Ashes and Bone

by Stacy Green

  “My money’s still on Stanley,” Cage said. “He’s a douchy liar, and Booth is slick as owl shit. They’re into something illegal.”

  “Doesn’t mean it’s the fakes, if those are even what got Nick in trouble.”

  “You don’t think so? What about the possible Dixie Mafia connection?”

  Gina crushed her coffee cup and gazed out the window with a blank look on her face. He’d gotten to know her methods well over the past few months. She liked to consider her answers for a while and chew on the information before she committed to anything. It drove Cage crazy at first. He didn’t know if she wanted him to guess what she was thinking or if she thought he was incompetent and was not bothering to answer his question.

  “Something’s not gelling for me,” she finally said. “Yeah, these antiques are big business. And even if these frauds are pulling in small potatoes compared to some antique places, people will do some crazy shit to protect themselves. We know whoever did this had at least enough sense to clean up, but I’m not sold that it was a pro because I don’t think a pro would attack Nick during a derecho, putting his own life at risk.” She picked at her fingernails, which were always immaculate and shining with clear polish. Cage figured it was her way of keeping some form of femininity in a tough role.

  “But the windstorm’s the perfect cover up.”

  “One that had minimal planning time. I’d like to think a mob hit man would have a better plan than relying on the weather.”

  The damned Dixie Mafia. Cage still had trouble getting his head around that one. Sure, he’d heard the rumors of drug rings and activity in the bigger cities, but there hadn’t been any more than a mumble here and there for decades. He’d figured they went out with the Klan and the crackdown on moonshiners. “You’re checking with the Jackson FBI office on the mafia angle right?”

  “Call’s in,” Gina said. “But the big boys are busy with kidnappings and murders of their own. If we get proof Nick’s been taken across state lines, I can request their help. Not that I’m eager to work with them, but having access to their labs would be fantastic.”

  “Which reminds me,” Cage said. “The tire tracks. Swear to God someone just swerved out and nailed him.”

  “That could still be premeditated. But if you’re right and the person coming from the southbound did it, then we might be back to a local suspect. I sent the paint chips taken from Nick’s car to the lab. They said they’d try to rush, but we’re still talking a week at most. And I doubt we’ll get anything useful.”

  He started tearing a post-it note into little pieces. The habit drove Dani nuts, but it had been his go-to for as long as he could remember. His mother said he’d sit on the potty and tear up bits of toilet paper while he was doing his business. “What if we’re looking at this wrong? What if it’s just some drunk? Or someone without insurance? What if they had an accident and panicked?” Wouldn’t surprise Cage, really. Adams County had plenty of people living in poverty. Most didn’t have insurance, and any of them could be desperate enough to panic.

  “It’s possible. But then we’re back to the fire being a coincidence. And I don’t believe that.”

  Gina picked up the picture of the cartridge box with the bullet hole. It was pretty much the coolest Civil War item Cage had ever seen. It was made of leather but still pliable, not covered in any sort of protective chemical. According to Dani, the leather was still “live,” meaning there was no red rot. The stitching looked good with few tears, and both waist belt straps were still attached to the back. Dani’d actually sighed with delight when she realized the roller buckles and straps were intact. Apparently a rare thing.

  But Cage’s favorite part was the bullet hole slicing through the middle of the box, most likely made by a Minié ball, and the macabre-looking stains on the back of the leather. Whoever had worn the cartridge box had probably been shot in the hip, and the Minié ball could have easily torn the man’s pelvis apart. Who knew if the soldier had lived or died, but the box was a reminder that war wasn’t glamorous or romantic.

  “You didn’t tell Dani about the note we found in this thing, did you?”

  “Nope.” God love her, Dani wouldn’t have been able to keep from telling Jaymee. And that note could end up being crucial.

  The discovery of the note had stilled Cage in his tracks. “Nick knew he was onto something big, something that might cause him trouble,” he reminded Gina. “He’s paranoid about sensitive information on the computer. If he’s got something he doesn’t want to share, he told me he sticks it beneath the seat.”

  ‘Matt and cousins,’ the note read. Cage recognized Nick’s choppy handwriting. “I still have no idea what to make of it.”

  “It’s important,” Gina said. “He hid that cartridge box with duct tape. He didn’t care about damaging it, and he didn’t want anyone to know he had it. Which means he was probably worried about someone specific finding it. And that someone is probably who the note’s referring to. Which again, makes me wonder exactly who Nick got into a car with after that wreck.”

  “Someone he knew and trusted. Local. But how many Matts are there in this town? Let alone cousins? Damned near everyone’s related somehow.”

  The department’s harried secretary knocked on Cage’s opened door. Laura had been part of the department longer than Cage had been alive, and she wasn’t easily flustered. She’d seen it all, heard it all. She looked like she’d eaten a piece of rancid meat.

  “What is it, Laura?”

  “I just got a call from a friend. He was out hunting rabbits with his boy near White Creek. Not too far from where your reporter disappeared.”

  “And?”

  “He found a man’s dress shoe. Nice one. Muddy. Must have been washed down the creek. Wouldn’t have thought anything of it, but my family had dinner with his last night, and I mentioned our missing man. So he figured he’d better call it in.”

  Anxiety burrowed behind Cage’s eyes like the stab of a pin. His hands went clammy. The shoe could belong to anyone, but the timing reeked of connection. Not to mention the location.

  He looked at Gina whose mouth drew tight, making her cheekbones stick out. She nodded.

  “I’ll get over there, pick up the shoe,” Cage said. “Have Jaymee look at it.”

  “Take the pictures from her email too,” Gina said with a grim look on her face. “See if you can jog her memory.”

  16

  White Creek sliced through many of the properties on the western side of Adams County. Cage had always thought it was stupid that the closest road near the creek wasn’t its namesake. Instead, Van Dorn Road had been named after Earl Van Dorn, a Confederate hero born in adjacent Claiborne County. Cage had no idea why he was regarded as a hero since his notable battles were defeats, and he’d been a planter’s son known for whipping slaves until they died.

  Laura’s friend had been hunting about a mile away from the place Nick’s car was found. Several acres of cornfields butted up against the creek on one side, with swampland on the other. Most of this section was farmland, but farther up the road were Ashland Plantation and the Rileys’ farm, with Oak Lynn, the Semple land, and Ironwood to the east. The creek ran directly between them, serving as the border between Ironwood and the Semple Farm. It also cut through a number of other properties, so Cage didn’t really have a decent starting place. If the shoe was Nick’s, he could have crossed the creek anywhere. One thing could help: the creek’s current ran from north to south, working its way to the Mississippi River.

  With the smoking blaze rising in the distance into a liquid mountain range, Cage found his man and a younger version of the guy sitting on the bed of a pickup on the side of the road. The older man slid off when Cage exited, puffing himself up with the typical eagerness of a nosy onlooker. Cage bit back a smile.

  “Rodney West.” He offered a calloused, strong hand. “My son, Bacher.”

  What a name. Between the skinny legs, ginger hair, and the name, the poor kid is ripe
for a childhood of mockery.

  “Investigator Cage Foster.” He glanced at the bed of the truck. The shoe sat in the middle, in a twisted position of honor. Rodney should have left the shoe where he found it. Damn.

  He moved past Rodney to get a closer look. A leather loafer, probably a size 12. Soaked with water and with red mud embedded into the outsole’s diamond-shaped grooves, as if it had sucked the shoe right off. He peered inside the shoe and saw more mud wedged inside, jammed against the toe.

  Sonofabitch.

  He’d seen Nick wear shoes that looked exactly like this one. Shading his eyes, he cast a weary gaze toward the woods. A thin sheen of smoke and fog shimmered around the trees with long, fingerlike tendrils reaching into the woods. But Nick’s body couldn’t be in there because Rodney would have seen it. Right?

  “I don’t know if it means anything,” Rodney said. “But after Laura told me about the missing man, I figured I should probably call y’all.”

  “You did the right thing.” Cage slipped on a fresh pair of latex gloves and carefully placed the shoe into an evidence bag. “Can you take me to the spot where you found it?”

  Rodney gave an excited nod. “Bacher, you stay here. Don’t touch anything.” He pointed across the field. “Just down that way.”

  Bacher, the cursed, grumbled something Cage couldn’t understand and pulled out a video game that made a lot of noise.

  Cage picked his way through the prickly ground, the dried leftovers of last year’s harvest crackling under their boots like fall leaves. The thin haze of the fire dulled the brightness of the sun, casting the entire area in dreary gray. How far did the smog stretch anyway?

  Down a hill, the trees multiplied, crooked branches hanging in his face and wild thornbushes snagging Cage’s boots. No-see-ums, tiny gnats whose nips hurt worse than a bee sting, bit his exposed skin. The trickling rush of White Creek was the only warning of the sudden, steep drop-off. His boots slid, arms shot out, and he damned near ended up on his ass.

  “There.” Rodney pointed to the right. “Wedged between them two rocks.”

  Clinging to an overhanging limb for balance, Cage eased his way down to the creek bed. Thanks to the dry winter, the water was only about two inches deep—barely enough for the shoe to drift in. But the existing water moved at a decent pace, happily gushing past him. Gnats and flies swarmed in groups. He swatted them away and kept his mouth clamped shut. He’d swallowed a horsefly on a hunting trip with his dad, and the experience still traumatized him.

  The shoe had apparently become wedged between two decent-sized rocks. One racing thought immediately struck Cage: Where’s the mud?

  Not a streak of mud on either rock, which told him the shoe had likely floated from somewhere. He rolled up his sleeve and dipped his hand into the cool water, fingers brushing against pebbles, and dug his hands into the creek bed. The dirt came up easily, soft and gooey. It reminded him of cookie dough. Cage supposed the outsole’s rubber grooves had been deep enough for the mud to cling to despite the water.

  “What are you doing?” Rodney knelt on the bank, looking down with a puzzled expression.

  Cage studied the fistful of wet earth he’d brought up from the creek. The mud looked like coffee grounds: fine and barely thicker than sand. And everywhere he looked, he saw more of the same.

  “What position did you find the shoe in?” Cage asked.

  Rod scratched his chin. “It was wedged between two rocks, upside down.”

  “So that explains how the mud got inside the shoe,” Cage said. “The real question is, where’d the red mud come from?”

  He almost fell asleep on the short drive to Ironwood. The smoke seeping into the cruiser’s open windows was the only thing that kept him awake. And seeing Ben Moore doing real manual labor in Oak Lynn’s front lawn perked him right up. Slimy bastard. Too bad Grace was too good of a woman to ban him from the house. But she was old and probably needed the help. Still, Cage hoped Ben at least got a nasty splinter from the branches he was picking up.

  Jaymee and Dani sat on Ironwood’s front porch, drinking steaming coffee that probably didn’t taste like shit-contaminated mud and watching the smoke show. He tucked the shoe, now protected in an evidence bag, inside his jacket. A nerve in his right eye jumped. He’d rather eat another fly than show this shoe to Jaymee. He’d put it off as long as he could.

  Fortunately, he had a distraction. Jeb Riley stood on the steps, one foot lower than the other. He extended his hand to Cage. “I stopped by to check on the ladies.”

  “We appreciate it,” Cage said. “How are things in your area of town?”

  “Oh, we’re safe enough,” Jeb said. “I’m more worried about casualties from the fire. So far I haven’t heard of any, but if that thing continues to spread…”

  “So far it’s under control.” Cage opened his arms as Dani greeted him with a kiss. He let himself relax for a brief moment of peace. Her skin felt warm and smelled sweet, like the vanilla shampoo she used. The idea of her being here with the fire threatening scared the hell out of him, but she’d go down trying to save that house. So would he if he weren’t searching for Nick. Pulling away with a regretful sigh, he turned his attention back to the coroner. “Firefighters are hoping to burn it out right where it’s at.”

  “Good to hear,” Jeb said. He glanced at Jaymee and then turned back to Cage. “Any news on the disappearance yet?”

  “We’ve got a lead we’re working.”

  “Good,” Jeb said. “Listen, I’m helping Grace out at Oak Lynn today, so if you ladies need anything, give me a call. I know Cage has his hands full, and I hate to think of you out here alone with everything that’s happened.”

  “We will, Jeb,” Dani said. “Thank you.”

  He headed to his car with a wave, and Cage tread slowly over to the porch swing to sit next to Dani. Her wide-set eyes were heavy lidded, her ivory skin as pale as the house, with just a smattering a freckles over her slim nose. At his scrutiny, her plump lips lifted in a tired smile, and then her sharp gaze landed on the lump in his jacket. Her eyebrows knitted, and Cage shook his head.

  Dani quickly sat beside him. Curled up in the one lounger that hadn’t been destroyed by the derecho, Jaymee watched with bleary, vacant eyes.

  “So, the fire,” Cage said.

  Jaymee nodded. She wore one of Dani’s shirts, hair pulled back and face free of make-up. Circles ringed her eyes, her mouth set in a grim line. The fingers on her right hand were still bandaged.

  “It was arson, right?” Her voice was still a little hoarse.

  He didn’t waste time on easing her into it. “Looks like it. But Jay, I need to show you something first. And it’s not going to be easy to look at.”

  She tensed, gaze widening, and her pupils dilated. She sat up straighter, giving herself a little shake. She nodded. “Let’s see it.”

  Taking her no-nonsense lead, he slipped the bagged shoe out for her to look at. The glob of red mud on the sole stuck to the plastic like a face plastered to a window.

  Jaymee didn’t move. He wasn’t sure she even breathed. He waited, pulse hopping in anticipation.

  Slowly, she reached out to touch the bag with her bandaged hand. “Is this an Oxford, size twelve-and-half?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nick has a pair in exactly this color. They’ve got special rubber outsoles for extra grip. I teased him about them, asking if he was moving north where there’s actually ice to slip on.” She sounded like she was choking. “He wears them a lot.”

  Dani reached to take Jaymee’s hand. Her chin dropped to her chest, and Cage saw her body grow taut and strained as if she were doing her best not to cry.

  Damn it. Every passing minute they didn’t find Nick meant he was closer to dead. If he wasn’t already.

  “This doesn’t mean he’s dead,” Cage said aloud. He wasn’t sure if he was lying to Jaymee or reassuring himself. “It’s a lead. It’s a good thing. We know he was somewhere between the spot the car was
found and the location of the shoe. I’ve marked off a search area, and Gina and as many uniforms as she can muster are heading out.”

  “Doesn’t mean he’s still around.”

  “Doesn’t mean he’s not either,” he said. “We think he left in another vehicle, probably the one that hit him. My guess is he thought he was getting a ride into town, so it’s very possible he knew the person. And at some point later, he may have been forced to walk across White Creek, where his shoe became stuck in the mud.”

  “It’s red mud,” Dani said. “Like what’s in my driveway. Does that help?”

  “It might if we can narrow down the area. Problem is, that kind of mud is scattered here and there. Wasn’t in the area of White Creek where the shoe was found, but it might be farther up the creek. We’re looking.”

  “It’s someone local.” Jaymee pulled her hand out of Dani’s grasp and took a sip of coffee. “Someone who knows the area. That limits the suspect pool.”

  “I agree.” Cage had already discussed this with Gina. Luring Nick into the car and stashing him after dragging him through rough terrain like White Creek meant the person knew the route to take, knew the places to avoid. “Which brings me to the arson. We think it may be connected to Nick’s disappearance. That whoever took him thinks you know something too.”

  “So Stanley, then.” Jaymee’s small hands tensed around the cup until her knuckles shone white.

  “Maybe. But he’s got a powerful alibi with Wyatt Booth. And we’ve got to look at every angle.”

  Her lips curled up in a sneer. “So politics have come into play, I see.”

  “Of course they have,” Cage said. “So I need you to think. Has Nick mentioned any specific enemies?”

  “No,” Jaymee said. “He talks about work and the people he’s interviewing, sometimes colleagues. He pisses people off all the time, but he’s never mentioned anything like enemies.”

  “What about you? Has there been any real fallout from last summer? Any of Paul’s or Wilcher’s friends bothered you? Any family members of Penn’s who may have come out of the woodwork, upset about you getting Magnolia, especially since you decided to put it on the Heritage Tour?”