Nothing Stays Buried

by P. J. Tracy

  When she hung up, Annie abandoned the dishes and sat down next to her at the dinette table in the front of the rig. “Not that I was eavesdropping or anything, but from the sound of things, Magozzi’s got himself plumb up into a lather over something. What’s going on, sugar?”

  Grace sighed and laid her phone on the table. “He and Gino are on their way down here. He thinks there’s a possibility that their serial killer is here. Maybe even in that abandoned camp on Walt’s lake.”

  “Oh, my. Well, that is deeply distressing news, and if Magozzi’s worried, then I am, too. I never did like the way a gun interfered with my wardrobe, but I won’t let it bother me today.”

  Grace shrugged. “Serial killers don’t go around randomly killing people. They’re not a threat to the general population.”

  “Serial killers are still killers, and if their back is up against a wall, taking a life that’s in their way is like swatting a fly.” Annie regarded her curiously. “For a woman who used to empty magazines into shadows, you’re being pretty dismissive.”

  “I’ve still got a gun in my holster, don’t I? I just think Magozzi is overreacting. He’s been doing that lately.”

  Annie gave her a patient smile. “Darling, Magozzi has always overreacted when it comes to you, and it’s got nothing to do with that beautiful new life we’re all going to meet in a few months. Maybe you never saw it, but anybody on the outside who didn’t see it from the get-go is either blind or a flat-out fool. Whether you want one or not, you’ve got yourself a knight in shining armor.”

  FORTY-SIX

  Walt forked and fluffed the last flake of straw into Bessie’s stall. The younger heifers could handle the cement floors of the stanchions, but Bessie’s joints had grown sore over the years, just as his had, so he had quite a bit of sympathy for her. Besides, after the countless gallons of milk she’d given him, he figured she’d more than earned a comfortable spot in a safe shelter to call her own. And she would probably need it today.

  When he was finished, he slipped off his leather gloves, shoved them in the hip pocket of his overalls, then walked to the open tractor door for some fresh air, but there wasn’t much of that to be had. It was like Mother Nature had decided to swaddle this piece of the earth in a sopping wet blanket, then light a fire under it.

  Walt squinted at the barometer Mary had tacked on the wall by the door twenty some years ago—it was dropping fast. Not that he needed any fancy instrument to tell him what he already knew instinctively. In spite of the sun and heat right now, or maybe because of it, a storm was rolling in, and it was going to be a doozy.

  Already, the leaves on the trees were curling up just so, shivering with the faintest of breezes, a tiny portent of the something bigger that would be coming next. Animals told you such things, too, if you weren’t bright enough to figure it out for yourself. Weather like this, a herd of any kind was torpid. You had to move them with a stick and a few shouts if you wanted them to relocate, because all they wanted to do was lie in the shade of a tree. But they were restless now. They knew.

  He wondered about the lion and where he might be taking shelter right about now. Being an undomesticated animal, he was a lot savvier than the cows, so more than likely, he was already hunkered down in a hollow somewhere, or maybe he’d even fixed himself a den over the years he’d been roaming free. Mary would have dismissed that notion, telling him homemaking was a female’s purview, but bachelors had to make do, and that was something he and the lion had in common.

  Walt walked out into the barnyard and primed the water pump so he could top off the stock tank just as two squad cars pulled up into his driveway, leaving a haze of dust behind them. They parked in the turnaround, and Jacob and three deputies piled out and started walking toward the barn like an Old West posse, guns and gear jangling in the belts at their waists. Walt stuck the hose in the tank to fill it and went to greet them.

  “Morning, Sheriff, morning, Deputies. If you mean to haul me in, it’s gonna take a lot more than you four.”

  Jacob smiled and touched the brim of his hat. “Morning, Walt. Never known you for a joker in all these years.”

  “Who said I was joking?” He looked from one deputy to the other, giving them all nods. He recognized one of the men, broad and blond and built for farming, but equally suited to a uniform. “You’re Pam and John Larson’s boy. Karl, is it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I hope they’re well.”

  “They are, thank you for asking.”

  “Your pop still running a full herd?”

  “He sold off half last year. Arthritis, you know?”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. You give them my best.” Walt looked up at the sky and took a deep breath of steamy air. “Storm’s coming.”

  “A dangerous one, from what I’ve been hearing,” Jacob said. “Keep an eye out. You might want to gather the Monkeewrench folks and bring them into the house later, just in case you need the storm cellar. That’s quite a rig they’ve got, but it’s still nothing but a trailer on wheels.”

  Walt often assigned color to people’s voices. Jacob’s was black right now, and it had nothing to do with the storm. “We’ve got some trouble, then?”

  “The Trask boy was killed early this morning at Fulmer’s station and some Minneapolis detectives think it might be connected to a killer they’ve been chasing for the past couple days.”

  Walt looked off to the side, lips pulled together to keep emotions inside and private, but oh, Lord, the news of another family with a lost child cut close.

  “Walt? You okay?”

  He cleared his throat. “Of course I’m okay. Just ruminating. Heard something about that killer on a news bulletin when I was listening to the crop report this morning. So I should be worrying about a maniac on the loose on top of the storm?”

  “There’s some kind of a tie-in to that old camp across your lake, Walt. We’re going to do a search of the area right now, just to make sure your property is clear. And two Minneapolis detectives are on their way down here, just so you know, in case you see a strange vehicle pulling up in the driveway. They know Monkeewrench.” He turned to his men and whirled a finger in the air. “You know what to do. I’ll catch up.”

  Once the deputies had trotted off, Jacob walked up and put a fond hand on Walt’s shoulder. “I woke up remembering fishing with you on the lake when I was a kid.”

  “Good times, those.”

  Jacob looked down, nudged a toe against a dying clod of grass next to a new fence post in Walt’s paddock. “Never did like fishing much.”

  Walt raised a brow. “You went with us every time.”

  Jacob nodded. “That was because Marla was there.”

  —

  Through the windshield of the Chariot, Grace saw Walt walking down the driveway. He didn’t seem like the type of man to take leisurely strolls, and there was purpose to his stride. She waved through the windshield, then opened the door for him.

  “Good morning, Walt.”

  “Morning. I just talked to the sheriff, and there’s some trouble afoot, so stay sharp. Your two Minneapolis detective friends are on their way down here to help sort it out.”

  “We know. We just talked to them.”

  He looked at the gun in her holster. “That might keep you safe from trouble, but it won’t help with the storm that’s coming. I’d feel a whole lot better if you and your friends came up to the house, just in case we need the storm cellar. We’re just under a tornado watch now, but with the size of this system, things can turn on a dime.”

  Grace looked up through the windshield at the darkening sky that had been perfectly blue not too long ago. “Annie was saying the same thing earlier.”

  “You’ve got some time, but keep your eyes on the sky. When you hear thunder off in the distance, that would be a good time to pack it in and come on up to the house.�
��

  “Hey, Walt,” Harley greeted him as he emerged from the back of the Chariot. “You and Annie are right about the storm. Roadrunner and I were just checking out the radar and it looks pretty bad out West. It’s still in the Dakotas, but it’s moving fast.”

  “Looks like we’ve got two kinds of storms brewing.”

  “I hear you. Walt, is there anything Roadrunner and I can do to help you out? Batten down the hatches, help you close up the barn or something?”

  “Thank you kindly for the offer, but I just have to get the rest of the herd inside and that’s a one-man job with my gals. They’re a little shy around strangers.”

  FORTY-SEVEN

  If you live most of your life in a place where the next person is always within eyesight and earshot, that press of humanity becomes comforting. New Jersey had plenty of open green spaces where you could catch a breath, and there was the Jersey shore, where the vast expanse of the Atlantic Ocean hissed and pounded or sometimes just lay there looking empty and restful, but it never made you feel alone.

  This place was different, and Deputy Vince Cavuto didn’t know if he’d ever get used to it. For instance, now he and his partner, Karl, were walking a field road with woods on one side and cornstalks taller than he was on the other, and there was no comfort there. It felt more like being isolated in a trap. No people, no comfort, no backup if you needed it. Just plants and trees and an unfriendly sky. You could suffocate in a place like this, especially with the air as hot and heavy as a weighty quilt.

  The air wasn’t moving. Not a breath of wind. No sound of the ocean, no smell of salt, just the sweet, cloying aroma of cornstalks that had been cooking in the sun, and the smell of other things that were dank and earthy and somehow sinister.

  And then, a quick puff of breeze that smelled chemical and made the green stalks rustle, just a little. The sweat on his forehead prickled like it wanted to dry but couldn’t, and there was a far-off rumble you could feel in your gut like something was calling out a warning. He didn’t feel good. It wasn’t nausea, exactly, but it was close. “This place gives me the creeps.”

  Karl was ahead of him, head swiveling this way and that, eyes busy, walking slow and heavy, like the air. “This place is God’s country. You’ll get used to it.”

  “Feels more like the Devil’s playground.”

  Karl turned around and smiled. “That’s the weather reminding us we can’t really control much of anything. Slapping us down a little when we get too cocky.”

  “Thanks for the reassurance. But take a look that way.” He pointed west. “There’s a wall cloud bearing down on us, and it’s wearing Nikes.”

  “What do you know from wall clouds, Mr. New Jersey?”

  “The first week Theresa and I got here the news kept harping on something called tornado awareness. Nonstop film clips of fucking wall clouds and crushed houses and barns. We almost turned around and went home.”

  This was Karl’s country, born and bred, and by now he didn’t pay a whole lot of attention to tornado watches and warnings. Last year, Sarah Farmington had panicked, raced home with her two kids in the car, and went off the road and into a tree. Karl had been first on the scene, and all he could think of was that those three lives hadn’t been lost to a tornado—that particular funnel never touched down. It was the warning that killed them.

  But transplants took a while to get jaded and learn to trust their own senses over the radio. He could hear the apprehension in his new partner’s voice, so he looked west, just so he could reassure him.

  Lord. No wonder he was scared. The wall cloud damn near stretched across the whole horizon. It was black, ruler straight on the bottom, sagging close to the earth, leggy stripes of cloud to cloud lightning flashing inside it like hungry, gnashing teeth. “We get a few really nasty-looking wall clouds every summer, Vince. Doesn’t mean a funnel’s gonna drop down.”

  “Doesn’t mean it won’t.”

  Karl shrugged, feigning nonchalance, but he felt that little squiggle in his gut every animal on the planet got when the barometric pressure took a tumble. Come to think of it, he hadn’t heard a single birdsong since they’d started walking, and Walt’s cows weren’t complaining, which they always did this close to milking time. Animals went silent when something bad was coming, trying to hide. “Let’s put on a little speed, Vince. I’d just as soon be under some cover when this thing hits.”

  “You feel it, too, don’t you? Something pushing down like a big hand.”

  “Nah. It’s going to rain, that’s all,” Karl lied.

  “This is just excellent. We’re out in the open, looking for a serial killer in the middle of a tornado outbreak. Guess the only question is which one is going to kill us. I should have stayed in New Jersey with the mobs and the gangs and the crazies.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, relax,” Karl told him, but he picked up the pace a little more and actually started to jog around the lake. The old migrant camp was close now, on the other side of the water where raindrops started to hit the smooth surface. It looked like it was simmering.

  The camp was nothing more than a collection of decaying one-room cabins and a barracks building, perched on a small hill overlooking the lake. They were barely visible through all the overgrowth until you got right up into the camp yard itself, which was little more than a flat place with an old stone fire pit and a couple of collapsed picnic tables. Two of the cabins had been stripped of their front doors, and all the windows were broken out, littering the ground with shards of glass. Empty beer cans and booze bottles were nestled in the tall canary grass—it was like walking through a derelict’s Easter egg hunt. It was a sad place; but it was also spooky as hell, with the sky turning dark above them, swallowing up the sun.

  Vince toed a crushed Miller can. “Kids’ paradise. Empty cabins in the middle of nowhere.”

  Karl nodded, feeling an uneasiness bearing down on him. “This place has seen its share of shenanigans. Come on, let’s clear the buildings.”

  Vince unholstered his weapon and his flashlight. Clearing buildings, especially vacant buildings like these, was one thing that he hated about being a cop. Even though he didn’t expect to find much of anything but more party litter and maybe some rats, it was what might be in any given vacant dump that made the hair on the back of his neck prickle.

  The first cabin was dank and completely stripped of everything, including the sink. The beam of Vince’s flashlight coursed across a thick coat of dust on the floor where there were more beer cans, a few candy bar wrappers, and a moldy pillow. “No footprints. Doesn’t look like anybody’s been here in a while.”

  Karl wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Goddamn, it was hot, and the air was getting heavier as the rain started coming down harder. “One down, three more to go.”

  In the second cabin, they found more remnants of forgotten parties. But the third cabin was different, and they both dropped to crouches on either side of the door, rain splashing down on the brims of their hats.

  “Police!” Karl shouted, but his voice was swallowed up by a sudden crash of lightning that temporarily blinded him. Somewhere in the near distance, he heard a tree go down—a big one. He could feel his heart beating in his throat as his eyes followed the jittery beam of Vince’s flashlight, piercing the gloom inside the cabin. One room, nowhere to hide. Thank you, Jesus.

  Vince rose to his feet with a shaky breath. “It’s clear.”

  “It is now, but it sure as hell wasn’t.” Karl looked at all the footprints on the dusty floor, the stacks of supplies, the camp stove with an old metal coffeepot on the burner, the sleeping roll neatly tucked in a corner.

  Vince crouched next to the camp stove and placed his palm against the coffeepot. “Still warm.”

  “Jesus.” Karl made a circuit of the room and stopped at a duffel bag stuck underneath a wooden bench.

  “Still could
be kids.”

  Karl unzipped the duffel and just stared. “I don’t think so,” he finally said, turning to look at his partner. “Guns. Lots of them.”

  They both looked up when they heard the first pings of hail on the corrugated metal roof.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  All cars, possible murder suspect in the vicinity of Cottonwood County, presumed armed and dangerous. Exercise extreme caution. Repeat, extreme caution. Hispanic male, approximately five-foot-six, one hundred and fifty pounds, tattoos of playing cards on his arms. Last seen in a late-model black Ford 150 pickup truck, large dent in the driver-side door. . . .

  Holy shit, had that been music to Deputy Ryan Nagle’s ears. In the three years he’d been patrolling Cottonwood County, the most exciting call he’d ever gotten was on a suspicious individual on Gravedale Avenue in Buttonwillow. It had ended unceremoniously, putting bracelets on some half-conscious meth head who pissed himself in the back of the squad on the way to the hospital. Ryan had heard later that the guy coded in ER three times before giving up the ghost.

  The only problem with today’s potential shot at a little glory was the fact that he’d been halfway across the county when he’d gotten the call-out. If there really was an armed and dangerous suspect somewhere out by Walt Gustafson’s farm—which he doubted—Ryan was never going to get a piece of the action driving like a grandpa.

  He squeezed the steering wheel, goosed the gas, and felt an intoxicating rush as he picked up speed along the serpentine road, accelerating at just the right moment into a curve, then launching onto a straightaway, building up as much speed as possible before the next twist in the road.

  Ryan had aced his driving skills, but still, this road was a bitch, with more hairpins than a beauty salon. Even if he’d been a Formula One driver, there was only so much time he could make up on this route. It was time to change strategy, time to use a shortcut.