The Bones Will Speak (12 page)

“Oh my,” Beth said.

I stood. “I'm sure she'd love to lock her door as well, but none of the latches work.”

“Why's that?”

“Log houses never stop settling. She'll get over her hissy fit pretty quickly, but we need to work on her attitude, so if you'll excuse me—”

The phone rang. I reached over and picked it up. “Forensic Art Studios.”

“Is this Gwen Marcey?” the male voice asked.

“Yes.” I opened the drawer, selected a pencil and pad of paper, and placed them on the counter.

“I'm Dan Swanson, reporter for the
Missoula Times
. I'm writing about the bodies your dog found at the old, let's see, yeah, McCandless farm. Sources say both you and the sheriff were thrown off the case, and that the Missoula Police Department is going to handle it. Do you wish to comment?”

I slammed the receiver down. Beth spun and opened her mouth to comment.

The phone rang again.

I snatched it up. “Get your facts straight, and don't call me again.”

“Mrs. Marcey?” A different voice, muffled and distant.

“Oh, I'm sorry. I thought you were the press.”

“Do you mind if I call you Gwen? Mrs. Marcey is so formal.”

“Who is this?”

“You can say I'm an admirer of you and your dog. That was your dog, the big white one on television?” His voice was glassysmooth, hypnotic.

I stayed silent and started doodling a sketch of Winston. Crank call? Crime brought out the lunatics.

“I'm delighted it was you.” He sighed deeply.

“Delighted it was me
what
?” Definitely a nut case. I jotted the time. Underneath I wrote in shorthand:
male caller, educated, follows news broadcasts
.

“Finding it. It's been awhile, but I always say the best things in life are worth the wait.”

Television would've given him enough information to “confess.” Strange, though, they usually confess to the police. Maybe the lines were busy, and he found me in the phone book or the web.

“Thanks for calling. If you give me your number, I'll have the police contact you.” I doodled a halo over Winston's head.

“Oh, that's very funny. And I know you found my blanket.”

My head came up with a jerk. The blanket wouldn't have been mentioned in the news. “What are you talking about? What blanket?”

“The Hudson's Bay blanket. The cream one with the stripes.”

I held my breath.
Ohmigosh. Him!

“And, by the way, I'm sorry I hit him. Your dog, I mean. That part was an accident.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

“HE CALLED.”

“Gwen.” Dave straightened in his chair. “When?”

“About three minutes ago. I've locked the doors and pulled the blinds.”

“How do you know it was him?”

“He talked about the blanket. No one knows about that except those working the scene and the killer.”

“Did he say anything else?” Dave picked up a pen and jotted some notes.

“He didn't mean to hit Winston. ‘That part was an accident.' What did he mean by that?”

“I don't know. You said you didn't get a look at him. How'd he know who you were? Do you think he saw you?”

“No. Only Winston, but Beth said everyone saw my dog on television and they mentioned my name.”

“Strange. Didn't you tell me that there hasn't been any record of retaliation on a forensic artist?”

“Yes. You're right. Why would he target
me
?”

“You might want to think about that. In the meantime”—he checked his watch—“I can beef up the patrol in your area. Or better yet, is it possible for you to go someplace for a few days? Maybe with Beth?”

Gwen didn't answer for a few moments.

“Gwen? Are you there?”

“Yeah. I'm thinking.” Her voice was replaced by a tapping sound.

“Stop drumming your pencil,” Dave said. “What are you thinking?”

“Right now he has the advantage. He knows who I am, but not for long. I'm going to find out who
he
is.”
Click.

Dave stared at the buzzing handset. It may not be his case anymore, but his job just got a whole lot more complicated.

After hanging up on Dave, I waited until the hot flash passed, silently trying to convince my body that the room had not changed temperature. My hot flashes were courtesy of post-cancer hormone treatments. They seemed to come every time I stressed, in addition to the usual inconvenient moments, especially whenever I wanted to appear sophisticated.

I'd given my notes to Wes, but I still remembered the list. I strolled to my studio and picked up a yellow legal pad, then drew a line down the middle and wrote
Known
on one side,
Unknown
on the other. On the
Known
side, I wrote down every word the man on the phone had said, then my original notes as well as Mattie's comment about six and twenty-five. The scrap of paper from my conversation with Dave was still in my pocket. I removed it and wrote
Bundy signature?
on the
Unknown
side.

“What on earth is going on?” Beth asked from the doorway.

I jumped. I'd forgotten she was here. “It looks like you're getting your wish.” I gently set down my pencil. “We have to catch a sociopath. And he already knows who I am.”

A fog swirled around a dark forest and the trees had grotesque faces, but the doorway promised escape. The wavering light ahead beckoning Mattie to run faster. Behind her was the pulsating evil . . . thing. She reached forward, grasping toward freedom, but the ground sucked her feet, reaching after each step with muddy fingers. Her steps grew slower as she sank farther into the muck. It gained on her, the hot panting growing closer, the clicking of its feet growing louder. It shrieked.

She gasped and shot upward, swinging her arm.

It shrieked again, a persistent ringing.

The phone.

Mattie wiped her splinted hand across her face, shoving her hair off a drenched forehead. The phone rang again, but she ignored it and concentrated on calming her breathing. It rang a third time, then stopped.

The nurse had removed her restraints earlier. Weak morning light sifted through the blinds, and the window ledge held various stuffed animals someone had delivered while she was asleep. The clattering of the breakfast cart drifted through the door.

Swallowing, she looked toward the door, searching for some water to wet her parched mouth. The glass sat on the table next to her, beside a vase of flowers, a box of chocolates, and a teddy bear.
He'd
brought them. As a reminder that he was still around. If she stretched, she'd be able to knock them to the floor.

The phone shrilled.

Heart pounding, she reached for it, then paused. Her hands were on a rigid framework and encased in gauze. She rolled over and grasped the receiver with both hands, bringing it to her ear.

“Do you want to live?”

She froze.

“Answer me. Do you want to live?”

Her mouth moved, but no sound emerged.
Nonononononono.

“One last chance. Mattie, do you want to live?”

“Uhhhhhhhh.” She couldn't form words.

“Good. Now, you must do exactly as I tell you.” His voice droned on.

She nodded. When he finished speaking, she returned the phone to its cradle, then stared at the ceiling. Useless tears burned down her face.

“Ohmigosh, ohmigosh.” Beth flipped her hands in the air as if drying them. “He
called
you? He called
you
! You're back on the case. You have to work it now. And I can help.”

I nodded. “As Sherlock would say, ‘The game is afoot.' ”

“Actually, Shakespeare said it first in
Henry IV
. . .”

I put down the paper I'd been studying and stared at her.

“Er, well, give me a moment.” She left. The kitchen door squeaked, followed by the slam of a car door. She returned a minute later with a stack of books. “I stopped by the library on my way over. These were all they had on the subject.”

“What subject?”

“Criminal profiling. I marked a few—”

“Beth.”

“—passages with my initial research—”

“Beth!”

She stared at me.

A hot flash charged up my neck and onto my face. I waited until it passed. “Just one problem: I'm not a profiler. I'm a forensic artist. I draw. Crime scenes. Unknown remains. Composites. Courtroom proceedings. I work with victims and witnesses of crime. Not the slimebags—”

“Don't you call them perpetrators?”

“Ah, no. Sometimes I call them scumbags. Tweekers—”

“What's that?”

“A meth-maggot.”

“Oh. How about a bottom-feeder?”

“That's Wes Bailor.”

Beth looked at me a moment, then slid into a chair and carefully typed the definitions into my computer. “I've heard Sheriff Moore ask your opinion on cases. Specifically, profile-type opinions.” She stroked the top library book with a manicured finger.

“Yeah, well. Probably because I give them for free,” I muttered. “I'm not trained in profiling. I use my own techniques.”

“So how will you identify the perpetra—uh, slimebag?”

“I'll begin with the question: why did he call me? We'll start with his exact words on the phone.” I saw her puzzled expression as I handed her my notes. “This isn't profiling. It's statement analysis. I do know how to do that.”

She swiftly typed them into a Word document. I leaned over her shoulder and pointed to the yellow pad. “Start here. He said, ‘You can say I'm an admirer of you and your dog.'
You can say
modifies the sentence, as in
you could say this
, or
I can only say
. He's concealing information. He also isn't really an admirer of me.”

“That proves he has no taste.”

“You're sweet, Beth. The next thing he said was, ‘I'm delighted it was you.' ”

“I don't understand.”

“I didn't either, so I said, ‘Me what?' He said, ‘Finding it.' ‘It' must refer to Mattie, which confirms my calling him a sociopath.”

Beth shuddered. “How disgusting.”

“That's why we need to identify him.” We looked at each other for a moment before Beth leaned into the computer screen. “You wrote, ‘It's been awhile, but I always say the best things in life are worth the wait.' So he'd been waiting for something.”

“Or someone.” I picked up a pencil and twirled it through my fingers. “Maybe, maybe, maybe . . .”

“You're driving me insane. Maybe what?”

“I told Dave that I thought he left Mattie alive because he was interrupted. An x factor. But what if . . . what if he left her alive deliberately?”

“Why would he do that?”

“To deliver a message.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

MATTIE CLOSED HER EYES AND THOUGHT ABOUT
her next move. Someone opened the hospital door. She couldn't see who with the curtain partially blocking her side of the room.

Her pulse thumped hard, but she lay still and sniffed the air. The stench of the flowers beside her bed made it difficult. Footsteps approached and she concentrated. Soap, medicinal. A nurse. She pretended to be asleep. A warm hand checked her pulse, the rustle of starched fabric moved away from the bed, a pause before a pen scratched on paper, then the door clicked.

Mattie jerked at the tiny sound. She counted to four slowly, then opened her eyes a slit. The room was empty.
Hurry.
The nurse would return in an hour. Rolling onto her side, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and sat upright. The world spun for a moment, then steadied. The IV line in her wrist would be a problem. She hooked her arm around the IV pole and wheeled it to the window. Her room was on the ground floor. Perfect. “

Why would you think the girl was delivering a message?” Beth asked.

“Maybe she
was
a message or
had
a message. But he had to make sure I'd get it.
Hmm.
Thinking back, when Winston headed toward the McCandless place, every little bit he'd stop and sniff.”

“So he was
tracking
. I taught him that.” Beth smiled at the memory.

“Ah, yeah, that might be it. But what if . . . Let's go for a walk.”

Beth jumped to her feet. “Is it safe? I mean, the killer just called you.”

“That means he's pretty far away. Only one spot here gets cell service.” I nodded toward my lawn. “So that means either a landline in town or cell, also from town. And I'm going to be prepared.” I swung by my bedroom and strapped on my holstered SIG Sauer, then tapped on Aynslee's door. “We're going for a walk. Did you want to get outside for a bit?” I didn't wait for a response. She joined us in the kitchen.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Part way to the McCandless farm. Keep your eyes open.”

“What are we looking for?” Beth pulled on her jacket.

“I'm not sure.” I found a sweatshirt in the pantry. “Dog treats? Meat? Something to lure Winston in a particular direction.” Both of them looked startled but trooped after me.

The sun peeked through the clouds, adding a bit of warmth to the spring day. Flowering shrubs perfumed the air, and black-capped chickadees called to each other with their distinctive
fee-bee-bee, fee-bee-bee
. Once we entered the forest, chipmunks scolded us for our intrusion.

Aynslee spotted the evidence shortly before the McCandless farm came into sight. A cube of meat, now swarming with flies, lay along the game trail. We gathered around it like it was an ancient artifact. “Why didn't Winston eat this last piece of meat?” Aynslee asked.

“I suspect we're close enough to the grave, and Winston's find, that he focused on that goal,” I said.