Swamp Bones

by Kathy Reichs

  I thought of possible scenarios involving such violent wrenching. An industrial accident? An athletic mishap? An aggressive attack? Though I came up blank, I was certain serious pain had been involved.

  I examined the truncated proximal end of the ulna. Saw scoring and gouging. Felt that tiny electrical charge. Chain saw.

  I studied the damage left by the blade. Though it looked identical to that on Kiley James’s foot bones, chain saws are not subtle. I’d need the actual tool to determine if it had dismembered both victims.

  What were the chances of two perps and two saws?

  I knew in my heart the victims had been killed by the same doer.

  But who was the second victim? How was he linked to Kiley James? Friend? Former lover? Competitor? I was determined to find out.

  I accessed Fordisc on the morgue computer and entered the measurements I’d taken. The program gave me lots of charts and statistics. All of which agreed with a high level of probability. My unknown was male and Native American.

  Oh yeah?

  I went back over the bones. Found nothing I hadn’t already noted. Frustration was starting to make me edgy.

  I took a bone plug for DNA testing, but wasn’t hopeful. What were the chances this guy was in the system?

  Out of ideas, I returned the bones to their tray and placed it with the others on the counter. My gaze fell on the jar of organ samples. Noted what looked like scallops of plastic floating in the formalin. Using a fine mesh strainer, I collected a few and viewed them under the scope.

  The scallops were fingernails and toenails. God bless keratin. The stuff survives just about every enzyme digestion throws its way.

  I was adjusting the light when a discoloration on one nail caught my eye. I teased it free and cranked the magnification.

  My breath froze.

  A layer of flesh adhered to the back of the nail. Visible on it was a circle sliced top to bottom by three lines, three more concentric curves to each side within the larger circle.

  Twenty-something Native American male. With a unique nail bed tattoo. And a history with Kiley James.

  Hot damn. I had a name for my unknown.

  I grabbed my phone and punched in a number. My call was answered on the first ring.

  “I’d bet my ass the second vic is Buck Cypress.”

  I explained the inked nail. The Fordisc. Yellen already knew the connection to James.

  “It’s a positive?” The sheriff sounded almost upbeat.

  “Not yet. But the vic also sustained a bad break of the lower right arm two or three years back. Looks like the fracture was treated by a professional. If so, there would be X-rays. If no one kept them, one of the brothers could confirm the break.”

  “Well shite in a bucket.” Yellen exhaled. “Those knuckle draggers don’t have a damn phone and I’m tied up with this firebug mess. Got no time to haul back out to the swamp right now.”

  “I can go.”

  I could hear chaos in the background. Agitated voices. Someone calling Yellen’s name.

  “Hold on.” The air went thick, as though Yellen had pressed the phone to his chest.

  “Sorry ’bout that.” He was back. “It’s a circus here. My doer may not have acted alone. What’d you say?”

  “I’ll go see Deuce. Confirm ID.”

  “By yourself? That’s nuts.”

  “Why not?”

  “You gotta ask?”

  “This ain’t my first rodeo,” I said dryly, mimicking Yellen’s comment.

  “You’ve got balls, Doc, I’ll give you that.” A pause. Then, “I’ll send a deputy out with you first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Fine.” It wasn’t.

  “Almost forgot. You’ll love this one.” Yellen made a throaty noise I took to be a chuckle. “Scott Pierce’s name was on the list of applicants for the Eugene ad campaign. Pretty boy made it all the way to the final cut.” A door slammed. The background noise level rose. “Hell, I gotta go. My deputy will call when he sets out.”

  Three beeps told me Yellen had disconnected.

  Sonofabitch.

  I didn’t want to go the swamp tomorrow. I wanted to sleep in. Lie on the beach. Eat stone crabs with Lisa.

  I looked at my watch. 5:30 P.M. Quick calculation. Forty-five miles, fast chat with Deuce Cypress, half an hour back to Homestead. If I left now, I could confirm ID and meet Lisa by 7:00. And tomorrow I’d be free. Finished. Done. On vacation.

  Why the hell not? I’d been deputized. The boys and I had bonded over fingernail tats. They might dislike authority, but they weren’t going to shoot a cop.

  Impulse decision. I packed everything back into the cooler, grabbed Lisa’s keys, and headed for the car.

  I hadn’t counted on Miami’s rush-hour traffic. Or the brain-scorching glare of the setting sun. Or the geriatric way I navigated the dirt track.

  By the time I pulled up to the Cypress brothers’ shack it was almost 7:00. I dug out my phone to let Lisa know I’d be late. Cursed. No signal.

  As dusk gathered and the light faded, I began to regret my impetuous move. Deuce and Ernie pose no threat, I told myself. And Buck is definitely not home. No worries. Ask about the broken arm and vamoose.

  I got out of the car. Listened. No gunshots. No tic-ticing from Lisa’s Prius. Nothing but the croaking of frogs and the whine of mosquitoes.

  I was debating my approach when the little bloodsuckers hit. That got me moving. Again cursing the swamp, I mounted the front porch and knocked on the screen door. It rattled against the jamb. No one appeared. I banged harder. Same nonresponse.

  I hadn’t considered that the brothers might not be home. I was slapping and scratching when my ear caught a sound that wasn’t a night bird or some small hunting creature. I cocked my head and held my breath, trying to pinpoint the source.

  Stepping from the porch, I circled to the spot where Deuce had appeared the previous day. Cautiously. I didn’t want to alarm Rooster, the man-eating dog.

  Same motif as out front. Heaps of rusting junk piled black and angular in the growing dimness. Tetanus appeared to be the greatest threat back here.

  I picked my way around the rear of the house. Heard voices. Saw a muddy path leading toward water. Started down it.

  Deuce and Ernie were lounging on rickety lawn chairs, eyeing the marsh and smoking. A whiff told me their roll-your-owns weren’t tobacco.

  “Yo!” I called.

  Deuce’s head swiveled as his free hand grabbed the shotgun leaning against his armrest. Ernie smiled in my direction.

  On seeing me, Deuce’s eyes registered confusion, then recognition. He peered over my shoulder, probably expecting to see Yellen. The sheriff’s absence seemed to surprise him. His shoulders relaxed a micron, but the Remington stayed tight in his grip.

  “What’s up, lady?” he said, stubbing out his joint.

  Ernie continued beaming.

  My gut clenched. I hate to deliver news of death. Especially death by murder.

  Deuce read my face. “It’s Buck, ain’t it?”

  “When did you last see him?” I asked gently.

  “ ’Bout two weeks.”

  “Did your brother ever break his arm?”

  “Sure!” Ernie piped up. “Gator chomped him really, really good.”

  “It was a lunge performance,” Deuce confirmed. “Wrangler taps the gator on the nose. That day, the gator lunged early. Dragged Buck into a roll. Broke his arm and ripped him open palm to elbow. They took his sorry ass away in an ambulance.”

  Ambulance meant hospital. Hospital meant X-rays.

  “Which one?”

  “Kendall Regional.”

  “Does Buck have a fingernail tattoo like yours?” I knew the answer.

  Ernie nodded enthusiastically. “Buck’s the oldest.”

  “What happened to him?” Deuce’s eyes had gone as dark as his tone.

  “What he deserved.” The voice came out of nowhere. Cold. Male.

  My body tensed as adre
naline shot through me. Had I been wrong about Buck? Impossible.

  Night changes your perception, your sense of distance and orientation. I couldn’t tell how far away the guy was, had no idea where he stood lurking, watching us.

  I peered into the darkness, heart banging, mouth dry. Finally, at three o’clock, I noted a flick of movement. There was a reshaping of the shadows at the edge of the forest. A flash of fair skin. The glint of an eye. Then Scott Pierce came into dim focus.

  I glanced at the brothers. The expression on Deuce’s face was unlike any I’d seen there before. The man was terrified.

  I looked back at Pierce, every instinct on hyperalert.

  “The Remington. Kick it over here.”

  Deuce tossed then kicked the shotgun toward Pierce, hands raised in submission.

  “Pierce. You startled me.” Though my tone was casual, my brain was whirling.

  “My bad.”

  “A little outside your jurisdiction, aren’t you?” I was pleased at the steadiness of my voice.

  “Easy to get lost in the glades.” Pierce kept his eyes on Deuce. “Easy to screw up.”

  “We ain’t done nothin’ wrong.” Deuce’s tone was half defiant, half pleading.

  “You morons do just about everything wrong.” Pierce stepped further into the clearing.

  “Why are you here?” I demanded.

  “Thought you might want protection.”

  I caught the glint of steel in Pierce’s hand.

  “Yellen sent you?” My mind was clicking at warp speed. Disjointed pieces were sliding into place. The humiliation of losing an ad campaign. The jotted words that read like places in a national park. A photo of a python skin used by women fingered for illegal procurement.

  “Sure did,” Pierce said.

  Except Yellen didn’t know I was coming tonight. Had Pierce followed me?

  “I’m good,” I said. “Sorry you made the long trip for nothing.”

  More pieces. Hostile behavior at the rangers’ station. Unsupervised time in the locker room.

  “Can’t have a city gal running around all by her lonesome. This swamp’s a dangerous place.” Pierce began walking toward us.

  “Yellen’s on his way,” I lied, heart hammering against my ribs.

  “Yellen ain’t coming.” Pierce called my bluff.

  As the ranger cop drew closer, details of his appearance emerged. A flashlight in his waistband. A Glock in his hand. A deadly look in his eyes. The bulge of an object in his shirt pocket.

  My flight instinct screamed for me to take action. I held my ground and squinted to make out the bulge. It was leaf-shaped. With a spiral along one side.

  Sudden recognition.

  Kiley James’s journal.

  “I’m leaving anyway,” I said.

  I had to get out of there. Pierce had murdered and dismembered Kiley James and Buck Cypress. I’d stumbled onto his secret. Now he wanted me dead.

  I turned and started toward the car.

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  Pierce raised the Glock and pointed the barrel dead between my eyes.

  Chapter Ten

  “What the hell are you doing, Pierce?” I held my voice steady, despite the gun pointed at my face.

  “Taking care of a problem.”

  Deuce and Ernie were frozen in place. No help coming from that direction. My best tactic was to stall, look for an opening. Then what?

  Whatever it took to survive.

  “You killed Kiley James over a modeling job?”

  Pierce looked surprised. Then irritated. “The gig was mine. She stole it.”

  “That justifies murder?”

  “Revenge for the Eugene beat-down was just icing on the cake. Nosy bitch was into everyone’s business. Taking her out was reward in itself.”

  “She discovered you were poaching.”

  Pierce’s lips curled in a reptilian smirk. “Big thanks to Yellen for the shout-out on the journal. You understand why I had to get it first.” He actually laughed. “But even I didn’t know how useful it would be.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Miss Busybody had the number of every poacher in the swamp. Proof, too. Places. Dates. Photos. Everyone except for me.” He shook his head at the irony. “I didn’t even earn an honorable mention.”

  To Deuce, he said, “But she was all over you and big brother. Recorded everything but the length of your dicks. Ole Buck shouldn’t have pissed her off with his wandering hands.”

  “She’d have been onto you soon enough,” I said.

  “Life’s all about timing.” He shrugged. “She was here raging at Buck when I came to drop off a snake.”

  “Why’d you kill him?” Deuce’s voice hitched. “Buck never done nothin’ to you.”

  “Your brother was dumber than a bag of rocks,” Pierce snarled. “James knew every detail of our setup. Buck’s stupidity is forcing me to relocate my whole operation.”

  “Not to mention he saw you commit murder.”

  At my words, Pierce swept the Glock in an arc taking all of us in. “Start walking,” he commanded, stabbing the barrel toward the woods. “Hands where I can see them.”

  We complied, arms raised. Mud squelched underfoot as we marched single file along a path tunneled over with dense broadleaf canopy.

  It was now full night. The woods were thick and black. And alive with tiny sounds. I imagined all sorts of creatures going about their nocturnal business, invisible, annoyed at our passing. I heard water to my right but saw not a glimmer of reflected light.

  I was following the two brothers, with Pierce directly behind me. His flashlight beam was a pale yellow oval probing the path at our feet. I sensed the Glock at my back. Felt bullets ripping through my spine, tearing my innards, shattering my ribs. Pictured my blood pooling on the ground. My body in some remote corner of the swamp, my friends and family never knowing what happened to me.

  I could hope for nothing from my fellow captives. Ernie was childlike. And the fight had gone out of Deuce when I’d confirmed Buck’s death.

  Desperate, I tossed questions over my shoulder. “How are you going to explain killing us?” I expected no answer, but Pierce surprised me.

  “I’m not going to kill you.” I twisted my head to see him. Pierce’s eyes were cold and hard in the dark recesses of his face. “You’re going to kill each other.”

  “You’re sick,” I spat.

  “They find this baby”—he tapped the notebook in his breast pocket—“they’ll figure you died in a three-way shoot-out. Cypress boys take the fall. No shock. No tears.”

  “That’ll never fly.”

  Pierced jabbed me roughly with the Glock. “Keep moving.”

  I pivoted and began walking again, as slowly as I dared without arousing suspicion. “Yellen will spot a staged scene in a heartbeat.”

  “How much scene do you think will be left by morning? It’s the swamp.”

  “We found both Kiley and Buck.” In my mind I saw the mangled remains. Forced myself calm.

  “Fluke. Anyway, it’s irrelevant. The swamp will take care of the corpses. If not, the journal will explain why they’re out here.”

  Ahead, I could hear the steady slogging of boots. Sniffling I assumed was coming from Ernie.

  “No need for the chain saw. Blood. Calluses. All that mess.” Pierce sounded like the voice of madness. “Easy breezy.”

  Mosquitoes swarmed my face and feasted on my neck and arms. My mind ricocheted in a million directions. Turn and charge Pierce? Run for the woods? Make a break and dive into the marsh?

  The woods were dark as a tomb. What time was it? Eight? Nine? Would Lisa phone Yellen when I didn’t come home? Would he drive out here? How long would it take?

  The path reached a clearing. Overhead, the sky was a black dome peppered with tiny white dots. No moon.

  In the center of the clearing, a collection of cubes hulked darkly opaque against the slightly lighter backdrop of the dome. They l
ooked like crab traps—wooden frames wrapped in finely woven chicken wire. Inside each crate I could see the silhouette of a coiled snake.

  The heart of the operation. Stacked in threes and fours, there must have been two hundred crates.

  “Anyone want to snuggle with a python?” Pierce’s laugh was pure evil.

  I felt panic rise like a white-hot heat.

  Pierce again thrust the gun barrel between my shoulder blades. “Keep walking.”

  We passed through the clearing and picked up the track on the other side. Narrower now. Twigs and leaves grabbed my hair and clothing. Mosquitoes still gorged.

  My eyes scanned continually, assessing, picking out nuances in the darkness around me. I noted a small gap in the trees ahead and to my right. My brain flashed an image. Steep conical sides. Sinkhole.

  The width or depth of the hole was impossible to know, but somehow I had to take advantage of the break in vegetation without getting mired in the depression. I’d have only seconds. The plan was risky, but it beat certain death.

  Deep breath. Tense to the balls of my feet, I forced myself to wait until the optimal moment. When we reached the small breach, I two-hand-shoved Ernie into Deuce. They pitched forward and hit the ground in a tangle of limbs.

  Not hesitating, I leapt right, hurling myself across the little depression. The sinkhole spring was maybe two feet across. I hit the far edge hard, knocking air from my lungs and causing them to spasm. Gasping, I tucked into a ball and rolled, relying on the downslope to keep me moving.

  Behind me, shots rang out. Expecting fiery lead to rip through my flesh, I staggered to my feet and began running as fast as I could. Branches and scrub vegetation tore at my hair and sliced my skin. Roots and vines grabbed my ankles.

  Distance. More distance. This was the mantra in my brain.

  I ran on.

  My heart hammered. Blood pounded in my ears.

  Again, the crack of gunfire. More muted. Aimed in another direction?

  A cry.