Birthright (21 page)

He was going to lose the contracts he already had if the delay ran over the sixty days. Which meant refunding two hefty deposits.

It wasn't right, he thought. It wasn't right for people who had no business here telling him how to run Dolan and Sons. Telling him what he could and couldn't do with land he owned.

Damn Historical and Preservation Societies had already cost him more time and money than any reasonable man could afford. But he'd played by the rules, right down the line. Paid the lawyers, spoken at town meetings, given interviews.

He'd done it all by the book.

It was time to close the book.

For all he knew, for all anyone really knew, Lana Campbell and her tree huggers had arranged this whole fiasco just to pressure him to sell them the land at a loss.

For all he knew these damn hippie scientists were playing along, making a bunch of bones into some big fucking deal.

People couldn't live on bones. They needed houses. And he was going to build them.

He'd gotten the idea when that smart-ass Graystone had been in his office, trying to throw his weight around. Big scientific and historical impact, his butt. Let's see what the press had to say when it heard some of that big impact were deer bones and ham bones and beef bones.

He always kept a nice supply in his garage freezer for his dogs.

With satisfaction, he looked down at the garbage bag he'd carted from the car he'd parked a quarter mile away. He'd show Graystone a thing or two.

And that bitch Dunbrook, too.

The way she'd come to the job site, swaggering around, blasting at him in front of his men. Brought the damn county sheriff down on him. Having to answer questions had humiliated him a second time. He was a goddamn pillar of the community, not some asshole teenager with a can of spray paint.

He wasn't going to let that go. No, sir.

She wanted to accuse him of vandalism, well, by God, he'd oblige her.

They wanted to play dirty, he thought, he'd show them how to play dirty. Every mother's son of them would be laughed out of town, and he'd be back in business.

People needed to live
now
, he told himself as he hauled up the bag. They needed to raise their children and pay their bills, they needed to hang their curtains and plant their gardens. And, by God, they needed a house to live in. Today.

They didn't need to worry about how some monkey-man lived six thousand years ago. All that was just horseshit.

He had men depending on him for work, and those men had families depending on them to bring home the bacon. He was doing this for his community, Dolan thought righteously as he crept out of the woods.

He could see the silhouette of the trailer sitting across the field. One of those dickwads was in there, but the lights were off. Probably stoned on pot and sleeping like a baby.

“Good riddance,” he muttered and shone his little penlight over the mounds and trenches. He didn't know one hole from the other, and had convinced himself that nobody else did either.

He had to believe it, with the bank breathing down his neck, with the extra crews he'd hired coming by to see when work would start up again, with his wife worrying every day and every night about the money he'd already sunk into the development.

He walked quietly toward one of the squares, glancing at the trailer, then at the trees, when he thought he heard a rustling.

The sudden screech of an owl had him dropping the bag, then laughing at himself. Imagine, an old hand like him being spooked in the dark. Why, he'd hunted the woods around here since he was a boy.

Not these woods, of course, he thought with another nervous glance at the deep shadows in the silent trees. Most tended to steer clear of the woods at Simon's Hole. Not that
he
believed in ghosts. But there were plenty of places to hunt, to camp, to walk, besides a place that made the hair stand up on a man's neck at night.

It would be good when the development was done, he told himself as he kept a wary eye on the woods and picked up his bag of bones. Good to have people mowing their lawns and kids playing in the yards. Cookouts and card games, dinner on the stove and the evening news on the TV.

Life, he thought, and swiped at the sweat beading over his top lip as those shadows seemed to sway, to gather, to move closer.

His hand trembled as he reached in the bag, closed his hand over a cool, damp bone.

But he didn't want to go down into the hole. It was like a grave, he realized. What kind of people spent their time in holes digging for bones like ghouls?

He'd get one of the shovels, that's what he'd do. He'd
get one of the shovels and bury the bones around the holes and the piles of dirt. That was just as good.

He heard the sounds again—a plop in the water, a shifting of brush. This time he whirled, shining his narrow beam toward the trees, toward the pond where a young boy named Simon had drowned before Dolan was born.

“Who's out there?” His voice was low, shaky, and the beam bobbled as it zigzagged through the dark. “You got no right to be creeping around out here. This is my land. I've got a gun, and I'm not afraid to use it.”

He wanted a shovel now, as much for a weapon as for a tool. He darted toward a tarp, caught the toe of his shoe in one of the line ropes. He went down hard, skinning the heels of his hands as he threw them out to break his fall. The penlight went flying.

He cursed himself, shoved to his knees. Nobody there, he told himself. Of course there was nobody out there at goddamn one in the morning. Just being a fool, jumping at shadows.

But when the shadow fell across him, he didn't have time to scream. The bright pain from the blow to the back of his head lasted seconds only.

When his body was dragged to the pond, rolled into the dark water, Dolan was as dead as Simon.

The Dig

Why seek ye the living among the dead?

LUKE 24:5

D
igger was soaking wet and smoking the Marlboro he'd bummed from one of the sheriff's deputies in great, sucking drags.

He'd ditched cigarettes two years, three months and twenty-four days before. But finding a dead body when he'd gone out to relieve his bladder in the misty dawn had seemed like the perfect reason to start again.

“I just jumped right in. Didn't think, just went. Had him half up on the bank there before I saw how his skull was crushed. No point in mouth-to-mouth. Ha. No point in it then.”

“You did what you could.” Callie put an arm around his skinny shoulders. “You should go get some dry clothes.”

“They said they'd have to talk to me again.” His hair hung in tangled wet ropes around his face. The hand that brought the cigarette to his mouth shook. “Never did like talking to cops.”

“Who does?”

“Searching my trailer.”

She winced as she glanced over her shoulder to the grimy trailer. “You got any pot in there? Anything that's going to get you in trouble?”

“No. I gave up grass, mostly, about the same time I quit tobacco.” He managed a wan smile at the Marlboro he'd smoked almost to the filter. “Maybe I'll pick both habits back up again. Jesus, Cal, the fuckers think maybe I did it.” The thought of it rattled around in his belly like greasy dice.

“They just have to check things out. But if you're really worried, we'll call a lawyer. I can call Lana Campbell.”

He puffed, shook his head. “No, let them look. Let them go on and look. Nothing in there has anything to do with this. If I was going to kill somebody, I'd be better at it. Didn't even know the son of a bitch. Didn't even know him.”

“Tell you what, you go on and sit down. I'll see if I can find out what's happening.”

He nodded and, taking her literally, lowered himself to the ground right there to stare at the faint fingers of mist that rose up from Simon's Hole.

Callie signaled Rosie to sit with him, then walked over to Jake. “What are they saying?”

“Not a hell of a lot. But you can piece part of it together.”

They studied the area. The sheriff and three deputies were on the scene and had already run crime-scene tape, blocking off segments B-10 to D-15. Dolan's body was exactly where Digger had left it, sprawled facedown on the trampled grass beside the pond. The wound had bled out. She could see the unnatural shape of the skull, the depression formed from a blow, she speculated.

Good-sized rock, brought down from behind. Probably a two-handed blow, from over the head. She'd have a better picture if she could examine the skull up close.

She could see the stain of blood on dirt from where he'd fallen, started to bleed out. Then the smear of it leading toward the water.

There were footprints all over the area. Some would be her own, she thought. Some of Jake's, the rest of the team. There were light impressions of Digger's bare feet leading
straight to the pond, then others—deeper, wider apart—that clearly showed his race back to the trailer.

The cops could see that, she told herself. They could see as clearly as she did the way he'd walked to the pond, seen the body floating, dove in to pull it out. Then how he'd run back to the trailer to call nine-one-one.

They'd see he was telling the truth.

And they'd see why Ron Dolan had been on the site.

There was a green Hefty bag on the ground near B-14. Animal bones spilled out of it.

One of the deputies was snapping pictures of the body, of the bag, of the shallow ruts in the ground where, she concluded, Dolan's feet had dug in as he'd been dragged the few feet to the water.

She knew the medical examiner was on his way, but she didn't need to know much about forensics to put it together.

“He must've come out, figuring he'd salt the site with animal bones. Give us some grief. He was pissed off enough for that,” she said quietly. “Maybe he thought it would discredit us somehow, stop the dig. Poor sap. Then somebody bashed his head in. Who the hell would do that? If he'd brought somebody with him, it would've been a friend, someone he knew he could trust.”

“I don't know.” Jake looked back at Digger, relieved to see him sitting on the ground with Rosie, drinking coffee.

“He's in bad shape,” Callie stated. “Scared witless they think he did this.”

“That won't hold. He didn't even know Dolan. And anybody who knows Digger will swear on a mountain of Bibles he couldn't kill anybody. Shit, some suicidal squirrel ran under his wheels a few weeks ago, and he was wrecked for an hour.”

“Then why do you sound worried?”

“Murder's enough to worry anybody. And a murder on-site's going to do a hell of a lot more to delay or stop the dig than planted deer bones.”

Her mouth opened and closed before she managed to speak. “Jesus, Jake, you're thinking somebody killed Dolan to screw with us? That's just crazy.”

“Murder's crazy,” he countered. “Just about every time.” Instinctively Jake put a hand on her shoulder, uniting them as Sheriff Hewitt walked toward them.

He was a tall barrel of a man. He moved slowly, almost lumbered. His brown uniform made him look like a large, somewhat affable bear.

“Dr. Dunbrook.” He nodded. “I'd like to ask you some questions.”

“I don't know what I can tell you.”

“We can start with what you did yesterday. Just to give me a picture.”

“I got to the site just before nine. I worked that segment most of the day.” She gestured to the area, now behind crime tape.

“Alone?”

“Part of the day alone, part of the day with Dr. Graystone, as we were preparing remains for transfer. Took a break, about an hour, midday. Ate lunch and worked on my notes right over there.” She pointed to a couple of camp chairs in the shade by the creek. “We worked until nearly seven, then we shut down for the night. I picked up a sub from the Italian place in town, took it back to my room because I wanted to do some paperwork.”

“Did you go out again?”

“No.”

“You just stayed in your room at the Hummingbird.”

“That's right. Alone,” she added before he could ask. “Look, you already know about my confrontation with Dolan yesterday, at his job site.” She looked toward her Rover, where the spray-painted graffiti stood out sharply against the dull green. “I was pissed off somebody vandalized my car. I still am. But I don't kill somebody for vandalizing, or for knowing somebody who vandalized. If you're looking for an alibi, I don't have one.”

“She never left her room,” Jake said and had both Callie and the sheriff turning toward him. “Mine's right next door. You started playing the cello about eleven. Played the damn thing for an hour.”

“So get another room if it bothers you.”

“I didn't say it bothered me.” Just as he didn't say he'd lain in the dark, listening to those low, somber notes, wishing for her. “She plays Bach when she's trying to settle down and turn her head off for sleep,” he told the sheriff.

“You recognize Bach,” Callie said. “I'm impressed.”

“I know your pattern. It rarely deviates. She finally quit about midnight. I imagine if you asked whoever's in the room on the other side of hers, they'd verify that. Her Rover was parked right outside, next to mine. I'm a light sleeper. If she'd gone out, I'd've heard the engine start.”

“I spoke with Mr. Dolan yesterday afternoon, in response to your complaint.” Taking his time, Hewitt reached in his pocket, pulled out a notebook. He licked his index finger, turned a page. Licked, turned, in a methodical rhythm until he found what he wanted. “When you and the deceased argued yesterday, did you physically assault him?”

“No, I—” She broke off, grabbed hold of her temper. “I shoved him, I think. A little push.” She demonstrated, pushing a hand against the solid wall of Hewitt's chest. “If that's a physical assault, I'm guilty. He jabbed his finger in my face a few times, so I figured we were even.”

“Uh-huh. And did you threaten to kill him if he didn't stay out of your way?”

“No,” Callie said easily. “I said I'd stuff his head up his ass if he tried to mess with me again—which is an uncomfortable position, but rarely fatal.”

“You had a set-to with Dolan yourself, just yesterday.” Hewitt turned to Jake.

“I did. Mr. Dolan wasn't happy with the situation. He wanted us gone, which is why, I assume, he came out here last night.” Jake sent a meaningful look toward the Hefty bag. “If he'd known anything about what we're doing here, how we do it, why we do it, he'd have known this was useless. Problem was, he didn't want to know anything about what we're doing. Maybe that made him close-minded, even self-serving, but he shouldn't have died because of it.”

“I can't say I know a hell of a lot about what you're
doing either, but I can tell you you're not going to be doing it for the next couple days, at least. I need you, all of you, to stay available.”

“We're not going anywhere,” Callie replied. “He didn't understand that either.”

“While I got you here.” Hewitt licked his finger, turned another page. “I swung by the hardware store in Woodsboro yesterday. Seems somebody bought a couple cans of red spray paint matches what's on your car over there.”

“Somebody?” Callie echoed.

“I had a talk with Jimmy Dukes last night.” Hewitt's face moved into a sour smile. “And his friend Austin Seldon. Now Jimmy, he claimed he bought that paint to fix up his boy's Radio Flyer, but the fact is the wagon's rusted to hell, and the paint's gone. Didn't take long for them to fess up to it.”

“Fess up to it,” Callie repeated.

“Now I can charge them, lock them up for it if that's how you want it done. Or I can see to it they pay to have your car fixed up again and come on around here to give you an apology face-to-face.”

Callie took a deep breath. “Which one did you go to school with?”

Hewitt's smile warmed a bit. “Austin. And it happens he's married to a cousin of mine. Doesn't mean I won't lock him up, lock both of them up, if you want to press formal charges.”

“When I get an estimate on the paint job, I want a certified check in my hand within twenty-four hours. They can keep the apology.”

“I'll see to it.”

“Sheriff?” Jake waited until Hewitt had slipped the notebook back in his pocket. “You probably know Austin well enough to understand he can be a fuck-up.”

“Don't I just.”

“And you know, as his friend, and as an observer of human nature, what he's capable of. What he's not.”

Hewitt studied Jake, then looked behind him to where
Digger sat on the ground smoking another bummed cigarette. “I'll keep that in mind.”

W
hen the ME arrived, Callie and Jake moved to the fence, where they could watch the proceedings and stay out of the way.

“I've never been a murder suspect before,” she commented. “It's not as exciting as I figured it would be. It's more insulting. As far as being each other's alibi goes, that sucks. And it's not going to hold.”

“Neither is believing either of us crushed Dolan's skull over this dig.” He stuck his hands in his back pockets, hit a pack of sunflower seeds he'd forgotten was there. “Hewitt's smarter than he looks.”

“Yeah, I'll give you that.”

He palmed the pack, slid his hand under her hair, then flicked his wrist as if making it appear from under it. Her dimples fluttered just a little in a hint of a smile as he offered the open pack.

“If he hasn't figured it out, he will, that Dolan's more of an obstacle dead than he was alive.”

She munched, considered. “Cold-blooded, but accurate.”

“We're going to lose days, in an already short first season. We'll have the town in an uproar, and very likely have gawkers streaming once we're cleared to start again.”

Rosie walked over to join them. “They let Digger go in to change. Poor guy's pretty messed up.”

“Finding a dead body a few hours old and finding one that's had a few thousand years to cure makes a difference,” Callie said.

“Tell me.” Rosie puffed out her cheeks, blew out the air. “Look, I don't want to hang around here while this stuff's going on. They're not going to let us work today anyhow. Figured I'd take Digger off somewhere. Maybe tool around the battlefield, maybe take in a movie later. Something. You want part of that?”

“I've got some personal business I can take care of.”
Callie looked toward the trailer. “Are you sure you can handle him?”

“Yeah. I'll let him think he's going to talk me into the sack. That'll cheer him up.”

“Let me talk to him first.” Jake tapped Callie's shoulder. “Don't go anywhere until I get back.”

“You and Jake getting tight again?” Rosie asked her when they were alone.