The Bones Will Speak (27 page)

DAVE CHECKED HIS WATCH FOR THE THIRD TIME. Five thirty.
His cell phone rang. “Dave Moore.”

“Dispatch said to call you,” Dre said.

“Where have you been? This place is a madhouse.”

“Hey, I stopped for lunch. Got the be-on-the-lookout on Wes. Been on patrol ever since. Cell's worthless most of the places I've gone.”

Dave dry-scrubbed his face. “So what do you have? And please make it good news for a change.”

“No sign of Wes. I swung by Gwen's place about two twenty. All's quiet. Swung by the animal hospital. Ron's watching it for now but said a reserve deputy should be arriving shortly.”

“I got ahold of the ATF at the Missoula satellite office. They're sending some agents first thing in the morning. FBI will be here as well. Missoula's working the Mattie angle, all my reserve staff— Hello? Hello?” Dave thumped the cell on his desk. Maybe dispatch could get Dre back on the line.

The phone rang. “Yeah, Dre—”

“It's Beth. Gwen told me to call you.” She explained about a possible terrorist attack the following day.

Dave scribbled notes. “You have no idea where this might happen?”

“No. Just the time.”

“I'll see what I can do. Maybe the FBI will have some ideas.”

“Good. Aynslee is with Mattie—”

“Where's Gwen now?”

“She's on her way home. If Aynslee isn't there, she's going to go looking for her.”

Dave gripped the phone tighter. “Winston?”

“The dog's here. What do you want me to do?”

“Stay put.” Dave thought for a moment. “The girls have a three-hour head start. If they were heading to Gwen's place, they'd be there by now and Gwen will let us know when she gets home.”

“But her phone is out.”

“She'll manage somehow. I don't have a single available officer to put on this thing because of that stupid parade. Gwen's on her own for a bit.”

I pulled up next to the house and parked. Stepping from my car, I stopped.

The front door stood open.

My stomach twisted. I crept to the entrance, then paused and listened for voices.

The house was deathly silent.

I slipped inside. My rifle from the gun-display cabinet was missing. I turned left and entered my studio. Empty. I spun and
raced to the kitchen. Two dirty plates lay on the table along with a number of amber prescription bottles. I picked up one bottle, then another. All were in my name. “Aynslee? Mattie?” The backdoor was still locked. I ran to my bedroom, opened the closet, and reached for my SIG Sauer.

Gone.

Frantically, I checked the bedside table, then my dresser. “Mattie? Aynslee?” My voice echoed in the empty house. I sprinted to the living room, this time looking in the drawer under the gun display. A full box of .22 bullets sat untouched. Pivoting, I charged to Aynslee's room, abruptly halting at the door. The floor was covered with Aynslee's stuffed animals, clothes, and pillows. Bedding tangled in a heap at the foot of the bed.

A smear of blood stained the sheet.

The room seemed to spin, then blackness.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

MY HEAD RESTED ON A STUFFED BEAR
. UNDER Aynslee's bed were a pair of jeans and a sock. The chill from the hard floor seeped into my side. I pushed up and got to my knees, then waited until the room stopped swirling. Vomit burned the back of my throat.

I stood and aimed toward the kitchen, reeling from side to side, holding on to the wall for support. Once there, I snatched up the phone and dialed. Nothing happened.
Of course, you idiot, the phone's dead.

Remain calm
. I moved back to the studio, looking for any clues to the girls' location. Methodically I advanced through the living room, my bedroom, then Aynslee's room. It didn't look as if Aynslee had changed her clothes, but it was hard to tell with the clutter. I forced myself to look at the bed again. A considerable amount of dirt clung to the fabric.

Aynslee didn't have a key.

The thought pounded into my brain. How did they get into the house? I sprinted to the kitchen, unlocked the door, and
checked under the plastic dog poop. No key. Bars covered all the windows. Circling around toward my car, I checked the access to the crawl space. It was unlatched. Returning inside, I looked in the pantry.

The trapdoor was in place, but dirt rimmed the edge.

I forced my brain to think logically. The girls got in through the crawl space. They ate. Mattie must have helped herself to my drugs. Probably Mattie, still very weak and sleepy from the meds, lay down to take a nap.

Someone came to the door. What ruse had he used to get Aynslee to open it? A promise to call me? A message? And it had to be someone Aynslee knew or would trust.

I started down the hallway toward the front of the house but paused in front of the office. A slight odor I couldn't immediately identify came from behind the closed door.

Reaching for the knob, I froze. I
did
know that smell. Copper, sulfur, and singed hair.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

THE BOTTOM OF A LEATHER SHOE PEEKED OUT from behind the desk
.

My feet cemented to the floor, my breath came in harsh gasps.
No, please! Please, no!

I forced myself to look at the shoe. Big. Man-sized. Not Aynslee. Or Mattie.

Moving closer, the shoe was attached to a leg, the leg to a body slumped against the wall.

Wes Bailor.

Blackness edged my vision.

A deceptively small hole in the center of his forehead leaked a rivulet of blood down his face and a deep gouge crossed his cheek. The dark-green plaid wallpaper behind him had a pink-and-burgundy spatter with a trail, ending at his still form. My SIG Sauer lay on the floor next to the door. I reached for it, then stopped. It only had one bullet in it, which was now in Wes's brain, so the gun was useless as a weapon. And this was a homicide scene.

I moved to the body, leaned down, and touched his neck for a pulse, but it was obvious he was dead. “You poor, stupid fool,” I whispered. “Thought you could solve this case on your own. Superman.” My voice shook, and I clamped my teeth shut.

Did
he
have a gun?

I swiftly checked his pockets, finding only his wallet. Inside the wallet was a challenge coin. I lurched to my feet. The challenge coin Scott gave me was still taped to the foam board. Wes had been the friend looking for the Lone Wolf. And now he was dead.

So where was his car?

And where were the girls?

If the killer went after Wes, and the girls heard the gunfire, then maybe they were hiding. “Girls? Mattie? Aynslee? You can come out.” I tried to make my voice calm, but the words wavered. “It's okay. I'm home. I'm here now.”

They couldn't be in the attic. Robert said the access door was broken.

Could they have hidden in the crawl space?

I raced from the room to the kitchen and opened the pantry door. The trapdoor opened easily. “Aynslee? Mattie? If you're hiding down there, you can come out. It's safe. I'm home.” A long-legged spider hunkered down on its web and glared at me. I jumped away, dropping the trapdoor with a crash.

There's no way the girls would hide down there.

Dashing to the outside door, I yanked it open. “Mattie! Aynslee! Where are you?” Only the
shhhhh
of the pine's sighing in the evening breeze answered. I ran left, toward the garage. Wes's Forest Service pickup was parked on the far side, out of casual sight.

Why would he park there?

He didn't.
I could hear the killer's voice on the phone whispering in my brain.
I hid his truck so your house would look normal.

I have the girls.

I clapped my hands over my mouth to keep back the scream. My thoughts jammed together.
Call Dave. No. Phones don't work. Cell? At hospital. Get help. Takes too long. How long has he had them?

Find them.

Spinning, I flew to the house, ending up in the studio. The county map was still taped to the foam core. “You're a thrill seeker,” I whispered. “You want them to run. Where do you start?”

Wrong. Start where the bodies were found.

I found the tiny, black square of my house, then the crumbling McCandless farmhouse. Leaving my finger to mark the McCandless place, I traced the route Beth and I drove the day before, where we'd found the girl in the cow pasture. The two points were opposite each other, only separated by a long ridge. “He wanted the women to end up at the McCandless place. He gave them a map and compass, probably told them to run downhill and north. But the girl in the cow pasture couldn't read a compass. She ran south.”

I stared at the map. “You don't want your victims to make that mistake again. So you'd start at a lower point on the hillside. It's natural to run downhill, especially if you live in the mountains.”

I tapped the map. “This ridge is the key. There has to be a road he could access. Didn't the farmer say they'd logged here?”

Dave's voice answered. Something he'd asked Dre.
“See what you can find out about any logging or Forest Service roads north of here.”
I could get ahold of Dre. Find out what he'd discovered.

But what if Dre was the killer? He was a lateral transfer from Spokane. Worked around woodpiles so could conceivably smell of wood chips. Saw Aynslee . . .

Stop it. Find them.

A drop of water struck Mattie's face. She shifted, trying to find space in the crowded compartment.

Aynslee, curled up next to her, sniffed. “Wha . . . what should we do?”

“I don't know. My head's all screwed up.” She drifted in a river of blackness until Aynslee poked her. Hard. “Ouch.”

“You gotta stay awake,” Aynslee said. “We need a plan.” The truck rocked and bounced around them, knocking them from side to side. “Where do you think he's taking us?”

“Back to that . . . place.” Mattie tried hard not to cry.

“No. We've been driving too long. And we're going uphill.”

Mattie tugged at her hands, but the zip ties held tight. Matching ties held her ankles together. “We're gonna die.”

“No, we're not.” Aynslee shoved against her.

“Stop it.”

“I'm rolling over. Maybe I can reach your hands.”

Between the bandages and pain medication, Mattie couldn't tell what Aynslee was doing.

“I can't . . . I can't get the zip tie off you without something sharp. Do you have a knife or X-ACTO?”

“What's an X-ACTO?” Mattie asked.

“Never mind. Okay. Let me think.” Aynslee was silent for a few moments. “Okay. There are two of us and one of him—”

“Why'd you let them in?”

“I didn't have a lot of choice. That artist guy asked me about Winston. That was my code word with Mom. I didn't know there was someone else with him. Not at first. The other guy was hiding. He must have been waiting for someone to come. Or maybe he followed the artist guy.”

“You shouldn't have opened the door.”

“I had the rifle—”

“But he took it away.” Mattie shivered.

“I didn't think he was a bad man.”

“You
knew
him?”

“Yeah.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

“I THINK HE KILLED THE ARTIST,” MATTIE SAID
.

“He couldn't have.” Aynslee's voice wavered.

“Yeah. Put it together. He hit the artist guy in the face, then held a gun on him and made him put zip ties on us.”

“He looked like he hated the artist.”

“He did. After he left us on the sofa, he took the artist into that room. You heard the gun. And the guy didn't come out.”

Aynslee sniffed. “Maybe . . . Mattie, listen. We can't do anything about that. Mom will come for us. But we gotta stick together. We gotta fight him. We have to run—”

“But we're tied up!” Mattie struggled, kicking the side of the compartment. Something crackled. The tarp, the one that had covered her before, was at her feet. She smelled mold and sweat.

“Shhh. Don't let him hear you.” Aynslee moved so she was close to Mattie's ear. “Here's my plan, but first we need to pray.”

The back of Mattie's throat burned. “Like for angels to help us?”

“I'm going straight to the top.”

Hot tears cooled on Mattie's face. “I . . . I don't know how to pray.”

“Don't worry. I'll do it. Um, God, please save us. We don't want to die . . .” Mattie heard her swallow hard. “And zap this guy or whatever You do so he can't do this again.”

“I agree. Um, vote yes . . .”

“Just say amen.”

“Amen.”

Distant thunder echoed as I jumped into my car and checked the time. Six thirty. I had an hour—maybe hour and a half—to find the road, and the girls, before dark.

At the end of the driveway, I turned left. I'd searched on Google Earth and found the satellite image of my place. A ribbon of tan showed at the ridge's crest south of me, hinting of an old road, but I couldn't find where it started. I knew a small road circled behind the McCandless place. It was well below the top of the ridge, but conceivably could be used. And it was close.

Dirt flew from my racing tires as I shot down the county road. I passed the McCandless turnoff and slowed down, watching on my right for a break in the trees. I finally spotted it about a half mile farther down.

A gray metal gate chained shut blocked the access.

Gripping the steering wheel tighter, I spun around. The car bucked and skidded on the loose gravel before straightening. I stepped on the gas and doubled back, checking my odometer as
I passed my home so I'd have some idea of where I was. I just hoped, and prayed, that I could find the turnoff.

Before it was too late.