Buried (Bone Secrets, #3)(43)

Fuck, it was hot. Gerald stretched the kinks out of his back as the attendant filled his vehicle. Hopefully this was nearly the end of the journey. Why’d they stop at the sheriff’s office? Did they not know exactly where they were going?

He had a hunch Chris Jacobs was hiding out in this shitty little town.

He noticed the attendant eyeing the tattoos peeking out on his wrists. Gerald tugged at his sleeves, hating to pull them down to hide the color. The guy probably thought he was nuts for wearing a long-sleeved shirt and jeans in this heat. The shirt was athletic fabric, the clingy, stretchy kind that wicked moisture away from the body and showed every sculpted muscle of his arms and chest. It really wasn’t too bad in the heat.

He pretended to make a phone call and held the phone to his ear for a few seconds.

“Shit. What the hell?” he said, loud enough for the attendant to hear.

“Problem?” the kid asked. He looked like a typical country boy. Tanned skin, dingy cargo shorts, and a T-shirt that had been white at some point. He just needed a grass stem hanging out the side of his mouth or a tobacco can ring in his back pocket.

A brief flash of the teen boys from his childhood hit his brain. This kid would have been one of the popular kids. Normal looking, confident. The kind who made fun of Gerald, the freak. Gerald stood straighter, expanding his chest. It was one of the reasons he stayed in top physical shape. It was a confidence builder. And his tattoos gave him confidence. Sometimes he wanted to shed his clothes and show his colors to the world, but that wasn’t their purpose. They were for him. They allowed him to look at his body with pride, boosting his morale. In private moments, his victims had seen his skin of many colors. It’d intimidated them, helped them recognize his power.

Gerald held up his phone. “Keeps going to voice mail. I’ve called five times.”

The kid nodded. “That sucks.”

“Well, hell. I drove all the way from Boise today to buy a truck from a guy, and now I can’t even reach him. He’d told me to give him a call when I got to town, so he could give me directions. I told him I had a GPS, and he just laughed. Said his address doesn’t work on those things. That common out here?”

White crooked teeth grinned at him. “Totally. A GPS can get you to Demming, but none of the mapping companies are going to waste time with the local addresses when there’s one house every twenty miles.”

Gerald looked over the tiny town. “I guess I’ll sit and wait somewhere and hope the guy gets back to me. I hope he doesn’t think that I changed my mind.”

“Who’re you buying a truck from?”

Yes! Gerald gave the kid a surprised look. “You think you might know him? This area that small?”

The kid shrugged and glanced at the ticker on the gas pump. “I know most folks.”

“The name’s Chris Jacobs. Sound familiar?”

One eyebrow rose a bit. “Yeah, I know him. Didn’t realize he was selling his truck. That thing’s a piece of shit. Why’d you drive so far to buy that?”

Gerald tried to look concerned while inside he was shooting off fireworks. “You think it’s a waste of money? I’m just looking for a beater vehicle for my nephew to drive to school.”

“Oh. Yeah, it’d be fine for that.”

“You know where I can find him?”

The pump turned off, and the kid clicked the handle a few times, topping off the tank. He slammed the handle back in the holder and punched a few buttons on the pump. “Sure. But you better keep trying to call him. Chris doesn’t like surprise visitors. He nearly shot my buddy, Justin, when he cut through his property going after a coyote. I’ll write the directions down for you. If he’s not home, you could stop by the bakery and ask. Old Juan, the baker, is about the only guy Chris ever talks to. He might know if Chris is out of town for some reason.”

Gerald hid his excitement as the attendant scribbled on the back of his gas receipt with a grimy pencil. Only in a small town does everyone really know everyone else. And willingly give you directions to where they live.

Now he could get down to business. He pictured how to end Chris Jacobs’s life as impatience rushed through him. He imagined Chris fighting for air with Gerald’s hands around his throat, knowledge of his killer’s identity visible in his eyes. Or Chris seeing the spray of his own blood on a wall from Gerald’s knife to the neck. The two men had a history together; it was time for the climax.



Chris studied his monitor in the dim light. Four camera views showed different angles of his home. Three outside and one in. He’d thought about investing in some motion detectors to trip the cameras, but there were too many small critters wandering around. The black-and-white images were still. No one had gone near his home.

Brian made a small sound in his sleep. It was a good noise. A contented noise. It was an adventure for the boy to spend the night above Juan’s bakery. It was one of Brian’s favorite places to buy a treat, so sleeping above the little shop was even better. The boy definitely had a sweet tooth. Juan created some incredible baked goods. Chris loved the smell and the taste of the baked breads, but he could do without the sweet, dessert-type foods.

He hadn’t eaten sweets in decades.

Sweat beaded down his back, and feeling slightly nauseous, Chris ran a shaky hand over his mouth. No cakes. No frosting. Not for him. He closed his eyes, breathing deep.