Made to Be Broken

Chapter Eleven

Having searched the east side of the campsite, I started a fresh grid on the west. It seemed unlikely that anyone would have taken Sammi more than a half kilometer into the dense woods.

After almost two hours, I found a patch of disturbed earth less than a hundred feet from the main road. The sun was setting, as it would have been when Sammi walked by, good enough to see, but not to see well. I fought the urge to start digging and simply marked the location by sticking the string roll over a tree branch.

I headed back for the truck.

"Need something?" Jack asked.

I headed at the sound of his voice. In the last two hours, he'd said maybe a dozen words, as he silently poked around, letting me work.

"Need something?" he repeated.

"Stuff."

I retrieved my larger flashlight, and came back to find Jack hunkered down by the disturbed earth.

"Something dug here," he said. "Be careful. Re mem ber – "

I slapped the flashlight into his hand, cutting him short. "Shine it on me, so I don't miss anything."

I pulled on a pair of gloves, crouched, and examined the spot under the glare of the Maglite. It wasn't a large area – less than six square inches of bare earth where something had cleared away the layer of rotting leaves. Claw marks scored the ground, each the size of fork tines. The animal had dug down an inch or two, then given up.

There was a dark, wet-looking patch in the center of the spot. I picked up a clump of dirt, crushed it between my gloved fingers, and looked closer. It was dry, just darker than the surrounding earth. I ground another clump between my thumb and forefinger. Jack shone the Maglite on it.

"Blood," Jack said. "Here, let me – "

"Got it."

I gently swept aside the disturbed earth. Beneath the thin layer the animal had scraped through, the ground was hard. You can pack a hole as tightly as you want, but you can never cover the signs of disturbance. Blood had seeped into the ground here, but nothing was buried beneath it.

I took a moment to wipe off my hands, gaze down, not letting Jack see how relieved I was.

Then I shifted onto my haunches and looked around. Something had come through here, damaging bushes and low-hanging branches to the north, the direction of the road, and to the southwest. I knew the disturbance couldn't have taken place more than a week or so ago because the exposed wood of each break was fresh, and new leaves hung from the broken end of the twigs, still surviving on stored food.

Despite the obvious signs of passage, the site showed no ground-level indication that anyone had passed this way. Fallen leaves carpeted the ground beneath the broken twigs. Not a single inch of bare earth was exposed. Perfectly undisturbed. Too perfect. All around this patch, dead and fallen leaves lay in heaps and clumps, the earth peeking through. Someone had covered his tracks here.

I proceeded southwest. I didn't need to search for broken branches and twigs. The too-perfect layer of leaves stretched out before me like a red carpet. Less than fifty feet later, it ended at a clearing.

I flexed my hands, inhaling to calm my galloping heart, then crept on my hands and knees to the middle and began clearing leaves. Without a word, Jack set up the flashlight to shine on the patch, then started working at the other side.

Within minutes we'd found a tightly packed patch of upturned earth.

Staying on my knees, I cleared the area and marked the perimeter of the hole. Two feet wide. Just over five feet long. Once it was clear, I eased back and sat there, staring at it.

I stood, hands shaking as I brushed dirt from my pants.

"I need – " The words snagged in my throat. I'd been working so long in silence it was hard to speak. I cleared my throat. "I have to go back to the truck and get – "

Jack stepped up beside me, holding a shovel. I hadn't even noticed he'd left.

"Here," he said. "You sit. Rest. I'll – "

"No."

I took the shovel and scraped off layers of dirt, rather than digging. If Sammi was here, I'd need to replace everything as it had been and find a way to lead the police search in the right direction.

About nine inches down, the tip of my shovel revealed a pale nub, glowing in the reflected flashlight beam. I bent and, working with my gloves on, finger-scooped around the object until I could see it. A toe. A small toe with chipping purple nail polish.

I moved back, drawing in a ragged breath.

"Want me to -?" Jack began.

"No."

I crawled to the other end of the hole and began scraping away at the earth. Soon, yet another pale nub showed through the inky earth. A nose. Using my fingers, I cleared away the final layer of dirt. Then I leaned back and sat there, looking down at Sammi. A bloody gag covered her mouth. Her eyes were open, those beautiful violet orbs streaked with dirt and filled, not with shock or fear, but rage. A last snarl at the world that had ignored her.

Jack's fingers brushed my arm. I instinctively pulled back, then stopped, letting his fingertips rest there, warm against my cold skin, my jacket long since discarded.

"I didn't even like her," I whispered, staring down, trapped by the force of Sammi's final rage.

"You gave her a job."

"Because I felt sorry for her. She knew that and she hated it. Hated me for it. Can I blame her? That's all she ever got in her life. Pity and antipathy."

"First is better than the second."

"Is it?" I glanced up at him. "I could have helped her. Really helped her. Not just given her handouts and patted myself on the back for it. Girls like Sammi…" I shook my head and looked back at that paint-chipped toenail, unable to look at her eyes again. "People see a pretty girl with a short skirt and a big attitude, and they think they know her. They think they know the type. Girls like Sammi… like Amy… People think they've got them all figured out."

His fingers wrapped around my forearm. "She's not Amy, Nadia."

"I know that," I snapped, yanking away. "I just meant that I knew better. I knew, from Amy, what it must have been like for Sammi. I could have done more."

"Didn't have to do anything."

I looked at him.

He shrugged. "Just saying…"

I knelt and started digging again.

"Nadia…"

"I need to find her."

He lowered himself beside me, awkwardly, struggling with the cast. "You know it's her. You don't need to – "

"Not Sammi. Her baby. I need to find her baby."

He nodded, straightened, and started scraping at the earth as I dug with my hands.

To Sammi's killer, the baby would have been inconsequential, a minor obstacle to be removed. Before he had his fun with Sammi, he'd have killed Destiny to silence her cries. To minimize effort, it would make sense to bury the baby's body in the same grave.

I dug down within an inch of Sammi's body, still wary of disturbing her, in case someone later found her. When I uncovered nothing on top of her, I dug on either side, going down until the earth went hard, less than a foot lower.

"Baby's not here," Jack said.

I stood and looked around.

"Nadia – "

I shook off his restraining hand. "There's only one thing in the world Sammi cared about, Jack, and I'm not leaving until I give that back to her. Yes, I know, that doesn't make a lot of sense. But I need to, okay?" I tossed him the truck keys. "You go on, and I'll walk back."

He handed them back. "Let me help search."

I followed the killer's trail back to the road, being careful to watch for cars as we neared it, dousing the light when we heard one. We checked for disturbed earth, both on and beside his route. We hunted until the ground blurred and the trees shimmied, and I started stumbling over my own feet.

When I tripped over a fallen tree, Jack grabbed my arm, jerking me back to my feet.

"Baby's not here," he said.

"She has to – "

"Think about it. Already dug one hole. Why dig two? She's here? Gotta be in that hole."

"But I looked – " I stopped. "Under Sammi."

He nodded.

We returned to the site. Checking beneath Sammi meant fully uncovering and moving her body. I crawled over the hole, keeping my knees on opposite sides of her body and, wearing a fresh pair of gloves, I brushed away the final layer of dirt. When I was done, I backed off the shallow grave and looked down at her.

"What's wrong with this picture?" I murmured.

"You tell me," Jack said. "You're the cop. Were."

I jumped at the sound of his voice, having forgotten, yet again, that he was there. I told myself it was just that he was so quiet. The truth was, it wouldn't have mattered if he'd kept up a running commentary for the past few hours. My attention was focused entirely on Sammi.

"She's dressed," I said. "Fully dressed."

Some sexual predators did reclothe their victims. Behavioral experts saw that as a sign of remorse, the killer's twisted attempt to put everything back together, give their victims some final dignity. It was also often a sign of an opportunistic kill, where an inexperienced killer saw the perfect victim and acted on impulse. Yes, a beautiful teenage girl walking down a wooded road at dusk did make the perfect victim. But one with a baby stroller? A baby whose screams could give him away? And no inexperienced killer would have covered his tracks so well.

"Pants zipped, button done up, belt fastened," I mused. "I don't think he ever undressed her. So this isn't what it seems."

Jack only grunted.

I shook my head. Questions could wait.

When I reached to turn Sammi, Jack got on the other side, wordlessly helping. We lifted her and laid her to the side. I sifted through the disturbed earth.

"Destiny isn't here," I said.

Another grunt.

I turned to Sammi. Her hands were tied behind her with rope. I checked her feet. As I expected, there was no signs of binding. She'd been gagged, her hands bound, then shoved into the forest to the killing site. A gun at her head. Her killer forcing compliance by threatening to hurt Destiny? I pushed the scene from my head.

"Just because she wasn't raped, doesn't mean it wasn't sexual," I said, working it through. "He could get off on torture, mutilation… But there's no sign of that."

I lifted Sammi's shirt and saw only a bruise on her shoulder. The splotches of blood on her shirtfront probably came from her nose, judging by the blood-soaked gag.

"Her nose looks broken. He hits her, she goes down, she's crouched over, nose streaming blood into the dirt back there. Then he subdues her and drags or carries her here. But why punch her in the nose? That's a fighting blow."

"Incapacitating."

I glanced back at Jack.

He shrugged. "Gotta stop someone from fighting back? Three spots. Two for a woman."

I nodded. "Nose, solar plexus, or, on a man, the groin. One sharp wallop and you deliver blinding pain. But if it's sexual, he'd pull a knife or beat the crap out of her. Maybe when she attacked him, he lashed out on impulse, right hook going straight for her nose. Point is, if that's where all the blood comes from, there wasn't any torture or mutilation. And how did he kill her?"

"How's her throat?"

Strangulation. Right. I checked.

"No marks, which doesn't completely rule it out, but…"

My gaze kept sliding back to her broken nose. Something wasn't right. Yes, it was definitely broken, but the angle was wrong. It was almost as if -

Using a tissue from my pocket and dew from the grass, I cleaned the strip of skin between Sammi's nose and her gag. There it was, an undeniable bullet hole, complete with muzzle burns. A gun pressed to her upper lip, trigger pulled.

"CNS shot," Jack grunted.

A bullet through the central nervous system. "But that's – That's not a thrill kill. That's… a professional hit."

A line of sweat dribbled down the side of my face. I swiped at it.

Why would anyone want Sammi dead?

In a passionless, efficient murder like this, the reason had to be equally cold and calculated. A professional hit is done for two reasons. First, you've wronged some very powerful people. But Sammi was just a kid living in small-town Ontario. She couldn't possibly have pissed off anyone with the clout to order a hit.

The second most common reason for hiring a professional killer is more common, and the one I won't deal with. Murder for personal gain. Have your wife killed for the insurance money. Your business partner for his shares. Your parents for your inheritance. Your romantic rival for a woman. But Sammi had nothing. The killer hadn't even emptied her wallet. Then, the truth hit me so hard I gasped.

Something was missing.

"The baby," I whispered.