Maggie O Dell 09 Hotwire

“No. I mean ‘ma’am.’”

She saw the men exchange a look but they’d missed her attempt at humor. She ignored them and squatted in front of the carcass, making sure she was upwind. She hadn’t come all this way to get into a pissing contest between an old rancher who couldn’t care less about a woman FBI agent and a law officer who insisted he notice.

“Walk me through the details,” she said without looking back at either man. They were losing light and patience would soon follow.

“It’s like all the others.” It was Donny who answered. “Eyes, tongue, genitals, left ear, sides of the face —”

“Left ear,” she interrupted. “Is that significant?”

“ID tags usually go in the left,” Nolan said.

When Maggie didn’t respond, Donny continued. “All are precision cuts. No blood from the incisions. It’s like they’re completely drained. But there’s no footprints. No tire tracks.”

“And no animal tracks,” Nolan added. “Not even hers. Her calf’s been bleating. No way she wandered off without it. The rest of the herd’s about half a mile west of here. I’m guessing she’d been down here two days, and yet, take a look. Vultures haven’t even touched her.”

And no flies or maggots, Maggie noticed but didn’t mention. Without blood it would take longer for the carcass to attract the regular vermin that usually invaded.

Maggie stood, walked to the other side of the animal, and squatted down again. Several minutes passed as she let her eyes scan and examine. She noted the complete silence, the almost reverent quiet of her hosts. She glanced up at both men who remained side by side watching from a good fifteen feet back like spectators, waiting expectantly.

“So is this where I’m supposed to hear the theme music from the X-Files?” she asked.

Neither man blinked or smiled.

Seconds passed before Nolan turned to Donny and said, “X-Files? What the hell is that?”

“It was a TV show.”

“TV show?”

“It was a joke,” Donny explained, recognizing it as such but he still didn’t smile.

“A bad joke,” she added as way of an apology.

“You think this is a joke?”

It was too late. She’d struck a nerve. Nolan bared yellow, coffee-stained teeth in a sarcastic smile accompanied by narrowed dark eyes.

“This is no prank,” he told her. “And this isn’t the only one. By my count, this is number seven in three weeks. And just here on forest property. That doesn’t include what we’re hearing about over the border in Colorado. And it doesn’t count those that haven’t been reported. I know at least one rancher who found a Black Angus steer last month but he won’t report it on account of insurance won’t pay on cattle mutilations.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” Maggie said. “I just meant that it is very strange.”

“That other guy, Stotter”—and this time Nolan was addressing Donny—“he seemed to believe it was UFOs, too. There’s no way to catch these people. Hell, I don’t even know if it is people according to you experts. All I’m saying is that I’m gettin’ tired of lame explanations and excuses.”

“So what do you think it is?” Maggie asked as she stood to face him.

The old rancher looked surprised that she’d want his opinion.

“Me personally?”

She nodded and waited.

Nolan glanced up at Donny, almost as if what he was about to say might offend the state patrolman.

“I think it’s our tax dollars at work.”

“You think it’s the government,” Donny said. “Because of the lights and the helicopters.”

“Helicopters?” Maggie asked.

“Folks out here are used to seeing strange lights in the night sky. Some claim they’ve seen helicopters,” Donny explained. “There are a couple of ranchers in Cherry County who use helicopters to check their herds.”

“These are no ranchers’ helicopters.” Nolan shook his head. “Those make noise. I’m talking black ops helicopters.”

“And others have claimed they’ve seen alien spacecraft,” Donny added with a tone that was meant to nullify both claims.

“Followed by fighter jets,” Nolan said, not paying attention to Donny who now rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his massive chest.

“That was only one time,” Donny came back with. “We’re smack-dab between NORAD and STRATCOM,” he told Maggie. Then to Nolan he said, “There wasn’t any verification from either military base on fighter jets in this area.”

“Of course not.”

Maggie stood back and watched them. There was obviously a lot of information left out of her x-file. Nolan pinned her down with his eyes.

“So maybe you can tell us,” he said. “Is there some classified government project?”

She looked back at the butchered animal, noticing how the open wounds still looked raw in the fading light. Then she met the rancher’s eyes.

“What makes you think the government would tell me?”

That’s when the two-way radio clipped to Donny’s belt started squawking.

Even in the Nebraska Sandhills, Maggie recognized the codes. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

FOUR

TEN MILES ON THE OTHER SIDE

OF THE NATIONAL FOREST

Wesley Stotter struggled with the tailgate of his 1996 Buick Roadmaster. The wireless microphone stabbed at his Adam’s apple but remained attached to the collar of his flannel shirt. He was fully aware that he was live streaming yet he was caught speechless, his eyes glued to the sky.

Lights exploded in the distance. Blue and white moving up then down, right to left like no aircraft Stotter had ever seen. But he had seen similar lights before.

“Son of a bitch,” he said out loud, suddenly not caring if the FCC slapped him with another fine. They had been trying to run him off the air for more than a decade but Stotter was used to people trying to shut him up. As a result, UFO Network—his grassroots organization dedicated to proving the existence of extraterrestrial beings and the government’s attempt to cover it up—only grew stronger. He had built a loyal following of thousands. Tonight his radio and webcam audiences were in for a real treat.

“You will not believe this, my friends,” he said, adjusting the wireless mic as he pulled at the car’s tailgate. It finally dropped open with a crack, metal scraping on metal. Without looking, he found a duffel bag and his fingers frantically searched inside the bag until he found the camera.

“More lights in the night skies,” Stotter began his narration while trying to calm his shaky fingers. Sometime in the last several years arthritis had started to set in, making everything a challenge. He wiped his sweat-slick palms, one at a time, on his khakis and continued to fumble with the buttons on the camera.

“Friends, I’m in the Nebraska Sandhills tonight, just outside of Halsey and about ten miles east of the national forest. Holy crap! There they go again.”

The lights made a sharp pivot and headed straight toward Stotter. There were three, like bright stars in tight formation, moving independently but together as a unit.

He swung the camera up, relieved to see the viewfinder open and the night-vision function on. The Record