Текст книги "Tin City Tinder"

Автор книги: David Macinnis Gill

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 12 страниц)

"That's me," I said.

 “You two are trespassing on private property,” Early stabbed the air with a meaty finger. “We ought to call the law. Have y’all arrested.”

 “Call the sheriff if you want,” Cedar said. “There aren’t any No Trespassing signs posted, and we have a legitimate reason to be here.”

Stuart spat tobacco on the ground. “What would that be?”

“We’re visiting a friend.”

“Stumpy Meeks,” I said. “Have you gentlemen seen him recently?”

“What do we look like, the missing person department?” Stuart said. “You’re wasting our time, so beat it.”

“Who would that be?” I asked.

“Who would what be?” Stuart said.

“The company paying you to clean up their mess. Who’s that?”

Stuart shook his head in wonder. “The man who owns it, dumb ass.”

“Does this man have a name?” I fought the temptation to add, dumb ass.

“Not one you’re getting from us.” Stuart said. “Beat it, before things get ugly.”

“Don’t threaten me,” I said. “It’s not a good idea.”

Stuart and Early chuckled. The thought of my taking them both out seemed absurd to them, but I was already figuring out how to separate the spade from Stuart’s hands.

“Let’s go, Boone.” Cedar looped an arm through mine. “We’ve got that thing in a half hour, and we don’t want to keep these guys from their work.”

“Better do like your lady says,” Stuart said.

For a few seconds, I stared hard at him. My meaning was clear. Next time we crossed paths, I was going to hurt him.

When we got in the car, I rolled down the window so that Chigger could stick his head out. Across the way, Stuart and Early were unloading the bobcat from its trailer. The bobcat was designed for moving a small amount of dirt very quickly. Not massive like a bulldozer or dresser, its lightweight and small relatively light bucket made it perfect for maneuvering through tight spaces.

Like the spaces that separated one grave from another.

 “What a couple of assholes.” Cedar turned in a wide arc and slowly drove toward the highway. “You think they know something about Stumpy?”

“Yeah, and I know what they’re digging for, too.”

The flatbed truck held a pile of empty garment bags. One of the bags, however, was full. I suspected that it contained the object that had hit the side of Stumpy’s trailer.

An object that was missing a finger.

I smacked my forehead. “How dense could I be?”

“Pretty dense. What did you figure out?”

“From the size, shape, and pattern of the larger holes,” I said, “they’re looking for the same thing we are.”

“And that would be?”

“Body parts.”

5

“They are moving graves!” Cedar took a deep breath. “Illegally!”

She sat at the round oak table in our kitchen, next to me and across from Mom. Lamar leaned against the counters as Chigger lapped up a bowl of milk.

I had decided to let Cedar tell Mom the news. It would be more believable from her, since Mom considered Cedar far more levelheaded and trustworthy.

“Say that again,” Mom said, almost rising out of her chair.

Cedar repeated the whole story about Early and Stuart, though she left out the information about the finger in the fish sticks.

While she talked, I watched for Lamar’s reaction. He was listening, too, because he laughed when Cedar mentioned the part about me falling in the hole. But he kept a poker face the whole time and only moved when Chigger finished the milk. He picked up the bowl and rinsed it in the sink.

“The whole field is full of graves,” I said. “It’s not only a family plot, it’s an organized cemetery. From the pattern of the holes, the guys knew exactly where to dig.”

“The owners knew about the graves beforehand?” Mom asked.

“Wouldn’t testify to that in court,” I said, “but that’s what it looked like.”

“You’re sure?”

“The field looked like dominos.”

“What about—” Mom wiped a tear from her eye. “What about the headstones?”

“None,” I said. “We didn’t see a single one.”

“That’s outrageous!” Mom stood and threw her arms wide. “They have absolutely violated state law! They can’t do this!”

“Sounds like they already did,” Lamar said.

“Call the sheriff!” she told him. When Lamar didn’t move fast enough, she grabbed the handset from the wall. “Never mind, I’ll do it myself. Some help you are.”

The call connected, and Mom stepped out on the porch.

Lamar picked Chigger up and handed him to Cedar. “Did either one of these men threaten you?”

“They ordered us off the property,” Cedar said. “And we left.”

“Your mama’s wound up, that’s for sure,” Lamar said. “But if the rightful owner asked them to do the work, nothing can be done. It’s not illegal to move bodies in this state, just to do it without permission. Since those old boys let y’all walk around without a fuss, they’re not too worried about getting caught.”

“But there are people in the graves,” Cedar said. “They can’t just, just move them.”

Lamar scrubbed his head. “Human remains are property like a house or land. They belong to the heirs of the deceased. That’s the law.”

Cedar looked at me, asking if Lamar was right. I could only shrug that, yes, he probably was.

“It’s time for me to head home,” Cedar said. “Can I use the little girl’s room first?”

I gave her directions.

“Those men did threaten you, Boone.” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

“Mild threats," I admitted. "Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“If you were alone, maybe.” Lamar glanced down the hallway. “Follow Cedar back home, just to be sure. Folks around here are acting funny. It’s smart to be careful.”

“Funny how?”

“Some migrant workers ended up in the emergency room last weekend, all beat up. They wouldn’t say what happened.”

“Dewayne and Eugene Loach happened.”

“We don’t know that for sure.”

“I do.”

"It ain't that easy, Boone."

"Being right never is."

“Ready,” Cedar said when she returned.

I walked her out to the car and kissed her goodnight. When she was out of the driveway, I’d get in my truck and follow her home. Lamar was right about being safe, but Cedar wouldn’t like me white knighting her.

“Before I go,” she said, “remember we’re meeting with Dr. K tomorrow. Time to put the final touches on my Olympiad project.”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

“Doesn’t matter what day it is.” She gave a kiss on the cheek. “You made a promise, and you’re sticking to it.”

6

It was well after dark when Cedar turned down her driveway. I pulled onto the shoulder until she went inside, and the porch light came on.

Ten seconds later, my cell rang.

“Hey, Cedar. I was just think—“

“I’m safe. You can go home now.”

“What are you—?”

“Don’t play dumb. The headlights of a ’72 Ford truck are distinct. Plus your left lamp is dimmer than the right. You should get that checked.”

“Hope you’re not mad.”

“I can take care of myself,” she said. “But it’s nice knowing you care.”

“I do. A lot.”

“Get some sleep. Big day of data collection tomorrow.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The porch light went out.

I dialed Abner and got voicemail. “Hey Doc, Boone. Need to reschedule our thing tomorrow. Call me back.”

I pulled onto Highway Twelve and pushed the speedometer to sixty-five. There were no streetlights in this part of the county, which was still farmland due to frequent flooding, making the night even darker.

It was so dark that I missed seeing a huge branch in the middle of the lane.

Whump!

The branch slammed against the undercarriage, and there was a metallic clank, followed by a clacking noise. On the dash, the oil pressure needle dropped like the second hand on a watch.

“Don’t do this to me, girl.”

 I pulled back on the highway toward Galax, praying some place would still be open. By my estimate, the truck had less than a quart of oil left. I wasn’t going to win the race. Then I remembered a small store on the left somewhere ahead. After four years in the Navy, my bearings were off, so I wasn’t sure if the store was just around the corner or miles away.

 After cresting a hill, I stuck the transmission in neutral and shut the engine off to keep it from seizing. I rolled through a stop sign without stopping and rounded a bend.

A light shone ahead above a small, hand lettered sign.

“Yes!”

I guided the wounded truck into the store’s gravel lot. After parking, I opened the hood to let light in and the peered underneath the engine. The branch had punctured the line, and oil was dripping from the hole.

Nothing a little duct tape couldn’t fix.

Entering the store was like stepping into a time capsule: It was crowded with an assortment of dry goods, hunting supplies, hardware, clothes, cleaning supplies, and groceries. They had the usual bread and milk, along with a cooler in the corner and a display of cigarettes behind the cashier.

A cardboard sign was taped to the register: No Spanish Spoke Here, Amigo.

The guy at the counter looked up from the comics. He was leaning on his elbows to read, lips moving with the words, and laughing at every joke. His shirt hung loosely on his concave chest, and his pimple-dotted cheeks looked like they had seen a razor only once or twice in his life.

He didn’t have a care in the world, until I walked over.

“Nice sign,” I said.

“It serves its purpose.”

“Need some oil. I’ve got a leak.”

“Ain’t got none.” He licked his fingers and turned the page. “You’d have to ask Red.”

“Who’s Red?”

“My cousin.”

“Where is he?”

“Ain’t here right now.”

“I noticed.”

 I picked up five quarts of 10w40 from a display shelf and set them next to the register. Then added a roll of duct tape and a packet of clamps. That would stop the leak long enough to get home.

“Can’t sell you no oil.” The clerk said picked the scabbed pimples on his cheeks. “Red won’t let me take no money.”

“Is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“If you can’t take cash, I’ve got a debit card.”

I dropped the card on the counter. The guy read the name on it, his lips moving as he sounded out my last name.

“Red!” The clerk disappeared behind a dingy curtain. “We got trouble!”

I heard voices, and when the curtain opened again, Eugene Loach and the twins stepped out. They weren’t tall men, but they were put together like potbelly stoves, barrel chested with forearms the size and density of cast iron pipe. They all red T-shirts with the rebel flag and the slogan, “Heritage, Not Hate.”

Considering the sign on the register, I found it hard to believe that heritage was their motivation.

“We’re closed,” Eugene said.

 “I need motor oil. I’ve got a hole in my line.”

“We’re all out.”

“That’s funny,” I said. “‘Cause I put five quarts on the counter. Seems like you’ve got something against me, and I don’t even speak Spanish.”

Eugene cracked his neck. “I think it’s the other way around, Possum.”

“Why? I’m not Mexican, am I?”

Eugene motioned for the clerk to ring up the order. “Sell him the oil. Cash only. Debit cards are just another way for banks to stick it to the working man.”

The clerk did as he was told.

“My brother was right about you,” Eugene said. “You’re too nosy for your own good. Now get off my property and don’t ever come back.”

“No problem.” I backed outside with my purchase. “One question: You guys don’t speak Spanish. How do you feel about Japanese?”

Eugene slammed the door in my face, threw the deadbolt, and flipped the sign to closed.

It took a few minutes for me to duct tape the leak and refill the oil, but the repair was a success. I started the engine. The oil gauge drifted to full and stayed there.

I was pulling the door shut when I noticed a red minivan parked beside the store. The license plate was in the shadows, so I unclipped my keychain light and crept over to the rear bumper. This, I was sure, was the same van used during the attack on Luigi. If only he would press charges, Hoyt could send the whole crew to jail.

Get over it, I told myself. Luigi wasn’t going to press charges, and Hoyt would need more than a license plate number to get a conviction.

My cell rang with Abner's number. “Hey Doc, I just left a message on your home number about tomorrow."

“Ain’t there. I’m in Winston. On the way to meet with the hyphenated lady.”

“You mean Dr. Meredith Windsor-Smith.”

“The one and the same. Hoyt had the body sent to her for identification, and I offered to lend a hand. Meet me there.”

“Where is there?”

“Basement of McClain Hall. Get here as quick as you can.”

“Winston’s an hour from here,” I said. "And I've got an oil leak."

“Better drive fast then, or you’ll miss all the fun.”

7

I drove fast.

Fifty-two minutes after patching the oil line, my truck reached McClain Hall on the campus of Carolina Tech. I drove around the service entrance. Abner’s car was parked beside a SUV with a faculty sticker.

“Dr. Windsor-Smith, I presume.”

I locked up and noticed a light in the basement windows. That would be the forensic anthropology lab. It had belonged to Abner before he retired. The dean gave it to the Hyphenated Lady, as Doc called her. Despite the circumstances, there were no hard feelings between the two of them.

I knocked on back door five minutes before Abner finally answered. My grandfather was dressed in a white lab coat and rubber apron, and he wore latex gloves and a face shield. In the old days before everyone worried about pathogens so much, Abner would do field examinations without any gear at all, using just a dab of vapor rub under his nose to cut the stink of decomposition.

“Wear these,” Abner thrust a coat and apron at me. “The hyphenated lady runs a clean ship.”

“No gloves?” I pulled on the gear. “What if I have the urge to touch something?”

“Keep your urges to yourself.”

Abner steered me to the lab. The basement made for a half-decent morgue. It had a stainless steel table, refrigeration units, instruments, and a good light. “Why are you so interested in this case, Boone? It’s not like you’ve got a horse in this race.”

“Too nosy for my own good.”

“You get that from your mama.”

“She says I got it from you.”

“All you got from me.” He opened the door and stepped through the decontamination curtains. “Was my charm and good looks. Hey, Meredith, I’d like to introduce you to my grandson, Boone Childress.”

Meredith was in her mid-thirties, with above-average height. Her blonde hair was cut chin length, and her cheeks blushed red from the cold air in the room. I noticed that she had eyes the color of coffee when she flashed a polite smile. Her handshake was firmer than I expected. Warmer, too.

“Pleasure to meet you, Boone. Your grandfather tells me you’re following in his footsteps. He didn’t tell me you were so handsome, though.”

“His footsteps are too big for me,” I said, “but I’m interested in specializing in fire investigation.”

“You should consider our forensic program.” She nodded at Abner. “If you’re half as gifted as Dr. Zickafoose, you’d be a good fit here.”

“I’ll certainly consider it.” I was considering three schools—Carolina Tech, State, and Carolina. Lately, Carolina had seemed more appealing.

“Excellent,” she said. “Now could you sit over there? That way, you won’t be tempted to touch anything, like a certain anthropologist I know.”

Abner laughed, and I slunk over to a stool, feeling very much like a student.

Meredith Windsor-Smith opened the body bag containing the female torso. “Dr. Zickafoose, can you hit the tape?”

Abner thrust a mini-recorder under my nose. “Handle it.”

“Okay, Boone. Hit it.” She began in a clear voice. “This is Dr. Meredith Windsor-Smith, Associate Professor, Carolina Tech University.” She stated the time and date and the names of the people in attendance. “Individual to be examined appears to be a female, between sixty and sixty-three inches in height. Age is still indeterminate. Traces of polyester fabric at the victim’s waist.”

Unable to fight the temptation, I snuck over to the table. I picked up a probe and pushed away the material on the pelvis.

“Skin has a glossy appearance,” Meredith continued. “Arms are drawn up in the typical pugilist position.” She grabbed my wrist. “Put the probe down, please. I’m trying to work. What exactly are you looking for?”

“Any evidence of accelerants on the skin?” I asked. “Or anything to determine the source of the fire that killed her?”

Meredith gave me a funny look, like she was surprised. “Before you arrived, I detected small amounts of shrapnel in the epidermis, along with some residue that I haven’t had time to identify. For example.” She pointed to a chunk of metal in the corpse’s belly. “All burns are post-mortem. Ergo, cause of death is most likely smoke inhalation. There was enough skin, however, to take fingerprints. If she has any record in AFIS, we’ll find her.”

I began examining the corpse’s fingertips, wondering how Meredith could ever see the prints, just as Sheriff Hoyt barged through the curtains and into the room.

"Sheriff!" Meredith said. "What bring you here this time of night?"

“Well, hell, Abner,” Hoyt said, “if this ain’t a pleasant surprise. Except it ain’t pleasant, and I sure ain’t surprised to see you sticking your nose where it don’t belong.”

Abner glanced at the doctor, who stared at Hoyt. Neither of them was happy about the intrusion.

“Sheriff,” Meredith said. “Dr. Zickafoose is here to assist me.”

Hoyt tossed a manila folder on to the table. “The fire investigators filed their final report, and there’s no sign of foul play. Y’all go home. I’m taking possession of the body right now. This autopsy is over.”

“I haven’t finished my work,” Meredith protested. “I can’t file a complete report about the identity of the victim.”

“That ain’t your problem anymore. And you two,” Hoyt said to me and Abner, “will be leaving. Right now.”

I walked toward Hoyt. “This is a public building, sheriff, and you’re out of your jurisdiction, so whether we leave or stay is none of you business.”

“Suit yourself.” Hoyt turned back to Dr. Windsor-Smith. “Tag and bag the body, professor. I’ll be taking it back to Allegheny County with me. Far as I’m concerned, this case is closed.”

“Dr. Zickafoose, Boone, let’s go.” Meredith pulled off her latex gloves and threw them at Hoyt. “You already took possession of the body, sheriff. We’ll leave the bagging and tagging to you.”

SATURDAY

1

It was past 0200 hours when I got home. The weather had turned cold and windy. I drove down the driveway with my lights off and left my boots on the porch. I tried to be quiet. Mom slept like the dead, but Lamar dozed off and on. It was easy to wake him.

My effort was wasted. When I got to my room, I started to close the blinds and saw Lamar. He was standing on the pond’s floating deck, staring into the water.

What was he doing out there? It was still four hours before he normally woke up to feed the animals. It wasn’t like him to go for moonlight strolls.

Then I saw the flicker of a lighter’s flame, the glowing ember of a cigarette. That explained it. He was sneaking a smoke. He had quit years ago, but he’d been known to sneak one or two when something was eating at him.

Guess I wasn’t the only one with a trouble mind.

I closed my blinds and burrowed under the covers.

Sleep didn’t come easily. My mind was racing with its own problems. The fires. The dead woman. The graveyard. There had to be a pattern here, an underlying set of dots I couldn’t see but knew in my gut were there.

Then there was Cedar. Her comment about accelerating kept coming back like acid reflux. What did she want accelerated? Our relationship? How was I supposed know? She had thanked me for not pushing when we snuggled in the barn, but now, she was put off because I was going too slowly?

Long before the alarm clock went off, I climbed out of bed. In the bathroom I pulled on a pair of nylon running shorts and a shirt. I added a Carolina hoodie for warmth.

“Feel like a run?” I asked the cat as I passed through the living room.

The gold and white tabby looked up from her rug. She hissed. Exercise clearly was not on her agenda. Maybe we needed a beagle like Chigger to motivate her.

Outside, I trotted down to the driveway. I limbered up beside the cars. Then I took off. My hands and feet were cold at first, but the air was still humid enough to work up a sweat. I trotted for a few minutes, then lengthened my stride and turned from the dirt road leading to the highway.

Mist rose from the creek like a blanket. In the summer months, the creek would be noisy from the noise of croaking frogs, but now it was quiet. The only sound was thud of my sneakers on the pavement and the rise and fall of my breath.

I made a mental note to go by the auto parts store later. The patch job on my oil line needed to be repaired correctly, or I’d find myself with a locked up engine.

The oil line reminded me of Eugene Loach. What a waste of carbon. The man was a racist bastard who had fixed his hate on all “Mexicans.” According to Lamar, Latinos had turned up in the hospital, hurt but afraid to talk. The farmers in the western part of the county were complaining that they couldn’t hire enough labor to bring in the crops because the workers had left the county. It all added up an organized campaign against the Latino community, and I was sure that Loach and his boys were involved. But were they smart enough to conduct an organized attack? Was someone else behind it? Or maybe I was just connecting dots that weren’t there.

The house was empty when I returned. Mom had left a note letting me know she would be late for dinner. She had a meeting with her attorney, whom she was consulting about the Tin City graveyard project.

As Lamar had predicted, the sheriff hadn’t shown much interest in old dead bodies when he had a fresh one to occupy his time, but Mom wasn’t about to let that stop her.

I showered, got ready to meet Cedar, and was about to let the cat out when I heard footsteps on the gallery, followed by a revving engine and tires spinning out.

“What the hell?” I yelled, then opened the door to a fire. “Holy shit!”

Flames poured out of a bundle of sticks piled up outside the door, and a rivulet of fiery liquid spread down the gallery.

Wrapped in a bath towel, I stepped back inside and grabbed the mini extinguisher from the pantry. As I doused the flames with foam, I realized this wasn’t some kind of prank.

It was a warning.

The sticks weren’t just stick. They were switches, freshly stripped and stacked neatly for burning, an old-fashioned way of delivering a message that had once been favored by the Klan.

Somebody was sending me a message:

Back off.

With a broom, I swept the pile of switches and foam into the yard. Just in case they were still watching, I raised my middle finger and sent a message of my own.

2

Cedar and Dr. K were waiting for me when I finally reached the lab. Cedar sat at the table. Chigger was in her lap.

“Sorry I’m late,” I said. “I was putting out fires at home.”

“Metaphorically speaking, I hope,” Dr. K said.

“Nope. Someone set fire to a bundle of switches on our porch. Probably just a prank.”

“We’re glad you’re here, then.”

There was a round table in the middle of the room. The table was stacked with circuit boards, a black box, and something that looked like a black sock stuffed with cotton.

“Boone,” Cedar said with a tinge of excitement. “Hope you don’t mind, Dr. K’s trying to help me calibrate the N.O.S.E., and Chigger keeps acting up. That’s a problem because technically, no dogs are allowed in school, even in the name of science.”

“Has Cedar explained that in return for helping,” Dr. K said, “you’ll be excused from the lab assignment?”

“I’ll be glad to help,” I said. “What do I do? Record data? Calibrate the black sock?”

“The most important part,” Cedar said. “Hold the dog.”

I took the pup. He squirmed and try to jump down.

“Hold him still, Boone.”

“I’m trying.” I rubbed his belly. That calmed him.

Cedar had inserted two metal probes the width of spaghetti into Chigger’s nose and secured them with white tape.

“What’s with the probes?” I asked.

“My apparatus measures water vapor when Chigger breathes.” Cedar said. “According to my research, dogs can separate the air they inhale from air they exhale.”

“What it does it mean if the amount of water vapor is different?”

“A beagle’s nose is highly evolved,” Cedar said. “It keeps the dog from resampling odors. See the slits in the sides of Chigger’s nose? They push exhaled air out. That stops it from blending with the new smells and diluting the scent. Keep rubbing, please. He’s getting bored.”

The dog wasn’t the only one. My attention had begun to wander, too. “What’s the point in the water vapor? I thought beagles had thousands of scent receptors.”

“They do,” Cedar monitored the laptop. “But it’s only part of the story.”

“As Cedar learned,” Dr. K added, “Beagles as a breed have excellent noses, but almost every dog is capable of scent memory. There must be a physiological reason for his prowess, other than scent receptors.”

“Okay, I understand that,” I said, “but what’s the ultimate goal here?”

Cedar pointed at the over stuffed sock. “The N.O.S.E.”

“Whose nose?”

“Not whose nose, the N.O.S.E. Remember when I told you about the whole device at Red Fox Java?”

“Um. Well. See.”

“Basically, you didn’t listen to a word I said, and now you have no clue what I’m trying to accomplish.”

“I do! But not…exactly.”

“Dr. K, you were spot on. Holding the dog is the only job he can do right. Boone, you can rest for thirty seconds. The first set of measurements has been recorded.”

“Hey,” I said. “That was harsh. Did I deserve that?”

“Yes, you did, and I would give you a smack in the head,” she said, “if it wouldn’t mess up my data collection.”

Dr. K laughed.

It took me by surprise.

I jerked, and Chigger tried to jump from my lap. The small piece of tape pulled loose, and one of the probes slipped out.

A warning sound beeped on the laptop.

“Boone!”

“Sorry! He wiggles!”

Chigger pawed the other piece of tape off.

“Bad dog!” Cedar peeled the tape from the dog’s paws. “Dr. K? Do you have anything else we can use? This is messing up the readings.”

“I believe so.” She hopped up from the table. “Let my check the first-aid kit in the storage area. We bought some of that expensive material that allows the skin to breathe…” Her voice trailed off as she disappeared into the storage room.

Chigger began canvassing the floor for smells, while Cedar got the probes ready for another round.

“I’m really sorry for not listening to you before," I said.

Cedar punched a key on the laptop. “If you don’t want to take me seriously, fine, but I wish you’d show respect for my research.”

“I meant no disrespect, Cedar. Really.”

“What does N.O.S.E. stand for?”

“Non canine…Odor Sensing…Ergonomically…thing.”

“Not even close.”

“Close enough! The word odor was part of it, right?”

In the other room, Dr. K screamed.

“What’s wrong?” I said, standing.

The professor rushed into the room, her face white a bed sheet, hands flying around in an old-fashioned tizzy. “It’s gone! It’s been stolen! I have to call campus police. Get the dog out of the room quickly, please.”

“What was stolen?” I asked.

“Our store of explosive alkali metals!” she said. “Sodium, potassium, they’re all gone!”

3

Between the time that Dr. K called in the theft and the campus cop’s arrival, Cedar whisked Chigger down to the faculty lounge. That left me to pack up Cedar’s equipment while the cop filled out an incident report.

“So you lost some metals, didja?” the cop said. She was middle-aged with a belly gut, spindly legs, and a page-boy haircut. “Wasn’t silver or gold, was it?”

“No,” Dr. K said. “Worse than that. These metals are dangerous, not expensive.”

“Dangerous huh? That changes things. Who’s got access to the storeroom?”

The cop set her coffee down and dropped her newspaper on the table. The headline read: FIRE VICTIM IDENTIFIED

“I have the only set.” Dr. K was growing more skittish by the moment.”But there are no signs of forced entry.”

“Let me determine that.” The cop coughed. “What metal’s missing again?”

“The alkali metals,” Dr. K said. “They’re very dangerous elements. Explosive material. There was a large amount of sodium. They have to be stored in oil because they can react with water. The chemistry faculty likes to use it to demonstrate exothermic reactions.”

“Soda?”

“Sodium. With an M.”

“Show me the room where the theft took place.”

“This way.”

While they were in the storeroom, I read the paper. The fire victim was a woman named Consuela Vega, confirmed by AFIS records. Her daughter had been recently deported, and she had no other family in the area.

The dots were connecting. The victim was Mexican, and she was elderly. Unable to escape, too weak to yell for help.

I scanned the rest of the front page. Beneath the article about Mrs. Vega was a photo of my mom, standing in front of the row of open graves, her arms folded, staring down the photographer with a look I only saw when she was trying to take away my keys.

The headline read:

LOCAL VET FILES INJUNCTION.

(Galax, NC) Local veterinarian, Mary Harriet Rivenbark, has filed an injunction against Landis Land Holding, LLC, to prevent the relocation of a small family cemetery in a remote area of Allegheny County. “This is an atrocity,” Mrs. Rivenbark says. “The county planning commission is nothing but a puppet for developers, and it’s time for the citizens of Allegheny County to stand against them.” Rivenbark has organized a protest to (see A4)

So Mom had really done it. She was fighting Trey Landis.

Wow.

“When you said sodium,” the cop told Dr. K, “I was thinking some kind of salt, not a pile of stuff that could be used as a bomb! I need to call Sheriff Hoyt pronto.”

“Well, I did say it was explosive.” Dr. K wrung her hands. She looked small, frail, and vulnerable. “The other metals are in smaller quantities, but they can be even more dangerous. There were several vials of cesium. I should have discarded it years ago, but disposal companies charge so much, and the dean said we didn’t have the money in our budget.”

“Uh-huh,” the cop said. “I’ll put that in my report.” She picked up her coffee and tucked the newspaper under her arm. “Did you hear about that Mexican lady? They’re treating the case like an arson now. They’ve got a suspect, too.”

“Who?” I said.

“Some vagrant named Stumpy Meeks.”

Dr. K gasped and sat down hard at the table.

The cop saluted us with the newspaper, a faraway look in her eyes.