was filled with murky sludge that gave off a rancid smell.
“Oh yeah, it backs up sometimes when it rains,” the supervisor explained. “We’ve talked about that before.” He exchanged looks with Alfred like it was okay since they had talked about it. “George,” he called to a worker sorting supplies on the back shelves. “Clean this up.”
Platt watched as George complied, going to a stack of plastic buckets exactly like the one Platt had seen taken inside the production area and filled with ground beef. George took one off the same stack to mop up the floor.
“Are those disposable?” Platt asked.
“Not to worry. We send them through a special rinse cycle.”
“Plastic?” Platt said and looked over at Bix, who was already trying not to scream.
FORTY-EIGHT
NEBRASKA
Wesley Stotter had done his homework. It was something his fans expected. He knew almost everything there was to know about the Nebraska National Forest. He could list every type of tree and every species of bird. He knew the forest was ninety thousand acres—fifteen miles wide and eleven miles from north to south. Twenty thousand of those acres were covered by trees, the rest, rolling pasture land. He had visited the campgrounds, climbed the observation tower, and been inside the nursery. But he didn’t have a clue what went on inside the field house between the Dismal River and the forest.
Ordinarily he wouldn’t care. But when the sun came up after his sleepless night in his stranded Roadmaster with his Colt .45 cradled in his hands, the first thing he noticed was the sunlight hitting the tin roof below. Where his vehicle had stalled had given him a bird’s-eye view of the field house. Tucked between sand dunes with the Dismal River winding behind it and the forest ridge on the other side, the complex remained shielded from view of the main road. It was easy to forget it existed. No one took an interest in something they couldn’t see.
Before Stotter knew whether or not his car would start, he found himself curious about the windowless metal building. There were fields fenced off alongside the river, planted with wheat, corn, and an assortment of big leafy plants, maybe different kinds of vegetables. On the other side of the building was a huge parking lot. The concrete square reminded Stotter of a helipad. It extended all the way to the building, where there was a set of double-wide doors tall enough to drive in a very large truck or, perhaps, a small plane.
Yesterday in the early-morning hours, Stotter’s main concern had been if anyone had seen him. The crops looked well tended but probably weren’t checked every day. He had calculated how long it would take to hike all the way down to the building on his arthritic knees and wondered if it would even be worth the trip. But when he twisted the key in the ignition, the old Buick had fired right up, leaving him to wonder if it really had stalled or if the night before had all been a figment of his imagination.
Now back on the ridge but not quite as high up as he had been the previous morning, he knew one thing for certain: no one would expect him or see him approach from up above, out of the trees and brush, instead of through the open pasture or the access road. So whatever clandestine activities—if there were any—would not be alerted by his presence.
Through binoculars he scanned the complex before starting his hike down. He didn’t see any security cameras anywhere though he suspected the thin, almost invisible wire that ran above the barbed-wire fence was hot.
He brought his camera but left the wireless mic. No live cam today. The photos would need to be his documentation. If he found anything.
He kept thinking about the creature he had seen running through the forest. It appeared to be the same creature his father described that had fallen from the sky over Roswell. Maybe that’s what the lights were; the lights that had exploded right before his eyes while he videotaped them for his fans. It had happened only moments before those teenagers thought they were attacked in the forest. Stotter had already heard their stories. They claimed to have seen a creature with beams of lights shooting out of its arms.
If there had been a creature like the one the teenagers saw and the one Stotter had seen, was it possible there were more? And if so, where had they gone? It couldn’t have been far without someone seeing them, just like Stotter had seen the one running through the trees. He was convinced the field house might be some sort of base.
It all sounded crazy, but that’s what the government had said about his father’s story. To this day they still weren’t able to explain the wreckage of that strange aircraft. Instead of explaining, the government hid away the evidence, not realizing that Stotter’s father hadn’t surrendered all of the film that documented the event. Wesley Stotter had kept his father’s secret all these years, taking seriously his responsibility for the photos that no one else knew existed.
Maybe now was finally the time to make those photos public. Stotter hoped the ones he shot today would be equally exciting.
FORTY-NINE
Maggie booted up her laptop. The breeze was crisp but the sun kept her warm as she sat on the porch off the loft bedroom. She caught herself thinking this place would be the perfect retreat, a real vacation getaway some day in the future. Some day when her mind wasn’t preoccupied with the murder. Could it be possible that Nikki’s and Courtney’s deaths had
Amanda and Dawson were the only two left from Thursday night’s party in the forest. Dawson still had an armed deputy outside his hospital room. Maggie had called Amanda’s house earlier to make sure she was okay. Her mother assured Maggie that she wasn’t letting her daughter out of her sight. She said the girl hadn’t left her bedroom except for meals. And now after learning that two more of her friends were dead, Mrs. Griffin knew her daughter “must be just devastated.” But she agreed to let Maggie talk to the girl if she didn’t upset her.
Before Maggie left, she wanted to check on some things that had her mind racing.
Lucy had warned her that the wireless connection might take a few seconds longer than she expected. Maggie had already noticed that cell-phone reception in the Sandhills could be sporadic.
While she waited she sorted through a pile of crime-scene photos Donny had left for her. She found one of the bite mark on Amanda Vicks’s arm. There was no doubt it was made by human teeth, not an animal’s. But still, there was something about the angle and the location that bothered Maggie.
She sat back and stared out at the rolling red-and-gold grasses. She couldn’t remember ever seeing a sky this deep a shade of blue. Nor could she recall being able to see for such a long distance without having a building obstruct her view.
She thought about Lucy Coy living here alone with her dogs. Most people might think it a lonely existence but Maggie understood it completely. Being alone didn’t mean being lonely. In fact, Maggie realized long ago that she associated being alone with being safe. The concept had protected her through her childhood, through her marriage and her divorce, and continued to guide her personal life.
Then along came Benjamin Platt.
She liked being with him, just having him silently beside her. She had never known anyone—other than Gwen Patterson—with whom she could be herself and not apologize for the occupational hazards of her job, for her stubborn independence. Like with Gwen, Maggie knew she could depend on Ben if she needed him. He understood her fierce commitment to doing the right thing no matter what the consequence. To a certain degree, he was guilty of the same impulse.
He made her laugh. And got her sense of humor. In less than a year he had become a good friend. She trusted him. But lately she couldn’t think about him without remembering the tingle from the one kiss they had shared. It was months ago and she still thought about it. Silly, really. She had probably deprived herself of such sensation for too long. It was easier going without than getting entangled in the baggage that usually came along
