Superstar Stella Mae Ragel and her housekeeper were found dead at her horse farm at ten twenty this morning. According to JoJo at PsyLED HQ, another member of Stella’s staff was now dead, more were dropping like flies, and the media was beginning to gather, also like flies.
Because of the speed of the progression of the illness and the high-profile victim, Psychometric Law Enforcement Division of Homeland Security had been called in. My skill set didn’t include medicine, forensics, or any form of magic except my own, so I figured I had been requested to do the scut paperwork.
I’d had less trouble getting into a private, top-secret research and development center with government contracts than I did getting onto Stella Mae’s property. My personal ID, my PsyLED ID, the sticker on my official PsyLED vehicle, and the fact that my boss’ boss had put me on the list kept by the security team at the gate were the only reasons I got in at all. The media people shouted questions at the car through the entire ID and vetting process, most of them shrill and sounding a little rabid. Some demanded to know what drugs had killed the country singer. Some wanted to know if she’d taken her own life. Some seemed to believe she had been the target of a deranged stalker.
The winding gravel driveway to Melody Horse Farm was long enough to keep the house from view by the dozens of media vans and cars parked out front, but I spotted a drone overhead and a helicopter with a newsy daredevil hanging out the side with a shoulder-mounted camera, getting the views. I hoped he was strapped in. I hoped the drone stayed out of his way.
I pulled over to let two ambulances pass me, both units moving slow, not running lights and sirens, so I knew the occupants were not in life-threatening condition, just sick or wounded and needing medical help. Through the rear windows of the last ambulance, the man on the stretcher lifted a hand at me, waving. The African-American man wasn’t one of my team, and I didn’t recognize him. He was fully dressed out in a sky blue biohazard suit, which was not reassuring. The latest batch of unis had been color coded so we didn’t have to read labels in emergency situations, and the sky blue ones meant he was under precautions for everything: viral or bacterial pathogens or paranormal contagion or a combination of all three. We called them P3Es—paranormal personal protective equipment. When our team, PsyLED Unit Eighteen, was called in, there was always a para component.
I pulled back into the drive when the ambulances rolled past. Weaving between several dozen official police vehicles and three more ambulances, I parked and idled, sitting in the sun-heated car as I studied the house and grounds. Horses stood at the fence just ahead, watching the excitement, tails twitching, ears at attention. Aside from sitting on a draft horse a few times, I didn’t ride, but I’d been raised on a communal farm, so even I could tell these were expensive, well-cared-for, curious, and intelligent equines. They had bright eyes, perked ears, and the glossy, well-conditioned, self-satisfied look of top-notch athletes who knew they deserved the best. I rolled down my window and smelled the farm air: manure, horse, hay; a scent that meant all the good things from my childhood—before I learned what God’s Cloud of Glory Church really was and had gotten away from the dangers of the polygamist lifestyle.
“Hey, sweetie,” I said to the nearest mare. She was a roan beauty with a six-month-old or so foal beside her. The mama horse flicked her ears at me in interest, probably wanting a peppermint or a carrot, which I didn’t have. Flies and gnats swarmed around her face but didn’t land, suggesting an application of bug spray. I let off the brake, rolled a little farther off the driveway, cracked all the windows against the day’s heat, and touched the button to turn off the car. Which still felt all kinds of strange when, for my entire adult life, I had turned a key.
This was my first day back at work after two off, and I wanted one last moment to breathe in the calm before diving into work. Sitting alone in what was surely the quiet before the investigative storm, I studied the remarkable, well-cared-for, well-funded farm, and wondered how money related to the deaths here.