and had begun competing with the low hum of the gas generator left up the steep incline, its sound muted by the brush and easily forgotten except for the tentacles of orange extension cords that trailed down the slope.
As they passed under the dead owl still suspended from the branch, Lucy stopped. She stepped closer until she was directly underneath the bird.
“The wings are singed,” Lucy said.
Then she bent down to examine the ground beneath the bird. Several orange stakes marked where Maggie had stumbled over the boy wrapped in barbed wire.
“One of the injured was found here,” Maggie explained.
Lucy nodded as she swirled a finger in the sand between two areas stained with blood.
Maggie saw the sheriff glare at Donny. Out of the corner of her eye she could see him mouthing, “See, I told you so.” As if that wasn’t enough, he spun his index finger at his temple to emphasize that Lucy Coy was, indeed, crazy.
As she stood up Lucy stopped to examine one of the lower branches.
“There’s some kind of a thread here,” she pointed out. “It’s tangled but doesn’t look weathered. Can we bag this?”
Donny nodded.
“And the owl. Can we bag it, also?”
Lucy walked around the upside-down bird to look into the creature’s eyes. Ignoring the sheriff’s reaction to her she added, “Plains Indians believed owls carried the souls of the departed.”
“Is that why you want us to take it, because you think it might have captured their souls?” the sheriff asked, trying to keep a straight face.
Maggie was finding it difficult to control her anger at Skylar, and yet at the same time she hoped she hadn’t made a mistake asking this woman to join the investigation—a woman whose opinion could be influenced by her ancestors’ spirit world, a world that Maggie believed carried no weight in a criminal investigation; a world Maggie had little patience, interest, or respect for.
Lucy Coy, however, calmly went on to explain: “I believe whatever happened to these teenagers also happened to this owl. The way its talons are still gripping the branch”—she pointed to the bird’s feet—“along with the singed feathers tells me there’s a good possibility this owl was electrocuted.”
“Electrocuted?” Donny asked.
“That’s ridiculous,” the sheriff muttered.
But Maggie’s heart skipped a beat. That was exactly what she thought had happened to the boy wrapped in barbed wire and to the two dead victims.
THIRTEEN
VIRGINIA
Platt noticed the car following him soon after he pulled out of the diner’s parking lot. At first he thought maybe Bix had forgotten to tell him something and Platt knew the paranoid CDC chief would rather run him down than risk a cell-phone call being traced. But the vehicle following him, five car lengths back, was definitely not Bix’s compact rental car. The double headlights sat up as high as Platt’s Land Rover.
He took the ramp onto the interstate, goosing the accelerator. The double headlights followed. He switched lanes, crossing over two and watched in the rearview mirror. The double headlights followed, keeping a car in between. Traffic raced around them but the car stayed with Platt. He drove a few miles then crossed back to the right and at the last second swerved to take the first exit. Not so discreetly, now, his tail followed, provoking a horn blare from another vehicle that had to slam on its brakes.
Platt turned into a gas station and pulled up next to a credit-card-only pump. He didn’t get out. He waited, ready to floor it if the vehicle followed. It’d be impossible to pretend here, especially after pulling up to one of the pumps. But the double headlights, which he now saw belonged to a black Suburban with tinted windows, didn’t even slow down as it passed the station.
Platt sat back, released a sigh. Ran a hand over his face. Relaxed his jaw. Okay, so Bix’s paranoia was contagious.
He topped off the Land Rover’s gas tank, though he
As they passed under the dead owl still suspended from the branch, Lucy stopped. She stepped closer until she was directly underneath the bird.
“The wings are singed,” Lucy said.
Then she bent down to examine the ground beneath the bird. Several orange stakes marked where Maggie had stumbled over the boy wrapped in barbed wire.
“One of the injured was found here,” Maggie explained.
Lucy nodded as she swirled a finger in the sand between two areas stained with blood.
Maggie saw the sheriff glare at Donny. Out of the corner of her eye she could see him mouthing, “See, I told you so.” As if that wasn’t enough, he spun his index finger at his temple to emphasize that Lucy Coy was, indeed, crazy.
As she stood up Lucy stopped to examine one of the lower branches.
“There’s some kind of a thread here,” she pointed out. “It’s tangled but doesn’t look weathered. Can we bag this?”
Donny nodded.
“And the owl. Can we bag it, also?”
Lucy walked around the upside-down bird to look into the creature’s eyes. Ignoring the sheriff’s reaction to her she added, “Plains Indians believed owls carried the souls of the departed.”
“Is that why you want us to take it, because you think it might have captured their souls?” the sheriff asked, trying to keep a straight face.
Maggie was finding it difficult to control her anger at Skylar, and yet at the same time she hoped she hadn’t made a mistake asking this woman to join the investigation—a woman whose opinion could be influenced by her ancestors’ spirit world, a world that Maggie believed carried no weight in a criminal investigation; a world Maggie had little patience, interest, or respect for.
Lucy Coy, however, calmly went on to explain: “I believe whatever happened to these teenagers also happened to this owl. The way its talons are still gripping the branch”—she pointed to the bird’s feet—“along with the singed feathers tells me there’s a good possibility this owl was electrocuted.”
“Electrocuted?” Donny asked.
“That’s ridiculous,” the sheriff muttered.
But Maggie’s heart skipped a beat. That was exactly what she thought had happened to the boy wrapped in barbed wire and to the two dead victims.
THIRTEEN
VIRGINIA
Platt noticed the car following him soon after he pulled out of the diner’s parking lot. At first he thought maybe Bix had forgotten to tell him something and Platt knew the paranoid CDC chief would rather run him down than risk a cell-phone call being traced. But the vehicle following him, five car lengths back, was definitely not Bix’s compact rental car. The double headlights sat up as high as Platt’s Land Rover.
He took the ramp onto the interstate, goosing the accelerator. The double headlights followed. He switched lanes, crossing over two and watched in the rearview mirror. The double headlights followed, keeping a car in between. Traffic raced around them but the car stayed with Platt. He drove a few miles then crossed back to the right and at the last second swerved to take the first exit. Not so discreetly, now, his tail followed, provoking a horn blare from another vehicle that had to slam on its brakes.
Platt turned into a gas station and pulled up next to a credit-card-only pump. He didn’t get out. He waited, ready to floor it if the vehicle followed. It’d be impossible to pretend here, especially after pulling up to one of the pumps. But the double headlights, which he now saw belonged to a black Suburban with tinted windows, didn’t even slow down as it passed the station.
Platt sat back, released a sigh. Ran a hand over his face. Relaxed his jaw. Okay, so Bix’s paranoia was contagious.
He topped off the Land Rover’s gas tank, though he
Similar Books
