“What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever found in one of your storage units?” Truman asked to divert Floyd’s attention. “I imagine people leave stuff behind all the time.”
“Haven’t found money, that’s for sure,” Floyd said mournfully. “I keep hoping one of these days someone will leave behind a pile of cash. Hasn’t happened yet.” He hitched up his pants. “I suppose the weirdest thing was about four years ago. They stopped paying on the unit, and I couldn’t hunt them down. When I finally opened it, I found dolls. Hundreds of them in all different shapes and sizes, from Barbie dolls to mannequins.” He lowered his voice and waited for Truman to come up beside him. “Every single one of them was naked. Several didn’t have heads.”
“Were they in boxes?”
“Nope. There were boxes in the unit, but the dolls were sitting on top of the boxes, arranged like an audience. Creeped me the hell out when I went in and found all those eyes staring at me.”
I’m creeped out by listening.
“Who does that?” Floyd went on, confusion in his voice. “The image of those dolls still pops into my head at odd times. I didn’t understand. Why display them in that way? Probably something sexual,” he said, whispering the word with disdain.
“People do weird stuff.”
“I wish they’d keep it behind their own closed doors, not mine,” Floyd asserted. “Here we are.” He gestured to a unit that was about six feet wide and eight feet tall with a roll-up door.
Truman smelled it. Rotting flesh. Not good. “Maybe an animal got in there . . . or they stored something from hunting.”
“I hope you’re right.” Floyd bent over to unlock the padlock at the bottom of the door. “But you can understand why I wanted a cop here when I opened it.”
Truman understood. And wished Samuel had taken the call.
“Holy sheeet,” Floyd said as he yanked up the door. He took three giant steps away and dry heaved.
Truman covered his mouth and nose, stepping back from the odiferous wave and clenching his teeth against the bile that rose in the back of his throat.
Something is definitely dead.
Cardboard boxes were stacked high along one wall of the unit, labeled neatly with dates and contents. But Truman had eyes only for the rolled-up carpet on the floor. It was wedged among the legs of several wooden chairs. Fluids seeped from the closest end, and Truman saw hair inside. It was short human hair that appeared to still be on a head.
“What’s the name of the renter?” he asked Floyd.
“Moody. Clint Moody,” Floyd said between retches.
“Aw, jeez.”
A half hour later, the Deschutes County Sheriff’s Department reported that Ryan Moody wasn’t at home and had the day off from his plumbing job.
Truman put out a BOLO on Ryan’s truck and wondered if the brother had left town.
“The fucker had me convinced he was worried about Clint,” Truman muttered to Mercy as they waited near the storage unit. She’d been his third phone call after the sheriff and the medical examiner.
“You weren’t the only one,” Mercy said. “I actually felt sorry for him.”
“Still not positive he’s the one who put his brother in here.”
Mercy snorted.
Dr. Natasha Lockhart appeared at the same time as the county forensics team. She greeted Truman and Mercy with her usual perky smile. “I’ve got good news!” she said to Mercy. “You’ll get an email from me later today, but the DNA tests came back on our unknown skull. It is definitely related to Corrine Hartlage. The test indicates a sibling relationship.”
“Well, that’s one question answered,” admitted Mercy. “I assume his last name is Palmer, since that was Corrine’s name. We haven’t found a paper trail that we can positively link to him. Maybe he simply stayed off the grid most of his life.”
“Seeing how the Hartlages lived cut off from everyone, that wouldn’t surprise me,” commented Truman.
Dr. Lockhart turned her attention to the open unit. “Oh boy. You’ve got a smelly one here.” She opened her bag, shoved cotton rolls up her nose, and put on a face shield. “Looks gooshy too.”
Is gooshy an official medical term? The visible hair inside the rolled-up rug was eating away at Truman. He’d wanted to yank the carpet out of the shed and confirm it was Clint Moody.
Who else would it be?
The hair color matched what he remembered of Clint.
Dr. Lockhart directed the forensic photographer for a few minutes, showing him the views she wanted, and then asked for help to slide out the rug. Both Truman and Mercy stepped forward, but Mercy waved him back. He’d forgotten he only had one good arm. Mercy, the ME, and two of the techs slid the rug onto a tarp spread out on the concrete. More photos.
The dark-haired medical examiner raised a brow at Mercy and Truman. “Ready?”
No. Truman held his breath as she unrolled the rug. He studied the body for a long moment and then walked away, seeking fresh air.
At the end of the row of units he leaned his good arm against a wall and looked up at the gray sky, breathing deep. A minute later Mercy joined him.
“Clint’s wallet was in the back pocket. I think it’s him,” she said.
“I don’t know how you can visually identify him. Someone practically beat in his skull,” Truman stated. He’d never get the image out of his head. It’d been seared into his brain. The spots where Truman had been kicked in the skull started to throb.
“That’s true, but the height and hair color are accurate according to the license. I bet we’ll confirm it’s him by tomorrow.”
“Or we can get a confession out of Ryan,” Truman muttered. When the carpet had been unrolled, his anger toward the man had tripled. “His disappearance is too coincidental. And he would know about and have access to Clint’s storage unit.”
“The injuries on this body appear to be similar to the Hartlages and Jorgensens. The damaged skulls and the broken teeth. This seems worse because of the amount of decomposition. Clint’s been missing for about two weeks, right?”
“Yes.” He paused as her words sank in, and he turned toward her. “Are you saying Ryan is also a suspect in those family murders?”
“I don’t know. I can’t assume anything.” Mercy rubbed a hand across her mouth. “As far as I can tell right now, the type of injury Clint has—assuming it’s him—is the only thing in common . . . although that could change.”
“This body was hidden away like the Hartlages were,” Truman pointed out.
“True.”
“Someone did a crappy hiding job. They had to know the smell would eventually lead someone to the body.”
“Maybe they planned to move him.”
“I wonder if they’ve been back to the storage unit. I wish Floyd had installed cameras. He doesn’t have one of those gates where people key in a personal code either.”
“Ryan might not be our killer,” Mercy stated. “It only needs to be someone who knew Clint had a unit here and had access to his key . . . which was probably on his keychain. I’ll get it from evidence. The keys were left in Clint’s truck in the pond.”
“Didn’t they already fingerprint the keys?”
“I don’t know. Clint’s missing persons case was handled by county once you disappeared. I didn’t believe it was related to the Hartlages or Jorgensens.”
“I didn’t either.”
Mercy met his gaze. “But we’re both wondering if it’s related now. I want a look inside the Moody house.”
“Deschutes County was authorized to go into the Moody house to look for Ryan today. A car should still be there in case he shows up.”
“Let’s go.”
FORTY
I never forgot that summer.
My father had burrowed deeper inside himself. Us kids were told to leave him alone and stay out of his way. He stopped going to work, and my mother tightened the household spending. Meals were smaller. Meat was infrequent. We ate a lot of potatoes
. She talked about finding a job. My father blew up when she suggested it. “No wife of mine needs a job! I can support this family!”
There was lots of yelling in their room that night, and the next morning her eye was black and blue.
My father started to wander at night. At first he’d pace up and down the hallways, and the boards would creak every time he passed our room. His mumbling continued. The only phrase I could make out was his regular “Stop talking to me,” even though he was alone.
Then he started pacing outside, and I’d watch from my bedroom window as he wandered our few acres. Sometimes he dug holes with a shovel. Sometimes he cleaned the pens. Sometimes he’d sit and simply stare at the stars. I would check the holes the next day. There was nothing in them; they were just random holes. Everywhere.
I wondered about the ghosts that tortured him.
Then he started to run. He started wearing shorts at night and running our long driveway out to the main road and back. He’d run for nearly an hour and be dripping with sweat when he stopped. I’d sneak out of the house and hide in the bed of the truck, spying on him from a wide crack in its metal side. I’m not sure why I watched; his actions were boring. But I wanted to know what drove him, why he constantly needed to move. Was something chasing him?
Several weeks after I walked through the Deverell house and saw the blood, I spied on him from my regular spot from the truck, slightly nervous because the moon was full and bright, and I felt exposed. That night he threw down his shovel as he finished a hole. He disappeared into the barn and came out with a large hammer. This was new, and I wondered what repetitive task he’d tackle. Instead he walked directly toward me.
I couldn’t move. I froze in place as my heart tried to pound its way up my throat.
He sees me.
He will hit me with the hammer.
I’m about to die.
Instead he got in the cab and the truck started. I lay flat, as close to the cab as possible, and tried to melt into the floor of the truck bed. My relief at not being spotted was brief, and I feared where he was taking me.
A few minutes later he turned off the paved road and onto a gravel one. The ride turned rough, and the moon highlighted the dust clouds rolling behind the truck.
He stopped, and I held my breath, clenching my eyes closed as if that would save me from being seen. His door opened and quietly shut, and I listened to his footsteps crunch on the gravel as he walked away.
Silence.
I opened my eyes. He’d parked under an outdoor security light and it was as if a spotlight shone on me. I scooted on my stomach to the crack in the truck bed and peered through just in time to see him enter a house. My heart still running a race, I slipped over the side of the truck bed and moved into the shadows of the trees and tried to slow my heartbeat.
I felt secure in the dark, and I crouched behind a thick trunk, keeping an eye on the house. I hadn’t been to this home before, but I knew where we were. We’d driven west from our home on the main road and the only turn my father had taken was onto this long driveway.
He’s having an affair.
The thought shot through my young brain. I knew what an affair was. He was in love with another woman. Relief for my mother swept through me. Maybe he’d leave her to stay with this other—
The female scream from the house jolted every nerve I had.
In the silence that followed, I felt as if I were drowning, desperate for another sound to help me breathe again.
Instead I only heard the noises of the night. Crickets. Tree frogs. The leaves in a breeze.
A minute later he came out, leaving the front door wide open. He took ten steps and dropped to his knees, covering his face with his hands.
His piercing scream wasn’t human.
The hairs on my arms shot upright.
After a moment of silence, he tipped back his head and screamed again, his arms raised to the night sky, the hammer in his right hand.
He’s finally cracked.
He lurched to his feet and went to their garden hose on the side of the home, washed his hands, rinsed his hammer, and then aimed the hose at his face and let the water wash over him.
I held my breath.
He finally stopped and shook his head like a dog, water droplets flying everywhere. He threw down the hose and strode toward the truck.
It was too late for me to get back in the truck’s bed.
I watched as he drove away and exhaled, briefly closing my eyes. I would walk home. I preferred that to another nail-biting ride.
My legs shook as I stood up, making me put a hand against the tree for balance. I sucked in deep breaths and was relieved at being alone. I started to walk down the driveway to the road.
That scream.
I stopped, horrible visions bouncing through my head.
What did he do?
I remembered the hammer. The determination in his stride as he walked with it gripped in his hand.
I know what he did.
I knew what had happened as surely as I knew the color of my hair, my eyes, my skin.
I turned around and looked at the house. It was silent, and the air around it felt weighted and heavy with pain. Even the normal noises of the night had stopped.
I couldn’t think as my feet moved me toward the home. It silently called me, compelling me to go inside. My mind blank, I went up the wooden steps and through the front door. Inside was a dead man on the living room floor. His jaw had been destroyed, and he had several bloody areas on his head. I watched his chest for movements. It was still.
My father did this.
I left and went down the hall. A woman lay on the floor in my way. Her nightgown was up over her hips, showing her underwear. Her hair and head were bloody. I crouched next to her and saw her brain. Blood pooled around her head and streaks of it went up the wall. In the small bedroom beside her, I saw a set of bunk beds and a single bed. Walking silently, I stopped at the bed. A small girl. I could see pieces of bone above her bloody ear. For the third time I saw a bloody, abused mouth and teeth.
The mouths. Was he trying to stop these people from talking to him?
Her hair drained blood onto her pillow, and I recognized a female Smurf on her pillowcase. Her body curled under her covers as if she were still sleeping. I turned around and another girl was in the bottom bunk. She lay in the exact same position, but he’d struck her right eye and her mouth, and her sharp jagged bones poked through her skin.
He couldn’t have heard them talk. These two girls never woke.
It’s all in his head.
I couldn’t see the top bunk. I wanted to.
I stepped on the first rung of the small ladder. Then the second and third. In the bunk was another girl.
Her mouth was bloody, her eyes were open, and she lay in absolute stillness.
A flawless round drop of blood was in the center of her forehead. I reached out and touched it, wanting to spoil its perfection.
She blinked and sucked in a ragged breath, making eye contact.
I gasped and grabbed the railing of the bunk to keep from falling backward. I let go and leaped to the floor. I dashed out of the room and sprang over the body in the hallway.
She saw me.
I tore out of the house and didn’t stop running until I reached the road. I stopped, bent over, and rested my hands on my thighs, sucking in deep gulps of air.
She saw me.
She’ll be dead by morning.
Repeating this assurance in my head, I walked toward home, reviewing everything I’d seen in that house. I was simultaneously horrified and curious.
Did my father kill the Deverells too?
In my heart I knew he had.
During my long trip home, I considered my options. I could go to the police. I could tell my mother. I could do nothing.
The choices tormented me the whole way home.
I fell into bed, no decision made. The girl’s eyes haunted my dreams.
W
ithin a few days, they arrested another man.
I kept my mouth shut.
FORTY-ONE
Mercy saw Truman was right. A county patrol car sat across the gravel street from the Moody home.
She parked on the road behind Truman, and the deputy walked over to talk to them, rain dripping off his hat.
What a miserable job. Waiting in a cold car during a rainstorm.
“No one’s shown up,” the young man told them. “No one’s even driven down the road—it’s that quiet here.” He gestured at the house directly across from the Moodys’. “Although the lady there did bring me some cookies and hot coffee. She wanted to know what was going on.”
“Sally Kantor? Nice lady. Her cookies should be safe,” Truman stated.
“Ah . . . I didn’t even think of that.” Embarrassment flashed on the deputy’s face.
Mercy wondered how many cookies he had eaten. “What did you tell Sally?”
“Nothing. Just said I was waiting for Ryan to return home so I could ask him some questions.”
“Good.” Truman indicated he was ready to head to the house, and she walked up the long drive with him. Far away, thunder sounded, and both of them looked at the darkening sky.
“Have you seen any lightning?” he asked.
“I didn’t notice any, but maybe it was too far away. We’re supposed to get a good storm tonight.”
Mercy focused on the home before them. The house had no flowerpots or happy welcome signs, and large muddy boots sat by the front door. Men live here. There was no color anywhere. Everything was brown except the overgrown grass and the tree leaves. She and Truman bootied up and slipped on gloves before they entered. The house had been processed when Clint first went missing, but they had searched only for evidence of who might have hurt or taken the man.
Today she was looking for anything to tie Ryan to the Hartlage or Jorgensen family.
If I only knew what I was looking for.
I could be way off base.
The house appeared to have been built around the middle of the last century. The linoleum and countertops looked original. Again, there was no sign of a female presence in the house. This home was about male needs. Oversize furniture, gigantic TV, game consoles, and food. The cupboards were full of junk food and prepackaged meals. The refrigerator stocked with soda and beer.
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