*
Beckett got the cadaver dog an hour before sunset. It came in the back of a marked cruiser, a black Lab named Solo on loan from the SBI office in Charlotte. “Hey, Charlie. Sorry about the holdup.” The handler was a young woman named Ginny. Early thirties. Athletic. She opened the back door and let the dog out. “You know that helicopter crash up in Avery County?”
“The tourist thing?”
“We’re still pulling bits and pieces off the mountainside.”
“Jeez…”
“Yeah, I know. Quite the production you have here.”
Beckett examined the scene with fresh eyes. Nineteen cars. Two dozen people. The body was gone, but crime-scene techs were scouring the church even as uniformed officers combed the grounds.
“Where’s Captain Dyer?”
“I don’t know,” Beckett said. “Some kind of PR push, probably. You understand what’s happening here?”
“Just that you found another body.”
“I want to make sure it’s the only one. Dog’s not too tired, is he? The crash and all?”
“You kidding? Look at him.”
Beckett did. The animal was bright-eyed and eager.
Ginny seemed eager, too. “Just tell me when.”
Beckett studied the sky, the line of dark trees. The sun would be down soon. The dog whined. “Do it,” he said.
Ginny slipped the leash.
*
He watched it happen from the same knoll across the valley. The dog. The way it moved.
Please, God …
He pushed the binoculars against his eyes. This part was not supposed to happen. The body on the altar, yes. But not his special place.
Not the others.
The dog moved up one side of the church, and back down the other. It stopped, backtracked, continued. The handler tracked it, light and quick herself. The dog’s agitation was unmistakable.
The church.
It was all the animal cared about. Back and forth, head down.
No, no, no …
He broke cover; couldn’t help it. Beckett was involved, now. He was unmistakable. The size. The shaggy head. His arm went up, and uniformed officers jogged for the church. Where was the dog?
No!
The dog plunged into a clump of bushes. Beckett was there. The handler.
No! No!
The dog was in the bushes.
Scrabbling.
Digging.
*
“All right. Back him off, back him away.” Beckett was in the bushes, the dog scratching at a small door in the foundation of the church. Two feet by two. Peeled paint. Wooden. “You have him?”
Ginny clipped the leash on the collar. “We’re good.”
When the dog was clear, Beckett examined the door. It was warped, and swollen. He dragged it open and peered into the dark space beyond. “Crawl space. Looks big.” He stood; found Ginny. The dog, beside her, was seated but intent on the door. Another whine sounded deep in its throat. “Your dog’s impatient.”
“That’s not a big enough word.” She ruffled the dog’s coat. “He wants under that church in the worst possible way.”
21
Faircloth Jones could not remember the last time he’d felt so fine. It was the purpose, he decided, the warm-in-his-bones belief that people needed him.
An old client.
A pretty woman.
He watched her across the rim of his glass. She was worn out. “Can I get you anything else? Another drink? Are you hungry, yet?”
They were in big chairs flanking the cold fireplace. Elizabeth had her shoes off, her feet drawn up beneath her. She smiled, and the old man felt another flutter.
“I think I’ll sleep,” she said. “Just for a bit. Will you stay?”
“Do you know what should happen?” He leaned forward, put his glass on the hearth. “A gathering.”
“There are just the two of us.”
“Exactly.”
He stood, grinning.
“Are you going?”
“Adrian should be here.” Faircloth removed a quilt from the cabinet and clutched it to his narrow chest. “It’s five o’clock now. You sleep for a few hours. Take a shower if you like. I’ll rescue Adrian from the tragic ruins in which I am certain he sits and collect takeout on the way back. We can have the dinner we should have had before. A celebration of life.”
“I’m not really in the mood to celebrate.”
“Yet even the most put-upon must eat.” He spread the quilt on her lap and lowered himself beside her. “You’re safe here. There’s nothing you need to do. No one is looking for you.”
“What about Channing?”
“Your young friend is beyond our reach for now; but tomorrow is another day, and her father’s lawyers are very skilled. I’ll approach them in the morning and suggest a council of war. There is a path, my dear. I assure you of that, and of every possible effort.”
“Thank you, Faircloth.” Her eyes drifted shut. “Thank you so very much.”
*
The old lawyer crossed the drive, his cane snapping out as the limousine driver climbed from the car. “A short drive,” Faircloth said. “A few more hours, then I’ll have you home to your family.”