Cutting the engine, I pull on my gloves and get out. The frigid air stings my face, slithers down my collar as I pass beneath the massive overhead door. Inside the behemoth structure, the wind whines like an injured dog. A stained mattress and two fifty-gallon drums riddled with jagged holes from a shotgun lay scattered haphazardly. Half a dozen trash bags have been piled against the far wall of the truck aisle, several torn open by roaming dogs or raccoons.
A few yards away a padlock hangs on the office door. The concrete walkway is cracked as if by some massive earthquake. Winter-brown grass juts from between the crumbling gaps, nature trying to reclaim what had once been hers. The weigh platform has sunk a foot into the ground. At the end of the truck aisle, a second overhead door, knocked off its track by vandals or the wind, hangs at a precarious angle. Beyond, steel piping that had once fed grain from the silos to waiting trucks transects the night sky.
The task before us is overwhelming and macabre. I don’t know where to start. I wonder what will be left of the corpse. Bones? Clothing? Will we even be able to find the makeshift grave? Looking down, I stomp the ground, find it frozen solid, and I’m glad I thought to bring the pickax.
Standing next to me, Jacob huddles more deeply into his coat. “I have not been to this place since that night.”
I’ve driven past the elevator a thousand times, but never stopped. Just driving by was enough to give me the creeps. Every time the PD received a call about activity out here, I dispatched someone else.
Hands on his hips, my brother looks around as if trying to get his bearings.
“Where do we dig?” I prompt.
“I am not certain.”
“What do you mean you’re not certain?”
“I stayed outside with the buggy that night. Datt dug the grave, not me.” Frustration churns inside me, but I hold my tongue. Leaving him, I walk to the Explorer. I open the rear door and pull out two shovels, bolt cutters and the pickax, and lean the tools against the quarter panel.
Jacob walks the length of the building, studying the ground, his head moving from side to side as if he’s lost something.
I leave the tools and cross to him. “We have to find the grave,” I say.
He shrugs. “Perhaps we can look for disturbed earth.”
I suspect any earth that was disturbed sixteen years ago has long since settled. Staving off a terrible sense of hopelessness, I look around, searching for anything that might offer a clue. “Where did you enter the building that night?”
Jacob motions toward the wrecked overhead door at the far end. “It was in working order back then. I stayed with the buggy. Datt dragged the body . . .” He lets the sentence dangle. “It was dark. Raining. The horse was skittish. We were soaked to the skin. Scared. For ourselves.” His eyes land on me. “For you. I’d never seen Datt so . . . distraught. He was muttering to himself. Praying for God to forgive us.”
I’ve never heard Jacob speak of that night. His words conjure memories I’ve spent half my life trying to forget. My sister on her knees in the kitchen, mopping blood off the floor. Mamm washing the curtains in water tinged pink. Me sitting in a bathtub filled with scalding water, my body scrubbed raw but not clean. A small, hated part of me wishing I was dead, too.
Shoving the past aside, I approach Jacob, reminding myself I’m a grown woman now. A cop with the resolve to see this through no matter how difficult. “Let’s spread out.”
I don’t wait for his response. I’ve already decided I can only give this grisly excursion a few hours. I need to work on the more pressing aspects of the case. If we can’t find the grave tonight, I’ll have to come back.
Jacob wanders toward the overhead door at the far end of the aisle. I look around, trying to put myself in my father’s head. It was summertime. Storming. Dark. He was upset. Horrified by what had happened to his daughter, perhaps even more horrified by what she had done. He had a body to dispose of. A family to protect. Where would he bury the evidence?
I find myself studying the weigh platform. The wood planks are covered with decades of dirt, oily grime and gravel. The smell of creosote mingles with the breathtaking cold. Setting down the Mag-Lite, I pick up one of the shovels and wedge the blade between the steel frame and the edge of the platform. I put my weight into it and lean. The platform emits a groan, but doesn’t budge.
“Katie! Over here.”
I look up to see my brother standing near the rear door, looking down at a small mound of earth. “I found something.”
Snagging the pickax, I approach and hand it to him. “Dig.”
Without looking at me, Jacob sets down his flashlight, raises the pickax above his head and begins to whack away at the frozen ground, grunting with every swing.
I shine the beam of my Mag-Lite on the deepening hole and watch frozen chunks fly.
“Mein gott.” Jacob falls to his knees, digging with his gloved hands. “This must be it.”
Hope jumps through me. I go to my knees beside him and dig like a dog. My stomach lurches when I see a thatch of dark hair.
He sits back on his heels, his brows knit. “This is very shallow.”
“Gotta be it.” I continue digging, too caught up in the moment to consider his words. “Ground could have shifted. There sure as hell aren’t two bodies buried here.”