“The diagram, please.” Corey held his hand out.
Emma took it from her backpack, but she didn’t give it to him, unfolding the paper instead. “As you can see, I’ve marked the graves with orange flags according to this diagram.” The attorney looked over her shoulder as Emma pointed out each grave and a corresponding flag.
“There is no grave shown at this spot, yet the GPR reading showed disturbed layers of soil just like the graves, only shallower.” Emma looked up at Corey. “We have to find out what was here.”
Corey stared at the map, then shifted his gaze to the sheriff. “What did you mean when you said a crime was committed again last night?”
“The person returned last night,” Nate said grimly. “And used the backhoe to dig the hole deeper.”
“Why didn’t you post guards?” the attorney asked.
“We did, two of them.” Nate kicked at a dirt clod. “Whoever robbed the grave doctored their thermos of coffee, knocked them out.”
Corey turned to Emma. “It sounds dangerous for you to be here.”
Sam wondered what the attorney would say if he knew someone had fired at them last night at Emma’s apartment, but she spoke before he had the chance to speak.
She swept her hand toward the men around her. “These men are packing heat, so I’m fine. But I do need to get to work. Are you going to forget about talking to the judge since we won’t be doing any more excavation other than scraping away a few layers?”
Corey shifted his attention from Emma to the hole. “I’ll hold off until the investigation is finished, but my client is adamant about any of the graves being disturbed.” Corey slipped the paper in an inside pocket of his suit just as an alarm went off on his watch, and he tapped it.
“I have an appointment back in Natchez,” he said and turned to face Emma. “But you and I need to sit down and discuss this survey you’re conducting.”
“We will when you tell me who this client of yours is.”
“I’ve told you before, his name is confidential. I will tell you he thinks it should be conducted by someone with a personal stake in the cemetery.”
Understanding dawned on Sam. Corey Chandler must represent a descendant of the slaves who were buried at Mount Locust.
“Does he think I won’t do a good job? I want to make sure all the burial sites have been found. And by excavating the cabin area, I’ll discover what the lives of the people who lived in the cabins were like.” She stopped to catch her breath. “And I would be happy to work with him, if that’s what he wants.”
Corey palmed his hand. “I’ll pass that along. Could we please sit down over dinner and discuss this? And not at Jug Head’s . . . maybe at the Guest House downtown? Strictly business, of course.”
Why would Corey need to discuss the matter with Emma over dinner at a ritzy restaurant? His stomach soured as she actually seemed to be considering the offer.
“Call me either tomorrow or Tuesday, and we’ll set up something,” she said.
Sam’s hands curled into tight fists. Surely he wasn’t jealous of the attorney. His body said otherwise, and he quickly forced himself to relax. Emma was free to date anyone she wanted—Sam had no claims on her. The man wasn’t even Emma’s type, although Sam was certain his earlier assessment that the attorney was interested in Emma was correct.
Could Corey be her stalker? Not if her stalker and the person who operated the backhoe Thursday night were the same person. His hands hadn’t been callused enough for someone who worked a backhoe. Sam wondered if the man had ever gotten his hands dirty, much less dug up a grave.
Corey patted Emma’s shoulder. “I personally believe you would do a great job here, and for what it’s worth, I’ll pass that along to my client.”
Silence fell on the others as the attorney turned and walked to his Lexus. Once he’d backed up and pointed the car toward the Trace, Emma broke the silence.
“Are we ready to get to work?”
“You’re not going to meet him for dinner, are you?” Sam asked.
She tilted her head. “I may. You don’t have a problem with that, do you?”
So Emma was interested in Corey. Not what Sam expected. “What if he’s your stalker?”
“Corey Chandler? Not in a million years.”
Sam wasn’t so certain. And not because he didn’t care for the attorney or because he had success written all over him.
“What are you carrying?” Emma asked.
“Gel lifters.”
“For . . . ?” Nate asked.
He turned to the sheriff. “I want to see if I can find any latent footprints on the backhoe floor.”
“Don’t you think he put newspaper down again?”
“Maybe, but I thought I’d check. Any objections?”
At first Sam thought Nate was going to insist he wait for the crime scene techs, then he nodded. “My team was called to a homicide first thing this morning on the other side of the county. You know how to use the gel sheets?” he asked, nodding at the box.
“Yeah. And I have my camera to document anything I find. And a box to store any prints I make. It’ll hold two sheets, and I have more boxes in the SUV if I need them.”
“Are you telling me you can lift shoe prints off something like the floor of the backhoe?” Emma asked.
“It’s not the best place, but yeah, I can get a partial. You can watch if you’d like, unless you need to get to work on the pit.”
She glanced at the pit and then back at him. “How long will it take?”
“Not long.”
“This I’ve got to see. And I can’t do anything until Chris gets here with the camera, anyway.” She turned to Nate. “Is he with the crime scene techs?”
“Yes, but he radioed he was on his way. I’ll check to make sure,” he said and walked toward his vehicle.
Sam pulled on a pair of latex gloves before he dusted the handle on the cab. It was clean, but he hadn’t expected any fingerprints because he figured the man probably wore gloves.
He opened the cab door. His heart sank. The gray plastic mat covering the backhoe floor looked clean. Holding his flashlight at a low angle, he looked for prints. Nada.
Probably wouldn’t be anything on the step either. And it had a pattern in the steel. Not a good place to find prints. Holding the flashlight so that the light cut across the step at a ten-degree angle, he caught his breath. There were several prints, but one stood out. “Do you see it?”
She squatted even with the step. “Shoe prints! How did you do that?”
“Ever had the sun come in through a window at a low angle and expose all your dust? Same principle. The clearest one should be the last one made. Hold the light, and I’ll get photos.”
She took the flashlight and shined it where he pointed.
“Can you hold the light at a lower angle?” When the print became visible, he said, “Right there.”
Sam laid a numbered chip beside the footprint and photographed it, then photographed it with a ruler to show the scale. After peeling the back off the quick-gel sheet, he carefully pressed it against the footprint and used the heel of his hand to smooth the sheet against the step.
“How long do you have to let it set?” Emma asked.
“This should be long enough.” He peeled the gel sheet off and shined his flashlight against it. Perfect. “It doesn’t look like the same shoe print we found in the pit,” he said.
“Do you think there were two of them digging last night?”
“Maybe. I’d wondered if there might be an accomplice, but it’s possible the print belongs to a maintenance worker.” Sam doubted that scenario. The print wasn’t overlaid with any of the other prints. “Whoever was here Thursday night didn’t leave prints anywhere. I’m thinking he didn’t have time to be as careful last night.”
21
There were thousands of acres of untamed woodlands up and down the Mississippi River, and out of those thousands he’d found the perfect plot of ground, three
thousand acres complete with a modern cabin that a rich client of his had built and grown tired of. It even had a powerful generator—the cabin was so isolated, the local power company had yet to run lines to the property.
He turned off the gravel road and wound back through the trees to the cabin nestled on a bluff on the banks of the Mississippi. At the bottom of the bluff was a small inlet with a boathouse and an inboard motorboat. In his mind’s eye, he could see Emma helping him clear the trees, giving them an incredible view of the sun setting every evening.
Their life would be perfect. They could even take the boat out on the Mississippi occasionally.
Once inside the cabin, he viewed the furniture with satisfaction. He’d picked up on the colors and designs she liked on her Pinterest page. He ran his hand lightly over the butter-soft leather sofa. It and its twin had set him back almost five grand. It had strained his budget, but they were so perfect for the glass-walled addition to the cabin.
The builder had inquired as to why he wanted all the windows to be bulletproof. Deer hunters, he’d told him, but the truth was, using bulletproof glass ensured one could not get into or out of the cabin through the windows. He realized it would take a few days for Emma to adjust to living here, but eventually, she would be happy to call the cabin home.
He made a trip back to his pickup and tugged an oversized bag from the back. He couldn’t believe how their tastes matched so perfectly. Emma would be pleased when she saw the goose-down comforter for their bed. He’d seen this exact one on her Pinterest board.
He arranged the comforter and pillow shams on the bed. His last purchases before he brought Emma here. Warmth spread through his chest. If everything went like he planned, by this time next week, Emma would be in her new home.
Ryker will try to stop you.
Ryker. It was becoming clear he had to do something about the ranger.
22
When the crime scene techs arrived, Emma walked to the tent where Nate stood.
“Find anything?” the sheriff asked.
“Sam found a shoe print on the step.”
“Really?”
“But that’s all I found,” Sam said as he joined them, holding a shoebox under his arm.
The sheriff looked inside the box where Sam had placed the gel sheet. “It doesn’t look like the same shoe that was in the pit.”
“That’s what I thought.” Sam pulled off the latex gloves.
“I meant to ask earlier,” Emma said, turning to the sheriff. “How’s Trey?”
“I’m fine.” The voice came from behind her.
Emma whirled around. She hadn’t heard the chief deputy drive into the parking lot, much less walk up on her. “You scared me.”
“Sorry,” he said, not sounding at all sorry. “Doc says I had a slight concussion, and to just take it a little bit easier today.”
“Where have you been?” Nate asked. “I tried to reach you earlier when I needed you to take charge of the homicide investigation.”
“Sorry, had my phone turned off, and then I overslept. Do you want me to check on them now?”
While Nate gave Trey directions to the location of the other crime scene, Emma ducked under the tent and walked to the edge of the pit. A light breeze from the south brought an earthy scent from the pit. When Nate called Sam over, she couldn’t help but notice he didn’t seem too happy to see Trey either. Surely he wasn’t jealous of her ex-boyfriend. At least not like he was of Corey. Emma brushed that thought away as soon as it popped into her head. She had no idea if that were true.
She turned and almost bumped into Trey. Emma shivered, and it wasn’t from the fifty-degree weather. “I’m sorry. Did you need something?” she asked.
“I’m leaving to go on patrol, and I just wanted to tell you again that I’m sorry about all this trouble you’re having.”
“Oh.” Sincerity rang in his voice this time, surprising her. “Thank you.”
“I want you to know, I’ve never believed Ryan killed Mary Jo Selby.”
Trey sounded so sure. “Why did your dad make it sound like he had?”
“That was my dad, not me, and he could be wrong sometimes. Not that he would admit it.” He ducked his head. “And while I’m at it, I’m sorry about some of the arguments we had and how I tried to make you into someone you’re not. Especially since it was me who needed changing.”
She looked askance at him. “Who are you and what did you do with the real Trey Carter?”
His face turned red. “I’m trying to turn over a new leaf.”
“What brought this on?”
“I’m trying to deal with some of my anger issues. And if you could find it in your heart to forgive me . . .” He let the request dangle, then he smiled. “And maybe give me a second chance? Unless you have something going on with Sam.”
She didn’t know what to do with this turn of events. It was easier to lump Trey in the bad-guy category than to think of him in a new light. “I forgave you months ago,” she said. “But as for dating again, I’m not dating anyone for a while.”
He stiffened and glanced toward Sam. “Doesn’t look that way to me, but if you change your mind, you know where to find me,” he said.
“Uh, sure. Thanks.” Time would tell if Trey had made a real commitment to changing or if he was conning her again. After he left, Emma gathered the tools she needed in the pit.
Nate and Sam approached, and the sheriff eyed her hand. “Do you think you can work with your wrist wrapped like that?”
“I’ll use my left hand for most of it, and I brought a bread wrapper to put over the bandage to keep it clean.” She glanced toward the tent over the pit. “Can I start digging?”
“Yep. Everyone’s finished.” Nate cocked his head. “But could Corey Chandler have actually stopped us?”
“I don’t know, but he certainly could have delayed us.”
Nate made a face. “Then I need to stop by and see Judge Thorpe sometime today to make sure he understands this is a crime scene just in case Corey changes his mind.” Then the sheriff nodded toward Chris and his 35mm camera. “He’ll be staying with you today and will maintain the chain of evidence should you find anything.”
“If you’re shorthanded,” Sam said, “I can document everything.”
“I’m not that shorthanded. In the unlikely event we find evidence to make an arrest, it’ll be important that I used my deputy to maintain a clear chain for court—it’ll be one less link to account for,” Nate said. “I would like to use a forensic anthropologist instead of Emma, but then we’d have to delay the investigation since Southern Miss can’t send anyone for two weeks.”
Sam turned to Emma. “I can help you,” he said. “You can start at one end, and I’ll take the other. It’ll take half the time that way.”
His presence in the pit would distract her. “Uh, let me explore a little first. The area is kind of small for both of us, especially right now. I promise, if I have trouble with my hand, you can take my place, and I’ll direct you. Right now, you can be my surgical nurse.”
“What do you mean?”
She grinned. “When I call for a tool, you can hand it to me.”
“You mean I can be your gofer,” he said dryly.
“I thought nurse sounded nicer.” Emma slipped the plastic wrapper over her hand. The easy banter they sometimes slipped into reminded her of times past, times she missed. After wrapping rubber bands around her forearm to secure the plastic, she grabbed a handful of orange flags to mark her work area and hopped down into the pit, where the earthy scent was much stronger. Emma frowned when her feet sank into loose dirt.
“There’s a loose layer of dirt here,” she said.
Sam peered into the pit. “Our thief probably scattered dirt to cover up any impression left in the ground.”
“Let’s just hope he didn’t have time to pack the dirt, and I can find an impression of what he was trying to hide. Let me stake a grid, and then you can hand me the mason trowel an
d a bucket.”
Once she marked the first area she planned to work, Emma looked up at Sam, who held a trowel in each hand, one flat, the other beveled.
“Which one?”
“The flat one.” Over the years, Emma had found the pointed, flat-bladed trowel usually used in bricklaying was the best tool for scraping loose soil away. “And hand me one of the brushes.”
She set to work, scraping away a thin layer of dirt and depositing it in a bucket. Half an hour later, she straightened up and peeled her jacket off. Working with only one hand was difficult. She called Chris over. “I’m back to the hard ground in this section. Do you want to photograph the area?”
He moved in to take photos with a zoom lens, and Emma stepped out of his way. When he finished, she went back to work. If there was an indentation, the loose dirt would have filled it in, which made a brush the best tool to use. She swept the section carefully, her pulse increasing when two narrow trenches appeared. She’d done enough archeological work to know she was looking at impressions of a tibia and fibula.
Emma stared at the shallow trenches, heaviness settling in her chest. It was one thing to think she was working on a grave site, and quite another to actually see evidence of it. “Okay, gentlemen, I do believe we have leg bone impressions here,” she said grimly and continued to brush dirt away.
“Are you sure?” Sam asked.
“Unfortunately, yes. Help me out so Chris can photograph it.”
While he took pictures, she grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler the sheriff had provided. Her hope that this wasn’t a grave was gone, and given the extensive work completed twenty years ago, it didn’t belong to a slave. Which meant the body had been buried in the intervening years.
23
While Chris finished photographing the impressions, Emma elevated her throbbing right hand above her heart as she tapped the trowel against her leg.
“You want me to dig a while?” Sam asked.
“No. I want to see this through.”
“But it’s evident your hand is bothering you.”
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