The Body Finder (13 page)

He answered his phone on the first ring, his voice enthusiastic. Violet cringed a little. After they exchanged some small talk, she plunged right into her plan.

She laid out her words carefully, following the script she'd prepared in her head before placing the call.

“Anyway, I was calling because with everything that's been going on, I haven't even had a chance to visit Brooke's grave yet, and I feel terrible about it,” Violet explained as sincerely as she could.

“Man, I didn't even know you guys were friends.”

“Yeah. We played softball and soccer together when we were younger, and even though we didn't see each other much, I was still devastated when I heard…you know…” She tried to sound broken up, like she couldn't finish her sentence. She wished she were one of those girls who could cry on command, just for dramatic effect. “Do you think…would you mind…taking me? So I don't have to go alone…?” Her voice trailed off, and she waited for his answer.

She nailed it perfectly, from form to execution. And even with the high degree of difficulty, she had to give herself a perfect 10 for her performance. Jay would have seen right through it, but Grady was clueless.

“When do you want to go?” he asked.

“Can you be here in an hour?”

She probably could have told him to be there in two minutes, and he would have been there in one.

When Violet hung up, she was surprised that she didn't feel even the slightest hint of guilt over her deceit, and she wondered if she would have felt differently if it had been Jay she'd lied to.

The next part of her plan was a little trickier. She had to convince her parents to let her go.

Her dad was still at work, but her mom was in her studio.
Violet wandered across the lawn to the small shed that had been converted into an art studio, and when she pushed the door open she was assaulted by the familiar linen-y scent of canvas and the more vaporous fumes of paint thinner.

Her mom smiled in greeting as she was cleaning brushes in an old Mason jar filled with the caustic cleaners. “What's up, Vi?”

Violet hesitated, and her first real pang of guilt battered at her conscience. But there was no turning back now, she decided, and she forged ahead anyway. “Grady Spencer called and asked if I could go to the cemetery with him.”

Her mom's eyebrows rose at the unusual request, and she stopped stirring the brushes, wiping her hands on her paint-smeared smock. She seemed concerned, and Violet knew why. This wasn't something Violet would normally ask.

Violet plunged into her rehearsed explanation. “I guess he was friends with the girl that was killed, the one from Bonney Lake. He wants to take flowers to her grave but he doesn't want to go alone.” She could scarcely believe she'd said that without flinching. “I didn't think it would be a big deal, especially since he'll be with me, so I told him I would.” She forced herself to appear as relaxed as she could manage at the moment, while her heart hammered nervously against her rib cage. “It's okay, isn't it?”

Maggie Ambrose studied her daughter thoughtfully. “Are you sure, Violet?”

Violet nodded and held her breath as she looked at her mom warily, watching for any signs of what she might be
thinking. For a moment, she thought she saw a fleeting look of skepticism, and she wondered if maybe she'd laid it on a little too thick.

Finally, though, her mom went back to cleaning her brushes and shrugged. “I suppose it's fine. As long as you two stay together.” She gave Violet a look that said she was serious. “I mean it, Violet Marie…stay together.
And be careful
.”

“We will, Mom. Thanks.” She ran up and gave her mom a quick kiss on the cheek, surprising them both a little. Violet hadn't done that in ages, and she couldn't help thinking that the impulsive action was brought on by her own burning sense of shame at having flat-out lied to her mother. Maybe the affectionate gesture made her feel a little less remorse for what she was about to do.

But even with the heft of her conscience weighing on her, Violet practically skipped away from the converted shed and waited impatiently in the house for Grady to arrive.

VIOLET SAT IN THE PASSENGER SEAT OF GRADY'S
souped-up, five-year-old Nissan Sentra. It was a strange car to have “pimped out,” although she kept that thought to herself since Grady was so obviously proud of it, puffing up as he pointed out the new spinners and the iridescent-purple paint job he'd put over the stock champagne silver it had worn from the factory. The engine was ridiculously loud, another thing Grady was enormously pleased by.

But for Violet, the noisy ride couldn't ease the tension she felt now that she was actually following through with her plan. She couldn't believe she'd pulled it off. But it came with a price.

She could feel the muscles in the back of her neck bunching
up the closer they got to the small downtown cemetery where Brooke Johnson had been buried. Grady must have mistaken her anxiety for grief—over the loss of her invented friendship with Brooke—because he'd stopped bothering her with his constant stream of small talk once they rounded the bend on the winding riverside road.

But for once, Violet had the opportunity to do something useful with her ability, and she refused to shirk that obligation.

The heavy, black, wrought-iron fencing came into view as Grady made the final left-hand turn toward the cemetery.

Violet was surprised when they reached the entrance and she hadn't yet felt, or rather
sensed
, anything from within the gated walls. She worried that maybe she'd been wrong about all of this. That maybe this was similar to what happened with the animals she'd discovered in the woods, when their individual echoes seemed to vanish into a nearly imperceptible static noise once she'd reburied them in her own personal graveyard.

And if it was just static, maybe she wouldn't be able to distinguish Brooke Johnson's echo from the rest.

Grady pulled the car into a small lot and turned off the deafening engine.

When she stepped out of the car, Violet was immediately immersed in an electric crackling. It was all around her, only slightly different from the staticky hum she'd become accustomed to in her own improvised graveyard…but definitely there nonetheless. The tension in her neck was back, and she braced herself for a sensory onslaught.

Grady couldn't hear a thing.

He rounded the car and walked quietly beside her as they began to wander, little by little, through the rows of headstones and grave markers. Small American flags sprang up from the ground in several spots, and Violet was careful not to disturb any of the homemade memorials that filled the cemetery with vibrance and color, taking on a life of their own.

“Do you know where she's buried?” he asked, his voice acquiring a somber quality, echoing the solemn atmosphere of the cemetery that stretched out before them.

She didn't know. For some reason, Violet hadn't even considered that it might be a problem
finding
the girl's grave; she'd just assumed that she would know where it was…that she would somehow
sense
Brooke's location among the others buried here. She shook her head in answer to his question.

“That's okay,” Grady said, taking it in stride, and suddenly Violet felt like she was with her old friend again. She'd missed him. “We'll just walk around until we find it,” he reassured her.

Violet supposed he was right; it shouldn't be too hard. It was a small cemetery, taking up less than a few square blocks. But when she looked out at the sea of headstones, many covered with flowers and balloons, she was amazed by how many grave sites seemed to fit into the relatively small space.

Violet soon realized that the white noise wasn't just static after all. As she concentrated, trying to find her way toward Brooke Johnson, she could
feel
fluctuations in the energy of it. She took a deep breath, trying to relax herself enough so that she could work on separating one energy from another.

There were definitely echoes of the murdered here.

She heard a shrill explosion of fireworks somewhere very nearby, and she flinched, turning nearly full circle to see where it had come from. The crisp crackling sounds were familiar, reminding her of hot July days and summertime picnics.

“What's wrong?” Grady asked, eyeing her curiously.

Violet realized that she'd just separated her first echo from the others.

“Nothing,” she answered honestly as she moved in the direction of the sound. She needed to find where it had come from, hoping she'd gotten lucky and found Brooke already.

She stopped at a stone marker, with a bronze engraved faceplate that read:

 

EDITH BERNHARD
June 19, 1932—May 2, 1998
Adored Wife and Mother

 

The banging and popping sounds were so clear here, as Violet stood in front of the simple headstone, that she could almost smell the sulfurous smoke of fireworks that was conspicuously missing. She wondered about Edith Bernhard, dead at age sixty-five. She wondered who she was and how she'd died…and who she'd left behind. It wasn't a natural death, not for Edith…not with her echo. But what then? Murder? Euthanasia for a woman sick and suffering? Suicide? Could suicide even leave an echo? Did Edith carry the imprint of her own murder?

“Did you know her?”

For a moment Violet had forgotten that Grady was still there, but he was standing right behind her now, reading the woman's headstone over her shoulder. Somehow, Violet felt as if he was intruding on the dead woman's privacy simply by being there.

“No. I was just looking,” she answered as she drew Grady away from the grave site.

They wandered around like that, Violet stopping abruptly at several distinct echoes that managed to unravel themselves from the rest. She stopped at the strong smell of coffee to read a marker for a man who had died in his early thirties…over forty years ago.

She had the feeling that every inch of her skin was being softly raked by a thousand downy feathers, making her pause at the site of an infant who had died just days after he was born…eleven years ago. Violet felt a sense of sadness as she thought about what might have happened to the baby to give him a tragic echo of his own, and she had to walk away, feeling uneasy and dissatisfied.

When she first heard the sound of the bells, they were so clear, so crisp, that she was sure they were part of the real world. She was certain that she must be near a clock tower, somewhere in the cemetery, as it chimed the hour. There was something hauntingly melodic about the sound, though, something too heartrending to be real. She glanced around her, sweeping a quick look over to Grady to see if he'd noticed it too.

Not surprisingly, though, there were no clocks to be seen,
no towers, and from the look on Grady's face it was clear that he hadn't heard what she had.

It was an echo.

And more than that, Violet was certain that this was Brooke's echo. Compelling and strong.

Violet brushed past Grady, consumed by the need to find the source of the bells.

It didn't take her long. The musical chiming served as a beacon, making it easy to locate the grave. Fresh flowers cascaded down from the top of the headstone, avalanching onto the grass below. Silvery Mylar balloons, still suspended by the helium within, swayed back and forth in the autumn breeze. Violet had to bend over once she'd found the site to clear the mementos out of the way just so she could see the name on the marker.

It was her:

 

BROOKE LYNNE JOHNSON
Treasured Daughter
Beloved Friend

 

Just seeing the date of her birth, followed by that of her death, made Violet's knees feel weak and unsteady, and she sank to the ground, ignoring the cool dampness that saturated her jeans. They had been so close in age, and had once lived so near each other. As comfortable with death as Violet had always been, this girl's brutal murder was just too real to her.

She closed her eyes and listened to the bells. They
resonated sweetly, reaching to her core, very nearly reaching her soul, the sound vibrating throughout her as it moved with a life of its own.

She memorized it.

It was an
auditory echo
. And it was still strong, not yet faded from the passage of time. Violet would be able to track it. She would recognize the sound anywhere. Anytime.

And the man who wore this imprint was oblivious to that fact.

She suddenly felt like the predator, carrying the most powerful weapon of all. Now she would become the hunter…and he, the hunted.

She waited only a few moments longer than she needed to, silently thanking Brooke for sharing this time with her…for sharing her heartbreakingly beautiful echo.

Grady was waiting for her at a respectful distance.

When they walked back through the graveyard, Violet let all the echoes, including Brooke's, fall back into one harmonious static hum, filling her with tranquillity once again.

They were bodies at peace. Ripped from this world before their time, but laid to rest by those who loved them most. And they were in harmony.

HE WORE THE COVER OF DARKNESS LIKE A NIGHTTIME
shroud. But even though the blackness shielded him, he couldn't help glancing around one last time as he closed the trunk of his car as softly as he could.

He didn't need a flashlight out here, even if he'd had a free hand to hold one with. He knew his way by heart; he had practiced this route many times before, in anticipation. He had memorized each step until he could pace it with his eyes closed. That was how it needed to be, because his load was heavy, and he didn't have time to spare finding his way.

He hauled the musty military-grade duffel bag up from the ground, the unwieldy contents shifting, straining his back even before
he started moving. He slung the long strap across his chest, using his upper body to help balance the weight. His pace was stable and sure, despite the burden he carried, his feet finding their way around the natural obstructions hidden in the blackness.

He counted each measured step until he reached his destination, and then he dropped his cumbersome load. His pulse had quickened, and his breathing, which had already been labored, now grew even more ragged and unsteady. He felt a familiar eagerness, something he hoped he would never grow accustomed to…. It thrilled him to his very bones.

He loved this part of the game.

He bent down, savoring the work ahead, and he unzipped the bag at his feet.

The unmistakable metallic scent of blood lingered with the wispy trace of barely decaying flesh. He inhaled it all deeply. In a moment it would be over, and he would never smell this particular girl again.

He turned and dropped to his knees. He used his hands to sift through the soft soil and the leaves where he'd previously prepared the dump site. The dirt was heavier now, after a fine autumn drizzle, making him labor a little more than he'd anticipated. But he didn't mind; this too was a part of what he appreciated about the hunt…this final act, in which he released the girl, once and for all, burying his secrets along with her.

By the time the hole was ready, he had broken out in an icy sweat that was chilled by the night air. He lifted one end of the canvas bag and jerked it so that the body inside shifted, falling through the open zipper and landing with a heavy thud inside the superficial grave. He felt nothing for the girl as he used his hands
to cover her with the freshly sifted earth.

When he finished burying her, he reached for a loose pile of leaves that he'd left nearby and he layered the exposed terrain with them, making the scene look as natural as possible. Not that it would be necessary way out here.

He stood up and shook the soil from his hands and clothes, using the back of his sleeves to wipe the sweat and dirt from his face before gathering the bag and folding it into a meticulously tight roll, which he tucked beneath his right arm. He reached out in the darkness and put his hand against the trunk of a tree to his left, a guide he used to calculate his way back, and he began to follow his premeditated path back toward his car.

Once he was safely inside, he surveyed the area as best he could, and satisfied that he'd gone completely unnoticed, he started his engine.

As he pulled away from his hiding place amid the overgrown brush and trees, he checked his face for any grimy remnants in the mirror before turning out onto the main road. He waited for some sense of relief to catch up with him, some feeling of accomplishment of a job well done…some sense of achievement…of conclusiveness.

But it never came. Instead all he felt was a restless stirring coming from deep within him.

He wouldn't be able to wait this time. The familiar feelings were coming faster and faster after each girl, the impatience to find another…to start the hunt again.

He was insatiable, he decided. Unquenchable. Ravenous for the chase.

Soon,
he assured himself.
Soon.