at the concrete. He’d left dirt crumbles and footprints.

Yes, he’d screwed up.

Footprints were almost as good as leaving his fingerprints. But no time to celebrate. She blew her hair out of her eyes. Not relinquishing, she kept her two-handed grip on her weapon.

The door latch was a typical bar across the middle. Pushing anywhere on it unlatched the door. He had a knife. He now knew that she had a gun. He’d have to jump at her, which meant he’d have to hide behind the door when it opened.

She backed up a few steps. Steadied her grip on the gun. Sucked in a long breath. Then she kicked the bar as hard as she could, sending the door flying so that it slammed on the outside wall. Anyone hiding there would now have a broken nose or broken wrist if he was holding out a knife. But the door hit the outside wall. No one in between.

Maggie stepped outside into the dark. None of the lights from the parking lot’s pole lamps hit this corner. She scanned the side of the building in case the man was pressed up against it, hiding in the shadows. There was no movement. A car drove by on the street but the engine wasn’t revved, the tires weren’t peeling out.

She got down on her hands and knees where she could see underneath the rows of vehicles. No feet. There was no Dumpster to hide behind. No air-conditioning system.

Where the hell did he go?

Then it occurred to her. Had he gotten into one of the vehicles? Of course, he’d have one waiting. Somewhere in this dark parking lot was he sitting in his vehicle, slouched down into the shadows and watching her?

She stayed alongside the building, her weapon was still clutched in her hand down by her side as she walked around to the front entrance of the hospital.

She heard a train in the distance. No sirens yet. She pulled out her cell phone. Thumbed her way through Contacts until she found Donny’s number. She might not be able to search every vehicle in the parking lot, but she could find out whether or not that footprint matched the one taken from the forest.

It could be a break for them, but at the same time she realized any hope she’d had of Dawson Hayes helping was probably gone now.

FORTY-ONE

WASHINGTON, D.C.

It was late by the time Julia came home, or rather by the time she got to Rachel’s town house. The place still didn’t feel like home, although she’d never admit that out loud, as much to protect herself as Rachel. Home wasn’t a place. It was a state of mind and for some reason she hadn’t wrapped her mind around being a part of this household. But it was tough. Rachel and CariAnne had been on their own, just the two of them, for a very long time.

Julia heard the TV in the family room and thought Rachel would be watching the news. She couldn’t stay away from it, checking the headlines on her smartphone every half hour, sometimes more often if something big was happening. This was probably an every-fifteen-minutes day. So she was surprised to find CariAnne in the oversized recliner, her little body wrapped in a bright yellow blanket and swallowed by the big chair.

“What are you doing still up?”

“Watching Leno.”

She said it like it was something she did every night. Did she even know who Jay Leno was?

“How are you feeling?” Julia sat on the sofa, a safe two feet away.

“Still kinda yucky. But better.”

“Is that popcorn I smell?”

“It sounded good.”

“Your mom’s letting you have popcorn?”

“Just a little.”

“And she’s letting you stay up late?”

“I slept like forever when I got home. I’m wide awake now.”

“Ah, you’re just in time,” Rachel said, bringing in a tray.

Julia noticed there were three bowls of popcorn and three cans of cold soda. That was the stuff that tripped up her heart—being included so automatically.

“We’re watching Leno.”

“I heard. I didn’t realize you knew there were other channels that didn’t have twenty-four-hour news.”

CariAnne giggled. She pulled the remote from under the yellow blanket.

“You rule!” Julia said and put up her hand for the girl to high-five her. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, kiddo.”

“Me, too.”

“So what made the kids sick? Do they know?”

“Not yet.” Julia grabbed a handful of popcorn. She hoped Rachel wouldn’t probe further.

“Did anybody die?”

“CariAnne!”

“I’m just asking.”

“I don’t think anybody’s dead.” Julia smiled at Rachel’s horror, realizing her precious little girl would dare to be as blunt as her mother.

It still surprised Julia to see Rachel, the mom. The woman reported some of the most gruesome crimes in the District. In fact, they liked to tell people how they had met over the dead bodies of a hooker and her pimp. Rachel definitely wasn’t naïve or a newcomer when it came to the brutalities that people were capable of. But when it came to her daughter, Rachel was upset by the slightest sign that CariAnne was aware of the ugly facts.

Julia, of course, had learned how to be a grown-up when she was ten. She thought kids were coddled too much as it was.

“My friend Lisa gets to spend the night in the hospital,” CariAnne told Julia and exchanged a look with her mom.

“Lisa’s very sick,” Rachel said. “I keep telling CariAnne that staying overnight at the hospital is not like a slumber party.”

“Yeah, she probably has to have needles stuck in her arm.”

“Julia!”

“Ewww. I hate needles.”

“Twelve kids were hospitalized,” Rachel told Julia. “They said the CDC and Homeland Security were at the school. Is that true?”

By now Julia thought that was probably old news. So without hesitation she answered, “Yes.”

A news alert flashed at the bottom of the television screen. The block type crawled across the bottom telling about the District public-school outbreak and said that it was caused by a negligent food handler.

“That’s not true,” Julia said. “Who the hell are they getting their information from?”

The last part of the statement moved across the screen.

“ … according to the Secretary of Agriculture.”

FORTY-TWO

After dropping off Julia and Bix, Platt had driven directly to USAMRIID. He had left Digger with his parents so going home to an empty house didn’t even entice him. The little dog would act as a better security alert than their electronic system. Before he left, Platt had told his father about the black SUV that had tailed him from the diner.

“Just be careful,” he had warned his dad.

“Always am” was the response, but Platt knew his parents lived in a whole other world. And he hated that he may have brought one of the dangers from his life into theirs.

He had called them several times throughout the day and everything appeared to be normal. He was hoping last night’s incident was more curiosity than threat.

For the last hour he had kept himself so busy that he didn’t think about Ali, Mary Ellen, or the miserable memories that had flooded his head. He concentrated on preparing slides from the garbage he and Racine had bagged along with some of the vomit. Bix had even shared some samples from the sick high schoolers in Norfolk. It hadn’t taken long before he found the bacterium—salmonella. But Bix was right. It was an unusual strain.

By now the scientists down in Atlanta knew what they were dealing with. Usually the bacterium was found in ground beef, poultry, or eggs. Sometimes it even ended up on raw vegetables or fruit. Platt also knew that some strains had become resistant to the antibiotics that were fed to cattle and poultry.

Confirming what the bacterium was didn’t make it any easier to decipher what food it had hidden in. Platt was hoping that’s where his samplings of the schoolkids’ vomit would come in handy as well as the food packaging.

Under the microscope the bacteria looked like tiny pegs jammed in among the cells. They attached themselves to the linings of the gastrointestinal organs. The bacteria would work their way through the stomach, inflaming the mucosa and usually causing severe vomiting. From there the bacteria continued migrating down, depositing themselves onto the walls of the intestine, causing it to bloat and dilate. That’s what caused the extreme pain and diarrhea. If the pesky critters decided to take an additional stay in the colon during their trip down, they could force the inner lining to tear away. The entire passage took less than two hours.

Less-severe cases were often misdiagnosed as stomach flu or irritable bowel syndrome. Truth was, sudden bouts of stomach flu didn’t happen that often. Most people didn’t realize that their upset stomach—especially within two to six hours after a meal—was mostly caused by some food-borne bacteria.

Ali had the stomach flu. That was all that Mary Ellen thought it was. It was her reason, her explanation for not calling Platt, for not telling him sooner. He had been in Afghanistan just after the start of the war, a world away, but he would have commandeered the fastest ride home if he had known his daughter was seriously ill. He had never been able to forgive Mary Ellen for waiting to contact him. She had waited too long and he had never had a chance to even say good-bye to his little girl.

Seeing Mary Ellen today and hearing that she had a new husband and a new baby should have reminded that him what had happened in the past was an awfully long time ago. Instead the memories, the physical pain was still so close to the surface. He felt as though she had ripped a scab off a wound—a wound that had never healed properly.

He sat back from the microscope. Rubbed his face, hoping to wipe away the exhaustion. He plucked through his assortment of “leftovers” and “Dumpster” samples, wondering where to begin, when his cell phone rang. He almost shoved it away until he noticed the caller ID, then he couldn’t grab it fast enough.

He caught his breath before he answered, “Hey, Maggie O’Dell.”

“I keep forgetting you’re an hour ahead of me. Did I wake you?”

“No, I’m still at the lab.”

“At USAMRIID?”

“Yeah, a weird case. I’m trying to help the CDC figure out what made a hundred and five schoolkids sick.”

“Food poisoning?”

“Looks like it. I’m pretty certain it’s a salmonella strain but it hit two different schools in the same week. About two hundred miles apart. I’m surprised you haven’t heard about it. It’s all over the news.”

“Actually I haven’t seen or heard the news since yesterday. Been a little weird here, too.”

“Sure, conferences can be that way.”

“I’m not at the conference.”

“Oh.” He wanted to kick himself because his immediate response was that he was hurt she hadn’t told him. “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay. Just a little … overwhelmed,” she said.

Platt knew it was a lot for her to admit. They had started out as doctor and patient and sometimes Platt too easily reverted to that role. He couldn’t help it. He cared about her, more than he was willing to admit—at least, to her. It was only recently that he had admitted it to himself. He couldn’t risk losing her as a friend.

Platt knew Maggie was skittish when it came to romantic entanglements. That’s what she called them: “entanglements.” Amazing what could be learned about a person’s attitude toward something just by listening to the words she used to describe it. She didn’t talk about her divorce except to say how exhausting the marriage had been. And she didn’t talk about past entanglements, either.

To be fair, he hadn’t told her much about his marriage. There were large chunks of their lives that they hadn’t shared. Maybe they didn’t know each other as well as he thought. He did know that Maggie wouldn’t let anyone take care of her. And she rarely let down her guard. It was a big deal for her to even admit that she was overwhelmed.

“Tell me what’s going on,” he said.

She gave him an abbreviated rundown, which made him tense. Once again, she was chasing a killer. Coming way too close for his comfort level. No matter how many times he told himself it was what she did for a living, it still set him on edge.

“You’re right about the laser stun gun,” Platt said. “The military’s had the technology for a long time but it’s only recently they’ve managed to funnel its power into a small-enough weapon. From what I remember it’s the size of a rifle, and I think you still have to carry a backpack with some sort of charger. Originally it was developed for crowd control. All you have to do is sweep an area with the laser beam. You don’t have to connect like a stun gun or shoot an attached dart like a Taser. But from what I understand, it’s not meant to kill anyone.”

“Is it possible the military would stage war games in the middle of a Nebraska forest?”

“Actually it sounds like the perfect place. But they wouldn’t use a bunch of drugged teenagers for targets.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Platt took a deep breath to keep from getting defensive. He knew Maggie was simply looking at all angles but he tended to get his back up when anyone attacked the military. Sure, mistakes were made. And he had witnessed firsthand the corruption and abuse of power. He had exposed a couple of incidents himself. But he still wanted to believe they were rare.

“Right now,” she said, “it seems my options are GIs gone wild or red-eyed aliens.”

He laughed and finally she did, too.

Then completely out of nowhere, he blurted, “I miss you.”

Her silence made his stomach clench but for the first time, he realized he didn’t care.

“Okay, what’s wrong?” she asked.

“What? I can’t tell you I miss you without something being wrong?”

“I can hear it in your voice. Something’s going on.”

“It’s just … do you ever think you’ll want to have kids?” As soon as he said it, he knew he had stepped over the line.

“Ben, I don’t even know yet whether you wear boxers or briefs and you’re asking me if I want to have kids?”

He laughed again. Felt some of the tension drain away. He imagined her on the other end. She’d be smiling but shaking her head at him. Probably pacing. He knew she couldn’t stand still when she talked on the phone. If he was really making her nervous she’d be pushing a strand of hair back behind her ear right about now. The one thing he took away from her comment was that she used the word “yet.” She didn’t know “yet” if he wore boxers or briefs. One word could reveal a lot.

“Are you okay?” she asked after a long silence.

“Yeah, I’m okay. This case is probably just getting to me,” he lied.

“You’re thinking about Ali,” she said and it wasn’t a question.

Maybe they actually knew each other too well.

FORTY-THREE

NEBRASKA

Lucy had left the light on for Maggie. The scent of freshly brewed tea and cinnamon filled the kitchen.

When she’d called Lucy earlier, Maggie had suggested she stay in North Platte, find a hotel room. Her suitcase was, after all, in the trunk of the rented Toyota. And she didn’t want to wear out her welcome. Lucy had been kind enough to take her in last night when they were all too exhausted to think clearly, but she certainly didn’t expect the woman to extend her invitation.

“It does take a bit longer to drive out here,” Lucy had said. “I’ll certainly understand if you’d rather stay in town, but I also would enjoy the company.” As if needing to reaffirm that she wasn’t simply being polite, she added, “I just put a batch of homemade cinnamon rolls in the oven.”

Now Maggie found the woman reading in the living room, a small fire crackling in the brick fireplace. The group of dogs huddled around Lucy all got up at once and came to Maggie, wagging and demanding attention, butting each other playfully out of the way.

Maggie sank down into the recliner opposite Lucy and petted each dog. She had never had her own mother wait up for her. Instead, Maggie—even as a twelve-year-old—was the one waiting up for her mother, who sometimes didn’t come home at all. Now suddenly she was struck by how good this place felt—warm, cozy, and safe. Not even twenty-four hours and it felt like home.

Lucy looked up at her over half-moon reading glasses and set her book aside.

“You look exhausted,” she said. “How are you?”

“Exhausted.” Maggie smiled. “But I’m okay.” Jake pushed his snout under her hand, asking to be petted and she automatically obeyed. The others had settled by Lucy’s feet again.

“Someone takes care of your dog while you’re away?”

“Yes.”

“Someone who takes care of you, too, when you’re there?”

“Oh, no.” She shook her head and was immediately embarrassed that she had protested so quickly. At the same time she didn’t want to explain that her FBI partner, R. J. Tully—who was taking care of Harvey—was very much involved with her best friend, Gwen Patterson.

“But there is someone? Someone new in your life?”

Maggie stared at the woman, wondering how she seemed to have the power to look deep beneath the surface.

“Maybe,” Maggie said, still thinking about her conversation with Platt, how good it was to hear his voice. She loved the sound of his laughter. Just sharing with him the events of the last twenty-four hours had made her feel less alone in the world. “Trouble is I’ve gotten used to being on my own. I like scheduling my time without getting someone else’s approval.”

In her mind she added that being alone meant being safe. No one could hurt or disappoint you if you didn’t let them get close. The fact that she missed Benjamin Platt annoyed her. It felt like a weakness, a vulnerability. “Is that being independent,” she asked, “or selfish?”

“There always has to be a balance. It should never be all or nothing.” Lucy hesitated, deciding whether or not to go on. “You should never deny who you are to please someone else. If that’s the choice, then it’s not meant to be.

“My mother was full-blooded Omaha. She did everything she possibly could to deny it, to leave it behind. I think that’s why she married my father. He was the son of Irish Catholic immigrants. A railroad engineer who had dreams as big as a Nebraska sky. But he absolutely adored American history and the Indian culture. He was the one who taught me about the Omaha tribe and my Indian heritage. I think my mother finally learned to love it, through his eyes.

“Your independence, your time alone, when you find someone who loves those things as much as you do and wants them for you, you’ll find that those things no longer matter unless you also have that particular person beside you. A bit ironic, I suppose.”

Lucy didn’t push the matter. Instead she asked, “How’s the boy doing?”

Maggie had told her on the phone about the intruder and the attempt on Dawson’s life.

“He’s scared. But his dad’s with him and Skylar has a deputy outside his door now. Donny seems certain the stranger’s footprint is going to match the one we found in the forest. It has the same distinctive waffle pattern. Same size.”

“Even if it matches, it might not lead us anywhere. There must be hundreds of pairs of work boots in this area. Did Dawson tell you anything?”

Maggie shook her head. “Not really. They used the campsite to experiment with drugs. He did admit they had a camera.”

“And we didn’t find it. Could they have caught something on film?”

“I have no idea. What else is out there besides a bunch of trees and pasture?”

“The university has a new field house on one side and there’s the nursery on the other side.”

“Nursery?”

“The Forest Service grows their own trees. The forest doesn’t replenish itself. Trees don’t grow well in sand.” She smiled, then realized that wasn’t enough of an explanation. “It was an experiment at the turn of the last century— 1902, if I remember correctly. Every tree was hand planted. About twenty thousand acres. Originally it was believed that settlers would come to the area if they were provided an easy supply of timber to build with. It’s been sort of an open-air laboratory ever since. When trees die, as many of those original pine are doing now, they have to be replenished.”

“Doesn’t sound very sinister.”

Lucy laughed. “No, I’m afraid not.”

“What’s in the field house?”

“I’m not sure. The university built it several years ago. I think it was supposed to be a research laboratory for developing plant hybrids. I’m not a fan of genetic-engineering our food. But from what I heard they decided to use someplace else.”

“So it’s empty?”

“No. I believe the Department of Agriculture uses it for something. Not sure what. You can’t see it from the road. Once in a while I’ve seen a vehicle coming out.”

“You’ve never been curious?”

“It’s a secured entry and fenced off.”

“Electric fencing?”

Lucy took off her eyeglasses. “What exactly are you thinking?”

“Not sure. I don’t remember seeing the facility when we were there. Can you see it from the kids’ campsite?”

Lucy gave it some thought before answering. “I don’t think so.”

Maggie sighed, disappointed.

“However,” Lucy added, her long fingers massaging her right temple, “I think you might be able to see the private road that goes from the main route to the facility.”

Maggie’s cell phone rang in her jacket pocket. She jumped up to retrieve it realizing that she hoped it was Platt. He had caught her off guard earlier with his question about children. Recently she had almost convinced herself she wanted to take their relationship to the next level, but not if it meant embarking on an emotional mission to replace his beloved dead child.

She yanked the phone from her pocket. It wasn’t Platt. She tried to keep her disappointment from Lucy. Too late. The woman didn’t miss a thing.

“Investigator Fergussen, you must have some new information.”

“Not anything good but I thought you’d want to know. Car accident. About an hour ago.”

She could hear sirens and voices yelling. He must be on the site.

“Victims are Courtney Ressler and Nikki Everett. Looks like they were coming around a curve. Ran right into a six-point buck.”

“A buck?”

“Deer. Probably didn’t see it until it was too late. You know teenagers. Might have been going too fast. Texting.”

“Are they okay?”

“Negative. Both were dead on impact. It’s pretty messy. Just thought you’d like to know.”

“Thanks.”

Lucy hadn’t taken her eyes off Maggie but waited patiently.

“We just lost two more teenagers from last night.”

SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10

FORTY-FOUR

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Platt felt like he’d only been asleep for a few minutes when Bix’s phone call dragged him back out of bed.

“United ticket counter. Reagan National. Meet me there at five thirty. We’ve got a six thirty flight.”

“I’m hoping you mean five thirty this afternoon,” Platt had said looking at his bedside alarm clock that read three forty-five.

“Very funny. I’ll see you there.”

Now seated in first class beside the CDC chief, Platt was pleased to see that Bix looked even worse than he did. Bix’s hair was tousled and his eyes were bloodshot. But Roger Bix in a suit and necktie was serious business even if the tie hung loose. The jacket had come off as soon as they stepped onto the plane and was sent away with a flight attendant while Bix rolled up his shirtsleeves and shoved them above his elbows. Platt wore his uniform as instructed, but he had surrendered his jacket to the flight attendant, too.

It wasn’t until they were in the air that Bix started to explain why they were making an early-morning flight to Chicago.

“I think our friend”—friend being their code word for the anonymous caller—“got pissed by the USDA’s announcement last night.”

“What announcement?”

“You didn’t hear the news?”

“I went to USAMRIID then home.”

“The secretary of agriculture himself said that the school contamination was caused by a negligent kitchen worker who was being suspended.”

Platt thought about poor Velma Carter. “How did they come up with that? We didn’t even mention the woman at our meeting.”

“Exactly why our friend is pissed. So he’s given us a bigger piece of the puzzle.”

“In Chicago?”

“A processing plant on the north side. They get scraps and chunks of beef from various slaughterhouses, combine them, then grind them up. They take the ground beef and make it into patties, meatballs, spice it up for tacos.”

“Let me guess, those get shipped off to schools.”

“If only it was that simple.” He pulled out a thick file from his briefcase. “I’ve been trying to make heads or tails out of this mess.”

“You’re assuming it was the beef in the taquito that was contaminated?”

“Not assuming.”

“Your guys found something?”

“I can’t frickin’ sit around until you lab nerds finish studying your crap and vomit slides. I pushed our anonymous caller. He was feeling slightly guilty. That ridiculous statement from the USDA pushed him to tell me where to look.”

“He told you it was the beef?”

“Suggested. Not told. My lab nerds are checking it out this morning.”

“So why do we need to go to Chicago?”

Bix shrugged. “Maybe this guy isn’t really a whistle-blower. Maybe he just wants to yank our chain. But I got the feeling giving us this tip was huge.”

“So did you have time to check out this processing plant?”

“Family owned. Been in business for fifty years. I tried to pull up the inspection records at the USDA, and get this—I was told that information was only available by filing a request through the Freedom of Information Act because the records must contain ‘proprietary information.’”

“Why don’t they just black it out?”

“That’s what they will do once we’ve filed our request.”

“I thought Baldwin was going to make everything available?”

“That’s what she said, didn’t she? However, I couldn’t reach her this early in the morning. Got her voice-messaging service. Told her to fuckin’ call me. We need an immediate notice to all schools about beef products and we need a recall.”

“So?”

“Didn’t hear from her before I had to switch off my phone.”

“She seemed genuine last night. Give her a chance to do the right thing.”

“I am. But she has less than forty-eight hours.”

FORTY-FIVE

Mary Ellen hated leaving her husband and son fast asleep. She had barely gotten to see the two of them last night before bedtime. And now, on a Saturday morning, she was back outside the conference room, all props sorted and collated, coffee and Danish laid out. Everyone was here, except for Irene Baldwin. Once again, she was keeping them all waiting for an emergency meeting she had called.

Mary Ellen felt on edge. It didn’t help matters that she had allowed herself three coffees already this morning. Her stomach burned and her nerves were stripped raw. She wanted to be angry at Benjamin Platt and yet all she could think about was how good the bastard looked. She should, at least, take pleasure in his obvious misery when he discovered that she was married and had moved on.

Last night, lying in bed she told herself that she was the luckiest woman in the world. She had been given a second chance at having a family. When she closed her eyes she was shocked that all she could think about was Benjamin Platt and remember so vividly what it felt like to have him make love to her. She rolled over and cuddled into her husband’s back, pressed her cheek against his shoulders, and begged for sleep.

“Wychulis.”

Baldwin’s heels clicked up the hallway. She looked like a woman who had slept eight hours and, unlike Mary Ellen, didn’t need three cups of coffee this morning to get her moving. But on closer inspection Mary Ellen saw that her boss’s attempt at concealing the bags under her eyes had not been totally successful.

“Have you heard from the secretary?”

“No.”

“Of course not. He makes a ridiculous statement, and we’re supposed to deal with the fallout.”

Mary Ellen remained quiet. She knew her old boss must have had the necessary evidence before releasing his statement to the press.

“Are we ready here?”

“Yes.”

Baldwin opened the door to the conference room and stopped. She stayed in the doorway and Mary Ellen almost bumped into her.

“Good morning, everyone. Thanks for coming. We’ll be right with you.”

Then Baldwin closed the door again and waved for Mary Ellen to follow her down the hallway.

“Who the hell are all those people?” she whispered.

“You asked to convene the Recall Committee. These are all standing members.”

“There must be a dozen people in that room.”

“Actually fourteen. Joseph Murray brought two of his techs and Karena McFerris has her deputy field inspection manager with her. What exactly are we going to talk about recalling?”

“Ground beef that the USDA bought specifically for the school lunch program.”

“You do understand we won’t be able to actually order it. All meat recalls are voluntary. We negotiate with the supplier.”

Obviously Baldwin did not know because the look she gave Mary Ellen was one of disbelief.

“You’re telling me the FDA can order a recall on a defective toy that might hurt children but the USDA cannot order a recall on contaminated meat that could kill children?”

Mary Ellen controlled her frustration.

“Our agency is to assist producers as well as protect consumers.” She shouldn’t need to remind Irene Baldwin that the reason she was hired over more qualified candidates— including Mary Ellen—was for her ability to bridge that gap.

“Is Undersecretary Eisler at least here?” Baldwin finally asked.

“He sent Deputy Administrator Jerold from Marketing Service. Jerold is actually the person directly responsible for overseeing the National School Lunch Program.”

Mary Ellen had never seen Baldwin like this. Since day one, the woman had appeared infallible. Mary Ellen wondered what her old boss, who hired Baldwin, would say if he could see the exCEO now.

FORTY-SIX

NEBRASKA

Maggie had forgotten about Johnny Bosh’s cell phone. When she unpacked her suitcase to dress for another day of puzzle solving in the Sandhills, she found it buried in her dirty, musty-smelling clothes. Immediately she was reminded of her claustrophobic crawl underneath the Boshes’ house. She shook off the thought and plugged her universal adapter into his phone.

By the time she showered and had breakfast with Lucy, the phone had charged.

And suddenly she had access to Johnny Bosh’s world. What she wanted to see most were the text messages from the minutes or hours before his death. Text messages didn’t disappear unless the cell-phone user erased each one. And even then it was sometimes possible to retrieve them.

Johnny’s mother had said that she had spoken to a couple of his friends, but they hadn’t heard from or seen him. Since he had his phone with him, Maggie suspected he had talked to or was waiting to talk to someone. She was right. But she wasn’t prepared for what she found.

Johnny B DAW’S OK.Amanda: WHO CARES? HE’S A LOSER.Amanda: THEY’RE ALL LOSERS.Johnny B: THEY’LL KEEP THEIR MOUTHS SHUT.Amanda: YEAH, JUST LIKE TAYLOR.Johnny B: THAT WAS DIFFERENT.Amanda: NOT SO DIFFERENT. THIS TIME WE R SO SCREWED.Amanda: U R NOT EVER LEAVING THIS PLACE.Johnny B: THAT’D MAKE U HAPPY.Amanda: YEP. YOU’LL BE STUCK HERE WITH THE REST OF US.Amanda: NO FOOTBALL. NO SCHOLARSHIP.Amanda: LOSER, LOSER, LOSER!!!!!

There was nothing more for almost an hour. Then several more from Amanda, asking where he was then demanding he answer her.

He never did.

Maggie decided she’d pay another visit to the girl.

FORTY-SEVEN

CHICAGO

Platt figured there might not be such a thing as a surprise inspection. Even the rain beating down on the tin roof sounded like it was announcing their arrival. The state health inspector had met them at the front entrance, bringing with him the last several inspection reports. Bix exploded when he saw the blacked-out sections.

“It’s proprietary information,” Inspector Alfred said without apology. “I do as I’m instructed. Besides, I think it’s just their recipe for the taco seasoning. No big deal.”

“Really,” Bix said. “What if it’s something in that seasoning that’s making kids sick?”

“I doubt it.”

Platt grimaced at the man’s foolish attempt to argue with Bix. He started flipping pages while the other two men established their territory. He noticed several warnings and citations, but they appeared to be minor infractions.

Finally they were ready to move on. The three of them stopped at security so Bix and Platt could present their credentials. They were issued badges and security key cards that would allow them access throughout the facility. A tech handed out several pairs of shoe covers, telling the guests to change each time they entered a new area. The covers would be available at each entrance.

Platt still wasn’t sure what Bix expected to find. Worse, he didn’t think Bix knew.

They started with the production lines. The first one shaped ground beef into patties. A supervisor explained the process, step by step. Alfred didn’t appear to be listening and concentrated instead on making notes and conducting his own checks. Platt wandered away from the group to look through glass doors into other sections.

They were told that the shift would end in an hour and they would be able to observe the wash down and cleaning of the equipment. They could take samples of the cleaning chemicals and do their own “wipe down” to check for residue. But Platt wasn’t interested. He was certain it wasn’t chemicals or residue of chemicals that was making these kids sick.

He watched another production line where scraps and chunks of beef were fed into a huge grinder. The beef would supply the other production lines. Lots of raw meat. Lots of potential.

“Where does the beef come from?” Platt asked the supervisor when the group caught up.

“Various places.”

“Not just Illinois?”

“Oh gosh, no. Colorado, Nebraska, Florida, California, and Illinois—just to name a few states. We get the scraps and chunks from slaughterhouses that aren’t used for commercial cuts.”

“USDA contracts with you for the school lunch program?”

“USDA contracts with us, but I don’t know about the school lunch program. We don’t really know where all our products end up. We ship to state warehouses or other processors who might repackage and put their brand name on it for retail sale. Some of the product is bought by hospitals. And yeah, some is sent to school distribution centers.”

“You don’t have records of where your products end up?” Bix asked.

“No, sir. We only have records of which state warehouses we ship to. Those warehouses would probably have records of where they shipped the products.”

“What about the slaughterhouses?” Platt asked. “Do they provide you with test samples for bacteria or do you do your own testing?”

“They provide their test results but we pull routine samples after we grind the meat.”

“What happens when you get a positive back?”

“We’re supposed to shut the line. Clean everything. Pull another sample.”

“Every time?” Bix asked.

“Yup, every time.”

Platt was concerned that the supervisor had said “we’re supposed to” rather than “we do.” Grinding beef that might already be contaminated usually ended up spreading it. Taking random samplings was a crapshoot at best.

They moved on to another area, and again Platt ventured off on his own. He noticed two workers entering one of the security doors. As they changed their shoe covers Platt noticed the old covers looked wet. One of the men carried a clean plastic bucket that he took over to the grinding line and filled with ground beef.

Curious, Platt went to check if this particular door actually led to the outside, wondering why a worker would be allowed to bring in an unsterile container, but he saw through the glass window that the door didn’t lead outside. It led to what looked like a small warehouse.

Platt used his key card to open the door. Bix saw him and hurried over, bringing the other two men with him.

“I was just curious,” Platt said.

Without going into the room he saw what had made the shoe covers wet. A drain in the middle of the floor was filled with murky sludge that gave off a rancid smell.

“Oh yeah, it backs up sometimes when it rains,” the supervisor explained. “We’ve talked about that before.” He exchanged looks with Alfred like it was okay since they had talked about it. “George,” he called to a worker sorting supplies on the back shelves. “Clean this up.”

Platt watched as George complied, going to a stack of plastic buckets exactly like the one Platt had seen taken inside the production area and filled with ground beef. George took one off the same stack to mop up the floor.

“Are those disposable?” Platt asked.

“Not to worry. We send them through a special rinse cycle.”

“Plastic?” Platt said and looked over at Bix, who was already trying not to scream.

FORTY-EIGHT

NEBRASKA

Wesley Stotter had done his homework. It was something his fans expected. He knew almost everything there was to know about the Nebraska National Forest. He could list every type of tree and every species of bird. He knew the forest was ninety thousand acres—fifteen miles wide and eleven miles from north to south. Twenty thousand of those acres were covered by trees, the rest, rolling pasture land. He had visited the campgrounds, climbed the observation tower, and been inside the nursery. But he didn’t have a clue what went on inside the field house between the Dismal River and the forest.

Ordinarily he wouldn’t care. But when the sun came up after his sleepless night in his stranded Roadmaster with his Colt .45 cradled in his hands, the first thing he noticed was the sunlight hitting the tin roof below. Where his vehicle had stalled had given him a bird’s-eye view of the field house. Tucked between sand dunes with the Dismal River winding behind it and the forest ridge on the other side, the complex remained shielded from view of the main road. It was easy to forget it existed. No one took an interest in something they couldn’t see.

Before Stotter knew whether or not his car would start, he found himself curious about the windowless metal building. There were fields fenced off alongside the river, planted with wheat, corn, and an assortment of big leafy plants, maybe different kinds of vegetables. On the other side of the building was a huge parking lot. The concrete square reminded Stotter of a helipad. It extended all the way to the building, where there was a set of double-wide doors tall enough to drive in a very large truck or, perhaps, a small plane.

Yesterday in the early-morning hours, Stotter’s main concern had been if anyone had seen him. The crops looked well tended but probably weren’t checked every day. He had calculated how long it would take to hike all the way down to the building on his arthritic knees and wondered if it would even be worth the trip. But when he twisted the key in the ignition, the old Buick had fired right up, leaving him to wonder if it really had stalled or if the night before had all been a figment of his imagination.

Now back on the ridge but not quite as high up as he had been the previous morning, he knew one thing for certain: no one would expect him or see him approach from up above, out of the trees and brush, instead of through the open pasture or the access road. So whatever clandestine activities—if there were any—would not be alerted by his presence.

Through binoculars he scanned the complex before starting his hike down. He didn’t see any security cameras anywhere though he suspected the thin, almost invisible wire that ran above the barbed-wire fence was hot.

He brought his camera but left the wireless mic. No live cam today. The photos would need to be his documentation. If he found anything.

He kept thinking about the creature he had seen running through the forest. It appeared to be the same creature his father described that had fallen from the sky over Roswell. Maybe that’s what the lights were; the lights that had exploded right before his eyes while he videotaped them for his fans. It had happened only moments before those teenagers thought they were attacked in the forest. Stotter had already heard their stories. They claimed to have seen a creature with beams of lights shooting out of its arms.

If there had been a creature like the one the teenagers saw and the one Stotter had seen, was it possible there were more? And if so, where had they gone? It couldn’t have been far without someone seeing them, just like Stotter had seen the one running through the trees. He was convinced the field house might be some sort of base.

It all sounded crazy, but that’s what the government had said about his father’s story. To this day they still weren’t able to explain the wreckage of that strange aircraft. Instead of explaining, the government hid away the evidence, not realizing that Stotter’s father hadn’t surrendered all of the film that documented the event. Wesley Stotter had kept his father’s secret all these years, taking seriously his responsibility for the photos that no one else knew existed.

Maybe now was finally the time to make those photos public. Stotter hoped the ones he shot today would be equally exciting.

FORTY-NINE

Maggie booted up her laptop. The breeze was crisp but the sun kept her warm as she sat on the porch off the loft bedroom. She caught herself thinking this place would be the perfect retreat, a real vacation getaway some day in the future. Some day when her mind wasn’t preoccupied with the murder. Could it be possible that Nikki’s and Courtney’s deaths had not been an accident? Did Johnny really commit suicide?

Amanda and Dawson were the only two left from Thursday night’s party in the forest. Dawson still had an armed deputy outside his hospital room. Maggie had called Amanda’s house earlier to make sure she was okay. Her mother assured Maggie that she wasn’t letting her daughter out of her sight. She said the girl hadn’t left her bedroom except for meals. And now after learning that two more of her friends were dead, Mrs. Griffin knew her daughter “must be just devastated.” But she agreed to let Maggie talk to the girl if she didn’t upset her.

Before Maggie left, she wanted to check on some things that had her mind racing.

Lucy had warned her that the wireless connection might take a few seconds longer than she expected. Maggie had already noticed that cell-phone reception in the Sandhills could be sporadic.

While she waited she sorted through a pile of crime-scene photos Donny had left for her. She found one of the bite mark on Amanda Vicks’s arm. There was no doubt it was made by human teeth, not an animal’s. But still, there was something about the angle and the location that bothered Maggie.

She sat back and stared out at the rolling red-and-gold grasses. She couldn’t remember ever seeing a sky this deep a shade of blue. Nor could she recall being able to see for such a long distance without having a building obstruct her view.

She thought about Lucy Coy living here alone with her dogs. Most people might think it a lonely existence but Maggie understood it completely. Being alone didn’t mean being lonely. In fact, Maggie realized long ago that she associated being alone with being safe. The concept had protected her through her childhood, through her marriage and her divorce, and continued to guide her personal life.

Then along came Benjamin Platt.

She liked being with him, just having him silently beside her. She had never known anyone—other than Gwen Patterson—with whom she could be herself and not apologize for the occupational hazards of her job, for her stubborn independence. Like with Gwen, Maggie knew she could depend on Ben if she needed him. He understood her fierce commitment to doing the right thing no matter what the consequence. To a certain degree, he was guilty of the same impulse.

He made her laugh. And got her sense of humor. In less than a year he had become a good friend. She trusted him. But lately she couldn’t think about him without remembering the tingle from the one kiss they had shared. It was months ago and she still thought about it. Silly, really. She had probably deprived herself of such sensation for too long. It was easier going without than getting entangled in the baggage that usually came along with such encounters.

There had been a hurricane bearing down on them and that had intensified the moment. Or at least, that’s what she told herself. But now they avoided each other. Well, not really avoided. They talked to each other every day. But their busy schedules hadn’t allowed them to spend time together. Yes, too busy—that’s also what she told herself.

She forced her mind back to the computer screen. She had a hunch about something and wanted to check it out before she talked to Amanda. It took a couple of different searches and then she found what she wanted. It wasn’t what she expected.

FIFTY

CHICAGO

The rain hadn’t let up. If anything, Platt thought it was coming down harder. The car Bix had hired to drive them wasn’t out front as instructed, only giving the CDC chief yet another reason to blow one of his last proverbial gaskets. They watched the health inspector doing a comical skip-dance to his vehicle, leaping puddles and using his briefcase for an umbrella. Yet neither Bix nor Platt smiled.

“Your friend played us for a couple of chumps,” Platt said.

Bix beat his umbrella against the brick wall until it popped open.

“Frickin’ wild-goose chase,” he agreed. “Let’s see if the son-of-a-bitch driver is around the corner.”

He lifted the umbrella, inviting Platt to share.

“Why would he send us all the way here just to take a look at some sanitary infractions?”

Bix shrugged. He didn’t have an answer, seemed a bit embarrassed that he didn’t have an answer.

Around the corner they found a chain-link fence and a security hut. No car, no driver. Beyond the fence was another part of the processing plant. Or at least that’s what the building looked like at first glance, with the same brick façade and an enclosed walkway that connected it to the main structure. What appeared different was the security. The guard in the small hut was armed. And he was dressed in a military uniform.

“What is this place?” Platt asked but he could already see that Bix was just as mystified.

Through the glass of the walkway they could see an armored truck pull out from behind the secured building. There was obviously a separate entrance for this part of the plant.

“Shall we see what’s inside?” Platt asked as they stood in the rain.

“Yeah, right.”

“They can call the plant supervisor to vouch for us.”

“Something tells me that guy wouldn’t carry much weight on this side of the plant.”

“We have credentials from USAMRIID and the CDC. I’m in uniform.”

“Can they court-martial us for something like this?”

“You’re a civilian. Civilians can’t be court-martialed.”

Bix considered this. “Okay, let’s see how far we get.”

Within ten minutes they were inside. It didn’t take much longer before both men realized this was what the anonymous caller had hoped they would see. The laboratories rivaled those that Platt worked in every day. He was impressed. And in an unsavory way they reminded him of USAMRIID—but the past, rather than the present.

Men and women in white lab coats worked behind digital microscopes and computer screens. The walls were lined with rows and rows of computer monitors. Platt and Bix were told that the labs were run by the Department of Agriculture, advancing hybrids and continuing research on genetically engineered foods. It made sense to Platt until they passed a room with a huge electron microscope and other highly advanced equipment that he recognized and had only seen in his own labs at USAMRIID.

The manager of the plant introduced himself as Philip Tegan. He said he was used to senior officials—their credentials had, indeed, impressed him—dropping in to take a look. In fact, he seemed oddly excited to meet Platt and said it was about time someone from USAMRIID visited.

When Platt nonchalantly asked, “Why is that?” Tegan, whose birdlike features—beady narrow eyes separated by a sharp hooked nose and finished with a wobbly chin— squawked out a laugh as if Platt were joking.

“Well, because of the amazing programs USAMRIID pioneered back in the 1970s. You might say we’re following in your footsteps.”

“Really?”

Platt hid his surprise and ignored Bix’s “What the fuck?” look of confusion. Instead, he focused on encouraging Tegan to share, but it seemed the man had wisely become silent.

FIFTY-ONE

NEBRASKA

Amanda’s mother had prepared coffee and miniature pastries, treating Maggie’s visit as if it were a social call. Maggie remembered Sheriff Skylar talking about the family’s prominence, so she was not surprised to find Cynthia Griffin with full makeup, bright red lipstick, and unmovable hair on a Saturday afternoon. And despite the expensive running suit, the woman didn’t look like she was accustomed to breaking a sweat let alone jogging.

“I told Amanda you’re here,” Mrs. Griffin said. “Griff’s not here. I didn’t tell him you were coming.” She prattled on, what sounded like a nervous habit to fill silence. “He tries so hard to protect Amanda and me. He’s been on full alert since Johnny’s death. It’s just awful about Johnny, isn’t it? And now those girls. Just awful.”

She was trying to lead Maggie into the living room and directing her to take a seat. In front of the sofa a glass-topped coffee table displayed delicate coffee cups and matching dessert plates, tiny pink-and-purple flowers hand-painted on shiny white china.

Maggie didn’t follow. She stayed in the entrance and waited for Cynthia Griffin to notice. When she did, the woman’s welcoming smile twitched, but to her credit, the smile stayed as if also permanently hand-painted.

“I thought you and Amanda could chat down here. Much more comfortable than up in her room.”

Maggie didn’t budge. She was already relinquishing home-field advantage to Amanda. She hated to give her anything more.

“She hardly ever comes down from that room these days,” Mrs. Griffin said. She managed to keep the smile but there was a sadness that slipped into her tone. “All this has been so hard on her. She’s just had a lot to deal with since Griff and I got married.”

That’s when Maggie realized Amanda might feel less comfortable in the family’s formal living room than she did.

“Are any of those raspberry?” Maggie asked, pretending to be drawn in by the pastries and saving Mrs. Griffin from resorting to what Maggie dreaded might be her next step— begging.

“Oh yes. The ones with powdered sugar on top.” The woman brightened and fluttered her spandex-clad arms like excited wings. Pouring coffee before Maggie could refuse. “Cream or sugar?”

“No, thank you. Black’s fine,” Maggie answered, rather than explain that she didn’t drink coffee no matter what she put in it.

“Amanda loves this gourmet grind. Of course, she does. It’s expensive.” Mrs. Griffin laughed, a short burst of air that sounded like “hah.”

Maggie felt sorry for her, a woman surrounded by beautiful expensive things, all of them by authentic designers, genuine gold-trims, the best-quality fabrics and woods, rare collector accessories of porcelain and ceramic—nothing artificial except her personality.

Maggie strolled the room while Mrs. Griffin crimped linen napkins and teased pastries onto the plates without disturbing powdered sugar or icing. Maggie scanned the display on the fireplace mantel, almost a dozen framed photos of different sizes and shapes. Amanda as a baby. Mrs. Griffin with her extended family, all dressed up and smiling. A wedding photo of Cynthia and Mike Griffin. More of Amanda in various stages of childhood. And then one photo caught Maggie’s eye.

Three soldiers in military fatigues stood in front of a tank with a stark background that looked like miles and miles of sand. The one in the middle was a young Mike Griffin, his arms around the other two and smiling for the camera.

She almost glanced away, then realized the man on Griffin’s left was also familiar. She took a closer look but there was no mistake. The man was Frank Skylar.

FIFTY-TWO

Wesley Stotter couldn’t believe his eyes. He had already snapped more than fifty photos and was worried he’d run out of disc space on his digital camera.

He had brought along a pry bar but was surprised to find the back door unlocked. A keypad at the door implied security access. He suspected someone must be on the complex grounds and had stepped out for a minute; however, Stotter hadn’t seen any movement. If he ran into a worker he’d pretend to be lost. What was that old saying, “It’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission”?

The outside of the building had been so plain. Inside, Stotter was surprised to find whitewashed walls and an impressive labyrinth of stainless-steel counters topped with strange equipment and utensils that looked like a surgical suite. The counters were intersected with cylindrical tanks, some small, some large. Several stretched from floor to ceiling. They were filled with liquid and each had objects floating inside. All of them emitted an eerie blue glow— probably a fluorescent light somewhere inside each tank.

A built-in wall cabinet with a padlocked glass front displayed an array of other equipment that Stotter had never seen before. At first glance the stuff reminded him of something out of a Star Wars movie. Or—and this was what excited Stotter—perhaps weapons taken from a downed and disabled alien spacecraft. One appeared to be a scoped rifle but made of a strange metal and with an odd attachment on the barrel. At the stock, an electrical cord—only thicker— connected the rifle to what looked like a canvas backpack.

Hanging beside the rifle were several different pairs of goggles. Stotter squatted to study them. One pair had bulbous dark-green lenses with pinpoint red dots in each. Night-vision goggles, he suspected, and he wondered if these were what he had seen on the creature running in the forest. Was it only a man, after all?

Before he moved on to the next room he wanted to get closer shots of the tanks. He adjusted his camera to twilight mode so he could capture the images despite the fluorescent blue glow. He hadn’t noticed until his fingers stumbled over the settings that his hands were shaking. His shirt had become glued to his back and his beard was damp with sweat as well.

He thought he heard a door open and he stopped.

Car stalled. Lost my way. He tried to prepare his story while he drew closer to the tanks. Just fascinated by everything you have here—that’s what he would tell them. But he needed to stow the camera in his backpack or certainly they’d take it away from him.

He glanced around and didn’t see anyone. Maybe it was his imagination again. An electrical motor began to hum and a fan above him came on. Stotter let out a breath and wiped his forehead. Of course, it was just the equipment turning on and off. But still he needed to be quick. He shouldn’t press his luck.

In the first tank huge plant leaves floated, layers and layers of them. Gorgeous, unusual large leaves with blood-red veins running throughout. The liquid in the tank kept them perfectly preserved. He snapped a few photos and moved on to the next.

He stared for a few minutes at the next tank. Five very different objects, different sizes, shapes, and consistencies. They looked organic but almost translucent, the blue glow shining through in areas and highlighting what looked like a network of veins and blood vessels. Again he squatted to study them from below and that’s when he recognized the object right in front of him. The shock made him jerk backward. His knees gave out and sent him sprawling. He dropped his camera and it skidded just out of reach.

Another motor turned on somewhere in the building, and yet Stotter didn’t take his eyes off the object.

He hadn’t been able to identify it at first. But even from this angle—his butt on the cold tile floor—Stotter could tell that what he was looking at was an eyeball.

He crawled to his knees, still not taking his eyes off the tank and examining the other floating objects. Now he could make an educated guess as to what they were. He needed to focus as he tried to remember everything that was missing whenever a rancher found a mutilated cow. Because Stotter was pretty sure he had just found some of those missing pieces.

He continued staring as he reached out and searched for his camera. It had fallen close by. Still on his knees, he swiped his hand across the floor. That’s when a heavy boot came down on his knuckles and Stotter heard the cracking of his own fingers.

His yelp of pain was cut short by a second boot that caught him under the chin and snapped his head back.

FIFTY-THREE

“Sheriff Skylar didn’t mention that he served with your husband,” Maggie said, noticing a second photo of the same three men, only in this one they wore hunting gear, including camouflage clothing. They stood next to a deer that had been strung up from a tree. Skylar and the other man held rifles. Mike Griffin stood in the middle again, holding one of the biggest hunting knives Maggie had ever seen.

“Oh yes.” Mrs. Griffin came up beside Maggie and her index finger brushed the frame of the first photo. Her finger traveled down the length of the third man, a stranger Maggie didn’t recognize. The gesture of affection seemed odd, but Maggie saw true emotion for the first time in Cynthia Griffin’s face.

She glanced up at Maggie but didn’t appear embarrassed or apologetic.

“Mike, Frank, and my first husband, Evan, served in Desert Storm,” she explained. “This was taken right before they came back. Unfortunately Evan didn’t come home with them.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Evan and Griff were engineers. The National Guard was supposed to be just for playing weekend soldier. That’s what Evan told me when he joined.”

“Mom?”

Cynthia Griffin jumped and that was the last uncontrolled emotion Maggie would witness for the day.

“Oh, Mandy. Agent O’Dell wants to talk with you again.”

“If this is about Courtney and Nikki, I don’t know anything.”

“No, I’m not here to ask you about them.”

The girl couldn’t disguise her relief though she tried to, pushing at her hair that, although washed and combed today, still fell conveniently into her eyes. Her skin looked healthier and her eyes weren’t bloodshot, pupils not dilated.

Maggie waited for Mrs. Griffin to instruct her daughter where to sit and reminded her about the coffee being her favorite as she placed a cup on the matching saucer in front of Amanda.

“You haven’t eaten anything all day.” Mrs. Griffin fussed as she slid one of the beautiful pastries closer to her daughter.

“I don’t want to talk about Johnny, either,” Amanda said, but this time to her mother.

“Tell you what,” Maggie said, coming around the glass coffee table to sit across from Amanda, “I promise none of my questions will be about Johnny or Courtney or Nikki. I won’t even ask about Thursday night.”

Amanda peered out from under the strand of hair and this time she tucked it behind her ear.

“Okay,” she agreed. “What do you want to know?”

“Tell me about Taylor Cole,” Maggie said and watched Amanda’s mouth drop open. “She was a friend of yours, right?”

Maggie didn’t take her eyes off Amanda but she could see Mrs. Griffin half sit, half lean on the arm of a Queen Anne chair behind her.

“Yeah, I guess so.” The girl pretended to shake off her surprise.

“You were with her when she jumped off the bridge?”

“I wasn’t the only one.”

“She didn’t jump,” Mrs. Griffin was quick to add. “It was an accident.”

“I know about the salvia,” Maggie said, letting that sink in along with Mrs. Griffin who now sank into a chair.

“I bet Dawson squealed, right?” Amanda said with a disgusted smirk.

“Taylor was your best friend until she graduated last spring.” Maggie was careful not to say what she really believed, that Amanda felt like Taylor was leaving her behind, just like Johnny would do next year when he left to play football for a college possibly as far off as Florida or California.

Amanda shoved her plate away and Maggie knew her window of opportunity had just closed.

“Taylor didn’t slip and fall off the bridge, did she? You were all flying high on salvia and someone dared her to jump.”

“This is quite enough,” Mrs. Griffin said, standing again though a bit wobbly. She scrambled in front of her daughter as if somehow protecting her. “Amanda, you do not have to talk about this. Agent O’Dell, you must leave.”

Maggie didn’t argue. But as she got up she noticed Amanda’s forearm. The red marks had started to fade into a bluish-purple bruise.

“I’m not sure if your daughter knows who attacked them the other night,” Maggie told Mrs. Griffin while she kept her eyes on Amanda. “I do know she’s not telling you everything she does know. After I leave, you might want to ask her why she bit herself and pretended it was someone else.”

Amanda’s startled look confirmed Maggie’s guess.

Back on the road, Maggie realized it was all beginning to make sense. Amanda was the one who orchestrated the drug parties. It was her way of keeping control over the friends she invited into her group. But when they threatened to leave she found a way to get back at them.

Maggie couldn’t be sure that Amanda talked Johnny into committing suicide but the texts that she had read explained the pattern of their relationship. Had Amanda convinced him his future was over? That he would be stuck forever in the Nebraska Sandhills with her? Amanda probably didn’t think the idea would drive Johnny to kill himself. Or did she?

When Dawson asked about Amanda after Maggie told him Johnny was dead, Maggie assumed he was concerned about the girl—maybe because he had a little bit of a crush on her. But now Maggie realized Dawson was scared when he asked, not concerned. He had wanted to know whether or not he still had to worry about Amanda’s wrath. As for Courtney and Nikki? Maggie hadn’t quite figured that out yet.

Nor had she figured out who had attacked the teenagers in the forest on Thursday night. Perhaps it wasn’t related. But she wondered why Sheriff Frank Skylar chose to leave out the fact that Mike Griffin was a longtime friend when he conducted his interview of the man’s stepdaughter. And did he manipulate the case of Taylor Cole to further protect Amanda?

Frank Skylar was also ex-military. If a laser stun gun like Donny or Platt described was used on these kids, it would have been obtained by someone who had military ties. Maybe it was a long shot to think Skylar had something to do with the attacks. But it did make Maggie wonder, what else was Sheriff Skylar not telling her?

FIFTY-FOUR

CHICAGO

O’HARE INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

Platt and Bix didn’t talk the entire trip from the north side of Chicago to O’Hare. They were stunned, exhausted, overwhelmed. Now, tucked away in the midst of a crowd of travelers, they finally felt safe.

Bix listened to his messages. Made a few calls. Platt bought a large coffee. He thought about getting something to eat but the smell of raw beef lingered in his nostrils.

Bix closed his phone and released a long breath, as if he had been holding it all day.

“There’s a reason no one could identify this strain of salmonella,” he said, shaking his head and rubbing his temples. “It changes.”

“You said it might be a mutated strain,” Platt said.

“No, I mean it changes once it’s inside the human body. Fifteen of the Norfolk victims that were released as okay two days ago are back in the hospital.”

“Maybe it takes longer to leave the body in some victims.”

“But they’re telling me that six days later the bacteria itself looks different than it did on day four.”

“Different, how?”

“Stronger. More resilient. It’s like it’s mutated to better survive and invade its new environment. It’s clinging on to the wall of the intestines.”

“It’s not unusual to need some antibiotics with salmonella infection, especially if it hangs on or spreads.”

“That’s what they thought. So far, not much of a response.”

“Antibiotic resistant?”

“Big-time.”

“We’ll need to come up with a cocktail of antibiotics.”

“What if it’s something they developed?” Bix asked in almost a whisper. “Tell me why that guy, Tegan, was so excited to see someone from USAMRIID. And what projects from the 1970s was he talking about?”

Philip Tegan had ended up giving them a short tour after realizing the two men he had allowed inside his facility might actually not be aware of all the classified work done in the laboratories despite their impressive credentials. He told them about the different hybrid crops they had been able to genetically engineer and he showed them—in excruciating detail—how they were able to do that. He informed them that 77 percent of soybeans are genetically engineered as is 85 percent of corn in the United States. The biotech crops decrease the use of pesticide, require less water, and reduce carbon that normally is released into the atmosphere. All good things for our environment.

When a skeptical Bix asked if it’s healthy, Tegan reassured him that, of course, it was and that these crops were fed only to animals—not used for human consumption.

China, he told them, had created a new corn that contained an enzyme that makes pigs better able to digest the nutrient phosphorus, which would decrease the amount in their excrement. Phosphorus, he went on to explain, was the major polluter of waterways. “Isn’t that amazing?”

But when Bix asked what happened to people when they ate the pork that ate the special corn, Tegan just laughed. “We’ll have to wait and see, huh?”

Platt knew about the technology. He also knew Tegan’s tour didn’t include any of the labs they had seen soldiers guarding or those where they had seen an armored truck leaving. They wouldn’t see those. At least not on this visit.

“So what was USAMRIID doing back in the 1970s?” Bix asked when Platt hesitated too long.

“During the Cold War, when there was a race to create ultimate weapons—before Russia and the United States signed a treaty agreeing to stop—USAMRIID had a program to develop bioweapons.”

“Like mustard gas?”

“Like mustard gas. And anthrax. Other viruses that we might be able to launch on an entire population.”

“Jesus!” Bix sputtered. “And now they’re going to fucking do it with food?”

They sat side by side, staring straight ahead, waiting for their flight back to D.C. to be called.

“When your friend calls,” Platt said, continuing to use their code word for the whistle-blower, no longer because it was necessary but now because it had become habit, “tell him we need to meet him face-to-face.”

“He won’t do that.”

“Tell him he has to or we’re calling a press conference.”

FIFTY-FIVE

NEBRASKA

Maggie changed into shorts, a sweatshirt, and running shoes despite the setting sun and the beginning chill. She wanted to clear her head, drain some of the tension building into a knot between her shoulder blades.

She left a note for Lucy on the kitchen table, then she and Jake headed out on the road. By now the German shepherd understood this was for fun and not a flight from danger.

She had called Donny but got switched almost immediately to his voice mail. She wanted to tell him about Amanda and what she knew about Sheriff Skylar holding back evidence in the Taylor Cole case.

Through Maggie’s limited resources she had learned that Taylor Cole had graduated last spring from the same county high school as the other teenagers and was planning to attend the University of Nebraska at Kearney. Her parents and friends all said she was the happiest they had ever seen her, excited and looking forward to embarking on her new adventure. No one would have predicted that she would choose to end her life by jumping off the Highway 83 Bridge and falling a hundred and fifty feet to her death, plunging into the fast and wild Middle Loup River below.

Of course, it had to be an accident. Though no one had an explanation for that, either. There were no eyewitness accounts. And no further investigation, as far as Maggie could tell. Kids tripping out on drugs was still only a rumor. Unfortunately, rumors usually had a grain of truth to them. And today Amanda confirmed those rumors were true.

Maggie understood a sheriff wanting to protect the reputation of a dead victim, maybe trying to protect the victim’s loved ones. What was it that Lucy had said, that it could be devastating for parents to find out things about their dead child? Skylar may have thought, why put Taylor Cole’s parents through that? They were already grieving the loss of their daughter. But in doing so, Skylar had let all the other teenagers involved off the hook.

Maggie saw Jake pin back his ears. He started herding her to the edge of the dirt road before she heard the faint rumble of an engine over the hill behind them. This time she listened to the dog and moved left to the crumbling edge. If the driver didn’t see her until he came zooming down the hill, she would still be far enough to the left side that she would be safe. She had even worn a white T-shirt to be more visible in the fading daylight. But none of this calmed Jake.

She heard the engine getting closer, slowing down as it reached the top of the hill. She glanced back. The headlights prevented her from seeing beyond the windshield. It was a pickup truck or SUV, something riding high. Perhaps the same young man who had almost run her over the other day. It had slowed to a crawl. Overly cautious. Without looking back again, she waved her hand for the vehicle to go on by. She didn’t break her pace and ignored Jake nudging her. But then she heard the dog growl.

She felt a sharp pain in the middle of her back before she realized that she had been hit. She fell to her knees. A jolt of electricity surged all the way through her. She tried to reach around to grab what had stabbed into her back, only her hands wouldn’t move.

Couldn’t move.

Why couldn’t she move her arms, her hands, her fingers?

They didn’t even brace her for the fall and her cheek slammed into the crusty sand. Her muscles started to spasm. Her body jerked beyond her control. Sand and gravel bit into her skin. Then her muscles locked up. Her head began to spin. But that was the only motion. She still couldn’t move. She was paralyzed.

She heard Jake whimper and opened her mouth to tell him to run. Get out. Go home. But what came out was a babble of gibberish in a weak, tinny voice that she didn’t recognize.

The boots appeared before her eyes. She hadn’t heard their approach. Could no longer hear anything except her own heartbeat, the thumps inside a wind tunnel. She tasted sand and realized her mouth was open. She couldn’t close it. Couldn’t even look up. The world was spinning, tilted sideways. All she could see were the boots standing in front of her, mud-caked boots that smelled like river sludge.

FIFTY-SIX

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Julia Racine threw the newspaper down on the bed beside Rachel. It didn’t make the thump she had hoped but it was enough to draw Rachel’s attention from her iPad and the annoying chatter of CNN pundits. She was already in bed in her nightshirt, covers pulled up to her waist, but her work still surrounded her, notepads, pens, news journals spilling onto Julia’s side of the bed.

“You never read my column,” Rachel said, glancing at the page of the newspaper that Julia had carefully folded back.

Julia was tired. She’d missed her day off only to have it followed by a long shift that included two drug dealers offing each other, doing the District a favor but leaving a bloody mess in the parking lot of a boarded-up and otherwise abandoned gas station. Of course, no one in the neighborhood had seen a thing. Then on break she happened to take a look at someone’s discarded Washington Post. And despite what Rachel thought, Julia did read her column as well as every investigative piece she had written since they met. Maybe she didn’t always tell her that she read her stuff.

“You said you wouldn’t use anything I told you.”

“I didn’t.”

“Dumpster diving for evidence?”

“Okay, that was too colorful to skip but come on, I didn’t say what was found.”

“A late-night meeting with the USDA?”

“Now wait a minute.” And this time Rachel put her iPad aside and sat up ready to defend herself. “I do have sources other than you, Julia.”

“What sources do you know at the USDA who would have known about that late-night meeting?”

“Mommy.” CariAnne appeared at the bedroom door, sleepy-eyed, pale, and dragging her favorite stuffed animal, a koala bear with one button eye missing.

“Just a minute, sweetie,” Rachel told her, putting her hand out, palm up in total not-while-mommy’s-talking mode. Until she saw the little girl’s face. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

“I don’t feel so good. I got the runnies.”

Rachel was already out of bed.

“And I pooped red.”

FIFTY-SEVEN

NEBRASKA

Maggie didn’t know how she had gotten into the back of the SUV.

She did remember that there had been two more jolts of pain, each one more excruciating than the first. She had felt her eyes roll back in her head. Maybe she had passed out. She couldn’t focus. Vision was blurry. So much pain had rocketed through her body. She remembered seeing her arms jump with each jolt but she had no control. Saw them flail and flap like a rag doll. Her back muscles had spasmed, tightened stiff, and locked in position until the next jolt of electricity jammed its way through.

Now as she lay in the back of the vehicle, her chest ached. It hurt to breathe. Her pulse raced—too fast, way too fast. Her throat was raw and dry—so dry—she couldn’t swallow. And yet, her mouth hung open. She felt drool sliding down her chin.

She stared at the ceiling of the vehicle. She saw her knees bunched up beside her. At least she thought they were her knees. She couldn’t feel them. Her hands were in front of her, bound at the wrists by a zip tie. She had no idea if her feet were bound together. She couldn’t see or feel them, either.

A voice droned on and on. It reverberated, hollow and muffled from somewhere above her head. Or was it inside her head? She didn’t recognize it. The radio?

“ … should have headed back to Denver.”

No, it was him. He was talking about her. Talking to her. From the front seat, right above her head. But he sounded like he was miles away at the other end of a tunnel. She could only decipher bits and pieces of what he was saying.

The vehicle started turning and she slid. Something thumped against the wall beside her. A clank of metal rang in her ears. The tires switched from pavement to dirt, hard and rutted. Her body bounced and her head banged. A wave of nausea came over her and she started to panic. If she vomited she wouldn’t be able to roll over. She’d choke. She felt dizzy and looked for something to focus on. Like Dawson, she needed something to keep her eyes on, to concentrate on.

Outside the window she saw deep, dark-blue sky and a few blurred glitters. Twilight. How could it already be so dark?

Another turn. Another clank.

Maggie twisted her head so she could continue to see the sky. In doing so she also got a glimpse of what clanked beside her.

Oh, God, it was a shovel.

The nausea became strong. Her panic continued to rise up.

Star light, star bright. First star I see tonight.

She found a twinkling star in the deep sea of twilight and she held on.

FIFTY-EIGHT

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Platt didn’t have time to drive home from the airport. Instead he and Bix had dinner in the District. Old Ebbitt Grill was one of Maggie’s favorites. The men needed somewhere convenient and close to the monuments. He thought of the restaurant immediately and now he was glad.

It felt good to be surrounded by the warm glow of the antique gaslights and the thought of Maggie laughing from across the table. She and Gwen Patterson came here all the time, but she had brought him once. Corner booth. It had been steamy outside. Cool inside. Beers and burgers and a lively discussion about Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn movies.

Tonight the high-backed booths would allow Platt and Bix some privacy. And because they weren’t politicos who frequented the place, they wouldn’t be recognized or noticed. Sure enough—no one even turned to look at them.

Platt ordered a Sam Adams. Bix frowned at him and ordered coffee.

“We aren’t meeting him for two hours,” Platt said. “I think I can have a beer.”

Bix continued to scowl.

“You should have beer, too.”

“I don’t drink.”

“You might start after today.”

“We need to eat. I haven’t eaten all day.” Bix pulled open the menu.

“No red meat. Okay? It might be a long time before I have another cheeseburger.”

Platt’s cell phone interrupted just as they finished placing their orders with the waiter. He went to hit Ignore but then he saw it was his parents’ number. He hadn’t checked in with them since yesterday. It’d be his father. He knew that his mother always nagged—“Call your son.”

“Hi, Dad.” He glanced at his watch. Not quite time yet for their late-night shows.

“Ben, so are you back home or still in Chicago?”

No one but Bix knew he had gone to Chicago. He hadn’t even told anyone at USAMRIID.

“How’d you know I was in Chicago, Dad?”

Bix looked up across the table, setting down his coffee so hard he splashed some on his hand and didn’t bother to wipe at it.

“A friend of yours stopped by here.”

Platt’s stomach lurched.

“What friend?”

“Military guy. Said you asked him to check up on us.”

“Did he give you a name?”

“Jack … oh, what was his last name. Your mother would remember. Scared us at first because he was in uniform. We were worried something might have happened to you. But he said you were okay. He was just checking on us while you were in Chicago. So how was Chicago?”

It was a warning. If they wanted to hurt his parents they could have already done it. That was exactly what they were telling him, letting him know that they could hurt them at any given moment. It would be worthless to tell his parents to pack up and leave. Go to a hotel, a resort. No place would be safe. His heart raced while his mind played out scenario after scenario, none of them good. He would make a phone call to USAMRIID and within a couple of hours, he would have a real friend outside his parents’ home, watching for him.

“Chicago was fine,” he finally answered.

“Colder than here, I bet.”

“Wetter. It rained the whole time.” He tried to keep his tone even so it wouldn’t betray him.

“Well, I’m glad you’re back, safe and sound. And listen, your mom and me are fine. You really don’t need to send anyone to check on us. We’ll be just fine.”

“I know, Dad.”

“We love you, son.”

“Love you, too.” He ended the call and placed his cell phone on the table.

It was Bix who broke the silence.

“Holy son of a bitch. What the hell did we step in?”

FIFTY-NINE

NEBRASKA

Maggie’s view of the sky and her star got blocked out by canopy after canopy of trees. They were in the forest, thumping along roads that weren’t well traveled. Branches scraped the roof of the vehicle and pine needles brushed the windows.

He was going to bury her out here, someplace deep in the woods where hikers and hunters never went. He couldn’t have just killed her on the road where she was running. Someone might have come along. Besides he’d have gotten blood all over the back of his SUV. So he used a Taser. Her body still remembered the pain.

Had to be a Taser.

The darts had clawed into her back through her shirt. All he had to do was simply lean out his window and fire. She had been an easy target. Once the darts hit and grabbed onto her back, the electrical charge would race through the wires attached to the gun. He controlled how long the charge would last. A few seconds incapacitated a victim. She went down immediately. No fight. No struggle. The additional charges, at that point, were strictly for pain.

Her spinning mind had started to unravel what had happened. She still couldn’t figure out who was in the driver’s seat. Who wanted her incapacitated and in pain? Who wanted her dead?

Her muscles ached. But that was good. That meant the feeling was coming back into them. The temporary paralysis was wearing off. She didn’t think he had tied her feet together. They felt loose but she couldn’t quite feel them. No, he probably didn’t tie them. He’d need her to walk. Even if it was a stumble, he’d want her on her feet so he could take her deeper into the forest. It’d be easier than carrying or dragging her. Yes, he’d make her walk to her own grave site.

Maggie tried to wiggle her fingers. They tingled. Tingling was good. She saw her hands, zip-tied together on her stomach, only when the brake lights flared up in the dark. At first, she was almost surprised to see they were still connected to her. In the red glow her body looked twisted and broken.

Her skull roared. Every time she lifted her head it felt like it would explode. But her vision wasn’t quite as blurry and the nausea was less. Her heartbeat had slowed. It no longer felt like it would gallop out of her chest. Even the ringing in her ears had subsided.

Better. She was doing better. But then the SUV came to a stop.

The engine shut down. Parking lights stayed on. She heard the driver’s door open. No dinging. He took the keys with him. Slammed the door shut. The dome light hadn’t come on. He must have shut it off earlier.

Darkness surrounded the vehicle. In the glow of the parking lights she could see trees and thick brush all around them. Even the road was not really a road. The vehicle had cut the first path through the tall grass, squeezing between tree trunks. Maggie wondered how he’d back out of here. An odd thing to care about for someone who knew she was not going to be leaving with him.

He’d expect her to still be dazed and incapacitated. He wouldn’t be disappointed.

The tailgate clicked and her body jerked. She told herself that was another good sign but her heart started pounding again.

The hinges screeched and the tailgate went up. In the glow of the parking lights she saw Mike Griffin with his hunting knife.

SIXTY

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Platt had always thought the Washington monuments were at their most awesome at night. The bright spotlights cast halos in the dark and the guided tours drew whispered reverence from the tourists—that didn’t happen in the daylight.

The whistle-blower had agreed to meet them at the FDR Memorial. In the movies wasn’t it always the Lincoln Memorial? But now Platt saw the wisdom. FDR’s was all ground level, no steps to get trapped on. There were separate sections, actually what they called “rooms,” but even that was beneficial. The person could wander through each, bypassing Bix and Platt at will if he didn’t feel comfortable.

Bix traded his suit jacket and Platt his uniform jacket for Smithsonian sweatshirts. Bix carried their folded jackets in a paper bag with the Smithsonian logo, making them look like tourists.

“So how long do we give him to find us?” Platt asked.

“He’s only ten minutes late.” Bix checked his watch. “Twelve minutes.”

Platt still didn’t like this idea but they had no choice. He wouldn’t be surprised if the whistle-blower ended up being someone from the media: a reporter wanting to confirm his tips. Maybe Bix didn’t mind being sent on wild-goose chases but Platt was tired of it. Especially when the chase might involve his parents.

They were staring at one of the walls, neither of them reading the engravings, when a woman came up beside Bix. As long as tourists kept coming and going, their guy would probably stay away. Platt elbowed Bix and nodded for them to move on just as the woman said, “Good evening, gentlemen.”

Both men did a double take. What the hell was Irene Baldwin doing here? They were so busted. Had she followed them?

Bix glanced around and Platt knew he was looking to see if they had just scared away the whistle-blower.

“Hello, Ms. Baldwin,” Platt finally said when it became obvious that Bix couldn’t find his voice.

“How’s the weather in Chicago?”

That was the line. How did she know the line the anonymous caller said he would use?

Then Platt took a good look at her. She, too, was wearing a Smithsonian sweatshirt, jeans, her usual swept-up hair now flowing over her shoulders. Even the eyeglasses were new. Had it not been for her distinctive voice he wasn’t sure he would have recognized her.

“You?” Bix asked. “What the hell’s going on?”

SIXTY-ONE

NEBRASKA

“This is where you get out, O’Dell.”

Griffin grabbed Maggie’s ankles and started to pull.

She couldn’t stop him. Her feet wouldn’t listen to her head telling them to kick. She could barely feel his fingers grabbing her around the ankles. With her wrists tied she couldn’t stop him and she couldn’t break the two-foot fall from the tailgate to the ground.

She landed hard on her right shoulder, hard enough that she thought she must have dislocated it. A fresh wave of pain spiked through her upper body. Better that she came down on her shoulder than her head. The pain didn’t subside and she immediately thought, maybe not better. A tingling sensation spread all the way down to her toes.

He obviously didn’t care how banged up she got now. He’d simply bury any mess he made. He dragged her all the way to the edge of the ridge. She could see only far enough in the dark to know it was a steep drop-off. She remembered climbing down to get to the crime scene. One wrong step and you’d fall until you hit a tree. He left her within a foot of tumbling over. It didn’t matter. There would be no crime-scene techs, no coroner, not even the county attorney to figure out all the marks on her body, because her body would never be found.

Now he didn’t look pleased that she couldn’t stand up. He’d done too good of a job with the Taser. She saw him looking around, devising a new strategy, glancing at his clothing. He went back to the SUV, keeping an eye on her as he looked into the back of the vehicle. He was big enough, strong enough to carry her. But that was obviously not what he wanted to do. He hadn’t dressed for the occasion. Maybe he’d been in a hurry. He didn’t want to risk getting anything from her on his clothing.

Had he heard about her visit with Amanda? Is that what pushed him to do this?

“Why?” she managed to ask. Her mouth was dry. She could taste metal. She wasn’t sure if he could even hear her. But it stopped him.

“I just wanted to scare those kids,” he said, looking at her as he dug inside a tool kit he’d found in the back of the SUV. “They kept snooping around the field house. I told Amanda to stay the fuck away.”

So it had been Mike Griffin that night with a laser stun gun.

“I’ve got a sweet deal here. I’m not about to lose it.”

“They’ll look for me,” she said and realized immediately how lame it sounded.

“Twenty thousand acres of valleys and hills and all covered with trees and thick brush. This time of year, pine needles dropping, leaves dropping over everything. In less than a month there’ll be snow. They might look”—he stopped, squinted because she was no longer in the halo of the parking lights, and tried to meet her eyes—“but they won’t find you.”

In that instant, Maggie realized this wasn’t a man to reason with. She’d met killers face-to-face before. She recognized that empty, hollowed-out stare. When they looked at you like you were an object to be removed—an object and not a person—it was already too late.

Griffin put one knee up onto the tailgate and half climbed into the back of the SUV, pulling out shovel, tarp, and rope for his re adjusted plan. Easier to bury tarp and ropes than his clothes. His back was slightly turned to her. He didn’t need to worry about her running away when she had just proven she couldn’t even protect her shoulder from hitting the ground.

But that thump must have jolted more than just her collarbone. She could feel her feet. She could feel her hands and her fingers. And they actually worked when she wanted them to flex and move.

Griffin clanked around in the back of his SUV. He didn’t have to worry about sounds out here, either. Hank and the rest of the forest rangers were miles away. Maggie used his noise to cover her scuffs and intakes of breaths. She bit her lower lip to stop any groans.

Her mind raced. She’d never be able to take him down. Not with her wrists tied. Not with her muscles weak and her skull spinning. The keys were in his pocket but she’d never be able to get them and make it into the SUV without him being on top of her. She couldn’t even swing the shovel at him.

She saw him crawl deeper inside the back of the SUV. Then she did the only thing she could. She took a deep breath and rolled over the edge of the ridge.

SIXTY-TWO

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Platt, Bix, and Baldwin found a bench a few feet away from the monument, out of tour guides’ path as they led their groups. And hopefully out of earshot.

“The meat-processing plant you visited is notorious for contaminated beef,” Baldwin explained. “And yet the Department of Agriculture keeps giving them chance after chance to clean up their act.”

“Aren’t they supposed to close them down after so many offenses?”

“Oh, they have. For a day or two. They clean everything. Get it all spotless and sterile. But in case you didn’t notice, processing beef is a messy business. I’m always surprised that there aren’t more contaminations.”

“And some of this plant’s contaminated beef ended up in the National School Lunch Program.”

“Three orders were purchased in late August by the USDA. I thought it was ridiculous to continue to buy from this vendor with their track record, but I’m the new kid.”

“Can you track those orders and see what schools received them?” Platt asked but he already knew it couldn’t be that easy or they wouldn’t be here.

“Once they get sent to state warehouses it’s almost impossible to track where they go. I’ve discovered the NSLP is a complex maze of illogical proportions.”

“So a recall?”

Baldwin bristled, her back straightening. She let out a sigh, more frustration than relief. “I realized the day after the Norfolk, Virginia, outbreak that I wouldn’t be able to do anything from inside.”

“Wait a minute,” Bix said. “You knew about the outbreak the day after?”

“Yes. How do you suppose it came about that you finally were called in?”

Bix crossed his arms over his chest and Platt saw that his right foot had started tapping out his anger.

“Did you know immediately that it was an unusual strain of salmonella?” Platt asked.

“Yes.”

“And still there weren’t any notices sent to schools?” Now Platt was having a difficult time tamping down his anger.

“That’s the part you don’t understand.” Another long intake of breath. She rubbed at the back of her neck. In the faint light from the monument Platt could see the lines at her eyes and mouth. She wasn’t wearing any makeup. “They want to contain this one quietly. They want it to go away unnoted and chalk it up as just another contamination. When they came to me last week they said they had it under control.”

“You didn’t believe them,” Bix said. “So you made sure I was on the case.”

“I knew immediately when I heard about the elementary school in the District that it had to be related. And that there would be others.”

“How did you know already that it was an unusual strain of salmonella?” Platt asked.

“Because they told me the exact strain they had created and put in.”

SIXTY-THREE

NEBRASKA

The first ten feet were the worst. A sharp drop straight down sent Maggie falling into a black abyss. A ledge caught her, pine needles breaking the impact. Somehow she had managed to not cry out though she landed on her right shoulder again. If Griffin had heard the scuffle it would only be seconds, maybe a minute if she was lucky, before he realized where she had gone.

She forced her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Even the parking lights didn’t add a glow of illumination. She knew the ridge continued down, she just didn’t know how far. She pushed up to her knees and tested the small ledge she had landed on. Then she turned around, started scooting down on her butt, feetfirst, testing and feeling. It wasn’t quite as steep.

She glanced up. Still no flashlight aimed down to find her. She allowed herself to slide, bracing her hands in front of her. She wouldn’t be able to grab onto much but she could protect her face and head from slamming into a tree.

The sand gave way and she began to skid. She lost her balance. Her body twisted and she was sliding on her side.

Too fast, way too fast.

Branches lashed out, stabbing and scraping her skin. She needed to slow down, but she couldn’t get a grip. Couldn’t stop. Her bound wrists kept her from grabbing a rock or branch. Her hands became fists trying to protect and getting battered. Her body became a toboggan rolling over anything in its way, her hip bumping a tree trunk and sending her up against another. Branches snapped and cracked, stinging her arms, whipping at her face, catching her hair.

Then suddenly she landed a second time. On her back.

She stared up at the pine trees. In the complete darkness the patches of sky were bright with twinkling stars. She saw the top of the ridge above her. Dear God, it had to be at least sixty feet, more than six stories tall.

In the silence she heard an owl and the constant hum of cicadas. She lay perfectly still, knocked out of breath, certain that if she lifted her head she’d feel the dizziness at full force.

A branch snapped. Somewhere to the left of her there was a rustle of leaves. She forced herself to stay quiet, to not move. It wasn’t possible. Griffin couldn’t have made it to the bottom of the ridge before her.

Just an animal, she told herself. Then in the same breath she remembered it could be a coyote or cougar.

Calm down. Please heart, stop racing. Breathe. You need to breathe.

Her body ached. Her knuckles and elbows were scraped raw and bleeding. The zip tie had dug into her wrists and cut deep. The pain in her shoulder burned. But she had made it to the bottom. She’d gotten away.

That’s when she saw the beam of a flashlight sweep over the ridge.

SIXTY-FOUR

WASHINGTON, D.C.

“Their original intent was honorable,” Baldwin tried to explain. “A war without soldiers. Isn’t that the wave of the future?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Bix hadn’t recovered from his anger.

“Genetically engineered bioweapons,” Platt said in almost a whisper. It was exactly what he and Bix had discussed at the airport.

“I understand you visited the facility next door.” Baldwin paused but she wasn’t waiting for their acknowledgment. It was as if she was deciding what and how much to reveal. “There are similar facilities across the country. Most of them independently contracted so the government can deny they exist. All of them hidden in plain sight. Some as small as a field house in one of our federal parks or a test field in the middle of a farmer’s corn crop.”

“So this contamination was intentional,” Platt said.

“Yes.”

“Son of a bitch.” Bix palmed his forehead and shook his head.

“But it was not intended for schoolchildren. Someone made a mistake on one of the three orders. It was not supposed go to the NSLP.”

“Where was it supposed to go?” Bix asked.

“I honestly don’t know.”

“Right.”

“I came to this party late. They’re not going to tell me those details. But I do know this much—it wasn’t supposed to stay here in the United States.”

“How did they think they’d get away with this?” Bix asked. “We have higher standards on our beef and poultry exports than on our imports. And our trading partners certainly wouldn’t accept contaminated beef.”

“Even in the best of systems it slips by, especially if it’s a new strain no one is testing for. Why do you think they chose a processing plant that tests for bacterium so often? Plausible deniability.”

Bix couldn’t restrain his anger any longer. “You know the teenagers that recovered in Norfolk are becoming ill again? This bacterium is mutating, changing … oh, but wait, that’s exactly what it was engineered to do, right?”

Baldwin didn’t answer. Bix didn’t expect her to.

He continued: “Why send us to Chicago? Why not tell me all this that first day?”

“I was told it was being taken care of. Don’t you understand? I was told to stand down by my superior. You remember who my boss’s boss is.”

She calmed herself down and glanced over her shoulder. The last of the tours had trouped through long ago.

“His boss is the president of the United States. It’s not like I can just go knock on his door and say, ‘Oh hey, by the way. That bioweapons program your secretary of agriculture and your secretary of defense developed, it almost killed over one hundred schoolkids.’”

“Might still kill them,” Platt said. Bix’s scientists were busy coming up with an antibiotic cocktail, hoping to combat the strain before it caused irreparable damage.

“What do you expect us to do?” Bix asked.

“I’m just a new undersecretary. But if the CDC and USAMRIID, along with the United States Army, take charge? Maybe it’ll make a difference.”

“Tell us what you want us to do,” Platt said before Bix could argue.

SIXTY-FIVE

NEBRASKA

The darkness gave Maggie an advantage. Down here the moonlight broke through in rare streaks which Maggie tried to avoid. Her eyes had adjusted but some parts of the forest floor remained too dark to see. She still had to depend on her other senses, feeling her way as much as seeing.

When had it gotten so cold? It seeped beneath her shirt. And why had she worn shorts? Her knees were scraped raw, her legs scratched and bleeding. She heard her teeth chattering. She needed to keep moving.

The ache had not left her chest, but the night sounds worked to her advantage as well. The constant chirp of cicadas covered her raspy breathing and the crackling of dried leaves underfoot. She felt like someone was watching her. Stalking her. It couldn’t be Griffin. She could still see the jumps of the flashlight beam shooting over the ridge. He hadn’t come down, instead trying to find her from above.

At first he called her name. Made promises that quickly turned to taunts. Then he cursed her. But he didn’t venture down the steep slope. She wasn’t naïve enough to think that she had an edge on him. He knew this forest. He would know a shortcut, guess her direction.

She had recognized the goggles in the back of the SUV— infrared night vision. Could he see her? Was it that easy to track her movement? Maybe he was simply waiting for the right time to pounce. Perhaps he was letting her run out of energy. She’d put up less of a fight. She expected him at every turn. Thought she saw a shadow standing behind trees. Swore she could hear his footsteps catching up with her.

She wanted to hide, find someplace she could curl into a tight ball. Bury herself under branches and leaves. Keep herself warm with pine needles. Wait until morning. Her muscles screamed at her to do just that. The pain in her shoulder had taken on a life of its own. She tried to block it out.

Breathe. Keep moving. Listen. It became her mantra.

When she came out into a clearing she skidded to a stop. She saw a building, but no movement. No lights. She moved back into the forest, hid behind a tree, and stared at the corrugated metal. It was like a mirage. She wondered if she might be seeing things.

Then she remembered—there was a nursery out here. And a field house. Lucy had told her about it. She couldn’t remember what it was. The Taser had blocked off portions of her memory.

She tried to concentrate. Griffin had said something about the field house. That he wanted to keep the teenagers away from it. Why? She couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter. He had a connection to this place. He had to know she would stumble across it. That she’d be tempted to consider it as a shelter. In fact, he probably counted on it.

And yet, she had to believe there would be something inside she could use to cut her wrists free. And warmth. If only for a few minutes.

SIXTY-SIX

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Julia hated hospitals. She told Rachel she’d wait outside the exam room but the crowded ER made her feel even more anxious. Her mother had died in a place like this. Almost twenty years had passed and they still looked the same. It was as if she were seeing it through the eyes of a ten-year-old girl, instead of those of a homicide detective.

Across from her a woman cradled her bleeding arm. Knife wound. Under the thin stained gauze Julia recognized a tear in the flesh. Probably a kitchen knife, serrated blade. All she needed was a glance at the red-faced man accompanying the woman to guess it had been a domestic case, an endgame compromise—I’ll forgive you but you have to take me to the emergency room to get patched up. No incident report would be filed. The exhausted intern would ask the volley of questions but end up writing in whatever “accident” the woman invented.

Julia was moving on to the next victim when Rachel stepped out of the exam room. Her eyes were wild and frantic and searching for Julia.

It took Julia a second or two before she could stand. Oh God, this can’t be good.

She couldn’t remember the last time her knees actually wobbled. Is this what being in a relationship was all about— anxiety, stress, fear? Why did she think she was missing out on something? She had been fine on her own. Just fine.

No, that’s not, true. You were lonely, she told herself.

She weaved her way through the line waiting for the desk clerk. She steeled herself, the way she did when entering a crime scene. This was different. So different.

The relief on Rachel’s face when she finally saw her made Julia’s stomach fall to her feet. She was looking to her partner for strength. That expectation, that obligation fell like a weight on Julia’s shoulders. She couldn’t do this. Didn’t have it in her.

Rachel reached for her hands.

“They’re running an IV. CariAnne’s really dehydrated.” Rachel’s lower lip trembled. There was something more. Julia could see it in her eyes. “They said other kids from the school are ill, too. They won’t tell me what all is going on.” She shot a look over her shoulder, not wanting CariAnne to hear her. “It’s bad. I think it’s really bad,” she whispered.

Her grip on Julia’s hands was so tight it hurt.

“I can’t lose her,” Rachel said.

“You’re not going to lose her.”

In the past Julia had always left herself escape hatches. She constructed them almost as soon as she entered a relationship. It was—she truly believed—a smart survival tactic. She never allowed herself to feel so much that she couldn’t resurface. She was Houdini, looking out for number one because if she didn’t, who would?

“Go back in with CariAnne,” she told Rachel.

“I’m so scared. Come with me.”

Julia cringed. So this was what it felt like to have your heart break.

“I’ll be right here,” she told Rachel. “There’s something I have to do.”

She was surprised how convincing she sounded. Rachel nodded, wiped her face, took one more squeeze of Julia’s hands, and went back to her daughter.

Julia leaned against the wall. She sucked in gulps of disinfected air. When she pulled out her cell phone, her fingers shook so much she could barely hit the correct numbers.

The phone rang forever and she was torn between anger and frustration. He wouldn’t recognize her number. Please don’t send me to voice message. She wouldn’t know what to say and she wouldn’t have the nerve to call again.

Finally an answer.

“This is Benjamin Platt.”

“I need a favor,” she said, forgetting to even tell him who was calling.

SIXTY-SEVEN

NEBRASKA

When Maggie finally cut the zip tie it didn’t immediately fall from her wrists. Blood had caked and dried around it, and she had to dig the plastic strip out of the deep groove it had cut into her flesh. She found alcohol under one of the stainless-steel counters. Opened the bottle, held her breath, and poured it onto her first wrist. She closed her eyes tight and almost bit through her lower lip trying to silence her scream.

Don’t pass out. You cannot pass out.

The second wrist was easier. Everything would be easier now that her hands were free.

She hadn’t needed any light once inside the field house. Her eyes had quickly adjusted to the glow from several tanks distributed throughout. Without much effort she had discovered a pair of pruning shears. It had taken several attempts at handling the shears before she cut the plastic tie.

Now she stashed the shears in the pocket of her shorts and hunted for a better weapon.

One section of the building looked like a high-tech laboratory. Another section looked like a small processing center. Opening the thick glass doors Maggie immediately felt the difference. A gust of warm, dry air hit her in the face. It smelled of dirt and plants.

A blue fluorescent track lit up paths in the floor similar to those on commercial airplanes. It was enough to maneuver through the maze. And enough to see the clusters of plants hanging to dry from the ceiling.

Maggie didn’t venture far into the room. There would be nothing here to help her. But as she turned to leave she recognized a bundle of leaves hanging in the rows of drying plants. Even in the fluorescent light she was pretty sure the leaves were similar to the ones in the plastic bag Lucy had found at the crime scene hidden underneath one of the boys. The size of the leaf, the shape—and what she could make out of the color—looked like Salvia divinorum.

Back in the main section of the building Maggie quickly made her way around the counters, opening drawers while watching both doors on the opposite side of the room. Huge fans turned on and off overhead obscuring her ability to hear. Someone could already be inside and she wouldn’t know until he came up behind her. She focused on her other senses. She could smell something wet and musty and saw that her running shoes were caked with a wet sandy mud. Earlier inside the SUV, she remembered that same odor. Had it come from Mike Griffin’s boots?

Didn’t Dawson say he could smell river mud? Now she understood where it came from.

Maggie tried to get a sense of where in the forest she was. What did Griffin tell her? He just wanted to scare the kids. Didn’t want them snooping around the field house. This had to be where they had gotten the salvia. If he wanted to frighten them away, that meant the field house was close to the crime scene.

She couldn’t spend any more time inside. She had already exceeded what she told herself was past high risk. She started to zigzag her way to the back door and that’s when she found the tall cabinet with glass doors, holding a contraption that looked like a rifle.

She went to get a closer look, stepping around one and then another stainless-steel counter. She didn’t see the foot, didn’t see the man hunched on the floor until she was on top of him. She jumped back, ready to run. But the man didn’t move.

In the blue glow she could see his face—eyes wide open, blood trickling from his mouth. Without checking she knew Wesley Stotter was dead.

SIXTY-EIGHT

She had to keep moving.

Don’t stop. Don’t look back.

She could do this. That’s what Maggie told herself as she stumbled under the weight of the backpack with the rifle slung over her shoulder. Up ahead she saw the yellow crime-scene tape flapping from several trees. Just the sight pumped another surge of adrenaline. She could do this. She couldn’t think about Stotter right now. She had to focus on the task at hand.

She had fired an assortment of weapons. How much different could this be from an AK-47? Except that it was very different with cords and packs and an energy source instead of bullets. But she wouldn’t have time to study it. Lugging it was challenge enough. She had also helped herself to a pair of dirty white coveralls she found hanging by the door. She had rolled up the cuffs and the sleeves, pulling it over her shorts and sweatshirt. The warmth helped her ignore the extra bulk.

As soon as she left the field house she thought she heard him. Leaves crackled, a branch snapped. Griffin wouldn’t even need night-vision goggles to track her. But why let her leave with the rifle?

Because he doesn’t think you’ll be able to fire it.

She pushed the thought out of her mind.

For a rare moment the cicadas were quiet but Maggie couldn’t hear Griffin. Again, he was giving her a head start.

Cocky son of a bitch.

She thought she heard a car door slam but she could no longer see the field house or the clearing. He knew she wouldn’t get far. He’d stop and get what he needed.

Within minutes she made it past the yellow tape. She was back at the crime scene. Familiar territory. She could, at least, stay put, get set. But there were a few things she needed to do. She hoped she had enough time.

Without much effort she found what she was looking for. She tried to remember what Donny had told her, then she took a deep breath and got to work.

She saw Griffin without effort. He had put on a pair of the white coveralls, too. Which meant he was ready to do whatever it took. She imagined what the teenagers saw that night when he came for them. Dawson talked about a white wolf. Griffin had known the salvia would provide enough hallucinatory effects to enhance his disguise. This time he didn’t have the bug-eyed goggles. He wouldn’t need them. Maggie had counted on his confidence. That’s why she chose the darkest shadows she could find, though she knew her white coveralls would be easy to spot.

“It’s over,” he told her, stopping about twenty feet away.

She raised the rifle and flipped the switch which sounded similar to racking a round of a shotgun.

She waited.

His steps were slow but not hesitant.

Her finger stayed on the trigger. Just a few more feet. She wanted to make sure he was in range for the full impact. She remembered Platt saying fifteen to twenty feet. She’d make him come as close as possible. She had checked all the connections, made sure the cord from the backpack to the rifle butt hadn’t been disengaged. There were no other switches. She had checked.

Fifteen feet.

The darkness played to her disadvantage now. She couldn’t see his face. Couldn’t tell if he was afraid or smiling. She couldn’t even make out what he was holding.

It was way too dark.

“Won’t make a difference without the power pack,” he said and held up an object.

Maggie felt as if she had been kicked in the gut. That was the one thing that was different about the rifle. It required an energy source in place of bullets. That’s what the backpack was for. Was Griffin bluffing? Did the gun also need a power pack–like battery to hold its charge?

He stepped closer.

She ignored her sweaty palms and steeled herself. He had to be bluffing.

“Stop or I’ll shoot.”

He kept coming and Maggie pulled the trigger.

Nothing.

She tried again and the empty click made her heart stop. She heard him laugh as she threw down the rifle and clawed at the straps of the heavy backpack, trying to shrug it off as she turned to run.

He lunged at her. Didn’t even see the wire she had strung chest-high between the two trees in front of her. He flew backward, knocked off his feet.

She was on him in seconds, flipping his body over. His muscles were stiff and contracted from the electrical shock. He didn’t move when she slammed her knee into the small of his back. His arms jerked but he had no control over them as Maggie yanked them back and used zip ties she had found in the building.

He mumbled and jabbered, not unlike Dawson.

“Y-y-you b-i-i-i-i-tch.”

He was much bigger than Dawson. The effects of the shock wouldn’t last long. Maggie moved quickly to his feet, tying them together with the ropes they had used to secure the crime scene.

“Not get a-a-a-a-way.”

She ignored him. Sweat drenched the inside of her coveralls. Her fingers were steady now, and she quickly grabbed another rope to connect the zip tie on his wrists to the rope on his feet. Then she pulled tight until he was bent in half.

“Damnit, y-y-you.”

Hog-tied, he wasn’t going anywhere. He could yell all he wanted. She didn’t hesitate and wrapped what was left of the rope around a tree.

“Nice job.” A voice startled her from behind.

She spun around. Blinded by a flashlight, she still recognized the silhouette and the voice.

“No thanks to you,” she told Sheriff Frank Skylar.

“It-it-it’s about tim-m-m-me,” Griffin stuttered.

Maggie shot a look back at Skylar. Only now did she see the sheriff had his weapon pointed at her.

“You really should have gone back to Denver,” Skylar told her. “We would have handled this just fine. No one else would have had to be hurt.”

“Sho-sho-shoot her.”

Maggie stayed down on her haunches, unarmed. With the light blinding her, she couldn’t even find a branch or rock.

“Now we’re gonna have to make up some story about how that Stotter guy was stalking you. Shame the way things happen,” Skylar was saying. “Both of you come up missing at the same time.”

“He wasn’t stalking me,” Maggie said, wondering if it would make a difference if she tried to stall. Her muscles started screaming again, reminding her what they’d been through.

“Yeah, well, it’s funny how rumors get started.”

“Sho-sho-shoot her.”

“Shut up,” Skylar yelled. “I’m sick and tired of cleaning up after you. Why didn’t you just stay in Chicago? You and your lamebrain scams.”

He reached out and placed the gun barrel against her temple. The metal felt cold and solid.

She looked up, forcing him to look into her eyes, though she couldn’t see his face. All she saw was a huge swatch of black fur hurling through the air just as the gun went off.

Maggie felt the heat scorch her skin. Pain ripped across the side of her skull. She fell hard against the ground. Couldn’t hear anything except a high-pitched ring. The world swirled around her. From where she lay she could see Skylar’s body twisting and turning. His mouth was open but she couldn’t hear his screams, just the ringing inside her head. She saw Skylar cradling the bloody mess that used to be his arm.

She closed her eyes, expecting darkness, almost welcoming unconsciousness.

That’s when she felt the warm wetness on her cheek.

She opened her eyes to find a huge black German shepherd licking her face.

MONDAY, OCTOBER 12

SIXTY-NINE

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Julia Racine juggled a tray with two coffees, two chocolate doughnuts, one glazed cruller, and one container of chocolate milk while pinning a copy of The Washington Post under one arm and a stuffed koala bear under the other. A nurse helped her push open the door.

“Thanks,” Julia said and bounded down the hall.

By now she was getting used to the smell of disinfectant and the ding of monitors inside dimly lit rooms. She kept herself from glancing into the rooms. She didn’t want to see any other patients except CariAnne.

She found the girl and her mother mesmerized by yet another cable news show blaring the current events of the day. The anchor was discussing an impending press conference about the contaminated food in schools.

“Yah! Doughnuts!” both daughter and mother squealed, raising their arms.

“And you brought my bear.”

CariAnne reached for the ragged stuffed animal but her left arm was still connected to a monitor. She stopped, readjusted, and tried again.

They were told all of the gizmos were only for precaution. So far the little girl was testing negative for all the salmonella strains they had been tracking. The antibiotic cocktail that Colonel Benjamin Platt had ordered seemed to be working, though CariAnne would need to take it for another ten days.

“Nice column today,” Julia said, setting aside the folded Washington Post and grabbing her cruller.

“Careful, you’re starting to sound like a fan.”

Julia stopped short of telling her that she intended to be a fan for a very long time.

A news alert came over the television screen and both mother and daughter shushed her even though Julia wasn’t talking. She smiled and simply took her seat.

Julia saw Mary Ellen Wychulis take the podium. She didn’t look the least bit uncomfortable replacing her boss. Her new title appeared in a graphic below: Undersecretary of the Food Safety and Inspection Service. If Julia didn’t know better she would have thought the woman had been in this position for years.

Wychulis explained what they believed had happened in last week’s outbreaks at two separate schools. A supplier for the National School Lunch Program had not reported an internal contamination before shipping out ground beef. She insisted that all the ground-beef products were being recalled and to be on the safe side, no ground beef would be used in school lunches for the next several weeks.