“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,
“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?”
