by Jen Blood
“Do you know if anyone’s been in to document the scene?” she asked.
“No. They haven’t known long, and I doubt there’s a CSU local to the area. They’ll probably be coming in from Augusta.”
“That’s what I thought.” She turned to the intern who, to this point, had gone unnoticed trailing behind them. He hung at the edge of the room looking green, and completely out of his depth.
“We’ll need photos of everything as it is right now,” she informed the young man. A large camera hung around his neck, sleek and professional looking. He gripped the long lens convulsively at the order and nodded.
“Of course, Doctor.”
“And tell them I want everything in the lab—”
His eyes widened. “Everything, as in…”
“Just everything in this room,” she said, as though giving him some gift. “I want the rest of the basement documented and the contents catalogued, but I don’t need it in the lab just yet.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he agreed, after a moment. “I’ll let them know.”
She looked around one more time, then returned her attention to Jack. “I thought you said there were three bodies?”
He nodded reluctantly, his own stomach doing a somersault at the thought. He trudged through the trash to a small alcove at the far end of the room, no bigger than a small closet.
“In there,” he said.
She raised her eyebrows at him, and he shrugged. “I wanted to make sure no other animals had gotten trapped down here. God knows what will happen to this place after today.”
Jack braced himself as she opened yet another door, this one made of a thin sheet of plywood on rusted hinges. Sophie didn’t recoil, but it looked like the intern wouldn’t make it out of here with his stomach contents still intact.
“Go get some fresh air,” she ordered the man the second she caught a glimpse of what was inside the closet. “Take deep breaths. Throw up if you have to. Just don’t do it in my crime scene.”
The intern nodded swiftly, ashamed, and headed for the stairs. Jack remained where he was, staring at the body in the closet.
“Male,” Sophie said, moving forward with her tape recorder in hand once they were alone. “Hard to say how long he’s been dead. With the level of predation and the temperature lately, it could have been less than a week.”
She whistled, long and low between her teeth. “They really feasted on you, didn’t they?” she asked the body. “I hope to God he was dead before he got down here. It wouldn’t have been a good way to go.”
“The woman wasn’t,” Jack pointed out.
“No,” Sophie agreed. “But hopefully, the beasts had the good grace to wait until she’d passed before they dined.”
Jack’s stomach turned at the thought. “Do you think that’s likely?”
“It’s possible,” Sophie said. “If there were cats down here at that point, it’s unlikely they would have tried anything until after she was dead. And the presence of the cats would likewise have meant any rats or other small rodents would have stayed away.”
“Well, that’s something, I guess.”
Sophie looked around with a frown. “Precious damned little. But, yes... I suppose it’s something.”
When they had finished among the wreckage and were outside the house once more, Jack stopped Sophie with a light hand on her arm. She was still suited up, though they had both removed their masks as soon as they crossed the front door threshold.
“Yes?” Sophie said, turning to him with a smile.
He hesitated. If he were still in the FBI, this wouldn’t even need to be a conversation. Now that he wasn’t, however…
“I know I have no right to ask, but I was hoping you might keep me in the loop on this.”
“Because of your client?” Sophie asked. “This mysterious case you’re working on?” She eyed him speculatively, taking him in so thoroughly that Jack knew it would be pointless to lie. Nothing ever got past Sophie.
“Partly,” he said. “I’m not sure yet, to be honest. I don’t know what the bodies in the basement have to do with Nancy—the owner of the house.”
“The one who died early this morning,” Sophie said.
“Right.” Jack paused, remembering that he still had unanswered questions there, too. “Have you seen that body?”
“No, they called me in for the bones. I don’t typically deal with fresh remains, you know that.”
“Right,” Jack said, frowning.
“If you would like, though,” Sophie offered, after a moment’s thought, “I could get you into the lab while I’m looking over the other remains tomorrow. I believe all four bodies—including the woman who died today—will be in the lab in Augusta. I could give you more answers then, I’m sure.”
Jack looked at her in surprise. “That would be great, actually. Very helpful.”
He stood a moment longer, unwilling to look a gift horse in the mouth. This generosity still begged the question, though.
She laughed outright, seeing the puzzlement on his face. “Do you remember the case in Black Falls three years ago?” she asked.
“The last time we worked together,” he said, nodding.
“It was a difficult case.”
“Yes,” he agreed.
“I don’t know that I would have been consulted as much, involved so intimately, if you had not requested me specifically.” Jack started to protest, but stopped at the knowing look on her face. Rather than denying the charge, he shrugged.
“We needed the best for that case. You’re the best.”
“Indeed,” she said immodestly. “But I don’t know if you’ve heard: I recently sold a book.”
Jack’s eyebrows rose. “I didn’t, no.”
“Three books, actually. A new mystery series. HarperCollins has been very enthusiastic. And, while I already had excellent credentials, I became much more known after the border murders in Northern Maine. That was what got my current agent’s attention.” She smiled at Jack warmly. “I owe you a great deal for that case. This is a way I can repay you. I know you would never abuse the information, so if I can help…”
“Thank you,” Jack said, genuinely touched. “I’ll take whatever help I can get.”
Sophie looked back toward the house. There was something both sad and undeniably forbidding about the place, especially now that Jack knew what was inside.
“I have a feeling you’ll need someone on this,” she said. She didn’t look at him, her gaze still fixed on the house. “I don’t know what you might have stumbled upon here, but I don’t believe it’s good. And I think at this point, you’ve only scratched the surface.”
Jack followed her gaze, his own tension rising. He was grateful to have a case, and even thankful that it was such an intriguing one. Sophie was right, though:
This house held secrets, and Jack had a feeling they were buried a lot deeper than today’s easy finds might have them believe.
Chapter 8
IT WAS SEVEN O’CLOCK THAT NIGHT before I was able to get away from the animal rescue operation long enough to help with the search for Albie. There had been a reported sighting along a coastal trail in Thomaston that was under the care of the Georges River Land Trust, so that was where much of the search had been focused throughout the day. There was still another two hours of daylight, the air warm and the sky clear. The biggest issues this time of year in Maine were mosquitoes and blackflies, but a stiff breeze coming off the ocean kept them at bay.
“Have there been any new sightings?” I asked Corporal Lee Todd, a local warden who’d been brought in to serve as Incident Commander for the operation.
Lee was in her mid fifties, short and solid and tougher than just about any of the men I’d known who held this job. She’d been career military before joining the warden service after nearly twenty years of active duty in the Army. Today, she wore her usual khaki Maine State Warden Service uniform, her gray hair cropped short and her cell phone in hand.
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sp; “Nothing so far,” she said brusquely. “And the sighting this morning was vague at best. A ragged-looking guy with a little ratty dog. Could be him, I guess, but it’s hardly a guarantee.”
A little ratty dog. Oswald, the rat terrier who had plagued Jack at Nancy’s the day before, had never been found. I suspected that he might be the “ratty dog” in question, if this was in fact Albie we were talking about. Lee was right, though: this was hardly proof positive that we were looking in the right place.
“I don’t understand why they’re not keeping some searchers closer to the house in Cushing. This is ten miles from the Davis home. Albie doesn’t drive, and he’s not exactly a track star. He’s probably scared out of his mind, waiting for someone to come find him.”
An image flashed in my mind: Albie in his mother’s kitchen. The animals gone, his mother dead on the floor. Was that the way it had played out? Or had he been there before? If Nancy was attacked, had Albie seen the killer?
Or, was it possible that he actually was the killer?
Phantom shifted restlessly beside me. Monty had gone back out to the island to get her, Casper, and his own dog, Granger. Phantom’s plaintive whine reminded me that we had a job to do, and it had nothing to do with solving the mystery of how Nancy had died. Right now, our number-one objective was to find Albie.
“Sorry, girl,” I apologized to the dog. “You’re right. Back to work.” She looked at me with what appeared to me to be clear reproach. Phantom has a work ethic that would make the best Puritan envious.
I gave her a good whiff of the scent article we’d been working with: a downright disgusting pair of jockey shorts Fred Davis said belonged to his brother. They were filthy, which made me wonder if the odor might be so strong it would just be confusing for the dogs. Regardless, Phantom sniffed deeply and we set out once more.
Others had been out searching this region since noon, and so far the dogs had yet to pick up a trail. Before we even started, I had my own opinion about whether or not it made sense to be out here. Frankly, I thought the sighting earlier had to be bogus. How could Albie Davis and this little dog of his have possibly made it all the way out here?
Regardless, Phantom and I did our job: we searched.
Before long, Phantom took off along a trail off Upper Beechwood Street in Thomaston, her head up. Would Albie have followed a trail? Who knew how his mind worked on a good day, much less when he was most likely scared just about out of his head. How logically could he possibly be thinking right now?
None of those doubts or second guesses made any difference to the dogs, of course. But it was up to me as handler to take it all into consideration, to make sure I was setting my team up for the best chance of success out here.
We traveled the path for two hours with no luck, as day gradually turned to night. Phantom didn’t go far off the path, and it was easy to keep up with her. I took in the smell of sun-soaked leaves and dodged low-hanging branches, thick brambles cutting deep whenever I took a misstep. It had been a long winter, and a hard one out on the island. Now, despite the reasons for why I was out here, I was grateful for the warmth.
This time of year in Maine, Lyme disease is one of the biggest threats for both dogs and their handlers on a wilderness search. Most of my colleagues wore a kind of permethrin-soaked armor up to their knees—a mesh material sprayed with a Pyrethroid touted by many as safe for people and dogs. Less-well-publicized side effects have been recorded, but chemical companies spend enough money in ad dollars and lobbying in D.C. that those side effects don’t seem to get a lot of attention. Regardless, studies linking them to a higher incidence of thyroid cancer, shortness of breath, nausea, and a whole host of problems they create when they come in contact with plants and wildlife alike had convinced me: I would just keep myself covered from head to toe, do regular tick checks, and hope for the best.
Of course, that meant wearing more clothes on a hot summer day than I usually wore mid-winter, but at least they were lightweight. Mostly.
#
Two hours later, the sun had set, and we had long passed the Thomaston sewage treatment plant that the trail bypassed. We were moving through the woods out behind the Thomaston High School when I heard yapping nearby.
It wasn’t the sounding bark of a fellow search dog, surely. There was a tribe of Pomeranians who lived with an elderly couple near here, but this had a deeper edge to it.
Phantom heard it, too. Her head came up, ears working like directional signals, taking in more information than I could have with all five senses working overtime.
“Wait, Phan,” I said. She looked behind her, eyes glowing in the glare of my flashlight.
I knew Phantom wouldn’t start something with another dog if we ran into one out here, but neither would she back away from an instigator. I thought of Albie’s little terrier, Oswald. I definitely wouldn’t put it past that dog to look for a fight, especially after a day as hard as he’d no doubt had.
“Heel, Phantom.”
The German shepherd hesitated only a moment, clearly reluctant, before she came to a heel at my left side.
“Albie,” I called. “Oswald? We’re here to help you. Are you there?”
The yapping shifted a tone higher, this time more frantic. It was muffled, though, and I wondered whether I might actually be hearing a dog inside a local house. We weren’t far from the neighborhood boundary by this time, so it wasn’t out of the question.
Phantom suddenly whirled beside me, head up. She had the scent—I could tell by the way her head moved, nostrils flared. I hesitated only a moment before I let her go. I had to trust that she would follow her training, and come to me if there was trouble.
“Find him, Phantom,” I called to the dog.
It was as though a spring had burst inside her. Instantly, she was on the move. I followed as close as I could behind, ignoring the branches slapping at my face or the brambles that snagged my clothing. We were in the thick of the woods, or so it seemed. And then, suddenly, we weren’t.
Instead, an open field lay before me, goal posts and a dirt running track at the center.
The high school.
I thought of the conversation we’d had with Albie the day before. The faded pirate sweatshirt he wore.
Buc pride, he had said.
Buccaneers—the mascot of the local high school, or at least it had been when Albie attended, over twenty-five years ago.
Coach Pendleton gave it to me.
The only place Albie had ever belonged, aside from his mother’s menagerie:
Georges Valley High School.
“Albie?” I called. The barking was more frantic now, still muffled but getting clearer. I watched as Phantom made her way toward the equipment shed. She sat, looked at me, and barked twice.
Inside the structure, the barking escalated.
“Good find, Phantom!” I said. At this point, there was no doubt in my mind that she had done the job and found what we were looking for.
I played the obligatory game of tug with the dog, my voice high-pitched and enthusiastic as I forced my aching body to move. Meanwhile, I called Sheriff Finnegan to let him know what I had found, and waited for word back. Going in blind to a situation like this—an unstable suspect and a dog with an unknown history—was hardly ideal.
“You really think you’ve got him?” Finnegan asked me over the line. Phantom lay a few feet from me now, mouthing at the tug toy with the enthusiasm of a much younger dog.
“Phantom led me to an equipment shed at the high school,” I said. “There’s barking inside. You knew Albie, right? Is it possible he would have come here?”
“Of course he would,” Finnegan said immediately. “I’m an idiot for not thinking of it sooner. Coach Pendleton was better to him than just about anyone in his life. It makes sense he’d go to the field named for the man at a time like this. Hold tight. I can be there with a team in ten minutes.”
I told him I would wait, and hung up. Ten minutes is a lifetime when y
ou don’t know what’s on the other side of a door, though, and tonight was no exception. I took Phantom over to the water fountain for a drink, and studied the broken-down track overlooking a brick homage to 1950s architecture: Oceanside High School, formerly known as Georges Valley. The Thomaston and Rockland school systems had merged in 2011, after a fierce battle by residents of both towns to remain independent.
If Ren and Bear hadn’t decided to do home school once we moved to this area just over two years ago, this is the school they would have gone to.
I ordered Phantom to stay by the fountain, and made my way back to the shed five minutes later. I glanced back over to see my dog lying peacefully in the grass, content that her part of the job was over.
Then, I returned to the shed.
I stood outside second guessing myself, talking to Albie and the dog for an endless seven more minutes before flashing lights lit the darkness, sirens sounding through the quiet neighborhood.
“Sheriff Finnegan is here now, Albie,” I said through the door. “You guys are friends, right? You don’t have to be afraid.”
The sheriff strode toward me, flanked by three deputies.
“Has he said anything?” Finnegan asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “The only thing I’ve heard so far is the dog.”
“Hang on, Oswald,” Sheriff Finnegan called. At his voice, the dog’s yapping became a shrill whine. He recognized Finnegan, then—liked him, even.
“Albie,” the sheriff continued, “It’s Chris Finnegan. You remember that game we won, back in ’89? Went into a tenth inning… You were in the outfield. You remember that, Albie? You catching the ball—getting the out that ended the game? Quite a night, wasn’t it?”
There was still no response. Frowning, lips pinched, the sheriff glanced at the other deputies and silently motioned them back.
“I’m going to come in now, buddy. I know you’ve had a rough day. Let’s see if we can get you fed, find you a warm place to spend the night. Okay?”
Hesitantly, with one hand on his sidearm, Finnegan moved forward. He said Albie’s name again while his hand was on the door handle. “I’m coming in now,” he added.