“Anatoly whispered something into my ear seconds before he died.”
“I’m listening, Jobz,” he says.
“He said, Grafton.”
“Like Grafton State Park, near the Massachusetts border off State Route Two.”
“That’s what I’m thinking,” I say. “He then said, ‘Burn it.’”
“Burn it.”
He paused a moment to think it over.
“Grafton, if it is indeed Grafton we’re talking about here, is an awfully big place. He didn’t give you any more specifics. Like an address for instance?”
“He didn’t have the time, Miller,” I say. “His body was torn in two. Wanna see?”
He bites down on his bottom lip.
“I’ll see what’s left of him soon enough.” Then, “Sure would be nice to have an address without having to jump through hoops to get it.”
A voice inside my head speaks to me.
“In the kitchen,” I say. “I found a set of driving directions that was pulled off Google. The location was close to the Massachusetts border. It just might be what we’re looking for.”
“Grab them, Jobz.”
“Wait here,” I say, heading back toward the house.
This time, I enter through the front door rather than walking back through the hole in the wall. I’ve seen enough mangled bodies for one day.
Pulling the map from the stack of mail, I head back outside, hold it up for Miller to see.
“Let’s go,” he says.
“Now?” I say.
We both look around at the many cops, firemen, and EMTs working the scene. Soon forensics will show up in their blue booties, latex gloves, and electronic evidence gathering equipment.
“These people will be working this scene till well after sundown,” Miller points out. “We’ll use what’s left of the daylight to find out what Anatoly was getting at when he said, burn it.”
I take hold of his arm.
“Wait,” I say. “What if it’s a trap? What if with his dying breath, The Flower Man was setting us up for something really bad? Maybe we should bring a SWAT team with us.”
Miller cocks his head over his shoulder.
“You watch too many crime movies, Jobz,” Miller says.
I feel for my piece, where I usually stuff it in my pant waist. Anatoly must have stripped me of it when he carted me upstairs after he knocked me cold.
“Got an unregistered gun I can borrow?”
“You gotta ask?”
Together, we head for his unmarked cruiser.
Miller doesn’t mess around. He engages the cruiser flashers while we speed out of the neighborhood and head for the highway. From there, we’ll cross over the big bridge that not only spans the Hudson River into Troy, but that also connects with State Route 2.
“In the glove compartment,” he says, both his hands on the wheel, the many cars he tailgates pulling off to the side of the road to allow our passing. “My spare piece. Remind me to work on getting your carry/concealed reinstated.”
“Good luck finding a judge willing to go along with it,” I say.
“Money talks,” Miller adds. “This is the Democratic machine run Albany after all.”
I open the box, reach for the pistol inside it. It’s a 9mm Sig Saur. Black. Single action. Small grip, short barrel. Perfect for concealing. Not that I’ll have to worry about that should a trap be set for us out in the thick wilds of Grafton. Miller is picking up speed as we cross over the bridge and enter the congested city portion of the drive. When he flips on the sirens, the traffic parts like the Red Sea. He guns it, and we barrel down the middle of the road, out of the city until we reach the rural countryside.
“Time check,” he says, after a time.
“Going on four.”
“Not much time,” he says. “It’ll be getting dark soon, and we’ll need all the natural light we can get.”
“Sure you don’t wanna call in SWAT or a drone team to survey the area?”
He shoots me a quick glance. “We’ll call them in if we have to,” he says. “For now, I wanna see what we’re up against. If we’re up against anything at all.”
“I think it’s something else,” I say.
“What are you talking about, Jobz?”
“I think this . . . you and me checking out this place in Grafton . . . is you insisting on doing everything yourself. Going old school.”
I sense a hint of a smile cracking his otherwise stone, Clint Eastwood, Dirty Harry face.
“You want something done right,” he says, “you do it all by your lonesome.”
“Just like sex,” I say.
“Speak for yourself,” he says.
“Who says I wasn’t?”
We’re deep in the country now, with the tall trees and heavy brush flanking the narrow, winding County Route 2. We pass the occasional small farmhouse and double-wide trailer, and even an abandoned diner/gas station that must date back to the 1930s. Only when we pass a green sign that reads Grafton State Park does Miller slow down.
“Directions,” he says.
I pull out the Google directions printout.
“Left onto Long Lake Road,” I say.
“Keep your eye out for some signage.”
On the left side of the road, I spot a green road sign.
“There,” I say. “Long Lake Road. Hook a left.”
He does.
“Now what, Jobz?”
“Drive three-point-two miles until you come to a private drive.”
We drive for a bit along the bumpy, uneven, unpaved road. I can tell Miller’s got one eye on the road and another on the mileage counter. He slows up.
“Three-point-two miles,” he says. “On the nose.”
I see it then. A break in the brush.
“There,” I say, pointing. “A road, Miller.”
He stops, looks at the narrow bit of two-track carved out of the landscape that runs perpendicular to Long Lake Road. He pulls onto it, drives slowly, cautiously.
“Keep your eyes out for anything that moves,” he says.
“Like what?” I say, louder than I intended.
“Don’t be so jumpy, Jobz,” he says. “This was your idea, remember?”
“It was Anatoly’s idea,” I remind him. “That’s why I’m jumpy.” I decide not to remind him that he was the one who insisted on taking this late day field trip.
I feel the weight of the semi-automatic in my hands. I feel myself breathing, short inhales and exhales. Heart pounding in my chest. Aren’t I supposed to be sitting in a four-by-four cubicle inside the New York State Department of Employment Insurance Fraud Agency, denying once false claim after the other? Aren’t I supposed to be sipping on a double Starbucks latte and nibbling on a chocolate-filled croissant while catching little glimpses of the beautiful Kate as she scoots from one office to another, her body perfect, her smiles to die for? Aren’t I supposed to be looking forward to downing a few drinks with Henry after work?
Instead, I’ve got a gun in my hand, a headache from having been repeatedly poked with a gun barrel and nearly been blown to bits by an exploding window, not to mention the disturbing memories of a severed head covered in roses, and a man ripped in half at the waist . . .
Maybe I wasn’t cut out for a life of law enforcement, but for some reason, something entirely cosmic, law enforcement can’t do without me.
The cruiser bounces and bucks.
“Wish we had a Jeep,” Miller comments, both his hands on the wheel.
“Or a Sherman tank,” I say.
We bank a corner and suddenly come upon a tall chain link fence, the gates to which are locked with a thick chain and padlock. Miller hits the brakes, comes to a skidding stop. He thrusts the transmission into park, opens the door. I do the same.
“Be careful,” he says to me over the cruiser hood. “Watch for booby-traps.”
He draws his service weapon from his shoulder holster, approaches the gate. I’m right behind him.
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“Damn heavy-duty steel Master Lock,” he says, feeling it with his leather-gloved free hand. “You wouldn’t happen to have a grenade on you, would you, Jobz?”
I glance at the idling cruiser.
“No, but my department boss has a perfectly good cruiser at his disposal. I mean, it’s not the Sherman tank I wish we had, but it may very well do the job.”
“Jesus, and scratch the finish?”
“It’s not your car, Miller. It belongs to the city.”
“No, but I gotta answer for it.”
I stand there, watching my breath coming and going from my mouth.
“Okay,” I say. “We climb a ten-foot fence and hope that security cameras aren’t catching our images alerting Anatoly’s snipers to start picking us off. And even if we do make it safely to the other side, something tells me we’re better off if we have wheels underneath us and need to make a speedy escape from the bad guys. You know, fast and furious.”
Like I said, “You watch too many movies, Jobz.”
“I like my Netflix. It’s what I have in place of a woman.”
He exhales a long steamy breath. “Get back in the car.”
“Now we’re cooking with Wesson,” I say.
With Miller back behind the wheel and me back in the shotgun seat, he tells me to hang on. He guns the engine. When he’s worked up enough RPMs, he throws the tranny into drive. The tires catch right away on the frozen but rough ground, and we careen for the gates.
“Hang on!” Miller shouts.
We plow right through the gates, but not without damaging the front grill on the cruiser.
“We’re in,” I exclaim, somehow happy.
“What a job that just did on my ride, Jobz,” Miller grouses, shaking his head disgusted.
“The Mayor will forgive you,” I say.
He drives slowly onto a frozen two-track that runs along the perimeter of a huge field covered in dead plants. Correction. Not dead plants. But dormant plants.
“Poppies,” I say, after a long beat.
“Opium poppies,” Miller clarifies. “These are their fields. The Flower Man led us directly to the source.” Shaking his head once more. “Doesn’t make sense.”
“Unless he led us here to find something other than his poppies.”
In my mind, I’m hearing Anatoly’s dying words. Grafton. Burn it. Burn what? The fields? The fields are dead. Or, like I said, dormant anyway. You ever tried burning an ice cube? These fields might as well be Siberia. The time to burn them would be during the dry season: summer or early fall. By then, this property will be under the care of new management. The US Federal Bureau of Investigation and Homeland Security, that is.
I say, “I don’t think Anatoly cared if we found his opium or not. I think he wants us to find something else.” A dryness forms in my mouth, a soreness in my throat. Like I’m getting sick, but not from your everyday germs. “Just keep going, Miller.”
He drives without issuing a word, as though he too knows that we’re here to find something else, and whatever that something else is, it can’t be good. Still, we’re the cops. No choice but to press on, fight the good fight. Protect and serve. Protect and die if necessary.
The two-track heads uphill for a bit as it winds around a big expanse of dormant poppies. When we come to the top of the hill, we see an object that’s constructed at the end of the road.
“Looks like a shack of some kind,” Miller says, stating the obvious.
My gun in hand, I thumb off the safety. Do it instinctually.
“Take it slow, boss man,” I say.
“I don’t see any vehicles parked outside it,” he points out.
“Maybe they chopper in and out of here, Miller. Maybe there’s an entire army of Russian mobsters waiting inside that shack.”
“That’s the way I’d do it if I were scripting this,” he says.
“You missed your calling,” I say. “Miller, the movie man.”
But at this point, even the nerves meter is off the charts, and the jokes are getting stale. Soon, we come upon the wood and tin-sided shack. Miller stops the car maybe twenty feet away from the single-story structure’s door. He leaves the cruiser idling and the door open. I do the same. You never know if we might need to hop back in quick, make a fast getaway. Speaking of scripting, that’s how I’d write it.
The shack is constructed of old wood slats and rusted tin siding. There’s a picture window on the left side and an old roll-up door on the other.
“I’m guessing this is where they keep their farming machinery,” I say, as we make our way slowly to the front door, our pistols gripped in our shooting hands, at the ready. We stop. Miller places his gloved hand on the door opener, turns it.
“It’s unlocked,” he says, his voice tight, tense. “I’ll go first.”
“Good idea,” I say, heart lodged in my throat.
Positioning his service weapon so the barrel is pointing forward, not upward like they do on Miami Vice, he twists the opener all the way, pushes the door open with his shoulder. He steps into the darkness. Inhaling a breath and holding it, I follow.
“Jesus,” I say, turning and immediately heading back out the door. “What the fuck is that smell?”
I glance back in through the open door. Miller is standing still and stiff. He’s already pulled his handkerchief from his back pocket and placed it over his nose.
“You know what that smell is, Jobz,” he says. “It’s death. Very recent death. Breathe through your mouth, not your nose.”
Then he tells me to go back to the cruiser to fetch a Maglite. I do it. Thumbing the Maglite on, I aim it in the direction of the open shack door, step back inside. The place is wide open, with various bits of junk lying around. The dirt floor has recently been disturbed. In the far corner, three bags of lime are stacked one atop the other. Two shovels lean against the tin wall. Also, a pickaxe.
Miller points to a section of floor that looks more disturbed than the others.
“There,” he says. “Shine the light there.”
When I do, I realize the hand I’m holding the flashlight with is trembling. The light washes over something sticking up out of the floor. From where we’re standing, it looks like a couple of small rocks. But it quickly becomes apparent that these aren’t rocks at all. They’re rose heads. Dead rose heads, nearly blackened from exposure to the cold.
“Good Christ,” Miller says.
We go to the rose heads. Beneath them, bit and pieces of white protruding from the loose ground.
“Bones, Miller,” I say, swallowing something bitter. “That’s bone.”
He bends at the knees, brushes away the rose heads along with some of the freshly disturbed dirt. I aim the flashlight for his hand. It takes him maybe two or three swipes of the fingers to reveal the face. Instinctually, he rears back. Stands. Pulling his smartphone from his trench coat pocket, he speed-dials a number.
“Jack,” he says. “I need backup, fast. And an EMT.” He gives them the address. “Call in the Grafton Sheriff.” Then, shaking his head. “No, a Medivac is not necessary. It’s already too late.”
I’m still aiming the flashlight at the face, and my hand is still trembling. Miller inhales, takes a knee once more, removes more of the dirt from the face. He reveals thick brown hair and eyes that are still wide open, a face that is only partially decomposed.
“It’s a boy. A young man, anyway,” he says.
He shifts his hand to an area on the floor beside the face and begins removing more dirt with his finger.
“There’s another one here,” he says, revealing a nose, and a mouth, the tongue still protruding through the pale lips. “A second body. It’s also a boy or a young man.”
That’s when it hits me.
“Buried,” I say. “Anatoly didn’t say burn it. He said buried. His accent . . . his accent fooled my ass.”
Then, digging for my phone, I double-tap the Facebook app. Because of the cracked screen, it takes a few extra
taps for it to work. I access Janice’s account, go to her profile pictures, scroll through them until I come to one where she is standing in between both her sons. My stomach drops. Nausea kicks in like a cancer.
“Miller,” I say, handing him the phone.
He stares at the photo through the cracked glass, and he gets my meaning without our having to exchange a single word. He removes more of the dirt on both faces until it becomes apparent without any doubt whatsoever that the two bodies buried under the floor of this shack are that of Janice and Terry McGovern’s two sons, Terry Junior and Jan.
“He killed them all,” I whisper. “The Flower Man killed them all.”
Terry stands, hands me back my phone.
“Thank God their mother is not alive to see this,” he says. “Their father too, son of a bitch that he was.”
Wiping his hands off on his trench coat, he turns, walks back outside.
I follow on my boss’ heels, wondering if I’ll ever rid myself of the taste of death that coats my tongue.
Two hours later, I find myself lying on my Futon mattress in the upper bedroom floor of my houseboat. Other than the orange glow of the space heater and the white deck lights from the occasional passing trawler or northbound icebreaker, the place is dark and cold. I feel the slow-motion movement of the boat on the never still, mostly unfrozen river beneath me. I feel the alcohol that swims through my blood, but I still feel the pain of those boy’s murders. Still taste their rancid decomposition on my tongue and lips.
The Flower Man Page 21
