Forgotten Bones

by Vivian Barz

  “Umm . . .” Eric could think of absolutely nothing to say.

  “After a while, I got bored with the bugs. You’ve seen one die, and you’ve seen them all,” Milton said, picking at a sore on the back of his hand. He tore the scab away, rolled it in his fingers, and let the crusty ball drop onto the floor.

  Eric’s stomach rolled up to his throat.

  “I upgraded to larger critters,” Milton continued. “You’d be amazed at the little things you can fit in those gallon canning jars—snakes and mice . . . and poor Lenny! He’d brought a kitten home from the field once.” Milton picked at the now-bleeding scab. “Cats always took longer to—”

  “Listen, I should be shoving off now,” Eric said, making a show of looking at his cell phone, which gave him absolutely no indication what time it was.

  Milton quickly rose and strode toward the kitchen. “Before you go, let me get you some banana bread. It was my mother’s recipe.”

  Panicked, Eric also made a move to get to his feet. “Really, I’m okay. Been trying to cut back on the sweets—”

  “I insist,” Milton said stubbornly. “It’s the least I can do, since you brought me that trunk.”

  “Does this mean that you want me to leave it?” Eric asked, feeling a relief so pronounced that it nearly brought tears to his eyes. If the old man was going to take the trunk off his hands, fine, he’d accept some banana bread with thanks and a smile, though the only thing that would be eating it was the garbage can.

  “Don’t see the point in making you lug it back down to your car,” Milton said as he turned on the lights in the kitchen. “I made a double batch of bread, and I’ll never get through it all. I’d hate to see it go to waste. Won’t be a minute.”

  Eric settled back into his chair. “Well, if you insist.” He could hear Milton shuffling around the kitchen, opening drawers and ripping back foil. He pictured Milton’s sore bleeding all over the countertops and into the bread.

  Eric seized the opportunity when the clattering stopped. He couldn’t stand to wait any longer. He cleared his throat and called, “Uh, listen, Milton, I really need to get on the road. Just got a text . . . from work.”

  Milton came into the living room gripping a knife. Its blade was caked with smears of chocolate and banana. “Not a problem.” He smiled. “I’ve got your bread all wrapped up.”

  Eric got to his feet, swaying. He clamped his skull in his hands, goggling at Milton. It was like peering at the old man from the opposite end of a tunnel. “Is work ’mergency,” he said, his head dipping forward. “Must . . . go . . .”

  Eric stumbled forward, legs and arms stiff as a blind mummy’s, hands groping the air for balance. He toppled when his shins clipped the coffee table. The old wood gave out under his weight as he fell on top of it, cracking beneath him in an eruption of splinters, the empty mug tumbling to the floor.

  CHAPTER 31

  Susan was in no mood to answer work calls. She’d had her ass chewed by Ed because of her trip to Eric’s, and that was before he’d learned that Eric had gone with her to Milton’s. After that , he’d become so angry that he’d needed to take a five-minute breather outdoors before coming back inside to continue his scolding.

  Whoever was calling now was clearly not going to give up. Sighing, Susan answered. “Hel—”

  “Listen up, Lady Ass Kicker.” It was Sal, speaking so hurriedly that his words came out in a jumble. “I’ve got some news for you hot off the press.”

  “About Death Farm?” Susan asked, peering around the station guiltily. Given her recent reprimanding, it was the last thing she should be discussing.

  But he’d called her, so . . .

  “Yes! But I can’t talk long,” Sal said. “I’ve been waiting for the Frankenstein FBI goon they’ve strapped me with to beat it. He went to grab a coffee down the street, so—”

  “Got it!” she broke in. “And have I ever told you that you’re the best?”

  “Every time we talk,” Sal said with a laugh. “Okay, you ready for this? I’m about to change everything you think you know about the case.”

  “Go, go.”

  “This morning, we found a movie ticket in the back pocket of one of the later victims. We would have found it sooner, but it had slipped under the seam a little, so it felt like it was a part of the pants. You can’t always feel everything through latex, you know.”

  Susan was getting impatient. “Okay, so?”

  “That movie ticket was dated during Gerald’s prison sentence.”

  Susan sat back in her chair, letting the air drain from her lungs. “Holy shit.”

  “That’s right, holy shit.”

  Susan thought a moment. “Any chance Gerald could have planted it on the body after he got out of prison? I can’t imagine why he would, though. I mean, if he’d go through the trouble of doing that, you think he’d maybe move the bodies altogether.”

  “Right, right,” Sal said. “And not a chance—we checked. The crew over on the farm confirmed that the body has not been disturbed since its burial, which was about two years ago—a few of the bodies are newer than we’d thought. And you want to know how they’re sure of this? They had some fancy-pants botanist come to the site to test the soil. And here’s some freaky shit: the kid was buried underneath tomato plants, like way, way down. Jesus Christ, imagine eating those . Thank God for infrared, else the body may not have been found so fast.”

  Susan went quiet while she processed the information.

  “You still there?”

  “I’m still here. But wait a minute, Sal. Gerald’s been in prison these past few years. Who’s been tending those plants?” And why hadn’t she thought of the question sooner? She’d been so distracted back in Emerald Meadows by Mary’s murder confession that landscaping had never occurred to her.

  “Funny, I asked the same thing. Great minds, huh? A neighbor’s been taking care of the place—does the gardening and basic upkeep.”

  “Would this neighbor be Milton Lincoln?”

  “That’s the one.”

  God dammit! If only Mary Nichol had bothered to tell me this when I visited her.

  And why hadn’t Milton mentioned it when she and Eric had paid him a visit?

  “From what I heard,” said Sal, “the poor guy nearly had a heart attack when he learned what had been happening next door. Imagine that, all those years taking care of your neighbor’s plants—probably eating tomatoes off them, too—only to find out there was a kid buried underneath.”

  “Blech. I’d probably have a heart attack too,” Susan said. “Okay, so back to the movie ticket. Now the theory is that Gerald maybe didn’t commit the murders, because the dates conflict?”

  “Correct.”

  “But that doesn’t seem right, given Gerald’s criminal background.”

  “The other theory is that Gerald was working with a partner. This seems to be what the FBI is leaning toward.”

  “A partner. Of course. Still, Gerald’s mother wasn’t always in a home. She was living on the property for a lot of the murder years. I’ve been wondering this: How was Gerald—or his partner—able to dump the bodies there?”

  “Oh, I bet it wasn’t too difficult. You’ve been out that way. If Gerald’s mother is as bad off physically as everyone says, Gerald—or his partner—could have easily gotten rid of the bodies during a visit. Every dozen or so trips out to the farm, he’d dump a body while she was napping or something, right? Seems plausible. He had plenty of space to work with.”

  Susan considered this. “Sure. It makes as much sense as anything else.”

  “But don’t take any of my theories as substantiation; I only work on the bodies. Let me tell you this next bit before Frankenfuck gets back.”

  “Go! Tell me!”

  “Remember how I told you that I’ve been reading up on serial killers lately?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, from what I’ve read, sometimes they’ll take a trophy from their victims, like a tooth or
jewelry. Or they’ll leave something behind—something personal they’ll plant on each body, right? It becomes like a signature that links the kills.”

  Susan said, “Like a calling card.”

  “Exactly. I read about one guy who used to leave an acorn in the vaginas of all the women he murdered. The profilers on that case thought it was his symbolic way of punishing them for their fertility—I mean, the guy had some serious mommy issues. Personally, I think the guy was just a huge nut bag.”

  “Okay, okay.” Hurry, Sal.

  “It seems that our guy on the farm—or guys , if Gerald was working with a partner—was leaving behind horse hair, probably from the tail because of its length.”

  Susan was too stunned to speak.

  “It’s always just a single hair. Kind of like with the movie ticket, at first we missed it. The bodies, of course, hadn’t been buried with preservation in mind, so we’d been dismissing most organics: animal hair, twigs . . . dirt. We always find that kind of stuff when we get bodies that have been buried outside,” Sal said. “But then we started to see a pattern.”

  Susan had to stop herself from shouting. “What kind of pattern?”

  “I found the first hair tucked up under the collar of one of the victim’s shirts, which, like I said, I initially disregarded. I didn’t find any hair on the next couple bodies I examined, but I wasn’t really looking for it. So a couple bodies later, I found another horse hair, but this time it was inside a sneaker. It was an odd coincidence, but again, the kids were buried on a farm. Then, though, on the next body I found another hair, and this one was threaded through the holes of the victim’s belt. There is no way that could have accidentally happened. So I went back to the other bodies, and sure enough, I found hairs.”

  Susan’s heart was thudding. “The hairs,” she choked out. “What color were they?”

  “I’m assuming they must have all come from the same horse, because they were all the same color, a bright, rusty red.”

  “Sal, I’m going to have to call you back.”

  “Sure, but—”

  Susan dropped the phone on its cradle and floated toward Ed’s office, feeling as though she were moving through a dream. Of course, it fit . How had she not seen it sooner?

  Ed was not happy to see her, but he softened when he saw the expression she was wearing. “You all right, kid? You’re as white as a sheet.”

  She spoke swiftly. “Ed, I know you’re angry about earlier, and you have every right to be. I never should have taken Eric with me to Milton’s.”

  “No, you never should have gone to Eric’s or Milton’s to begin with.”

  “Okay. You’re right,” she said with an aggressive nod. “But can you answer me something: Have I ever once , in my entire time working here, gone off half-cocked on any case?”

  “No, but—”

  “And other than taking Eric to Milton’s, have I ever behaved erratically or arrested somebody who didn’t deserve to be arrested?”

  Ed frowned. “What’s this about?”

  “I don’t want you to freak out, okay? Please don’t get mad.” She spat it out before she lost the nerve: “I want to talk to Milton Lincoln again.”

  Ed replied with something that was a hybrid of a scowl and a snort. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

  “I’m not,” she said, raising her gaze so that her eyes met his. “And I want you to come with me.”

  Ed folded his arms across his chest. “Now, why on earth would I do that?”

  “I think Milton Lincoln had a hand in the Death Farm murders. I think . . . he might be Gerald’s partner. I have a feeling in my gut.”

  “Susan,” Ed began, and she knew she was in trouble. “Have you gone to the feds with this lunacy?”

  “No. Not at all. I haven’t said anything to anybody. I swear.”

  Ed relaxed a little. “Good. Because if you had, you wouldn’t have made just yourself look bad but the entire police department.”

  I don’t think so, Ed. I’m right. I can feel it.

  Ed exhaled loudly. “And just what is it you want to do about your gut feeling?”

  “I want to ask Milton some questions about his horse, see how he responds.”

  “His horse? I think you’ve been spending too much time with that schizo.”

  Susan’s temper flared up to the tip of her tongue, but she managed to cage it behind her teeth. Ed’s mind had been closed for the better part of sixty years, and she sure as hell didn’t have the time to try to open it now. “I’ll explain everything in the car. Please , Ed.”

  “You know, you’re cruisin’ for a bruisin’, kid,” Ed said with a sigh. “I get it. I do. You’re ambitious, but you need to start thinking about the department.”

  Susan felt like screaming. If he’d only go with her, he’d believe. “Nobody is even here. Everyone else has gone home. It will be our little secret. Please. ”

  “Okay, I’ll drive.” Ed stood and shrugged on his jacket. “But I want you to tell me everything you know on the way—everything you think you know. If I’m not convinced by the time we get there, so help me, I’m turning around.”

  “Deal.”

  “And you’re buying me a coffee on the way.”

  “Thank you, Ed.” Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

  CHAPTER 32

  Milton’s face floated above Eric in a kaleidoscope of melted-butter light. “Ah, good. You’re awake.”

  It took great effort for Eric to keep his eyes focused. He sensed his blinks way at the base of his skull, as if the skin of his face had been stretched back tight by clothespins. His throat was dry and the air liquid. He swallowed. “Geghhhh.”

  Milton jangled a set of keys. “Hope you don’t mind, but while you were dozing, I took the liberty of moving your car around back. Can’t have any nosy Nellies come snooping, now can we?”

  “Wha’ you . . . give . . . mehhh?”

  “Don’t worry,” Milton said. “I wouldn’t dare poison you. What would be the fun in that?” He crouched down and wrenched Eric up from the floor, throwing him over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

  Christ, Eric thought, he is strong . Even on his best day, he doubted he’d be able to take the old man. Though, he reminded himself, he had kicked Jim’s ass.

  (Let’s be real. Jim let you win, didn’t he?)

  Eric’s head lolled back, and his throat made a weak, suffocated sound as Milton repositioned him on the sofa like a marionette, propping his head up with a pillow squished firmly behind his neck. A sensation edging close to terror bit through his druggy haze and then faded.

  It dawned on Eric: Lenny. He wasn’t being spiteful when he tried to knock my mug off the table. He was trying to save me.

  “There, that’s a little better,” Milton said, taking Eric in with a reptilian gaze that was somehow both cold and serene. “Don’t want you choking on your own spit, do we? But you will let me know if you feel like vomiting?” Milton gestured at the throw pillow he’d crammed behind Eric’s back. “My mother made that.”

  Eric’s tongue was a pruney waste of meat. “Geeeehhhhh.”

  Milton plucked the tea mug from the floor and placed it on a side table, then eased back into his own seat, knees popping like kindling. “You can try to ignore old age all you want, but it’s your joints that never let you forget.”

  This is not happening.

  “I mixed a little cattle tranquilizer in with your tea, plus a couple other mild sedatives,” Milton said casually. “What are you, about one eighty? It’s not an exact science, but I think I did a pretty good job with the dose. You aren’t dead yet, are you?”

  Did he say yet?

  Eric blinked lazily. Drool seeped from the corner of his mouth, and a gas bubble rose from his stomach, lodging painfully in his throat. If he puked, he wondered, would it make it all the way up, or would it stop midway and choke him?

  Milton slapped his knees. “Since you aren’t going anywhere anytime soon, I’d like to finish
my yarn before we get down to it. That okay with you?”

  “Geeeehhhhh.”

  “You know what, son? Rest your voice.” Milton leaned forward and patted Eric on the forearm the way an adult would a child. Eric recoiled—at least, he recoiled internally . His physical body remained motionless, panicking him severely. He was utterly paralyzed. He focused all his energy on his lower half, pushing every ounce of vitality he had remaining down through his limbs.

  His big toe moved.

  (Oh, super. If you can manage to kick this crazy redneck’s ass with a single toe, you just might make it out of here alive.)

  “Tranqs can give you a nice little high, or so I’ve heard. I’ve never tried them myself. Never been one to dabble in illicit substances, not like you kids . . .” Milton clicked his tongue and shook his head. “Would you look at what you’ve done to my coffee table? Belonged to my great-grandmother, that did. Oh well. Never mind.”

  A couple of fat tears flowed over Eric’s lower eyelids.

  “Fate, Eric. Some call it destiny, but I like the term fate better. It’s still a little spacey for my taste,” Milton said, lifting a hand and rotating his wrist, “but I think it fits the story I’m about to tell you. Do you believe in fate, Eric?”

  It was the same question Jake had asked him—how he wished he were kicking back with Jake now instead of with this psycho. His mouth drooped at the corners. His face was hotly numb, electrified pins and needles of fire and ice, as were his arms and legs. A peculiar thought occurred to him then: if somebody were to walk into the room at that precise moment and offer him a million dollars for the simple task of lifting an arm, he wouldn’t earn a penny.

  “It’s okay; you’re probably too relaxed to nod. Anyway, I never gave much thought to fate as a kid, but after what happened that day in the shed with Lenny . . .” Milton provided Eric a coy smile. “I must admit that I became a believer.”

  Eric’s lids, concrete heavy, fell closed, and his head dunked forward. So nice to rest, so very, very nice, like settling back into a warm bathtub, like nestling into a cloud, like—