With her saw, she motioned down to the specimen before her. After, she set it to the side, snatching up a remote from the instrument tray and jabbing it toward the wall.
A moment later, the music fell away, the silence just as pronounced in the small subterranean space.
“Sorry about that,” Asay said. “Down here by myself all day, have to maintain some contact with the outside world to keep from going crazy.”
Not once had Davis ever considered the profession of a medical examiner, though she had to admit that Asay was correct.
It would be easy to lose one’s sanity – if not their humanity – in a space like this.
“No problem,” Davis said, venturing two steps further before stopping, her hands hanging free by her side. “Thanks so much for making time, I won’t keep you but a minute.”
Tilting the plastic shield so it was extended straight out from her forehead, Asay waved a hand, dismissing the apology. Using the same hand, she tugged down her surgical mask to reveal a woman in her early thirties with Hapa features, her cheeks large and a bitty puffier than the rest of her would indicate.
“Not at all. Be nice to have someone down here to talk to. These guys,” she said, motioning to the table before her, “aren’t the greatest conversationalists.”
Smirking slightly, Davis replied, “I bet not.”
Bringing her hands together before her, the slap of her gloved palms loud enough to almost make Davis flinch, Asay said, “So, you’re here to see what happened to Mr. Lynch.”
Given the time of day and their surroundings, the amount of joy and energy Asay seemed to radiate was surprising, Davis not sure how she would handle a work environment such as this.
Not that it could be a great deal worse than the Sheriff’s Department, if she really wanted to think about it.
“Please.”
Motioning toward the table, Asay said, “The short version? This guy seriously pissed somebody off.”
Taking a few more steps forward, Davis closed the gap between them by half, her focus still on the woman across from her.
“Yeah?”
“Oh, yeah,” Asay confirmed. “This is some serious revenge level stuff right here, the type of thing I read about in med school but never thought I’d actually see.”
Folds of skin appeared around Davis’s eyes as she processed the information, an involuntary wince folding her features together.
“Not what I’m wanting to hear right now, Doc.”
“Nor what I’m wanting to share,” Asay replied. “And damned sure not what this guy wanted to endure.”
Slide stepping to the side, she started at the feet. “Take this for instance.”
For the first time, Davis forced herself to take in the body, to focus on the remains before her. Steeling herself, willing the acid of the coffee in her stomach not to turn to bile, she followed Asay’s finger to the mangled stumps of what had previously been Lynch’s toes.
“Somebody went through these things one at a time,” she said. “Snipped them off, then seared the wounds so he wouldn’t bleed out.”
“Damn,” Davis whispered, seeing the blackened and mottled skin that had at one point been his feet. Ranging in height and severity, the only thing the digits shared was that all ten had been mutilated beyond use.
“Yep,” Asay said. “Not surprised the ME on the scene missed it. His boots were still on when he arrived here, and it wasn’t the type of thing anybody would think to check for.”
Thinking back two days earlier, Lynch pictured the scene as she arrived, thought on the body and how it had been positioned. Whether he was wearing boots, she couldn’t recall.
But like the doctor said, it certainly wasn’t the sort of thing she was looking for.
“The burning makes any definitive results difficult to ascertain,” Asay continued, “but if I were to guess, I’d say they were removed with snips of some sort, seared with an iron.”
Wincing again, Davis rocked back an inch. “So they moved the body?”
Glancing up at her, Asay cocked an eyebrow. “No sight or smell of it at the scene?”
“Nothing,” Davis confirmed. “Just a single pool of blood under his chest, where the stabbings had occurred.”
Bringing her lips together, Asay nodded slightly, “Which, as I’m sure your guy on the scene told you, wasn’t the actual cause of death.”
Snapping herself away from the toes, from finding herself back inside the cabin two days earlier, Davis said, “Huh? He said it was from shock due to blood loss.”
“And it was,” Asay said, “but those wounds to the chest are all just superficial.”
Moving back up to her original position, she picked up one of the chest flaps lying open before her, flipping it back into position. Like a wet towel slapping down, it smacked against the rib cage, hiding most of the interior gore from view.
“See here,” Asay said, pointing at the wounds, gaping like open mouths across the flesh. “Rounded on one side, they were made by a serrated blade, hence one side being a smooth slice, the other being much rougher.”
Moving her finger over the skin, she said, “But see how there is no lividity here? Given that he was found face down, if these had been the cause of death, blood would have pooled tight against the surface of the skin.”
Recalling once more what she had found, Davis nodded. There was no doubt that Lynch had been lying on his chest when she walked in.
“So then...” she began, letting her voice trail off.
Across from her, Asay looked up, any trace of her previous mirth long past.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Stop number two was the only other place in the world I could think of that might give me a clue as to where Uncle Jep might be. While I already knew what had befallen him, and who had done it, there was still an infinite amount of information in between I needed to obtain.
Like finding out where my uncle’s body was, making sure he was taken care of.
And finding out just how pissed I needed to be afterward.
After the early evening the night before, I was awake well before dawn. Sleeping in had never been a favored pastime of mine, something that began on Uncle Jep’s watch, was permanently ingrained under Uncle Sam’s.
Not bothering to set an alarm, the glowing red digits on the alarm by the bed said it was just minutes after five when my eyes popped open. Staring up at the cracked swirls of paint affixed to the ceiling above me, miniature stalactites pointed my way, it took just a moment for my surroundings to come into focus, for my mind to pick up exactly where I had left off the night before.
Starting with a lukewarm bottle of water, I drained the entire thing before padding into the bathroom. This time I kept the shower to just ninety seconds, another callback to my time in the military, soaping and shampooing in short order and rinsing it clean with the coldest water I could stand.
The shaving I didn’t even consider, not wanting to bother with the time or hassle.
Emerging, I let my body air dry in the cool of the hotel room, making a quick lap around the place, grabbing up the few things I had brought with me. As I went, I downed two more bars of various forms and an apple, finishing the impromptu meal with a second bottle of water.
The day before, I had been lazy. I had allowed my focus on Uncle Jep to keep me from doing what I needed to for myself.
Just finding out what happened to him wouldn’t be enough. I had to ensure I was in a condition to actually help when I arrived if I wanted all of this to have been worthwhile.
Whatever form that help might end up being.
Shrugging the two backpacks onto my shoulder, I left the bag of Wal-Mart trash in the room. Tiptoeing down the stairs, I didn’t even glance over to the Charger.
It was already in the perfect place, the best I could hope for an alibi should the need arise in the coming hours. As distinctive as it was, taking it anywhere near my next destination would just make me a target.
By th
e same token, should somebody ask the front desk girl if she’d seen anybody come or go, she could rightly claim the car had been parked in plain sight all morning.
Not an infallible plan by any stretch of the imagination, but under the circumstances, the best that I was going to do.
Looping around away from the motel, I followed a footpath to the water’s edge, doing my best to make it look like I was just another visitor taking an early stroll, out trying to beat the oncoming heat. Keeping my gait slow and even, I walked through the open expanse of grass behind the place, coming out on the rock bar lining the shore and turning south.
Around me, the air held just the faintest trace of cooling dampness, the day ahead promising to be as warm as the one before. Across the top of the water, a handful of security lights from various properties and docks around the lake could be seen dancing with each ebb and flow of water, uneven stripes more than a half mile in length.
For more than fifty yards, I kept my pace even, waiting until I was under the thick cover of trees before increasing my speed. Moving into a light jog, I counted seconds in my head, the ground passing beneath my feet, both packs bouncing lightly against my shoulder blades.
After a quarter mile, I stopped and deposited my personal one, leaving it tucked into a thick tangle of brambles, their brittle leaves completely obscuring it from view.
Not needing to take it clear to my next destination, I didn’t want to risk leaving it in the motel room or even the car, knowing the laptop alone now carried enough information to pin me down should anybody be looking.
From this point forward, I had to assume that both Lipski and the people that had gotten to Uncle Jep were searching for me.
I’d be damned if I was going to make it easier for them.
Leaving the bag stowed where only I could find it, I pushed off again, staying on a footpath moving through dense forest. To my left, I could just see the water’s edge, the front curve of it reflecting the moon from above.
In my nostrils were the scents of lake water and pine needles.
The scents of my childhood.
Almost two decades had passed since I last ran this trail, but it was as familiar to me as the walk to my mailbox back in Portland. Through pure muscle memory, my feet seemed to know exactly where I was headed, going faster with each passing moment.
Sweat covered my forehead, breaking the seal, promising a day of heavy perspiring. My heart rate increased in kind, my breathing remaining even as I pounded out a couple of quick miles, the jog so easy it didn’t even rise to the level of being considered exercise.
Fueled by growing adrenaline, every nerve ending in my body anticipated what came next.
My reason for choosing the motel was simple, having nothing to do with the low cost or the scattered handful of travelers filling the rooms.
It was because of the location of it, the sole establishment on the entirety of Lake Edstrom that rented single rooms by the night.
Twenty-two minutes after bounding down the stairs from my room, I pulled to a stop. Pressing a shoulder tight against the base of a pin oak tree, feeling the tackiness of its sap against my exposed shoulder, I stood silent, waiting.
Slowing my breathing, I studied the world around me, peering out for any sign of movement.
After three full minutes, I determined there was none.
Unslinging the backpack from my shoulders, I unzipped the top and reached down inside, pulling out a Beretta from Uncle Jep’s bunker. Taking a single breath, I began to inch forward, knowing that my destination was just a short walk away.
Working from the base of one tree to the next, I stole through the forest, daylight still an hour away, giving me time to check what I needed to and be on my way again.
In the distance, I could hear a bullfrog croak, a few cicadas serenading me a melody I hadn’t heard in ages.
They barely registered with me, my focus on the placement of my feet as I crossed one over the other, picking my way forward. Ahead of me, a dark shape began to take form, my pulse pushing through my temples as I grew closer.
Even without the benefit of artificial light, the moon was enough to illuminate the hulking mass as I crept forward, like some form of fabled ship emerging through the trees. Bit by bit, details became more obvious, beginning with the back deck extended out from the rear of the cabin, including the glass doors, the windows framing them on either side.
The thick swath of crime scene tape sealing all three.
Starting low in my core, I could feel unbridled wrath pushing to the surface, the taste as bitter as bile on my tongue as I stood and stared at the place.
Any doubt I had previously had about Uncle Jep’s disappearance vanished as I stood and stared at the cabin that was my childhood home.
Chapter Thirty-Four
After his conversation with Vic Baxter, Radney Creel didn’t quite know what to expect, only that he should be up and ready early for whatever it might be.
Rising well before the sun, he emerged to find Elijah Pyle already sitting at the table. Gone were any of his familiar tools, not even his favored cigars sitting nearby.
Instead, it was only him, reclined in his chair, the back of his head against the wall, staring blankly through the window above the sink.
“Don’t you ever sleep?” Creel muttered, coming in and dropping his cell phone on a placemat before lowering himself into the opposite chair.
For a moment, there was no response, nothing at all from Pyle, before his eyes fluttered, his lids blinking a dozen times in quick succession.
As they did so, a heavy sigh pulled him from his sleep, the sounds of slumber rolling off him.
“Were you...” Creel began, his eyes bulging slightly, “sleeping with your eyes open?”
Raising his hands to his face, Pyle rubbed hard at his cheeks, pulling them back to reveal the skin bearing a rosy pallor.
“Is there any other way?” Pyle asked.
Dozens of retorts sprang to mind for Creel – everything from wanting to know what the man had been through to feel that was necessary to stating he had never witnessed such a thing in person, had heard of it only a couple of times before.
As was his nature though, he let them pass, opting for something else instead.
“Man, who are you?”
Keeping his head reclined against the wall, Pyle rolled it to look over toward Creel, a faint sneer crossing his face.
“I’m impressed. You managed to hold out a lot longer than anybody else would have.”
Feeling a few more questions rise to the surface, Creel again chose silence, trusting that Pyle’s nature would make it impossible for him to stay quiet for too long.
“How long you been working jobs for Vic?” Pyle asked, shifting his head back toward the wall across from them.
Glancing down to the screen of his phone, seeing nothing but the same blank image of the rear of the cabin he’d been staring at for the better of a day, Creel replied, “Couple years now.”
“Hmm,” Pyle replied. Raising his left arm, he balanced his elbow on the side of the table, cocking a hand back and scratching at the side of his scalp. “That would mean E was already inside four years before you came along.”
With his attention aimed down, Creel felt his brows come together. Confusion played across his face as he looked up, shifting his head slightly to the side.
In two years, he had not once heard that name. Not with regards to a potential threat that needing neutralizing or an ally that should be treated as such.
“E? Inside?”
Continuing to work at the hair along the side of his scalp, Pyle cast him a glance, the look a mix of amusement and disdain. “Damn son, you’re not real quick on the uptake, are you?”
Any bit of confusion Creel felt melted away, replaced instead by ire, his exposure to the man fast reaching a point where it was time for them to part ways.
Before something bad happened to one or both.
Seeing it, sensing that he
had struck a nerve, Pyle extended his left arm, using it to pat at the air before him.
“Easy now,” he said, “I’m just saying, they keep you pretty far in the dark over there, don’t they?”
Liking this response even less than the one before it, Creel drew his mouth into a tight line.
Two years ago, Vic Baxter had sought him out because he was the best at what he did. Back and forth they had gone, performing whatever jobs needed doing, exchanging a handsome fee in the process.
In all that time, never once had Creel felt like Baxter wasn’t on the level with him, like he was being set up in any way.
Even on this one, something that had been a side project of sorts for a long time, he felt like everything was above board.
A bit unnecessary, his now staring at a cell phone waiting for a boogeyman that was never going to show being the latest example, but nothing underhanded.
Or so he thought.
“Who the hell is E?” Creel asked.
Across from him, Pyle matched the stare a moment, the two squaring off, equal opponents, animals in neighboring cages just aching to test one another.
Vic Baxter had demanded the man be a part of things, so Creel had gone along with it. But that didn’t mean he liked it, or even condoned it.
Outside of his display with Lynch, Pyle had as yet done nothing spectacular.
Nothing at all outside of sit and smoke cigars, as far as he could tell.
Locked in that position, the two men sat and stared, the concentrated skill and ego amassed in the kitchen becoming too much for the small space, threatening to explode at any instant.
It never came to it, the first blink made not by either one, but by the phone on the table between them. Barely more than a flash, it appeared that at long last the man they had been waiting for had decided to make an appearance.
So focused on Pyle, on how that encounter would play out, Creel barely noticed the movement at first, had to force himself to look away once he did, to focus on the screen.
The Subway ; The Debt ; Catastrophic Page 12