LITMIR.BIZ

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out and proofread by one of the cops on the periphery.

      It was remarkably like an archeological dig. The evidence collection seemed much more intensive and comprehensive than what the local cops were used to doing, the action choreographed by Jim and another FBI man named Oliver.

      “Got something,” Skye said several times. Once it was a hair; once it was a fold of foil, the kind gum came wrapped in. Twice it was an unknown, something she shrugged over without identifying. After an hour, the loose soil around the child was gone, all of the earth that had been disturbed by the person who had buried her removed, sifted and set aside. An indentation remained around a small mound, far too small to be a human. Yet, clearly it was a child. One with blue-painted toenails.

      The skull and left leg bones had been disarranged by whatever had dug her up—I assumed by my dogs, although the cops wouldn’t accept that without more evidence—but the rest of the body was positioned carefully, hands crossed on her chest, right leg straight. She was wearing a red sneaker on her right foot, a schoolgirl’s pleated skirt that might once have been blue, green and red, and a T-shirt. All the colors were darkened by death fluids and damp earth except the red in the skirt, which was still vibrant. Scraps of blond hair still clung to the skull. Her hands were folded around a book and other objects.

      The buzzing along my nerves that marked an advanced case of exhaustion seemed to grow, becoming almost a sound, like bees in the distance, a hornets’ nest nearby when there was nothing. I sat down just outside the crime-scene tape, rubbery legs folding under me.

      When the body was fully exposed, two dozen photographs were taken, some close-ups, some to document the remains in situ. Jim and the other cop, so slender he was almost emaciated and who dressed and moved like FBI—meaning expensive and as if he walked on water—stepped to the center of the site and knelt down on paper mats as well. They looked like pagan supplicants bowing before a little godling, hoping for enlightenment or worldly gifts.

      I could hear some of the conversation between Jim and the other FBI guy. My exhaustion seemed to improve my hearing, the buzzing in my ears seeming a magnet for sound waves, drawing them in, clarifying words and phrases I might have missed were I more alert.

      “Same positioning of hands and feet,” Jim murmured. “Same binding of the wrists.”

      “But none of the missing girls were wearing this style of clothing.”

      “We don’t know how long he keeps them. Maybe he buys them new clothes when he buys them the dolls.”

      “What about the book? The other one didn’t have a book. And the clothes are ordinary—”

      “The other one was wearing the leotard when she was taken from the dance rehearsal. What’s this?” Using tweezers, Jim lifted something off the body to get a better look at it and returned it to its place.

      “Looks like a pointed stick. And maybe a melted candle on a tray?”

      “I don’t see a wick. And why bury her with a candle?”

      “Why the flute on the last one? She didn’t play the flute but was buried with one.”

      “This one had schoolbooks when she was taken. There’s a book.” Jim tapped it.

      “Can you see the title?”

      “Too water damaged.”

      “What about the paper?”

      Jim bent over the body as if he would kiss the rounded skull and did something I couldn’t see. My hands twitched as if to stop him, before settling in my lap like broken twigs. The breath burned in my throat.

      “Got something in the pocket. Folded and mashed. It could be paper.” Jim sat back on his heels.

      “So we got positioning, graveyard burial, ethnicity, age and the folded paper. I think that’s enough. I’ll get a pair down from Quantico.”

      Jim checked his watch. “If you book it with lights and siren, you can upload the digital photos and e-mail them, so the analysts can study them tonight and on the flight tomorrow.”

      “Let’s get her to the medical examiner and get a postmortem and ID process started. See what the lab can do with the folded paper.”

      “I’ll handle that. You get on back and see about upgrading us to full task-force level.”

      “Who you want locally?”

      Jim raised his voice only slightly, the tone too cold to be teasing. “Skye, you think Gaskins would give you part of the action?”

      “Not me,” she said sotto voce. “First, I got the wrong kind of genitalia. Gaskins is only going to appoint a man to a task force. And second, honestly, I got a baby at home. A 24/7 thing isn’t what I’m after right now. Ask Ash. She wouldn’t cost the county diddly. She did a great job getting here, preserving all the evidence on the way, and she knows the local history, the local people, everyone in law enforcement in the county. And she’s trained as a forensic nurse, in case you get a splinter in your finger or find a live one as you go.”

      “We need law enforcement,” the other cop said.

      “Take Steven, too,” Skye said. “He’s up to take the detective test this fall.”

      “Steven?”

      “Yeah, sure,” he said, trying to sound only half as interested as his shining eyes suggested. “If the sheriff approves.”

      “Gaskins?” the other cop called out. “We need a local guy to liaise in Columbia with the task force. Steven’s willing.”

      C.C.’s nose hair twitched in the lengthening shadows. “Long as you don’t ask for one of my investigators, you can have who you want. But I’m shorthanded starting in the second week of May. I need Steven back by then.”

      “It’s not full-time we’re talking here. Only a few hours a week, unless more bodies show up in this county. The other one was in Calhoun County, so our killer’s not sticking close to home with them.”

      “Even better,” Gaskins said.

      “Ash, you willing to take part in this?”

      I wanted to say no and even opened my mouth to say no. “Yes. I’ll do it.”

      “Let’s get our vic out of here. Get everything we collected back to the lab by dark-thirty. I’ll schedule a meeting for noon tomorrow. That’ll give the NCAVC guys time to get to the local FBI office from the airport.

      “Steven?” Jim asked.

      “I’ll be there.”

      “Ash?”

      My hands twitched again and a cramp was starting in my foot. I would never make it back to the trucks. “I’ll be there, too. Someone will have to give me directions.”

      “Get them from the agent who does your interview.” Jim’s expression was hard, a cop look that gave nothing away.

      “Interview?” I asked stupidly.

      “You’ll be interviewed later on today by a special agent.”

      I blinked at him. Interviewed? That was a fancy word for questioned. I had to be questioned in the case. “Well. I hope he can question me while I sleep, ’cause I’m dead on my feet.”

      “We can start now if you like, Miz Davenport.”

      I looked up into the blue eyes of a young looking cop.

      “I’m Special Agent Julie Schwartz.”

      “Well, dantucket,” I said.

      Julie Schwartz found that remark inordinately funny.

      6

      He heard a soft noise above him, a scraping sound like a shoe on wood flooring. Quietly, he locked all the doors, pocketed the key and went up the steps.

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