Nothing Stays Buried

by P. J. Tracy

  Gino nodded. “Timeline works. Jimmy, how bad is it?”

  “Pretty bad. So far we’ve got eight in varying stages of decay. Some go back years. We have a forensic anthropologist coming up from Des Moines to sort those out.” He shook his head morosely. “It’s a burial ground down there. I’m hoping we’re at the end of it, but we’re not sure yet.”

  “Get to it, Jimmy, we’ll catch up with you later.”

  “Yeah, but first tell me this, did you find the bastard?”

  “He’s on his way to the morgue.”

  “Just what I wanted to hear. Great job, guys, catch you later.”

  After Jimmy left, Magozzi saw a mirage in the distance. It was a terrific mirage—Grace MacBride was jogging down the road toward them, mud flying up from her boots. Charlie was pacing her, his fur a mess. He only realized it wasn’t a figment of his weary, messed-up mind when he felt her arms around his shoulders, her swelling belly pressed up against his, and then everything became real again in the best possible way.

  “Magozzi,” she whispered into his ear. “Are you all right?”

  Magozzi wrapped his arms around her as he felt Charlie pawing at his leg, then rested his chin on the top of her head. “I am now.”

  “Is he still out there?”

  “He’s dead. One of the deputies returned fire and he hit the bastard in the femoral artery with the luck of the saints. Angel Cruz bled out before we could do anything.”

  “Good.” Grace had no compassion for people who killed innocents. None of them did. “You said the deputy returned fire. Is he all right?”

  “He’s in the hospital now, he’s going to make it. There’s something else, Grace. Our killer said Marla’s name before he died and gave a street address.”

  Grace’s arms fell away from his shoulders and she looked up at him, her eyes fogged with sadness. “Alive or dead?”

  “We don’t know yet. McLaren and Freedman are on their way there. We’re waiting for their call.”

  “Oh, God. What are you going to tell Walt?”

  “Nothing for now. It would be a cruelty to get his hopes up when we have no idea what they’re going to find.”

  “Does Sheriff Emmet know?”

  “He does.”

  She let out a stuttering sigh and looked at Gino, who had gained Charlie’s affection by dragging his fingers through his muddy coat. “Come on, let’s get you two cleaned up while we wait.”

  FIFTY-NINE

  Johnny McLaren slam-parked in front of a small brick rambler with blooming flower beds and a birdbath in the front yard—not the kind of place you’d expect to conceal a horrific monster, but this was the address Magozzi had given him. Eaton Freedman was unbuckling his seat belt while he pushed his door open, anxious to get out.

  Johnny laid a hand on Eaton’s arm. “Listen, Eaton, we don’t know what we’re going to find in there, so be prepared for some serious ugliness. We’re talking about a twisted fuck.”

  Eaton paused and looked up at the house. “Ever since Magozzi called, I’ve been wondering if we’re finally going to find the missing two and three of spades.”

  “You might be right. He knew he was dying when he gave Magozzi this address, so maybe he didn’t want any of his extra-special handiwork to go unnoticed before he cacked.”

  The radio crackled. It was the sergeant running their hastily assembled backup team. “Detectives, we’re in position, we’ve got the back of the house covered. No sign of movement from inside.”

  “Copy that, we’re going in,” McLaren answered, then looked at his partner. “Let’s go, careful, careful, just like we talked about.”

  As they jogged in a zigzag pattern up the front walk, guns drawn, McLaren listened to the disturbing cadence of his heart pounding double beats while his mind played an endless loop of worst-case scenarios. His inherent Irish melancholy and his cynicism about the wretched state of the human race wouldn’t let him think otherwise.

  He’d seen too much carnage during his tenure as a homicide detective, but he’d eventually learned to manage the nightmares and the depression. But walking into the lair of a serial killer was different, and it filled him with a dark, onerous sense of dread, because this might be the one time his imagination couldn’t anticipate the horror show waiting for him behind the front door.

  An eternity seemed to pass as they knocked, announced themselves, and waited for any response or sign of movement from within. McLaren finally gave Freedman a nod, then stood back while he easily rammed through the hollow-core door with one massive shoulder.

  They entered the gloom in half-crouches, flooding the small space with flashlight beams as they moved through to clear it. The place looked uninhabited. There was no furniture, just a futon in a corner and no signs of life. A stash house, McLaren thought.

  For drugs, cash, dead women . . .

  The place had central air, and it was turned way down. McLaren felt like he was in a meat locker. And maybe he was.

  “Johnny?” he heard Freedman call out from the kitchen.

  McLaren took a walk from the empty living room to a corner in the kitchen where Eaton was standing, flashlight trained on a door. There was a board across it, set in two braces fastened on either side of the frame, and there was a hasp with a padlock and a chain in place of the doorknob.

  “MINNEAPOLIS POLICE! IS ANYBODY DOWN THERE?” McLaren shouted, pounding on the door, praying for an answer. He thought he heard something, but he couldn’t be sure. “Get the cutters, Eaton!”

  “Fuck that,” he said, smashing the door to splinters with his fists and clearing a man-sized hole in the door.

  McLaren ducked under the board barricade and descended the stairs slowly. It was the longest walk he would ever take in his life. There was an overhead light on and his heart fell when he saw acoustic baffling on the walls and boarded-up windows.

  But as he emerged from the stairwell, he saw a different picture from the torture chamber he’d been anticipating. There was a small kitchenette generously stocked with food and beverages, a microwave and mini-fridge. A small dinette table was stacked with books and magazines. Sofa with a blanket, a bathroom, a treadmill.

  “Minneapolis Police! Is anyone down here?” McLaren cocked his head and was answered by soft sobbing. “Marla Gustafson? We’re Minneapolis detectives. We’re here to help.”

  They found her huddled and trembling in a corner, arms wrapped protectively around her shoulders, and it took all of McLaren’s strength to swallow his emotion.

  “It’s okay, ma’am,” Freedman said in his deep, soothing baritone, crouching down where he stood a few feet away. “I’m Eaton Freedman, and my partner’s name is Johnny McLaren. You’re safe now.”

  She looked up and tried to wipe tears from her cheeks with limp hands, but the tears kept coming like they would never stop. Some of the terror was gone from her eyes, but she was still wary. “How do you know who I am?”

  “Because there are a lot of people who have been looking for you for a very long time. I’m going to get you a blanket and call the medics, okay, Marla? Johnny will take care of you.”

  She put her face in her hands and sobs racked her body. “Did you catch him?”

  McLaren crouched next to her, but he didn’t dare touch her. She was in a place he couldn’t imagine, possibly in shock, possibly ruined beyond any comprehension, so he choked back his instinct to hold her, comfort her. “We caught him, Marla. Did he hurt you?”

  She shook her head. “He wanted to, but he couldn’t. Maybe he would have eventually. How did you find me?”

  “He gave us this address before he died.”

  McLaren felt his soul shatter when she looked up at him with impossibly sad, wet eyes, then reached over and wrapped her arms around him and wept, her tears soaking through his jacket down to his shirt.

  “We played togeth
er when we were kids. I think Dad and I were the only people who were ever nice to him his whole life. He couldn’t kill me.”

  Johnny tried to blink away the sting in his eyes as he held her and patted her back. “It’s okay, Marla, we’re going to take you home.”

  SIXTY

  Walt was sitting at his outdoor picnic table with a cold beer, giving his aching arms and shoulders a break from the chainsaw. He’d pushed himself too hard, too long, because when he was working, he wasn’t thinking about anything but the task at hand. But now, in the quiet aftermath of chaos, his thoughts were meandering off on dark roads as his eyes kept drifting toward the woods where Jacob and all the crime-scene folk had disappeared. It was a waiting game now, and if that didn’t kill him, nothing could.

  Harley and Roadrunner were sitting with him at the table, and he was grateful for the distraction of their company. Their presence didn’t entirely still his troubled thoughts, but it was some relief having other places to visit in his mind. For instance, to his great surprise, they’d turned out to be fine farmhands, even though they didn’t look the part. They’d helped him fix his fence, repair the downed siding on the barn, and clean up most of the debris in his yard that the tornado had left behind.

  “I thank you for your help today,” he finally said quietly.

  Harley dismissed him with a flip of his hand, like he was casually swatting off a gnat. “No problem, Walt. Just let us know if there’s anything else we can do. I’ve got the brawn, Scarecrow here has the brains. Well, actually I’ve got both.”

  Roadrunner rolled his eyes. “That doesn’t even dignify a response, especially after I had to show you how to use a hammer.”

  Walt was surprised to find himself smiling even a little. Their banter was natural and real, but it fell a little flat, and he couldn’t help but think they were putting on a show on his behalf. They knew what was going on. They knew about the cemetery and they had some skin in the game, too. They’d come down here to help him find Marla one way or the other, and they were waiting it out just like he was.

  “I think I’ve got a handle on things now. Another hour with the chainsaw and the oak that took out my front porch will be next winter’s firewood.”

  Walt turned around when he heard the Chariot’s door open and close. Annie Belinsky, wearing some crazy, fancy getup, a lot of makeup, and silly high heels that punched holes in his yard, was approaching with a big platter of sandwiches. She plunked it down on the table and settled next to Walt.

  “Nobody’s eaten a thing all day, and I’m assuming that wrestling cows and chopping wood and whatever else you all were doing uses calories.”

  “That’s kind of you,” Walt said, helping himself to a sandwich, even though food was the last thing on his mind.

  “And uncharacteristically domestic,” Harley added.

  “I am a woman of untold talents. Making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches happens to be one of them.” She lifted her head suddenly and Walt followed her gaze.

  Grace, Charlie, and two men in muddy suits were coming up the field road, headed for the picnic table where they all sat. Walt felt a lump form in his throat as he swallowed his bite of sandwich. There was a torment to the way they walked real slow, like they didn’t really want to get up here and join the rest of them, and Walt knew there would be bad news at the end of their walk. And he knew the badness was headed straight for him. They’d finally found Marla in that cemetery—that’s all it could be. “Are those your Minneapolis detective friends with Grace and Charlie?”

  Annie nodded. “Detectives Magozzi and Rolseth.”

  Walt took in a breath and couldn’t seem to let it go. The past two months of waiting suddenly flashed by in jagged fragments and he didn’t realize he’d been clutching the edge of the splintered wooden table until Annie put her hand on his, like she wanted to hold him together. He wondered where Jacob was, and if he knew, why wasn’t he here telling him in person?

  One of the detectives suddenly stopped and pressed a phone against his ear. He listened for a long time, talked a little, then consulted with Grace and his partner before they continued their walk, a little faster now.

  He didn’t remember how much time had passed before Grace and her bedraggled companions finally reached the picnic table. But he would always remember Grace smiling at him and giving him what they called a phone nowadays, some flat, weird contraption like the one Marla always used to carry with her.

  “There’s somebody who wants to speak with you, Walt.”

  He took the phone and fumbled around with it. “Who wants to talk to me and how the hell do you use this thing?”

  “Talk into that.” She pointed at a tiny pinhole at the bottom of the phone. “And you listen here.”

  Walt eyed the phone with deep suspicion but followed her instructions. “Hello?”

  “Daddy?”

  Walt swallowed hard, thinking it was a damn good thing Annie’s hand was still on his, holding him together, because otherwise he would just fly apart.

  “Daddy, it’s me. I’m coming home.”

  EPILOGUE

  Walt and Marla stood at the edge of the cornfield. The tall stalks had lost their emerald hue and were drying and withering now as autumn settled in to put things to rest for the winter. Harvest wasn’t too far off, and Walt anticipated a good crop this year in spite of the stress of an early drought.

  “By the looks of things, I figure another couple weeks.”

  Marla smiled. “And you’ll be out on that old combine day and night, cursing a blue streak at it every few rows.”

  Walt felt his troubled heart growing stronger day by day. Marla was her mother’s daughter, as resilient as the day was long, and she was getting better with each passing month. It had taken her a while to smile again, and a little longer than that to rediscover her sense of humor. The fact that it was back, even if just a little, was the alpha and the omega for him. There was nothing in life that would matter to him more.

  “Well, lucky for you, you and Jacob will be jetting off on your honeymoon right about then, so you won’t have to suffer the indignity of your father fighting it out with an old piece of junk. Should have replaced it years ago. But it’s old and stubborn like I am, so I suppose we deserve each other.”

  Marla shaded her eyes from the sun as she searched the distant line of trees beyond the field. “Still no sign of him?”

  “Nope. Haven’t seen him since you came home.”

  “There was enough commotion around here to chase him away for a while, but I thought he’d be back by now. Do you think he was finally captured?”

  “I thought about that, so I checked with the wildlife preserve and the Department of Natural Resources. Nobody’s caught a lion in the past three months, that’s for sure.” Walt chuckled.

  Marla absently plucked a seeded stem of canary grass. “This might sound crazy, but sometimes I think that lion was here for a reason.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She hesitated. “If you think about it, he was actually the one who found me. The Minneapolis detectives told us themselves that if it hadn’t been for the lion hair at the crime scene in the city, they might have never come down here the day of the tornado.”

  “I remember something to that effect.”

  “So maybe the lion only stayed here as long as you needed him and now he’s moved on. Maybe somebody else needs him now.”

  Walt had never been much for the spiritual side of things, but Marla always had that tendency, just like her mother, and especially when it came to animals. There was a fanciful aspect to her nature and she’d always viewed the world a little bit differently than he had. And there was nothing wrong with seeing a little magic or a larger purpose to the universe if that was the way your beliefs and your heart aligned. In fact, it seemed like a fine way to live.

  He gave her arm a tender sque
eze. “That’s a nice way of looking at it, Marla.”

  She nodded. “He’ll come back to say goodbye. I know he will.”

  —

  Walt had two more rows of corn to go before the harvest was finally in for the season. When he was finished, he would put the ornery old combine to bed for the year, shower and shave and dress in the only suit he’d ever owned, and then walk his daughter down the aisle.

  His peripheral vision suddenly caught a flash; just a brief movement in the woods that went still as soon as he looked in that direction. He shut off the tractor and stepped down into the stubble of the cornfield he’d just picked clean.

  “Hey, lion. Is that you?”

  There was no movement, no rustling, nothing but the raspy buzz of grasshoppers and the nasal honks of geese flying south for the winter. It had probably just been a startled deer. They were active now, larding themselves up on whatever forage was available in preparation for the lean times to come.

  Walt waited for a long time, then finally climbed back on his tractor and that’s when he saw a large, tawny shape emerge from the woods. His heart started to pound as he watched the lion amble to a strip of dried grass along the field and circle a few times before settling down on his haunches. He was relaxed, but his eyes never left Walt’s.

  “Hey, old fella,” Walt whispered. “I’m happy to see you.”

  The lion yawned, his mouth stretching wide.

  “Where have you been?”

  He blinked languidly, not giving up a single secret.

  “Marla told me you would come to say goodbye. She’s getting married today, you know.”

  The beast chuffed.

  Walt sat on his tractor for the better part of an hour, perfectly content to watch the lion while the lion watched him. The sun lifted higher in the blue sky, warming the air and casting a burnished autumn glow on a world that seemed just about perfect in this place and time.

  Eventually, his old friend rose from his nest of dried grass, shook his great head, then turned and walked back toward the woods, his coat shining gold in the sun. The last thing Walt saw before he disappeared was the auburn tassel of his tail twitching. Marla would have interpreted it as a final farewell before he moved along to help somebody else, but Walt preferred to think the lion was just saying he’d see him again in the spring. Or maybe he was just swatting away flies.