Got the Look (37 page)

He feared it was someone else.

Jack's gaze swept the field. Each row of palm trees was marked by a letter and number. He found the hand-painted sign for row R-17 and started toward it. His gait was short at first, then longer. It shortened again as he came to the end of the dirt road and reached the start of row R-17. The rows were planted ten feet apart, each towering tree trunk almost a foot in diameter. The canopy of fronds blocked out the moonlight, turning the space between each row into a dark tunnel. Jack stared down tunnel R-17, but the end was so far away that there was no sign of light. It was like the entrance to an underground labyrinth.

Go to the twelfth tree in row R-17. Those were Mia's instructions. In the darkness, Jack couldn't see beyond the fourth tree. He switched on his flashlight, which created an entirely different problem.

Why not just draw a big target on your back, Swyteck?

He cut off the flashlight and waited for his pupils to readjust to the darkness. It took only a few seconds. Before he could take a step, however, lingering doubts were again nibbling away at him. He didn't have to do this. Or did he? Agent Henning had given him an out when he'd called to tell her about the new video. She'd offered to send an undercover agent in his stead. Like the last time, however, they both knew that a substitute wasn't workable. That kind of game playing could easily get Mia killed.

Jack collected his thoughts, and Henning's words of encouragement replayed in his mind. If he wanted to kill you, Swyteck, he would have done it by now. That kind of logic had gotten many a hero killed, but it was the best Jack could do at the moment. He stepped into the grove, the earth soft beneath the soles of his shoes. He stopped and listened. Beyond the sounds of nature, he heard only his own breathing. Goose bumps tingled on the back of his neck, but it was a warm night, and he knew it was just nerves. This was risky, to be sure, but he'd taken bigger risks for reasons far less important.

A sudden swishing sound startled him. The next thing he knew, sheets of water pelted his face. It was as if someone had turned a water hose on him, but he quickly realized that it was the sprinklers. They were the high-powered commercial kind that could shoot water a hundred feet or more. Jack was getting hit from at least two different directions. The grove of palm trees was transformed into a rain forest, with the emphasis on rain. The water felt cool, like a refreshing spring shower, but it smelled of sulfur and fertilizer runoff, typical of shallow wells in the area. Jack stopped for only a moment, which was long enough for his clothing to be fully soaked. His Kevlar jacket had a built-in GPS tracking chip, but Jack wondered if the effectiveness of such gadgets was impaired by wet conditions. Then he wondered if the activation of the sprinklers had been purely a coincidence, or if it was by someone's design.

There wasn't time to worry about it.

He continued pushing forward, through the man-made equivalent of a driving rainstorm. He passed the third palm tree in row R-17, then the fourth, some forty feet deep into the dark grove. Each time he approached another tree, he slowed his pace, bracing himself for the possibility that someone was hiding behind the thick trunk or lurking in the darkness.

The water was coming down in buckets now, the sprinklers having reached peak performance. His pace quickened, as if the wet conditions had added another element of urgency. The deeper he went into the grove, the darker it got, and the falling water wasn't helping the visibility. His wet clothes were pasted to his body, and the ground beneath his feet was like a moist sponge. He passed tree number nine and then ten. Another twenty feet to go, but his visibility was down to about five. He stopped. His better judgment simply wouldn't allow him to stumble blindly into a potential trap. Perhaps a lighted flashlight was like strapping a big target onto his back, but he had to see where he was going. With a flick of the switch, a beam of yellow light stretched out before him, pointing the way.

He continued walking past the tenth tree. He stopped at the eleventh. The flashlight was just powerful enough to illuminate tree number twelve. He studied it from ten feet away, but saw nothing unusual about it from that distance. Cautiously, he stepped closer. Mia's video had told him simply to go to the twelfth tree, but it hadn't said what to look for once he got there. He inched closer, stopping only when he was close enough to touch the tree's smooth gray bark. He inspected it closely, searching for any message that may have been tacked to the trunk or perhaps carved into the bark. He saw nothing - until he looked several feet beyond the tree. Something was sticking straight up from the ground. It was straight and narrow, like a post, but it was skinnier. He wiped the water from his eyes and noticed the metal base.

It was a shovel.

Jack went to it immediately. The ground was saturated, but the earth around the shovel appeared loose, as if recently dug. Not for a moment did he think about buried treasure, but something was buried here. His heart pounded, and suddenly the only thought in his mind was that of Ashley Thornton trapped in a cave beneath the Santa Fe River - alive.

He laid the flashlight on the ground and started digging furiously, pitching shovelfuls of dirt to the side. It was easy work, and he was clearly unearthing the same hole someone else had dug not long before him. He kept digging until his shovel bumped up against a bag of some kind. The pointed tip of the spade didn't pierce the material, but he stopped nonetheless, fearing that it may have damaged the contents. He tossed the tool aside, dropped to his knees, and started clearing away the loose dirt with his hands. The bag was made of thick plastic, but it was still partially buried, which made it difficult to tell how large it was. He dug faster, and in just a few seconds he'd pushed aside enough dirt to find a handle. He grabbed it with both hands and pulled with all his might. On the third strong tug, the bag popped from the grip of the earth. He fell backward, and the bag came with him.

It was a large bag with a drawstring opening. It had no telltale shape, and Jack jostled it with his foot to see if he could get a clue as to its contents. It seemed to contain not one large object but several smaller ones - like pieces or parts. He didn't dare speculate on what kind of parts. He tore open the drawstring, aimed his flashlight inside, and froze.

Theo! he shouted - not with any clear thought in mind, just the growing sense that he was in need of help.

Suddenly an entire team of FBI SWAT was upon him, dressed in night-camouflage fatigues, automatic rifles at the ready. Theo came up quickly behind them, soaked from the sprinkler spray.

Don't shoot him! Jack shouted.

What is it, man? Theo asked, nearly breathless from the run.

The sprinkler water was still falling in sheets, and even with the flashlight, it was hard to tell exactly what was inside. Jack was too savvy to sift through it and destroy potential evidence. But right on top, in plain view, the skull was a dead giveaway.

The remains were indisputably human.

Theo approached, then stopped, as if sensing that the news wasn't good. Jack didn't say anything, didn't even look in his friend's direction. He closed the bag and let it fall to the ground, then pulled his cell phone from his pocket and speed-dialed Andie Henning.

Chapter
55

Jack watched from the rubbernecker's side of yellow police tape. He couldn't see much, just the distant glow of portable vapor lights and the occasional sweep of flashlights from the darkest reaches of Whitmore Nursery. Rural crime scenes tended to be large, and the FBI had marked off R-17 and several adjacent rows of palm trees. Jack and Theo were relegated to the dusty access road nearly a quarter mile away from the remains Jack had uncovered.

For more than two hours, a steady stream of crime scene investigators disappeared into the grove. Agent Henning had urged Jack to go home, promising to notify him just as soon as the forensic team knew anything. Jack stayed put, but he fully intended to hold her to her promise. He and Theo seated themselves on the hood of Andie's car, feet on the front bumper, to make sure she didn't leave without speaking to them. Jack checked his watch every few minutes. Strangely, the night seemed to be getting warmer as time wore on - or perhaps the gathering beads of sweat on his forehead were simply a sign of frayed nerves. He knew that sooner or later, Andie would emerge with good news. Or bad.

It can't be Mia, said Jack.

Theo listened in silence as Jack verbalized his thoughts for the tenth time in two hours.

There was virtually no flesh or soft tissue of any kind left on those bones, said Jack. And no odor. None. A body can't decompose that fast. It just can't be her. Jack breathed a heavy sigh, unable to accept his own analysis of the situation. Then again, there was Jorge Cantera and his dead mother.

Who? said Theo.

Cantera was another death row inmate I represented before I defended you. He stabbed his mother to death and dumped her body in the Everglades. I saw what the cops fished out two weeks later. Wasn't much left.

This isn't the Everglades.

It's still Florida. We live in our air-conditioned, pest-controlled world and forget what this land-filled swamp is really like. One of my father's favorite old stories on the campaign trail was something his grandmother shared with him. When she was growing up, they had to rest each leg of the kitchen table in an open can of kerosene to keep the bugs from crawling up and walking away with dinner.

When I was growing up, bugs was my dinner, said Theo.

My point is, with the insects down here, the dampness, the hot weather - it all hastens decomposition.

You should just forget about that lunatic client of yours and his poor mama. Like I said, we ain't in the Everglades. Second of all, Mia hasn't even been gone two weeks, let alone dead that long. Take the worst-case scenario, all right? Let's say all those videotapes you been watching were filmed on day one, and let's also say Mia got killed right after making them. How long would she be dead?

Jack had to think about that one. Twelve days.

See, what did I tell you? Not even two weeks.

Jack appreciated Theo's effort, but two days' difference was hardly cause for optimism.

Theo climbed down from the hood of Andie's car, walked down the dirt road to the police barricade, and then tried without success to bum a cigarette from the uniformed police officers guarding the entrance to the nursery. Jack watched his friend for a while, then lost interest. He turned his attention to the stars, to the heavens, to God out there, if He was listening. Jack started to say a prayer, then stopped. It seemed pointless to pray that it wasn't Mia in that canvas bag. Those were either her remains or they weren't; if they were, it was asking way too much to expect God to somehow transform them into someone else's at this stage. The most Jack could ask for was the strength to deal with the unthinkable. He wasn't ready to make that request. Not yet.

A beam of light shot like a lance from the grove. It bounced slightly from side to side, then up and down, like the leading end of a flashlight. Jack had a feeling about this one, and his instincts proved correct. Seconds later, Andie Henning and one of her investigators emerged from the dark, tunnel-like entrance to row R-17, flashlights in hand. Jack jumped down from the hood of Andie's car and hurried to the edge of the taped-off crime scene, where he signaled and caught her attention. Andie turned and said something to the investigator - Jack was too far away to hear - and the two of them started toward him. Jack struggled to see their faces, trying to get an advance read on the impending news. It was too dark to tell anything, so Jack blurted out his question as they approached.

Is it her?

Andie and the investigator ducked under the police tape and crossed over to Jack's side. Andie didn't answer right away, and Jack had the sickening sensation that she was about to feed him the same old party line: Sorry, but I can't tell you, Jack. It was possible that he'd misread her body language, or perhaps the raw emotion on his own face caused her to change her mind. Whatever the reason, she looked at him and said, It's not her.

A wave of relief washed over him, but it was quickly followed by healthy skepticism. How can you determine that so fast in the field?

Andie gestured toward the man standing beside her. This is Dr. Ruben Calhoun. He's a forensic anthropologist, and we're fortunate to have him here in Miami. He studied at the University of Tennessee Forensic Anthropology Facility in Knoxville.

Jack had never been there, but he'd heard about the picturesque tract of land near the UT Medical Center that was surrounded by razor wire and dedicated to the study of postmortem decomposition. At any given time, about forty cadavers lay about the property under a variety of conditions: in sun or shade, clothed and unclothed, buried in shallow graves, stuffed into the trunks of cars, or submerged in water. It was the longest-running and most comprehensive undertaking of its kind in the world. You mean the body farm? asked Jack.

We don't really call it that - kind of makes you think of cadavers lined up like peas or carrots - but yes, that's the place.

So if it's not Mia, who did I dig up in row R-seventeen?

Calhoun cleared his throat, as if ready to deliver an address. First off, I can say with confidence that the remains you uncovered are human.

No offense, Doctor, but anyone who can distinguish a human skull from a soccer ball could probably speak with equal confidence.