Hotwire

by Alex Kava

  “Can we move him like this or can we snip him loose?”

  Maggie wanted to say, Aren’t you supposed to know? I only know what to do with dead people.

  Instead she took a deep breath and tried to access her internal databank. She had been stabbed several years ago, in a dark, wet tunnel, miles away from help. Another memory, carefully tucked away in yet another compartment of her mind. What she did remember was that she had lost a lot of blood, and she wouldn’t have, had the killer left the knife inside her, instead of yanking it back out.

  “I think we might start the bleeding again if we pull the barbs out. And I’m not sure he’ll be able to stand the pain.”

  “Holy crap,” Donny muttered again.

  Maggie continued to watch the boy’s eyes, trying to determine if he understood what they were saying. If he did, he gave no indication. His eyes never left Maggie’s. She didn’t think she had seen him blink since that first time when she stumbled over him.

  “Can you understand me?” she asked the boy, slowing down the question and emphasizing each word. “Blink twice for yes.”

  Nothing. Just the same glassy, wide-eyed stare.

  Then his eyelids closed and popped back open. Closed again and the effort alone looked so painful they stayed closed longer before popping open again.

  Maggie’s heart thumped hard, relief mixed with a new anxiety. He was conscious and he was in pain.

  “I’m Maggie,” she said finally. “I’m going to help you.”

  “Dawdawdaw … ” He babbled, only this time the frustration seemed to drain him. The muscles in his face and neck were tight, his jaw clenched.

  Maggie noticed that nothing else moved. His fingers didn’t flex. His legs—though twisted into a knot beneath him—did not budge. No part of him attempted to fight or stretch or even press against the barbed-wire restraints.

  She scanned one more time, looking for anything that resembled electric wire and checking for burn marks. None, that she could see. Yet the smell of singed hair and burned flesh and the apparent paralysis all seemed to support her suspicions. The boy wasn’t only in shock. He had also suffered an electrical shock.

  EIGHT

  PHIL’S DINER

  WILLIAMSBURG, VIRGINIA

  Colonel Benjamin Platt ordered a cheeseburger, ignoring the raised eyebrow and disapproving look from the diner’s most senior waitress. To test just how far he could push her, he asked for mustard and extra onions. The waitress, named Rita, had known Platt since he was a med student at William and Mary and pulled all-nighters slinging back lukewarm coffee, hunched over his textbooks.

  Back then his attempt at flirting would sometimes win him a piece of stale pie. On a good night the pie came with a scoop of ice cream. Platt couldn’t remember when they both had given up all pretense of Rita being his Mrs. Robinson. Instead, she became a sort of mother hen who watched over his heartburn and kept his arteries from clogging.

  “Visiting in the middle of the week?” Rita asked as she poured coffee into the mug without looking, keeping her eyes on his, trying to detect his emotional state. Weird thing was, she could. And what still fascinated him most was that she knew exactly when to stop pouring, right when the scalding-hot coffee reached within an inch of the mug’s lip.

  “I’m meeting someone,” he said. These days he didn’t get back to the diner very often except when visiting his parents, who were retired.

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “No, not that kind of someone.” He grinned.

  “I would hope not with those extra onions.”

  Then she turned around and left him, and he swore she added a bit more swing to her hips leaving than she had when she approached.

  He smiled again. She could still make him feel like that awkward college boy. Didn’t help matters that tonight he wore blue jeans, a faded gray William and Mary sweatshirt, and leather moccasins with no socks. He ran his fingers over his short hair realizing the wind had left it spiked. Just as he glanced at his reflection in the window he saw Roger Bix getting out of a rented Ford Escort. Platt didn’t know the man well, but he knew enough to guess Bix wasn’t happy about driving a compact anything.

  In the glare of the diner’s neon sign Bix’s shock of unruly red hair looked bright orange, suddenly reminding Platt of the comic-book character Archie. Only Bix was the cocky version, unaware that his paunch hung over his belt. Evidently he thought himself inconspicuous despite the pointed-toe cowboy boots and Atlanta Braves jacket. He looked nothing like a cowboy or an athlete.

  Platt waved at him as soon as Bix came in the door. He watched the man scrutinize the surroundings with pursed lips, emphasizing his disapproval. Bix had asked to meet somewhere discreet and totally away from D.C. politicos. Close to Norfolk, where Bix said he had spent the day, and two hours outside the capital, Phil’s Diner met the criteria, despite it not being up to Bix’s personal standards.

  “William and Mary?” Bix said in place of a greeting, pointing at Platt’s sweatshirt and letting his slow Southern drawl elongate his sarcastic disgust as he slid into the booth. It seemed there was no pleasing the man tonight. “I took you for a tough guy. Big Ten. Like Notre Dame, maybe. Certainly not William and Mary.”

  “Notre Dame’s not part of the Big Ten. It’s a free agent.”

  Bix shrugged, lifted his hands palms up as if to say college sports was not his thing.

  Platt had met Bix several years ago at a conference on infectious diseases. Both were young for their titles, Platt as the director of USAMRIID (pronounced U-SAMRid—United States Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases) at Fort Detrick and Bix as CDC’s (Centers for Disease Control) chief of Outbreak Response and Surveillance Team in Atlanta. A year ago they worked together on an outbreak of Ebola, a case that pitted both men against their superiors. The fact that they had retained their positions spoke volumes. That neither man celebrated his victory by making the talk-show circuit or in any way acted like a celebrity revealed a dedication to integrity that couldn’t be quantified by a job title. It was, perhaps, the only thing these two very different men had in common.

  Rita appeared at their booth again.

  “Just coffee,” Bix said without even looking up.

  “Anything else?”

  “Just coffee,” he repeated, now with an air of dismissal.

  Rita slapped a mug down in front of him and started pouring. Soon Bix realized Rita was staring at him instead of where she was pouring. Platt watched Bix’s eyes dart between Rita’s and the mug. He was sitting up and preparing for an overflow. Rita lifted the pot without a drip. A sigh escaped from Bix.

  “Sure you don’t want a slice of peach pie?”

  This time Bix glanced up at her and without hesitation said, “That sounds great.”

  Platt smiled. Rita must have witnessed Bix’s entrance, sensed his disapproval, and set things straight the way no one else could. Leveled the playing field in a matter of seconds.

  It seemed like a good time to ask, “Why did you call me, Roger?”

  Platt waited for the CDC chief to spill one, then two more packets of sugar into his coffee, taking his time, to regain his cocky, self-assured composure. When he finished he planted both elbows on the table, gathered the mug in his hands, and sipped.

  There was no hint of levity in his voice when he leaned in and said to Platt, “I called you because I need someone I can trust. I need someone I know can keep his mouth shut.”

  NINE

  NEBRASKA NATIONAL FOREST

  Maggie didn’t think it possible, but the floodlights made the forest scene even eerier. Stark shadows appeared where none had existed in the darkness. The fallen pine needles and dried leaves came alive. Animals that had been otherwise invisible suddenly became alert, threatened by the light and skittering away. Hank had mentioned something about cougars and bobcats, and Maggie could swear she saw one stalking them from the ridge up above.

  Maggie watched as Hank and one of the paramed
ics gently lifted the boy wrapped in barbed wire onto a stretcher made from a tarp. Rather than carry him up the trail, they had cut the fence that separated the pasture from the forest. They’d take him over the dunes in the back of an ATV to deliver him to a rescue unit waiting on the other side. It was the closest they were able to get a rescue vehicle and they could barely see the halo of the headlights.

  Maggie walked with them through the narrow paths of tree trunks, pretending to help carry a corner. She knew the two men could do so easily but she couldn’t break the connection with the boy. Earlier, as soon as she started to trail out of his line of vision his head started pivoting around, frantically searching for her. But the paramedic had given him an injection to relax and sedate him and now the boy finally closed his eyes. So she escorted them to where the cattails grew taller than her, to where the ATV idled. One short climb over the sand dune and she knew he’d be safe.

  She hurried back and started helping Donny prepare the next of the wounded when she saw a man appear at the top of the dune. Backlit by the headlights behind him, he looked larger than life.

  Maggie glanced at Donny who had noticed, too.

  “The sheriff?” she asked.

  “Probably.”

  Within seconds another silhouette appeared on top of the hill. Then another. Two more. And still another.

  “They know this is a crime scene, right?”

  When Donny didn’t answer she glanced back at him. He looked like a deer caught in the headlights.

  She counted six men. One started down the hill toward them.

  “We have to limit how many people come inside the perimeter,” Maggie said. “You told me most of the injuries weren’t life-threatening, right?”

  “That’s right. The rescue crew knows we’re bringing them out to their unit. They’ll set up a triage area on the other side of that sand dune.”

  “Then who are these guys?”

  The others started following the first.

  “Donny?”

  “Could be the mayor. City councilmen. Maybe parents. We have two dead teenagers and five injured. They’ll want to see if it’s their own kids.”

  “You can’t let them come tromping onto a crime scene.”

  “Nothing I can do about it.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “This isn’t my jurisdiction.”

  “It’s not theirs, either.”

  Seconds ticked off. The men continued single file down the sandy trail, the same path that the ATV had just taken. The men were almost to the cattails. Their heads bobbed in the shadows of the floodlights: one with a cowboy hat, two with baseball caps, the others bareheaded.

  Maggie stood up. Donny stayed on his haunches. She shot him a look, hoping to mobilize him. Instead, he stared at the approaching men, accepting the inevitable, this giant of a man silenced, almost cowed.

  Then she heard him whisper, “It is federal property.”

  “So it’s Hank’s jurisdiction?”

  She saw him shake his head.

  “FBI trumps Forest Service.”

  Maggie’s pulse raced. He was right. She wasn’t sure why it hadn’t occurred to her. She was the only federal investigator present at a crime scene on federal property. Crap! Officially, that made it her jurisdiction.

  She didn’t take time to figure it out. Instead, she marched to meet the entourage that arrived at the fringe of their perimeter, almost to the halo created by the floodlights.

  “Gentlemen, this is as far as I can allow you.”

  “Just who the hell are you?”

  She opened her jacket, pulling it wide enough for them to glimpse her holstered weapon while she pulled out her badge.

  “I’m the sheriff of Thomas County,” a short but solid man said as he elbowed his way to stand before her.

  “And I’m the county attorney,” said the man who glanced at her badge but batted away her hand like her credentials didn’t matter. “I handle all the death investigations around here.”

  “Sheriff, I hope you’ll give us a hand,” she said while purposely looking at the county attorney. “But the rest of you need to turn around. The forest is federal property.” She hoped that she sounded convincing. “This is a federal crime scene. Right now we need to keep access limited. We’re trying to bring out the injured while preserving the evidence.”

  “This is ridiculous,” one of the men said.

  “How many injured?” the sheriff asked as he stepped closer. “Darlene’s radio call never said.”

  “If these other gentlemen will leave I can fill you in, Sheriff.”

  “Wait. I think my son is here. I just need to know if he’s okay.”

  “Frank, tell this woman I handle all the death investigations for three counties.”

  “Gentlemen, please,” Maggie raised her voice. “If you’ll return to the area over the hill we can continue. We should be able to have some information for you in the next hour.”

  “This is absolutely crazy. You don’t have the authority to tell us what to do.”

  One of the men grabbed Maggie’s shoulder to push her aside.

  “These are our kids. We have every right—”

  He stopped so suddenly another man bumped into him. They all stared at the Smith and Wesson now aimed at the man’s face.

  “Lady, you cannot be serious.” But he didn’t move.

  Even the sheriff stood to the side and made no attempt to argue.

  The others took several steps backward. Maggie could see beads of sweat on the county attorney’s forehead.

  “Sheriff,” Maggie said, “would you please inform these gentlemen that I don’t have the time to make federal arrests right now, but I certainly will do that if it’s necessary.”

  The only sound was the generator, a steady hum up on the ridge, muffled by the trees. A fork of lightning flashed far over the clearing, followed by a distant rumble. A reminder that time was running out.

  “I’ll let you guys know what’s going on,” the sheriff said, and he edged closer to Maggie still keeping a yard between them.

  Finally the men turned to leave, casting glances over their shoulders while mumbling to one another. Even the county attorney grudgingly left, after kicking at the ground like a toddler shaking off a tantrum.

  When they were past the cattails Maggie said to the sheriff, “I’m Maggie O’Dell.”

  She holstered her weapon still watching the men, only looking at the sheriff when he said, “I’m Frank Skylar. What the hell’s the FBI doing out here?”

  “Believe it or not, I just happened to be in the neighborhood.” She held back adding “unfortunately.” She started leading him back to the crime scene when she added, “I’ll need you to call the coroner. See if you can get him here before those thunderstorms make it.”

  “Well, that’s a bit of a problem.”

  She stopped to look back at him, disappointed that she was still going to have him working against her. “And why is that?”

  “You just sent away the coroner.”

  “One of those men was the coroner? Why didn’t he say so?”

  “Actually he did. Oliver Cushman is our county attorney. By state law the county attorney is the coroner as well.”

  It was Maggie’s turn to say, “You cannot be serious.”

  TEN

  WILLIAMSBURG, VIRGINIA

  “I just spent three days in Norfolk,” Bix told Platt after chewing two forkfuls of peach pie.

  “I’m guessing not at Virginia Beach on vacation.”

  “Forty-two students at Geneva High School were throwing up their guts after eating lunch in the school cafeteria.”

  “Food contamination?”

  Bix didn’t respond.

  “Unfortunately it happens more often than we realize.” Platt’s second bite of cheeseburger didn’t taste as good as his first. It certainly did nothing to Bix’s appetite. For a guy who wanted “just coffee,” he worked his way through the slice of pie like he hadn’t eaten a
ll day.

  “What was it?” Platt asked when Bix didn’t immediately offer an answer. “E. coli? Salmonella?”

  The CDC chief put his fork down, grabbed his mug, and slurped coffee.

  “Don’t know.”

  “Too early to tell?”

  “No. I don’t know. I’ve tested for all six major strains of E. coli and three different strains of salmonella. I haven’t found it yet.”

  Platt stared at him, waiting for Bix to stop looking around the diner as if suddenly he didn’t want to talk. Bacteria could be tricky. Oftentimes you found only what you tested for. It wasn’t as if you put a sample under the microscope and the various germs lit up in different neon colors. Platt knew there were more than two thousand species of salmonella alone. Most of those existed in animals and humans without causing damage. Some were serious pathogens that could cause a wide range of illnesses and infections from gastroenteritis to typhoid fever.

  “Are you saying it might be something we’re not used to seeing?” Platt asked.

  “Could be a mutated version. I just don’t know.”

  Platt watched the CDC chief fidget with his silverware.

  “Was it accidental or intentional?”

  “You know some people say our nation’s food supply is an accident of epidemic proportions just waiting to happen. We have an administration that’s declared child obesity a matter of national security and they want all vending machines out of schools. They want McDonald’s to quit enticing kids with toys in Happy Meals. They call Cheerios on the carpet for claiming their cereal reduces cholesterol when Cheerios is not federally approved”—he shot quote marks in the air—“to make such claims. And in the meantime, we have a national food supply that is more vulnerable than ever to accidents, contamination, and tampering. The feds’ answer? They need more regulations and yet they don’t, won’t, and can’t inspect what they already have authority over. They’re shutting down egg suppliers for a salmonella outbreak but forty-eight hours before that salmonella outbreak, a USDA inspector reported the supplier ‘good to go.’”