River of Bones

by Dan Padavona

  “How was your morning with the dragon lady?” Darren asked.

  Lambert shook his head, as if clearing cobwebs.

  “I’m glad it’s over. They cleaned up the dig site and brought the evidence back to the lab.” The deputy’s eyes fell upon Phipps. “Is there a problem?”

  Phipps threw up his hands, ready to boil over before Darren cut in and told Lambert about the stolen money.

  “And we need to investigate now, while the crime scene is still fresh,” said Phipps, drawing an eye roll from Darren.

  Raven thought Phipps watched too many crime scene investigation television shows.

  Lambert interviewed Phipps’s wife and checked the lock on the door. With Phipps hanging over his shoulder, Lambert scrutinized the windows, searching for signs someone broke inside. He found none. When Lambert asked Phipps to fill out a report, the camper’s face turned beet red.

  “That’s all you can do? Why should I waste my time filling out a report, if you can’t find the thief who stole my wife’s money? Cops.” He sniffed. “We’d be better off with a private investigator.”

  “Or Matlock,” Darren said under his breath.

  Raven snorted.

  “Raven is a private investigator,” Lambert said, eager to push Phipps off on someone else.

  Oh, great.

  “Consider yourself hired,” Phipps said, extending his hand.

  Raven accepted it with trepidation.

  “You want a private investigator to find your money?”

  “And to catch the guilty party.”

  “You understand our rate is fifty dollars per hour?”

  “I’ll pay whatever it takes. I want this rapscallion caught.”

  “Rapscallion?”

  “Burglar. Thief.”

  “Mr. Phipps, a day’s worth of investigating will cost more than the money lost.”

  “That’s not the point. We can’t let thieves run rampant in a civilized society. If the sheriff can’t catch him, it’s up to you to uphold justice.”

  Raven sighed.

  “All right, Mr. Phipps. Let’s get started.”

  * * *

  The air pouring through the blower chilled Chelsey’s skin inside the doctor’s office. Her gown stopped above her knees, and despite her efforts, she’d buttoned the back crooked, causing the gown to hang off one shoulder. A stack of magazines sat on a corner table—People, Time, Sports Illustrated, and something about parenting. Pamphlets on the wall promised to help her cope with heart disease, stroke, and various forms of cancer. She looked away when her pulse thrummed.

  A knock on the door caused her to flinch. She tugged at the gown hem as it rode up her thighs. The doctor was in his thirties with short, sallow hair and glasses with designer frames.

  “Ms. Byrd,” he said, staring at his clipboard. “How are you feeling now?”

  “A little better.”

  “Heartbeat normal?”

  “It speeds up sometimes.”

  “Chest pains.”

  “No.”

  He clasped his hands at his waist.

  “Tell me how it feels when your heart speeds up.”

  Chelsey fiddled with the gown and moved her eyes around the room.

  “My skin turns clammy, and it’s hard to concentrate.”

  “Nausea?”

  “Yes, and chills.”

  “I see. You could have a touch of the flu. There’s a summer strain running through the community this year. That would explain the nausea and chills.”

  “But not the rapid heart rate.”

  He removed the stethoscope from around his neck and placed it against her heart.

  “Breathe normally,” he said, sliding the chest piece across her flesh. “Everything sounds normal.” He moved the chest piece to her back. “Take a deep breath and let it out. Excellent.”

  He slipped the stethoscope around his neck and scanned her results.

  “So you’re not having a heart attack. The electrocardiogram showed a normal heart rhythm. No murmurs, nothing to be concerned about.”

  “But my pulse rate had to be over 150 when I collapsed.”

  “According to your notes, you’re a private investigator.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you had a run in with a…suspect of some sort.”

  “The person I was investigating, yes.”

  “Were you injured?”

  “No.”

  “Moments of extreme stress can cause your heart to race. You work in a stressful profession. If I had to guess, anxiety caused your episode.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “The ECG shows your heart is functioning well. Blood pressure is a tad high compared to your last exam. But that’s because of your stressful morning. Has anything like this happened before?”

  Chelsey rubbed her eyes.

  “No.”

  “Any history of depression.” Cold rippled through her body. “Ms. Byrd?”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “How long ago?”

  “When I was eighteen.”

  The doctor’s eyes flashed concern.

  “Did you take medication for your depression?”

  “Yes.”

  “When was the last time a doctor prescribed you antidepressants?”

  Shrugging, Chelsey glanced at the clock. With Raven taking a vacation day, no one been at the office since morning.

  “Twelve, thirteen years ago.”

  He prompted her for past medications and scribbled notes.

  “I’d like to start you on a low dose of an antidepressant.”

  “No.”

  “I believe an antidepressant would benefit you.”

  “I’m not depressed.” She said it loud enough for the words to reverberate inside the office. “I didn’t mean to raise my voice. But my episode wasn’t anything like depression. I couldn’t slow my heart.”

  The doctor paused in thought.

  “I’m willing to outfit you with a monitor. You’ll wear it for twenty-four hours, and the monitor will record your heart rhythm. Should you have another episode, we’ll see what’s happening.”

  “Is it uncomfortable?”

  “It’s cumbersome. But peace of mind is important.”

  She picked at her nails.

  “Okay.”

  “All right. You can get dressed. I’ll have someone bring your paperwork, and we’ll set you up with a monitor.”

  The door closed, and the sudden quiet shocked her. Somewhere down the hall, voices murmured. Another door opened and closed, and a female doctor greeted a patient.

  As Chelsey pulled her clothes on, she was tempted to run from the clinic. Forget the stupid heart monitor. These doctors were incompetent. Maybe she needed a cardiologist, someone who knew what a heart attack looked like. Before she could decide, the physician’s assistant entered the room with her papers.

  Chelsey chewed her lip. She couldn’t face depression again.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “You went through a traumatic experience, Thomas. Give yourself time to heal.”

  The temperature feels ten degrees too cold inside Dr. Mandal’s office today. As if she turned the air conditioning down to freezing. He rubs the chill off his arms and glares at the clock. Still twenty minutes to go before the appointment ends. The doctor folds her hands in her lap. Her affable demeanor usually relaxes Thomas. It isn’t working today. Thomas is a rat pacing a cage.

  “Tell me what you see when you close your eyes,” Mandal says.

  Thomas chews his thumbnail.

  “It’s dark, and I’m inside my parents’ bedroom.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “No, my partner is with me. Deputy Aguilar.”

  “You speak of her often.”

  “She’s the finest officer I’ve ever worked with.”

  “What do you see inside the bedroom?”

  Thomas clenches his eyes shut. In the quiet office, his imagination draws him in.
And he’s there, the drapes an azure tone from the moonlight, the shadows long and razor-edged.

  “Deputy Aguilar has her gun out. There’s a noise inside the closet, a moaning sound.”

  “Good, Thomas. What else?”

  His mind’s eye swings around the room. Stops on the two lumps beneath the blankets. The closest is his father. The person beside him should be his mother. But he knows better.

  “My father opens his eyes. He’s surprised and angry. Why am I in his bedroom?”

  “How do you respond?” Mandal asks.

  Nothing can thaw the chill running through his blood.

  “I reason with Father. He won’t listen.”

  “Because he’s angry you broke into his home.”

  “Yes. He’s trying to wake my mother. The person beside him doesn’t respond when he calls my mother’s name.”

  The nightmare shifts as he remembers what happened on that horrific night. It’s as if a demon raises its bloody claw and snatches reality, twisting it into a grotesque pulp. The gun shakes at the end of his outstretched arms. His father yells at him to get out, cries for his mother to wake up.

  The covers move. Slowly peel back to reveal the devil beneath the sheets.

  Thomas aims the gun. The sheet stretches and takes a human form…expanding as though it will burst at any second. In the background, Dr. Mandal’s voice calls to him. He can’t answer. She’s drifting away.

  “Get off the bed, Father!”

  He won’t listen.

  “Run!”

  Thomas grabs his father’s forearm. The brittle bones snap in his grip. The elderly, cancer-stricken man screams out as blood slithers down his arm. Thomas wants to yank his father from the bed and cover him before the evil strikes. He’s frozen to the floor, unable to move as the sheet grows toward the ceiling.

  The fabric tears.

  Thomas opens fire before the monster reveals itself. The gunshots slam the beast into the headboard, splashing blood against the walls. But when the sheet falls away, he doesn’t see a mutated version of Thea Barlow.

  He sees himself with the knife.

  Tuesday, August 10th

  9:55 a.m.

  Aguilar sat at a table near the back when Thomas entered the Broken Yolk. His deputy nursed a green and herbal tea blend, a new healthy menu option. The cafe owner, Ruth Sims, had implemented Naomi Mourning’s ideas for rebuilding her customer base. It appeared to be working. Last month, Ruth was prepared to close the cafe and cut her losses. This morning, half the tables were taken. Loyal customers from the cafe’s early days mingled with a college-age crowd. A student typed on a laptop, her computer connected to the internet through the Broken Yolk’s new Wi-Fi system.

  “Hey, Deputy Dog,” LeVar called from behind the counter. Raven’s brother had worked for Ruth Sims since late spring. “I’ve got a fresh glazed donut with your name written on it.”

  “I’ll take a coffee too.”

  “One step ahead of you. Wait, I can’t call you Deputy Dog now that you’re sheriff.”

  “I’m sure you’ll think of something, LeVar.”

  LeVar tapped a finger against his head.

  “Trust me, I will.”

  Thomas carried the donut and coffee to Aguilar’s table and took the chair across from hers. She cocked a disappointed eyebrow at his breakfast. Aguilar’s mission was to convince Thomas to make better food choices. She wiped the disappointment from her face and smiled.

  “Good morning, Sheriff.”

  “How are you, Aguilar?”

  “Why did you want to meet here?”

  Thomas scooted the chair forward and set his elbows on the table.

  “We don’t talk anymore.”

  “Well, we’ve been on opposite shifts the last month.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” Thomas set his hat down. “Since I filled Sheriff Gray’s position, you’ve barely spoken a word to me.”

  “I doubt that’s true.”

  Thomas smiled.

  “Aguilar, just because I’m interim sheriff doesn’t mean you can’t break my balls.”

  “So you want me to make fun of you. That wouldn’t be appropriate.”

  Thomas sat back and took a breath.

  “Okay, let’s start over. We’ll talk about work. What did you find when you searched the missing persons database?”

  “A half-dozen women, depending on how many counties we choose to include. I left the list on your desk.”

  “Thank you. I’ll get on it this afternoon.” He drummed his fingers on the table as an uncomfortable silence fell between them. Aguilar kept glancing around the room. “So I’m still in therapy with Dr. Mandal.”

  She sipped her tea.

  “How is that going?”

  “Better. Since the Thea Barlow shooting, I haven’t slept right.” Last month, Thomas shot Thea Barlow after the serial killer broke inside his parents’ house. Every time he closed his eyes at night, he pictured Barlow’s leering grin when she sat up in the bed. Had he not fired his weapon, the psychopath would have stabbed his father. “If Sheriff Gray was in charge, he would have kept me out of the field until Dr. Mandal cleared me. Now I need to self-police.”

  “I’m sure you’ll make the right call.”

  “I’ll appreciate it if you keep me in line. If you think I’m not myself, it’s important you tell me.”

  “I will, but your doctor should make that determination.”

  “She doesn’t see me in the field every day. You do.”

  She gave an obedient nod. He wished she’d level him with a joke and throw him off his game.

  “Anyhow,” Thomas said, continuing. “I might be out of the office more than I prefer over the next three months. My father’s cancer progressed, and he’s spiraled downward since the attempted murder.” When Aguilar didn’t respond, he rapped his knuckles on the table. “That’s where you come in. When I’m out of the office, you’re in charge.”

  “Me? Why not Lambert?”

  “He doesn’t want the responsibility. You could run the county, Aguilar. If you entered the sheriff’s race, I’d drop out and vote for you.”

  Her cheeks reddened.

  “I’m not much of a leader.”

  “You are in my book.”

  Aguilar squirmed in her seat.

  “I enjoy being a deputy. What’s the latest on the unknown skeleton?”

  “Dr. Stone was busy reconstructing the remains at the medical examiner’s office. I expect we’ll hear from her soon.”

  Thomas ran a hand through his hair.

  “Something is worrying you,” said Aguilar, setting her tea aside.

  “I’m afraid we found that missing teenage girl.”

  “Skye Feron.”

  “All these years, Skye’s parents hoped to find her alive. I can’t imagine how much it will crush them, if we determine the bones belong to Skye.”

  “What makes you think it’s her?”

  “Except for the doctor’s preliminary determination that it’s a female skull, not much. Just a sick feeling.”

  “You know,” Aguilar said, nodding at Thomas. “Sheriff Gray investigated Skye’s disappearance.”

  “I studied his case notes.”

  “The case predates my arrival. But after working alongside Sheriff Gray, I can tell you he doesn’t put all his thoughts into his case notes.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If Gray found a piece of evidence suspicious, he might not include it in his notes unless he had a sound reason to question the evidence.”

  “So I should talk to Sheriff Gray.”

  “That’s my recommendation.”

  Thomas’s phone hummed inside his pocket. His eyebrows lifted as he read the message.

  “Virgil sent me a text. Dr. Stone reconstructed the skull. It’s time to find out if Jane Doe is Skye Feron.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Tuesday, August 10th

  10:00 a.m.

  Sitting at her desk insid
e Wolf Lake Consulting, Raven tapped a pen against her palm and read over her notes. Yesterday, she’d interviewed a dozen campers about the stolen money. One woman reported a suspicious man pawing around the campgrounds. The suspect turned out to be a maintenance worker fixing a plumbing issue in cabin four. A nine-year-old boy with a face covered with chocolate swore he saw a black man in the forest. Given the boy’s father flew a confederate flag on his muscle car, Raven had reason to doubt the child. Still, she noted the sighting. After the interviews, she photographed footprints trailing around the cabins. The prints could have belonged to anyone, and Raven didn’t understand how she’d catch the thief. The man was probably long gone by now.

  Behind her, the floor groaned. She swung her head around. Her edginess made her feel foolish. What if the courts released Mark Benson and Damian Ramos over a technicality? Would the two men come after Raven?

  Scrubbing a hand down her face, she glared at the empty desk beside her. Chelsey should have arrived at nine. Her boss had never been late before last month. Now it was commonplace for Chelsey to wander in at ten or eleven, bleary-eyed and vacant looking. Raven picked up the phone, intent on calling Chelsey, when another noise sent goosebumps down her arms. A scratching sound, like someone dragging fingernails down the window.

  She crept into the hallway with her gun on her hip. Stared down the corridor toward the front door where an overgrown branch scraped the siding. She leaned against the wall and clenched her eyes shut. Why was she making herself crazy? Mark Benson and Damian Ramos were behind bars.

  In the kitchen, she heated the kettle for a calming tea and pawed through the refrigerator. The three slices of pepperoni pizza were four-days old, and Raven couldn’t stomach junk food this early. Behind the soda cans, she found a mixed berry Greek yogurt. She fell into the chair beside the table and spooned the yogurt into her mouth. Her head ached from lack of sleep. Last night, she tossed and turned while her mother snored down the hallway. Raven would never admit to Darren that she’d slept with a night light since the kidnapping. Though the light splashed illumination across the floor, it cast deformed shadows up the wall, morphing every object in the bedroom into a killer with a knife.

  After she rinsed the yogurt cup and tossed it into the recycling bin, Raven padded down the hallway and pushed the bedroom door open. Blackout curtains covered the windows, casting the room in perpetual night. This was where Raven or Chelsey slept if work kept them up too late, or one of them needed rest after a long day. A flower print DelValle comforter draped over the bed. Despite the darkness, the bedroom felt homey to Raven. Her boss was a caring person who went the extra mile to ensure neither Raven nor Chelsey suffered because of the long hours. Last December, Raven had crashed in the bedroom after a winter storm iced the roads. Twelve hours later, she’d opened her eyes to Chelsey arriving for work. She hadn’t recalled sleeping so soundly in years. On rare occasions, Chelsey brought her tabby, Tigger, to roam the halls and curl up on the bed. The office once felt like a second home to Raven. Now it was a reminder of how far she and Chelsey had drifted apart.