Husk (8 page)

She read almost two dozen messages before spotting a familiar name among the clutter: Tim Fleming.

Mallory’s eyes widened.

The last part of the name was scribbled over by the thatch of doodle-lady spreading her legs, but Mallory was sure she had the name right. The last half of the message reappeared on the other side of the drawing, and her brow furrowed when she put the two together, whispering the words aloud.

“
Tim Fleming … is a dickless faggot.”

Mallory stared at the message, cringing with disgust. She read it again and recalled her meeting with Rebecca. The woman seemed nice enough, but that didn’t mean her son would be the same. Obviously he wasn’t too well liked by someone. And she had already agreed to hang out with him later in the day.

She looked up, into the chute, searching the messages a little farther inside.

And found another bearing Tim’s name.

Tim Flemwad is a pussy.

She looked to the left wall.

Tim Flemwad takes it up the ass.

To the right.

Tim Flemwad licks shit.

She counted twenty notes with Tim’s name, but the ink was faded and scratched, written over in some parts. The freshest-looking message lay just out of reach, but what little she could see of it told her that it promised to be the juiciest bit of info yet.

Tim Fleming Loves …

Mallory groaned, unable to read the rest.

“
Who? Tim Fleming loves who?”

Due to the incline of the chute the last half of the message vanished into shadow. Even on her tip-toes, she couldn’t see what it said.

“
Damn.”

She couldn’t help wanting to know the rest. It was like a sitcom at this point. And here, obviously, was the source of the whole conflict, teasing her like cliffhanger ending.

She rested her hands on the lip of the chute, testing its strength. She looked up. Obviously the metal was strong enough to hold the weight of those who had ventured inside to leave their tag on this makeshift bulletin board, and all the newer messages seemed to be farther up. Perhaps one of them would reveal the name of the mystery girl Tim loved and shed light on the reason for so many hateful comments about him?

After one last moment of contemplation, she climbed inside and crawled upward.

Up and up she went, getting closer and closer, but now her own shadow was blocking the light, and she couldn’t fully see the entire message until she was almost on top of it. Then, finally, mercifully, she discovered the final piece of the message.

Tim Fleming Loves … Fucking Donkeys.

Mallory rolled her eyes.

“
I crawled all the way up here for THAT?”

She expelled her frustration in a single long breath, not wanting to think of how dirty she’d gotten, especially now that it was all for nothing. The upper opening of the chute waited just a few yards ahead, letting in a little more light, and she inched along toward it, searching the writing for more mention of Tim. She found plenty, but nothing that explained the anger behind the messages.

She reached the top of the chute.

Switching interests, Mallory wondered what the inside of the silo looked like, imagining it as a huge archive of spray paint and ink.

She leaned into the dank air of the silo’s interior, looking around to see what she could make out in the gloom.

The second she did, the foul stench of rot overpowered her senses.

She gagged and coughed with each lungful, involuntarily clutching her nose when she reeled away from the stink. With a moan of disgust, she twisted around to slide back down the chute, but with all her weight pressed on the unsupported edge at the opening, the sheet metal bent and the section she sat on tore away from the wall, spilling her backward.

Into the silo.

The world blurred into gray and black, rushing past her like a midnight wind.

I’m dead! I’m dead! I’m going to die!

She hit the ground before her fear transformed into a scream, landing on her back atop a carpet of moist soil and damp leaves.

She lay motionless, staring skyward. A brilliant beam of sunlight pierced the gloom from a missing panel in the silo’s domed roof, and she squinted her eyes against it, realizing she was unhurt.

No broken bones. No twisted limbs.

Groaning, she pushed herself to a sitting position.

The stench of death still polluted the air, and she slapped a hand over her mouth and nose to block it out.

Ugh! That’s sick,
she thought.
I have to get out of here!

She glanced up, searching for the chute opening, praying it wasn’t too high to reach, when she spotted something swinging in the shadows overhead.

Looking closer, she spotted a taut rope hanging from the highest reaches of the dome. Following the line with her gaze, she began to make out shapes in the murky chamber overhead: a pair of brown work boots hovering thirty feet off the floor; two legs dangling in the darkness; a hand sleeved in shadow.

Mallory’s hand dropped away from her mouth. Her body stiffened.

She saw where the rope ended in a noose, the frayed tether partially concealed behind a white face that gazed down with empty eyes.

A scream exploded from her throat. It bounced off the cold walls encircling her, amplified by the concrete. A flock of birds burst into flight, rushing from a hidden roost within the silo’s upper structure. The beat of their wings overpowered Mallory’s cry, and transient shadows darted across the dead man’s body as they flew out of the dome.

Mallory wailed again, pulling her knees up to her chest, miserably realizing no one could hear her.

Oh, God! The smell, that awful smell!

She inhaled to scream again when she spotted tufts of cloth and grass protruding from the corpse’s clothing. Her eyes adjusted to the light as she stared, and now she noticed wire secured around the dead man’s wrists and ankles, holding his boots and gloves in place. Duct tape bound a long and rusty kitchen knife in his right hand.

What kind of person would hang himself while holding a kitchen knife?

“
It’s not real,” she whispered to herself. “It’s just some dumb prank.”

She stood up and took a second, longer look at the slack white face above. This time she saw a rubber mask instead of someone’s head, a stupid Halloween prop probably purchased for under ten bucks at any WalMart or Target store.

Shifting her gaze from the hanging dummy, she searched the floor and found the remains of a small animal—maybe a raccoon or a woodchuck—not far away, which had to be the source of the stench in the air. More importantly, she also discovered a small access hatch in the silo’s wall, outlined by glorious yellow sunlight.

“
Thank God,” she whispered.

Wiping tears from her cheeks, she walked toward the door.

Overhead, a strong wind pushed through the hole in the silo’s rooftop and swirled down the concrete walls, turning the dummy just enough so that its hollow eye sockets seemed to track Mallory’s movements across the room.

The sight of it caused her bravery to vanish like a ghost.

She spun away, pushed the hatch open, and squeezed out into the warm daylight.

She didn’t stop running until she’d traveled beyond sight of the silo.

CHAPTER 10

Detective Melissa Humble pulled her car into the Pattersons’ driveway for the second time that day, arriving even as the coroner’s van departed with the homeowners’ bodies. She got out of the car and started toward the house in search of Dr. Otto Rictor, a former medical examiner and the senior CSI officer on the scene.

She opened the farmhouse door and stepped inside. The odor of decay had diminished, but the grisly display of dry blood on the far wall left the lingering impression of death, even without Mrs. Patterson’s body present.

Melissa found Dr. Rictor stooped over the kitchen counter, studying various Polaroid photos of the bodies and jotting notes into a ledger. Earlier, he’d led the photographers throughout the house and garage, making certain every detail of the crime scene got captured on film.

Rictor glanced up and smiled when the door springs announced her entry, an act that caused the lines sprouting from the corners of his eyes to triple in number. He pushed his half-lens reading glasses higher up on the bridge of his pudgy nose and said, “That was quick. You weren’t even gone an hour.”

After contacting and questioning the victims’ remaining family—two sons, both living out of state—Melissa had gone out to check the surrounding farms, searching for anyone who had either seen or heard from the Pattersons prior to their deaths. “Feels more like three hours,” she said. “How about you, having fun yet?”

He frowned but it didn’t change the amicability in his eyes. “Just the other day I was telling my wife it’s been a while since I’ve had a real challenge. I should’ve kept my damn mouth shut. Coffee?”

Melissa laughed and leaned against the counter beside him.

He handed her a paper cup from Starbucks. “One of Cocoran’s finest did a java run. I figured you could use it. Soy mocha latte.”

“
You know me too well,” she said. “So, what’s the challenge?”

Rictor marked his page in the ledger and motioned her toward the blood-streaked wall. “Take a look at this first.”

She followed, sipping the coffee while he indicated specific areas of the scene. His pointing fingers darted from one detail to the next like long-necked birds pecking at breadcrumbs.

Various pins and labels now marked the rust-colored bloodstains smeared over yellow and white wallpaper, blotting out intricate little pictures of barns and hay bales. The labeled pins, Rictor explained, identified which holes had been made by each of the items that pierced the victim’s body and embedded in the plaster wall.

“
We found thirty-two knives out of the total amount of utensils lodged in the corpse,” he said, “but only six of those were long and sturdy enough to penetrate the body and hold it in place. Now, look at where those knives were located.” He placed himself in a stance similar to the one in which Mrs. Patterson had been found. The reconstruction wasn’t perfect; unlike the victim, his feet remained on the floor.

“
We have two blades in each arm, one through her left trapezium muscle in the neck, and the other in her right shoulder. None of those stabs would be instantly fatal, and you can see how much blood there is on the floor and wall.”

“
So, you’re saying that she was alive when it happened, that her heart was still pumping?”

“
Correct.”

“
What about the other utensils?”

“
Superficial anterior musculature damage. That many wounds would’ve killed her in time, no doubt, but the true mortal blow came from one of the cooking spoons in the eye sockets, which happened last, as indicated by the blood loss.”

“
And there were no other traces of blood throughout the house?”

“
None that we could find. We’ve used Luminal and ultraviolet light on some of the rooms, but nothing’s turned up. We’ll have to wait until nightfall to do the property, of course, but I’m not expecting to discover any new areas of interest.”

“
Then this wasn’t just set up as a display.”

“
No. I’d say this is where she died.”

Melissa stared at the blood on the wall, appalled by the brutality implied by Rictor’s findings. “Shit.”

“
We still need to wait for the M.E.’s toxicology report to see if there were any chemicals or drugs in her system,” he reminded her. “It could be that she was unconscious before the killer attacked her, but somehow I doubt that anything will turn up. This looks like the work of good old-fashioned rage.”

“
I have the same feeling,” Melissa muttered. “What about Mr. Patterson? Anything new?”

Rictor’s folded his arms in a contemplative posture.

“
What?” Melissa asked.

“
That’s the challenging bit,” he said. “Follow me.”

He led her out of the house.

Melissa had already surveyed the stage on which Mel Patterson’s final act in life had been played out, having come to its finale in the theater of the couple’s detached utility garage.

Mr. Patterson’s corpse had been found partially trapped beneath his green Ford Windstar, where he’d been crushed between the front bumper and the garage’s main door, thus causing the damage she’d observed when she arrived.

“
There’s something a bit puzzling about the man’s death,” Rictor said once they were inside the building.

“
Let’s hear it.”

“
Well, if you remember, it appeared Mr. Patterson had been struck twice by the vehicle.”

Melissa nodded in agreement. “The first hit sandwiched him between the garage door and the minivan.”

“
Which broke his hip, but didn’t have the force to kill him.”

“
Then the killer backed up, collided with the workbench, and peeled forward again as Mr. Patterson tried to get out of the way.”