“We should probably tie some knots in it so we can climb out.”
“Good idea.” Leon took the rope over to a massive wood beam and tied one end around the base.
Jack reluctantly set to work on the rope, tying knots a foot apart so they’d have something to grip when they climbed out.
Within minutes, the rope was secure, knotted, and dangling into the pit. “How’re the batteries on that flashlight?” Leon asked.
“I just put ’em in.”
Leon looked at him, as if the gravity of what they were about to do was starting to sink in. “You want me to go down first?”
Relief slipped through Jack, but he didn’t let it show. Instead, he shrugged. “I’ll keep the light on you from up here.”
A grin spread across Leon’s face. “I can’t wait to tell everyone about this.” He went to the opening, picked up the rope, and looked down. “Wish I had some gloves.”
“Don’t fall, you idiot.”
Leon gave a cavalier wave and started into the hole. “Geronimo!” he cried, his voice echoing.
Jack held the flashlight steady and watched his friend descend. In less than a minute, Leon was standing at the base, looking up at him. “Nothin’ to it.”
“Here.” Jack tossed the flashlight at Leon, who caught it with one hand. Mr. Cool. “I’m coming down.”
The descent was easier than Jack had imagined. The rope bit into his palms, but war wounds were a good thing when you were about to ask Lori Deardorf to go steady. He couldn’t wait to brag about this.
When he reached the base of the pit, Leon was already lighting up. “Jeez, you could have waited on me.”
Leon shoved a cigarette at him. “Go for it, dude.”
Proud of himself for making it down without incident, Jack lit up, trying not to cough when the smoke hit the back of his throat. “This place is cool.”
“A lot of crap down here.”
“Lookit all this old corn and shit.”
“Bet there are rats down here.”
“Probably as big as fuckin’ groundhogs.”
The smoked in silence for a couple of minutes, and then Leon dropped his on the ground and crushed it beneath his foot.
Jack had just tossed his butt into the dirt and was about to step on it when something beneath a pile of wood caught his attention. “Hey Leon. What’s that? Over there?”
His friend turned around, walked to the dusty heap. “Looks like a rock.”
“I ain’t never seen a rock like that.”
Leon squatted, reached for a splintered two-by-four, and tossed it aside. Dust motes swirled when it landed in the dirt behind him. Next came a rusty one-gallon paint can. A piece of rotted cloth.
Kneeling beside him, Jack reached for the rock, tugged it from its ancient nest. “I got it.” It was smaller than a soccer ball, but too lightweight to be a rock.
“I bet it’s a dog skull,” Leon said with a nervous giggle. “Look at them eye holes.”
“Musta been a big dog.” Jack brought it to him, blew the dust off, and turned it over in his hands.
“Holy shit!” Leon sprang to his feet.
Jack Mott stared down at the human skull in his hands, and then he started to scream.
*
The Voss Brothers Body Shop sits at the edge of town next to a junkyard that’s enclosed by a tall corrugated barrier fence. I pull into the pothole-laden lot, steering the Explorer around holes large enough to swallow a tire. A small frame house with a big stump in the yard serves as the office. Through the door I see a heavyset man in bib overalls behind the counter, watching us. Though the Explorer is clearly marked with the Painters Mill PD insignia, he makes no move to greet us.
The shop consists of a large metal building with two overhead doors in front. One of the doors stands open and I see a silver Toyota Camry on a hydraulic lift. A shop light dangles from the undercarriage and two men in coveralls squint up at the bottom side of the engine. Parked next to the building, an SUV that looks as if it’s been run through an auto crusher waits its turn.
I park adjacent the office and Rasmussen and I get out. We’re midway to the door when a man yells, “Hey!”
We turn simultaneously to see a large, round-bodied man clad in denim bib overalls striding toward us. His gray hair and weatherworn face tell me he’s well into his sixties. “I’m Bob Voss.” From ten feet away, he sticks out his hand, leaves it extended as he closes the space between us.
Rasmussen and I identify ourselves. When we shake, Voss grins from ear to ear. “I’ve never met a lady cop before.”
“There’s a first time for everything,” I tell him.
“Thank goodness for that,” he says with a chuckle.
Rasmussen gets right down to business. “You called the hotline about a customer that had the front end of his truck reinforced.”
“Hope I ain’t wasting your time. But when I saw the news about that hit-and-run kilt that Amish family, I remembered this guy bringing in a truck. I thought I should let someone know.”