Hotwire

Julia was impressed, although she thought the tall, willowy woman who used to be Benjamin Platt’s wife sounded too much like an easily manipulated government employee. An opportunist who was ready to step up, maybe even step over whomever she needed to, all in the name of business as usual.

Remembering that late-night meeting with the USDA, Julia wondered if everything really would be taken care of. Had the real person responsible been caught or would Irene Baldwin be blamed for a contamination that had been in the making long before she even showed up. But that was politics. If Julia remembered correctly, the secretary of agriculture was a crony of the president. Just several days ago the man was more than happy to erroneously blame a poor kitchen worker for this entire mess.

Julia tried to concentrate on the press conference. Wychulis was saying that she wouldn’t take any questions.

Of course, they won’t take any questions.

But then Wychulis told the crowd of reporters that she would introduce the person who would. The administration’s newest cabinet member. The president had just made the appointment official this morning to replace his longtime friend, who was suddenly retiring.

“No,” Wychulis insisted, it had nothing to do with this latest recall effort. The timing was totally coincidental.

Then she waved to someone at her left and introduced the new secretary of agriculture: Irene Baldwin.

SEVENTY

ST. JOHN’S CATHOLIC CHURCH

HALSEY, NEBRASKA

Several hundred people had crowded into the small church and yet when Maggie entered she could swear all eyes were watching her. She tried to hide her surprise at seeing Johnny Bosh laid out in his casket right inside the entrance. He looked peaceful in a blue suit and red necktie. Then she saw the football tucked in beside him and the earbuds, the cord and iPod tucked into his pocket. Suddenly she felt tears threatening to well up.

Five teenagers were dead. It was too big a toll for any community. They’d be having funerals all week. She made herself go to this one, despite Lucy’s insistence that she stay in bed and get some rest. Griffin had grazed her scalp. It’d leave a scar under her hair—that is when her hair grew back. Today she was able to cover most of the stitches by parting her hair on the opposite side.

She had two broken ribs, some scrapes, and plenty of bruises, but she had been through worse in the past. The physical wounds would heal, adding a few more scars. The rest she would try and tuck into a new compartment in her mind. Later there would be plenty of time for rest. Kunze was giving her the week off. There had been no lecture, no punishment, no suspension—in fact, no explanation other than to tell her he didn’t want to see her until the following week. She didn’t want to think about how much Kunze may have known about the cattle mutilations when he sent her to the Sandhills. No one would probably ever know the whole story.

As it turned out, Mike Griffin wasn’t just an engineer. After Desert Storm he signed on with the U.S. Department of Defense and became a bioengineer. But several years ago he left to work for a Chicago-based research firm. His new employer had contracted with the federal government to use the field house for growing, testing, and developing hybrid strains. The project seemed harmless, so why did Griffin and Frank Skylar go so far to keep Griffin’s stepdaughter and her friends away?

“I just wanted to scare them” was what Griffin had told Maggie. But he didn’t explain why. Nor would he explain the huge tanks inside the field house that were filled with floating bovine parts, how those parts had gotten there, or what they were being used for. Despite the tanks, Maggie realized that there would probably never be enough evidence to connect Griffin and his employer to the cattle mutilations, but she suspected Wesley Stotter’s fantastic story about black ops helicopters and secret government testing may not have been so crazy after all.

Griffin’s boots matched the prints left at the scene and in the hospital. He was being charged with attempted murder of Dawson and Maggie. Both he and Skylar were being questioned in the deaths of Kyle and Trevor as well as Wesley Stotter.

Dawson Hayes had told Maggie that the teens had wanted to film their drug-induced experience for YouTube, however no camera had been found by investigators. Late Sunday evening the video had shown up on YouTube. State and federal investigators were still trying to find who posted it. The grainy quality made it impossible to identify anyone but it caught the laser rifle in action and explained the light show the teenagers had experienced.

The smell of burning incense filled Maggie’s nostrils, bringing her back to the present. Inside the huge double doorway she caught a glimpse of old women, a group of about a dozen with their heads bent, fingers holding rosary beads, lips barely moving as they led the congregation in prayer. Maggie remembered little of the service, which included processions, lighting of candles, and hymns sung by a choir of Johnny’s classmates.

Sitting between Donny Fergussen and Lucy Coy, she tried to close her mind off as she gazed at the stained-glass windows. The morning sunlight burned through the orange and red and purple stained glass, transferring rainbows of color onto the walls. She couldn’t help thinking about the irony of how this tragedy had started with a light show and would now end with one.

As for Courtney and Nikki and Johnny—Maggie believed they were victims of Amanda’s bullying. She was the one— not Johnny—who had staged the drug parties. It was her way of controlling anyone she wanted to keep in her life and getting rid of those she did not. Donny Fergussen had also found text messages between Courtney, Nikki, and Amanda just seconds before the car crash.

Maggie glanced across the aisle at Dawson and his father. He still looked pale and weak. She wished she could pack up Dawson and send him somewhere safe.

Lucy had asked her to stay for a few days and Maggie had agreed. Last night when she talked to Platt he sounded worried about her injuries, the doctor trying to take care of his patient. He’d even asked to talk to Lucy to make sure Maggie was being taken care of. But Maggie didn’t want to be his patient. She didn’t know how to tell him that all she really wanted was for him to be with her. Just the thought of it seemed too needy, too vulnerable, and she ended up telling Platt that she was fine, that she’d see him when she got back to D.C. at the end of the week. She explained that it’d take her a couple of days to drive back. She had already decided that Jake would be going with her and they would not be flying.

As the crowd filed out of the church Maggie was grateful for the fresh air. The incense had made her head swim a bit. She felt Lucy holding on to her elbow and instead of telling her she was fine, Maggie allowed the woman to pamper her. They moved aside and stayed on the portico letting the others go down the steps first, waiting for the crowd to thin. From above they could watch.

It wasn’t until Lucy nudged her that Maggie saw him standing across the street. Benjamin Platt waved and made his way through the people getting into cars that were lined up on both sides.

“He’s more handsome than I imagined,” Lucy told her.

He bounded up the stairs, carefully weaving against the last of the crowd. As he introduced himself to Lucy his eyes flickered over Maggie’s battered face. She wanted to tell him she didn’t need him coming all this way just to take care of her. That she was fine. Before she could say anything he kissed her, carefully and gently, but leaving Maggie breathless and with little doubt as to whether he thought of her as a patient.

“I thought you and Jake might like some company on the drive home.” Platt smiled and added, “But I have to warn you, I love show tunes.”

SEVENTY-ONE

CHICAGO

Roger Bix arrived before noon at the processing center on the north side of Chicago. It was only forty-eight hours since he and Platt had visited the site. This time, however, he brought a fleet of federal marshals in three black SUVs.

They drove single file to the far end of the processing plant’s parking lot and pulled up to the chain-link fence.

Immediately Bix knew something was wrong.

The security hut was dark. There was no one to stop their entry.

At first glance, the building appeared abandoned. The enclosed walkway that connected the facility to the processing plant was empty of military personnel, workers, and armored vehicles.

Bix’s team waited for the marshals to get out of the SUVs. Then Bix led them into the building. There was no one to greet them in the lobby. The halls were dark and deserted, as were the rooms and laboratories. There were no men and women in white lab coats, no digital microscopes, no computers or rows of monitors. No Philip Tegan. No one. The entire facility had been stripped and was now completely empty.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Special thanks to:

First and foremost, my readers. Your continued and loyal support allows me to do what I love.

My friends Sharon Car, Marlene Haney, Sandy Rockwood, and Patricia Sierra, who keep me grounded and sane and have done so since the beginning of this wonderful crazy journey.

Author Patricia Bremmer and her husband, Martin, for being my eyes and ears on the western front. I’m so glad you didn’t get arrested while settting up mock crime scenes in the middle of the Nebraska National Forest.

Dan Frodsham, Rec Tech, and Bob Fetters, Forest Rangers at the Nebraska National Forest, for providing maps and answers. I only hope I did our incredible forest justice, and please forgive my creative license in moving and changing things around.

Melissa Connor, Associate Professor and Forensic Science Program Director at Nebraska Wesleyan University, along with her students: Jeff Rathman, Kimberly Van Den Akker, Nikki Brophy, Amanda Ruzicka, Leron West, and Kody Connelly. They took an entire afternoon out of their busy schedules to help film a video at NWU’s Crime Scene House for my website. And Melissa, thanks also for giving me some ideas on how to process a crime scene outdoors as well as some insight into the Nebraska coroner system. Our conversations are always so morbidly enlightening.

Gary Plank, Assistant Professor at Nebraska Wesleyan University and retired criminal investigator and behavior profiler for the Nebraska State Patrol Investigative Services Division, for answering my questions about the State Patrol and crime scene jurisdictions.

Annie Belatti, whose vast experiences as a trauma nurse and nurse anesthetist provided invaluable information about electrocution and what it might be like to get wrapped up in barbed wire.

Leigh Ann Retelsdorf, Nebraska District Court Judge and retired Douglas County prosecutor, who usually helps me murder my victims, this time was able to access her incredible resume that includes biologist. Thanks for sharing some interesting tidbits about the Nebraska National Forest’s diverse wildlife.

The real Mary Ellen Wychulis for her generous donation to the National MS Society and for allowing me to concoct a fictional character in her name. The real Mary Ellen has never, to my knowledge, worked for the USDA, and any resemblance would be a matter of coincidence.

My amazing team at Doubleday, headed by my editor, Phyllis Grann. Special thanks also to Judy Jacoby for your endless attention to detail and caring for each book as if it were your only one.

Also the crew at Little, Brown UK: Catherine Burke and David Shelley.

Ray Kunze, again, for lending his name to Maggie’s new boss. Ray had no idea what he was getting into when he asked to be in a novel. And again for the record, the real Ray Kunze is a gentleman and all-around great guy who would never send Maggie to the Nebraska Sandhills to investigate cattle mutilations.

The booksellers, book buyers, librarians, reviewers, and bloggers across the country for mentioning and recommending my novels.

My apologies to the residents of the Nebraska Sandhills and North Platte for my taking some liberty with geography and places such as the Great Plains Regional Medical Center, which, to my knowledge, does not include near as many floors and stairwells as Maggie maneuvered down.

Last, thank you to the ranchers, farmers, and food producers of this nation, who not only do an amazing job of feeding us but of making sure our food is safe. After the spinach recall in 2006, growers and producers got together and developed a safer, more efficient and effective system to curtail future contaminations. They did this on their own and long before the federal government had finished its official investigation.

As I finished the edits to this novel in December 2010, Congress was passing a new food safety bill in response to the egg recall of August/September. Ironically, this massive overhaul of FDA regulations does not extend to the USDA, which oversees beef, poultry, and, yes, eggs.