by Spencer Kope
I’m hoarse when we land.
* * *
When Marty lowers the front ladder, I let Jimmy descend first. Jane and Petey are right there, their arms around him, loving him. Heather’s face smiles up at me from the bottom of the ladder and I melt into her, holding her for the longest time. Part of me wants to cry, part wants to live in this moment forever, but the biggest part is just grateful to be home.
Diane remains on the sidelines, a soft smile on her face.
Her boys are home.
When moments have folded into minutes, I peel myself from Heather and take her by the hand, leading her over to the steady and reliable matriarch, our work mother. I embrace Diane, and then kiss her on the cheek. “Welcome home,” she says gently. Her eyes drift to Jimmy. “How is he?”
I shake my head. “He needs time.”
Eventually, Jimmy, Jane, and Petey break from their huddle. Jimmy needs to get out of here; I can see it in his face. He walks over and smiles at Heather and Diane, and then puts a hand on my shoulder.
He wants to say something, but the words don’t come.
I give him a single nod—a thousand words wrapped up in the gesture: respect for the man, appreciation for my partner, love for my brother.
No words are necessary.
He turns to go, and as he slips his arm around Jane and they start for the door, Petey breaks away and comes over to give his Uncle Steps a hug. “Take care of them,” I tell Petey. He grins at me, and pulls the lobe of my ear before running to catch up.
“They’ll be all right,” I say. “We’ve seen worse.”
Before leaving, I stop and thank Les and Marty. The seasoned pilot just nods his appreciation; the less-seasoned copilot starts telling me a joke about a rhino, a parrot, and a bicycle built for two.
Don’t ask me how it ends.
I didn’t stick around.
EPILOGUE
Lake Jocassee, South Carolina—September 30, 12:27 P.M.
It’s hot in South Carolina—over ninety degrees.
Detective Danny Pritchett of the Pickens County Sheriff’s Office was one of the first on scene when the body of Tasha Miller was found under the power lines, just east of Lake Jocassee.
That was a year ago.
“Most of the lake area is Oconee County,” Pritchett explains. “It’s only the eastern third that falls within Pickens County. The Jocassee Dam is to the south, and from it you have power lines running to the northeast and southeast.” He leans toward the windshield and points out the lines overhead.
The SUV slows and then stops at the edge of the pavement. Beyond is rough terrain, with only a semblance of road leading away from the parking lot.
“We walking?” Jimmy asks.
“Nah,” Danny says, “just switching into four-wheel drive.”
A moment later, they’re moving again.
“They found Tasha Miller under the power lines about two miles northeast of the dam,” Danny continues. “She couldn’t have been there more than a day or two. Some linemen were doing a routine inspection, and spotted her while they were up in the air working on one of the towers. That was August seventeenth last year.”
“Good memory,” Jimmy says.
“Well, honestly, we don’t get many homicides. It’s not something you forget. Besides, when I saw your request for information I had another look at the case report.” He glances back and gives me a wink. “My memory isn’t what it used to be.”
The drive to the crime scene is rough and slow, but not without entertainment. “You boys ever see Deliverance?” Danny asks, and immediately continues without waiting for a response. “Part of that was filmed right here. You remember the cemetery scene? Where they dig up the bodies and relocate them because a dam is going to flood the whole area? Well, that was shot right here at the Mount Carmel Baptist Church. Course, that’s all underwater now,” he adds with a wave of his hand.
“A year or so after the film crew left,” he continues, “the Jocassee Dam was finished, and when it came online it flooded a huge area, including the church. You’d have to swim down a hundred and thirty feet or so if you wanted to see it now.”
“So the scene in the movie where they’re moving the bodies was real?” Jimmy asks.
“As a heart attack,” Danny replies. “Irony is that Deliverance takes place on a fictional river in Georgia that’s also going to be flooded by a new dam. The scene was shot to show the steps they were taking to relocate the bodies, but at Mount Carmel they left some of the dead where they lay. Lucky the whole place isn’t haunted, if you ask me, like in Poltergeist, or some of them other shows.”
Danny, who appears to be the talkative type, chatters on about the dam and the lake it formed. He mentions he’s retiring in a year and starts telling war stories about his time on the force. This is cut short when the rutty road abruptly ends. “We’re on foot from here,” he says.
The hike is little more than three hundred yards.
I know we’re getting close when I see Leonardo’s distinctly hideous ebony shine oozing upon the ground—and then we’re on top of the crime scene. I see where Tasha Miller was laid out on the ground, her shine so beautiful, her legs pointing south, her arms east and west with a wide circle of ooze around her.
The elements are all here; the calling cards of Leonardo.
I sigh and hold up three fingers for Jimmy.
He knows my meaning: first Jessica Parker in Bellingham eleven years ago, then Ally McCully in Fairmont, West Virginia, just last month, and now Tasha Miller in South Carolina. Her connection to Leonardo almost went unnoticed—and would have, if not for the RFI.
Three victims, and, God help us, there may be more.
“That makes it official,” Jimmy says. “Leonardo’s a serial killer.”
Over the years, the elusive killer’s hideous shine has become difficult for me to look upon. Its color and texture so perfectly match the evil it leaves on display that, for me, a vision of hell is not flames and smoke, but stygian black and the texture of oozing blood.
I slip my glasses back on, clearing it from sight.
A year has come and gone, and you’d never know a body had been here. Time marches on, the bushes and trees continue to grow, the wind blows, the sun shines, life continues—but not for some; not for Tasha Miller.
“Leonardo,” I whisper.
And the wind whispers back … only the wind, nothing more.
ALSO BY SPENCER KOPE
Collecting the Dead
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SPENCER KOPE is the crime analyst for the sheriff’s office of Whatcom County, Washington, where he provides case support to detectives and deputies. Prior to that, he was an intelligence operations specialist with the Office of Naval Intelligence. He lives in Lynden, Washington. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter
Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Epilogue
Also by Spencer Kope
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
WHISPERS OF THE DEAD. Copyright © 2018 by Spencer Kope. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover design by Ervin Serrano
Cover photographs: hand print © DircinhaSW/Getty Images; man © Mark Owens/Arcangel
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-07288-7 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-8484-7 (ebook)
eISBN 9781466884847
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First Edition: April 2018
