In the Ground (David Wolf Book 14)

by Jeff Carson

  Stepping up onto the concrete slab in front of the door, she pressed the glowing doorbell. As she backed off the porch, the image of Chris Oakley’s dead body sprawled across that monster machine the day before flashed in her mind. She put her palm on her holstered Glock and stood alert, waiting for Mary Ellen Dimitri to show herself at the door or one of the windows.

  Thirty seconds went by with no answer, so she walked up, this time knocking heartily on the front door. She put her ear close, hearing nothing. Then she put her ear directly on the warmed surface. Still nothing.

  Two windows at the front of the house flanked the front door. She went to the edge of the porch and leaned over the metal railing to get a good look inside the left one. She stumbled forward as the iron railing gave way from the side of the house. Sucking in a sharp breath she grabbed behind her, barely catching the edge of the brick surrounding the front door before she toppled into the bushes. She straightened on the porch and the metal bounced back with a squeak.

  Muttering quietly to herself, she walked off the porch and surveyed the house.

  Deciding the shrubs in front of the left window were less overgrown, she ducked to the side and went in for a closer look. As she leaned in, she was jabbed by a tiny thorn. A bead of blood appeared on her arm. Stuck halfway in, she decided to press on. She unholstered her gun and used it to push more needle-covered branches, careful to keep the gun pointed at the ground.

  After a few seconds of maneuvering through the shrubs she was at the window, her back pressed into the side of the house. She squatted, noting her legs were shaking a bit, but felt strong. Her religious workout regimen and yoga at least five-times-a-week had paid off.

  She rose slowly, her face close to the dirty glass. Her eyes gradually adjusted to where she could see the darkened room inside. A desk stood against the far wall, covered in unopened mail, magazines, and local newspapers still in their plastic bags. Apparently not a fan of reading.

  Piper put her eye close to the window and looked the other way. A hallway led from the front door into a kitchen, where a table held another pile of unopened envelopes. Was she stealing mail from the neighbors?

  The overhead light above the kitchen table was illuminated, though it appeared dim compared to the sunlight coming through the sliding glass door behind it.

  Piper held her breath, thinking she might have heard a sound. Even over the din of the rushing wind, she was certain she’d heard a cry. Was Mary Ellen hurt inside?

  She could feel her heart pumping, her breathing quickening.

  Suddenly there was a flash of movement in front of her, a mass of red hair lurching up from below.

  The needle-covered branches poked through her shirt and sports bra beneath as she backed up and ducked out of sight. Her ponytail covered her face, caught on the bush. When she pulled it away, the branch swiped across her cheek.

  "Dang it," she said out loud, because she realized then what she had seen. And heard.

  Rising, she saw the cat on the other side of the glass, licking its paw, unfazed by her presence.

  "Scared the crap out of me, you little…” Piper eyed the cat’s tongue as it lapped along the rim of its mouth, then the back of a curled paw. Then she noticed the bright red substance clotting the cat’s fur. “What the hell?”

  Chapter 11

  Wolf’s SUV skidded on the dirt as he turned off the paved road of Dredge’s Main Street onto the side street called Poppy Lane.

  He flicked the dashboard switch and the blaring siren went silent. Ahead, Deputy Cain’s Jeep Cherokee was parked a few blocks up and he saw her leaning against it, rising at the sight of his approach.

  The plume of dust kicking off the back of his vehicle reached her first, engulfing her in a cloud that she ducked to avoid.

  He parked and got out. “Sorry about that. You okay?”

  She waved her hand, and when the dust blew away he saw her face was covered in streaks of blood.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Heads up.” She turned away and covered herself again with an arm.

  Wolf turned around in time to get hit square in the face with Rachette’s vehicle dust.

  Wolf assumed the defensive position, holding his breath. Once the maelstrom passed he brushed himself off.

  “You’re bleeding,” Yates said, running up.

  “You okay?” Rachette pushed up next to Yates. “What happened?”

  Deputy Cain put up a hand and stepped back. “I’m okay, I’m okay. I was looking in the front window and got scratched by a thorn bush.” She upturned her hands. “I’m okay.”

  Wolf stretched to see over the fence into the back yard. The rear windows came into view and he thought he saw the curtains move.

  “Yeah, come here and take a look,” Piper said, walking past him to the fence.

  “Wait, I saw movement.”

  She ignored him, putting her hands on the top of the wooden slats and hoisting herself into a half-pullup to see. He followed, only having to get on his toes.

  The wind blew Cain’s ponytail straight towards him, along with her floral scent. He noticed she held the position, there in a half-pullup, her face not showing any strain.

  “I went to the front door,” she said. “I rang it, then knocked. No answer.”

  Rachette jumped up next to Deputy Cain, grunting with exertion.

  “I went to the window to look in and saw a cat covered in blood. That’s the movement you’re seeing in there.” She nodded her head. “You see that?”

  Wolf did. Thin, light-colored drapes covered a wide rear window. At the center point where they met there was blood spatter on the fabric and drops that had run down the glass.

  “I hopped the fence after I called you guys and looked inside,” she said. “It’s her. Mary Ellen Dimitri.”

  “Did you touch anything?”

  “No, sir.” She lowered herself down and swatted away the splinters from her uniform shirt and jeans. “I mean, I did check the back door and the back window.” She pulled a pair of purple latex gloves from her rear pocket. “But I did glove up. Sir.”

  “Were they open?” Wolf asked.

  “No, sir. The front right window is open, though.”

  “You didn’t go in, did you?” Rachette asked.

  “No. Of course not.”

  Wolf walked to the front of the house, through long grass and swaying wildflowers.

  A neighbor down the street had come outside and was eyeing them.

  “Check with that neighbor and see if she saw anything,” Wolf said.

  “I’m on it.” Yates marched down the dirt road.

  “That window there, on the right." Wolf looked at Deputy Cain.

  She shrugged. “You guys took a while to get here. I was curious. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s no problem.”

  “Unless you screwed up some fingerprints on that back door handle,” Rachette said.

  “I never touched the handle. I pulled from the back of the door. When it didn’t budge I stopped.”

  Rachette eyed her skeptically.

  “I may be out here in Hicksville but I have some experience under my belt.”

  “You think?”

  “Yeah. I do.”

  “I said it’s no problem,” Wolf said.

  He grabbed gloves and a jacket from his SUV. Putting both on, he went back to the front of the house and ducked into the bushes, putting up his jacket-covered arm to ward off the tiny thorns.

  “That’s cheating,” Rachette said. “You’re supposed to lead with your face, right, Cain?”

  She said nothing.

  “What? I’m kidding. We’ll get along just fine.”

  “You think?” she said.

  Wolf smiled to himself as he reached the window and pushed up with both hands against the glass. It slid easily with a creaky spring sound, letting out the unmistakable scent of death that hit Wolf’s nostrils like a punch.

  He ducked away and turned his head. Through the branche
s he saw Cain’s eyes watching him.

  “You smell it too?” she asked.

  “Smell what?” Rachette asked. “Ah, shit. Never mind. Yeah.”

  “Be right back," Wolf said, hopping up and into the house. His belt buckle caught on the windowsill and threw him off balance, and with a crash he fell, his elbow knocking hard against the wood floor.

  “You okay?” Rachette asked.

  Wolf put a thumbs up out the window. Trying to look nonchalant as he stood, he ignored the pain firing down his arm.

  Stacked cardboard boxes filled a small front room. To his left was the entryway. He walked past the front door to another anterior room, where he scanned a pile of junk mail, magazines, and old newspapers on an antique desk. Bloody paw prints marked the sill of the other front window.

  The floor creaked as he walked down the hallway to the kitchen table, and another pile of mail. He took his time in the kitchen, delaying the sight of what he knew waited for him if he turned left.

  A collection letter. Coupons. Dirty dishes. An unmade pack of mac and cheese on the counter.

  The smell was getting unbearable. He needed to get this over with, so he blanked his mind and looked.

  Mary Ellen Dimitri sat in the darkened family room, in the middle of the couch, her head back, opaque eyes open and staring through the ceiling above her.

  Her cat perched on the top of the couch behind her, licking the wound on top of Mary Ellen’s head.

  “Get off of there!” Wolf stomped his foot. The cat jumped off, zipped across the room, and disappeared out of sight at the back of the house.

  Wolf’s eyes returned to Mary Ellen Dimitri. A red hole pierced her chin, from which a stream of dried red led down into her tank top.

  His entire body started with shock as he noticed she was moving. With mute horror he watched as she tilted sideways with impossible slowness and stopped after a few degrees. His breathing returned as he realized the cat must have jostled her when it jumped.

  His radio scratched. "What do you got in there?"

  He plucked it from his belt and pressed the button. “Mary Ellen Dimitri dead on her couch. Call Lorber.”

  “You got it,” Rachette said.

  "I'm going to clear the rest of the house."

  Wolf put the radio back on his belt, pausing to study the scene in front of him.

  In front of Mary was a coffee table, on top of which stood two tall cans of those fruity alcoholic seltzers, two remote controls, a cell phone, and a brimming ash tray. Both cans were opened and marked with lipstick. A fabric lounge chair was positioned next to the couch, and between them sat an end table. Two beer bottles stood at attention on the table.

  Ignoring Mary’s body for the moment, Wolf walked over and saw there was no lipstick on the bottles.

  The ashtray was filled with white filters, sucked down to the same level before being smashed out, all slathered in the same shade of lipstick. Two brown filters of a different brand stood out, smoked down the filter’s edge. No lipstick.

  Wolf looked at Mary’s phone screen and saw numerous fingerprint smudges. He knew he should leave it untouched for Lorber’s team, but curiosity won out. He nudged the phone, getting no response, then tilted it with two gloved fingers. The screen came alive, indicating twenty-three percent charge on the battery and five missed text messages.

  The cat appeared behind him, the hair on its back standing on end, ears laid back. When Wolf turned around the feline went to the sliding glass door and stood expectantly.

  Wolf inhaled another breath saturated with death.

  “Good idea,” he said, following the cat to the door. He flicked open the lock and slid it open.

  The cat squeezed out, running into the backyard, hopping the fence and disappearing into the dirt back alley.

  Wolf stuck his head out, pushed all the air out of his lungs, and sucked in a breath of mouthwash-clean air.

  "Everything okay?" Rachette called from the fence. Deputy Cain’s face floated next to his.

  “I’ll be out in a minute.”

  Wolf pulled another lungful of the good stuff and went back inside, shutting the door behind him. Quickly now, he went into the back hallway where two small bedrooms flanked the bathroom.

  He poked his head inside each room, seeing nothing of interest at first. Mary Dimitri was not a stickler for order and hygiene, he decided. Just like she rarely opened her mail, she rarely folded clothes, or hung them on hangers. Her entire wardrobe seemed to be laid out on the bed in some stage of a laundry routine. The bathroom counter was completely covered in beauty products and makeup.

  With every passing minute he felt the stench coating his skin and the inside of his lungs. Worst of all, he was starting to get used to it. With that thought he made his way for the front door, and out into the world of the living.

  Chapter 12

  "You have to be kidding me right now." The voice scratched through into Rachette's ear.

  "Sorry, sir. Not kidding. She's DOA inside her house. We need the forensic team back up here ASAP."

  Lorber made a noise and started a stream of cuss words on the other side. Rachette felt a grain of chew between his teeth and picked it out with his fingernail, spitting it on the ground.

  A few paces away, Deputy Cain leaned up against the plank fence with her eyes closed, head turned towards the sun. She looked distressed. She looked good. Damn it, what was his problem? He was married, happily married, with two kids.

  "Are you listening to me?" Lorber's voice came through the earpiece.

  "Sorry, Yates was saying something…what was that, sir?"

  "I asked how many people have entered the scene."

  "Just Wolf. He's inside right now."

  "All right. Nobody else goes in."

  "Of course." Lorber clicked off and Rachette put the phone back in his pocket.

  Cain was now squatting down, both palms pressed against her forehead like she was in anguish and she was trying to hold it inside of her head or something.

  Yates was standing at a distance, holding guard position against the neighbors who had begun to funnel out of their houses and congregate nearby. Eyeing her again, Rachette felt bad for ribbing her earlier. He’d been insensitive, as Charlotte would have put it.

  "You okay?" he asked her.

  "Yeah, I'm fine." She said, keeping her hands pressed against her forehead. Her eyes were screwed shut.

  He went over and laid a hand on her shoulder, squeezed it gently. “It’s okay,” he said. “Dead bodies are not something you see every day.”

  She popped her hands from her forehead and looked at his hand, then up at him. For a moment he kept it there, frozen, feeling the warmth of her shirt and the bone and firm muscle of her shoulder underneath.

  And then he pulled it away.

  He suddenly felt like he’d done something terribly wrong. He felt his face go red and he stood up and turned his back to her. What the hell was he doing, grabbing her shoulder like that? He’d seen that reaction plenty of times. If he was in a bar right now he’d be dodging a drink flying into his face. Shit.

  Yates was looking at him, his eyebrows knitted together.

  Rachette flipped him the finger and turned back around. He had to put water on this fire before it flamed out of control. "Hey, listen, sorry. I didn't mean to..." He didn’t know what to say.

  She stood up, looking like she was feigning confusion. "Didn't mean to what?"

  "Nothing. Sorry, I just... I'm married, you know. I have two kids."

  "Good for you."

  He nodded, deciding she sounded genuine. No condescension detected. She was cool after all. "Yeah,” Rachette said. “Her name is Charlotte Munford. You ever met her?"

  "No, I haven’t."

  "Right. Yeah, you’re up here. I just wondered if you had been in headquarters down in Rocky Points. Maybe you might have met her there. She’s a deputy." Mercifully, his phone vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out. "Got to take this."
/>   Seeing it was Nelson, he turned around and took the call. "What's up?"

  "Hey, where the hell are we going? Where's this house?" Rachette looked down the dirt road and saw Nelson's vehicle speed past, and then go out of sight.

  "I just saw you drive past, turn around, stop. Take a right on Poppy, head east, you’ll see us." He hung up.

  "That was Deputy Nelson. He's heading down from the mine," he said to Cain. She ignored him and continued pacing, her arms crossed over her chest. Rachette tried to act nonchalant, like nothing awkward had happened between them. Maybe nothing had. Maybe he needed to chill out. Something about this woman got him all riled up. He crossed his own arms.

  He could use a dip. Maybe that was it. That was the most repulsive thing that he could possibly do with a woman present. At least that’s what Charlotte had told him a thousand times. And that was a good way to show that he didn't really care what Deputy Cain thought. He packed the Copenhagen, popped open the lid and put one between his lip and gum.

  Deputy Cain seemed not to notice, looking instead toward the front of the house as Wolf walked across the lawn.

  “Lorber’s on his way,” Rachette said. “What did you find?”

  "Looks like a single gunshot wound,” Wolf said. “Same injury as Chris Oakley up at the mine."

  "Same guy," Rachette said.

  Wolf nodded. "Looks like it." Wolf looked at Deputy Cain. "You okay?"

  Deputy Cain nodded. "Yes, sir."

  Nelson's vehicle rumbled down the dirt road, tires popping gravel as it came to a sliding halt behind Wolf's SUV. Deputy Nelson and a young new deputy, John Chavez, stepped out.

  Chavez was wide-eyed and so was Nelson, both chock full of adrenaline by the looks of it.

  "Yates!" Wolf waved him over.

  Yates came over and joined the huddle. “What’s up?”

  Wolf pointed at Chavez, Nelson, and Cain. “You three stay here, we’re going to see Rick Hammes.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Cain said, raising her chin when he looked down at her.

  Rachette smirked to himself. She had some guts, he’d give her that.

  “From what I’m gathering, this Hammes guy is dangerous,” Wolf said. “He shot at a car—”