Page 15 of Cold, Cold Bones
Deep breath. Ill advised, given the circumstances.
I stepped to the bench and inserted the pole into the opening. Compared to his sawing, George’s flashlight skills were top-notch. I quickly found the handles and maneuvered the hook, testing and re-testing until I felt resistance.
Bit by bit, I altered the angle of the pole. The bag was heavier than I’d expected.
Or was it?
A human head weighs roughly ten pounds.
Inch by inch, I levered the bag toward the opening. I felt like an angler reeling in a fish.
A clumsy angler. My fingers were stiff from the cold and, halfway up, let the pole roll in their grasp. The bag swayed wildly.
“Crap!”
George startled and the beam veered.
I adjusted my grip. The bag remained firmly snagged on the handles.
“Sorry,” I said.
The light settled.
When the bag was finally level with the hole, George set down his flashlight and dragged my catch two-handed onto the bench.
Way to go, boy genius.
“Shit, that stinks.”
“It does,” I agreed.
“That’s a Target bag,” George observed while wiping his hands on his pants. “I can see the red bull’s-eye.”
Again, I agreed. Then, “To get decent photos I need better light.”
“Right.” This time the boy genius didn’t reach out.
I lifted our booty between my palms as George had done.
Jesus, it stank.
Careful not to stumble, I carried the bag outside and set it on the ground.
Four eyes watched as I changed gloves, filled out a case identifier, then shot more pics. When I’d finished, Slidell produced a Swiss Army Knife, thumbed open the blade, and handed it to me.
I kneeled beside the bag.
Heart drumming, I slit the plastic.
4
The stench was enough to flatten a greenhorn.
And did. Or maybe it was the sight.
George landed with a sound like a dumbbell hitting a mat. His Maglite rolled across the mud with a softtic-tic-tic. Settled between the roots of an oak, beam still shining gamely.
“Christ, the fucknuckle’s out cold.”
