When You See Me (Detective D.D. Warren #11)(53)

We creep toward the first dilapidated structure. Again I catch a whiff of decay. Is that what’s triggering that intense sense of familiarity? The smell is earthy and moldy—the scent of neglect, not death.

We make it around the corner. Again, as if we’ve been doing this for years, I take up point, Keith ducks behind me, quickly works the lock on the door. He has to force it with his shoulder, and the screech of the rusted hinges makes us both draw up short. Whatever this building is used for, it clearly hasn’t been active for a long time.

Again, the sound of the wood chipper, whirring across the distance.

Keith disappears inside the shed. I sweat through all my clothes and am just considering charging in behind him, butterfly blade in hand, when he returns.

“Nothing,” he whispers, both of us tucking against the side of the building.

“Define nothing.”

“Rusted-out equipment. Vintage glass bottles. Stuff our grandparents would love. Stacked floor to ceiling, too. Trust me, no one is hiding anything in there any time soon.”

I frown at him. “We’re trying to find a serial killer, and we’ve stumbled upon a hoarder instead?”

“Um . . . kind of.”

The next building we approach is self-explanatory. A chicken coop, as Keith had suspected. Which leaves us with the two larger buildings. The one to our right appears to be an old two-story barn, the kind with a sliding wood door up high for loading bales of hay into the loft. Whereas straight ahead looms a low-slung log cabin that appears to tilt slightly to the right and has a front porch topped with an ancient-looking washer and an equally decrepit dryer.

Next to the barn is a tractor, John Deere green and clearly one of the newer items on the property. Otherwise it’s open ground between us and the barn. Once again I note the relatively new spotlights.

I feel like there’s something obvious that I’m missing. Cameras? Booby traps?

The barn itself appears as weather-beaten as the sheds. The roof is nearly covered in moss. The small high windows stay with the motif: dirt and more dirt.

In the distance, the wood chipper growls again. Then, abruptly, as if it can’t take one more bite, the whirring stops. The engine snaps off. The entire property falls silent.

I feel Keith shudder beside me. I don’t blame him. The wood chipper had been ominous. But the silence . . .

The silence is worse.

What did I miss? Because I’m reckless and aggressive, but I’m also experienced. And every instinct that has ever kept me alive is screaming. Abort mission. Retreat. Run while we still can.

I can tell Keith feels it, too. But where to go? We’re tucked in the only available cover—the shady side of a dilapidated shed. Between us and the woods, there is nothing but exposed acreage.

The barn, I think. If we could just tuck inside the barn, find a place to hide.

Then I get it. What I saw but didn’t register. It’s not just the lighting on the buildings that’s new—looped through the handles of the barn doors is a thick, modern chain and padlock, both completely devoid of rust.

The barn isn’t our sanctuary. The barn is exactly what we’re not supposed to see.

I’m still trying to work the trajectories, how to get out of this mess, when I swear the woods themselves come alive. One moment I’m judging the distance between the shed and trees, the next a scarecrow of a man is standing before me.

Tall, gaunt, with sparse gray hair that stands on end and a wiry strength that ripples through his too-skinny limbs.

Walt Davies, who clearly figured out he had company, and worked his own perimeter to sneak up on us.

He’s holding a shotgun, pointed straight at us.

I put my hands up. Beside me, Keith does the same.

I take a deep breath, then step into daylight, advancing five feet toward him, Keith right beside me. If we go down, apparently we’re doing it together.

“I’m sorry,” I begin to babble. “So sorry. We’re lost, our ATV ran out of gas, please, sir, can we use your phone . . .”

The old man responds in a way I don’t expect at all.

He drops the barrel of the shotgun. He stares at me, wild-eyed.

“No!” he cries. “It can’t be you. You’re dead! Dead, I tell you! Dead, dead, dead!”





CHAPTER 23





KIMBERLY





AFTER SPEAKING WITH MAYOR HOWARD about his wife’s alleged illegal kidney transplant, Kimberly paid a visit to the master bathroom, where—sure enough—she found a row of prescription bottles bearing Martha Counsel’s name. A quick internet search revealed most of the pills to be anti-rejection meds, to be taken for the “life of the working transplant organ.”

Kimberly returned to the room where the woman had hanged herself. D.D. was still there, supervising the ME’s removal of the body. As with all hangings, the ME had left the noose in place. Analysis of the knot would be an important part of the final report, helping to determine if the woman’s death was a suicide or a murder.

Right now, Kimberly had a suspicious death, which technically fell under the sheriff’s jurisdiction, not that of the federal taskforce. She doubted, however, that Sheriff Smithers would balk at outside assistance with the case, especially as Martha Counsel’s death had to be related to the bodies they’d recovered. It was impossible to think otherwise.