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Another laugh, then he took a scalpel from the metal table in the corner. The cold metal glinted in the dark as he waved it in front of their faces.
SEVENTY-THREE
BLACK SNAKE COVE
A fine sheen of sweat coated Ellie’s forehead as she watched the team carefully recover the remains buried in the small graves. Fear vibrated in the sweltering air, the vultures’ hissing and grunting setting her on edge. Although typically vultures ate fresh carrion, not bones, they often circled if they sensed death.
She tried to shake off her unease as the team laid bones from each grave onto the collection pans. The forensic analyst photographed each one and Laney moved closer to study the first set.
“We’ll need to use anthropometers to measure and establish what we’re dealing with here.” With gloved hands, she examined what looked like a skull.
Ellie held her breath. “Is it a child’s?”
Laney shook her head. “I can’t say for certain that there aren’t human bones mixed in here, but the skull belongs to an animal.” She held up the skeleton. “Animal bones don’t have a clavicle. Some have a useless ossified structure but it doesn’t provide support or scaffolding for other bones as the human does.” She angled it sideways. “Animal bones are also more porous and are thinner in the cross section than human bones.”
Relief whooshed through Ellie. “Thank God.”
Derrick squeezed her arm and Cord rocked back on his heels, wiping his forehead with the back of his arm.
“Check the other graves,” Ellie said. “Just because this one is an animal doesn’t mean the others aren’t.” Or hell, some sadistic killer could have mixed them to throw off the police.
“Will do,” Laney said. “I’ll be thorough. We’ll also determine the type of animal they came from.”
Laney headed to the next gravesite and Derrick grew grim-faced.
Realizing the small graves were getting to him, Ellie gave his hand a small squeeze and felt his fingers tighten around hers for a brief second before he let go.
But the air was filled with tension as they watched the recovery team work for the next hour.
“There are no human skulls here,” Laney said an hour later after she’d analyzed the bones that were uncovered. “In each grave, we found four legs indicating they all belong to animals. The bones are different sizes though, so could be different species ranging from rabbits to deer, maybe coyotes. I’ll have a team work on that.”
Ellie’s thoughts raced. If these animals were killed by hunters, why bury them? That didn’t fit with a hunter’s lifestyle. But… serial killers often practiced on animals before they worked up the nerve to take a human.
By the time the teams had excavated each grave, stored the remains for transportation to the morgue and marked the area as a crime scene to keep the situation contained, it was nearly midnight. A few stars fought through dark clouds rolling in, a quarter moon distant and shadowy.
“Why did you come to this specific place?” Derrick asked Cord as they hiked down a steep hill through thick brush that opened to a clearing. The clouds had stirred a slight wind that rustled the dead leaves, and the lake water in the distance lapped against the bank.
Cord’s gaze darkened as they reached their vehicles. “The idea that the little girl had never been found bugged me,” he said gruffly. “I just figured I’d widen the search grid.”
“Your instincts are good, McClain,” Derrick said.
Cord looked away with a small shrug, although from the way his jaw tightened, Ellie wondered if there was something else going on with him. Something he didn’t want to talk about. It wouldn’t be the first time.
SEVENTY-FOUR
WIDOW LAKE
Lorna Bea slid from bed and pushed the curtain aside to see out. Moonlight skidded off the dark lake and for a moment, she imagined ghosts rising from the inky black, humming as they tried to find their way to the light.
Through the window, she’d watched Betsy’s mother read her stories and tuck her into bed. Her heart ached. She wished she had a mama like that.
Or that her daddy would at least spend some time with her. But he was not the affectionate kind. She froze at the sound of footsteps downstairs. She’d eaten her dinner alone locked in here tonight while she listened to Nana’s creaking rocker and her father banging things around.
She had no idea what had put him in such a foul mood, although he’d been acting strangely ever since they came to Widow Lake. His moods were like the wind. Sometimes calm and quiet. Other times brooding as if building into a storm. Then tumultuous—another word she’d found in her thesaurus—and raging like a tornado.
Usually after one of those storms, he stalked into her room, handed her a box and said it was time to hit the road again.
Wind whistled through the eaves, drawing her back to the gloomy sky and surrounding woods. The lonely spirits of the lake called to her as if they understood, and she took solace in the fact that the dead cared about her when her father could hardly stand to look at her.
