whistled.
Joe said, “Hold it. These guys were
armed
?
Armed
EPA people?”
“We haven’t found any bodies yet,” Norwood cautioned Joe.
“Still,” Joe said, incredulous.
—
T EN MINUTES LATER one of the deputies with a shovel called out, “Got a body.”
Sheriff Reed pursed his lips and rotated back on his wheels, then set the chair down. It was an involuntary reaction, Joe thought, as if Reed were shuffling his feet after hearing bad news. Reed whispered, “Damn it.”
Another deputy said, “I’m pretty sure we’ve got two.”
Norwood hovered around the pit taking photographs, the flash popping.
Joe left Reed and walked to the mound, which was now a shallow pit. He saw a young, waxen, square-jawed face that appeared to be looking up and out of the ground, eyes open. There was a single black hole in the brow. Next to the face was the profile of another man, older, turned on his side, his eyes closed as if sleeping. The arm of the older man was flung over the chest of the first, as if trying to cuddle. Their skin was dirty, pale, and dry, as though it were made of plastic. Norwood’s camera exposed their dead white skin in bursts of flash.
Joe thought,
So indecent. So obscene. So without dignity in death.
Norwood retrieved two body bags from the back of Reed’s van and unfurled them on the grass.
“Keep digging,” Reed said from the perimeter. “Let’s hope there’s no more in there.”
Joe felt his stomach constrict. He turned and stumbled out of the lot, ducking under the yellow tape. He tried to hold in his nausea, and succeeded until he heard retching from one of the new deputies. Then he bent forward, his hands on his knees, until there was nothing left in his stomach.
—
H E HEARD THE HEAVY bass beat of helicopter blades before he saw the lights in the still dusk sky. From the cab in his SUV, Woods said to Reed, “It’s the Feds. They sent up a bird from Denver, and they want to know where they can land.”
“Tell ’em the airport,” Reed said sourly.
“Sir,” Woods said, holding the mic away from him and covering it with his palm as though he wanted nothing more to do with it, “I think they want to land here.”
“What, do they expect us to clear a landing zone like we’re in Vietnam?” Reed asked. “Tell them if they have to, they can land up on the road.”
“Will do,” Woods said, ducking back into his vehicle because the sound of the helicopter was filling the forest.
Joe looked up as the chopper appeared, hovering a hundred feet above the treetops. The wash of wind swayed the trees and caused clouds of pine needles to drop to the forest floor. A spotlight clicked on and bathed the lot and everyone within the tape in blinding white light.
“This is Special Agent Chuck Coon of the FBI.
Clear the crime scene immediately
,” came the amplified voice from the helicopter,
“and I mean immediately. Put those shovels down and step behind the tape until we give you the word.”
The deputies all looked toward Sheriff Reed, and Joe saw the man curse. Reed rarely cursed, so it surprised Joe. But the sound was so deafening he had to lip-read the words:
“Fucking Feds.”
Reluctantly, Reed motioned to his men to step back away, and they did so, grumbling.
“Coon,” Joe said to Reed. “Remember him? He usually doesn’t come on so strong.” Thinking:
Coon must have somebody senior to him up there in the chopper, barking commands.
Coon was Joe’s age, and he’d supervised the Cheyenne office of the FBI for several years. He was tightly wound and boyish-looking, with several children and a nice wife. Joe and Chuck Coon had been flung together on several cases, and despite the inherent bureaucratic tension, they’d gotten along well and Joe respected him.
The helicopter above them was still for a moment, then banked and flew above toward the road. As it did, Joe felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket, and he turned his back to the beating sound and opened his
Joe said, “Hold it. These guys were
armed
?
Armed
EPA people?”
“We haven’t found any bodies yet,” Norwood cautioned Joe.
“Still,” Joe said, incredulous.
—
T EN MINUTES LATER one of the deputies with a shovel called out, “Got a body.”
Sheriff Reed pursed his lips and rotated back on his wheels, then set the chair down. It was an involuntary reaction, Joe thought, as if Reed were shuffling his feet after hearing bad news. Reed whispered, “Damn it.”
Another deputy said, “I’m pretty sure we’ve got two.”
Norwood hovered around the pit taking photographs, the flash popping.
Joe left Reed and walked to the mound, which was now a shallow pit. He saw a young, waxen, square-jawed face that appeared to be looking up and out of the ground, eyes open. There was a single black hole in the brow. Next to the face was the profile of another man, older, turned on his side, his eyes closed as if sleeping. The arm of the older man was flung over the chest of the first, as if trying to cuddle. Their skin was dirty, pale, and dry, as though it were made of plastic. Norwood’s camera exposed their dead white skin in bursts of flash.
Joe thought,
So indecent. So obscene. So without dignity in death.
Norwood retrieved two body bags from the back of Reed’s van and unfurled them on the grass.
“Keep digging,” Reed said from the perimeter. “Let’s hope there’s no more in there.”
Joe felt his stomach constrict. He turned and stumbled out of the lot, ducking under the yellow tape. He tried to hold in his nausea, and succeeded until he heard retching from one of the new deputies. Then he bent forward, his hands on his knees, until there was nothing left in his stomach.
—
H E HEARD THE HEAVY bass beat of helicopter blades before he saw the lights in the still dusk sky. From the cab in his SUV, Woods said to Reed, “It’s the Feds. They sent up a bird from Denver, and they want to know where they can land.”
“Tell ’em the airport,” Reed said sourly.
“Sir,” Woods said, holding the mic away from him and covering it with his palm as though he wanted nothing more to do with it, “I think they want to land here.”
“What, do they expect us to clear a landing zone like we’re in Vietnam?” Reed asked. “Tell them if they have to, they can land up on the road.”
“Will do,” Woods said, ducking back into his vehicle because the sound of the helicopter was filling the forest.
Joe looked up as the chopper appeared, hovering a hundred feet above the treetops. The wash of wind swayed the trees and caused clouds of pine needles to drop to the forest floor. A spotlight clicked on and bathed the lot and everyone within the tape in blinding white light.
“This is Special Agent Chuck Coon of the FBI.
Clear the crime scene immediately
,” came the amplified voice from the helicopter,
“and I mean immediately. Put those shovels down and step behind the tape until we give you the word.”
The deputies all looked toward Sheriff Reed, and Joe saw the man curse. Reed rarely cursed, so it surprised Joe. But the sound was so deafening he had to lip-read the words:
“Fucking Feds.”
Reluctantly, Reed motioned to his men to step back away, and they did so, grumbling.
“Coon,” Joe said to Reed. “Remember him? He usually doesn’t come on so strong.” Thinking:
Coon must have somebody senior to him up there in the chopper, barking commands.
Coon was Joe’s age, and he’d supervised the Cheyenne office of the FBI for several years. He was tightly wound and boyish-looking, with several children and a nice wife. Joe and Chuck Coon had been flung together on several cases, and despite the inherent bureaucratic tension, they’d gotten along well and Joe respected him.
The helicopter above them was still for a moment, then banked and flew above toward the road. As it did, Joe felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket, and he turned his back to the beating sound and opened his
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