Hybrid by Brian O'Grady Page A

calming after the gruff Edwin. “Is there a problem with the car?”
    “Probably not, Mrs. Reese, but can I ask if anyone drove the car this morning?” Patton turned on the charm.
    “Yes, I moved it to this side of the building so Edwin wouldn’t have to walk so far.” She had a friendly voice with a prominent North Texas accent that made her draw out every last syllable.
    “Did you sweep off all that snow?” Patton cocked his head to the side and clicked on his two-hundred-watt smile, playfully patronizing her.
    “Goodness, no. I paid the man who carried our bags to warm up the car. I think he cleaned it off for me.”
    “Is it possible he drove it, maybe to heat it up a bit?”
    “I don’t think so. He was terribly busy . . . Well, I suppose it’s possible.” Confusion added to the lines in her face.
    “And you said that he works here, downstairs?”
    “Yes, the hotel manager arranged for him to bring our bags down to the car.” She was trying her best to be helpful.
    “Were you planning on going on to Denver today?” Patton asked.
    “Yes, we are. Our daughter has a house in Grange.”
    “I doubt you’ll get out of here today. The interstate is closed, and I don’t think it’ll open before tomorrow.” Patton felt sorry for the woman; she was barely able to function herself, and she appeared to be the primary caregiver for her irascible husband. “Why don’t you give us your daughter’s name and number, and we’ll let her know that you’ll be spending the night here and that everything is all right.” A little of the small-town attitude was seeping into Patton.
    Clara carefully and shakily wrote out the information about her daughter and gave it to the detective, who immediately handed it to Johnson. Patton thanked them and left for the lobby, Johnson in tow.
    “Do you think it might be the bellhop?” Johnson asked breathlessly, jogging down the hall, trying to keep up with Patton.
    “I don’t know, but it sure wasn’t Edwin or Clara. I don’t want you to forget to make that call to their daughter. Do it while I’m talking to the manager and our helpful bellhop.” Patton emphasized the term. He couldn’t remember the last time he had heard anyone referred to as a bellhop.
    They reached the stairwell, and Patton began to pound down the metal stairs. Johnson hesitated as the entire structure rocked and clattered with each of Patton’s footfalls. “Move your ass!” Patton’s voice echoed up from below, and Johnson forced himself onto the landing. He paused only for a moment, and then made a headlong dash down the swaying stairs. Patton was already through the door and in the lobby before Johnson reached safety. He ran for his boss, all dignity lost.
    “Afraid you were going to fall?” Patton laughed as his junior caught up.
    “Things were mov—”
    A pop, and then two more in rapid succession, interrupted Johnson. His hand didn’t wait for instructions from his brain; he had his weapon out even before he consciously recognized that the shots were fired from a standard-issue police thirty-eight.

The snow had slowed Amanda’s progress, but it would equally slow any pursuit. She had passed a few police cars along the way, but none of them seemed to notice her or care about her.
    It had been almost an hour since she left her aunt, but her words still rang in Amanda’s ears. She would find whoever was spreading this new virus, tear open his mind, and perhaps kill whatever was left. The prospect excited her, and she had to consciously ease her foot off the accelerator. Almost as if on cue, her cell phone went off.
    “Good morning, Greg,” she said in a cheerful voice.
    “You’re on your way here aren’t you,” he said without preamble.
    “I gather there’s a reception party waiting for me. They sure don’t waste any time,” Amanda said with a matter-of-fact tone.
    “Honey, this is serious. There are two agents up by the Harrisons’, and they’re not exactly being covert,