Beneath the Bones (11 page)

“Probably too afraid to come inside,” Joanne said. “I bet even the bravest — or should I say drunkest — only ever manage to open the door and poke their heads in before getting so close to pissing themselves that they turn tail and run.”

Dale clucked his tongue. “You’re getting awfully cynical in your old age, my dear. I bet you’re right, though.” He grew thoughtful once more. “It was night when Stan and I got here. Did I tell you that? The electric was still hooked up then, and Carl had the lights turned on. There were only a couple in the ceiling, and neither was all that bright. They gave the inside of the barn an eerie half-lit look, like something out of a dream. Carl looked up when we burst in — he was crouched over Marianne’s body — he’d just finished carving that strange symbol of his onto her belly. He never did tell anyone what the damned thing signified, and I’ve been unable find anything close to it in all the research I’ve done over the years. People started talking after the story broke, saying Carl was in some kind of satanic cult, and that’s where the symbol came from. Stan and I came to believe it was just something Carl had made up, and its meaning was personal to him — assuming it held any meaning at all and wasn’t just a psychotic’s version of doodling.”

“He arranged the other bodies against the wall, didn’t he?” Joanne said.

Dale nodded. “So they were facing the back door. They were sitting with hands at their sides, legs stretched out in front of them. They were naked and covered with dried blood from their throat and stomach wounds. Small chunks of flesh were missing here and there. At first we thought Carl had eaten parts of his victims, but Doc Lahmon — he was the coroner back then — said rats had been at the bodies, probably while Carl was away.” Dale closed his eyes and gave his head a little shake, as if trying to dismiss the memory.

“Where was Carl exactly?” Joanne didn’t worry that Dale wouldn’t remember. He had a reporter’s recall, and besides, no one could forget a detail like that — not after living through it.

“Right over there.” Dale pointed without hesitation, and a chill shuddered down Joanne’s spine. Dale indicated the exact spot where she’d briefly glimpsed Carl’s image. Dale frowned. “What’s that?”

Joanne trained the flashlight’s beam on the ground where Dale pointed. The light revealed an object that was small, square, flat, and black.

“Looks like a wallet,” she said.

They walked over to the object — both watching to make sure they didn’t inadvertently trample any evidence. Sure enough, it was a wallet.

“Maybe one of those drunks you mentioned before managed to find the courage to come inside all the way and dropped it,” Dale said.

“You don’t really believe that.”

“No, I don’t.”

Dale took a couple pictures of the wallet, and then Joanne handed him a flashlight. He held the beam steady while Joanne crouched down and carefully picked the wallet up with the thumb and forefinger of her gloved hand. She flipped it open and there, stored inside a laminated flap, was a driver’s license with a familiar photo. It was the boy who’d been murdered last night.

“Ray Porter,” she read aloud.

Her stomach twisted, her head throbbed, and though she knew it wasn’t real, out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw something — a man-shaped something — withdraw into the shadows and be swallowed by darkness.

Joanne dusted the barn’s door knob for prints, but it was too rusty too yield anything. She bagged the wallet, and since it was a key piece of evidence, it would have to go to the state crime lab for processing. She and Dale found no other evidence, but she decided to have Ronnie come out here and give the place a once-over as soon as possible. She hated to overwork him, but if she’d missed anything, she was confident only Ronnie would find it.

She drove Dale back to town. They were quiet for much of the drive, each lost in their own thoughts. Eventually, Dale broke the silence.

“There was no sign Ray Porter had been in the barn.”

“It’s a bit early to come to that conclusion,” Joanne cautioned. “While it’s certain that he was killed at the location where his body was found, he could’ve been in the barn before that.”

“And he just happened to drop his wallet there?”

“Maybe the killer found Ray in the barn and abducted him. Or maybe he already had Ray and took him there for some reason before taking him to the murder scene. The wallet could’ve been dropped then.”

“There were no indications of a struggle at the barn,” Dale said.

“Hard to tell with all that junk there. If something had been knocked over or disturbed, how would we know? Still, the dirt floor showed no signs of a scuffle.”

Dale thought for a moment and then shook his head, lips pursed in distaste. “Maybe, but I don’t like it. It seems too convenient, like the wallet was purposely left there for us to find.”

“The scene might’ve been staged,” Joanne admitted. “Theatre is a big part of a murder like this. Copying Carl’s MO, terrorizing his mother, spray-painting Carl’s symbol all over her car …”

“Assuming the two incidents are linked. A safe enough assumption, I’ll grant, but still only an assumption at this point.”

“Agreed.”

They fell silent again for a few moments before Dale continued.

“I assume you’re going to pay the poor boy’s parents a visit.”

“Yeah. It’s not the kind of news you can deliver by phone. Besides, I’ll have to bring them in to identify the body.” That was a chore Joanne definitely wasn’t looking forward to. “Nothing personal, Dale, but it’s the sort of thing I should do alone.”

“I understand completely. I have an errand of my own to run anyway.”

“Oh?”

“I’m going to drive out to the lake and talk with Sadie Muir.”

She gave him a disapproving glance. “Dale …”

“When you use that tone of voice, you sound like my mother. I was already planning on talking to Sadie before we found the wallet. I’d hoped she might be able to help identify the murdered boy. She knows more about the genealogy of the county’s families than anyone else. I’ve heard that even Althea Cross relies on her expertise from time to time.”

“And you thought she could identify the boy from just a description?”

“I do have photos of the body, too, but yes, I did.”

Joanne wanted to tell Dale it was a foolish idea. Cross County had more than its fair share of residents who contributed to what was euphemistically described as the “local color,” but Sadie Muir was more than merely eccentric. As far as Joanne was concerned, the woman was downright certifiable. But she had to admit that Dale had a point. Sadie might well have been able to identify Ray Porter from his photo — and she probably could’ve traced his ancestry all the back to before his ancestors first came to America.

“We know who Ray is now,” Joanne said. “So why go see Sadie?”

“To learn if there’s any connection between Ray Porter and the four people Carl Coulter murdered.” He shrugged. “It’ll probably turn out to be a waste of time. After all, no connection was ever established between Carl’s victims. But I figure it’s worth a shot.” He grinned. “Besides, it’s not like I have anything better to do. My social calendar is inexplicably empty for the rest of the day.”

Joanne smiled. “All right, go see Sadie. But if you learn anything interesting, let me know.”

“Don’t I always?”

• • •

After dropping Ray off at the
Echo
office, Joanne stopped by the county building to put Ray Porter’s wallet in the evidence locker. She then went into the main office to look for Ronnie and found him at his desk, sitting in front of his computer and typing reports. Since he was inside at his work station — an environment he completely controlled — he wasn’t wearing his surgical mask or rubber gloves.

“You think you could take the evidence we’ve gathered in the murder and Debbie’s break-in and run it up to Columbus?”

Ronnie frowned. “After I finish my reports, I was planning on going out to look for Tyrone Gantz.”

“Getting the evidence to Columbus is more important. Get someone else to find Tyrone. In fact, tell everyone on patrol to look for him. Whoever finds him first can bring him and take down his statement.” Besides, a road trip might give Ronnie the break he needed, give him a chance to relax a little.

“Sure thing, Joanne.”

She nodded and was about to explain to Ronnie that while the trip to Columbus normally could’ve waited until tomorrow, she wanted to get things moving on the dual investigations as fast as possible. But then she realized something. “You called me by my first name.”

Ronnie frowned, and she saw a bead of sweat trickled down his forehead and through the crease in his brow.

“I’m sure I didn’t, Sheriff.” His tone was one of honest puzzlement.

“It’s no big deal. You know you’re welcome to call me by my first name.”

“You’ve made that perfectly clear on many occasions, Sheriff. And while I always appreciate the offer, I still prefer to address you as Sheriff … Joanne.”

Joanne searched Ronnie’s face for any hint he was teasing her. Ronnie wasn’t a big joker, but he wasn’t entirely humorless. But again she saw nothing but confusion this time. Ever since Emily Davis, their administrative assistant, had gone on maternity leave a couple weeks ago, they’d all been picking up the slack, but Ronnie, most likely due to his compulsive nature, had taken on more of her duties than anyone else in the department. He was doubtless overworked and overstressed. She tried to remember when Ronnie had last taken a vacation, and she realized that he hadn’t, not since she’d become Sheriff, anyway. He was way overdue, but she decided this wasn’t the best time to bring it up. She’d say something to him later.

“All right then, Ronnie. Whatever you’re most comfortable with.”

“I’ll finish up here, check out the Deveraux place, and — if I don’t have time to do it myself — I’ll see about finding someone to track down Tyrone Gantz and get a statement. I should be able to leave for Columbus around dinnertime, maybe a bit later, if that’s all right.”

“Sounds good. I’m going to go check to see if Terry’s started the autopsy of the Porter boy yet, and then I’m going to head over to the parents’ house and break the news to them. If any reporters call, you know the drill. It’s too early in the investigation to release any information, but we’re working on pursuing all leads, and so forth. Okay?”

“Yes, Sheriff.”

“Great, Ronnie. Thanks.”

She turned to go, and as she headed away from Ronnie’s desk, she heard him softly say, “You’re welcome, Joanne.”

• • •

As soon as Joanne left the office, Ronnie’s gaze fell to the telephone sitting on his desk. There was nothing remarkable about the device — bland off-white plastic, rectangular buttons for selecting different lines or transferring calls. He cleaned it with bleach wipes ever morning, after each use, and then a final time before leaving for the day. It was just a normal office phone, nothing special. But he could swear it was whispering to him right now, its voice a soft electronic hiss of static forming inaudible syllables. Even so, he nevertheless understood what it wanted him to do. He had something to report, and he was supposed to pick up the receiver and punch in the number for Marshall Cross’s cell phone.

The fingers of his right hand twitched, but he did not reach toward the phone. He felt a pinprick of pain behind his forehead as if a long sharp needle was slowly being driven through the bone and into the soft flesh beneath. He wasn’t going to betray Jo —
Sheriff
Talon. He wasn’t!

The static-hiss grew louder, more insistent, and the needle penetrating his brain now felt like a blunt carpenter’s nail. He felt a squirming-itching sensation on his right hand. He didn’t want to look at it, told himself that he wasn’t really feeling anything, and even if he was, it wasn’t anything to worry about. The rubber gloves he wore so often sometimes caused the skin on his hands to dry out. He just needed to moisturize more, that’s all. He kept a bottle of hypoallergenic hand cream in his desk, along with a mini-pharmacy of healthcare and hygiene supplies. His rationalizing did little good, though. His head continued to throb, the pounding intensifying the itch, which in turn only served to intensify the pounding.

He gritted his teeth against the mounting discomfort and told himself to forget about the picking up the phone to call Marshall Cross. All he needed to do was take care of his itching hand and everything would be all right.

With his left hand — which felt perfectly normal — he reached for the drawer where he kept his cream. He forced himself to look in the opposite direction so he wouldn’t catch a glimpse of his right hand, not that there was anything to see, not if his problem was just dry skin. As he groped for the drawer handle, he heard something hit the floor with a soft, moist plap. Something that had fallen from his right hand.

Icewater flooded his bowels and, unable to stop himself any longer, he looked at his right hand.

It was covered by a mass of wriggling creatures, so many that his flesh was no longer visible. Two-inch long greenish-gray gelatinous blobs, roughly ovoid in shape. Their writhing bodies lengthened and compressed like caterpillars as they moved, but they weren’t insectine. Ronnie understood instinctively what he was looking at, for he’d been battling the goddamned things his entire life. They were bacteria, germs, viruses … they were
filth
, somehow grown from microscopic size.

All the better to feast on your delectable flesh, my dear
.

With his left hand he opened the desk drawer, then gripped the front of it with his right hand so his fingers were hanging over the top. Then with his left he jammed the drawer closed as hard as he could. Pain exploded in his hand. It was almost enough to drown out the static-voice of the phone and the hot agony drilling into his brain.

Almost.

He closed the drawer again, a third time, and a fourth, gritting his teeth to keep from crying out. He was alone in this part of the office, but he didn’t want to alarm Doris in the dispatcher’s room or the deputies in the jail division down the hall. Tears streamed down his face, slid down his neck, soaked into the collar of his uniform.