“You’re my backup. I need you to stay alert. From the smell, whatever’s down there is injured and whoever was here has covered their tracks and left.” Kane gave him a long, steady look. Keeping his expression bland, he gripped Rowley’s shoulder. “Brace yourself for the worst-case scenario. It’s probably Sarah.” He strolled toward the barn, head erect and back straight. Showing fear to a young deputy was not an option.
At times like these, he valued the years of intense training to withstand torture, hardship, and graphic bloodshed, yet no amount of dehumanizing deleted the memories. The moment he took the first step into the cellar, the smell of blood engulfed him, sending horrific visions dancing across his memory. The eyes of the dead held secrets. The innocents, the monsters, God help him he had witnessed murder in every form and had not hardened at the sight of it.
Pushing the ugliness aside, he squared his shoulders and moved down the steps, swinging the white beam before him. A scratching noise came from the void and he reached for his weapon. The Glock 22 slid into his hand, warm from his body heat. He pressed the flashlight along the muzzle and aimed the beam ahead. A pulse pounded in his ears with each step into total darkness. The dark, stinking pit closed in behind him, and the hairs on his body prickled at the threat of danger.
He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to regain control. The life of a cop was not like TV’s emotionless, unfeeling robots who strolled into a crime scene without breaking a sweat. Man, he had seen men’s faces after witnessing a gruesome murder and the horror reflected in their eyes. Before his injury, he could walk into danger, remain calm, and force his brain to evaluate a situation in a clinical way even as it screamed commands to run. Now, the constant throbbing in his head reminded him of his mortality. He gripped the handle of his Glock and the small action infused him with courage. One thing for sure, he could trust his aim.
The flashlight hit a long, red-brick passageway. At the end yawned a dark opening covered in torn, dust-laden cobwebs. A layer of dirt had been disturbed, perhaps swept as if to conceal who had entered the room in the past few days. He continued downward then as if another entrance had opened ahead; a light stinking breeze puffed dust into his eyes. This time a musky overtone like the smell of an athlete’s locker room laced the air. Flattening against the wall, he doused the light and waited, listening for any sound, then moved downward. “Black Rock Falls Sheriff’s Department. Sarah, are you down here?”
Nothing but the whistle of wind drifted past him.
At the bottom, the stench of fresh blood hit him like a train. He grimaced at the smell and turned on the flashlight. Easing around the corner into the room, and keeping his weapon raised, he waved the beam around the root cellar. The place was cleaner than expected, lined with shelves carrying bottles of dusty preserves. An old wooden chair sat in the middle of the room in front of a rusty metal table. He made out a pile of folded clothes and a pair of boots placed on one end and swallowed hard, recognizing the distinctive yellow windbreaker Sarah had worn during her visit to the station. He moved the light over a line of bunk beds. The row of four divided the space into two and obscured his view. “This is the Black Rock Falls County Sheriff’s Department. Is anyone down here?”
An ice-cold breeze brushed his cheek and he slid the light to the right, illuminating a ventilation shaft. A tar-like substance stuck to his boots, making a sucking sound each time he moved. He froze mid-stride and pointed the light directly at his feet. The black spots under his boots appeared to be blood spatter. This can’t be good. Keeping his back to the wall, he edged toward the beds. The smell increased and he pushed down the overpowering desire to run back to the barn. Anticipation cramped his gut and he bit back a moan then aimed the flashlight across the cellar floor.
It was a bloodbath.
A fall of blonde hair spread on the crimson ground, and blue eyes, so much like his sister’s, gazed at him in sightless despair. He recognized Sarah Woodward even though the once pretty face was blood-spattered and bruised. A mixture of anger and despair surged through him and he bit back the desire to run to her side. He gathered his senses and took in the scene, quartering the area to search for evidence, then something moved and he stiffened, his trigger finger dropping into place. Small red eyes reflected in the flashlight’s beam, and as if on command, a number of rats turned from their feast and vanished into the abyss. His stomach lurched and he squeezed his eyes shut to block out the revulsion.
With a heavy heart, he moved around the perimeter of the room as close as possible to Sarah, avoiding the blood to preserve the crime scene, then passed the light over her naked body. A wide red smile cut deep across Sarah’s slender neck, exposing the spine, and from the deep defensive wounds to her hands and arms, she had fought for her life. He pressed one hand against the wall then turned, and holstering his weapon, he retraced his steps. Bursting out of the root cellar, he ignored Rowley’s gibbering and strode out into the fresh air, off the path, and into a snow-covered garden. He sucked in deep breaths and puked on the fresh snow.
Thirty-Three
Desperately trying to push the image of Sarah from his mind, Kane leaned his back against the tree and blinked back the tears stinging his eyes.
“Oh, shit. You’ve left a trail of blood behind you. Did you find Sarah?” Rowley appeared at his side, his face pale. “Is she dead?”
“Yeah.”
“Sheriff Alton wants to speak to you.” Rowley stuck the satellite phone in his hands.
Kane wiped his boots in the snow then swallowed the bile rushing up the back of his throat. He lifted the phone. “Jenna?”
“Yeah. What’s happening out there?”
“Sarah Woodward is dead.”
“Sarah? Oh, no. Did she have an accident?”
“No, she’s been murdered.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s real bad. We’ll need help from the State Forensic Science Division. This murder goes way over the capabilities of a small-town ME.”
“I’ve contacted the Montana State Crime Lab about the body in the barrel case. They are sending people down from the FSD. They’ll arrive first thing in the morning.”
“Okay, good. Call them back and see if they can get down here now.” Kane shook his head to dispel the image of Sarah from his mind. “I found her in the root cellar. We’ll need a generator and lights on hand for when the FSD officers arrive.” He rubbed his throbbing temple, trying to calm his shattered nerves. “This is no thrill kill. It looks well planned. Whoever did this has cleaned the site, and apart from the blood spatter, the place looks spotless. They’ve even swept the driveway. I didn’t make out any footprints or recognizable tire marks anywhere.”
“No evidence at all?”
“Not what I could see with a flashlight in the root cellar but I haven’t had more than a quick look around the barn. We found the SUV parked over the hatch to the cellar, and my main concern was for Sarah’s safety. It’s pitch-black down there and I stepped in a patch of blood so I’ve contaminated the scene with my footprints. Although, I didn’t go near the body, I kept to the wall.”
“Did you check for a pulse? Try CPR?”
“No. The laceration to her neck goes to the spine and it was obvious she is deceased. There was no need to check for a pulse. The blood spatter is over a wide area and I would have contaminated the scene further.” He paused to gather his wits. The image of Sarah played a re-run reel in his mind. “We’ll need to secure the root cellar and we don’t have enough men to run twenty-four-hour surveillance. I don’t want any officer doing single shifts until we catch the killer and I’m not leaving here until forensics have been over this place with a fine-toothed comb.”
“No problems with the men and equipment.” Jenna let out a long, frustrated sigh. “I’ll grab some provisions and join you.”
Kane gripped the phone and moved away from Rowley. “Bring Walters with you. I don’t think anyone should be traveling the back roads alone.”
“Do you think it’s the same perpetrator as the barrel murder?”