Instead of giving the shirt a pull, she rolled onto her stomach. "Not me," she said. "Not me. You go down, not me. Oh, no: Not me."
"Okay," Rusty said. "That's okay. You don't have to come with us."
After helping her into the Pontiac, Rusty and Bass stepped far enough away to prevent her from hearing them. "I've got a couple of deputies on the way," Rusty explained. "We can stay with Faye till one of them gets here."
Bass nodded.
"Let's go over the whole story, okay?" Rusty took a small notebook and a pen out of his shirt pocket. "Give me as much detail as you can recall."
"Well, I went over to Faye's place at about eight to pick her up for our canoe trip. It's not Faye's place, really. She rooms there with Ina Jones. It's Ina's house."
"Do you know the address offhand?"
Nodding, Bass gave him Ina's address and he wrote it down.
"We were planning to take the canoe down river to the lake. We were going to have a picnic. . . ."
Bass went on telling his story until a car engine interrupted. Then he and Rusty watched the shaded area where the dirt road emerged from the woods. In moments, a brown patrol car appeared, it's tires raising dust. It pulled alongside Rusty's car and stopped. The door flew open. Deputy Jack Staffer stepped out. He walked quickly with the stiffness of a soldier approaching a general.
"Sorry I took so long, sir."
"We all have to eat," Rusty told him.
"Yes, sir."
"Jack, do you know Bass Paxton?"
"We've met." He nodded smartly toward Bass.
"We found a body," Bass told him. "Me and Faye Everett. Down by the river."
"Faye's in the car," Rusty said. "I want you to stay with her while we have a look down below. And talk to her. Find out what she has to say about all this."
Jack nodded briskly.
"The Pac'll be here pretty soon. Send her down when she arrives. And send down Birkus. He won't be able to get his Good Humor truck down to the shore, so he'll need to carry her up."
"Right."
"Faye's in bad shape, so be nice."
"Right, sir. Nice."
Rusty turned to Bass. "Let's go down and have a look."
They walked quickly down the trail. When they reached the bottom, trees no longer blocked the way and Rusty noticed a shape on the sand near the shore.
Even from this distance, he could tell that it was a naked woman. He could tell that she was dead, too. She looked all wrong. Her skin color was off. The positioning of her body looked awkward and unnatural. Even her shape looked strange and off kilter, though he couldn't really see from here that her head was gone.
"Where were you standing when you first saw the two of them?" Rusty asked.
"Just about here, I guess."
He glanced at his notes. "You said the man was a Caucasian, about thirty, five-eleven, a hundred and sixty pounds, and bald. Did he wear glasses?"
"No."
"Any physical irregularities? Did he limp? Have a scar? Any tattoos?"
"No, I don't think so. Not that I noticed."
They walked closer to the body.
"What about his voice? Did he speak with an accent?"
"Nothing foreign or anything. I mean, he sounded like he could be from around here. But all he said was 'Stay back.' "
Rust could now make out details of the woman's body.
It looked as if it had been a very fine body.
By the blue tint of her skin, he figured that she must've died by suffocation. Either she'd drowned or had been strangled. By her proximity to the river, death by drowning seemed likely.
Rusty looked at Bass.
The young man was gazing at her, a sickish look on his face.
"So after the man ran into the river with her head, did you come over and take a closer look at her?"
He nodded slightly.
"Did you touch her?"
"Touch her? No. Are you kidding? Why would I . . . ? No, I sure didn't."
"So she was in exactly this position when you found her?"
"Yeah."
"You didn't touch anything!"
"No."
"Okay. Just asking. I need to make sure everything's just the way you found it."
"Exactly the same. I mean, I know you're not supposed to fool with a crime scene."
"What about Faye?"
Turning slightly, Bass pointed. "She was over there barfing her guts out."
"So she didn't touch anything either?"
"No. Huh-uh."
"Good. Now, why don't you wait here?"
Rusty walked alone toward the body, moving his eyes carefully over the area near it. Slowly, he circled it. Then he approached, knelt down, and studied the neck stump. Flies were already on it. Though he started feeling nauseous, he stayed on his knees and refused to look away.
The spinal column looked as if it had been neatly severed with a fine-toothed saw.
Feeling more woosy than ever, Rusty realized he was holding his breath.
He scurried backward, got to his feet, and breathed again. Turning to Bass, he asked, "Where did the man enter the river?"
Bass pointed. "About there."
Unwrapping a cigar, Rusty walked over to the shore. "He was running?"
"Yeah."
Rusty stuffed the cellophane wrapper into his pocket. Then he bit off the end of his cigar and spat it out. "He entered about here?"
"That's right."
"What kind of stroke did he use?"
"Stroke?"
Rusty struck a match. Cupping it against the breeze, he sucked the flame into his cigar. He took a few puffs. "How did he swim? Breaststroke, sidestroke, crawl?"
"He was carrying her head."
"How'd he swim?"
"It was a sidestroke, I guess."
"He carried the head in one hand?"
"Sort of clutched against his chest. You know, like a football."
"Was the other hand free?"
Bass nodded. "I guess so."
"How long did you watch him?"
"Till he got across. I kept thinking I should chase him, but Faye wouldn't let go of me. And I didn't want to leave her alone."
"Just as well. You might've ended up as dead as that woman."
"Maybe."
"Did you see him get out on the other side?"
"Yeah."
"Was he still carrying her head?"
"Sure was."
Chapter Four
The Deputy
Deputy Mary Hodges, known from childhood as the Pac or just Pac because of her father's allegiance to his native Green Bay football heros, had never been accused of looking like a fullback. At five foot eleven, she didn't look much like a gymnast, either. Not until you saw her on the uneven parallel bars or vaulting horse. When a knee injury knocked her out of the Olympic finals, she'd joined the Sierra County Sheriff's Department.
Nepotism had nothing to do with her success; she'd been on the force two years before marrying the sheriff's son, Harney Hodges.
She smiled, remembering the way Harney was this morning when the telephone rang at the worst possible moment.
Celebrating the third anniversary of their wedding.
On top of her and madly thrusting.
"No!" he'd gasped.
"Yes."
"No!"
"Don't stop," she'd gasped. "God. No. Don't. Stop!"
It had still been ringing by the time they got done and they both rolled, still embracing, Harney still deep inside her. The rolling took them sideways across the bed and closer to the phone. From her position on top of Harney, she was able to reach out and pick up the handset.
"A homicide," she'd explained after hanging up.
"I'd like to homicide Madge."
"You're so mean when you're angry."
He'd laughed.
Pac took her foot off the gas pedal as the car broke through the last of the trees. Jack Staffer was standing between a Jaguar and a big old red Pontiac, talking to a young blonde. . . .
Bass Paxton's Grand Prix.
Bass is involved in this?
And that's Faye!
Pac drove past Bass's canoe, parked beside another patrol car and leaped out. "Faye, are you all right?"
"No, not really."
Pac turned to Jack. "What's going on?" she asked.
"She and Bass Paxton had a run-in with a headless corpse," Jack said. "Down there." He pointed toward the wooded slope. "Rusty wants you to do your stuff."
Pac nodded. To Faye, she said, "How do you feel?"
"Not too good." She made a feeble smile. "I'm feeling a little better though, I guess."
"You'll be all right."
"Sure."
"You're staying with her?" she asked Jack.
"Right."
She turned to Faye. "I have to go down. I'll probably be gone a while, but Jack'll stay here with you."
"Okay."
She hurried back to her patrol car and took a Nikon and a crime-scene kit out of the back seat. With a final glance at Jack and Faye, she started down the trail.
Normally, she would have enjoyed the heavy, sweet odor of pine. She might even have stopped to take photos of the cone-littered trail or of the dust-swirling, golden sunlight slanting down through the trees. But not this morning. Not with a dead body down below.
At the bottom of the trail, the trees ended and she could see Rusty wandering over the sand, head down, a cigar protruding from his mouth. Bass was standing a few yards from the body, not looking at it.
Her shoes dug into the sand as she hurried forward.
Rusty came over to her. "Sorry we had to drag you out of bed, darling."
She felt herself blush.
And Rusty noticed it. "Oh?" he said. "Hmm. Now I'm twice as sorry. Please tender my apologies to Harney, too."
"Nothing to apologize for."
"Bet he doesn't see it that way."
"Ah, he's all right."
"And happy anniversary. Sorry we had to interrupt it like this."
"These things happen."
"Not too often around here, they don't. You going out to dinner tonight?"
She nodded. "We've got reservations for the Fireside. Think I'll be able to keep 'em?"
"Sure. I don't see why not. But the sooner we get this situation wrapped up, the better."
"Who's our body?" Pac asked.
"If she belongs to the purse I found in the Jag, she's Alison Parkington. Resides in Santa Monica."
"Long way from home."
"Hi, Pac," Bass said, striding toward her.
She turned to him. "Hey, Bass."
"How you doing?" he asked.
"Not bad," she said.
"Wish I could say the same."
"You can go back up to Faye if you'd like," Rusty told him. "We'll want statements, though, so stay with Deputy Staffer."
Bass nodded. He muttered, "Guess I'll go on up." He glanced toward the body, but quickly looked away. To Pac, he said, "See you later. Say hi to Harney for me."
"Sure. See you."
He started walking toward the trail.
Rusty stepped closer to Pac. "Bass and Faye found the body at about nine o'clock this morning," he explained. "They were planning on a canoe trip to the lake. When they got down here, they saw the body. It was where it is right now. But it wasn't alone. An adult male was in the sand beside the body, apparently asleep. About thirty years old, five-eleven, a hundred and sixty pounds, bald."
"Bald?" Pac asked.
"He sounds a lot like you."
"I'm not . . . Rusty!"
"Sorry," he said, grinning. "Couldn't help it."
Pac glanced around. She saw nobody. So she slugged Rusty in the upper arm.
He grimaced.
"Sorry," Pac said. "Couldn't help it. So, what was this guy wearing?"
Rusty rubbed his arm, then glanced at his notebook. "Blue jeans, no shirt, no shoes."
"Did Bass and Faye get a look at his face?"
"Just for a moment, apparently. Faye might not've even seen that much. The way Bass tells it, the guy had his back to them most of the time. And Faye freaked out when she saw that the gal was short a head. We'll have to talk to her and get the details, but it sounds like she tried to see as little as possible."
"She's a pretty squeamish girl," Pac said.
"Well, I might get squeamish myself if I saw a fellow go running off with somebody's head."
"He took it?"
"Bass said he ran into the river with it and swam to the other side. Apparently, he wanted to take it home as a souvenir, or something."
"Maybe he'll have it stuffed and mounted," Pac said. Then she switched her camera on. "Guess I'd better get this show on the road."
Nodding, Rusty said, "Make sure you get some good close-ups of the neck. And take shots of the tracks that go over to the river, too. They aren't much, but you never know. We'll get Jack down here with a rake. Maybe we can come up with the saw or whatever our bad guy used. And the clothes. Doesn't look like there're clothes around here anywhere. I can't imagine the gal walked all the way down from the parking lot bare-ass naked."
"Doesn't seem too likely."
"Of course, she might've had no say in it."
"Might've already been dead," Pac suggested.
"Could be, could be." Rusty nodded, frowning. Then he said, "When you get finished down here, go on up and take care of the Jaguar. The gal might've come out here alone, but I doubt it. If we're going to come up with any latents, they'll probably be on the car."
"Or the saw."
"If we find it," Rusty said. "Now, I'm going to have myself a look on the other side of the river." He tossed away his cigar. "You stay here."
"How're you going to get over there?"
"Swim, of course." He grinned. Then he walked to the shore, staying well to the left of the shallow indentations in the sand he'd asked Pac to photograph. Near the water's edge, he took off his shirt.
His back was tanned and freckled. He looked like a heavier, more powerful version of Harney.
He set his folded shirt in the sand, unstrapped his gun belt, and put it down on the shirt.
"You're going unarmed?" Pac asked.
"You're not supposed to be watching me, young lady. The sight of my pulchritude's likely to stir you up and get us both in trouble."
She laughed.
"Go on and take your pictures."
She waited until Rusty had stripped down to his boxer shorts, then snapped one.
He spun around, his face redder than usual.