NEBRASKA
Maggie couldn’t remember the last time she was more relieved to see anyone. Donny stood on the sidewalk out of the way of the rescue crew and the bystanders. Still hearing Mrs. Bosh’s sobs, Maggie retreated to stand alongside him.
“I brought your car,” he said, keeping his eyes on the people trampling the Boshes’ carefully manicured lawn.
She glanced down the street and recognized her rented Toyota in the line of vehicles.
“How did you know I was here?”
“The whole county knows you’re here.”
She wasn’t quite sure why, but that simple statement of fact felt like a punch to her gut.
“I should have known something like this would happen,” she said under her breath, by no means a confession but rather an admonishment to herself.
“We all should have known.”
They stood silent and still while the world seemed to spin around them.
Maggie was struck by how different the crowd was from what she was used to. There were a few gawkers but mostly it looked like friends and neighbors huddled together, comforting the Boshes. Neighbors raced off to bring back ropes or twine, garden clippers and other tools from their sheds or garages, anything that might help the rescue crew which worked with an urgent steadiness despite making a recovery instead of a rescue.
Maggie understood now why they had all come last night. It wasn’t to exert their authority and see firsthand what was happening. Mostly it had been to help. That’s what they were used to doing, chipping in and helping each other.
“Thanks for bringing the car,” she told Donny.
“Not a problem. We explained to the rental branch in Scottsbluff, and they gave us an extra key.” He dug in his pocket and handed her the set. “The manager also adjusted your rate in the computer. Said they’ll only charge you for the weekend but you wouldn’t need to return it until late next week if need be.”
“Good deal. The State Patrol discount?”
“We do what we can.” He tipped his hat and finally allowed a smile. “One catch, I do need a ride back to North Platte. Figured you’d want to be there for the autopsies. That is unless you’re headed back to Denver.”
She hadn’t heard from Kunze, but then she hadn’t exactly been checking for messages. It’d be easier to simply hand this investigation over and leave. Donny and the State Patrol were more than capable. She could be in Denver before nightfall, check into the hotel, take a hot shower, order room service, and be rested and ready to teach her sessions tomorrow and Sunday. No one would question her decision. Skylar would probably welcome her absence.
She saw him glance in her direction. Earlier he’d helped her out from under the porch, but when she delivered the news, he’d stepped away, shaking his head as if it were somehow her fault.
She watched the Boshes, holding each other up, waiting while the rescue crew organized their efforts. Maggie was almost certain toxicology would show an overdose of some form of drug. There’d be no need to spend the county’s budget on another autopsy. Yes, Denver was starting to sound like a good idea. After the autopsies of the other two boys.
She asked Donny to drive her to North Platte.
“Maybe we can stop at the convenience store before we head out,” he said as they climbed into the Toyota.
“Yes, I could use a Diet Pepsi.”
“Your suitcase is in the trunk.”
“Thanks.”
“The store out by the highway has a nice, roomy bathroom.”
This time she turned and stared at him.
“Investigator Fergussen, are you saying I stink?”
She noticed the back of his neck flush.
“Just offering a suggestion.”
Of course it was in the convenience store’s “nice, roomy,” single-room bathroom shortly after Maggie had removed her dirty clothes—all of her clothes—that the call came in from Assistant Director Kunze. She thought about pressing Ignore and making him leave a voice message. She already knew what he would say. But instead, she checked the door’s lock and grabbed the cell phone.
“This is Maggie O’Dell.”
“Please tell me, Agent O’Dell, that you are either in Denver or on your way there.”
“I’ve had a bit of a delay.” She had given him the basics in her voice message.
“I’m sure the local authorities appreciate your efforts and are more than capable of taking over.”
“One of the surviving teenagers just committed suicide.”
She wasn’t sure why she blurted it out. Old habits were hard to break. It was something she would have done naturally with Cunningham. He would have responded with something brisk but profound. A reassurance that they were the good guys and that he knew she had done everything possible. He had been their boss, their leader, and he gave his agents hell when they deserved it but he also took care of them. She hadn’t realized how much she counted on him until he was gone.
She was thinking about this while waiting for Kunze to criticize, to lecture, to humiliate her. But he said something totally unexpected.
“How can I protect you if you constantly keep getting yourself into these messes?”
“Excuse me? What exactly do you think you’re protecting me from?”
Even as she said it, she examined herself in the bathroom mirror. Under the stark fluorescent lights the scar on her abdomen and the one on her side seemed to pucker up, betraying her. Dirt from underneath the Boshes’ house smudged her face. Remnants of cobwebs still tangled her hair. She had rubbed holes in her shirtsleeves and her elbows were caked with blood and dirt from crawling. Okay, perhaps at this moment she did look a bit frazzled, but she was not someone who needed protecting.
She realized Kunze was silent and wondered if she had lost the connection just as she heard him sigh.
“You have three sessions at the Denver law enforcement conference starting tomorrow.”
“Any seasoned police detective who’s gone through Quantico’s training could substitute for me.”
“But I didn’t send any police detective. I sent you. Please make sure those attendees are not sitting there without an instructor. I’ll see you on Monday, Agent O’Dell.”
“Actually I fly back on Monday.”
“I’ll see you on Tuesday morning, Agent O’Dell.”
She heard the click, and then silence. Typical Kunze, he ended his calls as abruptly as he began them.
Minutes ago she had made the same decision as her boss had. Why did she argue? Was it his statement about protecting her? What the hell did he mean by that?
Ever since Kunze replaced Cunningham he had been riding her, questioning her, sending her into killers’ warehouses and into the path of a hurricane. He had bluntly told her that he thought her negligence had contributed to Cunningham’s death and that she would need to prove herself to him. But how many times did she have to do it?
In just the last year, she had solved a major piece of the puzzle to a bombing at Mall of America. But it had placed her and Kunze on opposite sides of a political fallout. Then last month she had survived a category-5 hurricane only to uncover a ploy that made the U.S. Navy look bad. Again, tripping up her politically correct and politically connected new boss. Whatever happened to doing the right thing, no matter what the consequences were? Cunningham always understood. Okay, yes, sometimes he’d be mad as hell at her, but he’d understand. He might question her means but never had he questioned her intent.
She cleaned up in the small sink, doing as good a job as possible with stiff, brown paper towels that scraped the dirt off rather than wiped. Then she pulled on fresh clothes. Brushed her hair. Already she felt better.
She rolled up her dirty clothes and started shoving them into a side pocket of her suitcase when something tumbled to the floor.
Johnny’s cell phone.
She had forgotten all about it. She shut the toilet lid and sat down. She remembered Dawson’s eyes last night. Johnny’s eyes just moments ago.
That’s when she decided.
Kunze said he didn’t want the conference attendees sitting there without an instructor. She would make sure they had someone.
She grabbed her cell phone and punched through her Contact menu. While in Florida last month she had met a detective from the Denver Police Department. Glen Karst was a seasoned homicide detective who had been through the criminal behavior training course at Quantico. She found his phone number and hoped he wasn’t busy this weekend. She’d owe him a steak dinner, some cheesecake, and a bottle of Buffalo Trace. It seemed like a bargain.