James Swain - The Program

“You’re sure about this?”

“Absolutely. Digging a hole is hard work.”

“How shallow would the graves be?” Linderman asked.

“Depending upon the consistency of the earth, I’d say between eighteen inches and two feet down,” Hellinger said. “That’s usually the norm.”

Linderman found himself nodding. It was going to be easier than he’d thought. The shallow graves in the pasture would be human, the deeper graves of animals.

“Would you mind holding the line?” Linderman asked.

“Not at all.”

He hustled across the yard to the vans. A window lowered to reveal the team’s captain eating a thick ham and Swiss sandwich.

“What’s up?” the captain said.

“I’ve got a question,” Linderman said. “How many shallow graves did you find when you scanned the pasture with the GPR machine?”

“Define shallow,” the captain replied.

“A foot and a half to two feet deep.”

“None,” the captain said.

The answer stunned Linderman, and a sickening feeling came over him. Had they just spent the past few hours looking in the wrong place?

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” the captain said. “Rule one of looking for a body – check the shallow graves first. Most killers don’t dig very deep. It’s too damn tiring.”

His words confirmed what Hellinger had just told him. Linderman slapped his palm on the hood of the van and hurried back to the barn. Standing beneath the eave, he removed his cell phone and said, “You still there doctor?”

“I’m here,” Hellinger replied cheerfully.

“We’ve been looking in the wrong place.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Finding graves on farms or large tracts of land can be challenging.”

“What would you suggest doing?”

“I would try another approach. How long ago did these killings take place?”

“Twenty-five years ago.”

“That’s a long time. Animals often dig up graves, and relocate bones and articles of clothing to their nests. Birds are particularly fond of doing this. I would suggest you climb into the trees and check the birds nests. If you find a scrap of clothing or a bone, you’ll know that the grave isn’t far away.”

“You want me to check birds nests,” Linderman said.

“Yes – is that a problem?”

“We’re having a bad storm.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t’ know what else to tell you.”

Climbing into trees during a thunder storm was a risky proposition, but Linderman didn’t see that he had any other choice. Either he found the bodies, or he went back home empty-handed. He thanked Hellinger for his help and ended the call.

A quick search of the barn turned up not one, but two ladders, both of which were stored above the feed room, just out of reach. He convinced Doc to pull his pickup into the barn, and was able to pull the ladders down by standing inside the bed.

“What are you planning to do with them?” Doc asked.

“I’m going to look for birds nests,” the FBI agent replied.

“Why?”

“Because they might contain clues.”

“During a lightning storm?”

“That’s right.”

“With those? You’re crazy, my friend.”

The ladders were not in the best of shape. The first was made of old wood and had several loose rungs; the second of creaky aluminum, a perfect lightening rod. Would he rather die from a fall, or from two hundred thousand volts passing through his body? Choosing the latter, he hoisted the aluminum ladder onto his shoulder.

“At least wait until the storm passes,” Doc suggested.

“There’s no time.”

Linderman started to walk out of the barn. A blinding white flash accompanied by an ear-splitting crash of lightning halted his progress, and he retreated inside.

“That was close,” Doc said.

“You’re not making this any easier,” Linderman said testily.

“Can I make another suggestion? Why don’t you take a look inside the barn first? There are plenty of birds living year-round in here.”

Doc pointed straight up. Linderman craned his neck. In the dusty rafters above their heads were three large bird nests. The nests were round and heart-shaped, so perfectly constructed that they looked like works of art.

“Give me a hand,” Linderman said.

Extending the ladder, Linderman positioned it against the rafter containing the largest nest. With Doc holding him steady, he climbed up.

He poked the nest with his finger. Empty. He took another step and peeked inside. The nest was made of twigs and colorful scraps of paper. Convinced he’d found something, he pulled the nest apart. But in the end, it was nothing but garbage pulled from the trash, and his spirits crashed.

“Heads up. We’ve got company,” Doc said.

A crow was flying around the bar with a wiggling worm in its mouth. Linderman followed its ascent with his eyes, and saw the crow land on a nearby rafter, and shake itself dry. Done, it jumped into a nest where it was greeted by its chattering offspring. The walls of the nest were multi-colored, filled with tiny pieces of cloth and fabric.

Linderman leaned in, staring.

“Be careful, you’re going to fall,” Doc called out.

Linderman couldn’t help himself, and reached out to touch the nest. The fabric was sparkling with color. The graves were nearby, and he took a moment to look around the barn from his new vantage point. It contained four stalls.

“Let your dogs out of the truck,” Linderman said.

“What about the storm?” Doc asked.

“They’re in here.”

It was time to get Wayne high.

Renaldo drove the teenager to an abandoned strip center in Lauderdale Lakes a block off Oakland Park Boulevard. The center was a casualty of the economy, the boarded-up stores boarded graying with age, the parking lot a minefield of pot holes. Nature was taking it back, one small step at a time.

Renaldo parked behind the center in the building’s shade and pulled out a small pot pipe. It was already filled with dope. He handed it to Wayne along with a lighter. The teenager seemed to know what to do.

“This is kick-ass stuff,” Wayne said in a high-pitched voice, the dope trapped in his lungs. “You want some?”

Renaldo put the pipe to his lips and took a small hit. He rarely smoked pot or drank, and would not have engaged in this ritual with Wayne, only the Program had demanded that it be done. Each of the Program’s steps was clearly spelled out. Step #7 said that it was important to keep the subject high once he had sex with his victim. By keeping him high, he was less likely to regret what he’d done, or was about to do.

Renaldo handed the pipe back to Wayne.

“Have some more,” he said.

Wayne made the bowl turn bright orange as he took another hit. From the trunk came the sounds of Vick thrashing around. After a few moments the noise stopped.

“Can she breath back there?” Wayne asked.

“Oh, yes. I drilled in air holes. She’s getting plenty of air.”

“You’ve put women in your trunk before, haven’t you?”

Renaldo turned sideways in his seat. Wayne’s question was more inquisitive than an accusation. Like the teenager wanted to know more about the things that he did. It made Renaldo think that a lasting bond was starting to form between them.

“Many times,” Renaldo replied. “I pick up prostitutes off the street, take them to my house, and play with them for a few days. They are my toys.”

“What do you do then. Let them go?”

“Hardly.”

“You kill them?”

“Yes, I kill them. I will show you the films of them dying, if you like.”

“Isn’t that a little harsh?”

“What do you mean, harsh?”