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Chapter 1
Mack Abernathy cast a long eye at a flat sea of corn fields, brown and dry under a sizzling, tormenting sun. It seems like the clear blue sky stretches on forever across the horizon. Heavy drops of sweat oozed down his rough face like angry beetles struggling through a plate of sticky syrup.
“There's a town about five miles up the road,” he said with a sigh of relief as he eyed the fuel gauge. “We can stop and grab a bite to eat, and get some gas.”
Brenda Lawson glanced over at her friend. Despite the heat, Mack was wearing his street-battered gray trench coat. Not that Brenda could call him out for it. “Green Ridge,” she nodded. “We can rest for a good bit there.”
Mack focused on the narrow two lane that his old Oldsmobile was cruising down. “You sure about that?” he asked.
Brenda grew silent for a minute. Los Angeles won't be any better than New York. Corruption is everywhere. Am I just running from a fight because I'm tired?
“We're making it in good time. You shouldn't be late for your friend's funeral,” Brenda answered, ignoring the sweat dripping off her forehead. The dry air blowing in from the open windows wasn’t offering much relief.
“Whatever. I—”
The Oldsmobile gave a sudden, violent jerk as a loud 'Bang' sound exploded from under the hood. Mack felt the steering wheel trying to get away from him. “Hold on.”
Brenda waited while Mack struggled to steer the Oldsmobile to a stop on the side of the road. She looked at the hood and saw hot, dangerous steam flooding out into the sizzling air.
“We were making it in good time.” She sighed, stepping out into the heat. She opened her door against a thick set of corn stalks as she did, and walked to the front of the car. “Maybe the water hose went?”
Mack stared down at the hood with hard eyes. “Could be? I'm not a mechanic,” he pointed out. “We’re going to need some help real soon.”
“Same here,” Brenda nodded her head. “Guess we're walking to Green Ridge.”
Mack looked down the scorched back road lined with dry corn fields and signed deeply.
Brenda knew they were too far out to get any reception, but she snatched out a black cell phone from the right pocket of her suit jacket and tried anyway. “No signal.”
Mack frowned a little. He wasn't one to tolerate the heat. “I'll lock up the car and grab the last two bottles of water.”
Brenda checked the Glock 17 she had hidden in a shoulder holster as Mack locked up his old car. As Brenda glanced around at the ocean of corn fields, a strange, somewhat spooky feeling entered her gut. She reached up her left hand and felt the hot air. The air felt… abnormal.
Something isn't right about these cornfields, whispered a voice deep inside Brenda.
“Let's move,” Mack told Brenda, handing her a bottle of warm water. “We've got some walking to do.”
Brenda followed him onto the baking road. “Good thing I wore my walking shoes. Never been one for high heels.”
Mack grunted and got his legs moving. “Nebraska… flat corn fields...” he grumbled.
Brenda let her eyes examine the corn fields as she walked beside Mack, ignoring the angry, blazing sun that was trying to fry her mind.
Brenda ran some numbers through her mind. Been driving for forty minutes… town is five miles up the road… nothing but open corn past the town for fifty miles… nothing behind me except corn.
The sound of an approaching truck made Brenda jump. Like a mirage, a rusted farm truck appeared in the distance.
Mack glanced at Brenda. “What's the matter?” he asked, seeing the look in her eyes.
“Something isn't right,” Brenda told Mack. Holding back her thoughts from Mack was not a good idea. “I can't explain what I'm feeling, but ever since we got off the main road, my gut has been fussing at me.”
Mack nodded his head. “Yeah, same here. I took the scenic route because I was getting sick of the truckers trying to hog the road.” He focused back on the approaching farm truck. His gut tightened.
The rusted truck with red splotches of old barn paint slowed down and eased up to Mack and Brenda on nearly bald tires. A man in his early thirties popped a head full of bright blond hair out of the driver's side window and eyed the two strangers with flat, lifeless eyes. “Car trouble?” asked a voice that was far from friendly.
“Yeah,” Mack answered in a straight, direct voice. “Is there a garage in Green Field?”
Lance hesitated to answer. “Where are you from?” he asked.
“Mind giving us a ride?” Brenda asked, keeping her voice tough. She snatched out her FBI credentials. “I'm Agent Brenda Lawson. This is Detective Mack Abernathy.”
Lance tensed up. What are the cops doing out in the corn?
“Is there a garage?” Mack asked again, his voice hard and impatient this time.
Lance studied Mack. Mack stood strong and tough as bare wood. It was clear the man was a street-battered guy who could handle himself in a fight. Lance on the other hand had only been in one fight—and that was with his cousin Andy when they were ten years old.
“Yeah, there's a garage,” he jerked a thumb at the bed of the truck. The bed was filled with a few small hay bales, some old dried-out corn, and a few rusted tractor parts. “Get in.”
Mack glanced at Brenda. Brenda looked out at the cornfield and then accepted the ride. She crawled into the bed of the farm truck like a trained soldier, sat down on a hay bale, and waited for Mack. She banged the side of the truck as soon as Mack was seated. Lance hit the gas and the farm truck sputtered forward.
“Nice guy,” Brenda muttered.
