I had never heard of this graveyard, not even during my days working on the base with the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit. I was fascinated. “C’mon,” I said, glancing around. “Who else is in these woods?”
Cecil looked away.
“I promise it will be between us.”
He hesitated but then said in a low voice, “You’re within about thirty yards of all that remains of Oswald and of Ruby.”
I gaped at him. “Lee Harvey Oswald? JFK’s killer? Here? And Jack Ruby, Oswald’s assassin?”
“John Wayne Gacy’s not far either. Real hall of shame.”
Before I could reply, Mahoney called out, “Here it is. I’ve got him.”
Ned was three rows away, crouched down and shining the beam of his Maglite at the ground. “Bring the big lights and the digger over.”
An FBI agent fired up a pickup truck carrying a bank of construction lights. Cecil crawled into a Bobcat earthmover with a backhoe arm.
I didn’t watch Cecil drive. I was looking all around as the fog swirled off on a stiffening breeze and the true rain came on.
Booth. Oswald. Ruby. Gacy.
And only God and Cecil knew who else was in the ground there.
As I walked to Mahoney, I admit it was disturbing — okay, downright eerie — to know that I was stepping over the bones of psychopaths, assassins, and other cold-blooded murderers.
A worker used a pinch bar to pry up the headstone and then set it aside. Cecil was a master of the Bobcat and soon had the blade and teeth of the bucket digging down through last year’s pine needles and into the wet red clay below.
It was pouring rain when the bucket hit metal, the heavy clank echoing up out of the hole. The other workers used a wooden ladder to climb down into the hole with a spade and two lengths of chain. In short order, they had the chains around a simple steel coffin and linked to the head of the bucket. Cecil toggled the controls. The box rose effortlessly, then swung and dangled above the hole.
“Small enough for a kid,” Mahoney said, shaking his head.
I flashed back to the last time I’d seen the man I believed to be Kyle Craig alive, just before his miserable life exploded and burned.
“There wasn’t much left of him,” I said. “Two charred arms and a leg.”
Chapter 77
I got home just before midnight, chilled and desperate for a hot shower and bed. Bree was up waiting in our room. She said nothing when I walked in, but her expression spoke volumes.
“I know I should have called,” I said. “But I texted you that I had to go to Quantico.”
Bree, stone-faced, didn’t answer.
I went over and sat on the edge of the bed. “Look, I had to go somewhere today, talk to someone, and I had to do it in somewhat of a strong-arm manner. I did not want you involved in any way whatsoever, so I did not tell you where I was going, and I kept my phone off. I did not tell anyone where I was going. And when I got back, Ned called me to Quantico and took me to a place that isn’t even supposed to exist.”
She didn’t reply for several moments, then said, “So there is a part of Alex Cross that his beloved wife is not allowed to know about.”
I could see there was no good way out of this situation. I surrendered and told her about Dr. Bombay and then about the graveyard at Quantico.
“John Wilkes Booth?”
“I had the same reaction,” I said.
Her hard expression was gone, replaced by genuine interest.
“What about Ted Bundy? Is he there?”
“We’d have to track down a groundskeeper named Cecil to know for sure, but I’d give it better than even odds that he is.”
Bree shook her head. “That’s incredible. And no one knows about this?”
“A select few.”
“Do you think Craig’s remains are in the box?”
“I’m so cold and tired, I don’t know what to think.”
“Poor baby,” she said. “Take a hot shower and come to bed.”
I kissed her and said, “Thanks for understanding.”
Some of the soberness returned to her face as I stood.
“Don’t think for a minute I agreed with your reasons for staying silent about Miami. We’re supposed to be life partners, soul mates. Much more than a team.”
“I apologize, and it won’t happen again.”
“Then consider it forgotten,” she said, and she turned out her light.
The shower was wonderful. It not only warmed my bones but washed everything from repulsive toenails to coffins off my skin and down the drain.
I climbed into bed, the day far behind me, and drifted into dreamless sleep.
When Bree and I woke up, we decided we needed a family weekend.
We took Ali to the Tidal Basin, and he rode his bike while Bree and I went for our normal Saturday-morning run. You could tell almost immediately that the training rides he’d taken with the Wild Wheels group had improved his strength and technique.
I told him so when he circled back to us.
“So I can go to that race in Pennsylvania?” he asked.
“I read the flyer you brought home, and it looks good. I’ll talk to the coach, but I think you can go.”
He hooted with joy and rode off as Bree and I passed under the first of the Japanese cherry trees that line the basin.
“You seeing this?” Bree said, breathing hard and pointing up at the cherry trees. “The buds look ready to burst.”
“You’re right. Almost a week earlier than last year.”
We puffed by the Jefferson Memorial and found Ali waiting for us at the traffic light on Maine Avenue. He held up his phone, upset.
“Captain Abrahamsen crashed his bike!” he said.
“What?”
“He hit gravel on a ride yesterday on the eastern shore and went over the handlebars with his shoes clipped in to his pedals. Says his shoulder got banged up. Plus he has to go to some army base in San Antonio to work for the week.”
“How do you know all this?” Bree said.
Ali said that he’d texted the captain to tell him he was going to the race and wanted to know if they could ride before then. Abrahamsen said he was sorry, but he was flying to Texas in the morning after a doctor looked at his shoulder.
“He said it’s going to be at least two weeks before he can think about a bike.”
“That’s too bad,” I said. The light turned, and Ali took off ahead of us as we jogged across Maine and then Independence. “But when’s the race?”
Ali called over his shoulder, “Four weeks?”
“There you go,” Bree said. “Plenty of time for him to heal up.”
The rest of the weekend, it felt like we did have plenty of time. All of us. It rained on Sunday, and we stayed inside, watching the NCAA basketball tournament and eating Nana’s food.
Bree was reading in our room after I put Ali to bed. I sighed, said, “I needed this weekend. Space to be us.”
“I did too,” she said, putting her book on the table, clicking off the light, and coming over to snuggle.
“Good night, baby,” I said, kissing her.
“Who said the weekend has to be over?” she said and kissed me back.
Chapter 78
It felt like the sun was coming in through the window and shining right on my eyelids.
I squinted and saw it was still dark in the room. But someone outside was shining a powerful, narrow spotlight beam on me.
I threw myself over and onto the floor, yelling, “Bree!”
No answer.
The light vanished.
“Bree!”
Our bedroom door opened, and in her bathrobe, she looked out at me crouched on the floor.
“Shhh!” she said. “It’s only five thirty. Everyone’s still sleeping.”