The Taint (16 page)

FIFTY-SIX

“Rachel, I thought Nathan was coming.” Jon said as she approached them.

“He wanted to drive Franklin Dunn home.” She looked at the search party. “No sign of Nora yet?”

“Nobody’s seen a thing. Except this.” He gestured at the small shack. “Poor guy.”

“Well, may as well get at it.”

Jon held the tarp back. “Ladies first.”

Rachel bent over, ducking through the entry. Just inside the doorway she stopped, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light.

The body was in the corner.

She felt Jon beside her, kneeling in the dirt, and they exchanged a look. Then she looked back at the corpse.

“Delightful,” she heard Jon say and then he moved off a little way to her right.

She sat on her heels, taking it all in.

In the middle of the dirt floor was a candle which had been stuck in a small tin cup. Around it, etched in the dirt, were strange hieroglyphics, interspaced with tiny figures made of sticks and straw.

A circle had been drawn around the figures, and a triangle enclosed the circle. At the points of the triangle sat small clay animals; one a bird, another a short-tailed cat, like a lynx, and the third, at the apex, a horned creature of some sort, much like a mythical demon.

Sprinkled along the lines of the triangle was a white powdery substance.

She looked back at the body, and, careful not to disturb the markings on the floor, she moved closer, bracing herself against the stench.

There were no marks visible on the body, and indeed, no signs of a struggle of any sort within the room. She took one of the hands and moved the fingers easily; rigor mortis had passed.

She lifted the eyelids and noted the eyes were glazed and filmy, the eyeball itself was mushy.

Strangely, although the air was filled with the buzz of flies, none were on the body, and there were no maggots as might be expected. The smell resulted from the involuntary defecation at the time of death.

She looked at Jon.

“How many days do you think he’s been up here?”

“Maybe a week. It’s hard to say.”

“Why isn’t there more decomposition?”

“That I can’t even guess at. He should be bursting by now.” She shook her head.

“Natural causes?”

“Well, I think you can rule out murder.”

“That’s encouraging. People are starting to get a little nervous with all of these killings going on.”

Rachel moved away from the body. “I don’t blame them. I’d think twice before wandering around in the woods after dark.” She indicated the camera in his hand. “If you’ve got all your pictures, you can move him out of here.” She looked back at the clay figures on the floor.

He followed her look. “Something interesting there?”

“I have some clay pieces like those.”

“Where’d you get them?”

“Bought them at the store in town. Calvin said a bum sold them to him.” She looked back at the body. “Him, I’d guess.”

“Do you make anything of these markings?”

“Not offhand. But it looks like some kind of ritual . . . is that salt?”

“It is. How did you know?”

She shrugged. “A guess. But in legend . . . he wanted to keep something away.”

“What?”

“Evil spirits maybe.” She watched him as he bent down and gently eased the figures into an evidence bag. “Or death.”

“Didn’t work, did it?”

FIFTY-SEVEN

Jennifer watched as Tony came toward her, barefoot and shirtless, his golden skin reminding her of the Greek gods.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi.” Her voice was choked and she cleared her throat. “Where’s Melissa?”

“Inside.” He sat on the rock where she’d spent the last two hours and looked up at her, his hair mussed, a tiny smile on his face.

She couldn’t think of anything to say, so she just looked at him, admiring the trim lines of his body and the finely-boned angles of his face. He was beautiful, she thought, finding even that word inadequate.

“I’ve made a mistake,” he said after a minute.

“What?”

“Melissa. I shouldn’t have done that.”

She wouldn’t ask what ‘that’ was. Turning her head, she looked back in the woods.

“Why did you?” She worked at keeping the disappointment out of her voice.

“Ha!”

Startled, she turned to face him, but she couldn’t read the look in his eyes although they held her own.

“Why don’t you tell me about it?” She sounded very mature, she thought.

“You know what I am.” It was not a question.

“I think you do. I think you’re very bright.”

She blushed.

“You know why I married Melissa’s mother?” When she did not answer he added: “Think about it.”

“For her money.”

“A lot of money,” he confirmed. “I like money.”

“You don’t love Mrs. Davis, I mean, Buono?”

He shook his head. “But I am very fond of her checkbook. This . . .” he gestured toward the cabin, “could be the end of it.”

She hesitated. “I would never tell.”

His smile was genuine, warm, very unlike the ones she’d seen him flash at Melissa and her mother.

“I know you wouldn’t. But Melissa . . .”

“Oh, but she couldn’t . . .” Jennifer began and then caught his eyes. Melissa was her only friend, but there was no use in denying what she knew to be the truth. Melissa would tell if it suited her purpose, or even on a whim.

“We both know it’s only a matter of time.”

“But you knew . . . how she is . . . before you agreed to come up here with us. You must have known what would happen.”

“I guess I did.” He sighed.

“Then why?” The anguish in her voice was real.

“She’s very pretty.”

That again. “She
is
pretty,” Jennifer agreed, thinking of the fawning teen-age boys. “And small-minded, and jealous, and selfish and every other thing you can imagine.” She kicked at a clump of weeds. “I guess if you’re pretty you can be all of those things, and men will still like you.”

“Jennifer . . .”

“She’s my best friend but sometimes,” she paused and looked him directly in the eyes, “she’s a bitch.”

“Well, it won’t happen again.” He looked at the cabin. “It won’t.”

“You live in the same house,” Jennifer pointed out. “She’s not going to let you dump her.”

“I probably won’t be living there much longer.”

“What are you going to . . .”

A scream pierced the air and for a second they were still, unable to move. Then they ran toward the cabin, Tony six feet ahead.

When she caught up with him he was standing in the door to the bedroom and she grabbed his arm. He turned and pulled her into a hug, not letting her look into the room.

“What is it?” She thought perhaps Melissa was playing a game, screaming to draw them to the cabin, and then standing naked, flaunting her daring.

He was shushing her, brushing her hair with one hand, rocking her. It was then that she knew something was wrong.

“Melissa?” She raised her voice. “Melissa!”

She struggled to see.

“No, Jennifer,” he protested, but she slipped out of his arms, ducking and she looked into the room.

Melissa was dead on the floor, face up, her throat slit from ear to ear.

“Oh God.” She covered her mouth with her hand, feeling the urge to vomit and looked at Tony who was pale beneath his tawny skin. Then she turned and ran out the door, bending over and gagging.

“We have to get help,” she said a few minutes later.

Tony was sitting at the round table and he looked at her, shaking his head.

“They’ll think it was me.”

“No . . . I’ll tell them you were with me, she screamed, we both heard her.”

He stood and went into the bedroom, picking up his clothes and bringing them out in the front room to dress. There was something about the way his face looked that made her know he planned to run.

“Where will you go?”

“Don’t know.” He buttoned his shirt and tucked it into his pants then sat down to put on his shoes and socks.

“What are you going to do about money?” she asked absurdly.

“There’s some cash in a safe at the house. I’ll stop by on my way out.” He got up and looked around the room. “I haven’t touched . . .”

Their eyes met.

“The sheriff saw us all together,” Jennifer said, hating herself for saying it. “But, after I tell them . . . I mean, there are all those other murders. They’ll find the guy.”

“I can’t go to jail.”

“But . . .” she began and then saw the truth in his eyes.

“I’m wanted in Texas for statutory rape.” He grimaced. “Another Melissa.”

He started toward the door, stopping at her side and raising a hand to her face. He stroked her cheek. “Thank you,” he said.

She waited until he was out the door and with a final glance at Melissa she followed, closing the front door.

“I’m going with you,” she said.

FIFTY-EIGHT

By the time she got back to the hospital it was almost noon and after checking in at the nurse’s station, she found Nathan in the lab, peering intently into a microscope.

She sat on a lab stool and waited. After a minute he looked up. “Another one?”

“In the morgue. Although this one, at least, doesn’t look like murder.” She motioned at the microscope. “What’re you looking at?”

“Our little white friends. Remarkable.”

“I guess it’s too early to hear anything from Atlanta.”

“Probably by the end of the week.”

She fingered one of the culture dishes which were lined up along the counter. “You got Mr. Dunn home all right?”

“Yes.” He looked at her curiously. “What’s on your mind?”

“Something’s bothering me about this whole thing.” “Something specific or just a general feeling?”

She smiled. “Right now it’s just a feeling. But don’t you think there’s something very odd about all of the things that have been happening?”

“I certainly do. I can’t say that I’ve ever seen such strange occurrences in all of the time I’ve been in practice.” He picked up one of the culture dishes. “And this . . . this is inexplicable. All of the blood I’ve tested is growing these white organisms.”

“The patients are getting better, though.”

“Most of them, yes. But I would still like to know what this is.” He tossed the dish on the counter and stood up. “Who wants to do this autopsy?”

“I could do it in my sleep,” she said, “and if things keep up this way, I may have to.”

This time she found him in his office and she poured herself a cup of strong coffee before sitting opposite the desk.

“Well?”

“Things are getting stranger every minute.”

“Doesn’t sound promising.”

“I don’t even know where to start.” She looked around the room, gathering her thoughts. “At the beginning. Okay, the subject is a white male, approximately forty-five to fifty years of age. He is malnourished, dehydrated and emaciated. He is post-rigor mortis. There are a few bruises on the body, and scrapes, but none of these are fresh. No internal injuries, no fractures. There was minimal arteriosclerosis but no evidence of blockage or infarct. No masses in any of the organs, no sign of pneumonia, no nothing.”

“And?”

“The body is in remarkable condition, very minimal decomposition. And . . . the only outstanding finding is a rather copious amount of blood beneath the corneas.”

“No puncture in the eye?”

“No.” She sipped the coffee. “I’ve taken fluid and tissue samples for analysis, but I don’t think it was drugs. There were none in the shack, anyway.”

“There’s something more?”

“Maybe. He had set up some type of ritual, or ceremony, probably right before he died. Very precise and even including some hieroglyphics . . . I couldn’t translate, naturally, but from what I know about superstitions and tribal myths, it looked like he was trying to keep something away.”

“Go on,” he prompted when she fell silent.

“I can only guess, but I think this one died of fright.”

“Fear of someone? Real? Or imagined.”

“I don’t know. Jon said that it didn’t look like anyone else was in the shack when the man died, and I have to agree.”

“Which means that whatever it was . . .”

“Was in his mind.” She leaned forward in the chair. “But it was very real to him . . . it killed him.”

They looked at each other, not speaking.

FIFTY-NINE

At three o’clock Amanda Frey sank into a cushioned chair, unable to stand for one minute longer. She had let the kids go an hour early, which was bound to bring some complaints from the parents, but she knew she couldn’t last. The kids were frantic with excess energy and the noise level had been high all day long.

She allowed her eyes to close. Blessed silence.

Her mind raced even as her body became still. More lessons, French pastries, wash the sheets from the cots where the younger kids napped. Dinner for Martin. Dishes. Sewing.

She could feel something harden in her mind.

It had been under control during the day, held in check by the very rush of work that needed to be done. She had smiled, and comforted, and answered questions, and listened, and watched. It could not make itself known with so many distractions.

But now she felt it.

She forced herself not to think of the other things, the old concerns. Now there was only the clarity of knowledge.

She began the preparations for Martin’s dinner, peeling potatoes and slicing them into the roasting pan. Then onions and sliced ham, butter and milk. She didn’t cry when she diced the onions.

She put the roaster into the oven and checked the temperature, then began washing dishes. She worked slowly, her reddened hands scrubbing the plates. When she heard Martin approach the back door, she had a knife in her hand.

He didn’t complain that dinner was going to be late, just looked at her and went off to his study. She held the knife behind her back until he went through the door.

Then she held it up to the light. It was clean, and very sharp.

At five-thirty she put dinner on the table and watched as Martin served himself a heaping plate full of scalloped potatoes and ham.

“Aren’t you eating?” he said, his fork poised near his mouth, waiting for the food to cool.

“I’m too tired to eat,” she answered truthfully, but she sat and watched, amazed that he could breathe between bites.

He continued to shovel it in.

“How was school?” He gave her an encouraging smile and then immediately turned his attention back to his plate.

“Fine. Hectic.”

“You really should take better care of yourself. You should eat something.” He dug the serving spoon into the roasting pan again.

“Maybe later.” If there was anything left.

He began to slow down, on his second serving. “I have another idea for the school.”

“Oh?”

“I think you should make Friday a parent’s day. I know that it’s early yet, but I think it would impress on them the amount of work you’re putting into this. Maybe loosen some purse strings.”

She waited.

“So . . . your best French recipes. A table full of breads and pastries and hollandaise sauce and bouillabaisse . . . anything you can think of. Crepes.” He waved his fork in the air. “Maybe a bombe for dessert. What do you think?”

The doorbell rang as she considered the bombe.

“Mrs. Frey?” An anxious woman stood on her doorstep.

“Yes?”

The woman tried to look around her into the front room but she held the door tight against her hip.

“I’m Mrs. Rogers, Jennifer’s mother . . .”

Amanda looked at her impassively. “Yes?”

“I was wondering, is Jennifer here?”

“Why would she be here?” Amanda asked softly.

“I . . . she.” The woman blinked, clearly confused. “She’s a student in your summer school.”

Amanda nodded.

“I thought maybe she stayed late, to help clean up, or something . . . she hasn’t come home.”

“Jennifer wasn’t in school today.”

“What? Oh you must be mistaken. She was going to get a ride over with Melissa Davis.”

“Melissa wasn’t in school either.”

Something dawned in Mrs. Rogers’ eyes. “They didn’t come at all?”

“No. I had a call, from Melissa’s step-father. He said neither one of them would be in, something had come up.

A subtle change in the woman’s face, concern giving way to annoyance. “I see. Well, I’m sorry I disturbed you.” She turned and hurried down toward her car.

Amanda watched her drive away, thinking that she had never seen one of these parents so concerned before.

“Who was it,” Martin asked when she returned to the dining room.

“Nothing of importance.” Her eyes were untroubled as she watched to see if he would lick the plate.