The Bones Will Speak

by Carrie Stuart Parks

  I grabbed what I needed, placed them on the table, then raced down the hall to the living room.

  Bam! Wood splintered and the door shook. I ducked, then moved to the center of the room.

  Bam! The door flew open.

  I moved forward until I was silhouetted in the opening.

  Hawkins looked startled, then he raised the rifle.

  “Coward.” I spit on the ground.

  He lowered the gun, grinned, and pointed. “Fass.”

  Both dogs launched at me.

  I turned and ran.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  I RACED THROUGH THE HOUSE. FASTER . . . go faster!

  The dogs bayed behind me, gaining ground. Nails churned on the plank flooring, seeking purchase.

  I snatched the cans of vegetables from the table and threw them at the canines.

  Startled, the dogs skidded to a stop.

  Ripping open the kitchen door, I leapt through and sought Hawkins. He stood on the side of the house, near his parked truck.

  Excited yelping seemed right on my heels.

  I charged at him as fast as I could.

  Hawkins stepped backward as if startled, then started to laugh.

  Closer. Closer. One chance. I pulled the gun from my waistband.

  “No bullets, Gwen.”

  I moved faster.

  Wham. The kitchen door smashed open as the dogs crashed into it.

  Straightening my arm, I took careful aim.

  River rocks clanked against each other as the dogs plowed through them. I could almost feel the dogs’ breath on my churning legs.

  “Stupid woman—”

  I shot him.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  THE SPRAY FROM THE SQUIRT GUN HIT HAWKINS in the face. The odor of lilac perfume permeated the air.

  Hawkins screamed and clawed at his eyes. “What have you done?”

  I kept running, not stopping until I’d reached the bumper of Hawkins’s pickup. Spinning, I crouched and waited.

  The dogs skidded to a stop and sniffed the air. Slowly turning their heads, they stared first at me, then at Hawkins. They smelled the air again.

  “No. No. Get her. Attack! Fass, fass!” Hawkins, blinded, pointed as if to guide the dogs to me, but he’d become disoriented. His perfume-covered hand shot toward the dogs.

  The dogs launched at the extended arm. Hawkins shrieked once before the roar of the canines took over.

  I hurtled toward the truck door. I wanted to put my hands over my ears to cover the sounds. Crunching. Tearing.

  With trembling hands, I grabbed the door handle and pulled.

  Locked.

  I heard a growl behind me.

  My legs almost buckled. Slowly I turned.

  The moon cast everything in a cold, blue light. My breath steamed around my face.

  Both canines were glaring at me, hackles up, lips pulled over blood-blackened teeth. Hawkins wasn’t moving.

  One dog stepped forward, toenails grating on the gravel.

  I turned and sprinted. Like a dream, my legs seemed like they were plowing through molasses. Faster, run faster. The panting of the dogs grew louder, nails on gravel, sharper, my breath, harsher.

  Then silence. Only the sound of my breathing.

  My goal was just ahead. I wouldn’t make it. Please, God, save the girls.

  I passed the lilac bush and dove into the forsythia, the branches smacking me in the face. I turned.

  The dogs reached the lilac bush and stopped, the smell confusing them. The scent would only slow them for a few seconds. Hopefully long enough. I took aim and pulled the trigger. A spray of perfume struck the nearest dog.

  The second dog lunged for his throat.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  MY FEET SEEMED ROOTED TO THE GROUND. I wouldn’t, couldn’t move.

  The dogs were evenly matched. They fought with a terrifying fury.

  I wanted to look away, but I had to watch. If the dogs stopped fighting, they could reach me in just a few moves. What if one dog survived? Would he still be on a killing mission?

  They were trained not to stop.

  It felt like I stood there for hours, but it was probably only a few minutes before one dog lay motionless. The winner stood over him, watching for movement, before lifting his head.

  I snapped a branch of the forsythia I hadn’t realized I’d been clutching.

  The dog’s head pivoted in my direction.

  Adrenaline shot through my system. I moved backward, away from the dog, one foot, then another.

  The canine matched me, step for step, moving forward.

  My back collided with something hard. Hawkins’s truck. I couldn’t retreat any farther.

  Moonlight glinted off the dog’s yellow eyes. His lips pulled up, revealing bloody teeth.

  “Why won’t you die?” I whispered as I raised the squirt gun.

  The dog crouched, ready to spring.

  Pumping the trigger, I aimed at the dog’s eyes. Several blasts of perfume hit their mark.

  The canine let out a roar, shook his head, then pawed at his eyes.

  Quickly, find it. My only chance to keep the girls safe. Dropping to my knees, I looked under the truck. Not there. I stood, frantically seeking my rifle. I tried to blot out the snarling.

  Look at Hawkins. He held it last.

  The dog was near the prone body. Too near.

  I threw the squirt gun to my left. It smacked the gravel, then skidded a few feet.

  The dog pivoted toward the sound.

  Racing over, I spotted an edge of the pink stock. I dropped next to Hawkins and thrust my hands under him. The rifle was slippery, but I gripped it and tugged hard.

  The dog spun toward me, still digging at his eyes.

  I turned and leaped toward the truck, grabbed the exterior mirror, and shoved up from the hood. The sharp bark behind me propelled me to the roof of the truck. My legs wouldn’t hold me, and I sat on the cold metal.

  The canine’s vision had cleared. He raised his head, eyes locked on mine and muscles bunched.

  I lifted my rifle and took aim. “Pink is a killer color,” I whispered.

  He jumped.

  I pulled the trigger.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  FOUR MONTHS LATER

  THE AUGUST SUN BAKED THROUGH THE STUDIO windows, casting a gamboge-yellow glow on the walls. I held up the watercolor painting and pointed. “Do you see this edge of color?”

  Mattie nodded. “So how do I keep that from happening?”

  “You need to keep two edges in mind while painting wet-on-wet watercolors.” I placed a blank sheet of Arches watercolor paper on the table in front of us. “The edge you’re actually painting and the edge where the pigment may end up. Take your stroke of water farther than you think the paint may bleed. Like this.”

  A rap on the studio door frame interrupted the lesson.

  “Have you been outside today?” Dave asked, entering. “The smoke from the forest fires is killing my eyes.”

  “How close are they now?” Mattie asked, eyebrows furrowing.

  “Don’t worry, they’re coming from central Idaho. Hundreds of miles away.” Dave wandered over to our painting. “Really nice work, Mattie.”

  She grinned at him.

  I touched Mattie’s shining hair. It was hard to picture the girl I’d found in the old house as this tanned and healthy teenager. Mattie wore white jean shorts under a bright-pink T-shirt. Her only piece of jewelry was a tiny silver dove hanging from a delicate chain. She smiled shyly at Dave and pointed to the necklace. “Thanks for the gift.”

  “Important occasion; appropriate gift,” Dave said.

  “Do you want to see my room?” Mattie asked.

  “Sure.”

  I followed both of them to the old office. The soft-pink walls gleamed with new paint, and fluffy matching curtains hung from the windows. A wind chime of doves gently twirled over the desk.

  Dave admired the décor. “Very nice.”r />
  “Mattie,” Aynslee called from the kitchen, “pizza’s hot.”

  Mattie raced from the room.

  Dave waited until she was out of earshot. “Have you heard anything more?”

  “The Public Health and Human Resources found some of her family, an aunt, and she is the most anxious to take her.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “They’re finishing the screening and background check and will let me know. They’ve approved both Robert and me as foster parents—”

  Dave looked at me quickly.

  “Not together, Dave. It just means Mattie can visit either home.”

  “Well then.” Dave moved toward the kitchen. “Are you ready?”

  “I think so.” I followed.

  “When does he arrive?”

  I glanced at my watch. “Anytime now. Want some iced tea?”

  “Sure.” Dave stopped. “By the way, how are you feeling?”

  I couldn’t help my snort of laughter. I really would start wearing that sign I feel fine. I touched my side. “All of us are healing well. Mattie had some testing on her last visit to the orthopedic specialist. He said that the damage to her fingers from her untreated juvenile arthritis, plus Hawkins’s attack, will limit her hand functions, but you can see from her art that she can still use them.”

  Mattie and Aynslee were sitting at the kitchen table eating lunch. “Dave,” Mattie said, speaking around a large chunk of pizza, “have a cookie.” She pointed at a plate piled with oatmeal cookies on the counter.

  “Yum.” Dave selected one and took a bite.

  “I made ’em myself.” Mattie beamed. “Gwen’s teaching me to cook.”

  Aynslee put her hand over her mouth and rolled her eyes.

  Dave’s face paled and he quickly strolled outside.

  “Did I say something wrong?” Mattie asked, frowning.

  “Oh, no. Dave just needed . . . to check out the sign. Out front.” I poured Dave an iced tea and followed him outside. I found him near the lilac bushes, spitting cookie into the grass. “Want this?” I handed him the iced tea.

  He took a long, grateful swallow. “I see she’s learned your cooking ability.”

  “Don’t be mean, Dave. Sugar and salt look alike, and her reading skills are marginal.”

  Dave took another long swig, then nodded at the bushes. “Something I wanted to ask you. How did you know the dogs were trained to chase lilac scent?”

  I shrugged. “I didn’t, not for sure. I prayed I was right. Hawkins had one victim escape, the boy in Spokane that I tried to do a composite with. Hawkins didn’t want to lose another, so he bought those two dogs to track down his victims should they get away from him.”

  “And I suppose dogs can be trained to any scent.”

  “He was very clever in his choice of tracking odor. He needed something that wouldn’t be noticed during training. All the slaughtered animals we thought wolves chewed up were killed in the spring, when lilacs bloom. I remembered smelling lilac when I found Mattie in the house.”

  “The beefalo calf was killed near a lilac bush.”

  “Right. I guessed it might be the tracking scent when I smelled lilac on the coat he gave Mattie.”

  “He probably gave the girl in the cow pasture a coat as well,” Dave said.

  “Aynslee later told me she threw away the bouquet of lilacs in Mattie’s hospital room when Mattie told her it was from him.”

  I stared at my dirty sneaker for a moment. “He took a big risk, using perfume like that. The flowering bushes and women’s perfumes—”

  “Hawkins liked to give away clues, thought he was so clever that way. He started his killing spree in Spokane. Spokane’s nickname is the Lilac City.”

  A small shiver went through me. “I didn’t know that. He did use a Hudson’s Bay blanket, and if you think about it, he came right out and said it was a single wolf doing the killing. In the cow pasture, he said ‘single wolf.’ Lone wolf. Him.”

  Dave took another sip of his iced tea. “Speaking of wolves and dogs . . .”

  As if on cue, Winston sauntered across the yard, a large bone in his mouth.

  I glanced at Dave.

  His eyes opened wide. “Is that human—”

  “Cow. From the grocery store.” I grinned. “Got ya on that one!”

  Dave watched my dog flop in the shade of a pine tree. “I don’t see how a sociopath like him could have finished his veterinary degree and been such a successful businessman.”

  “Beth and I talked about it. She looked it up—”

  “Of course.”

  “She said in our society, many of the traits of sociopaths are now considered positive business practices. For example, manipulation and no concern for others. His bio said he donated time to help others who couldn’t afford a vet. That didn’t sound like a sociopath, until I realized that’s how he found his victims.”

  “Speaking of victims,” Dave said. “The two bodies in the grave have been identified, although not yet released. Your sketches helped on the one woman.”

  “Did the other woman—”

  “Yes, she looked like Aynslee. Like Mattie, both were high-risk victims, and both had medical conditions: one woman had scoliosis, the other a club foot.”

  I sighed. “Just like Hitler, killing or sterilizing people he felt were inferior. The deformity of Hawkins’s spirit was far greater that the deformities of his victims.”

  Dave nodded thoughtfully, then said, “Both the FBI and the Jewish Community Center are keeping quiet about Hawkins’s plan.”

  “Makes sense. It didn’t happen, and he’s dead. Don’t need to encourage any copycats.”

  “Right. But I was asked to give you this.” He held up a challenge coin. “And this.” He handed me an envelope with some cash in it. “It’s not much, but it might buy you a new dress and dinner on the town.”

  Before I could formulate an answer, Beth pulled into the driveway and parked next to us. She stepped from the car, looking fresh and summery with white slacks and a sleeveless peach blouse. I waved at her and smoothed my paint-smeared T-shirt.

  “Are you ready?” She frowned at my attire.

  “As I’ll ever be. Thanks for the moral support.”

  The three of us strolled back into the house.

  “I have another woman who wants to join your women’s Bible study,” Beth said. “But the pastor wants to talk to you about the title of your new series.”

  “I thought it quite clever,” I said. “ ‘The Bible Is Full of Lies.’ ”

  “Yes. Um, I know you’re referring to signs of deception described in the Scriptures and comparing it to law enforcement books, but the title might be a bit misleading.”

  “Oh. Okay. I’ll give him a call.”

  The girls were still at the table. “. . . so I said he was a soggy wooker,” Mattie was saying.

  “What’s a soggy wooker?” Beth asked.

  “I just liked the way it sounded, but Aynslee looked it up.” Mattie grinned.

  “It comes from the Star Wars movies,” Aynslee said. “From the Wookies, which are hairy. A soggy wooker is the hair caught in a sink drain. Icky.”

  “I see.” Beth rolled her lips to keep from smiling.

  “I looked that up.” Mattie proudly pointed at the Scripture verse Beth had given me, now back on the refrigerator. “Colossians 3:13. I memorized it. ‘Bear with each other and forgive one another if any of you has a grievance against someone. Forgive as the Lord forgave you.’ ” She lifted her bent and twisted fingers and studied them. “I’m working on it,” she whispered.

  My eyes blurred and I turned toward the sink, but not before I noticed Beth pulling out a hankie.

  The crunch of gravel announced another vehicle pulling up next to the house. The slam of car doors, followed by footsteps, made all of us turn to the kitchen door.

  Robert.

  “I see everyone’s here,” he said through the screen. “May I come in?”

  “Dad!” Aynslee raced to
let him in, then threw herself into his arms.

  “Hi, angel.” Robert spun her around, then keeping his arm around her, he nodded to Beth and Dave. “I see there’s a Sold sign out front,” he said to me.

  “Yes.” I tugged again at my T-shirt. Why hadn’t I changed into something nicer? “I couldn’t live here anymore with all that happened. The new house will be done soon. And . . . thank you for taking the girls for the next couple of months.”

  “My pleasure.” Robert gave Aynslee another hug. Mattie slipped closer, and Robert casually slipped his arm around her shoulder. The girl beamed.

  “How are you going to fit both of us and our luggage into your Porsche?” Aynslee crossed to the window and peered out. “Wait a minute. Did you buy a van?” She glanced at Mattie, and both girls burst into giggles.

  “Loser car,” Mattie managed to get out.

  “Well then . . .” I cleared my throat. “Girls, you’d better go get your suitcases.”

  Aynslee dashed from the room, still laughing. Mattie lingered by the fridge.

  I grinned at Robert. “You traded in your Porsche—”

  “Yes, well, my life is changing. Ah . . .” Robert moved to the door. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” He opened the door, and a strikingly beautiful woman stepped through. “Gwen, I’d like you to meet my fiancée, Caroline.”

  The room became deathly silent. Everyone stared at me.

  I wiped my sweaty hand on my jeans, then looked at the refrigerator. Beth’s magnetic sign hung at a slight angle.

  Mattie grinned at me.

  I handed Mattie the envelope of cash, turned to the woman, smiled, and held out my hand. “So very nice to meet you, Caroline.”

  AUTHOR NOTE

  I’D ORIGINALLY WRITTEN THIS BOOK ABOUT A serial killer based on my work on the Robert Lee Yates case in Spokane, Washington. At the suggestion of my editor at Thomas Nelson, I added the Christian Identity layer. They liked the religious angle to the forensics, and for me, it was really a no-brainer which group to write about. Richard Butler’s Aryan Nations compound was about forty minutes from my home. I was one of the courtroom artists when the Southern Poverty Law Center, with attorney Morris Dees, brought a civil suit against the Church of Jesus Christ, Aryan Nations. I’d have to add that this group shot my dad, then the director of the North Idaho Regional Crime Lab, and wounded him. The Phineas Priesthood group, also part of the Christian Identity movement, had a cell in Spokane in the mid-1990s. Working with the FBI, ATF, city and county of Spokane, I drew sixteen composite sketches to help identify them. In an unusual turn of events, I got to see them in person when a television news station hired me as a courtroom artist. For a complete bibliography of books I referenced while writing this, check out my web page: WWW.CARRIESTUARTPARKS.COM