Hotwire (11 page)

Last night she hadn’t noticed that the road to Lucy’s place was hard-packed sand with only patches of gravel mostly in the middle. The rain had left crevices that ran like veins and crumbled the edges. Maggie stayed close to the center, not risking sliding into the rain-filled ditch.

At first the shepherd seemed confused by her behavior, on alert, looking for whatever danger had made her run. But he kept pace and soon stopped looking over his shoulder. It reminded her of jogs with Harvey. She liked having the company.

They hadn’t been at it for long when the dog’s ears pitched and he started herding Maggie to the side of the road, bumping her leg once and then a second time when she ignored him. The pickup came roaring over the hill from behind them. The tires sent a spray of sand at Maggie and Jake as it swerved to avoid hitting them. The dog crouched to his belly. The brakes screeched, spitting more sand and gravel. Taillights flared. The truck jolted to a stop about ten yards ahead of them.

Jake was back on his feet, his nose nudging Maggie’s hand, wanting her to follow him back to the house.

The engine idled then the driver shifted into reverse and slowly backed up. The window opened and a man poked his head out. He was young, mid-twenties with a sunburn and ball cap pulled low so that all Maggie could see were his mirrored sunglasses and a bushy mustache.

“Everything all right, ma’am?”

“Just out for a run.”

“A run?” His head swiveled around as if he were looking for someone else to explain.

“I’m jogging,” she said, noticing that her mouth and eyes were lined with sand.

He stared at her. Then finally said, “Oh sure. Okay. Just thought I’d better check.”

He shifted gears and slowly drove off. She could see him watching her in the rearview mirror and realized that it was curiosity more than remorse that had slowed his speed.

When she and Jake got back to the house, Lucy had the table already set for breakfast and had added the scent of bacon to the kitchen.

“You forgot to mention what an oddity I might be, out running in the road.”

Lucy didn’t look up from the counter where she slathered butter on bread, but there was a glimpse of a smile when she said, “I think you and I were meant to be oddities no matter where we are or what we do.”

NINETEEN

NORTH PLATTE, NEBRASKA

Light blinded Dawson. He jerked awake to find sunlight streaming through the blinds of his hospital-room window.

Sunlight. No laser beams or fireworks.

His dad sat up in the chair beside the bed and rubbed at the stubble on his face and the sleep in his eyes. Dawson wondered how long his father had been there. Had he seen the creature? Dawson frantically searched around the room.

“You’re in North Platte,” his father said, thinking he must not recognize his surroundings. “At the hospital. You got banged up pretty good but you’re gonna be okay.”

His dad looked tired. But he always looked tired. He worked ten-hour shifts at the meat-processing plant. Sometimes he pulled a double shift when one of the other security guards called in sick. He even worked part-time on his days off, couriering packages. He didn’t used to put in this many hours when he was a state patrolman. But he left that job years ago. Dawson didn’t know the details and he didn’t really care. It happened right about the time his mom left them. In fact he’d barely noticed that one day his dad was getting ready for work and holstering a Taser instead of a Smith and Wesson.

They didn’t even have dinner together anymore, let alone talk to each other. Except for when his dad felt it was necessary to tell Dawson how disappointed he was in him. Dawson figured this would be one of those times, especially if his dad had spent the night sleeping in that vinyl chair.

“What happened?” Dawson asked, hoping to preempt the lecture.

“You don’t remember?”

He stared at his father trying to decide whether he would even believe him. A creature with red eyes shooting electrical sparks out of its arms? His father mistook the confused look to be a loss of memory.

“The doctor said you might have short-term amnesia. You got an electric shock from something. He’s thinking it was strong enough to throw you into a barbed-wire fence. You ended up with it wrapped all around your body. You don’t remember anything?”

Dawson didn’t respond. His father was standing now. Not a tall man but from the bed Dawson felt as if the man towered over him. Then his dad did something totally unexpected. He put his hand on Dawson’s shoulder and for a brief moment Dawson thought he saw sadness in his eyes.

“You’re really lucky, kid. A couple of your friends are dead.”

It didn’t register. How could any of them be dead? They were just screwing around. Having some fun. Who was dead? Dawson didn’t get a chance to ask.

“Hey, Mr. H,” a voice called from the doorway and suddenly Dawson’s dad was smiling. The sadness was gone and so was his hand from Dawson’s shoulder.

“Johnny. How’s that throwing arm?”

“Sore, but I guess I can’t complain.”

Dawson thought Johnny B looked better than after a football game. What he couldn’t believe was how excited his dad looked, as if a celebrity had walked in, but then Johnny B was the closest thing there was to one in town.

“Is it okay for me to talk to Dawson?”

“Sure. I need to get home and change for work. I’ll leave you boys. Dawson, I’ll be back tonight as soon as I get off, okay?”

Johnny waited for Dawson’s dad to leave and even then, took a place beside the bed where he could watch the door.

“What did you tell him?” he asked.

“Excuse me?”

“What did you tell your dad happened last night?”

“Nothing. I didn’t tell him anything.”

“Did you tell him about the camera?”

“No.”

“What about the Sally-D?”

“Of course not.”

“You know we could be in a whole shitload of trouble if they found out where we got it.”

“I didn’t tell him.”

“They’d drop me from the team. All those scholarship offers will be gone if I end up not playing.”

“I didn’t say a word.”

“I’ll never go anywhere.” And then under his breath, “That’d make Amanda happy.”

Dawson had never seen Johnny like this—more scared than angry.

“None of it was my idea,” he said. “I go down, everybody goes down.”

“My dad said somebody died.”

Johnny stared straight ahead, somewhere over Dawson’s head. Then suddenly he gripped Dawson’s bandaged arm, digging his fingers into the wounds. Dawson wanted to scream from the pain. He saw fresh blood staining the wrap. He tried to jerk his arm away but Johnny tightened his grip, leaned down until his face was inches from Dawson’s, his breath hot and sour.

“Just keep your mouth shut.”

TWENTY

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Julia Racine wished she could stop thinking about how sticky the little girl’s hand was. She should be grateful that CariAnne wanted to hold her hand. Truth was, when Julia finally gave in to dating women, she thought that at least she wouldn’t have to deal with children. Too often the men she had dated wanted her to be instant stepmom to their weekend kids. Julia knew long ago that she didn’t possess that maternal gene. She realized that she never wanted to be a mother long before she even realized her preference for women.

She didn’t admit it to anyone, but children grated on her nerves. She didn’t have the patience for either their bouts of exuberance or, at the other end of the spectrum, their constant whining. Her new partner had recently suggested— after seeing how uncomfortable Julia seemed to be with her daughter—that perhaps Julia hadn’t gotten the chance to be a child herself and so she couldn’t relate. To which Julia had muttered, “Thank you very much, Dr. Freud,” but at the same time she remembered thinking, “Duh. You think?”

Julia was ten, just a little older than CariAnne, when her mother died. Her father tried to make Julia’s life as normal as possible and she absolutely adored Luc Racine for his efforts, but something broke inside Julia the day her mother left. She knew that then, although she didn’t understand it. But she had felt it, like fabric that had tugged and stretched then ripped at the seams. It had been a pain, an ache so real, so palpable that as a little girl she truly believed something— her stomach, her intestines, her heart—had surely been torn.

Her father claimed that one day she was climbing trees and the next day she was pulling up a chair to the kitchen sink to wash dishes, trying to do her mother’s chores herself.

“It just wasn’t natural,” Luc would finish off the story. Although these days Alzheimer’s prevented him from remembering his own daughter at times, let alone remembering that story or his long-gone wife.

Perhaps Julia’s lack of maternal instinct really did come from not having a real childhood. For years she blamed it for her inability to sustain a normal relationship. Only recently had it occurred to her that it might have something to do with playing on the wrong team. So here she was, trying again. Really trying this time. If someone was keeping track she should get mega points for this—picking up Miss Sticky Fingers from school
and
having to wait in the principal’s office for approval.

Needing to get the proper approval, even though her partner had filled out all the necessary forms, didn’t bother her. As a police detective, Julia appreciated rules that protected kids from perverts. It certainly made Julia’s job easier. But there was something about waiting for the principal, no matter what age you were, that was unsettling.

She glanced at the large institutional-size clock on the wall. Must be standard issue. Julia remembered a similar one from her elementary-school days. And she had spent plenty of time outside the principal’s office back then. Even as a kid she hadn’t had patience. Being too grownup at age ten—or at age thirty-one—didn’t seem to stop her from telling her peers how stupid they were. Except now that she wore a gun they tended to not argue back as often.

A woman came rushing into the outer office. She knocked on the principal’s door but didn’t wait for an answer before she opened it.

“I counted sixty-three lined up for the nurse,” she said, staying in the doorway. “That doesn’t count those still in the restrooms.”

A voice answered from inside but Julia couldn’t make out what was said. The woman’s head swiveled around, only now noticing Julia and CariAnne. She stepped inside the office and the door slammed shut.

Julia tugged her hand away from the little girl and quietly got up to glance outside the door. A line of kids snaked around the corner. Some were holding their bellies. Others were leaning against the wall. A few adults manned the line, feeling foreheads and offering whispered reassurances.

“Do you know what’s going on?” Julia asked CariAnne.

“A lot of us haven’t been feeling good since lunchtime.”

“You don’t feel good? You didn’t say anything?”

“I don’t usually have to. Mom just knows.”

Julia looked back out the door, thinking they sure had everything under control for all these kids not feeling good. But then all it took was one to start vomiting. The little boy barely made it to the trash can. Watching from the sidelines, Julia thought it looked like dominoes, one kid after another, bending, gagging, retching and the few adults like tops spinning from one end of the hallway to the other.

It was almost funny until Julia heard CariAnne behind her. The little girl was reaching for her hand again, holding her stomach, and pressing against Julia. In seconds she, too, was bent over and spraying Julia’s shoes.

TWENTY-ONE