Part 3 (1/2)

Just then she realized she had bent the corner of the first file folder. Bent it, h.e.l.l, she had mutilated it into an accordion fold. This was ridiculous. She grabbed the Diet Pepsi, took a long gulp and opened the folder.

It had been a while since she had sorted through these papers. She had added to them, piece by piece, but avoided sitting down to review all the information. She had treated this profile-she had treated him him-like a project. No, she had treated him like one of her cases, even leaving the folders stacked on her desk alongside profiles of serial killers, rapists and terrorists. Maybe it was the only way she could deal with his existence. Maybe it was because she didn't want to believe he really did exist.

In the collection of doc.u.ments, articles and downloaded records there wasn't a single photo. She probably could have found one, had she tried. All she would have had to do was send for a high school yearbook or request a copy of his driver's license. Certainly someone in the Wisconsin Department of Motor Vehicles would have accommodated her, especially with a simple mention of her FBI badge number. But she hadn't done any of those things. Maybe because seeing a photo would have made him too real.

Maggie found the envelope her mother had given her last December, the envelope that had started all this...this spiral...this...whatever this was. Last year, when she first learned that she had a brother, she immediately thought her mother had been lying, that it was another drunken ploy, another way to punish Maggie for loving and missing her father so much. And why wouldn't she believe her mother capable of such cruelty? Maggie had been raised with a double dose of Kathleen O'Dell's punishments. Even the woman's failed suicide attempts felt as if she had been las.h.i.+ng out at Maggie, punis.h.i.+ng her. So when her mother, in a fit of anger, told Maggie that her father had been having an affair right up until the night he died, Maggie had refused to believe it. That was until she gave her this envelope.

She opened the envelope the way she had so many times before and carefully pulled out the single index card inside, handling it like fragile material, touching it only by the corner. She stared at her mother's handwriting, the cute curlicues and circles above the ”i's.” He had been named for Maggie's uncle, her father's only brother, Patrick, whom Maggie had never met, the legendary Patrick who had never come home from Vietnam. It seemed heroism ran in the O'Dell family. The same kind of heroism that had taken Maggie's father away from her when she was twelve. Heroism that she continued to curse.

She slipped the card back into the envelope. She didn't need to see it. She had the address memorized by now. And though her mother had given it to her almost a year ago, Maggie's current research indicated that it was still accurate. He was still in West Haven, Connecticut, only twenty-five miles away from where Gwen's patient had gone missing.

Her cellular phone started ringing, startling her and making Harvey leave his bone to come sit in front of her. Habit, she supposed. To Harvey, the phone ringing usually meant Maggie would need to be leaving him.

”Maggie O'Dell,” she said, wis.h.i.+ng she had shut the d.a.m.n thing off. She was on vacation, after all.

”O'Dell, have you been listening or watching the news?” It was Tully.

”I just got home. I'm on vacation.”

”You might want to check this out. AP is reporting a woman was found dead outside of Wallingford, Connecticut.”

”A homicide?”

”Sounds like it. Early reports say she was found in a quarry, stuffed in a fifty-five-gallon drum and buried under rock.”

”Oh, G.o.d. You think it's Gwen's patient?”

”I don't know,” he admitted. ”Just weird that it's the same town. Almost too much of a coincidence, don't you think?”

Maggie didn't believe in coincidences, either. But no, it couldn't be. Tully was jumping to conclusions and so was she. Maybe she was simply feeling guilty, and yet, she wanted to kick herself. She hadn't taken Gwen seriously this morning. In fact, she hadn't even called anyone to see if she could track down Joan Begley or file a missing persons report. ”Why is it making the news down here?”

”Because it might not be the only body. There might be others. Maybe a dozen more.”

She recognized that tone in Tully's voice. She could tell that his mind was already working, mulling over the possibilities, another occupational hazard. No, more than an occupational hazard. It was hard to describe, but she could already feel it taking hold of her. It was like an itch, a drive, an obsession. Like Tully, her mind sorted through the possibilities, raising questions and wanting answers. But one nagging question pushed to the forefront. What if one of the bodies was Joan Begley's?

In all the years Maggie had known Gwen, she had never asked anything of her. Not until now. And instead of doing everything she could, instead of doing anything, Maggie had shrugged off her friend's panicked request because it had reminded her of someone and someplace she didn't want to be reminded of.

”Hey, Tully.”

”Yeah?”

She knew he wouldn't be surprised. Instead he would understand. Why else would he have called to tell her the news? ”Do you think you and Emma might be able to take Harvey for a couple of days?”

CHAPTER 11.

This was bad. Really bad. How could this have happened?

He rode the brakes. Watched the car in front. He needed to keep his distance. Needed to keep his eyes straight ahead, only allowing quick glances to check the rearview mirror. A monster SUV followed, right on his tail, with two idiots straining their necks to get a better look. But there was nothing to be seen. Too much distance. Too many trees. Nothing could be seen from the road. He knew that and yet he had to force himself to not look. Don't look. Don't look.

There had to be a dozen patrol cars. And media vans. How could this have happened? And he hated hearing about it on the news. Hearing it from that anorexic bimbo reporter, sounding so cheerful as she broke the news that the sky was falling.

What the h.e.l.l was Calvin Vargus thinking? Why did he need to clear that property now? It had been sitting vacant for more than five years. The owner didn't care about it. He wanted it only for a tax write-off. He didn't even live around here. Some hotshot attorney from Boston who probably hadn't seen the place. So why the h.e.l.l did Vargus suddenly start moving stuff around? Or did he know? Had he suspected something? Had he seen something? Was Vargus trying to destroy him? Did he know? Know? How could he know? Know, know, know-no! Know, know, know-no! Impossible. Not possible. Simply inconceivable. He didn't know. He couldn't know. Impossible. Not possible. Simply inconceivable. He didn't know. He couldn't know.

Breathe. He needed to breathe. He couldn't breathe. He felt a cold sweat breaking out, and it wasn't even midnight. The tingle began in his fingers. The chill slid down from his neck to the small of his back. He needed to stop it. Stop, stop, stop it. Stop, stop, stop it. Stop the panic before it grabbed hold of his stomach. Stop the panic before it grabbed hold of his stomach.

He fumbled through the duffel bag on the pa.s.senger seat, fingers searching while his eyes stayed on the road. The car in front moved too slowly. Heads still turned. Stupid gawkers. What could they see? By now they should know they couldn't see anything beyond the trees. a.s.sholes! Stupid a.s.sholes! Move it, move it, move it! Move it, move it, move it!

Already he could feel the nausea. The panic was starting, a cramp deep in his bowel. Soon it would slice across his abdomen, a sharp knife piercing him from the inside out and slowly slitting its way along the same course. His muscles tightened, a stiff reflex to prepare for the pain, the dread, the agony. Sweat slid down his back as his fingers grew more desperate, shoving, clawing, searching.

Finally, his fingers found and grabbed on to the plastic bottle. He wrenched it free from the bottom of the stuffed bag. He fumbled, angry with the shaking in his hands, but still he managed to twist off the child-protective cap while steering. Like a man dying of thirst, he guzzled the white chalky liquid, not bothering to stop at the recommended dose. Once the pain had begun, it was a race to squelch it. He took another swallow just for good measure, wincing at the taste. The stuff made him want to gag, and he would if he thought about it.

Don't think. Stop thinking.

It was a taste he a.s.sociated with childhood, with a dark stuffy bedroom, his mother's cold hand on his forehead and her soft voice cooing, ”You'll feel better soon. I promise.”

He put the cap back on the bottle and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his s.h.i.+rt. He waited. Stared at the road ahead. Stared at the flaming-red taillights of the car in front. Demon red eyes blinking as the idiots inside continued to gawk. He wanted to tap his car horn, but he couldn't. Couldn't draw attention to himself. He would need to wait. Stay in line and wait. He needed to stay, stay, stay stay, stay, stay put. put.

Maybe it wasn't Vargus. His mind began racing again. What about the other guy-Racine. Luc Racine. Luc with a ”c” was how they had spelled it at the bottom of the TV screen. That name sounded familiar. Had he seen him before? Yes, he was sure that he had. But where? Where, where, where? Where, where, where? Where had he seen him before? Had the old man been following him? Was he the one who got Vargus interested? What could the two of them be up to? Had they gone to the quarry digging? Digging for something...or no, digging for someone? Where had he seen him before? Had the old man been following him? Was he the one who got Vargus interested? What could the two of them be up to? Had they gone to the quarry digging? Digging for something...or no, digging for someone?

But how? How could they have found out? Vargus was stupid, a brute, but that Racine guy. Maybe he wasn't. Maybe he knew something. Luc Racine knew something.

But how? He had been careful. Always very careful. Careful, careful, careful. Careful, careful, careful. Yes, he had been careful. Even when he used the equipment, he left everything as he found it. n.o.body could know. Yes, he had been careful. Always very careful. Yes, he had been careful. Even when he used the equipment, he left everything as he found it. n.o.body could know. Yes, he had been careful. Always very careful.

It didn't matter, though. Not now. He'd never be able to use that old quarry again. Never, never, never. Never, never, never. The whole area was crawling with cops and reporters. And here he was, stuck in line, like one of the gawkers. This was worse than the idiots who jammed the roads every fall looking at the trees. And they would be starting up soon, within weeks. Long lines winding the byroads, gawking like they'd never seen leaves turn colors before. The whole area was crawling with cops and reporters. And here he was, stuck in line, like one of the gawkers. This was worse than the idiots who jammed the roads every fall looking at the trees. And they would be starting up soon, within weeks. Long lines winding the byroads, gawking like they'd never seen leaves turn colors before. Stupid, stupid, stupid idiots. Stupid, stupid, stupid idiots. But he pretended to be one of them. Just this once. Just so he could see the commotion, scope things out, figure out what was going on. But he pretended to be one of them. Just this once. Just so he could see the commotion, scope things out, figure out what was going on.

Finally he could turn off, escaping onto a side road. No one followed. They couldn't. They wouldn't miss any of the excitement. He made his way up the winding road, and felt the tension in his back ease. But only a little. He still had things to worry about. Things to take care of. He needed to settle down, calm himself. He couldn't let the panic return. Couldn't handle the pain. Not now. Not when he needed to think. That panic, that pain could paralyze him if he let it. Couldn't let it. Couldn't let it. Couldn't let it. Couldn't let it. That pain, the same pain from when he was a kid, could still come out of nowhere, sharp and intense stabs as if he had swallowed a pack of s.h.i.+ngling nails or maybe even a fillet knife. That pain, the same pain from when he was a kid, could still come out of nowhere, sharp and intense stabs as if he had swallowed a pack of s.h.i.+ngling nails or maybe even a fillet knife.

He needed to stop thinking about it. He needed to get to work. How could he work, thinking about this? How could he function? What would he do? What could he do now that he no longer had a safe dumping ground?

CHAPTER 12.

Adam Bonzado looked over the bits and pieces the crime-scene tech named Carl had spread out on a plastic tarp. He had already bagged and labeled some according to where they had been found and what he guessed they might be. From his preliminary once-over Adam could already tell the specimens were from at least two different corpses.

”The dog brought this one,” Carl said, pointing to what looked to be a left foot.

Adam picked it up carefully in double-gloved hands and examined it from all angles. Most of the phalanges were gone. The metatarsals and some of the tarsals were held together by what little tissue remained. Even the calcaneus, the heel bone, appeared to be still attached.

”Have you found the rest of the body?”

”Nope. And I doubt if we will. A couple of the barrels look like they rusted through. Coyotes probably helped themselves. There might be pieces scattered all over this county.”