I know how Jimmy thinks.
I know that he’s not so much trying to convince Walt and the others that have started to gather around the table, he’s trying to convince himself. His instincts are right, of course; they usually are. We’ve done enough of these types of searches that we’ve become experts on serial killer behavior. We may not be profilers, but we know how they dispose of their victims, how they hide themselves in plain sight, and how they keep their victims either very close or far away. If Zell was in these hills, it was for one reason and one reason only.
“Steps and I will follow Bully Choop to the extreme northern end of our search grid and then we’ll work our way south from there. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
Walt nods. “Good. That’s a good plan. We’ll start where we left off yesterday and maybe we’ll all meet someplace in the middle.” He tips his head toward the Icom on Jimmy’s belt. “How’s the battery in your radio?”
“Still full. Barely used it yesterday.”
“Yeah, well, let’s hope today is different.”
*
Bully Choop Road proves to be less of a road and more of a dirt byway, which is encouraging because it’s the type of road Zell would have chosen. We follow it for the better part of two miles before parking the truck and off-loading the Kawasakis. I have no trouble starting the Brute Force this morning, having mastered every element of the ATV during our lengthy acquaintance yesterday.
We ride for an hour, then two.
We keep the speed between ten and twenty miles an hour: fast enough to cover lots of ground; slow enough to see all the shine. I can already feel a dull ache festering behind my eyes, a harbinger of the headache to come. When we reach a straightaway, I take my hands off the steering wheel and root around in my jacket pocket for the ibuprofen bottle. I can’t reach my CamelBak, so I swallow the three pills without benefit of water.
They go down hard.
The terrain is little different from what we saw yesterday: naked, shrubby hillside transitioning to pockets of forest, then back to naked hillside. The forests aren’t as dense as those farther to the north, for which I’m thankful. They’re also dispersed and small enough so that when we ride through, we’re usually out the other side before my phobia starts to kick in.
As the trees and rocks flicker by, Jimmy and I banter back and forth over the headsets, small talk to keep our spirits up while time and futile miles slowly pull us down into despair. We talk about my book collection and Ellis’s hat collection and Jane and little Pete. We talk about the upcoming kitchen remodel and our mutual lack of confidence that we can pull it off without destroying half the house.
We talk about Jimmy’s mom.
She died when he was five. It’s part of the reason he’s so interested in the afterlife. Not that we all don’t wonder what comes after, but when you lose someone close to you at such a young age, that question steps forward from the shadows and raises its voice. You can never put it back in the shadows after such a loss. It begs to be answered.
I know there’s something after.
I’ve seen it.
I just don’t know what it is.
*
We’re halfway through hour three when I see it: Sad Face—Zell—spilled upon the side of the road in front of me in brilliant amaranth and rust … but there’s something wrong.
“I’ve got him!” I bark to Jimmy as I come to a sudden, rattling stop and practically leap off the quad. “He parked a vehicle right here, and then walked off toward the northeast. His footsteps are staggered, heavy, like he was carrying something.”
“Or someone.”
“Exactly.” I stare at the shine more intently, studying it, dissecting it, filtering it like I’ve learned to do so well over the years. “This isn’t right, Jimmy.”
“How so?”
“These tracks are old, at least a year—maybe two or three … and he was here on at least two separate occasions.” I walk along the edge of the road twenty feet and stop. “The first time, he parked here, exited the driver’s seat, walked to the back of the vehicle. After that he walked off and headed down that trail.” I point to a lightly used animal trail that starts about ten feet off the road.
I make my way back to Jimmy.
“The second time, he parked right here. Same routine: out the driver’s door, around to the back of the vehicle—”
I freeze. Dear God!
It’s on the ground before me, just a brief touch no larger than a silver dollar. Maybe it was a heel, or an elbow. Maybe it was the palm of her hand as she tried to get away. Dead color, without pulse, faded by time. It’s starting to make sense, and I shiver at the realization.
“Come on.” I don’t wait to see if Jimmy’s following, I just charge after the shine. Sad Face’s trail stays to the animal path a short distance and then turns to the west. It doesn’t take long. A hundred and fifty feet into the scrub I find them, scars upon the ground, his shine all around them. The dirt covering the two graves has settled over the years, blending back into the surroundings by some degree, but the shine outlines them as clearly as yellow police tape around a crime scene.
Two graves, two distinct shines. I recognize them both.
I see where he laid their bodies while he dug the grave. One of them was still alive; she tried to get away. Bound hand and foot, she moved by the tiniest of increments as he toiled with the shovel. It took ten incremental moves to gain the first foot, less for the second foot, and soon she was ten feet from the monster at his hole. Distance gave her courage and she began in earnest, pulling with her bound wrists and pushing with her bound feet.
She found a rock.
It’s an old piece of granite the size of a football, but with a large chunk broken off; it leaves an edge, not sharp but enough.