Page 148 of Cold, Cold Bones

“You can take that to the bank.” To me, “Don’t touch nothing.”

Gesturing irreverently to Slidell, I leaned over the desk. And noted that both maps were marked with pencil-drawnXs.

I focused on the city map. AnXmarked Lake Wylie to the south, the Charlotte Motor Speedway in Concord, Greenleaf Avenue. On the larger map,Xs indicated the small town of Earl in Cleveland County, Lumberton in Robeson County, Wiseman’s Overlook in Burke County, all in North Carolina. In South Carolina, Charleston had scored twice.

What the hell?

As in a supercollider, particles slammed together in my mind.

My scalp prickled.

Many of the pins marked sites involved in my old cases.

“Where did you find these?” I gestured at the maps, pulse pumping overtime.

Ryan hooked a thumb at a cardboard box with a pile of papers beside it. Removing a pen from my pocket, I began sifting. The collection included hundreds of photocopied news stories and court transcripts.

“Did you check this stuff out?” I asked without turning.

No response.

I looked at Slidell. He refused to meet my gaze.

I returned my attention to the pile.

No way!

Using the pen, I rotated a sheet of scrawled notes to verify that I really was seeing the tail end of a familiar logo.

I was.Allo Police.A photocopy of the feature dating back decades. The story I’d tacked on the board in Slidell’s task force room. I’d refused to grant an interview, but the paper had proceeded without my input. A string of dead women. A break-in at the anthropologist’s home. Her escape after defending herself with a knife. Names. Places. Dates. It was all there. Even a pic of me entering the courthouse to give testimony at a trial.

My mind popped the same question Henry had asked. How had an ancient story from a Montreal tabloid found its way to this bus?

More important, why?

Barely breathing, I scanned other photocopied articles. Many were from the CharlotteObserverand the CharlestonPost and Courier. Others had appeared in publications I couldn’t identify. All involved violent deaths, many in North and South Carolina. Some I didn’t recognize. Some I remembered vaguely. Some I recalled in vivid detail: 2006: a killer stalking the streets of Charleston; 2008: a mutilated cadaver lying on the shore of Lake Wylie; 2010: a war hero misidentified; 2011: remains discovered in a dump near the Charlotte Motor Speedway; 2013: a young woman killed in a hit-and-run; 2015: bones found below a mountain overlook; 2020: a corpse mutilated by feral hogs; 2021: decomposing bodies tossed ashore inside a medical waste container.

Again, I whipped toward Slidell.

“Where’s Katy?” I could barely form the words. “Does this maniac have Katy?”

Slidell stormed out, his bellowed orders floating in his wake.

“Issuing a BOLO for one Bobby Karl Kramden, AKA Smith. White male, six-footer missing one eye. Anyone spots this douchebag, he goes in the cage. And I need eyes on two locations twenty-four/seven.” Slidell provided Kramden’s two addresses. A staticky response sputtered back over the radio.

Ryan studied me with the bluer than blues, then pulled me close and kissed the top of my head.

An unfamiliar sensation was sweeping through me.

I had no idea what to do.

What to feel.

Only fear.

33

Ryan agreed to a drop by at Katy’s house. If she’d returned home since I’d last been there, again she’d taken care to leave no sign.