Alex Barclay - Blood Runs Cold

‘Right,’ said Ren, ‘now that we’ve gotten through our defensive laughter …’

Bob gave a sad smile. ‘Wait ’til you see this,’ he said, gesturing behind him.

Ren felt rooted, but she was quickly car-crash drawn to the body. ‘Whoa … ly fuck. That is … Jesus Christ.’ She held a hand to her mouth, squeezing her nostrils shut at the same time.

‘Holy shit,’ said Mike, moving up behind her and quickly turning away.

They had lost Jean Transom’s body once — nature had swept it away and kept it hidden for months. And they had almost lost it a second time — to the mercy of the sun, the animals and the insects. Ren had seen bodies like this before — split-screens; one half of the body exposed to different elements than the other — one side mummified by a heater, the other turned toward a window open to the cold; a head on a pillow, a body cooking inside an electric blanket.

The left side of Jean Transom’s body lay under a fallen tree. The right side, turned away from the splintered trunk, was marbled, bloated and blistering. Her hands and fingers were curled and desiccated. One eyelid had been stripped away by birds, her eyeball pecked out. There was little flesh left on her face — the rest had been eaten, then pared back to the bone by maggots. Her teeth were exposed, her face frozen and grotesque.

Ren looked up at the sky to hold back tears. She said a silent prayer, then looked down at the body that lay at her feet.

I wish you could have been found perfectly preserved, Jean Transom .

Dr Tolman worked with his assistant on Jean Transom’s autopsy. Denis Lasco, Ren Bryce, Paul Louderback, Bob Gage and Todd Austerval watched, suited up, masked and wearing booties Ren had brought for everyone.

Ren hadn’t eaten for fifteen hours. Her head was spinning and the only thing that was keeping her concentrating on an empty stomach was Jean Transom, her sweet, simple life, her easy-listening CDs, her pastel shirts, her teddy bears …

‘She has an extensive tattoo,’ said Tolman.

‘What?’ said Ren.

‘Look,’ he said. They had turned the body over, exposing Jean’s back and the jagged, gaping gunshot wound. ‘At the base of her back.’

Ren stepped forward, giving herself a better view and another opportunity to retch. What was left of the tattoo was made up of black, heavy-inked shapes — angular and masculine.

‘What is it?’ said Ren. ‘Does it say something?’

‘I can’t make out what it is,’ said Tolman.

‘Can you guys?’ said Ren.

The others moved closer. No one even took a guess.

Robbie took a photo of the tattoo for Ren.

People who wanted to be noticed got tattoos, people who liked beautiful art on a medium of skin, people who wanted to cover something up, people who had been damaged … But Jean Transom with her plain underwear, her neutral clothes, her makeup-free face, didn’t seem to fit anywhere in that line-up.

So who was Jean Transom before Special Agent was put before her name?

Patrick Transom was doing his best to fight the weariness of grief and the presence of the FBI in his house again. Ren sat beside him at the kitchen table and showed him a photo of part of the tattoo.

‘I was wondering if you could confirm Jean’s identity from this,’ said Ren.

‘What is this?’ he said.

‘It’s part of her tattoo.’

‘Jean had a tattoo?’

He shook his head. ‘Another thing I didn’t know about. When Sheriff Gage came here last night to tell me they had found the body, I … It was a shock. I can’t keep having these … surprises. I know that’s not the right word.’

‘Well, you’re her brother,’ said Ren. ‘And this tattoo was across her lower back …’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘But just that I never knew …’ He rubbed his hand through his hair. ‘I guess all I want now is to feel closer to Jean, and instead I keep feeling further away. Every new thing I hear from you guys makes me feel like she’s shrinking into this tiny dot. And it’s so terrible, because it’s making me feel mad at her. I want to ask her about these things. I want to talk to her. I want her to explain why she hid so much from me. Even if it’s just small things. I want to — ’

‘She didn’t hide things from you,’ said Ren. ‘She was just extremely private.’

‘I guess she was kind of like that as a teenager.’

He went over to a cabinet in the corner, pulled out a photo and handed it to Ren. Ren stared at it and looked back at him.

He nodded. ‘Yup, that’s Jean.’

‘Wow,’ said Ren.

Who you are to your brothers and sisters is usually who you are at that time, not what you used to be. They watch you through all your changes and know there will always be more. They don’t hold you to the past. And they don’t always recall it. To Patrick Transom, his sister was a blonde, athletic FBI agent. The black-haired overweight goth was in the photograph was someone he could look back and smile at.

‘That’s quite a change,’ said Ren.

‘I know.’

He held the photo Ren had given him. ‘I’m … afraid to say that this isn’t Jean,’ he said. ‘Because it has to be, right? You wouldn’t be here if you had any doubt.’

‘I have a second photo,’ said Ren, handing it to him.

It was a section of Jean’s left shoulder with a birthmark.

He pointed to it. ‘You could see it in the summer when she wore sleeveless shirts.’

Ren gave him a gentle smile. ‘Thank you.’ She took a plastic bag from her pocket. ‘I have something else too.’ She handed it to him.

He broke down. ‘This is Jean’s. It’s her Brazilian good luck ribbon. You make three wishes, you tie three knots in it, then you leave it on until it falls off naturally. And then all your wishes come true. She had it for over a year, hidden under her watch strap. She couldn’t believe it still hung on in. It was driving her nuts.’ He stared down at the clean, severed edges. ‘I guess you cut it off …’ He paused. ‘I wonder what that means.’ He slipped it into the bag and handed it back to Ren. ‘The wait for the body is over,’ he said. ‘And now I have to start all over again and work out how I feel.’

‘Daddy?’ They turned as a beautiful little blonde girl walked into the room.

‘You must be Amber,’ said Ren. And there is something strangely familiar about you.

Amber nodded.

‘This is Ren Bryce,’ said Patrick. ‘She’s with the FBI, like Aunt Jean.’

‘Oh, hi,’ said Amber.

Ren was drawn to the little girl’s brown eyes and something in them she couldn’t quite define.

‘Daddy, could I get some juice, please?’

‘Sure, sweetheart, go ahead.’ She went to the refrigerator and took out a small carton of apple juice. ‘Excuse me, ma’am?’ she said.

‘Yes?’ said Ren.

‘I just wanted to tell you that my Aunt Jean wasn’t feeling very well the day we went shopping in Breckenridge before she died. We had to go home early …’

‘Really?’ said Ren. ‘That’s a shame.’

Amber nodded and smiled. ‘It was fun and I didn’t want to go home early. I was kind of mad …’ She glanced nervously at her father.

Oh, no. You feel guilty . ‘Amber, your Aunt Jean would understand how you could get mad having to go home early from something. Especially because she really wanted to hang out with you all day. That’s why she asked you to go shopping. She loved you a lot, I bet.’

Amber smiled. ‘OK,’ she said. They watched her skip out of the room.

‘She is beautiful,’ said Ren.

‘We’re hoping she doesn’t know quite how beautiful yet,’ he said, smiling after her. He turned back to Ren. ‘I’m sorry — what were we saying?’