Page 161 of Cold, Cold Bones
I ignored Slidell. “He seemed to pop up full-blown at midfield, hauling ass for the trees.”
“And?”
“How did he materialize so suddenly?”
Ryan got it right away. “You’re thinking tunnel.”
“Or isolated hidey-hole, set off by itself. That would explain why he’d feel safe coming back here.”
“Why didn’t the asshole rabbit today?” Slidell asked.
“A freaking SWAT team has the place in their crosshairs.”
Slidell’s brows plunged as he labored through options. Then he bellowed into his handheld, telling unit B to report for a search of the eastern half of the valley, unit A to maintain their twenty at the buses.
After ordering Pitluck to secure a K-9 unit, Slidell headed for the steps. Ryan followed. I fell into line, figuring Skinny was too amped on adrenaline to bother about me. I was wrong.
“Your ass goes back in the car,” he threw over one shoulder.
“No.”
“What did you say?” Whipping off the aviators and turning to point them down at me.
“I’m trained in archaeology. I know how to organize a surface survey. Do you?”
Slidell looked at Ryan. Ryan shrugged.
“Holy fucking fucksville!” Jabbing his shades into place, Skinny exited the stairway and stomped toward the vast expanse of ground between the buses and the trees.
Topside, I met with unit B, described the way in which the search would proceed, and indicated approximately where I’d first noticed the runner. Then we began walking the field, shoulder to shoulder, six feet apart.
A cop on one end of the line ran a metal detector over the ground. Useless and annoying. The damn thing never stopped beeping.
Plodding along, head down, eyes raking the field, I kept seeing outcomes, one uglier than the next. Olivia, terrified and alone in the dark. Chained to a bed. In pieces in a bag at the bottom of a lake. Whitewash pale in a shallow grave. The sunniness of the day contrasted sharply with the dark path my mind was traveling.
We worked our sad drill for what felt like hours, reversing direction each time we reached the trees, nothing breaking the silence of focused concentration. Of collective dread.
At some point the dogs arrived. A voice I didn’t recognize addressed them as Toots and Stan. I glanced up. Toots and Stan were both shepherds, one brown, one black. On a command from theirhandler, the dogs set off, noses sending sporadic puffs of air rustling the ground cover.
Branches were casting long spidery shadows from the edge of the forest when Toots alerted by sitting and staring pointedly at a patch of earth. Ryan and I hurried to the spot. The metal detector was brought in to sweep the area. The beeps sputtered, then merged into one long wail.
“Shovels!” Slidell yelled.
Pitluck’s partner hurried to a vehicle. Sackler, I thought. Maybe Stickler.
“Dig where?” Pitluck looked to Slidell.
“Ask the goddam dog.”
The handler ordered Toots away from the spot that had interested her, assuring the dog that she’d “done good.” The excavation had barely begun when metal clanged metal. More shoveling and scraping, then a rectangular outline appeared in the soil below the scrub vegetation.
Everyone watched the spades hack double time. Soon a man-made object came into view, nailed boards with hinges running on one side. An escape hatch or back door?
A booby trap?
“Back!” Slidell’s shout was raw-edged and far too loud.
As the rest of us withdrew, the advance team, still in gear, ran their paraphernalia over the boards.
