He waved the bone in the direction Shep had appeared from. “Let’s go, Shep. Where’d you find this?”
The dog bounded off and Ollie followed. As if he understood what I said.
He scrambled after Shep, who appeared to be on a mission. The dog never looked back. A few minutes later, Shep vanished through the open front door of a cabin with a collapsing roof. It was tucked among several tall pines. Ollie stopped and stared. No paths or driveways led to the pine needle–covered cabin. The stillness and lack of upkeep indicated it was empty, but Ollie wanted to make sure.
“Hello, the house!”
Shep appeared in the doorway, his tail wagging in an invitation for Ollie to join him.
“What did you find, boy?” Ollie moved closer, judging the stability of the roof.
A sharp pang lanced his chest as he thought of the cabin where he’d lived alone for two years after his grandfather had died. Where he’d read old books and played card games alone every night because there was no electricity. Where he’d brought Truman after rescuing him from men who’d wanted to kill him and where he’d then nursed the police chief back to health.
After he’d agreed with Truman that he needed to attend school and rejoin society, Truman had taken Ollie to pack up his belongings. The cabin he’d built with his grandfather was smaller than his new bedroom in Truman’s home. It’d felt claustrophobic, and the small room of belongings seemed cheap and shabby. Truman had noticed his hesitation over packing up his grandfather’s battered books. “The value isn’t in the books’ condition, Ollie. The value is in the memories they awaken in your heart and mind.”
Truman had been right. Every time Ollie touched the books, he remembered them in his grandfather’s rough hands and heard his low voice as he read to Ollie each evening.
Ollie suspected this cabin’s roof wouldn’t fully collapse anytime soon, so he tentatively stepped through the doorway. The door had been bashed in at one point. The wood frame was splintered and broken where the lock would have been. The floor was dirt. What a piece of crap. The whole thing appeared speedily thrown together. Plywood walls, studs too far apart. A large hole in the roof allowed in sunlight that worked its way down through the trees and lit the interior. Water damage streaked and stained every wall, but the interior was currently dry. It smelled of decay, mold, and old dirt.
Shep whined and padded to the far corner. He halted and looked over his shoulder at Ollie, who stepped closer. Ollie squatted and studied the items in the corner.
The bones were intertwined with scraps of dirty and stained fabric. Rotting Nike tennis shoes. The man had lain down and never gotten up.
In place of the right eye socket, the skull had a giant rough hole.
Ollie automatically looked up and spotted the bullet hole in the wall of the cabin.
At the height of a man’s head.
Eagle’s Nest police chief Truman Daly hated the crumbling cabin on sight. Dread stirred in his stomach and expanded as he stepped inside.
Molding odors slapped him in the face and threatened to set loose buried memories.
Focus.
He squatted next to some rotting lengths of fabric on the floor, eyed the long zippers, and realized they’d once been sleeping bags. The stuffing hadn’t decomposed; it’d just flattened and turned brown, making Truman wonder what sort of hardy fibers had insulated the bags. Besides the sleeping bags and the remains, there was little else in the cabin. A few rusted food cans that had lost their labels. Two plastic gallon jugs of water—still full. A rusted can opener. A bag of plastic spoons, forks, and knives.
They didn’t plan to stay long.
“There’s a ring of rocks outside that could have been a firepit,” said Deschutes County detective Evan Bolton, standing behind Truman.
“Let’s see,” Truman said, grabbing the excuse to get out of the cabin.
Outside, Ollie, Christian Lake, and two Deschutes County deputies waited.
Ollie had called Truman as he hiked back toward Christian’s home, unable to get cell service at the body’s location. After hearing Ollie’s description of the remains, Truman had notified the Deschutes County Sheriff’s Office and requested a detective. Everyone had arrived at Christian Lake’s rugged forest mansion at nearly the same time, ready to hike to the location. Christian had insisted on accompanying the group, emphasizing that the land was his.
When they’d arrived at the shack, Christian had shaken his head. “I had no idea this existed. I’ve never been out this way.”
Detective Bolton had raised a brow at him, and Christian had stared back. “Do you have any idea how much untouched land is out here?” the millionaire had asked.
Christian had been silent since, quietly listening and observing, staying out of the way. Truman wondered what was going on in Christian’s head, considering one of his employees had been murdered on his property about four months ago. Truman liked Christian; the sporting goods store owner and Truman’s fiancée, Mercy, went way back.
“Over here,” Bolton indicated, and Truman followed him to the far side of the shack. Next to the ring of large stones were a few rusting tin cans showing through the layers of pine needles and dirt.
“Why do I get the impression they weren’t used to roughing it?” Truman murmured.
“Agreed,” said Bolton. “Cans, plasticware, sleeping bags. Weekend getaway, I guess.”
“Wasn’t a fun weekend for the guy inside,” added Truman.
“Are you sure it was a male?” Bolton’s brown gaze met Truman’s. “There’s no wallet.”
“Not completely. I’m no bone expert. But there were a few things I spotted . . . The shoes were men’s . . . The belt looked male—”
“Neither of those rule out female.”
“True.” Truman took a deep breath and went back inside the cabin, breathing lightly through his mouth, telling himself that the scents of this cabin and those of the one he’d been chained up in two months ago were distinctly different.
No shit or piss odors. No constant smell of rain that I can’t drink.
His heart pounded in his ears, he closed his eyes, and he was back in the past. Chains. Cuffs. Beat to hell. A broken arm. After months of not needing it, Truman immediately launched a silent anxiety mantra.
Name one thing you can see.
The fucking gigantic hole in the roof.
Name two things you can hear.
Bolton talking to Ollie. Shep’s panting.
Name three things you can smell.
Dirt, rot, dust.
Truman opened his eyes. I’m not in that prison. He sucked in a deep breath and concentrated on the crime scene before him.
He and Bolton silently stood next to the pile of bones. Some connective tissues were still attached, and Truman spotted little gnaw marks here and there. “All the tiny hand bones are gone,” Truman pointed out. “Vermin, probably.” He didn’t want to touch the old Nikes; they weren’t empty.
“Damned scavengers.”
“The skull doesn’t look feminine,” Truman stated.
Bolton waited, looking at him expectantly.
“See those big ridges above the eye sockets? And how the forehead slopes back? I think that means it was a man. Mercy and I have talked about the differences before.”