Forgotten Bones

by Vivian Barz

  Ed folded his arms over his chest, sensing Susan’s disapproval. “No, I never went to the police, okay? But I also never talked to Milton again after that, not unless I absolutely had to. You know how small Perrick is. You can’t always help running into people you really don’t want to see.”

  Susan had heard enough. She could hardly feel her left arm anymore, and she was going to need her full strength if she was going to have any hope of fighting. How she was going to do that while handcuffed to a backhoe, she had yet to figure out. “Ed, what does all this have to do with why I’m being held prisoner?”

  Ed sighed and leaned back on the bucket. “Susan, how many times did I tell you to stop snooping around in the Death Farm case?”

  “I’m a cop. It’s my job—”

  “No,” Ed interrupted. “It’s your job to obey orders. My orders. And if you’d done as I ordered, you’d be at home now instead of here.” He flicked a thumb over his shoulder. “And that schizoid in the hole would probably be with you.”

  “And those two kids over there?” Susan asked. “What about them? What did they ever do? You knew Milton was killing all those other kids—”

  “No, Susan! I didn’t know !” Ed shouted, furious. “I didn’t even think to look in Milton’s direction until the woman’s body was found—Marta’s. Everyone, even the FBI, thought it was Gerald. And while you were supposed to be in the bathroom, Milton assured me that he’d hidden clues on the property that would implicate me, should I ever come forward about him.”

  Susan shook her head, desperate. “You’re going to get caught anyway! This is too big to hide!”

  “You said so yourself,” Ed said, shaking his head as if trying to make a sulky child see reason. “You’ve told no one about your theories. Nobody but me, though I bet the schizo has it figured out too.”

  The tight sensation in Susan’s throat was back, her gut clenching in fright. “Why didn’t you just let Milton kill me, then? Save yourself the trouble.” She turned her face and wiped her cheek against her shoulder, dabbing away hot, angry tears. “How are you even okay doing this to me? How can you do this?”

  Ed hung his head sadly. “I would have maybe been able to let you go if you hadn’t heard what Milton said about Marta. There’d still be a chance I could point you in the other direction. But no, I’m sorry. You know too much.”

  “You told me everything!”

  “Only after it was too late,” Ed said. “You’re like a tick; once you get your teeth into something, look out. You would have kept digging, eventually put it all together. You were good that way. Too good.”

  Susan was frantic. “Ed, what happened with you and Marta was over thirty years ago! If you explained that it was an accident . . .” An accident. Right. Even she didn’t buy it.

  Ed didn’t buy it either. “How do you think it will make me look once it gets out that I saw Milton smother a kid and kept it quiet? That because I said nothing, he got away with murdering a whole field of children? That the woman no one can seem to connect to the murders was my lover? You think they’ll believe me when I tell them that I had no idea what Milton had been up to all these years with those kids? You think they’ll just shrug and say, Well, Ed’s always been a real nice guy, so we’ll let it go ? You think they’d just let it fly, huh? I’ve dedicated my whole life to law enforcement!” Ed, worked up now, was starting to shout. “What would happen to Shirley if this got out? Our kids? You think I’m going to let you ruin my family’s life over some fling I had as a teenager?”

  Susan’s mind was reeling. “Ed, the FBI know Gerald had a partner. They found a movie ticket in—”

  “So? You think the FBI’s going to automatically look to the old, cancer-riddled man next door? And I think we both know Gerald is never coming back. Now, enough of this.”

  Screaming, Susan scuttled back against the backhoe as Ed got to his feet. “What are you going to do, Ed—you going to murder us all? Those kids over there? You think you can get away with killing another cop? Think about what you’re doing! ”

  Ed shook his head remorsefully. “Susan, I’m going to have to think about this for the rest of my life.”

  From the hole, moaning: “Noooooo . . . Susan! Don’t hurt her. Please!”

  My God , Susan thought. They’re down there waiting to die.

  Ed inclined his head toward the moaning. “Don’t worry. I’ll make it quick on them too.”

  Susan screamed as Ed seized her ankles and yanked roughly so that she was flat on her back. She groaned as her left arm pulled taut and her sore shoulder strained under the handcuff’s grip.

  “It’ll be worse if you fight,” Ed said, sounding remarkably calm for a man trying to commit murder.

  “Get off me, motherfucker!” Susan howled as Ed straddled her hips. She bucked and kicked her legs out with all her might, her feet skidding on dirt. Getting purchase was impossible. She lashed out with her free arm, punching Ed in the dead center of his face, but the effect was nearly comical because of her lack of momentum.

  More screaming from Eric in the hole: “Help her! Help her!”

  Who the hell is he talking to?

  Ed’s hands closed around Susan’s neck, and he squeezed. She coughed, her face ruddy and eyes watering, panic humming in her ears.

  Murdered by a cop. My mentor.

  Behind Ed came a rustling sound, but Susan couldn’t see beyond the hump of his shoulder. Distracted, Ed turned to look for himself. Susan seized the opportunity, bringing her knee up and butting him hard on the tailbone.

  Ed squealed. It had hurt her badly, so it must have really hurt him. Good! I hope you can’t sit down for a week , she thought with boiling rage and then snapped her fist up, landing it hard on his temple.

  “Now stop!”

  Behind Ed, the light flickered. Susan blinked desperately, clinging to consciousness, knowing she’d be a goner if she passed out. The atmosphere around them changed. No, she realized, the light was changing—swirling with color, a soft lime pastel, then emerald green. Flickering, intensifying.

  Susan brought her knee up once again. This time, Ed was prepared. He reared his hips up and out of her reach. He’d often complained of his arthritis at work, but now he didn’t seem to have much of a problem clamping his fingers tighter around her throat.

  Susan squirmed beneath him. I will not make this easy.

  But that light . . . so welcoming . . .

  Susan’s shoulder throbbed, her throat broken glass. Her eyes rolled back into her head, and she let her lids slide closed.

  No, no, no! Fight!

  She bit her tongue, regaining focus.

  She reached for the trowel, which was now only a few inches from her grasp. Where’d that come from? she thought madly. And then: Who cares! Grab it!

  Her fingers formed a stiff, ugly claw. Her limbs convulsed. She was fading. She groped harder, her fingertips grazing the trowel’s handle but not quite catching.

  Come on! Reach!

  Susan rocked her hips side to side, attempting to throw Ed off.

  Ed backhanded her roughly. “Hold still!”

  From their side came a whooshing sound, and then Susan had the fright of her life as Lenny Lincoln materialized not two feet away. The boy plugged his fingers into his ears and stuck out his tongue at Ed. Ed made a strangled sound, hands flying to his face like a traumatized heroine in a silent film.

  Susan didn’t hesitate. She reached out so fiercely that her tendons screamed and shook and burned like a live wire was running through the length of her arm. She didn’t stop until her fingers seized the trowel.

  She drove its blade straight into the side of Ed’s neck.

  Ed stared down at her in brow-furrowed confusion. “You . . . ?”

  Susan screamed, her breath hitching. “I’m so s-sorry!”

  Ed started, and his back stiffened. His hand found the trowel’s handle and closed around it. He gaped down at Susan as he pulled it out, his eyes already starting to glaze. Ho
t blood gushed out from the wound. She closed her mouth midscream, tasting copper, and turned her head to gag. Ed’s dead weight fell on top of her, knocking the wind from her lungs.

  Eventually, he went still.

  It took some effort, but Susan wriggled out from under him.

  Lenny Lincoln was nowhere to be found.

  From the hole, Eric screamed: “Susan! What’s happening?”

  Susan swiped a glob of blood from her cheek, turning it into a long red smear. Sobbing, she began searching the pockets of the man who would have murdered her if she hadn’t murdered him first.

  “Susan! ”

  “I’m all right,” she murmured, though she didn’t feel it.

  She found the handcuff key and set herself free.

  EPILOGUE

  The children in the hole, Milton Lincoln’s intended twenty-second and twenty-third murder victims, turned out to be a brother and sister from Salinas, California.

  Ashley and Bobby Everton had been snatched from a public playground while their mother, Clarissa, two months pregnant with her third child, was preoccupied in the bathroom with a severe spell of morning sickness. Doctors said Ashley was very lucky to be alive. Both children had been tortured—drugged, deprived of food and water, and repeatedly smothered to the point of passing out—but Ashley was asthmatic and had spent her days of hell underground without an inhaler.

  The children didn’t seem to remember much about their abduction, though they were adamant in their claims that a third child had been down in the dark with them, a small boy in denim overalls named Lenny. He’d played jacks with them, they said, which made them feel less afraid.

  Perrick Weekly reported the findings at Milton Lincoln’s as “unimaginable horror,” though Susan felt this was still a gross understatement. Devices of torture, seemingly innocuous at first glance, were found inside the barn, hiding in plain sight: trunks, large storage bins, crates, a Deepfreeze. All had scratch marks on the inside, fingernails from multiple donors embedded within them. One large wooden crate was particularly chilling because of its incompleteness; as the project Milton had been working on the night of Eric’s ill-fated visit, it had most likely been intended for Ashley and Bobby.

  The so-called clues Milton had hidden—the ones that would implicate Ed Bender in Marta’s murder—were never found, though the evidence against him was irrefutable. Out of respect for Ed’s family (and, more crucially, to protect the good name of Perrick PD), his involvement was never made public.

  Milton Lincoln had been crazy, but he’d also been clever. He’d conducted his kidnappings in a ritualistic fashion, which, it was now believed, was how he’d evaded discovery for so many years.

  Never once had he snatched a victim from Perrick. The children had been taken from nearby San Francisco, Oakland, and Salinas. Barring Ashley and Bobby, intended as his grand double score before cancer devoured his body completely, he never took more than one victim in a single kidnapping. He was also never impulsive. There were never any witnesses, and no fingerprints were found at the scenes. Due to his farm’s remoteness, Milton had been able to keep children underground in the barn for the duration of their kidnappings. Once he grew bored of brutalizing them, he’d seal them inside one of his torture devices one last time and let them suffocate.

  The FBI did unearth a large nonhuman body on Milton’s property: Mabel, Lenny Lincoln’s beloved horse. Susan requested that she personally be allowed to oversee the handling of the remains, as well as Lenny Lincoln’s, who had no living relatives to claim him. Denton Howell could hardly deny her request. She had, after all, single-handedly solved a multiple-homicide case, saved the lives of two children and one man, and nearly been murdered for her efforts.

  The morning Susan and Eric ventured to Goat’s Rock Beach with the ashes of Lenny and Mabel was sunny and mild. The shoreline was deserted; with the Death Farm case closed, the media and amateur crime sleuths had packed up and left the area in search of the next tragedy. Both held a simple urn as they walked quietly along the sand.

  It was Susan who eventually broke the silence. She cupped a hand over her eyes and asked, “Where should we do it?”

  Eric scanned the horizon for the perfect spot. His two black eyes had nearly faded, with only mustard-colored blossoms remaining near the bridge of his nose. “There. I think he’d like that; don’t you?”

  The breeze picked up gently, as if in approval, and they carried on in peaceful quietness toward the jetty. They walked the long rocky strip until they reached its tip, which dropped off into a sea that seemed to go on forever.

  It was there that they released Lenny Lincoln and his horse, Mabel, into the breeze.

  The ashes did not swirl into a big heart in the sky. Angels did not sing, and harps did not play. Lenny did not appear in the clouds, backlit by heavenly rays, galloping toward pearly gates on Mabel’s back. Still, Eric and Susan sensed everything was okay.

  Back where sand intersected with pavement, the air was thick with a familiar scent: sourdough bread baking. When they reached the car, they weren’t too surprised to find the driver’s side door wide open. Nothing had been taken, but a small token had been left behind on Eric’s seat. A silver jack.

  Little Lenny Lincoln was finally at peace.

  Overcome with a burst of sudden giddiness, Susan and Eric embraced, light headed and giggly, as if the salty-sweet mist had made them drunk. On impulse, Eric pulled Susan in close for a kiss.

  Susan kissed him back.

  When they parted, she asked, “Would you like to come to my place, spend the day with me?”

  This time, Eric didn’t hesitate. “Love to. There are some things I’ve been meaning to tell you.” He positioned the jack at the center of the dashboard so that the sun made it glitter and started the car.

  Shine on, little Lenny. Shine on.

  As they pulled onto the long stretch of highway that hugged the vast emerald sea, Eric reached over and took Susan’s hand. Their eyes met for a moment, and they smiled, content. The dead had finally been laid to rest.

  It was time to start living.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The question I get asked most as a fiction writer is “Where do you get your ideas?” The concept behind this book came about simply enough. A dear friend of mine, who is a sufferer of schizophrenia, told me that she wanted someone to write a book where the “oddball schizo” was the good guy for once. Huge thanks to Amanda for the inspiration. I hope Eric Evans has done you proud.

  Paul Lucas at Janklow & Nesbit Associates is the best literary agent any author could hope for, and I know this as fact because he’s mine. It was his championing of my work that helped bring Forgotten Bones to fruition. He’s also got a wicked sense of humor.

  Acquisitions editor Jessica Tribble at Thomas & Mercer is owed many thanks for taking a gamble on this eerie little tale. It would require an infinite amount of our beloved Post-its to outline all the work she’s put in on Forgotten Bones , so I’ll summarize: her mad editing skills and frank critiques helped shape the book into what it is today. As equally wonderful are Carissa Bluestone and the rest of the marketing, design, and editing teams at Thomas & Mercer and Amazon Publishing.

  Editor Kevin Smith also deserves a huge thank-you, and for all his hard work I owe him a martini—vodka, not gin, which I suppose I’ll have to excuse this one time.

  For my questions on crime, police, and the FBI, I turned to law enforcement officials Mike Gleckler, Joseph A. Solberg, and Jahman Yates. Any errors or artistic embellishments on procedure are mine.

  Linda Barz and William Flores at the California and Washington Departments of Corrections, respectively, cleared up any misconceptions I may have had about incarceration.

  Film director Edgar Wright came across as such a likable dude during the Q&A for The World’s End at the 2013 San Diego Comic-Con (a YouTube video of which I later stumbled across in 2016) that he inspired a few of Eric Evans’s character quirks.

  Thanks to Delores
and Larry McKenzie for providing the tranquil Apex Mountain retreat, where I completed the first draft of the novel. They were also kind enough to introduce me to Rick and Julia up the hill, whose parties spared me from full-blown cabin fever.

  During the finalization phase of the manuscript, I stayed in a sweet little log cabin nestled within the forest of Forks, Washington. Thanks to Bill, Kitty, Andrea, Guadalupe, and the rest of the crew at Huckleberry Lodge for making me feel at home.

  Thanks to James Steintrager, professor of English and comparative literature at University of California, Irvine, for those valuable lessons on the uncanny.

  I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that Bobbi and Amee Johnston were the ones who first got me interested in ghost stories as a kid. I’ll never forget those nights we spent squished together on the sofa, binge-watching our favorites: Pet Sematary , House , Poltergeist . For my warped adult brain, I thank you guys.

  Brandon Marlan gets thanks for letting me poach his last name. I imagine Brandon and Susan would get on like a house on fire, despite his insistence that he’s a grump.

  Sometimes, the simplest kindnesses that friends and relatives extend are what keep an author going, whether it’s a few uplifting words over a strong cup of coffee, a place to stay on the road, or an ear to bend. For these things and more, I thank: Christian “Back to work, V” Houser, Sean McGill, Peter M. Cummings II, Mike and Michelle Page (wee Cash and Luke, too), Kelly Cooke, Andrew Massoud, S. Thomas, Melissa Pastorino, Dana Swithenbank, JaMarlin Fowler, Juan Chavez, Jessica Schwartz, Ashley, Trinity Gleckler, Amber Kloss, David Neydland, Adam Wright, Cristopher McAdoo, Simon Le Gras, Simon Mason, Drea Gonzalez, Anna Lai, Xander Lopez, Ruben Dorantes, Jordan E. Rodriguez, Edith Loredo, Matthew Morris, Matt Kuka, Kevin Burke, Matt “Cletus” King, Nate Brady, Joe Daly, Allison Donnalley, and Jeralyn Pribyl.

  Also thanks to: Jose A. Guzman, who is always first in line to tear into my new releases; Emaad Moinuddin, who spared me from a meltdown that time he fixed my computer and then kindly refused to accept payment; actress extraordinaire Nadja Bobyleva, who always cheers me on and thankfully did not murder me with her questionably street-legal car when I gave her driving lessons in LA traffic so many years ago; and the Heath-Pfitners, my surrogate family Down Under, who always did their best to ensure that I was not eaten by a crocodile.