A Day for Bones Read online

  Lightning seared the dark. He could barely see through the wall of water that his windshield had become, but he knew the way. Being the only fool on the road, he held to its center. A barrage of calls echoed in his ears: people trapped in cars, power lines down, trees down. He’d never seen a storm like this. Not even the occasional tropical storm rambling up from the Gulf of Mexico had ever struck with such fury.

  Rounding a downhill curve, Peller felt his truck skid. He eased up the gas and fought the vehicle into line. Over the pounding rain, he heard a dull roar. It wasn’t thunder. It rolled on and on, nonstop. This was the voice of water. Somewhere in the dark, rapids churned across his path. He slid to a stop just as his truck dipped its toes into the shore of a newly-formed lake. He clambered out. Simultaneously, the deluge transformed into a light spring rain that any other day would have brought to mind daffodils and tulips. But not today. Floodwaters boomed as he picked his way onto the sidewalk and down toward Main Street. There, a muddy froth rushed between the shops, carrying off branches and chunks torn from buildings.

  Up the road to his left, a car faced into the torrent. Somehow it held its ground, but it rocked in the current and might at any moment be dislodged. Peller could just make out moving shapes behind the windows, small hands pounding on the glass. Standing just out of the water above the intersection, half a dozen drenched men looked on in horror. He ran toward them and called over the thundering rapids. “Let’s get them out of there!”

  One of the group, a stocky man with a military haircut, gave a thumbs up. “We made a human chain but couldn’t reach. We’re two people short. One, now you’re here.”

  “We’ll be enough.” Nobody argued. Game for another attempt, the group reformed the chain, the first man anchoring himself to a lamppost in a foot and a half of water at the edge of the torrent and the rest hanging onto their neighbors, one by one gingerly wading into the street, feet planted against the current. Peller elected himself for the most dangerous position at the far end of the chain and within a couple of minutes had reached the car. He could see the people inside now, a woman in tears and two small children—a boy and a girl—crowding the rear window, screaming for help. He stretched out his arm and groped for the door handle. The water battered him, threatening to knock him down and carry him off.

  Arm extended so far it hurt, his fingertips fell just shy of the handle.

  “Stretch!” he called back, and each link of the chain passed on the message. The whole line stretched.

  He got hold of the handle and pulled. The flood pushed back. He fought it, but the water was stronger, and the door wouldn’t open. Inside, the woman rocked back and wailed.

  “Stay calm!” he yelled, but she couldn’t hear. “Lower the window!” He tapped the window with his fingernails and motioned downward, hoping the woman would understand.

  She did. She pushed at a button on the door, but nothing happened. Peller’s heart sank. The car’s electronics had shorted out in the water. Without power, the windows couldn’t be opened. The woman turned the key a few times and slapped at the steering wheel, then made a hopeless gesture at him.

  Short of turning the car around so the rushing water would work in their favor, Peller couldn’t see how they could get the woman and her children out. The flood hadn’t risen much. Had it crested? Maybe car and passengers could stay put until it subsided. But no. Something slammed against his shin, and he nearly tumbled over. The object thumped the car. The vehicle shuddered.

  Along the human chain, gritted teeth and locked hands urged him to try again. The men hadn’t given up, but the effort to stand their ground wore on them.

  “What’s your name?” Peller asked the man next to him. He had to yell to make himself heard over the rush of water.

  “Ron,” the other replied.

  “I’m letting go, Ron.”

  Ron eased his grip. Peller grabbed the door handle again, released Ron’s hand, and yanked himself against the body of the car. The water threw him hard into it. Bracing himself just behind the door, he hauled on the handle with both hands and felt it move. It might have weighed as much as the entire car, but he pulled until he could work his thigh into the opening to hold it. Then, pushing with everything he had, he pried the door open enough for the woman to pass through. He couldn’t help her. His whole body had to maintain pressure against the door just to keep it open.

  “Hold onto the door,” he yelled at her. “Reach for the guy at the end of the line. His name’s Ron. He’ll help you.”

  She shook so much, she could barely hold onto the steering wheel. Ron motioned encouragement. “My children!” she wailed.

  Peller hadn’t figured that out yet. “We’ll get them.”

  “I can’t do this!”

  “Yes, you can. We’ve got you.”

  She forced down a sob, scooted into the opening, and gingerly dipped a foot into the water. “I’m scared.”

  Something thudded against the door. The impact nearly knocked the wind from Peller, and his feet slipped from under him. He hauled himself up and pushed on the door. I can’t take much more of this, he thought. I have to get her moving. Fortunately, he got an idea. “Ma’am, I need you in the chain by the lamppost. With your help, we can get your children out.”

  That convinced her. Whole body trembling, she worked her way beneath Peller’s arms and around the door, where she caught hold of Ron’s hand. He pulled her to him, and Peller waited while she worked her way steadily down the chain. It felt like hours. She reached the far end and, clasping hands with people on either side, took her place. The chain shifted toward the car. Ron grabbed the door handle and pulled. The weight on Peller eased.

  Peller motioned to the children. “Come here,” he called. “I’ll help you. Everyone will help you.” The girl, about two years her brother’s senior, took the boy’s hand, helped him into the front seat, and gently pushed him forward. She was scared, but she put on a brave face for her brother. Good girl, Peller thought.

  Keeping one hand on the car for a brace, Peller carefully picked up the boy and shifted just enough to get him in reach of the chain. Even with Ron pulling, the flood tried to cut Peller in half with the door.

  “Climb over us,” Ron told the child. We can’t let go of each other.” Shaking, the boy did as he was told.

  Peller motioned the girl out and helped her into the chain. To avoid disrupting anyone’s balance, he waited while the children made their way along the line and breathed a sigh of relief when finally they were in their mother’s arms. Then he eased himself out of the doorway. Water pressure pushed the door shut as he went. He had to take care lest his arm be pinned, but finally he was free.

  Holding onto the door handle, he began to turn so he could take Ron’s hand. Just as Peller reached out, Ron yelled, “Damn!” and stumbled, barely keeping his balance. Something hard slammed into Peller’s gut, knocking him off his feet. He flipped over backwards and went under. Cold, muddy water surged over him. He tumbled, tumbled, heels over head, hands scrambling madly for something, anything to hold on to. They found nothing. Unidentifiable shards scraped his face, his legs, his arms, his back. Just when he thought his lungs might explode, his head popped from the water and he sucked in a great gulp of air before being pulled under again. The flood tossed him five directions at once. He surfaced a second time, not knowing which way was which.

  The water dragged him down again and battered him with everything it had collected. His body slammed against something unyielding. He clawed for a handhold and wrapped his arms around the object. Whatever it was, it stood its ground. He hung on while the angry torrent clawed at him. Water crashed over him, flooded his mouth and nostrils, but still he held on and got his feet wrapped around the object, too. Almost out of air, he clambered up whatever had saved him, surfaced, spat out water, gasped his lungs full of air. Above him, a blinding red glare pierced the night. The pole ha
d thin, sharp projections on either side about at the level of his hips. He worked his feet onto them, hoping whatever they were would take his weight. As he pushed higher, metal buckled under him. He slipped, but his footholds didn’t give way.

  He hung there, body all but fused to the fluted pole. Above him, an old-fashioned traffic signal capped the pole. Gasping for breath, he straightened to get as much of his body out of the torrent as possible. He blinked water from his eyes and assessed his predicament. His feet and calves remained submerged. The flood ran nearly eight feet deep below him.

  He looked up into the blaze.

  “Red light,” he panted to nobody, for nobody was there. “Means stop.”

  Chapter 2

  Detective Theresa Swan liked the locale if not the assignment. A farm girl from North Carolina, she loved rustling trees, the rush of hidden waters, the chatter of birds, and cerulean skies. She could almost imagine this was the Howard County of fifteen thousand years past, where damp soil had never felt the touch of human feet and the twitching noses of deer and squirrels had never caught a whiff of humankind. She drove with the windows down, warm wind whipping her dark hair about her dark face and shoulders, scarcely believing that only last night a once-in-a-century storm had battered the region.

  But the tranquility was short-lived. She had come to the eastern end of Patapsco Valley State Park, a fringe of greenery where Howard County abutted Baltimore County, to investigate a report of human remains. As she approached the scene, tension knotted her muscles. She had crossed paths with death just twice before. Her grandmother had passed five years ago, when Swan was twenty-three, and a friend from her academy days had been killed in a traffic accident a few months ago. That was it. She hoped this wasn’t the scene of a grisly murder.

  Don’t get ahead of yourself, Swan told herself. Howard County wasn’t Baltimore. Probably some hapless soul had been swept down the river in the flood and deposited here. Although, that wasn’t much comfort. Death by torrent couldn’t be pleasant. Rumor had it Rick Peller nearly became a statistic himself. She shuddered at the thought.

  Swan followed River Road to a hill above a sandy shelf where the Patapsco bent slight north. A uniformed park ranger waited there, leaning on the rear of his official pickup truck, picking his fingernails and whistling to himself. She stopped her cobalt blue Chevy Cavalier fifteen feet behind his vehicle. He glanced up as she climbed out, then returned to his nails. When Swan introduced herself, he reciprocated, albeit stiffly.

  “Bob Allen.” He squinted at her face. “Didn’t expect a pretty black lady. We usually get grumpy old white guys.”

  Was that a compliment? Sexist? Racist? All three at once? Whatever. Her superior and mentor Detective Sergeant Corina Montufar would have advised her to ignore both praise and slights. She was just a detective, here to do a job.

  Swan catalogued Allen’s appearance: average height, slim, probably in his mid-forties, gold wedding band on his left ring finger. A hint of a tattoo peeked above his collar on the right side of his neck without revealing the design. She suspected his hair was thinning under that ranger hat. What showed was dark brown with no hint of gray.

  “So what’s the trouble, Mr. Allen?”

  “No trouble, really, just something strange.”

  “What kind of strange?”

  “I supposed you’d call it human remains.”

  “Are we talking a fresh body in the woods or something you dug up with a shovel?”

  Allen grinned. He had a toothy smile that made him look a bit manic. “I like a woman with a sense of humor. A skull. Come on, I’ll show you.” He led her off the road and down a tree-covered slope, judiciously placing his boots with every step.

  Swan hadn’t worn boots, just a comfortable pair of white flats. She hadn’t expected a field expedition. Three steps down slope, she slipped and caught at a branch. She nearly slid into Allen.

  He paused and eyed her shoes with some amusement. “This mud is slick. Better be careful.”

  Thanks for the heads up, she grumbled to herself. With the help of the trees, she picked her way down. Her shoes would be ruined by the time they reached the water, and her blue and green pantsuit wouldn’t fare much better. Mud was already splattered halfway up her calves.

  They reached the river. The flow gurgled by, carrying twigs and bits of bark downstream. “The water is up a foot or so.” Allen motioned along the river’s course. “Usually, this bar is about twice this size. Here’s our friend.” He led her upstream and pointed to a human skull stuck in the mud, two-thirds exposed, empty eye sockets gazing heavenward as though in prayer. A smooth expanse of mud surrounded it, untouched save by the water that had deposited it.

  “That definitely looks weird,” Swan commented.

  “I’ve named him Carl.” Allen flicked a smile her way. “After my college roommate. Carl spent more time lying around staring at the ceiling than anyone I’ve ever known.”

  She laughed. “What did he major in, naps?”

  “That was his minor. He majored in women. He’d have hit on you for sure. He was white, but he enjoyed variety.” He cocked his head at the skull. “Maybe naming it is premature. This could be a lady skull.”

  Exhaling frustration, Swan slipped her hands into her pants pockets. The fingers of her right hand brushed the grip of her gun, holstered there. Give me an excuse, she thought. But no. He wasn’t worth the bullet.

  “What do we do with this guy or girl, as the case may be?”

  Swan withdrew her hands. “I’ll call a technician to photograph and collect it for the medical examiner. Whoever it is, they’ve been gone a long time.”

  “Makes one think, doesn’t it? Colonial settler? Indian? Confederate soldier? Escaped slave?” He smirked. “Could be a relative of yours. Or mine. I have ancestors on both sides of the Civil War.”

  They both knew what her ancestors had been. Swan refused the bait. “Is there an easier way back to the road?”

  “That was the easy way.”

  “I don’t know if I can make it in these shoes.”

  “Yeah, fashion isn’t much good out here. But I’ll get you back.”

  They returned across the sand bar to the hill. He took a few careful upward steps, made sure his feet were planted securely, and reached back to Swan. Reluctantly, she took his hand and started up behind him. He climbed judiciously and to his credit made sure she didn’t face-dive into the mud. When they reached the top, he let go and accompanied her to his vehicle, silent, eyes flicking between the ground and her face.

  “Something wrong?” Swan asked.

  “You don’t fit my idea of a detective. Not that I’ve ever met one.”

  “What, am I too skinny?”

  He laughed.

  “Or too female, maybe?” Or too black?

  Allen declined to answer. He touched the brim of his ranger hat. “It’s been nice, but I have to get on with my day. Come back and visit sometime.” He climbed into his truck and drove into the park’s interior, leaving Swan to wrestle with a tangle of anger, hatred, and self-doubt. He’d manipulated her far too well.

  She pushed emotion aside and joked with the dispatcher as she put in the call, recommending the tech bring climbing gear. Then she immersed herself in the scenery, breathing deep and slow as jays and sparrows and cardinals flitted about. She listened to the hammering of an unseen woodpecker and the impressive repertoire of a mockingbird. The breeze licked her face like an exuberant puppy. She leaned her seat back, closed her eyes, and for a rare half hour did nothing but enjoy sound and sensation.

  All too soon, tires crunched to a halt and Geri Franklin’s voice intruded. “Overwhelmed, aren’t you?”

  Swan opened her eyes to find Franklin peering into the car, amused. She put her seat up and returned the smile. “I deserve a break. I slid the whole way down to the river in these.” She opened
her door and stuck out her left foot, muddy shoe and all.

  Franklin shook her head. “Unprepared, Theresa. Shame on you.”

  “Some of us spend more time at our desks than in the wild. Being prepared means knowing our passwords.”

  “So have that man of yours take you camping and teach you some survival skills.”

  “Ken? They only thing he knows about the great outdoors is the lawnmower.”

  Franklin laughed and stepped back so Swan could exit her vehicle. “So, what’s the deal?”

  That was more small talk than most people got from Franklin. If she was more open with Swan and Holly Ross—the youngest detective on the force—it was only their shared generational bond. Otherwise, she was all business and particularly looked it now: jeans, a long-sleeved denim shirt, and hiking boots. She had a canvas bag stuffed with the tools of her trade slung over her right shoulder. She was all set for a jaunt through a soggy wood.

  Swan pointed into the trees. “A park ranger found a human skull by the river. The flood probably washed it out of an old grave. Photograph and collect it and send it to the medical examiner. I’ll show you the muddy slope of death. After that, you’re on your own.”

  “After you.”

  Swan led Franklin to the top of the incline. “The ranger’s name is Bob Allen. He won’t likely come back, but he knows I called you. If he does drop by, try not to push him off a cliff.”

  Franklin eyed the mud and shifted the bag to her left shoulder. “Sounds like you don’t like him.”

  “He’s either a racist misogynist or clueless.”

  “Don’t stress over it, Theresa. Mind over matter. If you don’t mind, he doesn’t matter.”