“You should talk to him, little sister.”
“I think I’ll pass.”
But when I turn onto Wayette Highway toward home, Pride gestures for me to stop. I let out an exasperated breath and pull onto the shoulder a little way up from his car. I take my own damn time getting out of the Stiff and walking back to him.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Pride?”
“This is where it happened, isn’t it?”
Like he needs me to answer that question. “Here, yeah.” I gesture at the obvious tread marks in the middle of the intersection, at the Subaru’s scar in the opposite ditch. “And there … and there.” Scorched pavement. Glittering glass fragments. We could even see hoof prints out on the desert if we looked. He follows my pointed indications and nods solemnly. He seems more interested in the bonfire clearing. He walks over to the ashes and nudges the unburnt end of a pine log with his wingtip.
“Must have been quite a mess.”
For a second I wonder if he’s referring to the rape. But how would he even know about it? I consider the rim of Shatter Hill above us, and the moment I spotted the firelight. I wonder what Pride would think if I told him a group of dead strangers was preferable to Landry doing whatever he damn well pleased to Paulette while his buddies cheered him on.
“Lots of parties out here?”
“If you want to call them that.”
I see a question in his eye, but he turns his attention to the ground at our feet. “Did the police search this area?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
He takes a pen from his jacket and points downward. A metallic gleam draws my eye. With practiced ease, he crouches and lifts a bullet casing with the tip of the pen. On the base, I can just make out the letters SIG 40 S&W. “Someone was shooting.”
The laugh pops out of me before I can stop it.
“Something funny?”
“Sorry. It’s just that …” I shake my head, remembering one of Uncle Rémy’s many lessons about life in the high desert. “Every road sign for hundreds of miles has bullet holes in it. You’ll find more spent casings than empty beer cans along these roads.”
“I’m sure. But look how clean this is. It can’t have been here long.” He pulls a Ziploc bag from his pocket. “Possibly no longer than about thirty-six hours?” In other words, since the time of the wreck. My lips tighten as he inspects the casing and drops it into the bag. “Forty-caliber handgun round, which might be helpful.” He smiles grimly. “Or, as you say, not connected to the crash at all.”
Then why are you collecting the brass like it’s evidence? Pride moves close. I edge back, but he stops and crouches again for another bullet casing between my feet.
“I wish the medical examiner had done an autopsy,” he says. “At least for Trae.”
“Now he can’t.”
“That’s not your fault.”
“Isn’t it?”
He gazes out across the desert. “I have no reason to believe you’ve got anything to do with it.”
“You don’t know me.”
“True.” he concedes. “But you could have put me off last night. Cited funeral home procedure or deferred to your supervisor. Instead, you brought me right into the facility. When you opened that drawer, you were as surprised as I was.”
“Maybe I’m a great actress.”
“If you try hard enough, I suppose you could talk me into adding you to the suspects list.”
“You have a list?”
“Just a figure of speech.”
Now it’s my turn to study him. “Why not let the sheriff handle it? Or don’t you trust country cops?”
“The Sheriff’s Department strikes me as competent.”
My lips purse. Not the word I’d choose.
“You have reason to think otherwise?”
I doubt Sheriff Turnbull would do a proper investigation of a pie stolen off a windowsill unless he was guaranteed a slice on the back end.
Pride doesn’t press me for a response. “I understand Deputy Chapman will be canvassing the area around the funeral home for witnesses.”
I suppose it’s possible Jeremy could turn up a witness, but I’m doubtful. Except for the high school football stadium across Sixth Street, the rear driveway of the New Mortuary isn’t visible from the neighborhood. An arborvitae hedge hides the service area from the houses whose yards adjoin the mortuary grounds. Even if someone saw a truck, would they have any reason to remember it? We get deliveries a couple of times a week, more when we’re busy.
“Good luck with that.”
As I turn to go, he says, “Would you join me for lunch? I’m trying to get a sense of the area, and I hoped I might pick your brain.” He smiles. “My treat.”
Somewhere nearby an eagle calls, the shrill cry riding my nerves like an electric shock. I examine the ground near my feet, my mind on bullet casings and missing bodies. On how I’m not in the mood to get hit on. On how I just want to go home.
The eagle calls again, and an ache grows behind my eyes. I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“I’ve put you on the spot, Ms. Dulac.” He folds his hands before himself, the plastic bag tucked between his fingers. “Please accept my apology.”
Damn it.
He gets points for not wheedling the way Jeremy would, the way almost any guy would. But I’m still irritated. I need an Advil … and a stiff drink.
“As I said, I don’t believe this situation is your fault.”
“Tell that to the sheriff.”
“I’m sure he can see this wasn’t some random crime of opportunity. Someone went there intending to take those bodies.”
“I bet the Shatter Hill Spirit took them.”
“I really need to go.”
“Of course.”
He offers me what looks like an old-fashioned calling card, stiff linen with “Kendrick Pride, Esq.” in raised ink. His phone number and email, in smaller type on the second line, break the nineteenth-century spell.
“If you change your mind about lunch, give me a call.”
Wheedling after all.
Out on the desert, I spot the eagle, a golden, in some open ground near a broad basalt outcrop. A pair of vultures alight nearby, wings spread and heads thrust forward. They’re arguing over something, but what, I can’t see. For several seconds the birds hop and flap along the ground in a display that’s more bluster than battle. A third vulture watches from a juniper branch nearby. It’s a standoff until the third vulture drops to the ground. The eagle retreats, pulling itself heavily aloft. The vultures strut around until the eagle flies off, then vanish into the sagebrush crowding the outcrop.
With a start, I realize I’ve been holding my breath.
“Is something wrong?”
I head for the outcrop at a trot.
Pride follows, his footsteps thudding behind me. “What is it?”
Something’s dead, obviously.
Out here, could be anything. Deer, coyote, even a stray steer. A pronghorn down from Shatter Hill. Scavengers might even mix it up over a jackrabbit.
I hope.
But the other night I came this way in search of a cell signal—and found a baby instead. The basalt outcrop is farther, a hundred yards or more—perhaps far enough to fall outside the sheriff’s search radius.
I stop at the edge of the sagebrush clump and put my hand on Pride’s arm. “Hold up. Let me check it out.”
“What do you expect to find?”
“Just wait here.”
I don’t get more than a couple steps into brittle scrub before a fourth vulture pops up and hisses. The others join in, flapping around in bare patches among the sage. I clap my hands and shout. The angry birds hold their ground. “Yah! Get outta here!” I reach down for a dead juniper branch, but between my stomping and clapping, the birds get the message. With a final threatening hiss or two, they launch themselves into the air.
I continue forward, eyes scanning the ground. The outcrop looks like a toppled p
illar, twelve feet high and twice as broad, dipping away for thirty yards until it disappears into the earth. A wind-scooped hollow has formed under the near edge, shelter for rattlesnakes from the midday sun—or for a person. Between a couple of stunted junipers, I spot two legs in filthy jeans. Dead. Even without the vultures, I’d know. The dead possess a stillness the living can’t fake.
Pride’s shadow falls across me.
“I told you to wait.”
He pushes by, and I follow, annoyed. We move carefully, making sure we don’t step on anything the cops would care about—footprints, bullet casings, newborns. My first body in the desert was last fall, a rancher out looking for stray cattle when his four-wheeler tipped into a gully and crushed him. He wasn’t discovered for three days, long enough to swell and ripen to the point we could smell the body from fifty yards away. This body is more recent—a boy, mid- to late teens, jammed up into the hollow like his dying wish was to become one with the stone itself. His T-shirt is bloody and torn at the site of a wide, ragged gash where the scavengers got started. A few ribs are exposed, and one eye is gone. His skin is the color of concrete. I can’t be sure how long he’s been dead, but not long. The vultures haven’t done enough damage, and the smell of putrefaction isn’t strong.
Pride crouches and cups his chin in his long-fingered hand. Far off now, the eagle cries. The circling vultures continue their vigil far above. I watch their odd, wobbling flight and imagine myself soaring with them.
“His name is Nathan Harper—Trae’s best friend.”
Pride’s voice drags me back to earth. “You knew him?”
He nods, his expression grim. I look at the boy. One more piece of a puzzle I wish I wasn’t part of it. “What’s he doing out here?” Sticking to pavement would have been the smart bet, but I don’t suppose he was thinking straight. Maybe he was looking for a damn cell signal. “We’re a long way from nothing.”
“Trying to get away, maybe.” Pride stands and peers back toward the crossroad. “The question is, from what?”
ELEVEN
Old Mortuary
Pride insists on waiting with the body. “I won’t touch anything, but I do need to stay here until the police arrive.” Maybe he’s worried Melisende the Body Snatcher will make off with another prize. Alone, I trudge back to the road through rising heat and drive up Shatter Hill to find a cell signal.
After I describe the situation, the Sheriff’s Department dispatcher puts me on hold. Tinny music plays in my ear as I sit on the back bumper. From atop the steep slope, Pride is distinguishable only by his motion, a looping circuit around the outcrop. Looking for bullet casings, I assume, stowing them in plastic bags. Photographing footprints, collecting fibers from juniper branches. Swabbing for DNA.
“Who are you anyway, Kendrick Pride?”
“Just ask him, little sister.”
In my ear, a great-lunged country songstress ain’t gonna let me go it alone.
Sure.
After an interminable wait, a car appears on Wayette Highway, coming from Crestview. A moment later, two more approach from the direction of Samuelton, materializing out of distant, shimmering heat waves. The dispatcher returns and asks me to hold a moment longer for Sheriff Turnbull. She doesn’t give me the chance to object, but fortunately the singer only manages one more chorus before the sheriff picks up.
“Where are you?”
“The body is in the desert near the crossroad—”
“I know. Where are you?”
I chew the inside of my lip as I count to ten. “Up on the hill.”
“Good. Stay there.”
“What about the body?”
“I’ve sent Deputy Roldán and the EMTs—”
“This kid is way past EMTs.”
“—to take care of the scene and transport the body.”
He’s cutting me out. “Sheriff, I’m perfectly capable of doing my job.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t, Mellie.” His voice is surprisingly soft. “You should talk to your aunt.” The call drops before I can tell him to stop calling me Mellie.
It’s all I can do not to scream into the still air. Down below, the three vehicles converge at the crossroad. The lead car and what I now see is an ambulance pull off onto the shoulder. But the car from Crestview continues through the intersection and heads my way, covering the distance in a quick half minute. I spot Jeremy behind the wheel and clench my teeth. Just past the Stiff he stops, his car straddling both lanes. I glare at him as he opens his door and plants his feet on pavement.
“Did they send you to keep me away from the scene?”
“Sheesh, Mel.” He takes his hat off. Sunlight gleams on his neck. “I need to talk to you.”
Christ. “Not interested.”
“It’s not that.” He licks his lips. “Chief Deputy Duniway is at the Old Mortuary.”
“What are you talking about?” I look down the hill, wondering why Duniway isn’t among those walking to the outcrop.
But only half-wondering.
“You need to understand, Mel—he has to look.”
“For what? My secret stash of corpses?”
He sighs. “Don’t make this difficult.”
A trickle of sweat falls between my breasts. Steam is about to shoot from my ears. “Well, he better have a goddamn warrant.”
He hesitates before answering. “He has Elodie’s permission.”
That freezes me. “Impossible. She’s in Bend with Uncle Rémy.”
“She’s …” He runs his hand over his buzzed hair. “She’s actually at Crestview right now. I was just there.”
“Wait.”
“She asked me to find you.”
He won’t meet my eyes. If Aunt Elodie is at Crestview, she came back from Bend without telling me. “Why didn’t she call me?”
“She tried. It just went to voicemail.”
I pull out my cell phone. The phone app displays a tiny numeral 3. She must have called while Pride and I were talking bullet casings and investigating vultures. Without another word to Jeremy, I call her cell.
She answers on the first ring.
“It’s so good to hear your voice, honey.”
“Jeremy says you’re at Crestview.” I look across the valley at the rising slopes of Lost Brother Butte. The village is hidden by trees and changes in elevation. Above, the sky is a bowl; below, the desert—a spill of cracked mud and broken glass. “I thought you’d be gone a couple more days.”
“Things have changed.” She sounds exhausted. “I’m afraid I’ll be here all day—and overnight too. I need to get your uncle settled.”
“Why? I don’t understand.”
Her exhalation is like a dying breath. “The hip replacement went well. But I’ve been worried about him for some time. You know how he’s been, forgetful and irritable.”
I feel a sharp guilt about all the hikes we’ve been on. “I thought that was from the pain.”
“So did I. Or I hoped it was only from the pain. But something changed. Maybe during the surgery—or maybe before, and we just didn’t recognize the signs. He’s not himself. He can’t … well, he needs a level of care we can’t provide at home.”
“He’ll get better though, won’t he?”
“One can always hope.” But there’s no hope in her voice. I think back over the last few days, about how I couldn’t reach her on the phone. She’s didn’t want to tell me.
Jeremy looks at me like Uncle Rémy is already dead.
I look out over the escarpment. The vultures ride the thermals high above the crossroad. A faint scent of decay seems to hang in the hot air. “What can I do, Aunt Elodie?”
The line is quiet. Then I hear a breath. “It’s a lot to ask, honey, but someone should be at the house while Omar performs his search. Could I trouble you to go?”
I hate the very thought. “Sure.”
“After, come out to Crestview.” She hesitates, then adds, “Uncle will be glad to see you.” She doesn’t sound
convinced. The call dies.
I turn to Jeremy. “How long has Duniway been there?”
“Thirty minutes, maybe.”
It’s a half mile to the grounds of the Old Mortuary, an unexpected swath of green and gray appearing like a vision out of the brown Shatter Hill tableland. Mossycup oaks shade the columned, two-story main building, with the detached garage, tool shed, pump house, and windowless crematorium behind and to the right. My bedroom looks out over the old Pioneer Cemetery adjacent to the grounds, where some of original settler families in Barlow County still have plots. At times I like to wander among the Sierra granite gravestones, picking out names and dates and imagining their lives in a land and time so different from what I knew before I came to Oregon. Now, this intrusion by Chief Deputy Duniway threatens to disrupt the unexpected peace I’ve found in this monument to the dead.
Duniway’s department Tahoe is parked on the grass near the front steps. The Old Mortuary entrance stands open. I park in the gravel lot the Chief Deputy couldn’t be bothered with. Jeremy approaches from his own vehicle as I get out. I slam the Stiff’s door and elbow past him.
“Mel, please …”
His voice fades as I hurry across the lawn, onto the porch, and through the front door.
The interior is framed in twelve-inch ponderosa pine timbers hauled fifteen miles from the slopes of Lost Brother. The first floor is all mortuary space. Two large chapels, plus a parlor and work areas. The preparation room has long since been stripped of equipment, but the flower room and caterer’s kitchen still get used for the dozen or so services held here each year. Upstairs is the office, now empty and gathering dust, and the family quarters.
A deep, welcoming quiet greets me. The fading wallpaper and worn carpet hints at a prosperity the family hasn’t known for half a century, but the place feels opulent to me. Maybe it’s the furniture and fixtures—antiques of the kind my parents stalked back in New England. Maybe it’s the sense of place and time, authentic in a way I never knew before I came here. My mother and father were endlessly buying objects to fill their emptiness—often more valuable than the Victorian settees in the Old Mortuary reposing and viewing rooms—but in the end their acquisitions felt sterile and forced. Bouton Funerary Service, last stop for Barlow County’s dead, is more alive than the house I grew up in.
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