Buried: A Bone Secrets Novel Part 3

A large weight lifted from his chest. No more waiting. Time to put the wheels in motion.

He breathed the sweet air deeply and listened to the silence. Only the normal, nearly inaudible sounds of nature reached his ears. The breeze rustled the tall gra.s.s around his cabin. No vehicle sounds, no human noise. As it should be.

For ten years he'd speculated every time his cell rang. Would this be the call? Would he be ready when it came? Maybe it'd never come. He'd had his plans in place for several years now. Checked and double-checked every few weeks. He'd thought them through and through, hoping to find a way to avoid them altogether. But there was no way out. He'd known if the call ever came he would have no choice but to act.

An image of the Ghostman flitted across his memories, and he mentally crushed it down. The Ghostman stood for failure; Chris wasn't going to fail. The Ghostman had haunted his dreams for a long time. Not dreams, nightmares. Nightmares of torture and pain.

He turned to his laptop and typed the usual words into the search engines. Nothing. How had the phone call come before the computer warning? He s.h.i.+fted in his seat, brow wrinkling in mild surprise. Anyone with a little skill could find whatever he needed. Anyone with a lot of skill could manipulate that information to do as he pleased. Like him. Computers hummed under his fingers, their languages as second nature to him as English. Or Spanish. He had alerts on many phrases and names, but none had been tripped in the last twenty-four hours. Tomorrow would be different. The story would be everywhere. The cursor blinked. Taunting him to run another search. Chris closed the lid.

A quiet cough came from the other end of the bungalow. Chris silently padded down the hall and stopped, pus.h.i.+ng open the bedroom door. Brian didn't move. Chris could see the outline of his son under the thin covers and hear the soft sounds of the boy's breathing.

Chris's heart clenched, and he ran a hand over his jaw, feeling the faint raised seam of bone beneath the skin where it'd never healed correctly. His son would never suffer. He would never experience the horrors that men can inflict on children. He would only know love and peace. It was a familiar mantra. One he'd repeated every day for the short eight years of his son's life.

Was that about to change?

"I don't want to do that again." Detective Ray Lusco shook his head as he stared into his coffee at the diner. "I don't know if I can face another set of distraught parents like that. s.h.i.+t. I feel like the bad guy."

Mason nodded in agreement with his partner. The only thing worse than discussing the death of a child with parents was being the one to deliver the news. And that was what he and Ray had spent the day doing. The parents had been informed of the find yesterday, but conclusive evidence hadn't emerged until today. Most of them had long ago accepted that their child wasn't returning, but the parents of nine-year-old David Doubler had always believed their son would walk in the door one day.

They'd talked with several sets of parents in the office of the medical examiner. Weeping and acceptance had been the staples for the day. Until the Doublers. The Doubters described the couple better. The parents had brought in tiny dental X-rays of their son's teeth. Twenty-year-old X-rays that the mother had kept in an envelope in case their son's body was found one day. David Doubler Sr. had argued with Dr. Campbell's identification.

Mason shook his head. David Sr. had met his match with the feisty odontologist. Lacey Campbell had calmly placed the films on a viewbox next to the films she'd taken on the skull and proceeded to give the father a calm lesson in reading dental X-rays. Even Mason had seen the match. David Sr. had refused. "Baby teeth all look alike," he'd argued. "Every kid had silver fillings back then."

Dr. Campbell had quietly pointed out the distinctive white shapes the silver created on the boy's first permanent molars. David Sr. had shaken his head. It wasn't good enough for him. The chief medical examiner had stepped into the room at that moment. Dr. James Campbell could tell his daughter was about to pull out her hair in frustration.

"Maybe this would help," the gray-haired ME had said and held out a plastic baggie to the parents. "You recognize this? It was found with the remains of this child, about where his neck would have been."

Mrs. Doubler had stared at the silver strands in the baggie and promptly burst into tears. Mason had swallowed hard. He'd known the shape of the pendant on the chain. His son had worn one for years after being diagnosed with juvenile diabetes.

Ray took a sip of his coffee. "Thank G.o.d, that was the last one."

Mason said nothing. Ray was wrong. There had to be another body. One boy was missing, and Mason had already met his parents.

Dr. Brody was a tough woman. She knew her son wasn't coming back, but Mason wasn't certain about the senator. The senator had a look of denial that matched Mr. Doubler's.

"Doesn't feel right. Why would one body be in a completely different place? Why weren't all the bodies found on that farm?" Ray asked.

Mason stirred his coffee. His thoughts exactly. His gut was telling him something wasn't right.

They sat in silence for two minutes, letting the conversations of the other restaurant patrons flow around them.

"Went home and hugged my kids last night." Ray had two preteens. A boy and a girl who creamed Mason at their video games every time he visited. Ray was looking him straight in the eye. Most cops would have mumbled the words into their coffee. Not Ray. The big guy was never afraid to show his emotions when it came to his kids or s.e.xy wife.

Ray was looking at him expectantly.

"Yeah, I called Jake." Mason fought the urge to look out the window instead of meeting Ray's gaze. Jake had been his usual smart-a.s.sed self, making Mason struggle to get a complete sentence out of the teen's mouth. Jake's stepdad had originally answered the phone. Mason would rather talk to his urologist than the cheerful superdad. The man had done everything right in his life that Mason had done wrong. Now he had Mason's wife and kid. Ex-wife.

All Mason had was frozen pizza and an empty bed.

Ray's cell rang, and Mason exhaled in relief. He'd seen the look in Ray's eye. The one that said his wife, Jill, had been talking about more blind dates for Mason. Jill tried to set him up several times a year, and Mason talked his way out of them. Not easy considering Jill had once been a trial lawyer.

"It's where?" Ray's voice raised an octave. "They think this is it? How far?"

Mason's spine tingled as he watched Ray scribble in his ever-present notebook. Something big. Mason could feel it "Oh f.u.c.k. Oh f.u.c.k!"

Mason froze. Ray rarely swore.

His eyes angry, Ray moved the phone from his mouth and whispered to Mason. "They think they found the place where the kids were kept. Before..."

Mason nodded. Before he killed them.

Jamie studied the calendar on her office computer, tapping her sandaled toe to the soft cla.s.sical music from her speakers. Two more days. Then she was out of here for a week. Last night she'd painted a dozen paint samples on the bedroom walls, unable to sit still, trying to put all thoughts of the sad crime scene out of her head. She flipped open the color chart from the paint store. How many shades of beige were there? Cappuccino, wheat, sand, Hawaiian sand...

Her gaze lingered on the dark greens. Forest green really would be great with her wood floors and throw rugs. She flipped the brochure closed and buried it in her inbox. Too many choices. Why did she suck when it came to these types of decisions? She had the same problem at Baskin-Robbins. She had to read every flavor and study the look of every ice cream twice before making a choice. And she always ended up with chocolate chip mint.

A throat cleared, and her gaze flew to the tall figure at her door. Her heart stopped.

"Jesus Christ." She glared at Michael Brody leaning insolently against her doorframe. "How long have you been standing there?"

Emerald eyes sparked at her. "Long enough to tell you can't decide on paint." A slow smile widened his mouth, and Jamie drew a deep breath. He was tan and tall, and his legs and arms were solid, lean muscle ma.s.s. She blinked as she caught herself staring and jerked her gaze up to his face. And found herself staring again. His light-brown hair had sun-bleached highlights that her friends paid hundreds for. Not fair that a man should have eyes of that rich color and freaking long black lashes to set them off. Jamie thought of all the tubes of black mascara she'd bought over the years.

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm still looking for your brother." He strolled closer and stopped, studying her perfectly organized desktop.

Jamie stood. Michael was using his height, looming over her desk. He probably had lots of physical tricks to get answers out of his victims, er...interviewees.

"I don't need to tell you where my brother is. He doesn't like press and just wants to be left alone."

Michael pressed his lips together and leaned forward with his palms on her desk. "How much does he remember?"

"None," she snapped and took a step back to lean against her office windowsill.

"Have you talked to the police?"

"They called last night."

"Callahan?"

Jamie straightened. He knew the detective? Or was he messing with her head? "Yes."

"Have you heard from him today?" His eyes were green ice as they studied her intently.

She shook her head and felt her stomach painfully knot. "What's happened?"

"How much therapy did your brother have after he came back?"

Jamie sucked in a breath. "Get out."

"He was tortured, wasn't he? He probably had nightmares for years."

She simply stared. "Why are you doing this?"

Michael's eyes softened, and she couldn't look away. "I'm not trying to be mean. I'm trying to understand how your brother thinks. They've found a place they believe the children were held. There's evidence of...Maybe seeing it could help your brother with some memory recall."

What was in that place? What'd the police find? Oh, Chris...

"No. He shouldn't see it. I won't put him through that." Chris's screams rang in her head. How many times had she awakened to hear his screams in the middle of the night? His body had finally healed, but his mind...his mind was never the same. Her happy, joking older brother had never returned.

"Where is he?" Michael spoke evenly, drawing the words out.

"I'll tell you the same as I told the police," Jamie snapped back. "I have a phone number. I leave a message on a voice mail. Sometimes he calls me back or texts me, but the number is always blocked, so I know it's probably not the number I leave the message at."

"Did he come home when your parents died in the car accident?"

Jamie swallowed hard. "No. I don't think so."

Michael tensed in a way that reminded of her of a hunting bird spotting its prey. He jumped on her words. "Don't think so? Was he here or not? How long ago was the accident? Two years?"

"Two and a half." Tears smarted at the corners of her eyes.

"Was he here?"

"I didn't see him."

"But?" His eyes wouldn't release hers.

"But I could tell someone had been in my parents' home. Some photos were missing. And there was a sketch left on the counter."

"A sketch? Like a drawing?"

Jamie nodded.

"You didn't tell the police that someone had been in the home?"

"No one forced their way in. Someone had a key. The sketch told me it'd been Chris."

"Why? What'd he draw?"

Jamie shrugged. The sketch was matted, framed, and on her bedroom wall. It wasn't a big secret. "A mountain range. He did lots of drawing after he came back. Especially mountains or beaches. Part of his therapy..." Her voice trailed away.

"You didn't see him at the funeral? He didn't make contact with you?"

"I haven't seen him since he left," she whispered. A small crack widened in her heart.

"When did he leave town originally?"

"It's been close to ten years."

Surprise crossed his face. "You haven't seen your brother in ten years?"

Jamie shook her head.

"What an a.s.s."

She jerked. "Don't call him that. You don't know what he's been through."

"You've been through a lot, too. Your parents died and your brother won't even see you? Sounds selfish. Really selfish to me."

"He...it was okay. I didn't mind. I understood. He'd been through so much. I handled everything for their funeral."

Michael was silent for two seconds, his gaze penetrating. "I bet you handled everything."

Jamie lifted her chin. "I managed."

He was silent for another ten seconds. Jamie could nearly hear the wheels and gears working in his brain.

"Why haven't you seen him? Why does he hide from you?"

Jamie licked at her lips. "He likes to be alone. He doesn't want people talking to him or staring at him. It's always been that way. Ever since he came back. His face...his face wasn't right. His jaw was broken..." Her voiced cracked. "And he had burn scars and cuts that never went away. Even with all his plastic surgery. He didn't like people staring."

"But he's an adult now."

"I don't know if that matters. As soon as he finished high school, he left."

"Your parents let him leave?"

"They didn't try to stop him. They pretty much let him do whatever made him happy. He'd been through h.e.l.l. He couldn't tell us what, but at night-" Jamie closed her lips.

"Nightmares. Screams?"

She nodded.

"Do you think he's still struggling with that?"

"I think he would come home if he wasn't." Jamie finally looked away from those green eyes. Why was she telling him this?

"Maybe it'd be good for him to face some of this. Put it in his past."

"He did so much therapy. Physical and mental, emotional. But he wasn't stupid."

Michael blinked. "Of course not. I didn't say that."

"He was smart. Chris was the sharpest kid in school. Just because he got bad grades didn't mean he was stupid. He could have gotten a scholars.h.i.+p to college-he was so smart. Or a scholars.h.i.+p for his art. His paintings are amazing! He always helped me with my homework because everything was a breeze for him. He was just bored."

Michael stared at her. Her rant had obviously surprised him. He'd been working to pry answers from her, and now she was running off at the mouth. Jamie blinked hard. She wanted Michael to know how intelligent Chris was. She didn't want him to think Chris was some psycho hermit in a hut, in the forest, planning to blow up buildings. Her brother wasn't like that. He was good and sharp and couldn't help it if he felt things very deeply. He needed to be away from crowds. He needed peace. Cities were too fast for him. He'd needed to live where he could move at his own pace, working where his talent was appreciated but not in an office with cubicles. Chris lived and breathed through computers. He freelanced. His clients never met him face-to-face. He only interacted with others through cybers.p.a.ce.

Or so he'd told her.