Beneath the Bones (20 page)

A bleat of terror escaped Ronnie’s mouth, and he frantically tried to close the car door, but too much muck was flowing in too fast, and he couldn’t do it. The level of muck in the cruiser was already past his ankles and rising. From the constant pounding on the vehicle’s roof, it was clear the shitstorm wasn’t letting up. If anything, it was coming down even harder now.

The muck was up to his calves now, and the stench was so bad that every time he took a breath he was seized by wracking coughs. He tried not to think of the trillions of bacteria swimming in the foul stew that poured into his car, but then he realized that it scarcely mattered. If the muck continued rising at this rate, he would drown in it long before any of the bacteria could invade his body and do any damage. If he didn’t want to drown in shit, he was going to have to get out of the cruiser and swim for it. And even then, as hard as the muck was falling from the sky, he might well drown anyway.

The shit in the cruiser had made it up to his knees, and still the level continued to rise.

This isn’t real!
he told himself again.
It’s another hallucination!

Ronnie understood this, he really did. But he was caught by a flood of a far different kind, a deluge of terror and revulsion so intense, so deep, that it threatened to carry away what remained of his rational mind, leaving only a quivering, mewling animal.

The shit had risen above his belly and was beginning to slide up his chest. Its weight made it difficult to breathe, the pressure so great that he felt his ribs strain and begin to crack.

He fought to draw in a wheezing breath of air, closed his eyes, and shouted, “All right, goddamn you, I’ll do it!”

The pressure on his chest vanished, as did the ungodly stench that only a second ago had filled the cruiser. Ronnie opened his eyes and saw that the inside of his vehicle was clean. He looked at the windshield and saw only ripples of water sliding down the glass. He still held the door partially open, but all that came through was rain. His hand, sleeve, and pants legs were wet, but that was all. He looked through the windshield, concentrating on seeing past the rain on the glass. The cruiser’s headlights revealed a rain-soaked field, confirming that Ronnie had indeed swerved off the road. It
had
been an illusion, that’s all, and it was over now. But Ronnie felt little relief. He knew the shitstorm — or something even worse — would return if he didn’t do what he’d promised.

Despite the cruiser’s abrupt stop, the evidence case still sat on the passenger seat next to him. Ronnie gripped the handle with his broken hand, ignoring the bolts of pain that shot up his arm. With his left hand he pushed the car door open the rest of the way then stepped out into the rain. It was coming down hard enough that he was instantly soaked, but he didn’t care. On the contrary, after the shitstorm hallucination he reveled in the sensation, though no matter how much water fell on him, he doubted he’d ever feel clean again.

He walked around the front of his cruiser, crossed through the headlight beams, and headed farther away from the highway. The ground sloped upward, and he slipped once, dropping the case and catching himself with his broken hand. The agony that flared shot through his entire body, and his scream cut through the night. He got back on his feet and continued on toward a wire fence that no doubt belonged to a farmer. He considered simply heaving the evidence case over the fence as far as he could, but he decided against it. The evidence would be discovered the next time the farmer worked this portion of his land. Instead, he lay the case on the ground, opened it, and removed the plastic bag containing Ray Porter’s wallet and the envelope containing the fingerprints he’d lifted from the Caffeine Café and the barn at the Deveraux Farm. He also removed the envelope containing copies of the crime-scene photos and his incident reports. He closed the case so it wouldn’t get any more wet inside than it already was, and then he walked up to the fence and knelt before it.

With his good hand he scooped away moist earth until he’d created a large enough hole. He put the evidence inside, pushed it down into the wet soil, then covered the hole once more. When he was finished, he stood, stomped down on the ground to flatten it, then held out his dirty hand so the rain to wash could wash the soil off his rubber glove. Several of the fingertips had been torn during his digging, but he didn’t care. It didn’t matter if some dirt got in now. All the water in the world couldn’t wash away what he’d done, couldn’t cleanse his guilt.

He turned and headed back for the cruiser. Halfway there he considered drawing his 9 mm, sticking the barrel into his mouth and blowing off the top of his skull. But by the time he reached his vehicle, he’d abandoned all thoughts of suicide. He knew he couldn’t escape Marshall Cross that easily. Besides, if he was dead, there was no way he could make up for what he’d done to Sheriff Jo-Jo. And whatever else happened, whatever hells Marshall Cross had yet in store for him, Ronnie was determined to make things right. Somehow.

He got back in the cruiser, closed the door, and started the engine. It took some work to get the vehicle out of the ditch — a lot of rocking back and forth, a light touch on the gas — but eventually he succeeded and was back on the highway heading for Columbus at precisely 65 mph. He would finish the trip, he would stop at the state crime lab, but he wouldn’t go inside. He’d sit in his cruiser for the amount of time he’d estimate it would take him to hand over the evidence, then he’d start up the engine and begin the long drive back to Cross County. He’d pass the time by thinking of as many different ways to kill Marshall Cross as he could, the more agonizing and humiliating, the better.

Ronnie smiled as he continued driving on into darkness.

It was spitting rain by the time Joanne drove up to Sanctity’s main entrance. From the weather reports she’d seen, it was only going to get worse. Rain often hit harder north of Cross County before moving southward. Ronnie was probably already driving through a good-sized rainstorm on his way to Columbus. If she was lucky, Lenora’s questioning wouldn’t take too long, and she’d be on the way home before the heavy staff started coming down. She loved lying in bed with the lights off and listening to rain pattering on the roof. It relaxed her like nothing else, not even the attentions of the good Doctor Birch. She’d hate to miss even a minute of it.

Joanne had never been to Sanctity before. She’d driven past the gated driveway entrance hundreds of times, but there were so many trees on the Crosses’ property that even in wintertime when the foliage was gone, Sanctity itself remained barely visible. Joanne had served as sheriff of Cross County soon after she’d graduated from college with a degree in criminal justice six years ago. Not a long time, maybe, but long enough to settle into the role. She’d dealt with Crosses before, most often with Marshall, and she didn’t hold them in the same sort of awe that so many country residents did. As she herself had as a child. But now, driving up to the black wrought-iron gate in her cruiser, she was surprised by how nervous she felt. She experienced an impulse to speed past the driveway and keep going. But she slowed and pulled up to the gate. She thought maybe she’d see Dale’s Jeep parked alongside the road, her friend sitting inside and waiting for her. But Dale wasn’t there. Odd. It wasn’t like him to be late.

She rolled down her window and looked for an intercom of some sort to let them know she’d arrived, but she saw none. She didn’t see a security camera, either. What was she supposed to do — honk? But before she could do anything, the gate began to swing inward. Smoothly, silently. No ratcheting gears, no electronic hum. She thought of how gates like this always opened on their own in cheap horror movies, a not-so-subtle hint that malevolent forces were at work. It was a ridiculous thought. The Crosses had more than enough money to install a silent opener for their front gate. Nothing particularly malevolent about that, right?

She rolled her window up, and when the gate had opened all the way, she drove through. She didn’t look in her rearview mirror to watch the gate close behind her, though. The winding driveway inclined gently upward, and as she drove, her nervousness began to fade, replaced by a faint sense of disappointment. The driveway was paved with blacktop, the grounds, though neatly kept, looked like any other well-to-do homeowner’s yard. Trees lining the driveway, grounds covered with lush, healthy grass. It was all so … normal. The Crosses might be rich and well connected, but it seemed that they were only human after all.

Then she rounded a curve and got her first good look at Sanctity.

It’s a castle …

And if the term wasn’t entirely accurate in an architectural sense, it certainly fit. The huge stone edifice loomed before her like a chunk of darkness that had detached from the night and taken on solid form. Light glowed in the windows, but it did nothing to leaven the mansion’s dark façade. If anything, the contrast only served to make the structure seem more heavily cloaked in shadow. She felt suddenly small, a child again, and she had a better grasp of why Crosses acted as if they were a superior lifeform. Who wouldn’t feel like that after growing up here?

But her feelings insignificance vanished when she saw Dale’s Jeep parked before the front entrance. This was the main reason she’d asked Dale to join her tonight, one that she couldn’t tell Terry, no matter how much she cared for him. Dale made her feel safe.

She parked her cruiser behind Dale’s Jeep, cut the lights, and turned off the engine. Dale wasn’t in his vehicle, and she assumed he was already inside. She hadn’t told Marshall she’d asked Dale to come along, but it seemed his arrival had been anticipated or at least not surprising. She wondered if Marshall knew how Dale made her feel, and the thought that Marshall might be inside Sanctity right now, amused that her security blanket had arrived before her, pissed her off. As she walked up concrete steps between a pair of towering ionic columns, she decided to do her best to hold onto that anger, whether it was justified of not. It would serve as effective armor in the place she was about to enter.

As she started toward Sanctity’s front entrance — light raindrops sprinkling her uniform — she heard a noise coming from the direction of Dale’s Jeep. A soft sound, like padded animal feet moving across blacktop. The sound caused the hair on the back of her neck to rise, and she turned to look behind her. She glimpsed a flash of black disappearing into the darkness, then it was gone. She stood motionless, breath held, listening, gazing into the night, searching for any further sign of movement. But she saw and heard nothing else. She waited a few more seconds before facing forward and resuming her approach to Sanctity.

The front entrance was unlit, but as Joanne approached the large black door, a pair of lights on either side came on. Momentarily dazzled, which no doubt was the intended effect, she averted her gaze. She heard the knob turn, the door open. She turned back, expecting to see a butler wearing a glum, funereal expression standing there. But it was Marshall.

“Good evening, Joanne. I appreciate your being so understanding about coming out here.” His smile was reserved. Only appropriate given the circumstances of her visit, Joanne thought.

“Just doing my job.” A cliché, maybe, but it was all she could think to say, and it sounded appropriately hard-ass.

Marshall’s smile didn’t waver an iota, but a cold glint came into his eyes. “Of course. Then by all means, let’s get started.” He stepped back from the open doorway and gestured for her to enter. She almost expected him to say
Welcome to my parlor
in a menacing voice. But he simply stood there, waiting, that cold gleam still in his gaze.

Joanne stepped inside.

• • •

As Marshall led her through the halls of Sanctity, she was surprised by the sheer number of people present. Every room they passed contained groups of men and women of various ages, all well dressed, all carrying themselves with the patrician air that was a defining feature of Cross-hood. The people talked, drank, and more than a few waved at Marshall as he and Joanne walked past. None seemed to notice that he was accompanied by a woman in a sheriff’s uniform, let alone care. They had eyes only for Marshall, as if he were their ruler which, Joanne supposed, in a way he was. The Crown Prince of Crosses.

“Do you have any animals that you let run loose on the property?” she asked as they walked. “A dog, maybe?”

Marshall frowned. “Other than the songbirds in the Solarium and some koi in an artificial pond in the flower garden out back, we have no pets of any sort. Why do you ask?”

“I thought I saw something outside. It was probably a raccoon or something.”

“Perhaps.” But Marshall sounded doubtful, and he changed the subject. “My mother has asked me to proffer her apologies for not coming down to greet you. She’s getting on in years and rarely leaves her room. She hopes you’ll understand.”

“Of course.” Joanne hadn’t expected to meet the grande dame of the Cross clan tonight. From what she understood, Althea hadn’t been seen in public for years. In a way, she was relieved. The idea of meeting Marshall’s mother, the only person as rumor had it that he feared, was more than a bit intimidating.

Marshall continued leading her along corridors, and as they walked, Joanne realized she was surprised — and to be honest, a bit disappointed — by how normal Sanctity seemed. No,
normal
wasn’t the right word. The place
was
a mansion. But after growing up hearing stories about the Crosses and the terrible secrets concealed within their creepy castle of a home, she’d expected — consciously or not — something more. Something out of legend, almost. Sanctity might have been huge, but in the end it had turned out to be life-sized after all.

The atmosphere pervading Sanctity didn’t disappoint, however. The air seemed to crackle with repressed tension, a sense of power and violence that, while restrained, threatened to erupt any moment. Perhaps it was just her imagination, or her Feelings picking up on the ever-present potential for danger permeating Sanctity. Whichever the reason, Joanne didn’t like the sensation. It set her teeth on edge and made her feel like an animal irritated by an ultrasonic signal that humans couldn’t hear.