Page 15 of Cold, Cold Bones

Deep breath. Ill advised, given the circumstances.

I stepped to the bench and inserted the pole into the opening. Compared to his sawing, George’s flashlight skills were top-notch. I quickly found the handles and maneuvered the hook, testing and re-testing until I felt resistance.

Bit by bit, I altered the angle of the pole. The bag was heavier than I’d expected.

Or was it?

A human head weighs roughly ten pounds.

Inch by inch, I levered the bag toward the opening. I felt like an angler reeling in a fish.

A clumsy angler. My fingers were stiff from the cold and, halfway up, let the pole roll in their grasp. The bag swayed wildly.

“Crap!”

George startled and the beam veered.

I adjusted my grip. The bag remained firmly snagged on the handles.

“Sorry,” I said.

The light settled.

When the bag was finally level with the hole, George set down his flashlight and dragged my catch two-handed onto the bench.

Way to go, boy genius.

“Shit, that stinks.”

“It does,” I agreed.

“That’s a Target bag,” George observed while wiping his hands on his pants. “I can see the red bull’s-eye.”

Again, I agreed. Then, “To get decent photos I need better light.”

“Right.” This time the boy genius didn’t reach out.

I lifted our booty between my palms as George had done.

Jesus, it stank.

Careful not to stumble, I carried the bag outside and set it on the ground.

Four eyes watched as I changed gloves, filled out a case identifier, then shot more pics. When I’d finished, Slidell produced a Swiss Army Knife, thumbed open the blade, and handed it to me.

I kneeled beside the bag.

Heart drumming, I slit the plastic.

4

The stench was enough to flatten a greenhorn.

And did. Or maybe it was the sight.

George landed with a sound like a dumbbell hitting a mat. His Maglite rolled across the mud with a softtic-tic-tic. Settled between the roots of an oak, beam still shining gamely.

“Christ, the fucknuckle’s out cold.”