Stone Maidens (16 page)

“Almighty God!”

The hunter recoiled, and the ridge of his boot heel caught on a branch, sending him and his gun flying apart. The weapon discharged with a loud crack, and a handful of blackbirds materialized out of the trees, flapping their way to safety wildly.

Now the pointer’s whining sounded nearly human as it gazed down at its master. Regaining composure, the hunter approached the spot. A stiffened forearm stuck out; purple-blue fingers projected upward like a decomposing blossom, still attached to a body that lay somewhere beneath the leaves.

He reconnoitered, memorizing the spot, then wreathed the tree closest to the body with red plastic ribbon. It was what he used for marking trunks when his dog treed a coon too high up
for buckshot and he had to go retrieve his rifle. Before leaving, he said a small prayer, then turned to get help.

It was September 2, and the hunt for Julie’s killer was about to officially begin.

The fourth day of September broke smoky. Wisps of gray sky brushed the treetops. A chilly dampness roosted over yellowed pipes of cut corn.

McFaron rose from bed to the sound of the portable phone—Mary calling. A tireless servant, the dispatcher was always there electronically by McFaron’s side. She’d taken plenty of hits for him lately, while he was so involved in the search for Julie Heath. Last week a farmer had come barreling into the office, pissed off and saying he wouldn’t budge from McFaron’s desk till the sheriff showed up. It was no contest for Mary, who had stuck her thumbs through the top of her bullet belt, flashed her .38 Special in its leather holster, and gotten right in his face. The farmer had taken a corner chair by the door without another word.

“Sorry to be bothering you so early, Joe. Bob Heath phoned. Wants you to call him right away. Over.”

“I’ll give him a call on the way in.”

“Copy that, Sheriff.”

McFaron put his feet on the floor and scratched his head fiercely. An image of Karen Heath retching on her hands and knees after he’d given her the news yesterday shot through his head. He’d driven the distraught mother to the home construction site where her husband was working. The disappearance of his child had already been a huge drain on Bob Heath; it was obvious to McFaron that over the past month, the work on the house
had hardly progressed. The sheriff had stayed long enough to tell Bob the news, told it to a face already fearing the worst. Hearing the brief facts of his daughter’s death, Bob shuffled off toward his truck and sat down on the tailgate. He didn’t even notice his wife, who didn’t seem to notice her husband, either. She stayed seated in the sheriff’s truck, her forehead resting against the dash. The sheriff’s last act before leaving had been to lead Karen from his truck into the passenger side of Bob’s vehicle. As he’d driven off, McFaron had checked his rearview. Julie’s mother was slumped forward in her seat. Her father remained unmoving on the tailgate.

What could he do for Karen and Bob and little Maddy now? He was unable to shake Karen’s eyes: they were lost, no matter what he did. Her grief was his grief, too.

It was too early to start beating himself up. On his way to the crime scene, he radioed Mary from the Bronco. “I’m expecting the FBI today.”

“FBI?” Mary said. “Were you planning to fill me in? Over.”

“I wasn’t exactly consulted in advance,” McFaron said with an edge to his voice. “As county coroner, Doc Henegar had to report the murder to the feds. Don’t repeat that, please. Evidently it’s very similar to two other killings the FBI is investigating.” Suddenly he saw again Doc inserting the spatula through the purple slit along Julie Heath’s side. She was filleted like a fish; the perp took her insides out and left her empty—what kind of creep could do that? The whole thing seemed unreal, like a scene from a movie he’d rented about an alien monster that bored through its victims.

“And just when is this agent going to be arriving?”

“I have no idea. Doc said she’ll be flying in from Chicago, a female anthropologist of some kind.”

“A female agent?” Surprise registered in her voice. “Can we assume she’ll be on the eleven o’clock incoming? And do we need to arrange for someone to meet her?”

McFaron thought he detected a twinge of indignation in Mary’s tone. “Yes, yes, and no. We can assume she’ll be arriving
at eleven, but we don’t know for sure. She’ll have to arrange her own transportation. Right now I’m off to take another look at the crime scene,” he said, feeling pressure to find crucial evidence before the FBI hit town.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“To call Bob Heath, I know.”

“What about your coffee?” she said in a muffled voice. “It’s already brewed and waiting, nice and hot.” She swallowed some of her Swiss Miss hot chocolate. “You won’t last ten minutes scrounging around the wet forest without caffeine and a fresh cruller.”

“Save me one. Over and out.”

McFaron rode the brakes as the grade steepened; fog engulfed the Bronco in an early morning whiteout. Houses and trees suddenly vanished. Fine droplets silently dotted the windshield. When an especially nasty shred of fog erased all traces of the road in front of him, McFaron pulled off to the side of the road. He closed his eyes, hoping to get a few moments’ rest, but the image of young Julie’s desecrated body was right there every time he lowered his eyelids.

A black limo with government plates idled in a parking space outside O’Hare. Prusik’s driver pulled into the empty space beside it. For a moment she bristled, imagining that Bruce Howard had ridden in to catch the same flight to Crosshaven, beating her to the punch. Then she realized the absurdity of her thinking. Howard was driving down with the forensics field unit in the RV. Only a lone driver sat waiting in the limo.

She grabbed her bags and hustled through the terminal’s automatic doors. She had left instructions for Brian Eisen and Paul Higgins to track down each and every member of the painting crews who were doing renovations at the Museum of Natural History the previous March. The museum thefts and the special gilt paint flecks found in one of the victims’ hair might prove to be
linked and to show that the killer had deeper connections with the greater Chicago area. Under a high-powered bioscope Eisen had located a needle-sized hole piercing the quill of the feather recovered from the crime scene in Blackie, proving it may have been part of some sort of body decoration or mask that the killer used.

Lines of waiting passengers snaked their way toward the security screening area and the boarding gates beyond. Prusik flashed her ID at the guard at the head of one line and passed through the metal detector without a wait—one of the few privileges of her job, though most of the time she didn’t feel very privileged.

An overhead TV screen flashed 7:20 a.m.

“Christine?”

Thorne stood not ten feet away beneath a bank of arrival and departure monitors, inspecting his ticket. His brown briefcase perfectly matched his tortoiseshell frames.

“Why hello, Roger,” Prusik said. She blushed, then reminded herself that she was over him.

His eyelids fluttered. “Was there something you wanted to tell me before I left?” He studied the shiny chronograph strapped to his wrist. “My plane for Washington’s boarding promptly.” He motioned forward with his head.

“Oh, you mean”—Prusik hoisted her heavy forensic case partway—“I guess we’re both en route, sir.”

Thorne’s brow furrowed. “Funny, for a second I thought, how wonderful, Christine’s trying to catch me at the airport to deliver some important last-minute news Washington would want to hear.”

She restrained herself from blurting out an expletive and instead reported on the girl’s body found in Crosshaven.

Thorne nodded. “Yes, I’m aware of it. Bruce called me from the mobile field unit. They’re already on the road. He also told me they’ve turned up blood evidence. Why haven’t I heard a thing from you about this Julie Heath who’s gone missing for over a month?”

Prusik’s cheeks warmed. “I’m on my way to the crime scene myself and will let you know ASAP what I find there.” Why hadn’t Howard told her about the blood?

“I was waiting till I knew a little more until I gave you a briefing. As I said, I’m on my way there now.” It sounded lame even to her.

“All right, Christine. I know I shouldn’t interfere.” Thorne gave her a tight smile. “Actually, I had asked Bruce to call me since I hadn’t heard of any solid leads directly from your team. I had hoped by now to have some names of potential suspects.” He held her gaze for a moment and then looked away.

Christine nodded but didn’t speak.

“Look, Christine, this isn’t the time or place for interoffice squabbles, which, as I’ve said, I may have contributed to. For that I am sorry. You’re right to be irritated.” He cleared his throat. “However, you are not right to have waited to tell me about this Heath girl. You need to do a better job of keeping me apprised of the situation.” He paused, studying her for a moment. “Keep in mind that the mobile unit
is
under Bruce’s command and the lab team is under yours, technically speaking. Now, if you have nothing else to report on the case, please excuse me. I’ve got a plane to catch.”

Christine watched him stride off, amazed at what sounded like an apology coming from her boss. “Will wonders never cease?” she murmured. Then she turned and made her way to her own gate, her mind already on the day ahead.

An hour and a half after takeoff the plane descended to the small airfield a few miles north of Crosshaven. Outside Prusik hailed the only taxi: a decrepit-looking hulk with D
ENNIS
M
URFREE’S
C
AR
S
ERVICE
stenciled on the cab door.

She slid over the backseat in her navy-blue suit. It had just enough polyester to make it travel well and, more important,
flatten unnecessary bulges and flatter the good ones. She had picked it up at Marshall’s off Lake Shore Drive, where the nouveau riche flocked to buy on the cheap but didn’t like to admit it. It had stood the test all her clothes went through, proving itself capable of surviving a trek through the woods in all kinds of weather. She was sure she’d be scouring the woods.

“Howdy, ma’am.” Murfree stayed slouched in the driver’s seat. A cigarette bounced up and down between his lips. “Where to?” A coughing spasm cut him short and turned his face beet red.

“Dr. Walter Henegar’s office, please,” Prusik said. “Do you know where it is?”

Murfree grasped the steering wheel with both hands, his watery eyes staring blankly ahead.

Prusik futilely scanned the parking lot looking for a place to rent a car. “Would you like me to find you something to drink?”

Still unable to speak, he waved her off. The car reeked of tobacco even with all the windows open. Ceiling upholstery hung down, tattered and yellowed. Murfree recovered and jerked the car into gear. It chuffed once, then died. Prusik closed her eyes. A minute later they were bouncing down an access road on shot springs. Prusik clutched her bags tightly to keep her instruments from jarring loose.

Murfree drove through the middle of town past a diner. A neon sign in its window read F
INE
E
ATING
H
ERE
. Smoke funneled out a side chimney so thick and oily Prusik could smell it. Five minutes later Murfree pulled off the road beside an old two-story frame house. Nothing from its exterior gave the impression that inside a doctor ran a medical practice—no identifying name or professional sign, only a postal number crudely painted on a porch column. Prusik walked around the idling cab to Murfree’s open window.

“You’re sure this is the morgue?”

“Yessum, around back.” Murfree’s coughing returned big-time. “Go on through.” He seemed to point toward the main door,
though it was hard to tell due to what was becoming a nasty hacking fit. The cabbie’s reddened face reminded Prusik of her own father’s, though it hadn’t been smoking that had made him so damn red. It was Yortza, Prusik’s mercurial mother. She patted Murfree’s narrow shoulder.

“Look, it’s probably none of my business, but have you thought of getting a nicotine patch?”