Faye Kellerman - Peter Decker 3-Book Thriller Collection

Decker ran over to the shadow and grabbed it firmly by the shoulders.

“Damn it, Sammy!” he said. “Didn’t you hear me calling you? You scared me half to death!” He clutched him to his chest. “Why didn’t you answer me?”

The boy held himself rigid. Decker saw that his eyes were glazed.

“What’s wrong with you? What happened?”

“Yuck!” Jake spat out, staring into a pile of decayed foliage. Decker looked down.

There were two charred skeletons. Except for the right shinbone, which was buried under leaves and dirt, the first skeleton was completely exposed, a blackened arm-bone and fist sticking straight up as if beckoning for a hand to hoist it to its feet. The skull and the breastbone bore holes the size of a silver dollar. Shreds of flesh were clinging to the torso, petrified and discolored from exposure.

The second skeleton was partially buried, the ribcage and left legbone completely covered with dirt. A trail of leaves overflowed from the lower jaw, falling downward as if the dead mouth were vomiting detritus. Bits and pieces of charred skin stuck to the pelvis and limb bones, but unlike the first skeleton, the eye sockets and cracked skull retained dew-laden globs of jelly that glistened in the sunlight. Brain and eye. A cloud of flies and a mass of black beetles were feasting on the leftover morsels, unperturbed by the presence of intruders.

Gently, Decker walked the boys away from the ghastly sight and swore to himself. Nothing like a vacation to remind him of work.

“Are they real, Peter?” Sammy asked at last, his troubled eyes beseeching Decker.

“Yes, they’re real.”

“What are we gonna do?” Jake asked.

“I think we should bentch gomel,” Sammy said quietly.

“What’s that?” Decker asked.

“It’s like what you say when you don’t get killed in a car crash, or like when you don’t die from the chicken pox.” Jacob looked up at Decker. “I don’t feel so good.”

“Sit down, Jakey. Catch your breath.”

The boy sank into a pile of leaves.

“Go ahead and pray, Sam,” Decker said, placing a broad hand on the boy’s shoulder. He reached into his rear pants pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He’d been trying to cut down, but at this moment he needed a nicotine fix badly.

“And when you’re done,” he said, striking a match, “we’ll go call the police.”

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