I stepped back, trying to remember which mound of dirt represented the wingspan and which the profiled head and beak. A small stump jutted out of the ground near what I thought was the head of the bird. Odd. I’d never seen it before. No way could a tree have grown and died in just one season. I’d played golf here last fall, and the mound had been pristine.
The wind shifted directions, sending a whistling through the pines. I scanned the area, noting I was still the only person visible on the course. Typical early spring day in Wisconsin. No one would be on the golf course at this hour—especially since you could still see your breath before noon. I’d gone to high school with the club owner, and he was fine with me sneaking onto the course, as long as I let him know ahead of time. Which I would do, as soon as I finished playing. I liked my me-time.
A chill inched up my spine. I shook off the feeling and returned my attention to the stump, golf ball chase momentarily forgotten. Was it even a stump? What else could the thing be? It jutted up from the earth a foot, maybe a foot and a half, and looked for all the world like a dark, capped mushroom. I gripped my lucky seven iron and took a few steps forward.
The wind picked up again, and the mushroom’s cap jiggled for an instant, stopping me in my tracks. What the …? Can’t be a stump, can it?
I had involuntarily raised my iron as if to ward off an intruder. My senses were on high alert. I patted the shoulder holster under my windbreaker, relieved to feel the comforting presence of my off-duty Glock. Calm down, girl! Breathe.
The wind picked up speed, jostling the top of the stump again, then suddenly changed directions. The rush of wind slapped my face, stinging my eyes, and I put my arm up to shield them.
But not before I watched what looked like a French beret fly up off of the tree stump in a macabre dance on the gusty spring air.
The beret floated over a stand of scrub trees, fluttering above them for a few seconds before landing in scraggly branches. I walked over and stuck out my lucky seven iron, hooking the cap. A tattered brown ribbon edged the bottom of it. An English brand, featuring a fox-and-hound motif, was stamped onto the faded tag inside. A smaller square tag belted my first real clue—a logo from the International Spy Museum.
The cop in me surfaced. I tugged down on my golf glove and stuffed the cap into my back pocket. If some knucklehead had been out here intentionally desecrating the effigy mounds, this might lead to him. Or her. Couldn’t I enjoy a lousy round of golf without the specter of crime shadowing my every move? Heck, here I was, hours from Haversport, thinking about a possible hate crime. Ah, probably just some city boy’s lost lid. End of story.
I took a deep breath and gasped. My cracked ribs hadn’t gone on holiday just because I was on vacation. The flash of pain brought back fiery snippets of scenes I’d rather not remember. Nick’s love stamped all over his handsome face, hazy in my mind, faded away behind an imposing vision of Kira, hypodermic needle in hand, intent to kill burning in her eyes as she loomed over my hospital bed. Only her evil plans hadn’t worked out that way. Neither Nick nor Kira got what they came for that fateful day.
Two months later, Kira was behind bars, still causing me trouble, Nick was MIA, and I’d gone back to work as soon as the docs reluctantly released me from the hospital. I figured returning to my routine might help nurse my wounded heart while my body slowly came back to life. Fat chance.
Samantha. Her name floated through my mind. I closed my eyes, offering up quick prayers for her protection and joy. I opened my eyes and touched the cap in my back pocket. Was my vacation about to come to an abrupt halt before it even began? I hoped not. I still had some sorting out to do.
I shook my head, pushing those thoughts away. Then I turned and made my way back to the burial mound. The topless mushroom had morphed into something very different now that I had a man’s cap in my pocket. Vibrations of dread seemed to radiate from the lump in the ground. Fear shuddered through me with each step. I focused on the hatless thing until I had to shift from thinking of it as an “it” and into a gruesome new reality. Rats. I am not in the mood for this kind of reality.
All I’d really wanted was some peace and quiet. An opportunity to move past my average eighty-yard drive into maybe something closer to ninety. I wasn’t asking for the moon. I never expected to win the County Cops Open—I just wanted to show up and not wish I was driving the cart instead of my Cobra for once.
I pushed my aspirations aside and forced myself to think like the cop I was. Holy cats. I had a guy’s cap in my pocket. And I was almost certain the beret belonged on the “stump” that was sticking up out of the Indian burial mound on the sixth green of the Baraboo Country Club Golf Course.
Reaching the edge of the mound, I squatted down on my heels, not quite ready to view the front of what was clearly a human head. The unmistakable smell of death wafted up around the not-stump. Dark hair was plastered in gloomy hanks on the back. Pulling out my phone, I snapped a few dozen photos from all conceivable angles before my curiosity surfaced anew.
I used the club to push myself to my feet. My knees were shaking. I bent at the waist and took a deep, measured breath, regretting breathing the minute the smell hit my olfactory sensors. After several seconds had passed, I rose slowly and stepped around the rope to the center of the effigy mound, making my way to the front of the head. Heavily jowled, lids mercifully closed, the man’s face was quiet in death. Which meant absolutely nothing. There’s no way he’d have just decided to take what my aunt Gerry would have called “a dirt nap” on the sixth green and died peacefully while up to his neck in a hole in the ground.
The earth was a river of striated gullies, the mud thick and layered. There were no telltale prints leading off in one direction or another. Stepping away from the body, I scanned the course. Why did you choose this hole? The fairway stood at the bottom of a steep hill on one side, a river rushing down a ravine on another. You scoped this out, chose this spot with care. But why?
I looked around at the varied heights of the scrub and fruit trees bordering the other two sides. Whoever had buried this man knew his way around this fairway. From the looks of this burial site, he also knew his geology.
I carefully put my iron down on the grass and bowed my head. What happened to a man’s soul when he died? Did it go straight to one gate or the other? Did the soul go to some kind of cosmic holding tank? I was too new at the game as a believer to have any idea.
I decided to file the question away and ask a certain gorgeous Cuban security consultant to tell me all the ins and outs. Gino Rivera had been my spiritual mentor and part-time protector ever since we met at a crime scene nearly a decade ago. Back when he was still a cop.
Lately though, since my stellar decision to break things off with Nick, Gino had been more full-time than a part-time guide. According to him, between my poorly managed personal life and my natural ability to find trouble, I needed both men on duty around the clock just to keep me breathing.
Over the years, he’d been proven right on several occasions. For a long time, we’d been inseparable. Nick Vitarello (my hot Italian boyfriend and nationally acclaimed FBI agent), Gino, and me—the top cop of a small town police force with a big-city solve rate. My department’s rep for getting the job done right had earned us nonstop invitations to assist our boys in blue in neighboring communities. Our resources were stretched so thin, I’d already developed the habit of sending out investigators alone to complex cases—against my best judgment—but I just didn’t have the manpower to keep up with the crime. With Nick and Gino by my side, though, I’d always been able to cope. I’d come to think of them as my guardian angels. We’d been known as the Triumvirate for years. What did that make us now?
I took a second to ground myself. I needed to call Sheriff Tom Quinn. I sighed. Facing an old childhood friend and a dead body on an empty stomach was above my pay grade. Gino and I had planned a catch-up call once I got off the li
nks, but that would have to wait. I pulled out my phone and tapped Gino’s handsome face, red do-rag artfully wrapped around his head. I frowned as his voice mail came on. Good old Wisconsin. Nine months of winter, three months of poor sledding, and absolutely lousy cell phone reception. I left Gino a message letting him know I’d call as soon as I reported “an incident” to the local boys. First things first. I ended the call and scrolled through the other faces on my iPhone.
The photo I used for my old pal Sheriff Tom Quinn was straight off his web page. I knew his personal number by heart, but for the life of me, I could not find his official number listed anywhere. I could have looked a little harder. Instead, I pressed the face of the sweet guy I’d gone to high school with back in the day.
“Mornin’, Sheriff Quinn.” I paused, giving him time to recognize my voice.
“Josie, is that you?” There was a boyish delight in his voice that made me smile.
Memories of perfect winter evenings spent necking before a roaring fire in his cabin in the woods, of sharing our dreams and fears while snuggling in deer blinds hours on end sifted through my mind. I closed my eyes, breathing them in, sitting with the memories before breaking the spell. “Yes, it is, Sheriff. And this isn’t a social call.”
Chapter Three
Sheriff Quinn was a man of few words. Just like every other guy I’d grown up with. When he said, “See you in ten,” right before ending the call, I knew he must’ve been having coffee in town. I slid on my favorite pair of BluBlockers and stood up to scan the area.
Crisp morning air breezed across my face, and I thought of a picture in my bedroom. White sailboat dancing on the waves, the words “Trust that the wind knows where it’s going,” painted against the windswept dark blue sky. It always made me think of the way the Holy Spirit worked in my life, pulling me into His leading if only I would just take my hand off the helm and let Him steer. Big if. And not my strong suit. Over the years, I’d grown rather fond of being a one-woman show.
I was just learning how to give up control of my life to God as I understood Him. Foreign territory. So far, all I had going for me in that department was a few Bible verses I had memorized but didn’t exactly understand. Like this one from James 4:7. Submit therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.
What did that have to do with the DB? I sighed. What the heck? Couldn’t hurt. Father, please forgive me for trying to run things, and help me submit to You in every way. And I rebuke the devil and any spirit of confusion surrounding this man—this case. I commit it all to You.
Gino’d be proud. Prayer was coming more naturally to me, just like he’d promised. The crunch of tires on gravel pulled my gaze up the hill. A Sauk County Sheriff’s squad car was making its way to me.
Tom Quinn was at the wheel. His head nearly touched the squad’s ceiling, and he looked a little gaunt. He stopped the car beside the burial mound, sunglasses shielding his reaction to seeing me again. He sat a moment longer, gave a slight shake of his head and slid out unfolding his six-foot-five-inch frame. He stepped in front of the dead body or DB in police lingo and removed a small roll of perimeter tape from one pocket and a pair of gloves from another.
He pulled on the gloves and withdrew a camera from his shirt pocket. Economy in motion. And still no words.
“He ain’t fresh.” Quinn examined the head, snapped a finger against the skull.
“Nope.”
“You call this into one of your big-shot boyfriends?” He took several pictures of the head.
“Nope. Your jurisdiction.” I was sucking up. A little.
He froze at that, pulled back a little, almost looking up. But then, he thought better of it and leaned into the gruesome scene, resuming his photography.
“You touch the body anywhere?”
I shook my head.
His brows scowled at me. “Suppose you just had to get involved. Couldn’t hold your horses and wait for me, huh?” He’d learned about my impulsive behavior firsthand. But that was then. This was now.
“Nope. Thought about it though. Prayed and decided to wait.” It just slipped out.
“No kiddin’?” He pursed his lips, eyebrows raised and looked up at me.
Had I finally impressed him?
Quinn eyed me like a butcher appraising a tenderloin. “You prayed about it? Well, now that’s differ’nt. Learn anything off it? Them prayers, I mean?” He squatted back on his haunches, bespectacled gaze fixed on me. I think.
“Just to call you in. So, I did.” If you tell a little white lie about praying, is it still a lie? Why was I trying so hard to clue him in to my newfound spirituality? Why was I sidling up to him? Just being here on this course with him seemed to erase the years between us. I was all eager girl matching his country boy code, word for silent pause.
“That what did it?” He squinted, squeezing his brows together.
“Yup. Well, the part about it being smack in the middle of your jurisdiction didn’t hurt. But I did toss one up to the Almighty. Proud of me? But anyway, this isn’t about us. This is about him.” I nodded my head at the man in the mound.
“Yup. Mostly.” He reddened. A slip of the tongue? “Josie, there’s a lot more going on here than meets the eye. Let’s review the evidence between us—”
“Tom, give me a minute.” I decided to head this off at the pass. “Look, I’m sorry I’ve been such a nonexistent jerk. I abandoned my Wisconsin roots, ran off to Illinois and didn’t say good-bye. There’s nothing I can say that’s going to ever make that okay. And I couldn’t be sorrier about all of it. More than you’ll ever know.” I was already saying more than I’d intended.
“Ain’t you leaving out some pretty big chunks?” Pain seeped out of his voice.
“Quinn, let’s … not …” I didn’t want to go there with him. I was sick of talking about it already, and we hadn’t even started.
“The part about you living through a wall of nonstop pain and me not being there for you? About me being the worst friend this side of the Kickapoo River?” He’d ditched his country boy, aw-shucks style. I’d forgotten how quickly his hick accent could fade away.
“My lousy marriage was not your …” I didn’t know where I was going with this—where I wanted to go.
Hunger noises wrangled up from my belly loud enough for him to hear. Flames of embarrassment shot through my cheeks.
He stood up, laughing. “Not to worry. I got you covered.” He fished around in his jacket pocket, making lots of crinkling noises and brought his hand out in a fist. He turned his hand over and reached out to me. “Peace?”
I burst out laughing, grabbing my sides. “Peace.” I accepted his offering, then wrapped my arms around him.
We stood there on the golf course hugging for several seconds. Then, I pulled away from him and looked down at the bag of BBQ Corn Nuts, which started a fresh wave of laughter.
Quinn stepped away from me and called it in, requesting backup and crime-scene techs. I tore open the bag and slipped a small handful of the salty-sweet corn snacks into my mouth.
The DB wasn’t dressed like anyone from around here, but something about his features rang a distant bell in my head. I’m sure Quinn would’ve noticed the-out-of-towner apparel. No doubt he’d be calling for a vehicle check, looking for out-of-town plates, maybe out-of-state even.
He did his sheriff thing with crisp efficiency. Gone was the awkward dance of the junior high Quinn. He was on his throne, even in the middle of a golf course. Past him on the velvety fairway, a cardinal cawed and pecked on a pin oak lining the rough. How would today’s horrible discovery impact this little universe? Would the course open on time? Would they keep this hole in play, or would they leave the effigy mound and microscopic remnants of its newest resident to rest in peace for a season?
It was impossible to predict the impact of a violent death on lives left behind. I’d s
een it all—anger channeled into positive action, lives stagnating in the numbness of perpetual depression, people succumbing to a life of restless abandon. Yes, I’d seen my share of crime and had a seat at the table of the people left behind. Yet, out of all the crime scenes I’d had the extreme displeasure to attend in the past several years, I’d never seen this. At least his calm features suggested he’d been dead before the burial.
Or so I hoped.
Chapter Four
The crime-scene techs swarmed the mound, recording every detail. From the sounds of it, this was their first golf course vic. Way too many lame golf jokes wafted over from a sparky group of techs detailing the area. Definitely old school—they’d formed a square around the victim with field cord. I knew from my own time in the saddle as a crime-scene tech the next few hours would be spent examining every square inch within the cordoned-off area.
I also knew several of those square inches would be pretty well contaminated by now. While I never found the errant Mojo brand golf ball that had brought me to this ancient Indian burial site, I sure had stomped all over the mound before realizing I was looking right at a DB. What did that say about my state of mind? Maybe I needed a little more time off.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Jo. If it’d been easy to see, the body would’ve been found before now.” Quinn was at my side, answering my thoughts as if reading my mind. I hadn’t even noticed his approach. I really was off my game.
“Yeah. How long do you think he’s been out here?” No doubt, Quinn was still keeping tabs on his town. He’d never let that slide. Not the way we’d let each other slide away all those years ago.
Quinn narrowed his eyes and looked at me. “Longer than either of us would like, from the smell of things, I reckon. Poor man’s been out here by his lonesome for a while now.” His inner hick was out again, but this time it had a sharp undertone. Something else entirely was on his mind.
Anchored by Death (A Jo Oliver Thriller Book 3) Page 2