After a moment she offered, “I’m not really sure what to say about all that, Skip…”
“I suppose there’s not much you can,” he grunted. “Just so you realize that the lack of up-front information on my part wasn’t anything personal against you. Seeing is believing, I guess… Don’t know what to tell you about the lack of support at your end, other than join the club… I haven’t been getting any either.”
“Yeah… I’m not exactly clear on that myself,” she admitted.
Skip suppressed a snort, then nodded. “I hear you… Well… I’ll say this much, Special Agent Mandalay, you’re different.”
“What do you mean?”
“After what you’ve seen and learned in the past hour, you’re still here. I can’t say the same was ever true for most of your colleagues.”
Constance paused, still digesting the influx of bizarre data. Eventually she blew out a heavy sigh and looked at Sheriff Carmichael. “So, what now?”
“We grab some coffee and go process a crime scene,” he replied, then bobbed his head toward the door next to them. “In about two hours Merrie will wake up just like usual, and for her, it’ll be Christmas Day nineteen seventy-four all over again.”
“Which one of them, Sheriff?” she asked.
“There’s only one Merrie, Constance.”
“But you just-”
He cut her off. “I know.”
She cocked her head and blinked. “And all of the other Merries?”
“Trust me, Special Agent Mandalay. There’s only one Merrie Frances Callahan.”
CHAPTER 28
6:17 A.M. – December 25, 2010
632 Evergreen Lane
Hulis Township – Northern Missouri
QUIET is a relative term, especially at 6 A.M. on Christmas morning. Constance was certain, however, that no matter the day, the hour, or the point of reference used to define the concept of relative quiet, the portable generator parked outside the abandoned house on Evergreen Lane didn’t qualify as such-even though the words Super-Quiet were emblazoned on the side right next to the manufacturer’s logo.
The pulsing thrum of the running engine was spilling into the frosty air in competition with the moan of the wind through the trees. The incessant staccato popping of the exhaust was being carried aloft on the undulating breeze, and together they were most assuredly splitting what little calm remained of the pre-dawn darkness. The melange of noise wasn’t helping Constance’s headache either, nor were the extra-strength aspirin Martha had given her back at Holly-Oak. At this point, the only thing that would do her any good would be sleep, but that was a prescription she couldn’t fill just yet.
She followed the ropes of multi-colored, heavy-duty extension cords that snaked away from the generator and across the porch, running in through the front door. Inside, the harsh glow of a halogen work light illuminated the way through the front room. A second of the adjustable lamps was positioned farther inward to light the hallway.
The bulk of the cords continued along the floor of the main room until they bent sharply into the corridor at the archway and angled across its length. After running diagonally across the floor for several feet, they hooked to the left and disappeared through the open basement doorway-a twisted green, orange, and yellow stripe that marked an obvious path toward the remnants of horror that waited below.
The tight bundle of electrical cords ran down the stairs-carefully arranged, safely out of the way-against the uprights that supported the handrail. At the bottom they spilled out across the concrete floor in a bright pile of coils before shooting off in a spindly fan, each ending in its own caged, halogen work lamp.
Constance lowered herself down from the double-height step at the bottom of the staircase and then tiptoed gingerly around the pile of cables. To her back, the basement was still bathed in oblique shadows, illuminated only by residual glow. But in front of her, beyond the semicircle of tripod-mounted lamps, a man-made sun had risen. Even during the day, there hadn’t been anywhere near this amount of light filling the subterranean room, but then again, during the day there had only been rough outlines to see. Now those outlines were grotesquely filled in.
Deputy Broderick was facing away from the spotlighted carnage, hands buried deep in his coat pockets. His face was harshly shadowed due to the angle at which he was standing. The reflected wash of brilliance from the nearest lamp fell in an oblique swath across him, and what little of his face it revealed was sickeningly pale.
He looked up at Constance and nodded. After a moment he said, “Sorry about…you know…earlier.”
She returned the nod. “Yeah. Me too.”
They stood staring at one another for several heartbeats until the awkward silence became too deafening to endure.
Broderick gave in first. Lolling his head to the side and angling it toward the dismembered victim, he offered in a quiet voice, “Fourth Christmas for me. Wish it would get easier… You know… Seeing it and all…”
“No,” Constance replied without hesitation. “Trust me, Deputy; you really don’t.”
He appeared to frown then gave a shallow nod in response to her statement. A second later a fresh pair of footsteps began to echo from the stairs, and the sullen officer cast his flat expression upward toward the source.
“Martin called,” Broderick announced as Sheriff Carmichael came into view and continued down the staircase. “He’s having trouble getting the hearse to turn over this morning, so he’s running behind.”
“Yeah,” Skip replied, stepping off the bottom precipice with a grunt. “I just got off the radio with Johnson. He told me.” Hitching up his belt, he picked his way through the tangle of electrical wires and drew himself up next to Mandalay.
“Is Martin your County Coroner?” Constance asked.
“Yeah,” he grunted. “Martin Hornbeak. He owns the funeral home here in town too.”
She acknowledged with a nod.
The sheriff sucked in a deep breath then blew it out in a loud huff, as if to state unequivocally for the record just exactly how they all were feeling. After a long measure with nothing more than the muffled drone of the generator outside to fill the space, he grumbled, “Deja goddamn vu… Every year… Every goddamn year…”
“Do you have a Crime Scene Unit on the way?” Constance asked.
“You’re looking at it,” he snorted. “We could process this scene in our sleep.”
“I’m not doubting you, Skip,” she replied. “But have you considered calling in outside investigators? Maybe from the MHP Crime Lab?”
“Sure,” he told her. “But not for a few years now.”
“Why not?”
“They’ve made it clear that they prefer to leave this one alone,” he explained.
“Why?
“Hold that thought,” Carmichael said, then turned his gaze toward the deputy. “You take the pictures yet?”
“Yeah,” Broderick replied. “Same as last year.”
“And the year before; yeah, I know,” Skip grunted. “Bag the axe?”
The deputy nodded. “Yeah. Bagged and tagged. Whiskey bottle too. Just waiting on Martin to show up for the remains. I’ll take prints and do a DNA swab over there. Called Doc Harper too. She said to let her know if Special Agent Mandalay wants an official autopsy, otherwise just have Martin sign off on the death certificate as usual.”
After a pause the sheriff asked, “Did you check…?”
He purposely left the half-asked question dangling in the air. While not fully spoken, it seemed that between the two of them it was implicitly understood.
“Yeah,” Broderick replied. “Same as always.”
“Good,” the sheriff replied with an approving nod. “Give Constance a glove.”
Broderick dug around in his coat pocket, then produced a latex glove and handed it over to Mandalay.
“You still haven’t answered my question, Skip…” she said.
“I know, but I’m about to,” Skip told her and indicated for her to follow as he started across the basement. “Go ahead and put the glove on. I need to show you something.”