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.”