by CJ Lyons
Her breath drew shallow as if there wasn't enough air. Despite the ozone charge of the fast-flowing water spraying around her.
It was a man's right hand. Sam always wore his watch on the left. Didn't he?
Or was she merely trying to talk herself into that?
She took more photos. Up close there were tiny teeth marks on the bones. Gingerly she moved the large, interwoven mat of debris from the other end of the arm.
A man's head, grotesque, swollen, yellow, bobbed up from the water, breaking the surface, its mouth open in a gaping grimace.
Sarah slipped. Skittering back along the boulder, unable to regain her balance, her feet flew out from under her. Dead leaves and twigs scattered through the air. She slammed back against the rock face, cracking her head. One foot slid into the water, into the grasp of slimy, decomposed vegetation that tried to suck her down.
Her rope stopped her from tumbling completely into the water where she'd be at the mercy of the current. She lay there, her left leg bent against the boulder, her right one immersed up to her knee, cold water surging in to fill her boot, her head throbbing, her vision flickering with bright lights. At first she couldn't breathe, it was as if all the air had been sucked out and her lungs collapsed.
She made an effort and drew a deep, long draught of sparkling crisp air that burned her lungs. The muscles along her right chest wall voiced their protest and she knew she'd find bruises there by morning. At least she'd live to see morning.
The river seemed to cackle at her as the water sprayed up into her face, warning her that it was always there, ready, waiting for her to screw up again. She took another deep breath and steadied herself on the rope, hauling her water-logged leg free from the mire. Her boot stayed on, thank goodness.
She flopped back onto the boulder, not caring about the water soaking the rest of her. Then slowly she sat up, focused on her gruesome discovery. Her pack had gotten slammed against the rock when she fell, but her camera seemed to be working fine.
The head was misshapen, giving it the appearance of being swollen. The lower jaw hung by one side only. The flesh, eyes, tongue were all gone as were several of the teeth, leaving a gaping hole behind. The bone was exposed in a few patchy areas but most of the skull was covered by greasy yellow-brown adipocere tissue and algae interspersed with tangles of hair.
The man's clothes were intact—which explained why his remains hadn't totally disarticulated and scattered at the river's whim. Beneath a black windbreaker, he wore what once had been a light blue shirt with a buttoned down collar.
Did Sam have a shirt like that? Maybe, probably. It was the kind of shirt that every man had hanging in his closet, even a work at home dad like Sam.
Her stomach clenched, acid bit the back of her throat as she breathed through her mouth. Not because of the smell, although now there was enough debris stirred up to create a sweetly-sick stench. Her vision darkened and she realized she was hyperventilating.
She turned away from the head and forced herself to focus on the river. Down here, right at its surface, it looked deceptively innocent, playful. White water rushed past, breaking against the boulder she had claimed, then moving back out to the center of the current. The side of the chasm blocked her view of the falls, but she could hear them, feel them rumbling, shaking the earth.
Her breathing under control, she bent forward, her face mere inches away from the wristwatch bobbing on the water's surface.
It had a dark blue face and Roman numerals. Surely Sam's had regular numbers and a white face?
Her hand trembled as she slid the hand bones into a plastic bag and sealed it with duct tape so nothing would be lost during movement. She wasn't sure if she was more afraid this wasn't really Sam or that it was, despite her mind's constant barrage of delusions trying to convince her otherwise.
Had she totally lost it? Finally after two years of toying with the idea, had her mind finally snapped beneath the weight of her grief and despair?
It had to be Sam. He was the only adult male reported missing on Snakehead. There was no doubt. It was Sam.
She licked her lips but her mouth was too dry for it to do any good. A raven screeched, its call echoing, thundering between the narrow gap in the rock. She slid one finger beneath the silver watchband, freed it from the twig that had snagged it.
Then she turned the watch over. The two bones it encircled ground together with an unnatural clunk that made her jump. They twisted in ways that absolutely were not human.
The back of the watch was coated with bile-green algae. She rubbed it with her fingernail. Indentations of an inscription slowly emerged.
LR. She kept rubbing, hoping to reveal more. But that was it. Just the two letters.
Sarah rocked back onto her haunches, the river bubbling past her as if chuckling at a private joke. She wasn't certain if she should laugh or cry at her discovery.
Good news. It meant she wasn't insane.
Bad news. Sam was still out there somewhere. Which meant Josh was as well.
And who the hell was LR and why hadn't anyone reported him missing?
CHAPTER 16
Thursday, June 20, 2007: Albany, NY
The vibration of his cell phone startled Alan awake. He groaned and pushed the blonde off his numb arm. Somehow they'd ended up crossways over the bed, his pants balled up into a makeshift pillow.
"Leave it be, baby," she crooned, tracing a finger along his lips.
He ignored her and groped for the phone. Finally, he untangled it from the Italian silk and flipped it open, checking the caller ID. "This isn't a good time, Jack."
"Time is one thing you don't have, my friend. Tick tock."
"What do you want?" Alan couldn't wait until this deal was done and he could sever all ties to the former FBI agent. Permanently. But, even retired, Jack Logan had the connections Alan needed, so he put up with him as a necessary evil.
"My 4.2 million for starts. Wright's been dead two weeks now. Have you made your move yet?"
Alan rolled over, placing his back to the blonde. "No. But I will, soon. It's not as easy as it sounds."
"Why not? The judge signed off on Durandt's being declared dead, didn't he? What's holding you back?"
Alan shoved off the bed and strolled into the bathroom. The blonde followed. He shut the door in her face. The room service tray from last night sat on the vanity, a half-eaten plate of fruit and two empty champagne flutes. He grabbed a piece of honeydew and sat on the toilet seat. "Why the rush? You know I can't move on the money until things cool down after the wedding."
"Better make that an elopement, lover boy," Logan replied. Alan frowned. He could hear the other man's superior grin over the airwaves. "Korsakov's getting out."
Alan choked on the piece of fruit and jumped to his feet. "What the hell. Are you sure?"
"Certain as the day is long. Seems an appellate court finally ruled in his favor, overturned his conviction on a technicality. Without the government's star witness to testify, he's going to walk."
"When?" Alan gulped, forcing the fruit down, ignoring the burn. He had more important things to worry about than choking to death in some second rate Albany hotel room.
"Hearing is this morning. Unless the US attorney can pull a rabbit out of his hat, he'll be out by afternoon."
Alan paced the small space, his hand tightening on the phone he clutched to his ear. "Still, no reason to panic. As far as he knows, Stan died on that mountain two years ago."
"Hell, as far as we know, that is what happened. Except for the minor fact that Leo Richland vanished as well."
Alan had a sneaking suspicion Logan knew more about Richland's disappearance than he was letting on. The FBI agent sure got to Hopewell in a hell of a hurry once they found Stan and started the Wright scam. Who's to say Logan hadn't actually been in the area before his "arrival" with that female feeb, maybe even long enough to ensure their partner in crime's silence?
But then what the hell had Logan done with St
an and the kid? He had almost as much to lose as Alan did if they showed up now. With Richland gone missing, he had to assume they were still alive. Somewhere. Which was why he'd had Logan outfit Sarah's house, computer and cell phone with the most sophisticated surveillance equipment available. She couldn't sneeze without Alan knowing about it.
"Why would Korsakov come here?" Alan asked, running all the angles in his mind. "He doesn't know about the money."
"Maybe to visit an old friend, his former lawyer. Who coincidentally has taken up with the widow of the man who betrayed him, stole seven years of his life. Or maybe to get revenge on Stan by killing his woman? Who knows, but either way we have to move fast."
"Are you sure he's coming here?"
"He's got a first class ticket on the red eye to JFK tonight. I don't think he's headed to visit the family on Brighton Beach."
"Damn. How did he find out? I haven't spoken with him in years."
"Man's connected. And he has a long memory—you know these Russians. They could teach Machivelli a thing or two about revenge served cold."
"Yeah, yeah. What are we going to do?"
"You get the wife, make up some kind of excuse. I'll pick her up, get her clear."
Alan felt his bullshit meter rev into overdrive. After Alan had hired him to find Stan, Logan had backtracked, followed the money trail just as he had. Logan was the only other person who knew that Sarah was the key to getting the money. Was this a trick so Logan could get to Sarah, use her himself?
He glanced at his reflection in the mirror. Noted the wrinkles and worry lines creasing his forehead, the slump to his shoulders. Immediately he braced himself, pulled in his gut, rolled his shoulders back. He flashed himself a high-roller's grin. Logan had brains, but not enough to outsmart Alan.
"I'll meet you in Hopewell, usual place." The abandoned caretaker's shack below the dam was secluded and rarely used. A perfect spot for clandestine meetings. Or murders. Which it may come to if Logan tried anything.
"I'll call you when I get close. Bring the wife."
Alan snapped the phone shut without responding. Like hell he would. He wasn't letting Sarah out of his sight until they were safely wed and on a plane to the Caymans.
Damn the timing, though. It was the first day he'd taken time to have some fun in weeks. Being so close to Sarah, playing the fool in love, was nearly driving him crazy. Like two days ago when he'd surprised her by taking over a picnic lunch.
He remembered walking up the path, seeing her kneeling in the front garden, that tight ass of hers rocking back and forth as she pulled weeds. He'd wanted nothing more than to shove her face down in the dirt, plow her so hard and deep that she'd cry out, beg for more.
Except of course, Sarah didn't cry. Sarah never cried, only once in the two years he'd known her. Lately Alan's fantasies had revolved around the myriad of ways he'd someday make her cry. He yearned to see her tears of joy, tears of passion, tears of anger, and finally tears of fear when she begged for her life.
He looked down, admiring the erection his fantasies had wrought. No sense wasting such a good hard piece of wood. Not with a woman bought and paid for outside the door. A woman whose tears he could command.
He glanced at the Rolex on his wrist. Just enough time to finish his fun here, get cleaned up, grab the engagement ring he'd been waiting for the right time to present, and sweet talk his bride-to-be into eloping to an exotic Caribbean island.
He'd beat both Korsakov and Logan at their own game. If he set it up right, they'd kill each other by the time he returned with the money.
"Sarah!" Hal's voice echoed between the narrow walls of the chasm. "You all right down there?"
Sarah shielded her eyes from the sun and raised her head. During her wait, she'd been able to uncover the rest of the body's upper torso and had wrapped the head in a garbage bag so it wouldn't separate from the body. It had been slow, meticulous work, but now that she knew it wasn't Sam, somehow the time had sped by.
Hal leaned over the cliff's edge, a rope coiled in his hand.
"I'm fine," Sarah called back. "Come on down, the water's lovely."
He vanished for a moment. The rope sailed out, uncoiling above her, then fell in an arc to slap against the rock face about four feet away from Sarah. Hal dropped over the side and quickly rappelled down to join her. He wore his wetsuit beneath his climbing harness. Always a stickler for the rules, a climbing helmet was strapped to his head. He swayed above her, then finally picked a spot on a boulder on the opposite side of the skeleton to land on.
With his wet suit clinging to him, Sarah realized how gaunt he'd become since she'd last seen him in it. The memory hit her and she clapped a hand over her mouth. Idiot, how could she have said the water was nice?
Today was June 20. Two years ago tomorrow Lily Waverly had plunged off the Upper Falls and died.
Hal said nothing, was intent on organizing his gear and assessing the situation.
Somehow, Sarah always thought of Lily's death as happening a long time—a year at least—before Sam and Josh's. In her mind, those two months she'd had with Sam and Josh were an eternity she clung to, re-living every second. But in reality, it was only a short span of seventy days that separated the two events.
Funny how she'd never thought of that before. Hal's pack lurched to one side and she steadied him with a hand braced against his back.
"I'm sorry," she said in a voice that barely carried over the sound of the rapids. "I should have called someone else."
He kept his head down, shaking it as if her words were meaningless. "Like who? There is no one else."
Sarah wished there was some way she could erase the resignation and fatigue she heard in his voice. She'd talk to the Colonel, he was president of the village council. Surely they could find funds to hire more help for Hal somewhere in the budget. Maybe send the Colonel's wife after another of those government grants.
Hal spread a body bag flat across the rock and anchored it beneath his foot. The current lapped at it, trying to yank it away.
"It's not Sam."
He glanced up at her. "Are you sure?"
"The watch. It's not Sam's."
He pursed his lips in a silent whistle. "Looks like we've a mystery on our hands. Any ideas who it might be?"
"Some guy with the initials LR, I'm guessing from the inscription on the watch."
He handed her a pair of vinyl gloves and slid a pair on himself. Then he knelt down and leaned forward, grasping the corpse by the shoulders. He gently tugged. The torso raised out of the water a few inches, then stopped.
"I think his foot is wedged beneath one of the rocks," Sarah said. "I was afraid to get too aggressive."
"He feels pretty loose." Hal felt the man's chest without opening the shirt or jacket. "Bag of bones." He released his grip and sat back. "We got everything documented?"
"Everything above the surface. How do you want to work this?"
Despite the cold water, Sarah kept her hands immersed, hoping to keep the slime and decomposed fat covering them minimized. Although regulations required her to wear them, at this point the vinyl gloves would only serve to allow the goo already coating her hands to soak into her skin. It would be days before she'd be able to totally erase the smell of acrid-too-sweet rotting organic material.
Hal's face remained neutral. He tilted his head, examined the angle of the fallen boulders, the depth of the water, the strength of the current. "I'll go under, try to free him. Then we'll keep him as close to one piece as we can, slide him into the bag." He double-checked his safety line and rolled off the rock into the current.
Sarah lay spread-eagle over her boulder, wedging one foot in a crevice, anchoring him. Although the water appeared shallow, no higher than waist deep, the currents were treacherous. Snakebelly's bottom was filled with centuries of decomposing debris, jagged fallen rocks, and snarled tree limbs covered with slick algae and mud. The real danger would be if Hal became trapped down there, wedged in and unable to sur
face.
He stood for a moment, testing his footing, one hand braced against the rock wall. "It drops off just here," he said, nodding to a spot about two feet before him.
He took one step forward, then another. The water pulled him under, out of sight. Sarah held her breath, scanning the dark waters anxiously. Visibility was less than a foot. The only sign of Hal was the swirl of debris bobbing up to the surface as he worked it free.
Her chest grew tight, burning with the lack of oxygen. Twenty seconds, she told herself, starting an internal countdown. If he's not back up in twenty seconds, nineteen, eighteen—
The water parted with a loud splash. Hal hauled himself back to his rock and leaned against it, waves crashing against his back, as he gasped for breath. Water sluiced off his helmet and down the sides of his face. "Think I got it. You take the top, I'll take the bottom. We'll float him up, then roll him onto the bag."
"It's a plan." Sarah had to get her other foot wet, balancing on a submerged tree limb to get in position. Icy water filled her boot. Her foot screamed with pins and needles and her balance was precarious at best as she fought the current. Hal drew in several deep breaths, preparing to submerge again when a voice called down from above.
"Hey, Chief!" Gerald Merton's bellow bounced from the cliff walls.
"What?" Hal shouted back.
Gerald held a radio over the edge, waving with it. "There's a lady calling. Says she has to talk to you right away."
"Sonofa—" Hal sputtered, his face tightening. "I'm a little busy here, Gerald."
"I told her. She says it's important."
"It will have to wait," Hal shouted, his voice taking on an angry edge Sarah had never heard before. Hal never lost his cool. Never. The muscle at his jaw began to knot then twitch.
"She says she's with the FBI."
CHAPTER 17
Sam stared through his binoculars down at the house that had once been his. It was only a little past two, he'd made good time coming down the mountain. He leaned deeper into the shadows of the pin oak, the tree's bark rough against his skin. He'd debated driving the whole way into town, but there was no way he could do that, not without being seen.