remote, a pair of reading glasses, dirty plates and mugs sitting in milk rings, crumpled potato chips, spilled bags of M&Ms, a coloring book and box of sixty-four crayons, some scattered and broken on the rug.
In the corner two stacks of magazines teetered next to a desk. A pile of mail—catalogs, envelopes and packages in various stages of opening—covered a writing desk; some of the pile had fallen onto the chair.
There were several pictures on the bookcase: Mary Louise at different ages, sometimes with her mother. One with an older couple, perhaps the child’s grandparents. But there were none with a father and none with pictures that looked like a father had been cut out.
Mary Louise and her mother appeared ordinary and happy and harmless. And maybe that alone had been the sole reason for the killer to choose them.
Then something caught Maggie’s eye. On the desk, sticking out of the lopsided pile of mail, was a six-by-nine manila envelope. She could see only the return address but it was enough to draw her attention. It was handwritten in block lettering, all caps, and it looked an awful lot like the lettering on the note she had just seen about an hour ago.
Maggie looked around the room again. Cunningham had already told her they would need to call in the nearest disease control and containment center. That meant Fort Detrick and that meant the Army would be taking over. Most likely they’d seal off the rooms—probably the entire house. Their first priority would be biocontainment and treatment of the occupants. Processing evidence would come later. Would they even know what to look for?
She found a box of large plastic bags with Ziploc seals in a kitchen cabinet. Back in the living room she lifted off the top pile of mail so she wouldn’t have to tug the manila envelope out and risk smearing anything. Then carefully using only her fingertips she picked up the envelope by a corner and dropped it into plastic bags. She sealed it and dropped it into another plastic bag just to be safe.
She told herself she was saving the Army a bit of work. Of course they’d be grateful, but still, she tucked the double-bagged envelope into the back of her trouser’s waistband, letting it lie smoothly against the small of her back. She pulled her shirt and jacket down over it, just in case they weren’t so grateful.
CHAPTER 12
North Platte, Nebraska
Patsy Kowak tucked the package under her arm and examined the postage-due envelope. Roy, their mail carrier, would never hold back a piece of mail. He was good about that. But this was embarrassing. The return address was her son’s office. Maybe that new assistant. Still there was no excuse. Almost two dollars due.
She slipped the envelope inside her denim jacket as she glanced down the long dirt driveway. No sense in upsetting her husband, Ward. As it was, they were barely speaking.
Patsy took in a gulp of the crisp morning air and tried to clear the tension from her mind. She listened to a distant train whistle and the cawing of crows on their way to feed in the fields. She loved this time of year. The river maples and cottonwoods that surrounded their ranch no longer hinted at fall, but were lit up with red and gold. She could smell smoke from their fireplace, a soothing scent of pine and walnut. Ward insisted it was too early to turn on the furnace, but he was good about getting the chill out of the house with an early-morning fire.
Yes, she loved this time of year and she loved her walks to the mailbox, a daily ritual that included filling her pockets with peppermints for Penny and Cedric. This morning she included apple slices for the duo. Ward grumbled about her spoiling and pampering the two horses who had long been retired, yet he was the one who brought home the three-pound bags of peppermints from Wal-Mart. Her gruff-and-tough rancher husband had a soft spot he rarely showed. It came out more often with their granddaughter, Regan, and sometimes with Patsy,
In the corner two stacks of magazines teetered next to a desk. A pile of mail—catalogs, envelopes and packages in various stages of opening—covered a writing desk; some of the pile had fallen onto the chair.
There were several pictures on the bookcase: Mary Louise at different ages, sometimes with her mother. One with an older couple, perhaps the child’s grandparents. But there were none with a father and none with pictures that looked like a father had been cut out.
Mary Louise and her mother appeared ordinary and happy and harmless. And maybe that alone had been the sole reason for the killer to choose them.
Then something caught Maggie’s eye. On the desk, sticking out of the lopsided pile of mail, was a six-by-nine manila envelope. She could see only the return address but it was enough to draw her attention. It was handwritten in block lettering, all caps, and it looked an awful lot like the lettering on the note she had just seen about an hour ago.
Maggie looked around the room again. Cunningham had already told her they would need to call in the nearest disease control and containment center. That meant Fort Detrick and that meant the Army would be taking over. Most likely they’d seal off the rooms—probably the entire house. Their first priority would be biocontainment and treatment of the occupants. Processing evidence would come later. Would they even know what to look for?
She found a box of large plastic bags with Ziploc seals in a kitchen cabinet. Back in the living room she lifted off the top pile of mail so she wouldn’t have to tug the manila envelope out and risk smearing anything. Then carefully using only her fingertips she picked up the envelope by a corner and dropped it into plastic bags. She sealed it and dropped it into another plastic bag just to be safe.
She told herself she was saving the Army a bit of work. Of course they’d be grateful, but still, she tucked the double-bagged envelope into the back of her trouser’s waistband, letting it lie smoothly against the small of her back. She pulled her shirt and jacket down over it, just in case they weren’t so grateful.
CHAPTER 12
North Platte, Nebraska
Patsy Kowak tucked the package under her arm and examined the postage-due envelope. Roy, their mail carrier, would never hold back a piece of mail. He was good about that. But this was embarrassing. The return address was her son’s office. Maybe that new assistant. Still there was no excuse. Almost two dollars due.
She slipped the envelope inside her denim jacket as she glanced down the long dirt driveway. No sense in upsetting her husband, Ward. As it was, they were barely speaking.
Patsy took in a gulp of the crisp morning air and tried to clear the tension from her mind. She listened to a distant train whistle and the cawing of crows on their way to feed in the fields. She loved this time of year. The river maples and cottonwoods that surrounded their ranch no longer hinted at fall, but were lit up with red and gold. She could smell smoke from their fireplace, a soothing scent of pine and walnut. Ward insisted it was too early to turn on the furnace, but he was good about getting the chill out of the house with an early-morning fire.
Yes, she loved this time of year and she loved her walks to the mailbox, a daily ritual that included filling her pockets with peppermints for Penny and Cedric. This morning she included apple slices for the duo. Ward grumbled about her spoiling and pampering the two horses who had long been retired, yet he was the one who brought home the three-pound bags of peppermints from Wal-Mart. Her gruff-and-tough rancher husband had a soft spot he rarely showed. It came out more often with their granddaughter, Regan, and sometimes with Patsy,
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