A Grant County Collection (99 page)

She walked to the door and checked the lock, then turned out the lights. In the dark, the mattress shifted as she got into bed. Like Jeffrey, she didn't bother to take off her clothes. He waited for her to curl up beside him, but she didn't.

Sara had once told him that even when they were divorced, she'd still had nightmares about getting a phone call in the middle of the night. It was something even cops couldn't joke about, that fateful call that told your wife or girlfriend or lover that your number had finally come up. Some coked-out idiot or stupid drunk had pulled a knife, squeezed the trigger, and there was nothing your loved ones could do but pick up the phone, wait for the words.

She must have been thinking about that today when Al Pfeiffer pulled the trigger. She must have been terrified that she was going to be trapped in the car, unable to help him, watching him die.

'Jeff?' He wasn't sure what he expected Sara to say to him, but as usual, she managed to come up with something he could have never anticipated. 'I was thinking about fixing the patio – maybe replacing some of those broken stones, making the wall a little higher so people can sit on it without their knees going up around their ears.' She paused. 'What do you think?'

He rolled over onto his back. A thin stream of light was coming in through the curtains and he could just make out her profile. 'I think the last time you messed with concrete, we had to borrow your dad's jackhammer.'

'The bag said it was self-leveling.'

He smiled at the familiar excuse.

'I want to do the autopsy.'

Jeffrey didn't know what to say. His initial response was to say no, but that was only because Jake Valentine had asked her to do it. 'I don't know that it'll get us out of here any sooner.'

Her silence told him she wasn't going to be easily swayed. Jeffrey tried to frame his next words carefully, offering, 'I can ask Frank to drive down here and pick you up after you're finished.'

'No,' she told him. 'I'm not going to leave you.'

'What if I want you to?'

The phone started to ring before she could answer. Jeffrey leaned over her and picked up the receiver.

'Hello?'

'Why are you still there?'

Jeffrey sat up so fast that he jerked the phone off the bedside table. 'Lena?'

'You can't be there,' she said, her voice a raspy whisper. 'Why are you still there?'

'Where are you?' he asked. 'Let me come get you.'

She started crying, sobs choking her words. 'Why ...?' she cried. 'Why didn't they kill me instead?'

'Who?' he demanded, confused. 'Who are you talking about?'

'Just go,' she begged. 'You have to go before they—'

'Who's they, Lena? Who's after you?' All he heard was the staccato of her breath. 'Lena?' He pressed the phone to his ear. 'Lena? Are you there? Where are you? Let me come get you.'

The line went dead.

Sara used her thumb to trace the pattern of dried blood on the BMW's steering wheel as she followed Jake Valentine's cruiser through downtown Reece. Shock or trauma or a combination of the two had managed to knock her out last night. She had slept more deeply than she had in months. Had Jake Valentine not banged on their door at seven-thirty this morning, she would probably still be in bed.

Up ahead in Valentine's car, she could see Jeffrey having an animated conversation with the sheriff. Sara hoped to God he was managing to get some information out of the man. Common sense told her this would not be the case. Jeffrey hadn't told Valentine about Lena's phone call last night because he knew the man would trace the number. For his part, Valentine wasn't offering any updates on the manhunt. This morning, when he'd seen the cuts on Jeffrey's face and hands in the daylight, all he'd said was, 'Hate to see the other guy.'

Sara hadn't even noticed until then how badly he'd been hurt. She had always taken care of Jeffrey's body. Over the years, she had disinfected his cuts, rubbed arnica gel into his bruises, bandaged sprained ankles and broken fingers. After impromptu football games, she had iced his knee so he could walk the next morning. Hours he spent fixing things around the house were rewarded with long back rubs and whatever else she could think of to help him relax. Even after the divorce, when Sara couldn't stand to be in the same room with him, she had rushed to the hospital when a stray round of buckshot had lodged in his leg.

She hadn't seen him cut open his hand yesterday. She had seen the shotgun being fired into the air, then the second warning shot, close enough to stop her heart beating in her chest. She had watched Jeffrey lurch forward, sliding on the gravel, but she hadn't thought to check him out, to look for cuts and abrasions. All she'd been able to focus on was the absolute terror she'd felt each time Al Pfeiffer pulled the trigger, and her white-hot fury when Jeffrey had slowed the car afterward.

His foot had come off the pedal. Sara had thought something was wrong with the car. She had looked down, panicked, to see what was wrong, and seen exactly why the car had slowed almost to a full stop. She had looked at Jeffrey then, the way his mouth twisted up at the corner as Al Pfeiffer gave him that look. God, that look. Sara had wanted to slap it off his face. They were just like a couple of boys on the playground seeing who could kick the most dirt in the other's face before a teacher came along. Lena was the same way – she didn't have a dick to swing around, but she could certainly kick up dirt with the best of them.

That was when Sara had finally realized why they had really trekked all the way down to the swamp, why Jeffrey was clutching at the slimmest lead to Lena's disappearance he could find. Sara had been the one standing outside the bathroom when Lena ran, but Jeffrey had been in the hallway. He had been less than ten feet from Lena, less than ten feet from stopping her escape.

Jeffrey had been duped, too, and his ego wouldn't let him get past it.

Last year, Sara had taken a ballistics course at the GBI academy in Macon. She had just dealt with two shooting cases at the morgue and she wanted to better equip herself for investigating gun-related crime. As part of the course, there had been a technical session at the firing range. The instructor had used different weapons and ammunition to shoot gel-filled dummies at various distances to give the students a better understanding of pattern and dispersal. The Remington Wingmaster was one of the most popular shotguns on the market, favored by police and bad guys alike. Using heavy density shot, the weapon dispersed sixty percent of its pellets into the target from a distance of sixty yards.

By Sara's estimation, when Jeffrey had slowed the car yesterday, they were approximately sixty yards from Al Pfeiffer.

He should be glad she lived long enough to slap him.

Up ahead, Valentine turned on his blinker. Sara followed the cruiser into the Elawah County impound lot. There were about fifty trucks in various states of destruction piled around the compound, front ends hanging off like loose teeth, back bumpers crumpled into tailgates. Knowing small towns, she guessed that most of the owners either did not have the money to get their trucks out of impound or they were still in jail waiting to be tried on drunk-driving charges. Basically, the county lot was a glorified insurance processing unit.

The sheriff's car bumped down a short gravel strip, then parked on a paved lot. Ahead, Sara saw a large metal building, about fifteen feet high by thirty feet square, and guessed that the car from the accident had been towed into the building for examination.

Not that what had happened to the Cadillac Escalade had been an accident. Sara tried to enter every case with an open mind as to cause, but it wasn't as if an SUV found burning in the middle of a football field could have gotten there by chance. Someone had parked it there, deliberately set it on fire, and walked away, leaving the body inside.

The question remained: was that someone Lena Adams?

Sara got out of her car. The smell of gasoline and oil mixed in the air with an undertone of car exhaust. No noise came from the shop. She guessed the mechanics were taking their morning break.

Jeffrey and Valentine walked toward the BMW. The sheriff kicked some mud off the wheel. 'Looks like you've been off-roading, Chief.'

Jeffrey told him, 'I was down around the Okefenokee yesterday.'

Valentine's eyebrows shot up. 'That so?' he asked, making a show of scratching his chin. So much for peace and understanding being brokered on the drive over. He told Jeffrey, 'I know some folks who moved down to the swamp a while back.'

'Friends of yours?'

'Oh, I wouldn't say that.' Seemingly out of the blue, the sheriff announced, '"Land of the Trembling Earth."'

Jeffrey was silent, so Sara asked, 'I'm sorry?'

Valentine explained, 'That's what the Indians called it. Okefenokee, Land of the Trembling Earth. Only about six percent of the swamp is on solid ground, see. The rest is just a couple of feet of felled vegetation riding on top of the water. You walk on it and it's like walking on a pool float, only a little bit easier.' He tipped his hat down, blocking the sun out of his face. 'You go down there, too, ma'am?'

'Yes, I had the pleasure.'

'Lots of skeeters, gators, even some meat-eating plants.' He chuckled at this last bit, as if it brought back a fond memory. 'My daddy took me and my little brother there once when we were kids. Took us three days to paddle from the east to west side; liked to nearly killed us. Saw all kinds of crazy things.' His eyes slid over Jeffrey's way, and his affable voice changed to a warning. 'Dangerous place down there.'

Jeffrey crossed his arms over his chest. 'I guess for some it might be.'

Yet again, Sara had managed to get downwind at a pissing contest. She clapped her hands together to break the standoff, telling Valentine, 'Well, I suppose the body is inside?'

'Yes, ma'am,' he said, indicating the office beside the building.

Sara walked toward the office, the two men following.

Valentine asked Sara, 'How was the drive down to the swamp?'

'Fine, thank you.'

He reached ahead of her to open the door. He chuckled to himself. 'Say, you didn't happen to see Lena Adams down there thumbing a ride, did you?'

Sara forced a smile back on her face. 'Afraid not.'

Valentine smiled back as he opened the door. 'Had to ask.'

Instead of the filing cabinets and desks Sara had been expecting, they walked right into what could only be the morgue. A large stainless steel gurney was chocked to the concrete floor, an open, empty body bag lay on top. The sink and dissecting trays up against the wall were much like the ones back at the Grant morgue, but the freezer for body storage was a walk-in type used in larger restaurants. She didn't see a Dictaphone. Jeffrey would have to take notes on her findings.

'Not too shabby,' Valentine interjected, though she could tell from the look on his face that he was slightly ashamed of the morgue's location. 'Most of our autopsies are car wrecks, accidents, that kind of thing. We handle the load from Seskatoga, Ahlmira, and a couple of other counties. Having the morgue on site makes it easy to take them from one to the other.'

'Of course,' Sara said, feeling like she had just insulted the man when in fact the facilities were more than serviceable. She was lucky not to be stuck in the embalming room at the local funeral parlor. 'Where's the Escalade?'

'Through here,' he said, opening another door. A large, open warehouse was on the other side. Two desks and a row of filing cabinets were shoved into the corner. Tools lined the far wall. Six hydraulic lifts had cars on them, but no mechanics were in sight. Car parts were scattered around, crashed vehicles in various states of disassemble so that damage could be assessed, blame placed on the right head. Sitting in the middle of the warehouse was obviously the SUV. It was draped in a gray tarp, plastic spread underneath to protect the floor.

Valentine walked toward the Cadillac, explaining, 'We towed it straight here once the metal cooled down. Being honest, all the fire department did was keep the field wet while they let the fire burn itself out. Not much left after that.'

Sara reached into her pocket and pulled out a band to tie her hair into a ponytail. She asked Valentine, 'Do you know the cause of fire?'

The sheriff shook his head. 'Some kind of accelerant was used, but the kicker was the gas tank going off. They're not sure if it was rigged or not, but you can tell from the back of the car that the tank exploded. Must have been pretty full, from the looks of it.'

Jeffrey asked, 'Did you hear an explosion?'

Valentine looked thoughtful as he grabbed on to the tarp and started rolling it back. 'Come to think of it, maybe I did. It's hard putting the pieces together after the fact.'

'I guess so,' Jeffrey said, in a way that made it sound like he thought the other man was lying. He stepped forward to help Valentine roll back the tarp.

Sara tuned out their conversation as she stood in front of the decimated Cadillac. The car was a shell of its former self. The tires had melted so that the frame sat on soot-blackened steel rims. Parts of the roof had been blown away but, surprisingly, some of the leather and the foam padding for the seats remained.

'Guess the cushions were treated or something,' Valentine offered. 'We can call in the shop guys to unbolt the frame when you're ready to move the body.'

Sara looked into the backseat. Cutting the corpse away from the leather would take hours. It would be like separating pieces of wet toilet tissue.

Still, it had to be done.

She leaned into the car, assessing the victim. The body's frame was small, but that did not necessarily mean it belonged to a woman. It could be a teenage boy or a man with a build similar to Valentine's. No matter who it was, the death this human being had suffered had obviously been excruciating. The arms and legs were flexed in a pugilistic fashion, as if the victim had tried to fight off the flames. Heat-related fractures riddled what Sara could see of the bones. The left hand had been engulfed, completely eaten off by fire. The hair had been burned away, the flat orbs of the eyes left lidless in their sockets.

She asked, 'Have you taken photographs?'

Valentine nodded and she leaned farther into the car, trying not to touch anything as she checked to see if the seat belt had been buckled. The actual belt had been burned away – part of it had melted into the flesh – but she saw the metal buckle firmly secured and assumed the passenger had been restrained.

Had the victim tried to get out, Sara wondered. What was it like to be trapped in the back of a burning SUV, flames licking up around you, as you struggled with the seat belt, scratched at the door handle, desperately trying to get out?

Horrifying, she decided. It must have been absolutely horrifying.

Several long seconds, perhaps a full minute, must have passed before the body gave up, the organs shut down. This was not counting the wait before the fire caught, before the gas tank exploded. There was no telling how many minutes ticked by as the victim waited for the inevitable.

Sara's lips parted as she went in for a closer look, trying not to inhale the distinctive odor of burned flesh.

Around seventy-five percent of the skin from the external surface of the body had been burned away. Most of the underlying muscles and ligature were scorched but not completely destroyed. The top of the head and the back of the skull were essentially charred off, and Sara could see shattered bits of teeth and the side of the tongue through a large hole in the left side of the victim's jaw. The jawbone was remarkably white, and she had to assume that the chunk of flesh covering it had been knocked away as the body was jarred during transport.

A patch of skin the size of a standard piece of paper was missing from the torso, and Sara could clearly see the chest wall and thoracic contents. The abdominal organs were likewise exposed, the liver sitting like a cooked piece of dark meat under the frayed strips of the stomach; it had obviously exploded from the intense heat. Sara imagined the tiny pieces of what looked like blackened cork dotting the outside of the small intestines would turn out to be the burned remains of the stomach contents.

What remained of the skin around the thighs had melted into the seat, sinew draping like Christmas tinsel down the legs. Crusty remnants of a pair of blue jeans and white underwear were still stuck in place where body fluids had leaked into the material then dried. The top of a white sock circled the left ankle. Though there was scant residual skin on both feet, a split piece of toenail remained on the right big toe. A square of chipped, pink nail polish showed. Sara leaned down, moved in closer. The area around the pubis had extensive damage, but she was fairly certain she was looking at a woman's genitalia.

She closed her eyes for just a second, unbelievably relieved that the victim was not Hank Norton. It gave her some hope that Lena's involvement in the crime did not run as deep as Jake Valentine believed.