“Suit yourself then.” The farmer turned and headed for the small farmhouse across the road.
Jasper rested the ladder against the barn side and roped up the sectionals, then fully extended the ladder to within a few feet of the eaves. He watched the farmer cross the road and go up the gentle slope of high grass between some pruned-back apple trees. He removed a portable radio from the front seat of his truck, then climbed the full length of the ladder, hooking the radio to the cradle opposite the stain can.
The farmer had been right. The boards up high were dry enough to start on. An hour later, he had finished the top story of an entire broadside. The news report came at a good time to break. The dial in the truck was tuned to the same station. He unscrewed his thermos and savored the first sip.
“According to state police authorities, fourteen-year-old Julie Heath was last seen shortly after three o’clock on July twenty-eighth, walking home from a friend’s house on the Old Shed Road in Crosshaven.” The broadcast repeated a description of the girl and what she had been wearing then and the phone numbers to contact. There had been no new developments.
The drink refreshed him. He yanked a full can of stain out of the truck that sat next to a rolled, heavily blotched painter’s tarp. He lost himself in work. By two the sun began showing itself in and out of the clouds. By three the sky was completely clear and he had gone through six gallons, staining three complete sides of the barn and the entire annex. He was working the last section on the barn’s far side when the sound of joyful screaming snapped his head around. Another young voice joined in with the first.
He quickly finished the section and then put down his brush, his right hand drenched in stain from seven hours of its dripping down the handle. He determined that the shouts were coming from near the fruit trees across the road. He clambered down the ladder and jogged to the corner of the barn. He couldn’t quite see over the tall weeds, but they made for good cover. He fidgeted with the stones in his right front pocket.
“Say there!” Stanger was walking under the eaves of the barn straight toward him, inspecting what the painter had done.
“You sure do quick work.” Stanger wore a wide grin, obviously pleased. “Lonnie was right. Say, listen, would you be interested in some indoor painting over to the farmhouse? The wife wants the upstairs—”
He shook his head. “I only work outdoors.”
“I’ll make it worth your while. You sure?”
“As sure as eggs is eggs.”
Jasper headed for his truck, which was parked around front. Stanger’s presence made him uneasy. He yearned to hear the spirited young shouts again.
“Suit yourself.” Stanger trailed after him. “As long as I’m out here, I’ll pay you the rest.”
He took the money without another word. Stanger didn’t linger this time. The painter clenched his fists, cracking the dried stain over his knuckles. The interruption had spoiled things. Barely half an hour of staining was left to do—the double doors and the transom beneath the pulley and chain where a hay-lift claw hung rusted in the open position. It looked ready to snatch him. He didn’t know whether he could manage—his stomach was in such knots, his need was still so urgent. He was feeling a great, unfilled void. Over the last days the pangs had been getting worse.
He reached through his truck window, collected the nearly empty thermos, and upended it, yearning for the very last drop. He missed those young voices in the field so much it stung.
Over Labor Day weekend, a coon hunter was out walking the Patrick State Forest, a shotgun slung over his shoulder. The hunter’s German shorthaired pointer had gone sniffing ahead, crisscrossing, homing in on something only its nose could detect. A crow flapped off a fallen bough, a small morsel threading its beak. The man marveled at the bird’s ability to avoid crashing into trees as it accelerated out of sight down a ravine riddled with oak trunks. Sunlight suddenly flooded the forest, bathing it in a sweet wine-colored light.
Movement in the ravine caught his attention—three deer bounding off in graceful arcs with hardly a noise, their white tails flashing. None had antlers. It wasn’t deer season, either. A doe’s head appeared farther down the slope, its sleek neck erect. The animal looked the hunter’s way intently, then disappeared behind a broken branch. The man waded through shin-deep leaves to where the doe had vanished.
Beneath a steep overhanging ledge of limestone, his dog let out a plaintive yowl. Its head hung low, pointing to something tucked under the rocky outcrop. With some difficulty, the hunter traversed the steep wooded terrain across to the spot drawing the pointer’s attention.
“What is it, Zeke? Coon got your tongue, boy?” A disturbed leaf pile drew the man’s attention. He squinted, trying to discern the meaning of a strange-looking mushroom shape poking up through the leaves.
“Almighty God!”
The hunter recoiled, and the ridge of his boot heel caught on a branch, sending him and his gun flying apart. The weapon discharged with a loud crack, and a handful of blackbirds materialized out of the trees, flapping their way to safety wildly.
Now the pointer’s whining sounded nearly human as it gazed down at its master. Regaining composure, the hunter approached the spot. A stiffened forearm stuck out; purple-blue fingers projected upward like a decomposing blossom, still attached to a body that lay somewhere beneath the leaves.
He reconnoitered, memorizing the spot, then wreathed the tree closest to the body with red plastic ribbon. It was what he used for marking trunks when his dog treed a coon too high up for buckshot and he had to go retrieve his rifle. Before leaving, he said a small prayer, then turned to get help.
It was September 2, and the hunt for Julie’s killer was about to officially begin.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The fourth day of September broke smoky. Wisps of gray sky brushed the treetops. A chilly dampness roosted over yellowed pipes of cut corn.
McFaron rose from bed to the sound of the portable phone—Mary calling. A tireless servant, the dispatcher was always there electronically by McFaron’s side. She’d taken plenty of hits for him lately, while he was so involved in the search for Julie Heath. Last week a farmer had come barreling into the office, pissed off and saying he wouldn’t budge from McFaron’s desk till the sheriff showed up. It was no contest for Mary, who had stuck her thumbs through the top of her bullet belt, flashed her .38 Special in its leather holster, and gotten right in his face. The farmer had taken a corner chair by the door without another word.
“Sorry to be bothering you so early, Joe. Bob Heath phoned. Wants you to call him right away. Over.”
“I’ll give him a call on the way in.”
“Copy that, Sheriff.”
McFaron put his feet on the floor and scratched his head fiercely. An image of Karen Heath retching on her hands and knees after he’d given her the news yesterday shot through his head. He’d driven the distraught mother to the home construction site where her husband was working. The disappearance of his child had already been a huge drain on Bob Heath; it was obvious to McFaron that over the past month, the work on the house had hardly progressed. The sheriff had stayed long enough to tell Bob the news, told it to a face already fearing the worst. Hearing the brief facts of his daughter’s death, Bob shuffled off toward his truck and sat down on the tailgate. He didn’t even notice his wife, who didn’t seem to notice her husband, either. She stayed seated in the sheriff’s truck, her forehead resting against the dash. The sheriff’s last act before leaving had been to lead Karen from his truck into the passenger side of Bob’s vehicle. As he’d driven off, McFaron had checked his rearview. Julie’s mother was slumped forward in her seat. Her father remained unmoving on the tailgate.
What could he do for Karen and Bob and little Maddy now? He was unable to shake Karen’s eyes: they were lost, no matter what he did. Her grief was his grief, too.
It was too early to start beating himself up. On his way to the crime scene, he radioed Mary from the Bronco. “I�
�m expecting the FBI today.”
“FBI?” Mary said. “Were you planning to fill me in? Over.”
“I wasn’t exactly consulted in advance,” McFaron said with an edge to his voice. “As county coroner, Doc Henegar had to report the murder to the feds. Don’t repeat that, please. Evidently it’s very similar to two other killings the FBI is investigating.” Suddenly he saw again Doc inserting the spatula through the purple slit along Julie Heath’s side. She was filleted like a fish; the perp took her insides out and left her empty—what kind of creep could do that? The whole thing seemed unreal, like a scene from a movie he’d rented about an alien monster that bored through its victims.
“And just when is this agent going to be arriving?”
“I have no idea. Doc said she’ll be flying in from Chicago, a female anthropologist of some kind.”
“A female agent?” Surprise registered in her voice. “Can we assume she’ll be on the eleven o’clock incoming? And do we need to arrange for someone to meet her?”
McFaron thought he detected a twinge of indignation in Mary’s tone. “Yes, yes, and no. We can assume she’ll be arriving at eleven, but we don’t know for sure. She’ll have to arrange her own transportation. Right now I’m off to take another look at the crime scene,” he said, feeling pressure to find crucial evidence before the FBI hit town.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“To call Bob Heath, I know.”
“What about your coffee?” she said in a muffled voice. “It’s already brewed and waiting, nice and hot.” She swallowed some of her Swiss Miss hot chocolate. “You won’t last ten minutes scrounging around the wet forest without caffeine and a fresh cruller.”
“Save me one. Over and out.”
McFaron rode the brakes as the grade steepened; fog engulfed the Bronco in an early morning whiteout. Houses and trees suddenly vanished. Fine droplets silently dotted the windshield. When an especially nasty shred of fog erased all traces of the road in front of him, McFaron pulled off to the side of the road. He closed his eyes, hoping to get a few moments’ rest, but the image of young Julie’s desecrated body was right there every time he lowered his eyelids.
A black limo with government plates idled in a parking space outside O’Hare. Prusik’s driver pulled into the empty space beside it. For a moment she bristled, imagining that Bruce Howard had ridden in to catch the same flight to Crosshaven, beating her to the punch. Then she realized the absurdity of her thinking. Howard was driving down with the forensics field unit in the RV. Only a lone driver sat waiting in the limo.
She grabbed her bags and hustled through the terminal’s automatic doors. She had left instructions for Brian Eisen and Paul Higgins to track down each and every member of the painting crews who were doing renovations at the Museum of Natural History the previous March. The museum thefts and the special gilt paint flecks found in one of the victims’ hair might prove to be linked and to show that the killer had deeper connections with the greater Chicago area. Under a high-powered bioscope Eisen had located a needle-sized hole piercing the quill of the feather recovered from the crime scene in Blackie, proving it may have been part of some sort of body decoration or mask that the killer used.
Lines of waiting passengers snaked their way toward the security screening area and the boarding gates beyond. Prusik flashed her ID at the guard at the head of one line and passed through the metal detector without a wait—one of the few privileges of her job, though most of the time she didn’t feel very privileged.
An overhead TV screen flashed 7:20 a.m.
“Christine?”
Thorne stood not ten feet away beneath a bank of arrival and departure monitors, inspecting his ticket. His brown briefcase perfectly matched his tortoiseshell frames.
“Why hello, Roger,” Prusik said. She blushed, then reminded herself that she was over him.
His eyelids fluttered. “Was there something you wanted to tell me before I left?” He studied the shiny chronograph strapped to his wrist. “My plane for Washington’s boarding promptly.” He motioned forward with his head.
“Oh, you mean”—Prusik hoisted her heavy forensic case partway—“I guess we’re both en route, sir.”
Thorne’s brow furrowed. “Funny, for a second I thought, how wonderful, Christine’s trying to catch me at the airport to deliver some important last-minute news Washington would want to hear.”
She restrained herself from blurting out an expletive and instead reported on the girl’s body found in Crosshaven.
Thorne nodded. “Yes, I’m aware of it. Bruce called me from the mobile field unit. They’re already on the road. He also told me they’ve turned up blood evidence. Why haven’t I heard a thing from you about this Julie Heath who’s gone missing for over a month?”
Prusik’s cheeks warmed. “I’m on my way to the crime scene myself and will let you know ASAP what I find there.” Why hadn’t Howard told her about the blood?
“I was waiting till I knew a little more until I gave you a briefing. As I said, I’m on my way there now.” It sounded lame even to her.
“All right, Christine. I know I shouldn’t interfere.” Thorne gave her a tight smile. “Actually, I had asked Bruce to call me since I hadn’t heard of any solid leads directly from your team. I had hoped by now to have some names of potential suspects.” He held her gaze for a moment and then looked away.
Christine nodded but didn’t speak.
“Look, Christine, this isn’t the time or place for interoffice squabbles, which, as I’ve said, I may have contributed to. For that I am sorry. You’re right to be irritated.” He cleared his throat. “However, you are not right to have waited to tell me about this Heath girl. You need to do a better job of keeping me apprised of the situation.” He paused, studying her for a moment. “Keep in mind that the mobile unit is under Bruce’s command and the lab team is under yours, technically speaking. Now, if you have nothing else to report on the case, please excuse me. I’ve got a plane to catch.”
Christine watched him stride off, amazed at what sounded like an apology coming from her boss. “Will wonders never cease?” she murmured. Then she turned and made her way to her own gate, her mind already on the day ahead.
An hour and a half after takeoff the plane descended to the small airfield a few miles north of Crosshaven. Outside Prusik hailed the only taxi: a decrepit-looking hulk with DENNIS MURFREE’S CAR SERVICE stenciled on the cab door.
She slid over the backseat in her navy-blue suit. It had just enough polyester to make it travel well and, more important, flatten unnecessary bulges and flatter the good ones. She had picked it up at Marshall’s off Lake Shore Drive, where the nouveau riche flocked to buy on the cheap but didn’t like to admit it. It had stood the test all her clothes went through, proving itself capable of surviving a trek through the woods in all kinds of weather. She was sure she’d be scouring the woods.
“Howdy, ma’am.” Murfree stayed slouched in the driver’s seat. A cigarette bounced up and down between his lips. “Where to?” A coughing spasm cut him short and turned his face beet red.
“Dr. Walter Henegar’s office, please,” Prusik said. “Do you know where it is?”
Murfree grasped the steering wheel with both hands, his watery eyes staring blankly ahead.
Prusik futilely scanned the parking lot looking for a place to rent a car. “Would you like me to find you something to drink?”
Still unable to speak, he waved her off. The car reeked of tobacco even with all the windows open. Ceiling upholstery hung down, tattered and yellowed. Murfree recovered and jerked the car into gear. It chuffed once, then died. Prusik closed her eyes. A minute later they were bouncing down an access road on shot springs. Prusik clutched her bags tightly to keep her instruments from jarring loose.
Murfree drove through the middle of town past a diner. A neon sign in its window read FINE EATING HERE. Smoke funneled out a side chimney so thick and oily Prusik could smell it. Five minutes later
Murfree pulled off the road beside an old two-story frame house. Nothing from its exterior gave the impression that inside a doctor ran a medical practice—no identifying name or professional sign, only a postal number crudely painted on a porch column. Prusik walked around the idling cab to Murfree’s open window.
“You’re sure this is the morgue?”
“Yessum, around back.” Murfree’s coughing returned big-time. “Go on through.” He seemed to point toward the main door, though it was hard to tell due to what was becoming a nasty hacking fit. The cabbie’s reddened face reminded Prusik of her own father’s, though it hadn’t been smoking that had made him so damn red. It was Yortza, Prusik’s mercurial mother. She patted Murfree’s narrow shoulder.
“Look, it’s probably none of my business, but have you thought of getting a nicotine patch?”
His head bounced hard against the hub of the steering wheel as coughing shook his frame. “Yessum.”
Prusik paid him and hoisted out her bags. The front door was ajar. “Dr. Henegar?”
Labrador retrievers came crashing around the corner, nails slipping and sliding on linoleum flooring. Seeing the eager animals, Prusik’s spirits lifted. She put her bags down on the floor and petted them, talking sweetly. The dogs licked her cheeks.
“Don’t let those brutes bully you. Dr. Prusik, am I right?”
Henegar hooked a finger under each dog’s collar and shuttled them into what looked like a kitchen.
“It’s Special Agent Prusik,” she said. “I’m a forensic anthropologist, not an MD.”
They shook hands. “Nice to meet you,” she said while giving the place a cursory once-over. It was outfitted more like a rustic hunting camp than an up-to-code morgue. The hallway was stacked with cardboard boxes. A fishnet and a pole hung on the wall next to some rods and reels.
Henegar slapped his forehead. “Please excuse me for not making it to the airport. I thought someone at the sheriff’s office would be arranging the pickup.”
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