Page 13 of Cold, Cold Bones

The complex was impressive. The monastery dating to 1876. The basilica. The student dorms and administrative and academic buildings. Most of the architecture was true to the original Gothic Revival vision.

The road, undoubtedly named for some kindly dead abbot, passed between tennis courts and a soccer field that would have made any Ivy League school proud. Just beyond the athletic facilities, George turned right. So did Slidell.

Straight ahead stretched a long one-story redbrick building whose front facing rose into four triangular peaks. George circled to a lot at the rear and parked. Slidell pulled the 4Runner up beside the cart.

We all alighted. George paused to get his bearings. A moment of scanning, then he flapped a skeletal arm toward a heavily wooded area behind the building, which I assumed was MiraVia.

George spoke into a handheld radio that looked like something from the pilot forStarsky and Hutch. Received a response full of static. Then, without a word, he set off.

I shouldered my backpack and followed. Behind me, I could hear Slidell’s muttering. Thanked the gods I wasn’t close enough to catch the commentary.

George crossed to an indistinct thinning in the vegetation at one edge of the asphalt. The area was so overgrown I doubted anyone would spot the trailhead without prior knowledge.

I followed George onto the path, pushing aside low branches and periodically adjusting the straps on my pack. Behind me I heard weighty footsteps, the snapping of twigs, and the rustling of dead leaves.

The privy was a brief walk from the parking lot, deep enough into the trees that, even in winter, the thick tangle of limbs overhead obscured most daylight. Being in perpetual shadow, the terrain was muddy and devoid of ground cover.

I took a deep breath. The air smelled of mold and rot and things organic. Despite the cold, I was glad it was winter. Most insects were dead or hunkered down, waiting for spring.

George held back at a discreet distance, arms crossed, face ruddy from his windy ride. Which was actually an improvement. The heightened pigment camouflaged the war raging on his cheeks.

Slidell joined me and stood with feet spread, right arm cocked inside his unbuttoned overcoat. Which was brown with torn lining hanging below the hem in back. I wouldn’t say the man was panting, but he was breathing hard.

The privy fit the image my mind had conjured. Built of wood now weathered by decades of rain and wind, the tiny hut looked large enough to accommodate a single user. The roof was flat and sloped downward, front to back. Clearly past its prime and probably long abandoned, the shanty leaned at an angle that didn’t inspire confidence.

The tilt of Slidell’s shoulders told me he’d gone into cop mode. After assessing the privy, he did a three-sixty scan, eyes alert, weapon hand still at the ready.

The woods were silent save for the scraping of limbs above us in the occasional breeze. Now and then, a bird threw out an opinion, perhaps commenting on the drama unfolding on the ground below.

I checked the GPS app on my phone. It told me we were dead on with the coordinates. I nodded to Skinny.

Gesturing for George and me to hold back, Slidell stepped to the privy and peered closely at the gap surrounding the door, at the handle and hinges. I knew his thinking. I’d been lured to this spot. Was there a chance the shed was booby-trapped?

Seeing no wires or other indicators of an explosive device, Slidell picked up a rock, stepped back, and hurled it at the door. Nothing.

Turning to me, he said, “Let’s do this.”

I snapped pics of the privy and its surroundings. Circled it. Snapped more. Like Slidell, I stayed alert for anything suspicious.

I was starting to have qualms. Hoped I hadn’t dragged Skinny out on a “fool’s errand,” as he’d labeled it.

My thoughts were definitely conflicted, though. Would I really prefer that we find another gruesome token? A note sayingGotcha!Nothing at all?

Tamping down my misgivings, I dug into my pack, then, gloved and masked, thumbed on my flashlight. Stepping forward, I gingerly pulled the rotting handle on the privy door.

A shriek rent the air.

My heart leapt into my throat.

Behind me I heard theslup-slupof Slidell’s shoes moving fast. Sensed him at my back.

“Just a rusty hinge,” I said, voice far calmer than I felt.

“Let’s see what’s in this goddam shitter so we can get outta here.”

Ignoring the shrill squeaking, I levered the door as far back as it would go. Slidell placed a beefy hand on the wood to hold it open.

The shed’s interior was lighted only by fuzzy rays oozing through cracks between the crudely nailed boards. I shined my light around. It crawled over a lidless, one-hole wooden bench spanning the back, a broken toilet seat leaning against its base, and an angled peg, absent TP, jutting from the wall.