“So Charley says.”
“You can’t believe a word out of his mouth,” she said flatly, but eyed the scene.
“Maybe this time he’s telling the truth.”
Her eyes flashed behind thin, plastic-rimmed glasses. “Yeah, right. And I’m the friggin’ queen of England. No, make that Spain. England’s too damned cold. Jesus, we’ve got ourselves a regular party up here.” She scanned the vehicles. “Is Charley still around?”
“In one of the pickups—over there.” Jacobosky hitched her chin toward a white truck idling near the end of the road. Montinello was at the wheel. Charley Perry was huddled in the passenger seat. “He’s not too happy about being kept up here,” Jacobosky added. “Making a whole lotta noise about wanting to get home and warm up.”
“Don’t blame him. I’ll talk to him.”
“Good,” Amanda said. “Be sure to have your bullshit meter with you.”
Carter laughed, took another long look at the grid that was the crime scene, then said to the Medical Examiner, “Let me know what you find out.”
“Soon as we sort it all out,” Messenger replied. He was still crouched over the remains. Didn’t bother looking up. “You’ll be the first to know.”
“Thanks.” Carter headed up the hillside and found Charley as cranky as ever. He was cradling a cup of coffee someone had brought up, but he glared through the passenger window at Carter as if he held the sheriff personally responsible for ruining his day. Carter tapped on the glass, and Charley reluctantly lowered the window.
“Are you arrestin’ me?” he demanded, short, silvery beard covering a strong, jutted chin. Angry eyes peered from behind thick glasses.
“No.”
“Then have one of your boys take me home. I done my duty, didn’t I? No need to treat me like some kind of damned prisoner.” He spat a long stream of tobacco juice through the window to land on the snowy dirt and gravel. Fortunately for Charley, this area wasn’t considered part of the crime scene.
“I just want to ask you some questions.”
“I been answerin’ ’em all mornin’!”
Carter smiled. “Just a few more, then I’ll have Deputy Montinello take you home.”
“Great,” Charley muttered, folding his arms over a thin chest. He cooperated, if reluctantly, and was right; he didn’t have any more information. He told Carter that he’d been out hunting, lost his dog, and found her down in the gully near the hollow log. He’d lifted the log and a skull had rolled out, nearly scaring him to death. “…and that’s all I know,” he added petulantly. “I half-ran home and called your office. And don’t you give me no grief ’bout huntin’ with Tanzy. I needed a trackin’ dog to get me back home,” he said, as if he realized he could be in trouble for hunting with a dog. Hurriedly he added, “Two of your men hauled me back up here a few hours back and I’m still freezin’ my butt off.”
“We all are, Charley,” Carter said, and slapped the door of the department’s truck. “Take him back home,” he said to Lanny Montinello before looking at Charley’s grizzled face again. “If you think of anything else, you’ll call, right?”
“’Course,” Charley said, though he didn’t meet Carter’s eyes and the sheriff suspected that the loner was stretching the truth. They’d never gotten along, not since Carter had debunked Charley’s Bigfoot story and had once threatened to call the game warden about Charley poaching deer. No, Charley Perry wasn’t likely to call again, not if he had to speak to the sheriff. Carter glanced at Montinello and said, “Take him home.” The interview was over.
“Will do.” Montinello slid the pickup into gear, and Carter slapped the door a couple of times as Charley rolled up the window. Within seconds the truck disappeared around a stand of old growth that was as dense as it was tall. The firs loomed high, seeming to scrape the steel-colored bellies of the clouds just as the first drops of icy rain began to fall.
Carter shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his parka and looked down the hillside to the crime scene crawling with investigators. The unknown woman’s partial skeleton was stretched out on the plastic sheet. Amanda Pratt was standing a few yards off, smoking a cigarette and hashing it out with Luke Messenger. In the midst of it all was the corpse, with her filed teeth and bits of pink gunk in her hair.
Who was she and what the hell was she doing up in this isolated part of no-damned-where?
CHAPTER 2
Click!
The French doors opened.
A gust of wind, cold as all of winter, swept inside the darkened house. Near-dead embers in the fireplace glowed a brighter red. The old dog lying on the rug near Jenna’s chair lifted his head and let out a low, warning growl.
“Shh!” the intruder hissed.
Jenna’s eyes narrowed as she squinted at the silhouette easing into the large great room. As dark as it was, she recognized her oldest daughter slinking toward the stairs. Just as she’d expected. Great. One more teenager sneaking home in the middle of the night.
“Hush, Critter!” Cassie whispered angrily, her voice sharp as she tiptoed to the stairs.
Jenna snapped on a nearby lamp.