Monday's Child (16 page)

Thirty-Nine

Murphy’s Law was in effect, the deputy figured; it started to rain at the precise moment he had to get out of the cruiser.

Fat drops splattered on his windshield, only a few at first but within a few seconds, the rain was pouring down. They beat out a rhythm on the roof of the car and if he didn’t have to check out a foul odor report, the sound would have put him to sleep.

He needed a little sleep after last night.

God, that Tanya could kill a man with that finely-tooled body of hers.

Not that he was complaining; in a town where the average female resident was sixty years or older, young blood was a rarity, and he knew he was lucky to have been the first to catch the girl’s eye. There were plenty of other guys who were more than willing, and in fact, were waiting in the wings.

But Tanya, bless her kinky little heart, had a thing for men in uniform.

Better still, she liked to take the uniform off him. She liked his baton, the cuffs, and especially his gun. She practically begged to be frisked.

“Arrest me, officer,” she’d said that first night. “I’ll go quietly.”

She hadn’t, though. He’d had to cover her mouth, and then things had
really
heated up.

What that girl could do . . .

“Whoa!” he said. Even thinking about her was enough to steam the windows of the patrol car. Time to get this show on the road.

“Patrol sixteen,” he said into the microphone.

“Go ahead, sixteen,” the dispatcher replied through static.

“I’m ten ninety-eight at Black Mountain.”

“Ten-four, sixteen, you’re ten ninety-eight Black Mountain.”

He stepped out of the car and into the storm. It wouldn’t have surprised him any if the rain that landed on his skin had hissed and evaporated like drops of water in a hot iron skillet.

He went around to the trunk, got out his rain gear, and shrugged his way into the slicker. There were pants, similar to what the firemen wore, but they were more nuisance than help—damned things weighed a ton—and he left them folded in the trunk next to the first-aid kit and flares.

The deputy grabbed the portable Motorola, slipped his baton in the ring of his Sam Browne belt, glanced in either direction, then set off along the road.

There weren’t any real landmarks out this way, and the person who’d called in had only said that he’d smelled something bad on Black Mountain Road between Lake Avenue and the old Sorghum place.

Not pinpoint accuracy; he had a good two mile stretch of road to cover.

When he’d caught the call, he’d asked the dispatcher why the guy who’d reported it hadn’t been able to narrow down the site a bit more, and why the hell
he
hadn’t investigated if it smelled so awful.

She reminded him that as an officer of the law, part of his job was to find the dead bodies, which was what most foul odor calls resulted from.

Probably somebody’s pet got clipped by a car and crawled off in the bushes to die. No doubt this very minute, there was a little old blue-haired lady walking around, calling “Here kitty, kitty.”

And, he thought, somewhere there was a bowl of Kitty’s favorite food, waiting in a dish on the back porch of Kitty’s house, an enticement to come home.

Oh well. If the county wanted to pay him to walk along a deserted road and sniff for road-kill, who was he to complain.

If something was dead and stinking, he’d find it sooner or later.

Oddly enough, he saw it before he smelled it.

Something red way back in the bushes, a good two hundred yards away from the road. It was bright red, too bright to be natural. A man-made color, like a piece of cloth or something.

He hoped very much that it wasn’t what he thought it was.

He began to trudge through the tall grass and weeds toward the spot. The grass blades shimmered with beads of rainwater, and before he’d gone ten feet, the legs of his uniform pants were soaked through to the skin all the way up to his knees.

And he’d only gotten this uniform back from the dry cleaners two days ago.

“Shit.”

He should have worn the damn pants to his rain gear.

“’Should-haves’ don’t fucking count,” he said, disgusted. It was one of the Sergeant’s favorite sayings, minus the expletive.

Here he was, out in the rain, messing up his uniform, risking pneumonia, and missing a nap.

If one more bad thing happened, he’d have to reconsider his good mood, adjust his attitude accordingly, and kiss this one off as a rotten day.

It was a rotten day.

He didn’t detect the odor until he was practically on top of the thing—maybe the rain had dampened that, too—but once he caught a whiff, he knew.

This was a human body.

He’d been a cop long enough to have learned that there was a subtle but distinct difference between the smell of human and animal remains during decomposition. Animals had more of a gamey odor; human, almost sickly sweet.

Size also was a factor, with the larger body mass exuding the more powerful . . . fragrance? He started breathing through his mouth to save his nose.

Automatically, he brought the radio up and checked in with dispatch, giving his approximate location, and requesting a second unit be sent. “And notify the county coroner, would you?”

“Ten-four,” the dispatcher said. “Be advised, ETA is five to ten for back-up.”

He acknowledged and signed off.

Rain pelted down on him, harder all of a sudden, icy drops finding their way beneath the collar of his rain slicker and down his back.

He took a few careful steps forward, until he could see part of what lay in the grass.

The red that had attracted his attention from the road proved to be a sweater. A man’s cardigan, he thought, but he couldn’t tell for sure.

The body could have been of either sex; it had been savaged until it didn’t much resemble a human. However it had died, the animals had been at it, and there were huge chunks of flesh ripped out of the torso. The right arm had been torn clean away. The left hand was missing. Loops of intestine had been pulled from the abdominal cavity and spilled into the dirt.

The face was pretty much gone, except for the lower jaw which incongruously sported a set of dentures.

They smiled at him amid the carnage, a rather grisly happy face. A pair of eyeglasses clung to the left ear, the lenses shattered.

Someone or something had done a number on this poor soul.

Dogs, he thought.

His own stomach twisted, but he wasn’t a rookie and no one was going to find him puking his guts up.

There were guts-a-plenty as it was.

Since he had no way of knowing what the means of death had been, his duty was to preserve what might be a crime scene. To that end, he decided to go no closer, but to walk a circle around the body after first visually inspecting the area to see if he could determine whether there were tracks leading to or away from where it lay.

The only tracks he saw were his own.

He moved carefully, slowly, inspecting the ground before each step. It took him several minutes to complete his sweep and the only thing he found was a small patch of bloodied ground.

He hunkered down for a closer look. Bone fragments and shreds of flesh indicated that part of the body—the missing hand?—had been devoured here. .

It bothered him that he couldn’t see any paw prints. The undergrowth was thick, but there were places where the dirt, soon to be mud, showed through.

He needed help to make a second sweep. Where were those guys, anyway? He straightened and looked toward the road, but the rain was falling hard enough to make it difficult to see.

“Sixteen,” he said into the Motorola. “Dispatch, this is sixteen.”

The storm was interfering with reception, he guessed, because all he heard was static.

His back-up arrived ten minutes later.

“Oh, shit, what a mess.”

“Not a pretty sight, is it?”

“Talk about your sloppy eaters. What’d you figure did this? Coyotes?”

“Maybe.”

“How long you think it’s been lying out here?”

“Do I look like a coroner to you? How the hell should I know?”

“Just asking.”

“Then don’t.” He was feeling put out at having to stand in the rain all this while. His socks were wet and made a squishy sound when he walked. “The coroner won’t be able to tell the time of death either.”

“What makes you think that?”

“You know how they determine how long a person’s been dead by sticking that thing that looks like a meat thermometer into the liver?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, the liver’s gone.”

“No fooling?”

“You see it anywhere?”

“Shit, I’ve seen enough. Cover it up.”

He did, and felt better. He felt better still when his back-up, who had six years on him, went and tossed his cookies into the brush.

The rain poured down.

Forty

Katy stood in the living room, holding her mother’s overnight case and watching as her Aunt Georgia searched through the hall closet.

“I know I’ve got a coat you can borrow—”

“Really, don’t bother,” her mother said. “All I have to do is make it twenty feet to the car. I’m sure it’s not raining in LA.”

“It’s no bother. I don’t want you getting wet.”

“I’m not the Wicked Witch of the West. I won’t melt, will I Katy?”

“Can I plead the Fifth?” Katy asked.

“Katy!”

She gave them her best innocent look. “There was the matter of a pair of ruby slippers.”

“I can’t believe that my own child is saying these things about the person who controls her allowance and can ground her for life,” her mother laughed. “I know I was never that impertinent—”

“Yes you were.” Aunt Georgia handed her a pale blue raincoat. “Here, take this and don’t argue.”

“Yes ma’am. Well, I guess I’m ready to go.” For a moment the two of them stood there, sad-eyed, and then they gave each other a hug.

“Are you sure you want to drive in this rain? The roads must be slick, and going down that mountain could be dangerous.”

“I’ll be okay. I’m a good driver, believe it or not. Right Katy?”

“She hasn’t killed anybody yet.”

“Wise guy. Anyway, if I don’t get going, I’ll run out of daylight before I run out of mountain. I want to get to the interstate before dark.”

Katy followed them out to the car. There was a slight overhang from the garage, and they huddled beneath it for a final hug.

“Take care of my little girl—”

“Mom, I’m
eight,”
she protested. As far as she was concerned, that was the ultimate argument, but they ignored her.

“—and don’t let her con you.”

“Don’t worry,” Aunt Georgia said. “I’m on to her.”

That
was what Katy needed to hear. She made a face and her mother reached over to muss her hair.

“Listen . . . take care of yourself, too. Do what you have to.”

“I will.”

“Okay, squirt, give me a kiss.”

Katy did as she was asked, holding tight, breathing in the familiar scent of her mother’s perfume. “I’ll miss you, Mom.”

Arms tightened around her. “Look at me, I’m going to cry.” She kissed Katy’s ear. “I’ll miss you too, baby. Be good, you hear?”

Katy closed her eyes; she hadn’t thought it would feel like this. She was ready to change her mind, and ask to go on home now. She missed her own bed, and the apartment, and her friends in the building.

Eight years old or not, she’d never spent a night away from her mom before.

The problem was, her mother had taken her aside this morning and explained to her that Aunt Georgia was thinking of getting a divorce. They’d had a long talk and they both thought it would be a good thing if she stayed for Jill’s sake.

Aunt Georgia hadn’t told Jill yet, and no one knew how she’d take the news. Katy knew from having seen it happen to friends at school that some kids took it hard. It might make it easier for Jill to have her to talk to.

Besides, it probably wasn’t going to be a whole five days before she got to go home. A day or two was what her mother had said.

She could stick it out for a day or two.

In spite of her resolve, when her mother released her and turned away, Katy nearly cried out.

Aunt Georgia put her hand on Katy’s shoulder, and they stood watching and waving until the car turned the corner and drove out of sight.

Even then Katy stood there, listening as the sound of the engine faded away, and feeling strangely bereft.

“Come on, honey,” Aunt Georgia said. “You’re shivering. Come inside and I’ll make hot chocolate. That’ll warm you up.”

But it didn’t.

Jill had stayed in the bedroom, and she was curled up among three or four pillows when Katy came in.

“Did your mother go?”

Katy nodded and flopped on the bed. “What are you doing?”

“Resting.”

“Are you really sick?”

Her cousin’s gray-green eyes met hers. “I am.”

“Hmm.” She drew her legs to her and wrapped her arms around them, then propped her chin on her knees.

“You don’t look sick.”

Jill said nothing.

“Of course, sometimes I pretend to be sick when I’m not so I can stay home from school, but you’ve got—” she counted on her fingers “—seven days off, not including today. If I were you, I’d save it.”

“I’m not pretending.”

Katy shrugged. “Okay.” She was ready to change the subject.

Jill, apparently, was not. She sat up and hugged a pillow to her. “I may be dying.”

“Oh. Camille,” Katy said, but with a smile. “That’s what my mother calls me when she thinks I’m acting sickly. ‘Doing Camille are we?’ she says. But you should see her when she has a cold.”

“You should have gone with her.”

“What?”

“I like you. You should have gone.”

Katy blinked, confused, but when she asked her cousin what she’d meant by that, Jill wouldn’t answer.

The storm outside was worsening, and even though it was only three o’clock, the darkness of the clouds made it almost seem like night.

Maybe that was why she was so drowsy. She was lying on her bed, trying to read
Black Beauty
which her aunt had brought home from the library, but her eyes kept wanting to close.

Jill was sound asleep.

The door to the bedroom opened and Aunt Georgia peeked in. “Katy?”

“Yes?” They were both whispering.

“I’ve got to go out for a little while. I won’t be long, maybe an hour or so. If you need anything, I’ve left the number where I’ll be by the phone in the kitchen. Or you can call Faye Paxton; her number’s there, too.”

“Okay. Aunt Georgia?”

“What is it, honey?”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Is Jill sick?”

Her aunt frowned. “She is, but the doctor told me it wasn’t serious. Why?”

Katy closed her book and sat up, but all at once felt hesitant. How could she ask if Jill was going to die? If it was true, her aunt must feel terrible about it. If it wasn’t true, it was not a very nice thing to ask.

“Is something wrong, Katy?”

Katy lowered her eyes; she couldn’t do it. “No,” she said. “Everything’s fine.”