Danger in Numbers

by Heather Graham

  “You do realize how late it’s going to be when we get there, right?” Amy said.

  He nodded solemnly and reminded her, “A morgue is never really closed.”

  9

  Carver didn’t seem to be surprised they’d come to see the body again; he was glad to tell them she had been cleaned, and the insects and larvae feeding on her had been gathered and removed.

  That was...a relief, Amy thought. Too late, but good.

  “I know you haven’t started the autopsy yet, but you’ve done an inspection. Did you find anything to indicate she had been stabbed, shot, slammed in the head—anything that might indicate a cause of death rather than by—”

  “Come on, I’ll show you what I know so far—and that included a few surprises.”

  They followed him into one of the morgue’s holding rooms; he pulled out the drawer where the body lay. This time, despite the way the corpse disturbed her, Amy was ready with her sketch pad.

  The body was respectfully clad in a sheet. Somehow, it appeared even more incongruous.

  The woman’s face had been stripped of its first layer; there was not much left of her mouth.

  Amy’s pencil moved across the page as if by instinct as she stared at the corpse.

  Despite the damage done to her, she thought Hunter was right.

  It appeared that horns—demon horns—had been carved into her face. Even with so much flesh gone, some of the tissue and muscle structure remained.

  Enough to show the deep gouges.

  “Her wrists,” Hunter murmured.

  Carver nodded. “Yes. She was held somewhere. She fought desperately.”

  “Was she...eaten alive?” Hunter asked.

  “Yes and no. At least by my educated guess so far,” Carver said.

  “How did she die?” Amy asked.

  “Come, I’ll show you.”

  They followed him into the next room. Lab equipment sat on sparkling clean tables. Smaller drawers here held evidence taken from bodies.

  Carver drew out a plastic container. It held a bug—far bigger than an ant. To Amy, it appeared to be a spider, but different than any spider she had seen before. And it was big. Her first thought was that it was a tarantula, but it seemed too slender. It wasn’t moving.

  “Him!” Carver said.

  “And he is what kind of a spider?” Hunter asked.

  “Phoneutria,” Carver said with deadly seriousness.

  “Oh. Of course. I see,” Amy said, but she didn’t see at all.

  “He’s a Brazilian wandering spider, sometimes called a banana spider. They can be found in northern South America, but they’re not a regular denizen around here. I’ve sent pictures to Dr. Levy, Hunter.”

  “Levy will pin him down for sure,” Hunter said. He turned to Amy. “He’s based in our Miami office, and he’s one of the best entomologists I’ve ever met.”

  “One spider killed her?” Amy asked.

  He nodded. “You’re welcome to come back tomorrow morning when I do the autopsy. I honestly don’t think there is much more I’ll be able to tell you then. This young woman was held somewhere and she was bitten by the spider. The poison was left to do its work. She was dead, or close to dead, when she was placed out in the wilderness. The ants were then set on her. That kind of ant, well, it stays as long as the food source remains. Naturally, as you know, there were flies and other creatures and critters involved, too.” He hesitated. “I’m truly sorry to say her death would have taken time, though once the poison started its work, she wouldn’t have been conscious.”

  Amy felt her fingers jerk as she drew the spider.

  “It was...on her?” she asked.

  “Dead, squashed,” Carver said.

  “I’d like to see the body one more time,” Hunter said.

  Amy glanced at him. Dr. Carver nodded, watching Hunter. “What specifically?”

  “All right, it looks as if the same slashes were cut into this woman’s face as were in our Jane Doe on the cross.”

  “I agree,” Carver said. “But you’re looking for more.”

  “Yes. I want to see our first Jane Doe again, and our second.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “A brand.”

  Carver frowned for a moment. Then he nodded. “So much damage to even the first body, but yes, let’s go back and see if any of the injuries are covering any kind of a burn or a pattern. You say a brand, right, not a tattoo?”

  “I believe we’re looking for a brand. I think this killer—the head of this cult, for lack of better terminology—is borrowing from things done in the past, from things done by cult leaders he admires or wants to emulate because it will make him look like a religious fanatic,” Hunter said.

  They walked back into the room with the crisp clean metal drawers where the bodies were stored.

  Carver called for one of his assistants.

  “We’ll start with Jane Doe number one,” he said.

  Hunter nodded.

  The body was brought out and wheeled into one of the autopsy rooms, lights flicking on as they went.

  The dead woman was then placed on an autopsy table.

  Amy kept her book out; with gloved hands, Carver and Hunter went over the body, slowly, meticulously.

  “Doc?” Hunter said.

  “What? Where?”

  Hunter pointed to an area on the woman’s inner thigh.

  “There’s a piece of flesh ripped away there, but...a scar. Yes, Hunter, that could have been caused by a burn!”

  Only half of it was there.

  Hunter went dead still, staring at it.

  Yes, flesh was gone, as if had been sheared off by the rough wood of the cross. But something remained. A line...and near it and above it, the curve of a backward C.

  He saw Amy was sketching it, even as Carver asked his assistant to take photographs.

  When they were done, Jane Doe number one was returned to her drawer.

  Jane Doe number two was brought out.

  They didn’t have to search as hard this time; Hunter knew where to look. And while the insects had dined on so much of the young woman’s flesh, the brand on her was more recent.

  A part of the backward C could be seen, along with a faint line that seemed to be underneath it this time.

  When they were done, Hunter thanked Carver.

  “Damned right you’d better thank me—I don’t come in at this time of night for everyone,” Carver told him. He spoke lightly, but then added, “Any time, Hunter, Amy. This is what I do. I look after the dead, and I try to speak for them. You come any time you think I might be able to make them say more. I want you to stop this.”

  “I have one more question for you,” Hunter told him.

  “Shoot.”

  “So far, we think it’s young women. In their early twenties. Anything on their ethnicity?”

  “Both are Caucasian,” Carver said. “I’ve seen nothing that indicates where they might have been born. I am checking on something with one of our dental experts regarding X-rays on Jane Doe number one’s teeth.”

  “Could they have come from Central or South America?” Hunter asked.

  Carver grinned. “You know, we—North Americans—have a tendency to forget that most of the islands and Central and South America are immigrant places, as well. I know dark-skinned South Americans—and little blue-eyed blondes who speak Spanish or Portuguese as their first language. There were native tribes everywhere, but there has also been a lot of European immigration. Our first Jane Doe was light—light hair, light eyes. I believe this girl was a brunette. I don’t know about her eye color—it doesn’t exist anymore. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be able to answer you. My dental expert is going to compare her fillings with those I have seen in some of my deceased patients from South American countries.�
�

  Hunter nodded. “Thank you.”

  “Are you heading back out to the motel in the boondocks?” Carver asked.

  “We are,” Amy told him.

  “I’m going home—ten minutes away. And I’m going to start on Jane Doe number two first thing. I swear, I’ll call you the minute I have anything.” Carver looked at Hunter and managed a smile. “Please, go. Get some sleep. It’s been one hell of a long day.”

  “It has. Amy?”

  “I’m ready,” she assured him.

  They left the morgue. He was accustomed to driving, but he paused, looking at Amy. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be taking over. Did you want to drive?”

  “No, something is bugging me. I want to review my drawings while we head back.”

  “There’s a plan,” he said.

  They rode in silence as he started out west. She had a penlight, and kept it close to her notebook as she went over her drawing, perplexed.

  Hunter must have noticed her expression. “What is it?”

  “I’m just trying to figure out what I see. I think I almost have it.” She glanced up for a minute, grimacing. “Like something on the tip of your tongue, you know?”

  “I do know. I was looking at it and I felt that I should know...that I do know. But it’s in the back of my mind somewhere.”

  “Maybe initials, or a symbol that is initials...”

  Her phone started buzzing and she winced and looked at him. “Sorry,” she murmured. “It’s my brother.”

  “How many siblings?” he asked her.

  “One,” she told him, covering the phone. Then she spoke into it. “Linc! Hey, how are you?”

  Hunter smiled. Amy made a face.

  “Good, good. I’m just checking up on you!” her brother said.

  “Lincoln, I’m fine.”

  “And you’re working that bizarre case?”

  “Yes, I’m working the case.”

  They worried about each other. It was natural that he had called.

  “And John?” Lincoln had met her partner—and liked him.

  “Believe it or not, he’s been a good patient. John is doing great. His family is with him.”

  “But you’re working without a partner.”

  “Don’t worry. A case like this—you know that I’m not working it alone. Half the officers of every department in the state are working on it.” She smiled, glancing at Hunter and shaking her head. “I’m not working alone at any time, Lincoln. I’ve been paired with an FBI agent.”

  That, apparently, mollified her brother.

  The call ended and she glanced at him apologetically.

  “Older brother.”

  “What does he think of you being an investigator?”

  “He’s with the police in Richmond, Virginia,” she told him. “He moved north for love—my sister-in-law is great. Our father was a Miami-Dade detective.”

  “Ah, a law enforcement family.”

  “Yep. What about you?”

  He shook his head. “My dad is a writer. My mother is an artist, and teaches art.”

  “Cool. What does Dad write, and what does Mom draw?”

  “Together, they do children’s books.”

  “That’s—that’s great.” She frowned. “What do they do separately?”

  He laughed. “Oh, he writes all kinds of stuff. And she draws what she sees that she likes. They live in a little town in Maine.”

  “Nice.”

  “And your folks?”

  “Retired—and right now, thank God, they’re on an eco-trip in the Amazon.”

  “Thank God?”

  “I’d be trying to get my dad to remember that while I value his opinion in all matters, I can’t just stay on the phone with him questioning everything.”

  Hunter nodded and looked ahead, and Amy followed his gaze to the dark road beyond the windscreen.

  * * *

  The good thing about it being very late at night, Hunter thought, was that there was no traffic.

  The negative part of the drive was the complete and utter darkness.

  It made it possible, though, to understand how people could have been out there—how they could have slammed a heavy stake/cross into the ground and driven a spear into her heart without being seen. And the body had gone several hours without being discovered.

  “Did you grow up in Maine?” Amy asked him.

  “Not really. I was born in California. I spent some time here, though.”

  “Here? In this area?” she asked, surprised.

  “Went to middle school in Broward County.”

  “Oh!”

  He grinned at her quickly. “Learned to drive here.”

  She laughed. “Okay, so did I. We’re both defensive drivers.”

  He grinned and was surprised to realize how much he really liked her. He’d acknowledged she was attractive. Even with her hair pulled back and her staid suits, he found her huge eyes stunning. She had a knack for knowing when to be gracious—something he could be better at.

  And he was so impressed by her drawings.

  “Hey, when we get back, I’m going to snap a photo of your drawing. I’ll study it while I drift off to sleep. Maybe whatever is burning at the back of our minds will come forth.”

  They arrived at the motel. The office was dark, but the night-lights fell over the parking lot.

  Ryan’s car was there, and Ryan was up. His door opened even as Hunter shut down the ignition.

  “You didn’t have to wait up,” Hunter told him.

  Ryan shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep, anyway. AMC was showing one of my favorite old movies. Did you get anything else?”

  “We think the women were branded,” Hunter said.

  “Branded? Like cows are branded?” Ryan asked.

  Amy walked over to him with her sketchbook. “The bodies were...well, the flesh wasn’t all there. This is as much as we got.”

  “Mean anything to you?” Hunter asked him.

  Ryan shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

  “Did you get anything today?”

  “I did get back in time for Mass and chatted with Father Brennan after. I enjoy talking to him. He says he’s been thinking about Revelation since...since this began. In his mind, people use Revelation to try to scare others. Anyway, he came to the diner with me. He’s not married, being a Catholic priest,” he reminded them. “And we ran into Rabbi David. He was telling me if the world went by the Old Testament all the time, a good portion of people walking around might have already been stoned to death. Many things were punishable by stoning at one time. There were the laws of God—and the laws of man. The two of them were very philosophical—got a little heavy for me. But I can tell you this—they were both deeply disturbed about the second murder. Don’t worry, I didn’t give them any details. Oh, and when I got here, I checked in with Martin Sanders, and about an hour ago, I went to see him and his wife, and all was well.”

  “Good, thanks,” Hunter told him.

  “I think I’ll just walk around and check the outside of their little house,” Amy said. “See if they’re still awake for any reason.”

  “I brought your bags,” Ryan reminded them. “They’re in my room.”

  “I’ll get your things and set them in your room,” Hunter told Amy, waving as she started to walk to the far end of the motel and skirt around the office.

  “Thanks,” she called back to him.

  He didn’t realize he was staring after her until Ryan said with admiration, “She’s something, huh? Good for FDLE—they know how to recruit.”

  “Yes, she’s an impressive agent,” Hunter said. “Come on, it’s late. We might as well try to get some sleep after the day we’ve had.”

  Sleep. Hell yeah.

  They needed sleep. He knew
he needed to close his eyes—for a few hours at least—and not see their Jane Does in his mind’s eye.

  They needed to be fresh; they needed their minds to be sharp.

  They headed to Ryan’s room and Hunter grabbed both small bags, asking Ryan if he’d had any trouble.

  “None at all. You were already packed, and when I got to Amy’s place, her friend was there. She timed everything so she could feed the cat and meet me, and all I had to do was grab the bag.”

  “Thanks.”

  Hunter headed out with both bags.

  “Hey, I can help,” Ryan said.

  “I’ve got it.”

  Ryan still lingered just outside his door. Hunter headed into his room and set his bag down, then entered Amy’s room, setting hers at the foot of her bed. He paused and went to the window and looked out.

  Ryan was still outside, waiting.

  There was no sign of Amy. But Martin and Patty might have been awake; she could be reassuring them.

  But the fact that Amy hadn’t walked straight back bothered Hunter. Gut reaction.

  Not that she wasn’t capable; it’s just that what was happening here raised red flags at every turn.

  It was past midnight; the older couple probably went to bed long before that time. Martin opened the office up early, so they had to be early risers.

  Hunter went out to the parking lot. Everything was quiet. He walked over to Ryan. “I’m going to see what’s up.”

  “Well, hell, then I’m coming with you,” Ryan said.

  Hunter paused. “Right. Good idea. You head to the front door. I’m going to cut to the side and watch. Knock, and see if everything is all right.”

  “And if it’s not—”

  “Like I said. I’ll be there. And, Ryan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Be ready for anything.”

  Ryan drew his gun out of its holster, but eased his arms around his back, so it wasn’t visible. “Ready,” he said.

  Gut feeling.

  Hunter drew out his Glock, as well.

  Yep, gut feeling. Ready for anything.

  * * *

  “Please!”

  The word was barely a whisper.

  Patty Sanders was trembling so violently Amy feared she’d hurt herself on the knife blade at her throat before any harm could be purposely done to her.