Hotwire (25 page)

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.