Chapter 17

SEVENTEEN

Josie expected Turner to protest following her without knowing where they were going. His superpower was giving her shit just for the sake of it. Instead, he trailed her all the way down the stairs, out past the press gathered at the back entrance of the stationhouse and into her SUV. Maybe he wanted to avoid the conversation about Trinity. As Josie floored it out of the parking lot, he asked, “Where we headed?”

“In South Denton, bordering Lenore County, there’s a tributary that goes into the river. It’s called Cold Heart Creek.”

Josie could feel Turner’s eyes boring into the side of her face. “Wait. You spread Lila Jensen’s ashes in a place called Cold Heart Creek? I didn’t think you had a sense of humor.”

She came to a stop at a red light. “We worked a case down there right around the time Lila died. There was a commune in Lenore County. The members kept turning up dead. One of the bodies was found in Cold Heart Creek, but there’s a smaller stream that flows from it when the water level gets high. Back then, there was this dory boat stuck in the mud near the stream. It was kind of falling apart.”

The light changed. As Josie punched the gas, Turner clutched the grab handle. “You found a boat. So what?”

“It was blue, like a faded teal. If it’s still there, it could be the object from the photo.”

“Seems like a long shot,” Turner said.

Josie turned her head long enough to skewer him with a look. “I can drop you off to interview Edgar Garcia while I check this out.”

He said nothing, taking out his phone and starting to scroll. It took them a half hour to drive to South Denton. Josie drove past the sprawling business district that made up that area of the city, crossing the narrow, little-used South Bridge into a forested area that went for miles. She found the one-lane road that ran parallel with the river. She’d forgotten just how remote this area was—without residences or businesses. There weren’t even fishing areas. No landmarks either. The perfect place to dump a body.

“How the hell do you intend to find this place?” Turner asked.

“There should be a bend in the river up ahead. We can park on the side of the road and walk.”

“Through the woods?” he asked incredulously.

Josie ignored him. A few minutes later, the curve she’d described appeared. She found a grassy area along the shoulder of the road and parked there. She got out, waiting for Turner to follow. As he emerged from the car, scanning the wall of trees opposite the riverbank, a grimace stretched across his face. “Is it too late for you to drop me off to talk with Garcia?”

Josie started walking. Over her shoulder, she said, “You really should invest in work wear that’s more appropriate to this area.”

Twigs snapped under his feet. “Or people could stop disappearing and leaving bodies in the fucking woods.”

Josie fully expected Turner to complain the entire time they trudged through the trees searching along the bank of Cold Heart Creek, but he was strangely silent. The sun rose higher in the sky, its rays peeking through the foliage overhead. It wasn’t as humid as it had been yesterday, but it wasn’t long before they were both soaked in sweat. Mosquitoes swarmed them.

“You sure you know where this thing is?” Turner said after they’d been walking for an hour. Most of the time, he had to slow down to accommodate Josie’s shorter strides but today he trailed behind her.

Josie was starting to doubt herself. She hadn’t been anywhere near Cold Heart Creek since the day she spread Lila’s ashes.

“If this is where he brought Cleo Tate, it seems like an awful lot of effort,” Turner said. “How do you know this boat is still even out here?”

She didn’t. The longer they were out here, the more she doubted herself. Yet, this was the perfect place to commit a crime. No civilization for miles. No cameras. Not many people came this far into the forest, which meant that if the abductor had brought Cleo Tate here, the chances of anyone seeing them was slim to none.

Turner’s hand clamped down on Josie’s shoulder. She froze, head swiveling to look up at him. Lifting his hand, he pointed to his right. “There.”

Ahead, the creek curved sharply but between the trunks of two maple trees, Josie saw a flash of blue, out of place in the lush green forest and its muddy floor. Turner nodded at her. She led the way, her heart tapping out an erratic rhythm against her rib cage. The unmistakable odor of decomposition wafted through the air as they got closer. Instinctively, Josie had known what they’d find and yet, she couldn’t stop the overwhelming sadness that washed over her. All she could see was little Gracie Tate’s cherubic face. Before the emotions bubbled too far into her consciousness, she shoved them into her mental vault. The only way she was going to help Gracie Tate now was to keep working this case.

Rounding the bend, Josie saw the boat on the opposite side of the creek. Its stern was still mired in the mud. Deep enough that even rushing water couldn’t move it. The rest of it had decayed with time. Its frame was rotted, one side of it sagging into the rocks beneath it. Weeds and brush reached up from the ground, claiming it as part of the forest.

“I don’t get it,” Turner said, whispering even though they were the only ones out here. “Why leave a photo of this place?”

Josie’s heart hammered so fast and hard, she had trouble hearing his words. “Let’s cross.”

Turner hesitated. “You want me to walk through this?”

“It’s only, what? Ten feet across, maybe? Come on.” Josie plunged into the stream. At its deepest, the water came to her knees. Although wet boots made it more difficult to walk, the cold of the water soothed her heated skin. Turner splashed behind her, muttering something about his loafers and suit pants. The smell of death was stronger here, invading her nasal passages and coating her tongue and throat. A loud, pervasive buzz filled the air. Josie’s heart stuttered as they drew closer. Bloodied fingertips curled over the boat’s edge.

“Son of a bitch,” Josie said, forcing her feet to keep moving.

Turner trudged alongside her, faster now.

Mud squelched around Josie’s boots as they reached the opposite bank. More of the horror cradled inside the boat’s crumbling shell came into view. Blood clashed with the faded blue of its hull and the green growth all around them. Cleo Tate lay on her side, legs stretched like she was running. One arm was folded under her body while the other gripped the side of the boat. Dried blood matted her dark hair.

Blowflies buzzed around her, skittering across the pale skin of her face, arms, and calves. They were drawn to corpses, showing up minutes after death. They blended with Cleo’s dark blue shirt, dozens of them forming a single roiling mass that undulated across her torso, their metallic blue and green backs winking in the shafts of sunlight that punched through the trees. Little sequins of death. Every few seconds, one or two flies would break away, flitting to her face, looking for any orifice in which to lay their eggs. Adult female blowflies laid as many as two hundred and fifty eggs each. They disappeared into Cleo’s ear and then crawled back out, one after another. One perched on her lower lip before scurrying inside her mouth. More followed. Others attacked her eyelids, seeking entry. Several emerged from her nostrils, making way for more blowflies to enter, their movements jerky and frenzied.

A breeze soughed through the trees, skating over Cleo’s body. A lock of her hair lifted. The rippling swath of flies covering her middle shifted in response to the disturbance, climbing over one another. A gap formed long enough for Josie to see a large stab wound near Cleo’s kidney. It gaped open. The small pearly bodies of maggots wriggled inside it. Dozens upon dozens spilling out until the blowflies’ bodies cloaked the gash once more, impervious to anything other than their task.

Over the persistent hum of the insects, Josie heard Turner swear.

There was no point in checking for a pulse. Cleo Tate had been dead for some time.