Maggie O Dell 09 Hotwire

seeing him. Was he worried about being in trouble?

Skylar didn’t wait. He pulled a chair from the corner and placed it beside the bed. As he sat down directly in the boy’s line of vision, he threw a thumb over his shoulder and said, “This is Agent O’Dell from the FBI.”

Dawson’s eyes swung up to hers then darted back. It was enough for Maggie to see his panic was real now.

She remained standing and stayed by the door where she could watch not only Dawson but Skylar as well. When Skylar told her he wanted to conduct the interviews, it was because the teenagers would be “less rattled” with someone they knew. So she was surprised when he began by saying, “We know about the Taser, son,” immediately putting the boy on the defensive.

Earlier the sheriff couldn’t wait to tell her he had already traced the serial number on the Taser back to Dawson’s father who used it for his job as a security guard at a meat-processing plant outside of North Platte. Skylar had explained that the gun was standard issue at the plant and all he had to do was check their database. Possession of the Taser seemed to be Skylar’s smoking gun, so to speak, though there was no evidence it had caused any of the injuries.

Maggie would quickly regret not changing the subject.

“Did you shoot any of your friends with the gun, Dawson?”

“No, absolutely not.”

“Come on, Dawson. I know it was fired. You might just as well fess up. We’re going to find out the truth soon enough.”

The boy’s eyes looked up at Maggie, to Skylar, then back to Maggie, staying with her for a beat longer, imploring her as though she might be the more understanding one.

“I shot at … something,” he said.

Instead of leaning in for the explanation, Skylar sat back and shook his head like he had heard this before and didn’t have the patience to hear it again.

“So what was it you think you shot at?”

“I’m not sure. I didn’t really get a good look. It had red eyes. Maybe a wolf.”

Now Skylar jerked forward, surprised.

“A wolf? You sure it wasn’t a coyote? Maybe a cougar? Hank said there’s a big cat of some sort in the forest. They’ve had sightings. But wolves? We haven’t had wolves in this area since I’ve been here.”

“I don’t know. I guess it could have been a coyote or cougar. It was big. And white.”

“White?” Skylar sat back and shook his head again. No longer interested. “A white wolf or cougar.”

“It pounced at me. I shot at it. I’m pretty sure I hit it.”

“There weren’t any animal tracks,” Skylar told him, his arms crossed over his chest.

The sheriff wore a flannel shirt this morning, a black-andred plaid that somehow made him appear bigger. Maggie realized the sidearm strapped at his waist probably had something to do with the appearance, too. Last night she hadn’t seen any weapon under his jacket.

The boy looked at Maggie again, but she had nothing to offer. There had been plenty of footprints all over the sandy floor of the forest but no animal tracks, at least none the size of a wolf or coyote or cougar. The pine needles could have disguised an animal’s presence, but a wounded animal would have certainly left prints.

Then Maggie remembered. The girl named Amanda had been bitten on her arm. Could it have been an animal? What did she say about it? “He bit me.” Last night Maggie hadn’t thought to ask. It seemed a minor issue compared to the girl’s shock and the other teens’ injuries.

“Dawson, I’m disappointed. I didn’t expect you to lie when two of your friends are dead.”

“It’s true. It was watching from the brush when the fireworks were going off. It had red eyes.”

“Fireworks. Right.”

Last night, while they were being treated, some of the others had mumbled something about fireworks or a light show. Hank had been within a mile of the teenagers’ campsite and hadn’t seen any display, nothing close to fireworks or a laser-light show like the teens described. It could have been the salvia.

At some point Maggie would need to fess up about the plastic bag Lucy had found. She was hoping to have it analyzed before handing it over with the other trace evidence. If Skylar had kept the existence of drugs a secret during a previous investigation, she wouldn’t risk him doing it again. She certainly didn’t expect any of the teenagers to offer up information about the drug.

Perhaps Skylar read her mind.

“What kind of drugs were you tripping on?” he asked.

“Excuse me?”

“You kids might think I’m an old man, but I’m not stupid. I know you weren’t in the forest at dusk sitting around drinking soda pop. Not the first time you’ve been out there either, is it?”

Maggie had to give the man some credit. Sometimes this type of interrogation opened a spigot when the subject felt guilty and just needed an extra push to spew out a confession or give up some vital information. But this would not be one of those moments. Maggie didn’t think Dawson Hayes looked guilty. He looked scared.

When the boy met her eyes this time, his eyes stayed on her. She saw the panic soften and give way to a spark of recognition.

“You’re the one who found me,” he said.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“You should have just let me die with the others.”

TWENTY-TWO

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Organized chaos. That’s exactly what Benjamin Platt saw when he arrived at Fitzgerald Elementary School. Police officers with whistles guided a line of cars with disheveled parents picking up the last of the children. A group of what looked to be school administrators and teachers were helping paramedics escort children to waiting ambulances. The frenetic energy spilled across the street to bystanders and into the neighborhood where people watched from their front lawns.

As Platt got out of his Land Rover a cable-TV camera crew started setting up. He recognized the well-dressed anchor-woman eyeballing him, trying to decide whether or not he was someone important. By the time he flashed his credentials at the first police officer, Platt could hear the newscaster calling out to him. Too late. He slid his messenger bag higher on his shoulder, strode on without a glance back.

He made it up the steps before another uniformed cop stopped him.

“Essentials only beyond this point, sir,” the cop told him.

Before Platt could respond he heard a woman from inside the doorway say, “It’s okay. He’s been cleared.”

Tall, lean, attractive but with a hard edge and a clenched jaw telegraphing don’t mess with me. Her short blond hair spiked up in places as if she had just come in from the wind, though there wasn’t a breeze. She wore street clothes: jeans with a tucked-in knit shirt tight across full breasts and a shoulder holster displaying her Glock nestled close underneath her arm, so that anyone who dared to admire her physique also got an eyeful of the metal, another warning not to mess with her. Her badge hung from her belt but Platt didn’t need to look at it. He recognized the District detective.

“Hello, Detective Racine.”

“CDC guy’s waiting for you. I’ll take you to him.”

“Thanks. I’d appreciate that.”

Not even five feet inside, Platt immediately smelled the sour vomit, splatters of it left on the floor. Otherwise the hallway was eerily quiet. Racine led the way, unfazed by the smell. Platt glanced into the empty classrooms. They rounded one corner and suddenly had to step aside for two men dressed in full SWAT gear.

He waited for them to pass before he asked Racine, “What the hell’s going on? I thought this was a food contamination?”