Hotwire (20 page)

“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.