"Right over on the other side there," Bussard said, pointing. "If you look at the edge, you can see some Christmas wrap. That's where it'd be."
"See any holes over there?"
"Not that I remember. See truck tracks all the time."
Zahn came back from the widening hole. "Sure does look like a grave," he said.
THE PEOPLE IN the hole were slowing down, so the last Californian, Bussard, and Lucas took the shovels, and continued down. At three feet, the Californian said, "Somebody hand me that screwdriver."
He took the screwdriver, squatted, and pushed it into the dirt at the bottom of the hole, probed for a minute, then stood up. "I'd say we're eight inches off the garbage level."
"That'd be about right," Bussard said, bobbing his head.
Eight inches down, Lucas cut through a white garbage sack, and could smell the garbage inside. "Smells like old pizza," he said. "Like from a Dumpster out behind a pizza joint on a hot summer night."
"Lucky you didn't get one of them diaper bags," Bussard said. "They smell like old shit on a hot summer night."
The Californian said, "I got something here." He was probing at a dark green garbage bag. They cleared away a little more dirt, then Bussard took a Leatherman tool off his belt, flicked open a blade, and slashed through the green bag.
A woman's bare leg, flexed; her toenails were painted red.
"There you go," Zahn said. "There you go."
DEL SAID, "LOREN Singleton. Here we come."
"I'm coming with you," Zahn said. "I want to see what that sonofabitch has to say for himself."
24
ALL OF IT was innocent. Back at the church in Broderick, Letty told the older woman about the scene at the dump and the shoot-out between Lucas, Del, and the FBI. Then Letty took a pill for her hand, got a book, and found an empty bed she could lie on, to read. Ruth went to work on the phone, calling members of her network in Canada. The older woman went down the highway to Wolf's Cafe, got a piece of pie and a cup of coffee, and told Sandra Wolf that the FBI and the state were up at the dump, and about the shooting contest.
A bit later, a sheriff's deputy came into the cafe, and Wolf told him about the shooting contest, and that the FBI was searching the dump. The deputy was a little put off about it because he'd been working-well, watching-the FBI guys at Deon Cash's house, and they'd all taken off without telling him anything. He was also fairly sure that the sheriff had been cut out of the deal, so he called Mrs. Holme, the sheriff's secretary, and asked her to pass on the word to the sheriff.
The sheriff was out, but she passed it on to several other people.
The word took almost an hour to get to Loren Singleton, who was getting a Sprite out of the fire station Coke machine when he heard about it. "Up there digging holes," said the guy who'd heard it from a guy who'd heard it from Holme. "Better them than me. That place smells bad even when it's all covered up and froze."
MARGERY SINGLETON HAD just gotten home, carrying a brown grocery bag with a box of beef brains from Logan's Fancy Meats, flour and milk from the Kwik Stop, and a sack of potatoes, when her son burst in on her.
"The jig's up," he groaned at her. "Jesus Christ, the jig is up. The FBI and the state guys are up at the dump digging holes, and they've got all that special equipment up there. They're gonna find them. Those California guys say they can find a hundred-year-old grave, and the Calbs haven't been in the ground long enough to get cold."
Margery's eyes narrowed. "You think it's because of that kid?"
"Who else? When I took the girls up, there weren't any cars around and I took them off to the back corner and it was almost dark. So who else is up there that might have seen me? There's nothing out there, except those goddamn raccoons that the kid goes after."
"Who'd you hear this from? This isn't just bullshit, is it?"
"Naw, I got it from Roland Askew. Here's something else: they cut the sheriff out of the loop, even though they were all buddy-buddy up at Calb's house. Why'd they do that? Because I'm a deputy, and they know it's me that put them in the ground. God, Mom, I'm really scared." He jammed a knuckle into his mouth and bit it.
Margery looked at the box of beef brains on the kitchen table. Brains, sliced like bread and fried up in beer batter, were a rare treat, as long as you got the brains when they were fresh. Frozen brains got mushy when you thawed them. She thought about the possibilities for a minute, then said, "If the girl is dead, she can't testify. You've got to get up there and finish it."
"Mom, if they think it's me… I got a hole in my chest, and a bruise. All they have to do is get me to take my shirt off."
"So you go up and take care of the girl. By the time you get back here, I'll have it figured out: you're gonna have an accident."
"An accident?"
"A car wreck. Bruise you all up. I gotta think about it. Hurt you bad enough someplace else, like Fargo, that they put you in the hospital. You drive my car, we fake the wreck, you fake the injury. Hit something hard enough to pop the airbags. By the time they find us, the hole's healed up… We can figure something out. I can pretty much see what we're gonna do-but it ain't gonna work if that little kid talks."
"Aw, jeez, they're gonna get us."
"You better hope not. You know what they do to guys like you down at Stillwater? You won't have any trouble taking a shit, I tell you that. You'll be nice and loose. That's if the feds don't get you. The feds'll put you in the chair, if they get you."
"Oh, God." He stuck his knuckle in his mouth again, closed his eyes, bit on it. The pain helped clear his mind out. He opened his eyes and said, "I'm going. It's almost dark now, I still got the garage-door opener for Calb's, I can put the car in there, walk across to the church. I heard that the other women left after Katina died; there'll only be Ruth Lewis and the kid."
Talking himself into it. Margery nodded and said, "You might not have much time. Best get moving. I'll figure things out here."
THE SHERIFF HEARD about the dump dig at the same time that Loren Singleton heard. Anderson got it from an assistant county attorney at Borgna's Drugs. The sheriff was mulling over the selection of Chap Stick products when the prosecutor came by, carrying a box of NyQuil, and said, "We gotta stop meeting like this."
Anderson said, "Especially with you carrying drugs."
"That's the darn truth. I don't know why those crazy fools mess around with meth labs when they can come down to Borgna's and buy NyQuil… So what'd they find at the dump?"
"The dump?" Anderson was puzzled.
"Yeah, it's all over town-the feds and those state guys are up at the dump, digging the place up. Ray Zahn's up there, they rousted out old Phil Bussard, must have him up there with the 'dozer. Must be looking for those girls."
"Aw, Jiminy," Anderson said. He walked out of the drugstore and climbed into his truck, did an illegal U-turn, and headed out of town. He got madder and madder, thinking about it, as he went north-he was smearing cherry Chap Stick on his lips when he realized that he'd just shoplifted it under the eyes of an assistant county attorney.
"These people," he said aloud, meaning the BCA, but especially Lucas Davenport. He was so arrogant, so holier-than-thou, out here in the sticks with his expensive Patagonia parka and his forty-thousand-dollar truck that no self-respecting American ought to be driving. Like to see him get that thing fixed when it blows up on Highway 36, he thought; like to see him find parts for a gosh-darned Acura out here. They'd have to tow that sucker back to the Cities.
They had their hot jobs up at the capital hanging out with that faggot Henderson, and they didn't understand that he couldn't be cut out of this investigation-not if he wanted to keep this job, the best job he'd ever had and would ever have. These people.