“Yes.”

For a long moment Deni was silent. When she finally spoke, she said, “I take it I should reschedule your interview?”

“Interview?”

“With Libby Gardner. From Channel 12, the local PBS affiliate. About the Magdalene window. She’s here.”

Mira remembered then. The interview appointment. Her work on the Magdalene restoration being included in a sixth anniversary of Katrina series the station was planning. “Shit. I forgot. Sorry.”

“What should I tell her?”

“How about the truth? That your boss is a pill head and basket case.”

“Stop it, Mira. That’s not true.”

“No?”

“You suffered a terrible loss. You turned to--”

“The whole city suffered that same freaking loss. Life goes on, sweetheart.”

She spoke the words harshly, their brutality self-directed. “The strong thrive and the weak turn to Xanax.”

“That’s such bullshit.” Deni sounded hurt. “I’ll see if she can reschedule--”

“No. Get started with her. Explain how the window ended up in our care, describe the process, show her around. By the time you’ve done that, I’ll be there.”

“Mira--”

She cut her assistant off. “I’ll be in shortly. We can talk then.”

Mira ended the call and hurried to the kitchen. She fixed herself a cup of strong coffee then headed toward the bathroom. When she caught sight of her reflection in the vanity mirror, she froze. She looked like crap. Worse even. The circles under her hazel eyes were so dark, her pale skin looked ghostly incomparison. She was too thin--her copper red hair like the flame atop a matchstick.

She wore one of her husband’s old tees as a nightshirt: Geaux Saints the front proclaimed. Mira trailed her fingers over the faded print. Jeff hadn’t lived long enough to see his beloved NFL team win the Super Bowl.

It’s your fault he’s dead, Mira," the voice in her head whispered. "You convinced him to stay. Remember what you said? “It’ll be an adventure, Jeff. A story we can share with our children and grandchildren.”

The air conditioner kicked on. Cold air from the vent above her head raised goosebumps on her arms and the back of her neck. No, she told herself. That was bullshit. Isn’t that what her shrink, Dr. Jasper, had told her? Jeff had been a fifty percent partner in the decision. If he had felt strongly they should leave, he would have said so.

His family blamed her. Her and Jeff’s friends had been subtle in their accusations-- she read condemnation in their eyes.

She stared helplessly at her reflection. The problem was, she blamed herself.No matter what her shrink said or what the facts were.

She moved her gaze over the destruction of her bathroom--drawers emptied, make-up bags and carry-ons rifled through.

As if thieves had broken in and turned her home upside down in search of valuables.

But she had done this. She was the thief. And the eleven months, three weeks and four days she had robbed herself of couldn’t be replaced.

Her cell phone went off. She saw it was Deni--no doubt calling to say the reporter had taken a hike. “Pissed off another one, didn’t I?” she answered.

“Something really bad’s happened, Mira.”

She pressed the device tighter to her ear. “What?”

“It’s Father Girod, he’s . . . dead. He was murdered.”

An image of the kindly old priest filled her head. He had approached her after Katrina about his church’s stained glass windows, decimated by the storm. In the process of restoring the twelve panels, she and the father had become friends.

Grief choked her. “Oh, my God. Who could have . . . When did--”

“There’s more, Mira.” Deni’s voice shook. “Whoever did it also vandalized the windows.”

HOTWIRE by Alex Kava

Chapter 2

Thursday, October 7th

Five miles west of the Nebraska National Forest

Halsey, Nebraska

“There’s no blood?” Special Agent Maggie O’Dell tried not to sound out of breath.

She was annoyed that she was having trouble keeping up. She was in good shape, a runner, and yet the rolling sand dunes with waves of tall grass made walking feel like treading water. It didn’t help matters that her escort was a good ten inches taller than her, his long legs accustomed to the terrain of the Nebraska Sandhills.

As if reading her mind, State Patrol Investigator Donald Fergussen slowed his pace for her to catch up with him. She thought he was being polite when he stopped, but then Maggie saw the barbed wire fence that blocked their path. He’d been a gentleman the entire trip, annoying Maggie because she had spent the last ten years in the FBI quietly convincing her male counterparts to treat her no differently than they’d treat another man.

“It’s the strangest thing I’ve ever seen,” he finally answered when Maggie had almost forgotten she’d asked a question. He’d been like that the entire drive from Scottsbluff, giving each question deliberate consideration then answering with genuine thought. “But yeah, no blood at the scene. None at all. It’s always that way.”

End of explanation. That had also been his pattern. Not just a man of few words, but one who seemed to measure and use words like a commodity.

He waved his hand at the fence.

“Be careful. It could be hot,” he told her, pointing out a thin, almost invisible wire that ran from post to post, about six inches above the top strand of four separate barbed wires.

“Hot?”

“Ranchers sometimes add electric fencing.”

“I thought this was federal property?”

“The National Forest’s been leasing to ranchers since the 1950’s. It’s actually a good deal for both. Ranchers have fresh pastures and the extra income helps reforest. Plus grazing the land prevents grass fires.” He said all this without conviction, simply as a matter of fact, sounding like a public service announcement. All the while he examined the wire, his eyes following it from post to post as he walked alongside it for several steps. He kept one hand out, palm facing her, warning her to wait as he checked.

“We lost 5,000 acres in ’94. Lightning,” he told her, his eyes following the wire. “Amazing how quickly fire can sweep through the grass out here. Luckily it burned only 200 acres of pine. That might not mean much somewhere else, but this is the largest hand-planted forest in the world. 20,000 of the 90,000 acres are covered in pine, all in defiance to nature.”

Maggie found herself glancing back over her shoulder. Almost a mile away she could see the distinct line where sandhill dunes, covered by patches of tall grass, abruptly ended and the lush green pine forest began. After driving for hours and seeing few trees it only now occurred to her how odd it was that there even existed a national forest.

He found something on one of the posts and squatted down until he was eye-level.

“Most forest services say fire can be good for the land because it rejuvenates the forest,” he continued without looking at her, “but here, anything destroyed would need to be replanted. That’s why the forest even has its own nursery.”

For a man of few words he now seemed to be expending them, but maybe he thought it was important. Maggie didn’t mind. He had a gentle, soothing manner and a rich, deep voice that could narrate War and Peace and keep you hanging on his every word.

At first introductions, he had insisted she call him Donny and she almost laughed. In her mind the name implied a boy. His bulk and weathered face implied just the opposite. His smile did have a boyish quality accompanied by dimples, but the crinkles at his eyes and the gray-peppered hair telegraphed a more seasoned investigator. But then all he had to do was take off his hat – like he did now so the tip of his Stetson didn’t touch the wire – and the cowlick sticking straight up at the beginning of a perfectly combed part, brought back the boyish image.