The Bones Will Speak

by Carrie Stuart Parks

  “Are you sure she ran away? Could someone have taken her?” Dave asked.

  “The deputy guarding her put an orderly by the door while he took Gwen away. No one went in or out. The window she crawled through was tiny.”

  “Okay.” He thought for a moment. “Was there any money in the wallet?”

  “Less than a hundred dollars.”

  “Mattie’s pain medication should be wearing off. She’ll be looking for a fix. Do you have her known associates? Her supplier?”

  “I’ll call the narcs. We’re talking to the hospital people who left around the same time. Of course we put out an Amber Alert. And we’ve checked Search and Rescue to see if they could put some dogs on the ground, just in case she made it to the woods.”

  “It sounds like you have things covered on Mattie. I’m also looking for your Wes Bailor.”

  Jeannie didn’t respond immediately. “My Wes Bailor? What’s he done now?”

  “So you’re not happy with him either.” Dave started the car and turned up the heat. “I have a confirmation that he was the one to throw my cell into the bushes at the McCandless place. And my secretary saw him going through my case files.”

  “So, in addition to conducting his own investigation, he’s tampering with a crime scene.” Jeannie cleared her throat. “He’s turned into a real loose cannon. We’re going to fire him . . . as soon as we find him.”

  “Start by looking where he shouldn’t be.”

  Mattie stared at the neat log home surrounded by a well-tended lawn. Daffodils poked up through colorful river rocks next to the house, and a row of flowering shrubs lined the driveway. “Are you rich or something?”

  Aynslee stopped. “Hardly. I’ve been asking for an iPhone for months. And my laptop is at least two years old. And you wouldn’t believe my TV . . .”

  Mattie glanced at her. Aynslee had a hand over her mouth and was studying Mattie’s stolen, oversize shoes.

  Mattie cleared her throat. “Ah, what if the house is locked?”

  “Mom keeps a spare key under a fake rubber dog poop in the yard.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Nope. It’s right over . . .” Aynslee dropped the rubber poo. “Great. She forgot to put it back.” She tried the door. Locked tight.

  Mattie glanced around. “Maybe we could hide until someone comes home?” The distant throbbing in her hands grew. The pill was wearing off. If they couldn’t get into the house, she’d have to try to call Ace again. But how? They were in the middle of nowhere without a phone. Mattie hugged herself and tried not to think about it.

  A lone howl wavered on the slight breeze before a second howl joined in.

  Mattie spun around. “W-what’s that?”

  “Coyotes. Don’t worry, they’re only dangerous to cats and small dogs.” She thought for a moment. “We can’t wait. It’s almost dark. And getting colder by the minute.” She glanced at Mattie. “Are you afraid of spiders?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  MATTIE FOLLOWED AYNSLEE TO THE SIDE OF THE log house. Aynslee parted the shrubs and pointed at a window-like shape near the ground.

  A small sigh escaped Mattie’s lips. It was an access door to the space under the house or maybe a basement. The door hinged on one side and was held shut by a sliding lever on the other.

  Aynslee knelt and tugged at the lever, then reached for one of the smooth river stones edging the bushes.

  “What if we can’t get in?” Mattie’s voice sounded high-pitched even to her.

  “We’ll get in.” Aynslee hit at the latch, breaking the bolt. “Yesss!” She pulled the hatch open, then looked up at Mattie. “Are you sure you’re not afraid of spiders? Mom’s terrified . . . and . . . I hate them too.”

  “I don’t much mind spiders. Now snakes, that’s different.”

  Both girls stared at the inky opening.

  “Tell you what,” Aynslee said. “Why don’t I go in there, unlock the kitchen door, and let you in.”

  Mattie shivered, the afternoon chill and pain in her hands growing by the minute. “We made it this far together. I’ll go with you. Help me down.”

  Aynslee held Mattie’s elbow as she eased to her knees, then to her stomach.

  “You’re going to have to crawl in first,” Mattie said. “I don’t know which way to go.”

  Aynslee took a deep breath and crawled forward, disappearing under the house.

  Mattie used her elbows to pull her body forward. Blackness engulfed her, and she waited until her eyes adjusted to the dark. Soon she could see Aynslee’s prone shape ahead of her. Heavy beams crisscrossed overhead, providing ample places for spiderwebs to create dense, lacy curtains. The only sounds were the tiny skittering of disturbed mice. “Which way?”

  “Give me a minute,” Aynslee answered in a raggedy voice. She sneezed, then crawled forward.

  Mattie followed, elbows pushing the cold dirt aside. One of the oversize shoes slipped off her foot, and she used her toes to propel forward.

  Up ahead a faint light marked out a square.

  “Soggy wookers,” Aynslee said as she pushed through the spiderwebs and stopped.

  Mattie caught up with her.

  Three feet above their heads, edges outlined by the light passing through the cracks, was a trapdoor.

  “Please, oh please, don’t let it be locked.” Aynslee rolled to her side, pulled her knees to her chest, then rocked up until she was kneeling. She crouched and stood, keeping her head bent so the weight of the door was across her shoulders. It moved. “Yes!” She slowly stood. The weight moved down her back, then crashed open with a bang.

  Mattie let out a deep breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

  Lightly hopping through the opening, Aynslee quickly reappeared and reached down.

  Mattie wasted no time in scuttling out of the crawl space. She was in a small pantry with the door open to an old-fashioned kitchen. A low humming sound came from an ancient refrigerator. Like vomit, a memory came into her mind.

  She let out a slight grunt.

  Aynslee frowned at her. “What’s wrong?” She helped Mattie to her feet.

  “Thanks. Your kitchen kinda reminds me of someplace.” She sat in a nearby chair.

  “Really?” Aynslee sat beside her. “Where?”

  “A bad place.” Mattie placed her now filthy, splinted hands on the table in front of her. “I’ve been in foster homes since I was eight.” She’d learned at an early age to recognize the look in the eyes of men who wanted her to call them “dad.” The crazies. That’s what she’d thought of them. Groping hands with sweaty bodies.

  So how did the man fool her when he’d picked her up? The question tumbled in her mind like clothes in a dryer. She’d never made that mistake before. Never.

  “Helloooo?” Aynslee gave her a funny look. “So where did you live before you were eight?”

  “With my grandma.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “I guess. She was real religious, then she died.”

  “I’m sorry.” Aynslee crossed to the fridge. “Do you want something to eat?”

  “What time is it?”

  “About four something, but I’m always hungry.”

  “Okay, yeah. But what about those drugs?”

  Aynslee left the room, returning a few moments later with a handful of amber bottles. “I’m not sure which ones are for pain and which ones are for puking. Mom had plenty of both.” She placed the bottles on the table and returned to the fridge. “Um . . . I can make us a . . . jelly and, ah . . . jelly sandwich.”

  “Jelly’s good.” Mattie swiftly went through the bottles before selecting one. “Would you open this?”

  Aynslee brought her a glass of water, then opened the bottle. “How many?”

  “Uh, maybe two, no, three.”

  Biting her lip, Aynslee complied. “Are you sure? That’s a lot. Mom only took one at a time.”

  “I’m used to drugs.” She opened her mouth.

 
; Aynslee popped three pills in, then held the water so she could wash them down. “I’m going to try and get ahold of Dad or Mom.” She picked up the phone, listened, and returned it to the cradle. “The phone’s dead.”

  Mattie glanced quickly around the room.

  “Don’t worry, we’re safe. When Mom tries the phone and it doesn’t work, she’ll come or send someone.” Aynslee brought her a sandwich on a chipped plate, placed it in front of her, and sat.

  Mattie looked at the snowy-white bread, then at the dingy bandages covering her fingers.

  Wordlessly, Aynslee picked up the sandwich and offered it to her. They quickly consumed the simple meal. “Do you want to see the rest of the house? Mom’s set up a, like, investigation room. And she has an art studio.”

  “Your mom has an art studio too? Yeah.” She followed Aynslee down a central hallway, through a living room, into a large, converted porch. A drafting table and small set of drawers on wheels sat in the corner. Mattie crossed to the table. Pencils, erasers, and a host of other art tools rested in a tray attached to the side. The wide window ledge held an assortment of sketch-pads and drawing papers, and half-finished paintings filled a deep bin against the wall. This is what heaven would look like. “Maybe she’ll teach me to paint.”

  “Sure. Now come and see the investigation room.”

  Mattie reluctantly followed Aynslee into a rather cluttered office.

  A large whiteboard sat on an easel with taped drawings, writing, and arrows. One of the drawings was Mattie. A photograph of Aynslee was next to it.

  Mattie moistened her suddenly dry lips. “What is this?”

  Aynslee slowly approached the display. “Mom’s been working on it. It looks like her form of link analysis.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A way to connect parts of crimes.”

  “Is that why a drawing of me is on it? She’s trying to find the crazy who did this?” She held up her splinted hands.

  Aynslee studied the board. “Yeah. According to this, the killer started a couple of years ago. You weren’t the first, but you were one of the only ones to live—” She looked quickly at Mattie. “Sorry.” She rubbed her arms as if cold.

  Mattie leaned against the wall to steady herself. “You said your mom has a gun?”

  “Yeah. A pistol and a rifle. Follow me.” The girls entered the living room, and Aynslee opened the rifle display case.

  “I’ve never seen a pink gun,” Mattie said.

  “It’s pink camo. Mom says pink is a killer color.” Aynslee lifted the rifle from the case, clicked something, and pulled on a lever.

  Mattie took a step back. “Do . . . do you know what you’re doing?”

  “Sure. Dave, the sheriff, made me take a bunch of NRA safety courses.” She put the rifle back into the case. “Now for the pistol.” The girls trouped into Gwen’s bedroom. “She keeps it on the top shelf in the closet.” Aynslee grabbed a chair from the corner of the room, stood on it, and reached to the back of a shelf. “Ta-da!” She held up a gun.

  “What’s that?”

  “A 9mm SIG Sauer,” Aynslee said proudly. “Cool, huh?”

  “Is it loaded?” Mattie asked, then yawned.

  “Of course.” Aynslee opened the clip. “One bullet, at any rate.”

  Mattie tried but couldn’t hold back another jaw-cracking yawn. “Ahem . . . could we put that gun someplace easy to reach? Just in case?”

  They returned to the living room where Aynslee placed the pistol next to the rifle. “There. Now we just have to wait.”

  Mattie could barely keep her eyes open. “Do you have someplace I can crash?”

  “You can sleep in my bed. Come on.”

  Mattie followed the other girl down a hall and into a cluttered bedroom.

  Aynslee swept the collection of stuffed animals, pillows, and clothes onto the floor, then helped her take off the remaining shoe. She frowned at Mattie’s feet. “I was going to say the sheets aren’t all that clean, but never mind.”

  Mattie sat on the bed, then rolled onto her side.

  “Hear that?” Aynslee said. “I told you we just had to wait for a bit. I hear a car outside. I’ll be right back.”

  Mattie was asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  DAVE CHECKED HIS WATCH FOR THE THIRD TIME. Five thirty. His cell phone rang. “Dave Moore.”

  “Dispatch said to call you,” Dre said.

  “Where have you been? This place is a madhouse.”

  “Hey, I stopped for lunch. Got the be-on-the-lookout on Wes. Been on patrol ever since. Cell’s worthless most of the places I’ve gone.”

  Dave dry-scrubbed his face. “So what do you have? And please make it good news for a change.”

  “No sign of Wes. I swung by Gwen’s place about two twenty. All’s quiet. Swung by the animal hospital. Ron’s watching it for now but said a reserve deputy should be arriving shortly.”

  “I got ahold of the ATF at the Missoula satellite office. They’re sending some agents first thing in the morning. FBI will be here as well. Missoula’s working the Mattie angle, all my reserve staff— Hello? Hello?” Dave thumped the cell on his desk. Maybe dispatch could get Dre back on the line.

  The phone rang. “Yeah, Dre—”

  “It’s Beth. Gwen told me to call you.” She explained about a possible terrorist attack the following day.

  Dave scribbled notes. “You have no idea where this might happen?”

  “No. Just the time.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Maybe the FBI will have some ideas.”

  “Good. Aynslee is with Mattie—”

  “Where’s Gwen now?”

  “She’s on her way home. If Aynslee isn’t there, she’s going to go looking for her.”

  Dave gripped the phone tighter. “Winston?”

  “The dog’s here. What do you want me to do?”

  “Stay put.” Dave thought for a moment. “The girls have a three-hour head start. If they were heading to Gwen’s place, they’d be there by now and Gwen will let us know when she gets home.”

  “But her phone is out.”

  “She’ll manage somehow. I don’t have a single available officer to put on this thing because of that stupid parade. Gwen’s on her own for a bit.”

  I pulled up next to the house and parked. Stepping from my car, I stopped.

  The front door stood open.

  My stomach twisted. I crept to the entrance, then paused and listened for voices.

  The house was deathly silent.

  I slipped inside. My rifle from the gun-display cabinet was missing. I turned left and entered my studio. Empty. I spun and raced to the kitchen. Two dirty plates lay on the table along with a number of amber prescription bottles. I picked up one bottle, then another. All were in my name. “Aynslee? Mattie?” The backdoor was still locked. I ran to my bedroom, opened the closet, and reached for my SIG Sauer.

  Gone.

  Frantically, I checked the bedside table, then my dresser. “Mattie? Aynslee?” My voice echoed in the empty house. I sprinted to the living room, this time looking in the drawer under the gun display. A full box of .22 bullets sat untouched. Pivoting, I charged to Aynslee’s room, abruptly halting at the door. The floor was covered with Aynslee’s stuffed animals, clothes, and pillows. Bedding tangled in a heap at the foot of the bed.

  A smear of blood stained the sheet.

  The room seemed to spin, then blackness.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  MY HEAD RESTED ON A STUFFED BEAR. UNDER Aynslee’s bed were a pair of jeans and a sock. The chill from the hard floor seeped into my side. I pushed up and got to my knees, then waited until the room stopped swirling. Vomit burned the back of my throat.

  I stood and aimed toward the kitchen, reeling from side to side, holding on to the wall for support. Once there, I snatched up the phone and dialed. Nothing happened. Of course, you idiot, the phone’s dead.

  Remain calm. I moved
back to the studio, looking for any clues to the girls’ location. Methodically I advanced through the living room, my bedroom, then Aynslee’s room. It didn’t look as if Aynslee had changed her clothes, but it was hard to tell with the clutter. I forced myself to look at the bed again. A considerable amount of dirt clung to the fabric.

  Aynslee didn’t have a key.

  The thought pounded into my brain. How did they get into the house? I sprinted to the kitchen, unlocked the door, and checked under the plastic dog poop. No key. Bars covered all the windows. Circling around toward my car, I checked the access to the crawl space. It was unlatched. Returning inside, I looked in the pantry.

  The trapdoor was in place, but dirt rimmed the edge.

  I forced my brain to think logically. The girls got in through the crawl space. They ate. Mattie must have helped herself to my drugs. Probably Mattie, still very weak and sleepy from the meds, lay down to take a nap.

  Someone came to the door. What ruse had he used to get Aynslee to open it? A promise to call me? A message? And it had to be someone Aynslee knew or would trust.

  I started down the hallway toward the front of the house but paused in front of the office. A slight odor I couldn’t immediately identify came from behind the closed door.

  Reaching for the knob, I froze. I did know that smell. Copper, sulfur, and singed hair.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  THE BOTTOM OF A LEATHER SHOE PEEKED OUT from behind the desk.

  My feet cemented to the floor, my breath came in harsh gasps. No, please! Please, no!

  I forced myself to look at the shoe. Big. Man-sized. Not Aynslee. Or Mattie.

  Moving closer, the shoe was attached to a leg, the leg to a body slumped against the wall.

  Wes Bailor.

  Blackness edged my vision.

  A deceptively small hole in the center of his forehead leaked a rivulet of blood down his face and a deep gouge crossed his cheek. The dark-green plaid wallpaper behind him had a pink-and-burgundy spatter with a trail, ending at his still form. My SIG Sauer lay on the floor next to the door. I reached for it, then stopped. It only had one bullet in it, which was now in Wes’s brain, so the gun was useless as a weapon. And this was a homicide scene.