Faye Kellerman - Sanctuary

“Don’t worry about it.” He pulled Rina on top of him. “Of course, you can make it up to me.”

“Here?”

“The household is asleep and we have the intercom to Hannah’s room. Why not?”

Rina laughed to herself. “I don’t know if I can do it in front of all the animals.”

Decker grinned. “Just close your eyes, sugar. I guarantee you they won’t mind a bit.”

“Your dog’s driving me nuts,” Marge complained.

Decker adjusted his backpack. “You’re just sore because you forgot your hiking boots.”

“Hell with the boots. I need cleats, it’s so damn muddy.”

“You’d make a poor foot soldier, Margie. Colonel Dunn wouldn’t approve.”

“The word ‘approve’ isn’t in the colonel’s vocab list.”

Ginger turned in circles, sniffing each morsel of ground as if it were fine wine. They had been walking for over two hours in three different secluded areas, and still the setter showed no signs of tiring. It was literally a field day for her.

Decker said, “It’s the rain. It brings up all sorts of interesting smells. It drives her nuts and she gets confused. You’ve got to remember their brains are about the size of a pea.”

“Really?”

“Maybe a large pea.”

Marge took out a plastic bag. “Then maybe we should let her sniff the clothes again.”

Decker nodded. Marge gloved her hand, then took out Dalia Yalom’s white blouse and bra along with Arik Yalom’s pants and undershirt. “Here, girl,” she said. “You’re not interested in every single turd that has ever been dropped. You’re only interested in finding these people.”

Ginger raised her head, eyed Marge quizzically, then nosed the clothing. Once again, she was off. Decker had to trot to keep pace with her.

“Does she know what she’s doing?” Marge asked, breathlessly.

Decker shrugged.

“Orit Bar Lulu is going to be pissed if we come back with nothing, especially after waking her up at five in the morning to get the clothes.”

“She’ll just have to live with the pain.” Decker tugged gently on the leash. “Slow down, girl. Give an old man a chance to enjoy the scenery.”

The mountainside was wet and soggy, the mud seeping out from under their shoes. The air was nippy and smoky with dew, but morning sunlight was beginning to filter through the fog. Decker had on a red-plaid flannel shirt, brown chino pants, and an Englishman’s cap given to him by his father-in-law, the expert on caps. Maven was the word Rina had used. Marge wore a cable-knit sweater under a down-filled vest, corduroy pants, and high-top sneakers. She hated jackets. They limited her mobility.

“You ever hunt when you were a kid?” she asked.

“Yep. Alligators and ducks.”

“That’s right. You were born in Florida. Did you like it?”

“Florida’s okay.”

“Not Florida, Pete. Did you like hunting?”

“I thought it was silly. Grown men getting up at four in the morning to hunker down in the trenches and quack aloud. Alligators are mean sons of bitches. Sneaky little suckers with eternal smiles. But the way they’re slaughtered used to get to me. You can’t shoot them outright because you’ll ruin their hide. You’ve got to pith their brains out with a special type of blowgun.”

“Lovely. Further nauseate my queasy stomach.”

Ginger abruptly stopped, her posture freezing in the mist of the morning.

“She’s found something?” Marge asked.

“I don’t know.” Decker tugged on the leash. “Come on, girl.”

Ginger refused to budge.

“Does she know what she’s doing?” Marge asked again.

“I’ve never taught her how to hunt,” Decker said. “But the instincts are there.” He lowered his backpack onto the wet ground. “I trust her, Marge. I say we dig.”

Marge slipped her knapsack off her shoulders. “At least we don’t have to worry about destroying evidence. The rain helped us in that department. I sure hope your dog isn’t smelling a dead possum or something.”

“It could be she is. Although she seemed to sniff the clothes with interest.” Decker smiled. “Listen to me. I’m psychoanalyzing a dog.”

Marge opened her satchel and took out an array of tools. “I always wanted to be an archaeologist.”

“Don’t think you’re going to find Cro-Magnon man here.”

“I’ll settle for anything that doesn’t move when I exhume it.”

Decker smiled, then lowered himself onto his knees, feeling the ground with a gloved hand. Within moments, he had sunk a couple of inches into the slime. He knee-walked backward until he felt the ground wasn’t going to swallow him up. “I think Ginger’s on the money. Feel the ground right in front of me. See how soft and muddy it is compared to where I’m kneeling.”

“You’re right.” Marge sighed. “Dirt over here is much looser.”

“Like it was dug up and turned over and tamped back into place.”

“I didn’t see a mound.”

“Rain could have evened out the topology. I’m telling you, this is turned-up soil. We’ve got a grave here.”

“Should we call in the experts?”

Decker said, “Maybe we should try it ourselves first. Could be as innocuous as someone having a funeral for their pet.” Decker felt the ground again, trying to outline the perimeter by touch. Just by quick feel, the soft area seemed around four by four. Who knew how deep. Maybe someone buried a mastiff. “Give me the trowel. I’ll start out slowly.”

Marge handed him the trowel.

Carefully, Decker started unearthing the mud. As soon as he dug out earth, the depression filled with silted water. It was like digging sand at the seashore.

“I need a siphon.”

“I can get us some straws at the local Jack-in-the-Box.”

“Did we bring a hose?”

“No such luck.”

Decker tried to bail out water with his hands. “I can’t see a fucking thing.”

Marge pulled off his cap. “Why don’t you sacrifice this to the cause?”

Decker looked at her, at the cap. He took it and began scooping muddy water from his hole. He dug, he removed water, more water came to take its place. Twenty minutes later, sodden with sludge, he stopped.

“My hands are freezing. My fingers are numb.”

“My turn to slime fish.” Marge knelt and stuck her hands into the icy slosh. “I feel something down there.”

“There’re lots of rocks.”

“Yeah, maybe that’s what they are. Give me the pail.”

Decker handed her the cap. She attempted to bail water from the hole. It was a losing proposition. Disgusted, she tossed the cap and dug blind. When she felt she had removed a substantial amount of mud, she lowered her arm into the quagmire of frosty, wet earth. Soon her shoulder was touching the ground. She fingered her way around, then tried to pull her arm out and was met with resistance-as if she were freeing an animal trapped in tar. She finally liberated her limb, wiggled her fingers. Her sweater sleeve was encased in brown slime. “Something is definitely down there.”

“More than rocks?”

“More than rocks. Jesus, my arm’s frozen solid.”

“Move it around,” Decker said. “Does it feel like dog bones or cat bones or…what?”

Marge attempted to wipe the mud from her forearm. She had a pained look on her face. “I wouldn’t swear to it, but I think I just shook hands with someone.”

Davidson scratched his nose. “Looks like you found a body. At this point, I’m sure you’ll take any corpse you can get.”

Marge looked at him. Now how do you respond to that? She said nothing, regarding the two lab men who were unearthing the contents from the makeshift grave. One wore a yellow slicker; the other chose a full black raincoat that Dracula could have used in a pinch. Both of the garments were caked with mud.