Hotwire (21 page)

“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?”