"I've heard this rant before," Jason cracked. "You prefer painting messages on the walls of caves."
The bell ended further debate on the pros and cons of modern communication.
"Until the next." Chance rolled a wave as he and Jason ambled off.
"You're beginning to attract some real whack-jobs, " Hi said when the two were out of earshot.
"Mm-hm." On their own, my eyes followed Chance.
"At least they didn't blow me off. Gotta give them credit."
"Bro? " I teased.
"He caught me off guard." A touch defensive.
Heading inside, I shook the scene from my mind. We had a job to do soon. Perhaps a gruesome discovery to make.
Focus. Forget Chance Claybourne.
Just a few more hours to kill.
CHAPTER 23
Disembarking the Charleston-Morris ferry, we raced to our homes to change. The temperature and humidity were cranking again, and I looked forward to sliding into a T-shirt and shorts. Besides, ties and blazers aren't haute couture for digging up graves.
By the time the gang regrouped on the common, Mr. Blue's ferry was fast disappearing across the harbor. Coast clear. We hopped into Sewee and headed to Loggerhead.
The tide was out, so we couldn't take the shortcut through the sandbars. That added fifteen minutes, but Ben wouldn't risk grounding the boat. Not after his mishap in Schooner Creek.
Today we anchored off Dead Cat Beach. Shelton's idea. A western landing put us closer to Y-7's clearing. Equally important, we avoided any potential encounter with Karsten at the main dock.
I waded ashore, canvas duffel balanced on my shoulders. My second gift from Aunt Tempe. Admittedly, excavation tools are a peculiar present to a newfound niece. But my aunt, by all accounts, is a peculiar woman.
The gift scored a direct hit with me. Tempe seemed to get me without even trying. Better than Kit, that's for sure.
Once on land, we hunted for the main trail exiting Dead Cat. The boys were being helpful, carrying the buckets and other bulky gear. But I detected an undercurrent of impatience. They didn't want to be on Loggerhead, were taking me largely on faith.
At school I'd laid out my theory, referencing the satellite photos. The guys granted that I wasn't crazy, but I suspected they were mainly humoring me. Fair enough. They came. That's what mattered.
"There," was all Ben said before disappearing into the trees. We hurried to follow him onto the path.
Minutes later we located the smaller, north-bearing trail. We hiked in silence through dense forest until spotting the clearing. Y-7 and her troop were nowhere in sight.
From the field's edge, the signs that had roused my suspicions were barely noticeable. The ground slump, visible as a subtle shadow in the center of the clearing, was no more than six feet in diameter. Small wonder it hadn't registered on our first visit.
Moving close to the depression, I saw other indicators of decomposition. The vegetation was thicker and composed of multiple plant species. The rest of the clearing was nothing but grass. Some leaves appeared more waxy than normal.
"I wish we had a cadaver dog," I said.
"A what?" Shelton asked.
"A dog trained to alert on the smell of human decomposition. Some body dogs are expert at locating skeletons, even really old ones."
"Gross," Ben said.
"While you're at it, wish for ground penetrating radar, surface probes, and a metal detector," said Hi. "Back order on those toys, too."
"Then we do it old school." Shelton flexed one twig arm. "Manpower!"
I examined the depression to determine how big our excavation needed to be. Then, after a visual scan, I removed all surface debris from a ten-foot square.
Next, I created a simple grid by pounding four wooden stakes into the ground and running string between them, forming an outer perimeter. After unfolding a portable sifting screen, I pulled collapsible shovels from my bag and handed them to my reluctant recruits.
"You macho men can offload topsoil into buckets," I instructed. "I'll screen. At the first sign of staining we'll switch to trowels."
"Staining?" asked Ben.
"Any change in soil color, texture, or composition could mean a body's nearby. If you spot any discoloration, call out."
Hi raised a hand.
"Yes?"
"This sucks."
"Got it. Dig."
We removed the first eighteen inches in roughly an hour. The guys scooped, I sifted through quarter-inch mesh screening, watching closely for bone fragments, bits of clothing, jewelry, anything not native to the earth.
The conversation went something like this:
"This blows." Shelton.
"I said that." Hi.
"You said it sucks." Shelton.
"Same concept." Hi. "When can I work the screen?"
I didn't bother responding.
They shoveled.
I sifted.
Two more hours took us down another two feet. Nothing.
I started to feel foolish. The boys grew crankier.
The heat and humidity weren't helping. Nor was the fact that a call had gone out to every biting insect native to the Lowcounty. Maybe some outsiders.