That’s when she saw the cell phone still clamped in his hand. Had he called someone?
She easily tugged the phone away. Rigor mortis hadn’t fully set in yet. With the penlight she looked for the On switch. Pressed it. Nothing. Pressed again and held it down, but the phone still didn’t come on. The battery might need recharging. She slipped it deep into the front pocket of her jeans.
Maggie finally turned herself around and started to leave. It would be easier getting out than it had been coming in. Less surprises. It would be good to breathe some fresh air, to stand up straight and stretch. And yet, she hesitated. She knew she was headed for more unfamiliar ground as soon as she crawled out from under this house. And that’s what made her hesitate.
She sat back on her haunches and looked at Johnny Bosh again.
“What the hell am I supposed to tell your mom?”
TWENTY-NINE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Mary Ellen Wychulis didn’t have to wait this time. Irene Baldwin stood in the doorway and waved Mary Ellen into her office as she got off the elevator.
Inside, a television blared from a cabinet Mary Ellen had never seen opened. Her boss silenced the TV with a remote as she marched by and then dropped into her chair. There were no commands this time for Mary Ellen to sit but she took her usual place and stayed at the edge of her seat.
“Why am I hearing about a possible food contamination in one of our schools—one of our District schools—from CNN?”
“No one from the school notified us.”
“I’ve made half a dozen phone calls and no one seems to know what’s going on. Someone from the CDC,” she said as she flipped scribbled pages of her legal pad, “a Roger Bix, told me that he put in a request with us two days ago about another contamination in a Norfolk, Virginia, high school. He was told that we would have to assess the situation and get back to him. I don’t remember getting this request and I know I didn’t talk to this man. I would certainly remember such a condescending voice.”
Mary Ellen kept her hands still when her first impulse was to wring them in her lap.
“Did you talk to Roger Bix?” her boss asked.
Mary Ellen fielded dozens of calls and even more emails every day: requests, applications, complaints. Many of them were taken by her secretary. How could she be expected to remember every single one without first checking? But she remembered Bix.
“Yes, and I highly recommended that he speak to Undersecretary Eisler. His department oversees the NSLP.” She stopped, but then, because she knew Baldwin hated acronyms, quickly added, “The National School Lunch Program. I also forwarded him the paperwork necessary to determine whether or not this particular situation warranted an assessment by the Strategic Partnership Program Agroterrorism.”
“Agroterrorism? He called it an act of terrorism?”
“He insinuated that the contamination might be intentional.”
“So he called requesting our assistance for what he believed to be an intentional contamination in a public high school and you sent him forms to fill out?”
“It’s standard procedure for an assessment to be made. I also referred him to Undersecretary Eisler.”
Baldwin shook her head and Mary Ellen steeled herself for a lecture. Instead her boss said, “Can we simply pull the inspection records for these two schools? See if any of them have been cited or warned? Cross-check to see if they’ve used the same supplier?”
“We’d need to request the inspection records from the state of Virginia and the District of Columbia.”
“Isn’t the USDA responsible for inspecting school cafeterias and kitchens?”
“We oversee the NSLP, but we don’t actually have those records.”
“Okay, what do we actually have then?”
It was late. Mary Ellen didn’t have the patience for another round of her boss’s sarcastic remarks. She just wanted to go home to her beautiful baby and doting husband. That schoolkids had gotten sick was unfortunate but it happened. Kids were notorious virus magnets. Roger Bix sounded like a condescending prick. Even Baldwin thought so. Mary Ellen got tired of the CDC pushing their weight around, thinking they were superior to any other government agency.
“Wychulis?”
Mary Ellen realized she had waited too long to explain. It was a complex procedure, one she already knew her boss would not appreciate.
“The state keeps track of every district,” Mary Ellen began. “We require each school, in order to comply with the NSLP and be a part of the program, to have their facilities inspected twice a year. The states report the number of schools inspected but they don’t report the school names.”
Baldwin stared at her, for once speechless.
“I believe the undersecretary for food and nutrition is directly responsible for the NSLP,” Mary Ellen repeated, losing count of how many times she had already said this. “I’m sure Mr. Eisler would be able to explain the process much more accurately.”
Then she pursed her lips, trying to confine her irritation. She folded her hands in her lap and stopped herself from adding that this should be Eisler’s mess.
“I’ve offered our conference room,” Baldwin said, “for a task force strategy and information center. I’m hoping Mr. Bix will agree to use it, so we can maintain some control. He already has personnel from the FBI, DHS, the District police department, and USAMRIID on the case.”
“USAMRIID? That seems a bit reactionary, doesn’t it?”
“Considering he believes it might be intentional, I’d say it’s rather smart. I get the impression Mr. Bix is good at dotting his i’s and crossing his t’s. Speaking of which, we’ll need to have a meeting first thing in the morning with our people. Please contact the necessary members. I would prefer we keep this confined to essential personnel only.”
“Yes, of course. What about the media?” Mary Ellen asked.
“Mr. Bix has agreed that no one talks to anyone until we know what’s going on.” She flipped the pages of her legal pad, again, until she found what she wanted. Then she ripped out two pages. “Here’s a list of what we’ll need set up in the conference room for our meeting with Mr. Bix.”
Mary Ellen took the pages noticing the list was single-spaced, double columns. “I’ll see to it that everything is there first thing in the morning.”
“See to it that everything is set up immediately.”
“Immediately?”
“Bix and his team will be arriving in about two hours.”
THIRTY
NEBRASKA
Maggie couldn’t remember the last time she was more relieved to see anyone. Donny stood on the sidewalk out of the way of the rescue crew and the bystanders. Still hearing Mrs. Bosh’s sobs, Maggie retreated to stand alongside him.
“I brought your car,” he said, keeping his eyes on the people trampling the Boshes’ carefully manicured lawn.
She glanced down the street and recognized her rented Toyota in the line of vehicles.
“How did you know I was here?”
“The whole county knows you’re here.”
She wasn’t quite sure why, but that simple statement of fact felt like a punch to her gut.
“I should have known something like this would happen,” she said under her breath, by no means a confession but rather an admonishment to herself.
“We all should have known.”
They stood silent and still while the world seemed to spin around them.
Maggie was struck by how different the crowd was from what she was used to. There were a few gawkers but mostly it looked like friends and neighbors huddled together, comforting the Boshes. Neighbors raced off to bring back ropes or twine, garden clippers and other tools from their sheds or garages, anything that might help the rescue crew which worked with an urgent steadiness despite making a recovery instead of a rescue.
Maggie understood now why they had all come last night. It wasn’t to exert their authority and see firsthand what was happening. Mostly i
t had been to help. That’s what they were used to doing, chipping in and helping each other.
“Thanks for bringing the car,” she told Donny.
“Not a problem. We explained to the rental branch in Scottsbluff, and they gave us an extra key.” He dug in his pocket and handed her the set. “The manager also adjusted your rate in the computer. Said they’ll only charge you for the weekend but you wouldn’t need to return it until late next week if need be.”
“Good deal. The State Patrol discount?”
“We do what we can.” He tipped his hat and finally allowed a smile. “One catch, I do need a ride back to North Platte. Figured you’d want to be there for the autopsies. That is unless you’re headed back to Denver.”
She hadn’t heard from Kunze, but then she hadn’t exactly been checking for messages. It’d be easier to simply hand this investigation over and leave. Donny and the State Patrol were more than capable. She could be in Denver before nightfall, check into the hotel, take a hot shower, order room service, and be rested and ready to teach her sessions tomorrow and Sunday. No one would question her decision. Skylar would probably welcome her absence.
She saw him glance in her direction. Earlier he’d helped her out from under the porch, but when she delivered the news, he’d stepped away, shaking his head as if it were somehow her fault.
She watched the Boshes, holding each other up, waiting while the rescue crew organized their efforts. Maggie was almost certain toxicology would show an overdose of some form of drug. There’d be no need to spend the county’s budget on another autopsy. Yes, Denver was starting to sound like a good idea. After the autopsies of the other two boys.
She asked Donny to drive her to North Platte.
“Maybe we can stop at the convenience store before we head out,” he said as they climbed into the Toyota.
“Yes, I could use a Diet Pepsi.”
“Your suitcase is in the trunk.”
“Thanks.”
“The store out by the highway has a nice, roomy bathroom.”
This time she turned and stared at him.
“Investigator Fergussen, are you saying I stink?”
She noticed the back of his neck flush.
“Just offering a suggestion.”
Of course it was in the convenience store’s “nice, roomy,” single-room bathroom shortly after Maggie had removed her dirty clothes—all of her clothes—that the call came in from Assistant Director Kunze. She thought about pressing Ignore and making him leave a voice message. She already knew what he would say. But instead, she checked the door’s lock and grabbed the cell phone.
“This is Maggie O’Dell.”
“Please tell me, Agent O’Dell, that you are either in Denver or on your way there.”
“I’ve had a bit of a delay.” She had given him the basics in her voice message.
“I’m sure the local authorities appreciate your efforts and are more than capable of taking over.”
“One of the surviving teenagers just committed suicide.”
She wasn’t sure why she blurted it out. Old habits were hard to break. It was something she would have done naturally with Cunningham. He would have responded with something brisk but profound. A reassurance that they were the good guys and that he knew she had done everything possible. He had been their boss, their leader, and he gave his agents hell when they deserved it but he also took care of them. She hadn’t realized how much she counted on him until he was gone.
She was thinking about this while waiting for Kunze to criticize, to lecture, to humiliate her. But he said something totally unexpected.
“How can I protect you if you constantly keep getting yourself into these messes?”
“Excuse me? What exactly do you think you’re protecting me from?”
Even as she said it, she examined herself in the bathroom mirror. Under the stark fluorescent lights the scar on her abdomen and the one on her side seemed to pucker up, betraying her. Dirt from underneath the Boshes’ house smudged her face. Remnants of cobwebs still tangled her hair. She had rubbed holes in her shirtsleeves and her elbows were caked with blood and dirt from crawling. Okay, perhaps at this moment she did look a bit frazzled, but she was not someone who needed protecting.
She realized Kunze was silent and wondered if she had lost the connection just as she heard him sigh.
“You have three sessions at the Denver law enforcement conference starting tomorrow.”
“Any seasoned police detective who’s gone through Quantico’s training could substitute for me.”
“But I didn’t send any police detective. I sent you. Please make sure those attendees are not sitting there without an instructor. I’ll see you on Monday, Agent O’Dell.”
“Actually I fly back on Monday.”
“I’ll see you on Tuesday morning, Agent O’Dell.”
She heard the click, and then silence. Typical Kunze, he ended his calls as abruptly as he began them.
Minutes ago she had made the same decision as her boss had. Why did she argue? Was it his statement about protecting her? What the hell did he mean by that?
Ever since Kunze replaced Cunningham he had been riding her, questioning her, sending her into killers’ warehouses and into the path of a hurricane. He had bluntly told her that he thought her negligence had contributed to Cunningham’s death and that she would need to prove herself to him. But how many times did she have to do it?
In just the last year, she had solved a major piece of the puzzle to a bombing at Mall of America. But it had placed her and Kunze on opposite sides of a political fallout. Then last month she had survived a category-5 hurricane only to uncover a ploy that made the U.S. Navy look bad. Again, tripping up her politically correct and politically connected new boss. Whatever happened to doing the right thing, no matter what the consequences were? Cunningham always understood. Okay, yes, sometimes he’d be mad as hell at her, but he’d understand. He might question her means but never had he questioned her intent.
She cleaned up in the small sink, doing as good a job as possible with stiff, brown paper towels that scraped the dirt off rather than wiped. Then she pulled on fresh clothes. Brushed her hair. Already she felt better.
She rolled up her dirty clothes and started shoving them into a side pocket of her suitcase when something tumbled to the floor.
Johnny’s cell phone.
She had forgotten all about it. She shut the toilet lid and sat down. She remembered Dawson’s eyes last night. Johnny’s eyes just moments ago.
That’s when she decided.
Kunze said he didn’t want the conference attendees sitting there without an instructor. She would make sure they had someone.
She grabbed her cell phone and punched through her Contact menu. While in Florida last month she had met a detective from the Denver Police Department. Glen Karst was a seasoned homicide detective who had been through the criminal behavior training course at Quantico. She found his phone number and hoped he wasn’t busy this weekend. She’d owe him a steak dinner, some cheesecake, and a bottle of Buffalo Trace. It seemed like a bargain.
THIRTY-ONE
“Did your techs find anything more in the forest?” Maggie asked Donny as soon as they were back on the road.
“We did find the live wire Dawson Hayes ran into. Someone must have cut it, rigged it from the fence post, and strung it between two trees.”
“Like a trap.”
“The fence line they took the electric wire from actually cordons off pasture land from the forest. The kid must have run into the trap wire and the shock was enough to throw him into the barbed wire. We could see where it snapped from the posts.”
“And the momentum kept him rolling, taking the barbed wire and wrapping it around him.”
“Yup. That’s what we’re thinking. We left the hotwire coiled and out of reach. I’ll need to find and talk to the rancher who leases that pasture. Have him shut off the current.”
“How did you touch i
t without getting a shock?”
“Whoever rigged it left pieces of plastic—they’re sort of safety guards so you can handle it hot without getting shocked. That’s why we know it was rigged on purpose. Ranchers don’t use anything like that.”
“Is it possible the other two boys ran into the wire, too?”
“We’ll have to wait and see what Lucy says, but I’m guessing no. Not enough juice to electrocute. Just enough to knock you on your ass. Remember, ranchers just want to discourage cattle, not fry them. Sorry,” he said, his ears turning red. “Didn’t mean to be crude.”
“I guess that’s why Dawson’s alive.”
“The crime team also cast some of the footprints.”
“So the tarps held?”
“Yeah, the tarps preserved them from the rain but I’m not sure it’ll matter unless we confiscate all seven kids’ shoes.”
When she didn’t respond he glanced at her and winced. “You want me to confiscate all seven kids’ shoes?”
“We already have three pairs.”
“There’s one set of prints that looks like a size thirteen work boot. I don’t remember any of the boys wearing anything close to a work boot.”
“So it may come in handy collecting the shoes, after all.”
He didn’t argue.
“We did find some animal tracks up on the ridge. Rain made a mess of them. Could be a cougar. Maybe a coyote or large dog. Hard to tell.”
“You’re kidding?”
“Hank said there were a few sightings of a cougar reported in the last several weeks. Nothing confirmed. Still, doesn’t add much to the story. None of these kids had injuries that come close to a cat attack.”
“What about Amanda Vicks’s arm?”
“That didn’t look like an animal bite to me. I think we got a photo of it if you wanna take a look.” He glanced over at her. “What’s this all about?”