Winter's Mourn

by Mary Stone

  Benton curled his lip. “For what? We don’t even really know how old those bones are. Could be Indian, for all we know. The forensic people just estimated. You gonna try and dig up a whole Indian burial ground?”

  There it was, Noah thought, looking at her speculatively. That weird, almost eerie look Winter sometimes got, where her eyes were focused but distant too. He’d seen it before, specifically when she had a “hunch” on their first case about where their serial rapist would strike next. The rest of the team had brushed her off. She’d gone off on her own, used herself as bait, and caught the guy.

  “Can I ask why?” The chief was looking at Winter oddly too. “It does make sense to get the reports back from forensics first.”

  Shit. Noah didn’t doubt she knew something, but these guys would have no reason to believe her.

  Winter wanted to stick her foot in her mouth. The Harrisonburg guys were looking at her like she was crazy. Noah was watching her too, his usual lazy, relaxed expression intent.

  She should have learned from her last experience, but no. Instead, she blurted things out and came off like an idiot, instead of thinking out reasons and justifications ahead of time.

  But she could see all around them, even when she wasn’t looking at the spots directly, that the forest floor was glowing red. Not all over. In small, scattered areas. She couldn’t explain it. It had happened a couple of times before, though, and she trusted…whatever it was.

  The jogger in Richmond. She caught him because she’d been able to see a specific spot on a map glow red, just like someone was aiming a laser pointer at it. Instinctively, she’d known where and when to be there to take him down.

  Years before that, a rash of burglaries had happened on the SUNY campus she was attending. She’d identified the guy when she saw that the watch on his wrist glowed red. She’d known it was stolen, had put together that he was the thief. But she hadn’t trusted her instincts, and a friend of hers had gotten hurt.

  She trusted her instincts now. There were other bodies here. Other victims.

  And they were victims. This wasn’t a Native burial site.

  It was a killer’s dumping ground.

  3

  Winter opened her mouth to defend her pronouncement, but Noah spoke first.

  “Couldn’t hurt. We’re here. Might as well rule some things out while we’re waiting for the reports from the ME. Don’t worry,” he told Chief Miller with an easy grin. “We’ll take care of the details, and if we find anything, credit goes to you.”

  “Bullshit.” Benton spit the word at the chief. His face was red, his dark eyes sunk into his fleshy face like raisins in dough. “These FBI bastards are all the same. She says jump,” he snapped his fingers, “and you say how high. Next thing you know, these assholes are going to have reporters crawling all over the place, blaming the local cops for not doing their jobs ‘cuz you don’t have the balls to—”

  “Benton,” he interrupted quietly. Ominously. Gary Miller had a long fuse, it seemed, and Benton had finally burned it down to nothing. “Shut the fuck up. I need to speak to you. Privately.” He barely spared a glance for Winter and Noah. “Agents, take as much time as you need. Let me know what you decide to do.”

  He stalked toward the trail leading back to the car. Benton tossed them one final seething glare and stomped after his boss.

  “That went well,” Noah deadpanned. He walked to the open pit, and Winter followed him. She didn’t care about Tommy Benton’s hurt feelings or the fact that the chief was probably tearing a strip off his hide right now.

  She only cared about bringing the other bodies here out of the darkness.

  “So.” Noah glanced at her. “Care to share?”

  Winter’s shoulders hunched defensively. “Not particularly.”

  Noah let it go.

  “You’re going to need to check in with Max, if you haven’t yet. Give him an update about what’s going on here. With both of us being noobs, he wants extra reassurance that things are going well.”

  Winter nodded, rubbing her arms against a chill. The hole in the ground in front of them had held a child. Not her little brother, she knew now, but someone else’s. It was a cold resting place for a life snuffed out before it had even had a chance to flourish. Unmarked. Maybe unmourned.

  She would mourn for him or her.

  “It’s not Justin.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Her head dipped once. “I am.”

  He didn’t ask questions, and he didn’t ask permission. Noah just turned and pulled her into his arms. Winter stiffened at the contact but couldn’t help but relax into his warmth and the comfort he offered. He rubbed a big hand against her back in a firm, soothing rhythm, and she could feel the heat of his palm through her shirt. Something that had been wound tightly inside her loosened, and she blinked back tears that seemed to be haunting her lately. She was sure now the bones didn’t belong to Justin, but she felt no relief. Just an overwhelming grief for the faceless boy they did belong to.

  With her forehead pressed against his shoulder, she said quietly, “There are more here. We have to find them.”

  He didn’t even question her or hesitate for an instant. “Then let’s make a trip to the medical examiner’s office in Roanoke. See if we can find some kind of rationale for the cadaver dog that everyone else will accept.”

  Florence Wade didn’t look like a forensic pathologist. She looked like someone’s grandma. She was rounded and soft under her white lab coat, and her graying hair was cut short in a messy riot of curls. A sunny, cheerful smile creased her face as they introduced themselves, and her handshake was firm and brisk. Brown eyes that shone with sharp intelligence glittered behind her horn-rimmed bifocals.

  “Thanks for coming, agents.”

  She led them to a small conference room and set a file on the table in front of them. Opening it, she pulled out pictures and spread them across the table.

  “I’m still a week or so out on my formal report, but here’s what I’ve got so far.” She pointed to the first photo with one blunt, unpainted fingernail, then the next. Pictures of the site before excavation. A small skull was clearly visible, mostly uncovered. Leaves were piled haphazardly to one side, likely from the dog digging at the site.

  “The bones aren’t recent. We took samples of cortical bone and tooth enamel, and through carbon dating were able to estimate time of death that we believe to be accurate within one to two years, of approximately December 1987. The remains belong to a six-year-old male, born in 1981.”

  She pointed to another photo, this one taken in the lab. The bones were cleaned up and arranged in their anatomical position. Winter’s knuckles whitened where her hands gripped the table. They were so small.

  “The remains were complete, with no elements missing and no indication they’d been buried with another body.” Florence indicated the hole in the skull. “Cause of death appears to be projectile force trauma. There were no other injuries present, recent or otherwise.”

  “So, it wasn’t an accident?” Noah asked, studying the photos.

  “I believe you’re looking at a potential homicide,” Florence agreed, her face darkening. “Caused by a small-caliber bullet to the back of the head at close range.” Noah scowled too.

  To Winter, it was comforting to see their professional faces slip. She’d been questioning her own impartiality since they’d arrived in Harrisonburg. But few people were left unaffected by the violent death of a defenseless child. The rage simmering inside her was shared.

  “We’re still studying some abnormalities in the bones,” Florence continued. “Their size and development contrast somewhat with the age of the teeth given to us by the odontologist. The subject appears to have had a congenital condition that causes delayed growth and physical deformities, but it’s not one that we can immediately identify.”

  Winter had noted that in the arranged skeleton in the lab, the boy’s legs looked bowed, his spine crooked. She pointed to
the picture. “This isn’t normal, right?”

  “Right. Neither is this.” Florence traced the arrangement of the arm bones. “The arms are shorter than they should be at this developmental stage. Additionally, the jawbone is slightly misshapen, and some of these bones haven’t fused like they should by the time a child turns six. We’ve done some genetic testing, but we’re still working to pinpoint the condition that caused this. The subject was the size of a kid a year or two younger. I’m estimating forty inches tall, probably between thirty-five and forty pounds. I also believe he would have walked with a stoop that made him look even smaller, with his head jutted forward.”

  “How about identification?” Noah asked. “Any idea who this kid could be?”

  “Not yet. No DNA match, no dental record match. No surgical implants that would tie to any medical records. European ancestry, we know, but not much more than that at this point.”

  They wrapped it up, taking the copies Florence had made for them. She promised to keep them updated on anything else they uncovered.

  “Find out what happened to the poor boy,” she ordered them as they left. “My grandson’s the same age and has Down’s Syndrome. Danny’s the most amazing kid you’ll ever meet. I’m pretty impartial after thirty-five years at this job, but in cases like this, with the youngest and most vulnerable of us? They still make me sick.”

  Noah and Winter didn’t talk much on the two-hour drive back to Harrisonburg from Roanoke, occupying the first half of the trip with their own thoughts. Winter thought about calling Max on speakerphone for their check-in but chickened out. Instead, she sent him a detailed and bulleted email, giving him the rundown on what they’d been doing so far.

  “You know he hates email,” Noah warned her.

  Winter winced. “I know. I’d just as soon risk it this time, though.”

  Max responded within minutes, telling her he’d expect a phone call the following day. He then gave her the name and number of a Search and Rescue guy he knew of in the area who had a trained cadaver-sniffing dog.

  “You want to grab something to eat?” Noah asked as they passed the exit for Pleasant Valley.

  Winter wasn’t hungry, but it had been a long time since their early morning pancakes. Noah, she knew, was always hungry. “Sure. There’s a place not far from the hotel. Reggianos. They used to make a good pizza.”

  The place was busy for a Thursday evening, and the buzz of the customers loud. The décor hadn’t changed much since Winter had been there last. Red plaid curtains at the windows. Family sized booths covered with squeaky red vinyl cushions. They found an open one at the back of the restaurant, near the jukebox.

  A harried waitress came by and took their order. A meatball grinder for Winter and an extra-large pizza with every meat known to man on it for Noah. The waitress brought them their beer quickly but warned them that the kitchen was running slow because of an unexpected soccer team having a celebration party in the back room. They were giving free breadsticks to everyone who was willing to wait for their main course.

  Winter took a sip of her Rolling Rock and tried to shake her heavy mood. She wasn’t going to last long in the FBI if she couldn’t put a case aside mentally.

  “We’ve known each other for a while now, Dalton, and there’s something I’ve always wondered about you.”

  He glanced up from the dessert menu. “What’s that, darlin’?”

  “How the hell do you eat like you do and not keel over dead from a heart attack?”

  He laughed, a low, rich sound that made the woman at the table next to them glance over and do an appreciative double take when she saw the source. “Genetics,” he declared, oblivious to the female attention. “My grandpa was a cattle farmer and used to be able to eat steak four times a day.”

  “Used to? What happened to him?” Noah had never said much about his family.

  “Grandpa? Oh, he’s still alive.” He grinned and patted his trim belly with both hands. “It’s just he’s built up his tolerance. Now, he eats six steaks a day.”

  Winter rolled her eyes. “You’re such a dork.”

  Their breadsticks came, heavily scented with garlic and dripping in hot butter. Winter’s stomach growled. Turned out she was hungry, after all.

  “How are your grandparents doing?” Noah asked after demolishing a breadstick in two bites. He’d met them a couple of months before, staying with Winter during their week after graduation at the FBI Academy and before starting at the Raleigh field office.

  “They’re doing good.” Winter smiled. “I’m not far from home these days, but Grandma is still trying to teach Grampa how to Skype, so we can stay in touch when they head to Florida after the holidays. He’s trying, but he acts like it’s a camera. He makes faces like he’s posing for a still shot.”

  “If your grandma was single, I’d probably ask her to marry me. She makes a bitchin’ meatloaf.”

  “You ever been married?”

  He nodded, reaching for the last breadstick. She shot a hand out, beating him to it. He gave her such a wounded look, she tore it in half. “Mary Sue Lichtenberg,” Noah answered, popping half of his half into his grinning mouth. “Straight out of school.”

  “Let me guess. She was the head cheerleader, and you were the star quarterback. High school sweethearts.”

  “Nope. She was captain of the debate team, and I was a running back.” He smiled, laugh lines crinkling at the corners of his green eyes, and took a sip of his beer. “After graduation, she thought it’d be fun to play house and told me she was pregnant. But I shipped off to basic training two weeks after we tied the knot at the justice of the peace. She ended up getting bored at the little apartment I’d rented for us, moved back in with her parents, and filed for a divorce.”

  “No baby?”

  “No baby. No hard feelings, either. We were too young to get married anyway. Neither of us knew what we wanted in life yet.”

  “Do you ever talk to her?”

  Noah grinned before licking garlic butter from his thumb. “Sure do. I was Mary Sue’s best man at her second wedding two years ago. She sends me a Christmas card every year. Mary Sue and her wife, Jacinda, just adopted two baby boys from Nigeria last summer. They made me the godfather.”

  Their food finally arrived after Winter and Noah had finished a second round of beer and another basket of breadsticks. The restaurant had thinned out a little while Noah kept her laughing and distracted, and Winter started to relax for the first time in what felt like weeks.

  “So, this thing you do. Is it like a vision? Or hunches?”

  She froze, instantly on alert. “What do you mean?”

  Noah, as casually as if they’d been discussing the weather, took another bite of his pizza and chewed thoughtfully. “I imagine it’s like a cop’s hunch,” he finally said. “But maybe stronger? I get the itch, so I can relate to that. That feeling that either tells you to watch your back or makes you sit up and take notice when you see something that looks random. Next thing you know, you’ve got a guy going for a gun, or see a pattern coming out of haphazard data points. Is what you do anything like that?”

  Her appetite was gone, and she pushed the plate with her half-finished sub away. “Why do I feel like you’ve been lulling me into complacency for the last hour?”

  Noah gave her an unreadable look. “We’re on the same team, you know. Right now, we’re even partners. Partners watch out for each other. Share information.”

  “I don’t know what you want me to say.” Uncomfortable, she glanced around the restaurant. Anything to keep from getting pulled into that penetrating stare, covered by a veneer of affability. Noah gave the impression of an easygoing, down-home, good ol’ boy, but he was gently relentless.

  “The truth?”

  “Fine.” She could give him something. Not the whole story, but something. He deserved that much. She met his eyes, calm and green, radiating nothing but friendly concern and curiosity.

  “At the crime scene, the buria
l site glowed red. Things do that for me sometimes, glow red when they’re connected with a violent crime or the person who commits them.” She scanned his face, trying to determine if he was either about to laugh or call the loony bin. When he only nodded for her to go on, she reluctantly continued, “When we were in the woods, I saw the red radiating around that hole. Then I looked around, and there were other areas glowing. I could take you back out there right now, dig up any one of those areas, and I’d bet my life there are more bodies beneath.”

  She held her breath, waiting for the inevitable look he’d give her. It didn’t matter which one: fear, concern, disbelief, pity, scorn. They were all devastating.

  Instead, he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, whistling softly. His look was one of admiration, and maybe a little envy. It knocked her off-balance a little.

  “Hell, that’s a handy knack to have in our line of work.” His Texan drawl had grown thicker. “Can you teach me how to do it?”

  4

  The next morning, the day dawned warm and sunny again. The newscaster promised rain in the forecast and an incoming cold front, but you wouldn’t know it from the sky’s gorgeous shade of blue.

  Winter and Noah met again for a morning run. It was easier this time, jogging past all the familiar places from her childhood. The new accord she’d found with Noah probably helped. He hadn’t treated her like a freak after her confession over dinner the night before. Instead, he seemed to believe her without reservation. She was lucky to have him as a friend.

  Her stomach still tightened with a vague sense of dread when they passed by Hemlock Street. Her old house was down at the end of a cul-de-sac, and she refused to even look its way. She never wanted to see the old Victorian home again.

  They had breakfast at the same café they had the morning before—a giant stack of pancakes and a double side of bacon for Noah while Winter picked at an egg-white omelet. While they finished their coffee, she’d called the number for the Search and Rescue contact Max had provided for her, Jeff Dean.