by Alex Kava
As he put the notepad back he noticed he had buttoned his shirt wrong—two buttons off this time. He loved his cotton oxford-cloth shirts—short sleeves for the summer, long for the winter—but unfortunately, they would need to go. And as he padded out to the end of the lane he tried to envision himself in a T-shirt or polo shirt, untucked over his trousers. Would it look silly with his black beret? And if it did, did he care?
He scooped up the Hartford Courant, pulled it out of its plastic bag and unfolded it, swinging it open like a magician. “And the date today is…yes, Monday, September 15.” Pleased, he folded it without glancing at a single headline and tucked it under his arm.
“Hey, Scrapple,” he yelled to the Jack Russell terrier coming out of the woods. “I got it right again.” But the dog paid no attention, focusing instead on the huge bone he had in his mouth, losing what looked to be a balancing act as he half carried, half dragged his prize.
“One of these days, Scrap ole boy, those coyotes are going to catch up with you for stealing their kill.” Just as Luc said it, a loud noise came from the other side of the woods, sounding like metal slamming against rock. Startled, the dog dropped the bone and raced to Luc’s feet, tail between his legs as though the coyotes were coming.
“It’s okay, Scrapple,” Luc reassured the dog as another slam shook the earth. “What the hell?”
Luc headed down the footpath that led into the woods. There was about a quarter of a mile of trees and brush that separated his property from what had once been a working rock quarry. The owner had gone out of business years ago, deserting the place, leaving behind equipment and piles of rock waiting to be crushed and hauled away. Who’d have guessed that the precious brownstone would someday not be able to withstand all the gas emissions of New York City?
Someone had started using the secluded quarry as a free dumping ground. Luc had heard that Calvin Vargus and Wally Hobbs had been hired to remove the garbage and clean up the area. So far, Luc had only seen additional huge yellow equipment parked alongside the old rusted stuff. He remembered thinking that perhaps Vargus and Hobbs—or Calvin and Hobbs as many of the townspeople called them—had taken advantage of using the quarry for safe, private and cheap equipment storage.
Now on the other side of the trees, Luc could see the earthmover with its heavy bucket shoving rocks the size of Rhode Island from side to side. He had forgotten how secluded the area was and could barely see the one dirt road through the woods that acted as the only opening. Otherwise, this overgrown pasture was completely boxed in by a stripped mountain, bled of its precious brownstone on one side and thick with woods on the other three sides.
He recognized Calvin Vargus at the monster machine’s controls inside the open-air cab. He could see Calvin’s bloated forearms shove and grab and pull at the levers, making the machine’s bucket scoop up rock like a giant mouth. Another lever shoved forward and the huge yellow body twisted to one side and spit out the rock with a slam and thump.
Calvin’s head bobbed, the orange baseball cap shielding his eyes from the morning sun, but he still caught a glimpse of Luc and waved. Luc waved back and took it as an invitation for a closer inspection. The machine drummed in his ears. He could feel its vibration all the way from his toes to his teeth. It fascinated Luc. It scared the dickens out of Scrapple. What a wuss. Stealing bones from coyotes and yet here he was scared by a little noise, following close behind Luc, bumping his nose into the back of Luc’s leg
The machine’s giant yellow mouth took another bite of rock and debris—debris that looked to be part crushed rock, part brush and garbage. This time a discarded rusted barrel broke free and came rolling down the pile of boulders. It crashed against the sharp rock edges, splitting open and sending the lid flying like a Frisbee.
Luc watched the lid, amazed by its speed and distance, so that he only saw the spilled contents out of the corner of his eye. At first he thought it was old clothes, a bunch of rags. Then he saw an arm and thought maybe a mannequin. It was a garbage dump, after all.
Then he noticed the smell.
It wasn’t what ordinary garbage smelled like. No, it smelled different. It smelled like…it smelled like something dead. It didn’t really scare him until Scrapple began to howl, an uncontrollable, high-pitched howl that broke through the noise of the equipment and sent a chill up Luc’s spine.
Calvin stopped the bucket in midair. He cut the engine. And suddenly, Scrapple’s howl came to an abrupt stop, too, leaving an unsettling silence. Luc could see Calvin push back his cap. He glanced up at the big man who now sat paralyzed in the cab. Luc stood still.
The vibrations from earlier seemed to be replaced by throbbing in his ears. Only now did Luc realize the throbbing wasn’t the aftereffects of the equipment. The throbbing was his own heart pounding, hammering so hard he could barely hear the geese overhead. There were dozens of them, a flood of squawking as they made their daily pilgrimage to or from the McKenzie Reservoir. In the distance he could hear the hum of rush-hour traffic on I-91. All the routine sounds of an ordinary day.
An ordinary day, Luc thought as he watched the morning sun peek through the trees and highlight the bluish-white flesh that had spilled from the fifty-five-gallon barrel. Luc caught Calvin’s eyes. He expected to see his own panic mirrored on Calvin’s face. And there may have been a little panic, maybe even a little disgust at the sight. But what struck Luc Racine as odd was what he didn’t see. What Luc didn’t see on Calvin Vargus’s face was surprise.
CHAPTER 3
The FBI Academy
Quantico, Virginia
Maggie O’Dell reached for the last doughnut, a chocolate-frosted number with bright pink and white sprinkles, and already she heard a “tsk-tsk” sound scolding her. She glanced over her shoulder at her partner, Special Agent R. J. Tully.
“That’s what you’re having for lunch?” he asked.
“Dessert.” She added a cellophane-wrapped platter of one of the cafeteria’s daily specials. Something listed on the chalkboard as a “tacorito” supreme. Maggie couldn’t help thinking even the FBI couldn’t screw up something as good as Mexican food.
“Doughnuts are not dessert,” Tully insisted.
“You’re just jealous because it’s the last one.”
“I beg to differ. Doughnuts are breakfast. Not dessert,” he told her as he held up the line, waiting for Arlene’s attention behind the counter, waiting for her to put down the steaming hot-out-of-the-oven pot of creamed corn, before he pointed to the roast beef. “Let’s ask the expert. Doughnuts are breakfast. Wouldn’t you agree, Arlene?”
“Sweetie, if I had Agent O’Dell’s figure you’d see me eating doughnuts at every meal.”
“Thank you, Arlene.” Maggie added a Diet Pepsi, then indicated to the cashier, a little mole-faced woman she didn’t recognize, that she’d pay for the tray coming behind her, too.
“Wow!” Tully said when he noticed her generosity. “What’s the special occasion?”
“Are you saying I never buy unless there’s a special occasion?”
“Well, there’s that…that and the doughnut.”
“Couldn’t it be that I’m having a great day?” she said while leading him to a table next to the window. Outside on one of Quantico’s many running trails, a half-dozen recruits were finishing their daily run, weaving through the pine trees single file. “Classes just ended for this session. I have no nightmare cases keeping me awake nights. I’m taking a few days off for the first time in…oh, about a hundred years. I’m actually looking forward to working in my garden. I even bought three dozen daffodil bulbs to add to the southwest corner. Just Harvey and me, enjoying this amazing fall weather, digging in the dirt and playing fetch. Why wouldn’t that put me in a good mood?”
Tully was watching her. Sometime around the daffodil bulbs she realized he wasn’t convinced. He shook his head and said, “You never get this excited about time off, O’Dell. I’ve seen you before a three-day federally approved weekend, and you�
�re chomping at the bit for everyone to get the hell back in their offices first thing Tuesday morning so they don’t hold you up on whatever case you’re working. I wouldn’t be surprised if your briefcase is stuffed and ready for the backyard breaks. So really, what gives, O’Dell? What has you grinning like the cat that swallowed the parakeet?”
She rolled her eyes at him. Her partner, ever the profiler, always “on” and solving puzzles. Hard to argue with him for something she did herself. Perhaps it was simply an occupational hazard. “Okay, if you must know, my lawyer finally got the last—the very, very last—of the divorce papers back from Greg’s lawyer. This time everything was signed.”
“Ah. So it’s all over. And you’re okay with that?”
“Of course, I’m okay with that. Why wouldn’t I be okay with it?”
“I don’t know.” Tully shrugged as he tucked his tie—already stained with morning coffee—into his shirt, then scooped up mashed potatoes, gravy and all, and dumped them on top of his roast beef.
Maggie watched as he dipped his shirt cuff into the gravy, completely unaware while he concentrated on building a dam out of his mashed potatoes. Maggie only shook her head and restrained herself from reaching across the table to wipe at his newest stain.
Tully continued, fork and now knife working at his lunch creation, “I just remember having lots of mixed feelings when mine was final.” He looked up, checked her eyes and paused with fork in midair, as if waiting for a confession that might be prompted by his own admission.
“Yours didn’t drag on for almost two years. I’ve had plenty of time to get okay with this.” He was still looking at her. “I’m fine. Really. It’s understandable that you had mixed feelings. You and Caroline still have to raise Emma together. At least Greg and I didn’t have kids. That’s probably the only thing we did right in our marriage.”
Maggie started unwrapping the tacorito, wondering at Arlene’s overuse of cellophane. She stopped. She couldn’t help herself. She took her napkin from her lap, reached across the table and dabbed at the gravy on Tully’s cuff. He no longer got embarrassed when she did these things, and this time he even held up the errant wrist for her.
“How is Emma, by the way?” she asked, going back to her lunch.
“Good. Busy. I hardly ever get to see her anymore. Too many after-school activities. And boys…too many boys.”
Maggie’s cell phone interrupted them.
“Maggie O’Dell.”
“Maggie, it’s Gwen. Is this a good a time to talk?”
“Tully and I are just having an early lunch. What’s wrong?” Maggie knew Gwen Patterson well enough to recognize the urgency in her friend’s voice, despite Gwen’s attempt to disguise it with a clipped professional tone. She and Gwen had known each other for almost ten years, having first met when Maggie was in Quantico’s forensic program and Gwen was a consulting psychologist frequently called in by Maggie’s boss, Assistant Director Kyle Cunningham. The two women, despite their age difference—Gwen was thirteen years Maggie’s senior—had become instant friends.
“I was wondering if you might be able to check on something for me.”
“Sure. What do you need?”
“I’m concerned about a patient. I’m afraid she might be in some kind of trouble.”
“Okay.” Maggie was a bit surprised. Gwen rarely talked about her patients, let alone asked for help with one. “What kind of trouble?”
“I’m not sure. It may be nothing, but I’d feel better if someone checked on her. She left a disturbing voice message late Saturday night. I haven’t been able to reach her. Then this morning she missed our weekly session. She never misses a session.”
“Have you tried contacting her employer or any of her family?”
“She’s an artist, self-employed. No family that I know of other than her grandmother. Actually she was out of town for her grandmother’s funeral. Another concern. You know how funerals can be emotional triggers.”
Yes, Maggie did know. Over a decade later and she still wasn’t able to go to one without visions of her heroic, firefighting father lying in that huge mahogany box, his hair combed to the wrong side, his burnt hands wrapped in plastic and tucked at his sides.
“Maggie?”
“Could she simply have decided to stay an extra day or two?”
“I doubt she would do that. She didn’t even want to be there for the funeral.”
“Maybe her car broke down on the trip back?” Maggie couldn’t help wondering if Gwen was overreacting. It made sense that the woman may have wanted to be away from everyone and everything for a day or two without running back here for a session with her shrink to dissect how she was feeling. But then Maggie knew not everyone reacted to stress and tragedy like she did.
“No, she rented a car up there. See, that’s another thing. The car hasn’t been turned in yet. The hotel told me she was scheduled for departure yesterday but she hasn’t checked out, nor has she contacted anyone about staying longer. And she missed her flight yesterday. She’s not like this. She has problems, but organization and reliability are not on the list.”
“You said yourself that funerals can be emotionally draining. Maybe she just wanted a few more days before coming back to the everyday routine. By the way, how were you able to find out that she missed her flight?” Airlines didn’t just hand out their passenger manifest. After years of Gwen lecturing her about playing by the rules, Maggie waited for an admission of guilt. Now that she thought about it, Gwen had managed to get a lot of information that wasn’t usually handed out freely.
“Maggie, there’s more to it.” The urgency returned to Gwen’s voice, dismissing any confession to rule breaking. “She said she was meeting someone…a man. That was the message and she was calling me to talk her out of it. She has this…this tendency…” She paused. “Look, Maggie, I can’t share the intimacies of her case. Let’s just say that in the past she’s made some bad choices when it comes to men.”
Maggie glanced across the table to find Tully watching her, listening. He looked away quickly as if caught. She had noticed recently—although he tried to disguise it—that he seemed interested in anything related to Gwen Patterson. Or was it simply her imagination?
“What are you saying, Gwen? That you think this man may have done something to her?”
Silence again. Maggie waited. Was Gwen finally realizing that perhaps she was overreacting? And why was she being so overprotective with this particular woman? Maggie had never known Gwen to baby-sit her patients. Her friends, yes, but not her patients.
“Maggie, is there some way you could check on her? Someone you might be able to call?”
Maggie looked at Tully again. He had finished his lunch and now pretended to be watching out the window, another group of recruits down below in sweaty T-shirts and jogging shorts snaking through the woods.
Maggie picked at her own lunch. Why had Gwen suddenly decided to become this patient’s caretaker? It seemed like a simple case of a grieving woman shutting herself away from her world for a while, perhaps even finding solace in a friendly stranger. Why didn’t Gwen see that?
“Maggie?”
“I’ll do what I can. Where was she staying?”
“The funeral was in Wallingford, Connecticut, but she was staying at the Ramada Plaza Hotel next door in Meriden. I have the phone numbers and addresses right here. I can fax over some other information later. All I know about the man she was meeting was that she called him Sonny.”
Maggie’s stomach gave a sudden flip while she took down the information. All the while she kept thinking, “Not Connecticut.”
CHAPTER 4
Sheriff Henry Watermeier shoved his hat back and swiped at the sweat on his forehead.
“Fuck!” he muttered, wanting to walk, to pace off his frustration, but reminding himself to stand in one place. And so he did, hands on his belt buckle, waiting and watching and trying to think, trying to ignore the stench of death and the buzzing of flies. J
esus! The flies were a pain in the ass, miniature vultures, impatient and persistent despite the plastic tarp.
It wasn’t the first body Henry had seen stuffed into a strange and unusual place. He had seen more than his share during his thirty years with the NYPD. But not here. Crimes like this weren’t supposed to happen in Connecticut. This was exactly the kind of stuff he had hoped to escape when his wife talked him into moving to the middle of nowhere. Yeah, sure, Fairfield County and the shore got its share of this kind of thing all the time. There were always plenty of high-profile cases—big fucking cases—like that stupid publicist driving her SUV over sixteen people, or even the Martha Moxley murder that took decades to solve, or Alex Cross, Connecticut’s very own preppy rapist. Yeah, there were plenty of crimes on the shore and closer to New York, but in the middle of Connecticut things were quieter. Crap like this wasn’t supposed to happen here.
He had instructed his deputies to set up a wide perimeter, having them string up yellow crime-scene tape. It was going to take a hell of a lot of tape. He watched two of his men stretching it from tree to tree, Arliss with a fucking Marlboro hanging from his lips and that kid, Truman, screeching like a banshee at any of the outsiders who dared come within ten feet.
“Arliss, make sure your butts don’t end up on the ground.” The deputy looked up, startled, as if he had no idea what his boss was talking about. “I mean the damned cigarette. Get it out of your mouth. Now.”
Finally, a look of recognition crossed Arliss’s face as he grabbed at the cigarette, stubbed it out on a tree, started to fling it but stopped with his hand in midair. Henry could see the red start at his deputy’s neck as he tucked the rest of the cigarette under his hat and over his ear. It almost made Henry as mad as if Arliss had flung it. First major crime scene as New Haven County sheriff, maybe his last major crime scene of his career, and these goddamn screwups were going to make him look like a fucking idiot.