Nothing Stays Buried

by P. J. Tracy

  The change had been slow at first—it had started out with a few drunk and disorderlies, then property crimes like theft and vandalism. Then there had been a stabbing, and the first two murders in the county’s hundred-year history, and for the first time, people started locking their doors at night.

  And now, with the cartels spreading north like poisonous vines, things were dicier than they had ever been. And dangerous, because some of these so-called seasonal workers had no interest in honest labor. They were the cartel’s shadow operatives who hid among the innocents, traveling unchecked, unnoticed, and unabated on Interstate 35 from the Rio Grande all the way up to the Canadian border, carrying heroin and cocaine and heartache in their trunks. And it was damn near impossible to tell the sheep from the wolves.

  It tormented Jacob. As a child, he’d fished and swum in Walt’s lake with the children of the workers. They’d giggled, shared lunches, played games, and the language barrier didn’t matter one whit. He taught them some English and they taught him some Spanish. Not once had it occurred to him that his foreign friends were anything but kids, just like him. They were just like him.

  Now he saw grown-up versions of those faces and automatically wondered if they were in the stranglehold of the cartels; if they had drugs in their trunks and murder on their minds and decapitated bodies in their pasts. And when he thought such things, a black rage consumed him, because the blood they’d found on the road near Marla’s abandoned car traced back to a felon with multiple drug convictions in the U.S., four deportations, and a well-documented association with the vicious Sinaloa cartel.

  When the blood work from the scene had finally come back, Jacob had done plenty of mental acrobatics, trying to convince himself that the blood and Marla’s disappearance were entirely separate; a coincidence. But as a cop, he knew the most obvious solution was probably the right one. Marla, with her gentle, kind heart, would stop to help anyone in trouble, anyone she even suspected was in trouble, without thinking twice.

  Jacob jumped up out of his chair and started pacing the floor until he felt sweat trickling down the hollow of his spine. He’d never shot a man before, had certainly never killed one, but if Monkeewrench and their technology could help him find the monster who took Marla, that would change.

  THIRTEEN

  For God’s sake, Harley, turn up the air. I seriously think I might actually perspire,” Annie complained from the backseat of the Hummer.

  Harley grunted, deeply insulted. “What do you think you’re riding in, a frigging Prius? You’ve got individual temp controls right in front of you. Seat included, if you want to chill that magnificent backside, so crank your own air down and quit busting my balls.”

  “How much farther?” she asked as she fiddled with the temperature controls. She should have known better than to ask that. It gave Harley an excuse to talk to the sexpot who lived in his custom GPS, which told them several minutes later that “your destination is point-zero-five miles, you big handsome lug.”

  “Harley, you are the dumbest man alive, and the most pathetic. Why didn’t you just say we were almost there?”

  “Hey, I programmed that thing myself. Pretty cool, eh?”

  “Thus proving my point. You’re one step away from a blow-up doll.” Annie glanced out the window as they turned into a short gravel drive that led up to a small, square concrete block building. “This cannot be the sheriff’s office.”

  “Can, and is. Well, actually he called it a satellite office. His real one is thirty miles west in the county seat.”

  Annie closed her eyes. “I am in the third world.”

  Harley parked next to the single patrol car and shut off the Hummer. “Be nice. This guy wanted to meet up here to save us the drive. Besides, you’re going to like him.”

  “I am not. The man works in a concrete bunker in the middle of nowhere.”

  Grace was first out of the car, eyes scanning the lush fields of corn and blooming alfalfa that surrounded them. It was absolutely silent except for the occasional trilling of blackbirds and the faint rumble of some kind of machinery in the distance. It felt lonely, and to a lifelong city dweller, it also felt a little sinister, like all that empty space was just waiting to swallow you up.

  Roadrunner walked up to stand beside her, casting a long shadow on the gravel. “It’s pretty out here. What are all those purple flowers?”

  “Alfalfa,” Annie said, joining them just as she caught a glimpse of movement through a narrow, horizontal window carved out of the concrete block. “What’s he looking at?”

  “Us.” Harley moved up after locking down the Hummer as if he were parked in the Bronx. “We’re probably the prettiest people he’s ever seen.”

  “Then why does he look so suspicious?”

  “He’s a cop. It’s his job to be suspicious.”

  Jacob wasn’t totally surprised by the group that piled out of the Hummer outside. When Harley Davidson was the first player you met, you kind of assumed his three business partners might look a bit out of the ordinary, too. Besides, Harley had given him a vague heads-up about all of them riding the road less traveled, whatever the hell that meant. So he barely raised an eyebrow at the skinny guy in a shiny one-piece suit that made him look like a trapeze artist, but the women made him uneasy.

  He’d never been all that good with the fairer sex, but these two sure as hell didn’t look like the kind he was used to, and made him even more uncomfortable than usual. The window he’d been peering through like some spooky Peeping Tom was pretty much caked with rain-streaked dust, so Fat Annie, as Harley had called her, was basically just a shape, and a large one at that. Jacob had actually flinched at that “Fat Annie” label, and sure as hell hoped Harley didn’t introduce her to the locals by that name. “Fat” was a word you never used to describe anyone anymore, and especially not a woman.

  The other woman was pregnant—five or six months along, he figured—but otherwise as long and lean as Annie was short and wide. She was dressed all in black as if the color of her hair had leaked down to her clothes; she looked like a semicolon on a green page with the hayfield behind her. But there was an air about her that reminded him of meeting Clarence Krueger and his near-feral rottweiler on the road. You never knew if that damn dog was just going to sit there and pant, or try to rip your arm off. Come to think of it, Clarence made him feel pretty much the same way.

  The minute the front door opened and the sheriff stepped outside, Annie crossed him off the potential list. He wore one of those brownish uniforms all Minnesota sheriffs wore, which was a fashion cruelty since the color didn’t complement any complexion on the gene tree. And they always pressed creases in those silly pants that looked polyester even if they weren’t. Sure, he was a few inches over six feet and looked like he threw cows over fences every hour of the day, but what good was that when you ran around with a grass stem stuck between your teeth? A hayseed was a hayseed, and the moniker was well placed. The only thing he had going for him was that he’d come out of that crummy building to greet them instead of sitting inside with his feet on his desk reading the latest issue of Tractor and Field.

  But then he’d come a little closer, hand held out to Harley like they were best friends, and she saw the steady sky eyes and the blond hair stuck at weird angles out of his silly hat. The hat sucked. The eyes were better. They lay in the shade cast by the brim, and you only caught a glimpse of the color when he pushed his hat back on his forehead and looked down at you like you were something he’d never seen before. Trouble was, she couldn’t tell if that was a compliment or an insult.

  “Nice of you all to give Walt a listen. We’re grateful for your time, and we could surely use the help. Come on, let’s get you out of the sun and the heat.”

  The building’s interior was as spartan as the exterior, but surprisingly cool considering it didn’t have air-conditioning, just a slowly rotating ceiling fan that pro
bably did more to distribute dust particles than provide any real relief. There was a desk, some empty shelves, and a stack of metal folding chairs propped against the unpainted cinderblock wall. The only decor, if you could call it that, was a bulletin board that had old, yellowed WANTED posters tacked to it. Annie thought it had all the personality of a prison cell. In fact, the single cell near the back of the room looked more inviting.

  The sheriff gave her a wry smile while he gathered four folding chairs and arranged them around the desk. Apparently he’d seen her expression of disdain as she’d looked around the room. “This place hasn’t been in use for years, but it was the most convenient spot to meet up with you and save you a drive. Please, everybody take a seat.”

  When they were all settled around the desk, Harley lifted a slender folder labeled “Marla Gustafson” and passed it to Grace. “Don’t tell me this is all you have on Marla’s disappearance.”

  Jacob Emmet switched instantly from the affable rural sheriff to a very serious lawman. “Hell, no, there’s a mountain of official paperwork and physical evidence locked up at headquarters. This file is just my personal thumbnail sketch of the investigation so far. I record a daily summary, pulling out things that might mean something later for quick reference. Thought it might help you get ahead on the case, see if it’s something you can work with. If you’re willing to take it on, then I’ll establish a chain of custody for digitized versions of all the reports. Wish I could give it all to you right now, but legally, I have to clear it and be in possession and present during any transfer of evidence.”

  Grace thumbed through the pages of Marla’s file, scanning and recording as much as she could to memory. “Walt told us some things about the case, but probably not everything. We’d like to hear it from you.” She saw a pained expression on Jacob Emmet’s face that he was trying hard to hide. There was something more here, beyond a sheriff worrying about a missing constituent.

  “Unfortunately, there isn’t much to show after two months. We found her car abandoned on the two-lane over by Cutter Creek, less than a mile from Walt’s. She was on her way there for dinner. Marla made the drive down from the Cities at least twice a week to check in on her dad and bring him a meal. We tore that scene and the car apart, bolt by bolt, and recovered not a scrap of evidence that anything had happened to Marla. The car was fully functional when we found it, so she stopped for some other reason. If you knew Marla, you’d know she’d stop for anything or anybody in trouble. That’s where the blood in the road comes in. We found a puddle of it right by her car.”

  Grace lifted her eyes. “Not her blood?”

  “No, ma’am. The blood was in the CODIS registry, which stands for Combined DNA Index System—”

  “We know about CODIS.”

  The sheriff nodded. “The blood belonged to a violent multiple felon named Diego Sanchez—a Mexican national, illegal, with known ties to the Sinaloa cartel and four deportations on record in the States. We haven’t been able to track him down, but God knows I’ve tried. I hit up every domestic federal agency, the Federales in Mexico, and Interpol. He hasn’t been on anybody’s radar for three years.”

  Harley smoothed his beard, more in the interest of contemplation than fastidiousness. “This Diego Sanchez, he has cartel affiliation? Is there a big drug problem in Cottonwood County?”

  “Drugs are a problem everywhere, and we’ve seen our fair share lately. Mostly small-time stuff, but that’s how the cartels do business. They get the product in and disperse it in controlled quantities to low-level operatives or local dealers. That way, a drug bust in a place like this won’t ever get the time of day from the DEA.”

  Grace felt a pall of sadness settle over her, and she saw the same emotion in the faces of her partners as they listened quietly. They all knew this was the beginning of a story that probably had a very bad ending, but she was anxious to get back to the reason they were here. “Did you find any trace of Marla other than at the immediate scene?”

  “The hounds caught Marla’s scent trail through the woods, but it ended at Cutter Creek. We found her ring at the base of a tree there. I think she left it there for us to find. Like she was leaving a message, that she’d gotten that far.” He covered his mouth and cleared his throat.

  “She was chased into the woods,” Grace said quietly.

  “I believe so. And she didn’t get out of those woods on her own, and God forgive me for saying this, but probably not alive. Walt doesn’t think so either, just so you know. But there’s one thing I still haven’t been able to wrap my mind around—there was no blood trail in the woods to the creek, just Marla’s scent. The logical assumption is that Diego Sanchez is our perp, with his criminal record and all, but we didn’t find his blood in the woods. In fact, we didn’t find any blood in the woods.”

  “You said there was a puddle of his blood on the road. How much?”

  “Enough that Diego Sanchez should have left some if he’d chased her.”

  “So you think there might be a third party involved?”

  The sheriff gazed up at the ceiling fan as it spun lazily, stirring the thick air. “Can’t rule it out. Also can’t rule out the possibility that his blood on the road and Marla’s disappearance are totally unrelated. But the four of you probably don’t believe in coincidences any more than I do, at least when there’s a crime involved.”

  Grace nodded her agreement and added the new information to her growing, mental list of notes. “Were her personal items still in the car?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Purse, cell phone, the spaghetti and meatballs she and Walt were supposed to eat together that night—but nothing came out of any of it. The last text on her phone was from her boss, reminding her that it was her turn to bring donuts for Friday morning’s meeting. She worked at a veterinary clinic in Minneapolis.”

  “Did she have a computer?”

  “Yes. I’ve got it in my car. I figured you’d want to take a look for yourselves, although there’s not much to see. I’m at a dead end, which is why I called you. I will move heaven and earth to find Marla one way or the other and bring her home. As it stands, it’s like she never existed at all, and there isn’t a person in this county who wouldn’t give anything they had to spare Walt the kind of hell he’s going through.”

  Grace looked around at each of her partners—Harley and Roadrunner were looking at her expectantly; it was obvious from the beginning that they both wanted to help Walt and this sheriff. Annie’s tell was slightly more subtle; she simply lifted a round shoulder, which Grace interpreted as “Why not? Let’s do what we can.”

  “Sheriff, tell us why you think we have a chance of finding out what happened to Walt’s daughter when you couldn’t.”

  “I’m hoping that software of yours might turn up something I missed.”

  “I hope so, too. We have a mobile computing lab we could bring down for a day or two. That will make things easier for the transfer of evidence, and if we need access to additional physical evidence, we’ll be right here.”

  “That’s about the best thing I’ve heard in a while.”

  “Good. Can we take a look at Marla’s computer while we’re all here?”

  Sheriff Emmet was out of his chair before Grace had finished her sentence. “I’ll be right back.”

  FOURTEEN

  Cassie Miller had grown up in very small town America, where all the school grades were in one building and every single year your new teacher asked all the kids what they wanted to be when they grew up. The cool thing was that they kept a running record of your answers every year, and when you graduated, they tucked a copy in your diploma. Cassie had wanted to be a grocery store clerk from kindergarten to fourth grade, and now here she was at age thirty, living her childhood dream at the Minneapolis branch of Global Foods.

  When she arrived for her afternoon shift, she placed her purse and sweater in her locker in the employee
lounge, fluffed the short Marilyn Monroe haircut that was starting to show a little dark at the roots, reapplied her pink lip gloss, and checked in five minutes early with her employee ID card. The computer would then tell Big Brother management that she was a diligent worker, never late, but never too early, which might imply that she was taking advantage of the shift change for her own benefit. She was the perfect employee, beyond scrutiny.

  Well, almost perfect, because the last thing she did before taking her place at register four was to undo the top button of her hideous tangerine uniform to show a nice piece of cleavage. She couldn’t do it every day, only once a week or so, so the store’s owner, Mr. Dalek, didn’t think it was intentional. It drove him absolutely batshit, and his reaction never varied. At first his eyes would squint into lascivious crescents and whatever depraved scenarios lay behind them, she couldn’t begin to imagine and didn’t want to. But then the spastic little troll would snap out of his perv fugue state, remember his position, and race toward her, tapping his neck, hissing, “Button up, Miller!” Cassie would always pretend to be embarrassed, but truly, those were the moments she lived for.

  This is what happened when you weren’t allowed to kill people. You had to think up new and creative ways to torture them.

  When she got to the floor, things were quiet just as they usually were at this time of day. The noon slam of grab-and-go customers had scurried back to their work cubicles to eat overpriced, organic salad and sustainable aquaculture sushi from the deli section. The floors were being polished and the stockers were busy refilling emptied shelves and bins in preparation for the evening rush. The only customers were a yoga mom who was browsing the gluten-free section and an older, professorial type examining the vast selection of free trade coffee.

  And then there was Sarah, the mousy little fully buttoned girl who ran register three on this shift. What she lacked in self-esteem she made up for in sanctimony. She didn’t even bother to greet Cassie when she took her place at her station, just gave her a stern look of disapproval and said, “You’re going to get fired if you keep doing that.”