Part 25 (2/2)
I looked again at the grave.
”The body is on its side, with the right shoulder just below the surface. No doubt the smell attracted scavengers. The vultures and racc.o.o.ns probably dug and ate, then pulled out the arm and the jaw when decomposition weakened the joints.” I indicated the ribs. ”They chewed off a section of the thorax and dragged that out, too. The rest of the body was probably too deep, or just too hard to get at, so they left it.”
Using a stick, I dragged the arm closer. Though the elbow was still connected, the ends of the long bones were missing, their spongy interiors exposed along rough, gnarled edges.
”See how the ends are chewed off? That's animals. And this?” I indicated a small round hole. ”That's a tooth puncture. Something small, probably a racc.o.o.n.”
”Son of a buck.”
”And of course the crabs and bugs did their share.”
He rose, did a half turn, and kicked the dirt with the heel of his boot.
”Jesus H. Christ. Now what?”
”Now you call your local coroner, and he, or she, calls his, or her, local anthropologist.” I rose and brushed dirt from my jeans. ”And everybody talks to the sheriff.”
”This is a G.o.ddam nightmare. I can't have people crawling all over this island.”
”They don't have to crawl all over the island, Sam. They just have to come out, recover the body, maybe run a cadaver dog around to see if anyone else is buried here.”
”How the-? s.h.i.+t. This is impossible.” A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. His jaw muscles bunched and unbunched.
For a moment neither of us spoke. The flies whined and circled.
Sam finally broke the silence. ”You've got to do it.”
”Do what?”
”Whatever has to be done. Dig this stuff up.” He swept an arm in the direction of the grave.
”No way. Not my jurisdiction.”
”I don't give a flying rat's a.s.s whose jurisdiction it is. I'm not going to have a bunch of yo-yos running around out here, sabotaging my island, f.u.c.king up my work schedule, and very possibly infecting my monkeys. It's out of the question. It's not going to happen. I'm the b.l.o.o.d.y mayor, and this is my island. I'll sit on the G.o.ddam dock with a G.o.ddam shotgun before I let that happen.”
The vein was back in his forehead, and the tendons in his neck stood out like guy wires. His finger jabbed the air to emphasize each point.
”That was an Academy Award performance, Sam, but I'm still not doing it. Dan Jaffer is at USC in Columbia. He does the anthropology cases in South Carolina, so that's probably who your coroner will call. Dan is board-certified and he's very good.”
”Dan f.u.c.king Jaffer could have f.u.c.king TB!”
There seemed no point, so I didn't answer.
”You do this all the time! You could dig the guy out and turn everything over to this Jaffer character.”
Still no point.
”Why the h.e.l.l not, Tempe?” He glared at me.
”You know I'm in Beaufort on another case. I've promised these guys I'll work with them, and I have to be back in Charlotte on Wednesday.”
I didn't give him the real answer, which was that I wanted nothing to do with this. I wasn't mentally ready to equate my island sanctuary with ugly death. Since first seeing the jaw, broken images had been floating through my brain, shards of cases past. Strangled women, butchered babies, young men with slashed throats and dull, unseeing eyes. If slaughter had come to the island, I wanted no part of it.
”We'll talk about this at camp,” said Sam. ”Don't mention bodies to anyone.”
Ignoring his dictatorial manner, I tied my bandanna to the holly bush, and we headed back.
When we drew close to the trail I could see a battered pickup near the point at which we'd cut into the woods. The truck was loaded with bags of monkey chow and had a three-hundred-gallon water tank chained to the rear. Joey was inspecting the tank.
Sam called to him.
”Hold up a minute.”
Joey wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and folded his arms. He wore jeans and a sweats.h.i.+rt with the sleeves and neck cut out. His greasy blond hair hung like linguini around his face.
Joey watched us approach, his eyes hidden by sungla.s.ses, his mouth a tight line across his face. His body looked taut and tense.
”I don't want anyone going near the pond,” Sam said to Joey.
”Alice get another monkey?”
”No.” Sam didn't elaborate. ”Where's that chow going?”
”Feeder seven.”
”Leave it and come right back.”
”What about water?”
”Fill the tanks and get back to camp. If you see Jane, send her in.”
Joey's shades moved to my face and rested there for what seemed a long time. Then he got into the pickup and pulled away, the tank clanking behind.
Sam and I walked in silence. I dreaded the scene about to take place, and resolved not to let him bully me. I recalled his words, saw his face as he uncovered the grave. Then something else. Just before Sam joined me, I thought I'd heard a motor. Had it been the pickup? I wondered how long Joey had been parked on the trail. And why right there?
”When did Joey start working for you?” I asked.
”Joey?” He thought a moment. ”Almost two years ago.”
”He's reliable?”
”Let's just say Joey's compa.s.sion exceeds his common sense. He's one of these bleeding-heart types, always talking about animal rights and worrying about disturbing the monkeys. He doesn't know jacks.h.i.+t about animals, but he's a good worker.”
When we got to camp I found a note from Katy. She'd finished her observation and gone to the dock to read. While Sam got out the phone, I walked down to the water. My daughter sat in one of the boats, shoes off, legs stretched in front of her, her sleeves and pants legs rolled as high as they would go. I waved and she returned the gesture, then pointed at the boat. I wagged my head and held up both hands, indicating it wasn't time to leave. She smiled and resumed reading.
When I entered the field station Sam was at the kitchen table, talking on a cell phone. I slid onto the bench opposite him.
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