Field of Bones Page 8

  But that book in particular was about a guy whose name she couldn’t remember. Alan, maybe? Anyway, he’d been out hiking by himself in the wilderness somewhere out west. There’d been an avalanche, and a big rock—a boulder that was far too heavy for him to move—had landed on his arm.

  So there he was, trapped and alone, with no one to help him. He was there for a period of time—Latisha didn’t remember exactly how long—before his water ran out. That was when he realized that if he didn’t get loose, he was going to die, so he tied a tourniquet around his arm and then used a pocket knife to cut off his lower arm to save his life.

  But Latisha didn’t have a knife. She had water, kibble, four blankets, and darkness—and that was it. Oh, and maybe God, too—in case He was still listening. And so she prayed again, without benefit of a rosary, whispering the words into the silent gloom.

  “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

  After asking another blessing for Sandra and Sadie and Amelia, Latisha found herself oddly at peace. In the darkness that prayer she hadn’t wanted to learn, just like Lyle’s remembered pancakes, offered her comfort. And in that moment of hopefulness, she made herself a promise. She swore that if she ever did get out of here, if someone came to her rescue and she somehow managed to live, she would track that book down and read the whole thing, from cover to cover, because she now understood that man on the mountainside. He’d been left alone with nothing but his thoughts and prayers, and so had she.

  Chapter 10

  AFTER ALMOST TWO WEEKS OF BEING STUCK AT HOME WITH THE kids and feeling more than a little stir-crazy, Joanna had jumped at the offer when Marianne Maculyea called, inviting her to their customary Saturday lunch at Daisy’s Café. She had wanted to get Denny into the barbershop for a pre-Thanksgiving haircut, and going to lunch afterward sounded just about right.

  With her grandsons home from school, Carol usually didn’t come in on Saturdays, so getting ready to go out fell to Joanna on her own. Two kids instead of one made the process more complex than she remembered. First she had to transfer Denny’s car seat from Butch’s Subaru, where he usually rode, to the middle seat in Joanna’s Enclave. Then, with her purse over her shoulder, a diaper bag in one hand, and Sage’s infant seat in the other, Joanna headed for the car. Denny fastened his own seat belt, but by the time Joanna managed to get Sage’s backward-facing seat properly secured, she was starting to wonder if going anywhere at all was worth it.

  The Enclave’s sound system connected up to Joanna’s cell automatically. She was expecting to hear from Butch. This was a two-appearance day, with a noontime event in Tulsa and an evening one in Dallas. The phone rang before she even turned off High Lonesome Road onto the Double Adobe Highway. The caller-ID display led back to one of the department’s aging and sometimes temperamental satellite phones.

  “Good morning, boss,” Tom said. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”

  “No, what’s going on?”

  “I’m out at the crime scene in the Peloncillos.”

  “Where Jack Carver picked up the skull?”

  “That’s the one, but it’s a whole lot more serious than we first thought. We’ve got one body that’s maybe only a couple of days old and another that’s been there long enough for the grass to grow up through the rib cage.”

  “So maybe the ribs you found belong to the skull Jack Carver dragged home,” Joanna offered.

  “No such luck,” Tom told her, “because I just found another one.”

  “A second skull?”

  “Affirmative, so it looks to me like we’ve got a serial killer on our hands and we’ve just stumbled onto his dump site.”

  Joanna’s heart fell. She looked back at Denny to see if he was paying attention to the conversation coming through the speaker. Fortunately, his face was buried in a book.

  “Are you sure—a serial killer is operating in Cochise County?”

  “That’s how it looks,” Tom said, “and that’s why I’m calling. I need your help.”

  “I’m in the car right now, but I’ve got both kids with me. I can’t possibly come to the crime scene.”

  “I’m not asking you to,” Tom said, “but here’s the deal. A few weeks ago, there was something on the news about a couple up in Phoenix who had just come back from working the aftermath of that big earthquake down in Costa Rica. They run a nonprofit with dogs that are cross-trained to function as both rescue dogs and cadaver dogs, depending on the situation. I’m thinking that if we’ve got bones scattered all over hell and gone, using cadaver dogs might just fill the bill.”

  “Call them up,” Joanna said. “Find out what they charge.”

  “I was hoping I could get you to do that,” Tom told her. “There’s no Internet service out here in the boonies. Besides, I’m just your stand-in here. With all the work you’ve done in animal control and with various dog organizations around the state and the country, you’re the one with the brand name, which makes you the one with the pull. If I were to call them up and ask, we’d likely get the brush-off. If you’re the one making the call, people might sit up and take notice.”

  “What about Mojo?” Joanna asked. “You told me that he and Terry showed up yesterday afternoon. Is this something he could do?”

  “Nope,” Tom said. “I already asked. Cadaver sniffing isn’t part of Mojo’s bag of tricks.”

  “Okay,” Joanna said. “I’ll see what I can do. Do you have any idea what the organization is called?”

  “I don’t remember—Canine something.”

  “How soon do you want them there?”

  “Dr. Baldwin and Ralph Whetson are here to take charge of the most recent body. Dave Hollicker is laying down evidence markers, doing crime-scene photos, and collecting bones. Deb left here a little while ago to take the Carvers back home. She’s supposed to meet up with the Double C’s in Douglas and bring them here. I’m guessing it’ll take the rest of today and maybe part of tomorrow to finish processing the scene around this most recent body. Once that’s handled, we’ll need to bring in the dogs to see if they can locate any additional remains that aren’t immediately obvious. There’s a lot of dead grass out here and a lot of ground to cover. If you could get them to show up tomorrow or Monday maybe, it would be great.” “Okay,” Joanna said. “I’ll see what I can do and get back to you.”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  As the call ended, Joanna was turning in to the parking lot. Denny’s first trip to the barbershop at age three had been a traumatic, screaming mess for all concerned. Now, two years in, he and Eddie were old pals. While Denny’s hair got trimmed, Joanna sat in the lobby with Sage’s infant seat on a chair next to her, scrolling through the Internet. She finally found Canine First Responders, CFR for short, by Googling dogs and earthquakes. Within minutes she was on the phone with a woman named Patricia Paxton, who, along with her husband, Dwayne, was at the helm of CFR.

  “What’s this all about?” Patricia asked when Joanna called.

  “My officers have stumbled on what appears to be a serial killer’s dump site,” Joanna explained after introductions were out of the way. “We’re talking about the remains of a very recent victim as well as partial skeletal remains of at least two others, so three victims for sure and maybe more.”

  “Where is this, exactly?” Patricia asked.

  “At a very remote location in the foothills of the Peloncillo Mountains on the far side of Douglas.”

  “So we’re talking the middle of nowhere?”

  “Correct,” Joanna told her, “with miles of very bad roads between there and civilization.”

  “What made you call us?”

  “My chief deputy saw a piece someone did about the work you did after the earthquake—that you had dogs trained to locate living survivors and ones that could search for deceased victims. And that’s what we need—help in locating human remains that have most likely been scattered over a wide area. I was calling to see i
f you might be available to come give us a hand and to ask what you charge.”

  “We’re always on call,” Patricia answered, “and we’re also nonprofit. We accept donations, of course, but we don’t charge for our services. Most of the time, we’re dealing with people who’ve lost everything. Since we couldn’t justify charging them, we decided not to charge anybody. We do what we do as a public service. Usually it turns out to be disaster relief, but this sounds intriguing. When would you want us there, Sheriff Brady?”

  “Would tomorrow be too soon?” Joanna asked. “My people are there right now processing the crime scene.”

  “Any idea how much territory we’re talking about?”

  “Not really,” Joanna answered. “I’m currently on maternity leave, so I haven’t been to the crime scene in person, but the way it was explained to me, we’re probably talking about several acres. And we need to do this as soon as possible. Once word gets out, there’s always a chance of looky-loos coming around to see what they can find. I’ve been told that these days there’s a hot market for crime-scene-related knickknacks.”

  Starting with a kid named Jack Carver, she thought.

  “Exactly how bad are the roads?”

  “Some of them are okay. Others are downright primitive. Four-wheel drive recommended.”

  Patricia sighed. “We and some friends have a time-share kind of arrangement on an EarthRoamer XV-LTS. Ever heard of ’em?”

  “No.”

  “It’s a four-wheel-drive RV that can get you in and out of otherwise impossible places. Most of the time, I’d suggest using that for this kind of trip, but it’s almost Thanksgiving and our friends are off skiing in Colorado at the moment. We’ll probably have to make do with the Sprinter and our old Jeep Wrangler. The problem is, we’ll need a place to park the Sprinter while we’re working the dogs, and the Sprinter is definitely not on speaking terms with primitive roads. If you can, please locate an RV park that will let us bring dogs—big dogs. In this case we’ll probably be bringing our two bloodhounds, Stormin’ Norman and Big Red. When it comes to cadavers, they’re the best.”

  “Look,” Joanna said, “my husband and I have an RV hookup here at High Lonesome Ranch east of Bisbee, and we’re definitely dog-friendly. Why don’t you plan on parking your Sprinter here?”

  “Good thinking,” Patricia said. “Let me check with Dwayne, my husband, and make sure he doesn’t have plans that aren’t on the calendar. If he’s good to go, I’ll be back in touch to give you our ETA and get directions.”

  “Mommy,” Denny demanded impatiently. Joanna looked up to find him properly shorn and standing directly in front of her. “Are you ready to go?”

  Caught up in her phone call, Joanna had failed to notice that the haircut had ended, and now a bit of multitasking was in order. “Yes,” she said, both to Denny and into the phone. “Yes, give me a call,” she told Patricia Paxton, and “Yes, I’m ready to go,” she told her son.

  After paying for the haircut and bundling the kids back into the Enclave, she drove to Daisy’s in Bisbee’s Bakerville neighborhood, where Marianne was already tucked into one of the back corner booths awaiting their arrival. Denny made a beeline in her direction, threw his arms around Marianne’s neck, and climbed up next to her while Joanna settled herself and Sage’s infant seat on the far side of the table.

  “Where’s Ruth?” Denny wanted to know.

  Ruth, Marianne’s ten-year-old adopted daughter, often turned these Saturday lunchtime get-togethers into a foursome. Ruth and a twin sister, Esther, had come from an orphanage in China when they were a year old. Esther, born with a serious heart ailment, had died shortly after receiving a heart transplant at age two. Without her sister, Ruth had attached herself to her adoptive father, Jeff Daniels, becoming far more his shadow than Marianne’s.

  “They’re off on a trip to Tucson, picking up their next project,” Marianne told him. “They bought an old T-bird from a lady up there, and Ruthie and her dad are going to fix it up.”

  As a clergy couple, Marianne had always been front and center as the pastor with Jeff doing spousal duties—teaching Sunday school, singing in the choir, and running Bible school during the summers. In his off-duty hours, Jeff’s sometimes profitable hobby was restoring old cars. He had started Ruth out restoring old Matchbox cars that they picked up from yard sales, but now she had graduated to helping her dad with the real thing and was, to no one’s surprise, turning into a capable mechanic in her own right.

  “Can I help, too?” Denny asked.

  “Maybe,” Marianne answered. “Ask Jeff next time you see him.”

  Sage began stirring now, and Joanna knew it was almost feeding time. Grateful for the privacy of a high-backed booth, she hauled out a receiving blanket for cover as she undid her blouse. By the time Liza Machett, the café’s new owner, came around to take their order, a properly covered Sage was happily nursing away.

  “So what will Master Dixon be having today?” Liza asked, handing Denny a kids’ menu built for coloring, along with a slender pack of crayons.

  “Mac and cheese, please,” Denny told her without a moment’s hesitation.

  Liza turned to Joanna. “And you?”

  “Do you have any pasties left?”

  Cornish pasties had come to Bisbee in the late 1800s and the earliest twentieth century courtesy of miners imported from played-out tin mines in Cornwall, sometimes arriving in southern Arizona via stopovers at the mines in upper Michigan. Those hearty “hand pies” had been standard fare for Bisbee’s hard-rock miners, and even though the mines in Bisbee had been closed for decades, pasties remained a local delicacy and a special treat. Daisy Maxwell, the café’s previous owner, had served pasties at least once a week.

  When Liza Machett had arrived in town as a refugee from Great Barrington, Massachusetts, she had known nothing at all about Cornish pasties. After taking over ownership of the café, however, she quickly discovered how popular they were. Now they were available every day rather than one day a week, and they generally sold out every day.

  “You’re in luck,” Liza said. “I believe there’s one left in the fridge, and I’m putting your name on it.”

  Marianne ordered a chili burger. Their drinks came moments later—coffee for Joanna and Marianne and milk for Denny. Then, with the child seemingly totally occupied with his coloring, the two old friends settled in to talk.

  “So how are you doing?” Marianne asked.

  “Thanks for prodding me into leaving the house. Being out and about with one little one is complicated enough. Two is downright daunting.”

  As soon as Joanna spoke the words, she was sorry. The flicker of sadness in Marianne’s eyes said it all. Yes, she remembered the complications of traveling with two babies, but even eight years later Esther’s loss still hurt.

  “That was thoughtless of me,” Joanna apologized.

  “No worries,” Marianne said, managing a smile. “I’m glad you made the effort. Now, tell me about what’s going on. I heard that your department is dealing with multiple homicides. Do you know how many?”

  Since Reverend Maculyea functioned as the local fire and police chaplain, it was hardly surprising that she would be well aware of what was going on.

  “I don’t think the guys at the crime scene know for sure, at least not yet. So far they’ve found one body and skeletal remains for two more victims—however, that number may rise. Tom Hadlock is doing a great job. He’s assembled a retrieval team and has it up and running.”

  Joanna glanced over at Denny. He was engrossed in his coloring. His struggle to stay inside the lines was so intense that she thought it unlikely that he would be paying any attention to what was being said.

  “One victim is evidently very recent,” Joanna continued. “The other two are from sometime earlier, weeks at least and maybe even months. I’ve been in touch with an organization up in Phoenix. We’re hoping they’ll be able to bring in a team of cadaver dogs tomorrow to help process the scene.
”

  “Mommy, what kind of dog is that?” Denny asked without looking up from the paper. “Is it like a golden retriever?”

  Marianne spluttered as she inadvertently sucked coffee from her cup into her nose. “It would appear that little pitchers have big ears,” she managed, choking back laughter.

  Joanna had always made every effort to answer Jenny’s questions honestly. Caught out now, she felt she had to do the same with Denny. “ ‘Cadaver’ is another word for dead body,” Joanna explained. “Some dogs are trained to track down crooks and some to sniff for drugs. Cadaver dogs are trained to locate human remains.”

  “You mean dead people like Grandpa George and Grandma Eleanor?” Denny asked.

  This was not the way Joanna wanted the lunchtime conversation to go.

  “Sort of,” she said with a sigh. “These are bodies that have been left outside for some time. Scavengers like coyotes and vultures have probably scattered bits and pieces around in the desert. We need cadaver dogs to help find what’s missing.”

  “Like bones and stuff?”

  “Yes.”

  “Eeew!” Denny exclaimed. “That’s gross.”

  “Indeed it is,” Joanna agreed. “So can we please talk about something else?”

  Marianne came to her rescue. “When will your daddy be home?” Marianne asked.

  “In time to cook the turkey,” Denny declared. “He says I get to help him this year. He says I’m big enough.”

  “What about your sister? Will she be home?”

  “Which one?” Denny asked, frowning. “I have two sisters now.”

  “The one who’s away at school,” Marianne said with a smile. “Will Jenny be home for Thanksgiving?”

  “I think so,” Denny said.

  Relieved that Marianne had succeeded in guiding the conversation away from murder and mayhem, Joanna nodded. “That was the plan the last I heard, and with any kind of luck, after lunch there’ll be enough leftovers that I won’t need to cook dinner.”