Lineage(135)

All was reflected in the silver lenses of the uniformed man who stood chewing on an unrecognizable toothpick. His brow was pulled nearly below his sunglass frames, and his black baseball hat threw his lean face into shadow.

“Think there’s someone in there, Sheriff?” the young man said as he stepped up to the edge of the riverbank. The deputy’s uniform was rumpled and his hair was an unruly mop that hung lankly over his forehead.

The older man merely shrugged and watched the swirling currents of the deep water where the cable of the tow truck disappeared. The surface closer to the shoreline began to bulge, and then an oblong shape appeared in the cool sunlight of the September afternoon.

It took the sheriff’s aging eyes a moment to discern what he was seeing, but then the red of a taillight and the flicker of chrome became clear.

“Well, I’ll be damned. I guess I didn’t think there’d be a car, but look at that,” the deputy said. The older man walked down to the edge of the river, and after a moment the younger officer shrugged and followed.

Water rushed from the emerging vehicle, and just from a glance, the sheriff could tell it was an early-model Chrysler. None of the paint was visible through the grime and refuse that had collected and eaten into the doors, hood, and trunk of the small car. He searched the rear end for a license plate but could see none, not because of the accumulated grime but because it had been removed.

The winch’s groan stuttered and then fell silent as the tow-truck driver flipped a switch, leaving the valley in a peaceful silence.

“Thank you, Jerry,” the sheriff said as he passed the truck. The driver nodded and opened the door to the cab, and began scribbling on an invoice pad.

The sheriff ran his hand along the seam of the trunk until his fingers met an outcropping. He knelt and rubbed the mud and slime from the area until he could see the letters there, upraised, offering themselves for all to see.

“Caravelle? When the f*ck did they stop making those? Christ himself drove one, didn’t he?” the younger man crowed as he peered over the sheriff’s shoulder.

“Deputy?” The sheriff remained kneeling, but his voice snapped like a whip in the autumn air. “Conduct yourself as though this is a crime scene.” He heard the deputy clear his throat, but no other sounds came from behind him. He stared at the letters lined in cheap chrome for another moment, and then walked to the driver’s-side door.

The window was down and years of submersion had remade the interior into an exaggerated version of its original state. The seats had expanded to twice their normal size, and the dashboard’s features were muddled but still recognizable—a stereo knob here, a shifter there, and a rigid steering wheel that refused to relinquish its identity.

The sheriff’s eyes traveled over everything, and settled onto the occupant in the driver’s seat.

The skeleton was unmistakably female. Its delicate bones and small teeth were the first things that jumped out to him, which he catalogued and stored away in his mind. The arms and hands rested close to the corpse’s lap, and he could see something dark there—wire. The wrists were wrapped together, and only death and decay had loosened the wire’s former hold. Leaning forward into the car, he confirmed what he already had been thinking. The ankles were also bound.

The sheriff straightened and noticed his deputy sidling closer behind him to get a look.

“Fuck me. We got a murder here, Sheriff,” the younger man said.

The sheriff exhaled and focused on keeping his temper in check. The kid had only been on the job for six months. He’d straighten out. He hoped.

“Uh, Sheriff? We got company.”

The sheriff turned and looked where the disheveled deputy was pointing.

A man stood on the slight rise that marked the beginnings of nearly sixty acres of field that bordered the winding river. He was tall and had dark hair. He was dressed in loose jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. Dark glasses obscured his eyes.

“Hey, crime scene! Get the f*ck out of here!” the deputy yelled, and began to close the distance between himself and the lone man.

“Garrison, stop.” The deputy turned, a confused look neighboring on stupidity hung on his face. “I’ll handle it,” the sheriff said, and strode past his subordinate toward the figure that hadn’t moved.

As he approached the man, he studied him, waiting for the signs of flight that he half expected. The man didn’t even seem to be looking at him. The dark glasses were trained on the still-dripping car below them.