by Alex Kava
“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, I know you better than that.
“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?”
“River mud. And sweat.”
She turned on a lamp in the corner of the room and came back to stand close to him.
“You think he wants to hurt you?”
“He said I’d be sorry.” His eyes flittered by, touching her face briefly before going off again. “Said I’d be sorry I survived.”
She wished she had talked to Lucy about side effects of salvia. Could the hallucinations return? Certainly the hospital staff had done a toxicology workup on Dawson. She needed to tell them about the salvia. Would this be another costly mistake?
“Dawson, you need to talk to me. I want to help you, but you have to let me in on what happened last night.”
“Can’t. I promised Johnny.” He caught the slip and looked to see if she had caught it, too.
“Johnny’s dead, Dawson.”
He stared at her as if waiting for a punch line.
“Johnny’s not dead. I saw him this morning.”
“He was here?”
“Yeah. You mean Kyle and Trevor. I know they’re dead.”
“Yes. And so is Johnny. We found him this afternoon.” She paused to let it sink in. “He may have taken an overdose of something.”
She was silent, not sure what to expect. What did teenagers do when they found out a friend was dead? Dawson was already imagining a stranger who smelled of river mud.
“What about Amanda?” His eyes were still worried.
“Was Amanda Johnny’s girlfriend?”
He frowned as if he had to think about it. His mind was probably still fuzzy. Then he said, “Yeah, I guess so.”
“She’s fine.” Maggie watched for his reaction to see if he had a crush on Amanda.
His eyes darted to the door, slid to Maggie’s face, and jerked to the door again. Then he laid back.
“I can’t believe Johnny’s dead.”
To Maggie’s surprise the news about his friend’s death appeared to calm him, but just a little. He settled into the pillows. Ran his free hand through his hair. His other hand still had an IV needle connecting him to a bag of solution. His eyes settled down.
“Is your mom or dad here with you?” Maggie glanced around the room. There were no jackets or magazines. No purse or tote bag. No abandoned coffee cups or soda cans.
“My dad’ll stop by after work.”
“And your mom?”
“My mom hasn’t been around for a long time.” He said this as a matter of fact, without sadness or anger.
“I’m sorry,” Maggie said automatically then wanted to kick herself. She hated when people asked about her father, especially after she told them he was killed when she was twelve. “Lame response,” she told Dawson. “But I am sorry you’re alone.”
He noticed the cake and looked up at her. “Is this for me?”
“Yes. I brought it up from the cafeteria.”
He grabbed the plate and fork and started shoving in bites, suddenly looking much more like a normal teen ager.
“You’re not from around here.”
“It’s that obvious?”
He just shrugged. Kept on eating. She saw him glance inside her jacket where he could see her shoulder holster and weapon.
Maggie ventured closer.
“Dawson, you need to tell me what happened last night. Because I’m having an awful time trying to figure it all out.”
His eyes darted back to the doorw
ay.
“I promise you won’t get in trouble.” Even as she said this she sensed his panic. “But I can’t protect you if I don’t know what to protect you from.”
He finished the cake. Left the plate on his tray and took a long draw at the straw in his water glass. He was studying her, trying to decide whether or not to trust her.
“I know about the salvia,” she said and saw his eyes widen. “I don’t care who brought it or where you got it. I just need to know what happened. What were you doing in the forest?”
“My dad was a quarterback in high school.”
Maggie had no idea what this had to do with anything. Would he just avoid all her questions? Still, she listened.
“He really liked Johnny.” Dawson stared at his hands, twisted the top of the bedsheets. “Sometimes I think he wished Johnny was his son instead of me.”
He paused. He was waiting for her to say something. Another one of those knee-jerk responses like “I’m sorry.” She stayed quiet. She had no idea what to say to that.
“I just wanted to fit in. You know, be cool.” He looked up to make sure she was listening. “I was just excited they invited me.”
“Last night wasn’t the first time?”
“Third, for me.”
“It was an invitation-only party?”
“For some. Some new kids were always invited. Kind of a test.”
“Like an initiation?”
He shrugged.
“You always tried different drugs?”
He shrugged again.
“You’re not going to get in trouble,” she reassured him. “I’m just trying to figure out what happened.”
But she could see he was still trying to decide what to tell her and what to leave out.
“Were you filming your experiences for YouTube?”
His eyes flashed and she knew she’d hit on a kernel of truth.
“You found the camera.” Not a question but an admission.
She didn’t admit that they had not. Why didn’t they find one? Had someone taken it before they arrived at the scene?
“And what about the pig’s blood,” she tried another shot in the dark.
To this he just shook his head.
“That was some dumb-ass idea of Johnny’s. He wanted to see what the losers would do if he splattered them with blood.”
She noticed he was still holding the fork she had brought with the piece of cake. He waggled it in one hand then shifted to the other, back and forth.
“Who attacked you, Dawson? Was that part of the ritual?”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“Who was it then?”
“I don’t know.” And the panic returned.
“I need your help, Dawson.”
For the first time he really looked at her. He was scared, but also perplexed that someone would ask such a thing of him.
“You need my help?”
“Yes. Will you help me?”
He almost smiled but then the teenager in him took control and he pretended to be negotiating when he said, “If you get me another piece of that cake I’ll tell you whatever you want.”
THIRTY-NINE
The nurses’ station was empty when Maggie came back with two plates of chocolate cake. She had forgotten a fork for herself and instead of making another trip down to the cafeteria she hoped the nurses might have a plastic one. But no one was in sight.
As she approached Dawson’s room down the hallway she could see that the light she had left on in the room had been turned out. There was only the red-and-green glow from the monitors. Maybe she was breaking hospital rules, hanging around after lights-out.
From a few feet outside the door, she could see there was someone inside the room, bent over Dawson’s bed. A man. His broad back to the doorway. Maybe Dawson’s dad. She turned to leave them. She’d let them have their privacy. Dawson said his dad would come by after he got off work.
Then Maggie took another look. Something wasn’t right.
She squinted, trying to adjust her eyes from the bright hallway to the dark room. The man held a pillow in one hand. He was adjusting Dawson’s pillows. She started to turn away again.
Stopped again. This time she could see Dawson’s fingers gripping the man’s arm.
“Hey,” she yelled and raced through the doorway.
Both of her hands were filled with plates. The man turned and bolted right at her, head down like a football player. He shoved his elbow up, catching her in the chest. The plates dropped and shattered. Maggie fell hard against one of the monitors and set it beeping. She scrambled to her feet, automatically drawing her weapon.
“Dawson?” She punched the instrument panel above his bed until a blue light flickered on and the Call button was activated.
Dawson was sitting up, holding his neck. Coughing.
“Are you okay?” She was half out of the room, looking up and down the hallway. A door banged under the far exit sign. “Are you okay?”
His eyes were wide but he gave her a thumbs-up.
She almost knocked a nurse over as she dashed out.
“What’s going on?”
“Call the police,” she managed to yell as her hip slammed against the door latch.
She stopped in the stairwell. Let the door thump shut.
Then she listened. Had he gone up or down?
She didn’t hear any footsteps. Could he have already exited on one of the other levels? She had to be only steps behind him.
She held her breath. Tried to slow her pulse. Listened again.
Nothing. Damn!
He must have already left the stairwell. She grabbed the door handle, ready to go back. It was locked. Of course, it was locked. All the levels would be. Standard security. You could leave but not reenter. Which meant he would need to go all the way down to the exit. Probably out into the parking lot.
Which meant he was still in the stairwell. Waiting for her.
FORTY
The dim lights in the stairwell cast more shadows than light. Maggie stayed pressed against the cinder-block wall as she slipped down one step then another. She kept her Smith and Wesson nose-down, both hands steadying her grip, trigger finger ready. She had no idea if the man in Dawson’s room had a weapon. Just because he chose a pillow to smother Dawson didn’t mean he wasn’t carrying something more lethal.
She couldn’t see beyond the next landing and she didn’t dare hang over the railing to get a good look. No better way to get your head blown off. She slithered all the way down to the next set of stairs and peeked at the landing below.
Nothing. And still no sound.
Maybe he had already made it down to the ground floor. He could have exited and kept the door from slamming on his way out. As quietly as possible, she slipped out of her leather jacket, keeping crinkles and wisps to a minimum. She loved this jacket, worn and comfortable, the two of them had been through a lot together. She rolled it up, lining on the outside, just like her mother had taught her. Without leaning forward she tossed it.
There was a shuffle of shoes on concrete then a whoosh. Maggie looked down in time to see the man withdrawing his hand and the gleam of a knife blade from his jacket.
“Stop. FBI.”
He turned and was gone, banging his way down the steps.
She followed. Her heart thumped in her ears now. Sweat trickled down her back. It sounded like he was taking the steps two at a time. She tried quickening her pace. Only one more flight and he’d reach the exit.
She caught a glimpse of a black jacket. Maybe a stocking cap? It sounded like work boots, something heavy, but no clicking heel.
A door slammed. He was out.
Maggie raced down to the exit and almost elbowed it open, not wanting to give him another step ahead. But she stopped herself again. If he had waited for her on the landing what would stop him from waiting for a second shot at her on the other side of this door.
Damn!
She tried to settle her breathing, slo
w down her heartbeat. Neither cooperated. She could smell wet dirt or some kind of sludge. What was it that Dawson had said? The man smelled of river mud. She looked down at the concrete. He’d left dirt crumbles and footprints.
Yes, he’d screwed up.
Footprints were almost as good as leaving his fingerprints. But no time to celebrate. She blew her hair out of her eyes. Not relinquishing, she kept her two-handed grip on her weapon.
The door latch was a typical bar across the middle. Pushing anywhere on it unlatched the door. He had a knife. He now knew that she had a gun. He’d have to jump at her, which meant he’d have to hide behind the door when it opened.
She backed up a few steps. Steadied her grip on the gun. Sucked in a long breath. Then she kicked the bar as hard as she could, sending the door flying so that it slammed on the outside wall. Anyone hiding there would now have a broken nose or broken wrist if he was holding out a knife. But the door hit the outside wall. No one in between.
Maggie stepped outside into the dark. None of the lights from the parking lot’s pole lamps hit this corner. She scanned the side of the building in case the man was pressed up against it, hiding in the shadows. There was no movement. A car drove by on the street but the engine wasn’t revved, the tires weren’t peeling out.
She got down on her hands and knees where she could see underneath the rows of vehicles. No feet. There was no Dumpster to hide behind. No air-conditioning system.
Where the hell did he go?
Then it occurred to her. Had he gotten into one of the vehicles? Of course, he’d have one waiting. Somewhere in this dark parking lot was he sitting in his vehicle, slouched down into the shadows and watching her?
She stayed alongside the building, her weapon was still clutched in her hand down by her side as she walked around to the front entrance of the hospital.
She heard a train in the distance. No sirens yet. She pulled out her cell phone. Thumbed her way through Contacts until she found Donny’s number. She might not be able to search every vehicle in the parking lot, but she could find out whether or not that footprint matched the one taken from the forest.
