Jefferson Bass - Cut to the Bone - A Body Farm Novel

“ Nnnnhhh, ” shrilled Brockton, struggling and thrashing so hard that his chair threatened to tip.

“No? Not him? Okay, whatever you say.” Satterfield stepped to Kathleen’s side and snipped the zip tie binding her right wrist to the chair. “I don’t know who I’ll send this one to,” he said, taking hold of her hand, lifting it by the little finger. “But I’ll think of someone.” He squeezed, and the handles of the shears came together, and the grinning fish closed its jaws on her finger.

CHAPTER 49

Tyler

QUIT STALLING, TYLER BERATEDhimself again, and forced himself to stand and walk to the patio door. He was raising his hand to knock when he froze, his knuckle an inch from the door. On the other side of the glass, Jeff had reached out and taken hold of a small, slender hand—Kathleen’s hand, Tyler assumed—and clasped the pinky finger between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. Then he turned slightly—a few degrees, no more—but it was enough for Tyler to see that it was not Jeff at all. As his brain scrambled to interpret the data and identify the face, he felt a rush of panic. A moment later, his conscious mind caught up with the faster circuitry of his subconscious, and he recognized the face: the murder suspect, Satterfield! Just then he saw Satterfield reach toward Kathleen’s finger with his right hand. Light glinted on steel, and then Kathleen’s arm swung free, arced toward the floor, slinging blood as it dropped. Satterfield still clasped her little finger in his left hand, a pair of bloody gardening shears in the other. Her head jerked, and through her nostrils and the tape across her mouth came a muffled, whinnying scream.

Tyler gasped and staggered backward as if he’d been struck. He fought back the impulse to scream and the need to vomit, knowing that revealing his presence was almost certain to trigger a massacre inside. Think, he commanded himself. Think! God, why hadn’t he gotten a cell phone when Roxanne had suggested it? He spun, scanning in vain for the glimmer of lights in neighboring houses. Should he run back to the street and start banging on doors? Was there even time for that? How long would it take for the police to get here in force—ten minutes? half an hour? The image of the arrow-pierced bodies flashed into his mind—two brutal deaths in quick succession—and he knew that the Brocktons might not have ten minutes. It’s up to me, he thought. I have to stop it. But how? Jesus God, how? Satterfield surely had a gun—maybe more than one. Tyler had nothing, not even a set of keys. Sweaty running clothes and his bare hands, that was all he had. It wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

CHAPTER 50

Brockton

I HEARD A CHORUSof muffled screams, including my own, when Satterfield cut off Kathleen’s finger. My heart was racing and my chest was heaving; with the duct tape over my mouth, I couldn’t get enough air, and felt close to blacking out. Calm down, I commanded myself. Calm down. Breathe. Think. If you panic instead of thinking, everybody dies. At death scenes—even gruesome ones, like the woman’s body pinned to the tree by arrows—I was generally able to distance myself from the horror; to look at the scene as a puzzle. Could I do that now? I didn’t know, but it seemed our only hope.

Satterfield laid Kathleen’s finger on the table, along with the gardening shears, and picked up his gun again. I forced myself to observe his face, his movements, his surroundings, as if he were a research subject.

Over his shoulder, I suddenly glimpsed movement—a reflection in the sliding-glass door? No, I realized with a shock. Something—someone—outside the door, out on the patio. I waited and watched, tuning out the sights and sounds and horrors closer at hand. There it was again—a face! My God—Tyler’s face! Perhaps there was a glimmer of hope.

But it was faint, and it was fleeting. We didn’t have much time—maybe not even time for Tyler to go next door and call the police. If the police did come, and if Satterfield heard them, he’d kill us swiftly, before they could stop him.

It’s up to Tyler, I thought desperately, and then thought despairingly, How? It would take a miracle. The word itself— miracle —gave me an idea. It was an absurd idea, but it was the only idea I had.

I shifted my focus back to Satterfield. I had to get his attention; I had to persuade him to take the tape off my mouth. I grunted his name, as best I could through the tape: Nnn-nn-nnn. NNN-nn-nnn. He looked at me quizzically. NNN-nn-nnn!

Now his expression changed to amusement. “Are you speaking to me?” I nodded, praying. “You have something important to say?” I nodded again. “What could you possibly say that would interest me now? ‘I’m sorry?’ Too late. ‘Kill me first?’ Not a chance.” I shook my head firmly. “You really mean it, don’t you? You actually think you have something to say.” I nodded. Don’t look desperate, I urged myself. Look strong. Look smart. Look like you know something he needs to know. “Tell you what,” he said finally. “We’ll play a game. I’ll let you talk for ten seconds. If you scream, I shoot your wife. If you bore me, I shoot your son. Deal?”

I nodded again. It was an easy deal to make; we were all dead anyhow.

With his left hand, he pressed the muzzle of the gun to my temple. With his right, he picked up the gardening shears and brought the tips of the blades to my face. For a moment I expected him to cut off my nose, but he turned the tool sideways and slit the duct tape. I drew a deep breath—the air felt precious—and then I began to speak, softly at first, then gradually louder: “And the Lord God said, Behold, the man is become as one of us, with knowledge of good and evil. And the Lord looked at the garden, and he drove them from it.” Satterfield stared at me as if I’d lost my mind, and perhaps I had. I wasn’t counting the seconds, but he hadn’t shot anyone—not yet, at least. The next part was the important part. Please be out there, Tyler, I prayed. Please listen. Please understand. “And in the garden he placed an angel,” I went on, with rising fervor, like an old-time preacher. “An angel with spreading wings and a mighty sword. So that if any evildoer should come therein, the angel could fly at him with the sword, and smite the evil one, like the whirling hammer of the Lord God Almighty.”

CHAPTER 51

Tyler

JESUS GOD, THOUGHT TYLER,his mind racing and his heart pounding as Brockton’s ravings—his coded message—sank in. How many years since Tyler’s last track meet? Three? No, four: his sophomore year of undergrad. Could he even do it anymore? No point worrying about it; given the situation, it was do or die. More like try and die, he thought grimly.

Squatting beside the concrete angel in the garden—this had to be what Brockton meant—he curled his fingers beneath the wings and hoisted the statue a few inches off the ground, swinging it slowly back and forth like a pendulum, getting the feel of it. It didn’t feel right: The wings were too wide; his hands were too far apart, and the angel’s head was pressing into his belly. Worse, he could tell that if he released one wing before the other—even a microsecond before the other—the statue would tumble out of control and miss its mark. Frowning, he laid it down and studied it, circling it like a wary dog. Halfway around, he had an idea. Squatting again, he gripped the angel by the thin, circular base beneath the feet and straightened, then swayed to set it swinging, this time head down. Better, he thought. Much better. The mass and balance weren’t exactly the same as the hammer’s—the statue felt much heavier; maybe thirty pounds rather than sixteen—but he wouldn’t be throwing for distance, only for accuracy. It would do. It had to do.