Relic

by Gretchen McNeil

  Meanwhile, Sonya seems unnaturally calm. “Greer and Graham. They were partners when we split up in the mine. Maybe they saw something?”

  Jack clicks his tongue. “Please don’t tell me you’re buying this, Sonya.”

  “How can you not?” Terrence snorts. “You want us to wait until it gets more of us first? Will three deaths convince you? Four? Will you only believe something’s after us when it comes for you?”

  Jack takes a deep breath, steadying himself. “We don’t have enough evidence to convince me that everyone who’s been inside Bull Valley Mine is dead. What about those college students Sonya found on the Internet? The ones who were busted at the mine last weekend. They’re not dead.”

  College students . . . “Remember the deputy who took our statements after we found Graham’s body? He mentioned a couple of missing college students. What if it’s them?”

  He sets his jaw. “What if it’s not?”

  “Fine.” No use arguing if he insists on ignoring the facts. “We know definitively that in 1970, Deputy Flynn’s dad led an investigation at Bull Valley. And last weekend, two college kids were arrested for trespassing at the same mine. We can hunt down the names of the coeds and everyone on the Flynn investigation . . .”

  “And find out if any of them are still alive,” Terrence says excitedly. “If not, we know we’re fucked.”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” I say.

  Sonya narrows her eyes. “And how are we supposed to find all of this information?”

  I can tell by the furrowed brow and wrinkled upper lip that Sonya already knows what I’m going to ask of her. She’s the only one with unfettered access to police records.

  “I know it’s breaking like a half dozen laws,” I say with a weak smile.

  “At least.”

  “But we need to know.”

  Sonya is silent for a few moments and I know better than to push her. Decision making is a slow, arduous process for my best friend. She needs to weigh every option, walk through the possible benefits and disaster scenarios, create a mental pro-and-con list in which the positives must outweigh the negatives by a significant margin. Then and only then will she make a decision.

  For Jack, who acts immediately and goes almost exclusively on instinct, the wait is positively painful. He’s shifting his weight back and forth between his left and right legs every few seconds, and he’s chewed the nail on his ring finger down to the pulp. I’m half-afraid he’s going to start gnawing away at the cuticle when Sonya abruptly looks up.

  “Fine,” she says with defiance in her voice. “But if I find anything salient to the investigation, I’m telling my mom, okay?”

  “What?” Terrence exclaims. “You can’t—”

  “Deal,” I say, cutting him off. “Can we do it now?”

  Sonya shakes her head. “My mom’s on the night shift, so I won’t be able to check until after she leaves. Five o’clock tonight?”

  “Even better,” I say, a new plan forming in my mind. “There’s something I need to do this afternoon.”

  “Uh-oh,” Jack says. “You’ve got that Sherlock Holmes look in your eyes again.”

  I smile and turn to Terrence. “Are you carrying?”

  Terrence turns bright red. “Dude, I’m in po-po paradise. Do you really think I’d bring it with me?”

  I arch an eyebrow.

  “Fine.” He shoves his hand in his pocket and pulls out a small Ziploc bag of weed.

  “You didn’t,” Sonya says.

  Terrence glances at her sheepishly while he hands me the bag. “Sorry.”

  “You don’t smoke,” Jack says.

  “Nope.” I smile. “But I know someone who does.”

  “Shit,” Jack says after I ask him to drive us back to the morgue. “Not that guy again.”

  “He can snag us a copy of Graham’s autopsy file before it’s uploaded to the database.”

  Jack rolls his eyes. “Denny couldn’t find his ass with a map and a GPS.”

  I hold the bag of Terrence’s special weed in front of Jack’s face. “For this? He’d be able to find El Dorado’s gold if we asked him to.”

  “Dude!” Denny cries, the moment we walk through the door. “What’s with the fancy duds? Is it prom?”

  Jack looks at him askance. “No.”

  “You guys getting married?”

  I sigh. How is it possible for someone to be this stupid? “No, Denny.”

  “We just need a little information,” Jack says. “Right, Annie?”

  “Right. The autopsy report on Graham Ainsley.”

  “No way, dude,” Denny says. “Your dad would kill me.”

  “You said that last time,” I say, smiling. “And you’re still here.”

  He rubs his hands together, unconvinced. “There’s a strict policy on unauthorized access to files.” Once again, he sounds like he’s reading from a script. Then he glances from side to side and drops his voice. “Unless you’ve brought me a little gift? Something from the T-Man?”

  Jack tosses him the bag, which Denny snatches greedily from the air and shoves in his pocket. “What’s your dude’s name again?”

  “Last name, Ainsley,” I say. “First name, Graham.”

  Denny disappears into the back and returns a few moments later with a file folder, which he drops onto the counter with a flourish. “Still on the coroner’s desk. Make it quick, okay?”

  He doesn’t need to tell me twice. I flip through the pages, attached to the top of the file folder with a wide metal brad. The first pages are the victim’s stat sheet itemizing all known information about Graham, from his name to what he was wearing to any pertinent information in his medical records, followed by a description of the scene of his death, and the initial findings of the police, including the early ruling of suicide as the cause of death. Next comes the detailed external examination of the body, literally from head to toe, documenting all marks, discolorations, scars, and tattoos. The coroner found nothing out of the ordinary that might contradict a suicide.

  Toxicology reports were normal, but it’s the internal examination that seems to have stumped the experts. As I read through the notes, I suck in a breath.

  “What is it?” Jack says from behind me. He’s been reading over my shoulder.

  “Graham’s brain matter doesn’t add up,” I say, pointing to a paragraph near the end. “Some of it is missing.”

  “Missing? What does that mean?”

  My hands have gone cold. “It means he didn’t kill himself.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  “HI, MRS. HENDRICKS,” I SAY AS I SLIP THROUGH THE KITCHEN door at Sonya’s house a few hours later. It’s always unlocked when someone’s home, and Sonya’s mom has no problem with her children’s friends barging in unannounced. It’s the law of the land, actually, and Mrs. Hendricks prides herself on a warm and friendly home environment. Basically, it’s the exact opposite of my house, where my paranoid father keeps the doors locked at all times, day or night, an unfriendly isolation that has become even more pronounced since my mom’s death. Sonya is actually one of my few friends who has carte blanche at Casa Kramer, since my dad knows she’s a “good kid” based entirely on the fact that her mom is one of his deputies.

  Mrs. Hendricks lights up at the sound of my voice, her teeth flashing white as a huge smile spreads across her face. “Annie!” She angles around the granite island and grabs me by the shoulders, kissing me on each cheek. “I haven’t seen you in ages.”

  “I’ve been hibernating.” I cringe at the lie. “Resting up for college.” I’ve actually been spending 90 percent of my time with Jack, sacrificing time with my best friend.

  “I’m so proud of you girls,” she says, still beaming from ear to ear. “Scholarships and fancy schools. Most a mother could wish for her children and their friends.”

  From behind, Jack clears his throat. He’s still in the mudroom. Mrs. Hendricks’s gaze shifts over my shoulder and her well-plucked eyebrows shoot up. />
  “Mrs. Hendricks, this is Jack.”

  I can tell by her pursed lips that she knows exactly who Jack is. I can only imagine what my dad’s been telling her about my boyfriend.

  “Annie’s told me so much about you,” Jack says, sticking out his hand and flashing his dimple. If he notices her coldness, he’s not showing it.

  “Mmhm.”

  Jack barrels on. “You were a lifesaver after her mom died.”

  “Gotta go,” she says abruptly, then grabs her sidearm and holster from the kitchen counter and heads for the door. “It’s good to see you, Annie.”

  Not even a nod in Jack’s direction. My dad’s really salted the earth.

  “Damn,” Jack murmurs we we’re halfway down the hall to Sonya’s room. “I guess I have your dad to thank for that?”

  “He’s just being protective.” I’m not sure what else to say.

  “Or a dick.”

  I pause outside Sonya’s closed bedroom door and turn around to face Jack. “My dad’s been through a lot, okay? He’s already buried his wife and he’s trying to protect me. I know you two aren’t besties, but he doesn’t hate you.” I can’t believe I’m defending my dad. I’ve been angry at him for so long, I guess I just forgot that deep down, he is my father. “So I need you to at least try to get along with him. Please.”

  He sighs and his body language softens. “Fine. But only because you said please.”

  Since Sonya’s expecting us, I don’t knock before I open her bedroom door but instantly wish I had, as I catch her liplocked with Terrence. She vaults away from him as the door opens, her dark skin blushing deep magenta.

  Terrence is utterly unfazed by our arrival, and skootches across the bed, laying his head in Sonya’s lap. “Don’t you respect me anymore?”

  Sonya smiles awkwardly, then rolls off the bed and opens the laptop on her desk. “Should we get this over with?”

  Jack takes a seat in the overstuffed chair by the window. “Let’s wait ’til everyone’s here.”

  “Everyone?” Sonya and I say in unison.

  As if on cue, Frankie opens the door. Her eyes land on Jack and me first, then slowly trail to Terrence and Sonya. “If I’d known this was a make-out party,” she says slowly, “I’d have brought a date.”

  Rob shoulders past her into the room. “As long as I don’t have to make out with you.” He jumps up, launching himself onto the bed, which bounces violently as he lands, then he snuggles in next to Terrence. “Isn’t this cozy?”

  “You invited them?” I ask Jack. I was kind of hoping I wouldn’t have to see Frankie ever again.

  Jack takes my hand and pulls me onto his lap. “If your theory is right, then this involves all of us.”

  “Can we get down to business?” Frankie says impatiently. “I had to cancel a date.”

  Rob snorts. “Oh, real classy, Frank. Your friend’s in a coma and her brother shot a hole the size of a dinner plate through his face, but you have time for a booty call.”

  “Hey!” Frankie snaps. “You have your coping mechanisms; I have mine.”

  Those might be the most honest words that have ever passed her lips.

  “Cut it out, you two.” Terrence pushes Rob off the bed. “This is important.”

  “Unless it’s gonna bring Graham back to life,” Rob says, lashing out, “I don’t give a fuck.”

  “You should,” I say.

  He whirls on me. “Why?”

  “Because Graham was murdered. And one of us could be next.”

  Rob gasps. “What?”

  “It’s true,” Sonya says. She takes a deep breath, then turns to me. “The label on Graham’s file has been changed to ‘Homicide.’”

  “I knew it,” Rob says. “He’d never hurt Greer. That suicide note was bullshit.”

  Frankie thrusts out her chin. “What does this have to do with us?”

  I glance around the room. “I think someone’s killing off everyone who’s been inside Bull Valley Mine.”

  Instead of reflecting fear or confusion, Frankie snorts. “How could you possibly know that?”

  “You were right about Peggy Cadwallader,” Sonya says, opening another file.

  “Who?” Frankie asks.

  Sonya ignores her. “She was on the same investigation team as Deputy Weller.”

  I lean over her shoulder, skimming the report on her screen. In addition to Weller, Flynn, and Cadwallader, there are three other names on this list. “Check the rest of them.”

  Sonya’s fingers fly over the keys. “Darren Phillips, deceased. Died of cancer twenty-seven years ago. His body had been in the house several weeks when it was finally discovered, and apparently his cats had eaten part of the body. Frank Kern drowned in a boating accident on the lake six months earlier. His arm had been ripped off, supposedly through contact with an outboard motor. And a year later, Walter Pineda’s remains were found inside the smoldering ruins of his burned-down house. He had to be identified by dental records as only his skeleton remained.”

  “That is not a coincidence,” Terrence says.

  I swing around to Jack. “See? I told you.”

  He pushes himself to his feet. “What about the college students?”

  Again, Sonya is quick with her results. She swallows. “Definitely the same ones Weller mentioned. They were taken into custody for trespassing at Bull Valley Mine, but the charges were dropped.”

  “Dropped?”

  “Your dad released them,” Sonya says, scrolling through the file. “Citing a lack of evidence at the crime scene.”

  That seems strange, especially since Weller and Flynn arrested them.

  “They were both reported missing on Friday,” Sonya continues. “The girl’s roommate called it in after she came home and found the apartment trashed. There were traces of blood, identified as her roommate’s. They’re thinking domestic violence, but neither the roommate nor her boyfriend have been seen since.”

  Blood and no bodies? I shuddered to think what became of them.

  Rob stands up and smacks Jack on the arm. “What was that dude’s name? The one who told us that story about the divers.”

  “Eddie Meyerson,” Jack says.

  Sonya nods. “There was one survivor from the group of divers who disappeared at Bull Valley Mine in 1969. His name was Jim Meyerson.” Sonya clicks to another page. “His body was found in his home six months later. His . . .” Her voice quavers; she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath to steady herself. “His face had been blown away by a shotgun blast, but the autopsy revealed that his eyes, teeth, and tongue had been removed first.”

  I gasp. “A shotgun blast to the head like Graham, and eyes and tongue missing, just like Deputy Weller.”

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Rob paces around the room. “Are you trying to tell me that everyone who’s been down in Bull Valley Mine has ended up a half-eaten corpse?”

  “It appears that way,” Frankie says dryly.

  Rob throws up his hands. “How is that even possible? You’d think the five-o would catch on that somebody’s going all Hannibal Lecter on Shasta Lake.”

  Sonya lets the folder fall onto the bed next to her. “Cannibalism? Who said anything about that?”

  Rob rolls his eyes. “Well, what the fuck else do you think the killer is doing—sewing together Frankenstein’s monster?”

  Sonya runs her hands over her hair. “I . . . I never thought of that.”

  “The murders were spread out over decades,” I say. “It would have been difficult for anyone to find a pattern.”

  Frankie snorts. “Are you trying to tell me that we’re dealing with a geriatric serial killer?”

  “No,” I say, remembering Graham’s text. “I think we’re dealing with something much more ancient.”

  “Oh, please.” Frankie crosses her arms across her chest, defiant. “Don’t give me that bogeyman bullshit again.”

  “Man of Squaw Creek,” Terrence corrects her.

  “G
raham texted me the night he died. Said he found something in his mom’s files about the town of Banner.” I pull my phone from my pocket and scroll to Graham’s final messages.

  “‘It comes from the Wintu words bana buli,’” Jack quotes aloud, before I can read it. “‘Which means “the hill where one eats oneself.”’”

  “Sounds like a stretch to me,” Frankie says, unimpressed.

  “There was something else he wanted to tell me. Something about a bedtime story. But by the time I called him back, he . . .” I shudder, remembering the blood splattered across the sliding glass window.

  “Mrs. Ainsley is really into old Wintu legends,” Rob says after a pause.

  “Search for ‘Wintu monster legends,’” I say. Sonya logs out of the police database and quickly types what I dictated, and clicks on the first hit—a list of old legends from the indigenous tribes of the Sacramento River valley. About a page into scrolling, I stop her. “Go back up.” She obliges, and I point to the description of something called an Anamet. “‘Cannibalistic creature,’” I read, “‘feared by the Wintu, Yana, and Okwanuchu tribes.’”

  Frankie shoves her head between Sonya’s and mine, and jabs her finger at the touch screen, opening the link. It’s a transcription from the middle part of the last century, describing an old legend. She reads out loud.

  “‘Long ago there was a being. Not a person, but a creature that came from the mountains and lived among us. They called it the Anamet. Once the Anamet was among you, the people would die; the tribe would wither. It would not age, it would not sicken, and its hunger would never die. It was a terrible thing.’”

  Frankie finishes and pulls away, facing the window. This had to be what Graham had discovered, the information he was killed to protect. But who could have known? Was the creature watching him? Hunting him? I remember the shadows from the mine, the one I thought I saw in my house the other night. Could it be watching us now?

  Or is it among you?

  THIRTY-THREE

  NONE OF US CAN BE ALONE. THAT’S THE CONSENSUS. WELLER was alone in his cabin. Greer was by herself when she was attacked. And while Graham’s mom was home when he was killed, she was in a drugged sleep. So it seemed for now, at least, until we could identify the killer, we needed to stick together.