Speaking in Bones (13 page)

“W
here are we?” I asked.

Ramsey cocked his chin toward the trees ahead and to the left. “See that gap?”

“Mm.” I didn’t.

“It’s the head of a trail leading down into the gorge. They’re all named. Pine Gap. Bynum Bluff. Babel Tower. This one’s called Devil’s Tail. Used to be popular with advanced hikers.”

“Used to be?”

“The park service stopped maintaining it after a storm knocked out the lower portion.” Ramsey’s eyes met mine. “Devil’s Tail’s off the websites now, so only the locals know it exists.”

I nodded, indicating I caught his meaning.

“Ready?”

“Bring my gear?” I asked.

“First, let’s see what we see. Follow Gunner’s nose.”

Hearing his name, the dog rose and wagged his tail once. Ramsey and I got out. When the rear door opened, Gunner stepped forth with that refined grace I had come to admire.

“Watch your footing,” Ramsey warned.

Oh, yeah.

Ramsey’s “gap” was little more than a barely perceptible thinning of the old-growth forest. With Gunner in the lead, we picked our way through pines and hardwoods on a narrow scar of soil covered with ivy and creepers. Bursts of sunlight through the bare-branch and pine-needle canopy created an almost dizzying effect. Invisible spiderwebs feathered my face, and fallen branches threatened to strafe my ankles. But not for long. Ten yards from the road, the earth dropped away.

No guardrail. No reassuring park service signs. Just open sky and weathered rock ancient as the planet.

A pump of adrenaline set my nerves humming. Maybe the sheer drop-off. Maybe the fact that Ramsey was right. The spot was deserted and easily reached. An object thrown from it might never be found.

As I held back, Ramsey and Gunner trotted straight to what looked like the end of the universe. One deep calming breath. Then, moving cautiously, I joined them and braced a boot on a half-exposed boulder at the rim of the precipice.

“It’s a long way down.” Ramsey spoke without looking at me.

Heart rate in the stratosphere, I arm-wrapped a maple, planted both feet, and leaned forward. Below, I could see snatches of what remained of the Devil’s Tail, descending sharply among the trees. A stretch of forest, then the trail reappeared at a shallow depression bordered by a small rocky ledge. The arrangement reminded me of the formation at the Burke County site.

But several things differed. This ledge was even more heavily wooded. On it appeared to be a crude shack. Beyond it and just below, the ground pooched out again, like a third stair step, then plunged as a naked cliff face straight into the gorge.

I looked at Ramsey. He was studying Gunner. The dog was tense. Ears back, head low, eyes fixed on the shack.

“What is that?” I asked.

“Probably an abandoned park service shed.”

“It has Gunner’s attention.”

“It does.”

“Could he catch a scent from this far away?”

“He’s done it before.”

“Is it possible for us to get down there?”

“The path from here to the first outcrop is in pretty good shape.”

I must have looked skeptical.

“How about I check out what’s tweaking Gunner,” Ramsey said. “Anything suspicious, I’ll report back.”

“Not a chance.” Sounding monumentally more confident than I felt.

“Okay, then. Let’s do it.”

Ramsey whistled once, short and shrill. The dog bounded to his right, vanished, and, seconds later, reappeared on the Devil’s Tail. A flash of brown, then he was gone.

Ramsey took the lead. I followed, eyes glued to the ground.

The deputy’s “pretty good” translated to steep and treacherous. Lurching from tree trunk to tree trunk, I picked my way downward as though traversing a minefield. Now and then a boot skidded, sending pebbles and clumps of mud cascading before me.

As I progressed, my brain logged information. The scent of pine. A faint trace of skunk. Lichens. Black lace branches overhead. A delicate chain of silver bell at my feet.

Birds cawed complicated grievances. Far below, a river carved igneous rock. At one point I heard a flurry in the underbrush followed by a truncated shriek. I paused, breaths puffing from my mouth like tiny fog clouds. I pictured a hapless rabbit or squirrel, eyes already filming, fur darkening with blood.

My mind flashed possible predators. A copperhead. A timber rattler.

Ignoring my overly gruesome imagination, I continued for what seemed another five miles. Actually, ten more yards and the gradient leveled off.

Gunner was on his belly, gaze fixed on one corner of the shed. Ramsey was beside him, jacket unzipped, elbow flexed, hand poised at his hip. Shadows marbled his face like deep purple bruises.

For one lunatic moment I felt a chill, as though some feral presence inhabited the dark stained-glass world we’d invaded.

Shake it off, Brennan.

I crossed to Ramsey. Up close I could see that the shed was barely managing to hold together. The roof was tin, each sheet rusted and pulling free from the nails meant to secure it. The walls were crude pine planks, probably homemade and quickly slapped together. Here and there a board had fallen free, or loosened at one end to drop to an unworkable angle.

Wordlessly, Ramsey pulled a Maglite from his belt and gestured me behind him.

Really? I questioned with lifted palms and brows.

“Another reason the trail’s unused is the hefty black bear population.”

“Right.” Moving to Ramsey’s back.

“I’ve spotted no scat. Still, it’s wise to avoid surprises.”

“What about Gunner?” For some reason I felt compelled to whisper.

“What about him?”

“He’s okay with bears?”

“He ignores them, they return the courtesy.”

Without warning, Ramsey banged the tin with his torch. Causing me to jump.

No hibernating hulk jerked awake with a snort. No enraged mama
Ursus
charged out to confront us.

“Yo!” Ramsey shouted.

Silence.

Satisfied that no one was home, Ramsey rounded the corner of the shed. With me beside him, he pushed with his free hand, and the door swung on its hinges. We both craned forward.

The shed’s interior was a tangle of shadows. Where the curling tin and errant boards had created gaps, faint gray slashes crisscrossed at disparate angles.

Ramsey thumbed the switch, raised the flashlight to shoulder level, and we stepped across the threshold. The air was cold and dank. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, my nose took in earth and damp wood and rotting vegetation.

Ramsey swept his light slowly and methodically. Particles of dust twirled and danced in the bright white beam.

Wooden shelving lined the wall directly ahead. I noted a roll of chain linking, several saws, pruning shears, a long-handled ax, a stack of park service signs, all rusty and coated with grime. On and among the tools lay the desiccated remains of generations of spiders and insects.

The beam crawled on, probing. Found a rake and shovel leaning against the north wall. A ladder at its base.

“Sure enough,” Ramsey said, perhaps to me. “Park service storage.”

Every angle in the place was thick with cobwebs. One corner held a crumbling bird’s nest. Below it, white rivulets streaked the walls and dried twigs scattered the floor.

“Looks like no one’s been in here for a while,” I said.

“Looks that way.”

Ramsey ran the beam across the floorboards.

“Zero evidence of trespass.”

I referred to the absence of the detritus typically found in abandoned dwellings: cigarette butts, fast-food wrappers, empty cans and plastic bottles, used condoms. The reek of human feces and piss.

“None,” Ramsey said.

“That strike you as odd?”

“Can’t imagine the locals slogging down to pilfer old tools. Too much sweat hauling the junk back up the mountain.”

“Kids looking for a place to hang out?”

“Hang out?”

“Drink beer. Smoke weed.” Jesus. Was this guy clueless?

“Same answer. There are much easier places to do the do.”

Do the do?

“What about outsiders?” I asked.

“The trail hasn’t been posted online or in park service brochures for years.”

“You and I spotted the shed from above.”

“We were looking.”

“You don’t find it surprising that no hikers, climbers, hunters, bird-watchers, bat counters, mushroom collectors, or stargazers ever came here to squat?” A bit too sharp.

Not bothering to answer, Ramsey did another round with the torch. He was right, of course. Still, it bothered me. It’s basic physics. When a space is devoid of matter and energy, something moves in to fill the vacuum. In the case of abandoned structures, that something is inevitably Homo sapiens.

An icy gust sliced through a crack and whirled in an eddy around me. I zipped my jacket to my chin and jammed my hands in my pockets, wondering if I was on the dumbest wild-goose chase in history.

Or was the chill I felt triggered by forces other than wind?

“Come on.” One last sweep, then Ramsey clicked off the flash. “There’s nothing here.”

We were moving toward the door when we heard a bark. Just one. Loud and firm.

Ramsey paused, a sickly slash of gray turning his face cadaveric. Then, “Gunner’s got a hit.”

Eyes scanning three-sixty, we hurried from the shed. Gunner was no longer at its corner.

“Where are you, boy?” Ramsey called out.

The dog gave another solitary yelp, muffled by the trees. He was below us and off to the right.

We hurried to the edge and peered out into the gorge. Ramsey’s right arm was again cocked and ready for action.

My eyes registered a few thousand shades of brown, here and there flashes of a trail I wouldn’t have tried when decades younger and Crank-Up-the–
Enola Gay
drunk.

“There.” Ramsey pointed downslope. “On the ground. Do you see that?”

I sight-lined his finger to a giant pickup-sticks jumble of trees. At first I saw nothing but a tangle of dead trunks and branches.

Then I spotted Gunner, down, snout pointed at a slash of blue.

“What is that?” Squinting and shielding my eyes.

“Gunner’s question, precisely.”

An image popped from some corner of my mind. Recent intake. I pushed it aside for later consideration.

“Can we get to it?” I asked.

“Follow me.” Ramsey’s voice had a tense edge. “Lean your weight toward the mountain and place your feet and hands as I do.”

Ramsey eased off the ledge onto what remained of the trail and began inching downward, body paralleling the slope. I followed, heart going like mad.

This third step down of the Devil’s Tail was like the first two on steroids. Intent on mimicking Ramsey’s every handhold and breath, I didn’t think about the return trip.

A lot of panting, sweating, and, on my part, cursing, and we finally maneuvered the last few feet. Gunner flicked us a one-second glance, then refocused on the scent that had tickled his olfactory lobes.

The dog was staring at a swatch of blue plastic impaled on a stub of pine branch wind-whittled to a shiv-like point. I leaned down to inspect it. Saw a segment of rim and a small round hole that had once held a handle.

“Looks like part of a bucket.” Trying not to sound disappointed.

“That’s not why he alerted,” Ramsey said.

I straightened to look at the dog. Gunner was staring at a rock lying slightly downslope, wedged among the upended roots of a long-dead hardwood. His eyes, huge and eager, showed far too much white.

I edged closer to Gunner’s find and squatted.

The thing was rocklike, but not a rock. Though solid and gray, its sides were symmetrically curved, its top and bottom flat.

I reached out and touched one flat surface. It felt rough and gritty. Using two hands, I flipped the object. Though heavy, its weight was much less than I’d expected.

Seeing the down side clarified the lack of poundage.

I stared, puzzled.

Then, slowly, an improbable possibility shaped up in my mind.

I dropped to my knees and repositioned myself for a different view.

Barely breathing, I raised my gaze to the impaled fragment of bucket.

No.

My mind rejected the notion.

Yes.

A feeling cold as a grave washed through me.

“I
t’s concrete.” My heart was thudding, fast and hard.

Ramsey just looked at me.

“Concrete was added to the contents of the bucket and allowed to set. The bucket was thrown from the trailhead, intended for the gorge. On the way down it hit the shed and cracked.”

I looked to see if Ramsey was with me. He was.

“When the bucket landed here and impaled on the pine, already damaged, the plastic burst and the hardened concrete rolled free.”

“How do you know the bucket hit the shed?” With nothing at all in his voice.

“Gunner alerted at the southeast corner. There are blue flecks embedded in the boards. I noticed them earlier, but it meant nothing until now.”

Ramsey thought about that. “Why would concrete and plastic interest a cadaver dog?”

“They wouldn’t.” I gestured at what had been the down side of the bucket-shaped mass. “Take a look.”