Renee Simons Special Edition (42 page)

“Yuck.”

She backed out and tried several other openings in the rocky hillside until, finally, one yielded only silence.

As she leaned inside, she noticed faint scratches circling the upper part of the entrance. At roughly eye level, they seemed to be there more by design than accident. If only she had a magnifying glass, she could see the marks more clearly, she held the flashlight in one hand, the camera in the other and snapped off several photos of what seemed to be letters worked into the natural seams in the rock. Maybe enlarging the shots later on would tell her something.

She tucked the camera into her knapsack and knelt to search for other writings near the bottom of the opening. At the sound of a footstep behind her, she turned — directly into the path of a booted toe. A well-aimed kick to the temple sent her crashing against the edge of the mine entrance.

Pain filled her skull. Her shoulder and back throbbed where they’d slammed into the unyielding stone. On one knee, she held up her arm to deflect the next blow. Like a fist delivering a one-two punch, the offending foot struck again, first knocking her arm aside and then smashing into her jaw.

Through the brain-rattling impact and the fuzziness that came with it, she felt the weight of the flashlight in her hand. Maybe she could hit him with it. She tried to roll away but the cold rock at her back made escape impossible. She found herself wedged crosswise against the entrance to the mine.

"Here," the attacker’s voice whispered, "let me help you."

His hands reached for her. She doubled her knees against her chest, preparing to kick him. Before she could either strike or move out of his reach, the booted foot shoved her into the tunnel. She struggled to her knees again, hoping to make an end run around him. With a foot between her shoulder blades, he pancaked her into the dusty ground, deflating her lungs in a great "whoosh."

He nudged her over with his toe, sending her further into the dark interior. An inner voice ordered her to protect herself. Disoriented, bombarded by pain and unable to evade the danger, she could only curl in on herself again.

"That’s a good girl," he said in a voice heavy with his exertions. His hands pushed against her back. Like a bottle rolling off the edge of a shelf she tumbled down an incline and into the enveloping darkness.

Chapter Nine

Late in the afternoon after the late-night attack on The Mansion, Luc's buddy at the state crime lab handed him the evidence bags. Fluorescence examination disclosed a minute fragment of a print on the spray tip. They stared at the photo images projected on the viewer. The truncated curves wavered before Luc. Was this another trick of his faltering vision?

"If we had more, computer graphics could extrapolate and give us something to work with."
Bryan
shook his head. "I just don't think we have enough."

"Try. I need a line on whoever is harassing Ms. Patterson."

"I'll do my best. If I can put something together, I'll send you a report."

“Call me either way.”

Nick Forrest got in the first call. “You better get yourself out here, Sheriff. There’s something you need to see.”

“More vandalism?”

“Nope. Just something real strange.”

“I’m on my way,” Luc said, slamming down the phone.

The short ride out seemed even shorter. He wondered if the prospect of seeing Callie again had anything to do with it. When she failed to appear, he didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed, but he did take note of an emptiness in the pit of his stomach.

Nick met him at the veranda steps. “It’s inside.”

“It?”

“Yeah, well, we pulled down an inside wall because of water damage. There’s a bundle of some kind.” He pointed a flashlight between two studs. “There.”

The beam circled an object Luc estimated to be about a foot by a foot-and-a-half. In shades of deep red and green, the cloth seemed heavy and rough-textured, woven, like a Native blanket or rug. The item was cylindrical and swaddled like an infant.

“Let’s get more light in here,” Luc said.

“A flood okay?” Nick’s voice behind him asked. “The outlet in here’s been disabled.”

“200 watts or better, if you have it. I need to see details before moving this.”

From the equipment bag he’d brought with him, Luc selected an oversized evidence bag, a pair of surgeon’s gloves and a digital camera he used to snap photos of the bundle in its surroundings. The floodlight showed several marks in the plaster that would have to be analyzed later on. He photographed these as well. He diagramed the area and made notes of measurements and positions. When he’d satisfied himself that he’d documented everything, Luc walked to a corner where he had some privacy. SOP required a forensics expert to take charge of the remains in a case of unexplained death. He speed-dialed the Office of Medical Investigation in Albuquerque and kept watch over the bundle as Joe Barry came on the line. After the usual brief but friendly banter that marked their working relationship, Luc described their find.

“My gut tells me they’re human remains, a fetus, maybe, but I haven’t checked yet. Didn’t want to disturb anything. When can you get down here?”

“I have no problem trusting your gut,” Joe said. “Especially since we’re short- handed at the moment. Most of our people are at a regional conference so the rest of us are pulling double shifts.”

“How about I bring the remains to you? It isn’t by the book, but there’s been some suspicious activity here and I can’t take the chance of leaving them in situ.”

“I think there must be a Chapter on procedural adjustments in the event of emergencies. If not we’ll write one.” Barry chuckled. “You are hereby authorized to transport the remains as is to OMI. I’ll sign off on the order.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

Luc removed the carefully folded cloth package and sealed it inside the oversized evidence bag, which he labeled with date, time and initials before sealing and locking it in his carrying case.

“Dontcha’ wanna know what’s inside?”

Luc turned toward the voice. “We need to protect the contents. I’ll transport it to the medical investigations office.”

He looked at the contractor. “You’ll have to leave this wall open, Nick. In case we need to come back to it later.”

“No problem. We’ll work around it. Just let us know when you’re done.”

By the looks of things, the bundle had been hidden many years. Luc thought a few more minutes’ delay wouldn’t do any harm. He walked through the downstairs rooms, hoping to see Callie even though she’d said she was going to
Albuquerque
.

In the kitchen a small carton and a stack of unopened mail sat on the card table. He removed one book and riffled the pages of small, delicate handwriting. A word here or there registered, but violating someone's privacy for no reason seemed pointless and, his mother might have lectured, an ungentlemanly display of bad manners. He returned the book to its mates and looked around inside and out. Her keys were gone. So was her bike.

Luc located Nick. “Have you seen Callie?”

“Not since early in the morning. She didn't say where she was going. Probably just taking a walk or something."

"Her bike would be here and it isn't."

Nick turned to his men and called out, "Anybody see which way Ms. Patterson went?"

Vague expressions and shrugs greeted his question. One man pointed south and turned back to his work.

Luc noticed the freshly painted house front. "I'm glad you covered the graffiti, Forrest. It was a painful piece of filth."

"We didn't want it staring us in the face so my guys threw some paint on it. We just left that bit at the end so you'd have a color reference."

"Good thinking," Luc said with a nod. "I'll have another look around."

"Hey, do what you have to." Nick hefted his tool belt and started up the porch steps. "You need anything, just holler."

In the storage shed, Luc rummaged through piles, cans and boxes. None of the materials interested him, but a carton in the corner, partially hidden by several bunches of lathing strips, caught his attention. He placed it atop a stack of bundled roofing shingles.

The carton contained two dozen spray cans tightly packed in rows six cans long by four wide. All seemed to contain the same color - a florescent orange-red. At first glance, they appeared undisturbed, but a closer look showed that the fine layer of dust covering one of the caps had been disturbed.

He snapped a lathing strip in two and held one piece against either side of the can to raise it without adding his own prints to its surface. The top hadn’t been tightly secured, allowing him to pry it off with a fingertip beneath the edge. He slipped the cap onto a clean handkerchief draping his palm. The can was missing its spray nozzle. Were there other cans like this? He carried the carton to his vehicle.

Nick Forrest approached. "You confiscating them, Sheriff?"

"Until the contents have been examined."

“Don’t give ‘em a thought. They’re easily replaced.” Nick jerked his head to indicate the house behind him. "There's some more up on the porch."

Luc nodded. "I'll look at those also." They walked to the house. "What do you use the paint for?"

"To mark off where trenches have to be dug, or if we're laying foundations or setting footings. Also places where the roof and siding need attention."

On the porch, Luc made a visual examination of the dozen remaining cans, being careful not to touch any of them. One appeared to have come from the carton in the shed. Dust covered its top, although its neighbors were clean. The two cans had been switched. Why go to the trouble if not to hide the one he or she had used to graffiti the house? Perhaps because the vandal had lost the nozzle?

"Do your guys take these for personal use?"

Nick shrugged. "Maybe. I don't keep track. They're not worth the trouble."

"Who does the marking?"

"Anyone who needs to — me, my foreman, even Charlie over there." He pointed to the man sorting nails. "I usually let him do it once we've staked out the measurements. He's an apprentice so he does a lot of the scut work around here. But he likes marking and he's careful. Seems to be a detail oriented kind of guy."

Luc glanced at the man's beefy shoulders. "Would I know him?"

"I'll introduce you."

As they approached, he looked up at them. "I'm almost done here, boss."

"That's good. Stop for a minute. The sheriff, here, wants to say hello."

The man stood up and Luc held out his hand. "Luc Moreno."

"Charlie Gunn." He took Luc's hand, but the hard expression in his dark eyes telegraphed the message that he felt anything but friendly.

"You any relation to Mercedes?"

"She's my mother," the man said. A hint of arrogance crept into his tone.

Luc hid his surprise. He hadn't known she'd had children. "I don't remember having seen you around here."

Charlie squared his shoulders. "Been up north for a while. Just moved back."

More than a while, Luc guessed. During his three years as sheriff, he'd never seen the man. And neither Mercedes nor anyone else had ever mentioned him. Was he some deep, dark secret? The townspeople were big on secrets. Like the old mine no one could talk about. Not being able to let Callie in on the plans had certainly complicated their discussions about The Mansion. And a lot of other things as well. On sheer principle alone he didn't like keeping secrets; he found keeping them from her particularly unpleasant.

The irony of his own secret struck him. He'd told no one about his failing vision, first because he'd thought it was a temporary situation and later, because it didn't seem to be going away. He hadn't even gone to see Eddie Vega, as he'd promised himself he would.

He directed his attention back to Charlie Gunn, whose eyes now held a question. Luc knew the long silence had thrown the man off balance.
Bueno
. He'd been too cocky before.

"A few minutes ago, you indicated you saw Ms. Patterson heading south. Do you remember when that was?"

"Can't say as I do, exactly."

"That's okay. You don't have to tell me exactly."

Gunn seemed to consider the question for several moments, then said, "This morning. Early." He turned and pointed to the ridge behind them. "Before the sun come over the rim."

Nine or ten o'clock, Luc guessed. "On foot?"

Charlie's brow wrinkled briefly and his eyes narrowed. "On her bike."

"Anything else you remember?"

"Wasn't payin' too much attention."

For a detail-oriented guy, he had little to offer. Luc wondered just how much he was holding back. "Thanks for your help."

The man's face showed unmistakable relief, as if he knew he'd just passed a test. He needed looking into, and Luc would – while he was in
Albuquerque
. He stopped at the Mercantile to see what Elvira knew about the mail on Callie’s table.