by Kathy Reichs
Ten seconds. Thirty? Had I imagined the sound?
Then I heard it again.
Dear God in heaven!
I wasn’t alone.
19
Someone was there!
Something?
Skritch. Skritch.
Reflexively, my free hand flew to my mouth.
The noise stopped abruptly.
The renewed silence was worse. Unseen eyes were watching. Ears listening.
I stood in the darkness, heart banging, mobile mashed to my shirt.
Run? Try resending the text? Maybe here I’d pick up a signal from inside the bunker?
Yes. Reverse order.
I tapped the screen. Felt crosshairs on my back. My illuminated face.
Still no go.
I was cursing again when a shadow detached from the closest dumpster, a cigar-shaped object clamped in its jaws.
An image sparked in my brain. Glistening teeth. A bloody goose head.
A nanosecond, then relief. No gun-wielding psycho had me in his sights. But what? The creature seemed too low to the ground to be a dog. Too large to be a rat. And the Macanudo?
I shone the phone toward the dumpster.
The raccoon froze. Banded eyes wide, it gave a juddery chirp, then scurry-dashed for the safety of the outside world.
The limbic buzz almost caused me to laugh. Almost.
In his panic to haul ass, Groucho had dropped his prize. It lay in the dirt, fuzzy and ill defined. Curious, I walked over for a closer look.
The coon hadn’t been enjoying a fine Cuban. Of course it hadn’t. It had been rummaging for food. I bent and lifted its discarded booty.
Two bone fragments lay in my palm, their combined length approximately six inches. Each had one end terminating in jagged spikes, the other in a clean-edged break.
Gripping the phone with my teeth, I raised the fragments into the light. Both showed areas of charring, suggesting burning. The splintered end of each was scored and punctured, suggesting scavenging. No way to know which had come first.
The borders of the clean-edged break were pale and unstained, suggesting that trauma was recent. I tried fitting the two pieces together. They aligned nicely. I was holding a mid-shaft section of long bone, its only surviving anatomical feature a sliver of articular surface rimming one AWOL joint. The sliver’s wavy texture told me the limb had still been growing when its owner had died.
A grim thought sent a rush of gooseflesh up my arms.
The bone’s small size and cross-sectional shape were consistent with those of an immature human tibia.
My mind was fighting that horrifying possibility when my eyes caught a hint of red embedded in a crack running from one shattered extremity. Blood?
Drawing the fragments closer to the phone, I made out a tiny shred of fabric patterned with flowers or dots.
Paws?
Had the coon been lunching on the remains of a child? Was I looking at a scrap of teddy bear PJs or superhero briefs?
Mouth dry, fingers sweaty slick, I laid down the bones, switched to camera mode, and took several shots, flash strobing bright in the murky gloom. That done, I slipped the fragments into my shirt pocket and stepped to the dumpster into which the coon had been diving.
Groucho hadn’t been messing around. Or, more accurately, he had. Garbage spread out in every direction, strewn like wreckage after a cyclone.
Trash. The detective’s best friend.
Up close, I could see that the dumpster was made of steel and green plastic, had wheels, and was accessed through a slanted front-loading lid. The lid was up. Another indication of carelessness. Or Procyon dexterity.
I leaned over to peer in. The stench blasted me like a sirocco, a blend of liquefaction, fermentation, rot, and microbes. Covering my mouth and nose, I lit the bin’s interior.
Groucho’s gang—the abundance of scatter suggested accomplices—had been selective. Left behind were nonedibles and articles too heavy to mine. A woven vinyl and metal chair. A globe with a broken base. A leather shoe. Light bulbs. Empty containers—Windex, Mr. Clean, Clorox, Gatorade. Cardboard boxes. Rags. Lengths of pipe. I snapped a few shots with my camera app and backed away.
Hoping for clues to the occupants or purpose of the bunker, I moved among the items littering the ground. Saw gnawed slices of pizza, pasta curling like ghostly white worms, ziplocks oozing unidentifiable sludge.
At the far end of the mess lay an eviscerated drawstring plastic bag, innards fanning out as a smaller debris field within the larger. Among the bag’s displaced contents were foil packets, Styrofoam cups, cardboard baskets, and waxy wrappers from Taco Bell, Burger King, and Bojangles’ dinners. Of more interest, a manila file, grease-stained and covered with putrefying beans, fries, bread, meat, and garnish.
I wove my way to the folder and, using a plastic knife, flipped back the cover. Inside were the mangled remains of newspaper clippings, most deteriorated to mushy clumps resembling flattened tofu. Breathing through my mouth, I teased out the only two intact enough to retain legible copy. Each had been cut from a larger page, leaving neither a date nor the name of the paper.
Centered in the first clipping was a head-and-shoulders color shot of a blond-haired, green-eyed boy. Gaps in his front dentition suggested an age of six or seven. The boy was looking straight at the camera, smiling stiffly, a potted palm at his back. I guessed it was a school portrait, first, maybe second grade.
Below the portrait ran the caption: Timothy Horshauser, still missing after five yea …What remained of the accompanying story was lost to a slurry of ketchup, mustard, and mayo.
The second surviving clipping had fared even worse. The coons and condiments had destroyed half of the picture and the entire article.
Still, I recognized the photo’s subject. The caramel skin, the dreadlocks bound with bright pink beads.
Jahaan Cole.
Anger starts like a match flaring in my chest. Spreads like wildfire roaring through dry grass.
I felt the tiny hot flame.
Upper incisors vising onto my lower lip, I spread the file’s soggy contents and took shot after shot, blind to my subject matter in the dark. The tunnel was bake-oven hot, the only sound the soft click of my phone. Outside, far beyond the camo, a muted whine, there then gone.
Suddenly, the low-battery warning filled my screen.
Crap.
A few more pics, then I carefully regathered the whole slimy mess. Tucking the folder under one arm, I rose, hoping the clipped articles, along with the bone fragments, would be enough to justify a search warrant.
Exiting the camo elicited more pupil retrenchment. I scanned while walking, hand-shielding my eyes. The clearing was empty, filled with the same silence echoing everywhere but inside my chest.
The sun had dropped and was now skimming the tree line. In the late-afternoon shadows, off to the right, I noticed a blackened cylinder rising to a height of roughly five feet. Its walls were constructed of horizontal steel bands with open slits between. A vegetation-free zone circled the base, a mix of gravel and cinders. I suspected the thing was a home incinerator. Somehow I’d missed it on my inward charge toward the bunker.
The source of the charred bone in my pocket?
I made the short detour. Two yards out, I smelled burnt paper, smoky wood, and melted plastic. Not pleasant but not as bad as the decaying organics I’d left behind.
The raccoons had also worked their magic here, but not with the same enthusiasm as at the dumpster. Or maybe it was a human hand, sloppy while emptying the ashy dregs.
Several blackened hunks lay helter-skelter, too twisted and distorted to identify. Not so a small duct-taped pouch. Though it was obscured by the shadows and covered with soot, I recognized the fabric. Not daisies or polka-dots. Rabbits doing handsprings and somersaults against a field of red.
I dropped to my knees, set the folder aside, and began thumbnailing the end of the tape. Badly heat-seared, the adhesive refused to budge. I gouged de
eper, again and again, my perspiration falling as small dark blotches on the acrobatic bunnies.
No go. I kept digging, oblivious to the heat and carnivorous insects. To my surroundings.
Finally, a corner yielded. I tugged gently. Millimeter by millimeter, the sticky tape lifted, taking with it a fold-over flap that covered the pouch’s upper border. I shone my light into the interior.
Two incisors and two molars lay along the bottom seam. The small size of the former and the bulbous cusps and slender, divergent roots of the latter told me the teeth had belonged to a child.
I stared, stunned that I’d found even more potentially incriminating material. Had I literally just stumbled across the very proof I needed to obtain a warrant? When does that ever happen?
I wanted to grab the pouch and rush to my car. Instead, I forced myself calm and ran a mental checklist of proper protocol.
Leaving the evidence in situ would be best but far too risky. I’d take the pouch with me. Before removal from the scene, I’d document its provenience. First with establishing shots—the bunker, the clearing, the incinerator. Then the pouch positioned to allow a close-up peek at the contents.
I glanced at my screen. The battery icon was alarmingly short and red. The digits said 3:20.
Hoping enough juice remained, I tapped the camera app and backtracked a few yards into the clearing. I was focusing the final shot when an elongated shadow swept across the frame. Human but distorted. Irrationally, my mind popped an image of the looming Easter Island statues.
I whirled. Saw nothing.
Had I imagined it?
My eyes swept a one-eighty across the trees, the gravelly brush, the fallen-down shed, the incinerator, the debris.
Damn!
I rushed forward, desperate to be wrong. I wasn’t.
Disbelieving, I stared at the spot where I’d placed the folder. At the spot where I’d left the pouch. Neither was there.
I’d heard no car engine, no footsteps, no movement at all. How was it possible?
And who the hell would take them?
And why?
Mental cringe at the reaming I’d get from Slidell.
After a fruitless ten minutes searching the area, I aimed my phone for one final shot. It was dead.
Outta here.
I’d just passed through the gate when something hard whacked the back of my skull. I started to pivot, but a kick struck the small of my back. I fell. My phone dropped and slid across the gravel. A second kick struck my side, fast and vicious. Pain exploded in my ribs.
Gasping, taste of dirt in my mouth, vision afloat with black dots, I rolled to my back and looked up. A figure stood above me, a dark silhouette backlit by shafts of coppery orange sun. The silhouette was slender, about my height, a long, thin implement in its hands, a baseball cap on its head. I couldn’t tell the gender of the wearer.
I struggled to rise. A foot mashed down on my chest.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” The voice sounded wobbly, like wind passing through fan blades. That same tiny chime in my hindbrain. Had I heard it before?
Too freaked to be cautious, or disoriented by the blows, I snapped back, “Who the hell’s asking?”
“None of your goddamn business.” Slurry at the edges. Was the guy drunk? High?
“I’m here officially,” I panted.
“You’re a fucking liar.”
Without thinking, I grabbed the ankle and wrenched sideways. Thrown off balance, Ball Cap hopped backward, arms pinwheeling. I scrambled to my feet and socked him with an elbow to the temple. He collapsed and lay still.
My eyes roved wildly. Saw no one else near.
Ball Cap lay facedown, features hidden from view. I noted cowboy boots, tan with a green floral overlay and turquoise studs, a maroon tee, maybe Gamecocks, faded jeans. A heavy-duty Maglite lay by the guy’s right elbow.
No file. No place it could be hidden on his person.
Shit on a stick!
The tee had ridden up, exposing a strip of pale freckled skin. Vertebrae sharp as oyster shells. Bulges in both back pockets.
The pouch?
Frisk the bastard?
I felt fire in my ribs, a lump rising on my occipital.
Oh, yeah.
I inched close, snatched up the flash, and, alert to the faintest sign of returning consciousness, leaned down and dug the contents from the right jeans pocket. Three keys, one for a Chevy, two probably for doors. The left pocket produced a faux-leather coin purse.
Still no moaning, no movement.
I pulled the purse’s zipper tab. Inside was an impressive wad of cash, which I left in place. Folded around the bills, a note, which I opened.
You find this, you want to live, phone the number below. Now.
I’m not fucking around.
H. Kimrey
The number had a 704 area code.
My impulse was to kick H. Kimrey in the nuts. To wake him and demand the folder and the pouch.
A more rational voice overrode the fury.
I stood a moment, watching the skinny chest rise and fall. The punk was breathing. Wary, I squatted to place a fingertip to his neck. Felt a pulsing carotid. Smelled boozy sweat.
Tossing down the Maglite, the keys, and the purse with its cash, I scooped up my mobile and stuffed the note in my pocket. A quick scurry-and-dart search of the surrounding trees and brush, then I dashed for my car.
20
En route home, I charged my iPhone and dialed Slidell. After explaining my day, and the attack by H. Kimrey, I suggested he call Sheriff Poston. Skinny’s rhetoric was all I’d imagined.
When I arrived at the annex, the silver 4Runner was moored in the drive. Face crimson, Slidell launched himself from it and stormed toward me. His pants were brown, his socks orange. The ends of a green-and-rust tie hung to either side of his unbuttoned collar. I assumed he’d bumped up the couture for his visit with Jahaan Cole’s neighbor.
“I don’t believe it!” Practically spitting, he was so irate. “I don’t freakin’ believe it!”
“Is it enough for a warrant?” I wheep-wheeped my car.
“Jesus Christ! You’re a defense lawyer’s wet dream, you know that?”
“Thus, the need for a warrant,” I said.
“You got some kind of hearing disorder? That why you don’t capiche what I tell you?”
“Bring it down, detective. I don’t want you having a coronary in my yard.”
“Or maybe the problem’s in your brain.” Finger jabbing his temple. “Maybe you got some delusion you’re a TV dick gonna get the big solve and a fucking medal from the mayor?”
I didn’t acknowledge that Slidell might have a point. That he might have stumbled very close to the truth.
“And no worries about me! My ticker’s a beast!”
I crossed the patio and let myself in. Slidell was right on my heels, smelling of temper and sweaty synthetics.
Over the years, I’ve come to recognize two things about Skinny. He can’t stand being defied. He can’t stand being bested. Today his anger was springing from twin wells.
“Would you like a cold drink?” Over my shoulder.
“Gimme everything. Now! Maybe, just maybe, I can talk some asswipe judge into overlooking the fact that what I’m writing up wasn’t even close to lawfully acquired. As in hot-fingered by a civilian out for a joy ride! You going through some kind of mental thing? Even for you, your behavior lately has been plain nuts.”
Another hard-earned insight. When Slidell does outrage, it’s best to let him vent. I’d trolled through garbage, found evidence concerning missing kids, maybe the remains of one, lost most of that evidence, taken shots to my head and torso, and driven for almost two hours with sun in my eyes. I was grimy and hot and devoid of patience. And hungry.
“Stop!” Pivoting to face him. Which sent pain spiking up my rib cage.
Slidell glared, jaw muscles doing shotgun flexes.
“Have a seat.” Lifting a ponytail t
hat was plastered to my neck. “I’ll pour iced tea.”
He did. I did. After washing my hands.
We both drank. Then I got latex gloves from my scene kit, donned one, handed the other to Slidell, and laid the note and the larger bone fragment on the table. Not sure why, but I left the smaller one in my pocket.
Slidell eyed the glove, the note, and the bone but touched nothing. “I’m supposed to applaud?”
“Did you run Kimrey?” Ignoring his sarcasm.
Slidell opened a picture on his phone and showed me the screen. It was a mug shot of the guy who’d leveled me.
“That’s him,” I said.
Hunching a shoulder to blot sweat from his chin, Slidell slid a small spiral from his breast pocket, thumbed his tongue, and flipped pages.
“Thirty-four-year-old Caucasian, home boy, managed to graduate from Northwest School of the Arts back in the day. Kid was some kinda violin prodigy.” A pause to decipher his notes. Or triage what to hold back. “String of collars for dealing, soliciting, all small-time, nothing violent. Did a couple stretches at jail north, up on Spector Drive.”
I waited.
“The H is for Hollister. Goes by Holly. Known as Molly Holly on the street. Apparently, that’s his specialty.” Slidell referred to the drug Molly, thought by some to be pure MDMA, or ecstasy, but more commonly a toxic mixture of lab-made chemicals. “That and blow, acid, weed, you name it.”
“You alerted the sheriff?” I asked.
“Poston had one of his deputies swing by the property. Your guy was gone. Place was secure, no sign of forced entry, no response to his shouting.”
I tried to recall if I’d properly closed the gate. If that was even possible, given that I’d found it open. Had no idea. “Kimrey must have come to and split.”
“You hit him that hard?” Impressed?
“I think he was drunk.”
“What the hell was he doing out there?”
I had no answer to that. “Have you traced the owners of the property?”
“It’s a goddamn holding company. Individual names will be buried in reams of legal bullshit.” Gruff but more controlled. Slidell had kicked into cop mode. “Did you spot a vehicle?”
