Aric Davis - The Fort

“I brought shit to do molds,” Tracy said, “but I knew you’d blow a damn gasket if I did them before you could walk around and do all your stuff.”

“I appreciate that,” said Van Endel. “You had a look at the body. Our missing girl is one hundred twenty-five pounds, give or take, and she’s listed at five feet, four inches. That anywhere close to a match with this girl?”

“That’s where it gets tough, with this sort of barbecue. First glance, the woman in this pit figures to stand about five foot, tops, but people shrink as they burn. Think of the last time you cooked a steak.”

“We get it, Tracy,” said Dr. Martinez.

“Can the kitchen references, then,” said Tracy, grinning. “Anyways, our girl here got cooked with an accelerant, could be gas, but I’m thinking hotter. Bones crack from that kind of heat, which further degrades our ability to nail down a positive ID. So where we’re at now is, we’ve got a young lady who may or may not be Molly Peterson, but who most certainly was killed and burned to death roughly forty-eight hours ago, give or take about four hours.”

“That seriously the best we can do?” said Van Endel.

Tracy knelt next to the sheet-covered body and slipped on a pair of white latex gloves. He removed the weights securing the blanket that covered the corpse until it would be placed in a body bag, and then pulled it from the top half of the girl.

“To be perfectly honest, Detective,” said Tracy, “I think we’re doing pretty fucking good with what we’ve been left. Once I get her to the lab, I’ll be able to pin the time of death down a little closer, but sometimes, what you see is what you get.”

“Poor girl,” said Dr. Martinez softly under her breath, then made the sign of the cross across her chest.

Molly, or whoever it was, had been burned to almost nothing. Her skin was ash, covering not-quite-burned red flesh, along with white and yellow fat. Her eyes were gone, and her arms were folded up unnaturally, as the fire had forced her limbs to tighten. Her neck was tilted back as far as her spine would allow, her mouth open as though she were still trying to scream. The teeth were destroyed, just as Van Endel and Martinez had been told they were. If Tracy can get an ID from those, he’s even better than he says he is. Van Endel stared death in the face for a few moments longer, and when he looked away, he saw that Dr. Martinez had turned as well.

“Cover her up,” said Van Endel.

Tracy did, moving around the body deftly, taking care not to put his feet too near her. There would be time for poking and prodding later, but that was for the lab, not where she lay now.

“You see what I mean?” Tracy asked when he stood up. “That girl is gone. I’ll do my best—you guys know that—but I’m not sure there’s anything here to learn, aside from the fact that it was one evil motherfucker who did this to her.” Two stretcher-bearing EMTs interrupted him as they walked down the path.

“I want everything you can get,” said Van Endel, “even the stuff you think is nothing, all right?”

Tracy nodded, and Van Endel and Dr. Martinez made their way back up the path to the detective’s car.

They were silent for the most part as they drove, Van Endel processing the day so far, and Dr. Martinez no doubt doing the same. The boys’ prank had done this much good, anyway: it had launched the search that had led a police dog to the corpse. Not that they’d meant to do it, of course, but it was something, and it was far more than he’d had to go on before. It was tough to feel anything but bad about it, though. Finding the body eliminated hope completely. Molly had been found, just not the right way.

“You’re going to find him, Dick,” said Dr. Martinez. “You have to. I know that you feel a life is a life, and that this girl’s death should be no more important than any of this bastard’s other victims, and I agree with that. But the brutality of this…there was just no reason to ruin her the way he did, none at all.”

“Unless we’re missing something and there is a reason. It would hardly be a surprise at this point. Everyone else is messing with us, why not throw in a perp with motivations that are impossible to understand?”

There was something tugging at Van Endel’s brain, and he let it work away while they drove to a pay phone so he could tell Chief Jefferson he was going to need to make a horrible phone call.

I’m missing something, but what?

28

Hooper woke alone, his face glued by sweat to the thick shag of the carpet in the front room. The phone was ringing in the kitchen, and he stood unsteadily to make his way to it. He tried to swallow, but his mouth felt pasted shut. He turned on the sink and sank his head into its metal bowl to drink. Finally, he pulled himself out and answered the still-ringing phone.

“Hello,” said Hooper.

“Hoop? That you?” said a voice that Hooper could recognize but not place with his scrambled brain. He sat heavily on the floor, the phone teetering ominously on the counter as he sank to the ground.

“Yeah, this is Hooper. Who’s this?”

“Carl, buddy. You sound like shit. Everything OK?”

Hooper smiled despite the pain in his leg and the throbbing in his head. Thank God it was just Carl. “No, I’m sicker than a dying dog. Fucking summer colds are the worst.”

“You’re damn straight they are. Listen, I was just calling to confirm working on the car tomorrow, but I figure you’re probably not up for that.”

Hooper smiled again. He’d forgotten about his plans for tomorrow completely. “No, sorry, man. I got to take a pass on that. I’ll let you know when I’m better. We can hook up.”

“That’d be great. My crazy stepson got into some shit today. Wait’ll you hear it. It will blow your mind. I’d been feeling like he and I were the only sane ones over here, but now I’m on my own. Him and his buddies just went batshit.”

“Can’t wait,” said Hooper, his vision blurring. What the fuck did he care about Carl’s kids?

“Listen, I’m not doing anything,” Carl said. “Why don’t I have Beth make you up some of her famous chicken soup, and I can run it on over?”

“No,” said Hooper, too quickly and too harshly. “I don’t want to pass this thing around. Trust me, it’s a killer.” He chuckled. “Believe me, do yourself a favor and stay away from here for a day or two, all right?”

“All right, buddy,” said Carl, but Hooper was still afraid his friend really thought he should stop by. And if he does I’ll probably have to kill him. He’d call an ambulance if he saw me now, and once they dig that bullet out of my leg the cops will get a warrant in no time. “But if you change your mind,” continued Carl, “let me know, OK?”

“Will do,” said Hooper, before pulling the phone off of the counter onto the floor with a crash, righting the base, and then replacing the handset to disconnect the call. Christ.

He was thirstier and more nauseous than he’d ever been since Vietnam. He slowly pulled himself up and slid, using the counter as support, to the sink. He turned on the water and then stuck his head under the basin as he’d done the last time. The water was cold, and the shock of it against his warm skin was glorious, as was drinking oceans of it as the liquid poured from the faucet. Without removing his head from the sink, Hooper opened the cupboard closest to it and let his fingers fumble around until he’d extracted two glasses. He pulled his head free and filled them both with water, set the glasses on the counter, and then stripped off the jeans he was wearing. He suppressed a scream as they came off of his right leg, and then he shook them loose onto the floor.