The Buried (The Apostles) Page 5

  “Collier’s bird dog found two bodies in the holler this evening.”

  Two bodies? He was too hung over to take on two bodies. Hell, he was too hung over to take to his own two feet. “Call Wilkinson.”

  “He’s on vacation. Alaskan cruise with the missus.”

  “Greggs.”

  Henderson cleared his throat. “Tuck, I’m going to make this as clear as possible, because you need clarity in the form of a slap upside that head of yours. Get your nose out of the bottle and back into your work. You lost your house, your wife, and your kids. One more fucked-up case, and you’ll lose your job. See you in the holler.”

  Tucker jammed his thumb against the side of the phone and the line went dead. For a moment he wished he could flick a similar switch on the side of his head. Tucker was a screwup and a drunk. The two were intertwined. He drank, he screwed up. He screwed up, he drank. He threw the phone on the nightstand where it slammed into a photo frame that toppled over and crashed to the floor. Dragging himself to the edge of the bed, he winced at the splintered glass spidering across Hannah’s chubby cheeks and Jackson’s toothless grin.

  “Can you fix it, Daddy?” Hannah would have asked.

  “Daddy can fix anything,” Jackson would have said with the unwavering conviction of a six-year-old who hadn’t yet learned how fucked up the world really was.

  He picked up the photo, staring at the faces of his kids who, no matter how bad he screwed up, thought he could fix the world. Setting the photo on the nightstand, he dragged his hand across his face. Henderson was wrong. He hadn’t lost his kids. Mara, his soon-to-be ex, had filed for full custody, but she hadn’t won. Not yet.

  With a groan, he dragged his ass out of bed, the bells clanging with every step he took toward an ice-cold shower.

  Thirty minutes later the bells still clanged as he climbed out of his police cruiser, the one marked Detective Unit. He slipped on his aviator glasses, but they did little to block out the sharp lances of sun needling his pickled skull. An officer led him through the thick woodlands toward a ravine.

  “Collier’s dogs spotted up on ’em an hour ago,” the patrol officer said. “Older couple, man and a woman, dressed in hiking gear. By the looks of the bodies, they’ve been here a few days.”

  “Any reports of missing tourists?” Tucker asked as he ducked under the crime scene tape.

  “Nope, and no locals MIA, either.”

  Tucker grabbed a huckleberry branch and lowered himself into the holler. Already he could smell the obscene sweetness. He swatted a cloud of no-see-ums and picked his way through the steamy, tangled brush, hoping like hell this would be a simple tag and bag.

  This time of year they got plenty of day hikers and bird watchers in the northern Kentucky woodlands. Beautiful country. Beautiful place to raise a family. He drew up before the first set of flags. Beautiful place to die.

  Pushing aside a thistle bush, he spotted two legs with springy gray hair sticking out from khaki hiking shorts. The bloating body wore cross trainers and a fanny pack. He swatted at another branch, and a cloud of flies swarmed from the upper body. He swallowed a drunken chunkiness as he studied what was left of the old man’s face, bone and cartilage bleached and dried by the sun. A grainy white powder clung to a few remaining strips of flesh hanging from the temples and neck. Likewise, the white, grainy powder had eaten away the flesh on the fingertips.

  “The woman’s over there.” The officer pointed past a downed log where Tucker could make out a single white tennis shoe and veiny calf. The bells rang louder as he climbed over rocks and brambles to the second body. As on the male, the white powder had eaten away the female’s face and hands.

  He ground the palm of his hand into the center of his forehead in an attempt to stop the bells. No go. With the “Hallelujah Chorus” clanging in his head, he radioed the officer at the top of the holler. “Call in the crime scene boys.”

  Chapter Six

  Hatch had taken on machine-gun-packing bank robbers and bomb-toting terrorists. He’d talked hijackers out of the air and suicide jumpers off twenty-story ledges. But nothing ruffled him like Grace Courtemanche. His wife, even in the ex state, still had the power to slam him in the gut and get his adrenaline so pumped he thought he could fly.

  It was a good thing Alex, who sat in the front seat next to him as they drove from the sheriff’s station to the cemetery, wasn’t in a chatty mood, because Hatch’s head—check that, his entire body—was completely preoccupied with Grace.

  She was still cool and classy, still breathtakingly beautiful. That soft flowery scent, so sweet it’d leave a grist of bees half drunk, still sent his pulse racing. Time and common sense hadn’t dulled the old pleasures or pains. Which was why he needed to get him and his boat out of Florida bayou country. He’d lost too much blood, too much of his heart, last time he was in town.

  However, he couldn’t sail until he got wayward Alex on course, just like Great Aunt Piper Jane had done for him.

  Hatch had worked a deal with the sheriff’s office where his son would hand over the names of his delinquent friends, issue a formal apology to Deputy Fillingham, and work more than 250 community service hours at one of the local churches. The kid would be so busy this summer he wouldn’t have time to get into trouble.

  The old country road ended at the River of Peace Cemetery. Before them stood an ornate iron gate flanked by a pair of gnarled cypress trees reaching into the sky with bony hands. He wondered if Alex and his buddies ever pulled a prank or two around here on Halloween. It was something Hatch would have done as a kid.

  “Hop out and open her up.” Hatch dipped his head toward the gate.

  Alex crossed his arms over his chest. “This is bullshit.”

  “Yep, but for the next two months, pal, it’s your bullshit. Now open the gate.”

  Alex kicked open the car door and stormed out, adding over his shoulder, “Let’s get something straight. I ain’t your pal.”

  The kid was right. At this point, there wasn’t anything between them but a few matching strands of DNA. With a sullen Alex inside the SUV, Hatch drove through the cemetery gate. A raven screeched. Alex jumped. The kid looked as white as the ghostly fog meandering through oaks and holly trees and headstones and crypts streaked with moss.

  “You sure you want to do this?” Hatch asked. “Pastor Austin said you could also work your service hours at the church nursery.”

  “I ain’t going to work with no snot-nosed brats. Get enough of that shit at home.”

  “If you change your mind, p—” Hatch shook his head. “That’s right. We’re not pals.”

  They drove over a rickety bridge where grave markers had sunk into the spongy earth and rust ate away at iron gates. The road ended at a small cottage with shuttered windows.

  “Black Jack’s probably not home.” Alex waved a hand at the empty driveway. “We can come back in the morning.”

  “Pastor Austin said the caretaker would meet us this afternoon. We wait.” Patience was a sorely overlooked virtue, something Hatch hadn’t learned until well into adulthood.

  Black Jack Trimble, the River of Peace Cemetery caretaker, would be in charge of monitoring Alex’s community service, and that service was Alex’s ticket to keeping his attitudinal little ass out of juvenile detention. Therefore, Hatch was not going to let the kid start off on the caretaker’s bad side. As a crisis negotiator, he knew the importance of initial impressions.

  Crushed oyster shells crunched under his feet as he walked with Alex up the drive to the cottage, a squat building of whitewashed wood with a corrugated metal roof. An alligator skull hung above the door, and a row of scarlet geraniums sat in a box below a window.

  “Black Jack must be an interesting fellow,” Hatch said.

  Alex folded his arms across his chest. “Anyone who likes to hang out with dead bodies is a wack job.”

  “Sounds like Black Jack is pretty good at the job. He runs this whole place by himself.” Not everyone could
be a cemetery caretaker, just like not everyone could be a hostage negotiator. Or a father. Hatch jammed his fists into his low-riding khaki shorts. “Pastor Austin said he’s been taking care of the cemetery grounds for almost thirty years.”

  “Probably ’cause he can’t get work anywhere else. Not with his past.”

  Hatch sat on an old cypress stump near a woodpile. “Past?”

  Alex flicked a glance over his shoulder and settled a serious gaze on Hatch. “Years ago big ol’ Black Jack Trimble walked into Cypress Bend with no shirt, no shoes, and a fishing hook hanging from his back pocket. He had a bandage on his shoulder covered in blood. Some people said he got shot escaping from prison somewhere in Georgia.” The kid’s eyes widened. “Others said he was stabbed by a woman whose baby he was stealing for his dinner.”

  A storyteller. This boy was definitely from his loins. Great Aunt Piper Jane, who’d taught him the art and power of a good story, would love this kid.

  “What about you?” Hatch tilted his head. “What do you believe is Black Jack’s story?”

  Alex scrunched his nose, as if surprised Hatch had asked him his opinion. And therein lay one of society’s other problems. Not enough people listened. The boy’s confused expression made him look oddly young, and for a moment, Hatch pictured Alex before the hard edge of adolescent rebellion had set in. Unruly, curly blond hair. Curious eyes. Sand-covered toes. Skinned knees. A mouth that never stopped. Hatch couldn’t help but smile.

  Alex scowled. “Don’t know, don’t care. So stop asking me all your stupid questions.”

  To their right, the bushes shivered, and a handful of leaves fell to the ground. The bushes parted, and a shadowy silhouette took shape. A bald man standing more than six and a half feet tall walked toward them, a stringer of fish across his broad back, the fish tails slapping his ebony skin. He wore no shoes.

  Hatch introduced himself and Alex.

  “I was ’specting you.” Black Jack’s southern drawl was deep, a tremor gripping the earth. Hatch handed the caretaker the paperwork from Pastor Austin. Without reading it, Black Jack put the papers in his back pocket.

  “Six o’clock tomorrow morning, Alex. Bring gloves.” The caretaker turned, and with the fish still flopping against his slick back, walked up the path to the cottage. “And a shovel.”

  “A shovel?” Alex’s voice rivaled a whisper. “He’s not going to make me bury no stinkin’ bodies, is he?”

  Black Jack stopped and turned only his head. The fishtails stopped flopping. “No, Alex, you will not touch the bodies. You have not yet earned that honor.”

  Hatch regularly stared death in the face, and more than once, he’d held it in his arms. At times his arms struggled under the weight of sorrow and injustice. Other times, he cradled joy and light. But there was one constant: Death was final. And that’s why a soul needed to live life to the fullest, to pass from this world with no regrets.

  The cottage door creaked open, and Black Jack and his stringer of fish ducked through the darkened doorway.

  “See,” Alex said under his breath. “He’s a friggin’ wack job.” He stalked off toward the SUV and grabbed the passenger door handle. “You must be some piss-poor negotiator if this is the best you could do for me. Loser.”

  * * *

  A baby screamed.

  Excellent. The witness was here. Grace hurried down the hall toward Lieutenant Lang’s office. Rhonda Belo had given birth two days ago at the Cypress Bend Medical Center where her second floor room overlooked the employee parking lot.

  The screams sharpened and grew louder as Grace drew up in the doorway. Lieutenant Lang sat at her desk, and across from her sat a crying woman, two circles of dampness blooming across her swollen breasts. A man with rumpled hair, dark circles under his eyes, and a five-o-clock shadow circled the room like a marathon race-walker, a bundle of pink shrieking in his arms.

  “Perhaps you can take the baby outside for a moment, Mr. Belo?” Lieutenant Lang suggested over the wails.

  “No!” The mother knotted her hands beneath her breasts. “She’s only two days old. I don’t want her out of my sight. Walk faster, Greg. She likes movement.”

  “I’m practically running,” the man said with a snap. “What more do you want me to do?”

  “Something because I can’t concentrate with this.” She jabbed her hands at the front of her T-shirt, where the circles of dampness widened and a milky substance plopped onto the chair. Lieutenant Lang handed her a box of tissue.

  Grace stepped into the room. “Give her to me.”

  The mother turned her head to the door. “Who are you?”

  “Grace Courtemanche with the State Attorney’s office,” she said. “I’m working with Lieutenant Lang on the Lia Grant case.”

  “You know stuff about babies?” the new father asked.

  Grace held out her hands and gave the man the comforting but assured smile she gave to nervous witnesses and grieving family members. “Yes.” Clearly more than Mr. Belo.

  He handed over the screaming bundle and eyed the doorway with longing. “Would you mind if I went out for a smoke?”

  “No smoking around the baby,” the mother said as she shoved tissue down the front of her T-shirt.

  Grace tilted her chin toward the door. “Go get some fresh air, Mr. Belo. We’ll be fine.”

  The bundle let out another wail, and the new mother glanced at her as if Grace were about to eat the child. Grace swayed. She knew nothing about babies, but she knew the soothing power of a good swing. She pictured her porch swing, old tire swing, and her daddy’s arms. The screams softened to whimpers and finally to breathy hiccups.

  Lieutenant Lang nodded at the mother. “Do you need any more tissues, Mrs. Belo?”

  “I’m good as long as she doesn’t start crying again. We’ve both been crying. Sleepless nights. Hormones.” She pulled half a tissue from her bra and blew her nose. “Sorry I didn’t come forth sooner, Lieutenant Lang. With Callie’s birth, I’ve been out of it and Callie’s been so fussy. When we got home this evening, she finally fell asleep, and Greg and I finally got a chance to relax. We turned on the TV and saw the news report about the missing girl.”

  “When did you see Lia Grant?” Lieutenant Lang asked.

  “Two nights ago, the day Callie was born. It was around midnight. Callie was fussy. I’d fed her and changed her but she wouldn’t stop screaming, so I started walking. It seemed to help.” She smiled at Grace, who was still swaying.

  “What did the woman look like?” Lieutenant Lang continued.

  “Exactly like the picture on the news. Shoulder-length brown hair with bangs. Medium height and weight. She wore a purple volunteer smock and these cute white tennis shoes with purple laces.”

  “How can you be so sure of something so specific?” Grace asked. “The lights in that section of the parking lot weren’t working.”

  “It was dark, but I could clearly see her when the white truck pulled into the parking lot and parked next to her.”

  “What was she doing?” Lieutenant Lang asked.

  “Locking her car. When she was done, she waved to the person in the white truck. I remember thinking how sweet she looked and that she was probably a great hospital volunteer. The person driving the truck must have said something to her because she walked to the passenger door and spoke to him.”

  “Him?” Grace asked.

  “Did you see the driver?” Lieutenant Lang added.

  “No, but the truck seemed like a guy’s truck. Big, a lift kit, mud covered, and those oversized tires. Of course a girl could drive it. We’re going to avoid all those gender stereotypes. Callie can play with trucks and play football.”

  Grace couldn’t help but notice everything kept coming back to the baby. The young mother was consumed. And this was why Grace didn’t have a family. There was no time in her life for a dog, let alone a child who deserved this kind of attention.

  “Did you hear any of the conversation?” Lieutenant Lang aske
d.

  “Nothing. My bedroom window was closed.”

  The baby kicked, and Grace rocked faster. “What happened next?”

  “They talked for quite a while. I must have walked back and forth a hundred times. The girl was resting her arms on the truck windowsill. It looked like a pretty intense conversation. And then when I walked by and looked, the woman and the truck were gone.”

  “Did they leave together?”

  “I kind of assumed they did.”

  “Can you tell us anything else about the truck? License plate number? Make? Model?”

  The young mother shook her head. “I’m sorry. I had my hands pretty full that night.”

  Lieutenant Lang asked a dozen more questions and took the young mother’s contact information. Grace made a mental note to see if the medical center or nearby businesses had any security cameras. Plus she needed to—

  “Excuse me.”

  Grace turned to the young mother. “Yes?”

  “Callie.” She pointed to the bundle in Grace’s arms. “I need my baby.”

  Grace stopped swaying and stared at the baby now sleeping deeply and peacefully in her arms. “She’s sweet and beautiful.” She handed the bundle to the new mother, her arms heavy despite the emptiness. She gave her arms a shake. “I’m sure she’ll do great things.”

  With the witness gone, Lieutenant Lang picked up her phone. “I’ll put a BOLO out on the truck. It’s unique, and chances are someone will remember it. I’ll also get CSU on the scene and check for tire tracks.”

  Grace nodded absently. All good, but they needed more. She looked out the window. “Clouds are coming in.”

  “And with the clouds come rain,” Lieutenant Lang said.

  Grace didn’t say what they both were thinking. And with the rain would come mud which would seep into any cracks letting in air. “We need more help.”

  “We have more than a hundred searchers. Every news outlet within a hundred miles has given the story coverage. Even the Girl Scouts have joined the hunt. Lia Grant was a Girl Scout leader, and her troop is passing out flyers door to door.”