The Bones She Buried: A completely gripping, heart-stopping crime thriller(27)

“Hey,” Josie said, waving Mettner closer. “Look at this.”

Mettner squatted beside Josie, taking the open album into his hands. “What am I looking at?”

Josie pointed to a photo of the two Pratt brothers and their children standing on the summit of a mountain, all in hiking boots with backpacks on, sweaty, red-faced and smiling in the sunshine. “That’s Samuel Pratt, I think.”

“Stands to reason,” Mettner agreed.

Josie pointed to his right hand where a small light-colored object was clutched in his fist. “What is that?”

Mettner squinted. “I can’t tell.”

Josie reached over and turned a page, pointing to another photo of the four of them standing on a riverbank, two canoes behind them. They had their arms around one another. Samuel Pratt’s left arm was slung over his son’s shoulder, but his right hand hung at his side, his fist again closed around something, part of its pale surface just visible.

Mettner quickly turned more pages of the album. “He’s holding it in almost every photo.”

“Yes,” Josie said. “Except this one.” She turned back several pages to one of the canoe photos. In it, Drew and Beth stood on the bank in front of a campfire, the canoes now to their right. To their left, Samuel Pratt sat on a camping chair, peeling an apple with a paring knife, eyes focused on the task at hand. He hadn’t been part of the photo, just picked up in the background. Josie pointed to his lap. Against the navy blue shorts he wore rested the small, pale object.

Mettner brought the photo closer to his face. “Holy shit,” he said. “Is that—”

“It’s kind of blurry,” Josie said. “But it looks like an arrowhead, doesn’t it?”





Nineteen





Back at the station house, Bob Chitwood waited for them, standing behind Gretchen, who was seated at her desk with a phone receiver pressed to one ear. His arms were crossed over his narrow chest. His natural crimson flush had returned, making his scattered white facial hair stand out against his skin. “Quinn,” he shouted as they approached. “Are you kidding me?”

“Sir?” Josie said, tossing her keys onto her desk. She gave Gretchen a small wave.

Chitwood pointed a finger at her. “You and Mett just caught Beth Pratt’s murder? Beth damn Pratt? Do you understand how high-profile this case is gonna be? The press is still talking about her father’s disappearance twelve years later. This is gonna be a real shitstorm, you know that?”

Josie put her hands on her hips. “Yep.”

“That’s it? Yep? You better be ready for this, Quinn. I don’t know what the hell is going on around here, but you better get to the bottom of it like your job depends on it, because it just might. I’m gonna try to keep this out of the press as long as possible.”

Ignoring his tirade, she said, “Sir, this might be a good time to reinstate Detective Palmer. Put her back in the field.”

“Don’t even try it, Quinn.”

“Sir,” Josie protested.

Chitwood’s shout stilled every sound in the room. “Dammit, Quinn, I said no. Palmer is on the damn desk, and that is my final word on the matter.”

Mettner cleared his throat from behind Josie. “Sir,” he interjected. “We’ve got someone downstairs we need to interview. Hummel brought him in and put him in the conference room.”

“I heard,” Chitwood said. “Mason Pratt. You think he’s a suspect?”

“No,” Mettner replied. “Not at this time.”

With one last glare, Chitwood retreated to his office muttering something about people dropping like flies and the damn Pratt family.

Mettner looked relieved, but Josie and Gretchen suppressed their smiles. “Let’s go talk to Mason Pratt,” Josie told Mettner.

“I’ll be here at my desk,” Gretchen said with a sigh.

Mettner said, “Can you see if the Evidence Response Team turned up anything on the footprint found at Colette Fraley’s house?”

Gretchen nodded and picked up her phone. “Great idea,” she told him. “I’m on it.”

Josie gathered the Colette Fraley file and a couple of notepads and pens and walked downstairs to the conference room where Mason Pratt sat before an untouched cup of coffee, his sandy hair covered with a ballcap and his eyes red-rimmed from crying. Hummel had told them that he had picked Mason up where he worked at a local tractor and feed supply store. Mason’s boss confirmed he’d been there since six that morning. He wore a dark green hoodie and beneath the table, Josie could see he had jeans and boots on. He stood when they walked in and shook both their hands. Both Mettner and Josie offered their condolences.

“Thank you,” Mason said. “I just can’t believe this is happening.”

“Has anyone notified your mother?” Mettner asked. “Have you had a chance to tell her?”

“I haven’t had a chance to get over to see her. I just found out when your officer came to get me. My mom lives at Rockview,” Mason said. “The nursing home?”

“I know it,” Josie said. “My grandmother lives there too.”

“Were you and Beth close?” Mettner asked.

Mason took off his ballcap and pushed a hand through his hair. “Yeah, pretty close, I guess. I mean first my dad and then hers. That kind of thing—not many people can relate to it, you know? But Beth and I—” he broke off, his gaze dropping to his lap. “Jesus, I’m starting to think my family is cursed.”