Alone (Bone Secrets, #4)(95)

Cesare had created a small graveyard under the firs. A hundred yards from the house, they’d found the first of the graves. This one had been recently disturbed, the woman’s skull missing.

“I bet that’s the skull that Leo threw through my window,” Victoria had said to Callahan. “I figured out yesterday that it didn’t match the photos or X-rays I’d taken of the missing skulls.”

“So that tells me Leo was aware of the graveyard, too. I wonder if Cesare knew his son had discovered his dark side,” said Callahan.

“From what I heard that night, Cesare was oblivious to anything about Leo,” added Victoria.

Police and investigators had been at the cabin nonstop since the first fire truck had arrived late that night, expecting to help pull a car out of the water. Instead the first responders had been led by Seth to the cabin, where they tried to revive Cesare Abbadelli, who’d consumed an estimated thousand milligrams of phenobarbital. The old man had been unresponsive and his body had shut down within hours, following the identical path of the young women killed by Leo. His autopsy had revealed a body riddled with cancer; Seth estimated he wouldn’t have lived another six months.

Leo was dead at the scene. There was nothing the first responders could do for him.

Investigators had found eleven graves. So far. Victoria had been unable to join the team unearthing the graves. Part of her wanted to be here, making certain every little detail was handled appropriately. The rest of her wanted to never set foot near the cabin. Ever.

The graves exposed young woman after young woman. So far there’d been two exceptions. One young man and an older woman. According to Jason, Abbadelli’s older son and wife had “left town” years ago. DNA comparisons had been requested to see if these two sets of remains showed a genetic connection to Leo.

The rest of the Pacific Northwest police departments were digging into every cold case of missing young women, flooding the Oregon medical examiner’s office with requests. With all the publicity, Victoria had strong hopes that the last two women from the old circle would be identified. Esther Cavallo had pointed out that in the sixties and seventies the church had been known for its outreach program for runaways and women in “difficult” circumstances, receiving referrals from agencies in downtown Portland where women went to seek shelter. Possibly Cesare Abbadelli had used this program to search for women who fit his “type.” Women who wouldn’t be missed, women who needed a strong shoulder to cry on.

He must have stockpiled victims in his shed before creating the white circle in Forest Park. Could he have managed it alone? Callahan hadn’t been certain. He could have drugged the women into compliance. Or he could have had an accomplice. Scratch marks in the corners and around the doorframe of the shed spoke of the terrors of the women locked in his hellhole. The shed had been through extensive strengthening at one point, with heavy-duty boards nailed and glued into impenetrability. It was a prison cell.

Isabel had healed from her head injury. Leo had surprised and attacked her in her home. She didn’t remember anything after being hit in the head. She had no memory of the shed, which Victoria thought was extremely lucky; her own shed memories would last a lifetime. She’d visited Isabel in the hospital, explaining how Leo had claimed she was Isabel’s daughter. The older woman had stared at her for a long time. “It’s possible,” Isabel had admitted grudgingly. “Abbadelli put my baby girl up for adoption. I wanted out of there. At first I’d been thankful for a roof over my head after getting away from a boyfriend who liked to beat on me, but Abbadelli gave me the creeps. I was happy to leave the baby behind. I didn’t want any memories of that man.” She’d offered to give a DNA sample for Victoria to compare.

Victoria hadn’t taken her up on the offer. Yet.

Maybe someday she would.

Dr. Campbell had agreed to postpone his retirement a few weeks to lend a helping hand as a deputy examiner and offer advice as Seth took over his position.

Seth was now Victoria’s boss. And bossy he’d been. “Don’t lift that,” “Don’t do that,” “Let me do that” were the phrases she was utterly sick of hearing from his mouth. She’d moved into his hotel room while her house was cleaned and renewed from the fire damage.

Next week they were flying to Sacramento to meet Eden.

Oddly Victoria wasn’t nervous. She’d developed a fondness for teen girls that she was positive would extend to Eden. She was an extension of Seth. How could she not instinctively love her?

She hadn’t been out of Seth’s sight for three days. He’d said that when she’d walked away from him that night with Trinity, his heart had feared he’d never see her again. Now he frequently touched her arm, reassuring himself that she was close by. He’d been back in her life for a few days, and she couldn’t imagine her future without him.

Today they’d visited the recovery site. She’d fought the urge to give direction over the shoulders of the diggers. Instead she and Seth had hung back, watching the investigators crawl through the house, shed, and woods. The gigantic scope of the investigation made Victoria’s brain spin. And the main characters were dead. The police might find answers to lingering questions, but there’d never be anyone to punish for the crimes.

At least Brooke had survived. She’d slowly regained function of her brain and body. To Trinity’s relief, she’d known her best friend. But her short-term memory was shot. Her doctors were optimistic that she’d return to full health over time. She’d revealed to the police that she’d communicated with the photographer through his Facebook professional page. He hadn’t been in her list of friends, where investigators had first sought a common ground between the victims; he’d been in her “Likes.” It’d been a moot point, because the page had been removed the day of the deaths.