Chapter 16
“Get them off me! Get ’em off!” I yell, jumping around in the woods wearing nothing but my underwear. I’m brushing frantically at myself, my entire body suddenly alive with creepy crawling sensations. As soon as I’ve rid myself of the maggots I can see on the front of me, I crane my head around in an attempt to examine my back. I can’t see a thing, and just as I feel my panic rise to an explosive crescendo, a steadying hand settles on my shoulder.
Hurley’s breath is warm on my neck as he says, “What is it with you wanting to get naked all the time? Does it have something to do with that nipple incident you never told me about?” His fingers flick a couple of times on my back and then he turns me around and says, “There you go. They’re all gone, at least from the places I can see.”
He is grinning down at me suggestively, and after tearing my eyes from his face, I look around at the rest of the group to see if I’ve made as much of a spectacle of myself as I think. Apparently I have. Arnie is standing off to my right, mouth agape, his eyes riveted to my chest.
A cold breeze rustles the nearby trees, making my skin come alive with goose bumps, which only enhances the crawling sensation. I look down at my chest expecting to see more maggots crawling on me but the only bumps I see are in my bra. My nipples are protruding out from the cold, standing at attention like Madonna on steroids. What is it with me and nipples?
The two sheriff’s deputies have their hands clamped over their mouths, their bodies shaking with mirth. I’m about to give them The Look when I hear a distinctive click-and-whirl sound over near Arnie. I’m thinking he has used his camera to sneak off a couple of shots, but when I look in his direction I see that he’s still standing frozen and transfixed, a small string of drool hanging from one corner of his mouth. Some branches behind him flutter and I see a flash of movement.
I take a couple of steps closer and peer into the brush, quickly identifying the source of the noise. “Damn it, Alison, you might as well present yourself. I know you’re out there.”
The bushes rustle again and a sheepish-looking Alison steps out into the clearing.
Hurley shakes his head and sighs heavily. Then he shrugs off his jacket and hands it to me. “This is starting to feel like a habit,” he says. As I put the jacket on, he walks over to Alison and holds his hand out. “Alison, hon, you know better. Give it over.”
Hon? Since when did she move into hon position? Hun, perhaps, but hon?
Clearly the endearment isn’t lost on Alison since her guilty expression is fleetingly replaced with a smug one. Then she shakes her head at Hurley and pouts cutely. “No one gets my camera, Stevie, not even you.”
At the utterance of “Stevie” the two deputies both snigger but a death ray look from Hurley shuts them right up, making me a bit envious.
Hurley turns back to Alison and says, “You don’t have to give me the camera, just the film.”
“It’s digital,” Alison says with an unmistakable duh tone in her voice. “There is no film.”
My natural endowments put a definite strain on the buttons of Hurley’s jacket but I finally manage to get the majority of my chest under cover. As a result, Arnie snaps out of his coma and tunes in to the conversation.
“It’s all stored on a little memory card,” he tells Hurley. “Make her hand over the card.” Then his eyes grow huge as a thought hits him. “In fact, give it to me. She might have taken some valuable evidentiary shots. I should review it all to make sure there isn’t anything, um”—he pauses and his eyes briefly dart toward my chest before he looks back at Hurley—“anything critical on there.”
I whirl around and glare at Hurley. “If that memory card goes to anyone but me I swear I’ll sic my crazy-assed brother-in-law on all of you.”
The crowd grows silent. Everyone here knows that being the focus of Lucien’s attention is to risk public embarrassment and shame the likes of which most people have never imagined, much less experienced. The man is a master rumor monger and in a small town like this one, rumors spread faster than cold sores at an orgy.
“Give her the card,” Hurley says to Alison. “And then get your ass out of here. I could have you arrested for this, you know.”
I turn back and smile smugly at Alison, but she is clearly undaunted by Hurley’s threats. She bats her eyelashes at him and says in a breathless voice, “Ooh, does that mean handcuffs, Stevie?”
Hurley shoots her a thunderous look and she pouts again, removes the memory card from her camera, and tosses it to me. Her aim is a bit short and I have to bend and reach in order to catch it. As I do so, Hurley’s jacket rides up my backside and I hear him suck in his breath behind me. He leans forward and whispers, “I’ll give you twenty bucks to do that again.”
As I slip the memory card into one of the jacket’s pockets, I feel a blush spreading over my body, but it’s quickly forgotten when the bushes rustle again and Izzy steps into the clearing.
He pauses a moment to take in the scene. “Dare I ask?” he says, his gaze settling on me.
“I wouldn’t,” Arnie says.
“Not if you know what’s good for you,” Hurley warns at the same time.
The two sheriff’s deputies just shake their heads.
Izzy nods. “Okay, then. Let’s get to it.”
Chapter 17
After cleaning my scrub pants off the best I can, I reluctantly put them back on. My top is a total loss however, so I keep Hurley’s jacket, which fortunately helps to cover my crotch vent. By the time I don a plastic gown over it all—better late than never—I feel like the Michelin Man. Finding a place to hook my voice recorder proves challenging, but after testing its ability to pick up what I’m saying from beneath the plastic gown, I end up sliding it down into my cleavage, much to the amusement of all the men.
The contents of a wallet and pocketbook we find in the car support Arnie’s suspicions about the victims’ identities, though it won’t be enough to establish a definite ID. For the male victim, it will likely require a forensic dentist, but Izzy informs me that identifying the female might be easier since we find a pair of breast implants sitting in her lap. Implants all have serial numbers on them, allowing us to trace them back to the surgeon who used them, and from there, to the patient who received them.
A couple of hours later we have finally bagged what can be bagged, and tagged what can be tagged, including samples of all the maggots, flies, and other insects found on and around both bodies. The remains of the two bodies have been removed—a task made no easier by the degree of decomposition—and sealed up inside special body bags. One of the sheriff’s deputies who had been on site originally left to make arrangements for towing the car from its resting place back to a special garage. As a result, a four-wheel-drive, flatbed truck arrived ten minutes ago. Once we were sure the trail the Caddy had taken through the trees was thoroughly examined and photographed for evidence, the truck backed its way along the same path. The men who came with the truck are now winching the car into place and trying not to vomit.
It’s almost entertaining at this point to see the reactions of the newcomers since everyone else has become more or less immune to the odor. My own nose hasn’t so much as wrinkled for the past hour and a half.
Despite the temperature, which is a seasonable forty-nine degrees, I’m sweating like a pig beneath my many layers and can’t wait to get back to the office and into a shower, though at this point, regular body odor is the least of my worries. I strip off my outer suit and bag it to get some relief, but the outfit beneath still leaves something to be desired.