Page 59 of Cold, Cold Bones
“Whoever was in the woods knows his way around here,” I said. “But why would he run? Attack me?”
Slidell shrugged a beefy shoulder.
“Don’t look like anyone actually lives in this dump,” Slidell said, feet spread, arms crossed on his chest. “I’m guessing you’re right and this is some sorta safe house for the end of the world.”
“Did you find anything to suggest a potential suicide?” I readjusted the cloth on my cheek, refusing to host thoughts of the microorganisms calling it home.
“Whose suicide?”
“This Boldonado guy.”
Slidell’s nonresponse came too quickly. “Let’s get you to some first aid.”
“What’s up, Detective?” Raising both my brows. Which hurt.
“What?” Defensive.
“Whatever you’re not telling me.”
“It’s nothing you need to worry about. I took pics.”
“You don’t have a warrant.”
“I got an unnamed dead guy and a wit that ties him to this place.”
I wasn’t sure of the legality of Slidell’s reasoning but didn’t pursue it.
“Show me what you’re blocking.”
“Goddammit, Brennan. Can’t you ever—”
“Show me.” Daring him to refuse with my one good eye.
Muttering some imaginative profanity, Slidell pivoted and crossed a platform leading into the next bus. I followed.
Like the first, the second bus had two bare bulbs hanging by cords from the roof, jointly providing about two watts of light. The windows were boarded over, the rounded sides outfitted with shelving on the right and a long work counter on the left. The shelving held rolled sleeping bags, collapsible chairs, burner stoves, Coleman lanterns, and an assortment of items about whose functions I was clueless.
Unlike the first, this bus had a jerry-rigged desk spanning most of the width of its rear end. The crude arrangement consisted of a thick piece of plywood balanced across a pair of sawhorses. A metal swivel chair sat between the sawhorses, a torn bed pillow cushioning its seat.
On the desk, a small monitor projected a live video feed from a camera somewhere high up outside. Behind the desk, a large bulletin board stood layered with paper.
“Smith must have seen us pull up,” Slidell said.
“If itwasSmith.”
“Whatever. Asshole could’ve capped us the second we got out of the car.”
Slidell left the next thought unsaid. And I, like a moron, had chased an unknown person into the woods while unarmed.
My face throbbed and my digits had grown numb from the cold. Ignoring the pain and incipient frostbite, I walked to the desk and began perusing the bulletin board. Thumbtacked to it were dozens of news articles, some clipped originals, some photocopies.
I stepped to the right. As I skimmed headlines, the tiny hairs on my neck tingled.
Some names I knew. We all knew. Edmund Kemper. Jeffrey Dahmer. John Wayne Gacy. Ted Bundy. Wayne Williams. Charles Manson. Gary Ridgway. Others were less famous. Ronald Dominique. Patrick Kearney. John Norman Chapman. The theme was frighteningly clear.
“Jesus.” I swallowed. “He collects stories about serial killers.”
Slidell said nothing.
