Buried (Bone Secrets, #3)(55)

“The old Polaroids. We were so focused on the tats, we didn’t notice the condition of his skin. It’s freakishly white.”

“Well, I’d say he’s learned to blend in pretty well,” Jamie answered. “Albinism didn’t cross my mind, but I knew something was off.”

“I’ll touch base with Hove in a bit. There’s no sign of your brother?”

“No. Not yet. If he doesn’t already know, someone needs to tell him about the tattooed guy.”

“Ms. Jacobs, I suspect he already knows.”



“Son of a bitch.” Mason shook his head. “I think our tattooed freak followed them to Eastern Oregon.”

“Sounds that way,” answered Ray. “I don’t think anyone knew where they were going. Unless Brody told someone his plans.”

“Brody doesn’t tell anyone crap.”

“Agreed. What about Jamie? She tell anyone?”

“She says she didn’t. She asked one neighbor to watch the cat but didn’t say where she was going.”

“Either they were followed or he found Chris Jacobs on his own.”

“On the same day?” Mason highly doubted that. “So far we can’t even find the guy to interview him. And we’ve got the best computer system in the world, right?”

Ray choked.

“Either way. Where the f*ck is Chris Jacobs now, and where is our tattooed man? They’ve left one dead body in their wake. I don’t want any more. I gotta call this Hove.”

“Hove? Tim Hove?” Ray perked up.

“Beats me.”

“I know him from my trooper days. Good man. Actually likes living in the boondocks.”

Ray knew everybody.

“Jamie didn’t disagree with our albino theory. Sounded solid to her. Lends a little more weight to this being the same guy as twenty years ago and not multiples with similar tattoos. Now I want to know what they’ve found at that scene.”

“Think we need to get over there?” Ray didn’t sound excited at the idea of the long drive.

Mason knew there was no need to waste the hours on the road. “I’ll touch base with Hove and Luna County and see what they’ve got. Maybe we’ll get lucky and their scene will turn up something useful to point us in the right direction.”





Gerald washed his hands in a surprisingly clean men’s room at a gas station thirty miles from Demming. The kill had been relatively clean, but he still felt the need to scrub his hands several times. Once the old man had been tied in the chair, the interrogation had been easy. And he’d gotten shit for answers. The old Mexican knew nothing.

His skin suddenly goosebumped from small electrical pings in his nervous system. The residual effects of the high from the kill. He closed his eyes, exhaled slowly, and relished the small rush. It was almost like a mini-aftershock-orgasm. The abrupt quivers that continue to shoot through the limbs after the sex is over.

At the bakery, the old man had said he didn’t know where Chris would go, claimed he had no friends and no family. Gerald had shown him a picture of Chris’s sister, and the old man had shaken his head. He’d never seen her or even known about her. Said Chris’s wife was dead. Had died in a car accident when the boy was a baby.

The boy was a surprise.

Gerald wondered what the child looked like. Did he look like his father? Chris had started as a hefty kid when he’d first met him, but by the time he’d escaped, he’d been a tall twig. He laughed out loud in the restroom. Was Chris paranoid about the boy’s safety? There were a lot of sick people in the world, people who would abuse a little boy with a lot of pain. No wonder Chris lived like a hermit. He probably was nervous for his kid’s safety every day.

If only he could get his hands on that kid.

That would teach Chris for putting him in this position.

Where did they go?

The Mexican knew that Chris had visited Portland in the past but didn’t know why. He’d also admitted Chris had been to Mexico a few times. Gerald pondered that statement. Was that good or bad? If Chris was headed to Mexico, he probably had no intention of ever returning. Especially once he heard his buddy Juan was dead. He could probably just let him go…

And the boss would say…

Fuck. He had to push on until Chris Jacobs was dead. He’d let the issue slide for two decades, confident in Chris’s lack of memory. But now he was starting to wonder. Jacobs lived like a man who had something to hide. The question was: Did he have sufficient motivation to keep it hidden?

Moot point. The waiting time was over.

It was time to clean up the mess that was Chris Jacobs. And he was stoked to do it. This little adventure from the boss had gotten his blood pumping. He’d kept his sordid side buried for a long time, keeping his other business only to himself. This time it was like he’d been given permission. Sometimes it felt like he had two lives. One to show the public and one just for him. This time his boss knew exactly what he was doing; it was almost like having an observer. God, that felt good.

His boss hadn’t given him an assignment like this in years. It was great to know he was needed for something besides the other mundane daily tasks he did for the boss. He had skills. Lately, there hadn’t been any use for them.

He finished up in the restroom and stepped into the tiny convenience store to pay for his gas. The overweight clerk was alone, his gaze glued to a tiny TV set mounted behind the counter near the ceiling as he sipped on a straw from the biggest soda cup Gerald had ever seen. He glanced at Gerald and then bounced his gaze back to the TV.