The Tramp (The Bound Chronicles #1)

by Sarah Wathen

  But the canopy above cleared abruptly, and he was kissed by the fresh air of the open ravine, with an earthy smell of fast moving water churning up the riverbed below. He could just discern a delicate lavender wash seeping across the sky into the western blackness, the stars beginning to wink out with the advance of light. Aaron collapsed to the ground, leaned back in relief and dangled his boots over the side of the bluff, his palms damp on the cool, crusty granite. He thought about the healing power of a new day—of every new day—and admitted that he was starting to accept his friend Henri’s death.

  “Bye, little buddy.”

  The burst of sunfire was spectacular, perfect for Henri’s requiem. Bright pinks and oranges flared and rippled amongst feathers of clouds. Aaron’s face warmed as the sun rose and the pageant faded and the sky gradually fused back together in a cool, peaceful blue. It was morning, fair and full of promise.

  He rose to depart, dusting his hands on his wool pajama pants. With one last look over the side of the bluff into the river, a strange motion caught his eye. He peered down into the canyon. Thankful now for the chill that caused him to don his hunting coat; he unclipped his binoculars from their utility hook and focused in on the object below.

  “What the…”

  There was a large mass of some sort of waterlogged fabric or plastic caught on roots or rocks at the river’s edge; the bundle had ebbed over into a nook and was bobbing there, apparently too heavy or too well entangled to be dislodged by the current. It was floating in and out of his line of sight.

  “Well, darn.”

  He’d to have to loosen it himself, or it would just sit there and rot in the water.

  “Probably a sack of garbage,” he muttered, resigning himself to one more wilderness errand before returning to civilization. “Dang tourist campers.”

  He whistled his own tune in honor of the songbirds as he wound down the steep mountainside to the water, knowing his bustling human presence would scare off anymore singing from wildlife. He didn’t care. He was feeling downright sunny; his heart was lighter than it had felt in weeks. Healed, or on his way. Drawing nearer to where he figured the garbage was wedged, he glanced around to get his bearings.

  “Now, where’d you go?”

  With a shock, he saw a wolf struggling with the bundle, attempting to pull it onto land. One of his brothers offered aid, but the first turned and snapped. A skirmish ensued, while a third opportunist lunged at the prize.

  “What is that?” Aaron crouched down beside a scrubby bush and pulled his binoculars up to his eyes again. Closer now, and with the light strengthening, he could see a bare human foot.

  The wolves had torn the shoe off tugging the human body to shore and were fighting over the shoe. Aaron leapt from his hiding place. He fumbled his handgun out of his coat pocket—not sure what to do, but he had to do something before the wolves remembered the body and dropped that shoe—and fired several shots into the air. His ears rang as he sprinted to the water. The wolves scattered, sprinting up the shoreline and disappearing into the brush.

  “Get outta here!” he shouted after them.

  Nearing the body, whose head and arms were still partially submerged, Aaron’s mind raced. He needed to retrieve this person and defend his body from the elements, as a respect befitting any human being. Yet, as he approached the bundle, he winced at the odor of rot and steeled himself for death. He had no idea how the person died, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

  “What the heck am I gonna do with a dead body?” He edged closer so he might see the corpse’s face, still bobbing in the water. “Be damned if I know what to do with a—.” Aaron let out an anguished wail. He jammed his knuckles into his mouth. He looked around, desperate for help, tears springing to his eyes.

  The last thing he was prepared for was recognizing the face.

  His eye caught the blackened silhouette of a bird circling high in the sky above. Is that an eagle or a vulture? He patted his jacket pockets, frantic. No cell phone service out here. He mopped at his brow. Think, Aaron.

  He forced himself to breathe, slow and steady.

  “The CB.”

  There was a radio in his jeep. If he could get to it, he could get the sheriff. But what if the wolves came back while he was gone? The vultures? How fast could he get to the jeep and back? He looked at Antonio’s bloated face. Gruesome as it was, he was still the sweet young kid Aaron had done his best to ignore, shunning him while he and Dad bonded.

  “Sweet Jesus.”

  Soft brown curls wafted around the baby face, and his head nodded in the undulating current of the little inlet. Aaron tasted blood on his lip and whispered an apology to the dead boy’s foot, his throat aching. He turned away with tightness in his chest. I’ll have to leave him. All alone.

  Aaron prayed that he would find the body intact when he came back with help. He shot three more warning shots into the air, and raced back to his campsite.

  chapter forty-three

  “Inhibited olfactory sensation is one of my most fortunate shortcomings on a day like today.” Sometimes, Zenée Abney really didn’t know how she would do her job, if not for that little genetic quirk.

  As a medical examiner, she was generally used to foul smells, but even she winced as she unzipped the bag containing the late Antonio di Brigo. There were several deputies and the Shirley County Sheriff waiting in the hospital lobby upstairs, conjecturing and gossiping, but she insisted that her examination be performed without observers. Her pretext was fear of further contamination of evidence, but truthfully, she couldn’t stand men in her personal space, hovering over her and breathing audibly, when she needed to concentrate. As if to compensate for a deviated nasal septum, broken at birth, the gods had gifted Zenée with an extremely sensitive set of ears.

  She scrutinized the form for several minutes, circumnavigating the examination table, taking in the entire body before focusing on any one apparent injury.

  “Well, this one’s a doozie,” she murmured, having already detected four plausible trauma sites. She had seen violently maimed corpses before, but not many since the transfer from her residency in New York to the quiet mountain town of Tenakho Falls. There was the odd accident-befallen camper, and more than a proportionate share seemed to issue from Shirley County. This new body was a special case—probably a murder victim—and she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of excitement.

  She began with the least serious damage first. Zenée snapped her latex gloves at the wrist and switched on her digital recorder.

  “Multiple phalangeal fractures in the right hand…” She lifted the hand and pressed into the flesh, feeling along each joint. “On the index: fracture of the distal and middle phalanges, and…also the inter-phalangeal joint. Distal phalanx fractured on the middle finger and fourth finger.”

  She turned the hand over, examining bruises. “Metacarpals have been crushed by a flat, heavy object, with considerable force. Maybe stepped on. Contusions indicate a pre-mortem injury.” She placed the hand back on the table, palm up.

  “Pruning of the hands and feet, as well as bloating…” she picked a wet leaf from between the waterlogged fingers of the other hand, “and debris from the river. I estimate the body has been fully or partially submerged in water for approximately two days.”

  She walked towards the victim’s head.

  “I would place time of death shortly before submersion.”

  Most of the blood had been washed away, but Zenée had been told that the clothing was profusely stained, blood still apparent even after a decent washing in the elements. She carefully pried the subject’s jaws apart. Her pin light shone on a bloated tongue, and she pressed it flat to see deeper inside. “Blood still apparent in the oral cavity.”

  She felt along the left side of the torso. “Extensive contusions on the subcutaneous tissue overlying the left ribcage. Multiple rib fractures on
that side, indicating severe blunt-force trauma.”

  Zenée would have bet her life savings that she would find lacerations of the parenchyma, with diffuse hemorrhaging (that he had breathed in blood and lots of it), but she would have to open him up for a look at his lungs once she finished her cursory examination.

  But that wasn’t how you died, was it, Mr. Di Brigo? She gently fingered the bullet hole in the middle of his forehead. “Gun powder detected near entrance wound on the frontal cranial bone.”

  Someone finished you off, didn’t they? She crouched down low and lifted the skull, and eyeing the larger hole on the back of the head that indicated a bullet’s exit. She turned the head sideways for a better view.

  “Any progress report, ma’am? Those fellas upstairs are feeling mighty anxious.” A timid voice echoed through Zenée’s concentration.

  She directed her gaze towards the offending owner, who was lingering just inside the doorway to the morgue, then continued her exploration of the posterior lesion. “Where was the bullet recovered?”

  “Recovered?”

  “Yes, the bullet would have entered the frontal bone here, and exited through the occipital bone at the base of the skull, there. According to the probable state of health at the time, I would say the body would have been lying prostrate, most likely on a plane lower than the weapon.” She straightened. Mimed holding a handgun, pointed at the floor. “The angle of the bullet path through the skull indicates the body was likely propped against something or someone when the shooter fired. I certainly hope Mr. Di Brigo’s friend made out better than he did. So, where was the bullet lodged?”

  “That’s police business, Ms. Abney.”

  “Dr. Abney, Sheriff Jameson.”

  “My apologies. Doctor.”

  Zenée raised her recorder to show him it was still running and fixed him with sarcastic gratitude. She moved around to the other side of the table and leaned over the subject’s midsection. “Jagged, incised wound traversing the abdomen indicates a dull blade was employed. Switch-blade or pocketknife. Evisceration of the intestines, liver, spleen. No hemorrhaging apparent, implying the damage was post-mortem and possibly post-submersion—”

  “Excuse me, doctor. Did you say ‘switch-blade or pocketknife’?”

  “Yes, the body has been disemboweled,” she stated, waving her hand across the expanse of empty body cavity in illustration.

  “The witness who discovered the boy said the wolves had been at him.”

  “Well, unless a wolf eats with a fork and knife, Sheriff…”

  Dumbfounded was a phrase made for people like Sheriff Jameson. His lips moved, but nothing came out. Zenée waited for him to regain control of his vocal chords. “You are certain this boy’s…innards were removed by a person? Not an animal?”

  “That depends on your definition of animal, I suppose.”

  “Why would a person have done that?”

  “Ritual? Trophy? The heart would make a more likely trophy, but that would have been harder to reach and the culprit was clearly not an expert surgeon. He would have needed to understand that the diaphragm must be incised first, before locating the heart.” Zenée continued with her survey, holding up one leg for inspection of the gluteus. She glanced up and paused to see the sheriff’s pale face. “You don’t have a queasy stomach, do you? If so, you had better exit through there. You’ll find a bathroom two doors down.”

  “I’m not sick, Doctor,” the sheriff said, his voice so quiet it sounded like a secret. He watched the victim’s face instead of hers. “I knew this boy. Only slightly, but I knew him.”

  “Oh.” Zenée shut off the recorder. “Well, I’m sorry for your loss, Sheriff Jameson. I certainly hope this will be reported to the Committee for Safety of Foreign Exchange Students. Immediately.”

  “I’ll take care of it.” He kept his head down and let her get back to work.

  chapter forty-four

  Have a sudden urge to do some laundry, son? James eyed John’s crouching form, bent over and sorting clothes in the laundry room that was just off the kitchen. Busy as a bee.

  Sheriff Jameson sat across from him, and James leaned close with his voice lowered, “Listen, Mike. John has already made his statement to your deputy. All the kids were dropped home before midnight Saturday, and Antonio was fine the last time he saw him. Ours would’ve been the first house on the route, but there’s no reason Antonio wouldn’t have made it safely home within fifteen or twenty minutes after John got home. I saw John come in, and I saw him to bed.”

  James made no mention of the fact that he heard his son sneak out of his room shortly after that. Through a darkened window, he had watched him put his car in neutral, roll it out to the road, and turn the ignition once he was clear down the drive. James hadn’t thought the secretive behavior was of concern; he himself had snuck out more than once when he was John’s age, and teenage boys needed some freedom. After Antonio had turned up missing, though, he had to ask. John confessed to meeting with Lindsay Yates (whom James remembered to be quite pretty). He said he didn’t wanted to shame his date to the dance by leaving with another girl, and apparently, Lindsay had invited John to visit her at the Jameson’s house. Did Mike know the girls had visitors while he and Stephanie were away for the night? John insisted that Antonio wasn’t a part of the after-party, and though James trusted his son, he sensed the need to tread lightly with the sheriff.

  “Well,” Mike grunted, leaning back against the back of the booth, “that’s the information that we have from the limo driver, too.” He seemed about to say more, then hesitated, as if unsure whether or not to divulge his thoughts.

  “Has anyone been able to ascertain whether or not Antonio left the Walsh house that night? Well, clearly he did. But any idea why, or where he went?” James hinted, fishing for mention of the party at the Jameson house.

  Mike narrowed his eyes. “Thing is, Jamie. I have in my possession Antonio’s personal notebook.”

  ‘I’ have in ‘my’ possession; not ‘we,’ the police force.

  “Aaron Walsh was the man who found the body. Know him?”

  “Slightly.”

  “Good fella. Has a real thing for the hounds. When he watched them scenting around the crime scene, he invited us to the Walsh house straight away. Let us look wherever we pleased, let the dogs sniff where they would, and the notebook turned up right quick. Under the boy’s bed.”

  “And, you’ve read it?”

  “What do you think?”

  James rubbed the scruff on his chin with both hands. “I’m surprised it wasn’t in Italian.”

  “Looks like he was practicing English. One part would be in Italian, then the next in English.”

  “That makes sense,” James said. He tried to shrug, but he was tense from his ears to his toenails.

  “I’ll be honest with you, Jamie. John was mentioned quite a bit, and we all know boys will be boys.”

  James had no choice but to hold Mike’s gaze, unreadable as it was. He had to return the challenge, “The two were pretty good friends. John told me Amanda had recently joined their little crew, as well.” He watched Mike flinch, almost imperceptibly.

  “No, Amanda was never mentioned in the notebook.” Mike recovered his composure in an instant. “She only knew the boy in passing.”

  And who could prove otherwise, Mike? Since no one shall ever see Antonio’s writings, but you? “John must have been mistaken,” James offered magnanimously. “He’s still getting to know everybody, you know.”

  “John’s a good kid. I understand.”

  James sensed that Mike’s subtext was, “We understand each other,” and he shifted in his seat, dreading where the conversation might be headed. What was James “understanding,” exactly?

  “Look, Jamie,” Mike rapped his knuckles on the table between them. “You and I go back a long time. Our famili
es go back a long time. We’re on the same team. Neither one of us wants our kids mixed up in something as serious as this murder case.”

  James felt the subtle threat in Mike’s unblinking eyes and it pissed him off. But he sympathized with his need to protect his daughter as certainly as James would defend his son. Leaning back he nodded—yes.

  “There’s a punk mentioned several times in the journal, name of Sam Castle. Been up to his share of trouble. Sound familiar?” Mike asked, finally seeming to arrive at the crux of his mission to the Robinson household.

  “Another kid from Andrew Jackson?”

  “Dropped out of Jackson, I guess. This Castle kid lives down in Finley Hollow.”

  “You’re talking about the Southern Cove Mobile-Home Park.” James corrected the slur. He had no patience for the old warring families theme, and didn’t find any humor in the joke that so many members of the Finley family were poor that they might as well name the lower-valued properties in town after them. “What does the boy’s neighborhood have to do with it, Mike?”

  “I’ve had more than enough calls down there, made enough arrests in the hollows, to know unsavory events happen there. More drugs, more drunks, more of just about everything we don’t want in Shirley, friend.”

  “What makes you think this Sam kid is involved with Antonio’s murder, though?”

  “Things I’ve heard. My daughter may not have known Antonio di Brigo very well, but she seems to have known plenty about Sam Castle. Wouldn’t say much, but I get the idea he’s not a good guy. Does John know him?”