Page 84 of Cold, Cold Bones
“This is the high country, Doc. Folks go missing all the time. Mostly they show up.”
“But not always.”
“Not always. You find anything wonky in that concrete, you let me know what I need to do.”
As we disconnected, my eyes drifted to the bucket.
Coincidence?
A coincidence the size of Colorado.
I punched Hawkins’s extension and explained why I needed his help. Then I got a cart, lifted MCME 237-22 onto it, plastic sheeting and all, and rolled it to the other side of the building.
Hawkins was waiting in the stinky room, a clear plastic face guard in one hand. An array of tools lay on the counter at his back, suggesting we were about to attempt a vault heist.
Hawkins unwrapped the sheeting and took photos as I suited up.
“HDPE,” he said when I returned.
I looked a question at him.
“High-density polyethylene.”
“Is it common?”
“As spit on gum.”
We donned our masks and face guards. Using what looked like long-handled pruning shears, Hawkins cut through one side and the bottom of the blue plastic. The HDPE. By pulling on the severed halves, he managed to slide the bisected bucket free of its contents.
I gave a thumbs-up.
After inspecting the newly exposed glob, Hawkins revved a small circular saw and, applying the blade in forty-five-second bursts, began what became a two-inch-deep cut from top to bottom on its right side. A powdery mist filled the air, coating our face shields, our hair, the sheeting, the tile, the cabinet glass, and the stainless steel.
The process was noisy and seemed to take forever. After repeating it on the left side, Hawkins killed the saw and picked up a chisel and hammer.
A zillion taps, then the glob finally split. Hawkins caught the two halves and gently laid each down, hollow sides on top. Nerves humming, I wiped particulates from my face shield and stepped to the table.
Inside the concrete was a hollow created with a life-size Joker mask. Apparently, the mask had been placed in the bucket, then the concrete poured in around it. Remnants of the brightly colored hard plastic remained, rimming the mold.
What held my attention was something placed in the empty space.
I’ve no idea how long I stood staring, trying not to inhale. Or maybe I was incapable of breathing.
Minutes. Hours.
Hawkins’s voice finally penetrated.
“… the flipisthat?”
“A mold created with a Joker mask,” I mumbled.
“Joker?” Dubious. “Like in Batman?”
“Yes.”
“That a snapshot in there?”
“It is.”
