by James Swain
Impulses. The word made Linderman think back to his meeting with Crutch in the chaplain’s study. He had wanted to kill Crutch for the things he’d said about Danni, and that impulse had tripped him over to the dark side. It had let him think evil thoughts, while also seeing a dark side to himself which he hadn’t known existed. There was no way to explain the things which had happened to him.
But there was an escape. He would stop thinking about revenge and retribution, and go back to the man he’d always been. He was not a killer, nor was he an avenging angel. He was an FBI agent, and had sworn to carry out the law. That man.
“This has been very helpful,” Linderman said.
“Glad I could help,” Wood replied.
The back door opened, and Fitch stepped into the kitchen.
“The cadaver dogs are here,” Fitch said.
Chapter 47
Linderman ended the call and followed Fitch outside. A long bed silver pickup was parked in the yard. In the back of the truck were a pair of dog crates containing two eager German Shepherds. Beside the truck stood a barrel-chested, shaven-headed African-American man dressed in battle fatigues. In his hand were a pair of long leashes.
Fitch made the introductions. The handler’s name was Raheem Gleason, only everyone called him Doc. The dogs names were Tuffy and Bones.
“Did you find the elderly man you were looking for?” Linderman asked.
“Sure did. My dogs are the best,” Doc replied.
“Was he dead?”
“Naw, he was still kicking. So, how many bodies are we looking for?”
“Four,” Linderman said.
Doc scowled. “Who the hell is going to dig “em up?”
Fitch fidgeted uncomfortably. Linderman had assumed that the officer had called the Oakmont Police Department and asked for an excavation team to come out after he’d requested the cadaver dogs. That was the order of go when searching for corpses. Fitch pulled out his cell phone, and walked out of earshot.
“Dumb ass cops,” Doc muttered under his breath. He opened the crates and leashed his dogs. His personality changed as they jumped to the ground and glued themselves to his legs. Like a proud father showing off his offspring.
“I always wondered when I’d get a call to come out to this place,” Doc said.
“Why’s that?” Linderman asked.
“Jason Crutchfield was warped. One time in highschool he offered to write a term paper for me if I’d let him tie me up to a chair. I said no thanks.”
“Smart move.”
“You have any idea where the bodies are?”
“All we know is that they’re somewhere on the property.”
Doc walked around to the side of his pickup and opened the door. He returned holding a handful of white flags similar to the ones used by the power company to mark the location of underground wires. He handed the flags to Linderman.
“What are these for?” the FBI agent asked.
“This place used to have lots of animals living on it. Horses, dogs, even a couple of cows, if I remember right,” Doc explained. “More than likely the family buried them on the grounds when they died. My dogs will pick up those scents as well, and we’ll have to mark them for the excavation team.”
Linderman blew out his cheeks. He’d searched for bodies before, and knew how frustrating the process could be. This was a new wrinkle, and would be time-consuming.
Time was the one thing he didn’t have much of, and he asked Doc if there was any way they could speed up the process.
“Sure there is,” the handler said. “Make an educated guess as to where you think Crutch buried the bodies after he killed them. We’ll start there first.”
It sounded like a smart idea. Linderman walked around the house to the front lawn, and stood with his back to the house while gazing into the yard. It was still raining hard, the drops bouncing off the harder surfaces like tiny projectiles. His eyes fell on the pasture beside the barn. Surrounded by rotting three-board fencing, it looked to be about two acres in size. It felt right, and he pointed.
“Let’s start there,” he said.
“I’m game,” Doc said.
Tuffy and Bones didn’t waste any time. Within a few moments of hitting the pasture, they found a spot and began to paw violently at the ground.
“Flag it,” Doc said.
Linderman stuck a flag into the spot. The grass was knee-high and soaking wet. No sooner had he brushed off his hands when the dogs had found another spot a few feet away.
“Flag it,” Doc said.
Linderman did as told.
“Here’s another,” Doc said.
Within five minutes, he’d run out of flags, and the pasture resembled a mine field. He asked if there were any more inside the pickup truck.
“They’re behind the driver’s side,” Doc said. “This isn’t normal, you know.”
“Not even for a farm?” Linderman asked.
“I’ve searched for bodies on plenty of farms. I’ve never seen anything like this. You’ve thrown thirty flags, and we haven’t done half the damn pasture.”
“What do you think it is?”
“It’s a god damn cemetery, is what it is,” Doc said.
Linderman trudged out of the pasture toward the house. There was not enough time to dig up whatever was buried out there. He met Fitch halfway.
“The excavation team is on their way,” Fitch said.
“We’re going to need them,” Linderman said. “We’ve found over thirty graves and aren’t close to being done. I need you to do some digging, and see if there were a rash of unsolved crimes back when Crutch lived here.”
“You mean homicides?” Fitch asked.
Linderman shook his head. The graves in the pasture were not human — the police would have been all over those crimes by now — nor did he think they contained the remains of other humans whose graves might have been robbed, since that kind of crime was also vigorously pursued by the law. That left only one thing, and it played in perfectly with what he knew about Crutch’s twisted adolescence.
“Missing pets,” he said.
The six-member excavation team arrived around the time Linderman had run out of flags. Each member wore a black plastic Tyvek suit that tied around their necks, goggles, a surgical mask, and latex gloves. Their two vans were filled with equipment, including shovels, sifters, and a ground-penetrating radar machine, or GPR, that would let them see what was lying beneath the earth before having to dig it up.
Linderman stood by the rotting fence with Doc. He was soaked to the bone and his back was aching from bending over. Tuffy and Bones had rubbed their paws bloody and were lying at their feet.
“I wish they paid me by the flag,” Doc said.
The excavation team wheeled the GPR around the pasture. The machine was the size of a vacuum cleaner and about as nimble to move around. Linderman guessed the team would try to find the largest set of remains first, in the hopes it was a body. His hunch was proven right when they halted at one of the flags, and he heard a member call out, “We got a big one.” The area around the flag was sectioned off with string, and a plastic sheet was placed on the ground for the remains. Then the team started to dig.
The grave was shallow. Soon bones started to come out. Linderman walked over to see what they’d found. He’d pinned his badge to his jacket and did not bother to introduce himself. He was too damn tired to speak.
The captain of the team said hello. Tired and wet, and the job had only started. He pointed at the collection of bones lying on the sheet.
“Looks like a big dog. Fitch told me you were in a rush.”
Linderman grunted in the affirmative.
“I hate to tell you this, but we won’t stop once we have all the bones,” the captain said. “We’ll have to keep digging to make sure there isn’t a body buried down further. It’s a common trick — killers like to cover their victims with an animal corpse.”
“How far down?” Linderman asked.
Linderman glanced at the army of flags sticking out of the ground. This could take forever, and even then, there was no guarantee that he’d find what he was looking for. His shoulders sagged as the last of his strength ebbed from his body.
“Are there any more excavation teams who could help us?” he asked.
“There’s one in the next county, but they’re on a job. I’m sorry.”
Linderman walked out of the pasture, knowing it was over. He couldn’t rush the process, nor did he have any more options at his disposal. He had tried and he had failed, no different that his efforts to find Danni.
He ducked into the barn. He wanted to get out of the rain, and be alone. He found a stool and sat down in the center aisle, staring into space.
Fitch appeared, soaked to the bone.
“I was looking for you,” Fitch said.
“You found me,” Linderman said.
“Is there anything else I can do? Anything at all?”
“I wish there was.”
Fitch pulled out a pack of cigarettes. They were all wet. He tried to light one up but could not get it going. In disgust he tossed it away.
“They don’t pay us to be heroes,” the officer said.
“Yes, they do,” Linderman said.
Chapter 48
Vick did not want to die.
That should have been obvious, only Vick knew that it wasn’t. Many women abducted by serial killers chose to die before their ordeals were over. They provoked their captors into killing them, not wanting to be raped, beaten up, or subjected to endless torture or humiliation.
Vick was not one of those women.
She wanted to live, even if damaged. There was too much left to see in the world, too many things left to do. She was too young, as corny as that sounded.
Living was winning.
She’d read that in the newspaper. She thought Elizabeth Smart had said it. Smart had endured being tethered to a tree in a Utah forest while a crazy man raped her multiple times a day while his equally crazy wife watched. Now, Smart was a free woman and attending college, while her captors were confined to mental institutions.
Living was winning.
Naked, Vick hung by her wrist’s from a hook in the ceiling inside a small bedroom. Incense was burning and a pulsating rap song was playing on a hidden stereo system that sounded like Kanye West. In the corner, Wayne lay passed out on a water bed. Mr. Clean sat next to Wayne, shaking the teenager’s shoulder.
“Wayne, wake up,” Mr. Clean said.
“Let me sleep,” Wayne mumbled.
“You can sleep later.”
“No, now.”
“Suit yourself, my friend.”
Mr. Clean stood up and flexed his muscles. His olive-colored skin was smooth and pretty to look at. He could have had all the woman he’d wanted, had he been a normal guy. But normal was not part of the program. The sound of his knife tearing her clothes had snapped Vick awake a few minutes before. As her clothes had fallen, Mr. Clean had kissed her nipples while staring into her eyes.
“Suck them harder,” Vick had told him.
Mr. Clean had liked that, and so he had.
Vick was a survivor. She would somehow live to tell about this, even if it meant doing things that had seemed out of the question only a few hours ago.
Living was winning.
“Are you ready to fuck me?” Mr. Clean now asked.
“Oh, yes,” Vick said.
Mr. Clean dropped his gym shorts. He had nothing on underneath. He stroked himself while staring at her. It didn’t take long before he was ready.
She forced herself to smile. She had to forge a bond with him, and get him to like her. It would numb his desire to kill her, and buy her precious time.
He untied her wrists while poking her with his erection. It was something that a kid having sex for the first time might do. Vick lowered her arms and rubbed her palms together to get the life back.
“Go lie down on the bed,” Mr. Clean said.
“What about the boy?” Vick asked.
“I’ll move him.”
Vick leaned into Mr. Clean and kissed him on the mouth. His eyelids fluttered almost imperceptibly. Suddenly, he pushed her away.
“On the bed — now,” he demanded.
Vick lay down on the bed and felt the water swish beneath her. Mr. Clean grabbed Wayne by the legs and gently pulled him off the bed until the teenager was lying on the floor, still passed out. Mr. Clean climbed onto the bed and straddled her.
“Are you ready for me?” he asked.
Vick nodded. Faking it had never been her strong suit, but she was going to try like hell to make him happy. It was the only thing she could think of. He caressed her face with the side of his hand. His fingers touched one of her ear rings.
“I want these,” he said.
Vick swallowed hard. The ear rings had been her mother’s. Rarely did she take them off, their presence a constant reminder of a woman she barely knew. She unscrewed the backs, and gave them to him.
Mr. Clean got off the bed, and removed a glass jar from the night table. The jar was filled with women’s jewelry. His trophy jar, she guessed. He dropped the ear rings into it.
“Hey — what’s going on?”
Wayne had pulled himself off the floor, and stood on wobbly legs. The drugs had done a number on him, and he looked messed up. His eyes danced as he looked down at Vick lying naked on the bed.
“You going to screw her?” the teenager asked.
Mr. Clean grabbed his erection and waved it in front of the boy’s eyes.
“Yes!” he said gleefully.
“I thought she was my girlfriend,” the teenager said.
Mr. Clean frowned, not sure what to make of this statement.
“She is,” Mr. Clean said. “But I get to do her first.”
“I don’t want sloppy seconds,” the teenager said.
“But…”
“You said she was mine. That means I get to do her. Doesn’t it?”
Mr. Clean visibly deflated. His erection went away, and his eyes fell to the floor. Vick wondered how many people had ever spoken to him like that. Probably not many. Yet Wayne had gotten away with it. He had control over his captor.
Wayne took off his clothes and climbed onto the bed. He was already aroused. He had a teenager’s body, with a flat stomach and small, hard biceps. A few strands of hair were growing on his chest, in their center, a small mole shaped like a heart. She did not believe in signs, yet for some reason, the mole gave her hope that she might get out of this alive. As he lowered himself on top of her, she let her lips brush gently against it.
“You going to fight me?” Wayne asked, his voice suddenly harsh.
Vick shook her head.
“I didn’t hear you,” the teenager said.
Vick tensed up. Wayne sounded as threatening as Mr. Clean. She stared into his eyes and saw a dark, simmering expression that had not been there before.
“No,” she whispered.
“Good. Now spread your legs.”
“Please be gentle.”
“Do it,” he said, raising his voice.
Anything was better than being raped by a serial killer, she thought.
She let Wayne enter her, then wrapped her arms around him. She quickly got into his rhythm, her hips moving in sync to his body’s thrusts. It was pleasurable, and she let her lips brush against his soft chin.
The bedroom door clicked shut. Vick lifted her head. Mr. Clean was gone. It was the opportunity she’d been praying for, and she grabbed Wayne’s head with both her hands, and pulled his head down close to hers.
“What are you doing?” the teenager said.
“I talked to Amber,” Vick whispered.
Anger flashed through his eyes. “Shut up!” he said.
“She told me everything.”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
“I know about Adam…”
&nb
sp; “I said, shut up!”
“… and the bayonet.”
Wayne slapped her in the face, snapping her head to one side. Vick’s head fell back on the bed, and she tasted the warm blood in her mouth. She was too late. Mr. Clean had already changed him.