Hotwire (8 page)

Donny pulled out his cell phone, checked for reception, and slipped it back in his pocket as he tugged his two-way radio off his belt.

“We could have a downpour at any minute,” Skylar still protested. “Everything will be washed away while you wait for Lucy Coy. And then just watch, she’ll be collecting spirit dust and lightning bugs. We’ll be here till dawn.”

This time Maggie pinned him down with a glare that made the man take a step back. Maybe he remembered this was the same woman who earlier pulled her gun on half the county elders.

“I’m still hoping that you’ll choose to be a productive part of this investigation, Sheriff.” She stopped there when she wanted to ask him to leave, but personal experience had taught her that co operation from the local law enforcement was vital to winning a community’s support. This sheriff could be her greatest asset or her worst liability.

Hank and one of his men returned.

“Hank, do you have some unused brown paper bags?” she asked.

“Yep. Up in the gift shop.”

“How about more tarps or rain pouches? Especially anything unused. And rope or twine?”

“I think we can find some.”

“We’re going to divide this area up into five sections,” Maggie explained, “and each of us will work a grid. That’s if you’re staying, Sheriff?”

They stared at the sheriff. He released a sigh then nodded, just as Donny called out, “Lucy’s on her way.”

TWELVE

Lucy Coy made her way down to the crime scene as Maggie heard the first drops of rain begin to hit the forest’s upper canopy. There was absolutely nothing about the woman that would have prompted Maggie to use or even think the words “old” or “crazy.”

She wore hiking boots, blue jeans, a white shirt with the untucked tails sticking out from underneath her rain jacket. Tall and thin, Coy carried herself like a dancer with an elegant but unassuming confidence. Adding to her mystique, there were featherlike wisps of silver in her dark hair that was clipped short. It stuck up in places and would have made anyone else look as if she had just gotten out of bed. On Lucy Coy it looked stylish.

Under the brash floodlights the woman’s face showed no distinctive lines, just smooth skin over high cheekbones. Her dark eyes focused on Maggie as introductions were made. The woman was sizing up the FBI agent who had summoned her from her warm, dry home, but with no hint of annoyance. Instead, Lucy Coy looked eager to understand exactly what was expected of her and get right to it.

If anything Maggie could understand the sheriff’s awe of Lucy. She seemed out of place with these men, but at the same time she fit in comfortably with these surroundings, almost at home in the middle of the forest. She didn’t appear to even notice the rain.

The men from the other side of the hill had brought and left at the perimeter the items Maggie had requested: digital camera, latex gloves, paper bags, markers, and several plastic coolers. Maggie had insisted on unused and sealed tarps to prevent introducing debris to the crime scene. Those were now strung from trees and hung above areas deemed important and waiting for closer inspection or possible casting.

The impact of what had happened to these teenagers was sinking in as each of the injured made their way to the triage area. The boy wrapped in barbed wire had sustained the severest injuries from what Maggie could tell, but that was only if they didn’t count the two left behind who waited for Lucy Coy.

Maggie noticed Lucy’s rich voice had a tone of reverence. She spoke in perfect rhythm with the breeze and the night birds, offering few words and listening intently.

“We’ve already taken all the photos we need,” Maggie told her. “I thought it was important for someone with a medical background to see the bodies as they were found, before they’re moved.”

Maggie followed Lucy, who followed Donny. The sheriff lagged well behind as if still pronouncing his annoyance. Yet he wouldn’t dare miss this, either.

When the rain had finally come it did so with little fanfare. A rumble of thunder periodically quaked through the trees and sometimes the sky above the canopy would brighten with a soft glow of lightning. But the violent electricity that had forked through the clouds earlier had seeped out somewhere on the horizon. Maggie was grateful and recognized the pitter-patter of the soft rain as a blessing compared to what she had expected. Even the cicadas and crickets agreed and had begun competing with the low hum of the gas generator left up the steep incline, its sound muted by the brush and easily forgotten except for the tentacles of orange extension cords that trailed down the slope.

As they passed under the dead owl still suspended from the branch, Lucy stopped. She stepped closer until she was directly underneath the bird.

“The wings are singed,” Lucy said.

Then she bent down to examine the ground beneath the bird. Several orange stakes marked where Maggie had stumbled over the boy wrapped in barbed wire.

“One of the injured was found here,” Maggie explained.

Lucy nodded as she swirled a finger in the sand between two areas stained with blood.

Maggie saw the sheriff glare at Donny. Out of the corner of her eye she could see him mouthing, “See, I told you so.” As if that wasn’t enough, he spun his index finger at his temple to emphasize that Lucy Coy was, indeed, crazy.

As she stood up Lucy stopped to examine one of the lower branches.

“There’s some kind of a thread here,” she pointed out. “It’s tangled but doesn’t look weathered. Can we bag this?”

Donny nodded.

“And the owl. Can we bag it, also?”

Lucy walked around the upside-down bird to look into the creature’s eyes. Ignoring the sheriff’s reaction to her she added, “Plains Indians believed owls carried the souls of the departed.”

“Is that why you want us to take it, because you think it might have captured their souls?” the sheriff asked, trying to keep a straight face.

Maggie was finding it difficult to control her anger at Skylar, and yet at the same time she hoped she hadn’t made a mistake asking this woman to join the investigation—a woman whose opinion could be influenced by her ancestors’ spirit world, a world that Maggie believed carried no weight in a criminal investigation; a world Maggie had little patience, interest, or respect for.

Lucy Coy, however, calmly went on to explain: “I believe whatever happened to these teenagers also happened to this owl. The way its talons are still gripping the branch”—she pointed to the bird’s feet—“along with the singed feathers tells me there’s a good possibility this owl was electrocuted.”

“Electrocuted?” Donny asked.

“That’s ridiculous,” the sheriff muttered.

But Maggie’s heart skipped a beat. That was exactly what she thought had happened to the boy wrapped in barbed wire and to the two dead victims.

THIRTEEN

VIRGINIA

Platt noticed the car following him soon after he pulled out of the diner’s parking lot. At first he thought maybe Bix had forgotten to tell him something and Platt knew the paranoid CDC chief would rather run him down than risk a cell-phone call being traced. But the vehicle following him, five car lengths back, was definitely not Bix’s compact rental car. The double headlights sat up as high as Platt’s Land Rover.

He took the ramp onto the interstate, goosing the accelerator. The double headlights followed. He switched lanes, crossing over two and watched in the rearview mirror. The double headlights followed, keeping a car in between. Traffic raced around them but the car stayed with Platt. He drove a few miles then crossed back to the right and at the last second swerved to take the first exit. Not so discreetly, now, his tail followed, provoking a horn blare from another vehicle that had to slam on its brakes.

Platt turned into a gas station and pulled up next to a credit-card-only pump. He didn’t get out. He waited, ready to floor it if the vehicle followed. It’d be impossible to pretend here, especially after pulling up to one of the pumps. But the double headlights, which he now saw belonged to a black Suburban with tinted windows, didn’t even slow down as it passed the station.

Platt sat back, released a sigh. Ran a hand over his face. Relaxed his jaw. Okay, so Bix’s paranoia was contagious.

He topped off the Land Rover’s gas tank, though he didn’t need it to get back home. Then he took several more minutes to wash his windshield, the whole time watching every single vehicle that pulled into the station as well as those passing by on the access road.

Back on the road Platt stayed off the interstate and wound his way through side streets where he could see if he picked up another tail. The amount of traffic surprised him for this time of night, but still, he believed he would notice a black Suburban with tinted windows. Finally deciding it was safe, he backtracked to his parents’ house.

They would be up, watching the late-night shows. They’d have Digger between them and all three would have a bowl of ice cream. They doted on the dog like he was one of their grandchildren. Platt’s mom would try to talk him into staying overnight, but he’d convince her that Digger would keep him company on the two-hour drive back to D.C. She’d pretend to pout but give him a peck on the cheek and his dad would tell him to call when he got home.

Platt parked and before going in took a few minutes to check his voice, text, and email messages. There were several but none from the one person he was hoping to hear from— Maggie. He knew her plane had landed safely in Denver without any delays. He checked the flight number online to make sure.

He slouched back into the leather seat and shook his head. He had been doing just fine before Maggie O’Dell came along. He had finally found contentment, burying himself in his work, coming home and sitting with Digger on the back porch. He tried not to spend too much time indulging in memories of his daughter, Ali, but Digger was a constant reminder.

In the beginning it was difficult to even have the dog around, but quickly Digger became Platt’s shadow, his buddy. He knew the dog missed Ali as much as he did. They had been inseparable or as Ali always said, they were “bestest friends.” Now Platt was grateful for the dog’s company and for reminding him of the best memories of Ali and not those dark weeks, months, years that followed her death.

Caring about Maggie was a luxury he hadn’t allowed himself since Ali’s death. Moments like this he questioned the wisdom of it. Being with Maggie, just talking to her— hell, just hearing her voice—made him feel like a college kid again. It was exhilarating. But not hearing from her could make him feel equally miserable. He hated the roller-coaster ride.

So what the hell was wrong with him? He wasn’t a kid. He was a colonel, a medical doctor in the United States Army. He was logical and practical and thrived on structure and discipline. He made decisions, solved problems. He went into war zones and hot zones. He had performed surgeries on soldiers while bombs rattled around them. He had treated victims with Ebola working from a tent outside of Sierra Leone. At only thirty-two years old he had seen and done incredible things. Yet nothing compared to the feeling of Maggie sitting on the sofa with him, sockless feet in his lap, while they spent a rare evening watching classic movies or an even rarer Saturday afternoon watching college football.

He looked down at his smartphone again. No new messages in the last five minutes. He pushed Contacts and keyed down to Maggie’s number. He clicked on Text Messages and tapped in MISS YOU. XXOO BEN. Then he paused before hitting Send.

Too much?

He tapped Backspace and erased XXOO BEN.

Hesitated again. Tapped Backspace and erased MISS YOU.

Flipping the phone shut, he said out loud to himself, “Coward.”

Just as he reached for the SUV’s door handle he saw it.

The black Suburban, its headlights off, was stopped at the corner. The vehicle’s occupant must have thought it was safe to pull this close, must have thought Platt had already exited his vehicle and gone inside. The Suburban stayed there for only a few seconds longer, just enough time for whoever was driving it to take note of the address. Then it rolled through the intersection. Platt watched it go a full block before putting on its headlights.