The Bones Will Speak (16 page)

Beth and I traipsed back to the studio. “I don't think we need these.” I randomly opened the top book from Beth's library collection on profiling. “Active signature behaviors are methodical actions, such as repeated victim choices or specific injuries that represent a strong message meant to be understood by others.”

I slammed the book shut. “Injuries. Why didn't I see that before?” Sitting at my computer, I soon found the selection of photographs I needed.

“What did you just think of?” Beth asked.

“I was so obsessed with Mattie's appearance that I overlooked
the injuries to her hands. These are the photos of the bodies in the grave.”

Beth leaned over my shoulder. “Ugh.”

“I could see the hands of one of the bodies. It's . . . yeah, here.” After enlarging the image, I examined it carefully. “Nothing.” I leaned back in my chair. “It would have been helpful to have another signature.”

“One that didn't involve a resemblance to your daughter.”

I gave Beth a wry smile. “Yeah.”

“What's that?” Beth pointed to a corner of the screen at something gray-white.

I enlarged the detail. It was rounded and partially hidden by a fold of moldering fabric. “A watch maybe?”

“Rotate it.”

I gently manipulated the shape. “It's a compass.” I printed out the image.

“What does it mean?” Beth asked.

“I don't know yet. I'll put it with the rest of the materials, then I think I'll get the drawing done of the girl in the cow pasture. I should have time to finish it today.”

“Time!” Beth checked her watch. “Oh, I have to run. Date night with Norm. I'll call.” She raced to the kitchen. After grabbing up her coat, emptied food containers, and lavender case, she gave me a quick hug and trotted to her SUV.

I locked the door after her, trying not to think about date nights, ex-husbands, and dead redheaded girls.

Shadows filled the house as a late-afternoon storm moved in. I turned lights on in the living room as I passed through on my way to the studio.
If this storm knocks out the power . . .
Before booting up my computer, I grabbed candles from under the studio sink
and checked for another infestation of ants. Or worst yet, spiders. The temporary plywood bottom on the cabinet still reeked of insecticide from spraying it earlier. Good. I jotted
caulk
on a lime-green Post-it Note and stuck it to the wall above the sink.

After downloading the dead girl's photo onto my computer, I selected the best angle and printed out an eight-by-ten with her face scaled to a six-by-four-inch format. On a hunch I printed the photo of the ripped part of my map found in her hand. I placed the photo of her face on a light box, taped it down, and laid a clean sheet of Bristol board over the top. When I clicked on the light, I could clearly see the girl's torn and battered image.

I carefully traced as much of the undamaged image as possible, adjusting to account for her injuries and decomposition. I could see her eyes were not deep set or bulging. The shape of the eyelids would need to remain average and her eyes were closed. The tip of her nose was pointed and the width somewhat narrow. I guessed at the shape of her lips but could place them accurately using her teeth.

Two hours later I'd finished her drawing. I taped it to the window next to the photo of Aynslee and the sketch of Mattie.

A tremor raced up my spine
.
The three images could have been sisters.

“Mom?” Aynslee called from down the hall.

Hastily I pulled the drawings and photo down. “Yes?”

“What's for dinner?”

I glanced outside. The inky darkness reflected back my own image. A gust of wind sprayed raindrops against the window. I hoped Dre finished mopping up any evidence at the cow pasture.

Turning the drawings facedown on my drafting table, I flipped off the studio lights and strolled to the kitchen.

Aynslee was inspecting the contents of the refrigerator. “Bread. Eggs. Jelly. Mountain Dew.”

“No milk?”

“Nope. Guess that rules out tuna noodle casserole.” She walked into the pantry and opened the chest freezer. “Pizza or chicken pot pie?”

“Chicken pot pie. You start the oven.” I sat on the floor and opened the cupboard. “Canned green beans, corn, peas, or . . . quartered artichoke hearts?”

“Huh?”

“I think this was from when Beth was trying to teach me to cook. How about corn?”

“Yeah.”

I stood and found a saucepan. “How goes the research paper?”

“Good. It wasn't a priest case like I told you.”

“I thought not.”

“I mean, that was only part of the name. It was the Phineas Priesthood.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

OVER DINNER, AYNSLEE CAUGHT ME UP ON HER
homework. “The newspapers said that the guys you drew were part of a Phineas Priesthood group. They robbed banks and did other stuff. I looked up the Phineas Priesthood, and guess what?”

“I give up.”

“They're like Nazis and Hitler and stuff.”

“What?”

“Yeah. They even celebrate Hitler's birthday, April 20. There was some stuff about the ‘Fourteen Words,' but I didn't get that part.”

I jumped up from the table and snatched up the phone. Beth answered on the second ring. “That pamphlet I gave you. From the church.”

“It's right here. I haven't had time to read it yet. We just walked in the door. The . . . ah . . . American Christian Covenant Church. What about it?”

“Where are they located?”

“South of Missoula. About ten miles away from us.”

“Do they list service times?”

“Yes. Sundays at eleven.”

“I'm going to have Aynslee send you some information. I need you to put that ole research brain of yours to work.”

“Let me guess.” I could hear the grin in her voice. “We're all going to church on Sunday. But not our usual one.”

“Not quite. We're all going to church, but not the same one.”

“Not fair, Gwen. I thought I was your partner.”

“You are. That's why you're keeping Aynslee safe and away from the Bible-and-swastika crowd.”

“Speaking of Bibles and research, don't forget to prepare your Bible study for this next week. Given who's coming to visit tomorrow . . .”

“What—”

Beth hung up.

As if I didn't have enough on my mind.
I looked at Aynslee. “Would you e-mail your research to Beth?”

“Sure. It took me forever to read it. I wish I could be a speed-reader like Beth.”

“That's a learnable skill. Why don't you look into it?”

“Okay. I already printed out some of the stuff I thought you'd like to look at. It's on your desk.” Aynslee stood and grabbed her dirty dishes. “Mom?”

“What, sweetheart?”

“These people.” She took her dishes to the sink, rinsed them, then put them in the dishwasher. “Is there a chance, I mean, would they hurt you? Like last time?” She turned and faced me. “The stuff I read. They seem to hate a lot of people.”

“Oh.” I quickly joined her and put an arm around her. “Don't
worry.” I gave her a quick hug. “They think differently than we do, that's all.”

“But one of the articles said that hate groups have gotten bigger by over fifty percent.”

I hugged her again, this time a bit harder. “Did the article say why?”

“The economy, and immigration, and stuff like that. They're afraid of the government.”

“
Hmm.
That's not so—”

“They call it the ‘Zion Occupied Government,' and say that the white race is being overrun and diluted by nonwhites.”

“Okay, that's different. You'll have a lot to write about in your paper.” Dinner solidified into a lump in my stomach. “I'll clean up. You go ahead and work on your homework.”

“Deal.” She moved toward her room. “What are we doing tomorrow?”

“I have some work to do.” I finished cleaning the table, placing my dishes with hers in the dishwasher. “Beth will be by to pick you up for the movie in Copper Creek, and she's invited you to spend the night.”

“Really? That'll be fun.”

She skipped from the room. I tried to remember the last time I'd gone to a movie with a friend. And the last time I'd skipped from a room.

The earlier downpour slowed, then stopped. I started the dishwasher and headed down the hall, pausing outside of Aynslee's bedroom door. All was silent. I peeked in. She was sitting on the bed, earbuds on, and typing on her laptop.

I picked up my Bible, notepad, and pencil from the end table by
my bed, then returned to the kitchen. Pulling down the Scripture verse magnet, I said a quick prayer. “Lord, inspire me, show me what is Your will in presenting this topic to the women's group.” I looked up Colossians 3:13.

“ ‘Make allowance for each other's faults, and forgive anyone who offends you. Remember, the Lord forgave you, so you must forgive others.' ”

“You're kidding me, Beth. I'm supposed to talk about forgiveness?” Jumping up, I slammed my Bible shut. “You'll have to find another presenter.”

I stalked down the hall, entered Robert's office, and turned on the lights. My gaze roamed around the masculine, green-plaid walls and stark window treatment. I squeezed my hands into fists.
This is not Robert's office. He's gone. Never coming back. Now it's my room. My space.
Walking to the center of the room, I slowly turned around. I could set this up like a task-force room. With visuals and case files. The first chance I got, I'd paint it pink.

When Robert comes tomorrow, he'll see no sign he'd ever lived here.

After shoving the desk away from the windows and to the right side of the room, I took the folding chair into my studio and returned with the leather desk chair.

From the supply closet in my studio, I yanked an uncut piece of white, thirty-by-forty-inch foam core, the material I used for the backing when I framed artwork. I took it into my office. Returning to the studio, I picked up tape, the drawings, and a portable easel.

After taping the drawings and notes to the board, I found a county map in the kitchen junk drawer and added it to the display. Three brightly colored pushpins marked where we'd found
bodies and Mattie. The list of known and unknowns completed the display. The space was looking like a regular investigation room.
Better.

Dave's question was a good one. Using a black Sharpie, I wrote
Why me?
on the board
.

Returning to my studio for notepaper, I found Aynslee's research on my desk. The top sheet was a printout of the front page of the Spokane newspaper, dated five years earlier.

I gasped.

Dave leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. It was late, and silence replaced the normal hum of voices. With budget cuts, officers out sick, and now these new cases, he was scrambling to have the county covered. At least the state crime lab completed their work on the McCandless farm and released the scene, so the officer directing traffic could be reassigned.

Once Gwen brought him the sketch of the Jane Doe in the pasture, he'd get Craig to check out missing persons and maybe release the drawing to the press.

He glanced at the program on his computer screen. Dre would be putting in for overtime, Gwen needed to be paid, and he'd need to bring in everyone to work on that torchlight parade, so his budget was already in the toilet, and it was only mid-April.

He could have an open hunting season if the autopsy proved wolves killed that girl. He already had a serial killer preying on women. It could be coincidence, but Dave didn't really believe in coincidences.

Pinching away the looming headache, he reached for his
pen. A delicate, rose-decorated cup of cooling tea rested beside his elbow. He shoved it away.

Gwen thought Wes was the culprit in throwing his cell phone into the bushes so he could take over the forensic work on the McCandless farm murders. He wrote
Call Jeannie and reporter
on the yellow legal pad in front of him.

The phone rang.

“Dre here. Just finished up with the body in the field. Gwen was right about her smacking into the barbed-wire fence. We found some torn material down a bit from the body.”

Dave jotted a note. “I'll call Search and Rescue first thing in the morning to see if they can get a hound to track her route.”

“Good luck on that. We just had a real frogwash of a rain.”

“We'll at least give it a try. Go on home and get some sleep.”

“You too.”

The symbol seemed
to
leap from the paper. A capital letter
P
with a line through it.

The headlines above screamed “Terrorist Suspects Identified.” I read the article as I slowly walked to the office.