“Where were you?” Munk asked the boys.
“In the dead middle of 419,” Mark answered. “Wasn’t anybody around out there to stop, or we would’ve called you to come look at the deer out there.”
“What about your phones?”
Evelyn snorted. “I don’t know why we pay for those things.”
Matt sighed. “I left mine at home, and Mark’s battery ran out. But there was somebody out there.”
“Yeah,” Matt said. “They were in the woods and cooked a chicken with the feathers on it. Stunk like crazy.”
Munk frowned. “How did you know it was a chicken?”
“White feathers around a fire pit. I guess it could’ve been a cow bird or a heron, but we just figured it was a chicken.”
“Did they leave the carcass?”
The boys exchanged a glance. “Not that we saw, but there were bones in the ashes.” Matt dug in his pocket and pulled the small bone out for his uncle to examine. Munk turned it over in his hand, holding it up to the light from the house to examine its shape. Seeing his uncle’s interest, Mark pulled the rounded bone from his pocket, and Munk struggled to contain his shock.
“Can you find that pit again?” he asked.
“Sure. Why?”
“I’d just like to take a look at it.”
Robert kept his gaze away from the boys. “Problem?”
Munk shook his head. “Just seems a little strange. I need the boys to show me where this pit is.”
“Tonight?” Evelyn exclaimed, checking her watch. “They’ve been out all day at a track meet. And it’s getting late. They haven’t had any supper yet.”
“Come on Mom,” Mark said, a whine in his voice. “It won’t take long. We know right where it is. And if we take the car we can come straight home.”
Evelyn’s lips tightened into a thin line. “You’ve had enough fun with that car for tonight. Uncle Ernie can drive.” She glanced at her brother. “Don’t keep them out late,” she ordered before pivoting on her heel to stride back to the house.
CHAPTER 6
THE OLD MAN LOWERED the glasses from his forehead and jabbed at several numbers on the keypad before raising the phone to an ear thickened with age.
“Yes, sir?” Hitch answered.
“Evening. Everything go all right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s one more drug-runner that’s out of business in Forney County.”
“Yes, sir. But someone was there.”
The old man clamped down on his unlit pipe, teeth clacking against the stem. “Who?”
“That retarded man who rides the lawn mower. He must’ve called it in. The fire department arrived before the hot house was completely destroyed. I’m not sure how much he saw.” Hitch hesitated. “Should I take care of him, sir?”
“Not yet,” the old man answered, sucking on his pipe and considering Goober. “Let’s see what comes of it.”
CHAPTER 7
CASS TOSSED HER BOOT into the corner and unbuttoned her shirt. The pipes groaned softly at a shower somewhere in the house, and the comfort that comes from being at home settled into her. They had sat outside until the candles burned low and the sky deepened to a velvety black, the men sucking on cheap cigars and the women fanning smoke from their faces. Abe had looked as content as Cass could remember, delighted with having three of his seven children at home and two of their best friends laughing in his backyard. He’d sat on the top step to the house, leaning against the screen door’s frame. As the cigar ash grew long and the night closed in, he fell asleep. His bullfrog-like snores had brought Zeus growling from beneath the picnic table and Mitch and Darla said their goodnights, leaving Bruce and Harry to help Abe inside.
She caught her reflection in the dresser mirror, surprised at the glimpse of her mother she saw there; the same creamy skin and intense violet eyes. Cass’s hair was a riot of red that changed with the light, where Nell’s had been a flowing chestnut. She leaned close to the mirror to check for lines, stopping short as her shirt fell open to reveal a thin tail of scar. Lifting a finger, Cass followed its cool, smooth spiral over the exposed skin until it dipped into her bra. From there it meandered beneath her breast’s curve, looping and swirling up its underside, stopping just short of her areole. An image of the face always appeared with thought of the scar. It had taken weeks of searching the features embedded in her fuzzy memory before she’d realized that the wobbling jowls, heavy brow and deep-set eyes hovering over her that awful night had belonged to a mask fashioned to look like Richard Nixon. The sight of the scar usually evoked a potent fuel of fear and rage that drove her toward a single consuming goal: killing the man who hid behind the mask. But she was too tired tonight to give the emotions their head, and her thoughts turned instead to the question of what might have been if only she had only stayed in College Station that weekend. If only she had gone to a different bar. If only – she jumped as her cell phone rang and glanced at the screen. “Hey,” she answered.
“You’re not in bed, are you?” Mitch asked.
“I was working on it. What’s up?”
“Just got a call from Munk. He’s out on FM 419 looking for foot bones. I’m about to drop off Darla and Zeus, then head back that way. Meet you out there?”
Unconsciously, Cass closed the shirt gaping at her neck. “Humberto Gonzalez’s foot?”
“Has to be. Listen, after today’s trip, feel free to take a pass. I’ll fill you in on Monday.”
“I’ll be there,” she said quickly, snugging the phone between her ear and shoulder and buttoning her shirt. “Got a location?”
“Just look for the ME’s van on the side of the road.”
Cass heard gravel beneath Mitch’s tires and knew that he was home. “Hurry up,” she said. “I’ve got a funny feeling about this one.”
But she was talking to dead air.
____________
CASS QUIETLY TOOK THE camera from Forney County’s Medical Examiner, John Grey, feeling small next to his six feet eight inches. Grey was a praying mantis of a man, long and thin almost to the point of emaciation, skin pale as that of the cadavers that crossed his autopsy table. His dark hair rose in a thick shock above his narrow face, matching the bushy eyebrows that hung over his serious eyes. She nudged him aside and took several shots of the clearing. Portable floodlights illuminated the ash hanging in the night air like a morbid fog. A man with unruly golden hair squatted next to the fire pit, seemingly mesmerized. He sneezed into his facemask and looked up at Grey, his startling green eyes widening at the sight of Cass.
“Hello, my dear,” he said, pushing himself upright, adjusting his safari vest and khaki trousers. Both were studded with pockets. “Who is this beautiful creature?”
“Bernie,” Grey began, stifling a smile, “this is Detective Cass Elliot. Cass, may I introduce Bernie Winterbottom? He’s a friend of mine from England, a forensic anthropologist.”
Bernie dipped his head in a slight bow. “Bernard Aloysius Nelson Winterbottom, Esquire.” Cass pushed a loose strand of hair from her cheek and raised an eyebrow. “A bit of a mouthful, I’m afraid. Ever so pleased to meet you, Miss Elliot. May I call you Cass? You are the antithesis of your namesake, if I do say so myself.”
“Not many people make that connection anymore, Mr. Winterbottom,” she said, warming to the disheveled stranger.
“Disgraceful, that. Mama Cass was one of the finest voices of her time. Quite a range.” His eyes grew misty and Cass listened harder as his British accent thickened. “She was at her best when she wasn’t held back by Michelle, but her voice was powerful enough that she might have sung over John and Denny, which would have ruined The Mamas and The Papas.” Bernie sighed. “Mama Cass died in London, did you know that?”
“Yes, sir, I did. Technically, I wasn’t named after Mama Cass. My oldest brother named me after the Cassandra from Greek mythology.”
“The prophetess that no one heeded. She was quite accurate, as I recall, even foretel
ling the destruction of Troy. The world would be a different place if the Trojans had listened to her warnings. It was a bloody death our Cassandra endured. A jealous wife with a sword, I believe.” He smiled. “I am quite pleased to make your acquaintance. Grey didn’t mention that Arcadia is home to such lovely women as yourself.” Bernie turned to the tall medical examiner. “In answer to your earlier question, yes, it’s possible that this foot belongs to your elderly skeleton.”
“Any cut marks?” Grey asked.
Bernie squatted again, absently stirring the ash in the fire pit, holding a length of bone between his fingers. “Difficult to determine out here. I’ve found charred meat and the bones from at least one bird. I’ll need to clean and sort the bones. If this is a foot, it was not placed into the fire whole. And it smells of paraffin.”
Bernie held the fragment up to Grey, who bent his long frame in half to give it a delicate sniff. Cass did the same and through the stench of burning feathers and flesh still hanging in the air, could pick out the scent of an accelerant.
“Is that kerosene?” she asked.
Grey shrugged. “The new forensics guy can figure it out. What’s his name?”
“Dunno. He’s on his way?”
“No. Munk called him, but he’s out at a fire over near Possum Creek.”
“House fire?”
“Not sure. He told Munk to bring in the bones, secure this scene and he’ll be out in the morning to process it. Munk went to take his brother-in-law and nephews home. He should be back shortly.”
“His nephews found this place?” she asked, circling the clearing.
“They don’t have any idea what they’ve found. Most of the footprints you see are theirs.”
“That’s a shame. There might’ve been something we could use.” Cass blew air out in a frustrated stream. “Okay, I’ll take a few more shots and be done with it.”
“Good. You can help us sift the ash. Bernie, would you grab the mesh and buckets behind you?”
“This is good fun, Cass,” Bernie said eagerly, reaching for the equipment they had carried from Grey’s van. She tucked the camera into its case and joined him by the pit. “We do quite a bit of sifting on dig sites. It’s rewarding when you come across a bone fragment or an artifact such as a coin. Very rewarding indeed. You’ll need a face mask, and you may want goggles for all this ash.” Bernie pulled several delicate brushes from a pocket on his vest and demonstrated how to use a trowel to lift ash and spread it over a mesh screen, shifting gently back and forth to separate the ash from any solid fragments.
“What brought you to Arcadia, Mr. Winterbottom? Vacation?” Cass asked.
He held a small bone up to the light. “Human,” he announced before placing it in a paper bag. “Please, call me Bernie. I’m involved in an exchange program with Texas A&M University. There’s an archaeology dig at the George C. Davis site near Alto.”
“The Indian mounds?”
“That’s the one.”
“I thought they were done down there.”
“As I understand it, this new project originated when a developer filed plans for an apartment complex on what is suspected to be part of the Davis site. The state contacted A&M to request a survey and initial results indicate that there is a burial ground of some note in the area.” Bernie stopped to pluck a bone from his screen, examine it briefly, and place it in another bag. “Where was I? Oh yes. It seems the developer has filed a petition to block the dig, citing older research indicating that the site is not historically significant. So, we wait for the bureaucracy to sort itself out.” He scooped another trowel of ash. “After seeing the data collected so far and walking the site myself, I’m convinced there are Indian burial mounds at the George C. Davis location. It will be most unfortunate if the developer is allowed to block the dig.” Cass handed Bernie a bone. He examined it and placed it into a bag. “We may be archaic in many ways compared to the states, but Britain takes the protection of her historical treasures seriously.”
Grey snorted. “When are the Elgin Marbles going home to Greece?”
“Ahh yes,” Bernie agreed, smiling beneath his facemask. “We also have a fondness for protecting the treasures of others. Particularly after we’ve gone to so much trouble to liberate them from their original owners.”
Brush rustled nearby and a light bobbed into the clearing. “Man, it’s a dust storm out here,” Mitch coughed, waving a hand in front of his face. “Munk is right behind me. You need help?”
Grey uncurled his long form from its squatting position, like a bug pushing from its cocoon. He ran a gloved hand across his bushy hair, sending a fine white mist soaring into the air. “We’re about done. Bernie?”
He nodded, face buried in a paper bag. “Probably just one foot here.”
“Has to belong to Humberto Gonzalez,” Mitch commented.
“Is that his name?” Grey asked.
“Yeah. We think he’s an illegal who was living up in El Dorado. But we’ve got no idea who killed him or why they cut his foot off.”
“Or if the foot even belongs to him. Let the science do its job, Mitch,” Grey said.
“You got any one-footed corpses in the morgue?”
“Nope.”
“I haven’t seen many guys hobbling around town on one foot, so it’s gotta be Gonzalez’s. But it’s creepy that someone would cut it off and then burn it six months after they killed him.”
“Maybe they needed to get rid of it. We did find the body last week,” Cass said.
“Yeah, but why burn it? They could’ve tossed the foot in the river or left it in the woods for the hogs to eat. Burning’s like some voodoo thing.” Mitch turned at the sound of coughing coming from the trees behind him. “Hey Munk, what made you think these were human bones?”
He pushed into the clearing and sneezed, the angle of the halogen lights shadowing the chicken pox scars on his face, making him look more haggard than usual. “I broke a toe in college and saw my foot on the x-ray. As much as that little booger hurt, I’d know a toe bone anywhere. That one,” he said, pointing at a fragment resting on a stone, “is a metatarsal. And when Mark pulled that rounded bone out of his pocket, I knew it wasn’t from a bird.” Munk stopped, taking in Bernie’s disheveled appearance, his glance darting to Grey before he stuck his hand out in greeting. “Good evening, sir. I’m Ernest Munk. My nephews found this site.”
“Sorry,” said Grey. “This is Bernie Winterbottom, a friend of mine from England. He’s an anthropologist working on the Indian Mounds project down in Alto. I thought he might be able to help us figure out if these bones are the foot that belongs to our skeleton. Bernie, this is Detective Mitch Stone, Cass’s partner, and Officer Ernest Munk.”
“Pleased to meet you all. Excellent call on the metatarsal, Officer Munk, and the rounded bone is the talus,” Bernie answered. “There are definitely bones from a human foot mixed with the hollow bones from at least one bird. From the feathers on the rocks, we believe it’s a chicken. Regardless, it looks as if the bird was intact when it was put into the fire.”
“Call me Munk. Everybody else does. Somebody tossed in a whole bird?”
“Given the way it has burned, yes.”
“I’m telling you, man,” Mitch shivered, “this is some freaky voodoo ritual.”
Munk ignored him. “Flesh?”
“Yes. On the bones and in the pit,” Bernie answered, brushing ash from his safari outfit and all but disappearing into the cloud that billowed around him. “We’ll know more after everything has been cleaned and sorted. We kept the ash in case your forensic man wants it. I believe an accelerant of some sort was used.”
“Whose land is this?” Cass asked.
“The game warden said it was forestry land,” Munk grunted as he lifted a bucket.
“Munk,” Mitch yawned, breaking down a spotlight, “how about if we tape this area off and work it on Monday?”
“I talked to Kado earlier –”
“That’s an uncommo
n name,” Cass interrupted.
“Tom Kado. He wants it done ASAP. He said that if this is a human foot, we should treat the site as a crime scene. From what I’ve heard, he’s a stickler for the science,” he groused. “Things were a lot easier when Comfrey was in charge of forensics.” He paused, hands resting on a recently sealed bucket. “I started this, so I’ll be here to help.” A smile teased at his lips. “Gaby’s catering the Elm Creek Cemetery Homecoming. If I’m not on duty she’ll have me in an apron serving rice and beans.”
Grey turned to Bernie. “I’ll open the ME’s office if you can come in. I’d like to see how you determine if this foot is from our elderly skeleton.”
Bernie snapped a pocket closed on his jacket. “Lovely. I’ll be there.”
“Fine,” Mitch pouted, dismantling another light. “I reckon I can finish some paperwork.”
“Courthouse at eight?” Cass said. “I’ll bring the donuts.”
Mitch sniffed. “From The Palace?”
Munk stiffened. “From The Donut Hole.”
“Oh come on. The Palace beats the pants off The Donut Hole.”
“The Palace doesn’t use enough glaze, and their donuts just aren’t as… substantial.”
“You mean The Donut Hole uses more grease.” Mitch glanced at Munk’s stout form. “Gaby might be happier if you ate donuts from The Palace. Keep you light on your feet, man. Ready to dish up rice and beans at a moment’s notice.”
“Invoking Gabrielle’s name, Mitch. That’s low.” He rubbed his protruding stomach before hoisting two buckets of ash and turning toward the woods and his waiting pickup. “Whatever Cass wants is fine with me.”
Bernie watched Munk leave, a curious expression on his face. “Pastry problems?”
Cass pulled him aside. “Arcadia has two donut shops. Always has. Old families run them and people are generally loyal to one or the other.”
“Loyal to a bakery?”
“Donut disagreements have divided families. But Mitch is right. The Palace makes a better donut. They’re not heavy, just sweet enough. You’ll see tomorrow.” She turned back to Mitch. “Will you quit whining if I get donuts at The Palace?”
The Devil of Light Page 3