Redemption Road(92)

“This is my business.”

“It’s like I told you.” Beckett pinched a mosquito from his neck; rolled blood between a thumb and finger. “We wait for Francis.”

*

When Dyer showed up, he looked haggard, his shadow climbing the wall as he entered the ring of lights. He didn’t say anything at first, choosing instead to study the boarded windows, the small, square hole behind the ratty bush. “I told you by the book.”

“I know.”

“That means no cadaver dog without clearance from me.”

“I know that, too.”

“So what?” Dyer’s hands found his hips. “We didn’t have enough bodies for you? Not enough pressure?”

“What I’ve found…” Beckett shook his head. “I’m not sure Adrian’s our killer.”

“You button that right now.” Dyer studied all the faces watching, then led Beckett to a quieter place at the far edge of the lights. “What do you mean you’re not sure?”

“We don’t know how long these remains have been under the ground. What if they’re only five years old or ten? Adrian’s been locked up longer than that.”

“If he murdered one, he could murder another nine or another fifty. Maybe Julia Strange wasn’t the first.”

“Or maybe we have another killer on our hands.”

“They could just as easily be old,” Dyer said. “Maybe those bodies have been there for a hundred years or two hundred. Maybe the church was built above them for some reason we don’t understand.”

“The graves aren’t that old.”

“How can you know that?”

Beckett snapped his fingers and waited for a tech to bring a set of disposable coveralls. “Put these on,” he said. “I’ll show you.”

*

Under the church, Beckett pointed. “Stay clear of the drag marks.”

“There’re two sets.”

“One of them is mine.”

“The other looks fresh.”

“It was here before me.”

“Don’t tell me that.”

“That’s only part of it. This way.”

Beckett went in front. He looked back twice, but Dyer was sliding easily beneath the joists. When they reached the graves, Beckett stopped and let Dyer move up beside him. Shadows danced, and bones flashed gray. Dyer froze when he saw the graves.

“We’re directly beneath the altar. Here.” Beckett handed Dyer a pair of latex gloves and put on a pair himself. “I count nine graves, laid out in a two-hundred-degree arc.” Beckett pointed his flashlight at the bones, the bit of skull. “You see the hollow place in the center?”

“It looks fresh, too.”

“Recently disturbed.” Beckett shifted so he could see Dyer’s face. “Someone comes here.”

Dyer frowned. He slid a few more inches in the dry, red earth and put his light on each grave in turn. “They could still be old.”

“Look at this.” Beckett shone his light on the photograph wedged above the joist. “I found it twenty minutes ago.”

“What do you mean you found it? Like that?”

“I wanted you to see it the way it was, so I put it back.” Beckett snapped open an evidence bag and reached for the photo, gentling it out and sealing it in the bag. “Do you know who that is?”

Dyer took the photograph and studied it for long seconds, tilting it, smoothing a thumb across the slick plastic. He looked once more at the hollow place, the gray bones, and the mounded earth. “Liz can’t know about this,” he said. “Not yet.”





23

Elizabeth couldn’t sleep. She came close more than once, but every time she drifted, she jerked awake thinking she’d heard Channing’s voice, or Gideon’s. Once that happened, her imagination kicked in, and she saw them as they probably were: Channing in general population, Gideon in a narrow bed. They were still her responsibility, so it seemed wrong to be tucked under a soft blanket with long views of purple water. So instead of sleeping, Elizabeth prowled the house. She walked long halls beneath carved beams. She fixed another drink, then stepped onto the deck and thought of other times and other waters.

The car, when it came, was like a voice in the woods.

Elizabeth walked back through the house and onto the rear porch in time to see the limousine roll to a stop.

“Where’s Mr. Jones?” She met the driver, a big man with large features, beside the car. Seen up close, she thought he seemed afraid. How long since they’d left? Twenty minutes? Less?

“You’re the cop, right? The one that’s in the papers?”

“Elizabeth Black, yes. Where’s Faircloth?”

“He told me to have some dinner.”

“Yet, you’re here.”

“Truth be told, ma’am, I’m worried. I’ve been driving Mr. Jones these past days. He’s a nice man, and gentle. Always the kind word, the bit of advice. He’s an easy man to care for, and—well—that’s the problem.”

“Where is he?”

“See, he wanted me to leave him there.”

“At the old farm?”

“I didn’t want to do it. I told him the man there was not his sort, not with the scars and hard looks and darkness coming down.”