Part II

Chapter 14

We walked in silence toward the eleven crosses, mysterious and haunting in the grotto formed by the live-oak canopy. The crosses appeared to be made of galvanized metal pipe, two or three inches in diameter. On the tops of the horizontal pieces, the metal was a dull, mottled gray; underneath, it was black with mildew. Someone had gone to considerable effort to construct the crosses — their uprights and horizontal pieces had been neatly miter-cut and welded together — but neither the crosses nor the ground bore any sort of plaque or inscription, any indication of whose bones might lie within these graves, or how long they’d lain there.

“This is amazing,” Angie whispered. “How’d you find out this was here?”

“I tracked down the former superintendent, Marvin Hatfield.”

She looked as surprised as I felt. “Hatfield? The guy quoted in that old newspaper story about the beatings?”

“Yep. Good old spare-the-rod, spoil-the-child Hatfield.”

“I’m surprised he’s still alive.”

“So is he, probably. He’s ninety years old, in a wheelchair and on oxygen, but his mind’s still fairly sharp. He lives in a nursing home in Dothan, Alabama, about an hour from here. Did you know he became commissioner of the Department of Corrections a couple years after the fire?”

“Why, no,” she said, “but it makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? ‘Hey, Hatfield, I see that your school burned down and killed a bunch of kids. Great work! I’d like you to take over our prisons and do an equally fine job with them?’ You suppose that’s how the phone call went?”

Vickery shrugged. “Could be. We’re looking into whether somebody pulled a string with the governor to get him the promotion. Don’t know if we’ll be able to find one, though, this many years after the fact. Anyhow, I told Hatfield about the skulls, asked if he thought they might have come from the grounds of the school. He closed his eyes and thought about that for a while — that, or checked out for a little nap; hard to be sure. Then he said they might have come from the ruins, since they never found a couple of the bodies after the fire. When I told him what the Doc said, that there didn’t seem to be any signs that they’d been burned, he said, ‘Well, then, they might have come from the cemetery.’ Being the world-class interrogator that I am, I said, ‘What cemetery?’ According to Hatfield, boys occasionally died at the school — nine in the fire, of course, but also from illnesses and other accidents, too. Most boys who died at the school were sent home to their families to be buried, but if they didn’t have relatives who claimed them, they’d be buried on the grounds.”

It made sense, now that he said it, though it hadn’t occurred to me as a possibility before. Perhaps it should have; after all, unclaimed bodies accounted for a third of the corpses that ended up at the Body Farm. For some reason, though — naïveté or idealism or some combination of the two — I’d assumed that dead children were different from dead derelicts; I’d assumed there’d always be someone who wanted to claim them, bury them, mourn them. And my experience had borne out that assumption: the thousand skeletons in our collection included virtually no children, so maybe it wasn’t surprising that I was unprepared for the sight of a graveyard for reform school orphans.

A butterfly, luminous yellow, fluttered above a cross. “Did Hatfield refer to the cemetery as the Bone Yard?”

“Not exactly. He never used the term, so finally I did. I asked if the cemetery was what the boys used to call the Bone Yard.”

“You are a world-class interrogator,” Angie observed drily. “What’d he say?”

“He looked startled — said he hadn’t heard those words in forty years — but then he said yes, he had heard it referred to by that name. When I asked if he could tell me where it was, he drew me that little map. Pretty good memory for a ninety-year-old.”

I walked down one row of crosses and back up another. “Was his memory good enough that he could tell you who’s buried here? And what killed them?”

He pulled out a notepad and consulted it. “Three were boys who died in the fire in 1967. Six of the nine fire victims were sent home for burial by their families, but three of them were orphans who’d been in foster care before they got sent to reform school. The guard who died in the fire was also buried here. Two boys who died of the flu in the winter of 1958, which was a couple years before he took over. One boy who drowned on a class canoe trip. Another who fell off a tractor that was mowing the grass; he got run over by the bush hog.” I gave an involuntary shudder. “He didn’t remember any of the other circumstances — said most boys buried in the cemetery died before he took over, and he couldn’t recall what the records said about the rest of them.”

Angie frowned. “And did he tell you where to find these helpful records?”

“They were kept on-site, at the school. So they burned up in the fire. That was before the wonders of centralized record keeping.”

“Very handy,” she observed. “What about the guard? What was his name? Why’d they bury him there?”

“Also no family, according to Hatfield. Said the boys were his only family. He died trying to save their lives. Hatfield couldn’t remember the man’s name.”

“What about the trauma?” I asked. “Did you tell him both the skulls we found had been fractured?”

“He said he didn’t know anything about that. He took a hit or two of oxygen, then circled back to the one that fell off the tractor; asked if that might be one of them.”

“It’s possible,” I conceded. “If the housing of the mowing attachment hit the head just right, it could have knocked the mastoid process loose. But what about the first skull, the one with the hairline fracture in the temporal bone?”

Vickery shrugged. “He said he was sorry he couldn’t be more helpful, but most of the deaths happened before he took over.”

I wasn’t ready to let go. “What about the beatings? Did you ask about those?”

“I did. I showed him a copy of the newspaper story. He got mad, turned red in the face; I actually thought he might stroke out on me. Said that story was a pack of lies — inaccurate, irresponsible, and cowardly — and he’d sure like to see how some goddamned bleeding-heart reporter would keep order among a bunch of juvenile delinquents without swinging a paddle every now and then. Then he started wheezing and said he was really tired and he didn’t know anything else that might help us, and could he please take his nap now?”

Angie blew out an exasperated breath. “That’s it? ‘I don’t care if some boys were murdered — it’s nap time’? Christ almighty.”

“Look, I’ll go back and talk to him again once I have more questions, but he was clearly done. I didn’t see anything to be gained by interrogating him to death.” I couldn’t help but laugh. “On the way out, I did ask him who else might know about the cemetery or the deaths. He shook his head. ‘Young man, I have no idea,’ he said. ‘That was a lifetime ago. Those boys were already lost by the time they got to us. Why on earth would anybody know or care after all this time?’ I hate to say it, but I’m afraid he might be right.”

“I care,” said Angie.

Vickery nodded slightly in agreement, or at least acknowledgment. He looked at me. “So, Doc, can we figure out who’s buried here? Does each of these crosses mark a grave? And do these crosses mark all the graves? Or might there be more?”

“All good questions.”

“I suppose,” Angie said grudgingly, “we could dust off the old reliable root finder.”

I smiled at the name, though I had no clue what it meant. “Root finder?”

“That’s what the crime-scene folks fondly call their ground-penetrating radar,” Vickery explained. “What is it you told me GPR really stands for, Angie? Great Pictures of Roots?”

“Ah,” I said, the light dawning. I’d seen ground-penetrating radar in action before, and I had to admit, I’d been whelmed: far from overwhelmed, but not totally underwhelmed, either. In theory, GPR made perfect forensic sense: radio-frequency pulses, directed into the ground, would be bounced back with different intensities by materials of different density. Dense materials — undisturbed soil, for instance, or metal pipelines, or rocks, or roots — would send back stronger signals than looser materials, such as a human body, or the disturbed dirt of a recently dug grave. In my admittedly limited experience, interpreting the on-screen images required a fifty-fifty mixture of high-tech aptitude and psychic power. One of my graduate students had done a research project in which she used an advanced prototype GPR system to image bodies buried under slabs of concrete — a realistic simulation of a murder in which, let’s say, a man kills his wife, buries her in the backyard, and then pours a new patio to conceal her grave. My student’s project had shown me two things: first, that someone skilled at reading the cloudlike images on the GPR’s display might have a pretty good shot at determining whether or not a particular patio was hiding a body (or at least a body-sized area of disturbed soil); and second, that I was not that skilled someone, since to me, most of the subterranean images looked like the rainstorms on the Weather Channel’s radar.

“Well, if you don’t want to use the root finder, we could try divining,” I suggested.

Vickery looked puzzled. “Divining? What, like praying?”

“No. Divining, like dowsing. Like water-witching.”

He snorted. “The business with the forked stick?”

“As my assistant Miranda would say, the forked stick is so last century,” I said. “The state of the art these days is coat hanger, man. You take apart one of those coat hangers from the dry cleaners. You know, the kind that has the round cardboard tube for your pants to drape over?” He stared at me, so I hurried on with my explanation. “You cut the cardboard tube in half, then cut two pieces of the wire and bend them into L’s. Stick one end of each L in each piece of the cardboard tube, and use the tubes for handles, to let the wires swivel freely.” I struck a stance like a Wild West gunslinger, my hands mimicking a pair of revolvers. “Then you walk the search area with the exposed wires level, parallel to the ground.” I headed slowly toward one of the crosses. “When you come to a body, or a grave, the wires cross.” I pivoted my fingers toward one another. “Or sometimes swivel sideways.” I wiggled my fingers back and forth.

Vickery removed his cigar and studied me closely, apparently trying to decide whether I was pulling his leg or had gone truly mad.

“Ah, the forensic coat hanger,” said Angie. She mimicked my gunslinger stance. “Stranger, you’d best be gone by sundown,” she drawled à la John Wayne, “or I’ll fill ya fulla starch.”

Vickery hooted, and even I was forced to smile, despite feeling some embarrassment. “Hey, scoff all you want, but my colleague Art Bohanan swears by it.” Vickery rolled his eyes. “Art says he mapped a bunch of graves in an old family cemetery this way.”

“No slam on Art,” Angie said, “but I’ve read some journal articles about divining for graves. A few years ago, there was an archaeologist in Iowa who did a big literature search and a bunch of interviews and some simple experiments. From his research, at least, he concluded that it’s totally ineffective. He says the wires move when you slow down, or bend over, or your posture shifts because you’ve stepped down into a low spot. Basically, it’s like a Ouija board — it works because you make it work, subconsciously.”

I shrugged. “Well, I know a research scientist who’s also a believer. His theory is that as a body decays, it turns into a big biochemical battery, giving off electrical currents that the wires pick up.” I pointed my divining-rod revolvers at Angie. “Say, little lady, ya wanna go back to grad school and get yourself a PhD? Divining would make a dandy little dissertation.”

She held up both hands. “I surrender. I wish Art were here right now. I’d be happy to put him to the test. We could check his accuracy by bringing in the forensic backhoe.”

“See, now you’re talking some useful technology,” said Vickery, and I smiled. Unlike forensic coat hanger, the term forensic backhoe was actually used in all seriousness, or at least in some seriousness, by police and anthropologists. A forensic backhoe was identical to a basement-digging backhoe or a ditch-digging backhoe; the fancied-up terminology simply acknowledged that a backhoe could be used, by a skilled operator and an experienced scientist, to excavate with surprising precision. I’d used forensic backhoes many times in my career, just as I’d used forensic shovels, forensic trowels, forensic paintbrushes, and even forensic saucepans on forensic kitchen stoves. Stoves I’d ended up replacing, not once but twice, when the bones I was cleaning boiled over, forever contaminating the unreachable nooks and crannies of the forensic burners. “But, fascinating though this discussion of technology is,” he added, “I do feel duty bound to bring us back to the questions at hand. How do we identify who’s buried here? And how do we figure out which of their skulls that damn dog brought home?”

“I’m not sure those two questions are actually related,” I said slowly, the realization coming clear only as I said it. I pointed to the lush ferns surrounding the eleven rusting crosses. “Unless there’s something I’m not seeing, nothing — and nobody — has been dug out of this cemetery in years. Not by that dog or by anybody else.”

Vickery’s face fell, and the wind went right out of his sails. He’d been so proud of his find, and it was a remarkable one. But as we took a critical, appraising look at the markers — I couldn’t help thinking of the old hymn “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross”—it became more and more clear that this was not the source of Jasper’s finds.

Before taking Angie and me to the cemetery, Vickery had called to alert his boss, the FDLE special agent in charge of a batch of counties in the Florida panhandle. Now he phoned headquarters again with an update, and though I didn’t hear the details of the call — Vickery headed down the overgrown road on foot as he began to talk — I could hear notes of disappointment in his voice.

Angie, meanwhile, was already documenting the graveyard. She started by taking photographs of the cemetery as a whole, then of each row of crosses, and then of the individual markers. Then she enlisted my assistance, which consisted mainly of holding the end of a fifty-foot tape measure as she sketched the site and noted the locations of the crosses. After she’d finished the sketch, she reeled in the tape, which slithered and twitched its way through the ferns like a yellow ribbon snake.

“Just for kicks,” she said, snapping the crank into the case of the reel, “why don’t we probe one of these, see if these crosses really do seem to be marking graves, or if they’re just decorative accents.”

“We have probes in the Suburban? Why didn’t you say so sooner?”

“What, and miss that great seminar on the forensic coat hanger?”

She retrieved two probes and a fistful of survey flags from the back of the vehicle and handed one of the probes to me. It was a stainless-steel rod, four feet long and about the thickness of my index finger, with a one-foot handle across the top that formed a tall, skinny T. “Pick a grave, any grave,” she said. I pointed to the cross closest to us, which was at one corner of the cluster of markers. “Which side of the cross do you suppose the grave would be on?” I shrugged; without a plaque or marker — and with such dense ferns underfoot — it was impossible to tell.

“How about we probe both directions? That way, no matter which way the grave is dug, we’ll find it. If it’s there to find.”

Starting a foot above and below the cross, we pushed the probes into the ground. Mine went in easily, halfway up to the handle, before hitting tightly packed soil; Angie’s, on the other hand, hit hard clay half a foot down. Working our way farther from the cross — and to either side of our starting points — we probed repeatedly. Again and again mine passed through loose, disturbed earth, and I marked each of these holes with a survey flag; again and again Angie’s probe hit hardpan just below the topsoil. Finally, after I’d lengthened and widened my grid considerably, I began hitting hard dirt, too, which told me that I’d reached the margins of the disturbed area, and was now encountering undisturbed soil. I stepped back so Angie could photograph what I’d flagged. The ten flags defined an oval-shaped area of loose, disturbed soil, about two feet wide by six feet long: just about the size hole you’d dig to bury a teenage boy.

Angie was adding notes to her sketch when Vickery returned at a jog. He was sweating and breathing hard. He took in the flags, and his eyebrows shot up. “Looks like you two have been busy.”

“You were gone awhile, so we found something to do,” said Angie. “Quacks like a grave to me, even if it isn’t where the dog’s been digging. What’s up?”

“This cemetery is gonna stir up a shit storm,” he said. “Even if the skulls didn’t come from here. The commissioner — the big boss, the head of FDLE,” he explained for my benefit, “has a call in to the governor. I’m afraid we’re about to have a lot more people looking over our shoulders.”

“Maybe that’s the best thing that could happen,” I offered. “Seems like the boys at this school fell through the cracks all those years ago. Maybe now people will finally pay some attention.”

“Maybe,” conceded Vickery. “But I wouldn’t bet my pension on it.”

Chapter 15

The Twilight Motor Court was well named; I suspected the sun had set on its glory days — if indeed there had ever been glory days — decades ago. The motel consisted of seven cinder-block bungalows, which might have been new and clean in the 1950s, but which now ranged from seedy to crumbling. The two that sat farthest from the road were roofless and windowless. Mine, number three, seemed intact, but the ridgeline of the roof sagged, the paint on the trim was peeling, and the bottom of the door sported a wooden fringe where the outer layer of veneer was peeling and splintering. An ancient air conditioner in the side wall rasped and clattered, its wobbly fan grazing the cooling vanes at random intervals.

Given the complexity created by the revelation of the cemetery — given the shit storm that was brewing, as Vickery put it — he and Angie had decided we should stay nearby, eliminating the two-hour round-trip to and from Tallahassee. The nearest place to stay — the only place to stay that was within a half hour of the school site — was the Twilight.

As I wriggled the reluctant key into the lock, the knob rattled in my hand. I twisted gingerly, half expecting it to come off. It didn’t, but once the door scraped open, I almost wished it had. The room was dank and musty, a few degrees cooler than the outdoors but even more humid, and my eyes and nose began to itch at once from the onslaught of mold spores. The floor was upholstered with shag carpet — an unfortunate “update” from the 1970s, I guessed — that was pea green with reddish-brown stains… or maybe reddish-brown with pea-green stains. The sagging double bed was topped with a polyester bedspread of similar vintage, color, and contamination, and I shuddered to think what biological stains might fluoresce under the glow of an alternate light source. Suddenly I felt nostalgic for the Hotel Duval, with its peaceful neutrals, its glowing ceiling bubbles, and its luminous waitresses.

A seething, spattering sound emanated from the bathroom. I found the light switch and flipped it; a dim, bare bulb in the ceiling revealed a hissing faucet in the porcelain sink and a dribbling shower in a cracked fiberglass bathtub, another “update” added twenty or thirty years before. Both fixtures were streaked and stained with rust, as was the toilet. I leaned down and twisted the knobs on the bathtub. The shower’s dribble doubled in volume, but lacked the pressure required to form an actual spray.

My cell phone rang, causing me to jump. The number was Angie’s.

“Hey there,” I answered. “Welcome to the Bates Motel. Watch out for the guy with the butcher knife.”

“One difference between this and Psycho,” she said. “The bathroom in Psycho actually had a shower curtain.”

“You can have my shower curtain. I sure don’t need it. Have you checked the water pressure?”

There was a pause, and I heard gurgling in the background. “I see what you mean. This’ll make it hard to rinse off the soap.”

“You’ve got soap? You must have the deluxe suite,” I joked, peering at my soap dish, which was empty except for the layer of mildew. “You FDLE fat cats sure know how to travel in style.”

“Hey,” she squawked, “the way the BP spill screwed our tourism revenues, we’re lucky we’re not sleeping under a bridge. FDLE’s budget had already been cut to the bone in 2008 and 2009. Now we’re amputating whole sections. Won’t be long before we start selling brownies to buy rape kits. Or sending out e-mails to all our friends and relatives: ‘Please sponsor my next crime-scene search! I need to raise five thousand dollars in pledges before the corpse gets cold!’ ” I laughed, but her point was serious.

“It’s worrisome,” I agreed. “Forensic technology — just like medical technology — gets more sophisticated all the time, but that means it gets more expensive, too. Which homicides get the VIP treatment, and which ones do we cut corners on?”

“Black men don’t generally get the VIP treatment.” She paused. “Neither do battered women,” she added softly.

“I’m sorry, Angie,” I said. “I wish there were more we could do.”

“Me, too.” She sighed. “Anyhow. So, astonishingly, there’s not a four-star restaurant here at the lavish Twilight Motor Court. Shall we go back to the Waffle Iron?”

“Fine with me; I like the Waffle Iron. But let me get cleaned up first.”

“Yeah, good luck with that,” she said. “Just come knock on my door whenever you’re ready. I’m in number four, the palatial place next door. You’ll recognize it by the duct tape holding the window together. I just talked to Stu, and he’s ready, so once you’re clean and shiny, we’ll saddle up and go.”

I headed for the shower, but the combination of anemic water pressure, rust stains, mildew, dirt, and dead bugs was too much for me. I did find an ancient bar of soap in the rusted medicine cabinet, so I managed to get tolerably clean taking a sink bath.

Ten minutes after we’d talked, I knocked on Angie’s door. The brass number was missing, but beneath the outermost layer of peeling green paint was a four-shaped remnant of peeling red paint. Angie hadn’t been kidding about the duct tape: a missing windowpane had been replaced with cardboard, which was held in place with brittle, curling duct tape.

“Come in,” she called. She was sitting cross-legged on her bed — the same scary-looking bedspread I had, though her stain pattern appeared slightly different, like variations in a modern artist’s series of paintings on a theme of scuzzy bedspreads. Lying open on the bed in front of her was a wallet-sized album of photos. The dozen or so pictures were snapshots of a life: Kate as a baby, swaddled in the arms of a nervous and proud four-year-old sister; Kate riding a pony at her sixth birthday party, a cone-shaped party hat rubber-banded to her head; Kate pitching for her high school softball team; Kate graduating from nursing school; Kate in a wedding gown, flanked on one side by Angie, her matron of honor, and on the other by a groom who’d been scissored from the photo; Kate and Angie standing with a wizened old woman with dyed red hair, too much rouge on her cheeks, and eyes that looked like an ancient version of Angie’s.

The most poignant images in the set were four black-and-white photos of the two sisters, as grown-ups, playing dress-up in antique clothing. They wore high-collared Victorian gowns, sequined flapper dresses, fitted hobble skirts, silly poodle skirts. In each picture, their hairdos harmonized with the clothes; so did their expressions, which ranged from prim to saucy to sophisticated. “These are great,” I said. “Tell me about them.”

Angie smiled. “Ah. That was a great weekend. Kate and I took a road trip to see my grandmother, up in Akron, Ohio, on her ninety-fifth birthday. Her mind was still sharp, but her health was starting to fail, and we figured it might be our last chance to celebrate her birthday with her. Anyhow, at some point Saturday morning, Kate said something about needing a new pair of jeans, and Grandma made one of those typical geezer comments about how much better clothes used to be, back in the day. So we were humoring her, but also teasing her—‘Right, Grandma, these kids today don’t know beans about how to dress’—and she said, ‘You girls should look through those trunks of clothes up in the attic.’ So we did, and it was amazing. She was right — the clothes were a lot cooler back in the day. She had stuff she’d worn in the twenties and thirties and forties; she had stuff her mother had worn back at the turn of the century, and stuff our mother had worn in the fifties. We spent all afternoon Saturday trying on clothes and fixing our hair, while my cousin took pictures and Grandma told us stories about the Roaring Twenties and the Great Depression and World War Two.” She shook her head with a wistful smile. “Funny thing about your grandparents. They’re already old, or at least you think they’re old, by the time you know them. So you never picture them as little kids, or wild teenagers, or scared young parents, or anything except old folks.” She took back the photos and looked at the picture of the old woman. “Grandma became a real, three-dimensional person to me that day, you know?”

I nodded. “Is your grandmother still alive?”

“No. She had a stroke two months later. I’m so glad we took that trip.” She flipped through the series of dress-up photos. “That was the last trip Kate and I took together. Two months later, she met Don Nicely. And now she’s fading into monochrome memories of the good old days.”

There was a knock on the door. “Let’s eat,” growled Vickery. “I’m starving.”

Angie folded the picture wallet closed and tucked it in her purse. After she did, I noticed, her thumb rubbed circles around the hatchet scar on her index finger — a way of hanging on to a more tangible memory, I guessed — and I doubted that she even realized she was doing it. I remembered a line from a Shakespeare play, spoken to Hamlet by the ghost of his murdered father—“Remember me. Remember me. Remember me.” I felt certain Angie would remember Kate always; I prayed that she would not be haunted by her sister’s ghost forever.

* * *

Our second meal at the Waffle Iron was more somber than our first. Angie seemed to have turned inward. Then Vickery handed us more pages from the diary Flo was deconstructing, which didn’t seem likely to lift our spirits.

I’d thought I was hungry, but as I began to read, I lost all appetite.

Jared is dead, and Buck might be dying.

We were in the dining hall last night. Dinner was pinto beans and cornbread. I was sitting across from Buck. Jared McWhorter was sitting on one side of him. While Cockroach was saying grace, Jared reached over and grabbed Bucks piece of cornbread off of his plate. Hes taken food from me before, and from lots of other boys. Hes one of the biggest, roughest boys so he always gets away with it.

But last night Buck got mad and grabbed ahold of Jareds wrist with both hands and started trying to get his cornbread back. Jareds stronger than Buck, but Buck wouldnt let go. Give it back, give it back, he was saying. His teeth were clenched tight together, so he sounded like an animal growling Give it back you bastard. I tried to shush him up, but he was to mad to listen. Give it back, give it back. He was growling louder. Cockroach said a quick Amen and started looking around to see who was making noise during the blessing.

Jared had reached under the table with his other hand and started pinching Buck to make him let go. He must have pinched him real hard because Bucks eyes closed and he made a kind of a squealing yell through his teeth, but he never let go. Then he bent down and bit Jareds hand.

Jared let out a big yell and jumped up. Buck was still holding on to him with his hands and his teeth, so when Jared jumped up he pulled Buck with him. The bench caught the back of their legs and made them both fall over backwards onto the floor. Cockroach blew his whistle one short time then three long times, loud, to call the other guards, but Buck and Jared just kept on fighting. Jared was yelling and punching Buck in the face, or trying to, but he was having trouble getting any good licks in because Bucks face was mostly covered by his own arms and Jareds arm. So then Jared put his other hand on Bucks throat and started to choke him.

Thats when Cockroach got there and started trying to pull them apart. He wasnt having much luck with his one hand, so he started kicking. He kicked Buck in the back and the ribs three or four times, and that was enough to make Buck let go and curl up into a ball. Buck hollered at the first kick, then grunted at the second kick and then he just whimpered like a dog thats been hit by a car and is dying. Cockroach kicked Jared three or four times too, in the belly and in the nuts. The last two kicks were hard enough to lift him mostly up off the floor and send him skidding. Jared puked out some bloody looking vomit and just lay there on his side making a gurgling sound.

Four other guards came busting into the dining hall then. They looked at Cockroach, who was standing over Jared, looking down with his face all twisted up and purple and his nostrils open wide like a horses. One of the guards, Mr. Delaney, squatted down and looked at Jared, then looked up at Cockroach. Hes in bad shape, said Mr. Delaney. I don’t think he’s breathing right. We best get him to the infirmary. Goddammit said Cockroach. Alright get him out of here. Mr. Delaney and Mr. Whitlock reached under Jareds arms and raised him up off the floor, face down, and dragged him out the door. His knees and feet were dragging the floor, and I heard his shoes thump down the wooden steps and scrape across the dirt and roots in the yard. The third guard, Mr. Tillman, was squatted down looking at Buck, who was groaning and whimpering. I reckon we should take him to the infirmary too, said Mr. Tillman, but Cockroach said no. He aint hurt, said Cockroach, hes just pretending. Come on and help me bring him down to the shed. Mr. Tillman looked at Cockroach and said are you sure about that? and Cockroach said goddam right Im sure. Come on. So he and Mr. Tillman grabbed Buck under the armpits and hauled him up and started carrying him toward the door. Buck started crying and saying please dont, please dont. Shut up, boy, said Cockroach. Buck got his feet halfway under him. I dont think he was trying to walk, I think he was trying to stand up and plant his feet and stay in the dining room. but he was to weak. They ended up dragging him out the same way theyd dragged out Jared, except Buck was crying and pleading and trying to get his legs under him.

The fourth guard, Mr. Ewbanks, stayed behind with us while we ate. Nobody talked or even looked at anybody else, we just kept our heads down low over our plates. I ate about three bites and then I felt I was about to get sick, so I quit eating and just stirred my food around with my spoon. After a few minutes Mr. Ewbanks had us clear the table and march back to our dormitory.

It took me a long time to go to sleep. I dreamed Cockroach was making Buck bite his own arm and chew it and swallow it.

The next morning Bucks bed and Jareds bed were both empty still. At assembly Cockroach told us that because of the fight in the dining hall, we were confined to the dorm for the morning. He said Jared had been taken to the doctor in Quincy to get stitches for the bite in his arm and Buck was in the infirmary.

I will not tolerate fighting, Cockroach said. The next boys I catch fighting will be severely punished. Do you understand? Yes sir, we all said. Severely punished, he said again. Do you understand? Yes sir, we shouted.

That afternoon during work time, I went to sweep and empty the trash in the infirmary. There was four beds in the infirmary. Two of the beds had clean white sheets on them. One of them had been stripped, but there was blood at the head and in the middle, and brown and yellow stains in the middle, too. The nurse, Mrs. Wilcox, was sitting beside the fourth bed and she bent over Buck. He was lying on his stomach, with no cloths on, and she was using tweezers to pick at his bottom and his back and his legs. Bucks bottom was all black, with bits of bloody fuzz sticking up from it. I knew, from what Id heard about other whippings, that the bits of fuzz were bits of his shorts that had been shredded and pounded into his skin by the strap.

The strap was one of the first things I heard about when I came. It was like two long barbers strops sewn together, with a piece of metal between them to make it stiffer and heavier. One boy said they used to use a big wooden paddle for the beatings, but they switched to the strap because you can beat a boy longer and harder with a strap than what you can with a board.

Cockroach is the worst. I think its account of he lost his left hand. Theres different stories about how he lost it. Some say it got run over by a plow. Others say no, it was a sawmill blade what got it. Others say a gator ate it, but I dont believe that one. Whatever caused him to lose it, he aint never got over it, and hes been taking it out on boys ever since. Especially when hes swinging that strap. Punishing us for having two good hands, I reckon.

Bucks legs were black down to his knees, and so was his back, up nearly to his shoulders. His breath was fast and shallow, and whenever the tweezers touched him he would twitch and whimper, but real quiet, like he was too weak to do it loud. I said Buck, are you okay? It was a stupid thing to say, but it was all I could think of. You mind your own business, said Mrs. Wilcox. Hes going to be all right. Its what he gets for starting a fight. He never started it, I said. She looked up at me then with a sharp look. Not another word from you, she said, or itll be your hind end looking like this tomorrow. Get the trash and then come back and get that mattress. Its ruined. You need to haul it to the dump, too.

I dont think I can carry it by myself, I said.

She pointed out the window at Cockroach, who was smoking in the yard. You want me to call him back and tell him you didnt do like I asked?

I thought about what he might do if she told him that. No mam, I said, I can do it. You dont need to call him. Ill be back for it as soon as I empty the trash.

Wash out that can real good after you empty it, she said.

The trash can was full of wet, smelly rags. When I dumped it, they slithered out and plopped on the ground, and slimy reddish brown liquid dribbled out of the bottom of the can. I couldnt help it, I bent over and puked right on top of the whole mess.

There was a water hose behind the infirmary, so I rinsed out the trash can and washed out my mouth and took a drink. I noticed stuff from the trash can spattered on my shoes, so I rinsed those, too, while I let the trash can drain. Then I took it back inside and went to get the mattress.

Mrs. Wilcox wasnt in the room, so I leaned down real quick and whispered to Buck, can you hear me? His eyes opened and he whispered yes. How bad are you hurt? Real bad, he said. I cant walk. I dont know if I can ever walk again. I squeezed his hand. Im sorry Buck. Ill pray for you.

Hes dead, Skeeter, said Buck. Jareds dead. They wrapped him up in a sheet and dragged him out of here by the feet. His head was dragging like a sack of rocks. I heard them say they were taking him to the bone yard.

Mrs. Wilcox was coming, so I let go of Bucks hand and grabbed the mattress real quick. I dragged it across the floor and out the door. When the corner bumped down the steps, I thought about Jareds head bumping that same way.

I pushed away my plate of catfish, which had grown cold as I’d read. I’d eaten only a few bites, and I noticed that Stu and Angie hadn’t done any better with their dinners than I’d done with mine. “Jesus,” Angie commented as she laid down the pages. “Welcome to hell.”

Vickery took out a fresh cigar, which he unwrapped slowly. Instead of chomping it, he rotated it between his fingers, studying first one end and then the other, as if the cigar might provide some answer to the age-old question of evil. “Hell,” he said, “would be too good a place for the guys who did this.”

Chapter 16

“Well, there’s good news and bad news,” Vickery said when he got out of his Jeep at the cemetery the next day.

Angie kept her eyes on the probe she was shoving into the ground at the foot of one of the pipe crosses. “What’s the bad news?”

“The bad news is, the governor doesn’t want us to disturb the graveyard.”

Now she looked up. “What the hell? I was hoping we could finish probing today, maybe get the forensic backhoe out here tomorrow. Why doesn’t he want us to dig it up?”

“He told the commissioner there’s no indication that anyone buried in these graves was the victim of a crime. Unless we find compelling evidence that links these graves to crimes, he says, it would be a desecration to disturb the cemetery.”

“Desecration? To find the truth? Give me a break.” She studied his face. “Do you think maybe he’s covering up something?”

“I doubt it.” He shrugged. “This looks like a bees’ nest, and I can see how the governor would rather we didn’t whack it with a stick and stir up the bees. If we start pulling bodies from the ground, lawyers are gonna be lining up to sue the state for millions. Besides, forensically, it’d be tough to identify the remains, wouldn’t it, Doc?”

“Probably,” I conceded. “Unless they’re in good coffins and watertight vaults, they’ll be down to bare bone. You might be able to get mitochondrial DNA out of the bones or teeth, but how much would that tell you? Mitochondrial DNA doesn’t give you a unique identification — it just tells you whether two individuals share a common female ancestor. Besides, who would you compare these boys’ DNA to?”

Angie looked inclined to argue with me, but Vickery didn’t give her the chance. “Look, the doc agrees that neither of the skulls came from here, so finding where the skulls did come from needs to be our top priority.”

“Well, I say let’s give the bees’ nest a good whack,” she said. “That seems like our job. I’m amazed it hasn’t gotten into the press yet. Disappointed, too.” She looked from the probe to the other crosses. “Maybe we’ll find something as we map it,” she said. “More graves than we’ve got markers. I don’t know. Hell, maybe a probe will snag on a murder weapon.”

Vickery shook his head. “The commissioner says to leave it alone. Says respect for the sanctity of a cemetery takes precedence. Photographs. That’s it, for the time being. We have to pull the plug, even on the probing.”

“Unbelievable,” she groaned.

“I’ve got people looking through the state archives and old newspaper stories,” he said. “I’m hoping Hatfield was wrong about all the records being lost in the fire. Maybe we’ll turn up something that lets us make a stronger case.” Angie shook her head angrily, and I wondered if some of that anger stemmed from her frustration about her sister, whose death had similarly fallen through the investigative cracks. “Don’t you want to hear the good news?” Angie looked skeptical. “Remember,” he said, “the cemetery’s not where the real action is.” He gave a canary-eating smile. “Our pal Deputy Sutton just phoned me. He got a call from Winston Pettis this morning. The dog’s brought home another bone.”

I felt my own face break into a smile. “Good boy, Jasper! Another skull?”

He shook his head. “Not this time. Sounds like a leg bone, maybe a femur. Long, with a big, round knob on one end.”

“Could be a femur,” I agreed, “but it could also be a humerus, an upper arm bone. And it might be animal. Horse, cow, deer. Maybe even panther or black bear; you have those down here, right?”

“A hundred years ago, yeah. Not in my lifetime.”

“You should spend more time in the crime lab,” Angie said. “I’ve had deputies bring me bear bones two or three times and swear they were human.”

“Actually, the bones of a bear’s paw look a lot like human foot bones,” I conceded.

“Yeah, well, I’ve also had deputies bring me goat bones and swear they were human.”

The idea that the bone might be animal seemed to take some of the wind out of Vickery’s sails, so I tried to steer the conversation back to a more encouraging course. “Well, Jasper seems to have a taste for humans,” I said, “and he appears to have found the mother lode.” A realization hit me. “Hey. If it is human, and if the GPS collar worked, then he’s just shown us where he found it, right?”

Vickery smiled around his cigar, his sails billowing. “Shall we go pay another visit to the Pettis mansion?”

Chapter 17

As we pulled into the clearing beside the secluded cabin, Vickery leading the way in his Jeep, I imagined the scene that had transpired in the predawn hours: the dog leaping onto the mattress in the darkness, circling a couple times as if to trample down grass, and then curling up proudly beside his owner with a ripe femur. I smiled as I pictured it.

On our prior two visits, Jasper had bounded out to greet us; I was surprised that he wasn’t racing to see us this time. I was disappointed, too, I noticed. “I guess Jasper’s gotten bored with us,” I sighed.

Angie gave the horn two quick toots as she stopped the Suburban — a friendly way to announce our arrival — and we all got out and headed up the rickety steps to the front porch. Vickery rapped on the screen door. “Mr. Pettis?” he called out. “Hello?” He waited a few beats, then opened the screen and crossed the porch. Angie and I followed, and I detoured to inspect the shelf that held Jasper’s bone collection, hoping to see the latest addition. Again I was disappointed.

Knocking on the cabin’s only door, which led into the kitchen, Vickery called out again. “Mr. Pettis, are you here?” No answer. He knocked again, hard; the two large panes of glass in the top half of the door, which were held in place by only a few remnants of brittle putty, rattled and threatened to tumble to the porch. “Mr. Pettis?” Vickery put his face to the glass, cupping his hands around his eyes to cut the glare. He shifted his face to the other pane of glass for a better angle. “Oh Christ,” he muttered, then, “Get down, both of you.” He unholstered his gun and clicked off the safety.

“Stu,” said Angie in a low voice, “what is it?”

“Get down,” he repeated. “You, too, Doc. Get down and stay down.” Angie dropped to a crouch, and I followed suit. “I think something bad has happened here.” He stepped slightly to the side of the door. With his left hand, he took a handkerchief from his hip pocket and draped it carefully over the doorknob, then gave a slight turn and pushed the door open with the barrel of the pistol. “Mr. Pettis?” By now, huddled at the far end of the porch with Angie, I felt fairly certain Pettis wasn’t going to answer.

Vickery leaned forward just long enough for a quick look through the open door, then leaned swiftly back again. After a moment he risked a second look, this one not so brief, and then eased through the door, leading with the weapon. “Christ,” he said again, loudly. “Damn it. Fuckin’ hell.”

“Stu?”

“Pettis is dead. God dammit. The dog, too.”

“Oh, shit,” said Angie. “Can you tell what happened?”

“Hang on. Let me clear the place.” Inside, I could hear the agent’s breathing, deep and fast, with occasional shufflings of his feet as he moved through the small dwelling, which had only one main room — a combination living room, bedroom, and galley kitchen — and a tiny bathroom, as I remembered it. Finally he reappeared in the doorway, drenched in sweat, his chest still heaving. He holstered his gun, mopped his head with the handkerchief he’d used to open the door, and shook his head grimly. “Shot. Must’ve been right after he called the sheriff’s office. Blood’s coagulated, starting to dry. Bunch of flies have already found their way in.”

“Shot? Both of them?” Angie got to her feet. “Who on earth would shoot those two? And why?”

“Don’t know who,” said Vickery. “Got an idea why, though.”

“Why?”

“The collar’s gone.”

My head began to buzz, and I sat down on the porch. “The GPS collar? You think he and the dog were killed because of the tracking collar?”

“That’s my theory, until something better comes along,” he answered. “I’d say we can rule out a drive-by shooting, since we’re out in the middle of damn nowhere.”

“Probably robbery, too,” added Angie, “if all that’s missing is the collar. That collar wasn’t cheap, but it’s sure not worth shooting somebody over.”

“Not,” Vickery added, “unless you’re afraid of where the track might lead.”

Dead, the simple man and the friendly dog. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. I’d worked on a lot of forensic cases over the past couple of decades. I was good at them, and I liked my role. I came in long after the crime, helped recover bones, sometimes identified a murder victim or figured out the manner of death or the time since death. Then, sitting in my quiet sanctuary beneath Neyland Stadium, I wrote my report. My hands — safe inside my latex gloves and my sheltered office — stayed nice and clean. Always. Always before, anyhow.

Now Winston Pettis and his dog were dead, and they’d apparently been killed because of the GPS tracking collar. The collar I’d suggested putting on the dog.

Sitting at the far end of the screened-in porch, I bent my head into the corner and threw up.

* * *

Angie shepherded me outside to keep me from compromising the crime scene any further than I already had. Before leading me across the sandy yard to the Suburban, she stooped and checked the ground closely, looking for footprints that were not ours; looking for footprints we hadn’t unknowingly obliterated on our way in. This world is one big crime scene. As we made our way slowly across the scrubby grass and weeds, she shook her head in frustration. Then, as we reached the vehicle, she brightened. She pointed to a faint track in a bare patch of dirt behind the Suburban. “Looks like we might have a tire impression,” she said. She crouched beside it. “Not the clearest one I ever saw, but maybe better than nothing.”

Vickery’s first call was to the Apalachee County Sheriff’s Office. The dispatcher patched him through to the sheriff, whom Vickery briefed on what we’d found. “Do you want your folks to handle this? Your deputy, Sutton, is on his way over here already… Right, to get the latest bone the Pettis dog brought back… No, sir, we haven’t found that bone. And the tracking collar we’d put on the dog is gone, too… Yeah, that is a shame… Do you want us to just secure the scene till Sutton gets here?” He nibbled on his cigar as he listened. “Actually, Sheriff, we’ve got a good crime-scene analyst here; a bone expert, too — the forensic anthropologist that looked at those two skulls.” He seemed to take satisfaction in something the sheriff said. “Okay, do y’all want to call the M.E.? And the funeral home? It usually takes a while for the hearse to show up… Okay, will do… You know we aren’t trying to step on your toes here, but we’ll be glad to go ahead and start working it. You sure that’s what you want?” He motioned “go” to Angie, who nodded and seemed to shift gears almost instantly, into crime-scene mode — the same intense mode I’d seen when she and I had reconstructed the sofa on which her sister had died, and then again when we’d examined Kate’s body. “All right, Sheriff, we’ll get started. See you soon.”

Vickery’s next call was to his boss, the special agent in charge of FDLE’s Tallahassee region, to bring him up to speed on the murder and the sheriff’s request for forensic assistance. At the same time Angie phoned her boss, the supervisor of the crime lab. As she talked, she took a roll of crime-scene tape from the back of the Suburban and stretched it between two pines at the end of the turnoff from the dirt road into the yard. “I haven’t been inside yet,” she was saying as she came back. “Vickery went in looking for the guy, found him and the dog.” She crouched beside the tire track she’d shown me. “Looks like we have at least one tire impression. I didn’t see any shoe impressions, but I’ll take a closer look… Is there somebody who could assist?… Great, send Rodriguez. Thanks.”

Angie started by photographing the cabin itself, then took pictures of the faint tire track from various angles and distances. Next she added a position marker—“1”—and a ruler for scale and took another series of photos of the impression. Then, drawing from bins in the back of the Suburban, she filled the pockets on her cargo pants with more evidence markers, gloves, and paper-bootie shoe covers before heading inside to begin photographing the death scene. During the next ten minutes, I glimpsed occasional flashes of light through the porch screen and the kitchen door, as if a small thunderstorm were occurring inside the cabin. “Okay, Stu,” she called, “I’ve got the basic photos, and I’ve done a quick search. I’m not seeing shell casings so far, and there’s not a lot of blood spatter to speak of.”

“Got a guess about the bullet caliber?”

“Medium,” she said. “Maybe .38.”

“Could be,” he mused. “Or maybe a .45.”

“Looks to me like he was standing by the bed when he was shot, or maybe sitting on it, and he fell backward. Lots of blood pooled in the mattress under him, and more on the floor by the dog. But I’m not sure there’s a lot to work with in terms of spatter or trajectory.”

“Yeah, that’s sorta what I thought,” he said. “Ready for me to come in?”

“Sure, come on. Just don’t touch the kitchen doorknob. Maybe we’ll get lucky there. You haven’t touched the inside knob, have you?”

“Nope. Okay, I’ll come poke around, see if it looks like somebody else has gone through his stuff; see if we can find his next of kin.”

While Angie and Stu worked the interior, I tried to console a disbelieving and distraught Deputy Sutton, who arrived moments after they went inside. “I just talked to him a few hours ago.” Sutton shook his head. “He was joking and laughing. So proud of that dog. Couldn’t wait to show us what Jasper’d gone and found this time.” The young officer appeared close to tears. “I had to work an accident. If I’d come right when he called me, this wouldn’t have happened.”

“I know how you feel,” I said. “I’m the one that suggested we put the tracking collar on the dog.” A question popped into my head. “If somebody killed him to get the tracking collar,” I asked, “how do you reckon they knew about it?”

“Hell, this is Apalachee County,” he said without hesitation. “Everybody knows everybody’s business here.” Angie had said basically the same thing about Cheatham County, Georgia, I remembered — and for that matter, the same was true of rural Tennessee. Suddenly he looked even more stricken than before, if such a thing were possible. “Oh, Lord,” he said. “I was talking about it with one of the other deputies the day y’all put it on.”

“Talking where? At the courthouse? At a coffee shop?”

He flushed. “Talking on the radio. Anybody with a police scanner could’ve heard it.” He now looked more in need of consolation than ever, but I could think of nothing consoling to say about the irresponsibility of broadcasting, quite literally, information about how Pettis was cooperating with an FDLE investigation.

Over the next hour, the dirt lane leading to the cabin became clogged with law enforcement vehicles, which parked in a line outside the crime-scene tape Angie had stretched between the pines on either side of the turnoff from the dirt road into the cabin’s yard. The first to arrive was another Apalachee County sheriff’s cruiser, driven by the sheriff himself, a wiry sixtysomething-year-old with a face of leather and a white handlebar mustache. On his heels came the county’s medical examiner, a general surgeon named Bradford, who seemed content to defer to FDLE as soon as he’d pronounced Pettis dead of a gunshot wound to the chest. Then came an unmarked Ford sedan driven by Stevenson, the FDLE agent who’d brought us photos of the reform school the day we’d first visited the site. Vickery sent Stevenson to seek information from Pettis’s “neighbors”—the nearest of whom was two or three miles away — and the few hardscrabble businesses along the county road.

The FDLE crime-scene truck lumbered into view, a boxy black vehicle that looked like a cross between an ambulance on steroids and a Winnebago on Weight Watchers. Driving it was Rodriguez, the forensic tech Angie’s boss had promised to send. Compact and muscular, Rodriguez had a shaved head, olive brown and glossy in the dappled light beneath the pines. Along with Rodriguez was a second tech, a young woman with long blond hair — Whitney, though I couldn’t tell if that was her first name or her last — whose arrival was a pleasant surprise to Angie.

Rodriguez set to work on the tire track behind the Suburban. Pouring water into a large Ziploc plastic bag that contained powder, he kneaded the bag until the mixture inside was the consistency of pancake batter — a thick liquid that I recognized as dental casting stone: the same stuff, I realized, that FDLE had used to cast Ted Bundy’s teeth. Watching him from ten feet away, I said, “Those aren’t the Suburban’s tracks, are they?”

Rodriguez didn’t look up. “Not unless the Suburban’s wearing a worn-out set of off-road tires,” he answered. “With a big chunk out of one of the tread lugs.” I smiled; clearly he knew what he was doing, and if he ever ran across that same tread on a vehicle, I felt sure he’d be able to show a jury that it matched. The tire-tread impression might not be quite as chilling — or as damning — as the cast of Ted Bundy’s teeth had been, but it might, just possibly, serve as a small evidentiary nail in the coffin of whoever had killed Pettis and Jasper.

As Rodriguez was lifting the hardened cast from the ground, a silver Lexus SUV arrived, looking badly out of place despite the blue lights flashing through its grille. The driver looked out of place, too — a hawkish, fortysomething guy with a thirty-dollar haircut and a crisp Brooks Brothers shirt, cinched with a yellow silk tie. Heads turned; the crime-scene techs and even several of the agents stared with a mixture of curiosity and disdain at his fanciness, but Vickery smiled slightly. “The shit storm just escalated,” he said. He headed for the Lexus, shook hands with the new arrival, and after conferring briefly, brought him over to me. “Clay Riordan, chief deputy state attorney,” the man said.

“Bill Brockton. Pleased to meet you.”

“Agent Vickery speaks highly of you.”

“That’s kind of him.”

“Let me see if I’ve understood Agent Vickery correctly, Dr. Brockton. He says you don’t think the two skulls that the victim’s dog brought home came from the burial ground at the North Florida Boys’ Reformatory.”

“No, I don’t think they did. I know this is Florida, and things grow fast down here, but the vegetation at that cemetery looked like it hadn’t been disturbed in years. I just don’t see any way the dog got those skulls from that burial ground.”

“So where did he get them?”

I shrugged, and Vickery said, “That’s what we were hoping to learn from the GPS collar we put on the dog.” Riordan nodded, then excused himself to take a look inside.

Another unmarked car appeared, but this one didn’t stop at the house; instead, it continued farther down Pettis’s dead-end road. Thirty minutes later the car returned and stopped, and a pale young man with short, dark hair and wire-rim glasses got out. He held out a hand to me. “You must be Dr. Brockton, the anthropologist.” I nodded. “I’m Nathaniel James — Nat — from the Forensic Computing Section. Nice to meet you.”

“You, too, Nat. I’m a little surprised to see you out here. I wouldn’t have pegged Mr. Pettis as particularly wired.”

“No, he wasn’t what I’d call wired,” said Nat. “But we are. I just retrieved the GPS receiver and the flash drive I set up in the fire tower. We don’t have the collar that was on the dog, but I’m pretty sure we do have the data it transmitted.”

If he was right, would that mean we’d find the source of the bones? And would it mean that Pettis and the dog had not died in vain?

* * *

Darkness had fallen by the time we left the cabin and headed back toward the lavish comforts of the Twilight Motor Court and the Waffle Iron diner. Angie and Whitney had bagged Pettis’s body, and it was loaded onto a panel-truck van from a local funeral home, which would transport it to the small hospital where Dr. Bradford would autopsy the body. After much arguing and a series of phone calls, the dog’s body had been added to the van, for delivery to a McNary animal hospital. I had hoped that Jasper would be buried beside Pettis, but I suspected that he’d be unceremoniously dumped in a ditch somewhere beside Highway 90.

The forensic techs had finished their work in the house, but Vickery had asked the sheriff’s office not to release the scene until after we’d seen what Nat James was able to learn from the GPS data captured by the receiver and stored on the flash drive. Deputy Sutton’s penance — for he continued to feel guilty about failing to prevent Pettis’s death, and possibly even contributing to it — was to keep vigil at the property until we returned the next day.

As Angie and I bumped along the dirt road back to the highway, her phone rang. She glanced at the display. “Oh my God,” she said, “it’s Maddox, from the GBI.” She flipped open the phone. “Mr. Maddox, it’s good to hear from you. Did you get my messages?… I understand. It’s been busy down this way, too… So how’s the investigation going?… Well, have y’all questioned Don?… Okay, that’s a good start. Have you charged him?” Angie was silent, and as far as I could tell, Maddox was silent, too. Finally she said, “Mr. Maddox? Did I lose you?” She took her foot off the gas, and the Suburban slowed to an idle. “I don’t understand, Mr. Maddox.” She put the transmission in park, and the Suburban lurched and slithered to a stop. “You mean not yet, right? You mean you aren’t charging him yet. But you will, won’t you?” Panic and despair were rising in her voice, and as they did, I felt sorrow welling up in me. “But why? Why not? He killed her, Mr. Maddox. That man put a shotgun in my sister’s mouth and blew her head off. You know that. You saw her body. You saw the trajectory. You saw that she didn’t do that to herself, Mr. Maddox.” Pleading now. “But you saw it. You saw it, you saw it, you saw it.” She was choking on the words now; they came out as a guttural, ragged whisper that I suspected was not even audible at the other end of the line. “You saw it.” I heard a beep as she disconnected the call and let the phone fall beside her. She turned and stared at me, hollow-eyed in the dim light from the instrument panel. “He says he doesn’t think they’ll charge him. So far they don’t have enough evidence to make a case. They’re sending Kate’s body back to be reburied.”

I stared at her, feeling helpless. “I’m sorry, Angie. So very sorry.” I struggled to find some words of comfort. “Maybe it’s not over yet. Maybe they’ll reconsider. Maybe we can come up with something else.”

“What else? There is nothing else. It’s done.” She shook her head. “She’s like one of those dead boys whose graves we just saw. Nobody gives a damn.”

You give a damn,” I reminded her.

“A lot of good that’s done her. I’ve let her down. And it’s killing me.”

“Don’t let it. Don’t give up — on her or on yourself. That would be letting her down.”

She drew a deep, shuddering breath, put the Suburban in gear, and drove us to the Twilight in sad silence. Vickery’s car was parked outside his bungalow, and a light showed through the threadbare curtains. “I don’t feel like going to dinner,” Angie said. “You and Stu go on without me.” I started to protest, but she waved me off. “Really. I’m exhausted,” she said as we got out. “I’d be lousy company, and I can’t eat. I just want to sleep.”

“You sure you’ll be okay?” She nodded. “I’m sorry,” I said again, acutely conscious of the inadequacy of the words. “Sleep well. I’ll see you in the morning.” She headed for her door, and lifted a weary hand by way of a good-night.

I showered as quickly as the anemic water pressure would allow, then headed for Vickery’s bungalow. Angie’s light was still on, so I decided to check on her before collecting Vickery. I tapped lightly on her door. She didn’t answer, and I realized that her air conditioner was even noisier than mine, so I knocked again, harder this time. The door was unlatched, apparently; it swung open from the force of the knock, and as it did, my blood froze.

Angie St. Claire was lying on her bed. In her mouth was the muzzle of a shotgun.

Chapter 18

“Angie, don’t,” I shouted from the doorway.

She jerked convulsively, wild-eyed, and the shotgun fell from her hands and tumbled to the floor. Instinctively I ducked and covered my head with my arms, but there was no blast from the gun. The only blast was a piercing shriek from Angie.

“Son of a bitch,” she yelled, scrambling to a sitting position against the headboard as I dove for the gun. “You scared the living shit out of me.” She pounded the mattress a few times with her fist. “Thank God that thing’s not loaded. You’d be picking my brains off the floor for sure.” She took a deep breath and whooshed it out, then took in another and let it out more slowly. “Wow,” she said, and then she looked at me and laughed — actually laughed. I was still kneeling on the floor, clutching the gun and staring at her, as confused as I’d ever been in my life. “Bless your heart, how awful,” she said. “You must have thought I was about to pull the trigger.”

“Well, yeah. Weren’t you?”

“No. I’m not suicidal. I’m just… obsessed, I guess. Still trying to figure this thing out. Still trying to understand how in the world my sister ended up with a Mossberg twelve-gauge in her mouth.”

“I thought we already figured that part out.” I got to my feet, my heart still pounding, and took a few deep breaths of my own. “Learn anything new?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Always make sure the door’s locked when you’re doing something questionable in a low-rent motel.”

I tried to smile, but it felt more like a grimace. I laid the gun on the bed, after making sure the safety was on.

Suddenly I heard a door banging somewhere nearby, then heard Vickery yelling, “Angie? Are you okay? Angie?

“Oh, shit,” she said in a low voice. She tucked the gun into the gap between the bed and the wall. “Keep this between us, would you? I don’t want Stu to think I’m cracking up.” She held my eyes for an instant, and I nodded. Then she tucked her feet beneath her and sprang into a standing position on the mattress.

Vickery appeared in the doorway, breathing hard, on high alert, his pistol in his hand. He looked at Angie, standing on the bed, then at me, then at Angie again. “I heard a scream. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said. “Sorry to scare you. It was just a mouse.” He stared at her, his eyes still wide, his nostrils flaring, his breath rasping loudly enough to be heard over the air conditioner. “A mouse? You’re kidding me, right?” He turned to me and rolled his eyes. “Doc, is she pulling my leg?”

I shrugged. “I didn’t see the mouse. But I sure heard the scream.”

Angie stepped off the bed and sat on the edge of the mattress. “I was lying down, resting for a minute before dinner. I felt something crawling up the leg of my pants, and I freaked out. Sorry, guys.”

Vickery shook his head. “Jesus, Angie. And everybody thinks you’re tough as nails.” He holstered his gun. “What’s it worth if I keep my mouth shut about this?”

“Stu, are you blackmailing me?”

“I sure am.”

“Uh…” Clearly she was struggling to switch gears. “Well, could I buy your silence with the meat-and-three special at the Waffle Iron?”

“I was thinking more like a lifetime supply of cigars,” he answered. “But I’m a reasonable man. Throw in a piece of apple pie, and the mouse incident stays in the vault.”

“Shake on it,” said Angie, “and let’s go eat. Dr. Brockton, will you be my witness?”

“Sure, I’ll be your witness,” I agreed.

But a witness to what? I wondered all through dinner — the dinner Angie had earlier said she didn’t want. There was a reason I wondered. As we’d left Angie’s room to head to the diner, I’d glanced back at her bed, and my eyes had caught sight of a small box sitting on the lower shelf of the nightstand. I wouldn’t have staked my life on it, but in the instant before she switched off the lamp, I thought I’d glimpsed the image of a shotgun shell printed on the side of the box.

I continued to wonder about Angie after we returned to the Twilight, and then my wondering shifted gears, became more personal and more painful. I wondered about my father, and the moments just before he pulled the trigger and shot himself. If someone — anyone: my mother, a client, even my own three-year-old toddling self — had come into his office and found him with the gun to his head, might he have explained away the scene, put away the gun, and set about cleaning up the financial mess he’d accidentally made?

I would never know, of course. And therefore I would forever wonder. “Remember me, remember me, remember me.” The ghost whispering those words was not Angie’s sister nor Hamlet’s father this time, but my own.

Chapter 19

The next morning Angie, Stu, and I returned to Pettis’s place. We were met there by ten crew-cut-sporting students who’d been bused over from the Pat Thomas Law Enforcement Academy, a training facility located in the nearby town of Quincy.

We were also met by Nat James, from the Computer Forensics Section. “Do you want the last track,” he asked Angie, “or do you want the dog’s last track?”

“Aren’t those the same?”

“Nope,” he said. “There’s a slow, loopy track in the middle of the night. And then there’s a straight, fast track yesterday morning, about an hour after Pettis called Deputy Sutton. That one heads away from the cabin and out the dirt road to the highway, moving about twenty miles an hour. Then, at the highway, it turns north and accelerates to seventy-five miles an hour.”

“It’s the killer,” breathed Angie. “The collar is tracking the killer as he drives away.”

“Where does it go?” demanded Vickery.

“It ends.”

“You mean he stops?”

“No. I mean he gets out of range. The collar’s still moving fast, then the receiver loses the signal.”

“Crap,” said Angie.

“Leave it on,” said Vickery. “Maybe he’ll come back.”

Nat nodded. “I thought of that. I’m rigging a satellite link, so if the receiver picks up the collar’s signal again, it’ll relay the new track to my computer right away.”

Angie carried a handheld GPS into which Nat James had loaded Jasper’s track, so the route we took would be superimposed on the map of Jasper’s. Slung over one shoulder was her crime-scene camera, and tucked into the belt of her cargo pants was a bundle of orange survey flags. In addition, she’d enlisted students to carry two shovels, two trowels, a couple of baggies of gloves, more survey flags, a partial roll of crime-scene tape, and paper evidence bags.

Stu carried his cigar. I carried a half-dozen detailed topo maps, which Nat James had brought us. The computer whiz was right: FDLE, or at least his piece of it, was highly wired. The day that Pettis had agreed to putting the GPS collar on the dog, Nat had come out to put the finishing steps on the tracking technology. He’d connected the receiver — the small display on which a hunter could see his dog’s position — to a flash drive, which captured the location coordinates that the collar transmitted. He’d reset the tracking interval from five seconds to thirty, to stretch the battery’s life. Then he’d concealed the pair of devices high in the nearby fire tower, as Pettis had suggested, for maximum range.

Most of the dog’s coordinates clustered around and inside the cabin. The one notable and intriguing exception was the long, looping ramble that the dog had taken during his final night.

The top page of the printout I carried was an overview of the area, including a bright red “you are here” dot marking the location of the cabin. From it, a squiggly red line meandered to the northeast before looping back. The other five pages each showed enlarged views of segments of the route Jasper had covered before returning with the bone. According to the tracking data, Jasper had covered seven miles during his final outing. As the crow flew, though, he’d remained within a three-mile radius of home.

Vickery had suggested that we retrace the dog’s footsteps exactly, but Angie disagreed. “I doubt that the dog did a lot of wandering with a big bone in his mouth,” she reasoned. “He obviously wasn’t looking for a place to bury it, since he brought it back, right? See how the last part of the track looks fairly straight? It’s like he was hurrying home with his new treasure.”

“I think I see what you’re saying,” I said. “You think we should follow the track in reverse.” She nodded, and Vickery agreed, so we lined up at the edge of the clearing side by side, Angie at the center, flanked by Vickery and me, with five trainees on either side. Angie had us spread out, arms stretched wide, until our fingertips were barely touching. “That’s your spacing,” she said. “Try to maintain it. I’ll set the pace. We’ll stop and re-form the line whenever it gets too ragged, but try to keep it fairly even.” On her signal we began moving forward in unison, more or less, scanning the ground for bones, signs of recent digging, or anything else out of the ordinary.

The first mile or so took us through pine stands that were relatively free of undergrowth, and we made good time. Jasper had also made good time on this stretch, his home stretch: the red thread of the GPS track was marked on the map with a string of small dots, showing his location at thirty-second intervals. Judging by the spacing of the dots and the scale printed on the map, the dog had covered the final mile in just ten minutes. It took us twenty-five minutes, partly because there were occasional stops to examine holes in the ground — the burrows of various animals, according to Vickery, including one that he swore, with a straight face, had to be a python’s hole — and partly because Angie had to call several halts to straighten and tighten the ragtag line.

A half hour after we’d started the search, we halted once more. This time it wasn’t to inspect an animal burrow or to re-form ranks; this time it was to figure out how, and whether, to cross a coffee-colored stream that lay in our path. Angie, who’d zoomed her GPS all the way in to pinpoint where Jasper had crossed, pointed to a narrow, muddy notch in the bank. “Dog tracks,” she said, and I saw that she was right. “That was a damn good collar.” I squinted at the map, which showed a narrow blue squiggle corresponding to the brown water before us. The fine print that bordered the squiggle sent a chill down my spine: the stream was named Moccasin Creek, and I was reasonably certain the name wasn’t a reference to footwear.

Moccasin Creek moved sluggishly between high, eroded banks bordered by overhanging branches. Lurking amid the leaves, camouflaged by the foliage, were countless snakes, I felt sure, draped liked venomous garlands, just waiting to drop upon us as we waded, neck-deep, in the murky waters. My nightmarish reverie was interrupted by Vickery. “Mind if I take a look at that map?” I handed it over, and he studied it briefly. He stepped closer to the bank and peered upstream and downstream, then huddled with Angie and me. “We could have big problems if we cross this creek,” he said quietly.

“I’m glad I’m not the only one who’s nervous about snakes,” I said.

“Huh?” Vickery looked puzzled. He reexamined the map, then shook his head. “Actually, Doc, I’m more worried about humans than reptiles.” Now it was my turn to look puzzled. “We’re in Apalachee County right now,” he went on. “But over there? The other bank? That’s Miccosukee County.”

“Oh, good grief,” Angie groaned. “So what?”

I was inclined to take Angie’s view. “No offense,” I ventured, “but FDLE has jurisdiction statewide, right? You can go into any county in Florida.”

“Theoretically, yeah,” said Vickery. “But like I told Pettis the other day, we have to be invited by the locals — in this case, the Miccosukee County Sheriff’s Office. And Miccosukee County Sheriff Darryl Judson is not an inviting kind of guy. He’s old as dirt, hard as nails, and mean as a stepped-on cottonmouth.”

“Oh, come on,” Angie said. “Really, Stu? You’re actually worried about crossing a little bitty corner of Miccosukee County?”

“Hey, I’ve been around a long time, but I need to hang on a little longer to get my pension,” Vickery shot back. “Three years longer, to be precise. I’ve heard stories about Sheriff Judson. He’s got friends in high places — his father was a state senator or some such, back in the day — and he’s got dirt on other folks in high places, too. I never heard of anybody who won a pissing match with Sheriff Judson.”

“Can’t we claim innocence by way of ignorance? That we were walking in the woods and we didn’t know what county we were in? Circle back and ask for forgiveness instead of permission?”

He shook his head. “If Judson made a big stink and the brass took a close look at your GPS or the maps Nat printed out for us, they’d see the county line. Then they’d have to decide if we were lying or just stupid. That would make it even worse.”

“Stu, we’re working a homicide,” she argued, “and we have got reason to believe that it’s linked to a prior homicide — more than one, in fact — that was committed in Miccosukee County.”

“The fact that a dog might — emphasis on might—have dug up these age-old skulls in Miccosukee County,” he retorted, “is not going to carry a whole hell of a lot of weight with a territorial sheriff whose private kingdom has just been invaded.”

“Think about the guy who killed Pettis,” she challenged. “Maybe he already knows where the skulls came from, maybe not. But he’s got the collar, and he’s got a head start on us, right?” Vickery nodded grudgingly. “If he’s looking, and he gets there ahead of us, he might wreck the scene. Can we afford to take a chance on that?”

“You’re not the one whose neck is on the line,” he retorted. “I’m the case agent. If anybody gets hung on the cross by Sheriff Judson or one of his Tallahassee cronies, it’ll be me.”

“Call Riordan,” said Angie. “If he tells us to keep going, it’s on him, not you, right?”

Vickery frowned. “Shit.”

“Come on, Stu, grow a backbone,” she snapped. “Are you really just gonna mark time for the next three years? Is that who you want to be?” Vickery reddened; he snatched his cigar from his mouth and rolled it angrily between his thumb and fingers. “That poor son of a bitch back there died trying to help us,” she pressed. “Don’t we owe him at least a good try?” Vickery’s jaw clenched and unclenched. As he continued rolling the cigar, I noticed the pressure of his grip increased. Shreds of tobacco sifted through his fingers as he slowly crushed the cigar to bits.

“Goddammit,” he muttered. “You’re right.”

Angie smiled. “Good man. You want to call Riordan anyhow? Just to cover your ass?”

“Not particularly, but I guess I have to.” He pulled the phone from his belt and dialed the prosecutor. “So,” Vickery began after a few throat-clearing preliminaries, “we think we’re closing in on the bones… I hope so, too. But we have a slight wrinkle, and I figured you’d want a heads-up… Well, unfortunately, the damn dog didn’t pay too much attention to county lines and jurisdictions when he went sniffing around, if you catch my drift… What I mean is, we’ve tracked the dog as far as the Apalachee County line. If we want to keep tracking him the rest of the way to his hunting ground, we’ve got to cross into Miccosukee County… Yes, sir, I’m sure about that. I’m looking at his paw prints right now where he came across the creek from Miccosukee. Exactly, that’s Sheriff Judson’s county… I know, I know — Judson does put the ‘dick’ in ‘jurisdiction,’ doesn’t he?” Vickery forced a laugh. “Well, we just didn’t know — the GPS track from the collar didn’t show us the county lines… Yes, sir, you’re right, you’re absolutely right. We should’ve taken a closer look. But we didn’t. So here we are, out here in the middle of nowhere. Out here in the middle of a search that we think might lead to something… With all due respect, sir, I disagree. I believe we ought to keep going… No, sir, I don’t want to start a shooting war with the sheriff. But I also don’t want to let a hot trail go cold… No, sir, I don’t think it can wait till tomorrow… Look, whoever killed Pettis took the collar off the dog. You’re aware of that, right?… No, sir; no, sir, I am not condescending to you, I’m just making sure you’re aware that the collar’s gone… So the killer might be able to download the same data we’ve got, cover the same ground we’re covering.” Angie had made this same argument to Stu; now, she shook her head doubtfully and appeared about to interrupt him, but Stu held up a hand to shush her. “No, sir, I don’t know that to be a fact, but I just don’t think we can afford to take that chance, can we? What I do know is that if we spend twenty-four hours kissing the sheriff’s ass, our chances of finding whatever’s out here in the woods get worse, not better… I understand that this puts you in a tough spot, and I wish the dog had stayed in his own damn county, but he didn’t. If you tell us not to go on, we won’t, but I hope you won’t do that… All right, thank you, sir… You’ll call the sheriff? Okay, I appreciate that… Yes, sir, I’ll be sure to keep you posted… I guarantee it — you’ll be the first to know if we find anything… Sorry to put you on the hot seat. Thank you, sir. Talk to you soon.” I had never heard so many “sirs” in such swift succession, but they seemed to have helped. Vickery hung up, blew out a long breath, and shook his head. “Well, that was fun.” He turned to the group and put on a smile. “Okay, people, let’s find a way to cross Moccasin fuckin’ Creek that won’t get us drowned or snakebit.”

The steep, narrow notch where Jasper had crossed the stream looked risky, so Angie asked for volunteers to seek out an easier place to cross. She recruited two to jog upstream and another two downstream. “Turn around in ten minutes,” she instructed, “whether you’ve found a good crossing or not. We don’t have time for a big detour.” While they explored, we studied the detailed maps Nat had printed out for us. On the other side of the creek, the dog’s track was practically a beeline for half a mile or so, then it reached a spot where he seemed to loiter and explore. “That, I’m hoping, is where we might find something,” she said.

Her phone rang — an incongruous, startling sound, deep in the woods as we were. “Hi, Nat. What’s up?… Really? No kidding?Hang on a second. Let me put you on speaker, so Stu can hear, too.” She flipped open the phone and pressed a button. “Nat, you still there?”

“I am,” came the computer analyst’s voice.

“Okay, back up and start over, if you don’t mind.”

“I’m getting data from the tracking collar again. Remember, I left the receiver in the fire tower and rigged it to a satellite link? So if I got a signal from the collar again, it would send the new data to my computer?”

“I remember. Go on,” Vickery prompted.

“A minute or two ago, I started seeing the collar again. Looks like it’s on a county road, about four miles south of Pettis’s place. Moving away fast — sixty, seventy miles an hour. It’ll be out of range again in a second.”

“Call Operations,” Vickery ordered. “Tell ’em we need everybody who’s anywhere near that road. Stevenson might be the nearest, but I don’t know where he is.”

“Hang on, hang on, it’s slowing down!” James’s voice was loud, distorted. “It’s stopping! It’s stopped! Wait. Oh, crap, it’s gone. We’ve lost it again.”

“Out of range?” asked Vickery. “How’d it go out of range, if it was stopped?”

“Oh, wow. The place where it stopped? It’s a bridge over a river… Let’s see… the Miccosukee River. I betcha the collar’s drifting down to the bottom of the river right now.”

“Shit,” cursed Vickery. “Call Operations. Give ’em the location. See if we can seal off that road. Get ’em to pull in the local cavalry, too. Which county?”

“Uh… Bremerton on one side of the river, Miccosukee on the other.”

“Shit. Same jurisdictional mess we’re in out here in the woods. Okay. Tell Operations we need help from both counties. We need to question anybody who’s on that road, anybody who might’ve been.”

* * *

As Vickery was winding up the conversation with Nat James, the pair of recruits who’d jogged downstream returned with good news. A large tree had fallen across the stream only a few hundred yards away, they reported; the trunk was two feet in diameter, with branches that could be held for balance most of the way across.

Angie tied a strip of crime-scene tape to a tree trunk beside the muddy notch in the bank, to make sure we could pick up the trail again directly across from where we stood. Five minutes later, when the other pair of trainees returned from their search in the opposite direction, we headed downstream to the fallen tree. It was indeed a fine makeshift bridge, I thought.

Stu didn’t think so. He sized up the trunk nervously. “I thought it would be fatter.”

“Jesus, Stu,” said Angie, “it’s as wide as a sidewalk.”

“But not as flat. And a lot higher up.”

“Tell you what,” she offered. “You can watch everyone else go across and see how they do. Then, if you’re still nervous, you don’t have to do it.”

He considered this only briefly. “Nah, that’s okay. It’s like jumping off the high dive the first day of swimming season. The longer you think about it, the scarier it gets. Might as well get it over with.” With that, he plucked the cigar from his mouth and hoisted himself onto the trunk, making the move with surprising agility for a sixty-year-old with a bit of a belly. He walked quickly, on the balls of his feet, extending both arms for balance, making small circles in the air with the cigar to compensate for his occasional wobbles. When he reached the opposite bank, he pivoted on the trunk. “Okay, quit stalling, you yellow-bellied, lily-livered cowards,” he called. “We’re burning daylight here.”

Angie was the last to cross. Before hopping off the trunk, she tied a long streamer of tape as high in a branch as she could reach so we could find our bridge more easily in the dark, if need be. We walked quickly up the Miccosukee bank of the stream until the yellow tape, the paw prints, and the GPS confirmed that we were back on the dog’s trail. “Okay,” Angie told the group, “from here, we’ve got about another half mile or so where he was moving pretty straight and fairly fast. So line up, spread out, and let’s go.”

Our progress was slower on this side of the creek; at some point the land here had been cleared, and what had grown back, in place of pines and live oaks, was a field of briars. Game trails, including the one the dog had followed, formed low, narrow tunnels through the stickers, but without crawling on all fours, we were forced to pick our way through, and our progress was punctuated by a chorus of curses and yelps.

There were supplemental curses from Vickery when he learned that Stevenson, two other agents, and four county deputies had failed to apprehend any vehicles within miles of the bridge across the Miccosukee River, and a network of side roads made it impossible to seal the area. Vickery looked close to flinging his phone into the briars; he settled instead for snapping his cigar in two and then hurling it away.

Thirty sweaty, scratchy minutes after we’d entered the briar patch, the stickers thinned out, giving way once more to live oaks, pines, and waist-high ferns. Angie called a halt and scrutinized the GPS screen. “Okay, we’re getting close to an area where the dog hung out and wandered around awhile,” she said, “so look sharp.”

We’d barely started forward again when she held up a closed fist — the “stop” signal — and pointed. Ten yards ahead, directly in her path, was a low heap of dead ferns and freshly scattered dirt. Angie crept forward, motioning for me to join her. I moved slowly, inspecting the ground carefully before each step. Angie reached the spot before I did; when I joined her, she was staring down into a shallow hollow, roughly a foot in diameter and a foot deep. Paw prints and claw marks edged its rim. Within the hole, I saw shreds of black plastic sheeting. And jutting from the tattered plastic and the clumped dirt, I glimpsed the ends of three ribs.

Chapter 20

Angie unslung her camera, removed a bundle of survey flags from her belt, and began flagging and photographing the grave. She started with wide-angle shots, showing the grave amid the wooded setting, then she worked her way closer, taking medium shots of the disturbed earth. Gradually she moved in for close-ups of the hole and the exposed bones within it.

Vickery phoned the prosecutor. “Mr. Riordan, we’ve just found a shallow grave. It’s been recently disturbed… Yes, sir, unfortunately, we are in Miccosukee County… Well, we haven’t excavated it yet, but several bones are exposed, and Dr. Brockton feels pretty confident they’re human…” I was surprised to hear him laugh. “Well, I guess we could dig it up and move it across the creek into Apalachee. But then we’d have to kill all these trainees so we don’t leave any witnesses.” He laughed again, which I hoped was a sign that on the other end of the call, the prosecutor was making his peace with the jurisdictional briar patch into which we’d strayed.

As Vickery talked and Angie photographed, I began to explore the surrounding ground. Angie had waved the recruits back, to keep them from trampling the scene, but she’d asked me to take a look around. She didn’t have to ask twice.

We were in another grove of massive live oaks — immense, sprawling trees that must have been hundreds of years old. At their bases, they were wider than my arms could span; ten to fifteen feet above the ground, their trunks branched into six or eight or ten or twelve secondary trunks, each one twice as big around as I was. The limbs that spread from these secondary trunks were blanketed with resurrection ferns — named, Angie had told me, for the way they shriveled up and “died” during dry spells, then came back to life at the return of rain. Over the decades, some of the trees had lost large portions to disease or storms, and some of the trunks were splitting and half rotted. Yet there was remarkable life and beauty in the ancient trees, even the ones that were starting to die. Overhead, their branches laced together into a canopy that was as high, as wide, and as beautiful as the nave of a Gothic cathedral. Beards of Spanish moss, some of them twenty feet long, hung from the limbs and swayed gently in the late-afternoon breeze. The leaves and ferns and moss caught most of the sun; what light sifted through, to the lush carpet of ferns on the ground, was filtered by the foliage to a soft, silvery green.

And in the sifted, silvery-green light, beneath the resurrection ferns, I saw a second grave, also freshly disturbed, about thirty feet beyond the first.

A stone’s throw from the second grave, I saw a third.

This—this—had to be the Bone Yard.

* * *

After his conversation with the prosecutor, Vickers phoned FDLE’s operations center to call in the crime-scene cavalry — and to confer on the best way to get them to our location. As it turned out, we were only a mile north of the ruins of the North Florida Boys’ Reformatory, although the school lay in yet another county. “Interesting,” Vickery observed, “that the school itself, and the official cemetery, are in Bremerton County, but these graves are hidden up in this little corner of Miccosukee County. Coincidence? I don’t think so.”

Once Vickery had grasped our proximity to the school, he sent the academy trainees skirting the edge of the grove of oaks. At the far end, one of them found the remnants of an overgrown dirt road — a track that headed in the direction of the school. The dispatcher in the operations center would send reinforcements to the school; meanwhile, Vickery would send two of the recruits to lead them the rest of the way to us.

Ninety minutes after Angie had spotted the first grave — and thirty minutes before we were likely to run out of daylight — we heard the low whine of an all-wheel-drive SUV laboring through the woods, its progress punctuated by the screechings of underbrush and tree branches scraping the belly and the sides of the vehicle.

The vehicle was not, it turned out, the vanguard of the FDLE cavalry. A big off-road pickup — a Chevy Avalanche, wearing markings of the Miccosukee County Sheriff’s Office — muscled along the overgrown road. It stopped at the crime-scene tape that had been stretched across the mouth of the road to keep vehicles out, and then the engine revved. The Avalanche rumbled forward, pulled the tape taut, and snapped it. The vehicle jounced toward us and slammed to a halt, narrowly missing one of the graves. A grizzled, bowlegged man got out of the cab; his legs and arms were thin with age — I’d have pegged him as a seventy-year-old, at least — but he had a stringy strength about him, like beef jerky. Despite the thinness of his limbs, he had a substantial beer belly hanging over his belt, a sizable wad of tobacco in his cheek, and a major-league scowl on his face. His gaze swept the scene, taking in and rapidly dismissing the crew-cut trainees, pausing and sharpening on the flags marking the three graves, and then settling fiercely on Stu, Angie, and me. “Which one of you’s Vickery?”

“That’s me, Sheriff. Stu Vickery.” The agent stepped forward and offered his hand. The sheriff turned aside — but only slightly — and spat tobacco juice. “Sorry for the surprise. We were surprised, too.”

“Surprised? A surprise? Is that what you call it when you bring a search party into my county without so much as a by-your-leave? Is this what FDLE calls a surprise party? Because I’ll tell you, Vickery, I do not take kindly to surprises. Not in my county.”

Vickery flushed. “I understand, Sheriff. It was a tough call. We were on a crime-scene search, and the trail led straight across the creek. Led to these three graves. I wish they were on the other side, in Apalachee County, but they’re not. So here we are.”

“And here is where you can get the hell out of right now.”

“Right now? How?”

“I don’t give a good goddamn, Agent Vickery. Not my problem. You found your way in here easy as pie. You can find your way right back out again. You’re good at following a trail, looks like. Ought to be a lot easier to follow it back out, now that it’s been beaten down by you and your posse.”

“You’ve got three shallow graves here, Sheriff. How do you aim to handle them? What kind of forensic resources have you got in Miccosukee County for excavating multiple graves?”

“A kind that’s none of your damned business, pissant. Now, you can turn around and walk out of here, or I can call in my deputies and we can haul you down to the Miccosukee County Jail. But I don’t think you’d like it there, because I got some prisoners right now that have serious anger-management issues. They don’t like authority figures, and I figure they’d go ape-shit over a bunch of snotty-nosed FDLE folks.”

The standoff was interrupted by the brief whoop of a siren. A silver SUV paused at the broken strip of crime-scene tape, eased forward, and then backed up beyond the margin of broken tape and parked. The door opened and Riordan, the prosecutor, strode through the ferns in his fancy, city-slicker clothes, managing to look both out of place and yet somehow right at home. By the time he reached us, a ragged caravan of vehicles had begun arriving and parking behind the silver Lexus. First came the crime lab’s black Suburban, driven by Whitney, one of the crime-scene techs I’d met at the Pettis place. The Suburban was followed by a Miccosukee County Sheriff’s cruiser, driven by a deputy who chose to remain in the car, the engine running. Eventually FDLE’s crime-scene truck lumbered into view, announced by a new round of scraping and snapping as it bulled a wider, higher swath through the branches than the smaller vehicles had cleared.

Last to arrive was a pickup towing a generator and light tower, the sort of high-intensity work lights used by highway crews at night. As the number of people, vehicles, and pieces of equipment multiplied, the nature of the scene changed. We’d arrived to a scene of lush natural sights, sounds, and smells: shades of leafy green, mossy gray, and crumbling brown; a chorus of woodpeckers, insects, and chirping frogs; the scent of honeysuckle, magnolia blossoms, pine needles, and decaying leaves. Now all those were being trumped by the fluorescent colors of crime-scene paraphernalia;, the rumble of vehicles and generators; and the acrid fumes of gasoline, diesel, and sweat.

The prosecutor huddled with Sheriff Judson and Stu. I heard raised voices — actually, only one raised voice, which was the sheriff’s. He paused in his tirade long enough for Stu to give some low answer that I couldn’t make out; occasionally I caught a few sentences in Stu’s voice and, eventually, a long, conciliatory-sounding summation by the prosecutor. Finally I heard my own name; I strained to hear what was being said about me, but a silence followed the words Dr. Brockton. After a moment, my name was repeated — louder this time — and I realized with a guilty start that Stu wasn’t talking about me; he was talking to me.

“Sorry, I was daydreaming,” I answered.

“Could you come confer with us for a minute?”

“Sure.” I jogged over, and Stu introduced me to the sheriff.

Riordan nodded a hello. “We appreciate your helping us out,” he said. “I gather this is more than you’d bargained for when you offered to take a quick look at that first skull for FDLE.”

“A little more,” I admitted. “But it’s an interesting case, and I’m glad I can help.”

The prosecutor cleared his throat. “Sheriff Judson was wondering how long it might take us to excavate these graves. He has limited manpower, and he’ll need to assign a deputy to the scene while we’re here. Agent Vickery here says you’re the expert.” He nodded at Stu, as if I might be unsure who Agent Vickery was. Stu returned the nod, as if confirming that he had indeed said that. “The sheriff’s hoping maybe we can be through by midnight. What do you think?”

“Unfortunately,” I said, “I think it’s a bad idea to excavate graves and search an area this big in the dark. The lights on that tower are bright, but they won’t begin to illuminate this whole area. Besides, even with bright lights, we’re bound to miss things we’d see in the daylight.” I added, “With all due respect, the people in these graves are already dead. They can’t get any deader by morning.”

Vickery smiled. The sheriff worked his jaw muscles, and the veins in his neck bulged, but before he could explode, the prosecutor asked smoothly, “And if we start the search in the morning, how long would you estimate it might take to recover the bones from the graves?”

I’d already been giving this matter some thought, since the clock was ticking on my two-week window of availability. “Well, that all depends,” I hedged.

The sheriff spat another string of brown juice into the ferns. “Depends on what?”

“Depends on how many more graves there are.”

The sheriff’s rheumy eyes bored into me. “The hell you say.”

I held his look. “We know there are three. At least three. Who’s to say we won’t find four, or fourteen, or even forty?”

“Bull shit.”

I shrugged. So far, two line searches of the grove by the recruits had failed to disclose any more open graves, but I didn’t want to rule out the possibility of additional, undisturbed ones.

“There might be more, there might not. But we won’t know until we look.”

“Look where-all? You plan to turn my whole damn county into a crime scene?” When he said it, I couldn’t help wondering if maybe the whole county might be a crime scene, and I remembered Vickery’s words—“this whole world’s one big crime scene”—but I kept those thoughts to myself.

The prosecutor spoke up. “Sheriff, I don’t think anybody’s suggesting we go overboard. But Dr. Brockton has a point. If we know of three graves in this specific area, we need to make sure there are only three. And to do that, we have to take a closer look.”

The sheriff spat again. “You go digging around on some damn fishing expedition here, there’s gonna be newspaper and TV reporters crawling all over the place.”

“If we don’t go digging around,” said Riordan, “there’ll be even more reporters crawling around, doing stories about cover-ups in Miccosukee County.” He said it calmly, as if he were stating an obvious, neutral fact, but I thought I detected a hint of a threat in the prosecutor’s words. I wasn’t the only one who detected it; Vickery and Angie both carefully avoided making eye contact with anyone, and the tendons in the sheriff’s neck tightened, stretching his wattle into webs of splotchy flesh.

“Tomorrow,” growled the sheriff.

“Great. We’ll start tomorrow,” agreed Riordan.

“You’ll finish tomorrow.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean do whatever the hell you have to do, but get it done tomorrow. I want your fancy asses out of my county twenty-four hours from now.”

“We’ll do our best,” said Riordan. I was impressed with how coolly and levelly he managed to say it.

“I said tomorrow,” repeated the sheriff.

“And I said we’ll do our best.”

The sheriff spun on his heel and stalked away. He conferred briefly with his deputy, then slammed the door of his truck, and with impressive force, I thought, for a man his age. As he fishtailed away, his wheels — which boasted the glossy sidewalls and deep tread of new tires — flung shreds of ferns and dirt into one of the open graves.

Angie knelt and studied the ferns beside the spot where Judson had been standing, then — using a glove she fished from her pocket — she carefully plucked and bagged the end of a fern. The leaves were damp and slimy with what I realized was a mixture of tobacco juice and spit. Angie had just collected a DNA sample from Sheriff Darryl Judson.

“That went well,” said Riordan. He motioned Angie over, without seeming to grasp what she’d just done, then looked around our small huddle. “Okay, how do we make that happen?”

Stu and Angie looked at each other, then at him. Stu said, “Make what happen?”

“Clear this scene in twenty-four hours.”

“You’re kidding,” said Angie. “Right?”

“Wrong. We need to recover these three sets of remains and do whatever additional searching we need to do by the end of the day tomorrow. Unless we find something else by then — and by ‘something else’ I mean more graves — we need to pack up and roll out of here at sundown.”

“Sir, no offense,” Angie persisted, “but how the hell are we supposed to search an area this big in that amount of time?”

“Swiftly and efficiently, I suppose.” He gave her a tight smile. “You’ve got technology for this, right? Didn’t FDLE spend a lot of taxpayer dollars on a ground-penetrating radar system? Isn’t this exactly what that technology’s designed for?” Angie opened her mouth, and I expected to hear the words root finder, but Riordan held up a cautionary hand, so she kept quiet and he went on. “Like the sheriff said, do whatever the hell you have to do, but get it done tomorrow. Good night. And good luck.” With that, he, too, left, though his departure was not as showy as the sheriff’s. It reminded me of an old saying, an insult I’d first heard as a kid: don’t go away mad; just go away. He just went away.

Stu looked from me to Angie. “So. What next?” Angie shook her head glumly; Stu frowned and chewed his cigar.

“I have an idea,” I said.

* * *

A flurry of phone calls, explanations, and pleadings ensued over the next three hours. What we needed was hard to find, and when we needed it was almost instantly. The whirlwind of calls and arrangements occurred against a backdrop of logistical and vehicular chaos, because the ten trainees who’d helped with the search needed transportation back to the law enforcement academy in Quincy, and Stu’s vehicle needed to be ferried to the new scene from Pettis’s cabin. Eventually all the logistical and vehicular loose ends were tied up beneath the buggy glare of the work lights, but by the time we left the scene, it was going on eleven o’clock. Two junior FDLE agents remained behind, camped out in the cab of the crime-scene truck, sharing night-shift guard duty with Sheriff Judson’s unsociable deputy.

Following a dozen sets of tire tracks, Stu’s Jeep and Angie’s Suburban lurched and scraped down the unfamiliar dirt road. A half mile down, we found ourselves passing the makeshift cemetery of pipe crosses. It made macabre sense, I supposed, that the clandestine graves would be located in the same general area as the marked graves, but hidden farther — geographically farther and morally farther — from what had passed for civilization at the school. As our headlights illuminated them, the crosses cast long shadows that reeled and skittered as we jounced and angled past.

From the cemetery we easily made our way back to the burned-out ruins of the reform school, and then the blacktop road and the county highway. On our way back to the Twilight, we dashed into a lonely-looking Circle K to snag a late “dinner”—the Waffle Iron was long since closed, and even the convenience store was about to shut down when we showed up. In the gritty passenger seat of the Suburban, I dined on a bruised banana, a pack of stale peanut-butter crackers, and a pint of chocolate milk as we headed for the proverbial barn — the pestilential barn — that was the Twilight Motor Court. It was midnight by the time we turned off the blacktop and into the sandy parking lot. Ten minutes after midnight, I got out from under the dribbling shower, folded down the biohazard-laden bedspread, and crawled between the dingy sheets of the lumpy bed.

Tired as I was, I expected to close my eyes and find myself spiraling swiftly into sleep.

Instead, I found myself spiraling deep into memory, spinning thirty years back in time and fifteen hundred miles away. I found myself in South Dakota, seeking the long-lost graves of dead Indians.

Chapter 21

Vickery had asked me how I’d gotten into forensic cases, and the answer had been “South Dakota.” South Dakota was also where I’d first thought that if I wanted to move the earth — or at least a few long layers of it — a diesel engine and a wide steel blade might pinch-hit for a lever and a place to stand.

The engine and the blade were on an earthmoving machine — an aging LeTourneau “Tournapull”—and as it coughed and rumbled forward on the prairie, it carried my hopes and my potential ruin with it. A fraction of an inch at a time, the Tournapull’s angled blade eased down into the South Dakota soil and shaved off a layer, the way a carpenter’s plane shaves a sliver of pine off a plank. In this case, though, the sliver was eighty feet long, ten feet wide, and two hundred years deep.

I’d spent the prior year — the summer after earning my master’s degree in anthropology — leading a crew of students at this same archaeological site, an Arikara Indian village whose timber-and-sod huts had once housed hundreds of people. Inhabited between the early 1700s and the early 1800s, the village was now on the verge of being inundated by the rising waters of a new reservoir. Anything we hoped to learn about the village and its inhabitants would have to be learned fast — unless we wanted to call in scuba divers. The previous summer, the water level had been twenty feet below the site’s lowest areas; now waves were lapping at the very margins of the village.

We’d worked feverishly the prior season. Gridding the entire site into hundreds of five-foot squares, marked by stakes and string, we’d dug down by hand, inch by inch, through dozens of test squares. Over the course of the summer we’d managed to find and excavate thirteen graves — great progress, by most measures, but maddeningly slow in the face of the rising waters. It hadn’t been easy to convince the Smithsonian — the expedition’s sponsor — to let me trade my trowel for a road grader this season; they worried about the damage that heavy equipment could inflict on fragile old bones. I argued that even though the technique was experimental and seemingly risky, there was much to gain and virtually nothing to lose by bringing in earthmoving equipment. Saying no posed zero risk of damaging bones, but it also offered zero hope of recovering more than a relative handful of skeletons. In the end, I won an important but provisional victory: I could cut one eighty-foot trench with the grader, and if the technique proved successful at finding graves without damaging bones, I could forge ahead full speed.

But despite my confident arguments in Washington, D.C., I’d felt anxiety carving into me as the steel blade sliced into the soil. I was counting on the wind that swept across the Great Plains, unrelentingly but also consistently. Year after year, decade after decade, the wind carried powdery alluvial soil — the infamous dust of the dust bowl — across the Plains, sifting it down amid the grass stalks at the steady rate of one inch every ten years. So sixteen or eighteen inches down — in theory, at least — the Tournapull would uncover what had been the surface layer back to the early 1800s, when the village had been abandoned, fire-building and pot-breaking had moved elsewhere, and grave digging had ceased. We’d see the ground the Arikara had worked with hoes fashioned from bison scapulae. We’d find, I hoped, the circular graves they’d scooped out to bury warriors who’d fallen in battle, women who’d died in childbirth, children who’d succumbed to smallpox, the invisible new enemy unleashed by the whites.

The eighty-foot test cut lay alongside a row of squares we’d excavated a year before — squares that had contained many of the thirteen graves we’d found. I was gambling that this area was part of a larger burial ground, and that somewhere in the next eighty feet, the blade would intersect and reveal more graves.

As the machine crawled along, I checked the cut’s depth repeatedly with a wooden stake I’d cut to length. To play it safe, the machine would make multiple passes, each one shaving off another two inches of topsoil. The soil was grayish brown, almost as fine as flour or cocoa powder. As the blade bit deeper and deeper into the earth, the walls of the trench began to resemble a cutaway drawing from a soil-science textbook. Below the mat of roots, the soil was darker and denser, sprinkled with round pebbles and the occasional larger rock — the size of a fist or a grapefruit — that had once been a mighty boulder, before its encounter with the glacier. Whenever I saw one of the larger rocks, I worried that it might be a skull, that the grader just cut through a grave and a destroyed a skeleton. My relief upon seeing that no, it was just a rock, was mixed with disappointment: no, it was just a rock.

Pass by pass — two inches, four, six, eight, ten, twelve — my anxiety deepened along with the cut. Perhaps my bold experiment was a failure. Perhaps I’d laid out a swath that contained no graves at all… or perhaps graves galore dotted the ground on either side of my trench, their skeletal inhabitants grinning at my foolishness in picking exactly the wrong path. Or perhaps there were indeed graves in the grader’s path, but the blade somehow masked them in its passage.

Midway along the ninth pass of the eighty-foot cut, just as I started to despair, my eye caught a subtle difference in the surface of the exposed dirt. There: eighteen inches down, was a faint, familiar circle in the soil, three feet across, slightly darker in color and almost imperceptibly looser in texture than its surroundings — like a powdery version of a fresh asphalt patch plugging a big highway pothole. Could I be imagining it? I knelt to examine it, my heart racing. At the nearer edge of the rim — the edge first crossed by the steel blade — the soil within the circle had separated slightly from the soil outside the circle. The curved, quarter-inch gap marked a line where looser, disturbed dirt had been pulled away from the denser, undisturbed soil surrounding it. On the far side of the circle’s rim, the blade had shoved a corresponding handful of the loose dirt outside the margin of the circle, where it had tumbled onto the packed dirt in a miniature avalanche.

As I leaned closer, my eye caught a flash of color amid the drab soil. Taking my trowel from the back pocket of my pants, I flicked away crumbs of soil with the tool’s triangular tip, revealing a tiny sphere of cobalt blue, pierced by a cylindrical hole. The blade had uncovered a blue glass bead, the sort used as currency by the Indians and early white traders. The bead told me beyond a doubt that this circular disturbance in the prairie soil was the grave of an Arikara Indian, containing bones and a few possessions and trade goods for the afterlife.

Over the rumble and growl of the diesel engine, I heard a shout and looked up. Doug, one of the ten undergraduate students on my summer crew, was standing in the cut ten feet beyond me, pointing at the ground and waving his straw hat in excitement. I stood for a better look. By now the grader was nearing the end of the swath we’d marked with flags. Between where I stood and where the machine was slowing to an idle, the other nine summer students were dancing, pointing, and dropping to their knees in the dirt, clustering around another half-dozen faint circles, another half-dozen graves.

I raised my trowel high above my head and cut loose with what I imagined to be the battle cry of a triumphant Arikara warrior. The students stared at me, then, one by one and two by two, they joined in.

* * *

Unlike whites, the Arikara tended to bury their dead in a folded position, either sitting up or lying on one side, tightly tucked in a fetal position. The reason was simple: two hundred years ago, the Indians had only the simplest of tools. To dig graves, they used crude hoes, which they made by lashing a buffalo scapula to a stick or to a buffalo femur. These Bone Age tools were wielded by women, for burying the dead was considered women’s work. Try burrowing down through prairie sod with a buffalo bone and you, too, would surely settle for a compact, shallow grave, just as the Arikara squaw who’d dug this grave had doubtless done.

Pulling rank, I claimed the first grave as my own private dig and began troweling into the soil. A few inches down, I came to a layer of crumbling wood, the remnants of the sticks and brush that had been put here two centuries before to deter scavenging by coyotes and rodents. Carefully I teased the wood fragments apart, setting them on a wire screen that would be used to sift everything that came from the ground.

The dirt was soft and the work went quickly—“summertime, and the diggin’ is easy,” I heard myself singing — and before long I felt the tip of the trowel contact something hard. Probing gently for the object’s boundaries, I found that it was large and round, and a few minutes later, I was looking at the top of a cranial vault, stained a dull grayish brown from two centuries in the prairie soil. I used the trowel to lift powdery triangles of soil from around the skull, and then switched to an artist’s brush to dust the skull itself.

The skull was that of a young adult male, large and robust, with a heavy brow ridge and prominent muscle markings. The left side of the skull had been crushed. By what, I wondered: a horse’s hoof? a cavalry soldier’s rifle butt? a Sioux war club? Reaching down, I touched the skull gently, tracing the edges of the gaping hole, brushing the intact bone surrounding it. As my fingers grazed the forehead, they encountered an unexpected roughness in what should have been smooth bone. Brushing away more dirt, I leaned down to inspect the forehead. In a crude arc from one side to the other, the forehead bore the jagged, ragged cut marks of a hasty scalping. A foe, probably a Sioux warrior, had sliced through the front of the scalp and then given the hair a hard yank, peeling the hair and skin backward, off the top of the head, and all the way down to the back of the neck. If the Sioux brave had survived the battle, he would have displayed the scalp triumphantly, boasting of his prowess, when it came time to count coup and tally the number of Arikara they’d killed.

In my mind’s eye, I pictured the triumphant Sioux warrior, and then, in my imagination, I became the triumphant Sioux warrior. And at that moment — when the boundary between past and present, between South Dakota and north Florida, between reality and magic, turned shimmery and elusive and impossible to pin down — sleep finally caught up with me.

Or so I assume, because the next thing I knew, my cell phone was warbling to tell me that it was 5:30 A.M., and the rattling, musty air conditioner was reminding me emphatically that I was in bungalow number three at the Twilight Motor Court. And the Twilight was neither dream nor vision.

Chapter 22

Day was breaking — oozing up out of the steamy ground of the panhandle, more like it — as we approached the turnoff to the reform school. The eastern sky was turning a watery gray, and by that hint of light, I saw the hulking yellow shape beside the highway. “Looks like maybe somebody up there likes us,” I said. Pulling ahead of the gear-laden trailer, we led the way down the blacktop to the school.

Then, as we neared the faint turnoff of the dirt road that led past the cemetery and beyond, to the unmarked graves, I saw the strobing blue lights of a Miccosukee County sheriff’s car blocking the lane. “Somebody up there might like us,” muttered Vickery, “but somebody down here definitely doesn’t.”

Angie pulled alongside the cruiser, and Vickery got out to confer with the deputy. He returned a moment later, his cell phone at his ear. “There’s good news and bad news,” he reported as he snapped the phone closed.

“What’s the good news?” asked Angie.

“The good news is, Sheriff Judson is on his way out here.”

She made a face. “That’s the good news? What the hell is the bad news?”

“The bad news is, I might have to arrest him.”

“Ouch,” said Angie. “That could be ugly.”

“Maybe I won’t have to. Riordan’s on his way out here, too.”

The sheriff arrived first, parking his truck behind us with his strobes and his spotlights on us full force, as if we were suspects. He got out and approached the Suburban, his silhouette casting an immense shadow. Vickery drew a deep breath. “Showtime. Or showdown, more like. Y’all mind coming with me for moral support? Or to witness my demise? You can tell people I died bravely.” Our doors opened in unison; they closed in unison.

“Morning, Sheriff,” said Vickery. The sheriff made no answer, so Vickery went on. “We’re anxious to get back to our crime-scene search, since you’d like us to complete it today. Any particular reason your deputy is blocking the access road?”

“Doesn’t look like you’re here to search a crime scene,” said the sheriff. He pointed at the flatbed trailer and the massive machine it carried. “Looks like you’re here to build a damn highway.”

Just then the silver Lexus arrived, and Riordan joined our conclave. He wasted no time with pleasantries. “What’s the problem, Sheriff?”

“Problem is, I say you can have a day to dig up a few old bones, and you-all want to come in here and start cutting roads. That’s not the deal we had.”

“We’re not cutting roads, Sheriff.”

“Then why you bringing in the goddamn road-cutting machinery?”

Riordan turned to me. “Dr. Brockton, would you explain why we need the equipment?”

“Of course. Sheriff, the problem is, we’ve got an area half the size of a football field to search for more graves. We could probe and excavate the whole area by hand, but that would take days, maybe even weeks. Using this road scraper, we can peel back the vegetation and the top layer of soil, so we can see areas underneath where the ground’s been disturbed. When we find those, we know where to check for more bones.”

The sheriff stared at me, then at Riordan. Finally he shook his head. “No.”

Riordan tilted his head slightly. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“I mean hell no. This is my county. I am the law here. Nobody can fire me but the governor, and I have the authority to limit the scope of this crime-scene search. You can bring in all the shovels and fancy-ass PhDs, you want. For the next twelve hours. But get that damn machine out of here.”

Riordan didn’t speak for a while; finally he shook his head and, just as the sheriff had done, said, “No.” He gave another, smaller shake — wistfully, I thought, regretting the clash of wills — then went on. “Sheriff, I’ve opened an investigation into these deaths — I have some authority, too — and I’ve got a warrant authorizing us to locate and excavate any graves on that piece of land, using whatever tools and equipment we deem necessary. I can’t fire you, but I can arrest you, and if that road isn’t open in sixty seconds, you and your deputy will both be charged with obstruction of justice.” He studied the cruiser that was blocking the way. “I think it’ll be interesting to see what a road grader does to that car when it pushes it into the trees. Not what the machine was designed for, but I suspect it’ll do the job.”

Two minutes later, Riordan was ordering the scraper’s operator to unload his machine and clear the road. I wasn’t sure the nervous-looking equipment operator would actually follow that order, if the prosecutor’s push came to the sheriff’s shove. Luckily — and surprisingly — the sheriff backed down. The Miccosukee County deputy killed his strobes and crept down the dirt road toward the Bone Yard. Our motley convoy followed: the Avalanche of the pissed-off sheriff, the Lexus of the prosecutor, our Suburban, and, bringing up the rear, the goosenecked lowboy trailer hauling the mammoth machine that I hoped would reveal how many graves — how many dead boys — were hidden in the Bone Yard.

If we’d had more time, the sheriff’s mistaken idea — that we’d brought the equipment to cut a road to the site — would have been worth carrying out. The tractor trailer had no trouble negotiating the mile of cracked and weedy blacktop that led to the ruins of the burned school. But progress slowed to a snail’s pace after that, when the blacktop gave way to dirt and the dirt to ruts through the woods. The low trailer bottomed out more than once on the uneven surface, and as it crept around bends in the road, scores of saplings bent, tore, and snapped. The mile to the school had taken less than five minutes; the first half mile toward the Bone Yard seemed to take forever. It took nearly an hour to reach the halfway mark — the clearing with the eleven graves marked by metal crosses — and when he learned that the roughest stretch was yet to come, the driver parked the trailer and unloaded the scraper, and the machine lumbered the last half mile under its own steam.

By the time the machine was in position it was nearly 9 A.M., and the rumble of the idling diesel sounded more and more like the ticking of a clock. I’d stuck survey flags in the ground to mark the initial path I wanted it to follow, and Angie had sent the remaining techs scurrying ahead with metal detectors. Their search yielded a small midden of objects, but as evidence, the only crime they seemed to point to was redneck littering: beer cans, bottle caps, Vienna sausage tins. As soon as Angie gave me the all-clear signal, I walked toward the scraper and beckoned it forward. With a roar and a billowing cloud of diesel smoke, my Florida earthmoving experiment began.

The machine I’d used in South Dakota had been called a Tournapull, a clever word that managed to combine the name of the inventor, R. G. LeTourneau, with the suggestion that the scraper — a two-wheeled blade-and-hopper assembly towed by a tractor — was highly maneuverable. Its latter-day Florida counterpart, manufactured by Caterpillar, was not a Tournapull; the operator had indignantly informed me that it was an “open-bowl scraper.” To me, that didn’t sound like a macho earthmoving machine; to me, “open-bowl scraper” sounded like the rubber spatula my mother had used when she was frosting chocolate cakes. But I didn’t give a fig what the machine was called, so long as it worked.

Behind the blade of the behemoth was a vast, bellylike hopper, slung so low it nearly dragged the ground. The dirt removed by the blade would be collected continuously in the hopper, which would need to be emptied regularly. As I gave hand signals to guide the operator, the scraper eased forward and the blade eased down, a fraction of an inch at a time. When the depth of the cut reached two inches, I signaled the operator and he locked the blade in position. The machine crept across the ground, ripping up ferns, leaves, sticks, scrub growth, vines, and shallow roots. Just as I’d done a quarter century before in the South Dakota prairie, I walked behind the scraper, this time in a Florida live-oak forest.

The first pass was the slowest, the gnarliest, the most debris-laden. As the machine bulled and tore a path beneath the spreading canopy, a windrow of limbs and shredded brush piled up alongside the cut. When he reached the end of the hundred feet we’d marked off, the operator circled back and shoved the debris farther to the side, to give the machine and us a bit of breathing room and make it easier to monitor the depth of the cut.

The second pass — which bit down another two inches, as would each successive pass — proceeded more smoothly, with less ripping and grumbling. The machine chewed forward and downward, a ponderous, insatiable beast, feeding upon the very earth itself.

By the third pass, the hopper was filling, the topsoil was giving way to clay, and I was giving in to serious worries. What if the technique that had worked so well in South Dakota couldn’t simply be transplanted to Florida? What if I’d unintentionally sold everyone a bill of goods? If we failed to find more graves, there would surely be hell to pay. The bill wouldn’t come to me, of course — I could simply tuck my tail between my legs and slink back to the safety of Tennessee — but Sheriff Judson would doubtless find a way to wreak vengeance on Vickery, possibly on Riordan, and perhaps even on Angie as well: the three people who embodied the invasion of his county and the challenge to his authority.

There was another possibility, of course. It was possible that no matter what techniques or technologies we harnessed, no matter how much time we invested, we’d never find anything more, because perhaps there were no more graves to be found. Perhaps the dog had already done a thorough job. And shouldn’t I be hoping for that, after all: hoping that only three boys were buried here, no more? And yet, though I felt a tingle of shame, I scanned the ground avidly for signs of another burial.

* * *

At the end of the third cut, instead of making a U-turn and starting a fourth pass, the operator raised the blade and made for a briar patch at the far end of the site, where we’d decided we’d dump the dirt. There was a slight chance, of course, that we were dumping dirt atop a dozen undiscovered graves, but that was a chance we’d have to take; the dirt had to go somewhere, and putting it at the farthest edge of the site seemed a reasonable gamble. When he reached the briar patch, the operator opened a pair of large doors in the machine’s belly — like bomb-bay doors in a B-52—and dropped the load. Then he looped back and resumed where he’d left off.

I was waiting for him. Anxiously waiting. He lowered the blade again, farther, bringing the cut to eight inches, a depth I confirmed by measuring the wall of the trench. As another layer peeled from the ground, the coolness of the underlying earth caused the moisture in the air to condense, giving the clay a moist sheen in the glinting light.

Barely twenty yards after the grader had resumed its course, the blade snagged and yanked at the remnants of a root that had pushed its way down into the clay. But then, as the machine tore the root from the ground, I realized that the soil clinging to the root wasn’t pure clay; the clay was mixed with darker, looser topsoil. That same mixture, I saw with mounting excitement, extended well beyond the spot where the root had burrowed in. As I drew close and leaned down, I found myself peering down on an oval patch of disturbed soil, roughly two feet by four feet, Roughly the same dimensions as hundreds of Arikara Indian graves I’d excavated so many years ago in South Dakota. Silently, so as not to raise doubts about my sanity, I raised a triumphant war whoop.

Late in the morning, a Winnebago-like RV lumbered and scraped its way into the site — a mobile command post, Angie informed me. I wondered what Sheriff Judson thought about this latest development. Actually, I had a pretty good idea what the sheriff thought about it, since he chose to boycott the scene. What I didn’t know was what cajoling or threatening Riordan had done to get the command post onto the site.

Shortly after noon, a siren whooped from the direction of the command post, followed by a loudspeaker announcement that lunch was available in the tent. Tent? What tent? Then I noticed that at some point since the command post’s arrival, a big canvas canopy had been raised beside it, and underneath the canvas were tables loaded with food and drink.

I hadn’t realized I was hungry, but I ate ravenously — two smoked-turkey wraps, three bags of potato chips (which helped replenish all the salt I’d sweated out), and half a dozen peanut-butter cookies, washed down with a quart of milk. I consumed all that food, inhaled all that food, in the space of ten minutes, then went out to put teams of forensic techs to work excavating the first three graves.

Angie, as the ranking forensic analyst at the site, was serving as the crime-scene coordinator, but she had delegated the excavations to me, asking me to supervise the teams that would recover the bones from each grave. I assigned three people to each grave: one person to wield the trowel; one to photograph each bone as it was recovered; and one to list, label, and bag the evidence. Fortunately, three of the forensic techs had received basic osteology training — Rodriguez; Raynelle, a pale young brunette who drawled her words as if she’d grown up in Miss’sippi but who pierced her ears and nostrils as if she’d toured with a heavy-metal band; and Thad, an African-American man who said little but seemed to notice everything. The supplies on the FDLE crime-scene truck included Tyvek sheets for collecting hair and fiber evidence, and I spread one beside each of the graves. “As you recover the bones, lay them out in anatomical order, as best you can,” I said. “I’ll check in periodically and answer whatever questions you’ve got.”

* * *

Angie was quick with a tape measure and good with a sketch pad, I’d noticed at the cemetery. But now, confronted by a search scene that was half the size of a football field, she’d gone higher tech. From a nylon bag and a hard-shelled case aboard the crime-scene truck, she unpacked a sturdy aluminum tripod and a black instrument that appeared to be a pint-sized mailbox, with a small LCD screen in one end and what looked like a rifle scope on top. The scope was a laser, and the rig was a laser mapping system, a twenty-first-century version of a surveyor’s transit, capable of measuring and charting distances and positions with pinpoint precision. Angie set the tripod at the center of the site, in the small patch of unscraped ground that lay between the graves Jasper had uncovered, and screwed the mapping system to the top. Once she’d powered up the system, she sent Whitney scurrying across the site with the prism, a collapsible measuring rod fitted with optical reflectors at one end. As Whitney paused briefly at various landmarks — the three graves within spitting distance, the live oaks that marked the site’s borders, the additional grave uncovered by the scraper — Angie pressed buttons on a keypad, saving the coordinates of each point. Later, the system’s software could be used to create a 3-D map of the entire site, including the overall layout, the locations of the graves, even the location and depth of bones or other pieces of evidence as the graves were excavated. The laser system took more time to unpack than a tape measure and a sketch pad, but once it was up and running, the two women worked as a fast, efficient team: Whitney moved efficiently from spot to spot, holding the prism within the laser’s line of sight and radioing details to Angie—“grave two”; “skull”; “pelvis”; “left hand bones”; “thoracic vertebrae”; and so on. Angie deftly swiveled the laser to track the prism, pressed buttons to capture data points, and added labels from a drop-down menu on the computer screen.

* * *

The first grave, being excavated by the young African American named Thad, contained the bones of a prepubescent child, probably no more than five feet tall. As I examined the arm and leg bones, I saw that the ends of the bones — the epiphyses, the knobby structures that formed the bearing surfaces at the ankles, knees, hips, wrists, elbows, and shoulders — had not even begun to fuse to the shafts of the bones. That meant that this boy (I now felt it very likely that he was a boy) was nowhere near finished growing when he was killed. There was no skull in the grave, but there was a mandible, one I felt sure would fit the first skull the dog had brought home.

Rodriguez led the excavation of the second grave, which did contain a skull. As if to compensate for possessing a skull, this grave was lacking a femur, and I suspected that the missing bone was Jasper’s final find, the one he’d brought home just hours before he and Pettis were shot. Was the femur still in the possession of Pettis’s murderer, kept as a grim souvenir of the killing? Or, more likely, had it been simply tossed off the bridge into the Miccosukee River, along with the GPS tracking collar?

I knelt by the sheet where Rodriguez was laying out the bones. “I’m thinking white male,” he said, handing me the skull. “Am I right?” He was. This one looked to be somewhere between the ages of the first two victims — twelve or thirteen, I guessed, from the sutures in the roof of the mouth and the development of the long bones. I had just picked up the pelvis, whose narrow width confirmed that the bones were indeed male, when Rodriguez gave a low whistle. I glanced down into the grave. “Take a look,” he said. He handed me a thoracic vertebra — it appeared to be the seventh thoracic vertebra, T7, from the middle of the spine — and I noticed two things. First I noticed that the spinous process, the bony fin projecting from the back of the vertebra, had been shattered. Then I saw why: a bullet had blasted through the back of the bone, passed through the spinal canal, and lodged in the body of the vertebra. The boy had been shot in the back. “Must’ve been running away,” said Rodriguez. “Didn’t really have a sporting chance, did he?”

The third grave, being excavated by Raynelle, contained big, robust bones. The ends of the long bones were almost fully fused to the shafts, which meant that his growth spurt was ending. From the size of the bones, I guesstimated his stature to be nearly six feet. The bones weren’t merely big, they were also heavy, dense — possibly African-American, as Negroid skeletons tend to have higher bone density than Caucasoid skeletons. The skull would give a clearer answer to the question of race, but there was no skull in the grave. Not much of one, anyway; the mandible was there, and the molars — whose biting surfaces were bumpy and complex — were also characteristic of a black boy’s.

As Raynelle neared the bottom of the grave, she called me over. “I’ve got no clue,” she said, stretching and sliding the word into two blurry syllables —“cluh-OOO”—as she handed me a piece of bone. It was chunky, small enough to close my fingers around, but big enough to make my hand bulge. Roughly conical in shape, it was smooth over most of its surface, but the narrow end of the cone was splintered. “What is it?”

”It’s a mastoid process,” I told her, holding the fragment behind my left ear, “and I’d bet your next paycheck that it came from the African-American skull that’s sitting in the evidence room at FDLE right now.”

“Wait,” she said. “You’re betting my next paycheck?” She laughed. “Not much of a gambler, are you?”

“Not much,” I agreed. “But actually, I might even be willing to bet my own paycheck about this.” As a matter fact, I might even have been willing to bet my life. The splintered edges of this mastoid process, I knew, would fit the splintered edges of that skull’s temporal bone as neatly as the thousandth piece of a jigsaw puzzle fits the first 999 pieces.

What I didn’t know was what the puzzle, this puzzle, was about. I wasn’t seeing the picture. Was the whole thing turned upside down — were we seeing only the blank cardboard backing, rather than the pattern that was the point of it? Or was there no particular pattern to the deaths, no discernible meaning to the violence? Maybe there was nothing but the emptiness of gaping eye sockets and the blankness of unbroken clay subsoil.

Except that the clay subsoil here was not unbroken, I reminded myself. The steel blade of the open-bowl scraper was doing its job. With near-surgical precision, it was cutting through decades of darkness and oblivion, bringing the boys of the Bone Yard into the light of day.

Over the course of the day, the scraper cut four swaths, each a hundred feet long, beneath the canopy of live oaks. At the center of the cuts was the cluster of three graves the dog had found for us. Around that cluster of graves, the cuts curved and parted, two and two, like a river parting around an island, like the grain of an oak plank making room for a knot; the lines diverged fluidly and gracefully, then merged again. And as the cuts flowed past the island of graves, more graves surfaced, all within a stone’s throw of one another.

Four additional graves in all; four silent war whoops. Like the Indians of the Great Plains, I was counting coup.

* * *

We did not finish our work at the site by sundown; not by a long shot. In fact, by uncovering the four additional graves with the scraper, we added immeasurably to our work.

When the scraper had revealed the first of the additional graves, I’d hoped that would be enough to override the sundown deadline issued by Sheriff Judson. The sheriff had expressed his hostility by remaining off-site all day, though I had no doubt that he was kept thoroughly apprised of our progress by the deputy he’d posted at the scene. It seemed inconceivable that Judson could object to an extension of the deadline. Just to make sure, though, Riordan left at midafternoon for a five o’clock press conference with his boss, the state attorney for the Second Judicial Circuit. I didn’t see the press conference in person, but I did see a live video feed of it, on the large flat-screen monitor inside the mobile command post.

The event was impressive. Actually, it was more than impressive; it was downright astonishing. Standing in a courtroom of the Leon County Courthouse, alongside the state attorney, Chief Deputy State Attorney Clay Riordan, and the FDLE commissioner, was none other than Darryl Judson, the Lord High Sheriff of Miccosukee County. When the state attorney praised the multijurisdictional investigation currently under way in Miccosukee, Bremerton, and Apalachee counties, Sheriff Judson smiled tightly and nodded modestly. I heard a snort from beside me. “Unbelievable,” Angie said, and I had to agree.

The investigation — the very embodiment of interagency cooperation, according to the state attorney — had found eleven marked graves on the grounds of a former reform school in Apalachee County, and had found seven unmarked graves nearby in Miccosukee County. The state attorney introduced Riordan — whose attention to the case demonstrated the state’s unwavering commitment to the investigation — and Riordan spoke briefly. The eleven marked graves, he explained, appeared to be a small cemetery associated with the former North Florida Boys’ Reformatory. Familiar images flashed onto the screen: archival photos of the reform school, followed by photos Angie had taken yesterday of the crosses. “A preliminary investigation indicates that the marked graves contain the remains of individuals who died from illnesses or accidents at the school,” Riordan said, “including the tragic fire that occurred in 1967. But the seven unmarked graves,” he added — and here the video feed cut to photos taken at the scene no more than an hour or two before—“appear to contain homicide victims.” An intensive investigation of the graves by FDLE and local authorities was now under way, he said, as was yesterday’s slaying of Winston Pettis, a vigilant citizen who had alerted authorities to the existence of the clandestine graves.

Riordan concluded by praising the dedication and exemplary leadership of Sheriff Judson — at this, Angie feigned a retching noise, and several of her colleagues laughed and hooted — and expressing his confidence that the truth would be brought to light.

* * *

When we’d found the crosses, Vickery had predicted a shit storm. As it turned out, he’d correctly foreseen the form of precipitation… but he’d grossly underestimated the magnitude of the tempest. Then again, he’d made his forecast before we found the unmarked graves. The combination of the two finds — the photogenic, enigmatic crosses and the sinister, clandestine burial ground — created the perfect storm. An hour after the press conference, a small squadron of news helicopters appeared above the treetops — three from the direction of Tallahassee, plus two more from the west, perhaps Panama City or Pensacola. They hovered a few hundred feet off the ground, wheeling and jockeying for position, stirring up dust, anxiety, and anger on the ground. The pushiest of the pilots appeared to be lining up for a landing at one end of the site, until a young agent sprinted from the command post to wave him off. In short order the pilots apparently brokered an agreement among themselves, for the aircraft began taking turns circling the site. Eventually they backed off, either because they’d gotten enough footage for their newscasts or because the sun was going down or because someone at FDLE got on the radio and threatened the pilots with arrest.

By the time the air force departed, though, infantry reinforcements arrived: reporters from all three of Tallahassee’s broadcast television affiliates, plus the local Fox station, plus a reporter and a photographer from the Democrat, the Tallahassee daily newspaper. They lined the crime-scene tape at the entrance to the site, their camera lenses straining for a closer look. After shooting everything they could shoot from that vantage point, the cameramen and their accompanying reporters circumnavigated the site to take shots from other angles. Fortunately, after the press conference, Angie had had the foresight to send the recently arrived assistants to tape off the site’s entire perimeter, a task that consumed most of a thousand-foot roll of crime-scene tape.

Vickery called FDLE headquarters for guidance on handling the media; headquarters instructed him to be polite, to keep everyone outside the tape, and to refer all questions to the Public Information Office.

As I worked — inspecting the scraper’s final pass through undisturbed soil; conferring with Dr. Bradford, who served as medical examiner for Miccosukee County as well as Apalachee County; identifying small bones of wrists and ankles — I felt telephoto lenses tracking my movements, zooming in on me, invading the privacy of the graveyard. At one point I looked up and saw the Democrat photographer being escorted firmly back to the other side of the tape. But eventually the contingent of cameramen and reporters drifted away by ones and twos.

* * *

As the sun dropped below the tree line and the work lights switched on, the command-post siren whooped again, summoning us all to an end-of-the-day briefing.

“Okay, first,” said Vickery, “Winston Pettis. Autopsy report’s in; so is the report from Firearms. He was shot with a .45, fired from two, three feet away. The bullet pierced the heart, then hit the spine and mushroomed. Even if we had the weapon, which we don’t, Firearms says the bullet’s so deformed it’d be tough to match.”

I raised my hand.

“Doc?”

“What about the dog?”

“What about him?”

“Could the bullet that killed the dog be matched?”

Vickery spread his arms wide in a gesture that took in the group of forensic techs and agents. “See, guys, I told you that people from Tennessee aren’t all dumb.” He got a good laugh from that. “We’re still waiting on the veterinarian’s necropsy. The bullet from the dog won’t carry as much weight as the bullet from Pettis, but sure, if we can match it to a weapon, it’s good evidence. The tire impressions at the scene are from a set of twenty-two-inch BFGoodrich off-road tires. They might be on an SUV, might be on a pickup. The tires have been rode hard and put away wet, so the vehicle probably has, too. And yeah, that description fits about ninety percent of the trucks in L.A.” He must have seen the puzzled look on my face, because he added, “You just thought you were in north Florida here, Doc. You’re actually in L.A. Lower Alabama.” He smiled, then got brisk and businesslike again. “The GPS collar. Not sure it’ll tell us anything, but the dive team is searching the river where we think it got chucked off the bridge. Murky water, bad current, mucky bottom; tough place to search for something small and black. Oh well. If it were easy, they wouldn’t be paying us the big bucks, would they?” More laughs, these with a slight edge to them. “Okay, next: crime scene. Angie, what’s the bottom line on the overall site here?”

“The MapStar’s working like a champ,” she said, handing out copies of a map that showed the main landmarks of the site — the trees, the boundary, and the seven graves. “The laser was definitely the way to go. As you can see, we’ve got a good baseline map. This printout isn’t zoomed in enough to show all the details, but we’re also starting to map the location of bones within the graves, and we’ll keep adding to the map — bones, artifacts, whatever we find — as we continue to excavate.”

“How about we limit vehicle access tomorrow,” Vickery suggested, “put a checkpoint out at the highway turnoff, so we don’t have so many damn cameras and reporters crawling around here tomorrow?”

She nodded. “Great.”

“Okay, next. Human remains. Doc?”

“First off, FDLE’s got terrific forensic techs,” I began. “I’m hoping to steal ’em all and rope ’em into my graduate program.”

“If I spend five years getting a PhD,” cracked Rodriguez, “would I get paid as much as you’re making for this gig?” There was general laughter at this; it must have been common knowledge that I was working for the heck of it.

“Maybe twice that much,” I joked. “So far we’ve got two adolescent males and one preadolescent — the first skull the dog dug up — that’s probably male as well. There’s skeletal trauma in all three. We’ll start excavating the other four graves tomorrow. Be interesting to see what we find once we’ve got all the remains out and processed.”

“Speaking of processing,” Vickery said. “The identification lab in Gainesville hired a new director yesterday. Board-certified forensic anthropologist.”

He named the man. “Oh, I know him,” I said. “He’s good. Almost as good as our Tennessee graduates.” More laughter.

“He called me today,” Vickery continued. “Not surprisingly, he’d like to hit the ground running on this. He suggested you wrap up the excavations here and send the remains to Gainesville for processing.”

“Have they got enough graduate students to handle it all?”

“He says they do.”

“Sounds like a winner to me. Believe it or not, I do actually have a job in Knoxville.”

“Sure you do,” he cracked.

The crime-scene techs and I spent the next three hours packaging skeletal material for shipment to the Gainesville lab for processing the next day. It was nearly midnight by the time we reached the Twilight Motor Court. Eighteen hours had passed since I’d closed the ill-fitting door of bungalow number three in the predawn darkness. If someone had told me at the time that I’d look forward to returning to the musty room and crawling beneath the stained bedspread, I’d have laughed. Yet here I was, eager to lean into the rusty, dribbling excuse for a shower, scrub off the day’s worth of sweat and dust, and then sink into the dank, lumpy mattress.

I left my grimy clothes on the bathroom floor. The floor was dirty, but at least I could see the film of dirt on the linoleum and gauge its depth. The nastiness lurking within the shag carpet, on the other hand, was unfathomed… and possibly unfathomable.

I reached behind the slimy shower curtain and twisted on the taps all the way. The pipes groaned and clanged, and a trickle of reddish brown emerged from the showerhead. I let the water run while I brushed my teeth at the sink. By the time I’d finished brushing, the shower was running clear, more or less, and lukewarm.

Half the shower curtain’s rings had ripped through the plastic. Carefully, so as not to tear the rest of the curtain loose, I slid the rings along the rod to open the curtain.

The motion of the curtain unleashed an explosion at my feet. I yelled and jumped back just as a four-foot water moccasin — its body as thick as my wrist — thrashed furiously in the tub and then turned and struck at the thin film of plastic between me and him.

I fell back against the sink and then — as the snake reared up, cobralike, and opened its mouth wide — I pulled my legs up onto the counter. “Stu!” I shouted. “Stu! Can you hear me? Stu!”

A minute later, I heard a knocking at my door.

“Stu? Help!”

The knob rattled and the door scraped across the carpet. “Doc? You got a mouse?” I heard a chuckle.

“Stu, have you got your gun?”

“Doc?” The panic in my voice finally registered with him. “What’s wrong? Is somebody else in here?”

“Not unless you count a big cottonmouth,” I said. “It’s here in the bathroom. It’s in the tub at the moment, but I’m thinking it could get out pretty easily. Be careful.”

“Okay, I’m coming that way,” he said. “Exactly where are you?”

“I’m up on top of the sink, where any sane person would be.”

“Don’t move. And make damn sure to let me know if that snake starts over the side of that tub.”

“Trust me, Stu, the whole county’ll know if that snake starts out of the tub.” Moving slowly, I wrapped myself in a towel.

I could hear his breathing as he approached. “All right, I’m getting close to the door. He’s staying put?”

“Yeah, he’s still wiggling around some, but he’s still in the tub.”

Stu’s head ducked quickly around the door and then withdrew, then reappeared more slowly, and he stepped into the doorway. Just as he did, I heard Angie’s voice coming from the doorway of my room. “Hey, guys?”

“We’re in the bathroom,” I called. “Me and Stu and a huge water moccasin.”

Either the news of the snake or the silhouette of the gun in Stu’s hand made a big impression on her, because she exclaimed, “Oh, Jesus.” After a moment, she added, “Stu, how good a shot are you with that?”

“Well, I keep qualifying every year,” he answered without looking around, “but they’ve never thrown a pissed-off snake at me on the firing range.”

“I’ve got a shotgun,” she said.

“A shotgun? Where? In the Suburban?”

“In my hand.”

What? What are you doing with a shotgun in your hand?”

“Well, right now, I’d say I’m coming to kill a snake with it. Unless you’d rather take the shot with your sidearm.”

“Hey, be my guest.”

“Okay, here I come.” I heard the unmistakable click-slide-click of a shell being racked into the chamber of a pump-action shotgun. “I’m right behind you, Stu. Is your safety on?”

“It is now. Is yours?”

“It is. All right, you want to trade places with me?”

Stu’s head disappeared, and an instant later, Angie’s took its place. She eased through the doorway, the shotgun angling upward across her chest and left shoulder. Slowly she lowered the barrel toward the tub and snugged the butt of the gun against her right shoulder. I heard the slight scrape of the snake’s scales on the bathtub; I heard the deep breaths Angie was taking through flaring nostrils; I heard the metallic click as she released the safety. “Doc, you might want to cover your ears,” she said. Moving almost imperceptibly, she leaned closer to the tub, close enough to see the snake. “Damn,” she said, “that is one mean-looking snake.”

Maybe it was the vibration of her voice, or maybe it was a slight movement of the barrel; whatever it was, something triggered the snake again, and as I watched in horror, it whipped around and lashed directly at Angie.

* * *

I was alive, but I was blind. No, actually, I was not blind, I realized as the smoke and my mind began to clear and I saw light streaming through the doorway from the bedroom beyond; I was in darkness because the bathroom lightbulb had shattered when Angie had fired the shotgun.

“Talk to me,” I heard Stu calling. “Doc? Angie? Are you okay?”

“I’m all right,” I said. “But I’m not so sure about Angie.” She was slumped against me, her body rotated from the recoil of the shotgun. “The snake was going for her when she pulled the trigger.” Suddenly I had a bad thought. “Stu, watch out. I’m not sure about the snake. It’s too dark and smoky in here for me to see.”

“I’m watching out,” he said.

Angie groaned and stirred. “Wow,” she said. “Remind me not to do that again.”

Stu appeared in the doorway with a flashlight, whose beam — a solid-looking shaft of light in the smoke — darted back and forth from Angie to me to the wreckage of the bathtub. “You all right?”

“I guess,” she said. “Not sure. A place on my right leg hurts. I might be snakebit.”

“Doubtful,” Stu answered. He bent down, and when he straightened up, he was holding a foot-long piece of the snake’s tail. It was the only piece of the snake that the shotgun blast hadn’t shredded. “Angie, one; snake, zero.” He played the light slowly over the tub, which had been reduced to fiberglass splinters, then added, “Bathtub, minus one.” He turned and shone the light on the shotgun, which Angie was holding loosely, the barrel pointing at the floor. “That’s a Mossberg 500 tactical, isn’t it.” He wasn’t asking; he was pronouncing. “That thing packs a punch.”

Angie nodded. She stared at the shotgun as if she were staring at a ghost. The peppery odor of gun smoke hung heavy in the air; underneath that scent, subtler but unmistakable, was the metallic tang, the rusty taste, of blood. The taste that would have hung in the air at Kate’s house.

It was true, what Angie had said at Shell’s a few days before. All roads — or at least this road, smelling of blood and brimstone — led to her sister.

It also, I realized, led to my father.

Remember me, remember me, remember me.

Chapter 23

I did end up getting a shower; the manager of the Twilight — whose anger at the damage done by the shotgun was tempered by his fear of a cottonmouth lawsuit — grudgingly put me in bungalow number two, which was a dead ringer, stain for stain, for number three. But I did not get the several hours of sleep I’d hoped to get.

Instead, I read the next entry from the diary, which Vickery had handed out at the end of the day. I should have known better than to read it so late at night. Like the television documentary about the lost boys of Sudan — the haunting film that had kept me awake the night I’d first arrived in Tallahassee — the diary was the stuff of nightmares. It would have been the stuff of nightmares, that is, if I’d been able to sleep after reading it. Surely the boys of the North Florida Boys’ Reformatory and the boys of the Bone Yard had also earned the label “lost.”

Buck wasn’t even over his beating when it happened. He still had scars from the worst of the cuts the strap give him, and he still walked with a limp. But he was getting better.

We were standing up to leave the dining hall after supper last night, and I was right across the table from him. Cockroach come and stood behind him. Looks like you made a mess at your place, Bucky boy, he said. Look at all those crumbs. And you spilt some gravy on the table. Dont you know thatll ruin the damn finish? Nobody had been talking, but the room got dead quiet now. Im sorry sir, Buck said real fast, I didnt mean to make a mess. Ill clean it up right now. He swept the crumbs into the palm of his left hand, then wiped the gravy with his right hand. Cockroach leaned down and stared at the table, then stared at Buck. Does that look clean to you, Bucky-boy? Look at that stain. Buck licked one of his fingers and went to rub the spot. Goddammit boy, Ill teach you to spit on a dining table, Cockroach said. Please, sir, Ill clean it up real good, spic n span. His voice sounded like somebody had a hand around his throat and was starting to squeeze it. Tell me how you want me to clean it. Cockroach didn’t answer, he just kept staring at Buck. He had a mean look in his eyes and a little smile on his face that was scary. Buck started to cry. Do you want me to go get a wet rag and scrub it? Ill put soap on the rag. Ill clean the whole table. Its too late for that, said Cockroach. Please, sir, Buck said. Just let me scrub the table with a clean rag and some soap. Please.

Shut up, said Cockroach. You need a lesson in manners. Buck started to shake, and then I heard a wet, dripping sound. Goddammit, boy, now look what youve done. Youve went and pissed your pants, you little sissy. He looked around the room. The rest of you boys, yall get on back to the dormitory. I went last, and when I looked back, I saw Bucks knees start to buckle, but Cockroach grabbed him by the arm with his one good hand. Dont make me drag you out of here, boy, he said. You stand up straight and you walk, or Ill make you wish you could walk tomorrow. Walk, Buck, I prayed. He did, stumbling along, Cockroach still digging those five fingers of his into Bucks arm.

They didnt head for the shed like I thought they would. Instead he took Buck toward the office, but they didnt go inside. They went around the corner to the back of the building. All the other boys had went inside by now, but I didnt, instead I snuck down toward the office, hiding behind one tree and then another. When I got to the building, I squatted down and looked underneath the floor, through the crawl space. I saw legs, Cockroach and Bucks legs, and a parked car. Then I saw another mans legs step out of the car. I got down on my hands and knees and crawled under the building so I could get close and see what was happening.

I wished I hadnt.

They washed him off with a hose, and then they started talking about doing things, things I knew had happened to some of the other boys. The man with the car said how about if I take him for a little joyride, bring him back later?

I dont care, said Cockroach. Take him wherever you want to. Just get him back before morning.

Come on boy, said the man. Lets go for a ride. He reached down and pulled Buck to his feet. Get in the car.

Wait a minute, said Cockroach. You best put him in the trunk.

No, said Buck. Dont put me in the trunk. Please dont. Cockroach took a step toward him, and then I heard a slap and Buck fell to the ground again. You shut up, faggot. You get in that trunk. And you do whatever this man tells you to do, or youll get a lot worse strapping than what you got before. You hear me? Buck didnt answer, and Cockroachs leg drew back for a kick, but the other man stopped him. He hears you, dont you boy? Dont you? Buck nodded, still crying.

Take him, then, said Cockroach. But boy, remember this. If you say one word about any of this itll be the last thing you ever say. The very last thing.

Then I heard the trunk of the car come open, and the two men lifted Buck off the ground, and I heard the trunk slam shut. The man got into the car and started it up and drove away slowly. Cockroach stood and took a piss in the mud puddle where the hose was still going. I crawled back to the other side of the building and skedaddled back to the dormitory.

It took me a long time to fall asleep. Buck still wasnt back by the time I did. But he was in his bed the next morning when I woke up. There was clean pants at the foot of his bed for him to put on. But there was blood on his sheets and blood on the back of his shorts.

I wish I had a gun. I wish I could kill Cockroach.

Chapter 24

It was still dark when we left the Twilight at 5:45 A.M. We were waiting at the door of the Waffle Iron at six when the dead bolt snicked open and a waitress let us in. She looked tired, as if she were just finishing a busy shift rather than just starting one. She probably thought the same about me. We snagged half a dozen sausage-and-egg biscuits to go and ate in the car as we took the blacktop out toward the North Florida Boys’ Reformatory. The biscuits were hot and flaky, with a golden crust that still retained a bit of crunch. My lap was soon covered with crumbs, but I knew that before long, biscuit crumbs would be the least objectionable contaminants on my clothing.

* * *

The buzz of Angie’s cell phone woke me during the morning’s briefing. Between my lack of sleep and the steady hum of the printer in the command post, I’d barely sat down before nodding off.

Angie stepped outside to take the call. Through the window, I saw her pull out a small notepad and make notes as she cradled the phone between her shoulder and her ear.

Stevenson had dug up an old newspaper account of the fire at the school, which he handed out. According to the story, the fire began in the school’s main building — the structure housing classrooms, administrative offices, and sleeping quarters for the staff — and quickly spread, as embers were carried aloft by the heat and the wind, to the boys’ dormitory, the chapel, and the outbuildings. Spared from the flames, by virtue of being upwind, were the school’s Negro facilities.

The story named the guard and the nine boys who’d died in the fire — three of whom, Hatfield had told Vickery, were buried in the school’s pipe-cross cemetery because no one had claimed their bodies. So the crosses, apparently, marked “acceptable” deaths, accidents and illnesses for which the school and its staff would probably not be held accountable in any serious way; the Bone Yard, on the other hand, was the closet in which the school’s dark skeletons had been carefully hidden.

When Angie stepped back into the command post, she caught Vickery’s eye and gave him a look that indicated she’d just heard something interesting. He pointed at her with his cigar. “What’s up?”

“Two things,” she said. “I just got a call from Steve Hobbs, in Latent Prints. Steve examined the note that was on our windshield last week. The one that said, ‘Find the Bone Yard.’ Steve treated the note with ninhydrin and got some prints off the paper.”

I raised my hand like a student in class. “Let me guess. They were mine.”

“Some of them,” she said. “Not all of them. He ran them through AFIS, the Automated Fingerprint Identification System. And he got a hit. A really interesting hit.”

“Define ‘interesting,’ ” said Vickery.

“They matched a guy named Anthony Delozier,” she said. “White male, age fifty-nine. Been in and out of prison his whole life. Most recently at the Florida State Penitentiary, in Starke, for aggravated armed robbery.”

“So if he’s locked away in Starke,” asked Whitney, “how’d he put the note on your windshield?”

“He was released three months ago.”

“That is interesting,” Vickery agreed.

“Here’s the most interesting part,” Angie went on. “Forty-six years ago, at age thirteen, he was sent to the North Florida Boys’ Reformatory for truancy.” As she said it, the hairs on the back of my neck prickled.

“Where’s he now?” asked Vickery.

“Havana.”

“Cuba?”

“Florida.”

“That’s a lot closer. Smaller, too.” Vickery assigned one of the agents to track down Delozier; meanwhile, Angie pulled a stack of pages from the copier and began passing out handouts.

“Flo, in Documents, just sent us the last of the diary,” she went on. “She thinks it sheds light on the fire that burned down the school in 1967.”

Skeeter, I cant stand it no more, Buck said. He didnt look at me. I just cant stand it no more. Still not looking at me. If I dont get out of here Ill be dead in a month.

It scared me, him talking like that. Partly it scared me because escaping was hard and dangerous. There wasnt a fence around the school, at least not a fence you could see. But sometimes its the fences you cant see thats the hardest to scale. In six months only two boys had tried to get away. One of them come back missing an eye and the other one come back dead. They said he drowned trying to swim across the river, but Id seen that boy swim, and he was part fish. He never drowned. Not unless somebody helped him do it.

But I knew it was true, what Buck said. If he didnt get away he would be dead soon. That was the part that scared me worse, the truth of it. When I went to regular school I saw how teachers picked out some kids as the smart kids and some kids as the dumb kids, and some kids as the good kids and some kids as the bad kids. Once a teacher decided what kind of kid you were, all the other teachers treated you that way from then on. Like you had a big sign on your back saying smart or dumb or good or bad. Same thing in here, only nobodys sign said good or smart. They just said bad or worse or worst. For some reason Bucks sign said worst. I dont know if that meant Buck was the worst or his punishment was worst. Both I guess. No matter what he did hed get singled out and taken down.

Here, I told Buck, take this. I handed him the compass I wore around my neck. You might need it to find your way.

Find my way where, he said. I don’t know where to go.

Anywhere but here, I told him. Pick a direction, any direction, and just keep going.

That was yesterday.

When I woke up today, Buck was gone.

I was glad, but I was also scared for him. Hoping he’d make it. Afraid he wouldn’t.

I was taking out the infirmary trash today when Cockroach called to me from across the yard. Come on over here, boy, he said, I need you to haul something to the dump.

Will it fit in this trash can, I said. Its only about half full.

Hell no it wont fit in that trash can, he said. Set that down by that tree there, I need you to come do this first.

Yessir, I said, putting down the can. What is it?

Youll see soon enough, he said. Come on.

He started walking toward the beating shed. I had a bad feeling in my stomach, like a buzzards claw was wrapped around it and was squeezing. Mr. Cochran, sir, am I in some kind of trouble, I said. He turned and looked at me, his eyes squinting narrow the way they do when hes thinking about getting mad. Not yet, he said, but you are fixing to be if you dont hurry up and do what I say. Yessir, I said. Im coming right now.

I followed him into the shed.

It smelled real bad in there, like puke and sweat and piss and shit and rotten meat all mixed together. It smelled like something had died in there.

With his one hand, he pointed to the iron bed beside the far wall. Get that mattress off that bed, he said. It’s a mess. Haul that down to the dump, then come on back up here.

Yessir, I said, and went to get the mattress. It was covered with blood, spatters of blood all over it, and then a big dark spot in the middle, where it looked like a puddle of blood had soaked into the mattress. It was still wet and shiny. I said, what happened, sir? A boy asked me too many damn questions, he said. Now get that out of here before I make you lie down on it and take a strapping.

I grabbed the foot of the mattress by one corner and pulled it off the frame and dragged it across the floor toward the door. Well, shit, said Cockroach. I looked around and saw that the mattress had left a smear of blood on the floor where I had dragged it. There was blood under the middle of the bed, to, where it had soaked clear through the mattress and dripped on the floor. Im sorry, sir, I didnt mean to make a mess, I said. I thought sure Id get a hiding now.

But he let me keep dragging the mattress across the floor and on out the door. I had just got down the steps when he stepped outside. Wait a minute, he said. I held my breath. That things liable to attract all sorts of varmints. Buzzards and rats and what-all. Youd best burn it. You ever burned brush or trash before, boy? Yessir, I said. You ever used gasoline to do it? Yessir, I said. Alright. Heres some matches. Theres some gas over in the tractor shed by the lawn mower. Its in a gallon glass jug. Use some of that to get it started. Dont use much, just about a cup of it. Be sure you cap that jug and set it way off from the mattress before you strike that match. Strike the match and throw it while its still flaring. You dont want to be leaning over that mattress when the gasoline catches fire or youll burn up. Understand?

Yessir, I said, Ill be careful.

I drug the mattress down to the dump, just like I had the other one. It was heavier than that first one, because of all the blood that was in it. I laid it on top of the burn pile and went back to get the gas. The glass jug was nearly full, and it looked just like apple cider, so I unscrewed the cap to make sure it was gasoline. The smell nearly knocked me down when I took a sniff. The day was hot and I could see the fumes swirling up out of the neck of the jug and into the air, like smoke only it was clear. I took the jug down to the dump and poured gas onto the mattress, trickling it all around the edges and then pouring more onto the bloodiest spots. I didnt pour out but about a cup, on account of Cockroach had warned me not to use much.

Then I screwed the cap on tight and set the jug way over behind a pine tree before taking the box of matches out of my pocket. I could see fumes swirling up from the mattress, making the air shimmer. I lit a match and held it while it flared, then threw it at the mattress. But it went out before it ever got there. I tried another one, and this time I threw it as soon as I drug it across the box. But I was nervous, so I didnt press hard enough, and the match just flew through the air without lighting and plopped onto the mattress and lay there. The third time I pressed harder. I heard the match scraping as I drug it across the sandpaper and flung it away from me, then I heard it sputter as it started to catch. It flared up in midair with a bright flame, and even before it hit the mattress there was a whoosh and a wall of heat hit me in the face and knocked me back. I think maybe it burned my eyebrows and eyelashes some, but I wasnt hurt, just surprised that so much heat could come from so little gasoline.

As the mattress burned, I thought about Buck laying there bleeding to death, and it made me sad. Then I thought about Cockroach beating him, and it made me mad. I wished that Cockroach was the one on the mattress, not Buck. And thats when I got the idea. I thought about it the whole time I watched the mattress burn.

I poked around the edges of the dump and pretty soon I found an empty bottle. Jack Daniels Tennessee Sipping Whiskey. There was a few drops left in the bottom of the bottle, and it was the same color as the gasoline, but it smelled different. Apple cider, gasoline, whiskey. Hard to tell them apart by looking. Easy by smelling.

I wedged the empty whiskey bottle down between some big roots then brought the jug of gas over and started pouring, I had to pour real slow because the mouth of the whiskey bottle was a lot smaller than the mouth of the jug. But I didn’t spill much, and pretty soon the bottle was full up to the bottom of the neck. The gallon jug was about half empty now, I hoped Cockroach wouldnt check to see how much Id used. I capped both bottles and headed back from the dump. I started worrying about how I could hide the whiskey bottle. So I took off my t-shirt and held it in my hand so it hung down and hid the bottle. Up close, you could tell I was hiding something, but if somebody just saw me from across the yard Id probly be okay.

Just as I got to the tractor shed, Cockroach yelled at me from across the yard. Hey, boy. I set down the jug and hid the whiskey bottle and my shirt behind a post. Let me see that jug. I held it up for him. Bring it on over here. I walked across the yard with it. Shit fire, boy, did you pour half a gallon of gasoline on that mattress after I told you not to use much?

Nossir, I said. The jug tipped over and some of the gas spilled before I could catch it. Im sorry, sir. I didnt mean to spill any. I didnt use too much, I did just like you said. Just enough to make that mattress burn good.

He looked at me like he was trying to decide whether to believe me. Wheres your shirt, boy? Did you burn that up?

Nossir. It was hot with that fire, so I took it off. I just laid it down over there in the shed. Ill get it when I put this gasoline back where it goes.

He frowned at me. You was best friends with that boy run off last night, wasn’t you?

You mean Buck, sir? We got along okay.

You a faggot too, boy? He licked his lips when he said it, and I felt the buzzard claw grab my stomach again.

Nossir, Im not a faggot.

You look like a faggot to me, boy. Maybe we need to find out if your telling me a lie.

Nossir, I said, I wouldnt lie to you, Mr. Cochran.

He didnt say anything for a while. Just kept looking at me. Alright, go on now. Its almost dinner time.

Yessir, thank you sir, I said. Ill just put this back and get my shirt and go get cleaned up for dinner.

I took the glass jug back to the shed and set it down beside the lawn mower. Cockroach had walked away, so I picked up the whiskey bottle of gasoline and covered it with my shirt again. Then I walked back to the dorm. But first I stopped at the chapel to pray. Please god, I prayed, help me kill Cockroach. Then I hid the whiskey bottle behind the radiator.

Does god answer prayers? He never has answered any of mine before.

Put wings to your prayer, the preacher said in chapel last Sunday. What that means, he said, is work to make them come true.

Tonights Saturday night, and that means most of the guards will go into town, but not Cockroach. He stays here on Saturday nights and gets drunk.

I will slip out after dinner tonight and put wings of fire to my prayer.

“Doc?” Stu’s voice jolted me back to the present place and time. “You okay?” I looked around and was surprised to find myself in the command post, and surprised to see that the briefing room was now empty except for Vickery, Angie, and me.

“He calls the guard Mr. Cochran,” I said. “Cockroach is the boys’ nickname for Cochran.” I pointed at the newspaper article Stevenson had dug up. “Look. According to the paper, Cochran was the guard who died in the fire.”

Angie had been out of the room when Vickery had passed out copies of the story; now she snatched the copy from my hands, and her eyes zigzagged down the column of old print until she found it: “ ‘Also lost in the fire was guard Seth Cochran, age 31, who died a hero’s death while attempting to rescue boys from the burning building.’ ”

“Wait a minute,” said Angie. “Cochran died trying to save boys’ lives? Are we talking about the same Cochran? Cockroach? The sadist who got off on torturing kids? I don’t buy it. It doesn’t fit.”

I had to agree with her on that. “But our boy Skeeter, according to this final diary entry, might have set the guards’ quarters on fire that night,” I pointed out. “If that’s the case, he put wings to his prayer, and his prayer was answered. He got Cockroach.”

“He got Cockroach, all right,” Vickery agreed. “But he got nine of his classmates, too.”

“Or maybe he just got eight,” Angie pointed out. “Maybe Skeeter was one of the nine. We still don’t know who he was or what happened to him. Did he run away after he set the fire, or did he get caught in the flames, too? Be good to know who he was and what happened to him.”

Suddenly I had an idea that sent a spike of adrenaline coursing through my system. I’d been puzzled about why so many boys had died in the fire, and the question had continued to tug at the sleeve of my mind even during the frenzied work of excavating the graves in the Bone Yard.

“I need to go back to the school,” I said. “Can you spare me for an hour or so? And do you still have those old photos that Stevenson showed us? The pictures of the buildings?”

Vickery looked startled. “I guess I can,” he said. “And yes, I do. Want to tell me what you’re thinking?”

I did, and thirty minutes later, I was kneeling at the edge of what had once been the boys’ dormitory, digging into the ground beneath the spot where a fifty-year-old photo showed a pair of wide wooden doors.

A foot down, the tip of my trowel rasped against something hard and metallic, and I began teasing away the dirt to see what I’d hit. A curved piece of rusted steel emerged; as the tip of the trowel flicked lightly along its contours, it revealed a link of heavy chain. I dug beneath the link to expose it fully, and found links on either side of it, and more links connected to those. Then, curling two fingers beneath the exposed links, I lifted. The chain came from the ground like some rusted root I was pulling — a segmented, sinister version of a root — and then it curled back on itself, arching into a loop. At the center of the loop, holding it closed, was a stout, rusted padlock. And on either side of the padlock were stout, wrought-iron handles. Door handles. “Angie?” She aimed the camera at my face, looking at me through the viewfinder. “Now we know why so many boys died in the fire.”

* * *

Angie had just finished photographing the padlocked chain and the door handles it held together when Vickery’s red Jeep Liberty stopped in the circular drive. Angie motioned him over and wordlessly pointed to the chain. He gave it a cursory glance, then looked up at her quizzically. Before she could answer his unspoken question, though, his gaze shot back down. “Son of a bitch,” he breathed. “Those poor boys were locked in. That building burned to the ground with the damn doors chained shut.” He flung the cigar away violently. “God damn whoever did this.” His face was crimson and streaming with sweat, and I knew it wasn’t just from the Florida sun. “Hatfield,” he spat. “If he knew that door was chained — and how could he not have known that door was chained? — he’s culpable for the deaths of those nine boys.” He took a deep breath. “So far, Riordan’s been reluctant to charge Hatfield for the homicides we’ve uncovered at the Bone Yard — says we can’t prove that the superintendent knew the boys had been murdered, not unless we get some corroborating testimony.”

“The bad-apple theory?” asked Angie. “The same reasoning that charged enlisted soldiers with torturing Iraqi prisoners at Abu Ghraib but cleared the officers?”

“Yeah, that same reasoning,” he said. “Maybe this chain will convince Riordan that the whole damn tree was rotten — that Hatfield had to have known and condoned all the bad things going on here.” He paused. “I wonder if they’ve ever had a ninety-year-old inmate at Starke.”

“At the risk of raising a sore subject,” I ventured, “any luck yet finding out how Hatfield got made commissioner of corrections after the fire?”

Vickery made a face. “Nothing for sure yet,” he said. “At the moment, my money’s on State Senator Jeremiah Judson — the dearly departed father of our friendly neighborhood sheriff. Back in the sixties and seventies, Senator Judson chaired the Criminal Justice Committee, which had oversight over the prison system. He also raised a lot of campaign funding for the governor’s reelection bid. Sounds like Hatfield’s promotion could’ve been a case of quid pro quo.”

“What was the quo? Why would a state senator pull strings for a guy who did a bad job of running a reform school?”

He shrugged. “Maybe Hatfield had some dirt on him. Or maybe Hatfield was bosom buddies with Deputy Darryl Judson, who was just about to run against his boss for the job of sheriff. Whatever smoky backroom deals were cut, they were cut a long damn time ago, and most of the deal makers are dust by now. I’m sending Stevenson over to Dothan to stir the dust now. Maybe something will come slithering out when he does.”

Chapter 25

The Bone Yard, grave number six.

I was pedestalling the remains: excavating a deep, moatlike trench around the perimeter of the bones, then working my way in from there, creating a small platform on which I would gradually expose the skeleton, in a ghoulish version of the way Michelangelo freed captive figures from the marble that imprisoned them.

After two hours of digging, I’d defined the skeleton’s edges and top surface, and I began digging down to finish revealing the skull, the spine, the rib cage, the legs. The body had been buried on its side, in a tucked position, much like an Arikara Indian warrior. The knees and hips were flexed to fit into the grave’s four-foot length, and the arms were folded across the chest.

As I exposed the face, I saw that this boy had not lived in the cedar-shake dormitory, the white-boy dormitory; this boy had lived in the separate, unequal building set apart for blacks. His skull, like the one with the shattered mastoid process, bore the distinctive angled teeth and jaws of a Negroid skull, as well as the broad nasal opening and nasal guttering underneath: evolution’s way of allowing Africans to breathe in greater volumes of air — hot, oxygen-poor air — than their Caucasoid cousins in the colder climate of Europe.

Unlike the other African American we’d found, however, this boy’s skull didn’t show obvious signs of physical trauma. Nor, as I pedestalled the remains, did his other bones. That didn’t mean he hadn’t died a violent death, of course; he might well have died of soft-tissue injuries — a ruptured spleen, a ruptured kidney, suffocation — whose telltale signs would have long since melted and slipped into the dark, silent earth.

Here and there, shards of rotted cotton — the thickest layers of fabric and stitching — remained draped over the emerging bones: the shredded waistband of the pants; the ragged collar of the shirt; the rolled hems of the trouser legs.

Using a large pair of tweezers, I began plucking the bits of shirt collar from around the cervical vertebrae. The fabric was denser than I’d expected — more bulk, and also more layers — and the weave seemed odd and complicated, with an odd, oblong lump of material on one side of the neck. Then a realization hit me, with such swiftness and force that I recoiled and lost my balance, falling backward against the wall of the grave.

Lying on this earthen altar was a black boy who had a rope knotted around his neck.

Had he taken his own life, I wondered, in a moment of despair? Or had it been taken from him?

I did not have to wonder long. The questions were answered when I looked closely at the bones of the arms and hands, and found more shreds of rope encircling his wrists.

Word of the find spread quickly across the site, and a spontaneous, solemn gathering took shape around the grave. People looked closely, said almost nothing, spoke only in whispers. Some of the whispers were hushed exchanges between people; others seemed to be prayers, and I saw Rodriguez make the sign of the cross as his lips moved silently. It was curious: every boy we’d found here had been murdered, yet people’s reaction to the previous five skeletons had been matter-of-fact — not blasé, exactly, but not particularly surprised or distressed. Now, as I scanned the assembled faces, I saw intense, unmasked emotions: shock, grief, fear, horror, anger.

Vickery motioned Angie and me aside. “There was a notorious lynching in Marianna, not far from here, back in 1934,” he said quietly. “A young black man was accused of raping and murdering a white woman. The schedule for the lynching was published in the newspaper ahead of time. He was tortured, castrated, and dragged behind a car before finally being hanged. When the sheriff eventually cut down the body, people protested — not because the man had been lynched, but because the sheriff wouldn’t leave the body hanging. When he refused to string it back up, a white mob went on a rampage, beating up hundreds of local black people, including women and kids. It took the National Guard to restore order.” He shook his head sadly. “You know, it’s possible that somebody who witnessed that 1934 lynching — maybe even somebody who participated in it — had a hand in this boy’s death. The distant past isn’t always as distant as we’d like to believe.”

For some reason — the reference to the atrocities of the past, perhaps, or the similarities between this boy, who’d been lynched decades before, and Martin Lee Anderson, who’d been suffocated in 2006 —I thought back to my lunch with Goldman, the FSU criminology and human rights professor. Over our lunch of oysters, I’d thought it odd and contradictory that Goldman could be so cynical about the justice system and, at the same time, so idealistic — so naive, even — about the possibility of creating a society without prisons. Now I was beginning to share his cynicism, and I wondered whether — and hoped that — I might find my way to at least some of the idealistic antidote to the cynical toxins.

Vickery’s phone whooped. He snatched it from his belt and glared at the display, as if the phone itself were guilty of unforgivable irreverence. “Vickery. What?” His eyes darted rapidly back and forth, as if the words he was hearing were ricocheting wildly. “What?… When?… Oh, hell. Does the M.E. know?… Well, call him. Maybe too late, but maybe worth a try… Check for video cameras, visitor logs, everything… Okay, keep me posted… Damn it.”

He closed the phone. “That was Stevenson. I sent him up to Dothan to put some heat on Hatfield, who fiddled while reform school Rome burned. Take a wild guess what Stevenson was calling to tell me.”

Angie didn’t hesitate. “Hatfield’s dead.” Vickery nodded glumly. “So Stevenson interrogated him to death?”

“Didn’t get the chance. Hatfield died in his sleep last night, the nursing home director says.”

“How convenient,” she remarked, which I seemed to remember hearing her say once or twice before. “You suppose he had some help with that? A kink in his oxygen line? A pillow over his face?”

Vickery shrugged. “We’ll see what the M.E. says, if Hatfield hasn’t already been pickled — the funeral home picked him up early this morning. Ninety-year-old with emphysema croaks, it doesn’t necessarily raise a lot of red flags in a nursing home.” He had a point there. But so did Angie. Winston Pettis had been killed as we were closing in on the Bone Yard; someone had put a venomous snake in my bathtub; and now Hatfield had died as FDLE was starting to close in on him. If the ominous buzz surrounding us were any indication, Angie had gotten her wish: we’d managed to give the bees’ nest quite a whack.

She and I packaged up the hanged boy’s bones for shipment to Gainesville, along with the other five skeletons we’d already excavated. Angie asked Stu if she could take them as far as Tallahassee, where she could sign them over to a crime-lab assistant who would drive them the rest of the way. “I’d really like to sleep in my own bed for a change,” she said. Me, too, I thought, but my bed was a lot farther away than Tallahassee. “I’d like to remind my husband that I still exist, too.” Vickery encouraged her to leave at midafternoon. “Unless we find something new, I think we’re close to winding down here,” he said. “Go on. Have a nice evening with Ned.”

“Sure thing,” she said. “I’ll sweet-talk him with stories of boys being lynched and burned alive.” She shrugged. “But seriously, Stu, thanks for the breather. I’ll be back by eight for the morning briefing.”

“No rush,” he said. “Make it eight-fifteen.”

* * *

That night I called Miranda on her cell phone — a rare intrusion on her off-duty hours, which I knew were scarcer than they should be. “Tell me about the three bodies we have hanging from the scaffolds,” I said. “Are they all still up? Have any of them fallen yet?”

“No. Why are you asking? What’s wrong? You sound upset.”

“I think we found a lynching victim today,” I said. “A black teenager with a rope knotted around his neck.” I heard a gasp on the other end of the line. “I don’t understand it, Miranda. I don’t understand how people could do such terrible things to boys. Boys they were supposed to be helping.”

“Of course you don’t,” she said. “I’d worry if you did understand it.”

Chapter 26

Angie wasn’t back by eight, or by eight-fifteen. At eight-thirty, Vickery went ahead with the morning briefing, which was short and to the point. The good news was, FDLE’s forensic divers had recovered the GPS collar from the Miccosukee River late the previous day, along with a .45-caliber pistol that the Firearms Section would clean and test-fire, in hopes of matching the bullets from Pettis and Jasper. The bad news was, Anthony Delozier — the reform school “alumnus” who’d done graduate study at the state prison — had dropped off the radar screen. He’d missed two mandatory meetings with his parole officer, and no one in the rough-edged trailer park where he lived had seen him in the past ten days. Rodriguez raised his hand. “You think Delozier might have killed Pettis or Hatfield?”

“I don’t see him killing Pettis,” Vickery answered. “What would be his motive? Why would a guy who tells us to find the Bone Yard kill the very person who’s helping us find it? Hatfield, though — I can totally see him wanting to take out Hatfield. What’s the old saying about revenge? ‘A dish best served cold’? Delozier had years in Starke to cook it up and let it chill.”

It was nearly nine by the time Angie showed up, and Vickery had checked his watch and dialed her phone at least a dozen times by then.

“Sorry, Stu,” she said. “I fell asleep without setting the alarm.” She looked exhausted, as if she’d lain awake most of the night before finally nodding off. Or never nodded off at all.

“Is your phone on? I’ve been trying to call you for half an hour.”

“Sure, it’s always on.” She unclipped it from her belt. “Oh, crap; no, it isn’t. I shut it off when Ned and I went to a movie. I totally spaced out. Obviously. I’m really sorry.”

Annoyed, he waved her off, and she motioned to me to walk with her to the one grave we’d not yet excavated. As we walked, she powered up the phone, and once it was on, it gave a chirp. “Oh, great,” she said when she saw the display. “A text message from Don Asshole Nicely.” Her finger hesitated, then she pushed a button to call up the message. Her eyes narrowed, and then a hand went up to her mouth. She stared at the screen, as if something astonishing were unfolding there.

“Angie? You okay?”

“Jesus,” she said. “Read this and tell me what you think it means.”

She handed me the phone. The message read: “From: Don, May 31, 6:44 A.M. your right I killed Kate and I cant live with it. Im sorry.”

I reread the message. Three times. “Hard to know,” I said. “It might mean he’s ready to confess. Or it might mean he’s suicidal.” I handed the phone back. “Either way, I think it means you need to call the sheriff.”

She nodded, then scrolled through her phone’s contact list and hit a number. “Dis-patch,” came a woman’s flat voice through the cell-phone speaker.

“Hello, my name’s Angela St. Claire. I’m the sister of Kate Nicely, who died from a gunshot wound two weeks ago.”

In the background, I heard squawks and staticky radio transmissions, and the periodic beeps indicating that the call was being recorded. “How can I help you, ma’am?”

“I just got a text message from Kate’s husband, Don Nicely. I think maybe you should send somebody to check on him.”

“Why is that, ma’am?”

“He just text-messaged me to say that he killed Kate and that he can’t live with it anymore.”

“Could you repeat that please, ma’am?”

“I just got a text from my dead sister’s husband. Don Nicely. He says he killed Kate and he can’t live with it anymore.”

“And he sent you this text message just now?”

“Actually, he sent it a couple hours ago, but my phone’s been off, so I just now got it. He sent it at… hang on just a second… at six forty-four this morning.”

The dispatcher was silent for a moment, and I heard radio traffic in the background. “We’ll send someone to check on him. What’s that address?”

“The house is at 119 Amherst Drive. If he’s not there, you might see if he’s shown up at his job. He works at the Walmart out on the bypass.”

“And if we need to reach you, is this the best number?”

“Probably,” said Angie. “But let me give you my office number, too.” She rattled it off. “That’s the crime lab at the Florida Department of Law Enforcement. ”

“I’ll send a unit to check on him, ma’am, and we’ll contact you as soon as we know anything.”

“Okay, thanks very much,” Angie said. She hung up, then phoned her husband. “Listen to this,” she said, and told him what had just transpired.

* * *

Half an hour later, as she and I were beginning to excavate the seventh and final grave, her phone rang. She glanced at the display and drew a deep breath. “Angie St. Claire.”

The volume was cranked up high, and I could hear the sheriff’s voice clearly, even though her cell wasn’t on speakerphone. “Ms. St. Claire, this is Sheriff Etheridge, up in Cheatham County, Georgia. I’m calling to ask if you could come up and see me today, please.”

“Have you talked to Don? Did he confess?”

“I need to speak with you in person, ma’am.”

“Sheriff, I’m working a big crime scene right now, the murders at the North Florida Boys’ Reformatory. I’ll be glad to come up there if there’s a good reason, but I’d appreciate knowing what’s going on. Has Don Nicely confessed to killing my sister?”

There was a long silence on the other end. Finally the sheriff said, “Ms. St. Claire, your brother-in-law is dead, and I need a statement from you. How soon could you come in and do that?”

“I’m out in Miccosukee County, Sheriff, about an hour west of Tallahassee. I can probably be there in about ninety minutes.” She hesitated, then asked, “Can you tell me how he died?”

“No, ma’am. We’re not releasing any details until we’ve done a thorough investigation.”

“Of course. I understand. I’ll be at your office in the courthouse as soon as I can.”

She hung up, stared at the phone awhile, and took a series of deep breaths. “He’s dead,” she said. “The man who murdered my sister is dead. Thank God. There is some semblance of justice in this world after all.” Tears rolled down her cheeks. She shook her head, then looked at me. “A thorough investigation. Why is it that the locals spent all of sixty seconds on Kate’s death, but they’re ready to pull out all the stops to investigate that son of a bitch Don’s?”

I shrugged. “He was a man — a white man. That might be part of it.” I hesitated, but decided it would be foolish not to say what was hanging in the air, unspoken between us. “Might also be that they figure somebody had a pretty good reason to kill him.”

“Somebody sure did,” she said. “Mainly his own sorry self.” She called up the text message she’d received. “Look here. He said it himself. ‘I’m sorry.’ That’s for damn sure. As sorry as they come.”

I shifted my gaze from the screen to her exhausted face. “Angie? Is there any chance the sheriff might find anything that could implicate you?”

“No,” she said. She shook her head and then I thought I saw a hint of a smile, so brief and slight and enigmatic I instantly doubted whether I’d seen it. “Not a chance.”

That enigmatic smile scared the hell out of me.

Chapter 27

Angie was back at the scene by late afternoon, looking wrung out. Don Nicely had died from a shotgun blast to the head — a blast virtually identical to the one that had killed Kate. The Cheatham County sheriff had questioned Angie for two hours, she said, and would expect her to come back for another interview soon. The sheriff had also questioned her husband, Ned. Ned had confirmed that she’d been with him all night, at the movies and then at home, but the sheriff seemed unconvinced.

She related this to me as she swept a metal detector over a grave — the outermost of the graves we’d discovered. It was the seventh and last of the graves to be excavated; it was also, I suspected, the last of the graves to have been dug, lying as it did on the outermost margin of the Bone Yard.

The skull, which I’d excavated first, was that of another young white male. Judging by the presence of the twelve-year molars and the partial fusion of the sutures in the palate, his age was probably somewhere between twelve and fifteen. Although I couldn’t be sure, because of the dirt and remnants of tissue on the bone, I didn’t see any skull fractures. The absence of trauma gave me some small hope — foolish, perhaps — that his death had been less brutal than the other boys’ deaths appeared to have been.

The bones were slight of stature, and still not fully developed; the ends of the long bones were not yet fused to the shafts, I saw as I began working inward from the margins, so he — like the others — had still been growing at the time of his death. My guess, which I’d be able to confirm or correct when I examined the teeth and bones more closely, was that he’d been in his early teens — older than the prepubescent child whose skull had been Jasper’s first find, but certainly younger than the robust lad whose skull had been Jasper’s second find.

So: fourteen, perhaps. His hip bones, though, could have come from an arthritic seventy-year-old.

Viewed from the front, human hip bones show more than a passing resemblance to a big, bony pair of ears — the ears of an African bull elephant, to be specific, spread wide as he’s about to charge. The top of the hip bone, the iliac crest, looks a bit like the ear’s thick upper edge, sculpted in bone. During childhood, the iliac crest is attached to the ear-shaped ilium by cartilage that eventually ossifies, turns to bone, once the hips have finished growing; during adulthood, the sutures fade, just as the sutures in the skull gradually fill in and disappear over the decades of adult life. In this boy’s pelvis, the iliac crest had not yet fully fused, because his growth spurt was just winding down, and the suture was more like a fissure, a valley, than a plain. I’d expected that.

What I hadn’t expected, and what I’d never seen before in any adolescent pelvis, was the arthritic appearance of the hips in the region of the iliac crest. Instead of being smooth and graceful, the bone along the suture line — the bone that had most recently been deposited along the growth plate — was thick, uneven, and lumpy, especially on the right side, though somewhat on the left as well.

As I studied the deformity, the realization of what had caused it dawned on me with chilling horror. When soft tissue or bone is damaged, inflammation occurs. Inflammation is painful, but it’s crucial to healing, especially in broken bones: blood flows to the site of the break, bringing with it an abundant supply of cells that clot into a thick, collagen-rich splice called a “healing callus.” Over the course of six or eight weeks, the collagen matrix in the callus fills in with calcium and becomes new bone. In this boy’s case, I realized, trauma to the hip bones — trauma at the vulnerable growth plate — caused inflammation, creating a callus that calcified into the thick, lumpy contours I was now seeing. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that the likely cause of the trauma to the hip bones was a five-foot leather strap, slamming again and again into the buttocks and hips of a growing boy. A boy who lived long enough to heal, in a slightly misshapen way, before being killed.

But what had killed him, months after he survived a beating — perhaps even multiple beatings — that had been forceful enough to deform his hip bones? I hoped the grave would contain the answer.

During Angie’s absence, Rodriguez had done an initial scan with the metal detector before I’d begun excavating, just as we’d done with the six prior graves. Alerted by the detector’s staticky squawk, I’d been watching for metal as I’d troweled down through the shredded plastic and sandy earth, working my way from the edges of the grave inward to the bones. I hadn’t gotten far — only as far as the boy’s right thigh — when I found a piece of metal embedded in the back of the bone. It was a bullet, lodged in the bone in much the same way as the flint arrowhead I’d once found in an Arikara Indian thigh. But the Arikara warrior had been an adult, a warrior, shot in battle; this was a boy, shot from behind, probably as he ran.

From the legs, I’d worked my way up the pelvis, up the spine, until I reached the third lumbar vertebra, the one centered in the small of the back. That vertebra’s spinous process — the knob jutting from the body of the bone, to give muscles a place to attach — was snapped off, and the vertebral foramen — the channel through which the spinal cord ran — was collapsed. Some powerful blow, possibly from the edge of the heavy leather strap, or more likely from something heavier, like a baseball bat or a metal pipe, had shattered the bone and doubtless crushed the spinal cord. The fracture lines here remained sharp, with no signs of healing. This injury, unlike the trauma to the hip bones, had occurred at or around the time of death.

The damage to the spinal cord would almost surely have paralyzed the boy’s legs. But would it have killed him? Not directly, though if he’d spiraled down into shock, he could have died within hours or even minutes. That theory seemed plausible, but then, as I continued to probe the grave, I found a small bone that forced a new and terrible realization on me. It was the hyoid — the fragile, U-shaped bone from the front of the throat — and it was snapped, the way a chicken’s wishbone would snap if you squeezed its ends together instead of pulling them apart.

I could think of only one sequence of events that fit all the pieces of this skeletal puzzle together: long after the boy’s initial beating or beatings — perhaps he still walked with a limp; perhaps, having been damaged already, he was an easy target for continuing abuse — he’d tried to escape. He’d been shot, then beaten again, so brutally that a vertebra shattered, rendering his legs useless. At that point, realizing things had gone much too far, someone had wrapped a strong, pitiless hand around the boy’s throat and strangled him.

* * *

After I finished excavating the ravaged skeleton, Angie scanned the grave with the metal detector again, and again the instrument squealed angrily in her hands. The signal was strongest in the area where the top of the chest had lain. I dug deeper with the tip of the trowel, watching closely for the glint of metal. As I flicked aside a pea-sized clump of earth, I heard the faint clink of metal on metal, of trowel on artifact. “Got something,” I called, and Angie came over to crouch beside the grave as I dug deeper. A small hollow took shape beneath a miniature dirt cliff, and tiny avalanches of sandy soil broke free and trickled down. And tumbling down in one of these crumbling little landslides was a disk of blackened metal, two inches across and a half inch thick, its rim rounded and its weight slight enough to hint at hollowness. A seam around its equatorial edge, and a corroded bulge that might once have been a hinge, seemed to corroborate this notion. Might it be a locket, a boy’s memento of his mother?

It was not a locket. What it was, I saw as Angie carefully pried it open, was a compass.

We had just found the remains of Buck, I felt sure.

I felt something else, too, something I’d never felt before during an excavation: I felt tears streaming down my face as the story of the boy’s death emerged from the ground.

The diary had told us that Buck had died the night he tried to escape. The bones now told us that Buck had died the most painful, brutal death of all the boys we’d found here.

In my mind’s eye, I saw Buck checking his compass by the light of the moon, picking a direction, and starting to run. And then I saw him tumble to the ground as a guard’s bullet tore into his leg from behind and the guards closed in on him for the kill.

Leading the pack — a rifle still clutched in his one good hand — I imagined Cockroach.

Chapter 28

Six days after we’d followed the dog’s track across Moccasin Creek and into the fern-carpeted burial ground that was the Bone Yard, a caravan of vehicles, my truck among them, trundled away from the site, and FDLE released the scene. I smiled wearily as I noticed the sun slanting low through the trees to the west. Sheriff Judson had told us to be gone by sundown, and now we were, although a few extra suns had come and gone before Judson had gotten his wish.

As I bumped along the dirt road that led from the Bone Yard, I paused at the pipe-cross cemetery for a final look. My eyes drifted upward from the crosses to the vault of live-oak limbs fringed with resurrection ferns. Were the ferns a cynical commentary on the futility of our efforts to raise these boys from death, or might they be a hopeful portent of progress and justice? Or did it depend on what happened from here out?

I opened my cell phone and called one of the Knoxville numbers in my speed-dial list. “Osteology; this is Miranda.”

“Miss me yet?”

“Do I know you?”

I was teetering between confusion and indignation when she laughed, a clear peal of laughter that brought an instant smile to my face. “Hey, Dr. B. Are you ever coming back, or have you jumped the fence for greener pastures?”

“I’m headed for the barn,” I said. “FDLE just released the scene.”

“So you’re done? It’s over?”

“Actually, it’s really just beginning.” The governor had appointed a blue-ribbon panel to investigate the North Florida Boys’ Reformatory, I explained, and the state attorney had empaneled a special grand jury. Leaders of the state senate and house of representatives had announced that they intended to hold hearings when the legislature reconvened in January. Stu Vickery would head an ongoing task force dedicated to identifying the remains of the seven murdered boys and determining whether charges could be brought in any of their deaths. FDLE had established a toll-free citizen tip line, staffed around the clock, to take calls from the school’s former students, their relatives, former employees, or anyone else who could shed light on this dark chapter in Florida’s history of juvenile “justice.” Genetic samples from the skeletal remains were being run through the agency’s DNA lab, and genetic testing would be offered free of charge to possible relatives. The skeletal material from the seven graves had all been sent to Gainesville for cleaning and study. In short, the complex case could take months or, more likely, years to sort out. By then, most of the school’s former employees and many of the boys who’d spent time there would be dead. Former superintendent Hatfield, surely a logical target of prosecution, was dead — the medical examiner had concluded that he’d been strangled, though so far FDLE had no leads in his death — and most of the people who’d worked for him were probably dead or dying, too. “If anybody’s ever charged, I’ll have to come back to testify at the trial,” I said. “Maybe it’s too late to bring anyone to account. But at least the wheels of justice are finally starting to turn.”

“Sounds like you put a few dollops of grease on the axles, at least. Good for you.”

“Did you get a chance to water my plants and check my mail?”

“Of course. Three times. Your plants looked like they hadn’t been watered in a month. Now they’re looking pretty good — and they’re asking if you can please just stay in Florida. You got lots of bills and a few checks, or lots of checks and a few bills, but nothing that looked really pressing. Certainly nothing that looked interesting enough to steam open.”

“So nothing hand-addressed from San Francisco? Or Japan?”

“Nothing from Isabella? Not unless she disguised it as a fund-raising letter from the Sierra Club.” She hesitated. “If she’s trying to stay off the FBI’s radar, she probably isn’t going to be your pen pal, Dr. B. Look, I know it’s not my business, and I know you hate being in limbo about her — especially the pregnancy thing — but I think you need to assume she’s gone, with a capital G.”

“How can I do that, Miranda? She’s probably pregnant, and the baby’s probably mine.”

“I’m just saying,” she said.

During the awkward pause that followed, I put the truck back in gear, left the pipe-cross cemetery behind, and continued down the dirt road toward the ruins of the North Florida Boys’ Reformatory. “So what’s going on in Anthropology? Have the culturalists taken over the department while I’ve been gone? Have you taken over the department while I’ve been gone?”

“Both.” She laughed. “Actually, things are pretty dead around here. In the boring, figurative sense of the word. We’ve had two ID cases. One was a homeless guy who made the mistake of passing out on the railroad tracks just before the two A.M. freight train rolled through. The other was a floater in Tellico Lake — you remember that empty fishing boat that ran aground last month with the motor running wide open? That guy finally washed up. Oh, and some woman called in a tizzy yesterday because she’d found human leg bones in her backyard — she watches all the crime shows on TV, so she knows a lot about bones — but they were from a deer.”

She was right; it did sound quiet up there. I felt relieved, but I also felt let down and expendable. “Sounds like you’ve gotten along just fine without me.”

Miranda could read me like a book. “I lied,” she cheerfully lied. “We’re up to our eyeballs in bodies and bones, the phone is ringing off the wall, and I’m tearing my hair out. For God’s sake, hurry home. Please.”

I smiled. “Aww, y’all do need me up there. Okay, then, I’ll drive home tonight and see you on campus tomorrow.” I said good-bye to Miranda and stopped again, this time for a last look at the vine-covered chimneys and charred vestiges of the school buildings — the buildings where boys I now felt I knew had lived and suffered and even died.

Angie, Stu, and I had agreed to rendezvous for a parting dinner at the Waffle Iron before I hit the road for Knoxville. On the way to the diner, I detoured to the Twilight to retrieve my meager wardrobe and toiletries. I phoned Angie, who — along with Stu — had headed straight to the diner. “Y’all go ahead and order for me,” I said. “I’ll be there by the time they get the cat skinned and fried for me.”

As I caught sight of the motel’s sagging sign a hundred yards ahead, a truck, painted in the splotchy greens and browns and grays of camouflage, pulled onto the blacktop and accelerated hard in my direction. By the time it passed me, it must have been doing eighty. As it rocketed past, I saw the driver’s grizzled, hard-featured face staring at me with venomous eyes. His window was open, his elbow was resting on the door frame, and his short-sleeved shirt was whipping in the wind.

His arm ended at the elbow.

Without stopping to think about what I was doing, I made a sand-slinging U-turn in the parking lot of the Twilight and gave chase. By the time I was well under way, he had a half-mile lead on me, and the gap seemed to be widening. I fumbled for my cell phone and hit redial. It rang four times, then Vickery’s voice mail answered. “Stu, it’s Bill Brockton,” I heard myself shouting. “This probably sounds crazy, but I think I just saw Cockroach. He was tearing away from the Twilight when I got there. I’m following him now, or trying to. Call me back.” I was fumbling with the buttons to end the call so I could try Angie’s cell phone instead, when my right wheels drifted off the shoulder and the truck lurched wildly. As I jerked the steering wheel and the truck fishtailed back onto the pavement, the phone flew from my hand and vanished under the passenger seat. In the distance, the truck disappeared around a slight curve, and when the road straightened — just beyond the faded road sign that marked the Miccosukee County line — it was empty clear to the horizon, where the asphalt shimmered and flowed into the darkening sky.

Dumbfounded, I continued hurtling down the road, but suddenly I caught sight of a pair of fresh, heavy skid marks. They ended in a sharp turn to the right, where a small dirt road threaded a gap in the line of pines and scrub growth. I stomped the brake, laying down two skid marks of my own, then slammed the truck into reverse and careened backward to the turnoff. A weathered mailbox clung to a leaning post; the four faded letters that had not peeled off read DSON. Peering down the road in the fading light, I thought I saw fresh tracks on the ground and dust in the air. I turned and followed, slowly now, and when I glimpsed a clearing ahead, I eased the truck to a stop, got out quietly, and continued on foot.

A hundred yards farther down the dirt lane, an unpainted house and a small barn shared a small, blighted yard. I didn’t see the camouflage truck I’d been chasing, but I tasted its dust.

The door of the barn was open, and through it I heard the faint sound of crying or whimpering. I crept forward, and the closer I got, the more certain it seemed that someone was in distress or pain inside the barn. I risked a quick peek through the door, but could see nothing in the dim interior. Then I heard a hoarse whisper from inside. “Help me. Please help me.”

The words sent chills through me, and I slipped through the doorway. Two steps in, as my eyes began to adjust, I froze. Dangling from a beam just ahead of me was a thick leather strap, five feet long and four inches wide, with a wooden handle at one end. The handle dangled from a wrist thong, which was looped over a peg in the beam.

I was just beginning to notice that the strap was swaying gently to and fro — I was just realizing that the sway was worrisome and the plea for help might have been a trick — when I felt myself pitch forward to the dirt floor.

* * *

The first thought I had, as I began to come to, was that my head was clamped in a vise, and that somebody had cranked the vise down hard enough to hurt like hell. The second thought I had was that someone had whacked me in the back of the head, and hard.

My third insight was that I was lying facedown on a narrow iron bed, and that I couldn’t move my arms or legs. I raised my head, sending a spike of pain shooting through my brain, and saw that my hands were tied to the bed’s metal headboard.

“It’s been a while since I’ve used this,” said a voice behind me. “Hope I haven’t lost the touch.” Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of the wide, flat strap undulating, and I heard a rasping, slithering sound as the leather snaked across the rough floorboards.

I also caught sight of a human shadow undulating as the right arm swung the strap back and forth. Something about the shadow struck me as odd, and gradually I realized that the shadow of the left arm was incomplete, and that I’d followed the driver of the truck into a trap.

“You’re Cockroach.” The strap stopped its slithering, and somehow the quiet was even more sinister than the sound of the leather sliding over the wood. “Cochran. I thought you were dead. I thought you died in the fire.”

“Whole lotta people thought that,” he said. “It suited me to let them think that.”

“But if you weren’t the guard who was killed, who was it?”

“Nobody. A phantom. ‘Burned beyond recognition’ covers a multitude of sins. There was some shit about to hit the fan even before the fire. So I made a deal with Hatfield. Let the fire burn the slate clean. For the school. For him. For me. You’re a professor, right? Bet you read a lot of books, don’t you?” I wasn’t sure where he was going with this. “Ever read Tom Sawyer?”

“I think so. A long time ago.”

“Remember when Tom gets lost in that cave, hiding from Injun Joe?”

“Vaguely.”

“He finally gets out, and gets back to town, just in time to walk in on his own funeral.”

“I do remember that. But you didn’t walk in on your funeral, did you?”

“No, I didn’t walk in on it. I walked the other way. By the time they got around to burying my empty coffin up here, I was in west Texas, down around El Paso, where my people come from. Stayed there for forty years, under the radar, till you came along and started pulling skeletons out of the closet.”

“So to keep us from finding the closet, you killed Winston Pettis and his dog?”

“I never killed that man or that dog.”

“I don’t believe you. You had the motive.”

“I don’t give a shit if you believe me or if you don’t believe me. But you’re a damn fool if you think I’m the only one with something at stake here.”

“Who else? Look, if you untie me and cooperate with FDLE, I’m sure you can get some sort of deal.”

He spat out a laugh. “Neither one of us is stupid enough to believe that. We both know there’s no way to square this. I’d built a life, I was on the home stretch, but that’s gone. You saw to that. And for that, you need to be punished.” The strap began to slither again, tracing faster, rhythmic figure eights on the floor. “I never beat a grown man before. I’m not sure I’ll like it as much as I liked putting the strap to a boy, but I’ll give it a try.” He gave the strap a quick swing, and it hit the edge of the mattress with enough force to make the bed shiver. “What I like about this barn? The hayloft is right about the same height as the ceiling in the shed at school was. So you’ll hear the strap when it’s coming over the top, just before you feel it. You’ll figure out the timing after just a lick or two.”

I was desperate to stall for time. “One thing I don’t understand. Why did the young boys get more beatings than the older boys?”

“Oh, easy. A young boy feels it more. The old ones are harder. Tougher. They don’t give you the satisfaction of seein’ ’em squirm and hearin’ ’em squeal. Besides, if you start ’em in on it nice and young, sometimes you’ll find one that takes to it. Gets a taste for the hurt, you know? Likes it. Does things on purpose because he wants to be facedown on that bed feeling that strap come down.” As he said it, something in his voice got huskier, thicker, nastier, and it made me feel sick with disgust.

Before I could answer, I heard him draw a deep breath, and then I saw the strap slither backward, out of my line of sight. The movement was followed by a slight hiss, and then a slapping sound — the slap of leather hitting the rough wooden ceiling at the top of its arc overhead — and a grunt of effort. Suddenly I felt an explosion of heat and pain on the backs of my thighs. Involuntarily I cried out in pain. “One,” said Cochran. “I believe my aim’s a little off. Gettin’ kinda rusty. If you were a boy, I’d tell you that if you make a sound, or if you move, I’d start counting all over again, from one. But with you, it doesn’t make any difference. I’ll just keep counting, ’cause I don’t have to stop at twenty, or forty, or even a hundred. I can just keep going as long as you’re breathing. Maybe longer, if I feel like it.” The strap snaked off me and out of sight, and I thought he was winding up for another blow, but he paused. “You can bite that pillow if you want to. Or holler if you want to. You can try it both ways. You can try it as many ways as you got the stamina for. Toward the end, I figure you might be whimpering a little bit, and then you’ll get pretty quiet for the last of it.”

He took another breath, and this time I heard the soles of his shoes scraping the floor slightly as he pivoted into the windup. The strap seethed through the air again, slapped the ceiling, and exploded onto my buttocks. This time I’d stiffened up, bracing myself for the blow, but still it made me gasp. “Two,” he said. “How’s that feeling? You think you might could develop a taste for this, Mister Fancy Forensic Scientist?” The strap slid off me and slithered away; his shoes pivoted, and the leather seethed and slapped and exploded again, this time onto the same spot as the previous blow. It felt as if my flesh were splitting open all the way to the bone. I groaned. “Three,” he counted. “You know, after I went to Texas, I didn’t get a chance to do this. I thought about trying to get work in a boys’ school down there, but they didn’t have anyplace as good as what I’d left. And I figured I’d best lie low anyhow.” Swishpivotseetheslapexplode. “Four. But you know what?” The only answer I could manage was a moan. “There’s a lot of illegals smuggled across the border from Mexico. Sometimes they bring their kids with ’em. Five. Sometimes the parents don’t survive the trip, for one reason or another.” He paused to breathe and wind up again. “Six.” I felt myself on the brink of losing consciousness again. “So then the smuggler — the ‘coyote,’ the smuggler’s called — the coyote’s got this kid on his hands. So every now and then, I’d get me a boy. The girls, they’d end up somewhere else — in a cage in somebody’s basement in El Paso, or in a brothel back across the border in Juarez — but there wasn’t as much market for the boys. Seven. You’d be surprised how cheap you can buy a little ten-year-old wetback boy.”

Either he miscounted, or I passed out briefly, because “ten” was the next number I heard him say. It was the last number I heard before unconsciousness — blessed unconsciousness — took me under again.

When I came to once more, I was lying on the floor, my legs and buttocks and back afire, my hands and feet tied. I heard a sound like a dying animal might make — half groan, half whimper — and realized it was coming from me. Then, through the fog and through the pain, I heard the seethe and slap of the leather strap again. “Stop,” I gasped, flinching and shrinking from the pain as best I could. The strap struck flesh with a loud whack, but this time I did not feel the impact. I heard another groan, but this time the groan came from someone else’s mouth.

A pair of feet and legs and the leather strap came into my field of view, and a man I did not recognize squatted down and looked at me. He appeared to be about my own age, maybe a few years older. His face was weathered and bore multiple scars — a thin vertical line down his left cheek, another over his right eye, and one across his chin — and the top of his left ear was missing a ragged crescent of flesh. His neck was as thick as a tree trunk, and his shoulders were beefy. The fingers of both hands — unlike Cochran, he had them both, I noticed, as he squatted with his hands on his knees — were tattooed with letters that spelled out F-U-C-K Y-O-U. His eyes flitted rapidly, never quite settling, as he looked at me. “Hurts like hell, don’t it?”

“Just go ahead and kill me,” I said.

“No,” he said. The corner of his right eye — the one with the scar — twitched slightly. “That’s not what I’m here to do.”

“I don’t understand,” I groaned. “Who are you?”

“I’m not somebody who’s got a quarrel with you,” he said. “I’ll cut you loose when I’m done. This here is between me and him. I’ve got a score to settle, and I’m only up to ‘five’ so far.”

Something was coming together in my mind — something about the man’s muscular build and the ragged, amateur tattoos: a prison body, and prison tattoos. “My God, you’re Anthony Delozier, aren’t you? You were in Starke until a few months ago.”

“I expect I’ll be going back again,” he said, “soon as I finish up my business here.”

He walked out of my field of vision, and I heard the dreadful sequence of the strap again. “Six,” Delozier counted. “Did you ever think there might come a reckoning?”

In response, I heard what I recognized as a strained, pained version of Cochran’s voice whisper, “Go to hell.”

Seven, you son of a bitch. I hope it takes seven hundred to kill you.” There was another windup, and another blow of the strap. “How many of us did you beat? Eight. How many lashes? Nine. An eye for an eye. Ten. And a tooth for a tooth. Eleven. I thought you burned to death forty years ago. Twelve. I thought I’d put wings to my prayer. Guess I should’ve put a strap to my prayer instead.”

The phrase cut through the fog of my pain like a knife. “What did you just say?” My question was punctuated by another blow of the lash on Cochran. I raised my head and said, as loudly as I could, “Wings of fire. You put wings of fire to your prayer.” The lash stopped. The man’s legs walked toward me, and again he squatted. He stared at me as if he’d seen a ghost. “Jesus,” I said, “you’re Skeeter, aren’t you? We found your diary.”

“What are you talking about?” The twitch in his eyes accelerated; it reminded me of a fluorescent light that flickers as it’s heading toward burnout.

“We found your diary, Skeeter. It was in a Prince Albert can under a flagstone.”

“I’ll be damned.”

“It helped us. You helped us. You can still help us. Untie me and let’s call the police.”

My mind was racing back over the diary’s contents. “Your friend Buck. We found his bones. At least, I think we did. One of the sets of remains we found was wearing a compass around the neck. The compass you gave him to help him escape.”

His face — his iron-hard, lifer’s face — twitched and then crumpled, and he put a large, tattooed hand over his eyes and began to sob. His big body shook, and he sat down on the floor, wrapped his arms around his knees, and cried. After what seemed like a long time, the sobs subsided, but still he sat, hunched into himself, his broad back and shoulders rising and falling with deep, ragged breaths.

Underneath the sound of his breathing, I gradually became aware of another sound, and as its volume rose, I knew he heard it, too, because his breathing stopped while he listened. In the distance, a siren was approaching. He raised his head, unfolded himself, and got to his feet, the leather strap still clutched in one hand.

“Skeeter, untie me. Please.” He hesitated, then walked to the bedside and shook out the strap for a windup.

“FOUR-teen.” He grunted as he swung the strap at Cochran, putting all his strength into the blow.

“Skeeter, please stop. Let the police take it from here.”

“FIF-teen.” Under the rain of intensified blows, Cochran’s breaths grew labored now, wheezy. I’d heard such breathing before. It was the beginning of a death rattle.

“Skeeter, we’ve got a lot of evidence now. We found seven murdered boys. We found the chain around the door handles. We can bring this guy to justice.”

“Justice? What the hell is justice?… SIX-teen.”

“We can send this guy to prison for the rest of his life,” I said. “I know it doesn’t make up for what he did, but it’s the best we can do.” The siren was getting close now.

“It’s not the best I can do. SEVEN-teen.

“Did you kill Hatfield?”

“Hatfield? The son of a bitch that ran the place? I like to think I’d’ve gotten around to it, but I hadn’t yet. If somebody beat me to the punch, I’d like to shake his hand. EIGHT-teen.

“Skeeter, if you kill Cochran, you’ll never get out of prison.”

“Man, I’m in a place a lot worse than prison. I burned nine boys to death. Didn’t mean to. Didn’t know the doors were chained. Prison’s all I was ever fit for anyhow, thanks to fuckers like this. NINE-teen.

The siren grew deafening, then fell silent. Blue strobe lights pulsed through the open doorway, casting surreal shadows as the strap rose and fell. “TWEN-ty.” Outside, a car door opened and closed softly.

I heard slow footsteps, then a low, gravelly voice. “Seth?” It was Judson’s voice. On the bed, Cochran groaned. “Seth?” Another groan. “This is Sheriff Judson. Anthony Delozier, if you’re in there, come out now with your hands up.”

“All right,” Skeeter answered. “I’m coming. Don’t shoot. Your man Brockton’s in here with me. He’s all right. But if you shoot, you might hit him.”

“Brockton, can you hear me? You in there?”

“Yes,” I said weakly. “But I’m tied up. Kinda beat up, too.” Through the fog of pain, I struggled to remember something, but what? Seth. Why had the sheriff said Seth? Who was Seth? I knew the name, but didn’t know why.

“Delozier, get your ass out here. Now. Hands up.”

“Coming.”

I heard a clatter, and saw the handle of the lash bounce and twist as it hit the floor. I breathed a sigh of relief, but my relief was short-lived. Delozier’s legs crossed my field of view. He grasped the handle of a tool that was leaning against the wall of the barn, and I saw to my horror that it was an ax. He walked quickly again to the bed where Cochran was tied. In the surreal glow of the blue strobes, I saw the shadow of the ax rise and then descend with a splintering, sickening thud. “Twenty-one, by God,” Delozier whispered. He turned and walked slowly to the door, the ax hanging from his right hand. “I’m coming out.”

When Delozier reached the barn door, he stopped. “You,” he gasped in the direction of the sheriff. “I know you. It’s been forty-five years since you and Cockroach put my friend in the trunk of your car, but I’d know you anywhere, you sodomizing son of a bitch.” He made a low, growling sound — an enraged, animal sound — and ran out of the barn, ran toward the strobing lights. A gun fired — once, twice, in quick succession, and, after a pause, a third time. The third shot was followed by a silence so heavy it seemed solid.

In the silence, I heard the answer to the question I’d asked myself a moment before: Seth was Cochran’s first name. The sheriff knew Cochran, and knew him well, I realized; he’d known him well enough to let Cochran select boys for him to molest. The sheriff had known that Cochran didn’t die in the fire at the school. And he’d known that Cochran was here; maybe he’d even known that Cochran was luring me into a trap.

And maybe now the sheriff was going to finish what Cochran had started.

“Brockton?” Judson appeared in the doorway. My only hope, I decided, was to pretend I hadn’t heard what Delozier had said just before the sheriff shot him.

“Who’s there? Sheriff, is that you? I think I blacked out for a minute. Did I just hear a gunshot? What happened? Are you all right?”

There was a pause while the sheriff took in what I’d said, turned it over in his mind, evaluated it, decided what to do. “He came at me,” Judson said. “Delozier. He went crazy, said some crazy stuff, and came at me with an ax. I shot him in self-defense.” The sheriff walked slowly toward me. His gun was still in his hand.

“Sheriff, could you untie me?”

He didn’t answer. He was standing two feet away, looking down at me, his gun still in his hand.

Suddenly I saw his head turn slightly, listening. I heard it, too: a car careening down the dirt road, then the sound of locked-up wheels sliding to a stop; a door being flung open. Stu Vickery raced into the barn, his weapon drawn. “Agent Vickery,” said the sheriff slowly. “Glad you could make it.” During the tense silence that followed, I heard my heart thumping. “I was just about to untie your man Brockton here, but I’ll let you do it instead.”

Should I warn Vickery about the sheriff? Could I warn him, without causing the sheriff to start shooting?

Vickery lowered his gun and stepped toward me, stepped between the sheriff and me, and then — just as I was about to shout a warning — spun and aimed his gun at Judson’s chest. “Put down the weapon, Sheriff.”

“Vickery, have you lost your goddamn mind, or are you just bound and determined to ruin your career?”

“Put down the weapon, Sheriff. You’re under arrest.”

“The hell you say.” The sheriff’s gun began coming up.

“Put it down. Now.

“Under arrest for what? For shooting a murderer in self-defense?”

“No. For being a murderer. You’re under arrest for the murder of Winston Pettis. We’ve got evidence that puts you at the scene of his death.”

“You’ve got shit, Vickery.”

“We’ve got genetic evidence that puts you at the scene. You really shouldn’t chew tobacco, Sheriff. Filthy habit. All that juice. All that spit. All that DNA. One of our crime-scene techs found a nice wad of your spit in Pettis’s yard. Perfect match with the wad of spit you left in the ferns the day we found the graves.” Vickery paused. “That’s not all. We found the tracking collar you took off the dog. One of our divers pulled it out of the Miccosukee River. It’s got your thumbprint on it, Sheriff. And there was a .45 in the mud beside it.”

Judson’s eyes flickered as he took in Vickery’s revelations and evaluated his options.

In the darkness outside, I heard a siren racing toward us and, underneath it, another one. Judson heard it, too, and lowered his gun. Suddenly he was an old, weary man.

Chapter 29

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate everything you’ve done for me,” Angie said. She was holding my left elbow and carrying my briefcase as I hobbled toward my truck. Vickery, at my right elbow, had my duffel bag slung over his shoulder. We were crossing the parking deck of Tallahassee Memorial Hospital, where I’d been treated for the lacerations Cochran had inflicted with the strap. “If not for you,” Angie went on, “I’d have always had some lingering doubts about Kate. Some fear that maybe she really had shot herself.”

“I was glad to help. I know it doesn’t bring your sister back, but I’m glad you feel that some kind of justice has been done.” She nodded. I chose my next words carefully, hedgingly. “I hope the sheriff up in Mocksville doesn’t give you too hard a time.”

“Actually, he called me this morning. Apparently he’s decided I’m telling the truth. They found out Don was at his new girlfriend’s house drinking until six in the morning”—she rolled her eyes in disgust—“when they had a big fight and she threw him out. So he would’ve gotten home, drunk and upset, just before he sent me that text message. And my nosy next-door neighbor, who is always spying on us, bless her heart, told the sheriff’s investigator that my car and Ned’s were both in the driveway from five-thirty, when she got up, until eight, when we left for work. So it looks like I’m no longer a suspect, and they’re calling it a suicide.”

“That’s good news.” I was relieved not just for Angie’s sake, but for the sake of my own peace of mind, the settling of my own questions about whether she’d taken justice into her own hands. “You think he killed himself because he really did feel guilty about Kate?”

She shrugged. “You know, this might sound crazy, but really? I think he killed himself because he owed the universe a suicide.” Her eyes brimmed with tears, but her face looked open and peaceful; poignant, but not grief-stricken.

“Well, Doc, we really appreciate all you did for FDLE,” Vickery mumbled through his cigar after a moment. “You’re sure your feelings won’t be hurt if we take it from here?”

“My backside’s too painful for me to notice anything else hurting,” I said. “Besides, my globe-trotting colleague in Tampa is back from Africa, and the lab in Gainesville is staffed up again, so you’ve got plenty of anthropology brainpower in Florida now.” My gait was an odd, stiff-legged waddle, partly because of the painful bruises and lacerations left by the strap, partly because of the layer of gauze the emergency-room doc had applied to my thighs and buttocks.

“You sure it’s a good idea to drive back to Knoxville this soon?” asked Angie. “Why don’t you stick around and heal up a few more days? We’ll be glad to put you up at the Duval. You’ve earned it.”

“Naw,” I joked, “the Twilight’s spoiled me for anyplace else. If I can’t stay there, I’ll just crawl home to my own bed.”

“We’ll ship a snake up your way every week or two, if you want,” said Vickery. “Just to make sure you don’t forget us.”

“Hey, thanks.” I laughed. “So, do y’all think it was Cochran or Judson who put that cottonmouth in my room?”

“My money’s on Judson,” Angie said. “And considering how Pettis and the dog ended up, you’re mighty lucky to have gotten off with only a scare. Judson’s a bad guy.”

“You think the tobacco juice from Pettis’s yard and the prints on the tracking collar are enough to convict him of Pettis’s murder?”

“It’s a pretty strong case,” Vickery asserted. “Your testimony will help a lot. We’ve also got tire impressions from the Pettis place that match the tires from the sheriff’s truck.”

“But I thought the tire tracks at Pettis’s were from old, worn-out tires. Didn’t Judson’s truck have newer tires?”

Brand-new tires,” Stu stressed. “We found the old ones at the county garage this morning. The mechanic will testify that he took ’em off the day Pettis was killed. I think we’ve got enough to get a conviction. Judson must think so, too — he’s looking for a deal, and he’s willing to talk. He says Cochran killed Hatfield, because Cochran was afraid Hatfield would tell us he wasn’t really dead.”

“How convenient,” said Angie — not for the first time in this case—“since Cochran’s no longer around to deny it.”

“He also says Hatfield and Cochran had half a dozen pals who regularly came and molested boys,” Vickery continued. “They called it ‘the chicken-hawk club.’ One of the members was a high-ranking aide to the governor; one was deputy commissioner of corrections. Conveniently, as you say, both those guys are dead now. But Judson says he’s got photos that implicate them.”

“I still find it hard to fathom,” I said. “The systematic abuse — the torture, no other word for it — heaped on those boys by the very people who were supposed to put them back on the right path.”

“I’m telling you,” Vickery repeated. “This world’s one big crime scene. I hate it that we dragged you into such a messy corner of it.”

“Me, too,” Angie agreed. “I really thought all you’d be doing was taking a quick look at a skull. Instead, you got backbreaking work, deadly snakes, and a beating that could have killed you—would have killed you — if Delozier, aka Skeeter, hadn’t shown up. I’m so sorry.”

I thought back over everything that had happened since I’d first stepped off the plane in Tallahassee. I was stunned to realize that only thirteen days had passed.

Despite the pain I felt, and knew I’d continue to feel for days, I found myself smiling. “Don’t be sorry,” I said. “I’m not. Most interesting two weeks I ever had.”

Vickery studied the end of his cigar, looking hesitant — almost shy, even. “So here’s another possibility, if you’d be interested in extending your Florida vacation by a few more days,” he said. “Mind you, I understand if you want to get the hell out of Dodge as fast as possible. But I’ve got a little place down on the Ochlockonee River, right on the bay. It’s about the only thing I’ve been able to hang on to through my divorces, except for my bad habits. Nothing fancy — just a fishing shack, really, which I guess is why I’ve been able to hang on to it. But the view’s pretty, and there’s a dock with a ladder, and the salt water’d be good for those welts you’ve got. There’s good mojo at that little place. I don’t get down there very often these days, but every time I do, I wonder why the hell I waited so long, you know?”

“I’d better head on home to Knoxville,” I said. “But thanks for the offer. Can I have a rain check?”

“Anytime.”

Chapter 30

Three miles south of a sleepy panhandle crossroads — a place that someone with high hopes or a strong streak of irony had named Panacea — I turned right at a blinking caution light, at the foot of a mile-long bridge across the wide mouth of the Ochlockonee River.

I had waved good-bye and driven away from Stu and Angie with every intention of heading north to Tennessee, but then I’d done a quick mental inventory of the things I needed to get back to, and I’d started to wonder how urgent those things were, really. They were important things, sure: I had a job I loved, truly, and a son and daughter-in-law and grandsons I adored; I had colleagues I liked and respected. But they weren’t urgent things; they’d still be waiting for me a few days from now. Making a quick U-turn in the parking garage of Tallahassee Memorial Hospital, I’d rolled down the window and tooted the horn to catch Stu’s attention as he walked toward his car. “On second thought, Stu,” I said, “a couple days in a fishing shack on the Ochlockonee sounds really nice.”

And so it was that I’d headed south instead of north. Thirty miles south of Tallahassee, three miles south of Panacea, and two miles west of the turnoff at the Ochlockonee bridge — two miles along the back road to Sopchoppy, a town whose name I found myself repeating out loud, just for the fun of saying it — I turned left onto Surf Road, a sandy dirt lane that led to the shore of the bay, then doglegged to the right, along the water. After a handful of houses and a hundred yards, the road dwindled to a pair of tire tracks, and in another hundred yards the tracks dwindled to furrows of bent grass, and in another fifty the furrows ended in front of a cottage tucked amid the pines, palms, and fern-laden live oaks. The board-and-batten siding was a faded pink, trimmed with turquoise shutters and a rusty tin roof. A screened-in porch stretched across the entire front of the house. Inside the screen, a woven hammock angled invitingly across one corner of the porch. The door at the center of the porch bore a sign that appeared to be a hot dog surfing on breaking waves. WELCOME TO THE SEA SAUSAGE, read a sign over the door.

At the base of the weathered wooden front steps was a broken concrete sidewalk. It stretched toward the water for perhaps twenty feet and then ended, or, rather, seemed to dissolve into the sandy grass, and something about that fading away of pavement and order appealed to me, so I parked there in the transition, between the end of the sidewalk and the start of the dock.

It was late afternoon when I arrived. As I opened the door and climbed from my truck — gingerly, so as not to pull the fresh, fragile scabs from my skin — a wind off the water ruffled my hair, just as it ruffled and sang through the fronds of the palms.

The lawn had been recently mowed; close to the shore, the clipped grass gave way to tall sea oats, their slender stalks widely spaced in the pale gray sand. A fresh line of flotsam from a recent storm surge — pine straw and palm fronds and grass stalks — marked the boundary between lawn and shore, between the cultivated realm and the natural world. Turning back toward the house, I noticed a high-water mark that rose halfway to the window sills: a souvenir of Hurricane Floyd, Vickery had told me. Floyd had flooded the Sea Sausage with knee-high water, but in the arbitrary, offhand way of nature, it had utterly demolished an identical house next door.

The dock looked newer than the house, though the decking was sun-blasted and weathering, and the ends of some of the boards were beginning to curl upward and pull free of the joists. As I stepped onto the dock, I shucked off my shoes, then my socks, and let the soles of my feet settle onto the roughness of the gray, grainy boards. I had scarcely stepped away from my shoes when I saw a pair of small fiddler crabs scuttle over the sides and into the toes.

The far end of the dock widened into a platform ten or twelve feet square, with a broad, sturdy railing all around. Leaning over a corner, leaning into the breeze, I watched the shards of afternoon sun dance across the shimmering, undulant water. The bay’s surface was smooth and glossy, but not uniform or even flat: there were gradations of sheen, pools and pockets and whorls. As I studied a long string of whorls, I realized they were spooling downriver toward the bridge and toward the Gulf, against the flow of the incoming tide. I looked closer, and one of the whorls seemed to gather mass, coalesce, and mound itself slightly above the surrounding water. I heard a huffing sound and the mounded whorl receded, and I imagined that I had imagined the sight and sound — fallen prey to some trick of light and tide and tiredness — until it happened again, in two places, then three, and then I glimpsed the soft bulk of manatees. I watched them — a herd of six, I decided by counting the subtle eddies they created, these momentous things swirling around me in the current, sensed but not fully seen, just below the surface.

I scanned the neighboring docks and nearby waters; the manatees and I had the entire bay to ourselves. I shucked off my shirt, eased down my pants, and began climbing down the wooden ladder. On the last step, I hesitated — the water looked brown, muddier than I’d have expected from the undeveloped forest and marshland bordering the bay — but I decided to trust Vickery’s assurance that the salt would be good for my wounds. As my feet and legs descended into the water, I saw that the water was not muddy at all; rather, it was clean but deeply tinted by tannin. It was the rich color of strong tea. Step by step, deeper and deeper, I immersed myself in the briny, bracing, healing water. As I did, my pale and wounded skin took on an orange glow, then a deep coppery hue that rendered me unrecognizable to myself.

As I took a breath and sank beneath the surface in the company of manatees, it looked and felt as if my immersion in these Florida waters, my baptism in the Ochlockonee, was transforming me into someone else, something else. Something wilder and more exotic than I had been before.

I feared that transformation — almost as much as I longed for it.

I stayed beneath the water for what seemed an eternity, then rose toward the coppery light and breached, huffing like a manatee and drinking deep drafts of the briny, bracing, resurrecting air.

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