Eyeshot (24 page)

“Lawn and Leaf? Brown? Like we found her in?”

Sonora nodded.

“Millions of them out there.”

“We need to find the box. Match the one we found to the roll.”

“Yeah, plus we need to find a murder weapon and walk on water. All in a day's work.”

“Remind me to stick a gold star on your forehead.”

Sam looked at the carpet. “Okay, you think Caplan was up to no good, right here in the in-laws' cabin. Let's run with it. Where's the vacuum cleaner? Might be interesting to burrow into the bag.”

“Being a cop means never having to say you're normal. Let's try the closet.”

“First one finds it buys lunch.”

Sonora headed toward the stairs that led to a loft. There was a closet in the pocket of space beneath. She put her hand on the knob, then looked at Sam over her shoulder.

“Wait a minute.
First
one finds it buys lunch?”

He grinned.

She opened the door and looked inside. “Extra blankets, a humongous jar of banana peppers.”

“Banana peppers? You liar.” He was there, looking over her shoulder. “Banana peppers. One of those things you buy at Sam's Club when you start getting carried away.”

“But no vacuum cleaner.”

They checked upstairs. Found a loft bedroom that had a pine dresser with coloring books and crayons, and a little girl's swim-suit hanging in a genuine cedar closet. A comfy red quilt was spread across a double bed, but no vacuum cleaner.

Sonora peered out through the bedroom window. The lake looked green and clean, shocks of sunlight bouncing off sedate ripples. It was a good deal cleaner than the Clinch River, where they'd found Julia Winchell's remains.

Sonora wondered where the rest of her was. Were there arms and legs, discarded by the side of the road, awaiting discovery? Had they been carried away by animals?

Where was the torso?

“What you looking at?” Sam said.

“Boathouse, or toolshed. Some kind of thing.”

He looked over her shoulder through the blinds.

The toolshed was up the slope from the muddy edge of the water, about a hundred yards from a wood picnic table that bordered the tree line on the left side of the property. It was the kind of inexpensive storage shed you could buy at Sears and put together in an afternoon, the kind where you stored your lawn mower and grill.

Sam squinted. “Can't tell from here, but looks like a combination lock on that door. I'm sure Grey will let us take a look. Think there might be a vacuum cleaner in there?”

“God knows. Make sure Grey doesn't follow us down there.”

“I wasn't planning to. Don't backseat cop, Sonora.”

46

A fly buzzed Sonora's head as she picked her way down the muddy path that led to the storage shed. She listened for the telltale hum of a swarm, but heard nothing out of the ordinary. A breeze blew in off the river.

No body parts, she decided, trying not to feel disappointed.

Sam was muttering. “Eight, twenty-six, four. Eight, twenty-six, four. Eight—”

“Why don't you write it on the palm of your hand.”

“Hush.”

The door on the shed was bowed in so that Sonora could see the particleboard flooring—beige with an overlay of grime. Red rust flaked on the door hinges. Sam worked the combination lock, fingers thick and graceless. The lock clicked open. He glanced at Sonora over his shoulder.

“Drumroll right about now.”

“Ta da, Sam.”

The door stuck when he shoved it, but he put his shoulder into it and it slid out of the way, a metallic squeal heralding progress.

It was dark inside. Sonora smelled oil, dust, with lake water and mud overtones. No odor of sweat putridity, no swarm of flies or maggots, tattletales of gore. Sam had the large black Maglite, cop issue, and he held it high over his shoulder, as they'd been taught to do years ago.

There was a sawhorse on the right, dirty and faded beach towels hanging over one end, an old six horsepower boat engine mounted on the other side with a vise clamp. The engine looked dry and rusty, crud fouling the propeller. A dark spot on the floor beneath had dried raisin-black years ago.

“Oil,” Sam said, catching Sonora's look.

A bottle of Clorox sat to one side of the sawhorse, snug to the right-hand side by the wall. A stack of inner tubes was piled in the left-hand corner, some of them partially inflated. Cecil the Sea Horse, a pair of pink water wings, an orange ring, a purple life vest that had seen better days, and a Mae West that looked like it had been run over with a truck. A red tube-shaped bicycle pump was hung on the left wall, along with a rack of tools. Back in the left corner, behind the vests and water toys, was a red upright Eureka.

Sonora pointed.

Sam grimaced. “If he did bring her here, that bag will be a gold mine. All it takes is some hair. Carpet fiber from the car. Blood traces.”

Sonora went in careful, on the lookout for spiders. “You can't vacuum up bloodstains, Sam.”

She pulled rubber gloves on, studied the Eureka.
POWERLINE
was written down one side in black; 9.5
AMPS.

“Canisters work better than uprights when it comes to dust mites,” Sam said.

“When it comes to dust mites, I'll call you.”

“They're all around you, Sonora.”

“Vacuum cleaners?”

“Dust mites.”

It was hot and close in the shed. Sweat ran down Sonora's back. She smelled hot metal. She was tired and annoyed. She was never at her best in the heat.

She popped the hard-shell front of the Eureka. “
Yes.
”

Sam squatted next to her. “I don't know about you, girl, but I never thought I'd be this happy over the contents of a vacuum cleaner bag.”

“Face facts, Sam, it's a glamorous job.”

Sam shone the light along the floor. “Look what else.”

“Toolbox!” It was black plastic, from Sears. Sonora bent down and flipped the latch. “What you want to bet there's a hacksaw in there?”

“If there is, I'll start believing in the Fairy Godmother Of Evidence.”

Sonora used a gloved finger to poke through socket wrenches, pliers, a hammer. She lifted the top tray and looked into the bottom of the box. She tilted her head to where she could see Sam.

“Bring the light over, and get ready to clap for Tinkerbell.”

“Why?”

“Hacksaw. Right here, in the bottom of the box.”

47

They took the toolbox outside to the picnic table to get a better look. Sonora squinted, tripping on the path. The sun was high and bright and it took a long minute for her eyes to adjust after the darkness of the storage shed. The picnic table was well shaded. It felt good to stand in the shade and feel the breeze coming up off the water.

Sam laid the top tray to one side. Picked up the hacksaw with a gloved right hand. His left was bare.

“Why are you wearing one glove?” Sonora asked.

“Don't need but one.”

A boat went by on the lake—the boat looked as if it had been painted with blue glitter and it looked new. The man driving wore a red life vest and white swim trunks. He waved at Sonora. Even as far away as she was from the water's edge, Sonora could see he was very tan.

Her girlfriends were always complaining that they did not know where the men were. Maybe they were all at the lake.

Sam held up the hacksaw. “This thing looks new, it's so clean.”

“Paint's cracked all along the handle. Sam, it's not new.”

“Most of these tools are a sorry mess. Look at the claw end of the hammer.”

Sonora looked. Dried mud and a tangle of grass were caught between the two metal prongs. She thought about what Caplan might have cleaned the hacksaw with, remembered the Clorox bottle in the tool shed, the smell in the cabin kitchen.

“Okay, Sonora, you got that shit-or-go-blind-look, so what's in your head?”

“Clorox.”

“Say again?”

“There was a bottle of Clorox under the hobby horse in the shed.”

“Hobby horse? What hobby horse?”

“On the left-hand side.”

Sam walked back to the shed, looked inside. “
Saw
horse, Sonora.”

“Did you see the Clorox?”

“Yeah. Think he used it to clean the saw?”

“That's the smell I noticed when we first went inside the cabin. I smelled it in the living room and in the kitchen. And that place under the sink that's cleared out? I bet that's where it used to be.”

“Bleach. To clean up.”

“Look at the rest of his stuff.” Sonora pointed to the toolbox. “Everything an oily, dirty mess.”

“Just one notable exception.”

“That vacuum cleaner bag pans out, Sam, we could make half a casebook on that alone.” Sonora sat on the edge of the table, looked out at the lake. The water was blue-green and lazy. “He strangles her in the car, and brings her here, where he gets his private time, undisturbed.”

“Think we can nail the guy with stuff from a box of garbage bags, a clean hacksaw, and one vacuum cleaner bag?”

Sonora gave Sam a lopsided smile. “Caplan could probably pull it off.”

48

There was a kid sitting on the hood of Grey and Dorrie Ainsley's blue Chrysler. He looked to be about seventeen, but he had the wide-eyed stare of a child. He was eating mandarin oranges out of a can with his fingers. A yellow striped sweat bee darted in and around the lip of the open can.

It landed on his index finger and he did not notice it till he brought it close to his mouth. He screamed, threw down the can, and scooted off the car, bare legs squeaking across the metal.

He began to cry.

“
Bees.
” He rubbed the back of his legs, which were red from where they'd been sweat-stuck to the hood of the car.

Grey put a hand on the boy's shoulder. “Bee's gone, Vernon. It's okay now.”

Sam had set the toolbox down, ready to go to the rescue. He picked it up again. They had put the hacksaw back inside, and latched it securely.

Grey lowered his voice. “This is Vernon Masterson. His family has that mobile home we saw on the way up, the double-wide. Vernon, these are the police officers I was telling you about.”

“Hello, Vernon.” Sam extended a hand.

“Go on and shake,” Grey told the boy.

Vernon stuck out his left hand.

“Other one. 'Member how I told you.”

“Other one.” Vernon put the left hand behind his back and extended the right. “Shake?”

He and Sam shook hands. Vernon looked at Sonora. “Shake?”

“Absolutely.”

His hand was sticky with mandarin orange juice. Tears had left tracks in the sweat-reddened cheeks. His white Hanes tee was oversized and his cut-off shorts went to his knees; he wore red flip-flops and there was a dirty Band-Aid on his left big toe.

“You catch bad guys. Grey told me.”

Grey was picking up the mandarin orange can. Vernon held his hand out.

“No, Vernon, I better throw this away. It's dirty.”

“Mama says I can have as many of the mandarin oranges as I want because of no fat.” He kept his hand out.

“Yeah, but these have been on the ground, Vernon, so they're dirty.”

“Dirty.”

“That's right. You wouldn't want them.”

“No, I wouldn't want them.”

Sonora thought of her own two children, healthy and bright.

Vernon's hair was cropped close in a crew cut, and the stubble was blond. He had a heavy case of acne. His eyes were brown and soft-looking, like a deer's. He smiled at Sonora. That was what was charming about him, she thought. A teenager who smiled.

“You catch criminals, too?” he asked.

“Only the ones that don't run too fast.”

He grinned and thumped his nose. “I run really fast. Celly says so.” One of his front teeth was crooked. “And Mr. Gage puts criminals in jail.”

Grey secured the lid on a metal garbage can, fitting it snugly over the lip. “Gage and Vernon are big buddies.”

Vernon held his hands wide. “Big buddies. We go fish and do trains. He's not putting me in no jail because I'm good. If I'm not good, he would have to turn me in because of the job.
Even
friends.”

“You like to fish?” Sam asked.

Vernon grinned hugely. “I like to get them and then throw them back. I like to see the splash.”

“Well, there you are, Vernon, pestering people again.” A girl came out of the trees, barefooted, smiling.

“Hey, Celly,” Vernon said.

“Hey yourself.”

He went to her like a dog to its master, and gave her a great big hug which she returned with absentminded enthusiasm. What could be seen of her legs was brown and slim, and an ankle bracelet glinted over her left foot. Sonora wondered if Julia Winchell had worn an ankle bracelet to set off the tattoo.

This girl wore a sleeveless jean jumper that hung calf length and looked lightweight and comfortable. Sonora had seen them for sale at The Limited. Her arms were tan and muscular, and she had a scoop-necked baby tee, in a soft powder pink, underneath the jumper. A gold, heart-shaped locket hung around her neck.

Her hair looked freshly washed and shiny—a professionally highlighted light brown. Her toenails were painted a shell-shimmery pink that coordinated with the baby tee. When she got close, Sonora could smell that unisex perfume that they gave out in samples in all the major department stores.

She looked at them all, smiling in an absent, friendly way, then she looked behind them and frowned.

“Gage around?” she asked.

The voice was high and girlish and Sonora revised her estimation of the age. Fifteen or sixteen. She could pass for twenty. She and the boy were no more than a year apart.

Brother and sister, Sonora decided, studying the kids' faces.

Sweat was beginning to work its way through the girl's makeup. She looked hopefully at the cabin.