Hotwire

by Alex Kava

  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 not been an accident? Did Johnny really commit suicide?

  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 with such encounters.

  There had been a hurricane bearing down on them and that had intensified the moment. Or at least, that’s what she told herself. But now they avoided each other. Well, not really avoided. They talked to each other every day. But their busy schedules hadn’t allowed them to spend time together. Yes, too busy—that’s also what she told herself.

  She forced her mind back to the computer screen. She had a hunch about something and wanted to check it out before she talked to Amanda. It took a couple of different searches and then she found what she wanted. It wasn’t what she expected.

  FIFTY

  CHICAGO

  The rain hadn’t let up. If anything, Platt thought it was coming down harder. The car Bix had hired to drive them wasn’t out front as instructed, only giving the CDC chief yet another reason to blow one of his last proverbial gaskets. They watched the health inspector doing
a comical skip-dance to his vehicle, leaping puddles and using his briefcase for an umbrella. Yet neither Bix nor Platt smiled.

  “Your friend played us for a couple of chumps,” Platt said.

  Bix beat his umbrella against the brick wall until it popped open.

  “Frickin’ wild-goose chase,” he agreed. “Let’s see if the son-of-a-bitch driver is around the corner.”

  He lifted the umbrella, inviting Platt to share.

  “Why would he send us all the way here just to take a look at some sanitary infractions?”

  Bix shrugged. He didn’t have an answer, seemed a bit embarrassed that he didn’t have an answer.

  Around the corner they found a chain-link fence and a security hut. No car, no driver. Beyond the fence was another part of the processing plant. Or at least that’s what the building looked like at first glance, with the same brick façade and an enclosed walkway that connected it to the main structure. What appeared different was the security. The guard in the small hut was armed. And he was dressed in a military uniform.

  “What is this place?” Platt asked but he could already see that Bix was just as mystified.

  Through the glass of the walkway they could see an armored truck pull out from behind the secured building. There was obviously a separate entrance for this part of the plant.

  “Shall we see what’s inside?” Platt asked as they stood in the rain.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “They can call the plant supervisor to vouch for us.”

  “Something tells me that guy wouldn’t carry much weight on this side of the plant.”

  “We have credentials from USAMRIID and the CDC. I’m in uniform.”

  “Can they court-martial us for something like this?”

  “You’re a civilian. Civilians can’t be court-martialed.”

  Bix considered this. “Okay, let’s see how far we get.”

  Within ten minutes they were inside. It didn’t take much longer before both men realized this was what the anonymous caller had hoped they would see. The laboratories rivaled those that Platt worked in every day. He was impressed. And in an unsavory way they reminded him of USAMRIID—but the past, rather than the present.

  Men and women in white lab coats worked behind digital microscopes and computer screens. The walls were lined with rows and rows of computer monitors. Platt and Bix were told that the labs were run by the Department of Agriculture, advancing hybrids and continuing research on genetically engineered foods. It made sense to Platt until they passed a room with a huge electron microscope and other highly advanced equipment that he recognized and had only seen in his own labs at USAMRIID.

  The manager of the plant introduced himself as Philip Tegan. He said he was used to senior officials—their credentials had, indeed, impressed him—dropping in to take a look. In fact, he seemed oddly excited to meet Platt and said it was about time someone from USAMRIID visited.

  When Platt nonchalantly asked, “Why is that?” Tegan, whose birdlike features—beady narrow eyes separated by a sharp hooked nose and finished with a wobbly chin— squawked out a laugh as if Platt were joking.

  “Well, because of the amazing programs USAMRIID pioneered back in the 1970s. You might say we’re following in your footsteps.”

  “Really?”

  Platt hid his surprise and ignored Bix’s “What the fuck?” look of confusion. Instead, he focused on encouraging Tegan to share, but it seemed the man had wisely become silent.

  FIFTY-ONE

  NEBRASKA

  Amanda’s mother had prepared coffee and miniature pastries, treating Maggie’s visit as if it were a social call. Maggie remembered Sheriff Skylar talking about the family’s prominence, so she was not surprised to find Cynthia Griffin with full makeup, bright red lipstick, and unmovable hair on a Saturday afternoon. And despite the expensive running suit, the woman didn’t look like she was accustomed to breaking a sweat let alone jogging.

  “I told Amanda you’re here,” Mrs. Griffin said. “Griff’s not here. I didn’t tell him you were coming.” She prattled on, what sounded like a nervous habit to fill silence. “He tries so hard to protect Amanda and me. He’s been on full alert since Johnny’s death. It’s just awful about Johnny, isn’t it? And now those girls. Just awful.”

  She was trying to lead Maggie into the living room and directing her to take a seat. In front of the sofa a glass-topped coffee table displayed delicate coffee cups and matching dessert plates, tiny pink-and-purple flowers hand-painted on shiny white china.

  Maggie didn’t follow. She stayed in the entrance and waited for Cynthia Griffin to notice. When she did, the woman’s welcoming smile twitched, but to her credit, the smile stayed as if also permanently hand-painted.

  “I thought you and Amanda could chat down here. Much more comfortable than up in her room.”

  Maggie didn’t budge. She was already relinquishing home-field advantage to Amanda. She hated to give her anything more.

  “She hardly ever comes down from that room these days,” Mrs. Griffin said. She managed to keep the smile but there was a sadness that slipped into her tone. “All this has been so hard on her. She’s just had a lot to deal with since Griff and I got married.”

  That’s when Maggie realized Amanda might feel less comfortable in the family’s formal living room than she did.

  “Are any of those raspberry?” Maggie asked, pretending to be drawn in by the pastries and saving Mrs. Griffin from resorting to what Maggie dreaded might be her next step— begging.

  “Oh yes. The ones with powdered sugar on top.” The woman brightened and fluttered her spandex-clad arms like excited wings. Pouring coffee before Maggie could refuse. “Cream or sugar?”

  “No, thank you. Black’s fine,” Maggie answered, rather than explain that she didn’t drink coffee no matter what she put in it.

  “Amanda loves this gourmet grind. Of course, she does. It’s expensive.” Mrs. Griffin laughed, a short burst of air that sounded like “hah.”

  Maggie felt sorry for her, a woman surrounded by beautiful expensive things, all of them by authentic designers, genuine gold-trims, the best-quality fabrics and woods, rare collector accessories of porcelain and ceramic—nothing artificial except her personality.

  Maggie strolled the room while Mrs. Griffin crimped linen napkins and teased pastries onto the plates without disturbing powdered sugar or icing. Maggie scanned the display on the fireplace mantel, almost a dozen framed photos of different sizes and shapes. Amanda as a baby. Mrs. Griffin with her extended family, all dressed up and smiling. A wedding photo of Cynthia and Mike Griffin. More of Amanda in various stages of childhood. And then one photo caught Maggie’s eye.

  Three soldiers in military fatigues stood in front of a tank with a stark background that looked like miles and miles of sand. The one in the middle was a young Mike Griffin, his arms around the other two and smiling for the camera.

  She almost glanced away, then realized the man on Griffin’s left was also familiar. She took a closer look but there was no mistake. The man was Frank Skylar.

  FIFTY-TWO

  Wesley Stotter couldn’t believe his eyes. He had already snapped more than fifty photos and was worried he’d run out of disc space on his digital camera.

  He had brought along a pry bar but was surprised to find the back door unlocked. A keypad at the door implied security access. He suspected someone must be on the complex grounds and had stepped out for a minute; however, Stotter hadn’t seen any movement. If he ran into a worker he’d pretend to be lost. What was that old saying, “It’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission”?

  The outside of the building had been so plain. Inside, Stotter was surprised to find whitewashed walls and an impressive labyrinth of stainless-steel counters topped with strange equipment and utensils that looked like a surgical suite. The counters were intersected with cylindrical tanks, some small, some large. Several stretched from floor to ceiling. They were filled with liquid and each had o
bjects floating inside. All of them emitted an eerie blue glow— probably a fluorescent light somewhere inside each tank.

  A built-in wall cabinet with a padlocked glass front displayed an array of other equipment that Stotter had never seen before. At first glance the stuff reminded him of something out of a Star Wars movie. Or—and this was what excited Stotter—perhaps weapons taken from a downed and disabled alien spacecraft. One appeared to be a scoped rifle but made of a strange metal and with an odd attachment on the barrel. At the stock, an electrical cord—only thicker— connected the rifle to what looked like a canvas backpack.

  Hanging beside the rifle were several different pairs of goggles. Stotter squatted to study them. One pair had bulbous dark-green lenses with pinpoint red dots in each. Night-vision goggles, he suspected, and he wondered if these were what he had seen on the creature running in the forest. Was it only a man, after all?

  Before he moved on to the next room he wanted to get closer shots of the tanks. He adjusted his camera to twilight mode so he could capture the images despite the fluorescent blue glow. He hadn’t noticed until his fingers stumbled over the settings that his hands were shaking. His shirt had become glued to his back and his beard was damp with sweat as well.

  He thought he heard a door open and he stopped.

  Car stalled. Lost my way. He tried to prepare his story while he drew closer to the tanks. Just fascinated by everything you have here—that’s what he would tell them. But he needed to stow the camera in his backpack or certainly they’d take it away from him.

  He glanced around and didn’t see anyone. Maybe it was his imagination again. An electrical motor began to hum and a fan above him came on. Stotter let out a breath and wiped his forehead. Of course, it was just the equipment turning on and off. But still he needed to be quick. He shouldn’t press his luck.