The Vanishing Season (The Collector #4)(73)

Without putting too much pressure on my blisters, Brooklyn and I manage to transfer her into the paramedic’s arms. He hoists her up comfortably, then bounces her twice, just a little, to make her laugh. She tucks in close against him, her forehead to his neck. His partner goes up ahead of us, Ramirez and I following behind.

When we get outside, Franklin and Alice Mercer are standing there, clutching each other for strength. “Brooklyn!” gasps Alice. “My baby!”

“Mommy?” Brooklyn lifts her head and twists around to see better. “Mommy! Daddy!” She wiggles excitedly, but the paramedic keeps a good grip on her.

“I’ll put you down right next to them,” he promises. “But you don’t feel well, so I don’t want you to fall down.” He keeps his word and sets her down on the back end of the ambulance, a hand around one of her arms in case she loses her balance.

Alice throws herself at her daughter, sobbing hysterically, and cuddles the girl close, rocking her back and forth. Her husband wraps his arms around them both, crying silently but just as hard.

Ramirez drapes her arms around my shoulders. “This is a good day,” she says quietly.

It’s a good moment, but the day is far from over. There are a lot of parents who are about to get the other kind of news.

But this is a good moment, so I lean into Ramirez and we watch the Mercers fuss over their daughter.





24

Ramirez splits off with Johnson from Watts’s team to follow the Mercers to the hospital and get the full evaluation of Brooklyn’s condition. Kearney finds a set of houses without fences and goes through to the next street so she can tell the Coperniks. She dutifully promises to tell Rebecca what Brooklyn named her stuffed puppy. We don’t have one for Daniel—we don’t usually give the toys to teenagers—but I’m sure we can get our hands on one if Rebecca and Brooklyn ask him to adopt one to round out the triplets.

I have a feeling there’s not much he won’t do for a while for his little sister and her best friend.

Once more police officers arrive to secure the house and basement. I head to the backyard with Burnside and the locals, who introduce themselves as Officers Wayne, Todd, Maximus, and Cupcake.

Maximus and Cupcake, it should be noted, are the dogs.

“Maybe start in the corner,” I suggest, pointing to the area in question. “The dirt’s been recently turned over.”

If I didn’t know we were looking for a body, it wouldn’t seem ominous. It’s one of several areas along the fence line or the back of the house marked off with short brick borders meant to delineate flower beds or vegetable patches. This is the only one that’s had recent attention, however.

The dogs sniff eagerly at the command, and in the middle of the quarter-circle-shaped bed, both of them suddenly lay down, their chins between their paws.

“They’ve hit,” Officer Wayne explains.

Burnside pulls a camera and three sets of neoprene gloves from his bag. “We’ll get shovels when we need them. For now, we don’t know how deeply she’s buried.”

Officer Todd calls both dogs to him, and they sit next to him without hesitation, watching us keenly. While Burnside snaps photos to document the process, Wayne and I pull on the gloves and kneel down to scoop away handfuls of earth. It hasn’t been cold enough to harden the soil in the patches. Here, where it’s been worked, it moves easily. We mound it against the fence to keep it out of the way. My hand hits plastic not quite a foot down.

“Hit,” I say quietly.

Wayne nods and moves his hands to the same place, and we gently push the soft dirt away, moving outward from that spot. It doesn’t take us too long to completely uncover the tightly wrapped bundle of plastic sheeting. There’s a blanket within the sheeting, obscuring Kendall from view.

“There are no bugs,” he notes.

“The plastic is bound tightly enough to slow decomp, so it hasn’t attracted any yet. You can ask Kearney for the details if you’re interested,” I tell him.

“Yeah?”

“She studied forensic entomology before the academy.”

Burnside shudders. “Not around me, please, and not after you’ve eaten.”

A moment later and he won’t even have to remember to ask Kearney. From the other side of the back fence, there’s a sproing and an oof as Kearney’s head and arms appear over the fence. She heaves herself over the fence and drops to the ground. “I lost track of which yards to go through. The people behind here have a trampoline, so I—oh.” She catches sight of the sorry bundle. “No smell of decomp. Must have a good seal.” She walks over, pulling a small film canister from her pocket. Inside are a pair of gloves, several Band-Aids, and a folding set of tweezers.

“That’s clever.”

“It’s actually a mini first aid kit. They taught it to us in Boy Scouts, and I never lost the habit.” Tugging on the gloves, she kneels down next to me and examines the wrapping. “Thick, but not a full-on tarp. Probably intended for gardening or house painting. Sturdy. See these pleats?” she asks, drawing a finger along them. “There are probably half a dozen layers over the quilt, and those pleats get the plastic in close over the more awkwardly shaped bits like feet and neck. There’s sealant over the outside edge too. We need to warn the field offices before they serve the local warrants.”